AN:/ Hi guys, a heads up real quick! The pairing for this fic will strangely be about Plutarch Heavensbee and Alma Coin, with their kid being (kidnapped) reaped for a Hunger Games with Capitol Children (in case anyone gets jump-scared by the crack ship itself). They are my guilty pleasure, that aside, I will stay as faithful as I can to portraying everyone close to their characters (that also goes to the main pairing) where Coin isn't inherently a good person still. About the story? IT WILL FOCUS on this new Hunger Games where everything isn't exactly the same. It will be different. I had this post on Reddit where I sort of explained how it would go down, not to mention, that there are going to be original characters; specifically the parents of the Capitol children that are just...basically going mad and in the position of the Districts. They will have some development on their own and have some allotted screen time throughout the story.
With that said, The Districts will wholly be involved and will play a major part when it comes to ensuring the Capitol children's survival within the games. And I don't mean sponsors - No. Like I said, things will be different.
I have also made several artworks for this fic (including the cover) which can all be seen on my Ao3 version of this story. Same title with already 9 chapters out, my username is pretty much the same there; PinkMuseSundays.
I've started to post it here on because I used to read a LOT OF CRAZY GOOD stories here but I can't really post an artwork within the chapter themselves. Ao3 lets you do that though and I've been abusing that option ever since lol.
The story itself will have some similar vibes to Black Mirror, particularly the likes of the episode "Shut up and Dance" as well as "White Bear." I'm a massive fan of that series so I'm just combining things that I like.
The pairings for this fic will mostly feature: Heavenscoin (Plutarch/Alma Coin) and some background Hayffie (Haymitch/Effie) and of course, Everlark (Peeta/Katniss), can't forget about them.
The adventure will most definitely focus on the Capitol Hunger Games themselves and how these Capitol parents are just going through it and hoping for a rescue while solving some codes, passive-aggressively relying on the Dsitricts' to give their kids favors etc.
I will be making a thread of all my artwork based on this fic but currently, it's scattered everywhere on Tumblr lol. I do recommend you guys read this on Ao3 since all of my artwork accompanies the narration there.
Aaaaaanyways, on with the show!
I. Crown
Overall, there were exactly twenty-four missing children kidnapped across the Capitol on the fourth of July. It was a glaring case, considering the implication of the date. That, and in every location the children were last seen was marked by the kidnapper by leaving a crown after their wake. The trail of evidence was peculiar at first until the presence of investigators confirmed that it was intentional.
If the child missing was a boy, they would get a small, silver, mini crown. If a girl, a bronze tiara was left in place.
By the time July 5th rolled by, they had exactly gathered at least twelve crowns and twelve tiaras, and along it came the following meltdown of several families as the realization of their disappearances finally dawned on them.
"This can't be happening again," Katniss murmured against Peeta's skin, holding him with a near-death grip after their mentor relayed the alarming news that terrifyingly took the Capitol by storm.
"It's only been a decade—"
Peeta rubs her shoulders in comfort, tucking her under his chin, and embraces her fully. He tried his best to ignore Haymitch Abernathy's frenzied pacing as he almost ripped out the only working telephone line from the wall just mere seconds ago.
"...when is Effie coming back, Haymitch?' Peeta asked him with a grave tone whilst keeping Katniss gently secured in his arms.
"...tonight!" he barked with a growling hiss. "If she has any brains left to leave immediately, that is," Haymitch added, followed by a pitiful kick toward the poor leg of a chair that was in his way.
"I knew letting her bring the kids back to the Capitol was a bad, very fucking bad idea!"
The two didn't even flinch from the way he upturned a table, shattering two of his bottles at once.
"Of all dates, she could have chosen for a brief vacation—"
"They weren't taken, were they?" Katniss lifted her face that was formerly hiding near Peeta's neck.
The surviving victors from Twelve were all gathered in his house after the sudden and grim broadcast that was announced on television.
It wasn't even like they weren't getting the news much, much earlier because of a now frantic ex-gamemaker whose paranoia has swiftly skyrocketed, which in turn, deeply affected Haymitch's own growing anxiety.
"...Haymitch?" Katniss asked again, desperately gripping Peeta's arm for support. Her breath hitched for a moment when all she got was a grunt in return.
"Haymitch," Peeta approached more sternly.
"For being half Capitol children?" the older victor suppressed a laugh.
"Surprisingly, no."
"That's one good news then," The boy said right after. "Though, I won't really say that I agree with their methods in the first place. Not even when they're targeting the ones they think are pure...whoever they are…"
"...I wouldn't say that exactly."
When Plutarch was one of the few people that was having a meltdown, he knew for a fact that his children weren't safe just yet.
Haymitch felt the unnerving disturbance of their silence.
His living room had gone cold.
—
"It can't mean that! It can't! "
"Miss Dovecote, please!" Paylor was beginning to be worn down by the excessive amount of hysterical wailing coming from twenty-three different families all at once.
"There was no statement made to indicate that another Hunger Games will be taking place with Capitol children—"
There was an agonizing sob that broke after her announcement. She turned wearily to spot the Rivera family. Paylor tried to keep a neutral expression despite knowing the history of their business being once heavily tied to the prostitution of victors.
"Th-This isn't fair…" Sashalynn Rivera was latching onto the arm of her poor husband who clearly didn't fare much better than his own wife. Both looked seconds away from completely passing out. "Our son just turned eleven! No one in the games was eligible to become a t-tribute until they were t-twelve!"
"Again," Paylor starts, changing her attention to them but is still actively sharing a portion of her dwindling focus on the other families who looked worse for wear. "There is no news of the Hunger Games returning. Ever, in fact! Let's not jump to—"
"There are twelve missing boys and girls!"
Royce Baltimore bellowed in a rageful fit, drops of his spittle were flying towards Paylor's face as he did. "They were all kidnapped on July 4th! All twenty-four of them!"
"Mister Baltimore—"
"They got kidnapped on the same day that tributes are reaped for the games!" he kept going now, marching intensely close to her with an accusing finger. "They're all meant to be paired exactly the same way in each District!" she couldn't find an argument to counter that one.
"Are you still planning to convince me their disappearances were a coincidence?! It's been planned out!" Royce emphasized his point by showing the crown he had gotten from where his son was last taken. "Do any of you people know what these are? What they mean?!"
Paylor showed no improvement in calming the man down as he continued to rile up the growing fragility that surrounded her Presidential mansion.
"They've given us their tokens!"
"...b-but tokens are usually b-brought inside the a-arenas for the t-tributes…" Sashalynn shakily declared. "...th-they're m-meant to r-represent their d-d-district and remind them of h-h-ome…" she was almost limping in her husband's arms.
"They're doing things differently, I bet!" Royce insisted. "And what does the Capitol represent in their eyes, you think?" he edged further, burning in hostility. "They're trying to paint us as some sort of rich and wealthy pigs so disconnected from society!" he waved the crown like a madman in front of the other families, highlighting what he meant. "They're mocking us! Those boorish, good-for-nothing-weasels are actually mocking us!" He then flung the simple, mini artifact into the air.
It sailed past the head of one disgruntled family member who quickly shot him a threatening glance in exchange.
