The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five
Chapter 3: The Bitter Pill
District 13
"You said that last month, Soldier Hamada. Yet here we are."
He swallowed, peering down onto the polished metal table instead of the one speaking to him. "I was mistaken. I'm sorry about that, sir. But I really need more time."
"You are aware," another one member of the circle put in coldly, swiveling her chair so as to face him, "that the longer you take, the more people die."
Hiro tilted his head slightly to the right, still not looking up to the fierce eyes staring down at him. "I understand, m'am."
"Then what's taking so long?" another council member snapped impatiently, rapping his knuckles against the smooth surface of the table. "You said that you've memorized all the schematics of the entire Capitol digital system. If it's all inside your head as you claim, why's it taking so long for you to create a copy of it?"
"First, sir, I have to key in all the data manually and that takes a lot more time than it seems," Hiro defended himself, actually gazing up now and sounding a little indignant. He didn't need to add that the process was actually very exhausting, or that sitting for long hours made him back hurt a lot. "Secondly, there is a lot more to replicating an entire digital system than just imputing data. I'm essentially creating from scratch an electronic network that took the Capitol a century to build. Just to contain the size of the program I'm creating, I've needed to invent new softwares and reprogram many networks. I'm not even talking about how much many of our rundown devices and holo-computers are. Some of them barely have the capacity to function normally! Even in District 3-"
"This is not District 3, Soldier Hamada. This is District 13," a quiet voice pierced through Hiro's rant.
Silence flooded over the members of the circle as all turned to face the de facto Chairman of their team. Hiro gulped involuntarily as he was judged by dark eyes, hardened like granite.
The softness of the tone did not disguise the steeliness behind the words. "You were given a deadline, and you're expected to adhere to it. We are preparing for war, Soldier, but without the programs that you have promised, we cannot move much further. Incompetence cannot be tolerated."
Hiro shrunk back as much as he could in his chair, trembling. "Yes, Mr. President."
"We kept our end of the bargain with you, Soldier. Four surviving tributes as well as yourself have been given refuge in our District at great cost to many of our valuable agents in the Capitol." There were grunts of agreement with this statement, a particularly emphatic one coming from the blonde woman in uniform. "The stunt that you pulled during the Game – by risking your own survival and thus the entire mission on a faulty arm band - could have set us back several years, so be grateful that you have not been disciplined for that."
Under his breath, Hiro muttered, "A life was at stake."
"A life that wasn't worth saving, Soldier." Unfortunately, the president had sharp ears, and he was very displeased with what he heard. "As per our deal, citizen rights have been granted to all extracted tributes, but it doesn't change the fact that your choices have introduced a significant security risk in our midst."
"Security risk?" The boy cocked his head to the side, not understanding. Then it dawned on him. "You mean Hiccup?"
"Any member of District 2 is a threat to the rebel movement, especially now that he has awakened," a member of the group intoned cryptically. Many others expressed that they conceded with this view.
"Hiccup has no more love for the Capitol than any of us," Hiro protested, drawing himself up straight. It didn't make him look very much taller amongst all the adults on the table, but it was better than nothing. "The Capitol forced him into the Games. Of course he hates them! He'll gladly join the rebellion."
"You do realize who his father is, don't you?" the blonde council member interjected wryly, crossing her arms and narrowing her gaze at him. "Are you really risking District 13, and the rest of Panem's freedom, on lingering loyalties that he might have for his own flesh-and-blood?"
"His father…" Hiro didn't really have a rebuttal for that. The circle sucked upon his hesitation like a leech, their hostility rising each second. Furious mutters were exchanged, and the boy was at a loss about what to do.
Fortunately, a harsh observation rang clear in the dissonance, silencing it, "Might I remind the council that Tamora Calhourn herself was once the head of the Capitol's Secret Intelligence and was personally responsible for the deaths of numerous rebel agents?"
The blonde soldier sat herself up, glaring darkly at her accuser. "I have a damn good reason for why I switch sides, Vogstein."
"And Hiccup Haddock does as well," the mousy-looking woman known as Vogstein shot back. Obviously, her appearance didn't quite fit her personality. Facing the President herself, she said, "Lieutenant Calhourn had the opportunity to prove her loyalty and usefulness to our cause despite her past transgressions. I suggest that in light of Hiccup Haddock's actions during the Hunger Games that he be given a similar chance."
"Indeed, Professor Vogstein," the Chief of State mused, not quite agreeing, but at least, not dismissing the idea. He eyed the dark-haired woman meaningfully. "Somehow I knew that you would be the one to suggest it."
She gazed back at him, unwavering.
Hiro subtly glanced back and forth between the officials, uneasily twiddling with his thumbs under the table.
After the tense lull, the President finally made his declaration. "Very well. Hiccup Haddock shall be given the chance to prove himself, but should he be suspected to sympathize with the enemy, or commit any act that suggests such, he would be tried and punished in accordance to our laws."
This was obviously directed to him, so Hiro answered, "Understood, sir."
"As for the programming, you will be given the month that you've asked for," the President continued, severe as ever. "But know well, Soldier Hamada, that if you do not deliver by then, you will be held accountable for it. You may be a boy yet, but you are a soldier here, and you have duties that you are expected to fulfil."
His throat had run itself as dry as a desert, so it was no wonder that his reply was barely audible. "Yes, sir."
Subsequently, the meeting was adjourned. Hiro was glad to finally be able to leave the stuffy Command and back to the fresh air outside. Well, okay, the air pumped through the vents in District 13 could not exactly be said to be 'fresh' at all, but corridor air was always better than room air – especially a room of old, stiff-lipped people.
Just as he had begun to roll the wheelchair down the walkway, he heard his name being called. Pausing for a moment, he glanced behind him, finding that it was the brunette woman on the council was hurrying forward, seeming rather excited.
"Professor Vogstein?" he greeted her with surprise as she stopped before him.
The woman laughed lightly, shaking her head at him. She always seemed to be such a different outside the council – relaxed, enthused, eager. "Really, Hiro, it's just Val to you. Now, you remember that you asked me to look over those suit designs for you? Well,-" she rummaged through the files that the bag that she carried, before producing a small flash drive "-I have! Isn't that fantastic? All my suggestions for improvements are inside."
"Oh." Hiro accepted the offering with slight hesitation. The burden that had been laid on his shoulders was making its weight felt very pointedly, so he wasn't feeling as excited about this as he had once been. "Thank you, but-"
"I've never really studied a human muttation before," she continued, clearly not seeing his distress. "It was really interesting trying to put it all together. The ice-powers, the biology, the genetics behind it-"
"Mutant," he corrected her, fingering the device uneasily.
"Mutant," she repeated dismissively, too absorbed her own ramblings. "Anyway, I think this little side-project of yours is just wonderful. That poor girl has been trapped inside that cage for ages! Think of what this might do for her." Her smile faded when she finally down at him. "Why, what's the matter?"
