This final train ride out of Twelve is infinitely more miserable than my first ride in. Just when I was starting to rebuild my life, it's all been torn from me again. And it hurts even worse this time.
Once I grab a sleeping cabin, I lock the door and don't come out for anyone or anything. Though I was up much of the night, hungry is the last thing I am. When Darius knocks and pleads with me to open the door, obviously concerned, I wrap the pillow around my head. I don't want comfort. I want to be miserable. Besides, there's no use getting attached to him again. What are the chances we'll be reassigned together? The odds aren't in our favor.
He probably saved my life, I owe him that much. My first instinct upon hearing the news of our impending transfer was to jump out the window and make a break for the hole in the fence, but he grabbed my wrist and told me I'd never make it with the Peacekeepers posted at the north doors. They'd spot me easily and probably shoot me on sight for trying to desert. As much as I wanted to deny it, I couldn't. There was nothing I could do but get on this train.
When Darius knocks on my door for the third time, midway through the afternoon, I hurl a string of curses his way. To make sure he gets the point, and also because I suspect he's afraid I've harmed myself. Yelling is a way to let him know I'm alive and… well, alive. To comfort him without having to be nice. After that he doesn't return for the rest of the day, leaving me to stew in my misery in this cabin. It smells like a boy, musky and dank, but it isn't bothersome enough to make me get out of bed and open the tiny window. Besides, it's a fucking blizzard out there.
Darius checks on me twice the next day, and twice I yell at him to go the fuck away. He doesn't ask to come in, so my instincts must have been right. I'd be lying if I said the thought hasn't occurred to me. It's not like I'm short on bedsheets. But I am the consummate survivor. My pride comes from succumbing to nothing and no one.
As the afternoon light fades into evening, there's a third knock on my door. I'm mustering the energy to yell at him again when another voice sounds from the hallway. "Mason, open up," calls Purnia. And I don't yell at her to go away. Because if there's anyone I could tolerate seeing right now, it's her. "Come on, Johanna, you need to eat," she insists when I don't answer. "I will open this door myself if I have to." Her voice fills me with a yearning of sorts. Maybe I do want to be comforted. She curses faintly at my continued silence, then I hear a key jiggling in the lock. Even if I had the energy to move and wipe my tear-stained eyes, I lack the dignity to give a shit right now.
When the door slides open I find the energy to lift a hand after all, because the light from the hallway is so overwhelming after a day and a half in the dark. Hearing it slide back on its tracks and click shut, I drop my shielding hand. The sparse remaining daylight filtering in through the curtains illuminates Purnia's face just enough for me to see the disappointment written all over it. And a tinge of something else that I want to say is sadness. Before I can be sure, she blinks away the expression and places the plate she's holding on the nightstand. "Sit up, Mason."
"Leave me alone," I mumble into my pillow, eyes slipping shut again. The words are as faint as I feel. She's right that I need food, but my stomach is even more troubled than yesterday.
Hardly the type to take no for an answer, Purnia flicks on the lamp and pulls me into a sitting position. I'm weak from hunger and sadness and don't try to resist, but I do stay limp to make it difficult for her. The room is cold, and she strips the blanket from the bed to wrap around my shoulders. Circling her right arm around my waist to hold me upright, she wedges herself between me and the pillow. Grabbing the plate from the nightstand, she rests it on her lap and grabs a piece of fruit from it with her free hand.
With the chunk of what smells like pear at my lips, I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. Purnia pinches my side insistently and orders me, "Mason, open your goddamn mouth. You're usually so good at that." Lacking the energy to roll my eyes, I obey without any sass. That's got to be a first.
As we inch our way through the meal she's brought, I'm struck by the thought and effort she's put into it. She's cubed canned fruit and meat from our ration stash and ripped open some of the packages of cheese and crackers, putting together a plate of finger food. Likely she guessed she would have to resort to feeding me by hand. The beginnings of a smile twitch my lips as I reflect on our current situation. It would be sexy in better circumstances.
Swallowing my first bite of meat, I ask her, "Why are you bothering with me?"
"Because I'm your friend, obviously." After a moment's hesitation, she adds, "And I feel for you. Being separated from your lover sucks."
"You chose to leave yours," I point out.
"Doesn't mean I wanted to," she fires back. "And stop being such a brat. Don't bite the hand th-" Pausing partway through the phrase, she snickers.
Even in my state, I produce a genuine chuckle. "I always thought you were literal, Purnia, but that's impressive."
"Shush, you."
Just the touch of another person is restorative. Her fingers brushing my lips and squeezing my side do as much for me as the food she's forcing into me. Though I feel a bit stronger as she puts the empty plate aside, I go mostly limp again and let my head fall to the side, resting on her shoulder. Her hand moves from my waist to scratch my scalp softly, and she drops a kiss onto my hairline. Instinctively I squeeze her knee in return.
That's not the only instinct I feel. Purnia has always been a mystery to me, even more enigmatic than Katniss. But with most people, a moment like this does not end here. And as she places her left hand atop mine and threads our fingers together, I realize I don't want it to. The heartbeat in my ears drowns out my doubts about how she sees me, a reckless longing overriding any sense of reason. I have never felt more desperate for something good.
