The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

by SharKohen

The 74th Hunger Games has changed Panem forever. The populace is restless. The Capitol is uneasy. The rebellion is growing. District 13 only awaits the opportune moment to strike. It's time for the Snow Queen to take the stage. The Guardians are coming. Hunger Games Mockingjay/ ROTBFD AU. Sequel to The Odds of Five. IMPT: See 'Important Notice' & 'March 2020 Update'.

10. Chapter 9: Whistle Down the Wind

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 9: Whistle Down the Wind

---

It hurt.

Yes, it definitely hurt. That burning in his chest. That unknown gnawing underneath his skin that threatened to consume him completely.

He scratched against it, trying to claw it out from under his sweater, but all he had in turn was a raw feeling on his chest and blood on his fingernails. It didn't help that the blizzard blowing around him was just making it worse. His hand, cold and frozen, struggled to reach for his hood, hoping that pulling it over his head might grant him a little warmth. While trudging around in ankle-deep snow, no end in sight in this desolate frozen wasteland, his heart sank and all he felt was hopelessness. He didn't know why he was here, or why it was frozen, or what he was looking for.

He was looking for something, right?

"I can help you find it," he heard a voice. It was soft and gentle, but there was something … dead about. Not deadly - just dead. As if the one who was speaking wasn't even alive.

He spun around, trying to find the source of the voice. He was startled to find that a large horse-drawn sleigh had manifested itself in front of him. Six snow-white horses, so white that it was almost blinding, were harnessed to the front of a frosted sleigh, where a young woman in fine robes was seated. When he had turned fully to gawk, she rose to her feet, gazing down back at him. The lad shrank back slightly as a chilling gust rattled his bones once more.

She was very beautiful, he had to admit. Her eyes were like sapphires and her hair like strands of gold. Her complexion was fair and smooth as if carved from polished marble, and her garments had the most intricate textures he had ever seen on clothes, glittering with her every gesture. She seemed very tall from where she was standing on the sleigh, and her presence itself seemed to tower over him in ways that he couldn't describe with words. Her lips, so red that surely they must be painted, moved ever so slightly as she said, dipping her head at him, "I can show you who you are."

"You know who I am?" For some reason, he realised that that must have been what he was looking for – what that has left him worn and fearful in this freezing weather. As he wrapped his arms around himself, he noted how she seemed almost impervious to the weather. She didn't budge at the way the snow fell on her hair, nor how the wind flapped against her long flowing skirt and her sleeves. If anything, she reveled in the frosty weather, smiling at the biting cold as it were an old friend.

Her immaculate features on her expressionless face didn't change as she stretched a hand towards him, "I can show you anything you want to know. For a price."

"What price?" He had to admit he was tempted. It was cold. It was painful. Though it didn't make sense to him, he felt that this knowledge was the cure to his ailment – to his circumstances, as if the pieces of information could mend the fissures of his mind.

"I'll tell you what it is if you step onto the sleigh and come with me," she told him, cold and haughty. Her lovely eyes were as devoid life as the precious stones by his mind had just compared them too.

He hesitated before taking her hand and letting her hoist him up, onto the platform of the sleigh. When they were standing face to face, he noticed the crystalline crown that sat over her forehead, gleaming menacingly down at him.

"Okay," he asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "So what's the price?"

She craned her slender, white neck forward, so close that they were almost touching. He found himself stiffening as her lips drew towards his ear, and whispered the answer that he did not expect, "A kiss."

He blinked. "A kiss?"

"Yes, that's all I ask," she said, drawing herself back, her lips curling up into what almost could be smile. "In return, I'll tell you all that you want to know."

"Well, okay." He's not sure how he felt about it. As far as he knew, he hadn't kissed anyone before – at least, from what he remembered – and she was pretty. He supposed that he wouldn't really mind – maybe. There was a part of his mind that was screaming at him not to do it, though for the life of him he couldn't imagine why.

Tapping his foot awkwardly on the sleigh platform, he then murmured, "So…what should I do? Do you want-"

She placed a finger over his lips, shushing him with a small smile, full of mystery and intrigue. With that, she leaned forward, pulling his chin towards her and sealed his mouth with hers.

And with that, he felt everything yanked out from him – his pain, his fear, yes, but also his strength, his courage, his feelings, his resolve-

-his very soul.

He could barely move when she drew back, grinning widely now, yet in her eyes he couldn't see a light to match her laughter, only a dark hollowness.

"You sad fool," she mocked him, her pearly white teeth seeming sharpen as while her pointed fingernails scratched him along his jaw. He couldn't answer, for his will to move had been sucked away. "You honestly think that I would give you anything?"

Her laughter echoed over the howls of the winds as a chain of ice magically appeared, looping itself around his neck. He groaned at the unexpected weight, his knees buckling due to his lack of strength. He wanted to scream curses at her, wanted to rip against the chains and fight, but he had no control over his limbs. He could only watch in horror as she sat herself down on the sleight, pulling him on the chain towards her, menace oozing from her grin.

"Poor, poor Jack," she murmured with false pity as her freezing claw of a hand traced its finger over his chest. "You are so, so naïve."

And suddenly, he felt horrific pain shoot through him, so strong and so overwhelming that his vision was blinded with white agony and his senses numbed. He heard her cackle and he raised his head up just in time to see that in her cruel hand sat his bleeding heart, still attached to the vessels coming from his chest. He could feel his pulse quicken in fear and to his horror, he watched as the blood-soaked organ in her palm thud faster and faster.

Crowing triumphantly, the Snow Queen simpered tauntingly at him, the heart on her crimson-stained palm like a prize. With a jerk of her hand, he watched as ice crept over his heart, spreading like a virus across the dark veins, turning the beating thing into solid ice.

He screamed.

---

The Capitol Undergrounds

Butterfly Room

Yet another screech broke into the theatre. The workers behind the glass merely observed it with silence, comparing their notes against the vital signs and the running timer, then bowing their heads to record down the new data. They then raised their heads to watch as the white-haired subject locked onto the water chamber fought against his bonds, twisting about in his suspended spot and yelled intelligible phrases into the breathing mask glued to his face.

"So, what is he actually seeing?"

"His greatest fear," Pitch answered clinically, gaze fixed on the writhing boy in the behind the panels. "He doesn't remember much of his past though, so whatever he does remember will be wrung tight, ripped into shreds and turned from the inside out." He adjusted one of the control to increase the dosage of the iron argonite entering his veins through the tubes – just slightly, of course. A bit too much, and they might accidentally kill him.

"Interesting." Randall's reptilian eyes gleamed with unholy delight as he too scrutinised the sight. "It's as if you're creating a phobia within his mind from scratch."

"It's not a 'phobia', Dr. Boggs," the Head of the Undergrounds corrected, sounding a little annoyed. "A 'phobia' implies irrationality. He'll have plenty of reason to be afraid."

Another screamed blared through the speakers and the subject suddenly began to tremble rapidly in his binds, frost forming around the water as he did.

"Sedate him!" the leader of the monitoring team called out at once, and someone in the room hit the controls to fill his IV tubes with anaesthesia instead of the grainy black toxin.

Pitch sighed and rolled his eyes. The management team had become extremely cautious with handling Frost after the debacle that happened during his 'resurrection', which meant that they never allowed him to hit maximum power before knocking him out. He understood the need to be careful, of course, but the thrill-seeker in him would much rather that they pumped him with the highest does of iron argonite in him possible and let the show unfold. In due time, he supposed, he would have their protocol altered. If they were going to have any real breakthroughs, they needed to take some risks.

The door behind the scientist and the ex-Gamemaker slid open and a panicked figure emerged. "Mr. Black, sir!"

Pitch spun himself around, folding his robes towards himself as he did. "What is it?"

The panting staff member breathed out, "Sir – the President – he – he's-" gasped "-he's here. He wants updates on the Panacea."

Randall and Pitch glanced at each other silently. The latter then muttered to the purple-skinned scientist, "Under no circumstances is the President to know about Frost."

"Of course," Randall answered briskly, moving towards one of the panels to give new instructions. With that matter settled, Pitch followed the still huffing and puffing staff out of the room, ensuring that the isolated door was shut behind himself.

The staff member led him to down to a wide hallway, where the President, in a pale-purple suit with a daisy in his pocket and a walking stick under his arm, stood amongst a host of his directors and servants. All eyes went immediately to the Head of the Undergrounds as he arrived at the scene and Pitch hid away the irritation that he felt.

