Previously on The Debt:
"Pretty dress," I say with a smirk, unthinking.
Her head snaps up to look at me, and I feel a grim satisfaction that I finally elicited some kind of reaction from behind her cool exterior. Recognition flares in her eyes, hot and angry, and she sees me at last. She holds my gaze for a moment, just like back then, and time seems to unwind around us.
But then her eyes cloud over as the drugs take hold, and her eyelids droop, her lashes thick and heavy on the cream of her cheeks. The detached Madge from before returns.
I'm surprised when one pale finger reaches towards me, ghosting along my cheek, unimaginably delicate. And Madge leans forward, a whisper in my ear like frosted steel, Don't come back here again.
And then she is gliding away, drowsy and unhurried, a silver shard gleaming in the dark. Her movements are smooth and languorous as if she too is one of the untouchable sea creatures undulating through the water, trapped in the walls.
And I know she's right. I shouldn't come back here again.
But a part of me wonders what she's doing here. What she's been doing all this time. Why she would run and hide and not tell anyone she's alive. And something stirs in me, a memory from long ago…Now we're even. A murmur in the dark. And the thought that maybe I'll finally understand what she meant when she said those words to me so many years ago.
And like I said, I've never been one to let things go.
…
—Five Years After the War—
I refuse to go back and see Madge Undersee.
I hit my desk and do my work and go to my cabinet meetings and patrol the city, but I refuse to return to that strange lounge downtown, that creepy watery fantasy world, and I refuse to see Madge Undersee again
Her eyes stay with me though, glassy and flat and drooped—they blink at me while I'm chatting with President Paylor or leading a press conference, cameras flashing and popping and her damn drowsy eyes hovering at the edge of my mind. And the mystery, constantly gnawing, what happened to you?
The only time my mind clears is when I hit the gym, pounding the punching bag, sweat dripping off my face, pleasantly and painfully out of breath. But when I collapse in bed, there she is again, her throaty song, her luscious sway, her eyes sparking with anger as I smirked and gibed pretty dress.
And I remember her finger, surprisingly warm, and her whisper like a spike of frost, Don't come back here again. And I swear to myself, I won't go there. I won't.
I made that mistake once before, and I won't do it again. Damn it, I won't.
I'm almost relieved when President Paylor gives me a mission. She sneaks me a slip of paper in a stack of files, scrawled with an address and a time and a little message about finding dissidents, the writing scratchy and secretive, and I feel this little leap in my heart. Finally, a trail I can follow. A mystery that I can let myself solve.
I look up the address and it's a fancy house in the north, opulent and palatial and right on the water. There's no name on the deed, but I'm sure it's some old crony of Snow, a glitzy Capitol jackass, still making money off the reconstruction and not being punished for his greed and corruption.
And a part of me can't wait to go and infiltrate his fancy house and arrest him for whatever corrupt collusion he's planning, can't wait to see the shock on his fat cat face when he gets busted and loses everything. And I really can't wait to take all the wealth he's squeezed and stolen from the Districts over the years and funnel it back to the people he crushed without a thought to build his big, fancy mansion.
When I get there I'm surprised to find the ornate gold front doors are just thrown open, and there's a crush of New Capitol citizens crowding to get in. It's a literal zoo, the people decked in outlandish patterns and overgrown and over stylized hair, hardly recognizable as humans. I'm pushed and shoved and jostled through the crowd, everyone nattering loudly about the party and the gossip and their excitement.
Once inside, I'm utterly confused. There are rowdy card games and spinning roulette wheels, banquets and tables piled with a dizzying variety of edible nibbles and strangely colored drinks. The party spills out of the foyer and into other rooms and hallways, elaborate and massive, almost embarrassingly opulent with an abundance of plush red velvet and thick gold plating and scandalous frescoes.
Why would Paylor want me to come to this party at this time, in this wild place? There must be hundreds of guests playing and partying throughout the sprawling house. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to find dissidents in this crush of dilettantes and socialites. Where do I even start?
And then suddenly the crowd parts, and my heart stops because of course it's her.
