Thank you for reading and reviewing. This story will come to a close around chapter 100. I want to wrap it up before everyone's sick of it.
Enjoy!
August 75, the night after the interviews, District Thirteen.
Claudius Templesmith folded his hands on the table, gazing indulgently at the host. Badly filtered by the the old speakers, his voice was nasal to the point of unpleasantness. "It's quite simple, elementary I daresay: either Peeta is lying, or, he and Katniss chose to become pregnant after they were already certain that the girl would enter the arena. Her stomach is as flat as ever." The ugly little man let the information sink in before chuckling. "The girl's not a monster and the boy's not an irresponsible fool. The lovebirds are lying because they believe that hundreds deserve to die in their name. And that's why the Capitol and not Twelve, decides what's necessary to keep this country on its feet."
Alma Coin rolled her eyes, her lips quirking as she turned the television off. She'd held high expectations when they'd routed the Capitol's local channels to Thirteen, a full decade before, and they'd been met and more.
The Capitol's us vs them hammered narrative was genius. They had crafted over decades a two-faced propaganda beast that never revealed itself fully. The channels directed at the districts blamed the people for their woes, with a violence Capitol citizen could not suspect, while the screens in Capitol homes blared with sensational entertainment, pushing district people far out of the minds of the privileged. The Districts were mentioned only when necessary, and only to prove that the Capitol was doing its very best in dire circumstances.
Year after year, Alma Coin had watched how the Capitol molded legions of minds. There were lessons in each of those carefully crafted stories, and she had already begun to turn the Capitol's greatest weapon against them.
She smoothed her vest and left her office, her shoes echoing sharply on the cold corridors. She breathed in, the dry, a thousand-time-recycled air of her underground military kingdom, and went to meet Captain Chester in the Communications Central.
"Summon Boggs to my office," She told one of the saluting maintenance worker. "I need him in half an hour. Thank you."
Alma smiled as the woman's eyes lit up. Loyalty and admiration were won with such small gestures. Boggs was Alma's respectable face, the moral, dependable officer, the idealist. Captain Chester was her hand, he asked no questions and did things well.
Alma Coin soon reached the Communications, a room so tiny and cramped for something so important. She pinched her lips at the notable absence of Chester and stiffly unlocked the computer screens.
The Capitol's only flaw was their confidence in their ability to keep the Districts tame. Alma hoped that Templesmith, Flickerman and the rest of Snow's choir would survive, to be broken and molded to fit her new rule. With education so poor, politics banned and books scarce, Alma Coin knew that even sharpest minds in the Districts would be drastically under-prepared to run a country. Everyone was locked in their little town, with only superficial knowledge of what their neighbors, let alone the Capitol ruling class, was up to.
And no matter the appeal, she couldn't politically afford a staff of veteran peacekeepers, never mind that they were the only people who'd ever seen more than a pitiful fraction of Panem.
Aside from Victors, of course.
"Madam Mayor," Chester said, flushed as he entered the room. "Everything's on schedule; I hope that makes up for me being late."
Alma Coin stared down at the mousy little man. Discipline was no trivial matter. "The hovercraft?"
Only one hovercraft mattered right now. It had left the day before, heading for the arena hidden in Four's uninhabited jungle.
"On target, Ma'am, undetected. After the signal is given, overload is expected within an hour. "
The crew had supplies to last ten days. Ample time. There was no reason to doubt their ability to overload the forcefield's generators.
"Status of Operation Armistead?" Alma Coin's plan couldn't work without a live feed from the arena's cameras. Such a pity that they couldn't also hack into the victors's trackers.
"The signal came in ten minutes ago," Chester said, satisfaction creeping in his voice. "It's stable."
"Well done, Chester. We now wait." For the bloodbath body count at first. "If anyone asks, refer them to me or Boggs. If Boggs asks, there has been a malfunction, you are terribly busy working on it, and he must check with me. Change the passwords to lock everyone but the two of us out." Alma Coin smiled thinly. "I don't want a security breach following a very unfortunate malfunction."
Chester gave a sharp nod, unable to conceal his lust for power. The man grew an inch for every lie he was allowed to tell Boggs. It was highly amusing.
"Warn our Wasp at 11.00 that operation Intercept will be delayed. It wouldn't do to get him killed." Not now. She'd deal with Plutarch Heavensbee in her own time, and maybe even keep him. "Have the sentry outside Twelve on red alert. If Katniss or Peeta die, I want Primrose Everdeen brought to us immediately, preferably with her mother and that cat of theirs." Cute pets could be remarkable propaganda props. "And Katniss' 'cousin', the whipped man, 'Gale Hawthorne', have him brought to if he can, with his family of course, broken people aren't much use."
Alma Coin reveled in the feeling of serene triumph as she left Chester to his computers. Now it was time to give her loyal general the right narrative.