"President Lotso," he greeted the only one worth greeting in the horde. "Your visit is quite a surprise."

"By 'surprise', I imagine that you mean 'unwelcome'," the president spoke grimly, his cracked lips moving behind his bushy white beard. A sudden wheeze escaped his throat, followed by a strong coughing fit that required him to remove his handkerchief and place it over his mouth.

As the minute passed, Pitch's brow rose as he noted the reddish stain that appeared on the elderly politician's handkerchief. Lotso then removed it from his mouth, folding it up and stuffing in his front pocket. "It seems, Mr. President, that your visit is timely."

President Lotso harrumphed, while one of the lackeys standing around him said, "The President wants to see the Panacea."

Pitch smiled thinly. "Yes. Of course, he does." He waved to the crowd as if they were a bunch of visiting school children. "Come along, now, and keep close to me. Some changes have been made here since your last visit and the last thing I would want-" his grin held a touch of menacing intent "-is for our dear guests to get lost in the labyrinth of the Undergrounds."

Pitch took them through dark corridors of the underground, avoiding the prisons and the torture chambers knowing full well how …delicate were the sanities of some of the party. Many Capitol officials, even those in close counsel of the President, were largely shielded from the brutalities of life and the rest of Panem. It was almost ridiculous.

He brought them down to the Garden of Eden, careful to send to send all the mutts guarding the horticulture site away before allowing the presidential party to follow him in – he didn't want any of those cake-eating bureaucrats to be eaten alive on his watch, did he? The accompanying officials were astonished at the sight of the glowing yellow flowers, all planted neatly in their rows behind the glass cases. Lotso himself found no amusement at the sight, demanding impatiently, "Where's the girl?"

"In a moment, Mr. President," Pitch answered, a twinge of annoyance in his tone as he spun around to face the group. Clearing his throat, he gestured towards the plantation with an air of pride. "As you know, the original lilium panacea was destroyed some eighteen years ago. Since then, we had been attempting to clone it from its dead tissues." He tilted his head towards the patches of glowing lilies.

"Unfortunately, the success of the project was limited. By nature, the lilium panacea was never designed to be a breeding flower. All the cloned subjects were never able to live as long as the original, and the healing power halved with each subsequent generation. Moreover, some of specimens even resulted in side effects." He noted that Lotso shoot a warning glare at him, but he brushed it off, continuing, "The good news is that after years of believing for years that the healing gene of the lilium panacea was extinct, it has become apparent to us that the gene still exists, flourishing on in its new host."

Grinning like the cat who caught the cream, the pale man instructed the visiting party to follow him once again as he led them straight through the Garden, all the way up to the new complex that had been recently constructed. This complex had to be accessed by card, so Pitch swiped his own on the reader. The tight latches on the door were undone and drawn back, allowing the metal gates to pull open. All eyes turned heavenward as the large dome-shaped interior of this complex came in view. Dozens of glass cubicles hung suspended in the air, with researchers and scientists within them scurrying about their studies.

In the centre of the dome stood a tall metallic tower, with no visible doors around it and one tiny window near the top. Out of the window poured out a river of golden hair, gleaming bright under the ferocity of the white illumination. The large loops of hair were held off the ground by long metal prongs - spidery hand-like contraptions. Since there were many small cubicles, the many prongs had split the single stream of hair into several separate segments, poising each segment in front of the different study cubicles that presumably studied different parts of it. The splaying out of the yellow threads made the hair appear like an exploding star from the bottom-up view.

"As you would know from watching the 74th Hunger Games," Pitch went on with his explanation as the party gawked at the flaxen 'chandelier' hanging above them, "the mutant girl's healing powers comes from her hair, triggered by the words of a certain nursery rhyme."

He signalled to one of the nearby research cubicles and the attendant there pressed a button that played the song, "Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine-"

A golden glow flooded the hair, starting from the roots emerging from the window, down the loosely draped loops, then flowing all the way to the ends of the strands. The Presidential company gasped in awe as the grey-coloured dome was filled with ethereal light. Pitch himself flinched though – he was never too fond of bright things.

"The light from the hair itself has unique properties that allows it to heal wounds or illness at a seemingly instant rates." Pitch turned himself to face the President, whose expression was still severe despite the grand display. "I should think, Mr. President, that you would find that your cough has let up."

The elderly man in the purple suit frowned at the comment, but nonetheless massaged his neck and his expression changed into one that was thoughtful. Lotso tilted his head up to eye at the hair suspended in the air, and then asked, "Is this really the cure, then? The light from the hair of mutant girl?"

"Yes and no, Mr. President." This odd answer earned him puzzled looks from all – well, all except the president, who had started glaring at him darkly. "The light is able to cure all ailments – that is true. The site that had been healed however can obtain the same infection again as before, should it be exposed to the same thing that caused the illness in the first place. Forgive me for my bluntness, Mr. President -" Lotso's raised a bushy brow "-but age is a relentless disease that cannot be cured with a single dose."

"So are you suggesting that I come down here every day and expose myself to this 'healing light' like a sunbather?" the President snapped indignantly. The officials around drew back in trepidation, glancing warily at the tall, thin man for a solution.

Pitch however was not afraid. "If you want to live, Mr. President, then yes."

Lotso eyed the long metal tower, then at the numerous research labs above them. Finally, he asked, "Have you found a way to recreate the original lilium panacea through the girl's genes?"

The Head of the Undergrounds was caught off guard by the question. "Well, no sir. We didn't see any benefit from that."

"If you could recreate the original flower, it would be much easier to extract the healing sap from it to make a serum," the President suggested.

"That's an excellent idea, Mr. President," one of the boot-licking members of the political crew piped with too much enthusiasm. "In that way, the healing serum can be mass-produced and carried on your person whenever you need it. You won't need to ever return to the Underground yourself. How wise you are, Mr. President!"

"I'm not just talking about a cure for myself," Lotso growled ferociously, silencing the chatty official at once. Hobbling towards the Head of the Underground, he said, "I want you to create two healing serums. One will be a pure one, made for my own use."

"And the other, Mr. President?" Pitch inquired, intrigued despite himself.

"The other is to be a lower grade version, to be used by Peacekeepers and guards." Lotso suddenly let out a heavy cough, pulling out his handkerchief again. When the attack passed, he continued in a wheezy voice, "You will have to improve it, of course, so that the healing effect from one dose can last long enough on the field."

The pieces clicked in play in his mind. "An invincible army of Peacekeepers. Excellent idea, Mr. President."

Lotso nodded, then coughed again. He cleared his throat while folding his napkin once more. "The rebellion, if it spreads, could outweigh us in numbers. A little added power never hurt."

"Of course, Mr. President."

As Pitch led to the president and his party out of the Garden's central complex, he noted the short, flaxen-haired Avox scrubbing the floor of observatory. Though his head was tipped down and his body hunched forward, it couldn't be denied that the dumb creature had heard everything that had been said.

---

Capitol

Nights of the Silver City these day often begun with him half-drunk and ended with him waking up in cold sweat, nursing a terrible headache and his skin being smeared with someone else's bodily fluids. It was followed by him carefully getting off the mattress without awaken his bed partner, grabbing the clothes that had been folded by the Avoxes, putting them on and leaving the plush, fur-infested apartment as discretely as possible.

At four o'clock in the morning, the Capitol was mostly quiet. Most late night parties had been wrapped up roughly at three, when the liquor had been exhausted and the party-goners had been worn down by overindulgence. The only sounds he heard were wide-screen televisions around the buildings, playing reels of Capitol propaganda and other lies that kept the citizens in this artificial world of bread and circuses, while the rest of Panem paid for it.

There was a time that Flynn's job was incredibly easy. There was a time that all he needed to do was seduce his subjects and wheedle out the information - by any means necessary – then send it down the communication line. There was a time that Flynn only dreamed about money, glory and giving the Capitol its just, bloody desserts. In many ways, Flynn still hadn't changed.

But Eugene had. Well, not so much that Eugene had changed as that Eugene was starting to become a nuisance. Eugene had dreams – very simple dreams, but powerful dreams nonetheless. Dreams that Flynn would scoff and jeer at it, because Flynn was an obnoxious loaf that didn't care about anything but getting what he wanted. Eugene was nothing like that. He was an overly-reflective, stupidly vulnerable and irrationally principled young lad who just felt incredibly disgusted with himself as he walked down the street. There was a weird part of him that felt as if by doing he had always done before, he was being unfaithful.

