Thank you to Skeekiest, Dante Alighieri1308, Grim Apocrypha, savwriting, and Very New To This for the reviews (with many leaving multiple). Love you guys and thank you for the support!
Almost 100 reviews...I didn't imagine the story reaching that milestone until much, much later (or ever, really) and I'm so so grateful that my first attempt at this sort of project has been so-far well received. Almost there!
No further foreword. Let's get into 11 with Raiden and Melora!
Eleven was a cold, cold place.
Not literally. The blazing summer sun threatened to melt the skin off of your bones if you stayed out too long. Crops withered and fruits shriveled up under the harsh, unforgiving heat that plagued the agricultural district.
But, still, it remained cold. Unforgiving. Lifeless.
It was ironic - a place that gave way to so much life, so much color in the form of the various fruits that grew upon the trees was one of the most lifeless in all of Panem. The reds and greens and oranges and yellows speckling the landscape did nothing to fix the bleak, grey view that Raiden McIntyre held.
He lets out a defeated huff of laughter to himself, leaned up against one of the many ramshackle constructions that passed for homes in Eleven.
How unfair. The constant pressure from the Capitol to have more children - produce more labor. Only to stick the growing families in wooden shacks, rotting away from the inside like the fruit they picked.
But there was a sort of toughness instilled upon those who lived through it all. Those who chose to keep pushing forward. Living day by day by agonizing day and still finding a reason to move forwards - whether it be for some noble cause or simply the fear of death.
Raiden had learned this lesson better than most.
His body was covered in scars, nearly every inch of skin below the neck marked by the bullwhip of Peacekeeper Drusus Bischoff. The son-of-a-bitch lapdog to the much more apathetic Head Peacekeeper, Drusus happily took the more illicit tasks for himself - eager to do the dirty work of his betters.
Raiden remembers when he'd said it to the bastard's face. Watching pale skin flush red like the apples in the Orchard as spittle flew from Drusus's mouth in a rage. He'd received another ten lashings that day - and still had yet to utter a peep. He'd felt the anger. The fury in each strike of the whip, and yet the pain itself was nothing.
They didn't hurt anymore. Sure, they had at first. A ripe 9 years old was when Raiden had first crossed the Peacekeepers in Eleven - and ten lashes had been his punishment for lagging behind in the fields. But still, he hadn't cried out, showing a remarkable toughness for a boy at his age. He was carried on by one thing - pure, stubborn pride. To allow himself to scream, to cry out in pain would be tantamount to letting himself break. To letting the rot-brain whipping him win.
And Raiden would be damned if he ever let those boot-licking shitheads win while he still had anything to say about it.
That was probably why he was cutting work today, too. He'd woken up early while the sky was still black and the weather still cold, sneaking away from his own settlement. Walking miles and miles until he was in another township entirely - too far for Drusus to come and find him.
Perhaps it would come back to bite him tomorrow. More lashings in public, more scars on the body. But it mattered not. The rage on Drusus's face would be enough to keep him silent and content yet again as each harsh lash rained down upon his back.
They would never compare to the pain of having his warmth - his light - ripped away.
It had come in waves. A sick, perverse cycle of taking it away, giving it back, and then tearing it from his grasp once more.
It started with Seraj - larger than life itself and always ready and raring to go. Hot-headed, yes, but always ready to lay down his life for his family. And that is exactly what he had done.
Drusus had gone too far on a twelve-year-old Raiden, tripping him to the floor and then spitting on him, telling the young worker not to be lazy.
...
"Next time it's the whip, boy." Drusus spits, voice dripping with sadistic glee.
Raiden glares up, but remains silent. It was routine. He was used to it. Drusus wouldn't whip him for this - and even if he did, Raiden wouldn't give him the satisfaction of pain.
He was used to it.
But Seraj was not.