Boggs was standing in her office. He could be counted on to be on time. Alma let her smile reach her eyes. "Isn't it exciting? We're almost at the end of the beginning. I hear District Seven is finally rebelling."
Boggs cracked a half smile. "It is, and with peacekeeper presence decreased to reinforce Eight and Eleven, the locals are winning on most fronts. Eight and One are well organized and standing their ground. Eleven and Six are out of control, casualties are high but the Capitol can't afford to lose more than one peacekeeper to twenty locals. It's losing over one to ten." His jaw tightened, betraying the concern of a man who cared. He was perfect. "Unfortunately, the rebellion is faltering in Three, Five, Nine and Ten. Two remains loyal and peacekeeper desertion is minimal. Those who attempt it are shot down by their colleagues."
Alma frowned, concerned. "Faltering?" Threes were such passive-aggressive rebels. No wonder they'd falter the moment they'd have to fight on the front line.
"Peacekeepers are offering a safe haven to families who join the enclaves, but only if the whole nuclear family joins. They take hostages and give a week to the relatives to surrender or the hostages are executed. It's quite effective in Three and Five: every family has a radio and the peacekeepers have the means to prove that they're making true on both their promises and threats. They're also recruiting militias among the locals, offering advantages the rebels cannot match."
How ironic that their worst enemies would be peacekeepers disciplined enough to treat their prisoners humanely. "How long until those 'enclaves' reach maximum capacity?"
Boggs shook his head ruefully. "I don't know, Ma'am. Our informants report large camping sites at the edge of the wilderness and continuous hovercraft traffic. Non critical buildings, mainly housing, are being ransacked to force people out. The water systems have been poisoned and it's a matter of weeks at best before mutts are sent to flush the sewers."
This unfortunately confirmed what Alma Coin already knew. A reaping of beloved Victors had not been enough. Victors were not beloved in the Districts. Katniss Everdeen was not beloved. She had been respected, but the Capitol had worked hard to erode that with that silly romance. Now Katniss was an excuse and the symbol still too weak. Snow thought that,by killing victors, he would break the Districts' spirit. Alma Coin knew that by watching their victors –the only district citizen they had thought untouchable- die, the Districts would realize that there was no going back to a joke of a status quo.
"These people need something stronger to rally about. We cannot reveal ourselves before the Mockingjay is safe." Truthfully, Alma wondered if they needed Katniss alive. As long as Peeta or pretty Primrose remained, maybe the girl's death would spark greater anger. But maybe the rebels would deflate. Alma would have to let fate decide. "Prepare a strike force for Districts Three and Five." They couldn't sacrifice industry to the rebellion. "Tell our faltering friends that it's time for cat-and-mouse games."
Peacekeepers had superior weaponry but were grossly outnumbered and their tactics unsuited to a widespread guerrilla. The black market, powered by Four's ships, kept the rebels fed, but with food production halted, the Capitol would have to start feeding their armies mutts in the middle of winter and tap into their 'siege' stocks. And the mutt vats had been sabotaged. Time was, for now, on the Districts' side.
"I'll coordinate our contacts, Ma'am," Boggs said. "Is mission Intercept on track?"
Alma nodded. Mags had to die. Alma didn't want her leadership challenged and if Boggs was her symbol, Mags from Four was the rebel victors' and the Capitol rebel's. Plutarch and the victors would be much more malleable if they came to Thirteen as supplicants rather than in triumph.
"I'm waiting for the signal that says they're out before I dare cheer," she said, the stress constricting her throat unfeigned. Soon all the decisions would go through her, and her alone.
Boggs smiled. "It's been quite the journey."
Decades. Day after day of gray corridors, recycled air, tasteless food, and artificial light. Decades of military discipline, barrenness and horrible impositions on the bodies of those 'lucky' enough to be able to conceive for the survival of the whole.
The Capitol would taste its own ashes. "It's just beginning, Boggs, and we must be up to the task." Alma Coin gave him a fond knowing smile. "I believe you have a lot to do."
Boggs saluted. "Always, Ma'am," he said, leaving with a renewed spring in his step.
August 75, the morning after the Interviews, the Capitol
"What if it's true?" Donna said, her voice tight as she accompanied Mags and Finnick to the train leading them to the arena. It's just a brief goodbye, Donna.
Katniss' pregnancy, still on every lips. Mags grabbed Donna's hand tighter, all too aware that the escort had to talk and this was the only subject she dared broach.
Finnick had plastered on his best fake smile. "Don't worry. Enobaria will gladly tear Katniss's womb apart and show the cameras what a liar she is."
Mags shuddered. It wouldn't happen. They'd be all saved. Plutarch, you have to save them. Glynn hadn't come. Mags held that close to her heart. If there was a true risk, Glynn wouldn't pass up the chance to say goodbye.
