The Rebel
Plutarch Heavensby wasn't the last.
More Peacekeepers. Helmeted, anonymous, cold. A man kneels bound between them, face shrouded by a dripping black hood, awaiting execution. His wrists are bound, first from behind then wrenched over his head so that mask nearly drags the ground. Even from here I watch him work to draw breath.
"Release him," Snow sneers. Then his hand finds my chin. "You will watch this."
"I will." I just witnessed his mercy, grotesque as it was. Now I must see his vengeance. I am Petra Angelovna, the Butcher's daughter, and we're meat. Meat and bones. Nothing more.
Whirling knife. The bonds are cut. The man collapses forward on his face, a grunt of relief even though that thick shroud. His wrists twitch, he rubs them gasping, the circulation returning. Only once does he attempt to Peacekeepers see to that. He sprawls forward with their booted blows and lays still, panting. Finally satisfied, Snow bends and removes that hood.
I try not to blink. Not to cry out. Not to press fingers to my face. I am as still as Luccan Sheen when his name was called, not mine. Even bloodied I know that face—I know those eyes. And right now they are blazing.
"Beg, Raelius. Plead for mercy," Snow goads him. "Entertain me, and perhaps I'll spare you."
But Marcus Raelius is silent. Blood trickles from his split lips.
Snow turns to me, plain face unreadable. "Perhaps you recognize him."
Don't lie, don't lie, he can sense a lie! "He's the medic," I say. "Just…the medic."
"Don't be naïve, Butcher," Snow snaps that hood to the stone. "He's also the mastermind behind the Resistance today."
Maybe you should hire a squad of Peacekeepers to keep me safe, my words suddenly chill me. Marcus is the Resistance. Marcus is fucking Libertas. It's little wonder he was wary: he already had. I was right: he isn't one of them. That's why he was so kind to us.
Then it hits me. Cold and fast. That bomb. The one that killed all those Capitol citizens…
No. No. Fuck, no. He was kind to me, to Holi, to Malcovitch—
An incendiary device, he told me sadly, then went back to treating the people he had executed. That bomb. All those people…forcing me to talk to Holi just so I would kill her. That was Marcus, too.
Klerkov. Tasha. Cinna. Snow. Heavensby…and now Marcus Raelius. Damn him. Each has an agenda. Each wants something from me. I'm alone in the valley of the shadow of the Capitol and I have no friends, only Captors. Who the fuck are you? I want to ask him. Why did you try to kidnap me? To save me? To use me?
Even now I know I will never have the chance to ask.
"He deserves to be applauded for his efforts in derailing the Games, which very nearly succeeded," Snow hisses, circling him with unmasked contempt. "But fortunately, for your sake, Butcher, you had the presence of mind not to cooperate. A wise choice. It saved your life. Go on, then," He instructs the faceless Peacekeepers. "Applaud him."
Half-hearted clapping, jeers, insults, hand gestures I don't recognize but their meaning clear. The night becomes thick with smoke, catcalls, curses and whistles. Those closest undo their trousers and the air reeks of sudden piss, splashing the blood from his face. He never blinks. Never moves. Doesn't waver. In the face of their scorn he has eyes—such eyes!—for Snow alone.
Blyad. He's either brave or a reckless fool. Sadness eats me. I hate him. I admire him. I love him…and I'm about to watch him die. I can sense it. It's coming closer. And I don't think I can fucking stand it.
"You've been plotting, Raelius," Snow states, crouching to stare into his eyes. "I thought we'd discussed this."
"We did," Marcus returns simply. "And you're gravely mistaken if you believe my life worth more to me than my work."
"Your life?" he asks, almost amusedly. "That's your sentence. But we're far past that now. I will also see you punished. Your brother or your uncle. Choose."
…Cinna. My heart heaves faster in my throat. For minutes they stare. Snow, impassive; Marcus, obstinate. But Snow is far from impressed by this show of stoicism. "Deign an answer, Raelius, and I'll kill them both."
I watch with bated breath. Seconds drag on. Snow grows impatient."Shall I tell my men to shoot?"
Those green eyes are finally lowered. His split lips press. "Cinna," he finally whispers.
"You want me to spare your brother?" Snow stands, for once this night unable to hide his true thoughts. "Your brother over your co-conspirator?"
"No," Marcus shuts his eyes in resignation. "I want you to kill him."
"NYET-!" It escapes my lips unbidden. My fingers fly to my open mouth but the damage is done. Snow turns. He sees. He knows.
Snow chuckles, gestures to the nearest Peacekeeper. "Tell your men to fire."
