Thank you for reading, reviewing, favoriting (which has never been a word), following and basically being there for me to entertain. It makes me feel important. lol
Warning: Implied adult situations. A different type of dark than my usual writing.
Games 12, training day 1.
Mags caught her reflection in the window. Her lips twisted in hate.
Her stomach churned but the mere thought of eating made her ill.
She was disgusting. She had lied to her tributes, stealing their last moments away from them just to soothe some of the horrible, burning guilt.
Tributes who she should be thinking of as people, with names, and yet this was so much easier.
She'd told them the sleeping pills would enhance their metabolism. She'd just wanted the two hopeless, distraught teens knocked out as long as possible.
She had already discarded them, locking her heart away and stiffly awaiting the canon blasts. Was it not after all that, the mentors' price to pay for having survived?
Mags bolted to her feet, sizzling anger pumping through her veins. She'd been selfish and a coward.
They'd been too valuable to waste in the Hunger Games.
Thirty adults, eight teens, Mags was proud of each and every one of the academy's students. Their desire to learn, their ambition and ethics, their sheer ability… And the sixteen teachers; Mags had never before met a group of people so knowledgeable.
It didn't ease the bitterness of watching two average, talentless, innocent, loved, teenagers go to their deaths. Pearl and Gal's passing was no greater tragedy than a volunteer's would be but Mags couldn't stand it.
She remembered the scream. The scream of a mother who refused to stand stoically by as her child was led to the stage.
A scream that revealed the fear of a whole district.
Mags refused it.
District Four would not fear the reapings, never again. Because there would be volunteers.
That's it, kill two people every year, train two volunteers for just one victor spot. Brilliant, Mags, just want you need on your conscience.
"They're on my conscience even when they're reaped," Mags hissed in the gloomy quarters.
To select volunteers, to find the desperate, those without a future or those who were dangerous, bloodthirsty and crazy enough to try...
And what if those won?
Glynn might have been ruthless enough to do it. Mags was not. Even in anger, even in grief, she couldn't deceive herself.
And yet the need wasn't going away.
Alone in the Capitol, Mags' deep buried nightmares stirred, awakened by the scent of home. This was where it had all begun. This is where it got the worst.
The shivering victor started when the door creaked open.
"Lucian?" She said sharply.
Aggressive light flooded the room. Mags fought the urge to curl up and hide under a pillow.
An avox, red haired and blank-faced. They all were, as if they'd had plastic surgery to erase their individuality, a slap in the face to every district dweller and decent human being.
Mags forced a smile on her face and thanked the man, taking the note he was handing out to her.
Mags,
I need your help, now, please.
Rowan.
Mags' anger vanished at the prospect of being even remotely useful.
"Leave," the victor from Seven told the avox before quickly shutting and barring the door behind them.
"Yes?" Mags inquired. The secrecy would protect him from gossip, but there had to be cameras inside.
"She pushed him over the edge," Rowan said, his brown eyes wide and crazy. "I can't trust doctors and I knew you wouldn't refuse. I can't stand the sight of blood anymore."
Mags waited. She hadn't asked for a reason. She almost felt guilty for the hand resting on the knife concealed in her robes, but the taller Rowan, his shaggy black hair matted against his sweating face, was scaring her.
"Where's Larix?" She asked. She barely knew either of the men.
"He used to be the stronger one," Rowan said, his voice a hoarse whisper, as if he had too little energy left to talk. "I was a mess, he put me back together. Then he mentored and he crashed." Rowan shook his head, as if chasing away unpleasant voices. "Having him eat or wash was a chore, but I owed him. He was like me, he was the second, he hadn't abandoned like –"
Mags nodded brusquely, wanting to spare him the pain. She remembered the first victor from Nine, wrestling a weapon out of a peacekeeper's grasp and that smile as he put it to his temple.
Her eyes shimmered as her thoughts led her to Rye and now this weatherbeaten man, who had won without a mentor and watched children die, alone amidst ardent supporters, for two whole years. She couldn't begin to imagine.
"The anger is worse," he said, a detached mask hardening his face.
Mags' heart skipped a beat, because she heard it.