Lifting my head, I catch her eyes for a moment. Strikingly green, even in the soft light of the cabin. They're so gorgeous, as I lean in I resist the way my own eyes want to flutter shut for as long as I can before our lips make contact. It's a relief as much as a surprise when I feel her kissing me back, softly pursing her lips against mine. Emboldened, I open my eyes again and lift my right hand to cup her cheek, intending to deepen the kiss. But as my fingers trail down her jawbone, she slowly draws back. I see the refusal in her eyes before she voices it with her lips. "Mason," she says gently.
Blinking myself out of it, I tell her, "I know."
"That's not what we have."
"I know." Pulling away, I rest my elbows on my knees as I try to will away the fire burning in my cheeks. "Sorry. You can go."
"I never said I wanted to leave," she replies, almost quizzically. And she doesn't, only sits there watching me. I start to shiver again under her gaze, but she must blame the cold because she begins rubbing my arms through the blanket still shrouding me. When that only makes me shudder more, she pauses a moment in thought before tugging it from around my shoulders. Draping it back over the sheets, she draws back the covers, kicks off her boots and wriggles inside. Backing up toward the wall, she pats the space in front of her and urges me, "Come on."
I blink. "Really?"
Her mouth quirks slightly. "As long as you don't try to molest me."
Though I know this is a joke, I'm hardly in the mood to laugh at anything right now. Especially not a joke at my expense. "I wouldn't," I state, eyes narrowing peevishly. "Consent is important to me."
"I remember." She invites me in again with steady but gentle eyes, and I give in. Switching off the lamp, I burrow under the covers and into the arms of my CO. She's not the person I'd give the world to be held by right now. But she's a comforting presence and a kind soul. Emotion swells inside of me as her hands sweep up and down my back, but I'm too exhausted to cry. I've barely slept in two nights, and the pressure and warmth of another body touching mine starts lulling me into oblivion almost immediately.
"Sleep," she whispers, kissing my forehead once more. "Give that poor brain a rest."
There's not much I can do to resist. Yawning into her chest, as my eyelids droop I mumble a bleary, "Thank you."
How long she stays is a mystery, because I wake up alone the next morning. A racket in the hall is what pulls me into consciousness, and as I get my bearings I realize we aren't moving. Listening closer, I hear rustling in the adjacent cabins as people pack their things. Awesome.
I'm barely out of bed when Darius knocks on the door. "Jo? You awake?"
"Unfortunately," I call through the door.
"We're here. They want us in full gear and ready to march in ten minutes."
"Okay," I shout back.
It doesn't take me ten minutes. My bags have sat untouched on the floor for over 48 hours, so I have nothing to pack. After suiting up, I grab my luggage and head for the eating area. Most of the morning crew is already there, with a few notable exceptions. They are chatting amongst themselves in low tones as I approach Athena and Tory. "Hey, Thena," I greet my former neighbor, cutting her off mid-sentence with a casual kick to the boot. "Where's Purnia? I need to ap- I need to ask her something."
"No clue," she answers, giving me a mildly annoyed squint. "They took all the officers."
My eyes pop. "What do you mean, 'took'?"
"I don't know," she shrugs. "But it can't be anything good."
I'm hardly able to process the next several minutes, head spinning as new Peacekeepers take our bags and corral us onto the platform. The last time one of my comrades told me our leader was taken, it involved cuffs and a black bag.
Our belongings get thrown onto trucks, but we have to march the 15 minutes or so to the large training facility at Peacekeeper headquarters. The sun is low in the sky despite the late morning hour, shining in my eyes as I try not to slip on icy patches on the road. When we arrive, the man in charge tells us our bags have been searched for contraband, adding insult to injury. Good thing I never collected my illegal weapons from the woods. The search notwithstanding, they're something for Katniss to remember me by.
The thought of Katniss only adds to my distress over Purnia's disappearance. Does she know I'm gone yet? How is she taking it? Hopefully better than I did. But that's unlikely. Katniss is a dramatic son of a bitch, no matter what she tells herself.
The man goes on to tell us we will have two weeks of training before we are reassigned to other outposts. So we can be refamiliarized with protocol that was rarely enforced, he explains. On that note, he informs us that all our officers have been dishonorably discharged. Though it's not good news, I'm relieved to hear it. It's better than the alternative.
***o***
It's Sunday before we get our first day off. In a way it's a blessing, spending several days in classes and training sessions. Unfilled time is what makes me spiral downward. Maybe Darius knows that and that's why he shows up at my room in the morning.
"Hey, Jo," he says, forcing a smile. "Have any plans for the day?"
"Just wallowing in my misery," I joke from my bed. Though it's not a joke at all. "Why? You have something better to do?"
"Thought maybe we could wander around town," he suggests, leaning against the doorframe. "Or, you know, look for Purnia."
Snapping upright, I squint at him. "What?"
"I know you're worried about her. And she lives here, right?"
Yes. Yes, she does. "Her family lives down on 24th Street," I inform him. My forehead crinkles. "Or maybe it's her boyfriend who lives there. It's a place to start, anyway."
