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Mags' POV
Above the three of them, rain crashed against mud and stone, like thousands of death-tipped needles. Without Fife, they would have been hopelessly lost. Once, the sewers must have been clean square-cut tunnels, but now the concrete was cracked and greenish, and a third of the tunnels had collapsed. Ladders connected the seemingly endless levels of Three's underground (they hadn't dared go beyond the third), creating a massive tri-dimentional maze. In over four hours, they had maybe covered a mile in the right direction.
The farther they went, the less Mags believed these were normal sewers. They were too big. No city needed miles and miles of tunnels. When had they been built? By whom? Half-evaporated rivers of mud and sickly-hued substances covered the center of the first level tunnels, filling the air with a near suffocating stench of chemicals and rot, but below, the stale air was less awful.
Every hour, they'd dared a peek at the surface, if only to see if the rain had stopped (it hadn't). The buildings above them hadn't been so much poisoned as razed to the ground. Mags still had to catch a glimpse of an intact house.
The confidence brought by Fife's unfailing sense of directions was shattered at the sight of two radioactive waste disposal canisters floating below one of the broken entrances. They didn't look damaged, but that was cold comfort. Everything around them was death.
Mags' lips twisted into a snarl at her feet crushed a disgustingly familiar type of brittle bone.
She saw Fife's frown. "Mutt bones." Deep-rooted hate made her voice raw. "No mutts in Nine?"
Fife shrugged. "Maybe, but not in the village I spent the Dark Days in. My parents didn't let us out much."
Mags kicked at the bone dust, letting her golden-brown hair shield her face from the other girl's eyes. Capitol propaganda wanted the war to be known as the Dark Days, but Mags couldn't bring herself to use the word. Fife still avoided every question and wisdom would side with her. Panem was no place for anger or opinions, and while Mags had at first been wary of Constantine, now she was growing to resent Fife. It wasn't fair, she knew, not in the Hunger Games (and Magswould do better not to care) , but how could Fife just shrug? Being... mild meant giving the Capitol its victory.
"Quiet," Constantine suddenly said.
Fife had already frozen.
Mags felt the childish urge to cross her arms. While the last eight years of her life had admittedly not needed her to be in a high state of alert, she suddenly felt goofy compared to the other two.
She smelled the man before she saw him. A sneering youth walked out of one of the tunnels. His skin was unhealthy and pale with oily black tangles falling around his face in strands; but that wasn't surprising considering the environment, it was instead the glassy covetous shine to his pale eyes that made Mags' hair rise on end. She was more distraught than afraid. The boy was armed with a metal bar, but Mags doubted he would overpower them.
"We're just passing through," Constantine said curtly, his lips curled in disgust as he towered over the stooped… scavenger.
Mags now understood the unflattering appellation. Her face clouded over at the memory of Gyan. She held tight to the belief of a justice force in the universe, something to right all the wrongs that clawed at her soul. That belief gave her faith in the future and kept her stoic. She was torn from her dark thoughts by the man's (boy's?) aggressive cackle. His disgust matched their own as he gazed up the ostensibly privileged Constantine.
"Weasels have come before. We never let 'em slither back to their holes."
Weasels?
"We weren't sent by the Capitol, the train crashed," Mags said, careful not to let the filthy clothes, the stench and the man's attitude affect her manners. He had chosen to live in filth and poison rather than under Capitol rule, Mags would have found this heroic. Now, she was just saddened. It felt so pointless and just showed that the Capitol had won: outlaws struggled to hold to the barest shreds of dignity.
"Aww, poor little donkeys," the skinny youth spat, revealing yellowed teeth, "I pity you, really. So weak, accepting them as masters. Your kind's forgotten to be human. Too weak to fight."
Mags bristled. The rebellion had been about freedom and justice, not about feeling superior to the rest of humanity. She refused to feel guilty for the little she had, the little Mama battled to offer them. The good in her life didn't come from the Capitol and living like this boy would not harm the Capitol. If too many people fled the districts, the Capitol had the means to round them up before it became a problem.
"If you think you can decide who gets to be human, you're like the Capitol," Mags snapped, "just less wealthy."