Her back is to me, but I would know that pale blond hair anywhere, icy but soft in lush, romantic waves. She's wearing white this time, a long dress, silky and slinky and the softest pale fur stole, revealing bare shoulders and a spray of diamonds on her ears and throat, glamorous and divine.
She half turns towards me, and our eyes meet. But this time she doesn't ice over with disdain, instead she blinks at me from under her dark lashes and her lip curves up slowly. Her eyes don't leave mine as she sashays her way towards me, drink in hand, her swaying walk revealing a rather generous slit up the front of her dress.
I feel myself swallow.
"Well my my, it's Captain Hawthorne," she drawls lightly as she approaches. "I didn't really think this was your type of scene."
"It's not," I grit out. Something about her being here puts me on edge. Just when I thought I'd gotten away from her, I think grimly. "What are you doing here?" It comes out rougher than I meant.
"Having fun of course," she gives me a mock salute with her drink. "Come on, take me upstairs. That's where the real party is anyways." And then Madge Undersee just slips her hand into the crook of my elbow like its the most natural thing in the world and leads me towards the stairs.
Honestly the staircase alone is wider than our old bedroom in District Twelve and it's all coated in thick blue velvet. If I look over the bannister it would give me a pretty unrestricted view of all the guests down below, and a small part of me thinks that that's what Paylor would want me to be doing. But some other instinct, some innate hunter sense, tells me that perhaps downstairs is just a distraction and the really interesting stuff is happening behind closed doors. And another part of me is hyper aware of Madge's hand warm on my arm, the diamonds on her fingers nestled against my dark sleeve like a glittering secret and her heady perfume makes me a little dizzy, and this whole situation is just kind of surreal.
Upstairs she leads me down another hallway, massive gilt frames and rococo pilasters, and the amount of gold plating is almost comical. We enter a large rotunda, light pouring in through a domed oculus, and Madge is right, there is a more intimate party here, clinking drinks and the murmur of conversation, flicked smiles and roving eyes. And suddenly-
"Well if it isn't the Cousin!" And a slap on my back.
"Abernathy?" I turn, confused to see a stumbling Haymitch Abernathy standing behind me, shirt untucked with two-day old stubble and red eyes.
I'm surprised because I haven't seen Haymitch Abernathy for about five years. After the war ended, he just kind of slipped away from all the politics and noise and no one knew why. I didn't really miss him, but occasionally I'd see his drunken exploits in the paper or see a fuzzy picture of him getting off a hovercraft in District Twelve. But from the looks of him now, he hasn't changed much. Still sloppy, still drunk, still a waste of space and oxygen in my humble opinion.
"Ah Margaret, my dear. Come here," he says in the friendliest voice I've ever heard him use. And then suddenly he's hugging Madge and stroking her hair, and she's actually smiling back at him dreamily through her half-lidded eyes, and I feel a little ill.
"Margaret?" I'm incredulous. "How many different names do you go by?" It comes out rudely, but honestly the way Haymitch is looking at Madge is kind of creeping me out.
"Her real name is Margaret," Haymitch laughs. "Madge is just a nickname. I always knew you had more muscles than brains. Come on, cuz, let me get you a drink."
"I'm not her cousin," I grumble, and I'm annoyed because Haymitch laughs full bellied and loud, and I hate that I gave him the satisfaction of showing my irritation.
"I thought politics would have made you a little more charming, cuz," he takes pleasure in emphasizing the word.
I glare at him, and he grins.
Seeing Haymitch, drunk and grinning and almost falling over, leaning heavily on Madge for support, well it takes me right back to the Hunger Games. I remember pinning all my hopes on him, and all my fears. I remember thinking he was all the help Katniss had in that arena, and I had this horrific twisting feeling of helplessness that I had to depend on him, that I couldn't help her myself.
And I remember those days after she got sent to the Games, the forest just felt so lonely without her. Hunting alone in the quiet, I'd miss her silent presence, the hint of her warmth at my shoulder, her innate knowledge of where to step and where to shoot, our thoughts and movements totally in sync. And I missed having someone to talk to, to share the burden of taking care of our families. I missed asking her advice, missed bartering at the Hob, missed her grim determination and fierceness.
