CHAPTER THREE – Catching Fire

Seventy six years since the Dark Days

There was a pile of letters on the desk as large as the desk itself. All unchecked, and all from other districts. In front of the pile sat two more, marked "THROW AWAY" and "IMPORTANT". The size of the IMPORTANT pile was roughly a fifth of the THROW AWAY pile, even as every few minutes, letters were decanted in chunks off into a portable incinerator. A large majority were not even read through, but they all said essentially the same things: We need more weapons to fend off Thirteen. What are you doing to stop this uprising? IF WE BURN YOU BURN WITH US. Fire was catching, and Panem looked on at his leader, his face impassive.

It was a miracle that President Snow was able to keep up his well-groomed, refined disposition, what with all the trouble. He sat at his desk, efficiently sorting letters, his snake-like eyes narrowed in concentration. Tiredly, he raised a single hand to wipe some sweat off his brow, and shook his head in disappointment. "Things are worse than I thought," was all he said, not looking up from his work, and Panem could not be sure if the sentence was directed at him. One from Two. One from Eight. Two in a row from Three. The pile went on and on, and didn't seem to shrink in size at all. Panem smirked. Since the home address of President Snow had been made public through one of the rebel propos, the letterbox had fallen out of use. Now, there was simply a crate the size of a washing machine outside the front door, into which letter after letter fluttered and accumulated.

"Don't you have servants to do this for you?"

Snow's eyes glanced up at his nation. "My servants are busy fortifying the mansion."

Panem yawned slightly, and turned his attention away from his president, to the window. The land outside looked peaceful. How long would it be before the rebels reached the Capitol? Would the uprising be crushed like last time, or would the districts win? Did he care? His eyes slid back to Snow, who was about a quarter of the way through the largest pile. Panem ought to be on the side of the Capitol. He was on the side of the Capitol. Nations obey their leaders – that was, as far as he had ever understood it, the rule. He helped the Capitol whenever he could and did nothing to betray them, especially since the dark days. But now, what with the rebels stirring up civil conflict, old urges were beginning to bloom inside Panem. He was feeling a yearning for something, though he could not be sure what. All he knew was that whenever he was watching Capitol broadcasts when they were hijacked by rebels, he felt a flutter of satisfaction, rather than anger. No, more than satisfaction: exhilaration.

You could tell which letters were from where, after staring at nothing but them for a while. Many came in brown envelopes, some stuck with a seal, some with tape and some with spit. All were printed on brown or white paper. A brown envelope, a white note, a black-edged letter, another brown envelope, a cream letter with elaborate gold edges, all to the throw away pile. At least Snow knew what he was doing.

Wait. A cream letter? With gold designs? Panem looked back at Snow, already seven letters ahead, the fancy envelope sinking under sheet after sheet of paper. "Hey!" he cried. Snow briefly looked up, and clenched his fist around a grey envelope with a seal from District Two.

"What is it, Panem, do you realise how busy –"

"What's that cream letter? The fancy one? It's not from one of the districts." Snow checked in the throw away pile, and fished it with mechanical precision. The other letters stayed totally still.

"This one?" Panem nodded, eyes wide. Snow threw it unceremoniously back on the pile. "It's not important." Panem drew back at the tone, but couldn't help looking reproachful. Snow continued. "It was addressed to you," he said, turning away from the nation and continuing with his sorting, a frantic edge to his movements this time. "I only need letters that are addressed to me, and that are important. We are dealing with an uprising now. Whatever that letter was, it should not have even made it to my doorstep." Panem looked from pile to pile, eventually meeting the back of Snow's head, which was still turned away from him. He shrugged, tried to stave off the feeling of powerlessness, and that familiar longing.

"OK. Fair enough, I suppose. We've got a lot to worry about now." Snow nodded curtly.

"Indeed," he said, picking up the THROW AWAY pile and sweeping it into the incinerator. "Quite a lot."

December, 2232

England's injuries were more frustrating than anything else. They were in all the uncomfortable places on the body not usually expecting injury: the armpits, the small of his back, the buttocks. They were partially healed, and smarted when exposed to pressure, which made sitting down far more of an ordeal than he would have liked. France was suffering just as badly; his face, like England's, seemed relatively unharmed, but he shifted in his seat continually. For the first part of the evening, they sat on either end of the table in the meeting house in silence, eating dinner and despairing. The dim light in the centre flickered and danced, darkness creeping in from all sides. France looked dully at a piece of meat that glowed orange in the candlelight, and England sipped a pint of beer as slowly and with as much self-restraint as he could manage.

