Brimstone & Fire / Prologue Two
"The time has come that we must end this!
Rip from the mouth the tongue that bears false witness."
—Gwar, Mother F**king Liar
If she didn't know better, Herennia might think that he found her very presence unnerving.
Not that she could find fault in the Capitol's newest victor. She remembers meeting his eyes after the bloody conclusion of the seventy-sixth, when the limousine doors had opened to reveal a shell-shocked boy, barely eighteen and covered in red-stained towels to make sure he didn't bleed out from forty-eight hours stuck in the Games.
The first of the new Hunger Games had decidedly been distasteful. In that moment, Herennia had made sure that everyone around her knew that, and felt her disgust. It was senseless, a mockery meant to degrade the ravaged Capitol even further by playing around with their children's lives. It had been something they did to the districts for years, but that doesn't make Thirteen's choice right. Children are still children. None of them deserve death, and certainly not one as brutally shorthand as what Thirteen has in store for them.
Herennia couldn't just stand there and watch as he limped into the hospital building. She had to say something—it wouldn't have sat right with her if she didn't. Certainly, she had paid the price for saying it, but at least the words had been said, when she was still capable of saying them.
The boy might have not really seen her the first time, as trapped as he was in a state of pure shock. But she knew the boy heard her. He had flinched when she raised her voice in protest for what had been the last time. Their victor had seen her then, his eyes full of something vaguely concerned as soldiers wrestled her down to the pavement.
Herennia runs the severed stump of her tongue along the inside edge of her lower teeth, trying not to seem like she's staring too hard at the kid. She remembers wondering why Thirteen even bothered with him. Why force them all to kill each other when it would have been faster to execute them all on the spot? The statement would have been the same either way. Power had changed hands, and life as the Capitol knew it would forever be altered. Why allow one to live, when the goal was to then show the Capitol a taste of their own medicine?
Her only answer is that President Coin had just wanted to make a spectacle of it all. Wanted to prolong their suffering, and leverage lives for control, just as her predecessor had done for the better part of his sixty years in office.
Herennia frowns, the corners of her lips tugging downward with the surge of disgust she feels in her gut. Haven't we given up enough? Do the people really deserve to suffer for the crimes of the government?
Velius may have killed six people, but he's still a boy. He had an entire life before him—maybe not a good one, living out of Dumptown, but a life nevertheless. They had stripped that away from him, and she knows it will be impossible for him to get it back. Herennia had used to sponsor the Games every once in a while, sending her favorite tributes vials of iodine when water was scarce, or bread from their districts to motivate them to fight for what mattered most.
She used to watch, and had no issue with the way that things were. It wasn't a question for most Capitolites—just a way of life. But now that the tables have been turned against them?
It's simply barbaric. The New Order, as she sees it, is an insatiable machine, capable of destroying the entire world as they all know it to be. Seventy-five years of hiding underground must have given them a grudge like no other—she suspects President Coin won't stop until the entire city is reduced to rubble, whether it takes ten years or a century.
Maybe that would be penance—but it reeks of cruelty, more than anything.
Thirteen was supposed to be better. All the districts believed in that. And unless she's mistaken, they still do, because Thirteen saved their children from the Hunger Games in return for reaping the Capitol's own. She knows that the districts sing high praise of President Coin and her troops, because with Thirteen's victory, they were freed. It doesn't really seem that way to her, but Herennia knows she's a part of the minority this time.
No one is going to care what the Capitol thinks of it's plight. Not after generations of Games, of turmoil and hatred and oppression. In the grand scheme of things, the war was a good thing. But for the Capitol, it's like they were handed a death sentence.
Herennia doesn't think it's a coincidence that she's been the one that was assigned to watch over Velius, in case he needs anything during the visit. But if he recognizes her, he makes no mention of it. For the past two hours since his arrival to the psych ward, he has sat, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. All four of them are white. Blank. There's nothing to capture his interest, or hers, besides the bed with crinkly white paper on it, and a damaged kid sitting on top.
If Herennia still had a tongue, she would find something to say to him.
But she doesn't.
Thirteen was supposed to be better, and they made her an Avox for speaking her mind. What kind of injustice is that? It had been an injustice to learn to eat without taste, to live without a voice. It had been another injustice to be forced into servitude, losing her station in life and contact with everyone she had loved for a few simple words.
Herennia knows what they sent to her family. There was a service held for her, but she wasn't really dead. Same as the hundreds of other fresh recruits—all sorts of patriots, naysayers and ex-Peacekeepers silenced and forced to become the cogs of a machine that hated them.
Thirteen promised change to the districts. Instead, the only thing that changed was the seat of power, from one corrupted hand to another. Disgusting. So disgusting, she thinks, wrinkling her nose at the thought.
In the corner of the room, a monitor blinks, but the boy doesn't budge. He has one hand to his chin, elbow propped onto his knee. The surgical gown they put him into looks incredibly uncomfortable, but he doesn't seem to care. The wall has all of his interest, all of his fixation. Herennia could scream at him if she wanted to, and she suspects he wouldn't even move.
