cecelia

07:15.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

You did not sleep for more than a few minutes through the night. Each time, you’d wake up gasping and screaming. Your legs would kick out and your hands would fly to your throat, ensuring that you can breathe. Each time, you’d be disappointed to find that you are alone.

Ellie and Ruben were both forbidden from leaving their compartments through the night, as Marlene did not wish for them to lose any sleep before this morning’s big mission. Unknowingly, all she accomplished was condemning them both to restlessness—Ellie due to Oakley’s wails, and Ruben due to his own inability to relax when he’s alone. 

When two guards file into your room with a metal tray of food, you find yourself curling away from them. Their masks are identical to the Peacekeepers’ only they’re a different color; you wonder if Marlene is aware of this, or if it’s just a horribly ironic coincidence. The guards which frequent your room are well aware of your distaste for their masks, and so they typically remove them prior to entry. Not these ones, though. These ones approach your cot with the masks firmly over their faces.

“We won’t hurt you, little light.” Says one of the guards as he lowers the tray onto your lap. The metal is cold. His hand lingers on your thigh for a moment, causing the other man to chuckle behind him. “We’re on your side now, right? We’re on your side.”

You have been in this situation more times than you can count during your stay in the Capitol. But only in the beginning, as Fedra quickly learned that you don’t play nice with touchy Capitolites. 

These men simply haven’t learned yet, you tell yourself. They don’t know.

Sometimes, Capitolites would visit you and touch you but they would eventually leave when you did not reciprocate. You hope that is what these men will do: leave once they are disappointed. Unfortunately for them, they push onward. 

The man’s hand travels higher up your leg as the shield over his face reflects your face back at you. It is oddly disturbing, looking into your own eyes as someone does this. He doesn’t get far, however, before your hand snaps up to grasp his wrist. His uniform is padded all around, but bones are bones and they break just as easily regardless of fabric. He shrieks with pain, staggering backward as he clutches his own awkwardly-bent arm. You are admittedly shocked by how easy it was to send a rebel-trained soldier away crying. His friend is not so facile.

As the first guard slumps against a nearby wall, speaking frantically into his walkie, his counterpart grows rough. He does not make the same mistake as the other man; this one does not underestimate you. He braces one knee on the side of your cot, sending the metal tray clattering to the ground and your breakfast spilling over the floor. He grabs at your shoulders, shoving you down into the pillows. He straddles your lap and leans forward. 

“You’ll have to try harder than that.” He whispers. “We were expecting to get a little sunburnt.”

You thrash your legs and buck your hips, but the guard does not falter. He holds your firm by the shoulders—but that is precisely his mistake. He should have held your arms down instead. Focusing on your shoulders means that your hands are free. 

You bite your tongue until you taste blood. Then again until you start to cry. You wait until he leans forward again, this time to coo something seductive and mocking into your ear. While his face is close, you take the opportunity to reach up and yank his mask from his face. He gasps, scrambling for it. But you have already dropped it to the floor beside your breakfast tray.

You look him in the eyes. The same guard who has been so sweet and gentle to you since your arrival is now pinned you to a bed. You are not shocked so much as disappointed. 

The man bares his teeth, reeling an arm back. He punches you across the jaw once, twice, three times before you gather sense enough to surge forward. Your forehand collides with his and he groans, but does not stop. So you move to the side, just slightly—and just quickly enough that he does not notice until it is too late. Until his head is gushing blood and you are spitting his ear onto the ground. He screams, grasping at his own skull and stumbling backward as his voice goes raw.

“You are both weaker than any little girl I’d ever met.”

Before either can react, your door is being thrown open, the handle banging against the wall. A triad of soldiers file into the room, all their masks already removed. They take one glance around the room: you, smiling with blood drooling from your mouth, and the two guards, both on the ground writhing in pain. 

It doesn’t take long before you’re being handcuffed and escorted to Marlene.

08:21.

THE CAPITOL.

Ellie is not a soldier today, she is a character in Marlene’s play. 

Squad 451 was informed this morning that they would not be fighting in the Capitol for their country’s freedom; instead, they would be flashing smiles and pretty words at a camera—as usual. She really shouldn’t have expected anything different, but she’d been hoping to be of importance in the chapter of the Capitol’s official downfall. Everyone else remains moderately composed, though Ellie is seething.

“Lighten up,” chimes Jesse as he approaches her. She’s currently pouting, sitting on the ground as she flicks pieces of gravel into the grass. He sits down beside her, nudging her shoulder with his own. “Perhaps we won’t be risking our lives to save a ton of ungrateful Capitolites– so what? We get to spend our time getting pampered, instead of trying not to die.”

She sighs heavily; perhaps dramatically. Her head falls between her knees and she stares at the little spikes of grass growing between cracks in the pavement. “You don’t get it, Jesse. I’ve been acting like a goddamn symbol of peace for the past year and a half. But if I’m being completely honest, peace is the last thing I want.”

“I do get it.” His voice is suddenly much more serious than it’d been when he first approached her. She risks a tilt of her head. She rests her temple against her knees as she watches Jesse struggle to straighten out his thoughts. “I have a son now, and he’s waiting for me back in Thirteen. I don’t want to shake Fedra’s hand and ask for a royal pardon. I want his head on a spike and his dick on a kabob.”

She laughs at that, unable to help herself. Jesse smiles, tipping his head back to gaze at the sky—clear enough that he could drown in it. She watches as his smile slowly evanesces, replaced by solemnity. 

“JJ deserves to live in a world better than the one we grew up in.” He tells her. “One where he doesn’t fear his twelfth birthday, and he doesn't have to watch his friends get murdered on television. I want him to blow out birthday candles with a smile. I want his television to show bright colors with hand puppets and talking animals. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Neither did we.”

For a long time, they sit in silence. On the curb of an abandoned street in the Capitol, they allow the weight of such a truth to stretch and expand in the space between them. Ellie wonders, for the first time in a long time, what her life would be like without the Games. 

Riley would still be alive, and she would be laughing. Maybe they would hunt on the weekends, or maybe they wouldn’t—because, without the Capitol starving out the districts, they would never have had to learn how to hunt to survive. They would get into petty arguments about who stole whose shirt, instead of their fights ending with an axe to the brain. They would have been able to laugh in the woods without fearing a Peacekeeper shooting them dead. Ellie would have been able to see what Riley looked like when she grew old.

Marlene would perhaps not hate Ellie so much as she does now. Without the rebellion stuffing her full with an insatiable hunger for power, perhaps Marlene would be a pleasant woman. Somehow, Ellie doubts it. 

Or maybe, if Ellie were to go even farther back into her past than that, she would never have had to be raised by Marlene if her mother never died. And, without the Hunger Games, perhaps her mother would have had access to a hospital in District Seven and the childbirth would not have killed her. Ellie has long since overcome the grief of not having real parents but, for some reason, the wounds now feel fresh—like a bruise which only aches when pressed on. And, boy, did she press: thinking about an alternate reality in which she had loving parents, all while caged away in the capital during a civil war. Yeah, someone needs to teach her when to stop pondering on shit like that.

“Gather ‘round!” Tommy shouts from across the field. 

