Prologue Five: Resolve


Beyond the ocean of gold

Rusk paused his nervous pacing just long enough to scrawl the words out on the tattered corner of a receipt he'd found in his coat pocket, pressing it against the sleek silver wall of his room of the Victors' Tower for support.

Ocean? Gold? No. Too cliché. Try again.

He furiously scribbled over them, just like he'd done with the previous nth attempts, now nothing but pools of ink on the shiny paper, rubbing off in black smudges on his hand. The entire receipt was full, and all he had to show for his work was a collection of blotches, a far cry from the collection of poetry he was supposed to publish in a few months. With a groan that sprung from the pit of his gut, he fell back onto the pristine white bed, undoubtedly soiling it too with ink.

Just like I always do.

It seemed like everything he touched only got messier. Faridah. The Victors' pre-party. The District Ten hang-out, though this last one still seemed a bit suspicious. He glared at the now smudgey-black paper with enough pent-up frustration to bore a hole through it, and he ripped it to shreds, further staining his hands with ink, letting the paper fall on the sheets, the carpet, himself—does it matter at all anymore?

He stared at his hands in dread—they were covered in black, as if he'd just finished killing the black-blooded monster of his Arena that had killed his district partner. He squeezed his eyes shut to force the image out of his mind, but the realism of the moment only intensified—chilling scream, gnawing teeth, dripping black—

A sharp rap on the door jolted him back to the real reality. Only Van would knock like that. He shot up, staring at the mess around him in dread. As if he needed to convince Van that he was struggling! He hurriedly scooped the shreds together, leaving trails of black everywhere, and scurried over to the door.

But then he froze, hand halfway to the door knob. Van. District Ten. The two were like water and oil—no, like water and sodium. Not only did the two never mix, but putting the two together was asking for an explosion. What would he think of the photo with Darah? Had he seen the picture of him and Darah? Perhaps he hasn't seen it, hopefully he hasn't seen it, he'd better not have seen it!

Deep breath.

Face (hopefully) composed, he cracked open the door, immediately met with Van's concerned blue eyes. In his calloused hands, he held a metal tray with a kettle, two black mugs, and a ramekin of sugar. His broad shoulders were tense, as if in a new frontier he wasn't fully sure how to deal with. No anger. That was a good sign, however jarring the picture was. As if it wasn't awkward enough, Rusk could only stare, confused at the sight of Van with… well, just Van. Off the top of his head, he couldn't remember the last time the older man came to visit him.

"Well," Van grunted, "Would you like coffee?"

Rusk most definitely did not want coffee. He never drank coffee, but Van had no way of knowing that (although that in itself was another problem). So he let his fellow Victor in anyway, following him in nervous apprehension, watching to see if Van noticed the black stains around the room. If the man noticed, he didn't let on. "Maybe the porch?" Rusk suggested, desperate to move out of the room littered with evidence of his fragile mental state. "I've got a table and chairs."

Van smiled, curling up the beard-blurred corners of his lips. "You betcha—can you get the door?"

"Oh, of course, since your hands are full and all…" Rusk stammered, rushing over to slide open the glass door to the balcony. "Here."

Muttering a "thank you," Van stepped out, set the tray down on the small table, and settled down in the opposite chair. "Nice view."

Don't you have the same one from your room? "Thanks." As he sat down himself, Rusk found himself staring at Van but also trying not to stare, which left him looking at the corner between the wall and the floor because it seemed like an unobtrusive place to keep his eyes.

"Coffee?"

"Sure."

"Sugar?"

The entire bowl. "Just a little." He bit his lip when he realized there was no cream. How am I going to finish that cup?

Van picked up the kettle, poured a full mug, and sprinkled in a bit of sugar. "Here."

Rusk took the mug, smiling a little when he read the "World's Best Uncle" written on it, and brought it to his lips. Too hot! Too bitter! It took every last bit of willpower not to wince as the foul aftertaste reminded him why he never drank coffee.

After Van poured himself a mug, he leaned back in the chair, clearly trying to force himself to relax. "So…" he said. "How have you been?"

"Good, I guess," Rusk said, unsure how to respond. In all his years of being a Victor, he had never seen Van so uncomfortable. Given, he didn't spend much time with "The Bear of District Nine," but even he could tell that the usually brash man was out of his element. He wanted to inquire, but before he knew it, the rehearsed words flew out of his mouth. "How are you?"

"Good, good." A pause. Van rubbed his beard. "Are you… dealing okay?"

Rusk instinctively brought the mug up so his face wouldn't feel so exposed. "I guess. Why?"

Van leaned forward, placing his mug down on the table. It was almost as if he was still observing, trying to figure out what Rusk meant. "I know we haven't been close in the past—not just us two but all us District Nines—but we want you to know that we're here to support you."

"Oh." Rusk could only stare. The words sounded strange in Van's gruff voice. Somehow, though Rusk had often imagined what it'd be like if the District Nine Victor clan were to welcome him into their family, he had never envisioned it to look like… this, with a too-bitter cup of coffee that he didn't want to drink and Van more stilted than anyone had ever seen. But the silence reminded him of his insufficient response, and he hurried to make it up. "I mean, thanks. Maybe things can be different."

