Sorry about the wait! But to make up for it hopefully…
DOUBLE UPDATE!
Chapter One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Two; Fathers & Sons
"This is Kad here reporting live from the Oval Racing Tracks to bring you the latest on the riveting situation. It seems our regular mistress of scandal District 3's Stephanie Trindlesworth was viciously assaulted today by fellow tribute District 4's Slena Clearwater in an attack that as of yet has no clear motive. Those present at the horrific scene describe the tributes involved as snarling like animals! I tell you folks these Games are set to be the most exciting yet if these sneak previews are anything to go by. At last check both Stephanie and Slena are recovering and being…"
Wirin watched the Capitol report, his lips twisted in faint amusement, before with a bored sigh he flicked it off.
"She does have an uncanny ability of surviving," he remarked aloud casually.
The other in the room shot Wirin a side-long cool glance, "if you had of entrusted the task to me she wouldn't have survived," he muttered bitterly returning his eyes diligently to the task in his hands.
Wirin rolled his eyes as he heaved a long-suffering sigh, "Sharpe if you are going to be so petulant about the whole thing you can leave now." He fixed the man sat in the chair facing him with a candid look.
The man glanced up from his hands that were busy polishing the gun he was cradling reverently. He narrowed his dark eyes at Wirin, the moustache on his upper lip twitching slightly in an irritated tick.
Wirin ignored the frosty look as he got to his feet to saunter into the kitchen.
"Bloody assassins," Wirin muttered under his breath as he went to mix up a drink. He pulled the iced bottle from the fridge, turning to call over his shoulder into the other room.
"Sharpe do you want a – "
Wirin's words cut off as he yelped and leapt back with a screech when the bottle in his hand suddenly combusted, glass shards flying everywhere.
Wirin whipped around sharply almost slipping on the now wet floor. He was just in time to see Sharpe lower his gun, a little satisfied smirk on his face.
Wirin paled in anger as he marched into the room again, coming to stand before the other man with his hands planted firmly on his hips, "are you out of your damn mind?!"
"Was only a little practice," Sharpe murmured, shrugging casually as though it were the most inconsequential thing in the world.
Wirin spluttered dumbly for a moment, incandescent with rage before he bent and swiped the gun from Sharpe's hands. He slammed it down on the coffee table, "don't fire that bloody thing in here again!"
Sharpe's eyes were almost bugging out of his skull, his face turning very red in anger as his moustache twitched furiously. He leapt to his feet, barely reaching Wirin's chin, "never touch my guns," Sharpe warned in a deadly voice, his lips white with fury.
Wirin barely managed to resist rolling his eyes again as he turned to stride into the kitchen once more, "and if you shoot at me again I may pay a visit to that sweet little wife of yours," he shot back.
Sharpe jumped on the spot like an enraged little imp, his black hair flopping across his furrowed brow, "you stay away from my wife!" he cried.
Wirin rolled his eyes – again before he swiped two iced bottles from the fridge, grimacing at the mess on the otherwise pristine kitchen floor.
Wirin came back in, tossing a bottle to Sharpe to stop his little angry dance in the middle of Wirin's living room.
Sharpe's hand shot out with lightening reflexes as he caught the bottle nimbly, though still glowering at Wirin.
Wirin ignored him, settling down into his familiar comfortable sofa. He took a long drink from the bottle in his hand, watching as Sharpe pulled his gun close to him again, almost stroking it tenderly as he sat.
"So everything went as planned this morning then?" Wirin inquired at length.
Sharpe's narrowed gaze snapped up, "well Fas Clearwater is dead isn't he?" he bit sarcastically.
Wirin hauled in a wavering breath before he painted on a charming smile, "Sharpe dear this would be much more pleasant if we could get along?"
Sharpe's livid gaze only narrowed further to smouldering slits, "don't call me dear," he muttered darkly.
Wirin let the pleasant smile on his face disintegrate as he glared openly at Sharpe.
"Fine. So everything went as planned this morning?" Wirin reiterated in clipped tones.
Sharpe rolled his eyes with an over-exaggerated sigh, "yes. I would have preferred to use my guns rather than poison to kill him though."
"You always prefer to use your bloody guns," Wirin muttered under his breath as he took another long drink.