"...maybe it's because most of us in the Capitol are truly like that," a familiar voice says, immediately causing the entire room to go dead silent.
The shift was instantaneous.
"Despicable," the man added with little to no shame. "While their hatred for us is deserving, such actions shouldn't have warranted to be taken this far. Yet, those boorish, good-for-nothing-weasels, as you point out, are not entirely wrong either."
Several loathing glares were thrown in his direction. He kept his distance a bit farther away from the twenty-three other families, preferring to stay in his own little corner. On the other hand, Paylor could appreciate his thought for seclusion. It wasn't really a secret that there would be a discomforting tension that never stops growing whenever his presence is lingering around other Capitols.
There were very few complaints on her part when it came to the ex-gamemaker, truth be told, especially if it didn't concern a certain woman with graying hair and dark piercing eyes that could penetrate just about any living soul nearby.
"...what is he doing here again?" someone hissed with obvious detestation.
"Need I remind you and everyone in this room that my son—" Plutarch paused, adjusting in his seat so he could hunch his back as he leaned forward, tenderly stroking his share of the silver, mini crown now in his deathly possession. "…was also taken by the kidnapper."
"Surprise, surprise! The traitorous rebel finally had it coming for him after turning his back on his nation," Henley Creed sneered connivingly, further mocking him with a slow and exaggerated clap.
"Tell us, Heavensbee!" his eyes shone with malicious intent. "How does it feel to have those impoverished dogs turn their back on you for once? Do you feel better defending them?" he got up from his seat, his wrist twirling the bronze tiara that was left after his daughter's disappearance.
"You always act like you're better than us, when really—" he hurled his given token towards Plutarch's direction, hitting him closely by the side of his cheek. The ex-gamemaker only flinched for a brief second when it collided. He blinked his tired eyes darkly at his former friend.
"The people you're defending are out there kidnapping children far younger than twelve-year-olds!"
"There is no need to compare one former atrocity to the other, Mister Creed!" Paylor interrupted, fearing that a fight would break loose. She eyed the remaining families who, by all manners, were all simultaneously sharing the same glowering contempt aimed at her Secretary of Communications.
At this point, it definitely will.
"As if twelve-year-old children aren't considered young enough when they're so eagerly thrown to participate in a death match normalized as entertainment," Plutarch couldn't help but scoff bitterly.
"Aren't you one to talk," Royce Baltimore joined in on the argument, causing Paylor's growing headache to intensify.
"You're the gamemaker! If anything, you've done worse than us!"
"Oh, I've already long accepted that my former deed has stained my soul for the rest of my life," Plutarch replied cynically. "Deep down, at least I didn't pretend to like it," he narrowed his eyes toward each family member who stared back at him with the same disdain he harbored. "It was for a cause—"
"And look where that led us!" Creed was on him again. "You could have stayed put instead of messing around but you had to play like you were some sort of hero—"
"I didn't say I was a hero," Plutarch cut off defensively but his former friend continued to go off on him.
"—and now! My daughter's life, Baltimore's son—" He wildly gestured towards the other families. "Rivera's, Dovecote's, Ravenhart's, Cromwell's—" Henley Creed listed off the rest, stomping a foot as he began to corner him. Paylor quickly intervened in case the man decided to strangle her Secretary of Communications right then and there.
Not only would she lose an important and intelligent ally, but she feared what would happen once a certain former President would do after his abrupt passing.
She held him back as best as she could, along with Plutarch's assistant who instantly jumped on his front to push him away from her boss.
"Mister Creed! Enough!" Fulvia Cardew glanced at her superior, finding him equally disturbing even when he refused to say anything. There was a look in Plutarch's eyes that were not only distant and cold but reminded her too much like Alma Coin's.
While the woman had caused nothing harmful to Panem in the last 10 years, Fulvia couldn't really bring herself to like the effects she was rubbing off at times on her boss.
"—our children's death will be on you! Do you hear me, Heavensbee?!"
"If there is ever another Hunger Games brewing in the incoming week—" Plutarch started darkly, causing several of the Capitols to be paralyzed in fear. So far, everyone had just assumed with Baltimore pushing it further to acceptance. Having a former gamemaker announce it made them dread it.
"Why not? Today's the sixth of July," Plutarch shrugged noncommittally at them as if that helped ease their nervousness. He shifted his focus back on his token, fingers grazing the edges more carefully.
"And we're nearly close to the eleventh—"
"You're probably dying to wait for our children to be the ones to fight in the arena!" Creed accused, still lashing at Paylor and Fulvia who were adamant on keeping him at bay.
"Your daughter and Baltimore's son have the best odds at winning then," Plutarch directed his focus back to his former friend. "They are the oldest amongst the children, are they not? With your Lorilei being 18 and with Rome being 19…"
Royce Baltimore hissed at the reminder.
"The range limit was supposed to end at 18!"
"I didn't make the rules," Plutarch watched him more closely. "...and my son is only 9."
"Screw your son!" Callum Ravenhart shot all too quickly. "My daughter is 7!" he turned to the other families, his heart racing. "She's the youngest out of the children!"
"We weren't this cruel! We were never this cruel!" Savannah Ladwin cried next, her heavy mascara and eyeliner had begun to melt like wax down her face. "W-We had an age limit! We even fed them and spoiled them with d-different outfits! Th-They were superstars!" she clutched onto the dirty tissues with her hands before dabbing them back around her eyes.
"I can't even see my child on television!"
The scowl on Plutarch's face was simply not enough to convey his disgust over Ladwin's words. Even now, some Capitols were still so brainwashed to see the Hunger Games as nothing more than a popular television show that was untimely canceled years ago.
"Sometimes I feel like I failed to carry the message of the rebellion amongst a few of you," he murmured in exhaustion, running a hand to smooth back his hair.
"Hilarius would despise you if he can see you now!" Creed venomously declared with no warning. Plutarch's unbothered expression only seemed to make him angrier by the second.
"My father wasn't exactly a good role model or an upstanding citizen with great morale," the ex-gamemaker shrugged. "I don't particularly care what he would think of me now."
"Well, you should because your father knew our place!" Creed pushed back his shoulder to throw off Paylor. "I can't believe I considered you a friend back then!" he continued, now harshly shoving Fulvia off him.
"Now…don't you lay a hand on her—!"
Plutarch sprang to his feet and hastily caught his assistant before she could trip back on her clumsy legs. He glared at the man he once considered their friend.
"If your problem is with me then hit me!"
"Gladly!" Creed readied a fist to punch him squarely in the face. "Hitting you with the tiara wasn't enough!"
"If none of you are eager to let go of your past animosity then I will be forced to shut all of you out!" Paylor finally snapped.
With that, the doors to her office slammed open with guards pouring in. Two quickly rushed towards the seething Henley Creed, who still actively fought back to land a punch to the former rebel.
"District Sympathizers!" Creed spat angrily, a finger pointing to both Plutarch and his assistant. His glare didn't even stop at them as it shifted to land towards Panem's current President.
"The lot of you!"
"You are all dangerously assuming that the abductor's intentions would be to gather your children for an annual Hunger Games that hasn't existed for the past decade!" Paylor tried to explain rationally despite all the shouting and cursing that were thrown all around her.