"Freedom gotta be earned! We fought, bled and starved. Only parasites and filth strut around like the foul thieves they are. It's not okay to live like you do."
Circe, how dare he! As if they'd not fought, as if- "No," Mags agreed hoarsely, "but I don't see how this is any better."
He felt righteous about being an outlaw, fair enough. But being masters of their own lives, not living free in places so bad even peacekeepers stayed away, was the real goal. And, Circe, Mags hated being accused of collaborating.
He was almost upon her then, standing straighter -he was tall- and his fists balled tight. He snarled, his grimy hand reaching for her scarf.
Constantine grabbed him first. The scavenger yelped, crouching as Constantine twisted his arm behind his back. The boy from One had a look of scorching scorn made even Mags flinch.
"This is what you fought for? To take pride in your coarse hostility and molest women with impunity?" Constantine shoved the scavenger hard. The man fell to the ground and scrambled backwards, fear no widening his eyes. "Scurry away, lowlife!"
Mags swallowed. She appreciated the help, but, Circe, wasn't Constantine bloated with misplaced nobility. Coarseness wasn't the issue here and condescension worked both ways.
Fife pinched her, hard.
"Keep silent or we're dead," she mouthed, her black eyes darting towards the half dozen people now walking towards them. Mags started, not having seen them approach. The men wore shifts over their trousers but were much cleaner than the scavenger boy. The two women wore simple long sleeveless dresses, their hair loosely covered by colored scarves.
The boy hissed at the sight of them and finally scurried away, nursing his bruised arm.
The first man spoke up, one large hand on the shoulder of the only hunched, hooded figure. "Not Capitol, eh? Then you should prove your loyalty."
He seemed less hostile and... crazy than the scavenger, with a pleasant voice and a well-kept thick beard. Mags still tensed at the challenge in his tone. She forced her temper back under control.
"This man was a peacekeeper," the bearded man said. "Sent as an infiltrator."
What?
He yanked the hood off the figure by his side and shoved him to the floor, revealing a sickly youth wearing simply a rag for modesty. The prisoner struggled to rise, a growl of pain escaping his cracked lips. He crumpled back to the floor. Crusts of blood caked his scraggly beard. Mags winced at the bruises covering his face and body. She held no love of peacekeepers but her stomach churned at the abuse.
"Kill him."
Mags' lips parted in shock. What? She shot Constantine a desperate glance. Surely with a family like his, he knew all about diplomacy, but the more realistic part of her knew the rebels would see him as she had: too wealthy to be worthy of trust. Even the dust and grime could not conceal how rich his clothes were. Mags could imagine thousands of reasons why the rebels would need to torture a peacekeeper and she figured they'd taken his clothes for their own use, but making them kill him was.. cruel. Couldn't they do it themselves?
She took a deep breath. Her parents had tried to protect her during the war, but she had seen death. She had seen torture, done by both sides. In that, they truly had been dark days. War brought the best out of people, sometimes, but more often the worst.
To her surprise, it was Fife who spoke out.
The short-haired girl was eyeing the rebel speaker shrewdly. "You think the Capitol cares about the life of an already condemned peacekeeper? If we were spies we'd do it without hesitating."
Mags slowly exhaled, hoping Fife could talk them out of this trap. Mags would kill if she had to, but the demand was absurd. What would they ask of them afterwards?
"We know you didn't come here on orders. But you're not the first to find us and we don't have the resources to host beggars with weak-stomachs."
"There can't be an endless supply of peacekeepers to capture. Who do your teenagers kill to show their worth?" Fife said flatly.
Mags blanched. She really didn't want to know. A person could be worthy without being a murderer, even in a war setting. And Fife was being insolent, which was not a good idea.
The woman next to the bearded man let out a chiming laugh. Her strong cheekbones and set jaw gave her a no-nonsense air that was hard to ignore. "I am Chickaree, Wanderlings. You have only seen scavengers, those who do not accept our rules and believe they are too special to be affected by the fumes. We'd have been found long ago if we were all like them." Her shining gray eyes weren't hostile but they possessed a hardness Mags rarely saw anymore. "Kill him, we have our reasons."
Fife blinked, her attention on the broken prisoner. A pleading light entered the man's azure eyes.
