May the Fourth be with you, fellas!
Now I'm gonna give some heavy warnings for this chapter in basically all sections, with Yarrow's section having a drowning, thalassophobia, and severe bullying trigger warning; with Cher's section having an implied drug abuse trigger warning; with Anala's section having a minor cult allusion trigger warning; and with Anakyn's section having an implied non-consensual photography and drugging trigger warning. I will summarise each POV at the end of the chapter if you think you might not be able to handle any of them, and they are presented in the order I listed them in - Yarrow, Cher, Anala, Anakyn.
That being said, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! And I'll see you next update!
10—HAIL THOSE ABOVE
Yarrow Kelly, 15, District 7
One Week Before the Reaping
"C'mon Avox, why don't you say something?"
Three sets of hands held her tightly in their grips. Yarrow struggled and kicked, thrashing about as best as she could, but Amber's friends were larger and stronger. Holding onto her as they dragged her away from where the adults could see was child's play.
"Don't tell me you want to go for a dip?" Amber trailed in front of the trio and Yarrow, large stick in her hands to walk along the forest floor with.
Things had been building to a head for a while now. Not the part about being dragged into the forest, presumably to be thrown into the lake by Amber's friends—the bullying part, actually. For the past few years Amber, a girl who lived nearby, would find ways to pick on Yarrow. New and creative ways, Yarrow would admit, but ultimately sadistic in nature. The more Amber experimented with what she could get away with, be it before an adult or Yarrow's cousin found out and put a stop to it, the farther the line of what was acceptable began to move. Simply shoving Yarrow and sticking a piece of paper that called her all manner of names wasn't enough anymore. Tripping her and throwing rocks at her didn't bring the same rush.
Exploiting Yarrow's fears, though? That never got old.
Yarrow managed to get one leg free and kicked one of Amber's friends right in the throat. He dropped to the ground, choking, and Yarrow proudly smiled despite the punch that hit her on the face immediately after.
It hadn't been long since Amber had realised Yarrow was afraid of deep water. The classroom had gone for a trip to the nearby lake for swimming lessons, requested by Myrtle Hamilton as a mandatory lesson after her struggle in an arena with mostly water surrounding them; Yarrow had hung back, only dipping her feet into the water, and when the teacher had tried to tell her she needed to learn, Yarrow had signed furiously that she wouldn't go further than ankle deep. No one could claim they didn't understand her, either—her cousin had been there, loud and proud, when the teacher had tried to pressure her into participating after the initial refusal.
Amber, not being entirely stupid, was able to figure out why Yarrow didn't want to swim from that incident.
"Quit doing that, you little shit," Amber scolded Yarrow. The stick she'd been using to walk with landed on Yarrow's stomach and chest five times, each whack harder than the last. Yarrow coughed, winded, and Amber fixed her own hair once she was done. "God, I wouldn't have to do this if you'd just say no."
Liar.
They'd take more joy out of it if Yarrow could actually scream.
"Fuck this," the one Yarrow had kicked spat. "I'm going home."
"You a little baby or something? She just kicked you, it's no big deal."
"Yeah, and what are you doing? Unless one of you swaps and gives me her arm, I'm not taking one of her legs again."
As if to prove a point, Yarrow mustered her strength as best she could and went to bite one of the hands holding her by the arms. Amber whacked her with the stick again, this time in the face. She felt the stick cut into her skin, just above the eye, and Yarrow quickly backed down. Who was the say the next blow wouldn't actually poke her eye out? It was bad enough being mute, but to be blind as well? Her wits were one of the few things that allowed her to avoid most of the bullying to begin with!
"Were you raised in a barn, Avox? We're just having fun, and you're out here trying to bite us?" Amber sneered down at her. She wound up to strike Yarrow with the stick again—and when Yarrow flinched, she smirked and stopped. "That's what I thought. Fucking animal."
The bully who wanted to leave was unceremoniously brought back into the fray, and he decided he'd risk being kicked again instead of being bitten. Yarrow gritted her teeth and didn't resist as much—Amber wasn't hesitating to hit her in the face with the stick, and Yarrow wasn't stupid. She knew eventually Amber would start jabbing her with it instead of whacking her, and eventually a blunt stick would pierce the skin with enough force.
So Yarrow let them carry her through the woods, only struggling to try peer around the ones carrying her feet; if she could check to see if anyone had followed, or if any Peacekeepers were nearby, maybe she could struggle again and get their attention.
Maybe.
But as Amber led her friends to the edge of the lake bordering District Seven's forest, it was apparent that there would be no one to save Yarrow for the moment. Yarrow sucked in a deep breath, tense and anxious, and she swallowed the lump in her throat as the gang came to a stop. One of her hands was released, and Amber directed her friends to lower Yarrow so that the poor blond could write with her fingers in the dirt.
"Well, since you don't want to say you don't need a bath," Amber cooed, "you can just write how many minutes you can hold your breath for. We'll pull you out when it's over, promise."
Yarrow let out a small breath and reached down to the dirt.
Instead of the number of minutes she could hold her breath for, she drew a crude dick in the mud aimed at Amber.
"Would you look at that," Amber deadpanned. "The freak can hold her breath for ten minutes."
That wasn't good.
They hoisted Yarrow up again and gripped her like a log ready to be tossed onto a pile. Yarrow could remember times when she was younger, when this kind of playing around was normal. Thrown onto a trampoline and smiling as big as she could to make up for her lack of giggles.
Yarrow was not smiling right now.
Swung back and forth, Yarrow felt her stomach sink to the ground. It wouldn't be long until she joined it. Amber's friends gave her one more swing, having built up enough momentum to throw her, and then Yarrow was flying out towards the lake. They threw her higher than even the tallest of Amber's friends could reach, and all Yarrow could see as she spun as Amber laughing loudly and pointing.
Everything moved in slow motion. One of Yarrow's curls obscured her vision, but she could see the water below her. A black emptiness shrouded in woodchips and weeds, the depth this far out probably enough for Yarrow to sink to the bottom and pull her way back to the lake's edge with the pondweeds. But what if she sank even further? She couldn't tell how deep it was, even as she descended closer and closer to the surface of the lake, and what if she got tangled in the weeds?
The world returned to normal just as Yarrow sucked in a deep breath. All at once, her body crashed into the water—and she flailed immediately to try and surface again. Her dad had tried to teach her how to dog paddle, but only so much could be learned without actually going into the water, and a bathtub was too small at her age.
In the brief moments that Yarrow was able to keep her head above the water, she could hear more laughter. Amber shouting at her to paddle harder if she didn't want to drown. Her friends taunting Yarrow, saying she'd be better off just sinking to the bottom of the lake and letting it take her. And the lake, like a malevolent force at Amber's beck and call, swallowed Yarrow whole a final time.
She sank.
And she sank.
And she sank.
The longer it took Yarrow, with her feeble attempts to kick her legs and swim upwards, to reach the bottom of the lank, the greater her anxiety grew. She didn't want to look around her, her eyes trained on the surface where water slowly stopped showing sunlight through the bits of wood and weed covering the lake. Yarrow reached, and reached desperately—the sunlight above would be her saviour, proof that she wasn't going to disappear into the lake like this. But she sank some more, and more of the pondweeds began to move closer to her, obscuring her vision.
