21:55.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

“Who is this?” 

A woman is displayed on the screen before you, her auburn hair cut short to her shoulders. There is a smile on her pale, freckled face. Her mossy green eyes stare directly forward, right into your soul. Something deep, deep within your chest rumbles at the sight of her. You do not know whether it is familiarity or loathing which is suddenly flooding through you. 

“Ellie Williams.”

Her skull cracks against the stone wall. She winces. Her eyes flutter open. You bare your teeth at her, almost snarling. Her expression flickers. Your hands wrap around her throat. Pressing into her windpipe. She chokes, gagging. You grin.

Arms grab at you. Pulling you away from your quarry. You thrash against them. You kick their knee. You punch their nose. You scratch their eye. They continue to haul you off of her. You scream and you flail. They do not relent. They pin you down on the cot. You kick their stomach. You yank their hair. You bite their wrist. They do not relent. You bare your teeth at them, too. There are tears in their eyes. Eyes identical to your own.

You roll your head to the side. Ellie Williams stands from the floor. She is massaging her neck. Still coughing. There are bruises in her pale, freckled skin. The perfect indentations of your fingers. She watches as you are pinned to the cot. She watches as a syringe is driven into your clavicle. She watches as your eyes flutter shut. Darkness consumes you. And Ellie Williams watches.

You hate her.

More than anything in this world. You hate her.

24:17.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

“–starvation.”

“Next?”

“Abigail Anderson: assessment. Methods of torture are as follows: whipping, electrocution, starvation, burning, mutilation, and signs of sexual violation. Effects are as follows: partial deafness in her left ear, chronic pain in her left hip, hallucinations of a ‘screaming god’, and refusal to eat or drink.”

“Next?”

This has been going on for two hours. 

Ellie has been forced to act as a witness and consultant while the medics relay their findings to Marlene. Each time, it is worse. And each time, Ellie is shocked that there is more to the seemingly endless list. Guiltily, she has tuned out most of the assessments. In her defense, her mind is lodged elsewhere. She cannot stop thinking about you.

Your skin was almost entirely covered in scratches and bruises. Your body lost all of its muscle, reduced to looking as malnourished as the kids from Twelve. Your eyes were wide, almost appearing terrified, as you attacked Ellie. She wants to be angry with you, for that would be an easier emotion to process than whatever this is: frustration that you’ve acted in such a way, sorrow that you’ve been reduced to this, and heartache at knowing you’ll likely never be the same again.

So, no, she hasn’t been paying complete attention to the god damn assessments. 

“Thea Thatcher: assessment.” Says the medic, voice rough with having been speaking in the same monotonous tone for the past two hours. She blinks harshly down at her clipboard, eyes growing tired with overuse as she reads the tiny print describing their findings. “Methods of torture are as follows: whipping, electrocution, starvation, flaying on the stomach, and dismemberment of the left arm, right ear, and right foot. Effects are as follows: permanent disability, refusal to eat or drink, and severe reactions to loud sounds or bright lights. Listed as one of the better patients, as she still has a sound enough mind to form coherent sentences.”

Ellie drops her head in her hands. She wanted to save everyone from the Capitol—it had been her goal for over half a year. And now she must face the harsh reality of what that means: not everyone got off easy. And not everyone made it out alive. 

“Next?”

She heard the assessments provided regarding Cat’s autopsy. She’d known Cat was dead because Tommy saw fit to inform her. But, seeing as his source of that information went against Marlene’s rules, it was only the two of them who knew. So she had to hear it all over again: the things they did to her. And what it made her do to herself.

“Penelope L/n: assessment. Methods of torture are as follows: whipping, electrocution, starvation, burning, removal of tongue, waterboarding, mutilation of fingers, and signs of sexual violation. Effects are as follows: permanent inability to speak, extremely violent tendencies, and partial blindness in the right eye.”

Ellie can hardly imagine Penelope in such a state. She had always been so terribly strongwilled and mentally steeled. And now she is clinically insane. For the medics to have listed that she behaves violently ought to mean she has surpassed what is presumed ‘normal’ for her. 

“Next?”

“Y/n L/n: assessment.” Ellie straightens instantly, not missing the way Ruben does the same. The medic’s eyes flick over to them, but only for a moment. Then she continues. “Methods of torture are as follows: whipping, electrocution, starvation, burning, waterboarding, half-hanging, oxygen deprivation, pharmacological torture, and– and there also seems to be tracker jacker venom in her bloodstream, which–”

“What does that mean?” Ruben blurts, leaning forward on his elbows.

“We aren’t quite sure yet.” She replies slowly, carefully. “We have reason to believe that her memories have been tampered with, although we aren’t sure to what extent they have been altered. They also–”

“What does that mean?” Ruben repeats. “Change her memories? How is– how is that possible?”

“Quiet down, Mister L/n.” Marlene demands, voice even and unemotional. She continues to watch the medic woman standing in front of her, then waves her hand for her to continue. “Please, proceed with your assessments.”

The medic dithers, eyes flicking between Marlene’s stern security and Ruben’s pleading desperation. Then, with a deep inhale, she continues. “Effects of Y/n L/n’s torture are as follows: severe hallucinations and dissociation, extremely violent tendencies, uncontrollable tremors in the hands and neck, refusal to eat and drink, intense paranoia, and an overwhelming terror of water.”

“Water?” Ruben sounds to be on the verge of laughter. “We were raised in Four, she loves the water.”

“Not anymore.” Marlene says, finally turning her head to look at Ruben. She meets his gaze and it feels as though some otherworldly deities have clashed. “What has happened to your little sister is unfortunate, but you must accept who she has become rather than reject it. Denying the truth of it all will only result in additional distress for all those involved.”

For a moment, Ellie wonders if Marlene is truly worried about causing you dismay. But then she remembers that Marlene only wants power and you could help her obtain it—if you’re permitted time enough to recover. Marlene wants you to become the symbol in Ellie’s place. Not because she has ever trusted or liked you, but because you’ve been made malleable enough for her to manipulate. And if you’re obedient then you're a better option than Ellie, who never refrains from challenging Marlene’s power.

Ruben seems to think the same as he slinks back down in his chair, slumping down but not outwardly accepting defeat. 

The medic continues with her assessments, another fifteen minutes passing. During this interim, Ellie stares at the table in front of her and thinks. Of you, of what you’ve endured, of what you’ve become. She can’t believe she was so foolish as to think you’d embrace her. Not after everything. You’ve spent seven months in the Capitol, completely at their mercy. Of course you’d attack her; of course Fedra would turn her into the villain in your head.

Ellie raises her head again when the medic says Birdie’s name. Ruben doesn’t move, though, continuing to stare forward, like he already knows what will be said. As the medic begins to list of the torture methods, Ruben squeezes his eyes shut a though he cannot bear it.

“Effects are as follows:” says the medics, “half blinded, unable to walk without aid, struggle to eat or drink, unable to form a coherent sentence, and extremely mentally incapacitated.”

Ellie glances at Ruben through the corner of her eye. He has dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shifting with each heavy, steadying breath he takes. She thinks he might be crying, but she cannot quite tell from here. 

She looks past his silhouette at the rest of the people sitting around the table. Jesse and Dina both look horribly disturbed by the entire meeting, the latter even appearing a bit green at the thought of what has become of so many innocents. Tommy sits with a straight back and clear expression, but Ellie can see the way his posture shifts whenever a particularly difficult topic is brought up. Maria behaves the same as her husband, though her expression is contorted into very evident rage. Cecil has been staring down at the table the whole time, his hands over his mouth as he listens silently to the assessments. Beside him, Stephen appears on the brink of either falling asleep or vomiting all over the room. Even Yasmin and Robert are disgusted. 

“Next?” Marlene calls.

The medic clears her throat, flipping the page. “Jon–”

“I think that’s enough.” Ellie interrupts, causing more than a few heads to glance up at her. Most remain unmoved, however, as many of them have attempted evading this meeting more than once, albeit to no avail. She stands from her chair, the legs screeching across the floor. She stares at Marlene, trying to keep the trembling of her chin from showing. “We can continue this tomorrow morning. It appears we are nearly finished going through the patients, and it is almost midnight. We need rest.”

“As you’ve said,” Marlene tips her head, “we are nearly finished.”

“We have had enough, Marlene.”

“You have had enough when I say you have had enough.” She clasps her hands gently atop the table despite the ferocity of her words. “Sit down, Ellie, or you will be tied down.”

“You can’t seriously expect us to sit here all night, listening to name after name. These patients have been tortured beyond imagination, and these medics have written down every last detail. That’s not something most people are able to stomach listening to. At least, not for as long as this has been going–”

“I said sit down, Williams.”

“And I said–”

She’s suddenly grabbed by the shoulders and shoved so roughly into her seat that she bangs her arm on the edge of the table. She winces, already knowing there will be a bruise come morning. When she turns, it’s to find one of Marlene’s guards standing behind her to make sure she doesn’t attempt standing again. He stares directly forward, not daring to look at her. She wonders if it’s because he’s that good at his job, or out of guilt.

Ruben is sitting on the edge of his seat, glaring at Marlene. Ellie would bet more than it’s worth that he wants more than anything to lunge across the table and murder the president. She knows the feeling.

In the end, no one says anything and Marlene gestures once again for the medic to continue. “Next?”

02:17.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Flashes of color whiz past your mind, sending jolts of pain through your nerves. Like your memories and your pain are one and the same. Sounds and scents and sights—they all create one great, big crescendo. Your temples throb with the ache of their importance. You cannot latch on to any memory, only watch as they flurry past you like the window of a train. 

You see a face similar to your own, only it’s older and it’s male. Your father, perhaps, or your brother. You aren’t quite sure which is which. They’re both so aggressive, so distant. You hate them for it.