He pressed his lips together, taking a moment to phrase his words carefully. Out of all those in Thirteen's Council, he trusted Professor Vogstein the most, but he didn't want to reveal too much. "It's just that I'll be very busy catching up with my other … work."
"Oh, right." The woman seemed rather subdued after remembering this rather vital piece of information. It was amazing how rapidly she could forget the topic of discussion in council meetings. Hiro sometimes wondered how she ended up being in the council at all, given how absentminded she tended to be. "Well, that is unfortunate. But that won't be problem, I should think. She's been in there for six months, I suppose. Another one won't hurt."
"Yes, I suppose so," he told her, his returning smile not quite reaching his eyes. Fortunately, Professor Vogstein was not the most observant when it came to human beings. She preferred saving her perceptiveness for her favorite field of research.
Both of them parted ways, and Hiro made his way to down to the Special Defense Centre. Even though it was also located in the defense department, it was several floors below the administration floor where the Command was. Luckily for him, the lifts installed all over the structure made it convenient to find his way deeper underground.
The Special Defense Centre was a convoluted space crowded with labs, holo-computers, new inventions, researchers, scientists and the occasional soldier for test-runs. Hiro knew that the security here was always very tight, being accessible only to those with the specific authorization. It was a jointly run by specialized units in the defense and research departments, dedicated to the advancement of weapon technology as well as other defensive systems in District 13.
The first time that he had entered here, Hiro had been tremendously impressed. In District 3, all the work that he ever did was all low-end things, like factory assembly and programming household electrical devices for the Capitol's pleasure. In Special Defense, everything was cutting-edge. In the mere six months that he had been there, Hiro had observed huge progresses in the inventions that people here had made.
They were often engineers like him and, believing that all of them shared the common goal ultimately, were willing to share their findings and creations with him. His age was of no consequence. If nothing else, it made it easier for them to accept him as a student to their field. He had encountered Professor Vogstein on one such occasion and has since then stayed in contact with her. With the amount of work that his own project took though, he didn't get to interact with as many of these like-minded geniuses as much he would have liked to.
Hiro pressed the control button on the arm of his chair, speeding himself past the laboratories. As he did, he found himself gazing longing through glass at the other engineers. They talked to one another freely, fixed together their prototypes and ran tests on them in the testing ranges. He would have loved to be in their place, but duty called him elsewhere.
There was a hall deeper into the Special Defense Centre marked as 'CYBER DEFENSE'. Guards stood at its entrance to check the identities of all those who went in. It was a thorough examination including finger-print, retinal and DNA scans. There was even one part of the process that required passing through this gate-like metal detector, which required him to move from his electronic wheelchair to a plastic one they provided. While he did understand the need for these precautions, Hiro couldn't help but feel that all of this was unnecessarily troublesome. He was probably the only researcher who entered this area in a wheelchair. How could the guards not know his face by now? But everyone in District 13 live and breathed protocol, and as a citizen here now, he was bound by the same inconveniences.
Once the checks were completed, Hiro wheeled himself in the plastic chair through a narrow, tube-like corridor. The silence that greeted him in the computer room told him quickly enough that he was alone. He let out a sigh without really meaning to, before moving himself towards the central computer. That was really a wide-stretch computer that turned into became a three-dimensional holo-screen when necessary. He had built it himself a few months ago. Like he had told the council, the computers in District 13 were too old-school to handle the Capitol-style programming.
He laid his hand on the keypad, which scanned his palm to check for identity. Numbers and figures lit up in luminous blue before him, empty gaps and broken ties reminding him of where he had left off. Sitting himself up, Hiro reached a hand towards the screen, summoning a holographic interface for him to work with.
After an hour or two of coding and uncoding the tangle of programs, he glanced up from his work to check the clock. It was 13:00, which according to the schedule tattooed to his arm, meant that it was lunch time. He sighed as he gazed at the floating mess of numbers, then down to his wheelchair. Rolling himself to the canteen was always so troublesome since it was located several floors above. Usually he got Baymax to fetch his meals for him so he could eat it while working instead, but he had lent the nurse robot to Hiccup. From the reports that he had received, Hiccup had just been fitted with his new prosthetic. He would be in intensive physiotherapy right now, so he certainly needed the nurse robot more. Hiro just told himself that he would catch his meal later, after he finished unravelling this portion of the program.
Quite expectedly, there was some stupid knot in the code – a bunch of symbols that existed in the Capitol's computer systems but not in District 13's. That meant that he needed to design and install a whole new 'computer-language' inside his computer. Of course, his work turned to be for nothing when the computer told him unapologetically that it couldn't read the new program due to lack of space in its database.
"Oh, c'mon!" Hiro was gnashing at his teeth. Jabbing a finger down at the computer screen, he growled, "I would smash you into bits if you weren't so expensive!"
The holo-computer obviously didn't care about his threat, because it just repeated to him exactly the same notice.
The boy leaned back into his chair, scowling hatefully at the floating holograms. He had always been good with the digital space – he was a genius, after all. But his real passion lay in engineering. He liked designing things; real, tangible things. He actually enjoyed building his wheelchair – the electronic one that he got to use outside the research lab, at least. He liked building his table-slash-computer, though programming it was tedious. He loved creating on the funky gizmos that he had back in District 3.
For a long time, that's how Hiro had imagined his life play out. He and Tadashi would dog themselves out in the factories of District 3 by day, and build a hundred-and-one silly inventions from metal scraps by night. It would be hard life, but it would be simple. None of them would be caught up in some complicated movement to overthrow the Capitol with the 'mythical' District 13.
That was so long ago.
During the post-Games period that he had spent in the hospital, each day had consisted of him being injected by various medications and undergoing operation after operation. He hadn't been in a coma like Hiccup, but he wished that he was. Some of the procedures didn't require putting him under morphling, which really sucked. Just looking at scars of his sutures reminded him too clearly of how he got them and how they were fixed, making him tremble uncontrollably.
He had to admit that the sight of any sharp object still made him feverish and sweaty, but the doctors that fixed him didn't care how he felt about the procedures. They had a job to do, and they did it alright. They made sure that the boy genius who held the Capitol's security system in his head had enough of functioning brain so that he could reproduce it for them. Sometimes when he was in his darker moods, Hiro toyed with the idea that the District only saved the parts of him that they felt were useful to their cause. After all, a walking boy genius probably didn't contribute much more than a crippled boy genius.
He peered at the holographic symbols bitterly. Apparently, all his self-worth was really a bunch of codes.
The boy dug into his pockets for the small device that Professor Vogstein had given him. His inner-inventor prodded him to open it up, to see what she had added to his design. It would be a nice break from the vexing programming. He checked the clock. It was 16:30. Too late for lunch, but too early for dinner. Considering that he didn't spend any time on lunch earlier, he supposed that he could have a little break and take a peek…
Then he remembered that the President's warning, and he stopped short.
Letting out a deep exhale, Hiro rolled himself over to one of side tables that held a smaller, older computer that apparently was the 'standard issue' around here. He lay the flash drive down sadly, then placed his hand the wheel and swiveled himself away.