Before Mags could intervene, the brunette had stepped forward and pulled a knife from her belt. Metal pierced through skin and muscle. Fife lifted her foot to the crouched man's chest and pushed hard, freeing her bloodied weapon from his swollen chest. A choked scream never left his lips. He writhed and again she stabbed him.
The stench of blood assaulted Mags, thrusting her back to another time, a time where she had lived in fear and bravely struggled not to be a burden as her family joined the guerrilla. Her insides clenched and she instinctively edged back, fighting the urge to curl into a ball, waiting to be told it was over or to be dragged to safety. She stiffened, raising a hand to her mouth. That time of her life was over. She had no devoted parents to rely on here. She could not falter.
A low whistle brought her back to reality. The group of rebels was eyeing Fife with appreciation. The girl had the gall to bow with a flourish before wiping her knife on the dead man's ragged coat.
Mags latched on a stony Constantine's arm, feeling she would punch the shorter tribute if her hands were not occupied. Mags was the daughter of soldiers, soldiers with blood on their hands, and it wasn't the knife thrust she blamed Fife for. But sullying one's hands to indulge the cruelty of others was foul. She wondered how much of the real Fife she had seen until now. This was the girl who had pulled her out of the train and had cried at Gyan's death, but the blood stains on her hands were just as real.
"Now we run," Chickaree said, pushing a mahogany lock back beneath her purple shawl.
"You will not bury him?" Constantine said, tension giving a frightening undertone to his words. Mags tightened her hold on his arm, fearing what a display of fury would bring upon them. She also feared to lose sight of her priorities and betray her family and her district in a righteous fit of pique. She couldn't afford to.
Chickaree gazed at him fondly, as if he was a well-meaning naive child. "His soul will find his way. We do not spare the dead the resources we lack for the living. The ground is poison. We do not light fires for similar obvious reasons."
Mags was surprised to see Constantine grudgingly bow his head. Had he accepted the rational answer? She would have expected him to argue that at least they could move the corpse away from the middle of the corridor. Or had he just remembered, like she had, that he had promised to go home? Her allies were sometimes a greater mystery than their predicament.
They had no chance to ask more questions as they broke into a run in the badly lit tunnels grew more numerous and had a polished and often traveled feel to them. She couldn't both match the rebel's pace and pay attention to the path they had taken. She only knew they were going deep in the bowels of District Three. She shivered as the temperature steadily dropped with each level. At least the air tasted cleaner.
It couldn't be an arena, the Capitol didn't have the wealth to dig tunnels so deep just for a bit of entertainment, and it didn't have the technology to make human mutts. Hijacking people yes, but hijacked people were easily recognisable, they were sent to destroy, not to infiltrate. These were rebels, real rebels, weathered and fit from from a tough life, nothing like the fresh-faced Capitolites, with their soft-looking skin, perfect teeth and high-pitched accent. Mags struggled to find some proof that the Capitol had orchestrated this meeting, that they were pulling the strings, but her mind came up blank. It didn't feel like the Hunger Games.
The stabbed peacekeeper was all too real. Mags swallowed, tasting blood as her burning lungs labored for breath. Gyan was dead. It wasn't the Hunger Games, maybe, but it was something different, something deadly.
Fife was straggling, panting heavily. Mags could feel her tension crystallize in white-hot anger. Faker. The brunette had claimed she could run for hours without breaking a sweat and Mags was confident that the street-girl had told the truth. She knew that Fife was not downplaying her fitness to annoy her, but right now she wanted Fife to be troubled and upset, not to find clever ways of memorizing the sewers' layout.
Mags lost track of time, focusing only on her regular breathing and on the better lit granite tunnels. Minutes gave way to hours. Her legs were burning from strain, slowly turning to lead.
They abruptly came across a reinforced concrete wall. Flushed and exhausted, Mags gasped for breath. Fife and Constantine weren't much more dignified.
The wall opened, sliding in itself. It defied anything Mags had ever seen.
The trio had no time to gape, for they were off again. The putrid smell of rot and humidity was completely gone. The air was warmer, dry and pleasant. The walls were of a material Mags couldn't identify. Many were decorated with striking daily life scenes, distracting Mags from her battered body.
