PART I: RISE.
6
Sadie Rendevez. The Vulture.
To Rage.
"My last suspect is Sadie Rendevez."
"Sadie? But why her? She's your daughter…"
"All the more reason to. Daughters lash out. And she is a teenager frothing with the volatility of hell. Especially after… the rescue."
"But it doesn't make sense for her to betray The Vultures. I don't know. It's just, that's been her whole life."
"Think about this. If your whole life has been about rebellion, then rebellion becomes your new normal. It becomes your constant. It becomes order. You hear me?"
"... Yes, I do."
"So 'railing against authority' becomes going against us. Teenage tantrums means betraying the cause you've led your life with. Let me say this: if she turned, I wouldn't be surprised."
THEN.
District Eight's Streets - Age 11 - Year of the 50th Games.
Misery business.
That's what Sadie calls home.
It's fucking awful. It's trash. It's gutter trash that she lives in. It's quite literally that: she'd stolen the wooden boards off some poor grandma collecting them in her trolley, took the cardboard boxes thrown out by the bakeries, and erected it all up against a metal chain-link fence to resemble a livable space. Not that it really is, actually: it's wedged at the end of the fucking alley.
Whatever. It's better than her real home.
Sadie Qing drops down. She twists her sleeping bag over her shoulder, and shuts her eyes. That's her solution for the fucking frustration that brims by her eyes: sleep fast, knock yourself out, and there you go.
Don't have to fucking think. Doing that's never been good for her. Doing that's always just been poisonous, and she has enough misery business in her head, and she hasn't even gotten past her eleventh birthday yet. Not when other eleven-year-olds are having good lives, good for them, and she's stuck in this pathetic shithole, fuck this shit, what did I do to deserve this, what meant I deserved this, huh?! Why can't I have what they have?
She blinks.
Thinking too much already. Fuck off, brain.
…
…
…
Her brain fucks off. Good.
Sadie exhales. She rubs her eyes and shuts them, even harder than before. Her next day will just be the same. But she'll wake up and do the same, 'course, cause there's no such thing as change in her damn life.
Or, at least, that's what she believes till the next day.
'Cause she's greeted with a silhouette outside her makeshift living space, after she wakes.
A middle-aged woman stands outside. Stout and strong, hard as bark. What Sadie notes most, though, are her narrowed eyes. That've seen the wear of time. That shows she's been through some shit in her life.
Maybe that's why she ends up trusting the total stranger. Sadie knows that gaze: she'd seen that gaze reflected right back at her at the mirrors in the stenching public toilets, immortalised in herself.
(She does not know it then, but her choice will come to be the best she had made in her life. Later, she will know the stranger as her saviour, and she will take on her last name, but that is a story that comes later.)
Stranger tilts her head at Sadie.
"You don't know me. But I'm Cynane Rendevez. I've watched you on the streets for a while. I've decided. I need your help."
That's totally not creepy, she wants to snap back. What's this, some new human trafficking campaign? Go away, I ain't convinced. Even if you're trying to pay me.
But only one word slips from her lips. "Why?"
Cynane's expression remains the same; though, is that a spark now in her eye?
"The reason is simple. I've seen you with Brocado Versace. Damil Sorowitsch. Raschel Weaver. You're rebellious."
Her glower sours. "Oh, great. Peacekeeper. You tryin' to prosecute me? Make my life more miserable than it already is, right? Fuck you."
More amusement twirls on Cynane's expression. "Oh, no. Farthest from. I want to recruit you, child. Do you know of District Thirteen?"
What? Sadie blinks, mouth agape. "Say that again?"
"Well. Let's start from here. Have you heard of The Vultures?"
Sadie had always liked vultures. Not as the ideology: no, that came much later. No, she liked the vultures: those which circled above the smog and fog of Eight, as if the District was once where they were rooted.
They would wait in the shadows, upon the railings, or around the rooftops, or upon the vents that spewed smoke from Eight's factories. They would watch, as bird after bat was cannibalised, as squirrel after rat was ripped open, as coyotes were brutalised and foxes destroyed. Never interfering, only waiting. If she looked hard enough, then they could be cackling. Not like hyenas, no, they were so open about their schadenfreude. But if she squinted hard enough, past the darkness, then there would be glints in their eyes: and that would be evidence enough for her.
District Eight was the city of vultures. A fact that most citizens hated, and Sadie was quite certain that they harboured a secret fear that they'd be eaten next. A half-smile would always dance upon her lips, when the thought came: Hah. Eat the rich and all that shit.
She wouldn't rule it out from happening. Especially when she saw the clips.
Sadie found them at one of Eight's run-down libraries. The librarian was kind enough to let street kids in, so that's where she found herself living most her afternoons at. She'd chucked the DVDs in the old TV and it started to play.
Birds of Prey. Episode 14: Vultures.
It was mesmerising to watch those birds feed on the corpses that have been mangled. Lions, wolves, antelopes, boars, any and all massive creatures - all of them would come to a pitiful end, a cadaver being picked by a vulture's maw, mocked by beak and claw, and any reminders of their existence would've been long stripped to pieces.
It's not so much different from justice: the predators got what was coming to them. They'd all die, in the end: whether by a stray bullet or by cyanide - whatever. Death is always chasing after them, and after they're slain by the same fucking scythe that they've hung over others' heads like a Damocles' Sword, the vultures will still be there. Abrade the world, come the Ark and the tides, come the day of reckoning or eschaton whatever you want to fucking call it - the vultures will live on.
She will live on. She'll outlive all those fucking bastards.
That's what she burns upon.
DAY 2.
Her world's gone to absolute shit.
There's no lying about it. It just is. Ruins upon ruins, fires raging across the rooftops, back-alleys trashed and streets destroyed. Is this even the same District where she'd been brought up, which, shitty as it were, she'd called home?
Common sense tells her no. First of all, she's here with Careers. So-called Career rebels that were only saved because of Cynane's desperate quest to be validated by their presence. Vulture bootlickers, only kneeling and sitting all pretty because they've been rescued. It'll take less than a week for them to forget the favour and be hightailing it back to sugar daddy Capitol.