England had called the meeting. He said that he had come up with something truly brilliant, something that could help them win the war. He was very proud of it, and, though he wouldn't admit it, smug. He decided to invite France to the meeting house and tell him over dinner, in the most casual of tones – purely to supply himself with a semblance of superiority to his ally. Old rivalries never really die out.

"So," France said, thickly, beginning to prod the meal in front of him. "Have you heard from Panem yet? Is that the brilliant thing?" England shook his head. The wound in his armpit itched, and he tensed his muscles in an attempt to drive the irritation away.

"We shouldn't have expected better. He's going through a difficult time at the moment, and you know that we aren't exactly on speaking terms right now." He tried at a smile and just about succeeded. Bringing up Panem would not bring down his evening, he decided. He directed his thoughts to his wonderful breakthrough, and the smile widened without him trying. France abruptly stood up, clenching his fists upon the table.

"This has gone on for long enough. He can't just separate himself from the rest of the World forever, not while all this is going on –"

"He did so in the First World War," England said, calmly. "And the Second. He joined both eventually. Perhaps the same will happen now." Though, since his recluse, Panem had not given a response to a single world affair, no matter how critical. England wondered if he should tell France now. No, he thought. Let him say something that it can relate to, so it makes more sense, looks better...

France shook his head, and a few dirt flecks landed on the table. "Non, non, mon ami, you have been used. We can't possibly win this war without help. Europe is helpless on its own. You should have been more forceful with India."

England slowly rose from his chair as his face darkened. He slid away from the table brought himself close to France's face. He smelt, among other things, smoke on his ally's breath. "Do you doubt our strength? Our wit?" he whispered, not threateningly or menacingly, but challenging. France stayed stubborn.

"Oui. Yes, I do, England." Their eyes met, truly met, and England was surprised at the level of desperation and frustration he saw. He opened his mouth to retaliate, tell him that there was no place for doubt in a war like this, or call him a pushover. Only one thought – the thought that, even after all this time, England's messages to the Americas had gone unanswered – stopped him. Instead his lips curled into a smile. Now. Now I can tell him.

"There is a way around that," he said. "We just need to become stronger ourselves. That is why I invited you here." He walked back to his side of the table and France sank into his chair. "I have developed some weaponry. The creation has been going on since the start of the war, but none of us were sure of its power or stability." France leaned a little forward in his seat, clasping his hands together and resting his chin upon them. "We are certain now. Only the finishing touches are necessary. The weapon will be ready for use by my country in two weeks. I tell you now to not only bring good news, but to warn you." France drew back into his chair a little, wary of the smile that still lingered on his ally's face.

"Warn me of what, my friend?" England's eyes flashed. He always had a weakness for the occasional display of theatrics.

"To be well out of the way, my friend. Whether you like it or not."

Glucose Volanticus. England could not be prouder.

The name was originally homage to one of his close friends, but no one ever had to know that. Besides, it wasn't the name that mattered. It was the damage it could do. And, England was happy to say, Glucose Volanticus was capable of a lot of damage – even more than the nuclear weapons that died out with Korea and Panem kept to himself.

It was some kind of mix between organic and nuclear substances, a combination of reactions. England was not sure of all the details – warfare was his forte, not science. The weapon was launched as a missile from long range and could be used in battle or on the country itself. It would sit for exactly thirteen seconds, not nearly enough for anyone to get away, but long enough to instil the right amount of panic before it detonated. The microscopic electronic sparks that it unleashed went on for hundreds of miles in all directions, causing anything flammable to combust. The initial explosion was enough to shake the ground as much as a level 5 earthquake. It was enough to devastate a nation for months. Possibly, England tried not to think about the Muscovites and the way he leant on his pipe, enough to wipe a weak one out completely. The weapon was perfect. The target was perfect. One order was all it needed... But, of course, that would be barbaric. Not weapon, he decided. Deterrent.

He told the Muscovites in person, in a cosy private meeting, all he could about Glucose Volanticus.

"It could wipe out everything you know and love," he said. "Simply call off everything you have done and it won't. I sincerely hope that you choose to do this." There was a tiny sadistic part of England that lied as he said this. A part that hoped instead that the Muscovites would continue his assault, just so England could watch such a great former power grovel at his feet.

Muscovites remained completely impassive. The silence swelled between them, until eventually England sighed.

"Well, if you are that desperate to continue fighting –"

"A truce." England blinked in mild surprise. Muscovite's eyes were unreadable, save for one emotion... Greed...