Him.
Sobs, heart-wrenching animal sobs coming from behind the locked door to her left.
"I locked him in one of the tributes' room. They're with Euryale." Rowan barked a mirthless laugh. "That harpy is terrified of losing face if this comes out." Unmasked fury swirled in his eyes, and Mags could see how much it cost him to leave Larix, his friend, alone and out of his mind in that little room.
"She changed his drugs for something stronger," Rowan said. "She thought he was being too obvious. Truth was, she's afraid of him, of us, and she's right," he snarled, for an instant looking like a proud survivor rather than the withdrawn, beaten man that hid in the shadows of the mentor's room. "I don't know what she gave him, I don't think it's legal, and it didn't work," he ground out, shaking with fury. "I can't tell anyone, if she finds out, she'll kill us."
"Achlys won't -"
It took all her strength not to squirm under Rowan's helpless glare.
"Protects the useful," he whispered, as if physically struck. "Larix is dirt beneath her shoes and I'm the dusty medal in the attic. She has shinier toys now."
Guilt, terrible, ravaging guilt tore at Mags at his words. Toys, playthings, she would scream if he went on.
"You want him to knock him out, physically?" She said, taking a stride towards the room Larix was in.
Enough talk, enough pity. The world wasn't made right by being idle. Too many tears had already been wasted.
"You've never seen him free of the drugs, Mags. He cut back when Maple was reaped, and -"
Mags' felt tears mount in her eyes as she remembered the blonde child, fainting on the landing plates. The memory drowned out the rest Rowan's words.
How many victors were secretly dependent on medication?
Mags couldn't accept this. This suffering, the scars that never went away.
Rage burned through her. "Enough!" She hissed. She wouldn't, she would never be that person, the battered victor, a numbed puppet too afraid to live or die. Just being in the presence of one made her want to lash out like a caged animal.
Mags had to put an end to this.
She opened the door to the tribute's room.
The broad victor of the third Games was on the floor, red-faced and shaking, his twisted face unrecognizable.
The room had been upturned, the bed thrown against the wall. Mags froze, her survival instincts screaming.
And the blood.
He held a chip of wood in his balled fist, slashing against his bloodied leg, sobs mixed with garbled growls exiting his mouth as Larix fought against something only he could see.
The third Hunger Games, the first which hadn't been rigged. No tribute would fight until the fifth day, when the starving survivors had all started hunting and killing each other, for no apparent reason. The Capitol had doubtless threatened the families or even drugged the air.
"We're moving him to the bathroom," Mags ordered.
Where was Rowan?
Mags was about to scream at him when she remembered.
He'd said he had a problem with blood. She groaned. He wouldn't have needed her otherwise.
Mags ripped the covers off the broken bed, but when she tried to come closer, Larix screamed, taking a swipe at her. Oddly, his legs didn't seem to be responding.
She pulled her knife out. "Stop moving," she snapped.
Larix shrunk on himself, paralyzing terror gripping him. For victors, knifes weren't abstract threats. They had seen.
She had the cover around his legs before he had stopped hyper ventilating.
"Blood's out of sight, now give me a hand, Rowan," Mags said.
Larix didn't struggle, and that scared Mags. She knew it was possible to die of fright, something about your brain producing substances in toxic quantities when it panicked too much. The man was shaking again, and burning up.
Torn clothes and all, she had Larix under a steady jet of cool water. As blood mixed with the clear liquid, Mags suddenly realized she was alone again in the room.
She had never seen the first Hunger Games. She had never been so relieved not to have as she was now.
"What did she feed him, paralysis inducers instead of tranquilizers?" Mags cursed. And there was something seriously wrong with Larix's brain. Now he was drooling wide-eyed and his breathing was labored.
After half a minute of hesitation, Mags decided to make him throw up. She had to get as much of that poison as she could out of the body.
Her respect for doctors spiked up when, stinking and soaked, Mags let a burned out and finally sleeping Larix wrapped in warm towels on the bathroom floor.
Luckily there were always changes in clothing in the victors' quarters and after checking the man's vitals one last time, she clicked the bathroom door shut with a sigh of relief.