Surely, Snow wasn't cunning enough to fool them all?
Donna looked ready to slap Finnick. "I'm not sure I have a palate for sarcasm today, boy."
"Such a pretty palate," Finnick said with a broad smile, his eyes hugging Donna's curve-enhancing dress. "How is it that in the ten years we've know each other, we've never so much as kissed?"
The ringing slap had Mags crack a smile. They could do this. Just a few more hours.
Gamemakers' Tower - the Capitol
Plutarch stared at the radio. The signal had gone dead but he needed no repeating. It couldn't be right. It couldn't! He numbly switched the music back on, in case someone walked in.
'Delayed.'
If he hadn't been seated, he'd have fallen to his knees.
'Wait for our green light. Twelve hours at best.'
Plutarch knew the code by heart, he couldn't have misheard.
Twelve hours. He'd been about to leave his station, to compromise himself. Mags, Cecelia, Katniss… They would all be on the arena in less than four. In twelve hours... how many would be dead?
His hands were shaking so hard he almost couldn't make the call. Nothing, he had nothing.
"Yes, Plutarch?" Glynn answered.
"Glynn, it's a no. You can't sponsor for that." His voice was as calm as ever, as if it belonged to another being. "Maybe later, in a day or so."
"What?" She shouted.
Plutarch smiled weakly. 'Delayed'. He wished he could rage, scream, or simply cry. He clutched the phone in a desperate grip, his mind a numb void. What was he supposed to do now?
"Fine," Glynn said after a long pause. Her voice was raw. Plutarch imagined her crying. He'd never seen her cry. "Go to mind those twenty-four victors of yours, Head Gamemaker. I think I'll take a shot. It's going to be the event of our life-times. I wouldn't want to miss a minute of it."
'Take a shot.'
"You're right. I'll get back to you," Plutarch muttered.
They were still alive and he was Head Gamemaker. "Take a shot." Plutarch pinched his cheeks to avoid looking like a corpse dragged his feet to the pharmacy.
Still alive. Still alive. Still alive.
"I'm having a troubling case of jitters, Doc. Would you have a stock for Gamemaker Lucia and I?" He paused, making sure he wouldn't choke. "I just saw Charles, Victoria and Camlet, terrible idea, but I did promise Cecelia..."
He had promised. Fuck District Thirteen, they had one bloody job!
Doctor Soranus nodded in understanding, handing him two boxes of stimulants and a smaller jar of pills. "Take half the dose recommended for tributes, you're a large man and you should be able to keep your wits. They'll take the edge off and keep you rational."
"You're a lifesaver, Doc," Plutarch said with a rumbling chuckle.
'Delayed'. Did that mean caught? Mechanical failure? Unexpected hovercraft patrol around the arena? 'Delayed'. Twelve hours? Twenty? Forty?
Lucia already had her stock of stimulants, but Plutarch was afraid he wouldn't cope on one person's dose.
He'd advised Coriolanus to have Cinna brutally arrested in front of Katniss right before the platform raised her into the arena to break her spirit. He'd thought he was saving the man!
Plutarch barely let the first pill dissolve before downing the glass of water in one feverish gulp.
Slowly the drugs melted away the anguish poisoning his being. The people, Cecelia, Mags, relinquished their hold on his heart, distancing themselves. His mind remained blank, buzzing as the burning stimulants warred with the blanket of nothing he'd poured in his veins, leading to a sense of detached amusement that had his lips quirk. Sweating, Plutarch concentrated on his expression as he entered the Gamemakers' Control.
It wouldn't do for the others to notice that he was high as a kite.
Somewhere in Northern District Four - Wilderness
Finnick smiled when Mags awoke. She'd nodded off on his shoulder and somehow finished napping in his lap. Finnick was looking at her with fondness tinged with fear. Haymitch's golden bracelet shone brightly on his wrist, a painful reminder of contingency plans that they couldn't afford to need. Mags finished uncurling and stiffly straightened on the hovercrafts' hard seats. Circe, she needed a whole skeleton transplant.
Where were they? The hovercraft's windows were tinted, locking them in under the harsh artificial light.
Mags reached for her familiar box when she realized she'd finally managed the feat of finishing a full sugar cube box on a single trip. Admittedly, Finnick had helped, a lot.
"You'll clog an artery with all that sugar," Finnick chided, his airy tone belied by his tight expression.
His free hand was making knots with strings torn from the seats. Ever since Shale had taught him, and asked Finnick to tie him a ten-knot as a token, Finnick had turned to ropes in times of stress. In the end, Shale had never set foot in the 65th arena and Finnick had become sadly proficient at tying knots, even if they proved more difficult with a single hand.
"She's fine," Mags said. Annie was as safe as she could ever be. The Capitol couldn't afford the resources to take her out of Four. Every peacekeeper and Hovercraft diverted to Four would give the rebels an edge in neighboring Districts.