But then he had to shake himself and question – be faithful to who? It wasn't like they were anything, and even they could have been, that opportunity had been lost.

He sometimes wished that she hadn't like Eugene better though, because it might have made it easier to lock Eugene away.

By right, it should be impossible for a citizen of District 8 to have a residence in the Capitol. However, when one had acquired as many 'patrons' as he had, there was bound to be some who would assuage their own guilt of buying him out by granting him lavish gifts. One of these gifts come in the form of a private apartment in the middle of town. It was very expensive and very coveted, and though he didn't like the circumstances that placed it in his possession, it was his safe haven from the sensory assault all over the Capitol.

He took the elevator up to his floor, stepping on the carpeted coverings and heading to the door marked with familiar number. He slid his card into the door and stepped in, the lights flickering on upon detecting his movement. He was about to head to the bathroom when he noted the kitchen lights were lit. Upon entering that room, he was greeted by the sight of apple cores, orange skins and cherry pits littered all over the kitchen counter. There was a small, purplish shape of the reptile hovering over a basket of half-eaten watermelon.

Eugene let out an amused snort, even smiling slightly. "You do realize that I can see you, right?"

He heard clicking sound as a red tongue stuck out of the camouflaging creature returned back to its normal green shade. Pascal made a hiss noise as he crawled back down the handle of basket, down to the unfinished fruit and resumed his happy gluttony.

Eugene just shook his head at him. "You're going to get really sick one or these days."

The chameleon ignored him, absorbed in stuffing as much of the juicy red chunks in his mouth as possible.

"You're might even die from it."

Still no change in behaviour.

"And then in order for me to preserve your memory, I'll have to turn you into a taxidermy thingy. That, or I could the Avoxes to whip you up in a dish. I'm sure chameleon tastes interesting."

Finally, Pascal paused the gorging fest to glare at the man, eyes narrowed and reptilian lips downturned in disapproval, almost as if he was warning, 'You better sleep with ear plugs tonight.'

Eugene waved the threat away, telling him, "I'm gonna get a bath, and once I'm done, I'm going to give you one too."

The reptile's eyes went as wide as saucers, jaw-dropped, the chunk of fruit in mouth falling out as he did.

The man chuckled as he left the petrified creature on the kitchen shelf, heading to the bathroom with a smile on his face. By the time he reached the end of the corridor, the temporal mirth had died and he was back to his sombre, moody self.

He spent a long time under the shower, not because he enjoyed fiddling with the different functions provided the buttons on the panel, but because he felt an irrational need to scrub every single inch of himself clean. He tried to shove off the feelings of discomfort, tried beat out the tension in his shoulders. But his stomach still continued to churn uneasily. He could put it down as the after effects of drinking, but he was sober enough to know when he was lying to himself.

After drying himself off, he changed into his new clothes – also a gift from patron number who-knows-what-by-now – and headed for the kitchen, used clothes tucked under his arm. Along the way, he passed the rubbish chute, where he intended to dump all of the now-soiled fabrics. Had it been any other citizen of District 8, it would sacrilege to dispose so careless of garments that had been so carefully and painfully made by their own hands. But in the Capitol, one did as Capitol people did, and wastage was a practice that citizens of the Silver City were especially proud of.

Just as he was about throw in the fancy vest that went with the dress shirt, Eugene heard a crinkle in the pocket. Pausing, he reached into the pocket and found a small slip of paper. Unfolding it, his eyes widened. Of course, one of the Avoxes from his last patron's home must have slipped it in there when they folded up his clothes. And to think he almost threw it away!

He searched the rest of the clothes for any other message, but there was nothing else. It was only this small slip of paper, with a message encoded in symbols.

He returned to the kitchen, where Pascal had finally decided to not to eat himself to death and now lolled listlessly onto of the saltshaker. Eugene sat himself down on the table near the counter and grabbed the pen that had been thrown down there. He immediately began decoding the symbols, writing down the actual message in the space under the words. When the entirety of the text had been revealed, he lifted the sheet up, studying it and checking back against the symbols to ensure that what he had deciphered was accurate. He then read the message itself, and just the thought of it alone sent shivers down his spine.

"Got a message to pass down," he told the reptile, who only lifted its head up curiously toward him. Eugene fingered the sheet anxiously, contours of his handsome face warped with chagrin. "This could ruin everything."

He went back to his bedroom to get his communicator and in his mind, he rewrote the message, but this time using a different set of symbols. He keyed these symbols into the communicator and had them sent to the required address. He wasn't sure if the communication network that the last District 3 victor had installed was as secure as she claimed it would be, but there was no choice. Any other route of messaging would be too slow. Time was not on their side anymore.

That thought brought to mind an odd line. He wasn't sure where he had heard it. All he knew was that it was a part of that song, how did it go - "Make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine."

There was something rapping against the back of his head, something that he felt he ought to remember after reading the message. He ran a hand through his hair, clenching his teeth as he searched his thoughts, trying to place why the idea of a cure of for all illnesses should be something important to him.

And the verses continued to ring in the backdrop, "Heal what has been hurt, change the fate's design-"

It was only when he walked over to his half-packed suitcase did he start putting the pieces together. In the messy interior of the case, he spotted the small scroll that he had started carrying with him wherever he went. Taking it in his hand, he unrolled it, straightening it out carefully. The gleaming image of painted sun burned in his brain as his mind whirled in confusion.

"-save what has been lost-"

He let out a strangled exhale as the truth of the matter overwhelmed him, like a mighty tide crashing over the shores in an impending tsunami.

"-Bring back what once my mine-"

He ran back to kitchen, breathless and panting. The chameleon was startled out of his feasting stupor, blinking at him in surprise. Incoherence tied knots with his tongue and all he could breathe out a name - "Rapunzel."

"-what once was mine."

---

District 5

Elinor was checking up the accounts in the study when she heard a light tapping on the door frame. "'m I bothering you, lass?"

She gazed up towards her husband, who was fidgeting with his hands like a child waiting for rebuke by the teacher in a schoolhouse. The woman let out a long sigh, brushing away her waves behind her ear. There had been a time where Fergus automatically sit himself next to her, bat her hand away and scoop the locks back himself while quipping a comparison of her mousy brown strands to tiny rivers of chocolate. She would then raise a brow at him and then he would shrug and say, "What? Chocolate's an excellent colour." Recent events however had created a gap between the couple and even being in the same room felt a little strange.

It wasn't as if one had lost more than the other – she was their only daughter, after all. But perhaps one knowing that she was safe – though not necessarily well – and the other thinking she had died in the revolting Games of the Capitol was enough to dig a crevice between them.

"Well, I could spare a moment," she began crisply, then checked herself. For all his headstrong folly, Fergus didn't have the privilege of knowing what happened to Merida as she did, and, goodness how had the deception wounded him. Softening her tone, Elinor said, "What is it?"

The burly redheaded man hesitated as he stepped into the study – a place that he had scarcely been in over the last seven months. His interest in dealing with Capitol relations and keeping accounts of their electricity production had waned with his grief, and there were moments that Elinor considered breaching protocol if only to restore him to his former self. But she knew that though a devoted husband and dedicated father, he was not one who could keep secrets. In fact, he would probably have it spread over all the District, so that all it citizens would know of District 13 and have hope.

But hope was flame that had to be tampered - controlled. It could be a beacon to the desolate, but it was also a target for the enemy. The more the rebellion lashed out, the harder the Capitol would retaliate, and the flames could very well be snuffed there and then. Who knows when they might get a spark again? They had to time this right, and now was not the right time.

That, unfortunately, was where Fergus disagreed with her. "We're doing it. Tonight."

Her chest seized. She understood perfectly what he had referred to. For all his sneaking arounds and discrete meetings, there was nothing he could really hide from her. She was known after all for her keen sight and her sharp mind, and it wasn't difficult to put two and two together.

Dropping her pen, she rose to her feet, looking at him straight in the eye, saying, "You are leading them into a massacre."

"It's either I lead them, or they find another to do it," was his gruff reply. She could sense a wavering in his tone. Though he was a full head taller than her, her husband couldn't match her in resolve. No surprise then that she won almost every argument. But this time, his words didn't trail off into a broken, unsure question. He held his ground, still meeting her gaze. "The people want justice, Elinor. Who am I to deny it of them, after what the Capitol has done to us?"

"It will come to nothing," she retorted darkly, folding her arms. "The Capitol has hovercrafts, manpower, weapons and technology. What do we have?