You hear the tolling of bells somewhere in the distance, like a wedding or a warning. You smell the brine of the sea, and you cower from it. You taste the ardor of a kiss from desperate lips, and you want to slaughter their owner. You see the curve of a wrist as a bowstring is pulled back, the arrow poised and ready to pierce your heart. You feel the chill of hands cupping your face, but you cannot tell whether it’s a caress or an attack. 

All these sensations. And yet you don’t know where the bells are coming from, whether the tide is high or low, who the kisser is, why the arrow is aimed at your chest, or who is cupping your face. Everything is so vague, so raw. Sometimes, you think you’re nothing more than an exposed nerve on the body of something far greater than yourself. Your only purpose is to endure pain and remain complacent as you do.

Hinges are creaking. A heavy door slams shut. You jolt at the sound. You leap from the cot. You press your back against the wall. You turn toward the intruder. A woman in all black stands in the room. Too dark compared to the white walls. The white floors. The white lights. The white pain. She is smiling. 

“I apologize deeply for what has been done to you.” Sharp voice. Sharp eyes. Sharp teeth. She could bite your neck off. You press closer to the wall. Your shoulders creep up to your ears. You prepare for her to bite. You protect your throat. “Here in Thirteen, we wish only for your speedy recovery. In order to do this, we must first know what exactly is wrong with you. This upcoming procedure will not be comfortable and might even cause you stress or dismay. But I want you to remember that this is all for your betterment.”

Wong. Very wrong. 

“We will bring an array of different people and objects into this room. For each one, I want you to react as honestly as possible. If something scares you, let me know that it scares you. If something comforts you, let me know that it comforts you.” 

She leaves the room. You are alone again. You remove your hands from your neck. You peel away from the wall. Minutes pass. You grow less tense. No more teeth are here to bite. You sit on the edge of the cot. You twist the ring on your finger. Your twist. You twist. You twist. You–

“Miss L/n.” The voice comes from all around. Through a speaker. Your hands fly to your ears. You jump from the cot. You curl up. You rock back and forth and back and forth again. 

“Again.” Your mother’s tone is sharp as a dagger as she thumps the end of her cane against tiled flooring.

Not again. 

You can’t go again. 

Not again. 

No more.

Hinges are creaking. A heavy door slams shut. You jolt. You stand up. You press against the wall. Hands are still covering your ears. A man enters this time. Everything in your body flares to life. Everything that has been added and subtracted by Doctor Fulmer. It flares. It sparks. It rages.

You push from the wall. You rush toward him. His eyes go wide. His hands block his face. You shove him backward. His back slams against the door. You scratch and pull and hit at his arms. He does not relent. His face is the same shape as your own. His skin and his hair are the same color as your own. His eyes are the same shape and color as your own. His nose has the same slope as your own. His lips have the same bow as your own.

Your brother. Your blood. Your enemy.

He is crying when you remove his arms from his face. You continue to hurt him. You do not want to kill him. You want to hurt him. You want to kill Ellie Williams. But you do not want to kill your brother. You only want to hurt him. Like he has hurt you.

You end up on the floor. He is beneath you. His face is covered in bruises. His cheeks are streaked with tears. He is bleeding. He is crying. You hate him.

He grabs your wrists. You yank away from him. You punch him again. And again. He grabs your wrists. You yank away. He grabs. You yank. He grabs. You try to yank but cannot. Panic flares in your chest. You yank and yank. He does not relent. You yank. He holds you firm. You begin to hyperventilate. You yank. You stand up and he stands with you. Still holding your arms. You yank.

“What did I do to you?” 

You yank. 

“Look at me. Please, just– what did I do? What do you think I did? Please.”

You yank. You kick and bite. You yank.

“What did I–”

You kick his metal leg. He crumbles. You kick him while he’s down. He groans. You kick and kick. You are still hyperventilating. You kick his stomach. You kick his face. He is crying again. Maybe he never stopped. He curls up on himself on the floor. A fetus position. You kick and kick.

Hinges are creaking. A heavy door slams shut. You jolt. You press against the wall. Your shoes and hands are covered in blood. In your brother’s blood. Three masked men file into the room. You press closer to the wall. They help your brother to his feet. He cannot hold himself up. You have damaged his metal leg too badly. The masked men carry him out of the room.

The door closes behind them. You are alone again. You do not let yourself relax. You remain tense and against the wall. Minutes pass. Many minutes pass.

“Don’t go.” 

You’re eleven years old, on your knees in front of your big brother. Tears are streaming silently down his cheeks as sobs leave your lips loudly and unapologetically. Your fists are gripping his pants, begging him to look at you—to listen to you. He continues to stare straight ahead, chin wobbling at the sound of your cries. 

“Ru, please.” You sob. “Please don’t go. You can’t leave me. I won’t survive without you. I can’t. I won’t.”

He does not look at you because he won’t allow himself to. You both know he has no power over whether or not he goes into the arena. His name was called and so he will go: simple as that. But you cannot let him leave so easily. The world cannot take him from you so easily. 

You drop your head onto his knees, your tears and snot staining the fancy ironed pants he was forced to wear to the reaping. He does not complain, but you both know your parents will. 

“You can’t leave me, Ru.” 

But he did anyway. And when he came back, he never even visited. He never apologized.

Hinges are creaking. A heavy door slams shut. You press closer against the wall. You prepare for the worst. That woman promised to torment you. As ‘betterment’.

Two masked men enter the room. Different men from the ones who took your brother. You scowl at them. They are both holding either side of a tub. There is a lid over the top. You wonder what is in there. A snake, perhaps? A bomb? A corpse?

They place the box on the ground in front of you. You get as far from it as possible. Only a few inches. They placed it very close. Too close. 

They sweep it open. Water sloshes around inside of it. Every nerve in your body goes alight. With fear. You immediately make a sound of trepidation. You move toward the cot. The men shuffle it forward. They don’t allow you to run. Your knees hit the side of the cot. You drop onto it. They continue to move forward. You press your back to the wall. You bring your knees to your chest. You curl up on yourself. Protectively. You’re breathing heavily. You cannot see through your fear.

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Where are they?”

You hardly comprehend the question, too busy gasping for air. Water traces down your face and along your back and chest. When you don’t answer, you’re shoved forward again, face submerged in the wash basin. You hold your breath for as long as you’re able, then you start to choke. You accidentally inhale, causing your body to thrash against the lack of oxygen. You’re kept underwater.

Your vision just begins to go black when you’re yanked again from the water. You gasp, coughing and gagging for air. Someone slaps you across the face, trying to regain your focus. It doesn’t work. Your body is still struggling to breathe.

“Where is Thirteen? How deep underground are they? Who is affiliated with them?”

“I don’t–”

You’re shoved under again. This time, when you start to flail, you hear something else enter the water beside you. You already know what it is before the voltage takes root. Your screams are muffled under the surface, every inch of your body protesting against the threat. 

But the Capitol was smart. They knew to add salt to the water in order to make it less fatal. This way, the precious information in your head will not be killed. 

Your heart is pounding when you’re pulled from the water. Your face is tingling all over, your fingers and feet spasming in a way which drives you insane. 

“Where are they!?”

You don’t remember what is so important about Thirteen or the rebels; you no longer remember why you’re protecting them, only that it is important enough to risk your life for. All you know is that whatever—or whoever—you’re protecting had better be worth it.

Your head is shoved under again. You scream and thrash and flail again. After a while of this, you’re eventually moved so that your entire body is submerged. That way, the electric shock can reach more terrain. And all the while, the only thing you can think of are these two recurring chants: ‘I hate the water, I hate the water, I hate the water’ and ‘This better, better, better be worth it. Oh, how this better be worth it’.

You used to yearn for the sea. She used to call out to you.

04:55.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Ruben cannot seem to stand still. Everyone else in this god forsaken room seems as unmoved as statues, and yet he cannot stand still. 

The room is made of the same stone and concrete which embodies the rest of Thirteen, but this room has a one-way mirror on one of the walls. It provides direct visage of your room. So they can all watch as you’re endlessly tormented. Ruben thinks this is no better than torture, but Marlene insists that it allows the medics better understanding of your condition—to help you. He cannot see how this is helpful.

You’re screaming again. For the third time, Marlene has introduced an element which provokes such fear that you cannot keep yourself quiet. And, for the third time, Marlene looks pleased with herself. The first was when the two soldiers brought in a basin of water. The second was when they lit a flame; it was just a candle, but it was enough. Then, just now, they introduced electricity. It’s harmless, of course, but the mere act of turning on their stun baton has caused you to descend into nigh madness.

You’re rocking on the floor, hands in your hair, when the men leave. 

Ruben wants nothing more than to rush into that room, grab your face, and tell you that you’re okay. But he’s not quite sure that’s true. He also knows better than to do it, considering he can still feel the ache in his jaw and leg from where you’d attacked him.

But what didn’t escape his notice was that you weren’t trying to kill him. When you first saw Ellie, you went straight for the throat: murderous. But, when you saw him, you just wanted to hurt him. You didn’t go for the heart or brain. You went for pain.

“Mm,” Marlene can be heard humming as she watches the clock on the wall. Between each element that she introduces, there are five minutes of down-time. At first, these minutes were a gift: a semblance of solace between endless torture. But now Ruben thinks it would just be better to get it fucking over with. 

He does not remove his gaze from the window as you twitch and tremor in the corner. You grab at yourself, trying to force your hands and neck to cease their twitching. Of course, it does not work. At one point, he is convinced you will break your own hand with the ferocity which you clutch it. You bite and press and fight with it. Ruben thinks it’s a perfectly morbid way to represent your mental state. A constant battle which you have no control over winning. 

You’re still fighting with yourself when Marlene calls out, “next.”

