Ali's heart thudded in time with the booming of the doors. The Capitol was waiting for him, just on the other side. The same Capitol that couldn't muster the strength to take District 12. What made them powerful now?
He turned to the boys from 11 and 10, looking for support. Suntee nodded, reassuring, but Aspen only offered a smile that, deep down, Ali doubted was sincere.
No matter how much he tried to convince himself that this would all turn out okay, he had to be realistic. To fight meant to declare war against the Capitol's regime. How could he possibly entertain the thought of victory and freedom with everything he had come to know of them?
He would die before he ever became their puppet.
The train car doors were violently pried open, and an army of Peacekeepers rushed inside, their ivory armor stark and clinical in the dingy car.
A Peacekeeper rushed at them, striking the nearest tribute. The sight of the girl from 5 falling to the ground, blood gushing from her broken nose, scattered some of the smaller tributes to cower behind Ali. He locked arms with Suntee, protecting those he could, while Aspen stood by, ready to engage.
The Peacekeeper grabbed the girl by her arms and began to drag her toward the door. She kicked and yelled, struggling with every ounce of her strength, her screams the same pitch as the train's thunderous whistle.
"No! No!" She screeched, thrashing and biting. The soldier grunted at a bite to his hand, though her teeth never had a chance against the riot-gear glove, and he slammed the girl's head against the wall to get her to let go. It was a game of tug of war—one she would surely lose.
Aspen sprinted toward an opening in the melee and picked the girl up by the waist. The Peacekeeper kept his grip for a long moment, unwilling to be humiliated by children. But he eventually gave up, letting the girl's arm go.
When he attempted to retreat, the girl from District 9 jumped out of the crowd of frightened teenagers and slammed her rebar against the man's helmet, cracking the visor.
The Nine grinned, ecstatic—an ecstasy that would surely disturb any of the delicate Capitol onlookers—but her triumph was short-lived. The sting of an electric prod pierced her abdomen, and she fell to the floor.
"Pick her up!" Suntee ordered. "Leave no one behind!" But his words fell on deaf ears.
Two more Peacekeepers entered the car, stepping over the fallen girl to build a wall of riot gear and shields as the soldiers behind them dragged her out. Next to Ali, the girl from District 7 froze in place.
"What are you doing?" Ali yelled at her. "Don't just stand there!"
The Peacekeeper forces marched forward as one solid wall of military might, breaking the tributes' formation and splitting Ali from Suntee.
"Get back!" Ali yelled, putting his arms up to shield the children behind him. "Everyone, get back!"
The boy from 9 let out a wretched wail, blubbering as he begged for help. He threw himself forward and latched onto Elanora's arm, shaking and bleeding openly from his forehead.
Ali could see her some feet away, too stunned to speak, too terrified to move. He couldn't lose her too. He wouldn't. The adrenaline coursing through him became a rage that erupted from his body.
He ran over to the pair and forced the boy off, gripping the boy by his shirt collar. "Get off her!" he yelled and shoved him towards the Peacekeepers. And with that, the boy was gone.
There was a moment, just one moment, where he thought they'd make it out of this.
"Ali!" Elanora screamed, pointing behind him. But it was too late.
Rough hands grabbed him and threw him to the floor of the train car. Sparked danced in his vision from the impact, sudden pain blooming in his head.
Ali squirmed around on the floor, trying desperately to meet his district partner's eyes, to look at her one last time—if this was it, this was the end.
Instead, his eyes found only the Peacekeeper, who stood over Ali and brandished his crackling baton.
A lone voice rang out over the mayhem, the violence ceasing just for a second.
"Don't!" Elanora pleaded. "Please… I'll go with you. I won't fight. Just don't hurt him…." Elanora said tears welling in her eyes at the sight of her friend in pain forced her into a state of unwilling vulnerability.
"Elanora…" Ali groaned, reaching his hand out for her. "No…" He had to get up, had to help her. They had to fight!
He managed to make it up onto his elbows, only to be kicked down and thrown onto his back. All he could do was turn his head and watch as his dear friend was escorted out.