Madison's the embodiment of an ideal Career, so much of a pushover that she didn't "bother" to rebel until after they made her a machine. Kiernan's a deluded child, sickto the brim with Career deification and reverence that he volunteered once he turned twelve. Oh, Sadie's not even gonna start on Rhodos McNamara and Althea Ivory. If she does, then she'll be stuck in an even worse mental spiral than her already bad one, and she doesn't needthat misery business right now.
As if that wasn't bad enough, there are no vultures in sight. But maybe it's better, that the birds of prey have fled. Because the real monsters are here.
The fucking Capitol. The fucking parasites. The fucking lions, roaring and plowing across the concrete jungle, sinking its claws into factories and dust, razing her home apart with it jaws. They're relishing the tear of Eight's corpse on their teeth.
As if they have any right!
Oh, she's mad. She hasn't been so pissed, not since—
Ryleigh's death. Daniel's death. Fasc's death. Herman's death. Vic's death—
Not now!
No. That's what she's here for. She's here because they aren't. She's here because one of them has to survive for them all. And it might not be the role she wants, but she is here. She's here, and you know what? She will thrive. She'll thrive as she always had, ever since the beginning of her pathetic life. Putting up a middle finger to the world, spitting in their faces and punching up, punching right back.
Sadie will do more than just fight. She'll break them for their audacity.
That's what she'll do. That's what she has to.
THEN.
Salvatore Base - Age 12 - Year of the 51st Games.
It's impossible to wipe the grin off her face.
Not even when she gets to the factory, Salvatore, with all its serious faces, and not even when she plops the letter down right into Cynane's hands. In fact, her beam's brighter than it had been, especially when she looks up at the leader.
"Thank you." Cynane says, and is she smiling too?
That makes her happier than it has any right to. Well, far more happier than she'd like to admit, because all this grinning isn't really her aesthetic.
Oh, c'mon, you ratty emo bitch. What's this, just 'cause you're nearing your teenage years and it's time to be deep? Since when did it become a crime to be fucking happy?
Sadie exhales. She's red and catching her breaths, and all that swells her heart is pride. She shakes her head, and concedes: Fine. Fine, I'll smile.
"We've established contact with the Cassinette Enclave. They're interested in making contact with us, and in expanding our cause by throwing into the movement with us," Cynane cocks her head, and places down the letter on her desk. "Good job, Sadie."
She shoves her hands in her jacket pockets, and shrugs a little. It's still so cosy: Cynane's brought it for her, last week - because you're our operative now; you shouldn't have to wear those awful rags - and she hasn't stopped wearing it since. Sometimes, it's bewildering to her - but nah, she deserves this. She deserves so much better than the lot than she'd got in her life, and this's the Vultures making up for the shit the world's splashed her in with.
"Thanks."
Cynane's lips curl. "Of course. You're my most important operative, Sadie. And I have another important mission for you. Perhaps the most important mission so far."
Sadie shoves her hands deeper into her pockets, and pushes her shoulders backwards. She looks up at Cynane. She keeps her cool. That's how you keep your cool. Right?
"I'm listening!"
Cynane pulls a black device out of her pocket. Sadie squints, 'cause she isn't sure what that is, but… it looks advanced and edgy.
"This is a communicuff. It has contacts - all across the Districts - with other kids like you."
Her eyes widen. "But… what's it for?"
"Communication. Because," and this Cynane tilts her head. "They are all potential tributes - for the 57th Games."
"Wait. What do you mean? Like… they're all being rigged in? By the Peacekeepers?"
"Yes. But not by the Peacekeepers - by us."
"But why?"
"Simple. We want change, do we not? Copious change, cataclysmic change… change that would pry the Capitol apart with the fury of talons and the heat of destruction." Her lip quirks, then. "What better upheaval than to destroy the Games themselves?"
Oh. The vision of the world that's messed 'em both up, withering?
It's everything.
"That's why I'd like you all to enter the 57th Games. You'll persevere. You'll explode the world." Then, Cynane's eyes tunnel into Sadie: with so much conviction, so much strength that it strikes through her like an arrow.
"And I want you to be in charge of it all. I want you to be the group's leader."
Sadie's breath leaves her throat.
"Would you like to take on this mission, Sadie?"
Her smile widens.
"Is that even a question? Fuck yes I do."
Cynane's eyes twinkle. "Good. Have you eaten anything this afternoon?"
That question catches her off guard. Sadie blinks. "I have. You gave me too much pocket money, so, I got some more sweets, and a sandwich from the bakery. Sorry, you can take a cut outta my next."
"No," Cynane says, and somehow that catches her more off-guard. Because, in her experience, it's never like this. Her Dad used to count all the pennies she brought in, over and over again, like if he does that enough then suddenly some more magic dollars would show up. Now she knows: he's just a broken fucking record. There was a time when she'd tried to hide a dollar from him - and that turned out so well when he found out.
So, yeah, this… is surprising.
"I gave you more, because you deserved more - simple as that. Besides that, though…" Cynane pauses. "I hope you know that you're special to me, Sadie."
Sadie's quiet. Her heart stirs. Being special to anyone was a ridiculous concept which she'd scoffed at. Because we're good-for-nothing gutter trash, right Dad?
Special was stupid. No other way about that.
(She's never been special to anyone before.)
To know that she's doing good work here, to know that she's helping Cynane… that stirs a weird feeling in her chest.
A feeling that's somehow better than anything she could've everwished for.
"Thank you," Sadie tells her, and in a quieter tone, admits: "Nobody's really said that to me."
"Well," Cynane replies. "I'm sorry that nobody had told you sooner."
DAY 2.
There is no person she hates more in the world than her mother.
She hates Cynane-fucking-Rendevez to the core of her being. She hates her so much that she's sick. Reminding herself the full laundry list of Cynane's crimes will infuriate her beyond repair and her madness—
A fucking radical that's not near radical enough, a revolutionary that doesn't have enough of a moral compass to be one, that lies so much that it poisons her—
Sadie stalks through the flames and glowers. A Career's next to her: Madison Saros, One, who's as quiet as Sadie's angry.
It's no secret that she hates most of them. Saros is no exception. Because of course Cynane would focus on her and not one of their own people - spoiler alert, but Brynn Sanchez also died in the finale. Yet everyone's focused on Career royale bitch. What the fuck happened there?
Oh, right. District privileges.
Career doesn't try to start small talk. Neither does Sadie. But 'course that's when Career bumps into her, and of course that's when she has the audacity to speak.