"No-!" I shout again, begging them both. "No, please, Cinna! Marcus you can't-!" He's my brother he's my brother and he sent him to his death. "You're sick you're sick you're fucking sick!"
"Is it done?" Snow asks.
That anonymous helmet bows. "Yes, your Excellency."
"Why would you do that!" I demand, lunging forward as the captain grabs my wrists. I try to wrench, kick, twist, but his booted legs and armored groin protect him from my blows. The gloves are gripped, and I can't wrench away. I don't need to. I still have my lungs. He can't stop me screaming.
"Why the fuck would you do that-!" All the awe I once felt for Marcus Raelius is replaced with horror and disgust. "Why? You fucking tell me why-!"
"Petra, it is rude to interrupt. See that you don't," Snow says lightly. "If she interferes again, slap her. Hard." He instructs my captor. "Raelius, my condolences. It appears the Rebels have just murdered your Senator Uncle. All Panem will be in mourning, of course. It is a tragic loss."
I blink stupidly. What?
"But don't worry, Raelius. We've also caught the men responsible, and I vow to you they have been punished." He gestures to the still smoking crosses. For the first time Marcus notices them…but even now his eyes hold no trace of fear.
"We will only grow strong again," Marcus informs him evenly. "The Resistance is an idea, Coriolanus Snow. You can kill the followers, but the idea herself will never die."
Who is this man? I hate him. I admire him. He both thrills and terrifies me.
"No?" Snow asks mockingly. "Your Resistance is dead, Raelius, and all in vain. I know what you would plan, but to no avail. Your mole was also apprehended. An Assistant Gamemaker?" he spits in disgust. "A fat fool, more like. All these men," he gestures upwards with his eyes, "and women," he elucidates with relish, "they died for nothing, Raelius. Nothing. And now the turn is yours. But first know this," he beckons them to drag me closer. "This Tribute you would have saved? She is my informant."
For the first time he turns to me. Searches my face for the truth. I can't look at him. Won't look at him. I feel miserable and ashamed and wretched. I'm not, I want to tell him. It was an accident, I didn't mean to. It's not the truth, but not a fully a lie either. Not minutes ago I became Snow's pawn. Didn't die when I had the chance. I'm Petra Angelovna, the Stone-heart, the Butcher's daughter. I've seen death, caused it, and I want to live.
Perhaps that's why I respect him, even now. After all he's done. The maddening crowd, the explosion…all the while he knew I would kill children to save myself. Far from balking, he encouraged it. Marcus Raelius knew I would do anything—anything!—to live, and still he tried to save me.
Snow doesn't kill him, but I watch him die all the same. Piece by piece the rebellion—the Resistance—in his eyes smolders and disappears into reality and resignation. There is nothing left for him here. Only death.
…and it is coming. Quickly.
"This man just chose his cause over his own brother. A brother, might I add, who has done everything in his power to save you." He informs my medic curtly. "I find such zeal to be both dangerous and disgusting. I believe you feel the same," Snow turns to me. "What should I do with him, Butcher? Torture him? Kill him? Torture and kill him?"
But Marcus Raelius is silent, like a lamb that's ceased to struggle. I've never seen a man so broken.
"Just leave him alone," I whisper.
He smiles cruelly. "Why?"
He was kind to me. Ulterior motives, professionalism, fuck, I don't know. But Marcus Raelius was kind to me, and I remember. "Let him go."
But Snow senses something. He always does. "Don't be naïve, Butcher. You're not a woman he'd pay a second glance to. Don't throw away your chance for glory for him."
"Glory?" I ask him. "You call whorring out for you Capital pigs glory?"
"Careful, Butcher. I won't tolerate that insolence again." But he can't. He wouldn't. I'm the crowds' favorite, and he wants to sell my virginity. President Snow wants me to win the Hunger Games. So he can talk, he can threaten, but he can't touch me. Not yet.
"What will you do? Rape me? Torture me? Kill me? Rape and torture and kill me?" I mimick him. "It's what I have to look forward to anyways. Go fuck yourself."
His eyes narrow. I should know better than to bait him, but Marcus Raelius' courage has emboldened me.
"I have warned you, Petra Angelovna."
He has my answer, and my disgust. "Fuck you."
"Guards, this Tribute's insolence has grown unbearable. I believe she must be punished…" he searches my face in that pause, just to see my rising fear. He smiles, not a trace of humor in his eyes. A bubble of blood spurts down his chin, and I feel a sick rising in my stomach that has nothing to do with Gorzalka.
"Give her to the barracks," Snow finally decides. "Spare her virginity, but use her in any other way you like."
