XLVIII: The Capitol - Ashland North Police Station.
Tarquin Vierra, 16
Applicant #4
It's pretty obvious, so he won't give himself much credit for it, but they're in some deep shit.
He knows it the second the cops find them. The two that do both have guns. They both have handcuffs, both have batons. Tarquin gets a few very brief, ugly images in his head that all involve him and Ria laid out on the ground before he agrees to go with them.
He thinks it the whole car ride, when one of them shoves him into the back-seat of a car and then puts Ria in another one. He catches one glimpse of Emmi, enough to see her mouth a very obvious fuck at him before the cop that's got her shoves her headfirst in and then slams the door behind her. All the time in the car he spends trying not to panic. The one driving hasn't touched him. He seems nice? Tarquin wouldn't know. It's not like they've even spoken.
Should they have read him his rights? They haven't technically arrested him, but it feels like they should have done that.
He doesn't know why he's acting like he really knows anything, because he doesn't.
He's walked by this police station before. It's not far from his school. There's a nice little cafe around the corner - if they walked fast him and his friends could come here to get lunch and get back before the next bell rang. Sometimes they were late back, but it never mattered.
And it doesn't matter that he's thinking about it now, because it's not like that's where he's headed.
He's the last one allowed out, and the others are gone by the time someone opens the door for him. It's different than before - no one is intent on hauling him around this time. Sure, they're still forcing him to go places and do things he doesn't want to do, but that's sort of their deal at this point.
No one grabs onto him, though. The man who opens the door holds an arm out as if to guide him but doesn't lay a hand on him. It's a clear invitation to cooperate, and to continue doing so. Things could get a whole lot worse if he doesn't.
He wants to ask, but he doesn't. He's sure any and all questions he has are about to be answered.
The man leads him into the building in silence, through the lobby and then down an adjacent hall. It still feels eerily similar to being trapped at Witsonee; at least this time someone has to know they're here. They're not trapped in the middle of nowhere, and this time no one's at risk of dying.
He thinks, anyway.
"If you could just take a seat," he says evenly. "Someone will be in in just a minute."
He nods, feeling like a robotic doll. The man opens the door to his left and he does just that, inching around the table in the middle of room to the furthest chair. He sits down, wiggles a bit, but there's no comfort. The chair is icy cold, metal all the way through.
The door closes.
It all of a sudden seems worse. It feels more real. The rooms look similar but this one is even smaller, and there's a camera in the top right corner. He's almost tempted to climb up on the chair and cover it, but he'd get in trouble for that. Probably best not to do that in a situation where he already is in trouble.
He hears the even click-clack of heels coming down the hall from a mile away, and isn't surprised when the person they belong to opens the door. She smiles at him like she knows him. She definitely doesn't.
She looks more like a person than anybody did at Witsonee, though. She's put-together but not perfect. Some of her hair is escaping her ponytail. One of her blazer sleeves is rolled up higher than the other. Her teeth are crooked too he notices, the longer she keeps smiling at him.
He wishes she would stop.
"I'd just like to start by saying you're not in trouble," she says. It certainly feels like they are. "There's no need to be scared. My name is Ora Havilard, I'm a Detective here with the force. I'm just going to ask you some questions. If you have any for me feel free to interject."
"We already got questioned, so why is it happening again?" he asks. He might as well take advantage of it while she's offering.
"The process at Witsonee was... informal, to say the least. They don't usually handle that branch. We've collected the information they've given us and we'd just like to expand on it, if impossible."
It makes sense. Tarquin gets it, he really does. It doesn't make him any less inclined to like it.
"I'm sure you're aware of how your situation differs from the others."
She waits, raising an eyebrow when he doesn't say anything.
He blinks a few more times. "Is this another you killed thirteen people reminder?"
He's had enough of them to last a lifetime - he certainly doesn't need one from a stranger. He can sense the exasperation she's holding in, which seems to be reoccurring thing when people try talking to them. Why anyone is still bothering is beyond him.
"I'm aware of the number. We're more focused on the fact that your companions had active involvement in killing some of the other applicants, but according to what you said at Witsonee, you didn't."
"Because it's true."
"And I believe you."
"Then why am I here, if you believe me?"
"You started in the ruins of Furnace Creek Ranch the first day - who were you with when you left? Or did you leave alone?"
