Thank you for your comments and support.
Year 72, March, Creneis Town.
The ticking clock shadowed her every waking moment, hollow notes full of foreboding, echoing with the pain of promises unkempt.
"They've all replied, they're all coming," Alyx Rivers said, sorting through the letters with obvious satisfaction. "Major Rio Dampier from Lycorias, Captain Meera Solal from Orithyia, Captain Murray Douglas from Galene and Warrain, of course."
Mags heard the toll when she woke up and the sun was already pouring down Creneis Town. She had not greeted dawn since well before age had stolen her speech. Mags heard it when she saw Lorelei and Annie splashing in the pool, remembering the time her daughter would run down to the ocean and not lose her breath. She heard it as she passed Sol's garden, where triumphant weeds choked her son's beloved flowers, taking advantage of a man now too old to keep them away.
"I'm ready," Alyx's smile turned wry, a stern, knowing edge entering her voice. "Mags, this will be your last trip, the last Four will see of you. You have inhuman energy and a mind as sharp as ever, but you're an old lady, don't pretend to be anything else. We must help the storm build and ride it when it strikes, but we mustn't throw all caution to the winds." Alyx squeezed Mags' arm, sighing at her faraway gaze. "I know how frantic you are."
Mags gave her friend a tense smile, her eyes lingering on those white-streaked blonde hair a little too long, wondering if Alyx, like Larimar the year before, would retire at fifty-five. Just one more year, and the second generation of Instructors would be a mere memory at FLASH.
It was barely 5pm when Chelsea honked. Despite Capitol medicine and a heart as big as the ocean, the soft-spoken victor of the 34th Games lacked the energy to spend long days at the orphanage anymore.
Mags climbed behind Chelsea on the motorcycle. She didn't drive anymore. Another thing taken away from her. Mags clenched her jaw as the sandy wind whipped against her skin.
The time for planning was over. It was time to act.
The rebellious exaltation of years past was mixed with familiar dread. Mags had lived too long to hold onto naive illusions. She stopped Chelsea as they passed Gloria's house. It had been months since Mags had had a real conversation with her niece. Gloria's daughter, Tallulah, with that glow only the young could have, was in the garden, removing the snares from the roof and hedges, expertly killing the squawking seagulls trapped inside.
"The cats just don't do their jobs anymore," Tallulah said with a wry grin. "We'll be going out to fin the eggs early tomorrow. One day those pests will learn to find their food elsewhere."
The black-haired girl had raised her hand in greeting, expecting Mags to leave again.
The gesture filled Mags with a chill she hadn't felt since Cereus had fallen ill. With her eyes set on the future, barely a minute to spare for those who were nothing to the rebellion, she realized the present flew threw her fingers.
Tallulah was just another Creneis girl. A good girl, who knew so little. Something in Mags snapped. Tallulah was her great niece! A little piece of Esperanza, and Mags barely knew her and knew that Tallulah knew even less.
Mags' eyes were moist. "I want to see you," she said, forcing Tallulah to come nearer to hear. "All the family, Rest Day. I want something big."
Tallulah grinned. Her smile turned coy. "Can I bring Halyard? He's a sweetheart, I might yet keep him."
Mags chuckled, granting her permission with a nod. Tallulah was like Esperanza, breaking the heart of half the boys in town.
"Tell Lorelei not to worry, we'll come up early to help you organize everything." Tallulah smiled again and hesitantly putting her hand on Mags' shoulder, as if she didn't know how familiar to be. "It's nice to have you still so upbeat."
Mags snorted. "Lorelei doesn't worry."
"No, she would have greeted us with a list and told us to go fetch the groceries at the train station." Tallulah dropped her voice. "Cousin Finnick will be there?" She said, hope in her eyes. Of the Odairs, she had been the one who'd tried the hardest not to become a stranger.
She squealed when Mags nodded, and Mags had to love her for her constant exuberance.
"Mags, what news?" Gloria called, poking her head out of the window. Mags' smile broadened. Esperanza's youngest wore her life in her skin, a song every sailor inked for all to see, but she still painted her nails with that red, and styled her hair in thin black braids, in a way that reminded Mags of when Marquise had bounced that little girl on her knees.
"Family party on Restday!" Tallulah said triumphantly. The note of surprise breaking through her joy filled Mags with guilt.
A genuine smile broke Mags' lips at seeing them so merry. As she contemplated all that she had, she dreaded to wonder which one of those beautiful, innocent people would be the first to pay for her ambitions. Snow would not hesitate the moment he felt threatened.
"You've been looking increasingly... concerned, these days, Mags," Finnick said, catching her staring at the ocean.
"The war will not end unless the two sides recognize each other as people," Mags said, mixing signs with words.
Allies, networks, weapons... they were all minor as long as the hate between Capitol and District burned all sense away.
Year 72, April, the Capitol.
The afternoon sun filtered through the window onto the soft sheets, bathing the azure room in golden light.
Finnick had loved the Capitol since the first day. Capitolites no, but the Capitol... he loved the architecture, the colors and the cleanliness, the creativity and omnipresent technology that felt like magic. He loved their books, antique plays but also fantasy, science-fiction and tales, escapes in worlds he never could have conceived. He liked seeing people healthy, seeing the very old, the ill and the mentally disabled, all those who poverty and the obsession for productivity stamped out, belong in a world that could afford to cherish them.
Early bird. His Victory Tour had opened his eyes and cast a grim shadow over that beauty. Behind each fold and flourish hid artisans and workers, behind every marketing campaign, every customer choice, lives hung in the balance.
Even in this bedroom Finnick could taste the despair rolling from District Eight, for Cleopatra, despite her practical wisdom, was wealthy and enamored with fashion and the open closet was full of those armor-like shoulder pieces, short skirts and head-wear that were all the rage. Armors, as if they were all heroes of fantasy tales. Flexible plastics, metal and leather, meant for parade, to exude power without sacrificing femininity, utterly impractical in any combat setting of course, but more importantly with precious little cloth. Relief filled Finnick at the sight of the brilliant blue cloak, cloaks he had sponsored so tirelessly since he had first glimpsed the new Capitol fascination for fantasy. Exhaustion filled him at the reminder he had to be at Home Delights at eight, to convince the Capitol they had to buy new curtains and sheets. Embroidery, lace, sheets colored with red ducks and pythons, Finnick couldn't care less, but they needed to buy cloth. At least Cecelia would be with him then.
Finnick wore a soft content smile, his eyes wide and far away: for Cleopatra Quest, he was a dreamer. She was a stylist of the middle class, reminding all those who had forgotten, buried in work or life, that they had a beauty fashion could reveal. I'm in love with a peacekeeper. Finnick usually didn't respond to secrets of the heart, but Cleopatra's belonged to the Colonel of Northern Panem, Districts 7, 8 and 9, and Cleopatra had been able to tell Finnick all there was to know about the place of peacekeeper officers in the Capitol.
"We're seeing more and more of him," Cleopatra mused, propped on her elbow, her black hair lazily falling across her breasts and along her hips. "He'll replace Seneca Crane, certainly. Fame never seemed to get too much to him, we need more like him."
