Hello everyone, I've decided to write shorter chapters (back to early Checkmate lengths), which hopefully will equate to more frequent updates. Canon is filled with details and pitfalls and I really don't want to look back and realize I forgot a crucial detail.
I've also broken down Checkmate into five books instead of four to keep it more coherent in terms of relative lengths and story arcs. Nobody cares but me, but I feel the need to announce it :P.
Thank you so much for your support and continued interest.
Year 75, Reaping Day, District Four.
The train's windows rattled as a dozen hovercrafts took off around Lycorias Station.
Mags breathed out, adrenaline leaving her light-headed with relief. They'd avoided a bloodbath.
"We can't have the Capitol think anything is out of control," Finnick said, his lips curled as the dust around them settled to reveal Four's main town slowly fading in the distance as the train sped away.
Peacekeepers had come from District Two, crowding around Reaping Square to shield the Capitol from the sight of a free Four. Right behind the cameras' eyes, Four's own forces formed a barricade, ready to intervene if the Capitol's hounds lingered.
"We can take them down, Mags. You don't have to do this."
Yes, she had to. Larimar and Lorelei would finally rest in peace. Mags smiled thinly. "They'll know."
Finnick didn't answer, his eyes locked on the last of Lycorias.
Mags gently grasped his wrist, aching to erase his pain. Annie. Finnick could have run away with her months ago, fleeing for the villages where none would find him. Instead he stayed by Mags, and she didn't have the words to tell him what it meant to her.
"I should have married her," Finnick said, his eyes red but painfully dry. "I should have made a bigger deal about us." He forced a wan smile and straightened, resolve stiffening his spine. "Mags, the moment we get back, I'm marrying her."
"Yes," Mags confirmed, a grin breaking her lips. She brushed Finnick's cheek. "I know why you waited," she said, remembering the choir of singing children for her own wedding, and Cereus' hand on her waist as they danced. The smile on his lips. A wedding ceremony would not be complete without the heartwarming ripple of crystalline voices, and Annie would only be reminded of what the Games had taken away from her. "She's better now."
Finnick slowly smiled back, and Mags was glad to see the guilt ease from his face. Thoughts of Annie seemed to fade, replaced by a piercing green gaze. "Auntie, you look radiant."
Mags guiltily popped a sugar cube in her mouth. How easy it was to fall back into old habits. It had been four years since she'd walked the halls of the mentor's complex and made her last grand entry among sponsors, high on stimulants, and all too happy to be there to see Johanna precipitate the inevitable fall of the Hunger Games to worry about such mundane things as health. Three years since that ball with the Homeguard officers. Mags swallowed melted sugar as grief hardened the lines on her face. Three years since her children had paid for her boldness with their lives.
"I missed this," Mags admitted, her mumbled words quite at odds with the fire in her eyes. She didn't want to die at home, pondering what ifs. If there could not be a clear victory before her time was up, she wanted it on her terms, on the battlefield.
Year 75, 75th Hunger Games, the Capitol
He was short, he was ugly, with a cherubic head so comically large, and if some forgot his face, his high nasal voice reminded them of exactly who he was. Plutarch despised him. Claudius Templesmith, the voice-over of the Hunger Games, the official commentator, and trumpets sounded whenever he graced a television set with his presence.
Plutarch sat relaxed, waiting with a half-smile for Claudius to take a seat amidst the applause. Huge screens hugged the walls behind them, showing twelve trains converge towards the Capitol.
"Oh dear, Columbus and Sparrow are quite high on morphling in there," Claudius Templesmith said, with affected dismay as the couple staggered out of their wagon. "Terrible how some people go. We offered, remember, for them to come live in the Capitol, well cared for by the best specialists. Why is it that some people prefer to exercise their freedom in such destructive ways, Dr Heavensbee?"
Behind them now flashed magazine covers from over twenty years before, proclaiming in bold titles the staunch refusal of the sick victors to leave their District Six homes.
Plutarch sighed, the tightness in his eyes unfeigned. Even the worst conspiracists failed to grasp how outrageously the media lied about victors.