"I hope so." Van smiled, half-releasing a held breath. "Oh—and we've decided that you should take this year off. We'll take care of all your mentoring duties."

Now that was something to be happy about. He tried to sound happy, but the words still came out formal. "I really appreciate that."

"Good, good. Just let us know if there's any way we can support you, okay?"

"You betcha."

"Good." A pause. Again. But much weirder. Van chuckled. "You know me… I'm out of my element right now. I'd much rather be wrangling sponsor funds or something."

Much rather be doing that than having to talk to me, I see. Perhaps a more entitled person would've found it offensive, but Rusk didn't think much of it. It was only to be expected.

But Van must've noticed his implication because he quickly backtracked. "Uffda! Y'know I didn't mean it that way…"

"It's all good." Rusk said, strangely pleased. He was almost relieved to see the usually confident man on edge; for once, Van was feeling what he always felt, and that tipping of the scales gave Rusk a small boost of confidence. With the muscles on his face now slightly relaxed, he decided to be a little bolder. "Is… there a specific reason you guys are doing this?"

"Actually… since you bring it up…" Van bit his lip, as if deliberating. "Did you take a photo with Darah Sommers?"

Rusk refroze, confidence back to its usual low. "What?"

"Take a look." Van pulled out a magazine clipping out of his pocket, holding it out for Rusk to see. In the picture, Darah stood in with her hands in her pockets, head slightly bowed so that her clay-bead necklace hung low, with her eyes lifted slightly, a hopeful smile on her lips. Photo Rusk stood awfully close to her, soft-eyed and smiling.

Rusk frowned as he inspected it stiffly, barely able to recognize himself. His picture self seemed… Happy. Content. Not Alone. In some ways, he almost wished he were back there and not here. Though his gut told him that Darah meant trouble, his emotions screamed otherwise. And Van still sat opposite him, silently demanding an explanation.

"It was… bad timing," Rusk got out. "It's… a long story."

"I don't got to know all the details," Van said, "But I'd keep her at arm's length."

Of course you'd say that. Rusk nodded, grateful that this was all that Van was saying. He had heard… much choicer descriptions of the Ten Victors from the man before.

"It's not just because she's from Ten," Van added quickly. "She's too friendly with the higher-ups in the government. I heard she's even been asking around about Faridah."

Rusk pursed his lips, his hair standing on edge at Van's accusation. He hadn't sensed any of that during the uncomfortable "hangout." Some aggression and ill feelings? Possibly. But not spying for the Capitol! He could see Andor doing that—was his anti-Faridah statement designed to elicit a reaction?—but not Darah. And that last statement… "Asking about Faridah?" Rusk said.

"Weird, ain't it? Some think she's linked to the murder."

Behind his closed lips, Rusk grit his teeth. It was one thing to accuse Darah of spying. It was another to accuse her of murder. She wouldn't… would she? He barely knew her; he didn't know she wasn't tied to Faridah's murder. Yet the thought of tying her to the incident still made him uneasy. Why don't I know?

"What's wrong," Van said, "Spill."

"Well…" Rusk squirmed, already feeling the red creep up the edges of his face. Why did he have to call me out? "Darah's been nothing but kind and genuine—it's hasty to call her a spy or blame her for Faridah's death. You barely know anything about her!"

Silence. Van watched him with cocked head and slightly widened eyes, as if surprised at the sudden torrent of words, as short as it had been. When he finally spoke, his words were slow and calm, suddenly detached. "I see."

Rusk's cheeks fully burned now, averting his eyes as a pit grew in his stomach and he shrunk back into his chair, wishing to disappear from Van's steady gaze. You idiot. Again?

After what felt like forever, the man finally looked away, reaching for his tray on the table and rising to his feet. "I'll be going. Just be careful, okay?"

"You betcha." Rusk nodded stiffly, watching him leave, simultaneously repulsed by the man yet also disappointed that he was leaving. As strange as the conversation had been, it was better than no contact, wasn't it? Perhaps this was a good start.

But the way he talks about Darah… Rusk still couldn't imagine how she could be tied to the murder, and it still frustrated him as he replayed Van's words over and over in his head. His gut told him that Van was wrong, but he couldn't deny them either. He needed to know.

His eyes suddenly lit up with new fire. That was it. He was tired of not knowing, tired of futilely trying to defend people when he had nothing of use to say. First with Andor, and now with Van. Every time he had tried to resolve their doubts, he had only created new questions, both towards himself and towards the person he was defending. He was done wandering around blindly, exploding every so often when the rush of emotion hit him.

It was time to start getting answers.


A/N Aaaaaand Justice is closed! The final tribute list is on my profile, and I'm sorry for every tribute submission that didn't get in. The tribute blog is also live on the regular website—there should be a new option in the navigation bar.

The Capitol subplot is really getting going too! Which of these people (Rusk, Van, Avisa, Darah, Andor, Palomina) do you trust? Which ones are you suspicious of? We'll find out more after a break for Non-Reapings.

About my update schedule: The plan is to alternate updates between Premonition and Justice until Premonition is complete (I really thought I'd have it done by now…), and then we'll pick up speed here. I'm excited!

Thoughts?

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