Finnick's smile twitched. He'd taken years to appreciate how expertly Plutarch climbed his way up. Plutarch was neither handsome nor especially charismatic, but he had that deep slow voice, the pointed stare, that made Finnick want to linger and listen. He spoke of ideas more eagerly than of people, he offered solutions, and he was just as good at being dismissed as he was at being remembered in times of need. The more the controversy surrounding the Hunger Games grew, the more the TV showed of Plutarch Heavensbee.
"Ostentation is a mark of decadence," Plutarch declared onscreen. "We shall return to our roots, to remember where true pride lies."
This month, Mags, Nori, Gilly and Chelsea walked Four with the District's highest ranking peacekeepers, ostensibly for FLASH recruits, but all knew it was Mags' last trip and a promise. I will finish what I started. I have not forgotten.
In the Capitol, Finnick would do his part.
This year the arena was no secret. There were no District specialists brought to a secret site and locked up until the Games season was over, no workers rounded up in Eleven, and who would return, the lucky ones at least, with their memories wiped out. This year a huge opaque dome had been erected over the coliseum of the Capitol.
The circus games of ancient Rome. Panem et Circenses, to keep the people happy.
Cleopatra laughed at a witty remark from Plutarch, a flush spreading over her stunning cheekbones. Finnick brushed her hair off her hip line, his fingers melting into golden skin so soft it didn't feel real.
The war will not end unless the two sides recognize each other as people.
Through accent, fashion, lifestyle and constant whispers about barbarism and superiority, the Capitol had crafted two castes, two species. Finnick alone could not reverse such tight conditioning. He just had to crack it enough for change to be possible. Cleopatra loved a peacekeeper, but to her the Colonel was different. She would never extend her empathy to the unwashed, threatening hordes of District citizen.
Finnick had a target, the police of the Capitol, the warlords and shocktroops of Panem: the Homeguard.
A rainbow mist rose from the waterfall pools, casting a shimmering veil over the lush flowers of the suspended gardens of the Capitol. On the largest and lowest of the floating platforms, there were no waterfall or songbirds. A tall stone memorial, engraved with the faces of the fallen of the Dark Days, reached for the skies.
Finnick wore the dark red of the District born, a mark of blood, of guilt, and already he should have felt honored to be allowed there among them, on Veteran's Day. It filled him with fury, to see Glynn in the third row, also clad in red, holding her husband's arm. Unlike Finnick, she had been granted the privilege of wearing a black band of mourning. If only they knew, those petty people, how right they were, to consider Glynn district after all these years.
Finnick stood exactly where he wanted to be. With the victors from Two, next to the Homeguard deemed not important enough to be on the first rows, in positions of honor.
"Your family fought," Finnick whispered with a frown, discomfort clear on his face as he addressed the Captain to his right. "Your grandmother died, fighting in places no other Capitolite would brave. Mags told me stories, of Major Lakeheart and the battles of the lines, the fight for the train networks. She said your grandmother escaped so many times the rebels renounced to keep her hostage after that."
Captain Lakeheart, like Cleopatra, toed the line between high society and middle class, shut off by circles that had to subconsciously know that they would implode if they made place for people with real values. Or simply feared they wouldn't be able to drug themselves as much if Homeguard were part of their parties... Lakeheart had been on missions, Six, Eight, Eleven, short, violent interventions where the Homeguard swiftly brought bloody order when the peacekeepers were overwhelmed. Finnick suspected a man who struggled to feel alive and had grown addicted to danger.
"I'd go gay for you, Odair, but I'm afraid my tastes lay elsewhere," the Captain replied with a wry smile. It didn't reach his eyes, brown eyes full of mistrust. "You don't have to charm me. Did my mother put you up to this?"
Finnick chuckled softly. "No, I'm genuinely interested. Are they alright? Those who came back from Four?"
"There are programs for veterans. Psychiatrists, support groups. It was six years ago, Odair."
"So were my Games, and I remember them quite vividly," Finnick said with a fleeting smile.
Lakeheart looked down. He was too clever and not enough of a horrible person to miss the parallel.
"Are there programs, for victors?" Lakeheart said after a while. Finnick almost felt sorry for blatantly manipulating him.
"Don't worry about me," Finnick said with a laugh, keeping it to a whisper to avoid disturbing the long-winded speaker addressing the assembled crowd. "Mags is a wonderful mentor." He didn't miss Lakeheart's wince. "It simply bewilders me, to see you all... excluded from the life of the city. They welcomed me readily, and yet you, the Homeguard, you do so much more for Panem", he said, wide-eyed like the naive twenty-year-old socialite so many saw him as.
Lakeheart's expression darkened. Betraying the thirst for recognition craved by the men in black and gold. "We keep our homeland safe, but we are also the law. We fine, arrest and police our own people. Many feel we are best unseen and should be a concern for others."
"You save them from thieves, fires and frauds. You should advertise it."
Lakeheart stiffened, scandalized. "Advertise? We are not merchants!"
"No. But people listen to the TV more than to government speeches."
Lakeheart's lips twisted. "To you too. My youngest brother has posters of you in his bedroom. Want to make a calendar with me, Odair?" His eyes darted to Lyme and Brutus. "Your friends too?"
"I do like uniforms," Finnick said with a small pointed smile.
All trace of sarcasm left Lakeheart's face when he realized Finnick was serious about taking pictures with him. "You think it will get us respect?"
"Visibility, people will want to talk and hear about you." Finnick said. A shy smile split his lips. "And it'd be so awesome to get a chance to mingle with the real military."
Lakeheart's lips twitched at Finnick's boyish enthusiasm. "I'll drop a word to my superiors."
Year 72, June, the Capitol
Plutarch leafed through the magazine, his blue eyes narrowed slightly as he inwardly crowed with laughter.
The pictures succeeded each other, camera shots from the Hunger Games and pictures of the Capitol's streets. Finnick grabbing young Shani's hand as they fled the fire pushing them away from the old mansion of the 65th arena, next to a Homeguard rescuing a young woman from a terrifying house fire. Seeder patching her panther's wounds and a Homeguard woman bringing a mistreated dog, a large fluffy thing so badly beaten up, to a shelter. Lyme, filthy, blood-stained and so dignified, half-carrying the limping girl from One away from danger, next to a Homeguard carried a wounded colleague on his back.
Different reasons, same experiences, the title read. It was scandalous, a stunning work of art, and sold out within three hours.
How little it had taken to go from an innocent calendar to this. Homeguard and victors, the Imperial Legion and its gladiators. It had worked so much better than Plutarch had dared hope.
Coriolanus, stone-faced and furious, was waiting for an answer.
Plutarch took a slow breath, mild concern creasing his face. He knew Coriolanus' moods and the man was a child prone to tantrums. But there would be no tantrums as long as the army was involved, Coriolanus was afraid enough to be cautious, and Plutarch had no cause to worry for now.
"The Victors had nothing to do with this," Plutarch said. "The article wasn't published under a pseudonym: they don't even see how it's treasonous. They think it's avant-garde and edgy." A wry chuckle escaped his lips. Inwardly, he felt a pang of sorrow for the foolish journalist.