Glad to have a mission, especially one that can put my mind somewhat at ease, I whip through a late breakfast and meet up with Darius at his room. We set out on foot, fresh snow crunching under our boots as we venture closer to the outskirts of town. After about 20 minutes we reach the correct corner and stop, surveying the street.
"You saw her paperwork, once," I say. "Did you remember her home address, or just her birthday?"
"Sorry, just the birthday," he replies.
"Guess we'll have to ask around." At least it's a short street, only one block long. They probably all know each other.
A couple houses away, there's a person shoveling snow away from their door, so we head that way. "Excuse me?" I call when we get close. The shoveler looks up and pulls down the scarf obscuring their face. It's a woman, tall and probably in her mid-thirties. "Sorry to bother you, ma'am," I greet her, "but do you know where we can find someone named Purnia Stark?"
"Who's asking?" she demands, eyeing our uniforms with suspicion.
"Oh, we come in peace," I clarify.
"We were posted together in Twelve," Darius pitches in.
The woman's demeanor softens. "Right, of course. She said you were all pulled out." Nodding across and down the street, she tells us, "Two doors down on the left. Don't knock too hard unless you want to scare the shit out of her."
"Okay," I answer with a furrowed brow. The woman says nothing more, though, pulling her scarf back up and resuming her shoveling.
When we reach the house I think she was referring to, we tread lightly on the porch and I give the wooden door a soft knock, as instructed. There's audible movement inside almost immediately, and within a couple seconds the door swings inward. A boy I peg as about ten or eleven stands in front of an open coat closet, eyeing us curiously. I blink. "Um, hi. Does Purnia Stark live here?"
Rolling his eyes, the boy tips back his head and hollers, "Mom! Peacekeepers!"
I barely have time to mouth, "Mom?" to Darius before Purnia's voice rings out.
"Jason, get away from the door! What did I tell you?" Seconds later our former CO rounds the corner, armed with a crossbow. Seeing us, she heaves a sigh of relief and backhands him in the chest. "You could have told me they were friendly Peacekeepers."
"How was I supposed to know?" grouses Jason.
"Off-duty uniforms, genius," she huffs, resting the weapon on her hip.
My eyebrows still have yet to come down. "So this is Jason."
"I told you you didn't know what you were talking about," she remarks pointedly. Turning to her son, she says, "Jay, this is Johanna and Darius. They're friends of mine from Twelve."
"Cool," he says disinterestedly. "Is lunch ready yet?"
"No, but if you go help your father, it will be sooner," she answers pointedly. He rolls his eyes again but disappears into the house. "Take off your boots," Purnia instructs us. "Don't go tracking snow all over my clean floors."
"Domestic goddess," I tease her. "I remember."
She gives me a look but otherwise doesn't dignify that with a response, silently leading us through the house. A half-finished model tank that Jason must have been assembling lies on the floor of the living room mere steps from the door, but otherwise the place does look pretty tidy. When we enter the kitchen at the back of the house, Jason is standing at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables. He's sharing a cutting board with a man of about thirty who sits facing us. A girl a couple years younger than Jason is sitting with her back to the window, drawing something I can't place from a distance.
Hearing our footsteps, the two we haven't met look up from their work. Gesturing our way, Purnia makes the introductions. "Paul, Lena, meet Jo and Darius."
"Johanna Mason?" Paul's eyebrows arch and he shares a furtive glance with Purnia before smiling my way. "Heard so much about you."
Oh, really? Glaring at Purnia, I lift a questioning eyebrow. It seems to take her a second to catch what I'm asking, but then she smirks and shakes her head. As I covertly sigh in relief, she places her crossbow on the counter. Nodding at the weapon, Darius asks, "You scared they're going to come for you?"
"Darius!" I bark, giving his arm a light punch. He's never been known for his tact, but for fuck's sake, her kids are in the room.
Purnia, for her part, doesn't appear all that upset, answering with a simple, "No." Drumming her fingers on the counter a moment, she requests, "Kids, can you please go upstairs so we can talk?"
Jason snorts. "Jeez. You come back, and all you do is boss us around."
"Watch your tone, young man," snaps Paul.
Purnia gives her son the evil eye and is about to say something when I pipe up, "She bossed us around, too." Everyone's attention now on me, I shoot Jason a commiserating wink. "It's the worst."
A moment of silence later, Lena interjects, "Mom, can't we go play in the snow? Please?"
While Purnia considers this, gaze bouncing between her kids, Paul volunteers, "Honey, I'll take them." Her eyes flit over to him doubtfully and he narrows his in response. "Don't give me that look. I'll take the bow."
"A two-handed weapon?" Walking past the stove, Purnia grabs a butcher knife from the block on the next counter. "Here," she says, laying it on the table. Lena claps in delight and jumps to her feet, but before she can get anywhere Purnia warns her, "Backyard. And stay where I can see you."
"Ay ay, Captain," agrees Jason, throwing her a sassy little salute. I snicker under my breath.