"Morphling tragically locks the user's personality in a bubble of calm and altered perceptions, but unlike more dangerous substances, it is pacifying and does not engender crime," Plutarch said. On cue, the most violent extracts from Sparrow's games, reminded the crowds of the unhinged monster the stumbling old woman had once been. "Sparrow told her doctor that she had violent impulses so strong she much preferred the haze, especially with the heightened artistic sensibility it confers."
"How sad… Sometimes there's just no cure," Claudius said with affected dismay, a rueful giggle underlining the tragedy in his words. He suddenly stood up, his expression grave. "Oh dear, such a great mind she was. Old Mags really has no idea. Look, she's smiling."
And Mags was. Steadied by Finnick's arm, her step slow, she walked through the crowd smiling and gracefully waving. Mechanical enthusiasm from crowds still too shocked by the Quarter Quell's twist met her unexpected warmth and Plutarch forced himself to take his eyes off his oldest friend and mentor and keep his expression mild as Claudius encouraged the crowd to chuckle at her 'dottiness'.
Such disrespect made Plutarch's blood boil, but he'd spent too many years detaching himself to react. There would be time for rage later.
"A true pity that the fame had to rise to Finnick's pretty head. I'm glad Mags is too far gone to realize what her little victor has grown into," Claudius tutted, switching from humor to horror with barely a pause for effect.
Plutarch's brow knit into a deep disapproving line. "Without proper education, civilization fails. Unfortunately temptation can be too great for those who confuse their needs and urges with morals and long term interests."
When Coriolanus had realized Finnick had allowed a hundred District One sex workers to slip through his fingers, he had crafted the greatest sex scandal of the generation. The press coverage reported just the disappearances, with reports were riddled with holes, and journalists investigating further encountered ostensibly raised walls. Cold trails made sure to hint at victor involvement and the journalists rarely suspected they'd been set up by the best among the Capitol's propaganda agents. The President's whisperers and rumor mongers, Caesar Flickerman chief among them, sprinkled ideas in every weak mind. Since 65, the Capitol's finances were suffering, and now many wondered how the victors had managed to live so luxuriously –and why suspect the faked expense reports when jealousy ran so rampant?-. The rumors painted a bleak picture: Finnick, behind his mask of generosity and free affections, pimped prostitutes to pay his fees and when the girls had decided to break his secret, they had been shipped to Eleven to service the most beastly rebels. Of course, the rumors made excuses, Finnick could have been manipulated. Cashmere and Gloss had experience in the industry, how could they possibly be clean? Beetee and his inventions, how does he pay for it all? How many victors are in the loop?
But people were loath to hate beloved celebrities, even for the most heinous crimes. Their belief was lukewarm, but suspicion sapped their desire to fight against the Quell. Nevertheless Plutarch knew socialites and citizen alike were eagerly waiting for an excuse, any excuse to prove their favorite victors right.
For such reasons, he played Coriolanus' game like the docile pawn the President thought him to be.
"Claudius, zoom in on the Twos, I want to see the driver's expression when he realizes he has to tell one of them they can't fit in the taxi," Plutarch said with a wry smile.
The crowd laughed upon seeing Two's designated driver pale, stammer, and rush off to call for a bigger car.
Soon, he'd stop spouting drivel for the better part of the day.
Cecelia was among the last to step out of the trains. Plutarch's mouth was suddenly, painfully dry. Claudius changed the subject to the 'unrest' in Eleven; the only 'unrest' publicly spoken of, for even he couldn't justify the reaping of a mother of three.
Plutarch focused on his plans, fighting the cold sweat pearling on his forehead as the mother of his children walked towards the lined taxis. The plan was solid. They would not fail. The arena was ready, by the sea at the North-Eastern edge of District Four, a territory that was as much wilderness as it was under Capitol control. It was a criminal expense, a waste of human labor and a splurge of theatrical effects, acid clouds, crazed mutts, tidal waves… and it would never be used. District Thirteen had confirmed that the hovercrafts would intercept the victors and their stylists before they stepped on the landing platforms. Plutarch just had to make sure Coriolanus would have no reason to suspect him before they, and he would be safely away from the Capitol.
Year 75, 75th Hunger Games, the Colisseum.