"They need to start thinking differently."
Plutarch sighed softly. "Then it must be made clear, that for their safety, there are rules to be respected. People seek ideals, ideals of bravery, and the Games are such an easy source of great vivid pictures. An artist's treasure trove and an easy road to fame."
"Morons," Snow hissed. "I will have this Miss Mayflower, publicly destroyed for sedition. They are shown from birth that the Districts are dangerous, that the Victors are not to be admired, much less to be seen as examples. How more clearer must we be?"
"It warms their hearts to imagine they helped those district citizen cross the bridge between barbarism and civilization. This affection does not extend to those who never set foot in the Capitol." Plutarch said, his calm deep voice at odds with the President's anger.
"There is no bridge, they will never be like us," Snow said. His eyes narrowed. "The victors are creating too many problems... It's time to restrict free speech."
Free speech. Plutarch was too good a politician to snort. "Coriolanus, if people are silenced, they will feel oppressed and may take action -they will fail of course-," he said calmly, "but it would create disorder. As long as they can speak out, they will protest but they will do nothing more than feel righteous about their opinions."
"Then tell me, Plutarch, how to have them stop questioning my Games? How to stop them from asking to visit the Districts?" Snow smiled after a pause. "You know what, I'll allow it. I'll allow them to visit." Plutarch had never seen such a feral smile. "No one too important... I'll announce it in the Districts, that Capitolites are coming and that any form of harassment will be severely punished."
Plutarch stiffened. Even in One, Three and Five, there would be those eager to tear Capitolites apart. Coriolanus would choose the most obnoxious, entitled men and women just to cause a bloodbath.
"They won't learn any other way," Snow said, his eyes glittering with malice. "This year is the last rigged Games will be necessary."
Year 72, June, District Eight.
"Get out, you'll be called back to work when you're needed."
The man, forty and stooped, his eyes squinting behind his glasses, fiercely clutched his bag. "When? Will I get paid during -"
"Not my problem," the peacekeeper snapped, shoving the tailor out.
Only the knowledge that Sergeant Aleyn had the list of the workers thrown out in the streets and would see to their needs kept Paylor from shaking in anger as the man, doubtless a father, stumbled out, despair and rage on his sallow face.
"You lot, by next week, you need to look like you know what you're doing and learn to keep your mouths well shut," he sneered. "Not that you'll be asked anything. "You should be damn proud to get this chance."
Paylor kept her eyes downcast, but some other fool nodded. Whether he was being a bootlicker or meant it, the peacekeeper took offense. "You being clever with me, boy?"
Bloody Hell.
Capitolites were coming to Eight, to see where their pretty dresses were made. The nicest factories and artisan shops were being scrubbed raw and made pretty, by people barely paid for the extra hours they had to put in, and the tailors and seamstresses that were too old, too young, skinny or ugly were being replaced by prettier, younger folk. At twenty-nine, Paylor was among the oldest.
How'd she ever get in contact with Quipus now? Did they even know where she was? Her mother would be frantic.
Paylor had grown up in the fields, she knew all about hard work and cotton pickers and strippers, but sewing? She'd helped her mother do clothes of course, few people bought them in shops, even in the city, but she'd never pass for a seamstress.
A terrified looking couple was pushed into the room. Paylor noted they were quite attractive. Perfect for cameras, she thought bitterly. "These are Tailor Eli and Stylist Loomera. You'd better hope they manage to make you look good for the visit," the peacekeeper said with a threatening smile.
A week later, her head spinning with all she had to remember to keep her head on her shoulders, Paylor started when a peacekeeper slapped a healing paste on her cracked bleeding hands. "Go put on makeup, girl. You look a fright." Paylor blinked exhaustion out of her eyes. She'd barely had a chance to sleep in days. She stared at the makeup, unable to make sense of the powders and pastes.
"What the hell did they bring us?
The boy next to her, Marko, gave her a big grin tinged with hysteria and devolved into a huge yawn. "Pile it on and see whatever hides the bags under our eyes and gives us a rosy glow." He chuckled as he registered Paylor's dark skin. "You know what I mean. They switched that blonde peacekeeper, the handsome one, Garret, with some other guy, the one with all the shaving cuts. Synthra had been talking sweet to Garret and he was on guard, whisper is he got punished for letting her slip away. Hopefully, those Capitolites won't stay too long and we'll get to go home."
Marko was eighteen, and he knew more than most of them about sewing and design, growing up in a house that made Homeguard uniforms. His kind had never seen a tesserae slip, and Paylor would never have spoken to him had they not been stuck together. Now Paylor was thinking of recruiting him. He managed to be observant when sleeping four hours a night.
The voice was strident and drawling and worse that anything Paylor had heard on TV. "Are you from Eleven?"
Paylor couldn't ignore the direct question. She lifted her head up, perfume almost making her gag. The woman was fat and yet looked strong enough to bust her way through a door. Her chest, neck and right arm covered with a horrible red metal-like spiked armor. Her sagging stomach almost hid the ridiculously short red and gold skirt that left little to the imagination. She periodically turned her head, to smile at the camera held by the two-men crew.
If they were going to gorge themselves and hoard all of Panem's money, couldn't they at least have class?
"No, Ma'am, Eight had people of color since the start," she said, hoping she looked demure.
The woman's lips curled into a sneer and Paylor bit her lip rather than say that both Enobaria from Two and Caesar Flickerman's wife were dark-skinned and where she could shove her prejudice.
"Well, are you going to design me some clothes?" Bertalina Honeyridge demanded. "All this is horribly out of fashion, but we can't let it go to waste."
That... that cow! Who decided what was fashion? Who couldn't care less when they starved? Paylor clenched her jaw and glanced around in alarm, seeing how the others all struggled to keep their tempers. These weren't people used to dealing with the Capitol's buyers or even peacekeepers. Despite the threat of punishment, she could see the anger on their exhausted faces.
"Of course, they'll be so jealous you'll launch a new fashion upon your return," Loomera said with the deferent smile of an experienced stylist.
Paylor had never appreciated enough the tolerance for bullshit that came with the job.
"My brother and brother-in law too of course, you have enough people and we don't want to stay here forever," Bertalina said.
Paylor frowned. Those two men with her were married?
And that's when the trouble began. The Capitolites took offense at their shock, never mind that none of them had even known it was possible, for two men to marry.
Whatever they did after that, it seemed they couldn't do anything right.
"Are you purposefully giving me the ugliest fabrics you can find?" One of the men spat, cuffing Stitch so hard he fell with the stack of needles.
Stitch bit back a cry as one of the needles pierced his skin, drawing blood.
"You useless barbarians. I can't believe we pay so much for such shoddy work," Bertalina huffed.
Stitch scrambled to pick up the stuff, sweating as the camera turned to him.
Eli and Loomera bravely tried to fill the space, to be the only ones who touched the Capitolites, but the three wouldn't tolerate any delays.