"The stocks, the chains, the public executions," Fergus ranted on as if she had not spoken, "the break-backing labour, the impossible quotas - the Capitol has taken everything from us."

"If you do not be careful, they'll take our lives too!" the woman protested urgently, moving around the table to stand by her husband's side. "Have you considered what they might do to us? To our children?"

"'Linor,-" his thick brows furrowed together, "-once the boys are old enough for reaping, who can say if the Capitol won't take them from us then?"

She hated to admit that he had caught her off guard – after all, she was supposed to be the smarter of the two of them. She was supposed to be the visionary, knowing where they were going, why and how. If she played her cards right, her boys might never need to see the Games. But then, there were circumstances that she could never control. After all, she had never expected her own daughter to enter the Games.

"Fire's catching, lass," he told her, softly. His rough hand caressed her cheek with a gentleness that made this all the more bitter. He was never as good as words as she, perhaps, but she knew that he meant the few that he did say. Strike when the iron's hot. Strike when wounds were stinging and blood was boiling. Strike when anger masked fear and hope masked wisdom. Strike, before the Capitol lashed them back into their cages.

Elinor believed in all this, but it didn't change that the time was not right.

"Call this off – this madness," she pleaded him, and pleading was something she rarely did. It was an act of weakness, and though she was the very essence of feminine grace, Elinor never begged for anything if she could help it. She won by other ways – persuasion, tact, logic and patience. However, any of those, or even all of them combined, were not going to help her now. She reached for his hands, gripping onto it tight to let him know to true extent of her concern – her fear. "If it's with your power, then please, Fergus-" she shook her head wildly, her voice breaking "-call off the fight."

He hesitated. "I can't, Elinor. The men are already stationed at their posts. They've gotten the necessary weapons. They're just waiting the signal."

"There will be another time to fight, I promise." Her desperation was evident in her tone. "There will be another time for the people rise up against the Capitol, but that time is not now. Fergus, won't you listen to me about this?"

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, but did not look at her in the eye. "The signal will be obvious enough. When that happens, you should take the boys to the shelter." He clearly referred to the underground safe room they had built into the manor a few years ago, without the knowledge of the Peacekeepers. Fergus had claimed then it was for safety in case of a power plant explosion, but now, it was clear that it had other purposes. "Don't come out till I come back and find y'all."

"You mean, if you come back," Elinor retorted crossly, pulling herself away roughly and spinning from him. She hoped that the guilt would weight him down, that he would, for her sake, pause and rethink his actions.

She headed back to the table, posture still straight and rigid as she pulled the chair back and sat herself down. In the corner of her vision, she saw his hulking figure droop a little and she felt a twinge of victorious spite rock through her core. But then, as she noted how he silently turned away, disappearing back down the door, the temporary pleasure receded and she was left with only dread and heartache for company.

Slouching back into the hard wooden chair, Elinor let out a long exhale. Her gaze turned forward, to the tapestry piece hanging by the bookcase. She had completed her work on it some two weeks after the Games had ended. It depicted the night sky, with constellation shapes and their corresponding legends woven in a circular fashion. It was possibly one of the most difficult tapestries she had ever done, and she had to admit it was the one she liked the least. Yet, she did not have it removed from the office.

The telephone rang, breaking her reverie. Drawing herself up straight and taking in a deep breath, she picked up the receiver, placing it against her ear. In an even tone that she had practiced all her life, Elinor spoke, "Dunbroch manor. Elinor Dunbroch speaking."

"It's a dark night out there, isn't it, Mrs. Dunbroch?" the familiar voice on the other said impassively, but there was an underlying edge of tension behind it – something that warned her of urgency.

"Is it?" was her simple answer, not revealing her concerns in her speech.

"Would be nice to have moon out, but I reckon with how things are going, Auriga might be riding out that chariot of his too soon and before we know it, the sun will rise," came the cryptic reply.

Her eyes narrowed as she processed the words, scrambling for a bit of writing paper and a pen, holding the receiver between her shoulder and the side of her jaw. "Are there any coordinates that you have of where I might still be able to see the Columba?"

"I doubt you'd stand a chance on the Columba, but I'll give you the coordinates anyway." The voice was soft and breathless, as if it was afraid of being heard.

So Elinor took down the relevant symbols given to her over the line and hung up. She then took up the scrap paper and went over to the tapestry of the constellations. Pushing it aside, she took a look at the array of books that were hidden behind it. When asked, she had said that she covered those books with the tapestry because she wanted to prevent them from being exposed to sunlight. But another reason was simply because she didn't want attention to be drawn to them – or at least, a few of them.

She removed a leather-bound volume titled 'Effectiveness of Hydroelectric Power and Other Technical Conundrums' and flipped it opened to page forty-five. Finding the right page, she brought it over to her desk and the written symbols next to the page. Along the borders of the paragraph was imprinted the legend for the symbols, and she used it to decipher the message that had been passed as coordinates. When she had it all unravelled, Elinor read the message thoroughly and found her own heart thumping in anxiousness.

This piece of news was disturbing, to say the least.

She fingered with the slip of paper for a moment, before deciding that she had better pass it on. She returned the book on hydroelectrics back to the shelf behind the tapestry, then removed the volume titled, 'Modes of Transport and its Electrical Usage'. She flipped through it, this time to page fifty-six, where the gaps between words also had a new set of codes and symbols printed. She encoded the message with the new cryptogram, making sure that her actions were hasty and swift. She quickly then dialled a number on the phone, holding the receiver against her ear. In a few seconds, it was answered by another familiar voice, and she calmly passed the cipher on, making sure to riddle it in between mindless chatter about types of sunsets and the best autumn wear.

After Elinor put down the receiver, she opened a drawer at her desk and removed a box of matches. Removing one, she quickly struck it against the splint, allowing it to burst into flame. She then lifted the scrap paper up and set it aflame, allowing it to burn a little before dropping it into the metal trash bin. She then picked up 'Modes of Transport and its Electrical Usage' to return it to the shelf. She stood there for a while, deciding what the best course of action could be. Pressing her lips together in thought, she then pulled on one last book on the shelf.

Its cover read, 'The Man in the Moon, and Other Fairy Tales.'

---

District 10

Nicholas St. North had a gift with craft.

Most victors at some point post-victory were expected to pick up a hobby that they would show off to the media crew from the Capitol when they came. Instead of sheer shearing, or horse-breeding, or anything remotely related to the husbandry business that District 10 was supposedly famed for, North chose his to be the art of making things.

Fresh out of the Games, dark thoughts had haunted his every moment and he had learned to purge them with the work of his hands. It had started out as small wooden figures, carved with an apple knife and used as paper weights. However, hard years of being a mentor to tributes who never came back had given him more than enough motivation to refine his skill. He had explored various mediums, from wax to copper to plastic and even glass. It was a way to pass the time, and a way to vent his frustration.

At first, he just made toys. His own memories of his childhood were desolate and grim, and he had no wish for future generations to live in the same way that he did. At every opportunity he could, he would present one of his many works of art to the younglings of his town and nothing brought him joy as much as watching them hug the tin soldiers, the dolls, the stuffed animals and the boats to their chests as their dusty feet walked them from school to the pastures.

That joy however was temporary. Children grew up, and the imagination, creativity and wonder that the toys gave them was not strong enough to sustain them through their adolescence years. Some grew bitter while others just grew resigned. A precious few – whose faces stayed ingrained in his mind even as time passed – had the misfortune of having their names drawn from the Reaping Bowl, and the toys that he had made for them followed them to their graves.

Not all children welcomed his gifts though. Aster Bunnymund, back when he was sullen teenager, had sneered all the toys that he had been offered. He had had no use for playtime, imagination or wonder. Since the time when he was a lad, Bunnymund had been a serious fellow, obsessed with growing up and learning how to keep the pens and the coops. He never so much as looked at North until the day the elder craftsman presented him with a wooden boomerang.

It was meant to be a toy – a trifle to throw and catch for amusement. But of course the rebellious, cynical Bunnymund would turn it into a weapon. He got in trouble several times in during his teen years when the wooden projectiles broke the street lamps and tore down electrical wires. After getting lashed at the stocks, the boy would go, with bandages, down North's house to ask for another boomerang. Sometime later, North got tired of just giving them to him and brought him into his home, where he taught the lad how the basic principles of aerodynamics and wood-craft.

The younger man had absorbed all this knowledge like a sponge. Come that dreadful day where his own name had been reaped from the bowl, Bunny had no fear. In the arena, he had carved the wooden weapons like North had taught him, with perfect slopes and angles. No tribute stood a chance against his deadly strikes.