"Lay the fuck off of him, lapdog. Your master doesn't want his farmers too beaten to pick the fruit." Raiden remembers just how commanding Seraj had sounded. How angry. How proud. The words had actually taken Drusus aback, shock evident on his face.
"THE HELL'D YOU SAY TO ME?" Drusus had raised his voice and raised his gun. "I'LL BLOW YER' FUCKING HEAD OFF IF YOU MOUTH OFF AGAIN."
Seraj had struck a nerve - and was prudent enough not to press it further.
He raised his hands above his head...
And was met with a hail of bullets.
...
And Seraj had died in the field that day, killed by 7 shots to the chest. The thought is enough to cause Raiden to spit to the floor, stewing in his own anger as the memories flood back. The event had hardened Raiden to the world. Seraj had stood up for him - had opened himself up to protect Raiden - and he was executed where he stood for doing so. That's where that kind of emotion - that kind of connection - got you.
It sent a message to the rest of the family. Let Drusus have his way. Raiden was still his favorite victim, despite his lack of reaction. It was as if Drusus took Raiden's resilience as challenge. He wanted to see a boy as tough as Raiden McIntyre crumble into pieces.
For many more years, he never got close. He was indifferent to the world and to the emotions of others. Raiden's new personality caused him many a conflict within his cohort of workers, but this same indifference had also brought him to his second hope.
They'd bonded, as many in Eleven did, over their shared wounds. Raiden had gotten into a scuffle with a much larger man - and he did mean man. Raiden was only 14 at the time, and his opponent Tobias 32.
Raiden would not win this fight - but he wouldn't let Tobias off easily, either. He held his own, drawing blood and standing strong until Jeriah and Shant had come to break it up, along with Shant's friend Harvey Reed.
A kinder soul there had never been.
Never a man more willing to listen - more willing to take Raiden's struggles on as his own. Never a man more patient or forgiving or understanding of the outbursts and the struggles that Raiden had experienced.
And soon, that kind soul intertwined with Raiden's own battered spirit - the union known as love.
It had been a blissful period of healing. The greyscale world of Eleven had finally gained back some of its vibrant color.
Until that, too, was ripped away.
He was 17 this time. Five years removed from the death of Seraj.
It was ironic.
Harvey, after his relationship with Raiden had become public, had too become the subject of the Peacekeeper's ire. Raiden could still remember Seraj's death. His body falling to the floor in a hail of bullets.
He'd often wondered why Seraj had done it. Now, seeing Harvey pushed around, he understood.
It was for love. For the sake of your family, or your lover - you stood up. You fought.
His punishment? Not death - no. It would have been easier if he'd simply died right there.
...
"Raiden McIntyre. You've been issued a sentence of 30 lashings to be displayed to the general public, as a reminder of your misdeeds, to be delivered by Drusus Bischoff. Glory to Panem." The voice of the Head Peacekeeper reads, droning and dull and monotonous - this was a common affair, in Eleven. Drusus - the new 2nd in command, the bastard - stepped up, cruel smile revealing his crooked teeth.
Raiden clenches his jaw and prepares. Thirty was a lot - he'd only ever gotten this many once before - but it was nothing he couldn't handle.
Grit your teeth and bear it, Raiden.
10.
20.
30. It should be-
31.
There are cries from the crowd.
42.
Raiden's vision swims.
49.
Everything goes black.
He doesn't even get to see it happen. Fifty lashes had been given - twenty more than initially promised.
When he wakes up, the crowd is gone. Drusus is nowhere to be seen. It's completely empty.
Except for one body.
There's a bullet hole in the head, the body face down - but it doesn't matter, because Raiden can tell exactly who it is. The body he'd become so familiar with, the shape of his hair and the flare of the ribs and the crook of the neck.
Harvey Reed - his light - dead.
There's nobody around. Raiden is glad.
Because this finally breaks him.
Nobody hears him scream Harvey's name into the evening sky that night.
...
