#thread. prudence

It had been a couple of days since the... incident at the TRIBUTE BALL. Although it had been replaying on a loop in Prue's mind ever since ( the sound of blade piercing soft skin, the gurgle of a dying man's throat, blood pooling quick and fast and sticky and wet ), so far, she hadn't been arrested – which she took as a good sign. She imagined if the Capitol knew about her and Danya's involvement in the little stunt, they'd both already have been made to disappear – executed or worse. She knew she should feel relieved about the fact that she was still healthy and breathing, but there was a lingering tension about her – baited breath as she waited for the other shoe to drop, if it ever did.

Instead of dwelling ( okay, she'd multitasked ), she had thrown herself into preparations for the interviews. Though her tributes weren't exactly particularly grateful for the work she'd put in, Prue thought she'd done a fairly decent job – especially considering she was a novice, and one whose entire role as a stylist was a lie, at that. Although her job is as good as over at this point, she still lingers backstage – peeking around the curtain to watch Theon's interview. She couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for the poor kid as she watched him onstage – she couldn't claim to know Caius particularly well, but she doubted he would be sticking his neck out to save his nephew when push came to shove.

Prudence had always been an early riser. Perhaps this could be attributed to her upbringing – strict schedules paired with a lack of natural sunlight meant that early starts were an easy habit to slip into. She would relish in an hour of peace and quiet before the rest of the district was awake – taking the time to tend to her hobbies before being squashed into her daily routine. Maybe this is why, even now, after two years adjusting to the far more lax environment of the Capitol, Prue finds herself wide awake before dawn, itching to start her day proper.

She doesn't wish to wake the other inhabitants of the eleventh floor ( particularly not her tributes... she wouldn't deprive them of something so vital as sleep at a time like this ), so she heads downstairs to one of the communal areas, bringing a half-finished outfit for the interviews with her. She sits underneath one of the bright, artificial lights of the tribute tower, squinting at the fabric as she painstakingly sews sequins onto it. Part of her thinks it's silly, how much she has found herself caring about her role as stylist – knowing full well that's not the reason she's really here. The mockingjay symbol had sent shockwaves through the tower – but now all she could do was wait. This felt like the calm before the storm.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN was many things, but forthcoming was not one of them. The task Prue had been assigned was simple enough – safe enough. Or, at least, this is what Prue had assumed. She'd been instructed to head to the city centre, to keep an eye out for peacekeepers, for Capitol reinforcements. Just simple intelligence gathering – apparently, there was going to be some sort of resistance activity happening later in the day. What, exactly, Prue didn't know – she didn't have the clearance for that kind of information. There had been the consideration to simply go by herself – but when Nazanin had offered to tag along, Prue had been quick to agree. Then again, she was quick to agree to most things that Naz suggested. Especially if it meant spending time alone together.

Growing up, Prue didn't know much about her parents' lives in District Twelve. She knew that this is where they had come from. She knew that the district was stricken by poverty and hunger. She knew that they had fled to try and give her a better chance to live. She knew that, deep down, both of them wished they could do more do help their people. She knew that their connection to that place had influenced their decision to assist District Thirteen in the rebellion efforts. She knew that their attachment to their people had led to their deaths.

She thought their lives in District Twelve had been left behind when they fled. She thought that any family she had there was long forgotten – her parents had never discussed their distant family with her, and so Prue had grown up with the assumption that they simply didn't exist. That her parents had nothing to leave behind. This assumption, she would later find out, was wrong.

Three years ago, she had volunteered to follow in her parents' footsteps and assist with the rebellion effort. Two and a half years ago, she had been informed that she would be sent to the Capitol as a spy. Two years ago, Coin had pulled her aside and told her there was something she should know before heading to the Capitol.

The conversation is still something of a blur for Prue – I wouldn't be telling you if they weren't going to be in the Capitol, too – Coin had said, before explaining that Prue wasn't the only child her dad had fathered. Before explaining that the 'distant' family in District Twelve wasn't quite as distant as Prue had always assumed – that her father had left behind a two-year-old child when he had fled to District Thirteen. That the child had grown up and been sent into the games. That the child had never known where they came from.