"I'm not going to go any faster," Finnick pointedly said, an insolent smile on his lips.
Their preps had been changed. Only Twelve's and Two's matched the previous year's. Mags struggled to match the prep team's pace, straggling behind the group of herded victors lead by Katniss, Peeta and Haymitch.
Mentors were precious this year. Only two of the trains had held more than two victors: Twelve and Two. Haymitch from Twelve stood behind the superstar star-crossed lovers, as dignified as Mags had ever seen him. Apart from the main group, walking like a five-man fortress, the Twos proved once and for all that it would take no mere Quell to make them break tradition. Brutus and Enobaria were flanked by their historical mentors, Lyall and Bahamut, and no one had dared to tell Lyme to stay home.
Mags' chest tightened. For whom Lyme would root? Her best friend, or her precious boy's only victor? Lyme won't have to choose, they'll be saved.
Suddenly, Mags realized she wasn't breathing as hard. Everyone in front of them seemed to have slowed. Finnick's affected smile was truer, and he winked at her.
They'd slowed for her sake.
Mags couldn't stop the smile on her face.
Lawrence was still Four's stylist, and his hair was half Mags' size, but that was the only familiar thing in the room. The team's expressions were brittle and drawn. Mags had rarely encountered such palpable hostility.
She fiercely regretted her voice, and subsequently her wit and authority, when it became clear that Finnick would only be wearing a diminutive fisherman's net, around his crotch.
"I'm touched to see you fight so hard for me," Finnick said with his charmer's smile.
"If it were anybody else, you'd have been avoxed and reprogrammed for the crimes the papers said you committed," Lawrence said. Of the four, only he would meet Mags' and Finnick's eyes, and Mags wondered if it was fear of cameras or something more serious, that had seemingly destroyed a decades long cordial working relationship.
What crimes had Snow accused them of now?
"Whatever it is I did, I'm sure the proof is quite compelling," Finnick replied, his genial smile barely waning. He was eerily good at pretending it was all one big joke.
Mags made a move towards him and gasped when her balance failed her. She grinned bashfully when he caught her, disentangling her two-inch-heels from her trailing sheer blue dress. Circe, age had caught up with her all at once. To think she would run in shoes twice as high less than ten years before.
"Sarcasm," Mags chided as Finnick steadied her. Had he always been so tall or had she wizened with age? He had to be careful with his words.
Finnick smirked at his reflection when Mags was stable on her feet once more. "I'm going to hunt down our new girl." He picked a sugar cube from the box next to them and winked. "See her for myself."
Mags let Lawrence awkwardly lead her out of the room, her heart picking up pace as she caught sight of the other victors.
In the corridor, Beetee was ostensibly waiting. His eyes narrowed as soon as Lawrence went back with his preps. Beetee stepped up to Mags, his hold on her arm was almost bruising.
"As the saying goes, never put all your eggs in one basket," he said, his voice a sharp hiss. "We cannot afford to be too trusting. These Games must be cancelled. Snow may review his strategy if he fears major civil unrest. "
Mags nodded. She feared Snow would just reveal how little his people's opinions mattered to him. If he wanted order on the short term, he'd just need to reveal that Four, Eight, Six and Three had rebelled along with Eleven. The fear would do its job. But Beetee was right. They could not cruise on her trust of Plutarch's abilities. They had to take action, if only because Snow expected them to.
Beetee's expression had relaxed slightly at her quick assent. He adjusted his glasses, glasses he didn't need since the Capitol had fixed his eyesight long ago, but that he wore as a sign of protest, of affirmation of his homeland, because it was one of the few freedoms he was granted.
"Have your cognitive abilities suffered from the stroke?" Beetee said, peering at her sharply.
Mags bristled. Beetee was right to ask. It would be foolish to look up to her if her brain had degenerated along with her language skills, but being an introverted genius was no excuse not to have a minimum of tact.
"I'm all there, Beetee," Mags said blithely, satisfied to see him blush.
"Excellent. I must go back to Wiress," Beetee replied with a tense, but genuine, smile.
"Mags!"