Raiden's fist slams into the shack behind him, the scars across his back aching along with the memory.
One day, one way, he'd get the opportunity to pay the bastard back. Not for his scars, but for Harvey's life. For Seraj's life.
It would all work out. He'd guarantee it.
"CADET RAFFERTY!"
As she had done every day for the better part of her teenage years, Melora suppresses a roll of her eyes. It would be the final time she ever had to do it.
She knew Odin Hellstorm was from Two - but she wasn't. Nobody here was. His insistence on using the terms designed for the brick-brains back in the Masonry District had always irked her, but she'd kept silent. Her occupation as a 'cadet' had been her life. Every waking hour of her life was occupied.
When the fields were closed down for the day and the harvests of Eleven were stolen from its people, many went home to sleep. To prepare for the next day. But a select few snuck out past dark, when the moon and the stars shone in the sky, casting a watery light down upon the district streets.
Out past the fields, brushing through tall grass as silently as could be, the most bitter and jaded youths of Eleven gathered, circling like crows. Disguised as a dilapidated warehouse was Odin Hellstorm's bunker. Behind some shipping crates and under a dusty old rug was the sprawling basement, harsh concrete and steel supporting the structure from beneath.
Hours and hours were spent sparring. Learning to wield scythes and sickles and swords and maces like extensions of the body, toughening up the youth of Eleven to prepare them for the inevitable.
"Major Hellstorm, sir."
Melora's voice is measured. Calm, yet with the unmistakable strength that differentiated her from the rest of the district. From those who weren't here. Many had resolved to bear the burdens that had been placed upon their shoulders. To accept the lashings and the cruelties and the mistreatment with smiles on their faces.
The fight had long since left the majority of Eleven. But those among Hellstorm's ranks were not among the majority. All of them seethed with an anger rooted deep inside. Each and every one of them had their own stories, their own tragedies that had led them into Odin's service.
Hadar Faraji. A year younger than Melora with twice the temper. He was the best fighter among all of the male cadets, but often had to be restrained by Melora and the others before he took that anger out on a passing peacekeeper and fucked the whole operation up. But, if Melora had gone through what he had, she would be angry, too. One of the new Keepers from Two had been drunk and had taken a fancy to his mother. She'd fled through the streets, screaming as he chased her until she made it back home, where Hadar's father stepped out to protect his family and his wife. He was shot dead on the spot, and his wife was hung after the officer had claimed he'd been chasing her because he'd seen her tuck a 'suspicious bag' into her boot. Nothing resembling the description was ever found.
Durian Solano. His older sister had been reaped for the 54th Games at age 14, when Durian himself was only 9 years old. He'd watched through teary eyes as she was cut down by the cackling witch from Two not 40 seconds into the bloodbath, the angle of the kill replayed over and over and over and over and over as the cotton-brained commentator yammered on and on about just how spectacular the blow had been. He was quieter than Hadar and not nearly as capable with a blade, but his quiet strength and his decisive nature were a source of comfort and of confidence for those who knew him.
Verbena Stamen.A beauty that made even Melora's heart waver. Exuberant and lively and whip-smart, she attracted those around her like flowers bending towards the sun's warm glow. But sometimes, the mask would slip. The scars on her arms told a different tale than the laughing, jovial Verbena everybody knew. She'd been caught attempting to flee Eleven with an accomplice - a lover, at the time. Verbena's late girlfriend Constance had taken the blame, stating that it had been her idea. That she'd dragged Verbena along. Verbena herself was sentenced to 40 lashes. Constance was publicly executed, her body riddled with bullets as Verbena could only look on in abject terror. And yet, her light still shone brightly, and Melora found herself thoroughly captivated - a thought that she kept to herself. It would be selfish - asking her to forget the woman who had saved her life. Asking her to pledge her love to a fellow cadet, doomed to die for Hellstorm's cause.
And then...