Bertalina grabbed one of the younger girls by her shirt when she accidentally pricked her with a needle. "You did that on purpose, bitch. I'll teach you your job. You think it's nice?" She screamed, wrestling the needle out of the terrified girl's hands and jabbing it under her eye. The girl whimpered as Belinda pressed hard enough to draw blood. "I'll teach to stab me. It doesn't seem like you're using those eyes of yours anyway..."
The camera kept turning, and Paylor could see the smile on the cameramen's faces.
Monsters. Her grip tightened on the silk ribbons as another slur escaped Bertalina's black lips.
It wouldn't stop, hours and hours, as they battled exhaustion and concentrated on their families to curb their shredded prides. Until the red-faced Bertalina broke Stitch's arm for some other imaginary fault.
Stitch screamed as the bulky woman refused to let his wrist go. Pain-crazed and desperate, he jammed the coat-hanger into her eye. It was as if they'd all turned to stone. They couldn't look away even as Bertalina's ear-splitting shriek filled the room.
Bertalina's brother roared, shoving Eli away from him and stepping purposefully on Eli's fingers before lunging for Stitch.
"Guards!" His husband shouted, grabbing a chair and backing away. "You assassins! You're flipping mad!" He spluttered, breaking into a litany of curses.
Marko grabbed a chair and smashed it against the man's back as someone scrambled to get Stitch away.
Paylor frantically glanced around, glimpsed a peacekeeper, through the window, watching. Waiting.
That's when Paylor understood. They'd been staged. The peacekeepers had left the room because of orders. He'd known, that bastard Snow had known what would happen. He wanted this to be seen in the Capitol. Not that cow Bertalina threatening a sixteen-year-old with a needle, but District people killing Capitolites, with frigging coat-hangers.
They were all on tape. They'd all be executed.
Grandpa Sylvan's advice rang in her ears. When you fight, you take them down fast, before they can go running to their boss.
Paylor had never killed. Her hands were white against the long sewing scissors, but she didn't waste any time. The others weren't murderers, the Capitolites weren't murderers either, and good medicine would have everyone, even Bertalina, as right as rain, but Paylor knew every second counted now. The cameramen fell to the ground in fear. She kicked their sides and bodily kept them down. They screamed, sending violent tremors through Paylor's body and etching the horror in her mind. Paylor had heard the screams during the Hunger Games and that had been with axes and swords, not bloody scissors.
They'd stopped to gape at her. The dark-haired woman using scissors as a knife, stone-faced and determined. Something changed. Loomera wrapped the measuring tape around Bertalina's brother's neck and pulled hard. Within seconds there were no Capitolites left in the room.
It had been less than three minutes since Bertalina had broken Stitch's arm.
Covered in blood, adrenaline burning through her veins, Paylor swallowed back fierce fear when the peacekeepers erupted in the room.
She grabbed the camera. "With me!" She shouted, turning briefly to see Marko on her heels. She jumped out of the open window. Third floor. She'd done worse.
She landed on the balls of her feet, twisting to roll on her shoulder, the small camera safely in her pocket. She groaned, knowing exactly how much those bruises would hurt in the morning.
Miraculously, Quipus was outside. His eyes widened when he saw the blood on Paylor's skin and clothes. "What -"
"Torch the building," she said. If Quipus was here, there would be others. She'd never been so glad that they'd come for her.
"There's people -" Marko paled when he saw her expression.
"Torch it now," Paylor ordered, her voice cold and hard. Only Tailor Eli had made it out with them, he was still on the ground, grimacing as he clutched his leg. Seven of their own were still inside. "Quipus, that's an order."
You won't always feel like the good guy, girl. Hesitate to save a few, and all will pay. She had to trust Sylvan, he'd been a Lieutenant, a rebel so long. She couldn't break now.
Paylor's face was a mask of stone as she barred the only entrance to the building. The first and second floor windows had bars on them, like every building in Eight, and when she turned a few minutes later to check if peacekeepers were following them, the flames were high, the fire spreading in the treacherous summer heat.
"It's going to spread to neighboring houses before they stop it," Quipus said hoarsely.
Paylor met his gaze, willing all weakness away. She was their leader, she couldn't break. "They had our names. Everyone one of ours in there was dead. The Capitolites were a trap. We were meant to react as we did, to attack and kill. And they'd have used this," she said, her voice trembling with rage as she took the camera out of her pocket, "the video of it, against us. Maybe to lower wages, send mutts, or just round up a hundred avoxes."
Paylor smashed the camera against the ground until nothing was left. Had the same happened in Three, Five, Eleven? Surely no Capitolites was mad enough to go to Eleven?
But Bertalina Honeyridge had been such a bully, so stupid, that Paylor knew Snow would find someone to go to Eleven.
When Paylor woke up in the middle of the night, she saw hands slick with blood. She shut her eyes again and saw fire. Stylist Loomera, Stitch, young Apaca, and four young men and women whose only crime had been to have been born attractive. Hate burned in her chest and she fantasized about bringing an army into the Capitol and destroying their glittering buildings, one after the other, until she was calm enough to sleep.
Two weeks later, Sergeant Aleyn brought her a bread shaped like a fish. Her hands shaking, Paylor broke it open and found a note. Well done. 2, 4, 5, 10 and 12 passed the test, the Capitolites came home safely. The fire in 8 was officially a tragic accident and it won't go beyond a peacekeeper inquiry. Snow wants hate to reign. It must not be allowed.
Paylor clenched her fist, her lips trembling. Damn Snow. Damn Snow to Hell. Paylor straightened, a small nervous smile twisting her lips. Quintus had obeyed. Her order had been insane but he'd obeyed. Mags trusted her to do the right thing. Paylor vowed not to let that hate consume her.
She'd lead them to victory, or die trying.
Year 72, July, the Capitol.
Rows of droplets-shaped chambers lined the Breeding Tower's walls. Most were empty. Moss full of parasitic life cast an unhealthy shadow on the translucent glass, by far outnumbering the few healthy chambers where creatures ranging from the familiar to the grotesque floated, peacefully sleeping in reddish liquid, oblivious to the activity around them. They were incomplete, too old for the small nursery vats, where the DNA assemblers produced the seed that inseminated the template eggs, but still too unfinished for their shapes to be anything other than monstrous. The constant rumble of the air conditioning and liquid rushing in the overhead feeding tubes drowned the noise of gawking Homeguard rankers penetrating for the first time in the mutt cloning halls of the Capitol.
"General!" Mr Leshire exclaimed, as if the sight of Homeguard in the Breeding Tower wasn't his death sentence. He saw the technicians' pallor and the dozens of filthy vats screaming angrily of gross neglect, but he smiled in relief, the genuine smile only a man of lies could muster. "I am so glad someone finally answered my pleas for-"
"Mr. Leshire," General Garren snapped, "you are under arrest under charge of high treason."
Leshire, ninth fortune of the Capitol, Head of Breeding Operations, and twice winner of Runway's most handsome gentleman award, gaped rather stupidly as two Homeguard restrained him and put him in cuffs.
"General," he spluttered, all color leaving his face as he realized he faced a life sentence in jail. "I do not understand -"
"This is our army, Mr. Leshire," General Garren said, his jaw clenched from barely contained anger as he stared at the fungi thriving in the ill-kept vats. "You would choose to compromise our army, in a period of unrest, to line pockets already bulging with ill acquired wealth? Have you no sense in addition to no decency?"