"I wasn't."
"Then who?"
"Noelani, Topher, and Jay."
"Jupiter Valens?"
"Yes."
"And you don't know what happened to any of them?"
"No. Noelani and Topher left to look for supplies. Jay stayed with me, but he left. I don't know when. And I never saw any of them again."
Twelve hours and they were all just gone. It doesn't make sense that three people can just vanish like that. Someone from the Fallout group got Noelani, but what happened to Topher after that? He's still missing, after all. Did they kill him and take him too, or did they just hide him better? And who the hell knows what happened to Jay; there are too many options to pick just one. It hurts to even think about them all.
"I'm sorry if it seems intrusive - we're trying to find out specifically what happened to the other nineteen, but none of you seem to have had a hand in deaths of either of the Westmoreland's."
"And what about Jay?"
There's that eyebrow raise again. "According to the report we got I believe Miss Martorell admitted to that one." She flips through a few of her papers, drawing a finger along a particular line before she nods, satisfied with her own knowledge. "We'e you not aware of that?"
He wasn't - was he? Did she really never tell him? If she did he has no recollection of it. He also never told her about Jay leaving, either. Or so he thinks. Does he really know anything for sure, when his memories are so unreliable?
"When?" he asks.
"The day before you five were picked up at the border. The autopsy report lines up with that."
The day before. He made it that long? Tarquin can't imagine he got there on his own, either. Did he find Topher again then, after Noelani? It can't be like that, because then Ria might have some idea of why his body is still missing. And that was after he found her, meaning she climbed down the mountain, probably, and then killed him.
The worse realization is that Jay left him, found someone else, and decided to stay with them. Or is it that Ria never said anything?
Why are both things so terrible?
"You weren't with anyone else?" she asks. "You didn't even see anyone?"
"No." Ria doesn't count because she's here with him. And she killed Jay, apparently.
"No one at all?"
"No," he repeats. "How long is this going to go on?"
"If you need a break, I can get someone to escort you to holding for a while. But we will need to pick this back up at some point."
Holding, great. They have no intention of just letting him go because he doesn't want to be here. They're going to drain him dry of information and then keep going even after that, he has no doubt. Ora is still staring at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. His throat feels like the desert he crawled out of.
"Can I go?" he asks hoarsely, and she nods. At least she's not forcing him to stay here. She folds up her papers and makes an odd sort of stay put gesture, so he does. As soon as she's gone he feels that claustrophobic itch under his skin, like he's back in the tunnels and everything from every direction is closing in on him.
It's too small. There's not enough space. There's no one behind him now but he still feels himself glancing over his shoulder anyway, staring at the wall as if it's about to come to life and chase him.
Everything is closing in, now, and sooner or later part of it is going to break.
Or something inside it, first.
Emmi Langlois, 17
Applicant #13
Whatever his name is - she's already forgotten it, but it was long and weird, shoves a gun across the table at her.
It's inside a plastic bag, labeled with something that doesn't mean anything to her.
"This is yours?" he asks.
"No," she answers, because it's not.
He gives her a look. "It has your fingerprints on it."
"Doesn't mean it's mine." She shrugs. "Also, where'd the fuck you get my fingerprints?"
He sighs and draws the gun back. She killed several people with that gun, applicants and Sentinel's alike, but it's not hers. She just happened to pick it up. After she killed somebody else. Technicalities, really, because that first lady - Flora Benson - she deserved it. You sort of deserved to have things taken from you when you basically asked for it, please and all.
She watches him jot a few things down but judging by the slant of it all his writing is chicken-scratch when you're reading it the right way; she may as well not even bother when it's upside down. He's probably lamenting about the hand he got dealt in having to deal with her. It may not be the case all the time but right now she's convinced she's the biggest handful - no one else is even going to come close. Unless they lose Icarus, in which case he'll go stomping through the halls like a petulant child until someone gets Soran for him.
The man takes a few more things out - knives, and some of the broken down bits of her first-aid kit. Of all the things to collect and they took the ones she bled all over. Nice.
"And what about these?"
"You're acting like I waltzed out there with an arsenal. Where do you think I got it from?"
"The Sentinel you killed, I presume. That's what it says in the Witsonee reports."
"So why are you asking?"