She has long since abandoned using the intercom to communicate after seeing how you reacted to it in the beginning. That, Ruben knows, was no effect of the Capitol. Your mother did that one to you. 

Ruben finally turns away from the window, watching as Ellie is prepped for entry. This is the final test. Marlene saved it for the end because even she knows how terrible it is. She knows you want to kill Ellie, but no one else was there when you attempted last time. Marlene wants to see for herself just how much you’ve been programmed into barbarity.

Ellie is shaking all over, and she doesn’t even try to hide it. Marlene brought stylists for her, tasking them with providing her with protection against your attacks. But Ellie refused them, opting instead for Tommy to be the one to dress her. He agreed, of course, much to Marlene’s dismay. And that’s what they’re doing now: Ellie standing shakily in the middle of the room while Tommy straps a vest around her torso and a gorget around her neck. He then holds up the helmet Marlene brought, but Ellie instantly refuses it. “She’s not a monster.”

“Unfortunately,” Marlene muses, “she is exactly that.”

Before long, Ruben is facing the window once again, watching as Ellie is escorted into the room. A guard stands sentry at the door, facing the scene just in case he is obligated to step forward. 

You raise your head slowly, body still rattling with tremors. You squint at her like an animal eyeing its prey. When you recognize who it is, exactly, standing before you, your entire demeanor changes. You practically leap from the bed, shoulders hunched to your ears and legs braced for a fight. But Ellie just stands there, watching you. It’s sickening, the love in her eyes. Ruben can see it, even from here. How can you not?

“I won’t hurt you.” Ellie’s voice is tinny, being filed through the microphone that Marlene demanded be strapped to her clavicle. “I would never hurt you.”

Ellie steps forward and you scuttle back, eyes wide with something akin to terror while also honing a vague sense of fury. Ellie holds her hands up, lowering her head. If Ruben were able to ignore the fact of what is happening, he’d be able to admit that this is a rather interesting encounter—you, having been turned into a vicious animal; Ellie, having always been adept at hunting and connecting with said animals.

“You can trust me.” She promises, sounding pained. “You did, once. You trusted me with your life, and I trusted you with mine. Please, I– I don’t know what they told you, or did to you, but–”

“Stop talking.” Your voice is raw from screaming, touched with a gravelly edge which grates against the inside of your throat. You don’t even try to fight it, likely seeing no purpose in doing so. You lower further down, nearly crouched like a cat preparing to pounce. “Quiet.”

Ellie nods slowly, “I can do that. I just want to know what–”

“Quiet.”

Ruben leans forward, watching you. He recognizes the way you move like it’s a missing piece of himself. The way you keep your arms in front of your face is a tactic your mother drilled into you both—“never leave your most precious asset unprotected” she’d say. He knows the way your eyes are flicking across Ellie’s body, scanning for information you can use. You’re looking for any tells: the way she keeps her head below her hands as a sign of submission; the way she keeps her feet planted to the floor as a plea for truce. You notice everything, he is sure, everything which would pass someone else’s notice. 

You begin to move, shifting around the room as you circle Ellie like a vulture. She remains perfectly still, knowing how a single movement could spur you into action. Because she knows you, too. There is a good chance she knows your body language as well as Ruben does. She peers at you through the corner of her eye, assessing you the same as you’re doing to her.

“Please,” she whispers, nigh begging, “please, I just–”

Your foot sweeps out, almost too quick to notice, and Ellie is knocked off her feet. She lands flat on her back, all the air punched from her lungs. She lies there, gasping and coughing, as you move forward. You loom over her, your feet bracketing either side of her hips. Then you lean down, mouth hovering right above her chest. Your words ring clear as day through the microphone: “You are no better than Fedra.”

Who the message is meant for is achingly obvious. Marlene does not so much as move, however, though everyone else in the room has begun to itch with trepidation. Robert shifts his weight from one foot to the other, glancing wearily between you and Marlene, as if waiting for something to happen. Even Maria seems a bit unsure of the situation as she crosses her arms over her chest, tapping her foot impatiently against the concrete.

Ruben turns back to the window, watching as you reach down and rip the microphone clear off Ellie’s vest. The sound of static fills the room. Marlene jerks her head at the guards. They nod before filing out of the room. There are five of them. 

But they’re too slow.

You manage to knock out the soldier at the door, slamming his head so roughly into the wall that he doesn’t get back up after his body crumples. Then you turn to Ellie, who is still on the floor. She watched you attack the man without caring to stop you, without caring to do anything. Because the faith she has in you is stronger than the faith she has in Thirteen.

Now, when the two of you speak, Ruben cannot hear the words. He sees Ellie rise to her feet, keeping her movements slow and cautious. He sees you shake your head, shouting something at her which he cannot translate. He sees the pain on Ellie’s face as she slowly, slowly, approaches you. He sees your entire body tense, bracing yourself for the torture which you now believe encompasses everything. He sees Ellie continue to talk, speaking endlessly about something you refuse to listen to. He sees you cover your ears and squeeze your eyes shut, head snapping from side to side.

Then, foolishly, Ellie reaches out. She grabs your shoulder and you just panic. Your eyes fly open before you grab her arm and snap it in a way which Ruben can only assume is agonizing. Ellie staggers backward, cradling her newly broken arm. You follow her, your intent revived. 

Just as you’re about to attack, however, the guards Marlene deployed storm into the room. Three of them make an effort to restrain you. They grab at your arms and your legs, pressing your face into the floor. You scream and thrash against their hold, like you truly believe that you’re dying. The other two aid in escorting Ellie from the room, even while she tries to get back to you. She shouts something over her shoulder, but you don’t seem to acknowledge it, wholly intent on getting out of the guards’ grip. 

Eventually, they stick you with a syringe and you fall limp against the floor. Ruben watches as you’re laid on the cot and tied down like an animal. They restrain your wrists and feet and neck with leather straps, making sure that you have nowhere to go when you wake.

“Good.” Says Marlene, turning to the trio of medics in the corner of the room. “Have you gathered a proficient amount of information?”

They nod, eyes slightly wild with fear. “Uh– yes, Miss President.”

“Good.” She says again, wringing her gloved hands as she makes toward the door. “I want you to begin treatment within a fortnight. I want her mind sound but pliant, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” 

With that and nothing more, Marlene sweeps out of the room. It is silent for a long time, no one quite knowing what to do. Then it begins to empty as the medics and guards return to their more pressing duties. Robert, too, takes his leave after a few minutes of dithering. Maria walks over to Ruben, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. She offers him a small, sad smile before following everyone else out of the room. Tommy trails behind her, perhaps knowing all too well the pain of losing a sibling—knowing that anything he says would be futile in soothing Ruben’s ache.

Finally, he is alone. He leans against the windowsill, watching your chest rise and fall with each breath you take. You’re dressed in the same sterile white gown that every patient has been forced into wearing. But it doesn't look quite right on you. Because, from the day you were born, you’ve always been so fucking strong. You were raised to be a victor, a soldier. You know pain more keenly than anyone else; you do not look like yourself in a fragile little hospital gown.

For a moment, he allows himself to shut his eyes and pretend that everything is okay. That it is summer again, before the Quarter Quell when you were all happy. He tells himself that is okay. Everything is fine. You’re living Seven, safe and sound with Ellie and Oakley in your arms and in your heart. You’re laughing and smiling about something trivial, visiting your friends on the weekend and spending time with Joel during the week. Everything is okay. Everything is fine.

But when he opens his eyes and sees you in that gown, he knows it is all a lie. You’ve been kidnapped and tortured, and you will never be the same again. He will never hear your laugh without it being tinged with sorrow. He will never see you rest without your body being tinged with tension. Nothing is okay. Nothing is fine.

The door slams open and Ruben turns. Ellie is breathing fast and heavy, her hands trembling against the straps of her vest. Ruben is quick to come forward and help her out of it, removing all the heavy and thick layers from her body. He watches as she takes a great, big breath before descending into sobs. He has done this so many times by now that it’s second nature. He steps forward, cradling her head and rubbing her back.

Just like you, Ellie was born strong. Perhaps she was not raised to be a victor in the Hunger Games, but she was raised by Marlene all the same—who, no doubt, was a rather tough woman to grow up with. Ruben wonders how many times in Ellie’s life she has cried like this: heavy sobs and ragged breathing. He doesn’t imagine it had happened very often before you were taken. But, since your return, she has done this almost every hour. She’ll barge into his room in the middle of the night, looking lost and dazed for a moment, then collapsing, body and soul, into sorrow. He is honored to be the person she comes to for comfort, but he knows it is not Ruben who she wants—not really. He is simply the closest thing to you she can get. 

Ruben remembers very little from his time after his first arena. Everything was hazy with alcohol and morphling addiction, causing his memory to skew. Time passed so quickly back then. He didn’t live day to day, but month to month. He was awake when he had to be and ate only when forced to. That’s when he met Birdie, of course. Oh, she couldn’t stand him. She thought he was just another rich asshole who wasted his days away because he had nothing better to do. How wrong she was. He had things to do—he had a sister back and home who was growing up without him, he had tributes each year who needed him to keep them alive. He simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. Then he met Zakai and everything cleared—but only for a little while, then he was thrust back into reality, back into drugs and distractions.

You were what brought him back. 

The day of your Reaping, he was still a bit high on morphling from the night before. He sat on the stage with hardly a thought in his mind. That is, until he heard your name; until he saw you ascend the stairs. Oh, how you’d grown. All your baby teeth were gone and you no longer cowered from crowds. You weren’t a little kid anymore—you hadn’t been a little kid for a long, long time. And he missed it all.

When he releases Ellie, he does it only so that he can lean against the window again. You look so young like this: fast asleep, all the fight having drained from you. 

Your lashes are fluttering against your cheeks, no doubt caused by nightmares. But you don’t jolt awake, but only because the drug you were stuck with keeps you under; trapped in your mind. 