Rowan staring at her in utter bewilderment, his hand over his stubble, and his eyes slowly crinkling with mirth.
Mags then belatedly realized she must have looked like a madwoman, threatening Larix with a knife, carting him off and then alternatively drowning the poor man and shoving her fingers up his throat.
She couldn't even say she knew if that actually helped. Still, Larix was alive.
"What had you called me to do?" She asked, a small awkward smile on her face.
"Figure out what he'd taken and get the appropriate meds as fast as possible through your own doctor."
Doctor Alexanders? Mags' shoulders slumped. The idea hadn't even crossed her mind. She now felt foolish. This wasn't Creneis Town, this place actually had competent doctors. She'd listened to her instincts instead of stopping to think.
Rowan then shrugged, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "This works for now. Rum?"
Mags' eyes locked on the brown bottle. Larix's incoherent screams were still ringing in her ears. She couldn't face it. Victors too hurt to fix, the twenty-fourth casualty of the Games. There had to be survivors, something the Capitol couldn't own and break.
Pearl, Gal…
Mags turned on the radio to some wordless, not too rousing music and turned off the main light.
Lips reading software couldn't do much against the dark.
She poured herself a generous glass and drank. Rowan was all but grinning, relief and astonishment warring on his face as his eyes went from the bathroom door to her.
Mags gasped as the liquid burned down her throat, leaving a strong but pleasant caramel aftertaste.
She found herself seating next to Rowan, surprised by how pleasant he smelled. After so many migraine-inducing perfumes, she let it relax her.
"Why'd you get reaped on the first year? Heard it was all rigged."
Rowan groaned at the question. "Mags, honest. Drinking talk with the ladies should be all about fluffy pets and high philosophy."
Mags cocked an eyebrow. And what did drinking talk with men entail then?
"A peacekeeper friend of mine owns a cat," she said with a fond smirk. She shook her head, unable to think of Marquise with Rowan so close to her. "I'd rather listen to what needs to be told."
Anything, anything to loosen the Capitol's poisonous hold. She waited, the sound of the foreign instruments piercing through her gloom.
After a while, Rowan all but slammed his half-empty glass on the table. "Brites from Five and I were selected to win. I'll never know why us. Recaps made it less obvious, but in that booby-trapped arena it would have been clear as day, even if Euryale hadn't boasted. They decided I was better than the girl at some point."
Damn. That was the most awful thing Mags had been told in a while. Chosen by the Capitol to win. How… wrong.
"They could have had the manners not to tell you," Mags said crossly.
Rowan snorted. "I tried to beat the system. Threw myself against the craziest bastards I could find, didn't sleep, ran out in the open… I didn't want to die, I just didn't get what was happening to me. One day I was at home, the next in a train and the third in an arena that looked a bit like home, with trees and all, but different enough to drive me insane. I just knew I didn't want to make it easy for them."
Mags had a thousand things to say, but she kept quiet, because a voice eerily like her mother's was telling her to shut up and listen.
"I guess I gave them a better show than they'd ever expected. I let a bunch of kids run straight into a horrible trap. I shoved a girl to her death." Rowan's voice dropped to a shamed whisper. "I'm still waiting for the guilt."
Oh. Mags scrambled for something to say when she realized the silence was stretching out.
"I laughed at my grandmother's funeral. Because I was happy when I realized I'd gotten to know her and Grandpa well enough to tell stories about them to my little sister," she said, her voice pained. "It was harder with my dad. It always had me frustrated not to be able to show Esperanza who he had been. I couldn't look at Mama in the eyes for days after the funeral."
And yet she'd never cried even if she did miss her grandparents. She'd felt so privileged just to have known them.
Mags frowned and decided not to refill her empty glass. She was self-conscious enough to realize she wasn't quite herself. She felt good though.
"You didn't hear what I said," Rowan said softly.
She had. "You feel guilty about not feeling guilty. You escaped the worst of the Capitol's traps and you want to come back crawling to them because you're too proud to acknowledge you would have won whatever you did short of sticking a blade in your heart."
"I could have done that," Rowan said darkly.
