LVII: The Capitol.

Elide Ozkann, 23
Head Gamemaker

She fully expects this to be her last car ride.

At least this car itself is nice. Tinted windows. A driver who had given her an entirely too-pleasant smile when he had come to the offices to collect her, as if he didn't know exactly what he was doing.

There was no ignoring the President's summons—frankly, Elide is surprised it took this long. She'd like to believe that Catriona was affording her a window of time to make things right, but that level of kindness didn't seem appropriate. It was more likely that she didn't want to get another firing squad together so soon. It appears that just about fourteen hours was all Elide was going to get.

A security guard meets them at the front steps of the mansion and is quick to usher her inside without so much as a word. Elide has been here a handful of times in the last year, but it's never felt like this. The halls are practically deserted. An avox skitters past her, eyes fixated on the floor.

The room she's led to is the same as before with its vaulted ceilings, the same oaken desk in the center of the room. Elide takes a seat without being told to, the same chair she's always found herself in. It's comfortable enough to sink into, but her spine remains ruler-straight, her feet tapping anxiously on the marbled floor.

She at least thought she would make it a few years. In her wildest dreams she was one of the top Gamemakers of all time, catapulting the Games into an era never to be forgotten. At least this way the others might still have a chance—she was the one that told Andraste to speed up the process, after all. They wouldn't be in this situation if not for Elide.

"Miss Ozkann," an even voice greets her, heels click-clacking closer. "It's good to see you."

Is it? Elide swallows. "And you, Madam President."

She tries not to let herself panic at the mere sight of Catriona walking past her, making quick headway for the desk and the great leather chair that sits behind it. She sits neatly, crossing her legs and lacing her hands together over the desk's edge, eyes expectanct.

Elide thinks she might choke on her own tongue.

"Is there any progress I should be made aware of?" Catriona asks.

"None yet," she admits. "Though the retrieval team you sent to us has made great steps in removing the largest sections of rubble. We believe—"

"You believe?" Catriona interrupts. "I don't need beliefs, Miss Ozkann, I need certainties."

Crystal fucking clear, really. Elide wishes she had them to give.

"I'm afraid I have nothing of worth to tell you then, ma'am." Admitting defeat is better than groveling. The rumor mill said that Ariston groveled, the whole damn team groveled, and look where it got them. Dead just like everyone else.

Catriona flips through a stack of papers on the desk, well-manicured nails occasionally tapping against the polished wood. The silence is so long and drawn out that Elide's heartbeat is the only thing audible in her ears.

She should have said a proper goodbye to the others. Hugged them tighter.

There wasn't time.

"Were you given the final poll results just before we cut the broadcast?" Catriona asks.

She blinks. "Pardon?"

She produces a paper from the neat stack. "It appears Weston Katsouris had the edge at the last minute. He's the sort of victor people like. Bloodthirsty. Willing to smile and play along. He'll entertain the masses as long as we keep him on a leash. Do you think he deserves to live?"

"I'm not sure that's up to me, ma'am—"

"Except it is," Catriona says. "You were given explicit instructions Dead or alive, you find one of them. You remove them from the arena."

Elide has never felt so viciously that she's playing at God, pulling the strings. She's been blind to it for so long. So many dead children, and now she realizes it? It's laughable.

She has no right to pick which one of them lives, the polls be damned.

"And if we find Twelve?" she dares to question.

"You remove him."

"That's it?"

"Don't make me repeat myself a third time, dear," Catriona says simply. "Instructions are instructions. Both of them will be found in due time. Right now, we only need one. Ravi Fusain may not have been what the masses expected, but there has yet to be a victor in Panemian history that they have refused to accept."

She's right, of course. Even Evette Fernsby has become something of a darling, the Capitol fawning over her innocence, her big doe-eyes and her sweet demeanor. Elide knows it's all an act. She escaped that arena because Ariston failed on every single level, not because she was meant to. She has to play with the cards she's been given.

Six will play along. Twelve will be more difficult, a tougher fight, but everyone has to fall in line eventually.