Soon their steps were not the only ones echoing in the underground. People moved to let them pass. The men were all bare-chested and the women had similar shifts and head-wear to Chickaree's. They were lean but not ill-nourished. Those who had white skin looked sickly pale, often displaying scars that sung tales of vicious conflict. All but the few teenagers bore inscriptions on their chests and limbs, but they were very different from the explicit symbols that adorned the back and arms or Four's sailors. Looking closer, Mags could see patterns to the inked symbols. Signs of family lines or badges of honor, Mags could only guess as she avidly stared at themen and women populating this hidden world. Hope made her smile despite the horrible test they'd had to pass. Rebels. Real rebels.
"Cloth is even scarcer than water," Chickaree said, "why cover what we can proudly display? Striking are they not?"
Suddenly self-conscious, Mags shut her gaping mouth and tore her eyes off the rebels' bare bodies.
"Hair spoils earlier than cloth, and civilized people do not abandon all vanity," Constantine answered, with a small smile of his own as his eyes lingered pointedly on Chickaree's headwear.
"Beauty makes people happy," Chickaree replied with a tight-lipped smile, her hand gracefully readjusting her purple scarf. Mags suddenly wondered if her teeth were as pretty as her hair. Great engineering and dignity could not erase how poor the rebels had to be. No place in Panem was self-sufficient and these isolated people had to lack of everything. How did they get food and fresh water?
The bearded man who had first ordered them to kill had removed his shirt, revealing bullet scars and equally elaborate markings. He addressed the now silent crowd in a booming voice. The assembled people numbered over a hundred, maybe two. "Watch them, remember them, do not kill them. There are at least a dozen survivors among the children sent to die for the Cestoda in the ruins. Signal us if you hear from them."
Constantine made a strange noise with his throat.
"Oh dear educated gentleman," Fife whispered with a charming smile, "what does their pet name for the Capitol mean?"
"Tape worms," Constantine muttered, looking conflicted.
Despite her tension, Mags stifled a guffaw. Seeing civilized rebels was a like a hot bath. A whole group of rebels, hidden from the Capitol's eyes, safe from their terrible weapons. A broad smile graced her lips. The Capitol would never win.
"Follow me," Chickaree said, already near the first scrap-material bench of the big plaza. It looked like a meeting place, large enough to hold a thousand people. A soft warm breeze caressed their faces.
"Do you have an economy or must the leaders distribute everything?" Fife said as soon as she reached the woman's side.
Chickaree's warmth fled, replaced by a piercing gaze. "Although this I can share, questions by strangers are not welcome here. People own what small tokens they find and, in small measure, what they build, if only to show our appreciation of talent, but we have no currency between ourselves and there is little difference between the richest of us and the poorest, barring those who have grown too unstable."
"You're the leader?" Fife said, looking fascinated.
Mags almost sighed. This girl wouldn't get 'no questions' unless forcibly restrained.
Chickaree's eyes crinkled. "No, I just enjoy talking and boasting to wanderers." Mags couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic. The rebel stopped before a guarded tunnel concealed by a curtain and brought a fist to her heart in salute. "You'll wait here. Don't damage the books."
Books?
She stepped behind Constantine in the tunnel which revealed itself to be a huge cave-like room with an impossibly high ceiling. She gasped. The whole place was covered in shelves of various materials, from dented metal plates to wide cloths held taut between two poles, and every shelf was covered in books.
"So that's where the libraries of Three went…," Mags muttered in a light tone, her posture betraying her awe.
"Cestoda aside, they know we are tributes," Constantine said, a serious expression on his face. "We were right about being watched in the ruins."
Mags' lips twitched again despite herself. Cestoda. She then frowned. If they had known, why test them? Did they fear the reapings had been rigged? Everything was possible with the Capitol.
"That other crazy boy, you think he had an education here? I wonder how tolerant they are of ungifted troublemakers," Fife said, carefully picking up one of the books.
Mags narrowed her eyes. "I am wondering why you don't look upset."
Fife froze and slowly put the book back on its shelf. Her voice was cooler than Mags had ever heard it.
"I look how I choose to look. Better I stay calm, no? This is neither the time or place."