It did not help that most of that hostility was aimed at one man.
Only one person was being blamed.
Felicia Dovecote seemed to have slightly recovered from her hysteria as she found a working voice once again.
"B-But the dates! The number of children m-missing—"
"Don't mean anything!" Paylor finished for her. "...it could be just a warning or a reminder of how it used to be because nothing so far has suggested that!"
Both Baltimore and Creed scoffed at her surface-level reasoning.
"It's a very specific message, I must say," Royce laughed at her darkly. "What more evidence do you need, Madame President? Do we wait until we get a broadcast of our children in the arenas fighting each other to the death? A cannon, perhaps? Going off somewhere at the edge of the Capitol?"
"What arenas, Mister Baltimore?" Paylor sharply questioned. "They're all non-functioning! Need I remind you that 30 of them have been destroyed so far? And 44 of them are still tourist attractions to this day! Which would make them nonlethal in order for people to visit."
The bright woman walked back to her desk, not caring for all the suspicious and dirty looks that followed her like a laser-guided missile. Paylor massaged her temples, licking her dry lips since her skin began to crack.
"That now leaves us with the third quarter quell arena and we all know what happened to it."
"...Unless Heavensbee found a way to make it salvageable for another comeback," Creed countered with a very obvious hatred bias. "You were the head gamemaker for the 75th Hunger Games," Henley continued to poke him with judging eyes. "Isn't that right, traitor?"
Plutarch could only sigh tiredly by that point.
Fulvia placed a hand on his shoulder, gently rubbing his muscle to show comfort.
He wasn't even being subtle.
"I certainly wish I had as much free time as you imagined to be…"
"Don't you?" Another one accused with severe scrutiny. "You got a better deal than the rest of us after the war!"
Several of them gestured to Paylor, who in turn, gave them all a questioning look.
Plutarch doesn't know what it was that exactly caused him to snap, only realizing too late when he's already halfway through his rant.
"—do you all think I just laze around all day?! Being Secretary of Communications means I have my work cut out for me!" he didn't mean for his voice to become that loud.
He didn't.
He was pretty passive before, preferring to keep silent while the rest tried to chew off Paylor's head. Eventually, the frustration over their shared resentment towards him was slowly building up from the background. It has now fully boiled over ever since they've all been gathered in her presidential mansion to discuss the disappearances of the twenty-four kids back on the fourth of July. Everyone, and everyone aside from the President herself was somehow blaming it all on him.
Which was ridiculous!
He never regretted becoming a rebel, but there were certain parts where he had to cut off ties with several former friendships of his from the Capitol, especially those who found no wrong within the system whatsoever.
"I deeply apologize for upsetting everyone's expectations that no, I have not been secretly working into reconstructing an entire arena with my bare hands just so I can put all of your children in there to make them suffer!" Plutarch loudly proclaimed, his hidden rage was slowly unraveling beyond his control now. Unlike the time he had snapped at Katniss Everdeen's (five-star awards) acting skills, there was no inner voice to tell him to behave or hold back onto a bunch of adults that were projecting their frustrations on him.
"A Quarter Quell arena, no less!" he laughed in disbelief, earning a few concerning looks his way. "Do any of you know just how much preparation and effort it takes to make one? Imagine doubling the work you have to put into making a regular arena! Triple it, in fact! I'm just one man!"
"Mister Heavensbee—" Paylor tried to interrupt him but Plutarch was already too far gone.
"—and none of you would even question why I would intentionally put my son in there?!"
"It certainly isn't beyond you to betray your own family. Let's be serious here…"
Even Paylor couldn't contain her shock at his statement.
Someone had gasped before Plutarch dangerously lunged after Creed.
It was a disaster at that point.
"Alright, enough!" Paylor's own voice was drowned by the startling commotion that kept on spiraling. It took a turn for the worse when the ex-gamemaker pinned down his former friend on the floor, hands closing in around his throat with the intent to kill.
"Someone get him off!" The President ordered at the same time Royce Baltimore decided to elbow her raging Secretary by the side of his head. The blow caused Plutarch to fall sideways, his grip leaving Creed desperately gasping for air. Before he could recover, however, Royce was on him that instant, a fist flying squarely to his face which knocked him back towards the floor.
"He's down!" Callum Ravenhart had shouted, urging the others to join. "Get him!"
The chaos continued.
Between Sashalynn Rivera encouraging her stricken husband to commit first-degree murder and Chairmane Cromwell's failed efforts in stopping most men from swarming her already down Secretary, Paylor hated to admit it, everything was beyond her control by that point.
"Just—" she waved her hands in the air with no sense of direction, gesturing for her guards towards the mess with a tired tilt of her head. "Just separate them at this point!"
Plutarch's nose was bleeding, his cheeks might end up becoming so badly swollen soon and his ribs were honestly not faring pretty well after he received another aggressive kick from Timothee Yarwood.
"This is for my nephew!" He tried shielding the side of his stomach, but his anticipation meant nothing when Royce snuck a successful hit from under his chin, making his head reel back from the force.
"It wasn't fair that he got executed for being a gamemaker while you were the only one who was spared!"
Luckily for him, the man was dragged back by one of Paylor's guards, not that it stopped or even slightly bothered him from spouting an infinite string of curses left after his wake. It was even more difficult with getting others to stop, especially with Baltimore, Creed, and Ravenhart stirring everyone they could get their hands on into convincing them to continue pummeling her poor Secretary to the ground.
"Oh, my God! How are you this useless, Lyle?!" Sashalynn shoved her husband to try and make him join in the fight. "As a matter of fact, I have never seen you throw a punch in your life!"
Lyle Rivera immediately felt queasy upon seeing the amount of blood gushing out from Plutarch's nose. That alone had rendered him shocked, almost causing him to pass out.
"...so?" he squeaked like a mouse, eyeing his bloodthirsty wife hesitantly.
"So?! Be a man about it—"
"Everyone, get out!" Paylor snapped again. She grimaced for having sounded like a broken record already. "I will not have you all act like a bunch of barbaric animals when we can handle this civilly like the adults we are!"
She went unheard when Creed took the time to spit in Plutarch's direction. Fulvia sent him a harrowing glare in return while she helped her superior back to his feet.
"Mister Creed!" Paylor was fuming now, her patience wearing thin. "Know that you will be forced out of my office if you continue behaving this crassly!"
"...I was on my way out, anyway," Henley attempted to fix his collar, growling when he realized that his tie was missing. His vexation did not reduce one bit as his glare fixed itself on Plutarch, who received it with such nonchalance whilst wiping away the blood from his nose using his sleeve.
"...well, you certainly made me bleed," The Capitol rebel waved Fulvia away as she was helping him despite his sides and lungs' painful aching. "I suppose you get a 5 on that one."
"I beg your pardon?" Henley hissed, his stare becoming dangerously sharp.
"And Baltimore gets a glaring 10 for actually punching me in the face—"
"How about you make that a 12 because I'm planning to sucker punch you again," Royce commented unkindly, to which Plutarch just shrugged.