Elide saw polls, too. Different ones. Six had won most of them after One died, always in a near-even match up with Nine, but the details are not difficult to remember. Twelve was never far behind, not even in the last one she saw the morning of, just before everything truly fell apart.

People will accept whatever is given to them. They do not have a choice otherwise.

"All I can say is that I am sorry to have failed you," Elide offers, gathering her courage. "I'm sure you can understand that I had no intention of seeing forth such a catastrophic mistake. But if you give me the opportunity, Madam President, I will do everything in my power to see it right. I will—"

The cuff fastened around her wrist beeps. The room, otherwise so quiet you could hear a pin drop, seems to fill with the noise. Elide can't help but jolt, reaching down to silence it before she has yet another thing to apologize for.

Before she does, her eyes find the reason for the alert. It's a message, the name half concealed by the top of the miniscule screen that gleams against her skin. She can see the words clearly though, only three of them. Elide never believed that such weight could be contained in such simplicity before today.

WE FOUND ONE.

Kosta Rosalia, 24
Gamemaking Head of Tribute Management

He has never seen the lot of them look so grim.

Everyone is huddled around their respective stations, though he can't be sure why. There's not much to do by way of work, at least not here. Only Leda remains steadfastly by his side, fingers constantly tapping away at her tablet. She's gnawed some of them bloodied, stripping away the varnish fleck by fleck.

"Dare I ask what they're broadcasting now?" he wonders. Leda frowns, fingers flying once again.

"Reruns of that one reality show that aired a few years back. You know, the one where—"

"I promise you I don't know, Leda."

"You're no fun." She pouts, but her attempt at diffusing the rigidness holding tight to his spine is futile. If they're pushing a show from a few years back in an attempt to distract the audiences, it means they're running out of content engaging enough to keep them satiated.

He can't imagine how it is in the Districts. Black screens for over half a day. Nothing more.

No answers.

"Sandoval has sent me no less than a dozen messages since last night," she informs him. "Wants his company to be the first to 'break the news'."

"Have you told him to shove his messages up his ass?" Kosta asks.

"Not yet."

"You should."

She nods, almost sagely. Frankly, Kosta would be delighted to tell anyone they even have news. The feed from the retrieval team that plays on the overhead screen is grainy at best, and the mounted cameras affixed to their chests are even worse. They're too far out to be of much use, working in painstaking slowness. It will be days, at least, before they can transport equipment to such a destination to truly make a difference.

They don't have days.

Kosta wishes that he could simply lay his head back and pretend none of this was happening. In reality, life would be easier if he could go back a few years and never meet Elide Ozkann in the first place, never get dragged into this mess. Now she was more than likely dead and the rest of them were sure to follow the moment they got someone out of that arena. The President just needed her job done.

Moments from closing his eyes and giving into his true desire, a steady beeping reaches his ears. Kosta can only blink, staring at the opposite wall as if whatever he's hearing will suddenly begin to make sense. Without warning Leda's hand thwacks against his arm, and by the time he finds her she's no longer next to him, having launched herself clean out of her chair and across the room to Andraste's side.

"What's—"

"I've got a signal." Kosta has no idea who speaks, only that he is very much the last one to the suddenly crowded station opposite the room. "From—"

"One of the trackers?" he cuts in obviously. It makes him feel better to say it. Andy nods, almost furiously.

"Who?"

"I don't know. Give me a second."

"What about vitals?"

"I said—"

"How can you not know?" he insists. But Kosta realizes he doesn't know, either. Strings of numbers are appearing on the screen before them, lines of code and more gibberish as Andraste continues to enter things.

"Some of the hardware has come back online," Andraste tells them. "It's pinging a location."

"Are they alive?"

"Still no vitals."

It's not an outright yes or no. No vitals simply means they're not showing up, the same way they haven't been since the arena finished its grand collapse.