The group isn’t as small as it typically is during her campaigns, but it’s not nearly as large as the other troops which were actually sent here to fight rather than smile. Marlene almost refused to send Tommy on the mission for fear of losing her most trusted advisor but—upon his and his wife’s insistence to not be separated—she acquiesced. Robert and Maria are both present for the sake of having the propaganda footage be collected properly. Alongside them is a crew of about five stylists and three cameramen. Dina, Jesse, and Ruben are all here too, of course. All the victors are; even those who should perhaps have not yet been dispatched from the medical bay. 

Yasmin was not taken by the Capitol, but if you ask Ellie, she has always had a screw loose. One which would prevent a less influential person from accompanying on a mission which could very well change the tides of this war. But alas, Ellie was not included in the planning for this particular job. Stephen and Cecil were also both brought along, for appearance’s sake. Being the faces of District Twelve, Marlene thought that their insight into the tragic destruction of their home could make for some good footage. 

And, most controversially, the triad of maltreated victors: Thea, Penelope, and Abigail. The three of them have improved drastically from when they were first brought to Thirteen, but they’re not entirely yet whole. Thea is the most improved, though she was deemed the least impaired from the start. She seems almost herself, bar the severe flinching at abrupt movements and sounds. Penelope—despite now being mute and partially blind—is also pretty resemblant of her past-self. So, really, it’s Abigail who is the main issue. Ellie is biased of course, but no one could possibly deny that she is the least sane of the three. She still mumbles in her sleep about god, and cannot walk without pausing to rest every few minutes. 

And that’s the golden group. Honestly, as much as Ellie wishes she could fight, it would be an absolute nightmare if she were to attempt it with this particular crowd. She might as well jump off a mountain—the likelihood of survival would be around the same.

“Listen up!” Tommy shouts again once everyone has formed a circle around him. “I ain’t gonna pepper y’all with kisses ‘n tell ya this’ll be easy ‘cause it won’t. We might’ve been put into Marlene’s pretty lil’ propaganda unit, but we’re still in an active war zone. There are landmines everywhere and some of the buildin’s have even been infested with spores, which are a dangerous and poisonous gas that’ll kill ya if ya breathe it in. Which is why everyone was given a mask on the way here.”

“Also,” Maria chimes in, “we have reason to believe that the Capitol might have released mutts into the outer city. We will not enter this city until tomorrow morning, but it is a good thing to keep in mind.”

A few of the non-victors shudder at the notion of having to face something like this. The stylists appear especially shaken by the image, eyes blown wide and jaws slackened. Ellie wonders if their group will truly face these atrocities or if Tommy and Maria are simply hoping to scare the group into something more formidable. She would not blame them for the latter, considering most of the members have been gallivanting around like headless chickens unless a camera is on them. But to imagine the former—to imagine facing a clicker or man-eating mountain goat after so long of believing they were left in Ellie’s past—is almost too terrible to bear.

08:55.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

“I received an extremely disturbing report this morning.” 

Marlene is standing on the opposite side of the room, seeming to not desire lowering herself to engage with filth like you—which is hilarious considering she was born into rags and poverty while you were born into an aureate crib flooded with praise. Your parents would loathe to see you like this: chained like vermin to a concrete wall, being stared down by a poor little woman from Seven. Perhaps all of their fears were not so unfathomable as you’d have believed them to be. Perhaps interacting with Seven as you did is what got you here, but you cannot recall very much from that time and so you must merely trust that your past-self did what was best. You must trust that it was worth it—worth this.

“I cannot recall anything very eventful taking place this morning, can you?” You respond, tilting your head as though this entire thing were vaguely amusing. It’s not, of course, because it reminds you far too keenly of the Capitol. But you would rather drown than allow Marlene the pleasure of knowing that her scare tactics are working. Plus, you think she already knows. 

Your wrists are manacled to a length of chain that pulls them toward the ceiling. Similarly, your ankles are bound together with the same thick metal. You think it’s rather overkill, if you’re honest, but you Marlene would know nothing of that. Considering she has never had to fight a day in her life, she does not know how to gauge what your strength means. So she treats you like an animal, for fear of you behaving like one. If you were to strike her, she could do nothing to defend herself. All of her defenses reside purely within her guards. And all of her best ones are currently fighting a war in the Capitol.

“You bit a man’s ear off.” 

You grin at her, the lower half of your face still stained crimson. You lick your lips and the man’s crusted blood flakes onto your tongue. It’s horribly disgusting, even to your standards, but you hardly mind when the outcome is exactly as desired. Marlene visibly baulks, her entire body going rigid as her eyes trace the movement of your mouth. Good. You lean forward, ignoring the chafe of metal against your skin. “Did I?”

“Yes.” She flattens her hands down the front of her shirt. “Not only did my men find the mangled cartilage on your floor, but his partner attested to it. You acted completely demented and I cannot allow such insanity to run free in my district.”

“Ah, but it’s not your district is it?”

Again, she tenses. “What are you babbling about?”

“See, I’ve only been here for a few months and I’ve not even been permitted to leave the medical bay, and yet I can observe that the power does not reside wholly in your hands, Miss President. You are a rational and powerful woman, yes, but you are not a scary one. You elicit nothing in your people. Not the way Ellie does. She gives them hope for a life after this war. She talks to them and eats with them and, for that, they can see themselves in her. They love her. But you? Oh, you’re nothing. If you were to die in this war, it would be a minor inconvenience. Luckily for you, Ellie is moral enough to not immediately seize control of your beloved district. She would grieve your loss and that would be the only reason your people would spare a second to mourn you: in condolences to her. In the end, however, she would refuse power because she saw what it did to you. So they would hold an election instead. I predict that Tommy Miller would be elected president in your stead and, fuck, would he do a damned good job at it. Much better than you ever did, at least.”

Marlene’s thick-heeled shoes click against the floor as she approaches you. She is so poise and clean that, for a moment, you are naive enough to think that she would not dirty her own hands in hurting you. You expect her to say something snide, then call a guard in to do the dirty work of torture. Alas, Marlene is still a bit of a mystery to you. Her district is not, and nor is the corrupt power which is currently rotting away all semblance of humanity within her soul. But Marlene herself is wholly foreign to you. So when the back of her hand collides with your jaw, it is a mild shock.

Your head snaps to the side, and a bubble of laughter sparks from your chest. You cannot help it. She is so determined on being different than Fedra that she is unaware that even their hits feel the same. The same sting blooms across your cheekbone, the same line of blood traces down your skin, the same disappointed tut comes from their lips right after. She even calls a guard forward with a handkerchief to clean her hand off afterward, just as he does.

“You have threatened my guards and, in doing so, you have threatened my district as a whole.” She speaks plainly, but you know that she is trembling. You doubt anyone has ever spoken so bluntly to her as you just have. She takes two steps backward and you lift your head to meet her gaze with as much dignity as you can muster from so far below. “If you were anyone else, I would have you exiled from my district. You would live in the deadly woods which surround this place, struggling for food and for shelter until you eventually die alone and cold. But you are a victor of the Hunger Games and therefore would likely thrive in such an environment. I do not wish you to thrive; I do not wish you even to live. But you are stubborn, so you will anyway.”

