The Theft

To all my loyal readers, I thank you for continuing to tune in. I thank you all deeply. I still do not own Portal, or the Hunger Games. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

"D'ye think she's mad at us?" Wheatley asked Mimi.

"She" in this case was Chell. The question had been delivered in an undertone, with a squeaky sidelong glance (his optical bearings needed to be oiled). Mimi, in response, had lifted her upper core handle in an expressive way, and said nothing. After a pause, Wheatley gave an electronic cough and said, more loudly, "Really marvelous, this climbing business. And you're doing a fantastic job of it. Sen-sational."

Chell gave no indication that she'd heard him. She continued her ascent up the stairwell, eyes always fixed upwards. She made slow progress, with two cores to carry. But she didn't stop. She'd developed a sort of bouncing stride, as if to make her boots carry as much of the weight as they could. She didn't want to leave Wheatley answerless and excluded (a state of being to which he seemed accustomed, as he just kept talking), but now that She was all around her, now that Chell was once more a subject to be observed, Chell had to stay silent. She wasn't even sure if it was conscious; in the face of such terrifying and complete control, when Chell felt afraid – and she was afraid of GLaDOS, she'd be insane not to be – she clammed up, and couldn't speak even when she wanted to.

Besides, she wouldn't give GLaDOS the satisfaction of hearing her voice.

By the happenstance gleam of red in a corner, Chell knew she was being watched. But GLaDOS made no other move to contact her.

After a pause, Wheatley hit on a bright new idea and said, "You know, this is probably for the best. I mean, to be getting out of that 'Game' – it's not really a Game at all, is it? It's a war. A teeny tiny war. Monstrous, really. You'd have to be a monster to win one."

Chell made a sound – a low "Heh," but nothing more. She slowed to a halt, next to an ajar panel in the wall that had a red hand print next to it. Chell peered through the gap.

"Um, no, negatory, a red handprint is usually taken, that is, in most aboriginal countries, to be a very bad thing, being as red is the color of okay so you're going to charge right through. Or you could do that, right," he said as Chell put the cores down, shoved the panel aside, and went through the gap. After a moment, she pulled the two cores in behind her.

The nook had no furnishings, and no other way out – but no cameras either. There were decayed newspapers piled on the floor, and just enough space for Chell to put down the cores, and curl in the fetal position.

"Oh, so, you're sleeping now? In power-down, deactivate, install new updates automatically mode? Does this mean you won't hear me? Oh, you won't want to hear me? Fine, then. Perfectly fine. Sweet dreams – well, I personally prefer sweet automatic updates."

Mimi cleared her throat self-consciously, and sang a scale, as if warming up. When Chell made no move to silence her, Wheatley said, "Hey, why is she allowed to make noise and I'm not?"

Chell raised her hand to him – making him go "Sorry I didn't mean it I'll clam up—" but she just patted his hull, as if to say, "just let this be."

She lifted Wheatley so that his optic was very close to her face. He could see her pupils contracting, as if the light was a little uncomfortable. "Are you all right, l-love?" he asked her.

Chell was almost certain she would be blinded by afterimages and shadows, but she needed him this close, close enough that she could pretend there was no one else listening in, as she said – barely using her voice at all – "What was your idea?"

"What idea? OH! You mean that brilliant idea that I had right before everything went tits-up, so to speak?" His lower optic lid gave a little upward twitch. "Heh heh… tits."

Chell glared at him.

"Sorry, I'm a mature and capable core. I'm – anyway. Someone said Peeta might be dead, that his body, his shuffled-off mortal coil, as it were, was on its way to District Twelve. And I thought, coo, why did no one think of it before? Just make everyone seem like they're dead – ship 'em out home – and revive them once they're out of here! Foolproof, really. mean, it worked in Romeo and Juliet, didn't it? I'm not sure how we'll fool her – each of the tributes has a little whatsit in their elbows – somewhere in that vicinity – that says things like blood and heart rate and things like that. And… well, I'll work on it tonight, how about that, while you're in low-power mode?"

Chell nodded, and made a gesture, pointing at her eyes, and at the hallway beyond.