Melora Rafferty.Cold and despondent. A shell of her former self, the light fading faster from her eyes every day. Her father killed at work and his death brushed off by the owner of the factory. The Peacekeepers had told them to simply get over it. 'Accidents happen' had been the phrase. And then Eamon, stolen away for a Games of his own. He'd trained here, too. Made it far. Taken up Odin's cause of ensuring a rebel victory - and it had not been enough, because that year it had been the girl from One who'd snatched victory for herself. Eamon had died and his mission had failed - a tragedy on both fronts. Now, it was easier to set herself adrift. Become one of many. Blend her anger with the others and help them succeed where she felt that she no longer could.
Her story as an individual had ended. Now, her rage, her sadness, her resolve - it was to serve as fuel for the Rebellion. For Odin Hellstorm. Hadar. Durian. Verbena. Each and every face present alongside her. These were the people she had to help. What happened to Melora herself was no longer any of her concern.
"It's your last day as a Cadet. Tomorrow, you're either reaped or you age out, and then your training is complete. If you're reaped, you ensure it's you or another like you climbing out over that Arena. If you aren't, you help me work this place over from the inside. Do you accept your responsibility, Cadet Rafferty?"
Odin's words ring clear, baritone voice bouncing off the concrete walls surrounding the small army of trainees.
"I do, sir."
It was all for them.
"Good. Then, your graduation is official. Your hand, Melora."
They needed her. The machine needs its cogs to run.
Melora presents her hand, and Odin draws a thin blade.
The nation would topple one day, and she would have played her part.
Odin draws the blade across her palm, a thin line of blood following.
What did it matter if she had to forsake her own life? The needs of the others - the world - outweighed her own.
"Safe Tidings tomorrow, Melora." Odin speaks solemnly, nodding his head for her to leave the bunker for the final time.
She would make her life count.
"To think I was gonna whip you later today, McIntyre."
Raiden is positively fuming as he's torn from the crowd of 18 year olds, the other boys parting around him as Drusus Bischoff (and his 3 subordinates, of course - he wouldn't come for Raiden without his lackeys) drags him from the crowd. He'd seen the eyes of the wretched Peacekeeper Lieutenant light up the moment Raiden's name had been called out.
Raiden wasn't all that surprised. He'd withdrawn a substantial amount of tesserae to provide for a large family. That wasn't all too rare for Eleven but, combined with his age of 18, he had more slips in the bowl than most. Luck hadn't been enough to protect him, and now here he was, being led to near certain death by the man who he detested the most in this world.
And the worst part was that he still couldn't let himself break. The rage, the raw emotion welling up from deep within was reduced to a simple tremble in the arms, Raiden's fury visceral and barely contained.
"Guess you won't get the chance, bootlicker." Raiden snaps back, earning a harsh laugh from Drusus.
"Watch your mouth, boy, or I'll have to shut it for you."
Raiden is about to bite back with a scathing retort when a though dawns upon him.
Or what?
What would happen if Raiden kept going? Drusus would drag him off the stage and to the square for some more of his feeble lashes? Interrupt the ceremony?
Drusus was a harsh man. He did not take disrespect well - but he was not entirely above the law. There were layers to this. Things to think through, and Raiden's mind was working fast.
Would his family be punished? For a severe enough crime, yes. If he seriously injured Drusus or attempted to flee, the burden of punishment would move onto his siblings. Seeing one of them die had been enough.
But if there was any grey area? Anything that couldn't be directly linked back to him? Or perhaps an infraction so minor that targeting the McIntyre family would have Drusus stripped of his rank and dishonorably discharged from the Corps.
Scaling the steps now, an idea was brewing in his mind. One that brought a gleefully vicious smirk to his lips.
"Drusus."
Raiden's voice is flat, his tone even. Drusus looks at him quizzically, and Raiden relishes in the blank, confused expression on his face. The expression of a man who was used to absolute authority. The expression of a man who was about to find out that, in some cases, he was not untouchable.