"By all means," They all seethed when he gave them a crooked smirk. He made an effort to show his teeth which were a bit bloodied. "Ravenhart has a pretty good kick so maybe a 7 or an 8—"
"Mister Heavensbee…" Paylor warned from under her breath, shaking her head at his audacity when he simply continued to score the rest of the families who went to swarm on him.
"I apologize Mister Rivera, but all you get is a 3…"
Some even took the time to look in Sashalynn and Lyle's direction, even Paylor herself, who couldn't help but arch an eyebrow over her husband's trembling form as she allowed little of her focus on them.
"...thank you?" Lyle Rivera said in utter bemusement.
"You look nauseated," Plutarch surmised, his thumb wiping away the remaining drizzle below his nose, quietly grinning over the man's obvious discomfort. "But I do appreciate your effort in trying despite the sight of my blood—"
"You think you're funny, gamemaker?!"
Paylor motioned for the guard to keep Henley in check.
"If you find that I am," Plutarch viewed the stain on his sleeve with a grim-like curiosity before lifting his eyes back to Creed. "I'm a bit disappointed that my wife is able to outdo most of your scores…"
He ignored the way Paylor gave him a warning look.
"What? That's not you just being biased?" Royce taunted, inspecting the smudge of the rebel's blood against his knuckles.
"She's more lethal than all of you combined," Plutarch said almost dreamily. "Did I mention that she held a scalpel near my jugular once? Or the time I was almost strangled to death—"
"I believe you've made your point, Mister Heavensbee," Paylor's tone emphasized that he was close to treading on dangerous grounds. She gazed briefly to check the reactions of the other Capitols. So far, they were suspicious but none really cared to a point to pry more information.
"Is it safe to assume that all of you have gotten it out of your system?" she narrowed her eyes at one in particular. "Mister Creed?"
She absorbed the man's deathly stare in exchange. In her ten year run of Presidency, she was used to receiving the initial substandard and partly vile treatment of the Capitols back when she was newly elected. And while it had been reduced in her later years, such interactions never really faded away.
"Are you finally spent?"
"...that depends on how long he's staying here—"
"Mister Heavensbee is here the same reason everyone is," Paylor interrupted before things could escalate out of control again. "His son was abducted the same day your daughter was!"
She eyed the quiet seething Royce and crossed her arms then. "And you, Mister Baltimore! Do you not have any empathy for someone who has also lost a son?" her stare strayed to the corner, finding Ravenhart sulking in silence. "There is no need to make a competition out of this tragedy! Both his son and your daughter are simply too young to be put in such a situation! Of course, this goes to all of you—" Paylor gestured to the remaining twenty-one suffering families in an equal show of concern.
"I will, however, take into consideration the meaning behind the date and the exact number of children that were abducted back on July fourth," she couldn't help but feel a subtle mask of dreaded tension engulfing her entire being.
It was too specific somehow.
While the people behind the kidnappings have made no statement of their intentions in public, her gut feeling was awfully pointing to one and one direction only, with the only thing that can be argued against it being that some ages of the children were somewhat off.
She shuddered specifically at thinking about Plutarch and Ravenhart's kid and the possibility of them participating.
Not to mention that there were two other kids that were below the age of 12.
While it was terrible for Baltimore's son to be kidnapped as well, his being 19 at least gave him the best fighting chance—
If it ever comes to it.
Paylor hopes it doesn't.
And what of the crowns? The tiaras? Why were they left in the scene of the crime? What use were they for?
That was certainly new.
Paylor needed the investigators to find out what was up with that.
"...madam President," she snapped out of her thoughts when Plutarch addressed her directly. "I can do a thorough check-up of the remaining arenas that aren't destroyed yet…" he trailed off for a while, a sudden nervousness abruptly taking him over.
Everyone's just been guessing so far, still too deathly afraid to commit to the idea of it actually coming back. "...just in case things do turn out for the worse, but I'm hopeful enough that it won't." He made sure to speak his thoughts more quietly so as to not raise alarm.
Paylor frowned at the current state of her Secretary of Communications.
"You should get yourself checked, Mister Heavensbee," her eyes lingered on him as he flinched when Fulvia went to inspect his cheeks. It was beginning to swell. "As of right now, you're suffering from a cracked rib, a broken nose, and quite possibly a concussion soon."
Her eyes slit over the sound of several hushed, critical whispers sharing unkindly things between one another. Paylor catches sight of Henley, Royce, and Callum, all huddled closely. The withering glances they shot in Plutarch's direction were not made for subtlety.
"It's getting late…" tiredly, the President announced. "I'd prefer it if you all leave the crowns and tiaras here so our investigators can make another thorough inspection of them. We will resume this matter tomorrow bright and early."
"...fine by me," Creed scoffed, kicking the tiara he'd thrown earlier to his former friend across the floor. It skidded just below Paylor's desk, squeezing past the tight space under her table. "Don't know what we would use them for, anyway…"
"Must you continue to act like a spoiled and ill-mannered child?" Plutarch's patience was being tested again. Before he could give him a piece of his mind for a second time that night, Fulvia stopped him mid-march.
"You're in no condition to get yourself into another fight—"
"I just want to talk!" her boss argued childishly, growling after Henley's ever-constant animosity. Fulvia poked him in the ribs and it was enough to make him back down.
"Please strictly lead Mister Creed towards the door," Paylor told her guards with unspoken fire in her eyes. The man was chuckling after her Secretary's painful wince.
He regarded her with a cold and analyzing look.
"Be careful who you're touching!" Henley slapped the guards' hands away before they could drag him out by the shoulders.
"I can get you lads fired if I so wanted to!"
"Maybe it's best that you worry first about your daughter's safety rather than putting people into unemployment," Plutarch was eager to comment, causing Paylor to snap once again and successfully ban everyone from her office for the day.
"Ma'am—"
"Plutarch, please," Paylor had already turned her back on him, but he rushed to slide his foot so he could stop her doors from closing.
"...may I request to take my son's crown with me at home?" Plutarch wedged himself between the tiny crack of space before she decided to slam it fully shut. "Please! I just—" The desperation in his voice was that of a spiraling parent. "I need to be the one to look at it!"
Paylor mutely regarded him with a sympathetic look.
"I'll allow it then," she adjusted the doors so he could confront her more comfortably. "I have some medics on stand by and I've already informed them of your condition—"
"That won't be necessary—" Plutarch was quick to reply but Paylor held her palm out, ordering him to briefly stop interrupting her.
"You're my Secretary of Communications. It's only right that I look out for your well-being," her expression then shifted into something more serious. "And I take that your wife would not particularly stand for such abuse directed at you."
The fear in his eyes over his significant other ever finding out what happened to him was glaringly obvious.
So very obvious.
"...I think I'll sleep by the office tonight," Plutarch mumbled more quietly.
"You should go home after the medics are done treating your wounds, Mister Heavensbee," Paylor advised with such finality. "I believe it's best that you both go through this together like the rest of the families. Hopefully, by tomorrow, we'll have a lead to where the children are."
"...I might have to revisit the remaining arenas while I still have the time—"
"So you still believe that it's possible?"
