Interlude: Determination & Despair

With every stilted step down the stairwell from the Ninth floor of the Victor's tower to the Fourth, Rusk's heart swelled with feverish determination, much like the seasonal rivers that zigzagged across District Nine's landscape. Though the thick tufts of the magenta high-pile carpet tried to capture his shoes at every moment, he resisted their life-sucking tendrils like the Victor that he was. He had come out of his arena, alive, right? This recon mission was nothing for him.

At least, that's what he told himself. He wasn't the same Rusk anymore, the coward he knew so well. He couldn't afford to be! He slid down the stairs in jerky movements while his head swirled in the clouded courage of a fever dream. He'd talk to Avisa. Get answers. Complete his investigation. Ensure justice for Faridah, the one person who'd ever really cared about him, since the Capitol didn't seem to be doing much. They hadn't come out with any new information since the death announcement two days prior, which left more than adequate room for a million different worst-case scenarios to fill his mind.

His foot teetered on the edge of a step and his body lurched forward, but he clung to the rail and steadied himself, bringing his frenzy to a brief standstill. His head cooled. At that moment, he could only hear the blood rushing through his ear, allowing the repressed whisper in his mind to push its way back to the forefront of his attention.

Was this all a big mistake?

No, retreat wasn't an option. It would be a disgrace to Faridah, a slap to the face posthumously granted after he'd done nothing to save her. What had their last conversation been, again? Oh right, he had once again wasted all their time with his stupid problems and worrying her about him and — why couldn't he just be normal? The least he could do now was ensure that whoever killed her would be severely punished for their heinous crime.

He blinked and continued his flight down the stairs. He didn't dare pause. If he did, he might reconsider everything and end up back in his own room, with his face buried in the pillow in another futile attempt to sleep his worries away. Worthless, useless Rusk. When was the last time he cared so much about… anything? This sensation of caring felt oddly unfamiliar, like the return of a long-lost friend, one that he didn't want to lose again.

When he stepped into the hallway of the fourth floor, he paused to stare at the opulent turquoise blue that covered everything. Tranquil ocean murals slathered the walls in seafoam, scenes he'd only seen once before during his Victory Tour. It'd been during that trip when he first met Faridah, who sat across from him during the Victor's Banquet and offered to talk. She had taken him out to the beach afterward, where she assured him that he wasn't alone, that there were people that would be more than happy to help him, as they stood listening to the frigid winter waves. Her words hadn't been entirely true. She ended up being the only one that cared, and if she'd known that he'd be such a waste of time, perhaps she would've wisely stayed away too.

He came to a standstill before a gilded door, carved with layers of gold rippling across wooden waves. He peeked down at the note he'd scribbled on his hand. Room 402, District Four Common Room. This was it. His last chance to turn back.

Hesitantly, he pressed his ear to the door, with his breath hitched in his throat. Through it, he picked up soft musical notes, with subdued conversations and laughter barely submerged beneath the piano melodies. Every hint of happiness teased him, like fleeting glimpses of tropical fish beneath ocean foam, happy magical creatures he'd never catch. He had tried one time in District Four, but all the fish scattered the moment he dipped his hand under the crystal surface.

Well, all but one, but she wasn't around anymore.

He knocked. The music stopped immediately, allowing silence to fill him with dread. After an eternity that felt way too short, the door cracked open and revealed a taller man with brown spiky hair and a cautious tint to his eyes. Pike O'Halloran, the Victor of the 220th Hunger Games, the one Avisa had run off to after her outburst at the Victor's pre-party.

Rusk gulped. "Is Avisa here?"

The man peered down at him with an indecipherable stoniness.

"If it's fine, of course…"

Pike's gaze never wavered, as steady as the scope of a well-trained sniper. He nodded almost imperceptibly, but his expression showed no sign of lightening. "Avi!" he said, craning his head back towards the room, "It's Nine. The quiet one."

"Nine, huh?" Avisa's sharp voice came from further inside, carrying hints of intrigue that he hadn't ever heard from her. But when she replaced Pike at the door, her face froze over and her voice became ice. "What do you want?"

But even her biting tone and thick mascara couldn't hide her baggy eyes or the lifeless complexion. Faint creases lined her forehead, likely plowed by constant furrowing of her brow. No matter how much she snapped at him, it was clear as day that Avisa Keel was still grieving, and he'd only made everything worse.

The party. Van's aggressive "protection." Her soul-rending sob.

He couldn't just press her about what had happened before, not when a larger obstacle stood between the two of them. She had been a close friend of Faridah's, and his existence had thrown a tractor into her already broken heart. In a split second, every plan changed.