You laugh at that, deliriously pleased to know that Marlene is aware of your resilience. But that’s before she calls a second guard forward. This time, with a small boy waddling beside him. Every ounce of valor drains from your chest and you are reduced to a pleading mess. You thrash against the chains, screaming as Marlene lifts Oakley—your son, your boy, your baby, your life—into her arms. 

She runs the sharp nail of her index finger down the side of his soft face. He squirms away from her, already beginning to whine. You beg her through sobs to set him down. You promise that she can hurt you all she wants, that you will tell her what the Capitol did so that she may repeat it. You yank and yank and yank against the chains. Oakley watches you with wide eyes, clearly unsure what is happening. He starts to cry, rivulets of tears running down his rosy cheeks—rosy like Remy’s.

“You see, I do have power here.” Marlene nicks Oakley’s cheek with her ring, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. It drips slowly down his pale, porcelain skin. “And, because you are far too stubborn to die, I will make living just as bad as death.”

She hoists Oakley into the air, holding him under the arms as he squirms and whines and cries. You cannot breathe. You hunch over, gasping and choking on empty air. But you refuse to take your eyes off your son for even a moment. Ellie lived here for a year with Marlene, during which you assumed she’d been docile and obedient to her parental figure. You had not even imagined that she was doing it to protect Oakley. 

“It’s great to finally meet you, Oakley.” Marlene coos as her fingers dig into his sides just hard enough to make him wiggle. “I’m your grandmother, though I doubt either of your moms ever officially told you about me.”

“Please–”

“Shh shh,” Marlene holds up a finger in your direction to silence you. Pathetically, it works and so you fall quiet at her mercy. “I won’t hurt him, little light.”

Everything suddenly falls into place, doing so too quickly for you to catch all of the pieces. 

The men at your door were never randomized. In the beginning, they were on a rotation so that Marlene might avoid you growing too comfortable with any. But then she saw merit in doing so. Because, if you felt comfortable with two men entering your room thrice a day, that gave her an immense amount of power—enough so to elicit an assault from you. One so bad that she would have reason enough to punish you. Oh, and she timed it perfectly: Ellie and Ruben are both away on a trip, Oakley is left completely defenseless.

“M-momma…?” is Oakley’s final cry as he is taken away in the hands of a monster.

19:35.

THE CAPITOL.

The day wanes on in increments, like a snail with nowhere to go but forward. The work which the group is forced into pulling through is not hard but it’s tedious. Recordings upon recordings of Ellie shooting an arrow, only for Robert to remain unsatisfied with the footage. 

They march through the Capitol, slowly making their way toward the outer ring of the city. Despite having been walking all day, it remains far in the distance—unreachable. The sun beats down on Ellie’s shoulders, dragging sweat along her hairline and her brow. And her heavy black uniform does little to help. She feels drowsy with heat exhaustion, but her job is not to sit in the shade and drink water, it’s to stand right under the sun and shoot these damn arrows until Robert is pleased.

“That was closer,” he says while replaying the most recent shot, “but not yet perfect.”

Ellie groans, thudding her head back against the trunk of the tree she is propped against. Ruben is beside her, fanning her face with an oversized leaf. He turns toward Robert with a deepened frown. “Why don’t we all take a break and get some rest? I understand how important this is, but you’re overworking everyone here.”

Robert, for all his faults, has grown less rigid in the time Ellie has known him. No longer does he lash out at the smallest criticism; no longer does he pull her aside to demean her. If she were being wholly honest, she would have to admit that he’d become a decent enough guy. He’s learned how to laugh and smile and take a joke; he’s even started to see that Marlene is perhaps not the perfect goddess he’d formerly deemed her to be.

“Fine.” He surrenders with a wave of his hands. But when he passes by to grab a bottle of water, Ellie can see that he’s just as doused in sweat as she is. He slumps against the crumbling wall of an abandoned building, breathing deeply. “Just for a few minutes, though.”

Ellie takes what she can get, allowing a small smile to crawl onto her face as she relaxes against the tree trunk. The sun is not so vicious when she is hiding under the canopy, but she is admittedly peeved that this is not a species of tree that can be found in Seven. She typically enjoys being near foliage, as it reminds her of the time she’d once spent with Riley in the woods. But this tree is an anomaly; a Capitolistic abomination.

The group relishes in the momentary rest period, though Ellie was the one doing almost all of the work—aside from Robert and his trio of cameramen, who had to run around to get different angles of the arrow being released. But, if you ask her, it’s their fault for becoming cameramen. They signed up for tedious exhaustion, she signed up for none of this. And yes, she is in a bit of a foul mood due to the heat. But nothing she is thinking right now is particularly wrong, it’s just a bit crueler than she’d typically be.

“May I sit here?” 

Ruben and Ellie lift their heads in unison, wearing equal faces of shock when they find Thea to be looking down on them both. She holds her prosthetic left arm in her right hand, allowing it to dangle from her fingers in a rather grotesque manner. She is looking down at Ruben, eyes sharpened to a point. He does not immediately move at Thea’s request; instead, he turns to Ellie and waits for approval to leave her alone with Thea, who, no doubt, despises her. Only when Ellie nods at him does Ruben finally stand from the ground with a grunt and meander away, providing them privacy but remaining close enough to attack—if need be. 

Thea takes a step forward before lowering herself into the grass beside Ellie. There is a long pause during which neither of them are brave enough to speak—that, or neither is yet certain on what to say. Or maybe not. Knowing Thea, she likely already has an entire speech prepared and is just biding her time in order to unnerve Ellie. If that’s the case, it’s working. 

She picks a blade of grass from the soil, turning it over and over in her hand. She spins an invisible ring around her index finger, round and round again. Really, she’s just scratching at her skin because there’s no actual band around her knuckle. Finally—finally—Thea begins to speak.

“You never watched the footage from the Quell, did you? You never saw how horribly your absence affected her.” Thea does not need to clarify who she is referring to; they both already know. “My memories are a bit skewed, but I still know reality from fabrication. You were everything to her—and you left. Because of that, she was taken by the Capitol and tortured for a year. And now that she has returned, she is treated like a monster. Like something to be isolated and caged, to be feared. You expect her to forgive you and accept you back into her arms as a loving, doting wife. You don’t deserve that. You should be the one isolated and caged. You should be the one everyone fears.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” Ellie’s voice is hardly above a whisper. She stares down at the dirt beneath her fingers and tries to convince herself of her own words. “It wasn’t my fault that she was taken.”

“No?” Thea laughs. “I’ve watched the footage from the Quell. I’ve watched it over and over, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. And, each time, I arrive at one single answer: when you left. Had you stayed by our side, everything would have been different. Y/n would not have gone insane after Ruben lost his leg if you were there to console her. So then she would have been more level-headed and better fit for combat when the Peacekeepers arrived. So then she would not have gotten taken so easily.”

The logic is a bit disjointed, but it makes sense enough that Ellie cannot materialize a sound argument against it. If she were by your side instead of chasing fruitlessly after Abigail, your entire experience within the arena would have been ameliorated drastically. And, if she were to go by Thea’s logic, then, yes, it could very well have prevented all of this. 