Yarrow tried to kick her legs again, but something yanked it back down. To her credit, she didn't immediately suck in a lungful of water to hold back a scream. Yarrow clamped her hand over her nose and mouth, and the other tried to reach down and untangle the pondweed around her leg. But she refused to look down, and Yarrow wasn't sure what was worse: Being able to see where she'd come from and refusing to lose sight of it, no matter how far she sank, or looking down at how far she had left to go before she finally touched the bottom.
Her lungs began to ache. How long was she down here for? It had to be a good couple of minutes, right? But Yarrow couldn't hold her breath for more than a couple. Despair gripped at her heart. Less than a minute? How could it be such a short amount of time? Surely it didn't take a living body that little to sink this far…
As her despair spread through her chest, digging its claws into her lungs, her mind went into overdrive. Yarrow knew how long she could hold her breath for. She knew. And she knew she hadn't been down here for long. If no one had been tailing them since the last time she looked, then her rescue was surely reliant on Amber and her goons above. Maybe if they didn't want to be arrested or questioned for Yarrow's disappearance, they'd do it. But, Yarrow thought, who would've seen them take her when practically no one else was that close to the forest's edge?
She dared to look down. Yarrow's heart froze.
Darkness.
An expanse of pondweeds clustered together like a dense forest beneath her. She'd already sunk past several tops of them, some thicker than her arm in size, and if Yarrow wasn't already underwater, she'd be tearing up and trying not to cry. She couldn't help staring down at the darkness beneath her, struck with fear and frozen in place out of concern something would happen. But Yarrow kept sinking, ever so slowly, and the weed wrapped around her leg didn't untangle.
Yarrow felt herself starting to shake. She reached down again to untangle the weed from her ankle.
As soon as her foot descended further into darkness, her hand following suit, Yarrow felt something brush against her skin. She let almost all of the air in her lungs out, surprised, and in a panic Yarrow tried to flail out of the weeds again. Soon her other leg was constricted, and one of her arms was tangled in the weeds around her. When Yarrow looked up again, she couldn't see the sunlight peeking through the surface. All she could see were the weeds, barely visible because of how close they were and what little light could touch them from this depth.
Yarrow didn't want to die.
She flailed some more, trying her best to brute force the weeds off of her, but she was practically cocooned in place. Weeds wrapped around her other arm, around her neck, around her waist. She couldn't see. She struggled and struggled and struggled—and then she felt that thing again, brushing against her skin. Yarrow squeezed her eyes shut, no longer able to move at all as she was bundled in weeds like a spider's prey caught in its web. The more she sank, the more she was forced to stare into the darkness below, no longer able to move her head—and Yarrow was terrified. Terrified that if she opened her eyes, she'd see something coming towards her. Its maw wide open, waiting to swallow her eye—or its hideous eye staring up at her, watching and waiting like a predator in hiding.
But she feared seeing most of all other people. Bloated hands grabbing her, pulling her down, holding her at the bottom of the lake until she fizzled out in silence. Hands that brushed against her. Hands that gripped her until she bruised. Hands. Hands. Hands. Hands hands handshandshands—
A hand on her head. Yarrow panicked and struggled again. When she opened her eyes, she was almost blinded by the light that shone against her face. Bloated white hands, stark white body, black nothingness face—and a knife, cutting through the weeds on her torso and neck before moving down to her legs.
The white body hold her close as they swam upwards. Yarrow had no strength in her, her eyes squeezing shut once again, but when they crested the water and breached the surface, she almost wanted to cry as she sucked in a large gulp of air.
Amber and her friends were shouting and screaming, begging for someone to listen to them, but among the shouts, she could hear one voice she recognised better than any other—her cousin's. Plith screamed at them to shut up, that he had everything recorded, and Yarrow clung to the one who pulled her out of the water like a lifeline. She hiccupped and cried, no sounds coming out, but the strong arms that held onto her never wavered even as they climbed out of the lake while holding her. They reached up and turned off the light on their head—the Peacekeeper helmet was easier to see now—and they laid on the ground as Yarrow shivered and cried in the dirt.
Plith had been following, she thought with immense relief. He'd been filming it. She didn't know how he'd managed—but then again, she and Plith were masters at hiding in the forest. When she looked over at him, she saw him covered in shrubs and dirt; no doubt he'd blended into the scenery with his green clothes and large hooded jacket. And the Peacekeepers as well: They'd smothered their uniforms in mud to hide as much white as possible, from the looks of it, and the one who'd dived into the water to save Yarrow probably had theirs washed off.
Whatever the case, Yarrow threw up some water and breathed a sigh of relief shortly after.
The Peacekeeper who laid next to her helped pick off the last of the weeds still wrapped around her. He was gentle and soft spoken, always doing his best to soothe Yarrow, but her focus was more on his aggressive partner, who called for those stationed in the centre of town to apprehend the parents of Amber and her friends. Plith wasn't letting them lie about their names and their parents' names, screaming that Amber's name wasn't Angela, and that she was the daughter of the owner of the bookstore with the ugly decorations out the front.
Frankly, Plith's enraged screaming was music to her ears.
The Peacekeeper carried her out of the forest with Plith in tow once a couple more showed up to guide Amber and her friends back to the town. This had gone too far, they told Amber, and this wasn't schoolyard tomfoolery anymore. Plith tried to argue that the bullying should never have happened in the first place, but he was quickly cut off by the Peacekeeper again.
"Whatever happens in the schoolyard isn't our jurisdiction," he told Plith. "If you wanna complain about your feelings being hurt, take it up with your teachers. What happened just now was attempted murder, and I'm more than happy to handle that—unless you have something else you wanna say?"
The thinly veiled threat to let the incident go if Plith kept arguing was enough to leave both Plith and Yarrow angered. The only thing that didn't convince her to throw a fit and run home on her own with Plith was the Peacekeeper carrying her.
"Hey," he grunted back at the other Peacekeeper, "you just said this was an attempted murder. You're really gonna be petty and let go a charge that big because a witness is in shock?"
"He's not in shock, he's giving me lip—"
"So you admit you'd let it go?"
The other Peacekeeper was silent. He reached up to his helmet and went to press a button.
"Don't you stop recording." The one carrying Yarrow set her down for a moment. "You leave that camera on and maybe you won't get kicked out once the court looks at our footage. They notice a single minute missing from your feed, I tell them exactly what happened and what you said. Now all of you take these fucking goblins back to the station while I get this kid to her family."
Another Peacekeeper, who was holding the head of one of Amber's friends down, chimed in, "What about a statement?"
"I'll get the damn statement when she's out of danger of getting sick. Jesus, let the girl warm up. The lake's freezing this time of year."
Whether it was because he was the highest-ranked among them, or because he outright threatened them for the things said in retaliation against Plith, Yarrow wasn't sure. She was just grateful that she got to see Amber sobbing like a baby as she was escorted in the opposite direction with her friends, begging for a second chance and that they were just playing around.
Yarrow wouldn't act as friendly with his Peacekeeper after today, she thought. Not because she hated Peacekeepers—though today's events certainly painted two different pictures for the force—but because Yarrow was just… not the type to cling to people she didn't know well. And right now, she didn't want to get to know the Peacekeeper well. Certainly, he would be back for more statements and to check in on Yarrow. He seemed to value the duty of care that came with protecting victims. But beyond her father giving updates, Yarrow would do her best to bury today in the recesses of her mind and move on with her life. The hands in the lake hadn't been real, nor the threat of something massive hiding in the darkness—but Yarrow wanted to forget.
The sooner she put this experience behind her, the better.