As the kids scamper to the front door to gather their snow gear, Paul bends over to grab something from the ground. When he straightens up and braces his right hand on the back of the chair to push himself to standing, I see the pair of forearm crutches in his left.
"Here, Dad," calls Lena as she runs back into the room with an armful of winter clothes. She hands over gloves and a jacket, while is Jason on her heels carrying an extra pair of boots that he places at Paul's feet.
Laying the crutches beside the cutting board, Paul smiles and eases himself back onto the chair. "Thanks, kids."
There's more conversation as the kids dress in their snow pants and jackets and pull on their boots, but I'm not paying much attention. It's all coming together now. All the things Purnia's said and all the ways I misinterpreted them. Wow, was I ever an accidental asshole.
Slipping the knife into his coat pocket, Paul secures his arms in the crutches and stands again. Now that know to look for it, I notice how little weight he puts on his right leg. On his way to the door he stops to give Purnia a quick kiss on the lips. "I'll holler if there's any danger, okay?"
"Okay," she says, reciprocating the peck with one of her own. Tempted to tease her, I smirk into my collar instead as her family heads outside. As soon as the door closes, she turns our way. "Mining accident eight years ago. Boulder crushed his shin bone and it didn't set properly," she explains. "They gave him a chair, but he prefers to walk."
When she grabs the crossbow from the counter and crosses to the table, Darius inquires, "Is there a cougar out there or something?"
Purnia shakes her head as we all take a seat. "Sometimes the Capitol people will punish a traitor not by harming them, but their family," she tells him as she pushes aside the cutting board and knives, making room for the bow. Eyes drifting out the window, she declares, "I'd never let them hurt my babies. I'd die first."
Still trying to process this, I shake my head. "I thought the rules about kids were strict. How did you even enlist?"
"It was tricky. I had to divorce Paul, suspend my parental rights." Reaching over the board, she plucks Lena's drawing from the table. Studying it a moment, she turns it so we can see. It's unfinished, but clearly a family portrait. "It was getting hard for them. And for me. Lena was barely off breastmilk when I left. I missed her whole childhood."
"So… maybe it's a good thing you got discharged?" I venture.
"A blessing in disguise, for more than one reason," she admits. "I don't know if I could have fought against your girlfriend's rebellion, Mason. If I'd been demoted, the money might have run out. We'd be better off if the Capitol was overturned." She snorts. "Even more so now, with me out of work and a borderline traitor."
"You weren't a traitor," argues Darius. "You were the best Peacekeeper in Twelve."
"They don't see it that way. You two better watch your backs as well. Either desert and go into hiding or get with the program."
"This isn't what I signed up for," he protests. "I wanted to maintain peace, not create terror."
"The name is rather deceiving, isn't it?" she smirks wryly. "I've been in the Corps long enough to know the dark side of it. I've seen things that… well, that display in the Square was nothing in comparison."
"I know. I was in Eleven for the crackdown, remember?"
"Then why am I explaining this to you?" she retorts. "Don't be foolish, Darius. This is serious business. And if it escalates to a war, there's no telling what they'll make you do."
"Sounds like you really are grateful to be out," I comment.
"I am," pronounces Purnia. "Other than the money part. Most people are afraid to hire a dishonorably discharged Peacekeeper. Paul works a till at one of the food stores in town, but it's only part time. It's not enough to sustain a family of four."
Bowing my head, I mumble, "I wish there was something we could do to help."
"Maybe one day there will be," she says with a wry smile. "But don't worry about my family, you both have your own to deal with. I have things under control. Always do."
We can't argue with that.
A few minutes of chatting later, Purnia announces she should get back to making lunch before her kids come inside and start whining. Walking us to the door, she watches as we step into our boots. When we're done, she urges us, "Please stay safe. Both of you." Then she surprises us, or at least Darius, with a hug for each of us. Before letting me go, she plants a kiss on my cheek.
Suddenly blushing, I mumble, "I'm sorry about the train."
"Don't be," chuckles Purnia. "It's okay."
Eyes falling, I bite my lip. "And for everything I said about Jason. I had no clue."
"That was the idea," she remarks dryly. But there's a hint of a smile there as she squeezes my shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Mason."
***o***
Perhaps it's Purnia's encouragement to deal with my own family that makes me seek out my brother's company. Maybe it's the oppressive loneliness making every day's downtime drag by.
My attempt to thwart it by hanging out with Scarlett falls flat. When I show up at her house, her mom informs me she is in the Capitol for business and won't be back until late next week. I'll be gone by then. Darius is here for me, as I knew he would be. We spend time together, but I can't allow myself to enjoy his company the way I once did. Not when I know I'm about to lose him to some other outpost.
Josh, on the other hand, is already lost to me. Sure, he's alive and we occasionally talk, but he hasn't been my emotional support in years. Not since I was thirteen and he betrayed my trust. He's still my favorite family member, though. Not that he has much competition.
Since I'm here and free on a Sunday this time, Josh actually can make the time to come see me. Only for a few hours, but hey, it's something. A few days before I ship out, we meet for lunch and drinks in a tavern near the center of town. There's no stopping the way my face lights up when I see his smiling eyes. His arms are warm and strong as always, and I linger in his embrace as long as I can without embarrassing myself in public.