“There’s no way to change the past, Thea. What’s done is done, we can only move forward.”

Again, she laughs. “Is that what your therapist told you?”

“I’m just saying that there’s no point pondering how things could be different. We need to accept what has happened and try to overcome it. Otherwise, you’ll just end up in a bottomless pit of regret.”

“There’s no point? Really? Do you truly think I calculate all of these variables because I deem them to be worth my time? I do it because it is all I can stand to do. I’m not sure if you noticed, Ellie, but I have no family left living and no friends left sane. Waking each morning is a battle against myself which I desperately hope that I lose. That way, I might find a semblance of peace in death. I might reunite with my mother and my little sister, I might see all of my friends again, and I might feel a sliver of contentment.” Anger bleeds through her voice, seeping in each word that flees her lips. “The medics say I got off lucky because I didn’t go insane in the Capitol, but they don’t understand what it’s like to live with the burden of all which I’ve survived. They don’t understand that I would have preferred to be a babbling mess like Birdie because at least she isn’t able to comprehend the complexities of the world. Maybe once a week, I hold a knife in front of my heart but cannot bring myself to push it through my ribs. I don’t fear the pain, nor do I dread death. I fear that I won’t push it deep enough, that I’ll be brought back and I’ll have to face the world once more.”

Ellie doesn’t know what to say. She wants to cry and offer advice, but she knows that’s not what Thea needs—nor is it even what she wants. Nothing she could say would make any of this better. Her entire family is dead and her only friend in the world has gone insane. Thea has no one left to love, and no one left to mourn.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re still here.” Ellie says, to which Thea scoffs and prepares to leave. Immediately, Ellie reaches out to grab her arm. “You didn’t let me finish. I’m glad you’re here because you mean a lot to me as a friend, sure, but I’m also glad you’re here because you deserve to watch as Fedra is killed. You deserve to live in a world that he no longer occupies. You deserve to breathe air that isn’t shared with his lungs. Thea, I promise that all the people you’ve lost will be rightfully avenged.”

She pulls her arm out of Ellie’s grasp, but not as rough as expected. In truth, she appears to be more disappointed than angry. “You cannot possibly promise such a thing. Not in a world like–”

“Get down!” Tommy’s scream is louder than the gunshots that suddenly echo across the block. 

Peacekeepers, she thinks, they’ve found us. Windows shatter overhead and fickle walls crumble like sand. Everyone in the group is suddenly diving behind the nearest structure, or under the nearest cover. 

Ellie wastes no time in grabbing Thea by the shoulders and dragging her into a dilapidated building. It reminds her keenly of the first arena, what with glass crunching under her boots and the tangy scent of rot filling her nostrils. She tries not to tremble as she presses her back against the wall, listening as the Peacekeepers search the area for the rebels they tracked down.

The sour air suddenly is too thick for Ellie to inhale. She breathes heavily through her mouth, shutting her eyes in an attempt to place herself somewhere else—anywhere else. A few bullets crack through the air, and it’s all she can do to hope that they were not fatal. She thinks of Ruben, lying dead in the grass. She thinks of Jesse and Dina, bleeding out somewhere they can never see their son again. She thinks of Tommy, always so similar to Joel, with his head bashed in the side.

A firm hand on her knee brings her back to reality. Thea holds her gaze, steady and unwavering. Ellie manages to nod, assuring that she’s okay. Thea removes her hand, but it’s clear that she’s struggling with all of this as well. Her lips are thinned and her posture is rigid. But if can have a sound enough mind to persevere through this, so can Ellie.

For a long time, there is only silence. Ellie counts her breaths, measuring the time as it passes. Thea remains tense, even though the Peacekeepers have likely long since moved on.

A sudden pair of footsteps are heard approaching the building that they’re in. Whoever it is, they’re running. Ellie reaches for an arrow, unsure how helpful it would even be against a Peacekeeper who’s practically wearing a suit of armor. In the end, the person isn’t even able to cross the threshold before a bullet has wedged itself in their skull. Their body falls forward, thudding against the floor—half outside, half inside. Their blood, thick and warm, seeps slowly toward Ellie’s feet. 

When her eyes fall onto the victim’s face, she has to press both of her hands against her mouth to stop herself from either screaming or vomiting; perhaps both. Still, she manages to elicit a small sound that causes Thea to also press a hand over Ellie’s mouth. Together, they stifle her sobs as best they can with Jesse’s blank eyes staring back at them.

02:43.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

When the door opens again, you dread the face staring back at you. For a moment, you allow yourself to believe that it’s someone benign—someone who does not wish to see you hurt. Instead, as always, it is Marlene standing in the doorway. She is holding a piece of paper in her right hand which is neatly folded into a small square. You wonder if it bears the mark of her approval to have you exiled; or, even better, publicly executed.

She remains in the doorway, allowing the blinding light from the hall to pour in around her silhouette. You blink furtively, trying to let your eyes adjust to the sudden light after so many hours spent in the dark. Even when the guards were sent to douse you in water and shock you just for Marlene’s amusement, they did so in the dark. You’ve long since dried, but your nerves continue to twitch and spasm—though you’re used to that by now.

“I received this letter from Tommy a few hours ago. I knew immediately that you would be interested in its contents. Alas, I waited until nightfall before relaying the information simply because, well, I have the power to. That, and I enjoy watching you squirm.” 

She unfolds the paper, clearing her throat before beginning to read at a deliberately agonizing pace. Her words are slow and careful, taking time purely for the sake of pissing you off.

“‘To Marlene, I won’t waste time with pleasantries because, frankly, I don’t care for ‘em. But also ‘cause this ain’t the time nor place to be wastin’ any sort of time. I’m writin’ to you to relay news of the deaths of six of our group members. They’ve all been shot ‘n killed by Peacekeepers. We didn’t know that some of the security cameras in the evacuated towns still worked. But they do. And, because of that, we lost six good men. I hope that you’ll provide the necessary compensation for their families’ losses. Here are the names of those who were killed: Nerwen Harte, Catell Isley, Ludo Lave, Ascall Petley, Taviel Rowdon, and Jesse Woodward. The first four of ‘em were stylists who gave their lives fightin’ for the rebels even though they were raised in the Capitol. Taviel was a cameraman from District Nine. He has three daughters, a wife, and his older sister all livin’ in Thirteen. And lastly, Jesse. A good friend of mine and a two-time victor of the Hunger Games with a wife on mission ‘n an infant son livin’ in Thirteen. You’re a good woman, Marlene, so I expect you’ll do the right thing: give these families your condolences ‘n send aid as soon as possible. From, Tommy.’”

Marlene folds the paper back into fourths, taking her time to slide it into the breast pocket of her blazer. All the while, she keeps her eyes trained firmly on you. She watches every little expression that crosses your face. You know she is disappointed, too, because you were taught to hide your emotions from a very young age—you let nothing show. So, in a need to always have the upper hand, Marlene steps closer.

“Imagine how poor little Ellie feels.” She says, her voice dropping to a musing coo as she walks back and forth in front of you. “Watching one of her best friends get shot in the head ought to be hard. I wonder if it happened in front of her. I wonder if she wished it were her in his place.”