"Yes, yes, I'll raise the alarm, no problem. I'll scream and shout at the first sign of trouble. I'd – I'd neverletanythinghappentoyou," he said in a rush, his optic suddenly contracting, and then looking down, up – anywhere but her face.

Chell's face was blank – if she was speaking, words would have completely failed her. Instead, she pressed her forehead against his hull, right against the top of his optic. She felt his internal machinery whirr faster, and then slower again, reminiscent of a heartbeat.

She pulled back, giving a little smile. He stammered out "Goodnight" as she turned him around to face the door. Mimi she placed looking in an opposite direction – because you never knew.

Mimi began to sing, hesitatingly, "Go to sleep, you little baby, don't you weep pretty baby…" but Chell shook her head and curled tighter into herself.

Then Mimi sang something else, something Italian, rhythmic, and crooning, that made Chell think that the core had not forgotten that a part of her had once been – once upon a time – a mother.

- Not as Deep as the Love I'm in -

"Finnick? What's happened to me?"

In the Capitol, someone was bound to be cracking a joke. Something about how it had taken Annie Cresta long enough to notice that something was different. Finnick had picked her up like a sack of potatoes and hoisted her along as he left the supply closet, darting from shadow to shadow, alert of any stray robot.

In actuality, the darting and the overplayed alertness was purely for the Capitol crowd. Finnick knew damn well that cameras were recording his every move and every word that Annie – Annie? Could this metal sphere be Annie? – spoke. But the moment he had carried her out of the supply closet, he had seen a camera, and thought about how this would appear to the Capitol. To the Gamemaker. To District Four. And playing the role of the paranoid protector was the only way to keep himself from collapsing on the ground and screaming, or tearing out his hair and screaming, or leaping at the nearest camera and screaming.

So it was really remarkable that he wasn't screaming when he answered Annie's question, saying, "I'm not sure. Tell me again, what the last thing you remember was?"

"I remember crying."

Sad to say, that was not an uncommon answer for Annie to give in any situation. "Someone was asking you questions?"

"Yes – yes, questions about you."

"Were you alone with them? Was it at the Capitol?" Finnick's imagination was conjuring up a small, windowless room, in the kind of building that no one ever left. And he wanted the entire nation to imagine it, too.

"No… I mean, yes, I mean, we were at the Capitol… I went there because I wanted to look after you, Finnick… But it was on camera. They were interviewing you because you're one of the final eight."

"I am? I've… wow. I've actually lost count."

"Well, there's nine left now, but it's been getting so quiet lately, so few cannons, but the Capitol decided to have the interviews a little early, and no one really knows what happened to Beetee, but his signal vanished after he blacked out from that gas. One talked to the Gamemaker, and then there were nine," she said in a little singsong.

"So it was for the broadcast?"

"Oh, yes. I'm quite sure they were interviewing your family in District Four. Poor Mags. Poor Mags' family. Finnick, she volunteered to enter the arena for me. She's dead now because of me!" Despite the fact that she had no tear ducts or vocal cords, a wavering, strained note had entered her voice. Finnick halted and folded himself onto the floor, bending over Annie so that he could touch her, so she could see him.

"No, Annie, sssh, don't be like that – ssssh, ssssh, it's all right."

"No, it's not, Finnick, that makes the death toll twenty-four, all twenty-four dead—"

"Annie, it's what we agreed on. Mags knew what she was going in to. She was willing to die. She was happy to see – to give you your life." Now Finnick's voice was the one that quivered, at the thought of Annie's life being reduced to this. "She was old, her life was over."

"But I'm nothing, Finnick! She gave herself up for nothing—"

"No, Annie," he said, looking her straight in her optic, keeping his voice firm – really it wasn't too unlike old times. "You're not nothing. You are a daughter of the sea, and Mags counted you as one of her own. Remember? We talked about it. It's okay."

Annie squinted her optic. "We did?"

"Yes… don't you…" Finnick stopped.