Your hair is fanned across the cot. It’s grown since he last saw you in the arena, the Capitol having allowed it to get dead and matted and coarse. He wants to cut off the dead ends, brush through the strands, and remind you that you’re worth being cared for. You deserve it. 

When you were a kid, you used to love dressing up. When the Avoxes would wash your hair with fancy shampoos and tie it back in a bow, you could hardly stay still. You were so excited to look in the mirror, so fucking antsy to see just how pretty they’ve made you. That didn’t last long, of course, once you realized you would only be dressed up when your parents’ deemed it necessary—which almost always ensured a terrible time. 

He wonders if you remember that he was the one who would tie your laces and play with you in the bath. He wonders what, exactly, you remember at all. Do you remember that he was the one who taught you to talk? That he was the one who showed you how to walk? That he was the one who held your hand when you cried at night? 

You shift in your sleep, your body straining against the leather straps. Your face contorts into annoyance, but you still do not wake. Ruben cannot watch this. He can’t watch as you’re held down like some sort of savage beast and not his baby sister.

He pushes past Ellie on his way out, their shoulders colliding. She winces, cradling her broken arm that she’s not yet gotten looked at. He ignores it, going straight for the door—for the exit. He knows that she’s calling after him, but he doesn’t care enough to turn around. The door slams shut in his wake.

He knows it’s likely immature to flee when things get hard, but he can’t help it. He was raised to endure physical pain, not this. Never this. He pauses outside the door for a long while, back pressed against the wall as he catches his breath and straightens his thoughts. He shuts his eyes, forcing away the burning tears behind his lids. He forces himself to stop thinking of you when you were little—your arms reaching for him, your smile greeting him. He was the only kind thing in your life back then; the only gentle thing you’d ever known.

How did you end up here?  

The medical bay is overflowing still because, well, of course it is. His footsteps ring across the room, catching more than a few peoples’ attention. Everyone knows why he’s here. He just left your room, of course they all know. But the pitying expressions they send his way are not helpful in the least. He hopes they know that they’re not helpful.

Before he knows where his legs are carrying him, he’s pushing back a curtain and his eyes are falling on his fiance: the love of his life who he never got to marry. 

Birdie turns toward the sound of someone entering her space. Her eyes land on him and he nearly buckles under the weight of her gaze. One of her eyes has been cut from her skull, leaving the socket mutilated and empty. The medics try to make her wear an eyepatch but she can’t stand it. He knows she can't because it’s off right now, which means she took it off as soon as they left her alone. He smiles at the thought of Birdie, deep down, still being the same stubborn girl he’d fallen in love with.

Her eye isn't the only thing that’s been disfigured. There is a deep scar running across her mouth, diagonal from her temple to her chin. The cut must have been terrible because, after the medics stitched it up, her lips have been pulled back to reveal her teeth. Some of them are missing. Her hair has been buzzed to the skull, all that beautiful red dye she’d loved so dearly having been bleached clean. 

But that’s not even the worst of it. He always knew Birdie was beautiful, but he was never with her for looks. He loved her for her sharp mind and quick wit; he loved listening to her jokes and her laughter. The worst thing about her condition is the fact that she can hardly form a sentence anymore. The Capitol wrecked her mind so severely that she’s incapable of it.

When she sees him, her mangled mouth curves into a grotesque smile. She moves her arms toward him, making sounds that resemble his name but don’t quite form it. He moves toward her, unable to stop the tears from spilling from his eyes. She makes sympathetic sounds, the smile dropping from her face.

He sits in the chair beside her cot, descending into horrible sobs that he’s certain everyone else in the bay can hear. But he doesn't care. 

Ruben drops his head into Birdie’s lap, shutting his eyes and trying to pretend that everything is normal. But when she moves her hands toward his head, attempting to rub his scalp, he’s reminded that it’s not. Her fingers have been twisted into crooked shapes, causing her nails to dig into his head rather painfully. But she doesn’t seem to notice so he doesn’t complain.

The Capitol has taken everything from him—everything. 

They warped his sister, maimed his fiance, and condemned his nephew to a life underground.

I will kill them all, he thinks. But it isn’t a promise to himself, it’s a promise to all the people who have suffered at Fedra’s hands. All the men, women, and children he has massacred. All the lives he has ruined. All the homes he has destroyed. I will kill them all.

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11:38.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Marlene does not treat the contract she has with Ellie kindly. 

Ruben watches from afar as Ellie is yanked in one direction and the other. Literally. Only a few days ago, he’d been sitting down with her at mealtime as they discussed Oakley’s eating habits, only for a pair of guards to march forward and yank her up by the arms. They dragged her away like a sack of potatoes, the door slamming behind them. An hour or two later, all the screens in Thirteen came to life as they displayed propaganda footage of Ellie tending to people in District Three. 

She successfully pulled Districts Ten and Four onto their side over the past few weeks. The only remaining neutral District is Five—and even they are leaning more toward the rebels after bearing witness to Ellie’s campaigns. 

As much as Ruben hates them, they’re grotesquely successful. She visits sick children in hospitals, she tends to the poor and the wounded. She makes Thirteen look like a humanitarian shelter rather than a war bunker—and it’s working. Children flock toward her when she enters buildings, people raise their hands toward her as though she’s something sacred. And, perhaps worst of all, he knows that she’s not faking any of it. Marlene is not forcing Ellie into terrible situations and shoving a script in her hands. No. She’s putting her in terrible situations and shoving a camera in her face. Because Ellie is an inherently good person and what comes naturally to her is decency. 

More than once, Ruben himself has been ripped from bed to accompany her on these campaigns. He is ushered into a dressing room, stuffed into one of those thick black suits, and then directed onto a hovercraft. Honestly, he thinks he might be spending more time in the air than on the ground lately—which is a shame because he absolutely hates flying. The whirring blades and harsh metal edges remind him too keenly of his parents’ practice rooms. It’s an abstract parallel, he thinks, considering the practice rooms were all stark white and sterile while the hovercrafts are dark metal and creaking, but he cannot stop himself from thinking about it.

After the attack on Twelve, Marlene has permitted Ellie and Ruben to carry weapons during the campaigns. Just in case the Capitol decides to make another move while they’re out. At first, she placed a handgun in both their palms and called it a day. But then she learned—rather quickly—that neither of them knew how to operate them. Ellie, having grown up poor in Seven, never had the chance to learn how to use something so expensive and Ruben, having been trained for the arena, never spared time to grow accustomed to weapons that wouldn’t be in the cornucopia. In the end, she let them choose.

Ellie, of course, ran to the bow. Her stylists have altered and changed it into something beautiful and hopeful, slotting as a perfect accessory to her outfit. Ruben, however, changes his weapon every time they leave. Partly because he wants to remain skilled in every category. And partly out of spite, not wanting to allow Marlene the chance to turn his weapons into some propaganda ornament.

They’ve only had to use them once so far, when a mob of Peacekeepers stormed into a building to arrest all the rebels. That’s when Ellie learned that all the things they’d added to her bow made it impossible to fire. Ruben had to jump in front of her to stop one of the Peacekeepers from blowing her head off. Marlene suffered quite the backlash after that—from both Ruben and Tommy. She agreed to prohibit the stylists from interfering with the weapons any longer. But they still painted them black, branding them with Thirteen’s sigil. 

In short, the past three weeks have been hectic. 

But the most troublesome of all is the fact that you’ve not shown your face since your last broadcast over a month ago. While Ellie films her campaigns across the country like a celebrity on tour, the Capitol scrambles to keep up. They film their own propaganda of course, but none works so well as Ellie’s. They show interviews between Balandin and old tributes, trying desperately to remind their people of the Games they’d once so dearly adored. But no one is falling for it any longer—not after seeing Fedra’s cruelty. They all watched as you were beaten to a pulp; they all watched as they bombed a hospital full of wounded. 

Even some of the Districts who’d previously aligned themselves with the Capitol have switched sides. District Nine, who’d been exchanging their grain and crops for protection, has turned toward the rebels. Their food is now sent to Thirteen instead—which has been extremely helpful considering all the new people they’ve added to the population. The food is much more edible with Nine on their side.

District One, also, has turned toward rebellion. They’re not nearly as helpful in survival as Nine, considering their entire purpose is to manufacture luxury items. But they’re nice to have. The beds have gotten cushier and the electrical system is much less finicky. 

The Capitol is struggling to keep their head above the water. They have only District Two on their side now, creating bombs and traps from scratch. Everyone else—bar Five’s stubborn neutrality—has joined the rebels. The Capitol can hardly feed their people, not to mention keep their loyalties. The only people who remain on Fedra’s side are those who know Thirteen will not accept them: the people who built the arenas, the people who laughed while children were cut down. 

And yet the Capitol refuses to use the best weapon in their repertoire: you.

If they simply put your face on the screen and made you read from some hastily-written script, they could likely regain the alliances they’ve lost. And yet they don’t—which worries Ruben far more than he’d like to admit. If they’re refusing to use your face, it’s likely because you’re not fit to be seen. You’re in such terrible condition that you cannot be used as a figurehead. 

In your absence, the Capitol has used their other captives. Penelope L/n was the first to show her face after you were taken out of the spotlight—but she was much too aggressive to be seen as an impetus of hope. She was clearly traumatized by whatever they’ve been doing to her: her skin was pale and her hair was thinned. But she remained firm in her obstinacy. She thrashed against the chair, paced around the room, and threatened to rip Balandin’s tongue from his mouth. Yeah, they didn’t use her after that.