Wilhelmina Helfenbein, 18, C-District 7
One Week Before the Reaping
"Good Lord!" The sound of Jo's coughing was enough to pause her eating on the floor. Beside her, her dealer and rival gave a soft groan and chucked their own food onto the fold out table. "Cher, what in the world—?"
Wilhelmina Helfenbein, known better by one of her middle names, Cher, lowered the fork from her face and beamed at Jo.
"Look, Jolene! Authentic poutine!"
Jo coughed again and waved away some of the clouds lingering in the air. "It's—excuse me—It's only authentic if it's made in Canada," she reminded Cher.
"And we're the closest there is to a Canada now, right?"
"Um, actually—"
Jo very obviously rolled her eyes as Madonna, the third member of their group and Cher's personal drug dealer, walked back into the room with some poutine for Jo. Cher was delighted. She had her hopes high that Jo would enjoy the poutine as well, but the sour look on her face as Mads spoke wasn't something Cher missed.
"We're closer to the remnants of the Bible Belt than Canada," Mads informed Cher, a little obnoxious about it. "If you wanna be closer to Canada, I suggest you take the train to District One and buy yourself a little souvenir out of it."
Jo took the poutine and sneered at it.
"You must not be as perfect as you say you are," Jo said, "because you messed up my poutine."
"And you're a big baby who doesn't like milk," Mads cooed back, "so God forbid you eat any curds without throwing up."
"I think it's delicious." Cher smiled as she shovelled some more fries into her mouth.
She didn't miss the way Mads, ever so briefly, went doe-eyed at the compliment. Cher only acknowledged, though, when Mads kept up her snide façade and began to gloat on the spot as they returned to their own poutine.
An argument didn't start, thankfully. Sure, Mads was insufferably smug, but she didn't try to get a rise out of Jo again as Jo munched on her own fries. A window out in the kitchen must have been opened, the cocaine mist fading from the room considerably, and Cher could feel her brief high starting to wind down. It was just to kill time, she told herself, and Mads assured her that no one would mind. The cocaine used to belong to her deadbeat dad, according to Mads, and he wasn't going to miss it any time soon.
It was nice of them, to give Cher some uppers like that. Some days, Cher needed it.
When the trio was halfway through their poutine, the mist had disappeared entirely. All that was left was for Cher to wind down completely from its effects, and the euphoria of such greasy fries tickling her brain was enough to keep her from a heavy crash that would make her fall asleep. Mads had gotten better at finding ways to keep Cher going after a crash, and now Cher could enjoy more time with Jo after her mind was done working overtime for whatever task—or downtime—called for a little miracle powder.
Mads was done with her poutine first, and she pulled three small phones from her pockets that seemed to match. Two of them, at least, with the lone outlier looking almost depressed despite its bright colours.
"Anyway," Mads announced, "everyone get rid of your old phones. We're starting fresh with the latest model that I so kindly managed to buy for you all."
Jo ate some fries and mumbled, "Surprised you can afford those."
Cher chirped, "Oh, I already have the latest model! Jo and I saw them on sale and got cases to match."
As soon as she said it, both Cher and Jo held up their phones in unison. Mads cleared her throat and seemed to pout.
"Well, I bought matching phones for myself and Cher, since we're the actual detectives of the group," Mads tried. "And something more… doctorly for our doctor acquaintance."
"How thoughtful of you," Jo deadpanned.
Cher set down her poutine on the small table and got up off the floor. She shuffled over to where Mads and Jo were sitting, and she plopped herself between them as she held onto her phone.
"Well, let's see," she said. "Jo and I did the customisation of the cases ourselves, so maybe we can make one of your new ones match ours?"
"It is medical journal brown," Jo said with a smirk. She pointed to the outlier among Mads's phones. "I'm sure the matching ones can be used as burners for you."
"Oh, darling," Mads laughed, one brow raised. "I'm sure it's you who needs the burner more."
When Mads held out one of the matching pair, Jo sucked in a deep breath through her nose and stared at it. Cher watched, silent, as she turned her own phone over in her hands and thumbed at the case.
She may have been a slight addict, but she wasn't stupid. She was called to crime scenes frequently because of her intellect, only being outdone by Mads when Mads was able to get there first or find out about the crime first. Cher never missed the ways that Mads always seemed to figure the case out with pinpoint accuracy, even with the perpetrators claimed innocence while being dragged to the prison for a confession. When Mads got showy and revelled in Cher's struggles, it wasn't hard to tell for Cher that more was going on beneath the surface.
And then there was Jo, who didn't immediately throw a quip back at Mads—like Mads had touched on a private matter between them that Cher wasn't privy to. It was clear why Jo knew the things she did: She was the heiress to a pharmaceutical empire and studying to become a doctor, and she was a first-rate one in Cher's opinion. But something seemed to be lingering in the distance, especially whenever Mads got involved, and when Jo stood beside Cher at crime scenes and was thrown for a loop, it was almost like she expected something else. Like Jo had… already formed an idea of what would be the method of death and motive for murder.
Cher hadn't missed the growing agitation in Jo each time Mads showed up out of the blue and made a mockery of Cher by closing the case before it even had a chance to open.
It wasn't that Cher minded it all that much. Certainly, it was uncanny how often Mads got things right and made a showy spectacle of her findings. But Cher wrote it off as Mads just wanting to express her findings in a way she found most enjoyable. In the end, it wasn't entirely about justice being served and the victims being laid to rest—not for any of them. It was about the thrill of unravelling everything from its messy cluster and accounting for every tiny factor that most people would overlook. A specific style of cufflink being worn because the more popular style irritated the skin, thus ruling out the prime suspect completely and drawing suspicion on the one with the skin condition. The gait with which a person walked while tracking mud and blood—not because they had a limp, but because it was a forced limp that caused suck tracks. The once-presumed smoking barrel of a fingerprint left by a bloodstain on some paperwork, later revealed to be just the result of an injury the victim had gotten earlier that day and forgot to wash their hands of—don't you see the brand new version of the document sitting underneath the tainted one?
It was the rush of proving all of this and getting it right.
But sometimes, Cher thought, it seemed like there was too much she couldn't figure out. Key pieces of evidence she'd missed, or an angle she hadn't tried to look at the scene from. And where were Mads and Jo when that happened? One was seething quietly beside her while the other smugly declared that this was the unequivocal truth behind the murder.
Even now, with their latest case, it was more prevalent than ever—the feeling in the pit of Cher's stomach, that jabs at her and laughs at her. You're not the genius you think you are, it would say. Madonna Mirone and Jolene H. Waterloo are ashamed to be in the same room as you.
But Cher could, for the most part, ignore it. When Mads figured out the exact kind of poison that killed the local youth pastor, there'd been that same undeniable rush behind Mads's eyes that Cher felt when she got things right. Mads was competitive, plain and simple, and to crack open a case with ease the way she did—was it wrong to suspect her of foul play when she was so genuinely happy to have pushed herself to her limits and succeed? Mads wasn't laughing at Cher. Mads was laughing as a kneejerk reaction to her own success, delighted and trying hard to figure out how to celebrate in a way that wasn't juvenile cheering.
And what about Jo? No matter how often that Mads got things right, Jo was always right beside Cher, arms crossed over their chest and a frown evident on their face. Jo was upset on Cher's behalf that Cher hadn't solved it, and she always echoed the same things that Cher did—that the evidence didn't add up, that something was fishy about how fast Mads was able to solve it, that it felt like Mads had pulled evidence out of her ass and used it to close the case. But bitterness would fade away with time, or at least Cher thought it would, and the three maintained a friendship and rivalry that made them just a bit too competitive for their own goods.