"I'm sorry," the Career says. "Are you okay?"
"Don't talk to me." Sadie snaps, and for good measure gets forward away from her. To her credit, the Career bitch just looks away.
Don't you try! By what rightdo you think you have to speak to me? In the Games, you would've strangled my neck with those same fingers without a fucking blink. A few of you Careers in this rebellion would still relish in it.
Some part of her knows that she shouldn't blame Madison Saros - for what Dior's done, for what Althea's done. But she's the closest thing to an outlet that Sadie'll have for the time being, and she'll take it. Because if not then she'll spiral—
— Jade. Dead by her own hand. Isla. Dead by Marini's blade. Ajax. Dead by Ivory's spear. Herman. Dead on the Career hunt. Fasc. Dead on Gerhart's decapitation. Vic. Dead on Marini's dagger. Ryleigh. Dead on arrival. Daniel. Dead on arrival. Vic's family. Dead on execution.
Tari. Dead on—
Oh, Tari...
Ontari Okafor. Dead by Althea-fucking-Ivory's blade.
— and fuck, the killers are prancing around with a beak and feathers as if they're part of the pride. Althea and Rhodos. Out in Four in their fantasy mission, saving their families when Sadie never got even a chance. Oh no, they fucked her up too early on the streets, they fucked them up too early in the Games for that. And when that wasn't enough for them, they messed with Vic's family too, and Tari's, and Fasc's, and Herman's, and Ry's, and Dan's, and Ajax's, and Isla's, and Jade's…
Call her bitter, but she is. Who deemed that trained childkillers got to play happy with their families, whilst the kids that actually fought for rebellion are the ones that have to suffer?
A fucking injustice would be undercutting it. She's supposed to stand there, as she's backstabbed by the woman that she's come to call her mother, and she's supposed to smile, supposed to be happy, supposed to raise rebellion, supposed to be anything but angry?
(Why do they have the privilege to happiness? Why do they have the privilege to love, to care, to joy, to connect? Why doesn't she deserve that?)
"What did I do to wrong you?" the Career asks her, lips quivering.
Sadie rolls her eyes. Is that even a question?
"Everything. That's what."
THEN.
Salvatore Base - Age 14 - Year of the 53rd Games.
For some fucking reason, she finishes a mission with tears running down her eyes.
She shouldn't be crying. She's nearly fourteen. But it was her first mission - first after her breakup. Today was easy: just relaying messages for Cynane, and it almost - almost - worked to forget about Alaia. But then a few assholes started heckling at her, and that turned her from depressed to pissed in a matter of zero.
Sadie felt… good, after she'd punched them in. Not her first streetfight, won't be her last.
But unfortunately that feeling didn't last.
"I'm sorry, Sadie," Cynane murmurs, quietly, "Is there anything I can do to help?"
She shakes her head. Because it's not like Cynane can do anything else, save for what she's already done - removing Alaia as a rebellion contact, and prohibiting her from engaging in any Vulture-related activities.
There's a hand over her shaking shoulders. It's surprising - Sadie doesn't quite remember the feeling of comforting touch - but it's nice. She looks up, forces back the sob in her throat—
Before she knows it, she's holding Cynane, and Cynane's holding her, reassuring her. "It's okay. You'll be okay," is what Cynane tells her, and Sadie clutches onto those words like they're a lifeline.
"Thank you," she whispers, to a person that isn't her mother, but feels like the closest thing she'll ever get to one.
DAY 2.
It's so cold here.
It's not just the people. Well, no, she'll admit it - it's because of the people.
Kathvarine Guthrie, murderer of her best friends, is in charge of Salvatore. Salvatore, infiltrated by Capitol bitches and Careers alike.
Salvatore used to be warmer. Perhaps it's because they ran their operations as the machinery of the factory still clang, a facsimile of workers bursting with productivity for the good of society. Which it was - only productivity for a society of their own creation. Heat would smoulder the claustrophobic walls, gleaming upon their skin with the perspiration of their labour, their wants, their dreams - their successes to be.
Salvatore was home.
The Vultures was home.
It was beautiful and it was breathtaking. To see the cogs of their rebellion turn, in a factory as innocuous as any other, and to be a part of that machine was beyond any purpose she could've reared for herself. And for those pieces to become a family, through sweat and blood and joy and tears: could there be any better way to find a home?
But she has remnants and rubble, instead of a home. She has a factory too cold, as dead as its name: bombed and destroyed, machinery half-broken and its production of guns and ammo taken to blaze in the battlefield. She has nothing here that is hers, and not a single reminder that Salvatore has ever belonged to her.
"Sadie? Are you ready?"
She lifts her eyes up to Jordyn Moriau. It's another mission that they've been assigned to embark upon: but this time, it's by a woman that Sadie doesn't respect.
"You're in charge of Eight's propaganda campaign. Rouse the people, and make them soldiers - by any means possible. We need Eight to stand against the Capitol - that's trying to destroy them, with all they can. Its uprising is our only hope: if we wish to rescue Eight from a fall."
Sadie adjusts the strap of the communicuff on her wrist, as it glows with faint light. A crackle comes through, and she's connected with the rest of the team.
She nods at Jordyn. For even if Salvatore is no longer home, Eight will always be where she was born and raised, broken and forged, built and made.
And she'd be damned to let it fall.
THEN.
District Eight - Age 14 - Year of the 53rd Games.
As night drapes Eight's factories and as the smoke turns pallid against the stars: Sadie turns on her communicuff.
Up pops a dozen new messages from Ajax and Herman, continuing their conversation about football. She plays a few of their voice memos, but after the third impassioned rant about knee strength, she shuts it off.
When Cynane gave them all communicuffs, Sadie's pretty sure she didn't mean for it to become a place for life updates, jokes, banter, and the rest. But it has become what it is, and… it really has made her feel a lot less lonely.
She taps into the communicuff. "Cool it, boys. This is the sixth week you've been going on 'bout football. Any more and I'm gonna start thinking that you're a stereotype."
It's a really good that thing there's no video function, because the last thing she needs is for Herman and Ajax to see is her full-blown grin.
A ping - from Herman. "Oh, c'mon, Sadie! I thought you were supposed to be an edgelord. Don't edgy cool girls play football?"
Another ping.
