Y 184-09-01 T 17:12:05

Day 2

Elizabeth sat on a wide, shallow, staircase, descending to the foyer floor. Around her, opulence resided, and not in the usual overwrought manner of the Capitol. This was a building designed before the Dark Days, built in the early era of Panem. It was marble and stone, built with high vaulted ceilings; wide, leaded glass windows let in streams of sunlight. In the centre of the floor of the foyer, resting on stone flags and stretching up to roughly equal height to where she sat, a statue stood, polished marble of stylised face and pose. No Panem citizen alive didn't know the timeless visage of the late President Sanchez, standing in a suit and his Presidential chains of office, a scroll in one hand and a set of scales in the other. The scroll was Panem's law- the scales were Panem's justice system.

Law and justice, one delivered with each hand. Elizabeth could appreciate the irony of the statue.

Still, it revealed something of the building she sat in. Before, Elizabeth had been lost as to the meaning of the office block she had spent the night holed up in, but with the reveal of the statue of Panem's architect of law, it was clear now where she was. While the one back home in District 7 held no statues of President Sanchez, it was mandated to frame a picture of his stylised image over any and all juries in a court of law. If Elizabeth remembered her Panem History correctly, Sanchez' image was intended to remind a jury, and the defendant, that the law was always watching, and it was the law that must win out in justice. Elizabeth had asked her teacher, perhaps pretentiously, why Sanchez was needed to help enforce law if he was dead.

That day, the eight-year old Elizabeth had stood with Sanchez' stylised face looming down on her in the staffroom as she apologised by rote for going against what she was being taught.

Elizabeth had apologised then. But now, held in the Games, her revo group partner dead, the rest unable to help her back in Seven, her brother needing her and her father the only figure left to care for him-

Elizabeth did not fear President Sanchez' face anymore. Politics mean less and less when you go hungry, less and less when your mother is executed for trying to bring you food.

When she had joined the revo group, it was not in the want of revolution. She had just wanted someone to help bring her and her brother food. Perhaps she had been radicalised after that, and perhaps she always had been somewhat of a rebel, but she had never wanted anything more than food. And now, here she sat, the failed survivor of a failed revo action, the one who had burnt her dress at the chariot rides. After that, dominos had fallen, everywhere- the broken arm that drove the Nine girl to jump from her plate. The Two girl slicing Chal's neck open, which had drove him to try and kill her. Theon helping Chal and in turn creating the rifts of the Careers, which killed Sheen, which brought Theon-

To ally with her. Perhaps at the edge of a blade, but he had still chosen to ally with her. Elizabeth wasn't a fighter- the axe still felt unwieldy and heavy in her hands, weighted with the blood she had drawn with it. If Theon had really wanted, if he had really wanted, the injuries he had sustained wouldn't have stopped him. He could have killed her despite the blade, that she was almost certain of.

And yet. He had stood there and persuaded her, desperate words and desperate eyes boring into her. He had persuaded her of his honour (a Career's honour, a trained killer's honour, something she would have once believed impossible, but his logic was sound and Elizabeth couldn't refute it ), he had persuaded her of his common enemy with the Careers, and he had persuaded her-

-Well, piqued her interest with-

-His assertion, veiled for the cameras that surely surrounded them, that he wanted rebellion.

She couldn't believe that. She couldn't. She barely believed in the ideals of rebellion herself, so a killer believing it? A Career, the Capitol's pet, straight from the heart of District Two? Elizabeth did not believe in the commonality of the Districts, and she knew District Two were closer to the Capitol than almost any other. It wasn't even a question of ideals- it was a question of brainwashing. Two tributes, almost to a fault, were conditioned to serve the Capitol. They were saved the horrors of even their own District in order to serve the Capitol's interests, and so the Training Centres beat everything else but obedience from them, to make them pliant to the Games, pliant-

And yet Anna had sliced open Chal's neck, and Theon had saved Chal, had run from the Careers, had begged for his life by bartering his cause for the rebellion Elizabeth barely believed in anymore-

And Elizabeth wanted to believe it.

She was horrified at herself for this, but she really wanted to believe it. Somewhere along the way- or, perhaps, something had bubbled up that was always inside her- she had started believing in rebellion. She had not intended to join the Games, but she had always been a rebel, somewhere, that little pretentious girl asking why Sanchez mattered if he was dead. Accusative and proud. She was that girl still.

