I notice less people are reviewing, so a special thanks to those who still do. I appreciate the reviews just as much as I did on Chapter 1.
This chapter and the next may overlap a bit since I'm not quite sure I'm done with what happened in the Capitol, but I wanted the Gamemaker's session and the Interviews done.
I feel ridiculous because with all my talk of short chapters, here I am with another 8k. I think I'll just stop talking about chapter length.^^
Mags sat up in the darkness and pushed down the covers before she'd consciously registered her surroundings.
Smash. Clang.
Mags strained her ears, confusion replacing her alarm. Someone or something was outside Four's quarters, picking a fight with the corridor walls.
And coming closer.
Her fingers stumbled for the lights. She hadn't wanted to risk being caught unprepared if she had to leave quickly, and so she just had to slip into her shoes to be somewhat presentable. She walked into the living room, all her senses on alert.
Smash.
A vengeful snarl had Mags grab onto a knife. The flashing clock said 5 AM. A drunken escort? An outsider slipping through by the guards?
"Barric." Smash. "Milo." Smash. "Bran." Smash. "Kasha." Smash.
Mags narrowed her eyes, letting the knife go when she recognized the voice. Whittle. The victor of the 31st hadn't come to training, neither of the Nines had.
Finnick hadn't reacted yet. Mags' lips quirked. The alcohol and late partying, no matter how noble Finnick's motives, had won this round.
She cracked the door open.
"Gwenith!" Whittle ground out, bringing the long hammer against the wall. Smash.
Tributes. The names of his tributes. Mags swallowed painfully. Behind the fist sized hole in the wall, Mags could see the pitiful remains of a surveillance camera. She cleared her throat.
Whittle whirred and lowered his hammer, plastering a grin on his sun-weathered face when he saw her. Mags realized he had some kind of detector in his hand when he waved it at her.
"Tired of the creeps monitoring us." He said with unrestrained glee. "What are they going to do? Stick me in jail? Scythia's got security. Offered them spiked drinks and a tumble" Whittle's grin soured. "Poor sods weren't told the spiked part."
Mags nodded. The early morning surveillance detail was staffed with only two. Scythia had to still be there: every ten minutes, a button had to be pressed by one of the guards to confirm they were awake and present.
"Want me to do your room?" Whittle volunteered. He poked his head in before waiting for an answer. "Oy, Finnick?" He called. "You claim to have Career reflexes? Leaving Granny all alone on guard detail?"
Mags snorted. "Go," she said, pointing down the corridor.
She realized they were not alone. A helpless smile broke her lips. Beetee looked magnificent in his green pajamas.
"May I assist you?" Beetee inquired, his gaze sharp despite the pillow lines still creasing his cheek. "Destroying the controller board would neutralize the whole buildings' camera network. I can lead you to it."
"Won't they just replace it?" Whittle said, looking torn as he lazily swung his hammer. Mags could feel his pain: one efficient strike, or twenty, less efficient but immensely satisfying smashes?
"Yes, but I'd be impressed if it takes them less than 48 hours."
The heavy steps behind her revealed that Finnick had finally woken up. "What's going on?" He said, wincing.
"The adults have the situation under control, Finnick," Beetee replied patronizingly, his eyes crinkling. "I suggest you ask for a hangover mix."
"What?" Finnick confusedly asked when the two victors had gone off.
Mags sighed, a smile still dancing on her lips. "They have nothing to lose."
All those things the victors had fantasized about, often involving violent destruction of Capitol contraptions, was now there for the taking.
"Why is Beetee walking around in his pajamas? They're horrid. What -"
"Finnick," Mags cut in, affectionately patting his arm. "Bed."
"Yes, Auntie," he muttered, his huge yawn wiping the frown off his face.
Year 75, August, Training Day 2.
"Did the kids sleep through the night?" Finnick couldn't believe he'd almost slept through Whittle's smashing.
He was in his uniform in Haymitch's quarters, determined to be as fashionably late to training as Cashmere and Gloss had been the day before.
Haymitch nodded and Finnick suspected him of giving Katniss and Peeta the standard tribute treatment: sleeping pills.
"About last night," Haymitch added. "The three of you almost got a tear out of me, but I find you bloody optimistic about getting these people upset for our sake."
His voice soured when he said 'these people', as if he doubted their humanity.
"I had to do something," Finnick said. "As long as we fight, we're real. If there stops being talk, we've lost."
"You're expecting help from the Capitol?" Haymitch darkened, his whole body stiffening. "Tell me that's never been the plan, boy."
"It isn't, but it'd be nice." Finnick forced back lightness into his tone. "Katniss even sparred with Enobaria yesterday, I'm proud of her. Has she consented to alliances?"
Haymitch snorted. "She wants Mags, Beetee and Wiress."
Finnick blinked. For someone who thought the Games were the real deal, Katniss had an... interesting way of playing. He shook his head with a sad smile. He'd stopped counting the amount of outliers who favored people they were comfortable with over strong, strategic allies.
"You have told her that Mags and me are a package deal."
Haymitch rolled his eyes. "Katniss is in denial. Here." Haymitch removed his bracelet and handed it to Finnick. It was a golden bangle with flame patterns.
A bracelet?
"You'll need it if you want the girl to trust you," Haymitch explained. "Peeta's the one to watch. Where Peeta goes, she'll go. She just needs to trust you enough not to shoot you down."