"Yeah!" Ajax's voice is always so chirpy. "One of us! One of us!"
She rolls her eyes. "Fuck off!" she says, but a laugh's in her words.
It's almost ridiculous, just how close she's gotten to this group of kids from Districts she'll never see, that she doesn't know how she'd lived without. And she says kids, 'cause they're all younger than her: Vic and Ryleigh are among the youngest, at ten, and Herman and Ajax are both twelve. Jade and Isla are older, but not by that much. But they'll all be old enough to take care of themselves, when the 57th comes around. Sadie will end up being the eldest of them all, at eighteen, as Cynane would've wanted it. She's only fourteen now… but soon.
Another message comes. Fascia's. Wry and teasing. "Sadie, please! 'Least actually want you in their squad. Herman doesn't even want me anywhere near him."
"Fasc, stop lying! I so do! And I'm right here! But, 'kay, maybe sometimes..."
She's about to respond, when another ping rings, an octave higher than usual: indicating that the message is sent directly to her. She opens it, and the high-pitched, excitable voice is all she needs to know who it's from.
"Hi Sadie! Look at how cute Rusty's gotten! He's so cute! Also, can we meet tomorrow?! I really miss you! Pretty please?"
Just as predicted, a holographic image of a panting dog on the streets projects out of her watch. Sadie shakes her head, smiling, and records a message back to the Eight kid: "Hi, Vic! He's so cute. 'Course I'm down, I've missed you a ton! Same place?"
Vic is sweet. They're a runaway like her, but they're living in an orphanage: not great, by any circumstance, but at least it isn't the streets. Ever since they've gotten their communicuffs, Sadie's been meeting up with them nonstop. Apparently, Vic keeps telling everyone in the orphanage that she's their sister, which just makes her smile so hard that she has to bite her lip to quash it.
Another high-pitched ping brings her out of her reverie. Her eyes flit over to the name, and almost immediately, her heart begins to hammer in her chest.
Ontari Okafor. The second oldest member of the group, also fourteen, just like her. She doesn't speak up much in their chat, but when she does, she roasts them all. Was it any surprise they got along immediately? The Eleven girl's her best friend, at this point, and Sadie always feels warm on the inside whenever she gets a message from her.
Maybe a little too warm.
"Hey, Di - are you doing okay? I just thought I'd check up, 'cause… y'know, breakups are messy. I'm sorry to hear about Alaia. If you're gonna remember one thing I've said, just remember that Alaia really fucking sucks, okay?"
Sadie laughs, despite herself.
"Thanks, Tari," she says in reply. "Appreciate that. I mean, I won't be forgetting 'bout that anytime soon, don't cha worry. Fucking hell, Alaia sucks ass and I just—I hate her for all she's fuckin' done. But I also miss her, and I also want to go back to her, even though I know she's just gonna burnme again."
A ping.
"Di, c'mon! Where's the girl I know? You're not gonna crawl back like a sewer rat to a dumpster. You're so much better than that. You're gonna stand strong, you're gonna be the one doing the revenging, and next time I hear from you, you better tell me that you've burnt her alive, mmkay? Like the bitch I know."
"Well, since you've told me to..."
"Nope. Stop right there. I am not taking responsibility for your crimes, love."
Sadie scoffs, and squashes down the tiny flutter in her stomach. "Who said anything about responsibility? You wishyou could be part of one of my crimes."
"Oh, what would I give to be Sadie Qing's partner-in-crime. A daring revolutionary, a living legend already, and the daughter-to-be of Cynane Rendevez, our illustrious leader. A honour indeed."
A pause, and for a moment, Sadie thinks the message ends there. But then, her communicuff crackles, and a smirky voice shoots right through.
"And Di, love, what would you give to be mine?"
Sadie's lip quirks. "I'll give four years. When we're both eighteen, in the 57th Games, and on the brink of committing a crime Panem's never seen before. We'll destroy the Arena together. Won't we?"
There's barely a pause. Sadie can imagine Ontari's smile, on the other end.
"Hell yeah. Hell yeah we will."
"And you know the best part about it?"
"What?"
"I'll make sure we'll be immortalised. We'll do it through an explosion. And with that - we'll rise out of the world's ashes, out of the world that's ruined me, that's ruined us."
A breath, and Sadie exhales, with a smile: "Just like phoenixes."
DAY 3.
Sadie doesn't speak to Jordyn through the recruitment.
They've been silent, as they combed through the bomb shelters, the backshops, and the alleyways. Not silent with the people: no, they had to explain what exactly being a Vulture was, and what the rebellion was to the uninitiated, if they wanted to transform civilians into soldiers.
It does irk Sadie that Jordyn seems like one of the least passionate of them all - she smiles, of course, hits the right notes and emphasises on the correct words - but it echoes hollow.
Half of her's bitter: because Jordyn Moriau is The Vulture. She took the role that Sadie Rendevez was supposed to have. She was supposed to be the figurehead, The Vulture, not her - a girl who never wanted it to start with.
But the other half of her understands. Because Jordyn's lost all her friends in the Games, and that's something that Sadie wishes that she didn't relate to. But, sad as fuck as it is, she does.
They're at an odd crossroads. One that she doesn't like to dwell on, because that would mean introspection. Introspection would inevitably mean thinking about them.
She doesn't need more of that. Not more than she already has. Her communicuff weighs heavy enough on her wrist as it is.
But after they've left the bomb shelter, she can't resist the words that fall out of her lips - scorn, venom, anger - all of it gushing out together.
"What's up with you?"
Jordyn blinks. "What do you mean?"
"Do you actually want change, or not?"
"Of course I want change."
It's so measured that Sadie has to suppress an eyeroll, but that isn't enough to suppress the damn rage ablaze in her stomach, crawling up her trachea with tar.
Sure. You want change. Bet that was just another fleeting thought that you had in your brain, a consideration for a bare second before you'd shaken your damn head, laughed at yourself, and went on with your life. Bet that's all the thought you gave to change 'till you were forced into it by the Arena. You didn't devote your life to it. You didn't sweat for it, didn't bleed for it. You didn't kill for it, you didn't sacrifice all your fuckin' friends for it, you didn't ruin yourself for it.
(So why you, huh? Why Jordyn Moriau? Why her, Cynane? What makes me incapable, what makes me lesser? It's the least I deserve, after the shit you've put me through!)