Finnick managed a painful smile. "I know, you volunteered for her, remember?"
Mags straightened, pride flaring in her green eyes. Yes, she had. "We'll be fine," she promised.
Finnick snorted. "In the meanwhile, I'm having a slow heart attack. Why must we be too special to be drugged?"
Mags swallowed. Had they drugged her for the trip, she probably wouldn't have been on her feet in time for the arena. Her body couldn't take it anymore. She winced, chiding herself. What arena? They weren't drugged because they were to be intercepted.
"Cockpit?" She suggested, a devilish twinkle lighting her eyes.
Finnick's sudden delighted grin warmed her heart.
He stood up and walked up to the two white-clad peacekeepers playing cards with their stylist, Lawrence.
"Mags feels a bit faint," Finnick said, using his best puppy eyes on the peacekeepers. "Would you have a bit of compassion for your oldest victor and let her see the sunlight?"
The noise of the engines drowned his voice as he continued to negociate. Mags sat straight, staring in their direction with as much dignity as she could muster. I won before Two's Annex was even an idea. You respected me when you trained, you will respect me today. She was glad the Hunger Games' detail was the best of District Two's forces and not Capitol Homeguard. It was easier to tug at their sense of honor.
"Bind our hands, we won't need them and Panem's security is your priority, I know," Finnick said with a helpless smile.
The man on Lawrence's left stood up, his cheeks red. "Fine, keep silent."
She bit her lip not to look too smug as they were lead in the cockpit, hands unbound.
Mags recognized the clouds first, and that special shade of blue unmatched in the rest of Panem. They were in Four, or close to its Northern Border.
District Four. Home. "A water arena," Mags muttered, her hands clutching Finnick's.
"Silence," the peacekeeper hissed.
She could see seven of the eleven other hovercrafts, small dark spots gliding over the rocky plains, like a swarm of ugly birds. A thick jungle spread beyond the horizon and Mags narrowed her eyes, wondering where District Thirteen was hiding.
Desperate to pass the time, Finnick and Mags finally joined the game of cards Lawrence had set up
"Stop using your age as an excuse to cheat, Mags," Lawrence huffed. "Those are diamonds, not hearts."
Mags squinted outrageously at the card. Cheating was so much more fun. "Oops."
Even as she stood in the underground room with Lawrence, below the arena, and when the plate began to rise, Mags didn't let herself doubt. There were no Homeguard in the arena, unlike the train. It would be more convenient to get them there.
Her faith didn't waver when the plate stopped and the countdown began, huge holographic numbers in the sky.
The summer sun was hot on her face and the air smelled right, salt water, Home. Mags was on a tiny platform, surrounded by water. Her only option was to swim. Fifteen yards to her right and twenty-five to her left were narrow stone wedges, two of twenty-four that converged in a gleaming thick stone platform in the middle of the artificial lake. The central platform supported a gleaming cornucopia at least seven yards across. In the other direction, the stone paths lead out of the lake, to a narrow sandy beach surrounded by a thick jungle.
Lawrence had been right, there was nothing wrong with Mags' eyesight. Everything else was rusty or plain fit for the crows, but her mind and eyes were sharp. The Cornucopia held no visible supplies but it was filled to the brim with weapons.
Weapons. Mags' head snapped to the right, past Cecelia, to Enobaria. Enobaria who would kill without hesitating because hesitation was heartache and death. Weapons. Mags' hopes shattered as she gazed upon those bared golden teeth.
It was a punch to the guts. They'd failed.
Mags met Cecelia's steely gaze as the countdown passed ten. Struggling to breathe, she finally shook her head. Forgive me, Cecelia, I failed you. The Victor of the 59th, and loving mother of three, blew her a kiss. Mags' hand flew to her heart, watching helplessly as the holographic numbers above the Cornucopia turned to zero.
Mags kept staring, her breathing shallow, as Cecelia lowered herself to the water and pushed off, paddling to the center.
Mags shut her eyes, wondering how many couldn't swim. She inhaled sharply and finally followed Cecelia's lead, treading water before she let go completely. There was no current and while her bones protested, her body had not forgotten the motions, and she slowly made her way to the nearest ledge. She groaned as she grabbed onto the stone path, but her feet luckily found stones beneath the water line to use as stairs.
By the time Mags was upright, Katniss and Gloss were already half-way to the Cornucopia, sprinting on neighbor wedges, their eyes fixed on each other instead of the ground.
Predictably, one tripped, fortunately, it was Gloss. With a speed she'd never have matched the year before, Katniss grabbed the bow lying on the Cornucopia's floor and turned without even standing up, her arrow flew for Gloss before he had the time to dodge. Gloss dived too late, the arrow piercing his calf muscle.
