This War Inside / Prologue One


"Feeling claustrophobic, like the walls are closing in—
Bloodstains on my hands, I don't know where I've been."
—Megadeth, Sweating Bullets

They say that the first casualty of war is innocence.

He believes it to be quite the lie. Innocent people don't have a reason to fight for their country. They don't have a reason to connect bullets and brains with a single squeeze of a trigger. They don't have a reason to bleed, because the innocent don't put their lives in danger.

It's as simple as that, really.

What a shame that none of them could claim innocence—not after the roles they had played. In enforcing nearly eight decades of violence, the Capitol had been taunting the districts. Stoking the fire. Retaliation had been out of the question for so long, that they all had been blind to it.

I was blind, too, the man thinks quietly, hands folded neatly on his lap. I see that now.

Tears well into the corners of his eyes, and he blinks them back, steeling his jaw to prevent it from quivering. It feels like everyone in the railcar is already focused on him. The last thing he needs is to provide fuel for their morning gossip and allow his sullied name to go up in flames.

If only the events of the past year and a half had been a dream. He could have convinced himself of it, had there not been a soldier standing at the front of his aisle. With one gloved hand holding the railing and the other holding the grip of their gun, the threat of violence keeps the railcar in check. This is the new normal—no amount of scotch could deaden that fact.

Both are things he has seen a lot of lately, spending his nights getting to the bottom of the bottle to forget. It is a task that proves to be impossible. All around him are daily reminders—the absence of the flag of Panem on the poles outside, and the soldiers milling about the streets, dressed in fatigues the color of graphite.

A depressing alternative, if you ask me, he broods. The stark white armor he had once proudly worn has since been replaced, just like everything else with the change in governance.

Maybe it would all be so much easier to ignore if he hadn't already spent twenty years playing lapdog to his commander, spending time in the outlying districts just as much as he had at home. Maybe it would be easier to pretend he doesn't notice how drastically life in the Capitol has changed, but that would require him to be blind. Blind… or innocent, he supposes.

They're both one and the same, for as long as one keeps the wool over their eyes, they will never be able to see the truth. And the truth? He scoffs, eyes drifting out to the cityscape beyond, with its blackened spires reaching like broken branches toward the pale orange sky.

The truth is that Thirteen ruined them. The truth is that their blindness—their hubris—has earned them nothing but retribution. For all of the suffering that the Capitol has caused the districts, they've still emerged from the ashes to enact penance in exchange.

Stripping him of his livelihood was one thing. The Peacekeepers would have been an obvious target for social deconstruction following the war; he can credit Thirteen for that. But using the Capitol's biggest tool of oppression against them? Forcing their children to fight and die without accolades or promises of glory?

He would call it barbaric if there wasn't such a miserable irony to be found in it all.

Returning his focus to the things around him, the man blinks. Once, twice, and then begins to notice that the railcar is slowing down. A feeling of apprehension fills his stomach at the notion. Distracting himself, he lifts calloused fingers to the side of his face, and scratches at the stubble growing in. Guess I could shave once I get there, he muses, trying to shake the fogginess out of his mind. Assuming that's something they'll let me do.

As a Peacekeeper, duty had demanded he remain clean-shaven at all times. Something about maintaining orderliness—and something he misses. There are a few peculiarities in his routine that he will never be able to lose, just as the militant way-of-life has become a part of him.

He expects that Thirteen will want the same from him. Assuming that the goal is assimilation, anyway. The thought sticks like wet paint at the back of his mind, unwilling to let go. For all the time that has passed between the Second Rebellion and now, Thirteen seems more hell-bent on achieving absolute control over this city than it does assimilating the two groups and brokering peace between them.

It's the reason he isn't so keen to visit their rehabilitation center. It took them long enough to find out who he was, and longer to dredge his name from near-obscurity after it faded to the war. He's heard the odd rumor here and there about the program, but none seem prominent enough to form any kind of cohesive opinion on their undertakings.

So much for being prepared, huh?

All the man knows is that Thirteen has demanded his presence. Failure to comply has proven to result in punishment. The denizens of the Capitol—himself included—have learnt these rules the hard way, and there is a sense of claustrophobia in knowing just how tightly the usurpers have exerted their iron grip onto the former Jewel of Panem.

It wouldn't be a good idea to cut and run as soon as the train stops, but it's undeniably one that he's entertaining. Unless the soldier at the door is meant to serve as an escort for his transferral from the streets to the program, there should be a window of opportunity between the two.

He flicks his eyes to the display above the door, its pixelated letters incomprehensible from the angle of his seat. Outside, nothing seems to have changed. They're riding the external railway line, allowing himself and the other passengers some distance from the chaos of the inner city. He knows he boarded correctly. Knows that he's supposed to get off at the third stop, and be taken to the center for a re-evaluation of his curriculum vitae.