Since Bunnymund's own victorious return, the two of them had in a way become allies. Not quite friends, for they didn't really like each other. Not quite mentor and mentee either, because Bunny rarely heeded North's advice and North rarely liked advising him, considering his stubbornness. But their talents with inventing brought them together in the secret workshop underneath North's home often enough. There, they could retreat from the eyes of the Peacekeepers to make whatever their heart desired.

This did not mean there was no conflict, of course.

"I told you not to touch my stuff! Look at it!" Bunnymund – the grouchy, grey-haired man, not the grouchy, pimple-faced teen – was waving madly at his egg-shaped contraptions. For the life of him, North still had no idea what they were for. "The calibrations are totally off! The wiring is whacked!"

"For the last time, Bunny, -" the elder man himself was struggling to hold his temper, "-I do not touch with your things!"

"Oh, really?" The man grabbed the elbow wrench off its hook on the wall, then the pliers next to it. He strolled back to his work table and picked up the metal mask that lay there. "What about that time you tried to – quoting you – 'fix' my boomerangs?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," North snapped while he hammered into the wooden boards of the metallic engine, slamming down on the nails in time with his words, "-they were the ugliest-" plunk "-shade-" plunk! "-of blue I had ever seen."

"I didn't ask for your opinion!" Bunnymund scowled at him before unscrewing the top cap off his egg-shaped devices. "And I like blue. Red's disgusting."

"Well, you have terrible taste in designing," North declared while climbing out of the tangled scaffold that held his creation in place, "just like the way you designed your tattoos."

The younger man was clearly provoked. Raising up his elbow wrench, he waved it like a sabre. "They are warrior marks."

North made a scoffing sound as he picked up the welding torch. "They are stupid."

"You're stupid!"

This was a typical example of conversations that would happen between the two fully-grown, way-past middle-age, victors and sometimes it would go for hours. This time however it was interrupted by the ringing of the bell on the wall.

Both men paused their work, staring at the ringing bell. It was connected to the bell that hung upstairs outside the front door, so that they could hear it when visitors came by. This was important, just in case those visitors happened to wearing white armour, bearing firearms and a search warrant from the Capitol.

Finally, the silence was broken by Bunnymund. "You should answer it."

North sighed as he set the welding torch down. With heavy steps, he made his way to the narrow staircase that lead above ground, rolling his grease-covered sleeves down as he did. When arrived back onto the first floor, he was careful to close the trap door and cover it with rug. Making sure that the opening was out of sight, he made his way from the study room down to the living room, then into the entrance hall. All of his bulky frame was tensed up as he approached the front door. Cracking his knuckles, just in case, he undid the lock and pulled on the knob.

There were no Peacekeepers there – thank goodness. He had been, as they say, living on the edge of his seat ever since the riot during the Games. His bullet wound had largely healed itself, but it still smarted every time he moved his shoulder in the wrong way.

And here was the one he caught the bullet for, standing at the door with a basket under her arm.

"Hello," the girl at the door said. She had the saddest eyes North had ever seen, with the pale cheeks and smileless lips. If she wasn't standing perfectly straight and balancing a heavy basket in her arms, he would have thought her ill. "Are you-" she glanced down at a small slip in her hand "-Mr. St. North?"

Of course, she probably didn't remember him. She was just a child, after all, and the events of the riot at District 10 town square must have been traumatising enough. Even if she could remember, she would probably not want to remember.

"I am, Lastochka," he told her gently, bending himself down to her height as not to scare her. "How can I help you?"

"Ma told me to bring you your laundry," the girl said, wrinkling her nose at him as she held out the basket. When his gaze dipped down, he then spotted the stack of clothes all rolled and packed neatly inside the thatch-made carrier. "And I'm Emma, not La-Last-whatever that was."

"Lastochka," he corrected her patiently. "I know it is not your name. Lastochka just means 'little bird'. If I had upset you by calling you that, I apologise."

"Oh, -" the discomfort in the girl's expression disappeared, replaced with thoughtfulness. "It would be nice to be a bird, I suppose," she mused aloud as he took the basket from her hands, flapping her arms as she did, as if imagining herself as a feathered creature in the sky.

That action earned a gruff chuckle from North. "Well, if you were a bird, where you fly to?"

"Wherever Jack is," was her prompt reply, and it was like a stab to the heart.

He had recognised her as the little girl who had accidentally started a riot at the Justice Building, but only now did it dawn on him that she was related to young male tribute of the last Games. The brown hair and brown eyes – how he could miss it?

She must have noticed the way he looked at her, because she added, "I'm not sure where he is, but I think he's really scared right now."

"Of course," was all that North could say. He didn't know to break the bad news to her, and decided that it wasn't really his duty to. Rising back to his feet, he pushed the door open. "Would you like to come inside for some cookies?"

The girl glanced down the hallway behind him, then said hesitantly, "I think Ma wants me to go back home to help."

North thought of the desolate house in the middle of fields and said, "Well, you can just have a cookie and hurry yourself home after."

The girl twisted her hands together, then nodded.

Closing the door behind them, North led her to dining room and let her sit on the plush chairs surrounding the dining table, where she stroked the fur-covered covering of the chairs with curiosity. Within seconds, she was ogling at the shelf across the table. It was no wonder, for there he had stacked his favourite inventions – toys.

"Do you like them?" North was pleased that they had captured her interest. He set the cookie jar in front of her. The girl however didn't look at it at all, leaping of her seat and walking towards the shelf of toys with her mouth hanging open. The old man was not offended, following after her.

Picking up a stuffed doll from the higher shelves, North brought it down to her so that she could see it. "This is Little Miss Muffet." He let her reach out a touch the dainty little apron and the lacy dress. "If you know the story, she saw sat-"

"-on a tuffet, eating her curd and whey," the girl finished softly for him, touching the woollen hand of the doll and pressing it between her fingers. Glancing up at him, she said, still looking incredibly serious, "Jack told me the story. I know." She glanced back at the shelf, pointing up. "Is that the spider that sat down beside her?"

"Well, yes." He was surprised by her astute observation. He unhooked the clay spider from the pin that it was hanging off from, bringing it down so that she could hold it in her hands. She examined critically, turning the black-painted arachnid with focus. "I will be honest - it was much easier making the spider. Little Miss Muffet's buttons-" he gestured to the glassy-buttons on the doll's dress "-refused to stay on."

Emma, as she called herself, peered up at him with wide eyes. "You made these?"

He nodded, trying to look modest and failing entirely. He was too proud of his works.

She gasped, covering her mouth with the hand that wasn't holding the spider. "You're a toymaker."

"In a way, I am," he confirmed, taking up another toy to show her. "This one's a reindeer. I call him Dancer. He enjoys parties. And this one-" he picked up another matching wooden figure "-he's his brother, Prancer. Proud fellow, this one is. Likes to show off."

"Oh." The girl nodded, staring at the two figure. He sat them down so that he could show her others.

"This tiny fella' the Leprechaun," he showed her a painted ceramic shape, "-brings you good luck. Here this monkey-" he lifted up a stuffed primate, who was standing on hind legs and holding a staff with his front paws "-is a fierce warrior. He's mischievous, but has a good heart. Here is a nest of fairies-" her eyes widened particularly at the word 'fairies' "-dancing over the water. Careful," he told her as she picked up the glass figurines to examine them. "These critters are fragile folk."

He found a small metal toy, melded into the shape of a bird. It was one of the first toys that he had ever tried making. The child that he had made it for however passed away from sickness before he could ever give it, and it had since then stayed on the display shelf. It was clever little contraption, with the beak of the bird pointed down and the wings of the bird weighted such that if one balanced the bird's beak on his finger, the wings of the bird would prop up, making it look like the creature was actually flying.

"This one is you," he said to the girl, bringing her attention away from the fairies. She watched, fascinated, as little metal toy bounced up and down on the tip of his finger. "A little bird. A little lastochka."

He placed it in her hand, showing her how to balance it on her own finger. Delight stretched over her features as she began walking around the dining room, moving her finger up and down, leading the metal bird to a merry flight in the air.

North smiled as he watched her, only to have it interrupt with a clang and - "NORTH!"

Bunnymund had flung himself into the dining room, alarm etch on every inch of his face. His unexpected entrance however caused the girl to freeze where she was, fearful. Bunnymund blinked at her, himself petrified, just managing to utter, "Oh. You."