Raiden meets his eyes.
And then spits in his face.
It's an easy task. At a staggering 6'1, Raiden stood above Drusus by just less than a head's length. Immediately, it's pandemonium. Drusus's smug expression has morphed into one of pure contempt and fury. He's screaming bloody murder, swearing and cursing and threatening to kill Raiden.
But his men hold him back.
Because Raiden is a tribute. Right now, for the first time in this life, he is irreplaceable. Drusus can't touch him.
Raiden's arms are seized by two other stage guards - two who are not under the command of Drusus Bischoff - and is hauled towards his position on the stage. He lets them do it. His eyes are fixed solely on Drusus, raving mad and still trying to break past the three men holding him back.
...
He would do.
Melora's walk to the stage had been much more... controlled than that of her District Partner. That isn't to say she wouldn't have enjoyed putting some of the Peacekeepers in their place - but she doesn't really have that choice anymore. Tensions had been raised threefold as her name was called and she moved wordlessly up to the stage.
There was no show with her. She was brutally unsurprised when her name was called. Hellstorm's Cadets were expected to take out copious amounts of tesserae. Eleven would look suspicious if they hosted regular volunteers - so the odds were stacked instead. Those old enough to fight and skilled enough to pose a real threat of victory were instructed to take out as many slips as they were allowed. More than they needed, usually, to ensure that one of them would worm their way into the Games.
In a way, Melora is almost fine with it. Her purpose, drilled into her for so long, had been supporting the rebellion discreetly. Training to become a part of the whole, where her individual life would become akin to one stalk of wheat in a sprawling field. One grape on one vine in a massive vineyard.
Insignificant, in the grand scheme of it all.
But in the Games, she might just be able to shed that notion entirely.
She was a cog in the machine, yes.
But a protector as well.
Each of Odin's charges were given a task. If you end up in the Games, you take charge as a protector. Find someone suitably rebellious and calculated. Someone who would push the Capitol's boundaries, but was smart enough not to break them. It was a fine balance.
But Melora's 'chosen one' might have just fallen right into her lap.
She could see the tightened muscle flexing in her partner's arms. The clenched jaw, the barely suppressed rage. Every one of her instincts told her that he was aching to beat that red-faced Peacekeeper down. Pound him into the dirt and allow him to nourish the soil beneath with his blood and his flesh.
But he'd resigned himself to something lesser - for the good of himself and for others. Taken the road that would grant both satisfaction and safety. He was smart enough to know the limits, to push them, but not to break them.
She'd have to survey the others, of course. The Careers would be out of the question, but many an outer district before had fielded Victors who weren't exactly picture-perfect loyalists. The 59th, in the past decade, had been a particularly notable one. A fluke that made her selection all the more important. He had been rage incarnate, unrestrained and unbound. She needed someone subtler than that, or her and the one she has chosen may be killed before they can become a problem.
Her partner - Raiden, his name had been - could be just that.
She makes to shake his hand, and he fixes her with an odd look - as if sizing her up and gauging her worth. But Melora notes the flicker of surprise in his eyes as her hand closes around his, the muscles in her arms flexing much harder than the boy across from her had imagined.
And he nods, jaw squared and eyes steely.
Yes. A voice whispers in her head. You could take him to victory. He could be the one.
She'll take her partner into consideration - but she had to meet the others first.
But... The voice whispers again, before she can shake it away. So could you.
And here they are... my longest chapter thus far. I've been wanting to write these two for so so so so so so so long since I've had their docs in and now's finally the time. I think these are by far two of my favorite concepts to explore and it was a joy getting to tackle them both simultaneously. Plans already in mind for these guys..
Thoughts on Raiden and Melora? How do you think they'll fare? Anything that sticks out about their initial introductions?
One District left... and then we're free from intro hell officially. Oh how I can not wait for that day.
That's all!
Until next time..
logangster out.