A long silence—how awkward did he have to be?—passed before he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about Van and what happened at the party. I know it must've been embarrassing and hurtful for you."

"Huh." A faint drop of water shimmered in the corners of her narrowed eyes, but it was impossible to tell whether he had imagined them or not. It was the voice of a wounded wolf, a stinging mask of ferocity hiding the injury underneath.

So he tried to smile. Really hard, in hopes that it might make up for his ineptitude. But he couldn't. He had no reassuring smiles, no comforting words, nothing of worth that could make anything up to her. With a weary sigh, he averted his gaze and allowed hers to bore into his wide-open soul. It was the only thing left for him to do.

"Is… that all?"

He blinked. Her voice had softened, even if it was still sharper than any sickle he'd ever used. "Kind of…" He had to force the next sentence out. "But may I ask a few questions, too?"

"I see how it is." She gave him the side-eye.

"Gah—I don't mean it like that!"

She cocked her head, challenging him to defend himself with her guarded sneer.

"I'm serious!"

He stumbled for words as his resolve crumbled around him under the weight of regret. This woman could hate him all she wanted to, but to call him a fake? It was all so reasonable since he'd been the one to screw it up, yet it poured gasoline on the wildfire burning in the pit of his gut. That was the entire problem. Everything Avisa felt was so valid given the circumstances, but he longed with all his being for everything to settle in harmony. Faridah would've wanted that too.

"Look, none of the other Nine victors ever cared about me the way Faridah did. She meant the world to me!"

The words spilled out of his mouth like a broken dam. Faridah had told him how much he meant to her more times than he could count, but he'd never once said it to her face—and he never would. He almost did during that last encounter on the train. If only he had seized that last opportunity!

A lump formed in his throat. "And that's why I need answers."

"Don't we all." She exhaled sharply through her nose. "Shoot me a few. I can't promise answers though. Those bastards up at the station won't tell me anything."

"Oh! Thank—"

"Make it fast."

"Of course." A stupid smile crept across his lips, jarringly inappropriate yet frozen in place. This was going about as well as he could've hoped for. "So were you on the train with Faridah?"

"Yes."

"Did you notice… anything strange?"

She pressed her lips together and eyed him suspiciously. "She just talked about the people she planned to visit, but she does that every year. Why?"

"I didn't notice anything either, but I can't help but feel like we, I mean, I missed something."

"If you're suggesting that she willingly went to die, then no," she said, voice rising. "She would've said something to me."

"I—"

"She wouldn't just leave like that!"

"I-I'm sorry." He instinctively shuffled backward a smidgen. Every cell in his body wanted to curl into a ball and brace for this explosion waiting to happen, yet nothing ever did. A plethora of new questions danced around the periphery of his thoughts. Whom did Faridah visit? Why?

She averted her eyes, as if suddenly ashamed. "It's nothing. You done?"

"J-Just one more." He glanced up cautiously, but he found her jaw clenched and fists balled. Maybe this wasn't worth pursuing, not today. "Never mind. I'm done."

"Good."

"I—"

The door slammed shut. Footsteps muffled by carpet scrambled away from the door, away from him, who must've seemed like everything wrong in the world's perspective. Disappearing under the covers of his bed never seemed so attractive.

After hours of glaring at daylight from his bed (still ink-stained from his last breakdown), Rusk realized that sleep wouldn't save him this time. He had learned next to nothing and now Avisa hated him even more. And rightfully so! His being around her had caused her oceans of trouble, churning up currents of pain and keeping her from moving on.

Mission failed. But was it any surprise? He hadn't ever been good at simply doing things; he just wasn't worth the time.

Despair was a strange thing, the way it stripped away at the psyche and reduced a man to his most primal needs. Breathe. Move. Eat. Anything more required too much power for his rapidly spiraling brain to handle. One moment, he was tossing and turning in bed. The next, he found himself wandering the streets of the Capitol, ambling with uncertain footsteps whatever way would weaken the pressure with which the lingering impression of her glare bore down on him.

And when he wandered past a cafe front draped with pink and green Actinidia vines and caught a whiff of (oh, in the name of Snow) sweet taro cake, he meekly obeyed his stomach's call and entered into the luscious paradise of hibiscus garlands and soothing piano.

"Hello! How many I help you today?" the waiter behind the front desk chirped. Her sympathetic smile tugged at flower tattoos that decorated her cheeks.

His dead whisper was fit for a graveyard. "Just me."

"So… a table for one?"