Even he looks perplexed. If he can't even come up with an answer to that, he should probably just quit while he's ahead and go home. Or quit in general, because he's apparently not very good at his job.
"Alright, I'm going to show you a few images," he tells her. "If there's anything you could tell me about them..."
Oh, fuck no. Like he's going to show her pictures and expect a response out of her, who does he think he is? She certainly doesn't care. They've probably been out there for days collecting evidence and photographing the scene of the crime directly; who knows what he's about to show her. It could be nothing, inconsequential photos, or it could be everything. It could be the worst things.
"Have you collected all of the bodies?" she asks, ignoring both him and the tabletop as he begins to lay out a series of laminated images.
"Most of them."
"Still no Topher?"
"No. Unless you can be of any assistance in that matter."
"Nope, sorry," she says. "Where are they?"
"Where are who?"
"The bodies," she says flatly. "Did they get brought back here? I assume the Capitol wouldn't trust anyone but their own to examine the bodies."
He doesn't respond to that one. So that's confidential and he's not supposed to tell her, or he doesn't know himself. She's probably right, though. If they didn't bring them here they would have had to send them to one of the back-Districts, or a new hospital out in one of the expansion zones. There's no chance in hell they would do that.
"Are they planning on giving the bodies back to the families?"
He sighs. "Miss Langlois."
"What?" she asks. "Is it wrong to want to know?"
"Of course not. It's just not information pertaining to our conversation."
Of course not. Asshole. Sue her for wanting just a little bit of information back when he's already asking for so much. He's still laying photos out on the table, too. There are at least two dozen of them. She knows where this is going, unfortunately. It doesn't matter that she doesn't want where it's going.
And she's still stuck on the concept of the bodies, so she doesn't want to look down at them now. Sure, she didn't know Trojan and she's still not sure she even cares, but she's pretty sure there isn't anyone who would even want his body back. What are they going to do with it, then? Dump him into an unmarked grave, probably, in the hopes that people will forget about it one day.
Unlikely story.
"Alright, if you could help me out," he insists. He's probably about to get someone in here to hold her head forward if she doesn't cooperate so she does so, albeit reluctantly. Just over two dozen. She was right, those bastards. The one closest to her is an overhead view of Carnelia Trevall's glass-riddled, bloody corpse. She can't even see what wound killed her, or if it was all of them combined. It's still surreal that they did kill her; she keeps expecting to wake up one day with Carnelia and a knife hovering over her, smiling like a maniac.
That would be just her luck. It's not all fake, even if she wishes some of it was. These pictures definitely aren't fake.
"I'm going to go down the lines - if you could just tell me which ones you had involvement in that would be helpful. Just a simple 'yes' will do."
"Don't you already know which ones I had involvement in?"
He gives her another pointed look. Alright, Emmi, just listen and do the damn thing. Get it over with before he makes her die of old age in here.
It's a little hard to see, what with the glaring light and all, but she does as she'd told. He inches his pointer finger down the first row of photos; Jahaira's the only one in that grouping of six, and the only one she speaks up for. No point in lying. Sabre's in the next row - a yes to him, and at the end of that line is Arwen. She has to swallow a massive, ugly lump in her throat before she can get the single word out. Her body doesn't even look right.
The Sentinels are easier, in a line of their own down at the bottom. A firm 'yes' on Flora, and she still doesn't feel bad about it, and a solid 'maybe' to the guy at the end.
"Maybe?" he asks.
"It might've been him," she hums. "He was on fire."
His sigh this time is decibels louder, but he writes that down. Or something at least.
"So five," he concludes. "Is that correct?"
"I guess so." Five sounds about right. It also sounds like a lot more when they put it this way. He pulls all of the photographs away except for those five and looks down at them himself, brow creased.
"And you're sure?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"For someone with your... capabilities, it just seems odd."
She stares at him. "I'm not sure if that was like, a misogynistic thing or an ableist one."
He rubs a hand over his eyes and doesn't even give her a response to that one. Both, then? She's assuming both until he proves otherwise. She also really wants to get out of this room if he's quickly proving to be both. Jokes on him - she could probably leap across this table and beat him senseless with that gun-in-the-bag thing, and it would only take one hand to do it.
She doesn't think he'd take kindly to her saying that, so she keeps her mouth shut. At least for now.