Then just as abruptly, he swung his chair back and grabbed the drive. Shrugging, he just muttered to himself, "Eh, heck it."
He missed his meeting with the psychiatrist at 17:00, but it was fine. Hiro was happy where he was, or rather, despite where he was.
He started walking from day seven on. It was actually pretty remarkable, considering how long he had been incapacitated.
The prosthetist was a very efficient worker, producing the metallic appendage just on the same day that he took the measurements. On the third day, Hiccup was hopping around with crutches for balance in the physiotherapist's office. By day five, he had upgraded from two crutches to just one. By day seven, he was discharged, limping away with his new prosthetic without extra supports.
To be honest, his rapid progress was purely because he had a motivation for doing so. He needed to find Toothless, and since no one, from the doctors to nurses to Hiro himself, was going to tell him anything, he had to find him himself.
Hiccup was assigned a compartment of his own that was located near the infirmary. From what he understood from the physiotherapist and the prosthetist, he would still need to see them again from time to time to check on his recovery. All these appointments would be displayed on the printed schedule on his arm – a novelty that he had not experienced prior to discharge.
There was this plastic band hooked to his arm stating 'recuperating', as if his prosthetic and his clumsy limp wasn't enough proof. There was also another special band on his arm with a little scanning code on it. Apparently, this band was related to his food intake, which had so far been the most complicated part about his adaptation to normal life. He had been taking his basic nutrients via tube for the last six months, so the doctor warned him that his stomach wasn't quite ready for solid food just yet.
Hiccup started his first 'normal' day at District 13 on day eight. Though the schedule on his arm stated clearly enough where he was supposed to go and what he was supposed to do, he didn't actually know the locations of those places. Hiro had promised to that he would be around to help after his discharge from the infirmary, but the boy hadn't showed up. Hiccup wasn't really that surprised. When he had asked for the other boy during his time in the hospital, the staff had told him that Hiro was involved in some kind of special project that took up a lot of his time. He was a genius, after all, and Thirteen needed his abilities.
Fortunately, the nurse robot that Hiro had attached him like an unnecessary appendage was not as unnecessary as Hiccup had assumed. Baymax, as the inflated creature had so introduced itself several times, had acted as Hiccup's crutch and occasionally cushion (every time he slipped). The robot was apparently programmed to be tirelessly eager in rendering assistance and had been more than happy to lead his handicapped patient wherever he needed to go. It also enjoyed reminding him to take breaks from his walks and sadistically adored scanning his body at inappropriate intervals.
It got pretty embarrassing to have the marshmallow-like, bumbling automaton tagging along, so Hiccup pretty much stowed Baymax into his red suit case after day ten. People would stop giving him pointed looks after that. Or so he thought.
On day eleven, he was mostly preoccupied with worry about tripping himself up. The prosthetic, which was more like an clunky chunk of metal glued together and bore no resemblance to a foot, was not the most comfortable thing in the world to walk with. His stump (even thinking that word made him nausea actually) had also started to swell due to its flesh rubbing against the metal brace. Adjustments had been made with prosthetist, but no matter how often he went, Hiccup felt that the prosthetic still wasn't quite right. It was always too tight, or too loose, or too unstable. If there was some way that he could get hold of some tools, he figured that he could fix it up himself. That way he wouldn't need to bother the busy doctors anymore. He made a mental note to ask Hiro the next time he saw him – if he saw him.
By day twelve, Hiccup had worked up enough confidence to talk to the people around him. He tried chatting to the other attendees at one emergency protocol briefing, as well as those at the basic physics class. But other than crisp factual responses, no one really paid attention to him. By day thirteen, he found that total number of words he uttered to other people had been capped at double digits. By day fourteen, he had admitted to himself that he was being ignored, blatantly and unapologetically.
While this sobering fact was bitter to swallow at first, Hiccup had to admit that being ignored was much better than being actively hunted down and facing imminent death, so he wasn't overtly upset. From what he had observed, District 13 citizens weren't all cool and cold to one another, so perhaps they have yet to warm up to a stranger like him. In time, he hoped that the awkwardness would die. Till then, he decided to distract himself by the task that he found of the most importance; finding Toothless.
Hiccup was no stranger to snooping. He had always been scampering around District 2 on some self-made mission. Despite the stump aches that he got from long walking, he made an effort to check out the various buildings one by one, using the holographic map in Baymax's database to trace out his journey each day. He crossed out the places that he deemed unlikely to hold a twenty-six feet long dragon, before moving on to the next place. His exploration times were usually during meal times, rest times and baths times; all times of where dozens of District citizens were hoarded together and his lack of socialization (and others' lack of socialization with him) was most evident. He could do with a few less uncomfortable silences, so he gladly traded them for some 'adventure'.
Of course, it wasn't as easy as he had imagined. District 13, though contained almost entirely underground, was huge. The routes from the great hall to the compartments to the departments were all one big maze, and even with the navigation tools that Baymax had armed him with, Hiccup found himself getting terribly lost, even not making it for his assigned lessons sometimes. Every day was an exhausting one. Whenever he accidentally activated Baymax, he would be given the same pointless advice about limiting his 'exercise' while still on recovery.
But Hiccup didn't like dwelling on his recovery. It was a painful subject, so he continued his searches.
Things only changed around day seventeen when Hiccup woke up one morning, slipped his arm under the tattooing contraption and found that he had something new printed on his schedule: 14:00 – Defense Department, Classroom 11B. He had never been assigned to the defense department before – for health reasons, he had assumed – so he reported to the destination with much anticipation.
Most of the people were already sitting behind the polished tables of the classroom when he had arrived. They were older and bigger than him, and since he didn't know any of them, he slipped into a seat near the back. That was usually enough to ensure that he was left alone for the rest of the session. However, eyes followed him as he strolled to his desk and stayed with him even after he sat down. He could see that the other students, if these uniformed people students were indeed students, were muttering to each other, frowning. He creased his brows at them, wondering what exactly the problem was.
"Um, you don't belong here."
He spun his head in the direction of the voice, finding himself looking at the lean soldier sitting next to him. The tag on his uniform read 'Crane'. "Sorry?"
"Err,-" the soldier seemed quite sorry for opening his mouth, as if the phrase had slipped out unintentionally "-you don't belong here. Like this place. You're a rookie, aren't you? I mean,-" he waved a hand at Hiccup's standard-issue garb "-you don't even have uniform yet. This is a specialized class. For upper ranks, you know."
"Oh," Hiccup turned crimson. That must have explained the weird looks. "My schedule just said classroom 11B."
"This is classroom 11E," a soldier from the row in front of him said very quietly. Hiccup had noticed her watching him very carefully since his entry to the classroom. The military training he had when he was younger told him that by the colors on her shoulder, her rank was higher than most of the others in the class, even Soldier Crane. She was well-built and strong, and the hard training she put herself through was evident by the muscles bulging through her uniform. "11B's a lot further down this floor. I can you take you there."
"Oh, it's fine. I can-" When the senior-ranking soldier narrowed her eyes at him, Hiccup realized that it wasn't an offer. He gulped. "Okay."