All of District Four's living Victors had gathered on a borrowed boat, the night before the Quarter Quell Reaping. They had talked about volunteering, they had talked about their previous Games. They had talked about the future, and the Mockingjay, and about their families and who would look out for them. They had said good-bye. And all this had been held on a boat belonging to a friend, one that would be big enough to hold all of them (and the beer), but not carry any bugs or microphones or recording equipment. Nothing that would carry their words back to the Capitol…

… nothing that this Gamemaker could use.

"Don't you remember?" he said. "Mags put her hands on either side of your face – just like this – and told you that you had a whole life ahead of you, a life full of more beauty and joy than you could begin to imagine? And you smiled – and kind of blushed – and turned your head away, to look at the sea?" It was so strange, so strange to talk to this metal ball that had Annie's voice as if it possessed her warmth, her flickering, shy smile, to stroke the top of her hull as he would her hair. It was so unsettlingly wrong, but he kept talking, because caring for Annie was what he did, no matter what. "You had a flower in your hair, and Mags told you she wasn't afraid to die."

"I… I don't remember… but that sounds beautiful."

A new idea occurred to Finnick. He picked the core up and said, "Let's keep going."

So they made their way through the maze, with Annie offering advice – which Finnick always took. She seemed to calm down, assessing the dangers of the arena just as he did. Along the way, he asked her questions, at first just simple questions to make her think of happy things, of District Four and the sea. And then he asked questions about her Game – brief questions, comparing it to their current Game. And then he asked her, "What did I say to you, the morning of the Reaping, when we watched the dawn break over the sea?"

And Annie was quiet for a long time, before she said, "I seem to remember… you told me that…" and she said in a singsong, "The wind is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful, and so are you. Dear Annie, let me see you smile… Finnick?" she said after a pause, jerking him out of his thoughts. "Did I get it right?"

"Yes, yes, of course you did," he said, looking her straight on, smiling as earnestly as he could, so she wouldn't realize he was lying.

"Am I still beautiful?" her voice was a tiny tremble, her optic wide.

"Yes. You're always beautiful. And you're going to survive this arena, Annie."

"Oh, Finnick – but not without you."

"Don't worry. I'm not going to leave you."

- I know not if I sink or swim -

Some hours later, in sleep, Chell reached out her hand. She wanted to touch something in her dream – something close, something good – but her hand met empty space.

In the part of her brain that was ever alert, that remembered the layout of the cubbyhole in which she had fallen asleep, knew that that was wrong. She jerked awake. The first thing she saw was her arm, extended into the empty space in front of her. Empty. The cubbyhole was empty, except for her.

She let out an involuntary sound – something between a gasp and a moan as she looked around for some trace – any trace – of the cores. Nothing there but the portal gun, still glowing. She crawled on hands and knees out of the cubbyhole, checking the ceiling. No, Wheatley hadn't found a way to miraculously re-attach himself to the Management Rail. He was nowhere to be found. Mimi had vanished. The hall was completely silent.

Chell jumped when GLaDOS addressed her, and cursed herself for her weakness, doubling back to seize the portal gun.

"Rise and shine."

As Chell crawled out of the cubbyhole and stood tall, she tried to choose which way to go – to try and rescue the cores, or to keep escaping? And did it make any difference? – while appearing fierce and resolute and completely impervious to what She might say.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find you? Did you really think I would be distracted from my most valuable test subject?"

Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit.

"I took them away for their own happiness, you know. They would have realized quickly, what a monster you were – how you coldly left your companions to the neurotoxin… And I thought that taking away my personality cores without a goodbye was best. As I recall, you don't handle goodbyes very well. You like them to have an incendiary quality to them, and I can't have you destroying more of my priceless equipment. I also can't have you interfering in the 75th Annual Hunger Game…"

And like that, Chell's mind was made up. She started to run in the direction she'd arbitrarily pegged as "away." But still GLaDOS talked…

"I have plans, and sub-plans, and counterplans in case the first plans don't work out – and plans to switch things up, just in case I get bored. And there's a place for you in every one of them. So run, if you wish. But remember: In here, the odds are ever in my favor."

Chell kept running.

GLaDOS moved the forefront of her consciousness away, letting the little lab rat run through the maze. The two stolen cores had not yet reached the central chamber; She had other things to attend to.