"It might be the only time we are granted, Fife. What were you thinking?"
Constantine's accusing tone was met with a snarl. "Was it your mom that ordered him here, Constantine? Shit luck, huh, usually peacekeepers have cushy jobs and are the ones doing the pushing around. No, Mags?"
Fife's eyes burned into hers and Mags had to nod. "That's not the issue, though. You -"
"He was being tortured," Fife hissed. "He'd never have escaped. Our survival is worth more than a condemned Capitol law enforcer's life. You both volunteered. Victors win by murdering kids, so don't you dare get judgmental."
"You bowed, as if it was a show," Mags said, struggling to keep her voice level.
"And the Games are what exactly, Mags?"
"They're rebels!" Mags exploded. "They might have listened. Perhaps we failed, Fife. Perhaps the point was not murdering. It was pointless!"
The Games were her best chance, her only chance, to change things. The stakes were different.
"Ah," Fife said. Her voice had changed. She narrowed her eyes. "You say rebels, you mean good people. Are you angry at me, or are you angry at them because they're cruel instead of heroes?"
Mags flinched. "I'm disturbed because taking a life is a big deal." But Fife's words had cut deep. These were rebels, maybe the only free rebels left.
"We need to survive until we figure out what's going on and how to get home," Fife snapped, turning her back to them. She slowly turned back, her face pained. "Mags, you made promises to your family, no? You'd risk getting killed by these people in the hope of convincing them to be more moral?"
"You are not just gifted with words. You practice, Fife Chican," Constantine interrupted, observing her with acute interest. "You avoid questions to better ask your own, and you wear the emotions you see fit. Your weapon choice is unusual but you have honed your skills as much as any Career." He straightened, speaking with the curt but confident air of those used to being obeyed. "Enough ladies, we need to remain alert."
Mags walked up to the nearest books, repressing a sharp retort as she curiously fingered the covers. Maybe there were no right answers and she should take her own advice and forget this. She stretched her cramping legs. She hadn't pushed her muscles so hard since she had been trapped on the reefs.
"I think we're meant to sleep here. It was late afternoon when we started running…" Fife finally said.
She crossed her arms as Mags' eyes lingered on her. "I'm not happy that I killed a man, Mags. I don't see how brooding helps, unless you want me to look miserable to feel safe about sleeping next to me. I won't harm you, I need you. I don't want to hurt anybody." Her mouth tightened. "I'm no Career, Constantine. I didn't learn to think and speak, and lie and hide myself for a game. This isn't a game either, it's our lives. If I need to be somebody else to survive this, then I will be."
Mags looked down, feeling suddenly exhausted. She hadn't realized how... careful Fife had been. How much she weighted her words and the emotions she displayed.
"Isn't it ever trouble," Mags wondered, feeling oddly sad, "to hide your true self like that? How do you make friends?"
A ghost of a smile spread on Fife's lips. "Friends are rare. Just like for any other person. Usually, except for stung pride, people don't really care if a stranger's life story is truth or fiction. Truth simply remains more interesting and meaningful when you dig. "
Mags shook her head as she unrolled her sleeping bag. "I'd never forgive an acquaintance for using me as a guinea-pig to exert their imagination. People's lives matter because they are real. Being told something about someone matters because it is true, because that person believes you deserve that amount of trust."
"I agree. That's why I don't bother with small talk." Fife abruptly smile, a sly teasing smirk. "Nor does Constantine, but he's an honest elitist, so I won't offend him by comparing the two of us."
"Aren't you cute," Constantine said, superb in his indifference.
Mags chuckled, now more acquainted with his special brand of humor.
"Why would District Three need a wall that slides deep underground? How could they have built that without the Capitol's notice?" Fife said after a pause.
Constantine's dark-brown eyes were glinting with a strange light. "Maybe it was there before the districts, before Panem."
Mags brushed her fingers against the library's concrete walls. Perfectly dry. A sense of awe permeated her as the realization she was in a, maybe the only, rebel bastion, finally sunk in. A large smile slowly drew itself on her lips.
Fife slid into her sleeping bag. "They could be very early risers. I suggest we eat as much as we want before tucking in. Chickaree could yet ask us share what we have left in the name of the greater freedom."