Katniss turned, knocking another arrow. Mags' heart skipped a beat when she realized the girl was aiming at her Finnick.
Finnick, a trident in his hand, flashed his bracelet and Mags saw his lips move. Katniss abruptly ducked and Finnick speared Rapid in the chest.
Mags blinked. Rapid. District Five male. 42nd Games. The first death. Had it even been a minute? Rapid had tried to kill Katniss Everdeen with a bladed whip. Finnick had killed him. Finnick would be dead, murdered by their Mockingjay, had Haymitch been as trusting as Mags.
Mags blinked once more just to see Enobaria dive to dodge Katniss' arrow. Katniss third arrow was stopped by Brutus' thick belt and the Careers seemed to take this as a cue to back off and leave the Cornucopia to Katniss and Finnick.
The Careers.
Mags gasped out of empathy before she remembered that the running woman from Ten did not feel pain. The Victor had been fleeing towards the beach and jungle and barely slowed when Cashmere's second knife struck her shoulder blade, the first still deeply embedded in her thigh. She stumbled like a macabre puppet and Mags couldn't look away. Cashmere's third knife must've slashed her spine, because the woman crumbled.
They're dying, killing each other.
Mags shuddered. It was like a cold shower. Focus on what you can control! All wasn't lost yet.
Peeta, they needed Peeta Mellark alive or this was for nothing. He'd been right next to her!
Mags' eyes finally registered the half-frozen shape in the water. He was still right next to her, fifteen yards away clinging to his starting platform.
He can't swim. How had Katniss learned so well and not him?
After the painful realization that she was not seventeen, or even sixty, anymore, and couldn't just dive in, Mags began moving her arms as wildly as her back allowed to get Finnick's attention.
Turn your head, Finn! Come on!
Mags gaze fell on a stone path three platforms away. Columbus was frozen mid-way, crouched and staring, as if trapped in a flashback. Enobaria. The young woman from Two pushed herself on the platform and walked up to the shaking old man. Mags stared in horror, unable to see Enobaria's expression as the Career removed her belt and wrapped it around Columbus' neck.
Columbus. Like in a nightmare, everything seemed to slow when Enobaria accompanied his fall, her fingers closing his eyes before she retrieved her belt.
Mags swallowed when a glint of light betrayed Enobaria's grim snarl.
Circe, over here! Aren't you supposed to be in love with him, girl? Here!
Was her nephew bloody blind? Mags didn't want to know why Cecelia was still slowly walking towards the Cornucopia. She didn't want to see Cecelia die. This was not supposed to happen!
Her back was killing her. FINNICK!
Mags winced when she heard Scythia from Nine scream. Who'd done it? Gloss, Brutus? Scythia was dead. Mags hated herself for being relieved it wasn't someone she was closer to. Not yet.
Mags realized that Whittle from Nine must have seen her. He was now swimming towards Peeta who was just terrible at paddling. Mags waved her arms faster, panicked. Circe, Finn! Whittle, who'd spent half a night destroying cameras in the walls, who wasn't part of their rebel circle but who wasn't a bad person, surely he was going to Peeta to help him?
But Mags could only see Scythia's dying scream reflected in the man's wild expression. Whittle only wanted to survive.
Finnick! He'd finally seen her. She pointed desperately at Peeta, unable to do anything more than watch and shout with her miserable excuse of a voice. Finnick and Katniss had almost reached her when Finnick dived.
Whittle and Peeta had disappeared under water. Finnick couldn't be too late. Peeta had to live.
She shouldn't have doubted her boy. As Finnick pushed himself up next to her and put down a coughing Peeta, water streaming from his body, he was the only thing Mags wanted to look at for the rest of her life. Katniss rushed over to fuss over Peeta who made some glib remark about allies, and Mags grinned, finally feeling like all was not lost.
"Go," Mags said.
She blinked when she realized Finnick meant for her to climb on his back. His wet back. Sigh.
No wonder she'd refused to contemplate the possibility of being an actual tribute…
Mags scrambled on, clutching Finnick as tight as she could. Such a strapping lad. Good work, Esperanza. None could compare to her beloved Cereus, but her little sister had definitely picked the right gene pool when she'd married Adrian Odair.
Turning their backs to the Cornucopia, the four fled into the jungle and Mags silenced the voice screaming about the dear friends she was leaving behind.
Bloodbath - Gamemakers' Control Room
Plutarch stared without a word, but nobody found his silence odd, or at least they didn't dare comment. The drugs had pulled him out of his stunned helplessness. He felt little aside from a detached sort of curiosity and the feverish knowledge that he had a cover to keep.
'Delayed'. A good thing that he didn't have suicidal tendencies. Stimulants and anxiolytics didn't mix well as it was.