Elide's not here, he realizes. Elide's not here and everyone's looking at him like Kosta knows what to do, as if he's been in this situation before. The weight of everyone's gazes on him is so unexpected that he nearly crumbles, panic clawing at his throat with a desperate grip.

"Send the coordinates to the retrieval team," he orders finally. "And someone get a message to Elide. Andy, do you—"

"I've got it," she interrupts. "Tracker ID: 100276, that's… that's Twelve."

For a moment, no one speaks. He's not sure it really registers with anyone for at least that single heartbeat. Naevys' voice is quiet, an uncertainty to it that he doesn't enjoy in the slightest. "What about Six?" she asks, looking for an answer in the faces around her.

"What about Six?"

Kosta jolts. His ability to forget that Theora lurks in the room sometimes astounds him, but he knows it's just down to the fact that she watches, lingering like a hawk, never missing a single beat. Her voice then is like a shock to the system, his blood thrumming with electricity. Her eyes, when he turns to find her lingering at the edge of the group, are alight with something he cannot place.

"He—"

Naevys can't get more than that single word out before Theora steps closer to her, insistent. "Six doesn't matter. You heard Kosta. We send Twelve's coordinates to the retrieval team, and they focus all their efforts on him. Alive or dead, we get him out. That's a victor. That ensures we live. You might even save Elide if you get it to them fast enough."

She's right, of course. But Naevys and her endless questioning has gotten to him, and now Kosta is allowing himself to think too intently about it. They're both buried down there; there's no telling what the state of either of them is beyond terrible. If Six so happens to be alive, leaving him down there is a death sentence.

Even more so than the one they've already handed him.

But they have no idea where he is. It's a needle in a fucking haystack. The ground's unsteady. They're risking more lives to try and find him when they have a guarantee right in front of them.

"Theora's right," he admits, though the words taste far more bitter than he ever could have expected. "Get Twelve out. Leda, get a hold of Charon. I want him on-air the second we have confirmation."

Everyone scatters like a flock of harried chickens; Kosta doesn't have the faintest damn clue why, but he thinks they're all just trying to look busy, all while he stands there lingering over Andraste's shoulder, staring at that single tracker identification number highlighted on the screen.

"What are the odds he's alive?" Kosta asks quietly. He knows without a doubt that Andy is trying to pull more information, even as the near-destroyed tracker works against her.

"What are the odds he managed to get inside that fucking coffin before the ceiling came down?" Andy fires back. "Whatever you think they are, pray it's at least double that. It was only halfway shut, but that half might have saved him."

Might have. If they had even just a split second longer to see before the cameras cut out, they might know for sure. Did Twelve get even that modicum of safety? Was Six somehow saved when the walls caved in around him, creating an alcove just spacious enough to survive in?

It's all so many questions. Too many unknowns.

And they don't have the time for any of them.

Aldon Cronquist, 18
District Twelve

The square is deathly silent when he arrives.

The screen hovering against the Justice Building is an inky black—judging by the faces of those in the crowd, nothing has changed at all.

He had been here last night when the broadcast ended in an abrupt burst of static, when murmuring confusion gave way to an almost-panic. The mayor had come onto the stage with a poorly put-together microphone in an attempt to calm them, but only time had done that. Or exhaustion, maybe. Aldon had finally dragged himself the few blocks home with chains wrapped around his ankles, and even then he hadn't found sleep.

It had been hours now since he had admitted defeat, realized sleep was nowhere close, and only now has he finally dragged himself back outside and to the square once again. He knew nothing had happened. The streets were quiet. No one would speak or look each other in the eye. Even though Aldon knows, coming back to the same scene is almost enough to crush him.

He's exhausted. A part of him wants to curl up in the dirt and cry, right where everyone can see. Another part wants to hurl things at the screen until it breaks apart. Aldon needs to do something other than sit here or he's going to go insane—

"Hey, man," a voice greets him, a hand clapping hard against his shoulder. "You look half-dead."

Even half-dead it would be difficult not to recognize Laith, his lopsided smile and easy-going demeanor. Aldon is often side-by-side with it in the elevator as they descend, and something about his optimism is almost comforting. Stupidly misplaced, but comforting.