Finnick barely had time to pocket the bracelet when the door slammed open.
Finnick half-heartedly dropped his instinctive defensive stance when he recognized the uniforms. Homeguard. The four men placed themselves between them and the door.
"During training hours, tributes are either to be at training or in the common rooms," the leader said. "Mentors are to be either at sponsor functions or supervised at all times. In the evenings, tributes may only remain in their quarters. Escorts can deliver messages." The man eyed them in slight contempt as he let the news sink. "We're your new cameras. Smile."
Finnick gave a curt nod. It was nice while it lasted, Whittle. "I expected no less," he said. "I'll be downstairs in a blink."
In the training center, Mags lead Peeta to where Sparrow and Columbus where redecorating the walls. The two looked like they hadn't slept in days and had paint stains all over their uniforms.
"They're not dangerous," Mags told Peeta. He wore a pleasant expression but he clearly was nervous. She'd not have wanted anything to do with sixty-year old morphling-addicts either as a teenager.
"I'm sure they have a lot to teach me," Peeta said. "I've never managed to get quite so many colors with my own mixes."
Mags smiled. It was rare to find a soul fear didn't manage to twist in this place. The boy was tight-wound but he radiated kindness. He would've made a wonderful mentor.
Columbus stopped and smiled when he saw the two of them. He rummaged through a small pile of sketches and handed one over to Mags.
The Hangman. That stupid tarot card that had set the foundations of Mags' and Bianca's friendship during the 10th Hunger Games.
"For nostalgia's sake," Columbus said with a rueful smile.
Peeta looked at the grim sketch in apprehension but Mags laughed, handing the sketch back to Columbus with renewed affection. There was still a lot of the man she'd known behind the haze, and she soon hoped to see that man again.
"Peeta," she told the two victors from Six, calling their attention to the boy. "Keep him safe," she ordered, meeting their eyes to make sure they didn't take her words for throwaway ones. She had too few words to let any go to waste.
"Red, it burns, in the good way," Sparrow replied, gingerly walking up to Peeta and outstretching her hand.
It was full of paint. Peeta took it anyway, squaring his shoulders as he flashed Mags one last smile before allowing Sparrow to show-off her camouflage works.
What a charming boy.
Mags turned to spy on Katniss. It was fascinating how different the two teenagers were. Katniss wasn't smiling at anyone. Johanna had consented to teach her to use an ax. Consented. Katniss was barely keeping her temper at Johanna's onslaught of barbed remarks.
Hopefully that dynamic would evolve. The two young women had taken an immediate dislike to each other, the kind of under-the-skin distaste of people who found someone similar and yet just different enough that often lead way to solid friendships.
Mags stiffened when she caught Brutus staring at her. He left Enobaria's side when he realized he'd been caught. His intent expression was unmistakable.
Mags swallowed. She hated leaving them like this, but especially here, every word was recorded, and Brutus could not be told of the rebellion with riddles. He had too far to come.
Brutus lead her to a bench. It groaned under his weight when he sat next to her.
Mags had to smile. Standing, he dwarfed her. Little of the muscle he'd worn during the Games had turned to fat with age, and the lines on his face only granted more credibility to his fierceness. Sitting, he could look at her instead of down. He'd always been a gentleman.
"Mags, will Four stands by the alliance this year?"
Her smile fell. "We are not tributes." Mags said, her voice hard. She hated to see him reduced to this. Brutus had a chance, a mentor and a serious lack of imagination, and so Brutus played almost as if it was any other Games. It was revolting.
Brutus' expression hardened. "We are what we must be. Donna hasn't given a straight answer. Are you with us?"
Why would he ever want Mags in his alliance? Loyalty, tradition. Mags wanted to grab his head and shake it. Instead she impulsively placed her hand over his.
Her had looked like a child's next to his.
"This year is different," she said, feeling his eyes burn into her as she slowly chewed the words out. "I don't forget."
I won't betray you. Unfortunately Mags knew she had no power to make that promise.
Waiting had rarely been so excruciating.
"Do you think we could demand they grant us one last wish?" Seeder said over lunch. "A ride over the city in a Hovercraft, a privatized kitchen we could use for cooking a huge cake altogether? Why would Snow refuse it makes his minions feel better?"
Mags almost choked at minions. "Tradition. Changing it gives us power."
"He's a terrible politician if he believes that. Acting nice gives him power."
Mags stole a glance at Johanna who'd decided Cashmere had gone without being insulted for too long. Cashmere gave as good as she got, and Mags suspected the two were happy to have an outlet.
"Resignation is destructive."
Seeder followed her gaze and sighed. "How's following the motions helping Johanna have faith? I had no patience for it forty years ago and I don't now."
"No surprises," Mags insisted. "They need..." After a pause, Mags settled for "control."
"We could bodily pile up on Enobaria, tie her up, along with Brutus, the Ones, Johanna and even Katniss if we must. Then nobody would be using weapons, and we'd not have to worry about anybody relapsing or breaking because of a vivid flashback." Seeder paused to shoot Beetee a dark look. "I'd rather not find out how many more ways they are to kill a person with a power source and a bunch of wires, so we might as well tie him up too..."
Mags chuckled. "Soon, Seeder."