"Why did Snow want the Clearwater reporter dead anyway?" Sharpe asked curiously as he carefully disassembled his gun, preparing to clean each individual part for the fourth time since he had arrived.
"It is not for you to question the President's orders or even to understand them. You are just a paid killer; you follow orders. You don't ask questions," Wirin pontificated arrogantly, enjoying putting Sharpe in his place.
Sharpe ground his teeth together as he meticulously concentrated on the gun in his hands and willing himself not to use it.
Wirin watched as Sharpe's long nimble fingers almost caressed the metal in his hands, "Sharpe you know if you treated your wife like you treated your guns she wouldn't play around so much behind your back," Wirin said casually, unable to resist just pushing the man that little further.
The small man before him leapt to life again and Wirin ducked with another shriek as the shot skimmed by his cheek almost singing hair.
"SHARPE!" Wirin roared, his eyes popping.
"Stop talking about my wife!" Sharpe cried. The rest of him was shaking yet the hand that held the pointed gun was surprisingly steady.
"Oh for f – everyone talks about your wife Sharpe. What are you going to do? – Shoot them all?!"
"If I have to," Sharpe muttered darkly as he retook his seat, the rage passing and he replaced the second gun he always carried to its hidden holster.
Wirin glared balefully at the other man as he relaxed his posture from the curled up ball it had adopted moments before. He discreetly raised a hand to brush his fingers across his cheek gingerly.
"You're lucky you missed," Wirin muttered.
Sharpe smirked, "I didn't miss," he murmured enigmatically with a secretive smug smile.
Wirin didn't catch his meaning until he went to raise his drink to his lips and realised that he was only grasping the shattered neck of the glass bottle.
Wirin made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat as he deposited the remains of his bottle on the coffee table with an irritated flick of his wrist, "you're impossible," he directed his dark mutter at Sharpe. "How would you have explained shooting me to President Snow. I'm his most trusted confidante."
Sharpe made a squeaky gleeful sound that sounded like a snort of derision, "most trusted confidante," he echoed sneeringly.
Wirin's temper flared immediately. "Do you know of anyone else who would do all I have done for him?!" Wirin shot back indignantly.
Sharpe rolled his eyes, "I kill people for him," Sharpe retorted flatly.
"So did I!" Wirin shouted back, his fingers digging into the cushions beneath him.
Sharpe settled back in his seat, a smug grin settling over his thin lips, "oh yes," he drawled quietly, his moustache twitching in glee, "that Gamemaker Lark didn't stand a chance against you, did he?" Sharpe murmured.
Wirin's face had paled, in fact he was almost grey and the orange streak in his hair only made his complexion look all the more sickly.
"Shut up," he mumbled weakly.
The malevolent light in Sharpe's eyes only grew though as his fingers flexed around the gun in his hands.
"I wonder does Seneca know," Sharpe mused contemplatively in a false innocent voice.
Wirin scoffed as he ran shaking fingers through his hair, "do you think I would still be alive if he did?" he muttered bitterly, "you and Snow are the only people who know."
"Not even that poor district boy that still pays the price for your crime even now as a man? What was his name again…Haywire, Haymore – "
"Haymitch Abernathy."
Sharpe grinned widely showing all his teeth, "that's it," he said almost softly, "Haymitch Abernathy."
Wirin watched Sharpe warily; his arrogance and composure had fled completely.
"Why on earth would I care about a worthless district dweller?" Wirin shot back with a sneer.
Sharpe shrugged carelessly, "no you're right. I doubt even Seneca would feel even a shred of guilt to learn he had been punishing the wrong man all these years, but then, what would Seneca do when he got his hands on the right man?"
Sharpe tilted his head to the side inquiringly almost in polite question; that cold glint of cruelty shining in his eyes that made him such an efficient and merciless assassin.
Wirin swallowed thickly, jutting his chin out in a show of false bravado.
Sharpe chuckled, easily reading the fear in Wirin's eyes; it was the same look he had read in countless others as he had raised his gun. But Sharpe's gun sat unneeded in his lap; for once Sharpe didn't need his gun to feel powerful and he was going to enjoy the sensation.
"You can't tell Seneca," Wirin breathed. He had meant it to come out as a command but the pleading in his voice was evident and he cringed knowing he had lost and was now at Sharpe's mercy.