So then they tried to use Abigail Anderson—which drew a sharp breath from Ellie’s lips when she saw her face again after so long. But it was clear Abigail was no longer the same vicious beast she’d been in the arena. She was a mold, crumbled and reshaped like a piece of clay. For the first three minutes, she just stared at the floor. Then, when she started talking, it was all nonsense. Her voice was grating, like she’d either not used it in months or she’d been screaming for hours before this. She spoke of a woman in the walls and a vague recollection of being someone’s caretaker. She spoke of an endlessly beseeching God, she spoke of Lev and Yara, and she spoke of something drowning in a bay. She was pulled away from the camera before too long, never again used for footage after that.

Then they tried using Thea Thatcher. Her long, silky platinum hair had been chopped from her head, cropped close to her ears to make her look like a boy. Her sleet gray eyes, once so bright, were dull and unseeing. She stared at Balandin as though he were someone she’d never seen in her life. He asked her questions, only for her to continue staring at him with parted lips. Then, just as they were about to escort her from the room, she spoke up. Only one word; only one name. Yours. The camera went black after that.

Needless to say, the Capitol is steaming. And, before long, it will be burned to the ground. 

14:09.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

“It’s been a month, Marlene.” 

“Incorrect. It has been three and a half weeks. Four days remain until the end of the month.”

Ellie’s hands slam down on the desk. “You promised.”

“Yes, and I intend on keeping that promise.” Marlene stands from her chair, walking slowly around her desk until she is standing less than a foot away. Ellie has to refrain from cowering away from all that Marlene has become—all that Ellie has turned her into. “You have done well, but our work is far from over.”

The office is empty, save for the two of them. And Robert—who always seems to be lurking around somewhere. The walls feel as though they breathe at Marlene’s command; the ceiling rises and sinks at her decree. The entire world seems to exist merely because she willed it into existence. She carries herself like a queen, and perceives herself as a deity. Her power is far too large to be contained in the body of a mere human. She ought to be something larger, something better. And why stop at a president when she can be a queen? Why stop at a queen when she can be a goddess?

Marlene reaches forward, the backs of her knuckles tracing down Ellie’s cheek—almost a strike, almost a caress. She has been acting more like this recently: her actions lodged somewhere between unattainably powerful and atypically motherly. It makes Ellie sick. 

“You’ve been good, Ellie.” She whispers. “So, so good.”

A shiver runs through Ellie’s body, turning her bones to ice and her skin to stone. Marlene is so close that she can hear the air as it enters her lungs; so close that she can smell the ichor of her blood. Her hand remains on her cheek, so gentle yet so threatening. It traces its way down Ellie’s face and rests on the base of her throat. Marlene’s eyes dip to her neck: a threat. It would be so easy for her to squeeze; so easy for her to rid herself of the problems Ellie poses. 

The threat hangs in the air for a long, long time. Then, slowly, as if she regrets it before it’s even happened, Marlene removes her hand and takes a step backward. Ellie exhales a breath, her entire body buzzing with the warning of its own impending peril. She rubs her own hand against her throat, though no damage has been done. She can still feel Marlene’s hand there.

“But you need to behave.” Says Marlene, voice low. “If you step out of line, the contract is done. If you bring this up again, the contract is done. Do you understand me?”

Ellie hesitates long enough for Matlene to raise a brow. “Yes.”

“Good.” Marlene walks around her desk, lowering herself back into her chair—her throne. “Because I already have a troop deployed. They’re scheduled to land in the Capitol in an hour. If it’s within their ability, you will see your wife by nightfall.”

Ellie’s knees almost buckle at the notion. And, honestly, she thinks they might have if she hadn’t grabbed the edge of Marlene’s desk quick enough. She braces her weight against the desk, shutting her eyes as she tries to keep her breathing steady. She can hear Marlene giving Robert a command, but she doesn’t need to process the words to know what she’s saying: Robert, show Miss Williams to her room. 

When she feels Robert’s hand on her shoulder, Ellie doesn’t fight him. She allows herself to be guided out of the office, out of Marlene’s quarters, all the way through the crowded halls of Thirteen, and—finally—to her room. All the while, Robert keeps a gentle hand on her arm. Perhaps to keep her steady; perhaps to keep her from running.

But when the compartment door swings open, it’s not her own room which she is faced with. Instead, it’s Cricket’s. The girl is laying on her bed, sprawled on top of her duvet with a lazy arm draped over her face. Ellie thinks she might be sleeping. On her floor, Ruben sits criss-crossed with Oakley perched in his lap. Across from him, Avner and Noam can be seen making silly expressions at the toddler, dangling random items in front of his face. They’re trying to make him laugh, but don’t seem to be making any progress.

When Oakley’s eyes land on Ellie, his face finally cracks into a wide grin. He babbles at her, reaching.

“Ha!” shouts Noam, “I made him smile!”

“No you didn’t, asshole! “He’s smiling at me!”

“No he’s–”

Their voices come to a sudden close when they see Ellie entering the cramped compartment. They frown at the notion of them both being wrong. Ruben lifts Oakley in the air, allowing Ellie to hold her son. She cradles his head against her shoulder, pressing a kiss to his skull. His hair is getting thicker, the black starting to fade to the same brown that his father had once donned.

Ellie sits on the edge of Cricket’s bed, allowing herself—for just a moment—to relax. These past three weeks have been ceaseless. She only sees her son at night and during mealtime: when he’s sleeping beside her, or stuffing his face with food. She hardly has any time to see him, really see him. She’s had to ask Cricket if his diet has changed or if he’s walking funny or if he’s started to talk yet. She feels so disconnected from him; it’s nice to take a moment to just breathe with him in her arms. 

Noam and Avner are new additions to her life, too. Apparently, Ruben had a great breakthrough with them, finally managing to get rid of the deep loathing they were so adamant on maintaining. Now, they’re attached to him. Wherever he goes, they go. They sit beside him during mealtime, chattering away about meaningless topics that no one else cares for. Avner starts fights with Ruben almost daily, spewing insults just for the fuck of it—but it’s obvious he doesn’t mean any of them. From the moment Ellie saw the two boys flanking either side of Ruben, she knew they loved him. She could see it in the way they look at him, the way they copy his mannerisms, the way they refuse to let him have a moment of privacy. Not that he wants it. Another thing Ellie noticed was how he loved them in turn. The way he would read the lunch menu for Avner when he couldn’t see it, the way he would push Noam’s wheelchair around even though it hurts his leg. Yeah, those boys are as much Ruben’s brothers as you’re his sister.

“Are you okay?” Ruben asks, drawing Ellie to lift her head from where it’d been priorly buried in Oakley’s tufts of hair. He stands from the floor with a grunt, moving to sit beside her on the bed. He glances over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t woken Cricket and—sure enough—she remains dead to the world.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Ellie manages. “I need to talk to you though.”

He shrugs. “Go ahead.”

She inclines her head toward Avner and Noam, the two boys both leaned forward with their eyes pinned to Ellie and Ruben, unashamedly listening to their every word. When they realize what she’s suggesting, they throw their arms in their air with a cry of complaint. Only when Ruben asks them to wander the halls for a little bit, promising to let them know as soon as their ‘big kid talk’ is done, do they oblige.

Avner stands from the floor, crumbling all the while. He grabs the handles of Noam’s chair and yanks it to the side, causing his brother to start bickering with him about nearly causing him whiplash. They argue all the way out of the compartment, their muffled voices still carrying on after the door closes behind them.

When Ellie turns back to Ruben, she expects to find him laughing lightly at the boys’ antics. Instead, he is staring at her with attentive eyes. Perhaps she’s not as good at hiding her emotions as she used to be. It’s hard to imagine herself before all this—before the Games and before meeting you. She’d been an entirely different person. Yet, in some ways, she’s the exact same. Ellie meets Ruben’s gaze with a frown, wordlessly asking him to stop staring. He doesn’t, of course, but it was worth a shot.

“I talked with Marlene,” she says, “about the contract.”

Ruben’s shoulders slump as he places a hand on her shoulder. He shakes his head, as if pitying her. “I suppose I should act surprised? I mean, that contract was too good to be true, Ellie. We don’t have to–”

“She sent a troop to the Capitol this morning.” She blurts out, like she can’t help herself. Ruben’s mouth snaps shut, reduced to shocked silence. “They’re scheduled to land in– well, now, I suppose. They should be back by nightfall. And, if they’re able, she’ll be with them.”

Time stretches between them as the words seep into their bones, unshakable and unfathomable. Ruben releases a trembling exhale, dropping his head into his hands. Ellie pauses, waiting, then watches as his shoulders start to shake with something between a sob and a laugh—she’s not sure which. She shifts closer to him, resting a hand on his spine while the other continues to hold Oakley as he gnaws on her arm.

“I want to believe it.” He says. “I really do.”

Ellie rubs his back, blinking roughly up at the ceiling. “Me too.”

18:12.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

The wait is perhaps the worst part.

Ruben doesn't know what to do with himself after hearing the news. His first course of action was to tell Avner and Noam that something came up and they would have to resume their hand-out some other time. They weren’t happy about that, but he could hardly find the mind to care. Because his second course of action was to talk with Tommy—to verify that a troop was sent out this morning. And, shockingly enough, it was.

As dawn arched through the sky, Tommy was pulled from bed and told to prepare a troop of twenty soldiers to infiltrate the Capitol. Their goal was to go in, release the victor captives, then return to Thirteen unnoticed. The soldiers were more than happy to oblige, having claimed to be more on Ellie’s side than on Marlene’s—which was unsettling to hear, considering they’re supposed to be a team. Tommy and Maria assisted Robert in preparing the hovercrafts and donning the soldiers in enough weapons to go undetected.

And, as Tommy spoke, Ruben could feel the truth settling in his bones: it’s too easy. All of this is too easy. There should have been months of planning and preparing; there should have been meetings and discussions. Then he realized, achingly, that there had been meetings and planning and schemes, except Ruben and Ellie were not part of them. They'd been going on for months and they were kept unbriefed.