Seeder sighed once more. "I know. I'll try to smuggle plush toys in, so we can practice giving hugs instead." Her eyes narrowed. "Do you think you could get me another panther-mutt for these Games?"
Mags' smile fell. She was having fun. The fact that she was able to have fun meant she had to remember she wasn't alone. She met Seeder's eyes and traced the numbers 5, 9 and 10 on the floor. Seeder squinted, lost.
"Them... and Blight," Mags elaborated. "Check on the others."
Seeder nodded, the kind determination that Mags appreciated so much hardening her face. "You're right, let's go talk to those who aren't coming down."
Those who weren't given any hope.
Mags was somewhat disappointed when a disgruntled Seeder saw her plush toys confiscated by Trainer Atala the next morning.
Year 75, August, Gamemaker's session.
Plutarch sat down with a relieved sight. He had always looked forward to the tributes' private sessions. It was the one moment during Game Season's peak where they could just sit down, eat good food and not be caught up in a whirlwind of frantic last minute preparations.
The tributes themselves, aside from the Careers, tended to be dreadfully dull in addition to making Plutarch question his humanity. This year, he doubted anyone would be boring.
He knew them. Even those he'd never talked to. He remembered the teenagers and how they'd aged. He remembered the tabloid headlines, the articles. They'd fueled his near obsessive study of PTSD and helped him elaborate his beliefs of what Panem should be.
Plutarch unclenched his fists, belatedly aware his body was betraying his thoughts.
"Send Cashmere in," he said.
This is a farce. They'll all be saved in a couple of days. The soothing words washed over him, erasing the lines around his eyes.
Cashmere removed her shoes training uniform, revealing a long undershirt with the Capitol crest. Aside from the length revealing long, attractive legs, she looked like a young teenager ready for bed. She dressed up the nearest dummy with her cast off uniform and walked barefoot to the weapons rack. She licked the first throwing knife, winking at them.
"Wasn't I wanton, all those years ago?" She said with a wistful smile.
I grew up. Her tone seemed to say. I wouldn't lick blood off a knife anymore. At least Plutarch hoped so.
She pulled her long blond hair into a bun, sticking one of the knives into it to make it hold. She stiffened, her eyes narrowing on the dummy as her body instinctively shifted to a combat stance.
One knife, two knives, five. Chest, heart, thigh. Cashmere's aim wasn't what it had been, but it was good enough to kill.
Lucia's breath hitched and Plutarch noticed the tears running down Cashmere's cheeks.
"Look, I'm dead," Cashmere said, her small smile hard as she gazed upon the shredded uniform. So the dummy represented her. "If that doesn't fill you with happy feelings, well..." Her eyes crinkled as she put her shoes back on, her smile growing into something happier and flirtatious. "Please remember we could be making many years of happy memories still together. I wouldn't forget, and I make a wonderful debtor."
Plutarch stared, surprised at the bitterness that filled him. He'd never seen Cashmere like this, calm, not even sensual, just beautiful. He could see what she was trying to do, keep the strength but change the angle and make it about them.
She'd begged, as much as someone like her could bring themselves to. Plutarch swallowed. He worked tirelessly to save these people and he saw such desperation.
He took a slow breath. Twenty-three to go, he couldn't let it affect him so.
Unlike his sister, Gloss didn't speak. He took a long sword and for fifteen minutes he fought dummies and imaginary enemies. It was perfunctory, almost awkward, and didn't make sense until Valentinian, who was a goldmine for odd facts and statistics on the Games, broke the silence once Gloss saluted.
"That was an exact reenactment of Vicuna's training session," Valentinian said, scratching his beard. "I wouldn't have taken him for the sentimental type," he added once the man had left.
Plutarch's finger had been hovering over the score of seven. His hands suddenly shaking, he finally gave him a nine. Vicuna had scored a nine with the exact same trial. What had been superior and frightening during the 7th Games had just become routine to modern trainees.
It's just a ritual. In two days it would be just a bad memory.
But now he was physically feeling the cost failure would bring.
"Enobaria, District Two, I'm honored to have a second chance to impress you," Enobaria said, her eyes glinting.
Enobaria strode to the snares station, licking her lips as she braided… a braid. A black braid she brazenly placed on a straw dummy with painted lips and dark eyes. Plutarch watched in increasing consternation as Enobaria gathered wood and kindle, arranging the heap into a crude throne.
Enobaria sat the Katniss-likeness on the wood, her eyes alight with vengeance, and set fire to the wood.
"That's for all the people who'll pay for your ego, girl on fire," Enobaria said, barely blinking as the flames soared to her height, coughing soot over her uniform.
Almost as an offhand gesture, she threw a knife between Katniss' eyes, topping the dummy over, and finally turned towards them.
"I am grateful the Capitol for all it has given me. I will make sure to repay it in kind," she vowed.
She took thirty seconds to cleanly put out the fire, her feral smile replaced by cool respect as she waited Plutarch's nod to take her leave.
"Twos get it, you have to grant them that," Mazaris said with a chuckle.
Plutarch nodded, mustering a slight smile. Eleven. Coriolanus would expect no lower score. Enobaria did understand. Plutarch wondered, if the young woman had contemplated rebellion, if she truly blamed Katniss Everdeen, or if the Annex's conditioning was still etched too deep into her mind.