Each tribute that fought back was beaten into submission. Like their parents, their neighbors, their friends, and their siblings. They, too, were no match for the power of the Capitol.
The Peacekeeper grabbed Ali's arm and yanked him to his feet, pushing him out of the car along with the rest of them. So much for their plan.
The boy stumbled out of the car, trying to make sense of the unknown landscape. He could see abandoned freight trains on either side of the platform and newspapers detailing the war littered the walkway. The flashing and snapping of cameras made his injured head ache, and he snarled at the members of the press here to look at them like they were some sort of entertainment. They jostled for a closer look, shouting questions, laughing among themselves.
The girl from 8 was wailing, but he refused to turn around and let them see that he cared.
Bruises, broken bones, burns from the electric batons—all his fault. There was no resisting this new Panem.
The Peacekeeper forced Ali's wrists into steel handcuffs, the cold metal digging into his skin. He twisted around to look into the man's eyes, searching for some sign of uncertainty, a light, anything to even hint at his regret for the pain he caused—nothing. Ali trudged forward at the officer's order, no longer willing to fight a losing battle.
The soldiers forced Ali and the others into a single-file line, clearly practiced at having to transport people who didn't exactly want to go where they were told. Towards the front, Ali noticed a huge boy—the 2, maybe—and behind him was the beautiful girl from 4. Next were the grim, weary eyes of the outlying pairs, that odd, giggling girl from District 9, and finally him. Why did he have to be stuck next to her? Why not Elanora? Or at least Aspen, so they could try and plan another escape?
But there would be no escape. The sight of blood on the tribute's clothes and bruises on their bodies made Ali look away, ashamed.
He heard a Peacekeeper speak into a radio before nodding his head and waving to another soldier. Then, a piercing whistle came from the front of the line.
The tributes shuffled forward in utter defeat, marching out of the train station, into the streets, and towards a destination unknown.
The street lights were dim and flickering, with broken bulbs and glass strewn on the ground they once illuminated. Ali took some satisfaction in the realization that the Capitol was still a shell of what it once was. Shops were still boarded up, and buildings that had once looked majestic in the light were still patched with plywood over the places they had been torn asunder by rocket fire and bullet holes.
Trudging through the city, they walked through the remnants of an abandoned park. A broken swing set creaked eerily, one seat hanging by a chain. Metal fragments gleamed in the low light where they lay in the grass—from bombs, maybe?—along with great dirt mounds piled high. And Ali could see what appeared to be a child's toy, burned and partially buried by rocks.
The Capitol had wanted everyone to think they were safe from the rebel fighting, and Ali had believed their propaganda. After all, the rocky mountain borders had successfully repelled the initial wave of soldiers. But the threat from the sky had proved the equalizer in this war.
"Where do you think they're taking us?" a boy asked behind him.
"I don't know. Maybe the Presidential Palace," a girl's voice responded.
Finally, he recognized Suntee's voice. "Just be ready if something goes down."
Ali had to dance away from glass shards as a bottle hit the dirt near his feet. He looked up, expecting to see a Peacekeeper sneakily taking a quick swig of a drink and discarding it. Instead, he saw a drunken Capitolian man walking the length of the park as he trailed alongside them.
The man was middle-aged, missing an ear, and had a scar that passed through his cheek as if a bullet had pierced it. He looked drunk, hobbling along as he walked, but his eyes never left the tributes.
"Should've stayed in the districts where you belong," he slurred. He caught himself on a park bench and began to rant, gaining volume if not clarity. "Could've killed me! It could've killed me… but you killed my baby. You killed my baby…."
Ali tried not to listen, keeping his eyes straight ahead, but the man's voice grew louder.
"You killed her. You all killed her. You killed her!" The man was screaming now. A Peacekeeper stepped out of formation and shoved him aside, and he tumbled to the ground.
A crowd of Capitolians was gathering, attracted by the noise. A woman jeered: "Traitors! Animals!" She walked over to the drunken, scarred man, helping him up as another burly Capitolian man confronted the Peacekeeper.
"What the hell are you protecting them for? You're supposed to protect us! That scum's hardly worth the dirt they're walking on—just look at them!"