Makhai, Duncain, Garren, somehow the Capitol's Generals had remained honest, rational men over the years. Those loyal, paternalist figures, that incredibly never lost that incredulous expression, that look of betrayal, when men of wealth and power revealed how rotten they could be.
Glynn wore the faintest smile, her gaze radiating scorn as Leshire's green-blue eyes hatefully met hers. The man had always felt so far above her, so untouchable, when he had always been where she had wanted him. Corruption grew like weed where the garden wasn't tended. Glynn had kept a blind eye on the cloning vats for years, letting Leshire and his parasitic allies carve themselves a small empire. She could have let him continue, waiting until Snow realized that the vats had barely been fit to meet Seneca Crane's orders for the dinosaur-infested 71st Games, but this was not how she had remained above suspicion in the Capitol for so long.
She would do all in her power to make sure the vats were ready for war-scale production. Snakes, eagles, dogs, explosive owls and giant spiders, tearing through the Districts with no knowledge of fear or fear of pain. Yes, they would be ready, and then, when the chaos of war would drown the Capitol in fog, the vats would be sabotaged, and mutts would become a mere bad memory.
But to destroy the vats, Glynn needed to understand how they worked. The Homeguard were the last missing piece. Colonel Leshire, brother of the Leshire unceremoniously shoved outside in handcuffs, was the Homeguard's expert in bio-warfare. He would be nothing by the time the sun would set and his expertise would go with him. General Garren was a solid, predictable man, and he had no choice but to ask Glynn for help.
Garren turned to her, tall and stiff in his black and gold uniform. He towered over her, his gray eyes gravely peering down at her, the twitch in his jaw betraying his unease. "How long do you need to get this place operational?"
"Two-thirds of the personnel need to go," Glynn said. She'd shown Garren proof of Leshire's schemes, how deep they ran. "The new technicians and biologists must be screened and trained. I estimate two years to clear up this mess and reach full employment. Another two years to have the vats running at full capacity."
"Mrs. Valens, I want this to be your first priority," Garren said. "The zoos will provide for the Games. Training for Wolfhounds must begin within a season."
Glynn nodded, her mouth dry at the memory of bone chilling tales of the Homeguard shock divisions with their massive wolves, beasts with skin as thick as boiled leather and jaws frothing with blood, tearing through rebel lines and hunting fugitives for days until they died of exhaustion. Sweat pearled on her brow as fear warred with anticipation.
Mutts were para-military despite their crucial role in medical research and the Hunger Games arenas, and no avox had ever entered the breeding chambers. Glynn was district born, as people were keen to remind her every week, and until today, even glancing the way of para-military would have had her sent back to Four, or worse. She'd docilely stayed away, guaranteeing that through inaction, they would turn to her for help. Like Plutarch, she cultivated patience and an irreproachable reputation of competence.
Glynn smiled slightly, her triumph dampened by the magnitude of the task ahead of her. "The Hospitals are stable and well managed, my presence on the board is honorific. I shall retire." She met his gaze with all the professional confidence she had learned to muster. "With full access to all documents and machines, I believe we could win a year overall, General. Considering how sensitive the technology is, I would feel safer in working closely with your people, but we cannot waste time with paperwork and permissions considering the urgency of the task."
Her heart hammered as General Garren gave a brisk nod. Their networks were airtight because they had taken the time, gently working their way into the system, whispering in people's ears, making them doubt. But now they had to move faster, and speed was full of risks. Garren had just granted her military clearance.
"General, I can either invest, respect all security and safety measures and deliver in five years vats that will clone ten thousand mutts a season, but there will be no more than a thousand a year until then, or I can squeeze the most out of what remains and have ten-thousand mutts ready within next year. We'll unfortunately then be stuck with sub-optimal facilities. This depends on the urgency of the threat the Districts pose."
The war will not end unless the two sides recognize each other as people. Glynn had to nudge General Garren the right way, or Finnick's networking in the last weeks would have accomplished little. It had been tricky, to spread the right rumors, remind the Capitol how horrible the people who'd been allowed to go to the Districts were, to sow doubt despite the Capitol's discomfort at speaking ill of the dead. Snow was unfortunately learning, and the live records had been erased before the propaganda version of events had aired.
"These things cannot be predicted with accuracy," Garren said.
"Peacekeepers provide second hand reports, General, and most of the officers who report to you are removed from the life of District citizen," Glynn said. "The Homeguard must find a way to assess the District situation."
Garren stiffened at being counseled by a civilian, but he was too intelligent to dismiss her words completely. "Yes, those who returned from Four six years ago had a lot to say."
"I will bow to your experience, General, but if it is unwise for the Homeguard to go to the Districts, then maybe you should bring the Districts to the Homeguard. Uncertainty is a luxury we cannot afford."
The General blinked. "You would suggest interrogations?"
Glynn repressed a violent shudder. It was so hard, to stop their minds from jumping to the most violent, inhuman solutions. "Patterns aren't revealed by pawns unless you interrogate enough to cause the rebellion yourself," she said mildly. "Peacekeepers may not know where to look and people are guarded around them, and they are district, strangers to the Capitol." She gave the man a thin smile. "Danger comes from District unity, awareness of their combined strength. The way they think is more revealing than what they do."
Glynn had always admired, how the Capitol had crafted divides to channel the hate away from themselves. Eight had its cotton fields, workers who hated the city for its running water and electricity, but who took the clean air they breathed in the fields for granted. The loomers of the lower city spun cotton, wool, silk and synthetics into fabrics and hated the tailors, seamstresses and stylists for being masters of their own trade and their air conditioned houses. Those clothes-makers, proud and worn and dead at sixty, dependent on the whims of Capitol fashion. Only those working in technical textiles, for hovercraft seats, or military uniforms had guaranteed income, and everybody hated them of course, for the tesserae they didn't have to take. Seven had its paper mills and carpenters, sneered upon by the lumberjacks who lost kin every year to the swamps and freezing winters. Ten had its wool pressers, leather makers, slaughterhouses and butchers, who rarely saw the light of day, barely speaking to the Settlers, those working the Capitol's farms. Eleven had no divide in industry, so the Capitol had taken the boys off the streets and given them a crowbar and a uniform, reaping a militia of thugs from the unemployment and poverty they forced on the population. Even Twelve, so small it barely deserved to be called a town, had its Seam and Merchant class.
The General nodded once more, a thoughtful expression entering his eyes. "I shall schedule a meeting within a week, Mrs. Valens. I expect you to give me an idea of the costs." He paused. "How were the people of Four, back when you lived there?"
Glynn smiled slightly. She would have him the moment he realized how little he knew of the Districts. He was too much of a strategist to be comfortable with ignorance. It would be easy after that, to suggest he talk more to victors.
Year 72, August, 72nd Hunger Games.
Whatever poor Wiress had said, Finnick would never know.
"You're nuts. Nuts," Johanna repeated, cocking her head to get a better stare at the frizzy-haired victor from Three. She brought a considering finger on her lips. "'Nuts'... Hmmm."