"Everyone says hi," he tells me when we pull apart. "And they send their regrets."
"Whatever," I chuckle. "It's not like I invited any of them." When he merely stares at me, I laugh. Josh laughs along with me, but I catch his hesitance, the way he's evaluating my level of sincerity. Jeez, and I'm not even drunk yet.
"It's too bad you've committed to Peacekeeping," he says as we grab a table. "They're talking about reopening the old lumber mill in town. Could've used your axe skills."
"Really?" That is a bummer. I would have chosen being a lumberjack over a Peacekeeper any day.
"Yeah," he says. "Apparently there's plans in the works to diversify some of the districts' exports in case supply lines get blocked." Or in case the districts are rebelling. I don't say that out loud.
We keep our conversation to work-related stuff through most of lunch. Increased quotas in the mines that have forced him to jump in and help from time to time. The awful smell and broken boundary fence in Twelve, and the reprogramming we're going through now. Eventually we get back to the topic of family, just in time for drinks. And I rack up quite the tab.
"It's not like a soccer ball yet," Josh slurs when I ask him how much Sabina is showing. "More like… more like Dad's potbelly."
My laughter makes me literally double over and almost fall out of my chair. "Oh my god," I wheeze. "Oh my god, don't tell her that."
"No?"
"Not if you want to get laid in the next three, four months," I cackle. "Or ever again."
"I'll keep that in mind," he grins. "No jokes about the baby bod."
"It's your damn fault. You did this to her, as they say."
"True," he muses, mouth relaxing into a sappy smile. "I'm glad I did. I'm gonna be a fun dad."
"I'm sure you will be," I agree, tossing a chicken bone at him. "I can't wait to meet the baby. It's gonna be super cute." With the least subtle wink ever, I reason, "Sabina's hot, so."
"Yes, she is," chuckles Josh, who I'm pretty sure is still halfway sober and amused by my behavior. Not that I need to be drunk to entertain people. Still wearing that smile, he muses, "I got lucky in love."
Ugh. Mood killer. Snorting into my beer, I mutter, "I'm anything but."
Josh looks on me with sympathy. "Chances aren't good you'll get reassigned with your girlfriend, huh?"
Whether it's the alcohol talking or I just wish to confide in him once again, I'm not sure. Either way, I pick at a chip in the wooden table and admit, "I wasn't dating a Peacekeeper."
"A local?" He snorts. "You would."
"Worse." Blinking up to his bewildered eyes, I drop the bomb. "A victor."
In his somewhat inebriated state, it takes Josh a couple seconds to work this through, wheels visibly turning in his head. His eyes pop open the instant he connects the dots. Twelve has only one female victor. "No," he all but gasps, staring in disbelief. At my affirmative snicker, he furrows his brow. "Wait, is she the same girl you were dating last spring?"
"Yep." Sitting back in my chair, I fold my arms and boast, "How do you think she learned her hand-to-hand skills?"
"But she volunteered for her sister," he reasons, still puzzled. "She wasn't planning to go."
"She was scared of being picked," I shrug. "Tesserae and all."
Face suddenly lighting up, he infers, "You're the Jo she was talking about." Josh shakes his head as he absorbs this. "Thought it was some dude."
Smirking to myself, I take another swig of booze. "Pretty sure Katniss isn't into dudes."
"Can't say I blame her." He winks and my eyes roll back in my skull. "So your girlfriend murdered your ex. Was that satisfying or what?"
My jaw twitches. "Not exactly."
Though he raises a curious eyebrow, Josh eases off. "Well, she definitely is your type," he cracks, pitching the chicken bone back my way. Chuckling to himself, he adds, "You must love Peeta Mellark."
Rolling my eyes once more, I tell him, "He's a dipshit, but a decent person. They only got engaged because President Snow threatened my life and they needed to amp up the love story."
Josh blinks hard. "What?"
"He knew about us, somehow." Concern comes over Josh's face, narrowing my eyes. "Don't you dare tell Mom and Dad. God knows how hard he'd come down on me."
"He can't do that anymore, Hanna," Josh assures me, waving away my concern. "You're nineteen. It's legally assault."
"Somehow I doubt that would stop him."
"But you would," counters Josh. He gives me a smile and a light punch to the arm. "If anyone knows how to defend herself, it's you. Uncle Leo's broken noses proved that."
My stomach bucks and I throw him a sharp look. I'm the only person I can handle discussing that situation so flippantly. Or at all, for that matter. "Can we not talk about that?"
"Sorry," he immediately backtracks, straightening up and pulling his hands back to his side of the table. When I continue to glare he drops the defensive posture, holding my gaze earnestly. "Hanna, I'm sorry."
Unable to maintain eye contact, I redirect my glower to the table. "I wish I'd never told you."
"Well you weren't about to tell Mom," scoffs Josh.
"Yeah, for good fucking reason," I spit. "I told you she wouldn't believe me. Jordan was the 'good' kid, the one they'd actually believe, and he never tried that with her. She fucking adored him."
