#th:electra

The sun set on the tenth day of the arena, and Kaelen lied on the floor, helpless as Thirteen barely opened his eyes. There was crashing in the arena, darkness, blood...everything that came with an arena.

From the lake, From the hill...

Kaelen remembered taking Thirteen in. Unexpected, but necessary in the isolation of his bunker in One. He’d never been one to seek out company often, but that was because he had the luxury of a big family at home. Companionship was never far away, until he was back in his home district, skulking among the miners and hoping to find rebels within them. It was all for a lost cause; a cause that landed him with a permanent brand on the wrist of the hand that now slowly pet the top of Thirteen’s head. 

But Thirteen was never a lost cause. The thirteenth puppy to be trained by Peacekeepers - with no success. Kaelen saved him at the last second. He’d never intended on having a pet; and he adopted a shadow instead. When Kaelen came home bleeding, Thirteen tried to lick his wounds. When they moved back to the Capitol, Thirteen adjusted. Whenever Kaelen came home with a busted rib, a busted face, busted knuckles, Thirteen was there to lie at his feet and lap up water as his Kaelen drank whiskey. 

From the sky.

It did seem strangely...whimsical that Thirteen fell into his lap when he did; with the name he did. But it was all the more push for Kaelen to fight. 

He always fought for his family. Bu, there is a luxury that comes with parents being alive. You always assume they will be the one who fights to keep your siblings alive. Until they die. 

Everyone, all the Tyrs, were still alive when Kaelen got Thirteen. It was the first creature fully, entirely in his care. And he did all he could to keep the growing puppy alive and healthy.

And in turn, Thirteen plodded alongside him at his brothers’ grave, at Crycinna’s, at his father’s, at Marcia’s...

And that was only for the blood relatives and old friends he’d lost. Thirteen was there with him for every other burial, every other grave visit.

All is well, Safely rest...

And Thirteen was there the first time Kaelen showed Electra his new apartment. It wasn’t a one-bedroom, like he always had. It had several bedrooms, an unspoken indication of what he hoped to have with the woman who’d been knocking him on his ass for years. Thirteen placed his head on Electra’s lap the first time she sat down, and chased Thing the first time he visited.

At some point, the cuddling and the chasing combined. For all parties. It became their home. And as Electra grew bigger, Thirteen transitioned from sleeping on Kaelen’s side of the bed to sleeping on her side of the bed. When Jett was born, he slept by the child’s crib. When Charlie came along, he did it all again - by Electra’s side until he was by Charlie’s crib.

And now, here Kaelen was, lying on the floor next to his best four-legged friend as Thirteen slept in the hallway, guarding Jett and Charlie’s rooms with life seeping from him with each breath.

God is nigh...

Shepherds aren’t built to last forever. The bigger the dog, the shorter the life, unfortunately. Kaelen always knew that, but he knew that at 27.

And eerything was different at 36, with several Games and two rebellions behind him. Both rebellions were failures in his eye, and he was sad he let Thirteen down so much. The dog deserved more, the kids deserved more, Electra deserved more, his family deserved more.

But there was only so much a man could do on his own. And maybe all he could do was save Thirteen from the slaughter, and raise him in the shadow of a rebel. Was Kaelen even a rebel anymore? It didn’t feel like it, but he hoped Thirteen viewed him that way.

If only he was all he hoped his dog saw him as. If only he was that big, that strong, that powerful. But he would only be a man, always. About six feet tall and hoping to topple a century old regime. How had he ever been so stupid, so arrogant, to think he could? But in the the final moments of his best friend’s life, he couldn’t be doubtful. He had to be strong, to know he’d done all he could to right the wrongs in his life.

Kaelen took Hunter’s tongue, took his voice, and hadn’t said a word yet. How many years ago was that now? At least twelve, if not more. And Kaelen never told him. Kaelen still wondered if he ever should. There were few people he loved more, trusted more, than Hunter. With the kids, Kaelen’s time was preoccupied. But every second with Hunter was a selfish reminder to try better; every second with Hunter was a reminder to fight. Every second with Hunter was hopeful, joyful, and, most of all, more than anything, it put a smile on his face.

So Kaelen smiled at Thirteen, and wished the dog had the energy to stick his tongue out in response. But there was nothing. Kaelen squeezed his paw, and there was nothing. Kaelen rolled onto his side to grab the dog’s back and hold him close. 

And there was nothing.

Thirteen died on August 1st, in the year 118, as ice encapsulated the 122nd Hunger Games arena. He died beside his best friend, Kaelen Tyr. He died in the hallway where he protected his family: Kaelen Tyr, Electra Conduit, Jett Tyr, and Charlotte Tyr. And Thing, who was now sitting at the end of the hallway, facing the door. Kaelen hoped that wretched creature was standing guard over the one who’d now slipped away from them.

Kaelen stayed there until long after the sun set on the Capitol. Until it was nearly too dark to navigate the hallways to turn on lights. He’d cried, shamelessly, and called the veterinarian to inform them of Thirteen’s passing. He caught glimpses of the darkened arena, but it was on mute, and it didn’t matter. Panem existed outside the Games, after all.

With a shaky deep breath, Kaelen sunk to the ground again next to Thirteen’s body. The veterinarian would be there soon to assess, but there was nothing to be done. All Kaelen could do was keep the body of his old friend company, while staring at the doors of his children’s bedrooms.