The cold nation continued. "We stop fighting for a week. If no conclusion is reached by the end, then we reopen fire as we did before. You do not fire upon us without warning. We do not fire upon you without warning." The familiar excited glint returned to his eye. "It makes things easier, don't you agree?"

England fought to stop himself from smiling. "Good. We start the discussions tomorrow, then." As he departed for his homeland, he felt a glimmer of hope slowly rising from the darkness, the sensation of thousands of people feeling marginally better. He didn't stop a smile this time.

The week slowly went on; meeting after meeting, plan after plan, ideas crumbling again and again. No compromise could be met. The candle-flame of hope was slowly being suffocated, and England's frustration grew every time he checked his mail for a word from Panem, but he kept himself together. There is no danger, he reminded himself. No pain for anyone for the week. Just come to a conclusion.

On day four of the truce, France turned up to his house and begged him to tell him what was going on. There was a gash half a foot long across his forehead. England stiffened.

"There is a truce. Muscovites can't attack you."

"This wasn't the Muscovites." France's hands were clasped together and held in front of him, giving him the illusion of someone in chains. "For the love of God, England, I hope you know what you are doing. My people's food is being rationed while the authorities tell them nothing."

"Tell them to enlist, that normally works. Gives them a purpose in life."

"Mon Dieu, England, what are you doing?"

"I'm doing what I can."

On day six, England made his way to the edge of the Muscovites' realm. He brought a reasonably sized army with him, sure that the Muscovites would do the same. It will be fine, he consoled himself. There is still no danger. You'll come to a conclusion today. It was a remarkably clear day. As the Sun took its snail-speed leap across the sky, weaving in and out of clouds, he stood and waited. Scary questions began to chew at the insides of his brain.

Suppose we don't come to a conclusion? Then what? I can't fire unless fired upon – but what if it's too late by then? This is the Muscovites and Japan – who's to say they haven't got something up their sleeve? And what if the truce is broken prematurely? I will be taken completely off guard. And then there's that greedy look I saw in his eyes... What if he's after the Glucose Volanticus? What on Earth am I going to do?!

Not for the first time in that week, England wished Amer-Panem would talk to him. There was only so much he could say to France, knowing he was going through times as hard as him, and knowing he was moments away from a spiral of depression. What England would give for a little optimism.

The nation glanced back at his troupes. All armed, all on their guard, but none of them on the attack. The control team for the super weapon was there as well. You still have that, though he dreaded thinking it, If the worst does come to the worst, all you have to do is yell for them to fire.

There won't be any problems, anyway. You'll just reach a conclusion and end this war. This silly war that hasn't been anything really, nothing on that Religion War, or on World Wars One and Two. You have nothing to worry about...

"England! Mr England, sir!"

Nothing... Nothing at all...

England turned slowly to see the general hurrying towards him. "What?" he asked softly. Here was something to take his mind off this unbearable waiting.

Nothing. Accept it. Nothing.

"The home guard, sir – they've discovered Russian planes on the radar – armed ones, too –"

Nothing.

"We've ordered a retreat – you have to board the plane, sir, now –"

At... All...

There was a void in England's mind, for a few moments. He felt his mouth open, close, and open again, quite without volition. He let himself see one glimpse of his general's stricken face, of the empty space behind him – and suddenly thoughts tumbled over him, enveloping and blunting his senses.

They've attacked. They've broken the truce. They have committed a war offence. I can attack now. I can't attack. I should be in England, protecting my country, rather than standing here in this cold, stupid, insane land, they broke the truce, they broke the truce, at least my soldiers are all safe, what do I do, I can't just leave, Muscovites is a stinking, dirty rascal, why has he attacked, what kind of weaponry is on those damned planes, they broke the truce, they broke the truce, I can fire, I can fire, I can fire, kill, annihilate, destroy, I can fire...!

"Damn it," he hissed, "Fire, damn it...!" His mind was ablaze with one thought: Muscovites must die. He raised his voice, screaming into his communicator to the control team –

"FIRE, DAMMIT!"

There was complete silence for two minutes. The wind was piercingly bitter; it whistled through the air, it rubbed against England and it burned. England felt, as his legs shook so hard they threatened to buckle, that he might catch fire from the friction.

A line of men in Russian outfits led by a tall, warmly clad gun-bearer came into view from behind the mist.

And then, all of a sudden, the sound was taken by screaming whistles, as the Muscovites' and England's heads all turned toward the sky – and three thousand miles away, England's last hope burned in a small incinerator marked with the Capitol Seal.