The girl swallowed, not quite certain what was going on. North, however, reassured her with a firm pat on her shoulder. "Don't you worry, lastochka." His voice was kind. "Why not have some cookies?" Seeing her worried expression, he added, "Choose the toy you like best, eh? I will let you bring it home."

Emma nodded, returning to the toy shelf and started examining the crafts down there. North then spun around and said to Bunnymund in a low voice, "What?"

The younger man jerked his head towards the study, answering, "We've got incoming messages."

Both of them hurried back to the underground workshop, where a crackling fizz was coming from the small radio that they had there.

"I don't know this code so I couldn't decipher the message," he told North as the large man sat himself in front of the array of wires and plugs. "I just took the call and wrote it down. It's from District 8."

North looked at the words that the other man had taken down, before furiously starting to decode each one. "It's about District 5," he said at last. "They're rebelled."

"They what?" Bunnymund was astounded. "But it's too early for that! Are they crazy?"

"Shush!" North batted him away. "You ruin my concentration." He returned to deciphering the message, whistling in surprise. "They've succeeded in taking over the Justice Building and the Peacekeeping barracks, with at least half the town under their rule."

"What?" The other man craned his neck forward, staring at the slip even though he didn't know how to read it. "How?"

"No details here," North answered, squinting at the sheet just as the crackling from the radio suddenly burst into sound. A new message was ready.

Bunnymund took the headset and put it on, answering it quickly, "This is the North Pole." He went silent, before grabbing the note pad and pen, starting to write furiously while his brows furrowed in concentration. "Uh, huh. Noted." And then he shoved the notepad to North.

The older man immediately got to work, shuffling through all the ciphers he had in his mind until he thought of the correct one. He immediately began to unravel the puzzle, deciphering the message fully just as Bunnymund signed off from the exchange.

"This one's from District 9," he told North. "Just a message to Thirteen."

"I guessed as much," North murmured, already furiously wrapping the message in a new set of codes. He then turned some dials on the board, swapping around the appropriate plugs and taking the headset from Bunnymund.

Before he could put through his call, there was a buzzing sound again – but this time, not from the radio. Both men looked at each, then at the small screen that sat on the adjacent table. They moved to where the screen was. North typed in the passcode into the keypad and the black screen lit up, showing an image of a white circle on a blue backdrop. North and Bunnymund instinctively leaned forward to the screen, though there was nothing much to see on it.

North spoke first, "Manny?"

"It's good to see that you are well, North. I see that you have recovered since our last conference," the mechanical voice had an odd measure of warmth in it. "I trust you and Bunnymund have been progressing towards our goal?"

"We're a little short of resources – physical and manpower," Bunnymund cut in before North could say anything. North frowned at him, but the younger man was unrepentant. "What? Manny should know the truth."

"I agree," MiM conceded. "Why is there a lacking on manpower though? From what I understood, District 10 people have no love for the Capitol."

"The anger is there, yes, but there's no rallying point," the grey-haired man told his superior. "The people here don't have a strong leader like District 5. Lots of folks are scattered far and wide across the fields. It's harder to inspire communal thoughts of revolution. We need something to get behind. There's the 74th Games, yes, but there was seven months ago. There needs to be an event, a trigger, a-"

"-symbol?" MiM suggested.

"That would be handy, I reckon." Bunnymund nodded.

"Well, you gentlemen continue with your preparations. Look out for recruits to our cause. Seek new material sources. I will try to help you find your … symbol." With that, the screen went blue, before turning black.

"Well, that was unhelpful," the younger man remarked.

North glared up at him. "Could you be less cynical?"

"If I wasn't myself, I suppose I could be." Unapologetically, Bunnymund took the headset near the radio, turning the dials and changing the plugs. He glanced at the message they had received from District 9, which North had translated into the new cipher and utter a string of swear words before the connection to Eleven went through.

As the younger man began speaking to the fellow on the other line, the older man pushed himself off the seat, stroking his beard as he tried to remember what it was he wanted to do. He was about to reach for the welding torch when he remembered the young guest he had upstairs. Well, he had best go and see to her before she saw something that she wasn't supposed to see.

When North climbed back above ground, closing the trapdoor tight and covering it up once again, he headed to the dining room, calling out, "Little lastochka, where are-?"

He cut himself off.

In dining room stood, three Peacekeepers, one of which he recognised to be the Head Peacekeepers of the District. There was no sign of the girl anywhere. When he shifted his gaze to the window, though, he did see a small shape darting away from the house and a relief washed over him. She must have seen the Peacekeepers coming and snuck off. Smart lastochka.

"Nicholas St. North." The Head Peacekeeper brought his attention back to his present situation by rapping his knuckles against the dining table. The grim-looking soldier eyed him levelly, stating simply, "We've detected a number of odd signals emanating from this house."

A confused sound rumbled from the back of his throat as he pulled an expression of bewilderment. "I do not understand what you mean."

"We have intercepted several messages going to and leaving this place," another Peacekeeper put in, tone dripping with threat. He placed a slip of paper with symbols on it – symbols that undoubtedly were the encrypted messaged that had been passed along over the last few months. "Perhaps you would like to tell us what it says."

North gazed down at the coded texts, then up at the Peacekeeper who had placed it there.

And then he swung his elbow into the helmet of the soldier right next to him, throwing his head back and distracting him long enough for North to grab the gun in his hand. His big hands found the handle and the trigger. Before the two remaining soldiers could raise their arms at him, he had already shot one in the chest, throwing his body back against the toy shelf. The last armed guard, which was the Head Peacekeeper, was much faster though, and managed to punch a bullet in his ribs before North strike.

The big man grunted at the pain, staggering back as red liquid trickled down his shirt. Against his own will, his weapon slipped from his grasp and his will over was lost, making him collapse to the ground. The soldier that he had struck earlier had recovered enough to grab his arms and pin him down. North struggled and with his strength he could have pushed the soldier off, but he felt a metal muzzle pressed against his throat and he stopped.

"Nicholas St. North," the Head Peacekeeper sneered at him, crouching down while to press the muzzle harder, "you are under arrest for treason, illicit activity and conspiring against the Capitol."

"Kill me then," the large man growled at the guard. "Surely that's what I deserve."

"Hardly," his captor spat at him, drawing himself back up but still pointing the gun at him. "You will be taken to Capitol for questioning. No doubt there are more of you." Even at his angle, North could see the shifting figures coming through his front door and hear the heavy footsteps echoing through the halls of his house. He heard the Head Peacekeeper bark at his subordinates, "Search the house for a communication device. The signals have to be coming from somewhere."

North's forehead wrinkled as he pondered quickly. If they searched the place thoroughly enough, it would only be a matter of time before they found the trapdoor, and Bunnymund too. They would find the maps and the inventions, as well as the books with the codes. All that they've been working on would fall apart and the rising rebellion would be exposed.

He would not allow this.

Now, one advantage that North had over the unwelcome intruders of his home was that he had built it from his own hands. He knew every nook and cranny, every screw and bolt. He knew that the underground workshop was padded with steel-reinforcement that made it essentially bomb-proof. He also knew that on the very top of the toy shelf, he had kept a number of his earliest, more destructive inventions.

With one sudden move, the big man shoved himself back, knocking off the guard that was holding him down and setting himself free. Before the Head Peacekeeper could shoot him, North had kicked him in the shin, forcing him to fall back. Their howls of pain caused their comrades at other parts of the house to come running over. The old man, surprisingly nimble for his age, leapt over the collapsed soldier and avoided a jab that was swung at him. He hissed when his wound smarted, and it was with great difficult that he had managed to reach for a metal canister on the shelf.

"Drop that now!" he heard one of the Peacekeepers running from the kitchen yell, followed by the cocking of weapons. "Put your hands in the air and drop that now!"

With his thumb, North moved the small slide along the side of the canister, making the light on its cap start to blink. He spun to face them, letting the canister fall from his hand as he did. The canister hit the ground, and the small glass tube inside it cracked, exposing the red liquid to air.

He smirked darkly at the encroaching soldiers. "Ho, ho, ho."

The world around them abruptly burst into flames.

---

She dashed as fast as she could, her heart racing way faster than her feet could.

"Quickly now, behind that tree!" her flying companion shouted to her as they entered the tree-covered section of the field. "We can't let the white coats see us!"

Emma did as she was told, huddling behind the large trunk and gasping, trying to catch her breath. She realized that she was clenching her fist at that moment, so she hastily opened her hand, peering down worriedly at the little creature she held there. "Are you alright, Lastochka?"