Sadie shuts her eyes. No. Breathe.
But Jordyn must notice something on her face, because the next Sadie opens her eyes, concern's peering back at her.
Fucking hell. That's embarrassing.
Sadie looks away. She clears her throat — and it does help, in rolling the retch back in her stomach.
"Sure you do," she says, swallows, and hates that frustrating feeling of tears burning by her eyes."Sure you want change. Don't think I haven't noticed. You don't even want to be here."
Jordyn's quiet for a moment.
"You're right. I don't. I've never asked to be here: not to be a leader, not to be anybody's figurehead. I'd just wanted my life back. But I am."
Sadie nearly scoffs. There. That's her confirmation that Jordyn Moriau doesn't give a shit about the Vulture's rebellion, that she'd rather cower in the comforts of her home than to cause a cataclysm, that she'd put her own life over the whole damn world's.
But Jordyn's eyes are so tired.
So tired, and so weighed in guilt.
Guilt that she recognises.
It's what she sees in the mirror, every day. Eyes weighed in failure.
(What meant I deserved to survive, and they didn't? I could've done more to save them, so why didn't I try harder? Why is it that they're dead and I'm here? Why's the world so unfair? Why am I here, what am I supposed to do remember you, 'cause nothing I'll do will ever be adequate, nothing I'll do can change the fact that you're six-feet-under and I'm not.)
But unlike Jordyn: Sadie knows exactly what she'll do. Oh, she'll avenge them. She'll let hate and rage and murder consume her soul. She'll send shockwaves of dissent through Panem. She'll torture soldiers, she'll rampage, she'll watch the Gamemakers responsible for her friends' deaths executed with glee. She'll make the Capitol bleed.
Because that's what they would've wanted.
"Sadie?"
Jordyn breaks her out of her reverie. Sadie just scoffs. "What is it?"
"Since you've asked me the question, I figured that I should ask you the same." Jordyn's voice is still measured - but it takes on a cooler edge. One that puts Sadie on edge.
"How much do you want this?"
What an inane question.
"Oh— come the fuck on! I gave everything for this! I've been fighting my whole damn life for this. I didn't let my friends die for nothing. Unlike what some people would've preferred to do."
The scorn practically is dripping off her voice. Shame she doesn't give a shit.
"No - I'll fight for vengeance. I'll fight for what's right. Because I'm the Vulture. I'm the fucking Vulture. That's mine. That's something you can't take from me. That's something Cynane can't take from me. That's something nobody can. It's mine."
She's heaving so hard, she's sweating, and she's smiling. And is that fear in Jordyn's face?
Oh, Sadie can't care less than she already does.
(Her lips quirk all the same.)
THEN.
Rooftops - Age 15 - Year of the 54th Games.
Sadie stops outside the bakery.
When she was younger, she wouldn't have enough money even dare enter. She'd only press her face to the windows, salivating at the pastries set out. Even now, she finds herself in the habit of counting her pennies. But being a Vulture operative pays well, the most important one even so, and now she saves more than she drains.
She buys just a strawberry tart. Thinking about how Vic's face would light up immediately at the treat twists her lips into a smile. But Vic'll scold her for not buying any for herself - so she buys a lemon tart, just for good measure.
As predicted, Vic squeals, and stuffs the tart down without a moment's hesitation. Sadie grins, as she stares out to the dimming horizon, reminds herself to buy two tarts for Vic next time.
The rooftops are where she and Vic chill out together. It's with all of Eight in the vicinity of their sight, beneath them. They're above it all, better than the streets.
"So," Vic says, bouncing their legs in excitement. "How's it been going with your Mom?"
Sadie blushes. It still lifts her heart thinking about Cynane Rendevez like that. When Cynane first passed the idea of adoption - Sadie had thought that she was joking. Even though some subconscious part of her did want it to be true - she didn't dare believe. But Cynane had insisted.
("You're like the child I never had.")
So. She's Sadie Rendevez, now. A name that she can proudly claim as her own. Never did she ever think that saying yes to the Vultures meant gaining a family, gaining friends. But she can't imagine living without it.
"She'd actually hired a few guards to watch over me on my missions. Can you believe her? She's takin' this parenting thing so fuckin' seriously."
She can't say that she doesn't like that.
"That's so cool of her!" Vic gushes. "An' she does it for just you. You're super important to her."
"I…" Sadie stops. She's never quite thought about it in that way before. "I'm… really glad," is what she finally settles on."That Cynane thinks that about me."
She twists the cap of her bottle, and downs her drink.
"Me too! Oh, and! Speaking of relationships…" Vic says. They're grinning wickedly, and Sadie raises her eyebrows, because this isn't a look she likes on them.
"Sadie! Are you and Ontari together?"
She almost spits out her water.
"Vic, what the fuck, where the fuck did you get that from?" Sadie says, laughing, though even that is a little… false. "We're not," she says cooly, though she can't hide the blush quickly rising over her cheeks. "What made you think that?"
Their eyes widen. "Oh my gosh. Wait, so. Is that, like, long distance? That's so cool! D'you guys send pictures to each other? Do you guys talk a lot? Sadie!"
"Vic, why are we even talking bout my love life?"
"Please! It's a once-in-a-lifetime conversation! Tell me! I wanna know everything."
"I'd bet," Sadie can't help the half-smile turning her lips. "Just— don't tell Ajax or Isla, because I know those two have been shipping me an' Tari together, and they'll never let me hear the fuckin' end of it."
To be fair, Vic's gigantic beam is worth her internal crisis.
"I won't! Promise promise promise I won't! Let's pinky promise? I'll promise that I won't tell anyone! But you have'ta make a promise to me back."
Sadie's eyebrow raises. "A promise?"
"Any promise! Just a promise!"
"Okay," Sadie says. "I promise that I'll… umm… keep you safe. I'll try my best to. Under any and every circumstance there is."
Vic's quiet for a moment. Then -
"Aw, c'mon! That's such a lame promise."
Sadie rolls her eyes. "You're one to speak. Fine. I promise I'll keep you safe from my wrath, even if you spill the beans about me and Tari."
"Now that's a good one!"
"I'm so glad I have your approval," Sadie drawls, and even though it's meant to be sarcastic, what ends up leaving her lips is far from. It's actually genuine, god forbid.