Prue had felt sick – but she'd swallowed the bile in her throat and gathered her resolve enough to utter, quite simply – thank you for telling me.

She'd sat with that knowledge for two years, unsure exactly what to do with it. Alex had been in and out of the Capitol with the games seasons – but she'd never gotten close enough to tell them. She wasn't sure if she should tell them. Coin insisted that retaining their cover was the most important thing, that the rebellion should be the top priority – and Prue had done her best to abide. She'd left it alone, telling herself that telling Alex now wouldn't do any good. That she couldn't even get close enough to tell them. That if she did, it could get them both killed. That there would be opportunity after Snow was overthrown and they had their freedom.

Then the twist to the games had been announced. Then Alex had volunteered to go in with his other sister. And Prue had felt like crying. Crying for a brother she didn't even know. It was then that her resolve was broken – she decided that, no matter the cost, she wouldn't let Alex go into the arena, possibly to their death, without speaking to them. Even if she didn't tell them, she wanted to know them – at least a little bit. They were the only family she had left.

Prue hated this. If she'd thought that the build-up to the games was painful, then this morning had been absolutely excruciating. She's not sure what she'd been expecting – maybe part of her had been hoping that their stunt yesterday would be enough to delay the games indefinitely, or at least for a little longer than twenty-four hours. And yet, the morning had come, and the games with it all the same. As though nothing they had done yesterday had made any difference. She would be furious, if she weren't so despondent.

She had been fetched by a pair of peacekeepers early this morning, escorted to the location of the arena, and had been waiting in the launch room for her tributes to arrive ever since. Part of her had hoped they would never arrive ( well... maybe she wouldn't be so upset if Caius went into the arena ), and yet, after an hour or so, she hears the familiar click of a door opening behind her – and JEM HUTCH is sent through to meet her.

As far as missions went, this one should be simple. Get into the meeting point, get the weapons, get them into the tower, and get out. Only four steps, simple. Of course, this didn't stop Prudence from fretting. Any number of things could go wrong along the way – they could be pulled up by peacekeepers in the city, the distractions in the tower could go awry, they could face difficulty moving the actual cargo – and so we find Prue pacing up and down as she waits for the remainder of their team to arrive, eyes flickering nervously between her watch, and the other companion of the room.

Nazanin, for her part, seems unperturbed – of course, Prue thought that she always looked like this, so effortlessly cool beside Prue's obsessive, neurotic nattering. She ignores the way her heart flutters at the knowledge that they're currently alone together – something which has been exceedingly difficult to achieve since they had embarked to the Capitol. She also ignores the way that the light reflecting off Naz's eyes give them a mesmerising golden hue. Because there is a task at hand – and these details are irrelevant.

Honestly, Prudence was somewhat surprised that their plan tonight seemed to have actually worked. Their squad generally didn't have many successes – and even if tonight was marred by the executions they'd blasted across every television set in Panem, Prue cannot help but feel a strange sense of elation. The reaction to the footage had been palpable, and, for the first time, she felt as though they had actually done something – that, maybe, this could be the beginning of the end. That the tide would finally start to turn in their favour.

Then again, maybe she's just naive. She's been told this is the case before.

Prudence was on edge. Ever since her squadron's botched operation during the tribute ball, she had been constantly looking over her own shoulder – paranoia brewing about peacekeepers coming to take her away in the night. Or, even worse, punishing the rest of her squad for her inability to do her job. If she'd just managed to distract that peacekeeper for long enough to allow Danya a quick escape, like she was supposed to, then none of this would have happened. No blood would have been shed, and nobody would be any the wiser that rebels had been in the building at all. Guilt makes its home next to her paranoia. Neither of them allow her much rest.

Of course, to the outside world, she appears perfectly normal. A bright smile on her face – just another perky Capitolite, none the wiser to the blood upon which this city is built. Changing her behaviour now, after all that, would only draw more suspicion. More questions from prying eyes. Instead, she throws herself into her work. She's still meant to be posing as a stylist, after all, and interviews are still coming up, and, even if her tributes didn't seem particularly grateful for her efforts, she was still determined to do right by them. If the rebellion did all fall to pieces, this was the least she could offer them.