"I really thought they'd believe you," he quietly insists.
"Why would they, when you didn't even believe me when I told you how they would react?" My voice has spiked in pitch and volume, attracting the attention of nearly tables. Leaning in, I lower it to a hiss. "You remember how much trouble I got in for 'making things up for attention'? How I had to apologize to him? It was fucking humiliating. That's on you, Josh."
"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I shouldn't have brought it up."
I scoff disbelievingly. "That's what you're sorry for?"
"That's not what I said."
Shaking my head, I let loose a dark chuckle and rise from my chair. Tossing some money on the table, I emphatically shrug on my jacket. "Just go home, Josh."
"Hanna," he calls as I start to storm away. Begrudgingly stopping in my tracks, I puff out a sigh and turn to catch his eye. "I hope you get posted in Two," he says. "So you can see the baby. And the family."
Right now, I really mean it when I say, "I don't."
***o***
The day we receive our new orders, I have no jitters. I don't fidget as we sit in the auditorium awaiting our fates, don't make idle chatter to take my mind off it. I'm almost eerily calm. Well, maybe not calm. Resigned. Or apathetic. That's probably it. I have nothing left to lose, and I know it.
That's no exaggeration. Darius isn't the only person I've had to make peace with losing to this shake up. Though they've never said it outright, I'm assuming the powers that be plan to send us all to different outposts. There's more than enough to go around. In the districts alone there's just shy of ninety outposts, most of them scattered throughout the bigger districts largely comprised of villages. 1201 is actually one of the larger outposts because Twelve's population is so concentrated. Back home in Meredith, I think they have about a dozen Peacekeepers posted there at any given time.
After a short debriefing, we file down to the front to collect the envelopes containing our orders and new ID tags. When I open mine and discover I've been assigned to Outpost 701, I feel a sense of relief that catches me off guard. I mean yes, that posting is ideal, but this is the first emotion I've felt in days. My blow up with Josh and everything it dredged up drained me completely. As I ponder my reaction to the assignment during our march to the station, I realize it's not just the location allowing me this weird serenity. At least I'm no longer in limbo. I know what's in store for me.
The march itself is made especially uncomfortable by the awful heavy tactical armor we've all been issued. It's part of the security improvements we were promised by Cray a few short weeks ago. A lifetime ago. When we finally arrive at the station, I collect my bags from the truck and amble onto the crowded platform, looking for somewhere to sit down.
Okay, that's not all I'm looking for. Some of us have left our helmets on to combat the cold, making my search more difficult, but I've seen Darius packing or unpacking his overnight bag on a few occasions. Dark green, black straps. It takes a few moments of wandering through the maze of luggage and chatting Peacekeepers who mostly tower over me, but I spot the bag atop a larger suitcase near the far end of the platform. Sauntering up to where its owner sits quietly on a bench, I toe his boot and drop my bags next to his.
Easing myself down onto the bench, I wiggle my helmet off. The full face visor isn't exactly conducive to conversation. "Hey."
"Hi." Pulling off his own helmet, Darius nods at the envelope still in my grasp. "Which train are you on?"
"Westbound."
He cocks a hopeful eyebrow. "Headed to Four?"
"Seven. The main town, I think." There's only a one in three chance Darius will be on my train, so I don't get my hopes up when I ask, "You?"
"Southbound. I'm posted in 213." My eyebrows arch. That second to last digit denotes Zone B. The Roaring Fork region, which we both call home. While I'm trying to remember which outpost is which number and figure out if he's headed to my hometown, he smiles. "Aspen," is his answer to the unspoken question. No, not my hometown. His.
"Looks like you're happy about that," I remark blankly.
He gives me a funny look. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Never mind." Forcing a smile, I tell him, "I'm happy for you. Twelve to Two is a big improvement."
Darius snorts. "Yet here I am, missing Twelve."
"Me too," I mutter. At the sight of Darius's eyes softening, I wave him off and add, "Not just for that reason."
Gazing out at the tracks, he ruminates, "With Thread it's probably terrible anyway."
"I'm sure it is."
We both go silent after that. A slow ache burgeons in my chest as I take in the scene. Ominous coal smoke spewing from locomotives, polluting the pure flakes of snow starting to fall from the sky. Old friends saying their goodbyes, bootsteps and voices and the occasional sob filling the air. Long moments pass before I reach out for Darius, gripping his hand. I feel his eyes land on me for a second before deflecting again, then he gives my hand a squeeze. Despite the comforting pressure, no warmth penetrates my glove.
Darius's grip tightens when we start to hear whistles, and I don't complain. The first train pulls up minutes later, then a call to board the Southbound train plays over the PA system. Contrasting my overall numbness, my stomach slowly slides into my bowels. Delaying a moment, Darius finally stands. Since he's neglected to let go, I stand too. Giving me a brave nod, he says, "Well, I guess I'll see you around sometime."
"Maybe I'll make it back to Two someday," I chuckle through a tight throat.
Darius smiles sadly. "I hope you do." Adam's apple bobbing, he gathers me into his chest. I come more than willingly, wrapping my arms tight around his ribcage and letting my cheek rest against his breastplate. We stay like that awhile, until the noise of people moving around on the platform dies down some.