Sharpe grinned again triumphantly, "then you will tell me why I had to kill Fas Clearwater this morning? And why the past while I have been receiving orders to kill enough guards to staff Snow's personal detail. I even bloody had to kill an Avox girl," Sharpe paused his tirade, smiling genially, "not that I mind – practice afterall makes perfect," his expression hardened, "but I don't like being kept in the dark about things. I don't like feeling like an ignorant pawn – I want to know why?"
Wirin got to his feet hastily as he stalked away from Sterlin, trembling fingers combing through his hair.
"You're asking me to betray President Snow's confidence," Wirin whispered hoarsely.
"It's nothing you haven't done before," Sharpe said carelessly as he waved a hand dismissively, "– betraying those you are close to. Your poor father – "
"My father was a - !" Wirin cried, whirling around fiercely to face Sharpe with savage eyes.
Sharpe looked up, pleasantly expectant.
Wirin pushed back the rage, tamping it down as he clenched his jaw.
"My father has nothing to do with this," Wirin muttered finally.
"On the contrary," Sharpe began, "as a trained assassin myself I must commend you on your feat," he said sarcastically.
Wirin's eyes slid shut for a moment before he opened them to fix Sharpe with a burning hateful glare, "you wouldn't understand," he whispered bitterly.
Sharpe's eyes gleamed as he smirked, "what's to understand? – I think it pretty evident. Your father loved Seneca more than you."
Wirin's eyes were almost crazed when they landed on Sharpe, "I was his only son, his only child. It was meant to be me he was teaching to be Head Gamemaker," Wirin's voice was lowered dangerously in a venomous hiss. "But I was never good enough; everything was 'Seneca this' and 'Seneca that!' - Well I was sick of it!"
"You rigged the Games," Sharpe stated with a little smirk.
Wirin's lips twisted bitterly in a grin, "do you know what the best part of it was? – My father; he didn't even think I was capable of rigging the Games. He never expected it."
"Abernathy was just someone you used," Sharpe added.
Wirin scoffed, "a meaningless pawn; it could have been any of those district dwellers. You see I was 19 and ready and raring to take on more responsibility on my quest to become Head Gamemaker like my father. But when I told my father, he refused me, said he didn't think I was cut out for the business. My father already had another in mind to take over his place when my father retired; someone he had been training, who he thought capable of the responsibility of becoming Head Gamemaker one day…" Wirin trailed off, his features sharpened with bitterness.
"Seneca Crane," Sharpe finished quietly.
"Seneca Crane," Wirin reiterated, "My father loved Seneca like a son. I was nothing, just some worthless boy that could never live up to his expectations. But Seneca…" Wirin gave an acrimonious laugh, "Seneca was everything to my father. So I went to Snow and told him of my plan."
Sharpe snorted, "that was risky…and yet you had to have some nerve to do it," he admitted with begrudging admiration.
Wirin smirked, "I told Snow I could rig the Games; make it seem like my father had allowed the arena to be manipulated by a tribute."
"A heavy crime to be sure," Sharpe mused, "but not one usually deserving of death."
Wirin shrugged indolently, "that was my deal. I would rig the Games and in turn Snow would make sure my father would be executed for the crime."
"And what did Snow gain out of it? – It seemed he lost his best Head Gamemaker that day."
"You know how our President is; he likes to have everything under his control and Seneca was slipping from under his control. My father was becoming more a father to Seneca than Snow was. Snow couldn't have that; my solution solved both our problems."
"I'm surprised you didn't just kill Seneca," Sharpe admitted frankly.
Wirin chuckled darkly fixing Sharpe with a contemptuous look, "and that is why you will always be the mindless assassin following orders Sharpe. You think death is the worst thing you can inflict upon a person, but it's not. Death is ever so final, suffering is eternal. Seneca was at the tender age of 15 when he lost the only man he ever looked up to and loved as a father; Lark – my father. He still suffers for it to this day; for stealing my father away from me."
Sharpe smirked grimly, only faintly annoyed at the insult Wirin had fired at him.
"Now sit down," Sharpe ordered firmly, "and tell me why Fas Clearwater is dead…"
Especial thanks to girlworthfightingfor for the review; I'm glad to hear you're still enjoying!