The little metal bird hopped a bit around her palm, trying to get a feel of its long unused legs. "Feeling a bit stiff here and there, but-" it flapped it metal-lined wings curiously "- I say, ain't that a sight? Didn't know I could do that."

"Hush," the fairy hissed at them. She was squatting by their side, hand on the hilt of her golden sword. Her chin was lifted above the tall grassy cover, her purple eyes darting back and forth. Cautiously, she then waved at Emma to stand. "They didn't see you. Well done."

"But I don't understand, Tooth Fairy," the girl said, cupping her hands together as the toy robin hopped back and forth on her palm, testing its wings experimentally. "Why were they there?"

"What other reasons can there be for bad men to go to the house of a good man, if only to attack him?" the fairy answered, grasping firmly on her hand and tugging her through the forest, back in the direction of her home. Her expression was unhappy. "Poor man."

"Then we should go back and help him," Emma said, stopping her steps suddenly and looking back at the house. "They'll hurt him!"

"There's nothing we can do right now, Emma," the Tooth Fairy continued to pull her away, fighting against her yanking arm. "You're not strong enough to face them yet. Besides, if you're gone, who's going to find Jack?"

The sober reminder was enough to quash her urge to run back to the house and Emma let her wing-batting friend drag her through the thicket of the forest. No sooner did they retreat in the shade did they suddenly hear a loud 'BOOM!' mixed with the sound of shattering wood and exploding bricks.

Emma watched as Tooth's head jerked sharply back to the place from which they had come. She herself could not see over the leafy overhangs and the shrubs, so she asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing," the fairy said, from which Emma knew that it wasn't just nothing.

"Tell me," she insisted.

The feathered creature grimaced, then told her, "The house – it's on fire now."

"We should go back." She took a step in that direction.

"No!" The fairy stopped her immediately. "More Peacekeepers would be going there soon. You'll only get in trouble." Her had twisted back to the rising smoke. "I will go and see if there's anything I can do. Hurry home, Emma." She unsheathed her sword, already poised to strike. "Take good care of your new friend."

With that said, the Tooth Fairy took to the air, zooming back to the burning house. Emma hesitated, then decided that this time she would obey. If the Tooth Fairy was right, at this point, there was nothing she could do.

"It's okay, Emma," the robin in fluttering in her hands chirped to her comfortingly. "One day, it will stop."

"It will?"

"Just you wait." The metal toy jumped a few times, flapping its wings harder until it was hovering up in the air. "I say, I think I got it!" It leapt away from her palms, circling around her, around the trees and branches, before looping back to her. "I think I know how to fly now!"

"There's wonderful, Lastochka!" The girl gawked in wonder, opening her palms again so that the bird could land. Her wonder however quickly faded to worry. "Listen, Lastochka, there's something I need help with."

"Say the word, Emma, and I will do it," the bird answered without hesitation, primping up its wings behind him and giving her its fullest attention.

She took in a deep breath, feeling a bit guilt growing inside her as she contemplated what she was about to ask. "I need to find Jack, but I can't go beyond the fence of the District."

"So do you want me to nibble you a door through the fence?" the bird asked, clicking its metal beak together for show. "I can do that, but it might take a while. That-" it wriggled it beak uneasily "-and my beak might become blunt from all that cutting."

"No." She shook her head, pointing up towards the sky. "I need you to fly over the fence and go look for him."

Lastochka twisted his head up in the direction she gestured to then, then cocked its little steel head back to her. "It will be dangerous, though. Don't know if I'll make it back."

"Please, Lastochka," the girl begged. She let out a long exhale before telling the creature, "I know wherever he is, he's scared. He needs me."

"If you say so, Emma." The robin hopped once, then twice on her hand, before spreading its wings out and swooping into the air. It turned back once to tell her, "I'll return before the next winter snow falls!"

Emma watched Lastochka until he vanished in the air, then hurriedly scrambled down the path in the woods that would take her home. She didn't want to run into wolves, or even worse, Peacekeepers. She didn't want to get in anymore trouble.

When she arrived at the small little house by the field, the sun was on the edge of setting. She hastened her pace, head swinging around anxiously as she kept an eye out for any Peacekeepers.

When she opened the door, her mother was already waiting there, flustered and displeased. "Emma! What took you so long?"

"I'm sorry, Ma," was all she replied. She knew that if she really answered the question, she would get in a lot more trouble. There were somethings that Ma didn't really understand, so perhaps it would be better if she didn't reply.

But Ma noticed that she evaded the question. "What were you really up to? And did you even collect payment?"

"Oh." She had forgotten all about that. She had been so absorbed in staring at the beautiful toys to remember that she needed to do that. Now that she thought about it, all the beautiful toys, except for Lastochka, would have not survived the blast.

"Emma, what is wrong with you today?" her mother rebuked, frowning crossly. "Tomorrow, you will go back to that house and ask for the money. Understood?"

"I can't, Ma. The house is on fire," she tried to explain.

"Stop making up stories. It's time you grow up a little," Ma snapped, shaking her head. She looked like she wanted to say more, but then checked herself. Sighing, she waved her away. "Go and change, Emma."

The girl meekly retreated to her room, knowing that Ma would find out that what she had said was true tomorrow, when she heard it from the other women in the market. For now, though, Abigail Overland gazed at the huddled form of her daughter and prayed that the heavens give her strength to bear with the girl's growing fantasies.

The woman then, noting that the girl had closed her bedroom door, removed the metal contraption that she had hidden under table when her daughter had entered. She set it in the table before opening its flap again. She took the rubber-coated wires in her hands began twisted them together, coiling them carefully so as not to get tangled. Abigail then removed welding iron that she had hidden in her apron pocket, checked the battery level to ensure there were still enough, before proceeding to use it to solder the loose piece together, all the while keeping a watch on her daughter's bedroom door.

---

District 12

"We shouldn't be here."

"Aren't you the slightest bit curious?"

"Not enough to get me arrested."

Pabbie had been gone for a whole month. Some people said at first that he was summoned to the Capitol for, well, something. Later news broke out that he had passed away from a heart attack. His body, however, never returned to District 12 and most people suspected rightfully that the Capitol might have something to do with it.

One of those people, of course, had to be Anna.

"No one's going to arrest us, Kristoff," she chided her companion, who was still dragging his feet uneasily on the carpet.

It was in the middle of the night and they were snooping inside Pabbie's old residence – the only occupied house in the Victor's Village of District 12. Technically, since the victor had 'passed on', the property returned to the Capitol's possession. District 12, however, was such a small and unremarkable district that the Peacekeepers couldn't even be bothered to clear out the furniture and belongings in here, leaving the house almost untouched since the departure of its owner. It wasn't as if the District was about to have new victors any time soon, anyway.

"Besides, -" Anna lifted the candle from her candleholder– an extravagant gift that Kristoff had made for her two weeks ago, which he now regretted giving to her – "-even if we don't find any evidence of why they took him away, we might find some, well, souvenirs."

"So you're suggesting we steal from a dead guy?" Kristoff asked her with a raised brow – not that she saw it. She was too busy studying a map of constellations that was hanging from Pabbie's old study door, muttering the names of each cluster of stars under breath.

"I'm suggesting we recycle," she corrected him with a frown. "It's better than leaving all these things sitting here to rot, or taken away by Peacekeepers."

Her boyfriend, as reluctant as he was to be here, had to admit that she had a point. He caught sight of a sturdy-looking pick-axe hanging off the wall. Rubbing his chin in thought for a moment, he then stretched his hand forward and lifted it off the hook. He tested the weight in his hand, whistling in surprise. "Solid."

Anna had lost interest in the constellation maps and moved into the study itself. She let out a soft gasp as she noticed the dusty wooden shelves all packed to the rafters with books. Putting the candlestick on a small lamp table, she reached for one of the books near here. "'Gray's Anatomy'," she read from the cover, turning the yellowed pages and coughing almost immediately when the dust flew into her face. "Well, -" she cleared her throat forcefully as she shut the book, dropping it back where she had found it, "this one's really old."

"He sure has a lot of books on medical stuff," Kristoff muttered, drawing to her side taking up the candle holder and raising the light towards the scores of grimy volumes. "Wonder where he got all of them."

"Well, he's a victor, right? He should have been able to afford them." Even in the dim-lighting, Anna noticed one of the plainer books on the shelf with titled, 'Gnomes, Trolls and Giants.'It was squeezed in between a book on diseases and another on surgical procedures.