When he loosens his grip, I let my arms fall to my sides and force myself to look him in the eye. The pain in them brings me face-to-face with what is lurking under this heaviness smothering all my emotions. The ache in my chest only grows. Forcing one corner of his mouth upward, Darius brushes his gloved thumb over my cheek. "Bye, Jo."
I want to say something. That I appreciate how he looked out for me this year even when he was mad at me, how he made me feel like I had a home. That he'll be missed, even if things got kind of shitty between us. But I can barely form a single word. "Bye."
Gathering his bags, Darius heads to the edge of the platform. He pauses at the door, stopping long enough to turn and wave before stepping on the train. When he disappears from view, the pain doesn't stop so much as seep into my bones. Closing my heavy eyelids, I sink back onto the bench and wait.
***o***
Time flies in District 7, but only because I make it. Despite my lack of energy and the omnipresent weight on my shoulders, I fill my downtime with social endeavors, attempting to tire myself out so much it's impossible to lie awake and think of all I've lost. It usually works, and when it doesn't I drink myself to sleep. My new comrades think I'm some kind of party animal. Though I make many casual acquaintances, I never allow anyone to hold eye contact long enough to catch on to the chaos and sorrow roiling inside of me.
The passing weeks chip away at my sanity, and I find new ways to express my pain. I get my hair cut so it reflects me. Short and spiky. My drinking makes its way into the common areas, resulting in a few inebriated fistfights. I reign in my aggression after my first suspension, though. Three whole days without work to help pass the time is pretty good motivation to curb my behavior. I spend most of that time running on the forest trails outside of town or working out in the barracks gym until I pass out or puke. Though hoping for the former, it usually ends up being the latter.
Eventually, I befriend a boy named Atlas. He's an asshole, but decent company. He reminds me of Darius, minus the kind heart and the drama. Irreverent and gregarious, but detached. Just what I need. He probably wants to fuck me. Despite how mouthy he is, he never blatantly says so, but I see the way his eyes linger on me whenever I cross a room. I'm open to the idea, seeing as I have nothing left to lose, but I never initiate anything. Haven't felt like it, haven't gotten around to it… I have a great arsenal of excuses to choose from.
Burying my feelings is made infinitely more difficult by the continuing news coverage of the upcoming celebrity wedding. I try to avoid watching TV because of it, but there's usually one on in the common areas. Since locking myself in my room doesn't help either, I tend to choose the option that allows company to distract me.
Katniss's wedding dress is the Capitol's hot topic of late. Over my first couple months in Seven, there's several stages of voting for the Capitol citizens to narrow down Cinna's two dozen designs. It all culminates in the final show one night in late March, when they show off the pictures of Katniss modelling the top six. Well, sort of. Caesar informs the audience, to a chorus of boos, that the results have been adjusted because several of the gowns have been removed from the running due to 'modesty concerns.' But a couple of the remaining ones don't exactly fit my definition of modest. One covers her shoulders and back, yes, but has a plunging neckline down into her cleavage.
"Since when is a back sexier than boobs?" asks one of the guys nearby, clearly picking up on the theme in the remaining dresses.
"Since Katniss went and got herself flogged for poaching," I answer flippantly. Instantly, dozens of eyes are on me. This program is required viewing, and most of my neighbors from this floor of the barracks are gathered in our small recreation room.
Brow creased, Atlas turns from his spot beside me on the couch. "Are you serious?"
I nod solemnly. "I was there." This brings on several curious stares, and I find myself tensing up defensively for some reason. "Twelve, remember? It was right before the mass transfer."
No one questions this or digs for any further details. I've developed quite a reputation and nobody wants to set me off. It would be easy right now, too, with the whipping and transfer now fresh in my memory. Even more painful is Katniss's expression in one of the photos of the last dress. Though Caesar remarks on how beautiful and mysterious she looks, to me her eyes appear haunted and hollow. I wonder how she's endured the months since I was taken. I've been trying not to think about it, but it's hard not to when it's right in my face like this.
"You okay, Jo?"
Blinking myself back to the moment, I flit my eyes over to Atlas. His brow is creased once again, but this time it appears to be concern morphing his features. I almost don't know what to do with that. If he actually does care about me, that's bad news. For both of us. Giving him a curt nod, I return my attention to the TV, where Cinna is leaving the stage to a standing ovation. Caesar urges the audience to vote and get Katniss to her wedding in style, then tells us to stay tuned for the next big event, something about the upcoming Quarter Quell. Then the anthem starts to play and I'm left with my thoughts.
As much as I try to ignore it, I feel my friend's presence intensely after that exchange. I might go there tonight. Not out of any genuine desire, but because I need something to numb this. It's all too much. I've spent so long shirking any human contact, and the gut punch of this program has made me oh so aware of the debilitating loneliness eating me from within. It would be easy enough to find a stopgap for the night. I'm female and we're outnumbered about 3 to 1 at this outpost, so I could get a guy anytime I please. Probably a girl instead, if I felt like it. But that would no doubt remind me too much of what I'm hoping to forget. Yes, a boy would be better.