It was rare for her to slip down her mask of security. Public Leaders don't usually permit themselves to show fear or even the slightest hint at being nervous, but she had known Plutarch, even before the rebellion had grown so massively, along with the support that came from thirteen (his doing). They went through a lot of trouble keeping the Hunger Games from ever existing and the possibility of it being back after ten years was not only surreal but sickening enough to think that it was being used against the Capitol now.
Paylor tried not to point out how a former interim President had the same exact idea before Katniss Everdeen stopped her pursuit.
Best not to remind her husband of that when he's standing in front of her with their child, possibly a tribute.
She wondered how his wife was taking it.
"Twenty-four children were abducted on July fourth," Plutarch started grimly. "Exactly twelve boys and twelve girls were taken. Aside from the peculiar artifacts left by their abductors and a few random age ranges, the similarities of it occurring on reaping day are awfully specific ."
Paylor began to worry when he rested his head by the side of her door, his chest heaving unevenly.
"...they haven't made a move yet," he croaked, avoiding her worried eyes. "It's been three hours since midnight. Today's the seventh—"
"Deep breaths, Mister Heavensbee," Paylor reminded him when his breathing was coming out through hurried and short gasps.
"My gut is telling me that something will happen soon."
"...who could have done it, you think?"
Her question made him pause.
"I fail to see this long-standing oppression thrown back and forth between two sides as something justifiably correct," Plutarch almost hissed. He slid his back against her door and sat on the floor, tiredly defeated.
"Whoever they are…they can't have that much access to former arenas. I would know the second that they do. Not to mention, there are the supplies they need to think about to provide for a functioning Hunger Games—" he tried to massage the bridge of his nose, forgetting for a moment that it was aching.
"God!"
Plutarch slammed a fist against her door, briefly startling Paylor at the brusque, harsh sound of it.
The dam was broken.
"Phill is only 9!" he cried as he bent to a fetal position sitting down, hiding his face near his legs while his whole aching body was overcome by sobs.
It took a good while for Paylor to get his wounds treated, and another huge chunk of time convincing him to head straight home.
—
"...where have you been?!"
Plutarch arrived in the early morning where the sun was beginning to break a natural golden streak across the sky. He was careful to lock their door, making his wife face his back instead as to hide the markings left by the other Capitol parents.
"It's morning!" his wife hissed with such venom in her voice that he couldn't help but flinch upon hearing it. "Why in God's name were you gone all night?!"
He tried to stall time as best as he could, nonsensically tracing a finger on their door knob so he couldn't exactly turn to face her just yet.
"...the investigations are underway," he meekly told her with a very quiet and hushed voice. Plutarch cleared his throat in case she might be unto his sudden timidness.
"I had to stay behind and help Paylor go over—"
He was cut off as he was harshly turned with no warning, the unexpected movement making him yelp in sudden pain. Her fingers gripped him by the jaws with such sickening tightness, turning his head side to side as her dark and heavy eyes went to inspect his swollen face, narrowing dangerously at the awful shade of pale red color. Plutarch felt self-conscious about the bandage on his nose.
"Who did this to you."
Alma Coin wasn't even asking at that point as she was more likely demanding for a straight answer.
He carefully pried her hands away, sliding to catch her by the wrist and placing a delicate kiss there.
"I'm fine now—"
She sharply dove a finger to puncture him by the ribs. While she made sure it was quick, the reaction he gave her was the confirmation she needed.
"Why weren't you given the Capitol's more advanced medicine?"
Plutarch blinked at her as if he were awake for the first time.
"I haven't—" he stammered, blinking again as his mind went over it. "...I don't think I've asked to?"
"Tell me the names of the parents who hit you."
He was astounded by how straightforward she was most of the time. Coin growled at him for ignoring her, but she didn't necessarily force him to answer right then either. Her gaze softened when he started to massage his aching muscles from where she had unnecessarily elicited a reaction from him.
"We have more pressing matters than the people who beat me up," Plutarch allowed her to inspect his face again. He could appreciate the way she was pressing her fingers against his skin more gently now.
"...I need those names, Heavensbee," Alma Coin stubbornly urged, caressing his cheek with the blunt end of her finger joints. "Don't make me hurt you so I can make you talk," anyone else would have taken that as a threat, but for Plutarch, she was being agonizingly sweet.
"...the last thing I need you to do is to break away from house arrest and murder the people not really worth your time," he took advantage of her roaming hand and pressed a quick kiss to her palm.
"The number of paper works needed to pull you out of jail would be catastrophic—"
"I went over the time when each child was kidnapped," she interrupted him wearily, a hand trailing down to fix the collar of his ruined suit. "...there's a pattern as to how they were individually taken by every passing hour."
Coin frowned on the blood stain near his sleeve. "When I get my hands on them—"
"What did you find?" Plutarch questioned her right away, quickly fishing for their son's crown from inside his bag. "All of this seems awfully planned and I haven't quite figured out the reason for the crowns yet…"
The look on Coin's face was troubling.
"...it's possible," was all she said before distancing away from him. He halted in his steps after following her when she suddenly stopped and hunched her back, lightning-quick hands shooting to grip the backrest of a chair. Plutarch worried that she might fall over.
"It would seem that my Symbolic Hunger Games is happening after all," she chuckled darkly.
Despite the grim reminder of her unfulfilled atrocity, the image of her shaken form was tragically beautiful to his eyes. Plutarch even found her stunningly pretty, even with several of her strands coming loose from her neat ponytail.
He walked over to her, quietly snaking his arms to circle her waist as he pressed himself against her back. "...this isn't your doing," he planted a soft kiss on the exposed spot of her nape. Plutarch tightened his hold on her as she began to tremble.
"It was my idea in the first place…" Coin uttered with so much regret that even his own chest ached for the both of them.
His eyes strayed to his working desk that was hazardously misplaced in the middle of their living room — while their current house was a lot better than the partially rickety and older version from before (it was an impulsive purchase when his pleaded house arrest for her was approved), it still needed a bit of renovation. The good thing about it so far was that it was more spacious and grand.
His work ethic was usually neatly piled, but he hasn't been keeping up with tidying his files all that well lately — what, with his son being recently one of the kidnapped children, it was hard to keep a focused mind when his sanity was seconds away from completely propelling itself out of orbit. The strewn of papers across his desk did not look like it had come from two former organized and active commanders in the rebellion.
It was embarrassing, really.
Unlike the other parents who wailed and pestered President Paylor for more information, both he and his wife took it upon themselves to investigate the strange kidnappings. Plutarch didn't shy away from confronting the investigators, and aside from asking for copies, he even had the analysts on standby, with only being one phone call away in case there's a breakthrough in the missing children case.
Coin's hand sought his own, her fingers lightly brushing against the granite ring he was still actively wearing.
It wasn't like she didn't have one as well.
He gifted hers with a bee symbol in the middle, with its head and body shining beautifully with pure topazes and wings made of smooth granite stone. It wasn't ordinary of course. As a former gamemaker, he still had access to a lab where he was able to craft the impossible. He perfectly made sure that it would last longer than most things he's made inside an arena, like how jabber jays managed to survive in the wild despite what the Capitol intended.