Moments like this, though? While watching Jo give Mads a look and snatch the burner phone out of Mads's hand?
Cher had to wonder if she was the odd one out.
A brilliant doctor like Jo needed an equally brilliant detective to solve cases with ease, and some days, Mads was that brilliant detective. Cher was still capable of her victories—Mads even clapped and congratulated her on finding evidence she hadn't known about, and treated them all to sushi—but it seemed lately that fortune favoured Mads instead.
Cher often wondered, during her quieter moments, if there was something going on with Mads and Jo. They bickered like an old married couple, and they always seemed to have inside jabs at each other that made the other go to Cher for backup. But they never explained what those jabs meant—it would just hang in the air and fade away as the topic was changed, and Cher was left bewildered for a time as she watched her two closest friends convene with ease without her.
"Well, go on, then," Jo scoffed at Mads. "Give us your number, so I can save it to the burner and plant it as evidence somewhere."
Mads crinkled up her nose and smirked. "Admitting to a crime? Right in front of me? You're so bold, Waterloo."
"In the current climate," Jo said cooly, "it would seem planting evidence has become an epidemic. Wouldn't you agree? Or do you somehow not have the same issues on your solo cases?"
Mads clicked their tongue.
"You should know, sweetheart, that I only solve cases with Cher's around. It's not fun without her."
"Oh, my mistake. So you're suddenly selective enough with your cases that you haven't had the same issue as the Peacekeepers have?"
Cher raised her brows and mutely opened her contacts, adding Mads's number to her phone.
"If you're going to implicate me in a murder, at least make it a fun one." Mads waved dismissively at Jo. "I'm sure you're more than happy to take requests on the cause of death."
"You guys are awfully close," Cher jumped in.
Both Mads and Jo went silent. They seemed to exchange glances, almost goading the other to say something first, but it was Jo who decided to take the chance before Mads could.
"Close is putting it nicely," Jo explained. Cher gave her a lopsided smile, letting out a small hum to prompt her further. "I suppose you could say I tolerate Madonna."
"Fuck you, I'm delightful."
Jo gave Mads an unimpressed frown.
"Well, I tolerate you," Mads snidely added. "If I knew a little more about medical conditions and the human body, Cher and I wouldn't need you anymore."
Jo sat up straight, provoked by the statement. "Oh? You're more than welcome to study at my house with the same materials I used. I'm sure you'll take to it all quickly."
"Maybe I'll learn it faster than you did. I might even be adopted into your family and made the heir instead."
Jo bristle. "Good! Maybe then I won't have to marry a complete bastard for the sake of the family!"
The silence was deafening. The conversation died in an instant. While Mads was once bristling and picking a fight, now she was pausing and staring at Jolene—looking for something to give, for the punchline. And so was Cher. She stared at Jo, wide-eyed, and she briefly swallowed her anger at the sudden surprise. Cher wasn't a fan of surprises, but she imagined even Jo wasn't a fan with this particular surprise dumped on her.
Cher sucked in a deep breath, and she took stock of her surroundings—of herself. Jo was hurting, obviously, and she hadn't meant to blurt that out. But the Cher tried to think of something to say, to comfort her, to gently probe for answers, her mind kept cycling back to the same two thoughts.
Poor Mads, was the first thought, because there was clearly something going on between her and Jo that Cher wasn't aware of. And then—
I never stood a chance, came her second thought, and Cher felt her stomach drop as the thought continued to cycle.
There was… small hope. Small hope that maybe whatever was going on with Mads and Jo would end and Cher could take her shot, comfort Jo and attempt to make something new with her that would help Jo forget Mads. But marriage? To someone else? Never mind waiting for Jo or Mads to end their tryst, how was Cher supposed to compete with the duties of being the child of a pharmaceutical empire?
Cher had already resolved to just… being there as a friend if Jo wanted her to. Cher was never fully certain that her feelings were romantic for Jo. It was never something that required addressing, nor was it something Cher herself knew how to handle. But that small inkling of hope made those moments with Jo all the more exhilarating. That stark maybe that haunted their awkward silences and the closeness they'd share at times. Observations like, They used shampoo that smells like freshly roasted coffee beans, had turned into, This café smells like Jo.
To have no part in Jo's life like that anymore? To have Jo be pulled away from their friend group with that marriage? To do their duties as the next owner of the pharmaceutical company? Who would have time to play around being a detective when they were expected to pop out some kids and be subservient to their new husband?
Cher swallowed a lump in her throat and asked, "When?"
Jo sniffed. "I found out last night. I've been meeting with him for a few weeks now, but I assumed it was to build a good rapport with a future rival."
They were silent again. Mads, who hadn't said a word since Jo's reply, finally stood up and skulked into the kitchen.
"Where are you going?" Cher asked, stunned. Shouldn't she be consoling Jo right now? Their relationship, whatever it was, was about to be ruined because of an arranged marriage!
"I'm getting my mom's booze!" Mads snapped back at them. "We are not discussing this sober."
With a shaky sigh, Jo nodded in agreement. "Much as I hate to admit it, you know how much Madonna hates alcohol. It's bad if even she wants something to take the edge off."
For once in her life, Cher couldn't help hoping—against all odds—that whoever was behind all the murders the trio had yet to solve turned their sights on the man Jolene was being sold to like livestock.
Anala Carteline, 17, District 3
One Week Before the Reaping
"Karel, Walter!" The mayor held her arms out to welcome the Carteline family into her home. "You finally made it! Mr. Glass is already waiting in the dining room with my husband."
Dinners with the mayor weren't uncommon for Anala and her family. Her parents were close friends of the mayor in high school, and her mother had been the campaign manager for the mayor when the election had come around following the passing of the last mayor. Anala practically grew up referring to the mayor as her aunt, and her husband as her uncle, so it wasn't unusual to be invited into the mayoral mansion for dinners. It was just unusual when the dinners were to commemorate the Hunger Games, with the mentor for the upcoming Games as a guest of honour.
Even more unusual when it was a Quell being commemorated, and the Capitol mentor made the trip to Three as well to join the feast.
Perhaps it was due to the Capitol presence about to grace her home, but Mayor Kennedy had her hair styled up into a massive beehive that almost touched the top of her door. Anala tried not to stare at it as she walked inside, but it was difficult to ignore just how… big it was. It looked like there was more hair than what should've been possible.
It stank of plastic, too.
"Now, you'll have to forgive us," Mayor Kennedy explained as she led the Cartelines through the house. "Mr. Glass is a pescetarian, so red meat and poultry are not on the menu. Normally we'd just settle for serving up a vegetarian meal, but Mx. Squire's religious group was generous enough to send some seafood for the occasion—it's a big day next week, and it's paramount that the mentors both get along."
"We really appreciate this," Walter said. He was seemingly nervous, brows furrowed despite his warm smile. "We're not intruding on any politics like this?"
"Heavens, no! In fact, Mx. Squire requested we keep the dinner casual. We were due to have our monthly dinner sooner or later, so I thought I might treat you and your lovely family to some Capitol produce." Mayor Kennedy nodded to herself, satisfied. "Once in a lifetime chance, for most people!"