Plutarch gave Brutus a ten. At fifty-three, with almost a score of mentored tributes and three victors to his name, surely the man was too wise to believe the Quell was necessary, and yet Brutus was all the Capitol wanted him to be. There were no flourishes, no banter, no affected cruelty, only a solid warrior fighting holograms like a man possessed, the spear and bastard sword extensions of his limbs. He stood tall, his muscles taught, barely out of breath despite the lines creasing his face. Better yet, he promised to serve. Brutus was a symbol of the Capitol's golden age and both he and his mentor Lyall were desperately hoping that it counted for something.
Brutus bowed before leaving, a grim smirk on his lips. Plutarch wondered how the Capitol, how Two's Annex, had managed to instill such unquestioning loyalty.
Wiress sang to herself as she built a spider web of the thinnest wire she could find. Her brow creased in concentration under that mass of frizzy hair, she turned the amperage to the maximum. The spider itself was an ugly thing of ropes and twigs, and when Wiress dropped it on the wire, her hands trembling.
The spider bursts into flames.
Plutarch recoiled at the sudden brightness and scorching stench. Trying to control his surprise, he wondered if his colleagues understood the metaphor, or if it was better that they did not. Of all the people to match Enobaria's line of thought - even to support the rebel's cause - he'd not have expected Wiress to do it.
"Are we the spider, or is she just showing she can burn stuff?" Mazaris said with a deep frown. "I'm starting to see why little Johanna calls the woman 'Nuts'."
"Does it matter?" Plutarch said, his lips twitching. "Go summon Beetee," he told the avox.
Beetee, like Wiress, fiddled with the electrical snares. Unlike Wiress, he wore isolating gloves and started linking the power generators to each other.
That looked exactly like what all of Plutarch's physics teachers had told him not to do.
Plutarch frowned when the man pushed what amounted to half the electrical supplies right below the platform they were standing on. The five had to stand to see what he was doing.
Plutarch took a safe step back, just in case, when Beetee started flipping switches.
Three huge electrical arcs erupted from the jumble of components, slamming into each other and against the wall, and sizzling angrily into the air.
"Whoa, stop it," Mazaris snapped when the forcefield seemed to lurch.
Plutarch held his breath, wondering how he would cover that, or if he even should. If Coriolanus thought Beetee had the power to bypass a forcefield... Luckily the power fizzled out before the forcefield could break.
Beetee blinked up at them, his eyes hugely innocent behind his glasses. He fooled no-one, he looked to intelligent to pull that expression off. "Are we not to make the best of all the material we are given?" He dropped the act, staring at them grimly. "This wasn't much, not for an educated Three. Science is so exciting," he said.
Plutarch frowned. The man seemed undecided as to whether threaten them outright or offer his services. Plutarch guessed Beetee knew that the latter was the smarter route but that he was genuinely too angry and proud to say the words.
"What do you mean, she's not there?" Valentinian said when the avox returned alone, gesturing awkwardly.
On cue, somebody knocked on the open door the avoxes used to bring refreshments. Plutarch turned to see Mags picked up a glass of wine from the plate an avox was bringing in.
"This…" Mags rasped, gesturing at the trial rooms below. "For the young." She winked at him.
"You do have to do something, Mags," Plutarch pointed out, clinking her glass. He didn't bother to keep the amusement out of his tone.
Mags smirked. She just had. The Capitol's rules meant little to her anymore. Plutarch was thrilled to see her so confident. He suddenly felt less alone, his heart warmed by Mags' small smile as she drank. Soon, we'll have won.
There was a precedent for tributes which didn't show up. Plutarch gave her a one. He was certain that she and Finnick would be laughing about it later. He'd resolved to avoid Mags completely until they were safe, but her subtle hint to their decades long partnership significantly raised his mood.
He was very curious to see what Finnick would have for them.
Finnick picked up his trident, and he was more fantasy than man as he almost danced, the weapon cutting the air as he warmed up. Plutarch couldn't help but stare, marveling at the elusiveness of such beauty. Despite all their technology, Finnick Odair was something no human alteration had ever managed to replicate. The young man had intense stares in spades, and subtly slowed whenever he faced them with the right angle.
"Lucia," Finnick greeted, seamlessly inserting a gallant bow and a blown kiss in his routine, "Anastasia, Mazaris, Valentinian, Plutarch."
"I hope Secundus is happy in his new apartment. Does Considia still sing at the opera?" Finnick asked, his eyes briefly meeting Mazaris' as he switched trident, leaving the first buried into a target.
Finnick turned the hologram program on, almost lazy in his movements, striking the golden humanoids at the very last moment. The holograms burst in a shower of pixels, rolling off Finnick's skin and making him glow like a supernatural being as he fought. Without pause, Finnick asked them all about family members, offhandedly betraying intimate knowledge on each and every of the people he named.
Finnick revealed nothing too intimate. What point is he trying to make? Gamemakers took pains to keep their families safely away from overeager sponsors and even casual knowledge could be considered alarming.
The program finished, and Finnick spun on his feet, his trident resting on his shoulder as he faced Plutarch.
"Head Gamemaker, I wonder, was there any light cast on the shady circumstances surrounding the deaths of Caesar Flickerman's sister and nephew? How tragic that it happened right after the criminal murder of my aunt, uncle and so many of my fellow victors' relatives."
Plutarch frowned. What was behind those guileless green eyes? Finnick's time was over, and his performance worthy of a nine. He'd be given a ten of course, because even Brutus didn't look half as good on posters.