His own ring, on the other hand, wasn't exactly subtle either, with the symbol being that of a silver and pale coin. When he first showed it to her, she had only given him a strange look. Plutarch's eyes twinkled after having spotted the subtle blush on her cheeks when she thought he wasn't looking.
"...the boy was the first to go missing," Coin said quietly, coiling their fingers together, their granite rings clinking as it both met closely.
"Emerald Yarwood was abducted at 1:01 a.m. early morning, followed by the girl next, Sara Goldcross. She was taken an hour later at 2:02 a.m…"
Plutarch dipped his chin to rest on her shoulder.
"Then it was Fynnick Rivera, if I'm not mistaken," he always found Sashalynn and Lyle a little too obsessed with District Four's late victor. Other than the obvious business of that particular family, he distinctly remembered Sashalynn being so eager to drag a young Finnick Odair to several Capitol parties in her wake, and that was when the boy had turned 16.
The adoration Finnick had from older Capitols simply didn't stop on a surface level.
Plutarch shivered at having remembered what the boy had to go through.
"Another male. 3:03 in the morning, was it?"
Her hold on him tightened.
"Then the next one was taken at 4:04. Female—"
"Followed by the next kidnapping at 5:05. Male…"
They fell into silence, not exactly voicing their thoughts out in the open just yet. Coin was very still and very cold to touch. He stroked the ring he had given her with his thumb tenderly.
"They were taken alternately based on their sex," Plutarch analyzed.
"...like the reapings but the opposite," Coin added. "A male was targeted first."
"The hours they're being taken," he buried his face behind her hair, hiding there for a while. Coin reached for his head, trying to ease him by running a finger over his pale locks. "...I get the feeling that they're being distinguished by time because they're not known for having District numbers."
"...They took Phill in the afternoon," Coin murmured, her expression going dark. "1:13 p.m. to be exact."
Even Plutarch had gone deathly silent.
"...do you think they know?"
Her breath hitched when his arms left her. Plutarch began to pace, his palms tiredly rubbing from the top of his forehead down to his chin.
"Baltimore's kid was taken at 11:23 p.m. while the last one was at 11:59 in the later evening. They couldn't have cared that much where to place Vivienne Blythe since she's the last one, anyway."
"...the last female to be taken…"
"The last of the children," Plutarch confirmed. "Her abduction happened just before the day ended. No other children were abducted then."
"...so they started at 1 just to make their point more clearer? With Emerald Yarwood as what? Is he supposed to be in place of District One?" Coin crossed her arms in front of her chest, trailing after her now frantic husband with her cold eyes alone. "What District do you think our son is representing?"
"I don't think they're represented that way," Plutarch hauled a chair and quickly sat down. She watched as his knee bounced wildly, foot tapping in a frenzied rhythm.
"It's less complicated than that! They're just being numbered in order if you look at it in a military time format, with the exception of Vivienne's placement since they had no more hours left in the day," he explained, cautiously meeting her eyes with his haunted ones. "Although, it's simple enough if you remember them going missing chronologically, anyway. Perhaps the kidnappers wanted to be deliberate with their message based on their efforts."
"...so there really is going to be another Hunger Games," she paused, feeling a bit uncomfortable despite what she intended to do in the past.
You get what you deserve.
A voice hissed inside her head, making her shiver.
"There are twenty four hours. It could be that they used that to number the children," Plutarch voiced out again, gulping down his words as if it was something heavy to swallow.
"Emerald Yarwood would be identified as the first tribute. Sara Goldcross as the second and with Vivienne Blythe being…what? The twenty-fourth? Is that what you mean?"
"Could be. Maybe. I don't know—"
"Plutarch," she walked to where he was sitting, his gaze currently aimed at no one in particular as he thinks.
And when he starts to think, Coin knows that he would think for days.
"Let me take a look at Phill's crown."
His focus snapped back to reality, attention straight to her.
"I…don't know what's up with it yet," he told her while handing the small, mini artifact. "The abductor made sure not to leave any fingerprints on that thing—"
"They would be stupid if they did," Coin remarked as she took it from his hefty hand. She examined the tiny jewels that decorated the tip of the crown. "...do you think this might have come from District One?" she isn't sure if they were real diamonds, tracing them with her finger and feeling a bit suspicious over the texture. "Who's your best guess as to who's behind this?"
Her look was calculating.
"...we'll find out eventually," was only Plutarch's response.
"Do you think they're from the Districts?" Coin tested, watching for his reaction.
"Whether they're from the Capitol or otherwise…the fact they're eager for another Hunger Games after ten years is enough to tell me what kind of person they are deep down."
"...what are Hunger Games?"
Both of them jumped at the sudden presence of their 5-year-old daughter sneaking up behind them.
"Julianne!" Plutarch gasped a little too loudly, hurriedly prying the crown from Coin's grasp and hiding it behind his back.
"Is Philly back yet?" Their daughter tilted her head to the side, her pigtails adorably swaying to the left. Her mismatched eyes (one purple and the other stormy gray) were always so full of mischief and wonder.
"...I haven't woken you up yet," Coin flatly said beside him, instantly kneeling down to meet their daughter at eye level.
"Pretty," Julianne pointed eagerly to the crown that her Father was trying to hide. "Mine?"
"...no, sweet pea," Plutarch waited for Coin to gather their little miracle in her arms, his gaze ever softening over her tender care. It was a little jarring seeing her become this nurturing mother behind closed doors. For a time, he had always seen her as this feared and stoic commander from thirteen, then came his respect for her intelligence, and fear for having learned of her dark nature.
It saddened him briefly to remember that she was a mother at some point, but that early part of her life was cut short.
There's a chance of that happening again if Phill dies —
He shuddered for having to think of such morbid thoughts.
Keep it together.
"...thankfully, you didn't get one."
"Why not?" Julianne scrunched up her nose, raising herself more sternly from her mother's chest. He didn't know whether to find it adorable or concerning that she had taken up Coin's stubbornness at being defied. "...I want a crown like that one."
He caught his wife shooting him a look as she bounces their daughter lightly in her arms.
"Careful, for a crown with such power can corrupt," she kissed Julianne by the cheek at the same time her phrase sent chills down his spine.
Plutarch didn't know how to react.
"But it's fancy!" their daughter argued. "Look at the glowing lights!"
The hair behind his neck immediately prickled in anxiety. "...lights?"
"Plutarch—" Coin's warning doubled the heavy feeling in his chest.
He reared back the item, seeing it in full view when the white diamond jewels began flashing wildly with intense red light. It was blinking in a pattern that was both familiar to them.
It was Morse code.
II. Code
"They've been activated," Beetee Latier started with a grave tone as he carefully turned the crown in his hands, inspecting it with curious eyes for any particular detail that might have been embedded in the artifact. "...I assume that this was dormant before? I heard from the analysts that they couldn't find anything wrong with it."
Plutarch leaned closely next to Three's victor, tucking his arms under his armpits. "It only started doing that a few hours ago…"
"What time?" Beetee pressed, tapping the jewels of the crown repeatedly with his finger. "There might be LED lights implanted near the surface of the diamonds," he traced the blinking lights with analyzed precision. "Although, it could be something else…seeing that these weren't detected by the investigators before," the victor explained in quiet awe. "Whoever made these must have thought everything through."