He may or may not be done with her, at least for a few minutes. She leans back in her chair, silent, while he pulls the photographs towards himself and then begins to scribble something else down. What the hell is he writing over there, a novel? She almost wants to see it.
But then again, it's just the truth, the beginning of the full story.
And she already knows all of that.
Isperia Martorell, 16
Applicant #17
Turns out crocodile tears are a thing that actually work.
They weren't even intentional, is the thing. She's a little tired and a lot overwhelmed and the guy who had been talking to her was on the younger side, a little more susceptible to what she was feeling.
He was also sort of a sucker, but she feels bad thinking it. He was nice and he agreed to let her out for a while once she had started looking distressed enough.
Out turns into a holding cell in a very long block of them. At least she tried.
There's a familiar face, though, so it's not all terrible. It's not as if Soran's spoken or looked in her direction once since she got marched down the hall, and they're separated by a line of bars, but it's something. She takes a seat on the icy cold bench and leans back against the bars just to his right, so she can at least still see him through the gaps.
The redness in her eyes must have faded by now, but even if it hadn't she still wouldn't have anything on how terrible he looks. Icarus had looked concerned earlier - this was probably why. He looks like he's mentally gone somewhere else.
"Have they talked to you?" she asks quietly. If her voice goes above a murmur she fears he'll spook, not that there's anywhere to go. He wouldn't get very far.
"They tried."
Well, two words was more than she thought she was going to get. That's okay. As long as she knows his brain is still working. It's not like she of all people was planning on having a full-blown conversation with him in the middle of all this anyway. She knows what she's seeing right now, too, even through the bars and without being able to look him in the eye. She's looked in the mirror and seen that before, the wear-down that occurs when everything you have is actively working against you. She just didn't expect it from him.
He probably didn't expect it from him either.
All she can do really is just sit here and hope it helps. Someone else's presence never seemed to help her much, but he hasn't told her to screw off to the other side of the cell and leave him alone. And if Icarus was with him earlier, then maybe it's something he needs. Everyone's different. Just because she was never that person doesn't mean he isn't.
And clearly someone tried to talk to him, probably like one of the ones that tried to get to her. Soran's probably wasn't as nice, though. Asking for that is probably a long shot.
She thought she'd be more scared. She is overwhelmed, that she knows, but not scared. It feels like every bad thing in the world is hurtling towards them and her brain is just... silent.
Maybe that's a good thing. Not everyone's is, clearly. Ria leans back through the bars as much as she can manage once again to get a good look at him. His eyes are blank, fixated ahead, unblinking for ten seconds, and then fifteen.
"Soran," she tries. Absolutely nothing. She even raised her voice a little to get his attention. He's got only a few more seconds before she reaches through the bars and shoves him onto the floor. She reaches through and nudges him, just the slightest bit, poking at the back of his shoulder insistently until he blinks a few times, rapidly, and then tilts his head back to look at her. He can feel the poking now, but it looks like he didn't before. And he definitely didn't hear her voice, either.
What was that thing Mr. Andruzzi talked about in biology last year? Microsleeps, was it? If he's that tired his brain will just shut down for him regardless of what he wants. She doesn't remember much else, though. She liked chemistry more than biology. She liked most things better than biology, really.
"You okay?" she asks. Stupid question, because she knows the answer. She's just not sure what else to say. "You could try and go to sleep."
He makes a noise - she doesn't take it as agreement. He slides his way down the bars and flops over onto the bench with a thump. She winces, but he doesn't even blink at the action, curling up onto his side facing her; his nose is nearly wedged between the bars, but it doesn't look like he cares.
Ria waits, but his eyes stay open. She waits, and waits, and waits.
He's more stubborn than she thought. It's not even like he has a view now, because he's staring at the side of her leg, an entire inch away.
She's not the proper type of person to deal with this. She doesn't know what to do, or what to say. If he won't listen to Icarus, why in the world would he listen to her when she doesn't have the voice for it?
In the end she does the only thing she can think to do - she lays down as well. It's the middle of the night, by now. She's tired. Who knows how long they'll leave her in here until they try again. She could never sleep in a situation like this before, but she has to be the calm one now. Maybe if she sleeps, or at least tries, he will too. It's a long shot but she's willing to try.