Right now, Jett’s had a drawing of a little robot on the outside. Inside was an intergalactic wonderland he and Electra wouldn’t have been about to create without some outside help from the mentors in Three. And Charlie’s had a picture tacked out front of a snowman outside their building from February. She’d taken the picture by pressing down on the shutter of her father’s camera after he’d adjusted all the settings. She claimed that picture as her own, and inside the room was a fort made out of pillows and blankets she’d surely demand to rearrange soon. She was a little younger than Jett, still finding what she loved and asking for it to be reflected in the space that was her own. Her parents obliged, because they had the privilege to do so.

One day, Kaelen hoped, his son might make it to the stars and find a new world. Through Electra, they’d always be eligible as tributes in Three between 12 and 21 years old. He hoped...he hoped, he hoped, he hoped, he hoped they never saw the inside of a launch tube. And if they did, fuck everyone, he hoped they won no matter how many gallons of blood they had to spill.

But he imagined Jett among the stars, in a little capsule, talking over an intercom back to some abstract base, telling them the stars were less exciting than he’d hoped. He imagined Charlotte taking pictures - not just of the mountains where she loved to trek alongside her parents, but of the realities of Panem and beyond Panem’s border. He hoped his children, already so skilled, both exposed something new, something wonderful, something...

As he sat looking at the doors that led to his children’s lives, he clearly, truly, whole-heartedly hoped they were not rebels. He hoped they did not shed their blood, did not break their bones for false promises and power-hungry people. 

Kaelen had never been one for distinguishing the difference in words. And it’d been a long time since Kaelen really, really hoped for something. 

But looking at that drawing, looking at that picture, he really hoped his children didn’t rebel.

It was a relief to find the space empty as far as he could see. Everyone was probably tuned into the Games as they went into the tenth day. The last twenty-four hours felt like they’d been longer than the rest of the Games, though. 

Chip bent forward to lean his forearms on the railing, flicking some of the ash into the forcefield and watching the little specks get zapped. He wondered if Ravenite would even let Evie come to the Tower, so Chip could try to at least see her during the Games. He wouldn’t put it past Ravenite to be so cruel; and he also wouldn’t put it past the man to parade his daughter with a victor around like she was a doll.

The cigarette went flying into the forcefield and Chip lit another one as he watched the remnants get zapped and fall away. He started to pace. Kai had custody of two kids, right? Chip knew his own history was likely filled with more extreme mistakes, but that didn’t mean Kai was an angel. He was a married man, after all.

Fuck, he was a married man.

Would it be the first time Chip aided and abetted (or abedded?) in infidelity? Hardly. But there was a difference between fucking someone who was married and you saw them once a year at a party, and having sex with a married friend. Still...He tilted his head to the side as he considered what could be his regrets and concluded he had none. Zephyr wasn’t there. People didn’t just fuck around on their spouses for no reason. And selfishly, Chip was relieved to have slept with someone other than Shava without needing drugs or alcohol in his system for the first time in a long time.

Then a concern struck him - would this kind of gossip be held against him in a custody battle? Ravenite was a sponsor, and one who was in favor with Battenberg, at that. Chip was the kid who didn’t deserve to win the 110th. 

The cigarette quickly burned up and ash fell off the edge as Chip sucked in until he thought he might never breathe again. The smoke escaped his mouth with a harsh sigh. 

What did it mean to be undeserving?

Ravenite was definitely deserving of the punch that broke his nose.

Evie was undeserving of being deprived of a relationship with her uncle.

Chip felt he was karmically deserving of the lost contact.

Electra was deserving of her release from the Games.

Nova was undeserving of what happened to her in the Arena. 

Belle was deserving of a life with her family in Three.

Olive was undeserving of the coward she’d found in Chip when the Peacekeepers closed in on her. She wasn’t deserving of his anger, either, even if it bubbled up again at the memory of what happened the night before. But how could she know what it meant to lose family and still be the catalyst for him to lose the only family he had left?

Perl was undeserving of her death. Perl was undeserving of all the hell he’d put her through. Perhaps the only reason he’d gotten out alive was because she deserved it. 

And his parents...his parents were undeserving of their execution.

Chip walked back to the railing, taking deep breaths between long pulls on the cigarette. He needed a third before long. 

Edison and Dayta...what would they think of their son now? Would the two rebels be ashamed their son was too scared to join a rebellion? Had he ever done anything that could make anyone in his family proud? Was the time to start really when they were all dead?

All dead. And here he was, the least deserving of them all to be alive. The one who stayed alive through overdoses, car crashes, and a whole fucking arena. 

Here he was. The victor of the Foster family.

Chip rubbed a hand over the top of his hat. He had no regrets for what he’d done that night, but that was nothing compared to the stack of regrets from his life that grew higher everyday. Evie couldn’t be added to them. Not after everything he’d put Perl through; not after everything Ravenite and Panem put her through. Perl had to step up to raise him, now it was his turn to step up. It wouldn’t be easy and it wouldn’t be comfortable. But he had a card he could pull that Ravenite never could. 

Taking out his phone, Chip scrolled through his contacts until he found the number for the Games liaison in Battenberg’s office. He was surprised to hear someone pick up at that hour, but they were probably getting calls from Sponsors and victors all throughout the Games.

“Hello, Mr. Foster, how can we help you this evening?” 

“I-I need to talk to Batt-ttenberg or someone in her off-ffice,” Chip explained. “A pers-sonal m-matt-tter I need some h-help with.”

“Well, Mr. Foster, as you can imagine, the president and her entire office is very busy with the Games. We can try to schedule something in September, maybe, when-”

He paused, taking a drag on the cigarette as he considered his options. The best option seemed clear.