They passed through the large sitting room and cut through a hallway that led to the dining room. It was as beautiful as usual, Anala thought, with its feature wall behind the mayor's seat still having its honeycomb pattern, the top of the wall starting out a rich ruby colour and change to a golden orange in the middle, before finally turning pale yellow at the floor. But new decorations had been added to the room that Anala didn't recognise. A glass ornament at the centre of the round table caught Anala's attention first—a pedestal with rings within rings sitting atop it, and from each wing sprouted a pair of wings that went in every direction.
Anala was a little unnerved by it when she saw the gold flecks within the glass, particularly when she noticed they made a crude eye shape along the rings that seemed to watch her as she walked to her seat.
Mayor Kennedy's husband was already at his seat, chatting away with Bequeral Glass about nothing. The redhead seemed to be half-listening, sipping his wine without even caring to act dignified, and he always seemed to take a particularly large sip when Mayor Kennedy's husband touched upon topics he didn't seem to like. Anala tucked herself against the table and patiently waited for her parents to sit either side of her, like they always did, but Beq was quick to stop her father and call out, "Oh, sir, have my seat. I'm sure you and Mr. Kennedy have much to catch up on."
While Anala's mother sat on her right, beside the mayor, Bequeral Glass sat on her left. He eased into his seat with a sigh and gave her a quiet greeting, and after that, Beq was silent.
Anala glanced at him, curious. It was hard to find anyone in District Three who didn't know who Bequeral Glass was. Even before he volunteered to enter the arena, he was a celebrity in his own right among the citizens of Three. A true revolutionary icon for queer rights in the District, creating an uprising at the conversion therapy centre he'd been locked in as a teenager that garnered even the late President Snow's attention. Unlike Katniss Everdeen, who seemed to threaten the status quo in Panem with her softcore rule breaking in the Seventy-Fourth Games, Beq had drawn attention to crimes being committed behind closed doors that threatened to undermine Snow's ironclad rule. If people were enacting their own version of justice without his permission, they needed to be punished—and not once had Snow given a hint that queer children should be converted by force.
In fact, what the camp had done bordered on murder at times. And to kill children or put them into therapy, risking them avoiding a chance at being thrown into the Hunger Games? Snow could not let that slide.
From what Anala could gather, Beq was one of the few pro-Snow victors still alive in this current climate. And she couldn't blame him when you looked at why. The enemy of his enemy was his friend, and his enemy pissed off an even bigger threat than what Beq could pose. Beq was just the one who drew that threat's attention and aired the dirty laundry.
Being straight and cis, Anala couldn't fully understand the struggles Beq and the other kids at the camp went through. But she could respect how brave he'd been, to stand up for himself and others, and how many lives he saved with his actions.
"Something on my face?"
Beq's voice was soft when he spoke to Anala. He wasn't looking at her, swirling his wine, but his expression wasn't negative. He had an easy-going expression, that same lazy smile that he had in the arena when talking with his allies.
Anala blushed and looked down at her forks and knives.
"No," she mumbled.
"Looking for feminine features?"
Anala blinked and scrunched up her face. "You're not a woman."
Beq tilted his head and let out a small laugh.
"Good answer." He sipped his wine and looked at her properly. Anala glanced at him around her bangs. "Just thinking?"
"Why only red meat and poultry?"
Beq blinked. It was a slow, languid motion that reminded her of a cat when it was comfortable.
"They still serve Mystery Meat in the schools?" he asked her. Anala nodded once. Beq smirked. "Keep it a mystery, is all I'll say."
"I've never had fish before," Anala went on.
Beq shrugged, and he set down his wine. He was giving her his full attention now, and Anala felt almost honoured. He never seemed to want to give people a lot of attention, only the right amount to keep them happy. Beside her, Anala's mother seemed to relax enough to talk with Mayor Kennedy and their husbands in peace.
"It's not for everyone," Beq told her. "All crustacean tastes the same, though lobster is more buttery. Granted, you need to apply said butter, but it's nice. Not as chewy as steak and some roasts."
"What about the fish? They all taste the same?"
"Depends on the fish." Beq lifted one hand and raised a finger for each fish he listed. "Salmon, my favourite, is tender and fatty, and the skin when it's seared just right has a nice crunch to it. Mackerel is more firm, but its taste isn't as prominent as salmon, so you need to season it a little. Lemon juice goes well, but I find lime juice has a less sour taste and just adds a little freshness to it. Oh, sardines are very oily and flavourful, so you can eat those on their own or as a topping on something. Don't let the small size in the cans fool you, they can be massive out in the open sea."
For someone from a District without any fisheries or even fish produce, Beq knew a lot about them and what they tasted like. She considered that maybe he tasted a lot while in the Capitol during his Games and then ate some more on his victory tour, but it'd been a few years since that victory now. Did he get some sent his way on occasion to cook with?
Anala listened to him go through the common fish people eat, and when he stopped to take another sip of his wine, she asked him, "So what fish are we eating tonight?"
Beq raised his brows and hummed as he swallowed the rest of the wine.
"Mayor Kennedy only told me that the main course is seafood paella, which isn't bad. Depends on whether you like the scallops or not—it's like rhubarb, you either love it or hate it. The main meat would be shrimp, though, and even then the star of the dish is the rice itself. It's a nice meal to pick at in a large gathering."
Anala huffed a laugh and picked up her napkin from the table, unfolding it from the bird shape it'd been folded into as a decoration.
"Learn how to cook that in the arena?" she asked lightly. It got another laugh out of Beq.
"Lot less starving kids, if they'd just teach them how to tell if something's edible," he mumbled.
She couldn't argue with that.
Before Anala could ask him another question, she heard the doorbell ring in the distance and Mayor Kennedy jumped from her seat excitedly. "Oh, they're here!" she cheered. Karel Carteline barely had any time to ask who before Mayor Kennedy ran off for the front doors, and the rest of the table was left in silence as they waited.
Mayor Kennedy's husband, Norman, cleared his throat and addressed everyone at the table.
"It would seem Mx. Squire has arrived for this evening," he said. "I hope you're all ready to start eating soon. It's an honour to have two very esteemed guests dining with us tonight, don't you agree, Walt?"
Walter Carteline shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "Y—Yes," he agreed, glancing at his wife and daughter. Anala just nodded along in agreement silently. "This is quite the treat for my family and I. Can't thank you and the mayor enough for this, Norm."
When Mayor Kennedy came back into the room, Anala didn't miss the way Beq tensed up and put on a charming smile. Not the relaxed one that he'd given Anala, amused by her questions and more than happy to answer them, but a cold wall being placed between him and everyone else in the room, the same kind of smile he'd given at his interview when playing the crowd and answering Caesar Flickerman's questions. The smile of a dandy, rather than the smile of a kind-hearted person, and once again Anala was reminded of a cat. No longer was he blinking slowly, but he hardly blinked at all—and when he did, it was quick enough that he could keep watch of his surroundings without pause.
Mayor Kennedy and Throne Squire entered the room, and Anala's heart just about stopped.
Throne wasn't a… hideous person, per se. But they were a very confronting one. Confronting in the way of a rapidly approaching feeling of unease, confronting in the way of a nightmare trying its hardest to seep into a dream. When Anala stared at Throne, it wasn't because she found them beautiful—even if they were, in a way, the most gorgeous person in this room. It was because she felt a primal fear inside of her, and when Throne sat down right across from her, closer to Beq at the round table, she could finally understand why.
Instead of a… human head, the upper half of their face was a series of wings with eyes set into each feather. Like the ornament on the table as a centrepiece, Throne's face was that of a biblically accurate angel, and their black lips were curled into a smile as countless eyes moved around—all functional, all seeming capable of sight—before landing on Anala and narrowing.