The emergency telephone by the door rang, interrupting Plutarch's thoughts and Asclepiad's snare building efforts. The poor woman looked close to tears, but Plutarch knew that she would not make a rebellious statement.
"This is Captain Flycatcher, please put Mr. Castello on."
"Valentinian," Plutarch said, passing the phone to his colleague.
"Mr. Castello." There was a sudden chill in the air. "You must come at once to Lazarus Hospital. It's your wife. She's been poisoned. We're sending a car for you."
Loreia? Plutarch winced, looking down. He knew the blonde well, a woman full of smiles and flowers who was behind many of her husband's better ideas. He liked her. She's almost as much of a gamemaker as her husband. A sanctioned criminal. Plutarch's chest tightened, sudden sadness blocking his throat. He liked her.
You know her, she's real to you. His mind voice sounded eerily like Glynn. Remember what you told me when I confided in liking Evadne Achlys, Doctor Heavensbee. Enemies are not necessarily despicable.
You'll always be a Capitolite, even if you're a good one. That was Cecelia, and Plutarch forced himself to meet Valentinian's stricken eyes and help him up.
So this had been Finnick's plan. To remind them they were vulnerable.
Plutarch was the oldest, but Valentinian had been the longest in the trade, holding for twenty years to a job constantly hungry for bright new minds. His fingers were impossibly long, coated with fluorescent molecules that glowed in bright colors whenever he applied pressure. 'These hands control life and death,' Valentinian had once said. 'Of all of me, they deserve to be most noticed.'
Those hands were now shaking uncontrollably.
Rapid from Five could have blown up the training room and still not turned their attention on him. District Six was little better. Columbus and Sparrow were drugged to their eyes, painting like they had no audience, although Sparrow was red and gold, smiling as she touched up her arms to make feathers.
"They're all traitorous bastards," Lucia hissed, making Sparrow start and glare as paint spilled over her arm. "We should kill them all."
I rather like Cecelia. Plutarch bit the sarcastic comment before it could leave his lips. The Capitol's casual violence, all forms of it, was what had led to this war.
Lucia's breath hitched and she downed a full glass of wine when the phone rang once more.
"Plutarch Heavensbee," Plutarch answered, pushing back growing hysteria. He feared he might lose it and laugh. The timing was perfect.
Sweat pearled on his forehead and yet he felt chilled. Had they killed one of his friends? He had many, but none too close. This was Glynn's work, it had to be, and she wouldn't have.
Even in his own mind, he suddenly lacked confidence.
"Mr. Heavensbee, your house has been broken into." A relieved sigh escaped Plutarch's lips. "The cameras were out. Nothing seems to have been stolen or damaged except for your study, which looks like a war zone. There's a man-sized '2 ' painted on your wall in red paint. We have reinforced security, does this vandalism mean anything to you, Sir?"
Plutarch repressed a wry smile, color returning to his cheeks. Targeting him would make him less suspicious. "Yes, but I'll deal with it, thank you, Officer. Please tighten security on every gamemaker's families.
Mazaris, Anastasia and Lucia had all stood up, fury and fear rolling of them in waves.
"I'm next." Plutarch said grimly, fighting to keep that damned treasonous smile off his lips. "I should be glad I get a warning. Now," he snapped, "we have a job to do, and it's critical that it be done correctly. Sit down, all of you."
Plutarch giving an order was as rare as hearing Snow genuinely laugh. Shock just as much as obedience pushed the others back down.
Johanna was next, Plutarch straightened, preparing himself for abuse.
The first axe sailed for his head and bounced off the forcefield. His lips twitched. Her lack of subtlety was refreshing.
"How the hell did Haymitch manage to kill a girl with the rebound?" Johanna said as the second axe clattered lamely a yard away from the force-field.
"You can't hurt us," Lucia shouted. All the alcohol she'd thrown down to calm herself had rushed to her head. "You're all our toys, we'll do whatever we want with you!"
Johanna's axes sailed for Lucia, blocked with a thwang by the shimmering wall of energy.
"Fuck you," Johanna snarled. "You're not half as powerful as you think. You should call off these Games while you still can."
"You'll kill your friends, and I'll be watching," Lucia cried, swaying where she stood.
"You babysitted Cecelia's children you heartless bitch," Johanna replied, spitting on the ground.
"Quiet," Plutarch said, his calm voice starkly at odds with the screaming match besides him. "That's enough Mason, please see yourself out." He let a patronizing smirk draw itself on his lips. "You don't want to be forcibly dragged out in front of your little friends."
"We should have the Homeguard haul the treasonous ones out," Mazaris said, his arms warily crossed.
"Only if we must. I want them to reveal themselves," Plutarch said. "It'll make things easier for us later."
Plutarch's mask almost cracked when Cecelia revealed she had smuggled pictures of her children inside. She just looked through them, her expression tight, briefly meeting each Gamemaker's eyes. "I didn't volunteer, I was never part of anything, I gave you entertainment, and of course this is in your power, but why would you do this? Can't you just save me?"
Did she have to do this? Didn't she trust him? Plutarch knew this wasn't personal, but for the first time in years, it was hard not to squirm under the camera's scrutiny.