Still, he refused to let himself grow excited. He refused to let himself become disappointed.

Ruben returned to his compartment after that, finding Avner and Noam already having made themselves at home. Avner was sleeping soundly on his bed, curled up on his side with soft snores pouring from his mouth. Beside him, Noam slept with his limbs all sprawled across the mattress like a star. Ruben perched on the edge of the bed, running his hands through Avner’s hair and down Noam’s back. They roused from slumber, fond smiles crawling onto their faces as they recognized the man beside them. Avner released a boisterous yawn as Noam stretched his arms and neck. 

When they asked what had happened—what he and Ellie were discussing—he decided upon being wholly honest: the Capitol’s captives were coming home. He was thinking of you but, as soon as the kids’ faces lit up, he realized that they were thinking of their own sister. Birdie was among the captives, held and tortured just the same as everyone else. At the realization, he apologized to the boys and ran to find Tommy again.

Ruben was out of breath and aching all over by the time he found him, hands on his knees as his prosthetic shot pain up through his thigh. Tommy blinked at him, taken aback by the sudden reappearance. Through his heavy breaths, Ruben managed to ask his question: Are the soldiers going to save Birdie, too? He sounded like a child—voice small and eyes bright with hope. 

Tommy only smiled at him. Yes. Of course they are. I made sure of it.

He was halfway back to his compartment when Robert appeared out of nowhere, beckoning him toward Marlene’s quarters for a ‘mandatory meeting’. Dread wafted through his veins because, despite his efforts, Ruben had allowed himself to become hopeful that this was true. He’d fought it so hard and yet devoted his entire day to keeping himself informed. 

He enters Marlene’s quarters to find everyone else already gathered around the table. Ellie is biting the nail of her thumb, knees bouncing ceaselessly under the table. She relaxes when she sees Ruben, but just barely.  Across from her, Jesse and Dina exchange worried glances. He wonders if they’ve been as unaware as he and Ellie have been regarding all of this. Yasmin, however, does not appear confused. Her shoulders are steady and squared as though she is preparing for a fight. Ruben supposes it would make sense, considering Penelope is included as part of the captives.

“I thank you all for your compliance.” Marlene says once Ruben has taken his seat beside Ellie. “I have called this meeting not to be the bearer of bad news, but to announce a campaign. While we await the return of our heroic troops, it is our duty to ensure their success. One such way being a campaign.”

“How the fuck is a campaign going to save my family?” Yasmin snarls, sounding almost bestial. Her nails are digging into the edge of the table, her eyes vibrant with barely-concealed rage. “They’re being tortured and you’re suggesting the same shit we’ve been doing for months!”

“Troops?” Jesse inquires, looking between Marlene and Yasmin. “Where are we sending troops?”

Maria leans over, whispering in his ear to inform him and Dina of what has happened. Ruben sees when the gravity of the situation finds its way to their heads, both their eyes snapping toward Ellie. Ruben cannot help but follow their lines of vision, glancing at the girl out of the corner of his eye. She hasn’t moved since he entered the room. Her eyes are pinned to the table, her teeth gnawing away at her thumb nail. He thinks there might be blood collecting on her lip.

“Our troops have been deployed on a covert mission, meaning that they must remain unnoticed by the Capitol if we wish for them to succeed.” Marlene says, her voice carrying regally across the table. “And I can think of no better way to keep the Capitol’s eyes busy than a campaign. If they are too absorbed in their screens to notice what is happening behind their backs, they will likely not even know we’ve intruded.”

“Yes,” Maria inclines her head, “but we’ve been filming so many campaigns that they’ve likely become background noise. Why should the Capitol pay any special attention to this one?”

A smile creeps onto Marlene’s face. It sends a shiver of unease down Ruben’s spine. “Because this is no typical broadcast. This will be a live video-recorded conversation between the rebellion’s symbol, Ellie Williams, and the Capitol’s tyrant, President Fedra.”

20:12.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Ellie has been dressed in the same blacked-out uniform she’s been wearing for all the campaigns. Only this time, it is unnecessary. She is wearing a bullet-proof vest and carrying a black bow—all for the sake of a video call. Albeit, it is with the president. Still, she feels silly.

There is a camera buzzing in the air in front of her, red light not yet turned on. Beside it, Robert has a little screen in his hand which will eventually display camera footage from Fedra. There is a group of stylists and designers crowded around her, five different hands tugging at her clothes and applying makeup to her skin. She feels like a prized pig being prepared for auction—perhaps she’s not too far off. 

Marlene is here, watching with an unreadable expression as Ellie is prepped and preened. Jesse and Dina, too, are sitting just out of the frame, remaining close enough for Ellie to see their face—and the Oakley, babbling in Dina’s arms. Tommy and Maria are on either side of Robert, helping to prepare the broadcast and get everything ready. Ruben is leaned against a wall, his prosthetic extended in front of him to keep the weight off of his leg. He is watching Ellie intently, checking for any signs of reluctance, but she is determined. If this will help get you back, she will do it.

The screen in Robert’s hand flares to life, the camera flashing red. 

Fedra’s lumpy face stares at Ellie’s as the stylists and designers all scurry away, no one having expected him to appear without prior notification. Everyone in the room straightens at the sight of him. Oakley whines and Dina does her best to hush him.

“Miss Williams.” Fedra’s voice carries through the room as if he is standing right in front of her. Ellie suddenly wishes Robert weren’t so good at his job, wishes the speakers were just a bit muffled so it didn’t feel so fucking real. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Ellie has no script to read from, nothing to lean back on for support. She speaks with no forethought, hoping it will be enough to keep his attention on her. 

“Did you ever marry?” It spills from her lips before she has time to filter it. It’s a stupid question. Mainly because the answer is obvious: the country would know if their president ever held a lover. And yet—oh, Fedra flinches. Something in his gaze flickers at the question, his posture shifting in his seat. Ellie’s eyes widen as she realizes that he did, at one point, love. “Oh, poor girl. I pity her for having elicited love from such a vile creature as yourself. Did she know what you would become? Did she know you would bomb a hospital filled with wounded children? Did she–”

“I hardly see how this is appropriate.”

Ellie inclines her head, lips tugging upward at his reaction. “Or was it a he? You can be honest with me, Mister President, I promise I won’t judge. Truly, I’m in no place to–”

“Love,” he says, “is a dangerous sentiment. It makes people violent and obsessive. It starts wars.”

“It surely started this one, didn’t it?” She says somberly, gaze flicking to where Oakley is stretching his legs like he wants to run. She looks back at the camera. “But what more beautiful a catalyst could you ask for?”

“Your love is not beautiful, Miss Williams. It is destructive and if it were permitted free reign, it would split the world in half.” His expression is blank as an unpainted canvas, looking untouchable. But Ellie has faced far scarier presidents than him. She has had Marlene’s hand around her throat and her blood in her nose. After that, Fedra truly isn’t so terrifying. 

“If destruction is ugly, your Hunger Games were absolutely hideous.”

Fedra lets out an airy laugh, sounding almost akin to a braying horse or asthmatic pig. “You can denigrate the Games all you want. I am well aware of what they cost you, and I understand why you criticize them so. Although your pain is an expense I would pay a thousand times over if it meant the Games could persist. They are a monument, a testament, to all of which this country stands for: prosperity, integrity, freedom.”

“Freedom?” Ellie lets out a barking laugh, unable to help herself. “You think this country is free? You think anyone in this fucking country thinks that they’re free? Children are dying in your streets, men and women are prepping their children for you to slaughter.”

“Their suffering is unfortunate,” Fedra says, “a pity.”

Something deep within Ellie’s chest seethes at that. All the people that have died in the Games—all the people she loved and lost for the sake of this man’s entertainment. They deserve to be acknowledged more than a mere pang of pity. 

“Thalia Thatcher.” Ellie says, watching a thin crease form between the president’s brow as he is visibly unsure where she is going with this. But she steels her resolve and pushes onward. “Anthea Solace. Lev and Yara Seraphite. Sam and Henry Burrell. Ariadne Evans. Selene Jones. Roland Jennings. Archie Bardot. Riley Abel. Raven Hansley. Ashley West. Whitney Sato. Elliot Delcan. Nolan Barlowe. Violetta Yaxley. Dahlia Hart. Cooper Whitlock. Dav–”

“I understand the point you are trying to make, Miss Williams, there is no need–”

“Teresa Servopoulos. Joel Miller.” Her voice cracks, but she continues. “Nora Harris. Owen and Melanie Moore. Their child. Elina L/n. Leah Organa. Jordan Austin. Emanuel Alverez. Bill. Frank. Danny.”

Ruben shifts into the frame, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Zakai Danver. Deane Reeves. Evan Forbes. Avery Rowe. Lilis Prewett. Raye Clein. Jean Dell. Tobias Rye. Micah Kayes. Alonso  and Aldric Fendi. Alined Hughes. Isen Wilkes. Otto Graves. Laos Robards. Farnock Dowling. Taj Mawles. Ada Axtell. Sacha Wincanton. Annora Pucey. Talyn Chaddar. Letita Lyon. Serus Barnette.”

Silence weighs heavy in the air as Fedra continues to stare blankly forward. His expression reveals nothing, completely wiped clean. But his silence is enough for Ellie to know that the names of the people he murdered are beginning to cause a crack in his facade. She knows he will never feel guilty for what he has done. He said it himself: he would do it a thousand times over to ensure the Games persisted. But she is not doing this for him, nor is she doing this for the rebellion. This is for all the people whose names haven’t been spoken since their death—all the people whose faces will only be remembered by grieving families.

She knows, somewhere in the country, a mother sits on her couch watching the broadcast. And she knows, to that woman, hearing her baby’s name spoken again means something.