Plutarch tried not to look agitated.
Everything so far was still pretty much a mystery. And as much as he would like to unravel the kidnapping of his son, he wasn't sure if he would like what he'd find.
"It started doing that around 7 in the morning…" Plutarch answered in a low and tired voice. "I've decoded the message so far."
"What did it say?"
"...not a word, I tell you that," he huffed exasperatedly. "All I got was a random sequence."
Beetee shifted back his full attention to him in question.
"7MJHSP013," the ex-gamemamer stated, his face wrinkling in worry. "It's the only thing it would repeat…" he left the victor's side in haste. "And I've analyzed it several times now! Going over it! Again and again—" Plutarch started to pace despite his friend's growing concern. "It's the same result I'm getting!"
"Did you try and find out what it could mean? Trace it back from somewhere?" Beetee suggested. "...maybe it's a serial number for something?"
Suddenly, his heart lurched out of his chest.
"I haven't—"
The phone from his office rang again.
Plutarch couldn't help but growl at the disturbance. Ever since the new phenomenon that happened with the crown, he didn't have the time (mostly ignored) to the ongoing call that had kept bothering him. He hadn't seen Paylor yet because he knew that she would be with the other families, and only God could restrain him from curling his fingers around Henley Creed's windpipe if he ever saw him again—
"Maybe you should get that," Beetee advised.
"...I need to know what the sequence means first," Plutarch replied stubbornly, glaring hard in the direction of the phone as the ring kept blaring. It was starting to annoy him. "I'm sure President Paylor can hold the fort while I'm away."
Beetee's communication device beeped, quickly alerting Plutarch's attention.
"...there's something happening in the Districts."
He felt a blanket of cold wind run over his entire being from the way his friend announced such a statement.
First, it was the Morse code, and now whatever this was.
Plutarch couldn't even blink. He was a statue.
"What?"
His phone rang again, insistent.
He didn't need Beetee telling him to pick it up.
He was rather surprised at hearing Haymitch Abernathy already madly yapping on the other end of his line. "Well, well, well! Look who decided to finally answer his phone!" The quell victor sounded part relieved and part furious by having his call put off several times.
"...is there something happening at Twelve, Haymitch?"
"No shit!" he yanked the phone away from his ear, grimacing over his booming roar. "I thought this was a direct line to your office!"
"It is, but listen—" Plutarch held it close again but he was prepared in case the victor was eager to yell at him unannounced. "They're making a move. Phill's kidnappers—"
"Yeah?" he could sense Haymitch already shaking his head at him. "I don't know what's going on over there at the Capitol…or maybe you're just cooped up inside your office all day—"
"Why? What's happening?" Plutarch's knuckles have practically turned ghostly white as he held the phone tightly near his ear, waiting with bated breath. "...i-is it only happening there?"
"It's happening across all the Districts," Beetee responded in place, making Plutarch switch his attention to him. "I just got a message from the other victors…respectfully from Johanna, Annie, and even Enobaria…" he didn't like the expression on Latier's face.
"They're making us participate..." Haymitch lured his focus back to the phone.
Plutarch did not know what to think and certainly was not ready for what it could imply.
"...participate in what?" he asked in disquietude.
He could hear what he guessed to be Peeta Mellark, shouting in the background in both anger and disapproval.
"Participate in what Haymitch?"
"...they've made us these accounts," his friend grumbled uneasily. "Alright, look—" he sounded a little frustrated going about it. "It just came out of the blue and I'm still trying to understand what it means—"
"The people behind the kidnappings want the Districts to score them individually."
Beetee quickly surmised over Haymitch's nonsensical rambling.
Plutarch did not have to ask who needed to be scored or why they needed to be scored. His brain suddenly felt like it was running out of oxygen the same way his lungs ached desperately for the same thing.
"Plutarch—" he felt Beetee reach out for his arm as his body started to sway out his control. Hell, even his vision was beginning to blur as the slow realization unraveled wildly in his head. Someone tried to keep him on his feet but he could tell that it was clumsy. He immediately felt bad for having Beetee struggle to stand from his wheelchair just so he wouldn't collapse straight to the floor.
"Pull yourself together, Heavensbee!" his friend snapped to get his divided attention. "You need to be on your feet! It's nearly time!" Beetee was shaking him in order to keep him conscious. "There's going to be a live broadcast with the tributes soon—"
"...tributes?"
He asked with ears having popped, going deaf as if an explosion went off near him.
Plutarch felt sick to his stomach at the mention of such a label again.
And it was directed to his son no less.
No…no…no…
Not his Phill…
If it wasn't clear before, it was now.
Maybe this was damned to have happened after all of their insistent speculations.
"Ph-Phill c-can't be a—" he resorted to shaking his head in denial. If he uttered the word again, he was positive that he would throw up.
Beetee's grip on him was painful.
"I'm sorry this is happening to you and your son," he could tell that Three's victor had meant it genuinely. He squeezed again to keep his awareness sharper. "...no one was that young in the games."
"He's only 9," Plutarch's own voice sounded hollow. "...there's also a 7-year-old girl being the youngest…"
He spied Beetee, flinching the second he heard of that information. His friend tried to rub his shoulder in comfort but it was the last thing Plutarch could have felt after having learned such information.
"The broadcast will start live at around 12:30 this noon," Beetee told him, gripping him more firmly in place as to keep him conscious. He needed to be kept on track considering that the current time was seven minutes away from turning twelve. "You and the other families should prepare…I have a feeling the sequence you decoded from the crown will be used for something."
His mind swiftly activated at the given puzzle.
"...so it would seem that they planned this pretty well already," he couldn't stop the loathing from coating his voice.
"I don't support it," Plutarch turned towards his friend. "...just letting you know that I was never in favor of this," Beetee told him with aching sympathy. He didn't need a confirmation, per se. Plutarch was well aware of what he had voted for when his wife once proposed a Symbolic Hunger Games with the Capitol children in the past.
With that said…
It was so unusual to think about that right now.
Their odds were pretty much in their favor when she miraculously survived the assassination by a small margin, then it kept supporting them through the birth of a son and a daughter.
Who knew that there was a twisted end to that journey? Not him, and certainly not his wife who was definitely getting what was coming to her.
Only 10 years being too late for that matter.
Alma Coin would be spiraling the second she's aware of that incoming broadcast.
And she's not the only one…
Plutarch was back to trembling again. "Why now? Why after…"
The thought of his 9-year-old son being thrust into that world was simply too cruel.
What's the difference? You didn't care that much when it was someone else's kid.
His conscience accused him of hypocrisy. He realized that he was particularly cruel for some reason.
So what if he's 9? You were fine with killing 12-year-olds without losing an ounce of sleep and they're only a few years apart.
No…no…it was for a cause! He needed to climb the ladder so he could stage a successful rebellion and break away from Snow's tyranny—
You got comfortable with killing children for a time.
Plutarch did not like the sudden coldness overcoming his chest. He felt like a corpse.