You grit your teeth to stop from shouting at her. Marlene wants to hold all the power, and it’s your fault for antagonizing her into holding this quantity of loathing for you. Had you kept your damn mouth shut, she’d probably have left you here to rot without caring to torment you. Had you kept your mouth shut, Oakley would not be in such danger as he is. At the thought of his chubby little face, you bite your pride and give her what she wants: you pretend to cave under her taunts.

“Please.” You drop your head between your shoulders, practically bowing down to her—the picturesque display of submission. “You win, Marlene, just– please just don’t hurt me anymore. You win.”

Her heels click against the floor as she stalks forward. You listen to the fabric of her pants shuffle as she crouches down in front of you. She grasps your chin between her fingers, lifting your eyes to meet her own. You bite your tongue in the same spot you’d bit it this morning: just enough to draw tears to your eyes. For good measure, you tremble your lower lip. 

She tuts, “oh you’re such a pitiful little thing.”

If Oakley’s life was not on the line, you’d bite clean through her thumb. Instead, you continue to cry and let her wipe a tear from your cheek. It’s pathetic, really, how easily fooled she is. Considering you faked your way through your first Hunger Games, she should know by now how adept you are at falsification. Alas, power—like decay—does strange and terrible things to even the brightest of minds. 

“Luckily for you, little light, you’re going to be reunited with your estranged.” She says, patting you on the cheek. “You are going to serve on a very special mission. While the rest of squad 451 are on direct orders to behave as a propaganda unit, you are going to be my little soldier. You will wear a camera and microphone on your vest at all times, allowing me to keep eyes and ears on the group. If you remove or damage either of them, Oakley will pay the price for your misdeeds. You will be tasked with the job of killing Fedra, but you will allow the rest of the group to believe that you’ve merely been sent as retribution for the loss of Jesse Woodward—a replacement, of sorts.”

She releases your chin and calls for her guards. Two of them file into the room and hastily unlock the cuffs around your wrists and ankles. You collapse against the floor, your body spent and fatigued at having been suspended for so long. 

“Any questions?” Marlene asks.

You lift your gaze to find her staring down at you, head tilted. You consider killing her right now. You could probably do it, too. It would be so easy to wrap your hands around her throat until she suffocated; or snap her neck like breaking a stick. But, on the off chance that you fail, it would be Oakley who’d have to pay for it. So instead, you remain in the frame of that picturesque docility.

“No,” you respond, “none.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong. @firefly-ace

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.   @monki-nat.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevslover   @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia.    @abby-anderson-wifey.    @imdeletingthisaccount1. @sillyloafff. @d1psht. @chappellroankisser. @aphrodyk3. @lovececillie. @fleurdels. @avalovesmus1c. @201sweetgiverface. @lovestay-woozi17. @seasonsofchaos

18:00.

THE CAPITOL.

The color gold is prohibited in the Capitol. All the aureate utensils have been replaced with silver; all the gilded architecture has been felled. No longer does there reside an inch of gold in Fedra’s Capitol, because no longer does there reside an inch of a threat to Fedra’s Capitol.

Each of the lower districts have been overcome with spores and mutts. The rot has infested all sorts of animals, both big and small: dogs, cats, deer, mice. Thus, there is no possibility that any of the residents have survived—which alleviates a burden from Fedra’s chest. He is now able to sleep at night knowing that there are no little girls training to destroy him in Four, nor any little girls rising to dismantle the Capitol in Seven. With no districts intact, there are no threats. With no threats, there is no chance that his empire will fall.

“A sennight ago, Ellie Williams was shot while fleeing District Nine.” Says Commander Lysander, raising his silver glass with a flourish. His yellow eyes meet Fedra’s, convivial. “The rebels’ symbol is dead, sir.”

A ripple of support washes around the table. The other officials take to raising their own glasses with their own thin smiles. Fedra does not reciprocate. Once the officials notice his stagnancy, their smiles drop as well as their hands. They sit in silence for a long time, waiting for someone to break the tension; to explain why Commander Lysander’s comment is undeserving of presidential celebration.

“The symbol is dead, you say?” His voice carries through the room without needing to be raised. He lifts his glass to his mouth, and no one dares to assume it is a jubilation so much as a mock.

“Indeed, sir.” Commander Lysander’s tone is much less confident in the face of contradiction. He attempts to remain firm in his gaiety, but Fedra sees right through him. Right to the marrow. “If her wife had not killed her, her own arrogance did.”

“Of course.” Fedra places his glass on the table with a light clink. “This is the same asinine thinking which led you to send our best Peacekeepers into District Nine, foolishly hoping to neutralize both Miss Williams and Miss L/n in one clean sweep. But it was not as clean as you had hoped, was it? Although every last one of those Peacekeepers fell to the rebels that day, the rebels are not who condemned them. No, that was you. Commander Lysander, you have quite the habit of burying people before they’re dead. If Ellie Williams were gone, the rebels would already be using her as a martyr.”

The air sits stale and silent around them. No one dares glance at one another, though it is obvious that they want to. They want to gauge their peers’ reactions so as to better hide their own. And this desire only multiplies when Commander Lysander begins choking. 

“It will not be long before the rebels make a move on my Capitol.” He must raise his voice now in order to be heard over the commander’s gags and wheezes. He gazes around the table, gauging the officials’ reactions in a way which they can only wish to do. “We shall evacuate the outer city and let them in. I want all aircraft defenses ready so that we are secure from the sky. Lure them close. Then our Gamemakers shall make them pay for every inch with blood. I want every camera watching. We will turn their pacifistic revolution into a celebration of suffering.”

When Fedra stands from his chair, an Avox is already rushing forward to pull it back for him. Each person around the table watches as their president crosses the room toward the hallway. His steps echo against the pristine tile flooring. When he is halfway out the door, Commander Lysander Estrada takes his final breaths with his face pressed against a glistening table. 

There is a Peacekeeper standing sentry outside of Fedra’s office when he reaches it. 

“Send for Commander Lysander’s family.” He says while brushing past the uniformed man. “I want his wife, his children, his brother, and his father all executed at dawn.” 

“Yes, sir.”

19:06.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

“The world believes that you are dead.” Marlene’s voice is disgustingly excited about that fact. The footage of Ellie being shot in the back was filmed by a tiny camera pinned to one of the Peacekeeper’s uniforms. From there, it has been shown all across the country. Everyone is under the same assumption that the rebels’ symbol is dead. And Marlene, in particular, has been obsessing over it. “We can use that, Ellie. We can–”

“Stop.” Ellie leans forward, her ribs aching at the motion. “I will not listen to someone who risked mine and my wife’s lives last week. You sent us to District Nine knowing we’d likely not make it back. If you put no value on my life, why should I listen to you?”

Something in Marlene steels at that. All prior excitement in her voice fades away, leaving room only for the stern intonation of a ruler—a tyrant. “Had you permitted me to finish, you’d have understood that this plan will benefit more than only myself. You will be sent to the Capitol; you will be given what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want, Marlene.” She sneers. “You know nothing about me.”