After he thanked Soldier Crane for the pointing out his error, Hiccup followed the other soldier through the classroom. She quite reminded him of the Peacekeepers from his home town - serious, severe and humorless. He caught the name on her tag – 'Tigress'. Well, by her ferocity, he supposed that it was appropriate.
After she had led him up to another insipid classroom that looked nearly identical to the one that they had been in earlier, he had planned to duck his head down, thank her and scuttle into the room. But she held him back, glaring down at him, before saying, "You don't belong here."
He glanced up and down the corridor, then said, "Well, yeah, that's because I'm supposed to be in the classroom, not out-"
"I don't mean that," she cut him off, folding her arms. Her eyes were smoldering, bearing down on him. "Everyone here knows who you are. If we had any say about it, you wouldn't be allowed ten feet around the defense department – or ten feet around anywhere, actually."
Dread pooled in his stomach, but confusion induced him to say, "I don't understand."
Soldier Tigress straightened up her arms, pulling back her sleeves. He saw brawny arms that could easily snap his own into two, but he also saw long slashes and dark marks etched on her toughened skin. He had a chilling feeling that those were not her only ones.
"No one here has ever had good experiences with Peacekeepers and no number of years in District 13 lets you forget them," she told him as she drew her sleeves back over the scars, her tone ominous. "You've done nothing to deserve our privileges, and the history of people like you with people like us is an ugly one. So don't expect anyone to go out of their way to welcome you here, because you're not welcome." The last word was punctuated with the clenching of her fist below his chin, causing Hiccup to take a step back. "We're watching you, Two, and the minute you give us a reason to doubt you, we'll crush you."
The soldier eventually decided that he was sufficiently intimidated, so she left him at the classroom door, sneering as she went back down the corridor.
Hiccup didn't even know that he had been holding his breath until he started seeing spots in his vision. Sucking in air and wheezing it out immediately, he hit the entry button on the side of the classroom door, slipping into the classroom. Every seat save one at the back had been filled, and all eyes were latched onto his small frame immediately. As he staggered his way to that lone seat, he felt the gazes burning into his every movement, and he knew now that they didn't just see a useless little crippled boy, as people in District 2 would. In him, they saw the enemy.
It didn't matter what crazy things he had done in the Hunger Games. He didn't even know if people in District 13 watched the Games actually, since it was primarily Capitol propaganda. Even if they did, it was six months ago. They would have forgotten by now. All they saw was the son of District 2's pro-Capitol mayor. A possible spy. A ticking bomb.
Even after the educator had entered the room and the class had begun, the hair at the back Hiccup's neck was still standing. Hostility was markedly obvious in all words and glances made his way. Suspicion was reeking out from each of his peers.
He wished fervently that he could be ignored again, but he knew they would grant him no such privilege. It was like the Hunger Games all over again, with hunters on his tail, watching his every move.
Ralph Reckit was considered enormously large for a boy of his age and background - especially his background. Anyone who knew anything about District 11 would know that it was called the District of 'Bountiful Harvest' appropriately, for it did possess lush orchards and large plantation fields. The bounty however was not for its citizens to savor, going straight to the Capitol instead. Needless to say, the people starved.
Being the most populous District in Panem, Eleven was naturally, by proportion, the poorest. Many of its citizens spent their nights sleeping on the streets and dying of sickness simply because they couldn't afford to live otherwise. The pay was meagre and the work was hard. It was no wonder then that thoughts of rebellion spread more swiftly here than anywhere else. Most of the sunken-eyed critters had nothing to lose and everything to gain, so why not rebel?
That said, the gains were few. Spikes in rebellion were clamped down quickly as they came, for the Peacekeepers were almost omniscience when it came to hunting down traitors. They seemed to know about all plans, target locations and primary instigators; always one step ahead of the insurgent.
And it was because they were. The Peacekeeping force had eyes everywhere, and they paid their spies handsomely – compared to the average District 11-er, at least.
Ralph grew up in a home wealthier than that his peers, but he never really understood the source of his family's income until it was too late. He had met many Peacekeepers as a boy, for they often came to his father's home and spoke with him, but he did not understand what had been corresponded. He only knew that the Peacekeepers would pass his father coins along during such meetings, and these would pay for the rich meals that they ate at the table. Ralph grew to be proud and strong, and he was ashamed to admit he had enjoyed using his large size to frighten his peers when he was younger. They were like worms compared to him, and he savored his advantage in his size.
That was until his father died. No one was sure how it happened, but a pommel in the head with a lead pipe hardly seemed like an accident. However, without someone to tattle on it, the Peacekeepers had no idea who did it. No one in town was sorry for to see Reckit Senior go, and certainly nobody cared what happened to his unkempt, unlovely offspring. The case remained unsolved. Ralph didn't have a mother as far as he knew, so the incident landed him straight in the children's home.
Even amongst the orphans, the repute of his predecessor stayed with him. People shunned him actively, perhaps because of his size or perhaps they were afraid that he would sneak on them to the Peacekeepers, the way his father did. Parents told their children to stay away from him, and teachers always went out of their way to punish him – a childish vengeance, perhaps. In the fields, he was always given the hardest, most grueling assignments, and when he was done with those, his work was criticized. He had never been invited to the little harvest festivals the District people held every now and then, and he never tasted the delicious pies that they baked. When he was around fourteen, the orphanage finally managed to cook up a half-baked excuse to throw him out, and he spent the rest of years sleeping in the dump. Anywhere else, he would be pelted with stones – not all metaphorical.
He had accumulated quite a number of names to his own, including 'brute', 'monster', 'freak', and 'bad guy'. The most prominent was 'Wreck-it Ralph', because that all he was good at – ruining things. Or so they said.
Because of his large strength and blocky size, the people of District 11 could easily convince themselves that they were doing nothing wrong. It wasn't as if people like him could get hurt, could they? And if he did, did it matter? He was just the bad guy. In him, they saw the enemy - like the Peacekeepers. But the white-clads were untouchable whereas he was open-range.
Weaker guys might have buckled, but perhaps the District folk were right in thinking that Ralph was strong. Careful self-reflection in his teens led him to altering his behavior to those surrounding him. He tried to polite and friendly, but that just earned him jeers and sneers. He tried to helpful, like offering to take on more work or do jobs that a strong fella like him could, but this lead to people accusing him of him plotting sabotage. They made clear their opinion of him, and that was that they didn't want him around. Should he lash out in retaliation, more fingers would point his way and voices would scream, "See! See! Didn't we tell you what a bad guy he is?"
No one was sorry to see him reaped for the Games. No one, but his only friend. She was dead, by the way. You can thank the Capitol for that.
It shouldn't be a surprise that he liked District 13. It was a clean slate for him. Here, there was no amassed mean-spiritedness, no fear of traitorhood. His freakishly large size didn't represent a past betrayal to their society, but instead potential. They never told him to sleep in the trash. They didn't pour insults over him (at least, ones that he didn't deserve. Military language was very colorful). He was singled for specialized training a few weeks after he started joining army exercises. They told him that in time, he could become one of their finest soldiers. He could become a hero.