And damn I hate thinking about the past. I haven't thought so much about District Twelve in years, and I'm so angry all these memories are coming back now out of nowhere.
But they aren't coming out of nowhere, I think savagely. It's because of Madge. It all started when I saw her at that infernal lounge. I clench my fists and look at her angrily. She's laughing boozily at something Abernathy said, her furs slipping down to reveal her slim shoulders, those damned delicate fingers of hers light on her throat, and all that old hatred comes rushing back. Damn her, I think viciously.
"You alright there, son?" I turn at the sudden hand on my shoulder, and I actually feel my mouth fall open.
"It's been a long time, Hawthorne. Glad to see you," says Plutarch Heavensbee with a sideways smile.
And I can't believe I'm seeing him too after all this time. We used to work together so closely—during the rebellion, and then after, setting up the government, and Plutarch was always campaigning, always twisting words and glitzing up propos. He loved putting me in his little ads, said I had the face for it, and he'd have his team style up my hair and powder my nose and the shirts they made me wear were always a little too tight. It used to bug me at the time, but it's kind of funny now that I think about it.
But then suddenly he was gone. I don't know the details, but I remember him and Paylor got into this huge fight. She wanted to end the propaganda, just be open and honest with the people. But Plutarch always loved his games, didn't want to give up the manipulations and half-truths. And Paylor finally asked him to resign.
Word is Plutarch is one of the wealthiest men in Panem now. He left politics and made his fortune in gaming—running casinos and televised sports and controlling all the betting and odds-making in the country. And I knew Paylor hated him for it, hated his success and frivolity, and all the sleazy businessmen that flocked to him, throwing away huge sums of money that they shouldn't have had in first place, living lives of excess and risk and avarice.
But I always had a soft spot for Plutarch. Sure he's a manipulative ass and a selfish bastard, but he did save Katniss from the Quarter Quell arena. He organized the whole escape, got half the Victors in on his plan and, most surprisingly, didn't get caught. The whole thing was shockingly well-planned and executed and brave, and there wouldn't have been a rebellion without him. And whatever anyone else says, his propos worked, they got the job done. For that he has my grudging respect.
And Plutarch, well he never looked at me differently after I wanted to bury the Nut, didn't even mention that final bomb that killed Prim and all those other kids. He just kept on working with me, same as always. He understood that sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the greater good, that sometimes violence is the answer, as much as we hate to admit it. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty to keep the people you love safe. And hell, if he wanted to quit politics and skim some money from the bloated coffers of Snow's old cronies, well why the hell should I stop him.
"Plutarch," I say in surprise. "Good to see you," I say, and I actually mean it. We share a firm handshake. "What are you doing here?"
"Me?" Plutarch laughs. "Boy, this is my house."
"Oh," I let out a startled laugh, and part of me is a little shocked that Paylor sent me here to spy on her old right-hand man. Could he be up to something more than his usual unsavory pursuits? Could he have crossed the line into something actually illegal? A part of me hopes it's one of his associates I'm supposed to be looking into. I'd hate to get on the wrong side of Plutarch Heavensbee. Either way, I know in my bones I'm onto something important.
"Well shoot the place looks great, man," I lie with a smile. "Still hanging out with that old slob?" I ask, tipping my head towards Haymitch.
"Ha!" Plutarch barks a laugh. "You know Haymitch. Even sloshed out of his mind he can outthink just about anyone. He's good to have around most of the time."
"He can outdrink you and outthink you," I laugh back. "That would be a good line for a propo."
"Always working, Hawthorne," Plutarch chuckles back. "Come on, you need a drink. Let's catch up." And this I know is my opportunity. Get a couple drinks in old Pluto and pump him for some information, see whose here and what they're up to.
"Margaret, time for your medicine!" Haymitch distracts me with a drunken laugh, and I don't know why I'm shocked as he puts a tray in front of her, and I hear the telltale clinking of a glass bottle and syringe. Madge is laughing and Haymitch is lurching towards her and Plutarch isn't even surprised, and I feel this awful surge of shock and anger that these two old men are allowing this to happen.
"Don't worry about it," Plutarch must have seen my face. "That's just how those two are."