Anala swallowed a thick lump in her throat and hid her shaking hands under the table.
"My, my," Throne chirped, and their voice felt off. Unnatural. Were they really even human? "It's as dead as a graveyard in here. Don't stop talking on my account."
Beq waved down one of the staff standing on the far side of the room. When they approached, he said, "Bring the whole bottle. I like to nurse it."
The entrée wasn't something too bad; a bowl of crab raviolo with lobster bisque. Anala ate it in silence, delightfully surprised by the taste, but it was hard to enjoy the meal while listening to Throne speak with the mayor and her husband. Every word they spoke was oddly pronounced and sounded foreign from their lips, and it wasn't even because of an accent of anything. Throne just plain didn't sound human, despite the very clear English coming out of their mouth every time they spoke. Every so often she would cringe while listening to them speak, and she would glance at Beq for his reaction.
Beq was steadily emptying the bottle as the conversation continued, only pausing to either eat his food or answer any questions thrown his way expertly. Anala was impressed at how he kept up with ease, even when he started doing his large swigs again each time Throne spoke. The entrée bowls were removed once everyone was done, and Anala sipped at her water as the mayor announced the main course would be seafood paella, just as Beq had told her.
The paella was a nice kind of spicy and had a rich flavour to it, and the shrimp she nibbled on between bites of rice were nice and chewy. Beq seemed to watch her for a reaction, and Anala looked at him with a small smile after she finished another bite.
"It's nice," she told him. "I think I like the scallops."
"Good," Beq said, satisfied. They both dug into their foods, keeping to themselves, but soon enough things would take a turn.
When the main course was over and dessert came out—an angel food cake with strawberries on the side—Throne leaned on their elbows and smiled at Mayor Kennedy.
"I terribly hate to make this about business," they started. "But did you consider my proposition, Mayor Kennedy?"
The woman perked up at the mention of an offer. Anala took a single bite of her angel food cake, and frowned at the taste of it. It was supposed to be sweet and like vanilla, but something was off. Was it because of the edible gold sprinkled atop the frosting? Maybe…
"I did!" Mayor Kennedy chirped. "And I'm very happy to accept your offer, Mx. Squire. Mr. Glass was generous enough to empty out the old conversion camps farther out in the District in his youth—you can use that as a base of operations."
Beq stopped bringing his wine glass to his lips midway. He blinked at Mayor Kennedy and, with a vaguely fake smile, asked, "And what is Throne Squire bringing to my old stomping grounds?"
"Oh, nothing terrible, Mr. Glass," Throne assured him. "I seek to spread the good word to the people of Three, and Mayor Kennedy is being helpful enough to give me a base of operations. A temple of sorts, you could say."
Beq sniffed. "The good word, huh?" he said, slow and careful.
"Of course. I'm sure you don't mind," Throne went on. They stared at him with their countless eyes. "Unlike the people who used to terrorise the poor children of Three, our group does not promote such needless violence against those who are marginalised. We are a group that promotes love and support, united under the watchful eye of the Almighty, and we are duty-bound to carry Their will."
At Throne's words, Beq tipped his head back and downed the whole glass in one go. He slammed it back on the table with a groan.
"You know, they said the same thing to me back at the camp," he drawled. "That they were carrying out God's will. They didn't want to kill us—but if we didn't let the devil out of us, then we'd die for the greater good. Tell me, Throne Squire, is anyone infected by the devil, according to your cause?"
"There is no good or evil," Throne recited. "There is only enlightened and unenlightened. And to be unenlightened is not a sin—merely an obstacle."
Beq pursed his lips as he stared at them. Anala, uncertain of what to say, kept her head low and poked at her cake.
Throne didn't let her leave the conversation, even if she'd never been part of it to begin with.
"You there, Miss Carteline," they said, singling her out. Anala looked up at them again, and she felt her heart stop again. Half of the eyes were still watching Beq, while the other half watched her. "Some of the priests will be visiting Three to spread the good word. Would you like to help them navigate their way around? I'm sure they'd appreciate it."
Anala coughed and looked around, panicking. She was a helpful person at heart, always happy to lend a hand, but something about Throne's offer felt off. A large part of her brain and gut screamed to run away, to hide from Throne's sight, but she was frozen in her seat as she gripped her fork tightly.
What did she say? This may have been a regular dinner, but Throne was talking business to the mayor. Anala would be a terrible guest if she declined.
Beq cleared his throat and poured the rest of the wine into his glass. "I'm sure Miss Carteline is busy with her studies and preparing for the Hunger Games," he pointed out. "It's that time of year, and you and I are also going to have our hands full."
"My, how could I forget," Throne drawled. "Perhaps another time."
Anala glanced at Beq, heart hammering away in her chest. He didn't look at her, but when she saw him take a sip of his wine, she could see the thoughts running through his mind. The thoughts that history was about to repeat itself, and that he may have to lead another revolution in Three to right the status quo again.
Anakyn Skyavich, 18, C-District 3
One Week Before the Reaping
A flash.
Ani flinched. He scrunched up his face, his head throbbing as his fatigued limbs finally began to move. His eyes fluttered open, and—
Another flash.
"That should do for the portfolio," came a voice in the distance. The black spots in Ani's eyes weren't fading fast enough. He forced his eyes open, and his retinas burned. What happened? How did he…?
Movement beside him. The large light above his head was flicked off.
"We're just doing you a favour, kid," a woman's voice told him. It was closer than the other voice. Ani turned his head—was he on a bed? He felt a pillow and sheets beneath him, and he immediately turned to look back down at himself. Oh thank God, pants were still on. Ani let out a relieved breath and almost slipped back into unconsciousness. "You got lucky playing the vanilla card, but now that you're eighteen, you gotta put your big boy shoes on."
"He's too out of it to understand, idiot." The one further away scraped a chair against the floor and stomped around the room. "Just put his shirt back on and sprinkle some glitter on him."
Ani forced his eyes open again. Where was he? He'd gone with his mother to a party, he remembered that much—fellow models and fashion designers were in attendance, mostly to congratulate Ani on the newfound title of supermodel at such a young age. There'd been a lot of talk from the agent of Rainard Carnes that he would collaborate with the other boy, and then his mother got a call from Games HQ that she had to take urgently. Ani had been fine for a while, maybe given a few offers by private sponsors to do more risqué shoots, but he'd declined them all and requested that all offers go through his mother first.
He remembered someone approached him—another model? Ani had recognised the guy and the exchange had been very flirtatious, the guy leading him to a small sitting room to catch his breath. And then…
Perfume? The room had stank of a perfume he didn't recognise. Ani wasn't there for long, but his partner had excused himself to go to the bathroom and left Ani alone. Ani had tried to get up and leave the room—to open the window nearby and get some fresh air—but he couldn't remember what happened next. Had he… passed out?
Where was he?
Ani felt his stomach lurch when he stared up at the ceiling. It wasn't the ceiling of the building the party had been held in.
Was he abducted…?
Hands were on him, and he flinched at how cold they were. On his bare torso, cleaning off what seemed to be accessories from a photo shoot, and then his shirt was buttoned back up hastily. Ani glared up at the woman who was throwing him around, and she clicked her tongue and ruffled his hair.
"Lighten up, pretty boy," she scoffed. He recognised her now—she was standing with the model who'd taken Ani to the sitting room. He'd assumed she'd just left after talking with the model. "This is for your own good. Can't be family-friendly forever."