“No. But I know this.” Marlene’s eyes narrow into small slits which resemble that of a snake moments before it strikes. Ellie wonders, sometimes, how bad it would be to simply allow herself to be ruined. How bad it would be to just give up this endless fight and die. “Since the moment you were brought to District Thirteen, you’ve been begging at my feet to be sent to the Capitol. First, you wanted Y/n back. And so I rescued her for you. Now, you want vengeance for what they’ve done. And so I am offering you this: a mission to infiltrate the Capitol and help bring ruin to Fedra’s regime.”

She wonders what it would be to give up. To stand from this chair and shout every last insult she’d been storing for the past year. She wonders what Marlene’s face would contort into upon hearing the truth. She wonders how many guards would be called in to seize her—to bring her to the basement and torture her the way they tortured Alice and Tilly. She wonders whether it would be worth it, to risk everything for a moment of satisfaction. 

And perhaps she might have done it: given up everything she’d worked so hard to maintain solely because she is so fucking tired of being the symbol to a war she never wanted to fight. But she doesn’t. Because you’re here. And she knows Marlene would not stop at physical torture; she would need to break Ellie’s mind and spirit as well. And what better way to do that than to torture you in front of her? To kill you in front of her?

But there’s another reason, too. And it’s also affiliated with you.

Last week, Oakley said his very first word. Since then, he has not stopped babbling on and on about his momma. It was endearing at first, to listen to him talk about you as obsessively as Ellie thinks about you. It was so beautiful to hear his voice after so long of fearing that it would never be found. But the repetition quickly got old when he would not sleep or eat without crying, “momma, momma, momma!” so she did the only thing she could think to do: she brought him to his momma. 

And then, as one might assume, he fell silent for the first time in three days. He sat in your lap with a contentment that could never be found elsewhere. His head fell onto your shoulder and he slept for the first time in two nights. You cuddled him and cradled him and cooed at him. But, oh, you were so fucking scared. 

Ellie could see it in the way you breathed and the way you blinked. Every little action you took was done in fear of breaking him. You rubbed his back without really touching his skin; you kissed his head without really daring to look. When he woke, you’d not slept a wink. You’d stayed up all night watching him, making sure your body didn’t try to hurt him. It didn’t—which felt obvious to Ellie, who knew your body must recognize him; but was shocking to you, who no longer trusted yourself to touch anything without shattering it.

Every night since then, Ellie has to bring Oakley to your room in order for him to sleep. Otherwise, he will happily keep her awake all night as he cries your name without reprieve. And, each night, she has watched from a chair in the corner as you slowly grow used to the weight of your son in your arms. She typically falls asleep in the chair, waking each morning with a kink in her neck. But sometimes, you’ll whisper-yell her name until she jolts awake. And she tries not to be frustrated when you ask, “will you stay awake, please? I don’t want to hurt him. But if you’re awake, I know you’ll stop me if I try.” 

Needless to say, sleep very seldom visits Ellie’s restless mind. If it is not Oakley keeping her awake, then it’s you. But she’d be lying to say she wanted it any other way. Even when sleeping in an uncomfortable chair across the room, she sleeps more soundly in your proximity than she has in years—since before the Quell.

“The mission will commence tomorrow morning at dawn,” Marlene is saying. “I want you to be there.”

It’s not a request so much as a decree. Ellie knows she has no power to deny Marlene anything. The propaganda campaigns can be done without her, what with Maria’s and Roberts’s conjoined skill with technology and cinematography. They could film those campaigns using anyone who has suffered at Fedra’s hand—which is quite literally every single person in Thirteen, if not the entire country. But the worst part is that Marlene knows that Ellie has no power to deny her. So when they argue like this, all ruthlessness and wrath, the winner is decided before it even starts. 

“Right.” Ellie turns away from the desk and pushes out of Marlene’s office. The guards bracketing her door are different from the ones who were here when Ellie first arrived. They must have a rotated schedule. She wonders how many guards are on this shift—how many people waste hours of their life standing at Marlene’s door. She wonders how many of them have spouses and children they’d rather spend their time with. 

She thinks of this all the way to the medical bay. Her feet carry her there without much thought, weaving through crowded halls of people and pushing through creaking doorways. By the time she reaches your room, Ellie has arrived at the conclusion that there are probably hundreds of soldiers on that schedule. Hundreds of families disrupted for Marlene’s personal gain. No one has even tried to attack her before, so having two guards outside of every door in her quarters is unreasonably cynical. 

She walks past each of the empty cots lining the walls of the med bay, knowing that they’ll likely all be filled after tomorrow’s mission. Infiltrating the Capitol is no easy feat, and will likely require an enormous platoon of soldiers and medics accompanying the usual group. There will be more hovercrafts deployed than they’ve ever done before. And, when they return, there will be a great many patients occupying these cots; and even more casualties to be accounted for.

When she passes Abigail Anderson’s cot, the curtain is open. Normally, the medics make sure to leave it closed in order to protect any passersby from suffering Abigail’s reverent rambles. Someone must have forgotten today. That, or they collectively hate Ellie and knew she would walk by and have condemned her to this.

“Ellie?” Still, the sound of Abigail’s voice grates at her nerves and sets alight an old rage she’s not yet learned to wholly overcome. “I know that you are helping Her, and I thank you for that. She does not scream as She used to.”

“Abig–”

“I know you think I’m crazy. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.” She almost appears to be tearing up—which is a repulsive thought. Ellie glances toward your door, yearning for an escape from this conversation. “I know my god is not worshipped by anyone except for me, but that does not mean She doesn’t deserve to be worshipped, does it? She deserves to be helped and heard and saved, doesn’t She?”

Ellie shuts her eyes and sighs through her nose, “she does.”

“I knew you would agree!” 

Abigail leaps to her feet, a blanket falling to the floor to reveal the scars that litter her body and the tubes that protrude from it. She is dressed in a thin hospital gown that does very little to hide the horrors which she has endured. She favors her right foot, putting almost no weight on her left. Still, despite the pain which must be overcoming her, Abigail is smiling. She grabs Ellie’s hands, squeezing them between her own. Ellie winces, her entire body tense with the urge to fight. 

“My god is not real, Ellie, I know that, but– but I still worship her for the help she provided while I was in the Capitol.” Abigail’s words rush from her mouth almost too quickly to understand. She is shaking. “She is not a god, she is a girl. I know this, I do, but– oh, but I knew you would understand! She helped me when I was enduring the worst pain of my life. She– she helped me remain sane. She helped me measure time, and count names. Without her, I would have killed myself.”

Ellie flinches at that, yanking her hands out of Abigail’s grasp.

“You–” she shakes her head, trying to breathe. “You are crazy. Y/n isn’t a god, nor is she your savior. She was being tortured the same as you. The screams you were hearing were not to help you, they were her own pain. And– and you offered her nothing in return.”

It’s not fair of Ellie to blame Abigail for what you suffered, and she knows that, but she just can’t handle this anymore. Being around you and seeing the difference in who you’ve become due to the Capitol is hard enough. But to face Abigail as well—to see that she has suffered worse at the hands of Fedra, who had no reason to hate her, than she would have at the hands of Ellie, who hated her more than anything else. It’s too much to stomach; too much to bear.