She stood, looking at the tall, monolithic statue of Sanchez holding the law and the justice in each of his hands.

She mirrored his pose a moment, standing tall and imperious, mimicking the one who had first subjugated her people, the one who had almost destroyed the hope for a better society.

Almost destroyed, but not quite.

She turned, ascending the stairs again to an ornate platform looking over the large Justice Building. Theon was there- he had found a rain butt on the roof of the building, and after they had both drank their fill, (although, to her frustration, she had nothing to fill up for keeping water at hand when travelling) Theon had set at work cleaning his clothes of blood. Elizabeth didn't really know why he was bothering- the blood was going to follow them whether he washed it of his clothes or not.

He sat there, cross-legged next to a plastic basin on the stone flags, wringing out his sodden shirt. He seemed sedate, but Careers were designed to behave that way, and Elizabeth kept her hand on her axe whenever she turned her back on him.

"Are we going to head out? We're losing the light."

"Isn't that the point of it?" He looked up at Elizabeth, and when he made eye contact visibly faltered. "Oh. Yeah. Keep forgetting you're not trained."

"I'm sure I'll survive that injustice. What's the point of it?"

"A little tidbit from Training Centres- most tributes are dumb animals, and at sunset, they become dumb animals in the dark. If you want to move, if you want to go anywhere or do anything, do it at night."

"Well, that's dumb."

Theon squinted into the afternoon sunlight as he looked up. "What?"

Elizabeth wasn't a strategician, but even she could see the flaws in this plan. "That only works if your Careers are all together, because newsflash, Theon, they're not, and now you have half a dozen other people with the same training and the same words in their head."

Theon's eyes widened slightly, and he ducked his head down to avoid the sun. "I, uh. Yeah."

It was clear this had never occurred to him before. Elizabeth looked through the lead windows at the afternoon light.

"Look, I don't want to become a dumb animal in the dark with the Careers on the prowl, so finish up with your vanity project and come on."

Theon rolled his eyes. "Maybe I just like my clothes a little less bloodied, you don't need to snap." He stood up, gingerly working his muscle-damaged left arm while he shook out the wet cloth and tried to work it back over himself. But Elizabeth could see he was having difficulty- he seemed to struggle with the effort of not ripping his stitches, and his left arm seemed to be suffering from torn muscles. She sighed, deciding that if she was going to test Theon and hers' allied status, and his commitment to her cause, now was the moment, before she went to get her belongings, before they set out into the potentially Career-infested afternoon streets. She walked over to Theon.

"Stand still and let me help, you look like a cat stuck in a paper bag."

Theon raised an eyebrow at her, eyes flicking from her to her axe. "You sure?"

Elizabeth paused. So far, Theon had given her reason to trust him- she had to do the same. As much as she hated doing it, as much as she was almost horrified she was doing it, she eased the axe from her belt and slid it as far behind her as she could get it. She was certain that any second Theon would try to bolt past her and grab the axe, but he didn't. His eyes were wide with something akin to surprise.

"Give me that," she muttered, holding out her hand for his shirt. Sheepishly, almost with embarrassment, Theon handed it over. He still seemed vaguely surprised. Elizabeth gently began easing the shirt over Theon's arms, careful not to pull them in any way that would rip the stitching. She carefully pulled down the shirt over his head, gingerly pulling it past his stitched injury and (admittedly muscled) torso. There they stood, and Theon looked both surprised and embarrassed.

"If anyone's watching right now," he announced to the empty foyer no doubt bristling with cameras, "I'd like to cordially request you to delete any evidence that I can't put on my own shirt."

"Can't have you going soft, huh?" She tentatively backed up, before outright putting her back to Theon to pick up her axe. No attack came, and she was almost shocked to see Theon standing in the same place when she looked around again.

So they were allies, it seemed. At least for now.

"I'm gonna go get my stuff," she said, walking back to the offices. "Coming?"

"Nah, I gotta wash up my jacket," Theon said as he started submerging it in water and scrubbing it between his fingers.

"Do you want me to help you with putting on that too?"

A vague splutter from behind her. "No!"