"It just seems wrong," I mutter back, and I know it's none of my business, but I can't seem to look away. Haymitch is helping Madge tie the rubber hose around her arm and they both keep laughing and stumbling. "I grew up with her," I stutter over the words. "I don't know, it just feels…wrong," I finish lamely.
But it does feel wrong, there's no other word for it. The one thing I remember about Madge was her quiet control. She was always so put together and calm; you never knew what she was thinking. When I'd stop by to chat with Katniss at lunch, the two of them would just be reading silently or having a hushed conversation. At her back door she'd be all smiles and business, giving no hint of what was happening behind those large doors in the house beyond. I don't recognize this girl, laughing and boozy, bare legs and bare shoulders and lurching into Haymitch's arms.
His hands are dark on her pale skin, injecting her dose in an eerily familiar way. Her head lolls back as the drugs shoot into her veins. He smirks and gives her hand a squeeze before untying the tourniquet, and the whole thing feels so gruesome and ghoulish and…just wrong.
"Her mom was a morphing addict," Plutarch shrugs dispassionately. "It's in her blood."
"What?" I turn to him with a start.
"Yeah no one talked about it, but we all knew. The Capitol used to fly morphing in specially for her. Used to drive old Undersee nuts." Plutarch is thoughtful. "Snow was smart, I'll give him that. It was a great way to keep the mayor in line. Madge grew up dosing her mom." He shrugs, "It's not surprising she's turned out this way."
"I…I didn't know." I say, stunned. I wonder what other secrets Madge is hiding behind that cool exterior, those infuriating glassy eyes, smooth as a mirror or a still lake at dawn. And I can't help but think of Katniss again, curious how much she knew about Madge, part of me hoping she was just as oblivious as me.
Haymitch stumbles towards the bar, leaving Madge lolling on a couch, one arm thrown up haphazardly, legs dangling idly on an armrest, eyelashes fluttering. And damn it, as much as I want to, I can't walk away. I know I should be chatting up Plutarch, staying on mission, but she's so helpless laying there. People are already starting to stare, whispering behind their hands, eyes glittering with malice and delight, licking lips and hungry eyes.
I stride over and kneel down beside her.
"Madge come on. Let me take you home," I murmur, and the words are sincere. A part of me wants to give her shoulder a little shake, but I grit my teeth and I don't touch her.
"Hm?" she hums, her eyes barely opening. "I'm fine. I just need to rest for a minute," she gives me a little crooked smile and pats my jacket lapel.
"Madge please come on. I don't think it's safe here."
"Safe?" Her smile grows a little wider. "No probably not," and her eyes start to drift closed again, her limbs pliant and drowsy.
And I think to myself I don't need to ask her permission. I could just scoop her up easy as anything and get her out of here. I can almost see it, Madge buried in her fur wrapper, tucked against my chest, pliable and languorous and yielding.
Like once before, my mind whispers treacherously. I stiffen and stop myself, dropping my arms.
And I'm angry at her, for what she did back then and what she's doing now. And I'm angry at myself for caring. This behavior, the drugs and the drinking, it's such a waste of time, so indulgent and irritating. And I feel that familiar spike of rage, hot and prickly under my skin, and only Madge could ever bother me so much. I run my hand through my hair in frustration.
"Just like every other Townie," I hear myself hiss. "Fucking weak," my voice drips with contempt, and I just want her to look at me, to really see me. I want to see her do something, maybe see some spark of anger or life like I did when I insulted her dress a few weeks ago.
But Madge doesn't take the bait. She just lets out a slow, throaty laugh.
"You have no idea, Captain," she says with this indulgent look in her eye, almost like she's humoring me, laughing at me, and she gives my lapel another sleepy pat before letting her eyes drift closed.
I stare at her, heart pounding, my hands curled into fists. It takes me a second, but I push away any thoughts of the girl I knew in the past and any memory of things that happened long ago. I look at Madge now. Her breathing is steady, her dark lashes trembling against her pale cheeks, her pink lips parted slightly. She is so relaxed, all softened and tractable…and vulnerable. Her hair is luxuriant and just a little mussed.