"Pinky promise?"
Sadie sticks her pinkie finger out. "Pinky promise."
Vic's pinkie curls around hers, and that is where they make their promise. This is what Vic swears: they swear to take Sadie's secrets to the grave. They swear that they will be her confidant, her second-in-command, her siblingif there ever was one. They swear that they will love her, even more than they already do, and that they will care for her, just as a younger sibling cares for their sister. They will, until their last dying breath.
This is what Sadie swears: she swears to keep Vic safe. Through today, and the next, and the day after that; through the Arena, and through the Games. She swears to preserve their life: even if it means her death. For she loves them as a sibling, a sibling if there ever was one, and Sadie pledges a sister's debt to Vic Vernina.
On the rooftops, onlooking Eight - that is the immortal promise they make.
DAY 4.
Sadie stares back at a soldier-to-be, and she does not know how to speak.
He's terrified. That - that is easy to see. Who would not be, in a world razed to its ground, to the grimness that haunts Eight's every waking day? But he is terrified in a different way, for she and Jordyn Moriau have approached him, asking for his help, in a rebellion that rules the expanse of Panem - attempting to decide its end.
This is the Cassinette Enclave, and this is one of their former rebels. It is, also, their only chance. Their labour has resulted in some fruit— but not enough. Eight thousand to rally is a pitiful number, in her home of eighty thousand.
(Why is she surprised? Eight's inhabitants hate its vultures, for they fear they will eat them alive.)
They need the Cassinette Enclave: a union that claims twenty thousand of Eight's most physical workers. She still remembers running letter from letter to Cynane and the Enclave, back and forth. Winning their loyalty back is what the Vultures need.
For they have scattered, ever since Salvatore - their leader - was killed by The Vivisector.
And now she is here. Convincing the uncertain to convert back.
"Please understand," The soldier-to-be tells them. "I'm on your side. I want to save Eight," he tells her, and that - that is a sentiment that stirs in her chest, too easily. "I want to make this a better place. But I'm afraid. I want change, but I don't want to lose my life. I don't want to lose my family. I don't want to lose my friends. If I join you... I'm— I'm not going to lose everything, right?"
He stares at her. Begging for her reassurance.
But she can't speak.
She can't lie. Not when she's lost everything because of the Vultures.
So Sadie stands there, quite still. She stands there, and does not speak, for there is nothing otherwise that will - that can - leave her lips. Her jaw works, as the Vultures' soldier-to-be looks at her, pleading, till Sadie finally settles on an answer.
"Don't join, then," she spits out, and turns away from the soldier-to-be. "If you're that fucking selfish."
Don't join, is what she wants to say to the man. Not unless you want to lose everything you have.
But she doesn't. Because she's the Vulture, right? What's she gonna spit out, blasphemy? No, the rebellion means everything to her.
(It's their legacy. What else does she have to remember them by?)
THEN.
Hovercraft - Age 16 - Year of the 55th and 56th Games.
She'd dreamt of this day before.
They've talked about this day before. In a flurry of messages across the span of an hour, which somehow became immortalised in their group consciousness. Their upheaval will be met with a celebration.
"To Panem's death! Let's have a fucking party!" Fascia's suggestion was a joke, but message after message had spiralled and shaved the joke away, till what remained was a nugget of truth.
She'd dreamt of this day, through the night before her volunteering, through the train rides and interviews and alike. They've talked about this day, as they communicated in symbols and code before the Capitol's ever-watching eye, during the training days; as she pretended her best friends were strangers. She'd dreamt, even as body after body dropped in the Arena, she'd still dreamt. Even as every piece more of their fantasy disintegrated away. Because there was a chance - if all of them couldn't make it, then at least some of them could.
If not them all, then she'd dare hope for nine. She could afford to lose herself: as long as her friends still survived.
If not nine, then she'd dare hope for eight. She could afford to lose herself, and lose a friend: as long as she died before they did, because she's still selfish, in not wanting that pain.
If not eight, then she'd dare hope for seven. If not seven, then she'd dare hope for six. If not six, then she'd dare hope for five. If not five, then - she can't dare to think about what may mean. She can't lose that many. She can't.
...
…
If not five, then please let four live, at least. If not four, then - three, I'm begging. If not three, then - two, fucking hell. If not two, then - fuck you. Fuck you absolutely.
And then there was one.
"I just want to talk. I want to explain. I want you to understand, and I want to help you calm down. We both need this."
Sadie doesn't realise that the shaking swallows her. Not until her sight blurs, and her vision quavers, and she can only see Cynane's outline in front of her eyes.
"What's there to talk about? I'm not in the mood to hear excuses about why all my friends are dead. I'm not in the mood to hear you try to explain away why you decided to save their murderers. If you try, I swear to god, I'm going to stab you."
"Sadie," Cynane exhales, half a plea in her eyes. "Let's be civil with one another."
She gnashes her teeth together. Harder and it'll seem like a grin.
"I - am - barely clinging onto the vestiges of civility. My patience's gettin' especially fuckin' thin for them."
"Hera Dalenka had saved you, Sadie."
"She also killed my friends. Let's not forget."
"I am not," Cynane says, smoothly, "forgetting about that. You have to understand - I have to be pragmatic. We don't have many allies. Beggars can't be choosers, and if the Careers are volunteering to help us, then, I don't see why we shouldn't bring them on board."
"Maybe the, oh, little issue of them murdering us? But that's a non-issue," Sadie scoffs. "Because we're disposable. We only exist for your own gain. Because that's what you do. You consume and you consume. That's why you took me in. Your little operative? Your replacement daughter for the one you've lost."
Cynane is silent.
Sadie hates it. She gives no reaction, because her face is the same, the mask is the same measured leader-facade that she always wears. She wants to scream.
"They're all yours."
That... isn't what she expects to fall out of Cynane's mouth.
"Sadie, listen. I'll promise you this. After this war's over, the Careers are all yours. You can do whatever you want with them. Any punishment you deem fit. But for now - for now - it'll be a tenuous alliance. Because we need it. For the Vultures' sake. You understand me?"
Sadie twists her fingers through her hair. She swallows down a growl, but she does let her glare land right on Cynane. But Cynane - 'cause of course, what different did she expect - just looks at her, eyes of steel and a stance of stone.