"And who would've taken care of Larix then? What about your family? There's no law who says how we should feel. As long as you're alive, and they're alive, you can make it up and make it better."
And then they wondered why Mags had never found Vicuña so bad. At least she tried.
"Of course, that takes effort and facing the prospect of failure," she mused.
Rowan stiffened next to her. "You're lucky I don't hit women."
Why was he getting angry? It was true. Irritation made her scowl. "If it's guilt you so crave, go ahead, I'll even cry to make you happy."
Rowan's nostrils flared. He then shook his head and slung his arm around her shoulders. "Mags, you're drunk," he declared.
Nah, she was fine. Tipsy for sure, but fine. It had just been a glass. She knew people who could drink a bottle with no trouble.
"You think I'm not all depressed and passive because I was born special, Rowan?"
Working hard, that was the secret.
"That, luck and probably good relatives," Rowan said, refilling his own glass.
Couldn't deny that. "Don't complain about your life if you don't dare try and better it," Mags said with an eyeroll. "Lots of things won't get you killed, dusty medal or not."
"If you give me aspirations, I'll start believing I've got rights, that I deserve better," Rowan said with a bitter smile, his eyes softening as he looked into hers. "Rebels get killed, pretty lady."
Ha. Not all of them.
"Everybody dies, we can choose how to live," she said, feeling in an introspective mood. "To an extent," she amended, because it was unfair to pretend the Capitol didn't love to control everything.
She cocked her head and smiled, the radio was playing something really pretty. It was so different from all those drums and flutes from home. Why wasn't Rowan smiling, not even a little bit?
She was tired of seeing people so unhappy around here.
Games 12, the morning after.
Where was she?
Mags squeezed her eyes shut when the wool in her brain cleared. A pleasant, familiar scent clung to the bed sheets.
She slowly sat upright, her face between her hands, at least slightly relieved her head wasn't pounding too hard, and wondered what had possessed her to drink.
She had... With Rowan. A victor, someone who could understand. Instead of relief, the thought only caused her anguish.
Whenever she glanced into a victor's eyes, She could see her Games. Constantine and Fife running towards the hovercraft, Chickaree's heart-rending anguish at the knowledge the Citadel was no more. Cresyl's defiant gaze as he cursed her father's name.
Victors. They had all seen too much. They could help each other by sharing their pain, by showing each other that none of them were alone, that there was a beyond, but Mags knew she needed someone who would pull her out of the darkness, not someone who was weighted down by it just as much as she was. She wanted a man who knew how to laugh and who believed in the future. A man who could be at her side, day after day and not just provide illusory comfort in the soul-crushing fortress-city.
A soft sigh resounded to her left. "Don't make me be the man who apologizes the morning after."
Mags winced.
What would her mother think? She could never tell Esperanza.
Rowan's tone turned sincerely apologetic. "I figured you weren't that drunk. You do remember?" He said, growing panic in his voice.
"Yes, yes," Mags said hastily. She wasn't about to let the man think he'd molested her. She'd taken it upon her to make him smile and realized she'd liked kissing him. She couldn't even pretend he'd led the dance.
One single frigging glass of whatever-that-drink-it-was.
She was the kind of drunk people had to lock up.
She turned to the man, taking in his wary brown eyes and soft -dare she say affectionate?- expression.
"You don't look too upset," she said with a sigh.
Her lips quirked just as she said it.
Yep, she was naked. Good old covering sheets. What a disgrace.
"Pretty, sane, with a constructive and kind, often cheerful personality," Rowan said, a shy smile slowly gracing his face. "I don't hold higher standards, Mags."
A small scowl flitted over Mags' features. How about in love with you? But she was really talking to herself.
He then chuckled. "Get dressed, I'll look away."
Mags rolled her eyes, "You might as well enjoy the view, it won't happen again."
She didn't check if Rowan did. She was much too annoyed at herself to care.
Some stirred in Mags as she was about to leave. Rowan was gazing at her, a soft expression on his face, untouched by either hurt or anger.
"You are used to not having your way," she said. She didn't know what to make of that calm acceptance.