The girl from 3 took a hit from a bottle and yelped in pain, holding her arm as she continued forward. They were walking faster, now, trying to outpace the danger in the air.
The Peacekeepers dispersed from their holding pattern around the Tributes and moved toward a group standing under a tree, armed with bricks. Ali looked at their faces—they were just kids, boys like him. But they went down as quickly as the tributes, struck with batons and hit by tasers. It happened all at once—more bottles, bricks, glass shards—taunts, screams, pain leading to more pain.
But one after the other, Capitolians came to their aid, fighting the Peacekeepers and hurling abuse and worse at the tributes.
Ali tried to protect his face and neck from the onslaught, pushed to power through the crowd. Of course, he didn't want to be held by the Peacekeepers, but they were the only ones keeping them safe in this hostile world. He stumbled forward as he took hits to his back and shoulder, legs wobbling as he moved, almost pushing the girl in front of him as he narrowly avoided a bottle flying at his head.
The bottle hit the girl from District 12 instead. She collapsed, scraping her knees in the dirt as Capitolitians laughed and jeered. Ali heard her begging for her mother as he walked past, too scared to help her up. They'd get him if he stopped, even for a moment.
He watched as she crawled away, her tears stained her face puffy red. He wouldn't let them see him fall here, even if it meant giving up on the kids he'd tried so hard to protect.
At a shout from the Peacekeeper commander, the pack of Tributes started to run—into the unknown, but away from the mob that was growing larger by the minute. Behind them were noises of chaos and violence, the Capitol consuming itself in a blind rage. The rare functioning streetlamp caught bruises, cuts, and sweat on the faces of almost every tribute as they fled back onto the city streets.
Was this what made the Capitol powerful? A blatant disregard for suffering?
He glanced around and spotted his district partner behind him, accompanied by Ginerva from 11 and the young boy from 4. This could be his chance to catch up to her, to protect her. But before Ali could move back, a Peacekeeper ordered him back into a strict single file.
Ali walked forward, grateful for the pavement under his shoes. No glass, no bomb fragments. But this wasn't just the intersection of some street or the broken boulevard of a ransacked shopping district.
This was the Avenue of Ultio.
Tattered banners promoting Panem's City Circle were hung over the buildings and walls surrounding the Avenue. Large flags of Panem swayed in the wind, and pristine government buildings displayed the full force of Panem's political empire.
That wasn't all. The bodies of rebel traitors hung from the street posts, their faces covered by white bags stained with splotches of red blood, still fresh.
There were more Capitolians here, this time sitting on stands above the street. Emaciated, sickly, and fuming with anger. They were just as vicious in their words as the ones from the park. Ali flinched from their cries, mockery of the dead rebels in their streets, and insults for the parents who birthed the children they had sentenced to death.
He recognized several young men from the park, gathering around a metal barricade separating the street from the stands. They grabbed the bars in their hands and shook with rage, trying to push inside. Nearby Peacekeepers moved to hold them back, but the men did not let up. Doing their most to incite a riot.
From high above, perched on a balcony on the Capitol Ministries building, President Highbottom sat on a silver chair and eyed the tributes intently.
It was the first time the boy from 1 had seen the man in person. And, as the tributes walked closer to where the Ministry building stood at the end of the Avenue, he could see that the president did not look at all well.
Dark circles ringed his eyes, his brown hair almost falling over his face as if he hadn't slept right in days. His face even had a gauntness to it. He looked nothing like the prim and proper gentleman he presented himself to be on television. He looked like hell.
In five years, countless Capitol innocents were lost, people of his creed having fallen prey to the extremists from the districts. There was no mercy left in him anymore.
He was not alone. By his side was his Minister of the Interior, Tullius Cirillo. A strong man with emerald eyes and pasty pale skin. He said something to the president, whispering in his ear. When he spoke on television, his voice was smooth like honey. Ali could only imagine what he was saying, wondering what kind of poison he was hissing.