"It's the not cost that I'm wondering about. I'm wondering what's the source of all his- what're you looking at?" He spun himself around when he noticed her crouching down and staring intently, bringing the candle closer to her.

"This-" she pressed her finger against 'Gnomes, Trolls and Giants' "-is a children's book amongst a whole lot of medical books. I wonder why Pabbie put it here." Anna pulled on the book, only to find that she couldn't actually lift it off the shelf, and a 'click' sound had come from behind the book. "What on-" she pulled harder on the book, but instead caused the entire book shelf to swing towards her.

She straightened herself up, grabbing the side of the shelf, pushing back a little, then pulling it forward. It swung easily open, like a door on a hinge. Behind it was a dark space. Anna grabbed the candlestick from Kristoff and held it forward.

Under illumination, the secret room – no doubt that was what it was – came into the light. Both of them stepped into it with a measure of eagerness and trepidation, and the same question came to mind.

"Why would he-" Kristoff gestured at the table that was wired to an odd rectangular device. There was also a plastic lined panel covered with holes and random wires lying around it.

"Well, why wouldn't he, if he had the ability to?" Anna moved her candle over another table that was covered in more maps and books. There was a large map of Panem spread on the table, with more detail than she had ever seen, compared to the one in school. The books there were not medical books, however. One was 'Smoking: Vegetable Preservation', another 'Precious Carbon Stones and their Utility' and –

"'The Man in the Moon'," the girl breathed out the name, remembering to well the time when the scientist from the Capitol had asked her if she had known the name. It had meant nothing to her, of course, but if they had asked Pabbie that question, his answer would have been so different. As she flipped open the cover of the book, she saw something that made her reach out for her companion, shaking him.

"Kristoff, look!" He joined her at the table and she pointed at the marking. It was a circle with crooked 'G' twined into it. "It's like the one we saw on my sister's gravestone."

The blonde boy leaned forward to examine the symbol, frowning intently. "Do you think Pabbie was the one who wrote it there?"

The girl tugged against her braids as she thought. "Well, why would he? What does it even mean?"

Kristoff shrugged, picking up the book and poured through it. It was then Anna noticed that unlike most of the other books outside, this one, though still yellowed, was not quite dusty. Apparently, this one had seen more use. As he flipped the pages, the girl suddenly caught sight of something with one of the pages. "Hold on a moment. Turn back."

The boy did ask she asked, returning back to previous pages till he found the page that she caught sight of. It was pages contained part of a story, with the text being surrounded by handwritten markings. Certain letters in the text were circled and had a variation of symbols, ranging from numbers to punctuations marks, written above them. "What are these? Was he editing the story?"

"I don't think so." Anna bit the side of her cheek absentmindedly as she examined the paragraph. It wasn't all that interesting – just talking about a girl wishing on the moon. The text was grammatically sound.

She noticed the boy by her side stiffen suddenly, darting a glance behind them. "Do you hear that?"

Anna paused to listen, and realized that she could hear the buzzing tone too.

Both of them swung themselves around to find the strange metal box on the other table emitting a strange, fizzy sound. As they drew closer to it, they realized that the fizzy sounded like a voice, "ssss….pssshhhh…eight -bizzzzzzz…pssshhh…pshhh… five ppppshhhhhhhkkkkk…. asterisk …bizzzzzzzzssshhhk….. zero …pshhh…"

Anna was the first to rush over, only to realize she didn't know what to do. The only thing that she could think of doing was to whip around to Kristoff and ask, panicked, "What do we do?"

"I don't know!" The boy stepped forward, gazing at the wires and the plugs helplessly. "I carve ice. I have a reindeer friend. I mine coal for a living – what about that makes you think I'll know?"

Anna fumbled around the panels, finding two plugs and jabbing into the hole. She noticed a bunch of knobs on the side of the device so she began turning at them at random, hoping that it would help. She must have done something right, because the fizz melted off and the voice came clearer, "Alpha, ampersand - pssshk! -eight, zero, Delta, twenty, gamma, omicron, -"

"What's it talking about?" Kristoff glanced at her, completely befuddled by this entire situation.

Anna pursed her lips, listening more closely to it, and then it hit her. She headed back to the other table and grabbed the 'Man-in-the-Moon' book. She turned to the page that had all the codes on it, glancing quickly at the marked page. She was about to bring it back to the table with the talking machine, but then realized that the page had no letters written above the circled letters.

"Anna?"

She placed the book down, her gaze falling onto the two other books. She took up 'Smoking: Vegetable Preservation', flipping through it rapidly to find another page with similar written markings to the other book. She found it on page one thousand, one hundred and twelve, where the circled letters had numbers, letter and another bunch of symbols she couldn't really read. She carried it over to where Kristoff was, and the machine was still churning out the words on repetition.

"Here," she lay the book out for him to see. "The message is in code. See? And the page helps you to decipher it. Every symbol, letter or number corresponds to a circle letter in the text."

Kristoff let out a curse as he stared at the pages, his eyes almost falling out of his socket.

"C'mon," she found a pencil on the table. Testing it, she began scribbling out the words said from the machine. "I'll record the words. You decode."

So the two teens, by candlelight, began a furious chore of taking dictation and subsequently translating it by using the key in the book. They didn't know what some symbols were supposed to look like, so that they left spaces in between. In the end, the voice suddenly signed off and fizz died, leaving them in silence with their decoded message, albeit some blanks.

"Five on-" Kristoff paused he tried to guess what filled the blank "-I guess the third letter is either 'r' or 'n', so 'Five on fire (or fine), but falling. Ten exposed. Ebellion – I suppose that spells it as 'Rebellion' – 'at stake. Capitol making powerful healing serum for soldiers. Urgent. Thirteen advise.'" He handed the sheet with the deciphered message to Anna, who wanted to read it for herself. "So it's true, then."

"What's true?" Anna was still trying to wrap her head around what all this meant.

"The rebellion. It does exist." Kristoff scratched his head, his expression quite unreadable. "Some of the men in the mines talked about it, but it was all hearsay. But it's this message is right, then-" he let out a shaky exhale "-there are districts out there moving against the Capitol."

"Against the Capitol? But-" this was all news to Anna. He had never told her this before "-but how? Wouldn't they get punished for that?"

"Definitely, but maybe the folks out there are braver than we are." He pursed his lips as he read the message once again. "Wonder what's Thirteen though."

Anna glanced at the message again, checking it against the key inside the book. When the message referred to 'Five' and 'Ten', they were clearly talking about the districts. In that case, then – "Maybe Thirteen isn't a 'what'. Maybe it's a 'where'."

"Where?" Kristoff repeated, puzzled.

The girl walked determinedly back to the table of books. At the base of the table was lay a map of Panem, which she hadn't taken much notice of at first when her focus was the books, but now she cleared aside all the debris covering it, she could take a good look at the layout of their nation. She counted the number of circled Districts, and noted the only one that wasn't labelled there.

When the boy joined her side, she pointed at that spot on the map – a spot that was supposed to, according to their history books, have been obliterated by chemical bombs. "Thirteen."

---

S/N:

Well, it's been a while, because honestly I had reached a roadblock on the story, but I'm glad to say that I've finally managed to work out how the story's going to flow, so yay!

Oh, and just to emphasise again, it's mostly like that there won't be a 75th Hunger Games in this story. We'll probably go straight into the whole Mockingjay war.

Basically, members of the rebellion have a lot of codes by which they use to pass messages from one another. Why don't they just send messages straight to District 13? Well, because their technology is a lot more limited than the Capitol's and they're trying to be discreet about it – if you're not, then, well, you end off like North. Besides, some of them would also rather send their messages to – ahem – the 'Man-in-the-Moon'. Basically, if you can't work out how the codes work, don't bother. It's really not that important.

Lastochka is basically Russian for little bird.

Up Next: What could the consequences be for Anna and Kristoff to discover that District 13 exists? Hopefully, we'll also go back to check on District 13 too.

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A/N: So, hello everyone. Hope life has been okay on your side of the world.

Guest Mailbox:

Atom King: I think I'll enjoy writing more of Hiro and Elsa moments. There'll be some about Elsa going out to interact in the future chapters, so I hope you enjoy that.

Skyline10: Thank you! Yep, it'll be fun watching Merida get back to doing some legit work after all that time of slacking off on her part.

Well, adios for now. Hopefully I'll be able to upload this once a month. No promises still, but yeah.

Reviews. Ask Questions. Critique.