"Larix wasn't. It broke him."
Larix. Mags could hear the man snoring. She'd call Doctor Alexanders right away to obtain the right meds. Thank goodness it was early enough the tributes had to be still sleeping.
"I had, and still have, no expectations," Rowan said. "It doesn't have to be awkward."
Mags nodded. She was inexplicably glad he didn't thank her. She'd have taken in as a terrible insult. She knew why they'd both done it. The barriers gone, there was just the loneliness left, and the comfort had felt so real on the moment...
"You're around nutcase killers," Rowan added, reaching out to grab his clothes. "We were lonely and drunk. It's just being human."
Sounded a bit pathetic to her, but she smiled, because the half-naked man before her could have been upset or rude and instead he was being very sweet about it all.
"Just don't make me drink ever again," she said, her eyes warm.
The man put his hand over his heard and solemnly swore.
Mags laughed. "See you around, Rowan."
She gently shut the door behind her. She'd never felt so ridiculous.
"Thank you, Doctor Alexanders," Mags said warmly. She hastily turned the phone off when she heard someone come in.
"Leading a double-life, Mags?" Lucian said, his eyebrows arched and his tone as insolent as always.
The victor gave him a tight smile. Here was someone she wouldn't touch even completely drunk, except to give him a well-deserved slap.
"Euryale has her victors under threat, Larix could have died. Know someone with empathy around here who could help?"
Lucian's whole face shifted, tightening into a mask of hate. His mismatched eyes literally glowed, causing Mags to jump back in fright. "Euryale?" He ground out.
Astonished by his reaction, Mags now wondered what happened between the escorts behind the scenes. She'd come to expect to see scorn on Lucian's face but such violent hate at the mere mention of the woman's name?
"District Seven's escorts," she said, realizing she had unsuspectingly kicked a wasp nest. "What did she ever do to you?"
If looks could kill, Lucian's glower would have had her on the ground. "She's trying to get all the escorts replaced by her friends," he said, venom infusing his every word. "There was an investigation on all of us before the previous games."
The way he said investigation made Mags' hair rise on end.
The dates coincided with Lucian's relooking, meaning Mags had had the right intuition: he'd done it because of a woman but she'd had the reasons wrong. Mid-life crisis, right. Lucian had freaked out because power plays had put his life on the line and this Euryale was at the heart of it all.
"Why don't you group with escorts you trust not to stab you in the back and have your own people at the top of the lists?"
"I have better things to do –"
"Then she'll win."
Lucian didn't reply, his eyes burning holes into the walls.
The sandy-haired Peal froze on the spot when she saw the furious escort, her sleepy expression replaced by terror.
An all too familiar churning feeling filled Mags' stomach. Tick tock, her traitorous brain already counting the seconds until that innocent girl would die.
"Those lenses just lenses or can you see in the dark, Lucian?" Mags said, as if they'd been chatting amiably all this time. She wrapped pretense around her like a warm blanket, finding shallow reassurance in Pearl's slowly relaxing form.
Her small smile was so forced that Mags was sure her cheeks would crack and bleed.
Lucian, bless him, didn't feel like fighting in front of the tributes. His silver mustache was almost twitching at the prospect of showing his superior knowledge.
"Lenses can magnify and adjust colors and also save pictures or directly transmit records to your computer," he said, his speech slow, as if he was talking to six year olds. "Top-scale lenses analyze the minute subconscious facial movements and can detect when an expression is forced, it's a very decent lie detector. Health lenses can monitor your vitals. Some lenses also adjust their color to your moods."
Hence the glow. Mags bit the inside of her lip. Lie detectors. Was that what was hidden behind Achlys' piercing golden eyes?
Was that what Glynn had wanted to warn her about in her letter? That she could always be under scrutiny? Mags knew, unfortunately she knew all too well.
Games 12, day six in the arena.
Sixteen dead, three dying, two already insane and the others slowly unraveling.
Mordred had taken charge of the training in Two. Vicuña wasn't talking to him anymore. She said his training policy was inhuman. He claimed it was rational. They'd expected her to take a side. Mags had stood there, not knowing what they were arguing about, too numb to care.