It's disheartening, really, to see firsthand just what trauma on such a scale can do to someone. None of the twenty-four kids chosen from the sectors of the Capitol deserved their fates, least of all Velius Tenebra, a sickly boy from a place of ill repute. He was the kind of person who deserved to be forgotten about, and left to die in peace. By all means, he shouldn't have won—in fact, Herennia still has no idea what compelled him to do what he did.
There was just about as much emotion on his face during the Games as there was now, but something in him had seemed alive. Now he just looks like a husk, a shell of a person left too damaged to repair. She doubts that the Capitol will be able to un-do what Thirteen did to him, even though they have President Coin's permission to. They'll put him on some pills, they might give him a personal therapist, but the truth is that the Games have broken him beyond repair, just like the seventy-five victors before him. Just like it will the rest beyond him.
If Herennia could burn it all to the ground, she would—Thirteen's injustices have opened her eyes to the world in a way she had never seen it before. They're crooks, cheats and thieves, and though they will label her the same for speaking the truth, they cannot make her believe in their lies. No matter how oppressive the reign of the New Order becomes, she will not allow herself to become another piece in the machine they're building.
If Coin expects the Capitol to truly go down without a fight, she's as blind as the man she usurped. One thing remains true, in the end—the voice of the people will always prevail over the tyranny of government, no matter how tight their control is. Just as it may take Thirteen a century to fully destroy the Capitol and all of its devices, it may take a century for the Capitol to fight back. The truth of the matter is that it will happen, eventually.
It's inevitable. Just as it's inevitable that the people will eventually begin to see.
The New Order is playing power games with the people. Divide and conquer, the same tactics that had been used in the First Rebellion to ensure that the districts were properly put into their places, like neat little ducks in a row waiting to get shot. They think it will work, too. A year and a half since the war—the city is still reeling from it. There is a lot of uncertainty in the streets, in each and every sector, trying to rebuild their old lives and manage their new ones with the threat of a foreign government hanging over their heads.
Like waiting for the other shoe to drop, and make it worse, Herennia thinks, pressing her shoulder into the chilled wall of the room. Why can't we be the second shoe, huh?
There are more denizens of the Capitol than soldiers from Thirteen. It will take a village, quite frankly, but it's possible. Perhaps one day, she will be able to see everything go up in smoke and flames, and perhaps—
The door swings open, and a psychiatrist and two nurses shuffle in, wearing white lab gear and blue surgical gloves. One of the nurses smiles at her, though it is not comforting. They all begin to get situated in the room, working around the boy sitting on the bed. A few moments pass before any of them decide to address her presence.
"Miss Nabor, if you will excuse us for a moment," the psychiatrist finally says, staring her down with eyes full of accusation, as if she knows who Herennia is and disapproves.
Instead of arguing, though she would love to, Herennia nods graciously and makes sure to firmly shut the door when she leaves the room. She takes up a silent post next to it, knowing that if she left, someone would find fault with her for not staying near Velius for the duration of his stay. The plain white walls are thin enough that she can hear them, anyway.
"Alright, Mr. Tenebra," the psychiatrist says, her voice muffled through the wall. "Your results from testing came back in—you remember your testing, don't you?"
No response. No indication he has even heard them, though Herennia can't see his movements to be sure. What she doesn't know is that as she left, Velius had shifted for the first time, his head swiveling so that his eyes could follow her out of the room before returning to a catatonic state.
"Alright, nurses," the psychiatrist mumbles through the door. "Mr. Tenebra, we have decided that in order to create an effective treatment, we will need your cooperation. We can force you to get better, but it'll be easier if you're willing to snap out of it and work with us. Okay?"
Her voice would sound sweet if the words weren't so venomous—Herennia almost flinches at the tone. Like she doesn't care about him at all. If Herennia expected the Capitol to have any kind of solidarity against their newfound oppressors, she might have been wrong. The realization hits her as she listens to choking noises from the room, undoubtedly the nurses wrestling pills down their victor's throat. It's going to take a lot more than resentment to get people like her to realize how bad this situation is.
Maybe it will take a lot for everyone else, too. After all, she knows that the majority of the Capitol would prefer to return to any normalcy they can, despite it being impossible. For her, it's different. She may no longer be able to speak, nor does she hold much power against the New Order. She doesn't even hold a candle to their wildfire of oppression.
Yet Herennia Nabor will not stop until she rains brimstone and fire down upon the liars who have taken everything from her.
No matter the cost.
A/N: Hello again! I'm posting much sooner than I planned since I still have not received ANY interest for this story, which makes me a little sad. :( Maybe it's because it's a Capitol Games? If that's unpopular I'd be happy to edit the first two chapters and change it to a post-rebellion District Games. Same goes for any other reasons. Just reach out and let me know! I don't have any other prologues planned, which is why I was looking forward to getting some submissions so I could keep going without having to add any filler, but it's looking pretty bad right now so I figured I'd send a little cry for help into the universe! All I need is three tributes to get the ball rolling!
Please let me know if you have any interest in submitting, or if there's anything I can do to make it more appealing in general! I'm open to constructive criticism, and I already updated the "rules" to reflect the lack of interest. Thanks for reading! Please submit!