The words ring in his head. Half-dead, half-dead, half-dead.

He can't manage words before the girl at Laith's side, unfamiliar to him, elbows him hard in the ribs. There's something familiar about him, but the itch in his brain isn't enough to overcome the exhaustion. Laith blinks owlishly at her, something silent passing between them as she struggles to communicate all that's wrong with the words without having to repeat them.

"Oh," Laith says aloud, finally. "That's… I shouldn't have said that, hey? Fucked up choice of words, man, I'm sorry—"

"You're fine, Laith," he insists. "Who's this?"

Laith seems grateful for the distraction, wrapping a tight arm around the girl and pulling her flush to his side. "Why, you haven't met my beautiful angel? Well then, meet Merain. Believe me, she's a hard one to forget."

The girl in question, Merain, rolls her eyes. "Don't be a jackass. It's Aldon, right?"

He can only nod, slowly. Even the normalcy of it all isn't enough to make him feel steady, even as he comes to settle into his surroundings. These are safe people. Jonah, his shift leader, is ten feet away, lingering with one of his sons. Phelan leans against the side of a closed-down stall, talking to one of his neighbors. He recognizes it all. Understands.

And Aldon still needs more.

He feels helplessly fixated on the screen. It doesn't matter what quiet conversation continues around him, the shifts in the crowd, the cold pressing insistently against the half-inch of skin between his jacket and gloves. He has attention for nothing else. Aldon is willing it to happen, to see anything on that screen that will give him an answer.

"I hope it's him," Merain says quietly. The words aren't directed to him, though Aldon can't help but hear them anyway. "My sister…"

"She should want it to be him," Laith answers, unusually somber. Aldon watches as he squeezes her hand, her fingers white-knuckled. In his head he sees the silhouette of another fair-haired, blue-eyed girl, her hand desperately clinging to Ravi's own at every waking moment, stubbornly refusing to let go.

Merain offers him a tense smile—he sees little Eira Caldwell in every inch of it.

There's a significant chance Aldon won't escape today without being sick at least once.

"Citizens of our beloved Panem!"

He jerks backward, feet slipping in the muddy mess the crowd has created around them. Laith's fingers come to close around his shoulder once again, steadying him, though Aldon feels anything but steady. The occasional flurry of snow drifting from the sky does nothing to obscure the sudden brightness of the screen and the two people now occupy it. Charon Akrea and Merride Whitlock sit side-by-side as they usually do, though without their usual signs of preparedness. Her hair is askew. His eyes keep drifting down to the tablet resting on the console before them, no doubt going over his prepared words once again.

"Take a breath, man," Laith suggests. He feels too tightly wound to even consider such a thing.

"My apologies for our rather delayed absence," Charon begins, the white of his teeth so brilliant it's almost hard to look at. "After a long night of momentous work, our Gamemakers have finally shared with us the information you have all been so patiently waiting for."

Aldon has not been patient, not one bit. Someone in the crowd behind him mutters something, sounding suspiciously like get the fuck on with it.

He's inclined to agree with it.

"Just a short time ago our well-awaited victor was pulled from the arena and transferred to the Capitol," Charon continues. "Any last predictions, Merride? I know you've been speculating for hours now."

The host in question has the audacity to giggle, covering her slightly imperfect lipstick with one hand. "Why I'm not sure it matters anymore, Charon!"

It doesn't. They have someone, one person, in their clutches. Someone they're calling a victor. What might be the only true person Aldon has left in the world.

"I do suppose you can all thank Miss Whitlock for our announcement." Charon winks, offering his biggest smile. "Panem, without further ado, your victor of the 100th Hunger Games, the Fourth Quarter Quell—"

He really is going to be sick.

"—Ravi Fusain of District Twelve!"