There's barely enough room for her on the bench; she has no idea how Soran is staying on. She does her best to get comfortable anyway, draping an arm over her face to shield her eyes from the buzzing artificial lights. There's not very much sound except for that and her own breathing; she can hear Soran's, too, but it sounds as if he's trying to be quiet about it. She has half a mind to tell him he doesn't need to, he really doesn't, but pointing that out is worse in her own mind than letting him be. At least it's giving him something to focus on.
Much to her surprise, she does drift off, at least somewhat. It still feels like she hear things, occasionally, voices from very far away or footsteps. The bench is too cold to ever get properly comfortable, and that lingers too. Altogether it's not an overly pleasant experience but it's far from the worst.
Almost, anyway.
She wakes up, and there's a hand on her.
Her first thought is Soran is getting back at her for all the poking earlier, but that's incorrect. The second is that she's still dreaming, but nope. She opens her eyes and there's someone looming above her, an absolute giant of a figure, and one of their hands is locked around her wrist. It's a tight hold, but it's not doing much until she rolls off the bench in her sleep-induced panic and it's all that's left to hold her up as she otherwise hits the ground with a thud.
There's a sharp, ugly burst of pain all throughout her wrist, and she clamps down on her lip to keep the cry of pain from escaping; it's almost successful, save for the whimper that gets out before she can stop it. The crocodile tears from before are suddenly very real in her eyes, burning at the corners and threatening to spill over. The man pulls her properly to his feet - it's just another guard, a different one than before, but one all the same. He probably wanted her out, and she didn't respond.
"Does she not look breakable enough to you?" Soran asks, and oh, he sounds angry now. That's better than completely blank. "What the fuck?"
She's getting pulled back into the corridor, but she turns around to get a good look at him. Sort of. It's hard to see, still. He's on his feet, now, and he looks angry too. One point to her, although she achieved it in a way that she had no ultimate say in. If the bars weren't there he would have done something, but they are. At least the thought is touching.
His grip is still horrendously tight, though, and if her bones aren't broken already they're about to be. He'd probably break Soran too.
She thought she was getting better, and maybe she is, but apparently she's still on the breakable side.
At least it's her and no one else.
Icarus Devereux, 17
Applicant #10
"You can let go of me now," he informs the lady holding onto him, who might as well be nameless considering how forthcoming she's been.
Which is to say not at all.
She's literally holding onto him by the shirt, too, all five fingers with a fistful of it between his shoulder blades. She might as well have put him on a leash. She looks up at him when he says it - it was slightly gratifying how much height he had on her until he had realized that her biceps were as thick around as his neck was. One hit and she would knock him the hell out without even thinking about it.
This is the boldest he's got with her since he realized that particular fact and it's only because he's got Pandora in his sights. She was on her feet the second he came through the door into the lobby, and she looks like she'd have already herded him a hundred feet away if this wretched lady wasn't holding onto him.
Which is why she really, seriously needs to let go of him.
She hesitates for a moment before she does, like she's unsure it's the right call. They told her they were done with him, so it's not hers to make, but he doesn't blame her for it. He wouldn't let him go either, but he's not going to tell her that. The second he's free he hurries across the lobby away from her, but her eyes are burning holes through the back of his head the entire time.
"Are you okay?" Pandora asks, though her eyes are still fixated far beyond him. Is the woman's face that sour that even Pandora can't look away from it? Probably.
"Awesome," he responds, though that bitterness that drags his voice down proves otherwise. He's less than the ideal amount of awesome.
"I'm gonna get Evander to take you back home," she tells him. "I'll stay here, and—"
"Wait, am I the only one that's out?" he asks. He was in there for literal hours - what the fuck is going on with everyone else that he managed to get out first?
"From the sounds of it you were the one that cooperated the easiest."
"How in the world is that the case?"
"I don't know, I'm sorry," she says. "I've been trying to get updates but they're not telling me much. From what I understand you stayed in the room with one for a few hours, right? You never took a break?"
"No?"
"Everyone else did, I think. We've probably still got a few hours to go."
"Fuck," he emphasizes. He'd punch something right now if he wouldn't get in trouble for it, namely that woman and her stupid face. "Why can't they just leave us alone?"