What was it, you say? Even the noblest of causes can be bent a little bit—
Dragging my Phill at age 9 into the Hunger Games! …is not bending it for only a little bit—
Now you'll know what it feels like to be one of the parents whose kid gets killed on live television—
Enough! This is nothing but petty revenge—
You get what you deserve.
"...Plutarch," he barely heard Beetee's voice over the storm raging inside his head.
The former gamemaker blinked to get his bearings back, shortly wishing that he didn't because he remembered the upcoming tragedy that he was about to face.
"You have thirty minutes before it goes live," Beete reminded him gravely.
—
"What did we keep telling you! What did we keep telling you, you bunch of buffoonish, uneducated, mongrels—"
"I suggest you save that energy into more pressing issues rather than utilize such efforts at berating my guards, my Secretary of Communications, and myself… Mister Baltimore," Paylor growled beneath a thinly veiled form of anger for the first time. "Continue not to listen to me, I might just let you collapse from intense blood pressure while the rest of us here will handle this problem like the adults we are. Because we are, in fact, responsible and logical thinking adults and not children with tantrums anymore."
The President decided to abandon all pretense of being polite, leaving every Capitol family who was exposed to her shift in behavior in evident shock.
Plutarch suppressed a low and dark chuckle at Royce Baltimore's seething expression from being insulted in front of everyone's faces. He even felt Beetee beside him trying and adjust his glasses, but really, the man was hiding an embarrassing smile.
"This is no time for any of you to deviate from the problem at hand here!" Paylor was all too quick to address the very sick, the very large, and very troubling elephant dropped into their room.
There was already a grand and large screen spanning at least fifteen feet high and maybe around twelve feet wide prepared for the inevitable screening of the live broadcast for all to see.
"It would seem that every working television in the Districts was hijacked as of 10 this morning. Specific time was around ten and thirty minutes," Paylor announced steadily, regarding everyone in the room with strict and careful eyes. She couldn't afford to show weakness in this dire time of need. "Upon receiving the news, Mister Heavensbee and his office were working hard to eliminate the hijacking of broadcasts—"
"Kind of makes you wonder whether he's the one doing it on purpose, doesn't it?" Creed cut her off, eyeing Plutarch from the other end of the room. "Are you going to pull another insane Quarter Quell twist that's going to leave the entire nation hanging?"
"Need I remind everyone that your children's lives are on the line here," Paylor didn't mean to hiss but it was too late to recover from it. "I fail to see how directing your attention to Mister Heavensbee could help them in the process—"
"Well, what if he is helping them? What are the odds of that happening again?"
"...if what you accuse me of is true—" Plutarch interrupted, eyeing Henley Creed with a sort of manic, dangerous glinting look in his eyes. "—then I wouldn't have to worry about my son's safety for I have already rigged the games to be in his favor then."
"Did you hear that?! The traitor just admitted that he isn't above killing my 7-year-old daughter!"
"Mister Ravenhart! I will not have you run that lie to the ground when Mister Heavensbee only stated that after being provoked over and over again!" On the other hand, Paylor didn't exactly spare her Secretary of her ever-growing ire either. "And you…Plutarch. Must you continue to goad them like that? I expected better from you."
"...I apologize for my behavior, Madame President," he turned his attention to the blinking crown in his hands, turning it carefully as he traced after the lights that kept repeating the same sequence for hours on end. "While the rest of my office and I can fight off the hijacking, I believe letting it play through would benefit us…this may be the only chance we'll get in finding out what happened to the children."
His fingers curled around the artifact, nails digging harshly against the embedded diamonds until his hyponychium threatened to bleed.
"I fear that if we resist them…they may see it as an act of defiance if we choose not to indulge with their twisted game—" Plutarch added more quietly. "—and the off chance that they may take it out on our kids."
"So we're letting them mock us just like that?" Adan Godlane rebuffed stubbornly, holding his trembling wife by the shoulders. "We just allow them to do whatever they want with our children then? By that logic, you're just permitting them to walk all over us!"
"There's a chance they might just kill them if we continue to put this off."
Plutarch kind of already suspected for someone to wail after his harsh wording. Marina Springs was clawing desperately at her husband, her legs weakening at the prospect of her daughter potentially being murdered in cold blood without her notice.
"This is madness!" Troy O' Keefe exclaimed as he started to pace madly. "They can't do this to us! Who do they think they are to do this to us?! They can't just gamble our kids' lives away for their sick entertainment!"
While his statement fell on deaf ears across several sobbing Capitol parents, Beetee, Plutarch, Paylor, and even her guards that have mostly belonged to District Eight and Nine, regarded them with a sort of quiet hypocrisy.
"...my son was reaped for the 72nd Hunger Games," Everyone turned to the soldier on standby. He was known to be one of Paylor's most respected men. "He was 14 when he died…of course, no one from the Capitol really cared that he was a kid for he wasn't as handsome, or as skillful, or as memorable as that victor that year."
His usual stare had gone deathly cold.
"Not even one sponsor has come to aid him in the arena…"
"My condolences, Officer Cobalt," Paylor's voice was softer now. "No one should have to experience that. In fact, no one should have to experience that ever for another lifetime!" When she met to see the reaction of the families, she realized that most of them were avoiding her and the judging look of her guard.
At least they have the decency to be quiet now…
It was Beetee Latier who decided to break the tense silence by clearing his throat, a report ready to stir everyone's attention away.
"As I've said, everyone's channels from the Districts have been seized, and while the sudden invasion found it a little difficult in taking over the airwaves at first, they manage to be consistent with their attack now…"
"They should be," Plutarch commented with sudden confidence, earning Paylor's quiet and questioning look. "I purposely let the security down so we can hear them out," he explained, now regarding everyone in the room. "Perhaps we can appeal to their conditions and get our kids back without any bloodshed having to occur if possible..."
"And if we can't?" Creed challenged, only ever aiming his hostility at him. "What's the point of listening to these half-wits, anyway? Or are you secretly in favor of a Capitol Hunger Games after all?"
Plutarch's teeth ground themselves together, his grip tightening around the crown in exchange for his missing son.
"They are reaching out to us! Would you rather not have any news of your daughter at all, Mister Creed? Because so far, we are unable to trace them back!"
"Maybe you're just not trying hard enough," Henley had the audacity to inspect his nails as if he was bored by Plutarch's reasoning.
"Forget it—" the ex-gamemaker huffed, desperately holding back the urge from wacking his former friend with the crown repeatedly straight to the head. "We have a minute left…I suggest that everyone get their sequences ready in case they may need it from us."
"Sequences?" Aiden Summersprings looked at him oddly.
"Your crowns…" Plutarch said, raising his for emphasis. "I assume that they've been activated earlier today as well, haven't they?" he didn't like how most of them stared at him like he was the odd man out.
"...are you talking about the strange lights it's showing off?" Chairmane Cromwell seemed to be the only one who was catching up.
"You haven't decoded them?" Plutarch frowned, his chest and stomach sinking.
"I have some of the analysts take a look at them earlier," Even Paylor had sounded worried. "Is it that urgent? Do we need to decode all of their messages before the broadcast?"
Just when he opened his mouth, the large screen in the room flared to life unannounced.
Everyone went rigid when the theme of the Hunger Games started playing.