What's there is obvious. She won't get a better deal than this. Because while she may be the Vulture, she's still Cynane's daughter. She is still under the rebellion's banner. She has to defer to her.
"Fine," Sadie scoffs. "Fuckin' fine. I'll kill them after. I'm holding you to that."
Cynane doesn't even blink. "You know me," she says, softly, "I keep my word."
Then, quieter: "And - you're not Zeniah's replacement, Sadie. I love you as my own: because you are my own."
"Yeah," she says, sniffing, as she looks away: if only to hide the tears brimming by her eyes. "Yeah, right."
DAY 5.
On the fifth day, Jordyn Moriau finally decides to confront her.
"You didn't have to say that to the soldier," Jordyn says. "He was convinced. He would've joined, if you didn't decide to..."
"If I didn't decide to what? Out-patriot him?"
"That's not what I'm saying."
"Sounds like it." Sadie mutters.
There's silence. She expects the conversation to be over— but Jordyn doesn't stop. Her eyebrows are furrowing, and she's looking at her with - what? Concern? Worry? Pity?
"Why does it matter so much to you?" Jordyn finally says, after her long period of deliberation. "Being a Vulture?"
"Because it means something to me. Isn't that enough?"
"If you say it's enough," Jordyn says. "Then it's enough."
"I'm glad," Sadie drawls. "What would I do without The Vulture to tell me as it is."
The Vulture. Oh, she can't even pretend - that mantle stings. She's studied Jordyn's performance in the Games with guided envy, for that ending was supposed to be theirs, not hers. But she stole that trophy and name from her anyway. She took - so much - from her.
She took everything.
"That's not my name."
"Fucking hell—" Sadie exhales, and wrenches her eyes shut. Breathe. "Like you're not off parading as the face of rebellion? If you're not The Vulture, then what are you? You stole what's mine!"
"Look," Jordyn sighs. "I'm sorry. If you don't want me here, then I'll go, alright? I won't bother you anymore."
"Sure," Sadie scoffs. "Run off to your pet Career. Sure you're not fucking her like Two girl did in the Games?"
Something flashes across Jordyn's eyes. But then - just a moment, and it hardens.
"I'm fucking Maddie— god! What is wrong with you?" Jordyn sighs. "You're so… fuck. Look. I don't know what's your problem. But if you think that blaming the Careers'sgonna do anything, then, newsflash - it won't. You know why?"
(Oh, that's an easy question. You hate them because that's all you know how to do. Isn't it? You're angry, and you lash out, and damn them—)
"— They've been damned by this system as we have, and I know it's hard to reconcile, but they've just been as fucked up by the Capitol as we have—"
(—for retaliation. That's what you tell yourself. But you don't have retaliation; let's be real, never had it in the first place. Your resentment is a stretch, a foul stench, and it's lathered your heart since the beginning of time. Revenge is how you'll survive.)
"It doesn't make them any more privileged than we are. So, please, stop being so sanctimonious and—"
(What do you have? Except hate, and envy, and rage, sometimes…)
(Admit it. You're sick of yourself.)
"—just know that blaming them won't save your dead friends. Would they want you to spend your life hating Careers? Would they want you to be miserable?"
(Misery business. That's what's in your fucking heart. You pathetic, little—)
"—Capitol bootlicking piece of shit!" Sadie roars. "You're justlike the rest of them. You'll excuse the fact that they were built to murder. You'll excuse their history of massacring Six kids and Eight kids. Of course. Of fucking course."
"Oh god. There's no getting through to you, is there? You know what? Just save it." Jordyn snaps. She trudges through the dust and ash and dirt of the world.
A protest leaps to Sadie's throat.
I'm sorry. I know I'm—
Wrong?
…
…
…
No. No, I'm not. Do I do not deserve their repentance for what they've done to us? Do I not deserve to despise, to hate, to resent what they've done to us?
And I need it. I need my jealousy, I need my hate, I need my bitterness, I need my rage. It stitches the abyss in my chest.
Please let me hate, let me envy, let me rage. Please, fuck, it's better than pain. Let me scream. Let me claw. Let me project. Let me—
I need this. It's the only thing I have.
A bitter smile claws across her lips. A tear rolls down her eye.
They're dead. They're not coming back.
There are no more memories worth remembering.
Her cause is for naught.
In her despair, she is irreparable. But that can only last for so long, because Sadie Rendevez is not damaged, not damned, not broken. No, she is the farthest thing from.
She rises, with her heart ramming against her ribcage, with her fingers shaking, with her jaw locked, because she is brimming with enmity.
And enmity only has one meaning in her means her prosperity.
Her cause is not for naught. Her elegies are legacies. Her jealousy is a threnody. Her rage is an embassy. Her hate is heavenly.
Her rise is destiny.
DAY 6.
Eight is destruction and ruin because of a betrayal.
Amid the carnage, and the screams, and the pain: Sadie lifts her eyes to the tents.
There are two Careers in the camp. Two more dead will serve her cause well.
This is what Cynane has promised her.
Death for the Careers, to right a cause wronged from the beginning. And she can. For it may not be the end of the rebellion, but it certainly is the end of days. And the rebellion's collapse certainly counts.
She will kill them.
All those dead in the bunker. All their soldiers. All her friends. Dead because -
Dead because of a word.
Sadie slams her blade against One girl's neck.
"I didn't do it," One girl says. Her eyes aren't shut, like how Sadie had expected them to - no, they're half-lidded, partially open, hazy, like she's as accepting of her fate as she's resigned to it.
"Sure you didn't," Sadie Rendevez digs the knife into One girl's throat, and she grins at the sick satisfaction of a rip.
"Kill me," One girl chokes out. "I-If you don't believe—"
Sadie sees red. As blood sprouts, she breathes. They're all the same, they're all the same, the fucking same—!
"What the— stop!" Jordyn yells. Sadie's shoulder's yanked back, and her knife clatters to the ground, and she struggles against the hands that grip her.
One girl looks away. Her hand moves to her neck - bleeding as she gasps. Jordyn puts a hand over her wound, to stem the bleeding, her jaw unlocked, her eyes filled with worry. Slowly, she takes a roll of gauze and wraps it around One girl's neck.
Maybe it would've been tender, if it wasn't - them.
Sadie looks away. She can't - she can't stand it. She doesn't know why.