And he had friends. Well, they were more like acquaintances for now, but Ralph was sure that continued courteous interaction would keep people liking him. Though a majority of citizens here were born and bred in the District, quite a number were refugees like him (except that they had all escaped their Capitol-ruled Districts by foot and he was thrown through some weird teleportation-portal-thingy). They sympathized with his situation and were eager to help him fit in.
"Hey Ralph! Hi! How's special forces training?" was how he was greeted at the barracks canteen. The army food here, though by no means stellar, was actually tasty considering the limited ingredients in it. The chef was a weedy little man, as stingy as a miser, but he sure could cook.
"Oh, hi, Po," Ralph answered as he pushed his canteen tray along the metal rails, in line with all the other soldiers queuing for their meals with their own trays. He thought about the muscles aches that he had acquired and the bruises on his ribs. He was grateful for his new life, but he wasn't stupid enough to think that everything was sunshine and daisies. "Training was back-breaking, insanely painful and actively demoralizing. The lieutenant seemed to be in a bad mood today."
"Wow, that's sounds awesome!" The chubby fellow behind the food counter wasn't being sarcastic. For real. Over the course of the five months that Ralph had been in the defense department, he had come to realize that whether his comments were good or bad, Soldier Po would always think Special Forces was inexorably awesome. Ralph privately theorized that it was due to the traumatic circumstances that the other fellow had gone through in his childhood.
Through a conversation with the other boy, Ralph had learnt that Po had been separated from his mother when both of them had tried running away to the fabled District 13. He had been a little more than a baby then, and he wouldn't have survived in the wilderness if his adopted father, who too was attempting the dangerous journey to what was hopeful a haven from the Capitol's arm, hadn't found him. Now, Mr. Ping was the head chef of the defense department. Though he technically had clerk duties elsewhere, Po often assisted his father in food service. Ralph usually tried to get the chubby soldier to serve him meals rather than the chef himself - he was more generous in meal portions.
"I'm going to join you guys someday," Po told him while pouring the gruel into Ralph's tray. It was a weird, gooey mix of foods, but it tasted fine actually. "Just wait and see."
Other Special Forces members usually told Po that such was unlikely. He had a strange medical condition that made him permanently obese, no matter his nutrition intake, and he needed to consume high levels of calories in order to function. He also wasn't very fit. There was no way that he would get into Special Forces.
But Ralph wasn't one to throw cold water. He had his life change for the better, so he wasn't going to kill anyone else's hopes of changing theirs. "Well, I look forward to being your senior officer then."
"Hah! That's what you think." Po drew himself upright, blubber and all, raising the soup spoon up like a sword. "I shall be-" he waited a few seconds for a dramatic pause "-a legendary Kung Fu warrior!"
Ralph quirked an eyebrow as he set took the utensils of the rack, placing it on his tray. "What's 'Kung Fu'?"
"I have no idea." Po shrugged as he filled a bowl of salad for the soldier, handing it over to him. Then he raised the spatula again, his free hand raised towards the ceiling, declaring theatrically, "But it shall be awesome that it would make awesome-sauce into less-awesome-watered-down-gravy!"
"Po! The queue is growing!" The chef's snappish tone shot straight of the kitchen. It was as if Mr. Ping could see through the metal doors. "Serve the customers!"
"Oh, right." The chubby soldier sheepishly lowered his flabby arms under the glare of the other soldiers waiting in line. Nodding a goodbye to Ralph, he scurried off to serve their needs.
Ralph grabbed his tray and moved along to the benches-side of the canteen. It was generally a place of socialization, so it was expected for him to greet other soldiers that he passed by even if he didn't remember all their names. He didn't really mind doing it all that much, for it wasn't difficult to return a smile when someone else was giving one. In District 11, this would have been an impossible feat.
Pleasantness however was not an attitude he observed from all his fellow comrades. For the first time that day, Ralph spotted a small figure limping towards a far-off table. The boy was strapped a uniform that barely seemed to fit him – not surprising, given his wire-like form. The tray in his hands shook in his wobbly hands, stopping only after the boy had placed it on the table. With a sigh, the boy tried to seat himself down on the bench, only to have trouble lifting his metallic leg over it. It was then that Ralph realized he actually knew this kid.
He had his own assigned seating with his platoon-mates, but Ralph decided that he could live with a little variation this evening. He strolled down the aisle, straight up to the near-empty table. The other boy's head was tilted down towards his own measly portions, so he didn't notice Ralph's presence until he cleared his throat.
The boy lifted his gaze towards the unexpected company, body all tensed up and expression wary. His left hand even gripped onto his knife, as if the puny utensil would be of any protection against the larger boy's build.
"Anyone taking this spot, kid?" was Ralph's casual greeting.
The boy blinked at him, considering these words for a moment. Without relaxing, he answered, "No. I don't think anyone would want to take it, anyway." The last bit was spoken with a bitter note.
Ralph was undaunted by the cold attitude. "Good. More room for me."
He plonked himself down on the bench across the scrawny lad. His dining buddy didn't appear massively enthusiastic about his presence, choosing to dig his spoon into a more watered-down version of Ralph's gruel, eyes still downturned.
"Doesn't seem like they gave you much," Ralph noted out loud upon seeing the tiny portions on the other lad's tray. "Would that actually be enough?"
"I don't eat a lot," was the boy's answer as he glancing at one of the bands around his wrist. "Still not used to fully solid food, actually."
"Oh. That sucks," said Ralph as sympathetically as he could. He himself didn't have any problems with digestion during his recuperation, but the kid had been sick longer than he had. "How long has it been since you woke up?"
"Seventeen day, give or take." The boy shrugged listlessly. He looked up at Ralph, his mouth twisted in a critical frown. "You do know who I am, right?"
"Yeah, um." Ralph's memories brought him back to the Arena. An uncalled-for sense of sadness and anxiousness rose to his chest, but he stifled it quickly and just snatched up the information he needed. "You're that kid who rode the muttation. The black one that looks like a bat."
"That's all you remember about me?" The boy was on the edge of his seat – literally. It was like he was prepared to make a break for it.
Ralph scratched his chin. "You injured your leg very badly."
"Heh." A sardonic smile appeared on the lad's face. "I had help with that. Lots of help." Then abruptly, the smile vanished, replace by a ghostly-white expression. His eyes were almost popping out of their sockets, but they were not looking at Ralph.
"What're you-" the bigger boy followed the gaze that went over his right shoulder, where he saw another thin figure hunched over another empty table staring at them. Her red curls barely shielded the frost in her eyes. "Oh. Her."
"Yep." The kid's voice sounded hoarse. "Her."
"She's a rare sight around here," Ralph told him, swinging himself back to his meal. "She usually takes meals in another building. Doesn't like rubbing shoulders with people who throw her in jail."