He knows nothing else. In all of his thirty years serving the Capitol, he's never been this far outside of the main city. He's never been so lost.

The railcar lurches to a stop, the brakes hissing faintly from beyond the window. The soldier at the front of the car has begun to move, taking their hand off of the railing as the automatic door eases open, folding against the side of the vehicle.

Third stop. This is it. The man stands from his seat, aware that a handful of the other passengers have their eyes on him. Toward the back, a flicker of movement catches his eye, and he notices a woman using the railing to pull herself into the standing position.

She looks about as disheveled as he feels, but when he meets her gaze, he knows.

This woman was a Peacekeeper, too—he can see it in the way she carries herself, despite her thinning frame. It's etched into the hard lines of her face, and the calculating way that her eyes search his own, as if looking for an answer that neither of them have.

"Move it along," the soldier at the front says, words full of static from their voice modulator.

The two of them exchange a glance. He steps out into the aisle and begins a slow tread toward the open door, weighing his options. There's one soldier at the door. He doesn't see any standing beyond it, though the station should have plenty of places to obscure a soldier or two.

It would be simple: wait for the train to take off, run, and don't look back.

However, the other Peacekeeper poses a dilemma.

She could tell them that he left, and a manhunt isn't exactly on his agenda. Perhaps he's being paranoid—it's a trait he has been unable to shake as of late. But the second he steps foot off of the railcar, the feeling of being trapped surges in his stomach like nausea, forcing him to still in his tracks and rest a hand against the chipped wooden post of the station's pavilion.

The woman joins him shortly, and he looks past her to see the soldier turning to take up their position inside the vehicle again, the door easing closed behind them. Within moments, the railcar has begun to accelerate, soon leaving nothing but the trembling of the rails behind.

"You alright?" the woman asks him, her voice flat.

He pauses. A response forces him to stay. A response seals his fate; places him on the trajectory to face whatever kind of rehabilitation Thirteen has planned for him. When accounting for his dark history working on the ground before the war, he can't help but feel as if they have already begun to put him on trial. Like I'm in trouble for things I haven't gotten to yet.

If Thirteen expects Panem's former militia to be a threat to their regime, they're wrong.

We all just want to survive. Hells, I just want things to go back to normal.

"Yeah. I'm fine," he mutters, turning to rest his back against the post. There are bloodstains on his hands, so thick that they've become irascible. Things will never be the same as they were. Not without some sort of compromise. Running won't solve a thing.

Will it?

"You worried?" he asks, instead of dwelling on it.

"A little." She exhales. "All the things I've done, how could I not be?"

He nods, at a loss for words. For a moment, the two of them stand in silence before the pavilion, listening to the distant noise of the city before the crunch of tactical boots on gravel is heard. Startled, they both look up to see a trio of soldiers standing on the other end of the station. For a second, it seems as if they've reached an impasse—before the one in the middle speaks.

"Come with us," they beckon, the words delivered with the same inhuman static he has come to expect from any of Thirteen's surviving military. Wordlessly, she walks forward to join them. With some reluctance, he does the same, chewing on the inside of his lip to stop from saying anything that might incriminate himself.

The soldiers lead them a good twenty yards away from the station before they reach a chain-link fence, the metal supporting several shades of rust. Beyond it, all he can see is a short stretch of gravel and what looks like an abandoned warehouse. It's a myriad of exposed brick, peeling paint and broken windows, complete with the odd growth of mold or scrawl of graffiti.

On the large garage-style door, the number 13 has been stenciled on in black paint, bold against the washed-out warehouse. One of the soldiers unlatches the gate, the metal screeching as they pull it toward the rest of the group, leaving just enough space for the rest to follow in a single-file line. In its prime, the gate might have been large enough to comfortably fit a Humvee through, but he doesn't recall ever hearing about this place.

It looks as if it's been abandoned for the better part of a decade or two. What purpose Thirteen could have with it is beyond him—especially somewhere so far from the rest of their operations. He catches the eye of the woman, turning slightly backward as if seeking reassurance that she's still there. Three versus two, if they're trying to pull a fast one, he thinks. If the goal thus far hasn't been assimilation, the prospect of taking off looks solid enough. The issue is that the soldiers are armed, and the two of them are not.

Something about the situation still doesn't quite sit right with him. There are no vehicles parked outside, and no lights shining through the broken windows of the building. There is only the sound of five pairs of footsteps on gravel, and crickets stirring in the nearby brush as the sun begins to lower. The brush is maybe another twenty yards away from the warehouse; beyond it he doesn't know.

He survived storms of gunfire during the siege on the Capitol, and the fighting in the fields of Nine, forever scarred with the trenches they had built. The odds aren't so bad. Three guns and twenty yards. Done worse before.