Laith's hand wraps around his arm, strong enough to leave bruises. Aldon isn't sure why until he feels his knees nearly buckle, and realizes just how close he was to dumping himself face-first into the slush. The crowd around him erupts into a sort of noise, but it all feels much too distant. Practically underwater.

He's not sure what's causing that. The panic or his own heartbeat like thunder in his ears, perhaps the sudden relief that crashes over him so suddenly it doesn't have time to settle before Aldon is struck with a similar amount of terror.

He's alive, somehow, he made it out of that hell and—

And what now?

Arms wrap around him, soft and somehow tightly reassuring at the same time. "He made it out," Merain murmurs, words Aldon can hardly make sense of even as he continues to think them. It's impossible—at least, it should have been.

He clings to her, this virtual stranger who lost a sister to such horrific violence the same way he did. "He made it out," Aldon echoes back, and she nods fiercely.

He didn't just make it out, though. He survived, he fought when Aldon thought he would give up, and somehow he made it out the other side. A part of him wants to believe that Dulia had a hand in it, that she has given them each-other to survive with when she's no longer here to help them. But what he knows with certainty is that at least some part of it is over, for both of them.

Ravi's coming home. It has to get better.

It has to.

Cress Cassidy, 20
Victor of the 97th Hunger Games, District Twelve Mentor

They had all been in the lounge when the Peacekeeper had come.

Despite how many days had passed, their numbers hadn't dwindled much. Atropa and Helian had been the first, a handful of others following, but there were still enough victors present that the Peacekeeper had paused, glancing around the room to find exactly who he was looking for.

Cress and Nico had been sitting together, some sort of weak solidarity behind the idea that someone would come for them eventually. She had felt her heart stutter when the Peacekeeper stared long and hard at them, Nico stiffening.

Miss Cassidy, is all the man had said. No more information. She had still launched herself so hard out of the chair that she had nearly knocked the damn thing over. The questions had only come later—is he okay? Is he alive? What's going on, can I—?

She had said nothing. Cress had turned to Nico, mouth opening aimlessly until Nico had grabbed ahold of her hand and squeezed, hard.

"Don't be sorry," Nico had said quietly. "Go find out if he's alright."

Cress didn't need to be told twice. But the damn Peacekeeper hadn't been keen to answer her questions. He just kept saying, over and over again, that Ravi was being removed from the arena. That wasn't fucking good enough.

His refusal to answer Embelia was just as maddening—she had followed them despite not being called upon because they did this together, that was what she had first told Cress three years ago. They would never be alone.

If she was alone right now, Cress would be half-insane with the waiting. They had been in this hovercraft for what felt like days. She had no idea if they were still moving or had been sitting somewhere for several hours, simply on pause. A part of her felt like this was some sort of giant practical joke, that they had made a mistake. Why the hell was Cress still sitting here without answers like the biggest fool in the universe?

"Vesrin's on his way," Embelia murmurs. Both of them feel wrong to speak in anything above a whisper, as if they'll disturb the metal encasing them.

"How…?"

"That man has had over fifty years to figure out who to call to get who he wants, something I have yet to figure out. He said someone's getting him on a train. I believe him."

The three of them against the world; at least that's what it feels like. Except now there's a fourth. At least there might be, somewhere out there.

"Miss Cassidy?"

The voice this time is different, but somehow no less aggravating. Cress takes a deep breath before she stands, before she even dares to look at whoever's asking for her now. Except it's not a Peacekeeper, not anyone all that official looking. The man in question looks harried and exhausted, a streak of dirt heavy down the side of his face.

"Your tribute is being extracted from the arena," he informs her. "As you can imagine his condition is very fragile and we will be departing for the Capitol as soon as he is secured, but our doctors on-board—"

"He's alive?"

"It—it appears that way yes, Miss Cassidy—"

If this man wasn't simply doing his job, the job that no one else wanted to do, Cress would be tempted to smash his head into the wall. What do you mean, appears that way? It appears he doesn't know what to do after the words have been spoken, either, his face twisting through a variety of expressions before he finally settles on turning tail and running.