"I see," his acquaintance squeaked. His posture had become crooked, as if he was trying to hide himself behind the tray. By how he swallowed and gulped, Ralph assumed that it wasn't really working. "There's a jail in District 13?"
"Yep." Ralph wolfed down his slice of bread, before elaborating, "Just for law-breakers, you know."
"What did she get in for?" The other boy slowly straightened himself up after deeming his actions pointless. His eyes still darted nervously in her direction every now and then.
Ralph snorted. "You should ask her yourself."
The smaller boy shuddered. "Er, no thanks. I don't think she likes me. Not that anyone else likes me, for that matter," he muttered that addition in a lower voice. Turning back to Ralph, he probed, still skeptical, "You do remember which District I'm from, right?"
Ralph did. He made it point to remember all the Districts of the other survivors. The ice girl was from Twelve. Fire-hair was from Five. Hiro was from Three. "You're from Two."
"Yeah. Home to Careers and Peacekeepers alike. Not exactly 'friendlies' to the District that we're residing in, or even the District you're from," the boy pointed out, the cynicism barely hiding the insecurity. "You sure you still want to sit here?"
So Ralph might have attended less than three-quarters of the school than he was supposed to, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that District 2 had always shared a special 'closeness' to the Capitol. Peacekeepers had to come from somewhere, after all. He knew that his fellow soldiers held great anger towards the white guards and their masters. But he also knew what it was like to be treated like the bad guy, to not be given a chance to prove himself.
"Well, us survivors gotta stick together," he told the other boy. He couldn't even remember the kid's name. He might have never known it. But one thing was true – this boy and him shared one thing that no one else here, besides three others, had. The horror of the Games.
The boy managed a watery smile. "Sounds good to me."
22:30 was technically lights out for the citizens of District 13, unless you were the unlucky one eighth of the population that was on night-duty that day.
She might have been, but she never attended any real training, so she wouldn't know. Bath time had been at 22:00. The ink they used to tattoo the schedules on their arms was special such that it only washed away at that time. During the morning and afternoon, it was impossible to remove. If Merida was more of a scientist, this might have interested her. Instead, her interest had turned to more important things, like trying to guess where that retching sound was coming from while sitting cross-legged on a toilet seat.
If she was avid follower of rules, Meirda would be buried under the machine-produced, uninspired blanket and with her head rested on the machine-produced, uninspired pillow, safe inside her compartment. But tonight, the hollow cell that was her compartment had started closing in on her again. Unable to sleep, she had found herself in a staring contest with her closet, half-expecting a giant snarling bear to emerge from it. So in her night clothes, Merida fled to one of her favorite hiding spots, out of sight from patrolling night guards.
There were no bathrooms in the compartment, because it was more economical for residents to share them. Night visitors there were few, and someone would have washed up the place after bath time, so the place was a relative clean, peaceful and, most importantly, brightly-lit. She didn't even need to take a morphling pill before drifting off in one cubicle. That was, till she was rudely awoken.
Grumpily shifting herself on the toilet seat, Merida's blurry vision flitted about as she tried to locate the puking sounds. Pressing her head against the cubicles wall, she decided that it lay towards her right. Slipping herself off the toilet seat, she croched herself down and craned her next forward, so that she could look through the gap under cubicle walls. From her view, she noted the vomiting individual was kneeled before a toilet bowl three cubicles down. There was a metal prosthetic on his left leg, just under his knee cap.
The stench of gastric fluids mixed with half-digested food wafted her way, and it became clear to her that this was no longer a conducive hideout. Yet when she unlocked her cubicle door and emerged from it, she found herself moving towards the source of the retching instead of away. Stopping before the door of interest, Merida pushed it open slightly, letting it swing inwards. The boy sprawled before the toilet bowl paused his regurgitation process to acknowledge the person standing behind him.
When their gazes met, Merida spoke first, "What are you doing here?"
It was almost funny how he quickly scrambled away from her, one hand over his mouth and another gripping on the door, as if he wanted to slam it shut. Her firm palm on the metal panel prevented him from doing that, however. His emerald eyes flashed with alarm, like a deer caught in the headlights, and she was almost a little sorry for him. Almost.
Coughing, he managed to compose himself, croaking, "What are you doing here?"
"I asked first," Merida answered shortly.
"I wasn't aware that there were rules to how questions are answered." Being scared didn't cut out the snarkiness in him, it appeared. But he was scared at least. He had to lower the hand from his mouth grip onto the rim of the toilet – the only structure that kept him from keeling over. "Besides, this is the guys' bathroom. I definitely have more reason to be here than you."
The redhead scowled, and that caused the boy to pull himself back, his knees drawn up close to his body. With a roll of her eyes, she said, "Most guys use the urinals rather than cubicles – compared to girls, anyway - and it never occurred to guards to look for me here. So I hang out here sometimes."
He assessed warily for a moment, before asking, puzzled, "You've got guards looking for you?"
She cursed herself for letting that slip, but she supposed that he'd find out eventually. "I'm pretty notorious here in District 13."
"Huh," was all he replied, and it was barely audible. He grabbed some of the toilet paper, unrolling it slowly piece by piece before making the tear, then using it to dab his stained mouth. He repeated the same action to wipe his hands, before tossing both crumpled sheets in the toilet. He did all this without taking his eyes off her.
"So, why are you here?" Merida set in the question before he could inquire further. She didn't know why she told him anything, actually.
He gestured at the toilet bowl reeking of vomit, wearing a plaintive expression. "I think it's fairly obvious, isn't it?"
"I didn't know that amputations caused vomiting," she said without really thinking.
The tactless mention of the injury brought back the pallor of the boy's face and he reeled forward, positioning his mouth before the toilet bowl just in case. Merida felt a twinge of guilt in her heart, but she quickly replaced it with self-disgust. Why should she feel sorry about it? So she might have caused it (though she would have to fight that out with Hiro) but that was all part of the Games. It was the Capitol's fault, not hers.
Conscience told her that her fault or not, callous allusions was still insensitive. But c'mon! Recovering wimp or not, this kid was from District 2. He should be grateful even if he was fed slop and forced to live in a sty like a pig at Thirteen. Jings Crivens, help ma bob! They gave him a bloomin' prosthetic! It wasn't as if she owed him any favors.
Apparently, he was not going to throw up again, and the creases on his forehead relaxed, though his face was still as a white as sheet. Watching her, yet not quite looking at her, the Two boy said in his nasally voice, "Actually, it's just that my stomach's still not used to the food in the defense canteen. Or any normal food, really."
"Oh." Despite herself, Merida could empathize. A day or two after the Games ended and she was still stuck at the infirmary, they had to put her under this sedative that made her throw up five times in a span of eight hours after the operation for her arm. Some bad reaction with her body, they had said. They had to change it to morphling after that, and since then she found it hard to go a day with at least one dose. Her diet was kind of messed up for the following weeks during recovery too, and she shuddered involuntarily as the vestiges of nauseas attacked her memory.