Pear and Gal had died. No suicides, not when the explosive platforms had been replaced by non-lethal electrical-fields, no brave acts of rebellion. Two bloodbaths. Bloodbaths, the term seemed already part of tradition. The Cornucopia, the Bloodbath. Slowly, a tradition was emerging.
And District Two's new golden boy would probably win, he'd been smart enough to stay in the shadows. The girl had gotten too cocky too early, or she'd have been in the lead by now. A nine in training…
Mags shivered. Maybe she should have asked Vicuña what she really had meant about training in District Two.
But right now, she didn't want to talk about any of that.
Glynn was more beautiful than ever, and her warm smile so innocent compared to the suffering etched in every victor's face, almost brought tears to her eyes.
As her mind pushed the Games aside, Mags found herself thinking of that dreadful night.
"I need an implant that will have me throw up whenever I drink more than a glass of wine or a quarter glass of liquor," she said, the words tumbling out with a rare viciousness.
What if it hadn't been Rowan? What if she'd had to drink at a Capitol party? What if she'd talked about her plans in front of the cameras? How could she be that stupid!
Glynn eyed her, thoughtful. "Something to avoid drunkenness must exist. I'll see what I can do." A ghost of a smile flitted over her lips. "What did you do this time?"
There was nothing amusing about it. "I slept with Rowan from Seven."
Glynn's eyes widened. A grin split her face and suddenly, she doubled over, mirth getting the better of her balance. She leaned against the wall, her silvery laughter bouncing across the whole room.
"Great friend you are," Mags said stiffly, biting ever word.
The other was laughing so hard tears were forming in her eyes.
Mags ground her teeth in annoyance. "Glynn, can you at least pretend?"
She'd really chosen the wrong person for empathy.
"Hey, it's funny because you're you and always so controlled and -," Glynn stopped, knowing better than to finish that sentence. She sighed. "And I'm relieved, okay, because, who cares?"
Mags scowled. It wouldn't get her killed, but it didn't mean it wasn't a big deal.
"I thought you were the romantic here?" She challenged. "Not dating until you were sure."
"I have millions of things to do," Glynn said gaily. "I'm only fitting boyfriend in my timetable if he's more interesting than the rest. And I tried kissing a guy I wasn't in love with once. Nautilus had even a bit of a reputation and he's handsome too," Glynn said, her lips twisting slightly as her thoughts led her toward the outgoing redhead. "Didn't work for me."
"Even with Syrianus?"
That tore a grin from the young woman. She seemed to be searching for the right words, a warm smile dancing on her lips. "He's likable," Glynn said after a moment. "But we're not making this about me. You, Rowan, don't turn this into an issue," she said, her amused expression replaced by an intent gaze. "You are lonely. Subconsciously, you'll remember the companionship but you won't fall into such a trap again." She put a hand on Mags' shoulders and the victor was warmed by the affection she read in those eyes. "It won't taint whichever meaningful relationship you'll one day have," Glynn promised. She then furrowed her brow. "You under contraceptives?"
Mags nodded. She took hormonal patches so her meds could synchronize with her cycle, but Glynn didn't have to know the sordid details.
"No mini-Rowan in sight," she assured Glynn. The mere thought made her feel even sillier. She grasped Glynn's wrists and pressed her forehead to hers. "Syrianus?" She inquired.
Her friend dropped her voice, and Mags had to trust her to have researched just how good surveillance microphones were. "Research is neurology, science of the brain," Glynn said, aware Mags wasn't asking to embarrass her but to learn of the Capitol's plans. "He's specialized in memories, how the brain stores and processes them and most importantly how they affect our character."
And Achlys was interested in Syrianus?
Mags stiffened. Memories of hijacked slaves and warped mutts invaded her mind. Her throat was dry with fear. Manufactured memories, such unlimited potential, creating fanatics... Of course Achlys was interested in having even more control on the mind of those she considered her subjects. She would love to have knowledge on how to manufacture humans fit for her plans, technology that violated every rule nature had created to preserve their dignity, and Syrianus, cursed with a mind that had the potential to make this abomination possible.