Woof took a cloth at shelter building and a large needle at the snare building station. He wove the victors' names, standing up when Mazaris and Anastasia started chatting. "May the odds be with us all," Woof said. He was looking at them all with a look of such deep sadness that a shiver ran up Plutarch's spine.
These people were trusting him with everything. Plutarch suddenly felt very selfish for being bothered by their attitudes. He stood up, desperate to walk, to contact Thirteen, to get confirmation, to be there already!
"Plutarch?" Mazaris said, his voice thick with uneasiness.
Plutarch took a deep breath. "Lucia, come back," he said calmly, as if he'd just stood up to call the woman to order.
Lucia had pushed her seat almost to the door –quite a feat considering it was an ornate roman settee-. She was reluctantly back in her original spot by the time Seeder came in.
Plutarch was resigned the moment he saw the fire in Seeder's eyes. He should have been proud, happy to see such strength, but he was on the wrong side, the guilty side.
Seeder slashed her hand, deeply. Anastasia gasped, pressing a towel to her mouth.
Blood was gushing out, dripping down her olive skin and onto the floor. Plutarch swallowed. Television could never truly capture the horror of blood and death. The closeness made it so much more real.
"There will be more, much more before this ends," Seeder said, her soft, deep voice rolling off the walls. "You wished for this, every year you pushed harder and harder until you got what you wanted. You did this," she accused, dragging her palm on the wall with barely a wince until a rough shape of the Mockingjay symbol appeared. "I've never taken a life. This blood is on your hands."
"Point duly noted," Plutarch ground out. Seeder, bless her, just walked out her head high. "Wipe this away," he ordered the avox, unable to show the man how sorry he was to give him such a disgusting job.
Chaff came in with a large grin. Anastasia's soft groan mirrored Plutarch's thoughts. What now?
Chaff grabbed a cudgel and started banging it on the weapon racks. He sung, waving his stump in rhythm.
"I grabbed a peacekeeper, strung him by the ankle,
Carved his hear out, found only a stone,
Threw it out and left him there to dangle,
Then grabbed another guy so he'd not be alone!"
Plutarch snorted at the image of bloodstained rebels singing off taste songs around a campfire. Bitterness twisted his lips. He, maybe the greatest Capitol-born rebel, knew well how to silence the voices of far-away suffering to keep his focus on the task at hand. He wasn't sure when the compassion fatigue had hit him first, but it had been well before his thirties. And if he couldn't be moved by Johanna throwing an ax because they'd murdered all the love she had to give, he wondered how Chaff and the others could expect people like Mazaris or Lucia to ever see the light if they were provoked enough.
"What does Gamemaker rhyme with?" Chaff said, biting his lip in concentration.
Plutarch cracked a wry smile. Maybe Chaff was just enjoying his minute of insolence with little care for consequences.
Both Anastasia and Mazaris had stood up, all but spluttering in outrage.
"Take him out," Plutarch ordered. Two Homeguard were there within a minute and grabbed Chaff roughly, pushing him outside.
"Winner," Lucia shouted after Chaff, slurring the word triumphantly. "Gamemaker rhymes with winner you worm!"
"Lucia, you need a sobering pill," Plutarch said.
He could only stare as Katniss hanged Seneca Crane. What was it with people humanizing dummies today? At least she hadn't burned him...
The message was clear. I'm going to get you hanged, that's what I do best.
Katniss, I'm actually on your side. But I do like your spirit. He didn't mind her dubious sense of strategy. She was doing well, for a teenager.
"Did she really just threaten us?" Mazaris whispered hoarsely. "Well there goes any regret I may have had."
Peeta painted a picture of Rue and Plutarch let him finish despite Mazaris' whispered protests.
"They started this. This is their fault," Anastasia said in trembling tones. "It's outrageous to think they see themselves as the victims. We gave them two victors instead of one because we decided to be merciful and half of Panem is burning and pillaging."
"Twelve for our star-crossed lovers," Plutarch said, giving them the highest score. It was unheard of but the President would expect no less. "The moment they enter our arena, ladies and gentlemen, they'll finally understand you can only play by one set of rules," Plutarch said soothingly, a thin, confident smile on his lips. "Ours."
"Anyone who wants to live will target those idiots," Mazaris agreed. "Their rebel bravado will flee real fast when reality catches up to them."
"No, they'll give us their worst. You don't live to be a victor if you're one to give up," Anastasia muttered. "But you're right," she told Plutarch with a faint smile. "Our worst is worse. We take two children every year, but we could have taken so much more. They refuse to see that."
"And that is quite a shame," another voice called.
They all straightened as the President entered the room. Coriolanus walked up to the forcefield and gazed at Rue's painting on the floor.
"It's cute to see them fighting so hard," he said. "I expected nothing less."
"Mr. President, this shows they have allies, criminals, in the Capitol," Mazaris said, his hands trembling as he tried to emphasize the danger with expansive gestures..
"They're good," Coriolanus acknowledged, "and the best they can do is poison poor Valentinian's wife. I wouldn't worry too much, Mazaris. Your family isn't in danger, not now that the Homeguard has been warned."
Plutarch nodded. The President sounded so certain he'd figured out the rebels and their petty acts of terror. He was right where they wanted him.
Year 75, August, Interview Night
The interview stage was projected on the wall of the President's office but for now, there were no victors in sight.
Coriolanus Snow sat in his favorite leather chair, one he'd had pushed in the middle of the room for the occasion. He was alone, his bodyguards manning the two entrances.