Elizabeth couldn't help but chuckle at her own teasing as she walked to the offices.

When she had said 'belongings', she really meant just the small carbon fibre box of strange metallic pouches. She wasn't sure what they were, and she knew that with his training and experience, the odds were that Theon could identify them.

But that meant sharing their existence with Theon.

Years of poverty had taught her the value of hanging onto belongings, and Elizabeth was loathe to reveal anything to anyone, much less a possession that could potentially be valuable. She tapped the box absently, fiddling with the clasps.

She sighed.

She picked up the box and left the room.

"Hey, Theon?" She called. He looked up from his grey jacket, stained a light pink now rather than brown-red.

"Yeah?"

"I got this thing at the Cornucopia. It's full of- well, uh, I don't know what. Did your fancy training extend to supplies, or did you just hit things repeatedly over the head?"

"If it hadn't been ninety percent hitting things repeatedly over the head, I'd be offended." Theon stood up and held his hand out for the crate. Elizabeth was not so easily swayed- she kept the crate in her hands, unclasped it, took out a pouch from the multitude and handed it over to Theon.

Theon inspected the plastic metallic pouch- he flipped it over and read the label, the Panem sigil and the seal of District 10, the words stamped directly onto the pouch that read 'RT Pk #163813'. His eyebrows raised almost to his hairline.

"How many have you got of these in there?" Theon said in wonderment, flipping the pouch between his hands, toying with the perferations at the top.

Elizabeth worried her lip between her teeth as she considered her answer. "A few. What are they?"

"Ration packs. They're food. Doesn't say what on the front, but no worries-" Theon ripped open the pouch, inspecting the inside. Then he grinned and pulled out a pair of slim wheatbreads.

"Oh, yeah. We might actually stand a chance now."

He jammed the first in his mouth and held out the second to Elizabeth. She tentatively accepted, nibbled on the edge- then her hunger overtook her, and she ate the rest without stopping. She opened up the crate fully for Theon to inspect- pouches of all different shapes and sizes were on the verge of spilling out from where they were tightly packed in the box.

"They never put so much food in a Cornucopia," Theon mused. "They must be- there must be no other food anywhere in the arena."

"Why'd they do that? Starving tributes aren't enjoyable to watch."

"No, but desperate ones are." Theon stepped back and returned to wringing out his jacket. "If the only source of food and one of the few sources of water is at the Cornucopia and with tributes, it's going to draw them together. They're going to make even the little kids go murderous when they start to run on adrenaline alone. They'll be peeling each other's faces off for a piece of bread."

"Don't need to be in the Games for that," Elizabeth said before she could remember the cameras. She looked up and around anxiously. Theon looked back at her, an odd expression on his face.

"No, you don't," he said carefully.

It was now that Elizabeth realised she had only tested half of their allied status.

"Theon."

"Yeah?"

Perhaps she could believe Theon wasn't about to kill her every second she let her back turn, but she still didn't know what his true feelings were about rebellion. She looked up at the statue, President Sanchez holding law and justice in both hands.

"Prove what you said."

"What about what I said?" But his tone betrayed that he was only staying careful about saying anything near the cameras. If Elizabeth was to believe he had any commitment to rebellion, any at all, he had to stop being careful.

"You know what I mean, Theon." She pointed at the statue of Sanchez, almost on par with their heads despite them being on a balcony platform above the foyer. "What do you think of that?"

Theon looked at her. It seemed he knew what crossroads he lay at, what he was proving to her.

With a single fluid motion, he stooped, picked up something, and flung it.

The plastic basin shattered as it hit the statue. Blood-saturated water cascaded down Sanchez' marble face. Blood dripped from the law in one hand, the justice in the other.

"Shall we go?" Theon asked.

Elizabeth did not have to be told twice. She led the way from the Justice Building into the afternoon daylight.

Behind them, the symbol of Panem's recreation stood tall and imperious, and drenched in blood.

I'm not usually one for asking questions of my reviewers, but I'm admittedly curious about a few things. I'm wondering what you guys are thinking of other characters besides your own, and the plot as a whole. Are you predicting which way I'm going to take it? Who, perhaps, is going to win? I'd love to know if your thoughts are gelling with mine, or if you've come to a different conclusion on characters and plot.

As ever, thank you for reading this far.