"Well, I think I've thrown up my entire dinner – whatever strange substance it might have been," the boy commented wryly. He reached an arm towards the flush handle, and fumbled a little as he tried to stretch his arm towards it. Merida considered helping him out, but then he finally managed the task by rocking his body forward and smacking the handle down.
"Right," he murmured to himself just over the flushing sound. "Now to get up." He gazed down at his sprawled form, a calculated look towards the metal contraption on his foot. At a closer angle, Merida realized that the prosthetic looked more like a giant metal prong rather than a leg. Were doctors even trying when they made it?
The Two boy tried to heave himself up by pressing one hand against the rim of the toilet bowl and the other against the wall. His good leg was bent at an angle, with the sole against the floor. He succeeded in lifting himself up slightly, but slipped when the metal foot skidded on the bathroom tiles, making him land back on his rear. He huffed in pained annoyance, before trying again, literally clawing at his surroundings.
After watching two more failed attempts, Merida became far too impatient to care about how much she wasn't supposed to care. She held a hand towards him. He stared up at the offering, not quite trusting.
Merida might have flinched at his reaction, but she just let herself frown and answer his thoughts with a hiss, "You could just sit here for the rest of tonight."
After a wordless moment of contemplation, he took her hand. Merida could feel his fingers tremble against her hand as she hoisted him up. The strength of her arm must have reminded him of something unpleasant, because he yanked his hand away the minute he was back on his feet. She could guess by how he recoiled from her what he was thinking of.
Nonetheless, he still bothered to express his gratitude in stutters. "T-t-thanks."
She was feeling rather peeved - though with him or herself, she wasn't sure. Sniffing a little, Merida remarked emotionlessly, "Now I've got puke on my hands."
He conspicuously shuffled away from her.
Both of them washed their hands at the basin, the only thing breaking silence being the sound of water hitting the metal panel. Merida stared fiercely forward, refusing to look at the boy in the eye, lest that start a conversation that she was unwilling to have. In the corner of her vision, however, she noticed that his pale countenance was transforming itself into an unpleasant shade of green.
"Still feel like throwing up?" she asked in a rather bored manner, drawing her brows together to make herself appear more irritated. And why shouldn't she? He was an irritation. A pest. He was a neon billboard of everything she was trying to forget.
Uneasily, the boy admitted, "Just the feeling of it. I don't think there's anything left in my stomach."
Merida had to resist the part of her mind that wanted to shove his head into the toilet bowl and tell him to stay there till he drowned in his own fluids, but she also was fervently repelling the part of her that wanted to offer comfort.
She settled on what she hoped was a good middle-ground. "You should see a doctor."
"I probably should," he muttered in a way that meant that he had no intention of doing so.
"Try to be grateful," she rebuked him. "They're trying to help you, not kill you, no matter what it looks like." That comment might have been tinted with her own experiences. When the hospital strapped her broken arm to some kind of straightening-machine, she was certain they were all a sadist lot of mad scientists. She hadn't really changed her opinion yet.
"I-It isn't that," he stammered. His bony fingers had tightened themselves along his elbows, nails digging into his own clammy skin. "I just don't like bothering them. They've got other patients here and I'm a waste of resources."
Privately, Merida baulked at hearing him describe himself that way. She wouldn't have hesitated to tell him such in his face before, but to actually hear him say that about himself was, well … let's just say it felt unpleasant.
After a brief inner debate, she made her decision. She didn't really like this conclusion, but she felt that she wasn't going to get much sleep if she didn't do this. "Well, you don't need to see them if you don't want to."
He gave her sidelong look. "What do you mean?"
The redhead jerked her chin towards the exit to the male bathroom. "C'mon."
She could tell that he didn't really want to follow her, but he didn't really want to refuse her either. Despite being unfit compared to all the military trainees, Merida was still stronger than him. In matter of fact, he was so underweight at the moment that she was sure that she could pick him up and toss him if she wanted to. He was fully aware of that, and perhaps that fright was what kept him compliant.
Months of sneaking around had given Merida a natural instinct in avoiding the night patrols. She wouldn't be thrown into jail for breaking curfew without cause, but she wasn't going to be assigned community service either. Washing other people's dishes was such a pain.
Sadly, her fellow moonlighter wasn't not a stealthy as she was in his movements. His illness kept him from darting around as swiftly as she could, and his prosthetic made a distinct 'clunk' every time it hit the polished floor.
"Where are we going?" he whispered nervously while both of them hid from a pair of passing soldiers.
"I know where the medical stores are," she told him, gesturing for him to follow her after the patrollers had moved along. "Bet we can get you some medicine for the nausea."
"Isn't that like stealing?" he commented, his annoyingly whiny voice become more high-pitched with alarm.
"No." She wrinkled her nose at him. "It's called self-prescription."
He opened his mouth to retort, but Merida shushed him as they arrived at a fork in the corridor. There were sounds of speaking on the path ahead - the one that went past the meeting rooms. That meant that there were occupants within one of the rooms, and its door was open too.
There were alternative routes to the medical stores, but Merida didn't want to take a detour. She wanted to go back to bed as soon as they could. She was certain that she was tired out enough to fall asleep before the shadows haunted her again. So, with a wave of her hand, she beckoned the Two boy to follow her. Both teenagers took controlled steps towards down the hall, scrutinizing their surroundings cautiously. As she had predicted, one of the meeting room doors was wide open, light streaming out. Both of them pressed themselves near the wall, approaching the doorway carefully. The bits of the dialogue from within emerged from the room too:
"-the drama and the tragedy. I doubt any of us will forget these anytime soon. If you want to poll on what your favorite years of Hungers Games are, just remember to dial these numbers-"
Hunger Games?
It was then that Merida realized that she recognized the speaker, and that this was no meeting conversation at all.
"What are you doing?" was what the Two boy hissed at her as she walked straight into the light. He tried to grab her arm, but Merida batted his hand away, entering the room. She could hear him hobbling behind her in anxiousness.
It was fortunate for them both that the meeting room was empty. The last occupants of this place were uncharacteristically careless for the usually frugal District 13 citizen, it would seem, for the television screen hanging from the corner of the room was still switched on, playing the live feed from the Capitol.
Playing Capitol television in a District that hated it so bitterly seemed counterintuitive, but District 13 took to the practice as a form of information collection, as well as a method of educating their citizens on the depravity of their rivals. Merida had once sat through a session in the education centre where they literally spent the entire hour analyzing a particular advertisement by the Capitol. 'The visual medium is a bazooka in the battle for the mind', the educator had said without a trace of humor, despite how silly the statement sounded. She took a nap through session, so she didn't honestly learn that much.
As Merida had thought, the one on the screen was none other than Mike Wazowski himself, dressed in his signature lime-green. He was standing before a glittering screen and a glowing stage. The screaming color cutting into her pupils just barely covered the fact that it was too night time at the Capitol.
"And now folks, to kick start this year's Victory Tour, we're going straight to – oh, which District is it again?" The presenter made an exaggerated frown, obviously a playful show rather than actual forgetfulness. The camera angle was changed, such that he could be shown speaking to the audience seated at the Capitol, one hand cupped behind his ear. "C'mon, people, help me out a bit, which District are we looking at?"