Powerful sponsors, socialites and more modest citizen alike had come in the theater brave, ready to boo, ready to support their favorite victor. They'd grown so very entitled, so very forgetful.
Every single one of their beloved victors was a murderer. A murderer of children. That they were allowed to feast in the Capitol and granted magnificent homes in their backwards villages was a gift and most certainly not something the Capitol owed them.
The Capitol was not ready to hear the truth about recent unrest, but images of Eleven's ragged thugs busting skulls while singing, images of poor workers in Eight standing hollow-eyed before the factories -their livelihood- destroyed by the very rebels who pretended to fight for them, flashed between images of Johanna Mason hacking her way through fleeing tributes.
The Victory after the Dark Days had been cemented by the Hunger Games. This uprising would be snuffed by the very same thing.
Caesar Flickerman sat in the darkness as Mockinjay symbols, present in every District flashed on the screen.
"Even in our most stable, loyal Districts, there are criminals rallying behind the Mockinjay banner." Caesar paused often, allowing the words to sink in. "The Mockingjay is the victors' symbol. The rebels in the Districts are convinced that we were beaten, by the people we consented to let live. They believe they have a right to rip us apart like they are ripping their Districts! Does the innocent mother who has her son torn from her so he can join a militia not deserve our protection? Does the girl who was raped because she helped a wounded peacekeeper not deserve justice?"
Caesar gestured to the screen. It stayed black. "Ah yes, I'll spare you the picture because there are minors among us," Caesar said.
"Peacekeepers protect us today, and they are District. We only punish criminals. We even give murderers a chance. The victors are not made pariahs, they are welcome. But today, too many District thugs have come to think that they can take whatever they want. That we will just let them. We cannot let this happen."
"But they became symbols despite themselves," a woman cried. "Before everything was fine!"
Coriolanus' lips curled. He'd provided his people with entertainment for decades. They had no voice, no voice at all, on the way he saw fit to punish the Districts. The Districts would pay for their treason, and the Capitol would pay for its laxity.
Caesar stood up in the gloom. The lights slowly returned. "Hundreds have died since January. Hundreds of peacekeepers, hundreds of innocent civilians, wounded and with no access to healthcare as those bastards laid siege to the hospitals." He paused, giving the impression to stare at every man and woman in the audience. "Thousands of young children cannot go to school in Eight and Eleven because teachers were gutted for being the enemy. How many of you have sons, husbands or daughters in the Homeguard? How many would sacrifice their loved ones for Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark? These two say nothing against the rebels who use their symbol to kill and plunder. Not a single victor says anything against them. Watch tonight. They know what is happening. They are silent. Because if the rebels win, they will be kings and we will be at their feet."
Caesar didn't raise his voice, but his anger rippled through the crowd. "Would you sacrifice a thousand to save one? The Capitol is a miracle of civilization in a world that had decided to eradicate the human species. We survived because our ancestors could make those decisions. It's our turn to fight so our children can have a future. Do you value those victors more than you value your children? Because that is the choice we are making today."
"Is it really the only way? Is this all we can manage?"
Caesar stared grimly ahead as the image of Katniss' session with the Gamemakers, the gruesome hanged Seneca Crane appeared on the screen. Katniss' expression, her insolent rebellion, was unmistakable. "This is Katniss Everdeen, when she thinks you cannot see her," Caesar accused.
The crowd gasped as once. Coriolanus chuckled in his office. Katniss, how well you serve me.
"The victors are granted almost limitless wealth we could use for so many other things. Were you granted that, would you also not lie to not lose your advantages?" Caesar pointed out. "Advantages we all know how they got. What tells you they'll stop at killing their own people?"
Coriolanus smirked as fear washed over the assembled people, silencing all but the most ardent fans.
"We own Panem," an older man called. "We can fix this differently!"
"Unfortunately we have been too generous, too lenient," Caesar replied, the grim concern in his voice casting a shadow on the audience. "We let the Districts organize, believing it would make them happier, more comfortable, wealthier and civilized. We are not as powerful as we once were. If we do not remind the Districts that we have power, we will lose everything."
The silence was lead and Caesar let it impregnate every corner of the room, his narrowed eyes flickering to those who dared break it with inopportune whispers.
Somewhere, a woman began to sob. Coriolanus rolled his eyes. These idiots had never had to fight for anything.
"Please make our victors feel appreciated." Caesar said after a painful minute. "We will grant them that much."
Because we are civilized.
The lights were fully back on, and soon Caesar was grinning, his face lit with delight and his voice booming as if he only existed for the entertainment of the masses.
From his office, Coriolanus smiled as Cashmere wept, sobbing about the love between the Capitol and it's dear victors. How very touching. Gloss mirrored her speech, pretending they were all a happy family and that he couldn't bear to see it broken.
The President's smile faded, replaced by a pondering expression, when Brutus and Enobaria reaffirmed their loyalty, pledging themselves to protect the Capitol and its values and asking for nothing. Would it matter, if a Two won? Did Two need this for its stability, or would it get cocky instead?
Then Beetee, confusing intellectual with pedant, decided to play the legality card. Coriolanus shook his head. A rebellion was raging and he thought it appropriate to talk of legality?
Mags handed Caesar a note. "After Doctor Alexanders removed the poison in my lungs, a few months after my Games, he told me I would live to see seventy, maybe eighty."