They aren't great either, though. There isn't anything inherently sinister about the operation, besides how hush it's been. For all he knows, the goal is to evaluate and re-train Peacekeepers, and they chose this location to ensure any threats could be contained.

He still cannot shake the nervous feeling as the two flanking soldiers begin to lift the garage door, revealing a yawning abyss inside. After they have it secured, one pulls on a chain, lighting a handful of lightbulbs.

They fan out into the empty building, which holds a single desk with an encrypted computer, and ten chairs arranged in two rows before it. The man is thankful that they do not close the external door—he's felt antsy the entire time, filled with a sense of claustrophobic anxiety.

By entering the building, his odds of escape have worsened. But the setup, while surprisingly barren, provides him with a sense of comfort. He half expected to see a bloodstained tarp on the floor and body-bags lined against the wall.

"Take a seat," the lead soldier says. "Have your identification numbers ready—we will be with you in a moment."

He takes an unsure step forward, gingerly sitting in a second-row chair next to the woman while the lead soldier circles around to sit at the desk. The other two take up a position behind the chairs, causing the man's shoulders to stiffen.

After what feels like an eternity of listening to the soldier typing, they finally level their helmet toward the two of them, folding their hands on the desk. The visor is darker than the one he used to wear—instead of a tint, there is a black depth, and nothing visible behind it.

"Identification number?"

It takes him a moment to realize the question is directed at him. "126550. Squadron O," he adds, trying not to let his voice betray his nerves.

The soldier types it into the keypad, the click of the enter button sounding with more finality than it should in the empty space of the warehouse.

"Corporal Lars Apelles," the soldier addresses him. It is not a question. "Leader of Squadron O."

He nods, throat as dry as sandpaper. "That's me."

"Crimes include extensive destruction of property, beyond military necessity. Intentional use of civilian starvation as a method of warfare. Willful killing, and taking of hostages. What do you say to these charges?"

He would find something to say, if he wasn't stunned into silence by the accusation.

"Service in District Nine took place from August 75 A.D.D. to December of the same year. Deployment occurred shortly after the improper resolution of the Quell a month prior. Technical discharge following the fall of the former Presidency. Do you deny your involvement?"

"Y-yes!" he splutters, unable to form a coherent answer. A pause. "I didn't—those were orders, I di-didn't have a choice in what my squadron was assigned to take part in."

Panic rises in his chest, unable to be tempered by the cool demeanor of everyone else in the room. "There is always a choice, Corporal," the soldier says, the distinct lack of emotion behind the words chilling him to the bone. "Do you understand the terms of your re-evaluation?"

He shakes his head, swallowing dryly. Sweat begins to bead on his brow.

"The New Order is seeking re-admission for qualified soldiers only. While your skillset is applicable, your history is a limitation to the validity of your automatic application."

"Application?" he asks, fixing to stand from his chair in bewilderment. "I didn't sign up for this… program, I've been doing just fine with the stipends. I don't have a problem with Thirteen. I—I don't have a problem with the districts, I was just following orders. I didn't ask for this!"

The woman's hand tightens around his own, an unspoken ask for him to return to his seat. Confusion swirls around in his brain, alarms ringing loud enough to drown everything else out but fear. Why would they request me, why would they accuse me, why now? WHY ME?

"For these actions against District Nine and its populace, we cannot acquit you. Without a place in the New Order, the contract of your service is invalid. Under the decree of President Coin... we sentence you to death for your crimes against humanity."

"Death?" he blurts, hands white-knuckled as he braces them against the chair before him. "Is this some kind of trial? I didn't do anything. I was just following orders, how many times do I have to… do I have to let you know?" he asks, breathless in his terror.

"Acta non verba," one of the soldiers in the back says, the words flat and dead.

The one sitting at the desk makes a signal with their hand, and the world crashes around his shoulders. NonoNO! I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T DESERVE—

He jumps over the chair and makes a dash for the exit, slinging the last chair in the row in the general direction of the soldiers he knows to be in pursuit. All thoughts of the proceeding have been replaced by self-preservation. Finally, the war inside his head has been silenced.

Lars Apelles wasn't a good person. He wasn't a bad person, either—just a tool in a larger game, with hands too stained to be ignored.

He doesn't make it ten yards before they put a bullet in his skull.


A/N: Well hello! First off, I want to thank you for reading. This is my first entrant into the SYOT world! I've been reading stories off and on since around 2020, so hopefully this winds up taking off and I get to write one! :)

As mentioned, this is a bit non-traditional because the tributes will all be from the Capitol. I know it's nothing unique but I thought it would be fun. I won't really be referring to canon beyond the fact that President Coin and District 13 won, and that the Games are back as a tool of oppression. As far as my plans go, I will likely be posting another prologue at some point in the near future, and then hopefully I will have enough submissions to start writing some intros.

More on that, plus all the major info will be posted up on my profile. Hope to see you submit. :)