Before Mags had the chance to turn, Cecelia almost crashed into her. Mags was pulled into a hug, engulfed in warmth and perfume until Cecelia pulled back, her mouth opening slightly with no words coming out, and briefly hugging her again.
Mags smiled. Cecelia wore a patterned dress that seamlessly joined wool, cotton, silk, satin and a half-dozen other fabrics. It was so long it was a marvel the woman could walk.
"Look at you," Cecelia finally managed. "I knew you'd be here," relief warring with doubt on her features. "What do we do? You'll be going to training?"
Mags nodded. Of course. She hoped her expression didn't show too much pity. How brave had Cecelia to be to muster such a contained demeanor. Impulsively, she raised her hand to Cecelia's cheek. "You must believe."
A choked sound escaped Cecelia's lips. "I do try. So… Uh…"
Mags smiled weakly. It was quite a So…Uh situation, but she wished they could live through the next days without such poison tainting their every interaction.
"I… Meet Johanna?" Mags said, finally allowing the burning curiosity of the last three years free reign. The infamous Jo, Finnick's most recent friend, the one he'd blurted all about the rebellion to because something in her had snagged at his empathy and smashed his angle. Johanna Mason, the lumber district's single female victor and the source of many of Mags' nightmares before she'd grown assured the girl wouldn't be a lethal liability.
Johanna was predictably dressed as an ugly tree, the thick one-piece costume adding stockiness to her bony frame. Somehow, the line-erasing makeup made her features more cutting rather than softening them. The young woman wore a thin sardonic smile, anger burning bright in her eyes, and now that she was ready, her prep team gave her a wide berth.
Johanna's expression changed drastically upon seeing Mags. For an instant, Mags believed she saw the same curiosity that animated her, but then anger, walled behind a mask of respect and a painful tentative smile, replaced all other emotion.
"I'm sorry we have to meet this way," Johanna said. Her voice was high, surprisingly feminine, but as cutting as the rest of her. Cecelia tactfully excused herself.
"I'm happy to meet you," Mags replied with a soft smile, her words so slow and soft that Johanna stiffened at how uncomfortably close she had to stand to Mags to hear. Mags so wished she had more time with the girl. She paused, sorting between the myriad of things she want to say.
She decided on informative, the safe kind. "Annie will be jealous of me."
Johanna winced. "What is she like, Annie?"
"Good," Mags said after a pause. Such a short, inadequate word. It'd have to do. "She's good for him."
Johanna slowly nodded, her face carefully blank, but she failed to conceal the warring feelings in her eyes. Odd that she'd never asked Finnick, even after he'd told Snow he was with Annie. Mags forced her expression not to betray her sudden suspicion. Could Johanna's feelings for Finnick, her only friend, be more complex than friendship? Finnick had been painfully clear on how hard it was for Johanna to come to terms with his promiscuity. Mags smiled once more, her warmth quite sincere. Johanna seemed at a loss at where to begin, but Mags couldn't chat for them both anymore.
"So…um, do you approve of Finn's friendship with Cashmere?" Johanna finally said, her testy tone belied by a hesitant quirk of her lips.
Mags laughed. Oh yes, she was blunt. Her eyes sparkled in delighted surprise. After years and years of lies, no wonder Finnick had grown addicted to Jo, even if he had to put up with abuse. Boytoy. Not even Haymitch at his drunkest had dared call Finnick that.
"He trusts you more," Mags replied, warmed to see Johanna briefly glow. The anger in her dark eyes was soon back with a vengeance.
"Hey, Jo," Finnick, hurrying up to them as the stylists started herding them towards their respective chariots. Circe, she'd seen tight swimsuits cover more skin. "Katniss is pretty twitchy. I was thinking of shaking a bit her preconceived notions of us."
"I can get naked in the elevator with her and lover-boy and see how she reacts," Johanna deadpanned.
Finnick blinked. His face split into a huge smile. "I dare you. If that doesn't get Haymitch in a good enough mood to talk, nothing will."
Johanna shrugged, a lively gleam in her eyes. "Anything to get out of this stupid costume."
Mags was still chuckling softly when the horses trotted into the coliseum arena. Her smile fell as Snow stood up to inaugurate the start of the Games.