After a moment, Fedra opens his mouth. But he is only able to utter a single syllable before Dina and Jesse are both stepping forward, having passed Oakley off to Robert. It takes a few minutes for them to both recall the names of their past tributes and to list them. A mound of ghosts is created in the room, stifling and sickening. There is another pause, then Maria and Tommy do the same—a faint recognition flaring in Fedra’s gaze as he sets his gaze on Tommy’s face.

Minutes pass—lifetimes pass—before every tribute’s name is listed. Unfortunately, no one can recall every single person who has passed, but they can do their best. And, when all is said and done, the conversation returns to a tense one between Ellie and Fedra. 

“Thousands of people have died for the sake of your ‘virtuous’ Games.” She tells him, voice shockingly steady in her mouth. It carries through the room and Ellie doesn't dare look in Marlene’s direction. “Millions of people have been impacted by the deaths of tributes. Mothers, fathers, siblings, and friends. You can never repay what you have done to them; you can only atone for it. And you will: with your life.”

“You wish to kill me.” It’s not a question so much as an acknowledgement of something which everyone has already been aware of. “But why do you, of all people, deserve the honors? As you have priorly said, millions of people have been negatively impacted by my Games. Yet you are the one who gets to wield the blade? Why is it that you deem yourself so important? You wear that protective suit and carry that shiny bow, but who is to say that you deserve it?”

“I don’t.” She admits simply. “I don’t deserve it. There are people who have suffered much worse than I, and they are who should have the satisfaction of taking your life. But I wear the suit and carry the bow. I have been chosen by the people to represent their wrath. With their permission, I would gladly kill you. For them.”

That’s when her eyes slide over to where Marlene is sitting. Her legs are crossed over one another, poised neat and elegant as she watches the scene unfold. Slowly, a scowl mars her face as she recognizes the weight of what Ellie has said. Because it was not a mere acknowledgement of Fedra’s insult, nor a mere rebuttal. It was a promise to every person in this country, a promise to serve them as Fedra never has. To Marlene, this is a threat of her position. If there were an election, Ellie would be chosen far quicker than her. 

“I look forward to it.” Fedra says, drawing Ellie to break her eye contact with Marlene. He has a small smile on his lips, pleasure glinting in his eyes. Fear traces through Ellie’s spine, setting her nerves alight. “I love the Hunger Games more than anything in my life. When you asked if I ever loved someone, it is the Games which I am betrothed most passionately to. They hold sway over my life and my breath. Alas, it is the things we love most which destroy us in the end.”

A man steps into the frame, whispering in Fedra’s ear. Ellie tenses, hoping—praying that the man has not found out about the infiltration. In the end, Fedra merely smiles wider and adjusts his position on his chair.

“I want you to remember I said that.”

The screen goes black.

For the hundredth time, silence seems to be the water which fills Ellie’s lungs. She feels leaden with it, heavy and overcome by it. She blinks, unable to comprehend what exactly just happened. They’d been holding a conversation then, all of a sudden, everything changed. She’d had the upper hand the whole time, and he just snatched it from her. Like it was always his to begin with.

And what he’d said: “It is the things we love most which destroy us in the end. I want you to remember I said that.” She cannot stop herself from assuming the worst. Whatever that man said into Fedra’s ear gave him enough confidence to not only perceive himself as better, but smile like he was. 

“The things we love.” Ellie made it very obvious that the thing she loves is you. For Fedra to suggest that would destroy her—oh, she cannot even begin to imagine what he could be alluding to. If he knows that Marlene sent troops to the Capitol, he will kill them. But he can’t kill you, can he? He needs you, doesn’t he? Then again, he hasn’t used you for campaigns or interviews in over a month. What if he already killed you? What if the troops arrive just to find that there is no one left to save—a grotesque parallel to the medics who arrived too late to save District Twelve. 

There is no way in which Fedra’s words can be interpreted to mean something good. There is no way in which his smile, his voice, his eyes could possibly mean anything aside from your pain. But Ellie, for the life of her, cannot predict what it means. What any of it means.

“Ellie?” Ruben is suddenly in front of her.

She looks up at him, just now realizing that her vision is blurred. She raises her hands to her face only to realize how shaky they are. She rubs at her eyes, at her mouth, at her neck. She sucks in a breath but it rattles in her lungs, like she’s choking. Ruben calls something over his shoulder but she knows it’s not directed at her. When he turns back to her, his eyes are wide and he’s being very careful to not touch her—like she might explode. And, at the moment, Ellie wonders if she might.

A few moments later, she sees that Dina, Jesse, the stylists, and the camera crew are all filing neatly out of the room. They all seem to be look, look, looking at her as they pass. She wonders if they’re judging her. If they think she’s overreacting; if they knew, deep down, that it would be impossible to get you back. She wonders if everyone except for her was secretly in on it: on giving her hope just to laugh as it’s ripped away.

“Ellie, look at me.” Ruben raises his voice, causing her eyes to snap toward his face. She wonders how long he’s been trying to get her attention. She wonders if he was in on it, too. “I need you to breathe.”

But I am breathing, is what she wants to say. 

How can I breathe without her here, is what she wants to scream. 

A hand touches her face and Ellie lashes out like a caged animal. Her closed fist collides with something solid. When she turns, it’s to find Ruben massaging the line of his cheekbone. She opens her mouth to apologize, but all that can be heard is a pathetic, hiccuping sob. She chokes on it. Her breathing grows more erratic and Ellie realizes—finally—that maybe she is panicking. It’s not on purpose. She doesn’t want to react like this. She wants to be of sound mind when you arrive—if you arrive.

Her knees threaten to buckle, but Tommy is quick to grab her when they do. He guides her gently toward a nearby chair and she sinks into it. Her legs and hands and shoulders are shaking. Her entire body is vibrating with the fear of losing you. For a moment—albeit a short moment—she wonders if Fedra has unleashed another bomb on Thirteen. The thought drives her further into mania. She hunches over, elbows on her knees and hands in her hair. She breathes through her mouth.

She can hear people talking to her, but she can make no sense of their words or consolation. Because they’re too far away; they’re too deceptive, seeing as they were all laughing behind her back. Laugh, laugh, laughing. Always laughing. She lifts her head and shoves hard at Ruben’s shoulders. He stumbles backward, still unsteady on his prosthetic, but continues to speak softly. She only grows more frustrated by this, hitting him again and again in the chest. He steadies himself, less shocked by each blow she lands. Ellie thinks of his face contorted into laughter, amused by her pain. But the thought of seeing a smile—a genuine smile—on his face makes her want to cry. How long has it been since he was happy? Since any of them were?

She hunches over herself again, unsure what else to do. 

This time, her sorrow does not morph into ill-directed rage. She simply wallows in her own pain until it fades to a bruise. By the time she has regulated her emotions and regained a semblance of sanity, Ellie turns to find that everyone except Ruben has left the room. And even he appears exhausted. 

He is slumped against the wall beside her chair, knees propped up as hills in front of himself. His head is resting atop them, eyes blinking slow and lazy as he stares at the floor blankly. 

“How long?” Her voice is rough, even in her own ears.

“An hour,” he responds, “maybe two.”

She sighs through her nose. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Ellie.” He says, voice hardly above a whisper. “We all know how you can be and we all try our hardest to regulate your panic when it spikes like this. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Fedra knew what he was doing, saying shit like that.”

“Was it true?” She cannot help but ask. 

Ruben lifts his head from his knees, peering up at her through lidded eyes. “No. Marlene contacted the troops immediately and– and they’re on the way back.” There’s a pause as Ruben breathes shakily, like he’s trying to find the courage enough to speak. “They have Y/n with them.”

Ellie feels the world drop away. She feels like she’s falling through space with nowhere to land. She focuses on her breathing, refusing to descend once more into panic. “What?”

“They snuck undetected into the Capitol, they rescued the captive victors, and now they’re on their way back to Thirteen. They should be here by nightfall. Just like we planned.” Ruben looks to be on the verge of tears himself, blinking them away roughly. He hesitates before correcting himself. “Just like Marlene planned.”

“No, that–” Ellie shakes her head, grappling with her thoughts. “That can’t be true. It’s too easy. And– and what Fedra said, it– none of this makes any sense.”

But it is true.

Very quickly, Ellie realized just how true it is.

As soon as she enters the halls, everyone is rushing around. Medics and apothecaries are preparing to tend to a plethora of wounded, tortured victors. People she’s never seen before run past Ellie, nearly knocking her over in their vehemence. Cots and wardrobes are being transported into newly furnished compartments, laborers from One putting their skills to use.

Apparently, while Ellie was reeling over the fact that you might have been killed, everyone else was hastily informed that you were very much alive. And on your way.

But she tries to see through her bias and assess the situation for what it is. This isn’t a celebratory homecoming for Ellie’s falsified wife, it’s a medicinal nightmare for a group of people who’ve not known peace in almost eight months. And the fact that District Thirteen is already bursting at its seams trying to accommodate everyone’s needs is a problem enough. Because more than just the victors have been taken hostage. Stylists, like Cat and Birdie, as well as gamemakers and designers and mentors and escorts. Anyone who was publicly—or privately—affiliated with the rebels has been caged and abused. And they’ve all just been set free. There’s no telling how they’ll react to the sudden change of environment. And there’s no way of preparing or predicting it, either, seeing as no one knows what Fedra has been doing to them. 

And thus the medics are assuming the very worst. Ellie can tell based on how they’re shoving past her, wheeling carts of remedies she’d rather not ask about. 

Ellie spends the following few hours walking aimlessly through the halls. People push her and shove her and offer her pitying looks, but she hardly minds. She needs this time to allow her thoughts to decompress. She just spent an hour hyperventilating over an assumption she’d unknowingly made. So, yes, she will spend the next few hours wandering through stone hallways in hopes of alleviating some of that invisible stress.