Finnick bit back a rueful smirk. Many victors weren't social types, but Jo was packing up the misanthropy for a first year victor.
"Stop bullying Wiress," he said, leading Johanna away from a put out Wiress and an annoyed Beetee.
"She's quite a few screws short," Johanna said unabashedly. "Hello to you too, Boytoy."
An outrageous flirtatious smile bloomed on Finnick's lips. He dug into his pocket. "Want a sugar cube?"
She slapped him. Gently enough that Finnick took it like a greeting hug.
"Want a blunt knife?" he said in the same tone, dropping the smile and pulling the weapon out of his other pocket. "So you can threaten your tributes without damaging them too much."
Donna had said Johanna had shouted at her tributes during half the train ride.
Johanna blinked, her eyebrows shooting to her hairline. "Trouble with the future Mrs.?" Johanna muttered, her voice slightly hoarse. "I'm starting to think you're flirting with me, Odair." She pursed her lips, her fingers still lovingly caressing the knife. "Where's the old lady?"
"We tied Mags up to make sure she didn't come," Finnick deapanned. It wasn't even that far from the truth. Mags couldn't be trusted to look out for herself, and Lorelei was much too prone to indulging her. He'd put Alyx Rivers and Captain Warrain on watch duty, at least he knew Mags wouldn't manage to manipulate them.
"I got a local bully, who intimidated people into giving money, and a girl who'd tell peacekeepers innocent people were rebels to get money. Two complete assholes who can't tell axes from their asses, but you know what?" Johanna said, baring her teeth in anger, "that's good. I want them to die and painfully." She chuckled dryly. "I'm so using this," she said gleefully, twirling the knife between her fingers. "The Capitol already hates them anyway."
"Who're you carving up, little girl?" Gloss said, as naturally as if he'd been invited in the conversation.
Jo look was so full of scorn that Finnick recoiled.
"This year's outliers have dubious morals," Finnick said. "I'm not even sure they're safe to be around. Jo's right to keep her distance."
"Protective much, Finn?" Cashmere said, a small hostile smile flitting over her lips as she sized Johanna up. "I'm surprised Seven tolerates being so close to a whore like you. Be coherent, Johanna, you can't spit all over me and my brother and make sweet eyes at him."
Johanna couldn't stop the disgust flashing in her eyes as she glanced at Finnick, but her expression hardened, a thin smile snaking over her thin lips. "Babydoll, you knew what you were getting into when you said I do on Reaping Day."
"Johanna, she had parents, you know how well the Capitol takes a no," he said, hating how the two girls looked at each other. They had no reason to be enemies. "They take what they want."
Cashmere shot him a withering glare. "I don't need your help, Finnick."
Johanna stared at Finnick in a similar way, looking unimpressed. "Fine, Babydoll is a victim trained murderer and pillow-toy. If she didn't have the character for it, they'd have picked another big-breasted chick." She turned to Cashmere and Gloss and gave them a fake smile. "The Capitol only wants the very best."
Gloss looked ready to strike her. "Heavy mantle on your shoulders, Finn. Mags always did look out for newbies." He gave Johanna a condescending smile. "If I had a heart like Finn, I'd pity you too."
Johanna snarled something, flashing Finnick an uncertain, betrayed look before storming off.
Finnick stared, at a loss. He finally turned to the siblings from One, exasperation coloring his voice. "Did you just convince her I'm being nice because I feel obliged?"
"You're not?" Cashmere said with a bright innocent smile.
Finnick rolled his eyes and placed a kiss on Cashmere's cheek. "You'll always be my friend," he said, wishing he'd get her to back off just through inhuman patience, "even when you're a right pain."
He sighed and turned around to hunt down Johanna.
Caesar Flickerman did his job spectacularly, those who didn't have a sob story, he invented, and where Finnick had magnificently failed to make Johanna warm up to Careers, Caesar made the Capitol see those criminal District children as tragic victims. Of course, Caesar never once hinted they could be fixed, making sure as usual nobody would weep too hard when they died.
The dome around the coliseum was taken down during the night after the interviews and Finnick was given a place on the first row with the other mentors. He switched places with Woof, to be next to Johanna. It had taken a while, and ducking a few punches, to get her to see reason and accept that his offer of friendship was genuine. Winning the Hunger Games was horrible for self-esteem, even for people like Johanna.
"What do we owe the honor to, Finnick?" Cecelia said with a smile.
"It's a thing in Four, we like mentoring people who'll live," Finnick said, wrapping his arms around the two women. "Jo, since you can't escape watching the Games, you might at least learn the tricks of the trade." He grinned. "No cameras poking at our ears here, better make the most of it."
"Awe me with your commentary, boytoy," Johanna said with a tense smirk."I'm all ears."
Claudius Templesmith's voice suddenly boomed through the coliseum, silencing the huge crowd. "Yesterday," the speakers blared, "each tribute alliance told us their greatest strength. I hope for their sake that they didn't lie!"
"That's new," Finnick muttered.
"Funnily enough, I figured that out all by myself," Johanna cracked.
Johanna stopped making clever remarks when Cecelia pointed out how cute they were and called Johanna the little sister. Finnick decided he owed her flowers or something.
The Careers -strength- faced lions according to antique Roman tradition, and miraculously all survived. The outliers who had boasted speed had to climb a rope set aflame. Those who had said brains, the girls from Seven and Eight and the couple from Three, were stuck in a cage that opened only if riddles were solved, venomous insects waiting to be freed when the timer ran out. The boy from Ten, who'd organized illegal cock fights and taken a share of the betting money, had brazenly claimed he was lucky. He and his ally had to walk to the other side of the coliseum, on a human sized chess board with randomly exploding squares. He was lucky, his ally was not.
After the first day, which claimed six lives, there were three events a day, involving one or more tributes. The tributes went to sleep in individual cells with beds and they were granted meals and medicine only if their performance was convincing. It was Games of action, not talk. Mentors were allowed to give the Gamemakers suggestions, and the Gamemakers then gave a price.
"They're never asked to fight each other," Finnick said at the end of the first week. "The Gamemakers are waiting for the first betrayal. They want to show that tributes are killers. That's why there are ways for clever tributes to sneak in to the other's cells." The Careers had figured it out on the first night. A few outliers soon after, "and to steal the other's food."
The first murder came at night. The Five boy sneaked into Nine's cell and smothered the boy with his pillow. The second was on the day after, when the girl from Seven was pushed by the Three boy in front of advancing alligators to buy him enough time to climb the rope to safety.
The Careers played musical chairs to get rid of two of their members. The Capitol then randomly paired the tributes up, five pairs, gave them chariots and declared that the victor of the race, and whoever would kill another tribute, would get a day off with their mentor.
"Can we kill our chariot-partner?" It was Moire from Eight, known for vandalism. Her father had sold rebels out to get medicine for his sick wife, and keep his daughter unbothered. Moire had broken into the Head Peacekeeper's house and burned half the thing down when she'd found out.
