AN: If you like Hunger Games fics that are just a little bit different and a whole lot edgy, go check out Irish Luck's Legacy. You won't be disappointed!

This fic is rated T for violence and language.


The Resistance

The crowd is feverish. They press and tug against my captors or would-be-rescuers, all vying for a piece of me. Someone manages to grasp my hair, and it hurts like hell. I let out a shriek, and security stops. Too late. I send an elbow into the pervert's stomach and even over the maddening crowd I hear the breath go out of him. He swears.

Only he's not a he. She's a fourteen year-old kid holding a tuft of my hair with skin still attached, screaming in hysteria. A pack of girls fall on her, clawing, biting, kicking and scratching to steal her hard-earned prize.

Blood bubbles down my scalp. I think I'm going to be sick.


We're trapped.

They press in from every side, pounding with fists or stones against the riot shields of this small Game Security force. Eight men have their backs turned to me, encasing me completely in an isolated shell.

"For Game's Sake, just shoot!" Officer One cries.

"Negative! We've got another Tribie in this crowd! We hold for Central!" Their Captain orders. I shudder, my breaths getting shorter and tighter in this claustrophobic chaos. I agree with One.

There's a low rumble behind us. It appears Central is coming…in tanks. I peer through my protectors and make out Klerkov and Pushkina being whisked to safety. Good. But it'll be minutes until they reach us through this crowd. I'll die here, and never reach the Games. It'll be too late-

But I underestimate the Capitol. The crowd's chanting turns to wails of despair as the first line of tanks plows into and over the Capitol civilians.

And suddenly, the whole world goes to hell.


I don't remember falling. One of the guards is on top of me, riot shield raised over both our heads. Foul-tasting, acrid gas spins through the air. I'm choking on phlegm and tears. An explosion ripples through the pavement and the whole damn city is dancing. People fall. Zips and pings! followed by distant booms echo against the buildings. Glass shears and falls in deadly sheets to the streets below.

"Cease fire!" Captain commands. "Game One to Central, I said cease fire! Goddamnit, there's Tribies in this crowd!" Then for the first time in this whole ordeal, my rescuer goes pale.

"Sir, what the hell is happening-?"

"They're not shooting!" He bellows.

"Sir-?"

"Central isn't shooting!"

"What do you mean they're not shooting!" I shout.

Captain is sweating profusely. His hands shake so bad he nearly drops the radio. "It isn't Central!"

The others stiffen. I'm too naïve to be afraid. "Then who is it!"

"Fucking Libertas!" Someone spits.

"Who's Libertas?" But Captain isn't answering any more. He's furiously shouting into his radio. Now I'm petrified. Even the crowd didn't scare these men, trained Capitol soldiers. Whoever this Libertas guy is, I really, really hope I don't meet him.

"The Resistance," The guard shielding me shouts in my ear. "Listen to me, honey, you've only got one shot at this-"

"Shot at what!"

"Shot at rescue!"

"Then get me out of here!" I plead.

"That's what they're trying to do!"

They. Not we. "What are you saying-?"

He grins. "Libertas! We're here to rescue you…but not from the crowd." No. N'yet. I'm not about to be someone else's pawn, too. In the Games, at least I have a chance of surviving. If some Resistance group takes me, the Capitol won't care if there's a Tribute involved or not. They'll quash the rebellion whatever it takes. They'll even go so far as to punish my entire District—

Game Security was right. The idea of being overwhelmed by this crowd terrifies me. But I'd prefer it to nuclear desolation, any day. You picked the wrong Tribute, I tell him wordlessly. If you wanted to rescue someone with no chance of winning, you should've waited for Malcovitch.

But I'm not going to be anybody's pawn. Nobody's hostage. If Central can't rescue us, I'm not letting these Libertas nut jobs, either. And somewhere still out there, perhaps in the crowd, perhaps still on the train, Xavier Malcovtich is pissing his pants and silently screaming.

…and I told Malcovna I wouldn't let him suffer. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm really, really, sorry." My liberator doesn't have time to respond before the butt of his rifle clocks him cleanly in the face.


It really is like a stampede of cattle. Collectively, the crowd isn't all that intelligent. Dangerous, yes, but their attention is so focused on that tight-knit cluster of soldiers and the oncoming tanks they don't notice a girl with a gun slip into their ranks. It's only after I've ran two hundred meters towards the train that any one grows suspicious. Then it's just a simple matter of ramming the rifle into a face, stomach or groin and the problem solves itself.

"Malcovitch?" I cry to be heard. "Malcovitch!"

Behind me, gunfire still echoes wildly. The tanks continue their slow, squishing progress through the streets. Bones snap, people scream. But still the crowd presses on, their fury directed now against the Capitol forces. I've never before realized how petty the angry mob can be. Like a stampede, yes, but much, much more deadly. These animals don't just run, they fight back.

...like me.


AN: Thanks to anonymous reviewers Forever Falcon and Lily hawthorn. Your comments are appreciated!