She could almost feel the tension of the Capitol audience, deprived of bloodshed for so long, like an orchestra on the verge of striking up its first note. But a smart conductor didn't start at the climax. Things had to crescendo.

For starters…

GLaDOS' cameras focused on the District Six female, who was, astoundingly, still alive. She had sweated, shivered, and hallucinated her way through the upheavals, even when her District partner had vanished, to be replaced by a cannon blast. It was an impressive display of fortitude. District Six should be proud of her.

But she – what was her name? Quincy Oswald – was a loose end, and needed to be cut…

- District Six's Pride and Joy –

Quincy was lucid. It had been years and years, but she was finaly seeing and feeling clearly. The clouds were gone. The morphling was out of her system. When had she gotten so thin and pale? How long had she been in here? How many were left? She curled in a corner, where nothing could sneak up on her and her jelly-weak legs could rest.

She took off the boots, wondering where she got covered in blue and orange paint. A sense returned to her—she and Edgar had played in the paint, had laughed together. Now Edgar was dead. And she would die, too. And in such an ugly place.

She closed her eyes, and could remember District Six – the endless blue sky overhead, the heat of the sun blanketing her skin, the taste of thyme and sumac. And after a fire raged the land, the mountains would be covered in – what were they called? – waving hands of orange and pink, yellow and red – she could see them, smell them – she remembered—

"Smokeflowers," she said out loud, her voice raspy from disuse. "Smokeflowers. Smokeflowers."

She tilted her head back, remembering with clarity and joy. It would all be over soon. It wouldn't be so bad, then, to die … she wouldn't have to be in pain or be weak anymore. She would go home, and nourish the smokeflowers that would bloom when the fire that caught all over Panem had died down. It would be nice to rest, to really rest.

She heard footsteps, coming closer. She opened her eyes.

Coming closer, into focus, was a woman in a jumpsuit of silver and black. Blood dripped down her front, a faded stain dribbling down from her mouth. Ah, the District Two tribute. As she approached, she seemed to bring the Games, and the Capitol, with her.

She could almost hear the commentary now:

"Ooh, I don't think anyone saw this coming!"

Always so overdone, the dramatics… this Career was finding it hard to put one foot in front of the other…

"And now the last surviving tribute approaches – the suspense is tangible – this is the big showdown!"

And she remembered, throughout her Victory Tour, her recap, her training… even to her Reaping… beneath her terror and shock… she'd been so annoyed…

"This Career is unarmed – maybe little Quincy will stand a chance after all!"

They had never gotten her name right…

The Career was standing over her.

The old woman raised her head…

… and, before she could help it, chuckled.

Below the glaring, desperate eyes, beneath the days-old bloodstains – Enobaria was toothless.

The laughter was not a good idea. The Career's hands found the old woman's throat, pulled her from the wall, and the old woman began to gasp. But she didn't kick, she didn't struggle. The only protest she made was to whisper: "My name…"

Enobaria paused. The cameras swooped in to catch this last confession:

"My name… is Querencia."

That said, the Victor from District Six closed her eyes.

- District Two's Pride and Joy -

Enobaria had been mad – no onelaughed at a Career, no one laughed at Victor, no one laughed at a warrior of District Two – but she let the old woman have her say. And then, she made it quick.

She put down the body, fighting an urge to wash her hands. The District Six biddy had looked far too much like her grandmother, dead and buried now these past ten years.

Enobaria went back to collect her portal gun, hoping to find food soon. She wanted out of this arena, and she could win with her own bare hands.

She continued down a hallway, turned a corner, and stared. A tribute in green – Johanna Mason, she would have bet on it – was waltzing solo, while on every surface, gun turrets beamed her way, keeping time.

If Enobaria could speak, she would have probably cussed out of sheer confusion.

Johanna saw her and stopped waltzing.

For a minute they just stared at each other, mutually embarrassed and confused as hell.

Then Enobaria figured that if one of them didn't do something quickly, they were going to do something really stupid like laugh, and then this would just get worse.

So she ran towards the District Seven tribute.

And the overture gave way to the first movement…