"When will there be danger?" Mags said, the words tumbling down as a croak. What did it mean, research? Was this avox-control something the Capitol would have in a year? Five years? Never unless they got lucky?
"It's a project to control Avoxes, hijacking isn't adapted to long-term control." The way Glynn said it made Mags fear someone in the Capitol thought this was a temporary limitation. "Won't happen for years, research takes a very long time."
Glynn otherwise seemed unconcerned. She broke away, making odd gestures with her hands.
Mags winced, as she did in those moments something that should have been pathetically obvious came to slap her in the face. Of course, avoxes, the Capitol's one huge liability. A network of people with little to lose and who had a language of their own.
Mags' eyes widened as the full realization hit her.
Invisible, infiltrating every level of the Capitol. Mags' mouth almost watered at the possibilities. She had to learn everything she could about avoxes and have Glynn find those who supervised them. If the rebellion could come from the avoxes, it would take the Capitol by surprise and limit the bloodshed.
This was it, this was the solution Mags had been waiting for. A rebellion without a full-scale war.
The Capitol couldn't be allowed to make the mute slaves forget where they came from and the dreams they once had.
There weren't many divers left in Creneis, the waters were still too filthy for mollusks, but divers all learned sign language: few of them made it to thirty without ear problems and most finished their lives deaf. Mags would contact them, she had to learn to sign.
"Stop blushing and tell me what those metallic blue tattoos all over Syrianus' arms stand for," she finally said, as if they'd been gossiping about the man all along.
Glynn grinned. "They're runes, hieroglyphs, cuneiform…" Her grin widened, "Elvish. Protection sigils or simply messages, historical or fictional. It's his passion. He speaks six languages, I think, including Latin, because it's always been highly fashionable here. He helps archaeologists with translations.
Who? "Archaeologists?"
"Adventurous Capitolites who travel to uninhabited areas to scavenge the technology we lost. It's very dangerous, and not just because of roaming beasts and unstable ruins. Years back, a team found a place where the plague was still alive and was infected. Thirty people had to be shot down for everyone's safety."
Mags grimaced in horror, causing Glynn to look even more uncomfortable.
"Great experts, it was a huge loss," she said bitterly. "Most of everything was digital back in those days so they go looking for external storage components. In the North some people spoke French and most spoke Mexican-Spanish in Southern Panem. Apparently, the developers are still struggling to recreate a proper translation software without getting District Three involved."
Too classified for sworn workers in Three? Now Mags was really curious.
Wait, Mexican-Spanish? And Syrianus was also linguist?
"He speaks Spanish, legally?" Jealousy suddenly tugged at Mags. Her family risked their lives and he could just flaunt -
Glynn nodded, her eyes glittering. "Now that makes him cute."
Cute. Mags' lips twisted.
Rowan wasn't unattractive, but he was old. A man of almost thirty, who she barely knew, even drunk, how could she have? And… Circe, she'd never judged others, but she'd never thought she'd be that kind of person.
"Must I to screw up to get better?"
And now she was lapsing into self-pity. Mags felt like kicking herself.
"That's how it usually goes unfortunately," Glynn said with a small smile, grasping Mags' hand. "Knocks things back into perspective."
Whenever her life seemed to get back on track, the Capitol reminded her by how thin a thread her sanity held. Bloody Rum, no wonder Bianca locked herself up when she overindulged.
"Nice hair," Mags finally said.
It was a rich forest-green and longer than Glynn had ever worn it, almost reaching her shoulders. It didn't look as gaudy as Mags would have expected. She was glad that behind those plucked eyebrows and colorful outlandish clothes, Glynn didn't feel like a stranger.
"I'll be coming home with you for a couple of weeks," Glynn said, beaming at the prospect.
Mags grinned. The Corduroys would be overjoyed.
She began making a mental list of all the questions she hadn't yet dared ask.
Next chapter, Mags gets married.
Just kidding.
Training in Four, Mags' love life, some not-so-random filler, and getting the Capitol ready for a rebellion. That should keep us going until Achlys' *cough* departure *cough*.
Please review.