(Oh, she knows why. It would've been them here. It should be her friends, tending to one another. Maybe, if she dares to think, it would've been her and Tari here: her, curling bandages across Tari's wounds, because they were just flesh wounds: Four girl couldn't kill her, oh, no, that would be impossible, she's too tough to die like that.)
But they are nowhere. They are ashes, scattered like petals across the darkened skies.
How fair: all the devils are here.
She enters the tent where Two boy is at.
Two boy looks at her: wary, nervous, fearful. Sadie has a blade of red in her hands, and she is staring right at him.
It might've been him who sold them out. But at this point - she doesn't care to threaten him. The ravages of war is enough to break him down.
(It is better, than what her heart is telling herself. He looks too much like Vic. If she imagines, then it is her and they here: braving through the rebellion together, side-by-side, and whilst they may be a child, too young to be a soldier, she'll make sure that no harm would be done unto them.)
(And if she lets her heart go on, a little further, then it will say that he does not deserve this. It will say that Madison Saros does not deserve this; and Jordyn Moriau does not deserve this; and Cynane Rendevez does not deserve this.)
But she will not think about that. Anger is the only thing she has. If she does not have anger, then she will have emptiness.
And who the fuck would want that?
She leaves.
There's nothing of worth here. There is nothing that will help make change here. Not in her ruined home, so broken that she doesn't know how she once called it her sanctum. Not in debris and dust, not in a realm where nothing is everything and everything is nothing.
She leaves. She treks away from the destroyed buildings. They watch her, she knows: their eyes are on her backs, and they are crying out for her. Sadie, what are you doing?
They are easy to tune out: looking ahead into the deadened night can do wonders for your mind.
She leaves. Her communicuff is screeching: Cynane, telling her, turn back, there's still time.
She rips it away from her wrist. Crushes it. Splinters of glass and tears splatter against the dirt.
She leaves. This place is no longer her home. It has not been - not even before the Careers and the Capitolites had tromped upon her ground and taken control.
Granted, she should have realised it, earlier.
Not a single vulture is alive.
That fact itself should've told her all she needed to know about their rebellion.
…
…
…
But it is not the end. Not yet.
If there is one thing that Sadie Rendevez refuses to do, it is give up. She has two dozen ghosts hovering over her shoulders, each of them reaching for her shoulders, raking down her back, moaning in her ears: please, save me, please, please! Please make my sacrifice worthy, please make it mean something, please don't let my life go to waste.
And amid all the spectres are two. Vic and Tari stand before her, begging her. Please, they tell her. Please. We love you; we need you. Before you die—please. Make us mean something. Don't - don't let what we fought for go to waste. Don't let us go to waste.
With a raise of a head, with the tears in her eyes, with a grit of her teeth and a clench of her jaw, Sadie promises them, with burning eyes: "I won't. I won't let your deaths be for nothing."
They're so hushed in the Reaping square.
Sadie has experienced her fair share of Reapings. After all - she's seventeen, now, and her birthday's passed yesterday on Eight's bombing. She's seen most of what it has to offer.
But not a single one has been this quiet before.
Her twelve Reapings were discordant. Her thirteen Reapings were discontent. Her fourteens were dissentious. Her fifteens were disastrous. And her sixteens: well, everybody remembers how she'd thrashed and snarled on screen.
And they see her now.
How often is it, that a child returns to the stage where they were slain? Taken by the Reaper's hand, and made to walk through a disaster of loathsome ceremony? Made to smile for the screens, made to kiss the cameras and wave to the superfans, as they marched towards the scythe's head? As her home watched on, ever-aware of death's presence that hung over her shoulders, bony fingers gripping with all their might?
How often is it that a child returns to the stage where they were meant to be slain, and stares down death with a stony face?
Only once in Eight, and it makes history today.
Sadie Rendevez stands, against the quivers of her people, upon a stage where Capitolites are meant to be, once every year. She tilts her head at them, her mouth cracked slightly open, but she does not speak. She watches, instead, as her people sway to the breezes, that ruffle the smog-sunken trees and shake the metal antennas that wires the city of metal together.
She listens to their silence. Eight's silence is impossible to buy: mere whispers flit between the people, at all times, and if not whispers then the shuffles of feet, and if not shuffles then taps, morse code, for even sound is rebellion in her city.
For her District is a slumbering creature, but it is one that does not give any rest. Its Vultures perch on its body, and caw for change as they feed on the same flesh that have made them. It may be quiet, sometimes, but never for long: for a slumbering creature may not move, but it is indeed oh-so-alive under its deep sleep, breathing and heaving, twisting and turning, tunnelling dissatisfaction and defiant reports and malcontent sentiment across the length of Eight.
Eight is only silent for one reason, and that is on Reaping day. When you are stolen as a sacrifice, you are given one last minute of respect where you are paraded to die. That is the silence for their premade martyrs.
But there is a reason why they call it the calm.
Sadie Rendevez is the thunder. She is lightning and she is rain: and she will strike down at anyone who dares defy her. She is a being, imbued with the power which her dead friends have accorded her. She wields their hopes and dreams within herself: and in that moment, her existence is but a vessel for her people.
Sadie Rendevez, in the moment of silence that her people give her, for she is a failed god, a resurrected being - raises her head.
They stir: for they have heard her call.
"I am here today," Sadie says, "Because I have a story to tell."
It is with a heave, with a snarl curled, with her fists clenching, with tears flinging from her eyes, that she cries her tale to the city of metal to hear. She roars it at them.
For even if Eight is no longer home, rubble and dust, destroyed and damned, Eight will always be where vultures are born and raised, broken and forged, built and made.
And she'd be damned to let her kingdom fall.
This is how the rebellion begins, for Sadie Rendevez.
She raises District Eight in rebellion, after the Capitol has bombed them down. She marches into the District's ruin with a roar, thrusting a knife into the thunderstorm skies, as the screeches of vultures above her head tell her her purpose. She leads ordinaries, not soldiers, not warriors, least of all vultures - into the depths of carnage.
For they must rise, and that is what Sadie Rendevez will do, till her very last breath.
This is how the rebellion begins.
(All in all, rage was always a word that fit Sadie Rendevez. But rage is not what takes her on the sixth night of rebellion. Instead, it is vindication. And that creates not backstabbers, but monsters.)