She leaned against Finnick. "Does she hate us?"
"I don't think Katniss has paused to sort out what she really thinks," Finnick said after a long pause broken only by dazzling smiles at the cheering audience. "She's scared, and she'll fight. I don't think she's realized these aren't regular games."
"Ella tiene 16 años," Mags muttered, wincing as the words came out Spanish, as they so often did when she didn't make an effort to pause and translate her thoughts to spoken words.
"Then she'll have to grow up fast," Finnick said, his eyes tight. "We need her."
Every piece of furniture, from the table to the curtains, had been changed since Mags had last been in Four's quarters at the Games' Tower. She wondered what Snow had expected to find.
"Should we ally with the Ones and Twos this year?" Finnick asked, pouring Donna a glass of wine.
Behind the word 'ally', Mags heard 'should we warn them?' 'Will they be part of our plans?' He'd asked before, back in Creneis, but Mags admitted her answer had lacked conviction.
Did the Twos suspect the rules had changed? Mags doubted that Brutus so much as realized that without Careers the Games would maybe have fallen out of fashion fifty years ago. Mags truly wanted to talk to Lyme, the one she trusted to have a broader outlook, but there was little she dared say.
If everything went well, if Mags' trust in Glynn, Plutarch and their allies wasn't misplaced, the Careers' ignorance would not harm them. If… But if Lyall and Brutus suddenly stopped talking strategy, if Bahamut didn't hunt for sponsors, if Enobaria suddenly became civil to Beetee, then Snow would grow suspicious, and Plutarch might never have a chance to save them.
But Cashmere and Gloss had come alone from One, they had more history with Finnick, more reason to hate Snow, if…
Mags put her face in her hands. "Wait, observe," she finally said. "Make sure everyone comes tomorrow."
"You are your own mentors in this building, you can call upon each other to make alliances. You don't have to stay cooped in here," Donna said, her knuckles white on her knife as she cut into the chicken leg. Usually chatty with a boisterous sense of humor that concealed a big heart, the escort had been painfully subdued since the Reapings, wrapped in a bubble of anguish Mags and Finnick hadn't managed pop.
Mags nodded. That was quite a relief, but training footage would leak to Capitolites, it always did, and it would help them try and call off these Games.
That particular plan Mags could see no reason to keep Cashmere and Gloss out of.
"We must convince the Capitol that they do not want this," Mags said, her eyes locked with Finnick's.
"I must go too," Donna said, standing up abruptly before she'd even finished chewing the last of her chicken. "Sponsors expect me to do both your jobs and mine this year." She flashed them a strained smile, her eyes bright. "I'll try not to murder anyone."
Mags felt a pang of apprehension as Finnick left. She trusted him implicitly, but he wasn't infallible and the tight surveillance would mean any misunderstandings would go unnoticed before it was too late.
She jumped, startled when a knock tore her out of her musings less than two minutes later. What had Finnick forgotten?
It wasn't Finnick. The door opened to reveal Effie Trinket. Twelve's escort looked terrible. Her garish pink wig was askew and the half pound of make-up on her face was a mess.
She had been crying.
"I'm mortified, I am," Effie said, wringing her hands. "May I please use your makeup? I don't have time to go to… I can't show up like this and I didn't know who else to ask."
Mags' heart went out to her. She could imagine now, Effie coming to Donna for help, but hesitating outside because the Quell had made it all so awkward, and finally daring to come in when she'd seen Finnick and Donna leave.
Mags gestured to the large bathroom, putting a hand on Effie's arm. The gesture seemed to break what was left of the poor woman's usually ironclad self-control.
A sob tore Effie's chest. She stumbled, letting herself fall on the chair next to the beauty counter. "Haymitch thinks I'm making timetables and looking for sponsors but…"
Mags gently removed Effie's wig, revealing plated strawberry-blonde hair.
Effie forced a too bright smile for the mirror. "There's so much to do, and I'm not ready. I must… I can't fail Haymitch when he's kept so sober, I…"
Mags wondered how socialites could gush at her preppiness and avant-garde fashion sense, so blind to what Effie's look shouted: I must hide myself. I must make my mask so thick they'll never find me. She wondered if Effie realized it herself. As she took the makeup off, a completely different woman appeared.