He'd watched them all win, the youngest of them in this very room. Cecelia, Finnick, Enobaria, Johanna, they were to outlive him! And now he'd have to watch them die over and over from a dozen angles, for the privilege of giving the Capitol and Districts the best edited view. Katniss, Peeta, no, not just another false burst of hope. There couldn't be another failed rebellion.
The water put the odds in the Careers' favor. Finnick didn't even bother climbing the nearest clock-hand stone path, his swimming kick almost as powerful as Gloss' stride.
Clock-hand. He hadn't even told Mags it was a clock. Twenty-four paths, twelve quadrants, each lethal at different times. He hadn't told anything to anyone. Would the Trials be the last time he'd spoken to Mags? He'd promised Cecelia!
His breathing remained shallow despite his intellectual panic, and he forced himself to pay attention.
Chaff was one of the many who sought shelter rather than the Cornucopia. Him, Asclepiad and Blight marched into the jungle after only a moment's hesitation.
Diametrically opposed to them Sparrow swam for the beach with surprising strength, leaving Plutarch to wonder where the woman from Six had ever learned.
Finnick and Cashmere reached the Cornucopia together, their eyes meeting, twin hard smiles on their lips, as they grabbed weapons. Cashmere hissed in fury when Katniss shot her brother and for a terrifying second, Plutarch thought Cashmere would throw a knife at Katniss' back. Instead, the blonde swiftly backed away from the Cornucopia while Finnick, trident in hand, strode up to Katniss.
Plutarch sucked in a deep breath when Katniss didn't kill Finnick. Haymitch Abernathy, you were the wisest of us all. That golden bracelet had maybe saved the rebellion.
Wiress had managed to reach the closest ledge and ran for the beach. She stopped at the tree line, her wide fearful eyes on the Cornucopia, and on Beetee. Plutarch frowned. Beetee looked physically shocked and wasn't even leaving his platform. On the ledge next to his, Seeder cursed and doubled back, diving in once more and dragging Beetee with her.
Johanna seized the moment when the Careers were regrouping, and Finnick and Katniss rushing for Peeta, to grab an ax and a dagger and sprint for the jungle. She also paused at the tree-line, less than thirty yards away from Wiress.
Plutarch was distracted by the woman on the screen to his right. She'd always distracted him.
Cecelia was walking slowly, her head held high, towards the Cornucopia. Her gray eyes meet Brutus', but she kept walking towards him. She turned her face, tears running down her cheeks.
"Take care of my babies," she whispered to the cameras. To him.
At that moment, Plutarch both loathed and loved the drugs. He just nodded, his eyes wide and glued to the physical barrier separating them.
Cecelia turned back to Brutus and opened her arms, a heartbroken smile on her lips.
Brutus, fury twisting his features, dropped his sword and closed the distance between them. Plutarch blinked as time slowed and Brutus slammed the side of his hand on the back of Cecelia's neck. She slumped like a doll in Brutus' arms. He put her down gently, his face a mask of stone. There was not a drop of blood on her. She could have been asleep.
'Delayed.' The mother of his children. Dead. Because Thirteen had been delayed.
How could he have taken such a risk? How could he have trusted strangers with all their lives?
Outwardly Plutarch chuckled because Mags climbing on Finnick was utterly hilarious to his chemically addled brain. The two, Katniss, and Peeta, had taken the path opposite to Johanna, who ground her teeth in impotent rage as she watched them vanish, too far for her to catch up.
Woof had fallen off his plate the moment the counter hit zero. Eight's old victor had grabbed the edge of his platform and was flailing helplessly, spraying salt water in his eyes and nose. When he saw Cecelia die, Woof finally let go, and let the water take him.
Plutarch closed his gaping mouth. Uncle Woof. His children would hate him.
On the twenty-four stone wedges, only Seeder and Beetee remained. Seeder stood between Beetee and the Careers as she pushed him towards the beach. She was all but silent, proving that she could be just as colorful as Chaff if the situation was dire enough. When Beetee tripped and almost fell into the water for the second time, Plutarch expected Seeder to drown him in sheer fury.
"Beetee, snap out of it! You need to live. You're valuable. Don't make me die with you for nothing!"
Plutarch wondered where the woman found such strength.
Gloss was crouched over his wounded leg, Cashmere by his side, too engrossed in the arrow to pretend to bother about the remaining outlier victors. Brutus all but explicitly told Enobaria that he wouldn't be doing it, disguising it as a gift to his younger District partner. Enobaria curtsied, and if she resented being cast as the executioner she was too well trained to betray it.
Enobaria grabbed the biggest sword she could find and broke into a leisurely, lethal run, swiftly eating up the distance separating her from Seeder and Beetee.
"Beetee and I have a score to settle. You can go, Seeder," Enobaria said with a threatening fake smile. "He's been hiding behind regulations at the Training Center, but I'm afraid this Quell is very legal."