Next to him was the Minister of Defense, Cyrus Xanthos. He was older, white-haired, and sturdy. He looked far more battle-hardened than the two men next to him. Standing tall and unwavering, he kept his eyes on the Capitol's prisoners. He had seen to the execution of countless rebels in the districts. There were rumors throughout the war that he was the true power holding President Highbottom's regime together.
The tributes knew they were defeated. Their bodies were worn, exhausted, and aching. They all had glass stuck in their shoes, and worse, in their hearts. If there was any peace in all this madness, it was when President Highbottom got up from his seat and approached the podium. The Peacekeeper commander leading their line instructed them to look up. To listen as their president spoke.
"Today, as we recognize the reconciliation of the war's end, the Capitol triumphs over the vile tyranny of the districts. The flames of rebellion have been distinguished, and its rebel leaders defeated. The Capitol shall lead Panem towards brighter dawn."
The eyes of the nation greet President Highbottom as drone-mounted cameras zoomed in to get a better look. The idiots in this town saw him as a visionary, a leader, an artist. All Ali could see was his crazed grin and a gloomy expression lingering in his eyes.
"To mark the beginning of a new Panem is to reaffirm that the districts know their role in our great society. It is my solemn duty to speak of retribution for the Capitol lives lost fighting the rebellion. Let us set a precedent on this day that the act of defiance will not be tolerated. Our great nation has survived the calamities that fell upon our ancestral generations; those that betray the Capitol's trust must now reap the consequences they have sown."
His words sent the Capitolites into a frenzy. They wanted revenge and pain, and they didn't care where it came from. They hurled bricks and bottles at the Peacekeepers just because they couldn't reach the Tributes. They knew something was coming. President Highbottom had brought these Tributes into the heart of their city for a reason, and they smelled blood in the water.
Ali did, too. He glanced behind him and locked eyes with Suntee, appreciating that the other boy seemed to also be on his guard. "Stay vigilant," Suntee mouthed.
Highbottom lowered himself carefully back into his chair, apparently done holding court—for now. Maybe he wanted to build the suspense, playing with people's lives like the insane dictator he was.
An armored truck drove into the circle, swinging around to park with its back to the Tributes. Riddled with bullet holes and a broken headlight, it looked like it had survived the whole war. The back doors rolled up to reveal twenty-four seats, twelve on the left and twelve on the right.
What else could they do but get in? They couldn't stay out here, where they'd be torn apart by the mob. And they couldn't go home, no matter how much they wanted to. The Peacekeepers directed them inside, and in the chaos of seating, Ali slipped in to take a seat next to Celery. He kept an eye on the doors, anticipating his friend's arrival.
Ginerva entered the truck alongside Elanora, her lip busted and her left cheek swollen. She took the seat opposite of him, panting in pain or exhaustion. "We shouldn't have fought back... Too soon..."
Suntee entered right after her and took his seat next to Ali.
"Are you okay?" Suntee asked.
"What were we thinking?" Ali tried to control his expression, but his voice was shaking.
"We did what was necessary. It's the only voice we have now."
"Did you see what they did to us? Where are we now? What point is there in fighting if this is what they'll do to us?"
"Ali, listen to me." Suntee looked at the car door, watching as the last tribute got on board. A Peacekeeper followed after him, the doors shutting behind him. "No matter what happens, we can't give in to emotion." He looked back at his ally. "Let's lay low for now and figure out more of what's going on. And then, we can assess our options. Fair?"
"I'm not going to get any more people hurt. Not because of me. But if what you're saying doesn't involve any more violence, then yeah. Fair." In truth, he was unsure. He wanted to trust Suntee. To trust that perhaps there was some reasoning that could explain everything that had happened to them.
The Tributes rode in a silence interrupted only by the occasional whimper and the chaos outside. When more bottles and bricks hit the truck, everyone flinched, the shark sound reverberating inside its interior.
It reminded Ali of home. The bullets, the missiles, the fires. But here, the noises stopped. In the Capitol, there was an end to the violence. An escape.
But would there be an escape for them?
Ali felt tired, leaning his head back against the wall and feeling the air of bullet holes refreshing his face as the truck sped through the streets. He closed his eyes, finally giving in to the darkness.
They were far and deep in the belly of the beast now.