Like an angel. The thought comes so suddenly and unexpectedly that it shocks me. I stand up abruptly, and I know it's time to walk away. I take one step back, eyes still on Madge, her fingers spasming lightly as she shifts in her sleep. I turn around and walk towards the bar purposefully, and I tell myself I will not look back. Not again.
I get to the bar and clap Plutarch on the back, and I tell myself it's time to look forward, no more looking back. I'm sick to death of the past.
So I focus on work, sloshing up Plutarch and getting him to open up, even being friendly with Haymitch because, who knows, he probably has some good information too. So we drink and we laugh and I ask them about the people at the party and about the gaming industry and some of our mutual friends, and we all find it really easy to avoid talking about the war or politics or Paylor.
I keep one eye running around the room though just to see whose around, and I can't help it but sometimes my gaze passes over Madge. She sleeps for a while, sighing and shifting occasionally, her movements leisurely and fuzzy. But eventually she starts to stir drowsily, wrapping her furs tighter around herself and blinking slowly. And of course, some guy takes this as his opportunity to sidle up to her and take a seat. And he looks like every other sleazy guy I've ever seen, slicked back hair and a shiny watch, a little too old for his antics with a too-large smile and hands all over, touching her shoulder, squeezing her hand, pressing her to take another drink. I close my eyes and tell myself not to worry about it, tell myself it's not my damn problem.
And anyway, Madge always could take care of herself. No guy would dream of getting near her back home. Her dad was the mayor, had the ear of the Capitol, and Madge was totally off limits. If someone was dumb enough to try approaching her, she'd give you this look of contempt, just flick her eyes up and down, and you could feel yourself just shrink. I would know, I got that look a couple times and it made me so mad but it also kept me away. That girl was cold as ice.
But when I scan the room again, Madge is actually talking to the guy and almost kind of falling onto him like she can't quite keep her balance, and of course the bastard has managed to get another drink in her hands. As though she needs any more help getting buzzed. Her eyes are all glazed and lost and sleepy, and I know the drugs haven't left her system yet.
The guy manages to get Madge to her feet, and she's kind of giggling and stumbling. He wraps a possessive arm around her waist and he's rubbing her arm in a way that is definitely not appropriate, this big predatory grin on his face, and he's leading her from the room.
I'm halfway out of my chair to go stop him, when Plutarch puts a light hand on my arm.
"Just leave it, son," he says mildly, not looking at me. His eyes are trained on his drink but somehow I know he's tensed up.
"I'll just be a second," my voice sounds kind of slurred and I'm a little surprised to realize I'm just a bit tipsy myself.
"He said leave it," Haymitch says, and his voice is quiet but forceful. His dark eyes suddenly look very focused and very clear.
"I don't know what you two are playing at, but I'm not letting him take her away," I stumble a little as I get up, and I see with a flare of panic that the guy is maneuvering Madge into a dark room, trying to keep her balanced with one arm and shoving open a heavy wooden door with the other.
"Damn it, you always did cause trouble," I hear Haymitch mutter, and suddenly the world is spinning and I feel my arms pinned behind me, jerked so hard they feel as though they might pop out of their sockets.
"What the hell— " I start, but then I see Haymitch's eyes and they are hard stones, not drunk at all, and his grip is like iron.
"Don't even think about it," he says, his words measured and cold.
And I think, this is it. This is what Paylor wanted me to find. Whatever this is, it's what she wants me to figure out.
"Trust me, cuz," Haymitch says, his voice a little softer, but his grip on me is still tight like a vice.
And quickly I look for Madge, but she's not there. All I see is the heavy wooden door swinging shut with a very loud, very final thud.
…
Hey guys! I'll tell you what this chapter was hardddd to write. I really don't like writing chapters that are needed to set the scene if you know what I'm saying so hopefully it was interesting enough to keep you guys into the story. I personally think Haymitch and Plutarch had some awful qualities in the books, but at heart were good people and more multi-dimensional than they came across. Hopefully I can get all their character nuances out as the story progresses. Anyway, thanks for the reviews on the last chapter…it really is nice to see some great Gadge fans are still out there! Your comments and thoughts are always appreciated, and honestly they really help me kind of flesh out where I'm taking the story! Merry Christmas, all!
Love,
Fly