He only cooperated because he wanted to get the hell out of here but not everyone else is necessarily in that same mindest. Emmi, maybe, but that ends there. Tarquin and Ria probably aren't doing so well, and god only knows that Soran isn't. If someone even manages to scrape him out of whatever chair they sat him in without assistance Icarus will be shocked.
"Alright, let's head outside," Pandora says. "We can talk there."
"You're not taking me home."
"Okay, that's fine. But still - outside."
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. He's got the slightest bit of a headache, pressing just enough at the inside of his skull to be annoying. Probably from how many stupid ass questions he just got drilled into his brain, questions they already knew the answer to but had to ask again anyway. He wants to leave, don't get him wrong, but it's not even like he'd be going home. He may call it that because she did, but that's not home.
It's not really anything. It almost felt like safety until a few hours ago, but not anymore.
He sits down outside on the first thing he finds, which happens to be two whole inches of window ledge backed up against the wall. There's a bench a ways out, but there's rain drizzling down from the sky and he's not in the mood to go out there. At least this way he's sheltered, if not from the chill of the wind. It's not like it matters.
There's no sign of Evander or Crynn, though they must be around here somewhere. They're a pack, those three, albeit a small one. Pandora considers her options for a moment before she sits down next to him, leaving just the right amount of space.
"How fucked do you think we are, really?" he asks. "Be honest."
"Pretty fucked."
And there it is, folks. If she's willing to admit it and say it like that, then they well and truly are.
"They wouldn't be bothering with so many rounds of questioning if they weren't looking to prosecute. I'd say that's what the President wants most of all."
"So what, they're going to put us in prison for the rest of our lives for something that wasn't even technically our fault?"
"Or worse," she murmurs.
He sighs. "Why did I even bother surviving if I'm just going to die anyway?"
"We don't know that's going to happen."
"No, but it feels like we do."
"There's still time to fix this," she says quietly. It doesn't feel like there is. "We still have time."
"But we're guilty," he points out. "We've admitted it more than once, and even if we hadn't they have all the bodies, all the weapons. They have everything they need to prove it even if we tried to take it back. They won't even need to do anything else. They could put us in front of a judge and sentence us tomorrow if that's what the President wanted, and we know that's what he wants, do we not?"
Pandora looks beyond defeated. Finally she feels the same way that the rest of them do. At least she hasn't entered into breakdown territory like Soran; not yet, anyway.
If only they would just let him out too. Icarus would feel a lot better if he had physical proof that Soran hadn't fractured into a dozen pieces. He's still mad about the whole thing, at how inevitable the collapse was, about how it happened anyway. Maybe it wouldn't have if he had been there the entire time, but there's no telling. There's no reversing the past, either.
There's only one person he's certain was there the whole time, and she's sitting right next to him. It happened anyway.
"When he gets out, go easy on him," he says. He doesn't have to tell her who, because she knows. Her eyebrows crease together though, turning to look at him with confusion evident in her eyes.
"I don't think he's gonna be in good shape," he continues. "I don't know what he's been doing, if he's been sleeping, I don't know anything. I just know it's not good."
"I tried. He doesn't listen to me."
"He doesn't listen to anyone."
"He listens to you," she says. "Even if you may not think that."
It doesn't feel like it, sometimes. He'd really like to believe that, to believe in the easier of all of the options. If Soran spent even a fraction of the time he spends ignoring him listening to him instead they probably wouldn't be here.
"I'm sorry for not keeping a better eye on him," she says. "It's been rough the past few days. But I'll do better."
Pandora really is trying so hard, harder than he's ever tried for anything beyond survival in his entire life. She looks tired - not nearly as tired as Soran, but tired. They're not the easiest things to deal with, this he knows. The effort is worth more than she knows, more than he'll ever be able to put into words. He's normally so articulate, too, but he's been out of them for a while.
"We all need to do better," he says. At everything and anything, and survival needs to be at the forefront.
"We will," she assures him. "I'm going to ask about him. I won't be long."
He nods, and she squeezes his shoulder before she goes. There's almost no chance they tell her anything worth knowing, but she's going for his sake. If he looks half as worried as he feels than she can probably see it all over his face. She's already trying to do better; for him, for everyone. For herself, too.
Hopefully it turns out to be worth something.
Unedited and going up anyway, it's the writer's life for me.
I like reviews for Christmas and I heart JAJ. That is all.
Until next time.