Plutarch straightened. If Enobaria could do it without drugs, he'd better pull himself together and salvage what could be salvaged.
It's not a what. It's a 'who'. His shoulders slumped once more. 'Delayed.' His mind hated him.
The threat did not faze Seeder. With humbling dignity in the face of death, she shielded Beetee with her body.
"What exactly are you protecting, Eleven? I think something short-circuited in that overrated brain of his." Enobaria rolled her eyes. "Is he drooling yet?"
"Maybe I just want to be the hero," Seeder said, stiff and serious as she faced the much younger Career.
Beetee stumbled forward, still staring shell-shocked at his feet. Plutarch felt keenly for him. He wasn't in a much better state.
A shadow crossed Enobaria's face, erased almost immediately by a theatrical sigh. Enobaria finally raised her sword at Seeder. "Smile."
Plutarch looked away. After years and years, he found that he just couldn't. Avoiding this was why he'd worked so hard! He heard a sickening splash and forced himself to count to five. When he turned his face back on the screen, a wide red pool marred the water and it took all his self control not to be sick.
Seeder's death seemed to have shaken Beetee out of his torpor. The man's breath hitched in panic. He turned his back to Enobaria and ran.
Enobaria threw down the two-handed sword and took a knife from her belt. Her eyes narrowed as she aimed. She gasped.
Cashmere had rammed into her, pushing her into the water.
"You can't get all the fun," the blonde tutted, picking up the chase while Enobaria shouted obscenities after her.
Cashmere's feet hit the sand when her knife sailed for Beetee, carving a thick red line into his lower back.
Beetee screamed in pain, but kept running, stumbling onto the beach.
"Where are all your plans now, genius?" Cashmere called.
Plutarch winced at the sharp fury mixed with the teasing tone. The fury had been true. Cashmere had believed. She had trusted the rebels. And – she'd purposefully aimed for a showy, non-crippling wound and saved Beetee from certain death at Enobaria's hands?
Plutarch winced once more. His head was pounding and he still hadn't figured how he could be of any use.
Cashmere laughed, a tinkling patronizing sound, when Beetee tripped in the sand.
Abruptly, alerted by a sixth sense, Cashmere ducked. An ax sailed the air where her neck had just been.
"I'll get you, Babydoll," Johanna vowed from the tree-line, her body tense with manic energy. Unlike the others, the young woman from Seven could almost have passed for a regular tribute, if not for the unmistakable victor aura that should have any sane being flee her wrath.
Cashmere licked her lips. "I'll be waiting, Honey. I do so love a good hunt," she called back. "Why don't you take a day to ponder the meaning of life."
She flipped her golden hair and turned back to the Cornucopia, smiling insolently at the snarling Enobaria.
Back on the mainland, Beetee and Johanna had entered the jungle. It was a maze of thick luxurious trees that offered shade and shelter –at the right times- but outwardly little else.
"Beetee," Johanna began, hissing through her teeth with her ax back in her hand. "What –"
"It -. The -. This was not supposed to happen." Beetee stammered, shaking his head violently. "This wasn't how it…"
"Tough, buddy," Johanna snapped. "We're here now, our fantasies mean jack shit. If you can't get that brain to work, then you're dead weight. Water, food, you know how this goes."
Beetee finally mustered a smile, color returning to his face, when Wiress burst out of the trees herself and rushed into his arms. He wrapped his arms around her, his eyes widening in fear and amazement. "I'm so sorry."
"Nuts and Volts, brilliant," Johanna huffed. Her disparaging remark was met with apologetic expressions and Johanna's shoulders slumped. She put a hand on Beetee's shoulder. "You didn't kill Seeder," she said tightly, her eyes hooded. "She went down proud, on her terms."
Beetee stared at her so long that Plutarch was afraid he out again. "Thank you," Beetee finally said.
An angry noise exited Johanna's lips. "Water, Volts. Let's just get water." Her hands were white on her ax and Plutarch could read a thousand things on her lips and a thousand more in her eyes that promised pain and death.
Cecelia, Seeder, Woof, Columbus… Plutarch couldn't even begin -
With a scream of pure rage, Johanna hacked at one of the tall bamboo-like sticks growing between the larger trees. A smile broke Plutarch's lips. Good instincts, Johanna.
Johanna gawked when water started squirting out. "Guys," she said, her lips quirking in vindication, "we need a straw."
"You're brilliant," Beetee said, with an earnestness that made Johanna blush.
Johanna shrugged Wiress' arm off her shoulder with a half-hearted glare. The older woman didn't stop smiling and Johanna seemed to decide that she didn't have the energy to stay angry.
"I swear, Volts," she warned. "You'd better keep your wits about you."