He shoved up at her, trying to get her off of him. She didn't move, but she scowled down at him when he tried again. She took her hands off of him, holding them up in surrender, and stormed over to the person in the far corner of the room.
"He's being difficult," she grumbled. The other person laughed and tapped on what sounded like a laptop.
"He'll appreciate it when the money comes rolling in," the other woman reminded her. "The sponsor offered a lot of cash upfront for pictures like this."
"And how much do we get for taking the pictures?"
"Seventy percent."
"Ugh. At least it's not less."
The sound of a lighter, and then the smell of tobacco. "You got your big break, at least. Who knows? Maybe you'll become the kid's exclusive photographer."
Ani slowly tried to roll over, to sit up, but his body was too heavy. He groaned and was able to roll onto his front, but when he tried to roll again, he flopped off of the bed entirely and landed on a flush rug on the floor. He was winded, but he didn't feel anything sprain or break in his tumble.
"Can't even enjoy my cig in peace." There was rustling, and then the other woman was walking away.
"Where are you going?"
"Outside," the woman snapped. "What's the point of renting a smoking room if the kid won't be quiet? He's not going anywhere any time soon, anyway."
A hotel. Ani rubbed a hand over his face as he groaned again. So they'd managed to drug him and take him to a hotel. He knew the streets around the venue well enough. If his memory was right, the closest hotel with smoking rooms was… six blocks away? How'd they manage to load him into a car and get here without being spotted?
The photographer sighed as the door was shut behind the other woman. She seemed to pace in front of the bed some more, agitated, before Ani heard her unzip a bag near where the other woman had been sitting.
"You know what, Ceres, you can foot the bill for dinner," she grumbled. Ceres had to have been the other woman, he thought, and he briefly recognised the name from somewhere.
Ceres… Ceres… Ceres… Tuttle? The tech who would touch up photos if the models were too unhappy with certain aspects? Ani had never worked with her, but he remembered that she got paid a lot for what she did. Why was she involved? The only time they'd really interacted was… Maybe that shoot for skincare cream? Ani had declined having his photos airbrushed to remove his tattoos, mostly because he felt it defeated the purpose of showing how well the cream worked. People still got acne on their tattooed areas, so if he was free of acne even where the tattoos were, why did they need to be airbrushed?
He'd maybe let it slip that he wasn't a fan of distributing photos that weren't the real him, the touch-ups being too artificial, but he hadn't thought Ceres would be offended by the sentiment. He just stated his preference, and it wasn't like Ceres was struggling to find work.
The photographer stomped out of the room as well, the door shutting with a soft click. Ani furrowed his brows and reached up for the bed. He groaned again as he pulled himself into a sitting position, and he could finally take stock of where he was. This wasn't a hotel in the more high-end section of the Capitol, so he was certainly more than six blocks away from the party. He looked to one side—beyond the spotlights and white Cyc walls strewn about, a single window that had a fire escape attached to it could be seen. He looked to the other side—and he could see a bathroom and a door leading out of the room, with a peephole and chain lock attached to it. In the far side of the room, closer to the bathroom, a small portable table was propped up with an open laptop and a camera connected to it by a cable. A large black duffle bag was tucked between the legs of the table.
Ani sucked in a deep breath and steeled himself.
He rocked forwards and landed on his hands and knees. Immediately he began to crawl, eyes locked onto the duffel bag as he shuffled as fast as he could. The room was smaller now that he was actually moving, the walls not so far away, and he landed on top of the bag with a grunt as his limbs gave out for a brief moment. More items were stuffed inside—he reached in and managed to pull out a wallet, containing ID for someone named Leticia Haynes, and the face matched the photographer's. He managed to pull out a bottle of water, half-empty, and Ani chugged it all in one go. Hydration was key, and he wasn't planning to stop for a drink anywhere once he left this hotel room.
Ani reached up and dragged the laptop and camera off the table without even bothering to unplug them, breaking the cord on the laptop charger as he did so. He fumbled as he tried to keep the lid open, and Ani let out a relieved breath when he saw, of all things, a sticky note with the admin password written on it. He moused over the screen, and it lit up without prompting a password—not asleep long enough to require one, it seemed—and when he looked for the storage systems—Cumulus, DroppedBoxes, Goggle Drive—he found only one linked to the laptop's account.
Ani wasted no time deleting every single picture in that storage system after forwarding them all to his mother's email account. Metadata could do the rest, he reasoned, and when every single photo was sent to his mother and then deleted, Ani slammed the laptop shut and stuffed it into the duffel bag. It had to have been maybe five minutes, cutting it close to when Ceres was done with her cigarette or Leticia was done ordering takeout. He jammed the camera into the bag as well, and then he zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder.
He won't deny he fell over the first time he tried to stand up with the weight of the bag. But he was a man on a mission, and Ani crawled to the window with zero hesitation.
The window was easy to open, surprisingly not squeaky. Ani was able to pull himself out onto the fire escape and crawl down the stairs without being noticed, and by the time he reached solid ground again, he could see better just where he was. He peeked out of the alley he'd wound up in, not seeing Ceres or Letica outside, and he hurriedly ran across the street while there was a lull in traffic. The closer he got to the main streets, where people would recognise him, the better.
He could hear something ringing in the duffel bag, but he didn't stop running until he made it a good block away from the hotel and hid behind an 11-Seven. Ani collapsed behind the dumpster and sighed, breathless, and he pulled out the laptop. He could try bricking it to make sure that Ceres couldn't cover her tracks—God forbid, if she and Leticia found him. But all Ani could think of right now was a fork bomb, and he still wanted this thing capable of being searched by authorities. Who knew how many other models she'd done this to?
He thought he heard yelling down the street—Ceres's voice, he thought with a lurch of his heart—and Ani jumped back to his feet and stumbled back towards the front of the 11-Seven. If anything, he was going down where security cameras could see him. His mother already knew who had him, and if he could leave a digital trail and witnesses to his last known locations, Peacekeepers could find him much faster than they already were attempting to.
He burst through the glass doors and crashed into a chip stand. The clerk behind the register screeched, "Oh my God!" and dove under their register.
Ani stumbled to his feet again and hissed. Something warm was on his hand, and he could guess it was blood. The damn corners of these shelves were a tetanus nightmare waiting to happen.
The lights inside were too bright, but he had to keep pushing forward. Ani stumbled to the register, knocking on the plastic window separating him and the clerk, and he slurred out a tired, "I need some help…"
The clerk dared to peek out, only to pause and look at the magazine stand Ani was standing next to.
"Oh my God," he said again.
"Yeah," Ani slurred. "Same."
The clerk hit a button and the doors to the store shut, and Ani could hear a lock click somewhere in the building. The lights in the store shut off immediately, and the clerk rushed out from behind the register to pull Ani back behind with him. Ani was guided to his office, where the security cameras were located, and the clerk stood guard at the door while one hand dialled for the Peacekeepers on the landline. Ani barely heard anything that was said on the phone, but he pulled the laptop out of the bag again and set it on the desk.
The clerk hung up the phone and reached behind a storage shelf—a worn out metal baseball bat came back out with his hand—and hovered behind Ani protectively.
"What, uh…"
"You know how to brick a computer?" Ani asked, disoriented. The clerk made a confused noise. "Can't let her delete everything."
"Bro, she won't get you—"
"Please."
The clerk sniffed. He looked at the door. He looked at the camera feed. Ceres and Leticia were already out the front, peering through the doors.