The yelling from the crowd was indistinct, but Mike pretended that he understood it.
"Ah! That's right! We're going straight to District 2 folks, home to the winner of the 74th Hunger Games!" One glittering screen next to Mike Wazowski began morph into a splatter of color, before the pixels dissipated and a clear image was produced. A door - the kind that you might find on a nice, well-to-do house at the merchant district back at District 5 – was shown. "Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together to welcome our latest victor, Astrid Hofferson!"
The crowds went wild as the house door swung open on the screen and revealed a face that Merida saw too often in her dreams. It usually came after her with an axe.
The District 2 girl was wearing a dainty blue dress decorated with bright yellow streamers, a jarring contrast to the metallic guards on her shoulders and spikes on her belt. Her golden hair was tied back into a single braid behind her head and a spike-studded band rested above her brow. She shot a winning smile towards the cameras, which sent the Capitol crowds in a further frenzy. Without even knowing it, Merida's hands had balled into fists.
The presenter asked the young victor some questions, but Merida fell deaf to these at the sound of the sharp inhale from her right. Twisting her neck towards him, she found that that the Two boy was staring at the screen with his jaw hanging loose.
She wondered scornfully what was entranced him so – the hypnotic glare of the screen, or the stunning appearance of his district mate. She wouldn't put it past him to have some kind of attraction towards the blonde girl. Hadn't he bargained with Hiro to save her life? Well, his dream girl was back in his home town living the life, and he was stuck here, throwing up his meals and hobbling around like an old man. What a poor little hormonal doowally.
"You're a lot like her."
Merida blinked. She could have pretended that she had imagined his words if he hadn't continued.
"She was always top in Career school – the youngest ever to be so." His eyes were fixed on the screen, a sad longing in his gaze. "She wasn't just cut-out for it physically. She really believed it. Honor, glory, heroism - she lived and breathed the stuff. I tried all my life to be someone like her, but that didn't really work out." He made a slight chuckle at himself. "I'm no warrior. Not exactly the muscular type, you see. But you are. You're a fighter. You remind me a lot of her that way, scariness included."
It was supposed to be a sentimental, sincere little sharing, scented with a little homesickness and sorrow. But to Merida, it just made something in her snap.
Before she really knew what she was doing, a low growl had left her lips and her palms were spread open, shoving the boy hard against the wall. Her arms pinned down him by the collar bones, almost pressing against his throat. From the top of her lungs, she hollered in his face, "HOW DARE YOU?"
The way his skull hit collided with the metal wall must have hurt, because he winced. Guilt trickled into Merida's soul, but her heart hardened as his words played again in her head. 'Honor, glory, heroism', 'scariness', 'warrior'… She gritted her teeth together.
The shock in his expression gave way to incredulity. "What do-"
"I'M NOTHING LIKE HER!" she screeched at him. He tried to pull away, but Merida was held him down too well. "GET THAT? I'M NOTHING LIKE HER! DON'T YOU DARE COMPARE US!"
A rational part of her berated her for giving away their position, but unfortunately ,she wasn't feeling very rational right now. She screamed at the boy writhing in her grip till her voice grew hoarse. Even then, she didn't let him go until the guards came running in and pulled her off him at last. As they dragged her away, she still was shouting at him, promising him excruciating pain should he ever, ever commit that dire mistake again.
She must have been sedated, because she found herself waking up to the unpleasant stench of antiseptic and paper sheets. Her body was strapped to the bed, but her arms weren't. Both were just hooked on to half-a-dozen tubes. Merida almost laughed when she recognized the drip that contained morphling. So all she needed to get the relief she wanted was just by flipping her lid? She should have done this sooner.
Before she drifted back to drug-induced wonderland, Merida couldn't help but reflect on the blow-up. She could imagine her mother scolding her over such terrible behavior. 'Losing her temper and throwing tantrum! Such acts are not befitting of a lady!' She played the words with her mother's sharp tone in her head, and it made a smile a little. That faded quickly after she remembered why she lost her temper in the first place.
Perhaps attacking the boy was uncalled-for, but Merida couldn't feel completely sorry about it. In that simple rambling of his, he had hit a nerve.
She was supposed to be the victor. She was supposed to be the one going home with the crown on her head and her fate in her hands. She was supposed to be bringing glory and honor to her District. She had volunteered herself into the Hunger Games for all these reasons, and she achieved none. She had lost her home, she had lost her dignity, and she was probably losing her sanity.
And who was the victor? Who was the one with the crown and the honor? The Career from the Peacekeeping District, who was apparently just strong, smart and hot-blooded as she was.
They were nothing alike. She would never let them be.
S/N:
The depression phase continues. At the same time, the Tours begin. According to the THG Books, Victory Tours occur almost in stark in the middle of two Hunger Games, which is why I fast-fowarded the whole story to be 6 months after the 74th Hunger Games.
Kung Fu Panda cameos! Yay! Don't know how important they are yet, so don't freak. I still haven't watched KP3, so don't spoil it for me.
So I finally decided that Ralph should have little backstory. Almost all characters have backstories, really. Just a matter of writing them out…
The reason why Hiccup and Merida watch the livefeed of Astrid's Tour start beginning at night is because the Catching Fire movie showed Katniss and Peeta's Victory Tours starting during night time too, so I went along with it.
Give Merida a hug if you dare. Oh, Hiro and Hiccup need hugs too, especially Hiccup.
Any guesses on who Prof. Vogstein and District 13's President are? Hehehehehe.
Oh, yes, and Sgt. Calhourn returns – except that she's been promoted.
Up Next: We'll be a taking a break from the depressing rebellion side to go on the Victory Tour, which I promise will not be depressing at all.
I'm lying.
A/N:
Hello!
I realized that producing 8, 000+ words in a chapter has become my new normal (this one has 11,000+ words) , while authors all around me have like 3000+ in theirs usually…
These chapters are so long! How do your eyes not burn after reading these?
Oh, wait, they are burning? Oh, uh…saline for you?
Guest Mailbox:
skyline 10: That is a rather good idea. I think that there is potential that a relationship may develop between Hiro and Elsa. Hope there'll be space in the story for that.
Fangirl: Yep, they are alive! The poor people around you though, haha…
Totes awesome: Haha! I know that feeling on missing an update from my favorite stories. If you use ffnet often enough, consider making an account. It's quite easy to use on mobile – I think. It may because Wattpad on my phone keeps hanging. Merida is closer to Johanna in personality (and drug addiction), but the depression part I wrote for Merida in the previous episode was really inspired by Katniss' depression in the THG books. For the part on whether the entire team would become the Mockingjay, well…I'm still thinking about how to go about this. In my version of the story, I will be approaching the whole 'symbolism' concept quite differently from the original THGverse, so I think there won't be so be so much focus on filming propaganda and more actually like …war fighting. Yeah.
So yep. That's all from me for now. See you all in two weeks!
Review. Critique. Ask Questions.