"Oh. Yes. Sorry." He ducked through a curtain of vines, following her to a small round table by the wall. "Just the taro cake."

The waiter must've realized something was terribly wrong, for she soon returned with an extra-large slice of purple-and-white cake. He weakly cut a forkful and ate it slowly, allowing the flavors to mingle and spread over his tongue. For a moment, he could almost forget the mess he'd caused, but as the cake appeased his growling stomach, his thoughts focused.

What was he doing here?

The bounties of blossoms set his hair on edge; the ambient noises tickled his ears with whispers of imminent danger. Last time he saw this artificial imitation of Eden, he hadn't been safe, not by a long shot. That District Ten hangout—genuine kindness or malicious set-up? That wasn't safe! Perhaps he shouldn't have come. For all he knew, Andor himself could be in the very same building with him.

A bird chirped from the speakers. Darah Sommers strolled in through the front door.

This couldn't be happening! He immediately pressed his back against his chair and slunk down into his seat. He tried to look anywhere but right at her, yet he found his eyes frozen in terror. Darah? He'd been such an idiot! He knew she frequented this café! Now he was stuck in the corner, a tribute cornered by a pack of trained wolves. If he just sat still and didn't breathe…

She looked right at him.

"Oh my goodness!" Her eyes lit up despite the dark bags beneath them, and she hustled over in high heels, a to-go bag in hand. Jade bangles dangled from her wrists like the bones of a skeleton. "You came back!"

He froze and stared. That smile seemed genuine, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was staring into the eyes of a wolf. "Well.. the taro cake…"

She laughed. "Ain't it the best? My stylists hate me for it but I can't resist them. But this is perfect! I was just about to find you."

Rusk raised an eyebrow. Why would she be looking for him? Perhaps she just wanted to make up after their last encounter… or did she have more nefarious goals in mind?

"Mind if I sit down?"

He unfroze as he suddenly remembered the existence of social conventions. "Oh, sorry. Of course — I mean, of course, I don't mind."

"Muchas gracias." She gracefully rested across from him with a smile that almost made it feel like they were old friends. All the more reason to be wary. "I wasn't going to eat here, but I might as well now," she chuckled, plucking one of two boxes out of the bag. "So! How are you?"

"Why do you ask." He could hardly believe the words came from his own mouth. Did he distrust her that much? He couldn't even tell anymore.

But he could tell she was disappointed though the momentary flash of pain in her eyes. She quickly buried it with a bite of cake. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm sorry." It seemed like his voice would sound dead no matter how hard he tried, as if his mind had disconnected from his body.

"It's fine! I… just wanted to let you know that I did a little asking around—well, a lot of asking around—and I finally have a name."

"You can't mean…"

A tired twinkle danced in the corner of her weary eyes. "The killer."

He gaped at her. The obvious question danced on the tip of his tongue. She was clearly trying to win his favor, and all he had to do was play along and all would be right between them. Yet he restrained himself from taking the bait. "I really don't want to be rude… but why are you telling me?"

Her face fell. "I'm sorry if I'm bothering you; I just thought—"

"No, I'm sorry," he said, cheeks further reddening at the way he just cut her off. Why hadn't he just played along? "You're not bothering me at all."

"I appreciate you trying to be nice, but I get it." She shrugged. With slow, lifeless motions, she stood to her feet and slid her cake box back into her to-go bag. "But if you're curious, the guy's name is Acacio LeRoux. He's being held at Ravenstill State Prison."

"Darah—"

"Adios. I'll see you around."

And with that, the District Ten woman left, just as suddenly as she had come. The jingle of her jade bangles faded until they were but an imagined whisper in his ear, just as grim as they had been when she came but now for a completely different reason. He'd completely screwed it up. Now she was mad at him too, and it sickened him. He needed to go make things right with her; it'd be the right thing to do.

But what if she responded with hostility? He wasn't sure if he could survive another round of emotional beatings. Darah… Avisa… They'd have to wait. Right now, his priority had to be investigating Faridah's murder and this Acacio LeRoux person. Find the answers. Get justice for her. He could wait to deal with the tricky relationships until… well, until the thought of talking with them stopped filling him with existential dread.

But what if that day never came?

A/N Oops this chapter is mighty late. I'm literally a few hours away from SYOT jail in the discord. But I needed the time to plot the story, and I'm still not 100% done. The next few chapters are mostly planned so the next update shouldn't take another month…. but pls don't kill me if it does, thank you. I hope I've done a good job making y'all care about our Capitol subplot since there is so much more coming.

Predictions on where this is going?

I'd love to know your thoughts!