As the anthem continues, President Snow walks onstage with a young boy holding a wooden box. Right, the drawing of the card. Time to find out what fucked up nonsense they have planned for this summer's murderpalooza. Snow takes his time getting there though, first giving a lecture about how the Hunger Games came to be after the rebellion and war of the Dark Days. It's not like he'd leave that part out. Half of the districts have revolted in one way or another since the Victory Tour, and some are still actively rebelling. Mostly nonviolent stuff, going on strikes and what not, but it's still a dangerous kind of defiance in this country.
Once he's recounted the rules of the two previous Quarter Quells, Snow finally draws the damn card. Plucking it from the envelope, he reads, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors in each district."
There is little of any reaction in the crowd for a moment, many of the onlookers appearing puzzled. I know how they feel. Existing pool of… oh, shit.
My heart sinks as it dawns on me what this means. The audience seems to catch on about the same time I do, gasps of horror and cries of protest filling the City Circle. But I say nothing, staring through the screen as I try to process this in my numb but buzzing brain. The only clear thought I can form is how brilliant a move this is. There's no way it's a coincidence. President Snow has found a way to eliminate Katniss without provoking the rebels after all. If anything, this will subdue them.
"Holy shit," drawls someone nearby, breaking the stunned silence in the room.
"What will they do here?" asks another one of my bewildered comrades.
People begin tabling theories, but I'm completely lost. "What do you mean, 'what will they do'?"
"There's no female victor," explains Atlas. Oh, right. Seven had a female victor once, but she's been dead for years now.
Once the audience has quieted down a little, Snow continues, reading the detailed rules to guide this year's reaping. "If a district lacks a male or female victor, any district resident of that sex over the age of eleven will have the opportunity to volunteer. If no volunteer comes forward, a second victor of the opposite sex will be reaped." He goes on to read what will happen if there is only one living victor per district, or none at all, but my mind is stuck on that first condition.
Any district resident. Anyone who lives here.
Silently taking my leave, I retreat to my quarters in a daze. I settle on the bed, bouncing my foot and staring at the wall as I try to parse this out. My first thought is that although the wording of that rule gives me a loophole to exploit if desired, I may not need to. Katniss is probably resurrecting her plans to flee the district right now. Then I remember she can't. Not with the mended and charged fence. She's probably in the middle of a panic attack, hemmed-in animal doomed to slaughter she is. But panic is the last thing I feel. In fact, my cheeks are beginning to tighten with my first genuine smile in months.
Though yes, I know she's just been handed a death sentence, I won't live to see Katniss die. When July rolls around, I will not be helpless on the sidelines again. This time, I will be there to protect her. No, I don't feel panic. For the first time in far too long, I feel purpose.
I throw myself back into training with a vengeance. My body's in great shape thanks to how I've been using exercise as a coping mechanism, but my combat skills are a bit rusty. Nice thing about Seven, there's plenty of axes to throw. With my focus solely on this final mission and all my energy poured into training, my remaining months here whiz by even faster than the ones preceding the fateful announcement.
On Reaping Day, time grinds to a halt as reality hits and my nerves finally kick in. The reaping in Twelve is the third one of the day, airing at 11 AM our time. Ours is fifth, at noon, seeing as Seven's a bit of a trek from the Capitol. Fortunately for me, I am assigned to crowd control in the Square, so I won't have to abandon my post and risk getting held up and missing my chance.
People are only starting to gather while Twelve's reaping is going on, so I get to watch most of it. Effie Trinket barely bothers masking her misery as she reaps first Katniss and then Haymitch. Peeta immediately volunteers - to protect Katniss, no doubt. Of course he does, pious little prick. That's my job. I know he'd be more of an asset than Haymitch in the arena and I should appreciate the help, but I resent the idea of having to share Katniss at all. God, if they're still pushing the romance hard and he tries to kiss her while we're in there, I'll be tempted to rip his throat out. Then again, I don't see any reason why they would push it at that point. At most, only one of them will make it out alive.
I won't. But I'm okay with that. If these last seven months are life without Katniss, I'll gladly trade the rest of my life for a week by her side. My jitters gradually rise over the next hour, but it feels like anticipation rather than fear. Reuniting with Katniss is not the only thing I have to be excited about. I've been jerked around most of my life. The only significant choices I've made were to join the candidacy program and enlist with the Peacekeepers, and I was forced out of the former. My agency has been stolen by overbearing parents, then a traitorous girlfriend, and most recently the Capitol. But not anymore. For once, I am in control of my own fate.
So it's no act of bravery when I come forward to claim my rightful place on that stage. It's an act of defiance. In the lead up to the promised call for female volunteers, I holster my assault rifle and pull off my helmet. Take a deep breath and square my shoulders. Then, head held high, I step from the crowd and finally utter the words I've been waiting nearly ten years to say.
"I volunteer as tribute."
A/N: So... anybody else ship Purhanna? Or is that just me and the beta?
Speaking of which, thanks to D7P for a job well done as usual. :D