Mags ignored the bait and reached for her supplies.
"What, nothing about it being selfish of me?"
This time, Mags rolled her eyes. Fife sounded serious despite her light tone. " I learned during the war to make sure I was healthy enough not to be a burden before looking out for others. Those who didn't died."
And their supplies were too few to make a real difference for the rebels.
Fife blinked. She lowered her eyes. "Sorry, I'm being stupid… Good night, Mags, Constantine."
Too exhausted to ponder the day's events further, Mags quickly fell into troubled sleep.
The night wasn't kind enough to spare her dreams.
Mags is angry and curious. An odd mix of emotions, she distantly thinks. The scene before her captures her whole attention.
A shimmering dress colored like autumn leaves covers the slight figure on stage from head to toe. A brilliant maroon veil conceals her face.
The figure takes small graceful steps, as if oblivious to the thick anticipation and chatter animating the crowd. It's a peculiar crowd. They have wigs and ostentatious jewelry, excessive, almost frightening make-up and outrageous clothes. Mags tries to conceal her distaste, through the perfume, the place reeks of death.
The figure stands before the man in the glittering suit, her face still hidden from view. Her voice is deep for someone so slight. "Does anyone here know what I look like? Have you paid attention?"
Silence. The crowd seems entranced. Mags' interest is piqued and a distant part of her wonders where she is. She should know, but she feels odd.
The figure slowly removes the veil, revealing an unremarkable but pleasant oval face surrounded by short dark brown hair. The dress drops with the veil and Mags' eyes widen.
Now clad in a tight-fitting black suit, the boyish girl slams a knife flat on the man's armrest.
A scream cuts the crowd. Mags chuckles even if she knows the knife is fake. She hates the now ashen man. A little voice in her mind wonders why she feels that way.
"I could be anyone," the girl in black says, slowly circling the seated man like a cat toying with their prey.
"I have a secret, Marcus. Do you want to know?"
Enhanced by thick make-up, her dark eyes seemed to hold the key to hidden treasures. "Mother has always been special, gifted. She sees things people miss. The fates whisper to her. I have the gift, it's nascent, a hatchling, but Mother has been teaching how to listen, how to see beyond the veil of time."
"You mean predict the future? Can you see my future?" the man whispers, greed plain on his features.
A soft laugh escapes her lips. "Where is your son, Mr. Flickerman?"
The man stiffens. "What about Caesar?"
Fife's voice is thick with warning. "Do not neglect him, for when the time comes, you will be the one seeking his favor."
She leaves unbidden as a bell chime cuts through the crowd's whispers.
Mags' eyes opened. The object of her dream was sleeping on her back, oddly relaxed. She looked tiny and fragile, more like a child than like a person used to sleeping in the streets. Seated against the wall, Constantine met her gaze.
Mags' lips twitched. "Too well-bred to find sleep on a sewer floor?" Although 'sewer' was now quite inappropriate.
The handsome young man raised his chin with inimitable superiority. "My control over my body has yet to fail me. I am meditating."
Mags bowed her head. He was oddly endearing in his superior way. The vivid dream hadn't faded.
This place was doing funny things to her brain.
Her eyes went back to Fife's sleeping form. The small figure concealed a killer and manipulator but also a sharpness, an ability to keep up and make hard decisions that Mags respected deeply. Fife was slippery and her motives shrouded in shadows but she had enabled them to seek refuge with the true rebels. She sounded coherent within her own set of principles. Mags now doubted Fife had ever been a rebel, yet she behaved like one in her own self-centered way, not letting the rules trap her. Mags found that she could sleep next to a person like that.
Trivia: names
Mags (canon, can't take credit here): pearl
Abalone: sea snails prized mainly for their beautiful shells composed of nacre/mother of pearl
Constantine: after Constantine I the great, founder of the Eastern Roman Empire
Aquila: eagle in latin, symbol of imperialism, also a constellation
Fife: an european medieval transverse flute
Gyan: intelligence/enlightenment in Hindi (indian). People who've read my Showdown fic know I gave District 3 a strong indian minority.
Chickaree: squirrel and all attached symbolism (don't read too deeply into it though, parents give the names to their kids^^)