She didn't kill, but two others did. Blanche from One and April from Eleven, who'd been found a week before Reaping Day hiding her fourth baby corpse in a large compost bin -she'd spoken of helping women in abusive situations abort during the Interviews-, won the race and got a day's respite.
The Hunger Games had started two weeks before, and Johanna was sulking. "Who do I frigging root for? Those who have a shot are either Careers or make me want to puke." She huffed. "Think Eight's got a chance? She's not too bad."
Finnick shared a look with Cecelia. "Let's give those Gamemakers a killer idea," he said, his eyes narrowing in concentration. He needed something cheap for Gamemakers, entertaining, that advantaged outliers but not outrageously.
He grinned when Cecelia's tablet flashed green, marking the Gamemaker's assent.
Careers had no weapons and outliers were given knives. They would fight thirty feet above the hard ground, on a field of wooden beams. Killers would get a day off and the game would be over once the last five became three. Moire got the girl from Eleven to take down Spade from Two with her, swearing she knew how to throw at a distance. She pushed the two of them down the moment they grappled and jumped on the unsuspecting Blanche after the end-game trumpets had sounded.
The Capitol crowd went wild, demanding an immediate last two. Finally, the Gamemakers bowed to their wishes.
"You know him?" Cecelia whispered, highly uncomfortable as Moire faced off Clifford from Four.
Finnick sighed. "He's suicidal. He doesn't want to win. He's the orphan son of people who died in Galene, six years ago." And that's why it had angered him to see Calypso die during those bloody musical chairs. She'd wanted it. "He's going to give them the finger without getting us in trouble. We have more volunteers like him than you might think. Nobody in Four gets a kick out of sending teenagers to their deaths."
Clifford took a long hard look at the crowd. "Who do you think I am? I don't kill girls half my size. I told you that during the interviews!" And he had. He'd also hid and whined most of the Games. The crowd didn't want him to win.
Moire shoved a knife in his back and made them happy.
Year 72, September, Creneis Town.
Finnick grasped Annie's hand, running his thumb against her skin. Sun-dried skin, slightly raw and raspy, peeling when he ran his nail against her wrist, not the smooth, spotless and glowingly hydrated skin of Capitolites. She smelled like salt and her, instead of a thousand fragrances calculated to appeal and overwhelm the senses. Annie offered when Capitolites sought to control and made sure everything was crafted precisely as they wished. Finnick saw the weather of Creneis in Annie's tan, the salt of ocean in the curls of her hair, the ropes in the slight swollenness to her hands.
"Ropes, Annie?"
"I decided to go to the Hitches, to help make a great net, for people to be able to climb the cliff on the other side of the docks, where if people fall they crash in the sea. It was fun, climbing them is even more fun. I was thinking of the Capitol while you were gone, and how they had places just for fun. I wanted us to have our own place."
"You worked with them?" Finnick said, a small awed smile creeping up his lips. Annie, going in town?
"I cheated," she admitted, ducking her head. The way she bit her lip was adorable, despite the resigned distress it revealed. "I went with Instructor - I mean Alyx-, and it was before dawn, I stayed inside, just with Manuel, it was quiet. He told me stories of his grandpa Marlin and Mags." She smiled, placing a kiss on Finnick's lips. "It was fun."
Finnick grasped her hand and pulled her to him, making her squeal. "Annie Cresta, you have been spending too much time inside. Why don't we see how far we can walk in..." the turned towards the mainland, where the olive trees grew wilder and the grass taller, "that direction. I've never been there." It wasn't very legal, but the peacekeepers wouldn't doubt two victors' survival skills. The old ruins were too far to risk stumbling on anything the Capitol would want them punished for seeing.
Annie's eyes widened in enthusiasm. "I'll pack the tent."
Tent? Finnick hadn't meant that far. He grinned, picturing him and Annie alone by a fire gazing at the stars. A tent it was.
They weren't ready for another two hours and Finnick loved that slow pace. In the Capitol, every second seemed to count, and nobody with wealth would waste precious minutes packing their own sandwiches. As Finnick cut ham into thin slices, Annie singing softly, her hair left to dry in to the autumn air, he wondered how he could have felt out of place in Creneis Town after his victory.
When he returned, three days later, Mags cheerily waved a letter before his face.
The victors from District Four are invited to the Homeguard's traditional Equinox ball on September 23rd.
Finnick grinned. To think he'd just had to get a Captain to want to take pictures with him.
"I don't have to come, do I?" Annie whispered.
"No, don't worry," Finnick said, hugging her close.
Year 72, September 23rd, Homeguard's ball.
Even Haymitch Abernathy had found a woman happy to have him at her arm. He'd cleaned up for the occasion, not sober but respectable enough, and Mags realized she may yet be able to count on him when the day came.
The twelve peacekeeper Colonels and Two's General were present as always, and as only the General's wife was invited, the Hunger Games' escorts had decided to go with the Colonels, with Marius from Nine dressing like a woman to make up for the gender imbalance, to Colonel Osborne's great distress.
Mags hadn't known who her escort would be. She pictured a widower, or some older gentleman who'd left his wife at home but wanted a safe option. A part of her hoped Glynn would have managed to send someone interesting her way. Mags hadn't expected a woman. The gray-haired Major had to be in her sixties and reminded Mags oddly of Lorelei, aside from the way her eyes had lingered on Seeder's red dress.
Mags cocked an eyebrow.
"I barely know how to waltz and didn't feel like talking," the woman said without more ado. "Had to come, women presence in the army, you know. Decided you wouldn't piss me off or try too hard to make sure I had a good time. And you'll want to go to bed at midnight and not four in the morning, so it won't drag on too much."
Mags grinned. True to her word, Lorenza Black was more a watcher than a talker and found hilarious to show Mags off as her date. Mags watched with her, how stilted conversation gave way to more genuine talk and laughter. Mags hadn't come to learn anything, only to shatter that invisible barrier that had Homeguard see the District born as somewhat more valuable than a mutt but less than a cherished pet hawk.
Of course, they were victors, and the Homeguard would find a thousand reasons to justify any new-found affection by saying victors were exceptions, hardly regular people, and Capitolized, after all, but exceptions were the first step.
Finnick changed partner with every dance, mingling equally with men and women, laughing and joking with an ease none of the others matched. Cecelia kept Johanna close, putting her best motherly air as she introduced the reluctant young victor from Seven to all the people she'd met since she'd put Charles, Victoria and the baby at the same daycare as the Homeguard's kids during her Capitol stays. Enobaria and Mercury from Three, inseparable as always, had decided to flirt with all the twins, male and female, they could find, and Mags grinned upon seeing Lyme with a young adventurous Lieutenant half a head shorter than her.
Even those who were struggling to have fun seemed to slowly find their place, either complaining about the system with the brooding drunks, checking out the women officers in a corner -Mags rolled her eyes at Haymitch and Chaff when they started organizing a best-dress vote-, or simply sharing silent drinks with some of the more lucid veterans, sighing with amusing regularity at the frivolity around them.
At some point during the night, Donna got so drunk, mistaking rankers for her exes and flaying the hide off them with hair-rising insults, that Mags had to follow her and slap her when she got too loud until Cecelia guilt-tripped Effie Trinket into finding her a soberer. The Capitolites were much too busy laughing to help.