Abigail drops her hands to her sides and gapes. Her eyes are blown wide and her mouth is parted. She stares at Ellie with such horrible pain that she almost feels guilty. Instead of allowing herself to assess what she has done, Ellie turns on her heel and walks straight toward your door.

“You’re a terrible person, Ellie Williams.” Is the last thing she hears before she enters your room.

20:37.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Water, water, water, water, water—and more water.

You cannot breathe around it; you cannot see through it. The liquid seeps into your lungs as the salt stings your eyes. Every limb is thrashing and every nerve is in agony. You’re crying, though no one can hear you over the sound of crashing waves. Your feet graze the sand and you hastily push upward, only to be yanked right back under the surface. You cannot swim, you cannot breathe. You are dying.

A hand grabs your wrist, hauling you out of the water. Their grip is bruising and your shoulder aches under the weight of your body. You blink furtively, trying to see through the water and through your tears. A man is standing in front of you: Ruben.

He is holding you by the arm, looking so much larger than yourself. He is shining and golden where you’re dull and rusted; he is large where you’re pathetically small. He is everything you’ve always yearned to become. He is everything you will never be. 

“You are the worst thing that ever happened to me.” He says, yanking you toward the shore. You cannot keep up with him, your legs stumbling and tripping in the sand. You slip multiple times. He does not look back. “I wish you had never been born. You have ruined everything. You have tarnished everything. I cannot wait to be Reaped so that I might spend some time without you ruining my life.”

You’re crying again, and this time you’re heard. Only, he does not care.

Ruben is watching you from across the room. There are dark circles under his eyes, but he does not dare fall asleep because he knows you prefer to have him awake. He watches as you rub Oakley’s back and smooth your hands through his hair.

You wonder if he remembers that day on the beach, if he remembers what he said. You try to forget it—to pretend that it never happened—but it’s so real, so vivid. And whenever you see your brother, that is one of the first memories pushed to the forefront of your mind. You can still feel his hand around his wrist; you can still feel your tears staining your cheeks; you can still taste the salt in your lungs. He wanted you dead, you know that, but you loved him anyway. You loved him because he was your brother and he was the kindest thing in your life, even when he hurt you. But still, he left you. He abandoned you and didn’t care when your parents hurt you.

But how can that be right, when Ruben is watching you so lovingly right now? How can he look so fond of the little sister he never wanted? You start to think of what everyone has said about your memories, how you cannot trust them. But memories are what make a person who they are. How can you distrust the very fiber of your being without unraveling yourself completely?

“I was seven.” Your voice grabs his attention, snapping his head up to look at you. “We snuck down to the beach while our parents were away on a trip to the Capitol. I begged you to go and, finally, you relented. Do you remember this?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah, you got sucked out to sea. You were screaming for me, but I couldn’t hear.”

“But you eventually did. You yanked me from the water, and you said that I was the worst thing to ever happen to you. You said that you wished I was never born.” You watch his expression, all the tiny shifts in his face as it contorts into horror. “Do you remember this, too?”

“That’s not what happened.”

Ruben stands from his chair, shaking his head. He walks over to your cot, slow and careful. When you flinch away from him, he does not pretend to be surprised. Oakley continues to snore on your chest as Ruben kneels beside your cot. He rests a hand on your arm more gently than anyone has touched you in months. You look at him, unsure whether you should push him away or pull him closer. You look down at his hand and remember the way his fingers—so much smaller back then—had wrapped around your wrist until there were purple spots on it for weeks afterward. 

“You are the very best thing this life has given me.” He says, never looking away from your eyes. “The first time I held you, I knew you would be my best friend. I promised to always, always protect you and I have failed and I am sorry. I am so, so fucking sorry. I should have been there to save you; I should have been there when you were growing up. I have failed at so many things in being your big brother, but I have never ever stopped loving you.”

You know why he wasn’t there when you were taken: his leg had just been chopped off. 

All of last week, you spent hours upon hours watching the Games. When you requested a television be put in your room, a pair of guards wheeled it in on a cart before handing you the remote. Since then, you’ve spent very little time doing anything else. Your days are split into two junctures: when you are all alone, watching the Games; and when you have company, trying to solidify your own existence.

You started with the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, during which you met Ellie. It was an odd thing, hearing yourself talk in the interviews and watching yourself wave during the parades. You were such a different woman back then—so alluring and beautiful, but also so calculative and smart. Now, you spend your days lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself. 

Ellie was right when she said that the two of you were ‘a lot of things’. In the beginning, you were enemies. This is because Ellie had insulted your family during the interviews. And, considering what she said, you assumed that you would spend your time in the arena hunting her down and feasting on her bones. Instead, you found her curled up in a costume shop beside her best friend’s dead body. It was the perfect opportunity to strike: her back was turned and she was weakened. But you didn’t do that. You welcomed her into your group and divided your supplies. It was completely insane. You would never do that, now; you would kill her, now.

Slowly, the two of you learned to coexist and survive together. It was like watching a character in a film rather than yourself. She was so confident and strong; she is not you. Now, you would never form a soft spot for a little boy; now, you would never develop a bond with the enemy. But that’s not right, is it? Now, you have formed a soft spot for a little boy: Oakley. Now, you have developed a bond with the enemy: Ellie. 

You decided that it was easier to stomach the Hunger Games when you pretended that the woman on the screen was not you. That way, you do not have to process the fact that she is so vastly different from yourself; you do not have to process all the things which make you vary and which make you similar. 

Through a screen, you were reintroduced to Remy Wilson and his beautiful soul. His chocolate eyes and ash brown hair, his crooked teeth and rosy cheeks. You do not remember him, in your memories. Try as you might, there is no recollection of that boy in your mind. Instead, you find only a shadow of a child running through a field of grass—but you doubt that is a reputable memory, so much as one implemented by the Capitol. You miss him all the same, though. Something deep in your chest cracks at the sight of him: something carnal and uncontrollable. You miss him like a limb. You miss him like a son.

Through a screen, you watch yourself mourn a great load of people you will never remember. Selene Jones and her doe-like gentility which grew fangs. Ariadne Evans and her striking strength which softened over time. Dahlia Hart and her unshakable naivety. 

Each of these people deserve to be remembered and mourned, but you cannot find it in yourself to do it. They are characters on a screen; they are not real to you. But that is just the problem, isn’t it? With that mindset, you are no better than the Capitolites watching characters die in the Games. Perhaps that was Fedra’s goal all along: turn you into one of them, so that you may never become yourself again.

You lost everyone. Your friends, your allies, your son, your brother, your parents, your lover. And, in the end, the last person you lost was yourself. And you can mourn none of them.

“You used to love this stuff,” Doctor Fulmer laughs while pumping your veins full of death. “Morphling was once your salvation, you know. You L/ns always get addicted to something, in the end. Whether that be to a drug or to murder, it’s always something.”

The door to your room swings open to reveal Ellie standing in the doorway. Her hair is all mussed and her chest is heaving unsteadily. She leans against the doorframe, struggling to hold herself upright. 