Caesar paused and eyed Mags from head to toe. "The numbers say eighty-four. You can't be. You're much too fresh to be eighty-four!"
He squealed when Mags pinched his bottom with an unabashed grin.
The President sat down and watched through narrow eyes. He'd feared the woman would fake a heart attack to disrupt the night. Instead, she seemed not to care what transpired. He let himself indulge in the thought she'd finally accepted defeat while Finnick read a flowery poem to his one true love. Coriolanus knew he'd have to freeze the frame to identify the now weeping -or fainted- women and separate the weak-willed from the potentially treasonous.
Could the boy possibly have slept with all of them? There looked to be a hundred.
District Five and Six were a mess of weak pleas or drugged nonsense. Coriolanus grinned when Johanna attacked the Capitol's all-powerfulness. Feed the fear, my dear, feed it well. His grin broadened when she told them to go fuck themselves. How fitting she'd say that when she was about to lose all her little friends, when the first time her anger had cost her her family. People were avoxed for less, and they'd tolerated Johanna's insolence long enough.
Cecelia spoke of her children, Woof spoke of Cecelia's children. Yes, we'll save those children and make model Capitol citizen of them, Cecelia, I have no reason to do anything else, I'll even not let anyone badmouth Mommy.
Nine, Ten... Coriolanus' crossed his arms when Seeder sat before Caesar but he shouldn't have worried. Like Johanna, although with more class and less curses, she had all her assumption wrongs.
"In Eleven, we grow up certain of the Capitol's power. There is none more powerful than President Snow. I wonder," Seeder said, looked troubled, "if he is so powerful, why doesn't he simply change the Quell's rules?"
"Because you must die and my people understand that even if they do not like it," Coriolanus smugly told the screen.
Did they so quickly forget that Capitol children grew up told that District-born were dangerous?
Chaff was no better than Seeder, not saying one word about the rebellion in Eleven, not even hinting that something serious other than the Quell was going on.
Coriolanus' lips twisted when the twenty thousand people in the audience rose to deafening cheers to greet Katniss Everdeen. He'd always despised celebrities.
As per his orders, Katniss wore an immaculate and elaborate wedding dress. She knew she was expected to talk of her love for Peeta, what she didn't know was that Coriolanus was no fool and was quite aware that Cinna would not be able to help himself.
The stylist had failed to realize that Coriolanus was counting on his... touch.
"Katniss Everdeen! Woot, woot," Caesar cheered. "Doesn't she look fabulous?" He turned to the girl, nothing in his exuberant demeanor betraying his earlier condemning words. "This is a very big and very emotional night for every one of us. What do you say?"
Katniss smiled faintly. "Don't go crying on me, Caesar."
Coriolanus tapped his fingers on his armrest as Caesar bantered with the girl. He leaned forward, his interest renewed, when the girl began to spin onstage.
Slowly, the dress changed. Fabric burned away, the white fabric peeling off to reveal a black feathery costume. She faced the crowd, solemn and defiant, as elegant black wings sprouted out of her back wings.
Coriolanus clapped, a smile dancing on his lips. A Mockingjay. Bravo, Cinna, bravo.
"It's a bird," Caesar exclaimed. "It's a... it's like um... Like a -" Yes, Caesar, make sure she says it. Make her confess.
"Like a Mockingjay," Katniss said.
"Oh wow, your stylist..." Caesar prattled on and Snow grinned.
The foolish girl hadn't noticed how the frantic applause had decreased as soon as she'd revealed her true colors, even if many still shouted themselves hoarse in the background. Self-fulfilling prophecy. A pity Cinna had to die, he did have talent.
Coriolanus' satisfaction abruptly decreased when Peeta Mellark decided to go off script.
"Oh actually, we got married, in secret," the boy said.
"A secret wedding?" Caesar said, nonplussed. "Do tell?"
"We wanted our love to be eternal. Katniss and I we've been luckier than most. I wouldn't have any regrets at all if.. If it weren't..."
"If what?" Caesar said. Like Coriolanus, he knew he wasn't going to like the answer. The boy was too clever for his own good.
"If it weren't for the baby," Peeta finally whispered.
The BABY? Coriolanus stood up, sneering. Very well, young man, challenge accepted. He almost admired Peeta Mellark's brazenness.
Inevitably, Pandemonium had erupted. There was evidently something firmly rooted even in the most self-centered, amoral souls that said no killing unborn babies.
Caesar was quickly becoming drowned by the furious, standing crowd. "Calm down, this is news for all of us."
"We're going to figure out what to do about this," Caesar tried once more as hundreds of people tried to push their way towards the stage, fists raised.
Coriolanus was about to turn the screen off when movement in the background caught his attention. The twenty-four victors were not simply standing anymore.
They had linked hands and held them high above their heads. Every single victor. Brutus was almost lifting Wiress off the floor. Twenty-four legends, staring straight at him through the camera's eye, standing tall, grim and defiant.
The President's eyes narrowed. They would all die.
Author's note.
There you go, please review^^.
Just like last chapter, if you feel some plot threads need closing, or if you really wanted a scene between Effie, Johanna and Finnick (because why ever not) or have Cecelia barging into Snow's office, do tell, because last chapter will be the last before the arena. We'll also find out why our victors weren't rescued before they went in.