The night ended with the 2AM tolls. This was a classy event and Victors would be going home with the escorts.
Mags yawned when Seeder finally deigned join her, holding her shoes in one hand and twirling like a little girl.
"I danced," Seeder said happily. "They didn't even try to grope me. I danced and danced and I don't even think I talked to anyone for more than four seconds. I should have planned all my stays in the Capitol like that," she said with a contagious bright smile. "I may even make a decent dancer now." She fixed her red dress, pulling it so her cleavage would reveal a little less. "What?" She challenged at Mags' small smirk. "You'd think they'd have accepted to dance with me had I worn a formless shift? A woman's got to play her strengths."
Mags grinned, patting Seeder's hand. "Or course, darling."
Year 72, September 24, Creneis Town.
Lorelei didn't know if to laugh or weep.
To celebrate the success of the Hunger Games, the hard-won peace between Districts and Capitol, and acknowledge the victors' role as the bridge between the people of Panem, families are invited to join the victors in the Capitol for an interview and a photoshoot. Stylists will be provided. Your presence is strongly encouraged.
A train will leave Creneis Town at 3PM.
Her, Larimar, his wife Pearl and the children. Jasper and his family. But not Sol, not Gloria or Tallulah.
You didn't survive a score years of peacekeeping without gaining a sixth sense for danger. Why not Sol? She tried to tell herself that it was because they couldn't have half the relatives be Mags', because Jasper's and Larimar's kids were younger and cuter than Sol's, because Tallulah looked so much like Esperanza that she may remind the Capitol of bad days, but the feeling wouldn't leave.
What if they hadn't invited them all because they didn't want to kill all of Mags' relatives? What if it was a trap?
Chelsea's sister had been invited too, but not Nori's husband, nor Nori herself for that matter.
Mama, did that ball anger Snow? You hugged me hard when you left, did you suspect?
They could say no. In Four, they could, no peacekeepers would drag them out unless the Capitol revealed its true colors. But Lorelei didn't know. What if it was true? What if all had gone so well that they were actually invited in the Capitol?
She smiled at the thought of such a breakthrough, but a deeper part of her felt like a naive child, a part soon submerged by anger, accusing her of having given up, of holding back like all those lukewarm rebels she despised.
"Are we going?"
Larimar had come to her first thing. She was the elder sister, the Captain, the one who lived in Victor's Village. It was her decision.
Nori had no advice to offer. Annie shut herself in her house when they left.
She had to trust Mags. If Snow wanted them dead, he'd find another way if they said no.
Lorelei breathed again when the train came, but the dread wouldn't leave, a nagging suspicion. Seeder's niece was there with her young son, and he was one of the cutest boys she'd ever laid eyes on. Woof's youngest nephew sat on the sofa, chatting with Asclepiad's twin cousins. Better still, Gloss and Cashmere's aunt was there, a striking woman with a lost look. Relatives of sane, generally liked victors, even if Seeder had never topped the popularity charts. Larimar squeezed her shoulder. It's okay, his eyes said.
No one from Two, but they were notorious, for having burned all bridges long before being selected for the Games. Lorelei remembered Lyme too late, when an elderly man climbed up after a stop, a wary look in his eyes.
"What is this?" Lyme's uncle said after they all briefly introduced themselves. "The Capitol may want us, but Snow certainly doesn't. I know the rules, what is this? I didn't want to come, I wasn't given a choice. You?"
Lorelei's heart began to hammer painfully when Seeder's niece broke into sobs.
A mistake. She'd made a terrible mistake.
The train derailed.
The words were a never ending loop Mags couldn't break out of. So this was the price. She'd known. Of course she'd known.
The train derailed and exploded. No survivors. Diverted by rebels of District Three, caught on live Hovercraft cameras, screaming for the death of Capitol scum. The rebels had been told it was a Capitol train with important Capitolites, they'd not bothered to check the source, they'd thought they hadn't been caught, that their stash of explosives hadn't been found, because they were just that good... Oh Mags could imagine it as if she'd been there. People who thought themselves smarter than their enemies were so easy to fool. They were all dead, those rebels, shot down one by one.
Beetee couldn't look at any of them in the eye. Mags told him again that it wasn't his fault.
Cashmere and Gloss had never looked so confused, their utter shock overcoming their grief. "What did we ever do?" They finally asked Mags, reminding her of their respective Victory Tours, when they'd been vulnerable enough to show they needed her help.
Cashmere and Gloss had never done anything.
"You're liked. A convenient martyr," Mags said, her lips twisting into a thin, bloodless smile. "No reason needed."
Loyalty worked only one way in Panem. Snow had never felt like he owed them anything.
Caesar dared call for a day of mourning. He made the Capitol crowd furious on their behalf, fueling through impassioned speeches the hate Mags struggled so hard against. Caesar, Snow's strongman in this terrible game of tug-o-war.
Lorelei, Larimar, Jasper, he would use their names. Her daughter, her little boy.
But she'd known. She'd known the moment she'd asked Finnick to talk to the Homeguard. Plutarch had told her, that Snow was angry.
Mags walked up to Caesar when the heresy of a memorial service, where they hadn't even been called to speak, was over.
"Rebel or simply power hungry, you did too much, Mags." Caesar said with a pointed sigh and a mildly apologetic expression. "It's sad to come such a long way to live such tragedies..."
Caesar Flickerman, father of two boys, 16 and 14. He had a sister, a nephew, he had friends and Mags knew all their names.
Mags' eyes narrowed with pure hatred. "Yours will fall, just as mine fell," Mags hissed. "Behave or there will be more blood. "
Caesar stared at her, incredulous. "You would threaten me?" He breathed.
"My son, my daughter. Not your toys," Mags replied, her head high. She signed to an avox before Caesar had the chance to turn all the cameras of the Capitol against her. For two days she remained docile, locked in her rooms with Finnick, Chelsea and Gilly. They spoke little, clinging onto each other.
She'd known. Mags could see it Chelsea's eyes, the brokenness, but also the anger, directed at Mags. They'd trusted her, to make the right decisions.
Chelsea's sister was dead.
Caesar's nephew Augustus, a bright young rising star in the very elitist circle of politics, died in the crash that killed him and the taxi driver two days later. Augustus' mother, Caesar's sister, killed herself upon hearing the news, or that was the only thing the doctors could say, when they found her on the kitchen floor, no sign of struggle, a box's worth of narcotics in her bloodstream.
Caesar was pale when he met Mags' gaze the next day. He was too intelligent not to understand. He believed he could still win, just like Mags did. But he had two children he was not prepared to lose and a wife he loved, and he would stick to his role.
Journalists finally were allowed to interview them. There was one message. Do not hate. Hate caused this. Mourn with us if you care.
"Uncle Larimar, he was so serious and responsible. Lorelei, she never married, said peacekeeping got her to see too much of men, that the spell was broken," Finnick said with a pained chuckle.
Finnick, Woof, they made them real, brought the focus away from the rebels and back to the victims.
Mags counted the days until it all would explode.
Please review.