Johanna's heated words seemed to flip a switch in Plutarch's chest. The man stood up, his eyes raking over the busy white-clad figures in the Control's room. Johanna, Mags, Finnick, Katniss, Peeta, Beetee. They were alive. He had a job to do. He wasn't going to wait for Thirteen to do it for him.
If he couldn't take them to the rebellion, then, by Panem, he'd fan the rebellion with their deaths.
"When the Careers are gone, I must get coil from the Cornucopia," Beetee said.
Plutarch found himself nodding at the man from Three. Today, he was their mentor. They depended on him to make it out alive. He would not fail again.
"We have an hour, let's get a move on that recap," he snapped.
Less than five minutes later Plutarch almost lost the little composure he'd manage to regain when Peeta accidentally struck the forcefield with his knife. How the four had managed to head straight for the closest edge of the arena... Luckily Finnick knew CPR, Katniss didn't murder Finnick when she saw him make a dash for Peeta, and all was well once more.
"Careful," Peeta said weakly. "There's a forcefield up ahead."
A giggle broke Plutarch's lips, relief a sharp pain in his gut. He really should watch his drug intake.
"What happened?" Boggs exclaimed as eight cannon blasts announced the end of the bloodbath.
Unfortunately, Mags Abalone was still alive.
"Maximize security: we may have a breach," Alma Coin said, her curtain of gray-white hair hardening her tight features. "Intercept is operational but delayed. Boggs, we must know how the Districts are reacting," she urged. "I'll keep you updated on the hovercraft."
Boggs nodded tightly and Alma Coin could see his hate of the Capitol cast deeper and deeper roots. Coriolanus Snow wouldn't know what hit him.
The arena was obviously a clock, with the Cornucopia as the central piece. The hovercraft had found huge generators at the edge of some quadrants, maybe a fog machine and something else, and cages full of mutts in other quadrants. The Mayor of District Thirteen didn't doubt the clock would reveal its dark side during the night. After that... they'd count the survivors and see what to do with them.
After the Bloodbath - the Capitol
"Go find your own sponsors," Haymitch barked at Lyme, tolerating for maybe the first time Effie clinging to his arm.
"Quit it," Lyme muttered, her eyes burning into Glynn. The thick windows and background music failed to cover the chants of marching protesters in the streets.
Glynn matched her stare with fury of her own, proud if anything to have mustered the strength to attend this frivolous event as if all this was normal. Eight dead, Seeder, Cecelia, young bright people that were supposed to cross the victory line with her. Plans failed, but a failure of this magnitude was obscene.
She'd watched Finnick, Cashmere and Gloss fight for some compassion in this very room and had stayed away, so confident they'd soon be reunited.
For the first time in years, Syrianus was attending the party along with her and Rhapsody. Being separated wasn't safe anymore. And with Donna so drunk, she didn't risk losing them in the crowd. The moment Snow found out about the sabotaged mutt vaults, she would be dead. Her husband and daughter would be dead. She had days at best.
"I'm surprised you're still mentoring instead of letting the men sweat all they please," Glynn said, casting a glance full of judgment at Lyall and Bahamut. Their dedication broke her heart, and she hoped Snow would let them go. "All this drama makes me crave an exotic holiday." Lyme had to make her choice now.
Lyme's mouth opened in offense. She then snapped it shut and dunked her glass when she realized Glynn had asked her a question. "
I'm insulted you'd think so little of my loyalty to my friends," Lyme said tightly. A rough chuckle, almost a snarl, left her lips. "Lyall and Bahamut are driving me mad. Are you sure they'd survive without me?"
"They're Twos," Glynn said with a wry smile. "Haymitch, Effie, I think Octavia and Venia are trying to get your attention. You shouldn't neglect them so: you owe a lot of Twelve's recent fortune to your prep team."
Haymitch glowered but grudgingly left with Effie. Keep your head, Haymitch, we're all reeling.
Haymitch had to be with Plutarch and Katniss, in Thirteen. But as far as Glynn was concerned Thirteen could shove their arrangements where the sun didn't shine. Glynn was leaving now. She wouldn't make the mistake to depend on a third party again.
"So where can we go to have fun?" Lyme asked carefully. Glynn was glad to have her on board, District Two would desperately need a rebel commander, someone who understood the District and had already proven herself to them. Besides, Glynn had always been fond of Lyme.
On the large sponsoring screen, Mags' odds were 100 to 1.
Alma Coin, if this is your doing, another strategy, I will kill you myself.
Alma Coin reveals her true sociopathic colors and Plutarch really should have told someone about that damn clock arena.
RIP Cecelia, Woof, Seeder, I'd come to love you all. I hope I managed to make you care for the named and unnamed victors that canon exploited as tear-jerking fodder.
Post-Disclaimer: I do not condone the use of hard drugs unless the world's fate rests on your ability to keep your emotions locked away. I don't condone a lot of things happening in this fic for that matter^^.
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