Cress takes half a step after him before she stops, uncertainty flooding her veins. "You can go after him," Embelia says. "They wouldn't tell you no."

"I don't know what I'm doing," she admits. "He's… he's bad, you know he is, and it's not like I've ever done this before. What do I do? What do I say?"

Embelia stands, gently framing Cress' face between both her hands. "Do you think I knew what to do when you got out?"

"I—no?"

"Exactly," she says. "Nobody knows, not until it happens the first time. But what I know is that you have been there for him more than anyone else this past year, that you are his friend and whatever he needs you will figure out how to be."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know you. And you've done just fine so far."

It's all done to make her feel better, she knows, but Cress still wishes some of the anxiety would dissipate, the dread that's filling her. Embelia releases her, and there's only one thing left to do. She does a neat turn, forcing her feet after the now vanished man who was unfortunate enough to be given the job to find her in the first place. It's not difficult to find where he went—the eruption of noise gives her enough of a lead, the familiar hiss of a hovercraft ramp lowering. The first thing Cress catches sight of is people milling about, an awful clamor rising above them. The next is the wheels of a gurney being navigated through the crowd.

That's all it really takes for her.

Cress shoves through the beginning of the people without even a half-hearted apology. They're in her way. She doesn't so much see what's going on as she launches herself forward, hands closing around the silver bars lining the side of the gurney before anyone can push her in the opposite direction. A doctor looks at her, mouth opening and closing in the same half a second it takes her to realize exactly who she's dealing with. Embelia is right—they can't tell her no.

She thought she was prepared to look down, but Cress never trips over her own two feet when she does. Fragile condition was evidently the kindest words that man could muster. For a moment, Cress can't even really tell what she's looking at. His skin is caked with dust and dirt, but not enough to disguise the awful bruising that has overtaken him.

"Ravi," she tries, but she feels stupid the moment she says it. He's not going to answer her. His right leg is at an awkward angle, his fingers mangled, eyes closed and caked with blood. A nurse with an oxygen mask appears at Cress' side, but she seems to only fumble with it, unsure of where exactly to put it down. One side of his face is bruised so badly it looks sunken in, nearly black, and the other still has skin threatening to peel away from muscle, the gash stretching from the center of his cheek and all the way down to his ear.

Eventually the nurse affixes it over his face anyway, though she winces as she does it. Cress feels her heart hammer faster as it settles, as she truly manages to focus on the weak rise and fall of his chest, there against all odds.

"Miss Cassidy, though your presence is appreciated, your tribute needs to be prepped for immediate surgery," a doctor barks. Cress gets the feeling her presence isn't appreciated whatsoever.

And, truly, can she blame them? He needs help, help that Cress can't give him now. She doesn't want to let him go, doesn't trust these people even for a fucking second, but she has no choice.

They will fix him. He'll look as he once did, as if nothing has ever happened.

She has to let them.

She shoulders the nurse out of the way, bending forward over his prone form to grab a hold of his relatively intact hand. "Listen to me," she insists. She doesn't care who can hear. All that matters is that she can pretend Ravi will somehow hear her, and that will be enough. "I promise you everything is going to be okay, alright? You hear me? You're going to be okay and you're going home."

Cress releases both his hand and the gurney at the same time, and it shoots away from her at lightning speed. Within moments the room is virtually empty, leaving her with far too much adrenaline and nothing left to focus it on.

There was no doing more, even if she wishes otherwise. That was all she could possibly say. There is nothing left for her to do now but wait, for however long it takes, and repeat the same words over and over like some kind of mantra.

Even if they're not the truth.

2nd. Weston Katsouris, District Six.
1st. Ravi Fusain, District Twelve.

Hey, Erik... it was never a bit. Love you.

As mentioned previously, I will be away for a little bit on vacation, but hopefully the next chapter won't take me an egregiously long amount of time once I'm back home and settled. Still, I won't promise because we all know how that goes! Thanks for all of the love, and of course congrats to our victor and his parent. It's been a long time coming.

Until next time.