You watch, more curious than anything, as Ruben leaps to his feet and rushes to her aid. He guides her toward the chair in the corner and tells her to breathe. He reminds her that she’s safe, that you’re safe, and that everything will be okay. So, really, he’s lying to her. But she must believe him anyway because, eventually, her breathing evens out and she calms down.

Ruben remains by her side, a hand kept on her shoulder at all times—possibly to ground her in the present, possibly to make sure she doesn't run. The former is more likely what he is doing, but the latter is more likely what he would do if it were you in that position. When you wake, screaming from nightmares, or when you are assaulted by a memory that sends you into a spiral, people don’t help you because they care about you. They help you because they don’t want you to kill them. They speak in gentle tones, but their voice shakes with fear that they might not be able to soothe you; they offer soft touches, but their hands tremble with fear that you might lash out despite their attempts.

“Sorry,” Ellie drops her head into her palms as she hunches over herself. “It was my fault, anyway. I got all riled up with Abby when I shouldn’t have. She just– none of this is fair on anyone. Shit.”

She is now wiping roughly at her face, but you’re not sure whether she is crying out of frustration or sorrow. It doesn't matter, though. Tears are tears and they spill regardless of what elicits them to—same as blood.

You watch Ellie with a much different eye than the one you watched her with before. When you first arrived from the Capitol, you watched her in hopes of catching her off-guard and finding a way to kill her. You watched her like a predator. Now, you watch her in hopes of finding something different than what you saw in the footage from the Games. You want her to be a different woman so that you might not feel so guilty for being the only one who has changed. You crave evidence that you’re not alone in your moral stupor.

Alas, she is the same girl that you’d loved so long ago. Her hair is a bit longer than it was in the arena, but you can tell she cuts it herself because the ends are all scraggly and frayed. Her eyes are much more tired than they were, but they carry the same empathy and valor as they did before. Her hands and skin and ears and nose are all the same, only with a few new scars. Her body is thinner than it was when you first met her, but that can be caused by the stress and lack of appetite which accompanies all war-beaten soldiers. 

Even her mannerisms haven’t changed. She still buries her face in her hands whenever she feels ashamed of something. She still walks with the quiet precision of a hunter. She speaks a bit more eloquently, but you pride yourself in thinking that’s partially your doing.

“What did Marlene say?” Ruben asks, standing shakily from the floor and massaging his thigh. He leans against a nearby wall, sighing relief at taking the weight from his leg. “Nothing good, I presume?”

“No, of course not.” Ellie lifts her head from her hands and scowls down at the floor. “All the districts have been swayed to our side, which is good but– well, now the only remaining territory to seize is the Capitol itself. She’s planning to deploy all the soldiers tomorrow at dawn. It’ll be a fucking bloodbath. She isn't communicating with anyone, just informing them to be prepared by morning. There’s no plan, either, just– just ‘go in there and try not to die, or do I don’t care’. She doesn’t give a fuck who she loses so long as she manages to control the Capitol in the end. It’s all power to her. There’s really no humanity left in her reign.”

Ruben sits with that information for a moment, thinking about what to say. But when he opens his mouth to respond, you beat him to it. Your voice comes out raw and slightly rueful. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

Ellie blinks, shocked. “Um, yeah, but–”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know, she didn’t give a timeframe. She just said when we leave and to–”

“Are you going to come back?”

“I mean, I intend to but–”

“Ellie.” You shift Oakley in your arms so that you might lean forward to portray your sincerity. He squirms but remains soundly asleep. “You have to come back. If you don’t I– I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t raise Oakley on my own, and I can’t– I don’t know how to live without you.”

The candor of that confession is wholly too much for you to bear thinking about. The only days in which you’ve not been visited by Ellie at least once throughout it are while she is on campaign. And, during those times, someone else always steps forward to take her place—Ruben, Dina, Jesse, Tommy. But no matter who attempts to fill her shoes, none of them feel nearly as right as she does; nearly as warm. While they struggle to hold a conversation and keep their distance, Ellie never falters away from you. She sits right beside your cot, even when she knows you might attack her. She speaks about the hard things, even when she knows you might shout at her for it. She is the only person here who knows exactly what you need and exactly how to give it.

If she does not return from this mission, you don’t know what you’ll do. Every aspect of your day will change for the worse. Oakley will have lost a mother, Ruben will have lost a best friend, and Tommy will have lost a niece. Everyone in your life will mourn her, but none so much as yourself. Although you may not wholly understand your own relationship with Ellie, you know that your bones and your sinew crave her. You know that, when she is around, nothing feels so terrible as it does otherwise. She makes the world brighter and the facts make sense. Without her to visit you each day and remind you that you’re loved, you may very well forget. All the progress you’ve made since arriving in Thirteen may very well be reduced to nothing. And then Oakley will have lost both mothers alongside his biological parents. And you can’t– oh, you can’t bear to do that to him.

“Hey, hey.” Ellie is suddenly in front of you, a hand coming to rest on your shoulder. And when you pull away from her, she does not appear offended. You turn to find that Ruben has left, likely to provide the two of you some privacy after hearing such an unadulterated avowal. “I’ll come back, okay? For you, I’ll come back.”

“I don’t–” Your voice cracks and you realize that you’re crying. It annoys you—not the fact that you’re crying, but the fact that you hadn’t noticed it. You’re so out of tune with yourself that you can hardly process your own damn emotions. And if you can’t understand yourself, how could you possibly understand how to raise an entirely separate person? You exhale a deep, shaking breath. “I can’t do this on my own.”

“You won’t have to.” She tries again to touch you and, this time, you allow it. Her hand settles on your forearm and she glances down at the point of contact, breathing slow and steady. After a moment, she looks back up at you with a determined mien. “I will always be here for you, okay? After this mission, there won’t be any more. After this mission, I won’t ever leave you again.”

You nod, sniffling. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You L/ns always get addicted to something, in the end. Whether that be to a drug or to murder, it’s always something.” 

Doctor Fulmer was right about one thing: L/ns always fall prey to addition. They’re raised to be independent, to put faith in their own abilities rather than anyone else’s protection. This way, they’re ready for the arena when it inevitably comes for them. So, really, who’s to say that they’re wrong for becoming dependent on something? Who’s to say they’re evil for wanting a reprieve?

Your father’s addition was to alcohol. Your mother’s was abusing those closer to her. Theodore’s addiction, just like his brother, was to alcohol. Ruben’s was to the Capitol—always seeking, always needing its approval. Penelope’s was to blood, cruelty, violence, that sort of thing. Elina, like her mother, was addicted to that same cruelty. Yasmin’s was to manipulation, using secrets like weapons to destroy the lives of Capitolites. 

You, as many would assume, became addicted to Morphling. And, while they wouldn’t be particularly wrong to assume that, they’re not wholly correct either. Because you fell victim to a much more compelling substance: love. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong. @firefly-ace

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.   @monki-nat.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevslover   @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia.    @abby-anderson-wifey.    @imdeletingthisaccount1. @sillyloafff. @d1psht. @chappellroankisser. @aphrodyk3. @lovececillie. @fleurdels. @avalovesmus1c. @201sweetgiverface. @lovestay-woozi17. @seasonsofchaos