"You shouldn't be here, not you," Effie said, swallowing back more sobs.
Mags couldn't help the flash of warning in her eyes. Annie, her lovely Annie. Never again.
She immediately regretted her lack of control when Effie's face crumbled. "I didn't mean it should have been -. But you, you're so – And Cecelia! What about the children?"
Mags had too few words to help Effie, so instead she walked to Donna's room and found what she was looking for among the few trophies Donna always kept in her suitcase.
Effie was painstakingly drying her tears, breathing rhythmically through her mouth, when Mags gave her the Vogue sunglasses Finnick had worn during his Games. "Remember?" Mags said. Effie hadn't single-handedly saved Finnick, but her quick thinking had helped him more than she knew.
A wet smile broke Effie's lips. She straightened her shoulders. How pretty she was without all that makeup. "To make him part of our team. The Capitol team," she recalled. A giggle broke her lips but her face lost the little color it had regained. "You were so kind to listen to my ideas… You're the enemy now."
"Effie, I'm no enemy," Mags said, a soft sardonic laugh escaping her lips unbidden.
Effie's mortified expression threw Mags' 83 years back in her face, but then it was anger and not despair finally darkening Effie's features.
"I've tried so many years to show them," Effie said, her voice shaking. "They gave me those awful stares when I told them about manners during the Train Rides, when I wanted them to smile. I tried to show what mattered, that even if they didn't know weapons and even if –" She paused, making sure her emotions would not get the better of her again. "Even if they were so small and so rarely pretty, I wanted them to see that with manners, with the right attitude, they might beat the odds." A broken sigh left her lips. "Katniss never cared for attitude, but they won. They had such bright futures ahead of them! Now…" Effie wiped the last of her tears with a tissue and stood up. She smiled, her escort's bright smile that never truly reached her eyes.
"I needed that, I'm so sorry. I need to go back to the children. I can't have them think I don't believe in them." All tremor was finally gone from her voice. "Haymitch is counting on me," she said loudly, as if the words would fill her with strength. And maybe they did.
Effie sat back and expertly selected the right blushes and paints while Mags patiently watched her remodel her face.
"Mags," Effie whispered in the mirror, "what can I do?"
Mags stared frankly at the woman, all pretense of good humor forgotten. Effie was too close to Twelve's victors to escape capture and interrogation if Katniss Everdeen slipped through Snow's fingers. Oblivious as she may be, she cared for Haymitch, and she'd come to care for Katniss and Peeta. Like her grandmother Myia before her, Effie had a gift for denial and a big heart, but unlike Myia, Effie was brave, resourceful and never gave up.
Mags may as well help her be truly useful.
"These Games aren't okay. Speak up for us, Effie."
Effie's complexion was safely hidden behind a thick layer of paint, but she couldn't hide the sudden fear in her eyes.
"It's too late," Mags said, struggling to articulate. Had Effie married or had children in the last few years? Would more innocents suffer? Mags swallowed back the bitterness in her throat. "You are one of us."
Effie blinked. She stood up and smiled, preppy and bubbly and everything so Capitol and irritating. "You're right. It's my job. Everyone's always made it so hard for me to do my job." Her smile painfully broadened and she blinked repeatedly as if she wasn't quite hearing herself. "It never stopped me from doing my very very best before. May the odds ever in my favor," she furiously whispered as she hastily left the room, not a wisp of wig out of place.
We're rooting for you, Effie Trinket.
"So?" Mags asked Finnick, not quite pouncing on him the minute he got back.
"Jo said, and I quote, 'Katniss is definitely a virgin'," Finnick said with an evil smirk. "Operation clothes-off was much more of a success on Haymitch. I've convinced most of them to come tomorrow."
Perfect.
I don't think it's presumptuous to imagine all of you have read the books/seen the movies/have at least a good idea of what's to come. So don't hesitate to mention your favorite underwritten character, your desire for a particular scene, or an explanation for something canon left shady. If I can work it in, I probably will.
Please review!^^