"Alright," the clerk sighed. "I'll just—fiddle around and make her think it's all gone. The cops can still access the files if they reinstall the system, though."
Oh thank God.
Ani reached into the duffel bag for the phone, still ringing away nonstop, and he peered at the screen with squinted eyes. He recognised a few numbers in the string that came up… How did his mother's phone number go, again? Ani slid his finger across the screen, answering the phone on speaker, and immediately the caller was screeching at him and the clerk.
"WHERE IS MY SON, YOU CU—"
"Mom?" he squeaked. Mirai Christianson stopped speaking immediately, her breath hitching, and Ani let out a relieved sigh. It was his mother's number. Good. He could talk to her until the Peacekeepers came. "I'm safe, Mom. I'm the one who sent the email."
"Where are you?" Mirai asked immediately.
"At a—I'm at a gas station," he mumbled. He leaned forward, trying to peer at the name tag on the clerk's shirt, but only caught the last half of it. "Nice guy took me somewhere safe."
"Did he call the authorities?"
"I did, ma'am," the clerk chimed in. "The store's on lockdown and there's two women outside trying to look in. I think they know he's in here—we're supposed to be open until midnight."
Ani could hear a car door open and close. He looked at the phone in alarm. "Mom?" he asked.
"I'm listening, baby. Where's the address?"
"He already told the Peacekeepers the address."
"I know. What's the address?"
The clerk hesitated as well, exchanging a look with Anakyn.
"Uh, ma'am, I don't think you should come yet—"
"You tell me where that bitch is right now, or so help me God—"
As if a beautiful distraction to keep Mirai from coming too early, Ani looked at the camera feed and let out another sigh of relief. He saw two trucks screech to a halt in the middle of the gas station parking lot, and several Peacekeepers jumped out with their guns pointed at Ceres and Leticia. The clerk dropped the bat and coughed heartily, clearly having pushed down all his stress until now.
The clerk picked up the phone from the counter and told Mirai, "The Peacekeepers are here, ma'am. They'll call you with the address. I'll keep your boy safe, promise."
"Don't you let them put those hags in the slammer before I get to them—"
Out of nowhere, Ani threw up all over the floor.
Mirai's attention was turned back to her son in an instant. "What was that sound? Ani? Are you okay? What did they do—"
"Okay Mama Bear, got it covered, bye!"
The clerk hung up the phone and slid it back into the bag. Ani stared down at the vomit—mostly water, as he hadn't had a chance to eat before he was drugged with the perfume—and he let out a tired groan as he rubbed at his eyes.
The clerk wasted no time giving him the care he needed, though. A wet floor sign over the vomit, and then he was leading Ani out into the front of the store as soon as a Peacekeeper waved them down through the camera. Credit where it was due, the clerk was careful as he pulled glass and scabs off of Ani's feet—he hadn't even realised he'd been running barefoot up till now, and he hadn't noticed the pain with every step he took. Even the disinfectant didn't hurt, and Ani had to wonder how much the rest of his body was actually injured from his escape. He'd never felt a thing, and all he could do was nurse a bucket as the clerk finished up wrapping one foot and set to work on the other.
Fifteen minutes. That was all it took for Mirai to peel into the parking lot and sprint towards the gas station at full speed. She shoved past all the Peacekeepers and even the clerk, the young man knocked to the floor with his mop on the way to clean the storage room, and she clung to Ani tightly as soon as she made it to his side.
Ani held her back, refusing to let her go, and he couldn't remember a time when he'd felt so relieved to see his mother—not since the day she'd picked him back up from Three, just after his father had died and Ani was left to fend for himself for a time.
He was safe again.
POV summaries for those who needed to skip them:
1) Yarrow - Yarrow's POV starts with her being dragged into the woods by her bullies, who are led by a girl named Amber. The group harrasses her because she is mute and this time the group takes it too far. After dragging Yarrow to the nearby lake, Yarrow recalls that she never learned to properly swim due to her dislike of deep water, and after a final jab at Yarrow's muteness, the group throws her into the water. Yarrow sinks deep into the lake and experiences a panic attack, hallucinating hands reaching for her at the bottom of the lake. She is tangled in water weeds to the point of being unable to move, only for a Peacekeeper to cut her free and pull her to the surface. Yarrow is escorted home, finding out that her cousin had followed the group and had alerted Peacekeepers to the activity. The POV ends with Yarrow finding out that Amber and the other bullies will now be facing attempted murder charges.
2) Cher - Cher's POV starts with the implication that Cher is high on cocaine, however the drug itself is not opening stated to be cocaine. She is eating greasy poutine with Mads when Jo arrives and Mads begins to air the place out. The trio go about their daily lives as usual, and when Mads pulls out special brand new phones for each of them, only two match, which she implies Jo will get the one that doesn't match the other two. Cher contemplates the nature of how well Jo and Mads get along, only for the conversation to steer towards Jo's family situation. Jo reveals that she has been engaged to a man named Mario, who is the son of a rival company, and during the talk, Cher comes to many conclusions: That whatever Jo and Mads have will no longer be able to continue, and that with someone else to take Mads's place, Cher never stood a chance at winning Jo's affections. The POV ends with all three of them agreeing that whatever discussion about the engagement needs to be had, cannot be had sober.
3) Anala - Anala's POV starts with her family being invited to the Mayor's manor for dinner, which also has the D3 mentor and Capitol mentor as guests of honour. Being longtime friends of the mayor, Anala's family is used to this happening, but Anala notes the manor feels different than it normally does. Anala is seated next to Beq, the D3 mentor, after Beq gives up his seat to get away from the mayor's husband, and Anala spends her time before dinner talking to Beq and learning more about him. Before they can get comfortable, the final guest, Throne Squire, arrives and the tension in the air becomes thick. Throne and the mayor talk in detail about Throne's cult, who claim to only want to "spread the good word", setting up a temple in D3. Beq subtly raises concerns when the mayor mentions that the old conversion therapy centre that Beq played a hand in shutting down will be used for the temple, and claims that the people who ran it claimed to have the same goals that Throne does. As they eat dinner, Throne broaches the idea of Anala personally assisting the priests of the cult when they arrive, but Beq quickly shuts it down by saying that she and both he and Throne all have to prepare for the reaping day. Anala silently is thankful that Beq prevented her from being involved in Throne's business in any way.
4) Anakyn - Anakyn's POV opens with him dazed and confused, coming to after being drugged. He is in a hotel and there are two people taking pictures of him of a risque nature, which he notes he previously declined doing when asked a week prior. Anakyn eventually recognises the two people doing this and when they take a break, confident he won't do anything, Anakyn pushes himself to take the camera, break it, and then take the bag with the laptop in it (emailing his mother while doing so), before booking it out the window with the laptop and running as far as he can from the hotel. Anakyn makes it to an Eleven-7 before he collapses, and he runs inside to ask the clerk for help. The clerk hides him in the staff room, and Anakyn asks the clerk for help bricking the computer so the assailants can't delete evidence. As they watch from the staff room, they see both assailants peeking into the locked windows of the building before Peacekeepers arrive on the scene and Anakyn is reunited with his mother.
So some somewhat heavy topics this chapter, but I hope the summaries helped a bit for those who needed to skip any. A great big thank you to daydreamer626 and darthnell for Yarrow and Cher respectively, and another great big thank you to 30777 and ShunKazamis-Girl for Anala and Anakyn respectively!