Honestly, she feels perfectly fine. Her nerves are buzzing with a mixture of excitement and anxiety to see you again. Past that, she feels fine. Ruben insisted, however, that she tries to straighten out her mind in hopes of not overwhelming herself—or you—with her Gordian knotted emotions. So that’s what she’s doing. Or she’s trying to, at least. 

She lays out all of the most pressing matters she can think of: the war, your torture, the suffocation of being underground, Oakley’s hindered speech. She files them all away into neat boxes in the corner of her mind, allowing herself only a few minutes to contemplate their gravity before compartmentalizing them into nonexistence. Then she dives deeper, into smaller matters that still weigh on her albeit less so: Dina’s pregnancy, Ruben’s leg, Jesse’s mental state, Tommy’s grief, Marlene’s insolence. Then, just like before, she files these away after sparing them their due forethought. 

Ellie does this over and over for hours with millions of her tiny, seemingly unimportant stresses. Until, finally, someone comes to find her. They’ve barely opened their mouth before Ellie is breaking into a sprint down the hallway in the direction toward the medical bay—in the direction toward you.

She slows herself down just long enough to straighten her clothes, which is when she realizes that she is still dressed in that heavy black suit Marlene forced her into for the video call with Fedra. She attempts to make herself look presentable, adjusting her collar and flattening her hair. She even smooths her fingers over her face, making sure there’s no dirt or anything there.

Then, slowly as ever, she pushes open the heavy metal door. It creaks on its hinges, announcing her arrival. She winces, embarrassed, but quickly realizes that there is no reason to be. There are so many people here that no one even heard it.

She is instantly overwhelmed by the bustling medics and fast-paced atmosphere. 

There are cots lined against the walls, metal bedframes drilled into the stone. A few doors can be seen leading into other halls and patient rooms. There are thin curtains drawn around some of the cots for privacy, others completely open for Ellie to. She glances around, eyes darting all over the place.

There is a frail woman sitting in a wheelchair just like Noam’s, and she is rocking back and forth while muttering something unintelligible under her breath. Ellie thinks she might recognize her, but cannot quite place where from. 

Farther down, there is a man lying in a cot. His arms and ankles are strapped down as he thrashes and screams that his skin is burning. There are five medics crowded around him, attempting to console his screams and soothe his pain. One of them catches Ellie staring and yanks the curtain back. She can still see their outlined silhouettes through the fabric.

This continues for far longer than Ellie had anticipated. There are so many. She knew there were four victors taken from the arena and a couple other rebels, but she didn’t expect this many people to have been suffering while she was paraded around like a flashy bird. Men and women of all sizes and all reputations are being tended to—and none of them are in good shape. Someone’s legs and arms have all been amputated. Someone’s eyes have been gouged. Someone’s ears have been removed and resewn onto their chest. It’s terrible. And almost all of them have had their tongues removed.

Ellie is scared to imagine the same has been done to you—that your tongue has been carved from your mouth. And, selfishly enough, she wants to weep at the idea that she’d never hear your voice again. She’d never hear you call her name from downstairs, she’d never hear your quick-witted retorts, she’d never hear you whisper compliments in her ear at night, she’d never hear you say that you love her—a sentiment she never had the courage to return. For that, she will regret her cowardice until the day she dies.

Suddenly, her eyes land, finally, on someone familiar. She sees Ruben exiting one of those metal doors, but his face is pale and his entire body is shaking. Ellie rushes forward, almost tripping over her own feet to reach him. When he sees her, he recoils as though ashamed.

“What is it?” She demands. “Did you find her? What happened? Ruben, look at me. What is it?”

“It’s–” he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing deep through his nose. “I found her and she’s safe, I just– Ellie, I don’t think you should go in there. Not for a while, at least. We–”

“You’re fucking kidding, right?” 

“No, I–”

“I did not go through hell and back just to be told I can’t see her.” Ellie immediately moves toward the door, but Ruben holds an arm out to stop her. He winces at the pressure it puts on his leg. She steps back, but keeps her eyes pinned on the door. “I don’t care what they’ve done, I need to see her.”

“No one is saying you can’t.” He speaks softly, almost pitying. “I’m just saying you shouldn’t.”

“Well, too fucking bad.”

She shoves his arm aside and moves straight for the door. It’s heavy and requires a bit of muscle for Ellie to push through. It creaks just as the door into the bay had done, but this time she is the one ignoring it. She knows Ruben is right behind her, though she wishes he weren’t.

The room is all sterile white, floor made of tile and walls painted as best as possible. There are glass shelves and cabinets lining them. And, in the center, there resides a cot and–

You’re sitting on the edge of it, your back to her but undeniably yours. Ellie can hardly breathe around her excitement, which she quickly files into one of her neat boxes, refusing to allow her emotions to ruin this moment for her. She says your name, her voice coming out as small and as hopeful as a child’s might sound. 

Slowly, you turn.

She just barely gets to see your profile before you’re leaping to your feet, wires and tubes all snapping out from where the medics must have attached them to your veins. She smiles, arms opening on instinct. Your entire body weight slams her backward, her head cracking painfully against the nearest stone wall.

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20:15.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

They stayed in the bunker for three days.

And Ellie spent almost that entire time pacing. She had to stay within a certain distance from H Wing, she was delivered her food during mealtimes, and—most infuriatingly of all—she was barred from talking to Marlene. Hell, she couldn’t even see her. Part of Ellie wondered if she was simply grouped in with the rest of Thirteen as a mere citizen prohibited from associating herself with the divinity of their leader. But she knows her better than that: Marlene won’t let Ellie speak to her because she knows what she will say.

Regardless of the reason, Ellie was utterly trapped; worse over, she was useless to you. She bore witness to the spilling of your ichor onto marble floor and could do nothing to staunch its flow. She lent an ear to your screams of agony and could do nothing to soothe them. And so she paced. 

In those two feet of space between the bunked-beds, Ellie bruised the floor in her fervor. She drove Jesse half mad with her relentlessness as he begged her to lie down. But she knows he couldn’t hear her footsteps, and he only said that in an attempt to trick her into resting—as though rest were a thing she desired. No. The only desire she felt was an indescribable savagery. 

She needed to see Fedra dead and she needed to see Marlene suffer a similar fate; she needed every last person who ever brought you an inkling of harm dead. And if nature were not so benign as to become rid of them, she would do it her damn self. 

She formed a list in her head which she would whisper under her breath in the dark corners of nightfall. When everyone else in H Wing was lost to slumber, she would extend her pacing to the entire Wing. She would mutter and murmur like a madman. But she was saying nothing of lunacy—just the names. The names of the people whose lives she would steal. Because Time is a thief, but he sometimes works laggardly.

“You need rest.” 

Ruben is trying to keep up with her long stride, but his prosthetic slows him down. Where she would typically feel guilt for using his injury against him, she feels only relief that he can not force her to a halt. She knows, if he were able to match her gait, he would have long since grabbed her wrist and compelled her to heed his warnings. Alas, what with his irritation with his leg, he cannot so easily do that.

“Ellie, you’ve not slept in four days!” He’s shouting now. Although the hallways grow less crowded near Marlene’s quarters, there are enough ears around that she would prefer her business to not be so loudly announced. Ellie hunches her shoulders, drawing them closer to her ears, and continues walking. “You cannot save her if you’re dead on your feet. Do you hear me? You’re useless to her like this!”

That gets her. 

Ellie’s stride slams to a stop as she spins around. Ruben stands four yards away, his chest heaving and his face scrunched with pain. The hallway sways in her focus, shifting with each lethargic blink she musters. The walls are cracked in some places from the bombs and the people who’ve been caught in the argument scurry away to provide them with some privacy. That, or to go cower away while she fights their fucking battles.

Ellie gives her head a little shake, trying to clear the disorientation from her mind. Four days without sleep is not that long—she spent longer in the arena; she spent longer away from you. She approaches Ruben, but keeps her distance so as to not be dragged to her compartment. 

“Do you even know where Oakley is?” Ruben challenges, taking a daring step toward her.

“Of course I do. He’s–” Her words fall short when her memory staggers, as though there are missing gaps within its chronology. Panic grips her by the throat, slamming her toward insanity. “Where is he?” Her voice comes out hoarse, like a dying man’s last words. “Ruben, where is– please. Where is he? I didn’t mean to lose him, I just– Ruben, where is my son?”

“He’s safe.” Ruben shakes his head at her relief. His expression is lodged somewhere between pity and disgust. “You asked Cricket to babysit him this morning. He’s perfectly safe, Ellie, but the fact that you can’t remember is a problem. You need sleep. I’m not asking.”

“What I need is to speak with Marlene.” She scoffs. “I’ll sleep when I get my wife back.”

“We were released from the bunker two hours ago. You have time to–”

“She has no time!” Ellie shouts. “We don’t know what they’re doing to her, Ruben! She could be dead for all we know! I need to get her back, or–”

“Do you really think she would want you stumbling around like a fucking maniac over her?” By this point, they’re completely screaming at each other. Their voices overlap, bouncing off the walls like light on a mirror. “She would want you to sleep! If you try going after her now, you’ll just get more people killed and–”

“At least I’m doing something!” She clenches her fists at her sides to refrain from hitting him. His features blur and shift and she has to blink to keep her vision straight. “What have you done, Ruben? Sulked?”

He tips his head, challenging her to keep talking. “Don’t say something you’ll regret, Williams.”

But she’s already started.

“It’s been six months! Y-Your baby sister is being tortured to death, and what have you done? No, don’t deflect– tell me! What have you done to get her back, Ruben?”

He holds her gaze like a viper. All the weakness she’d priorly seen in him has vanished. His breathing is steady and his expression holds only bitterness. He’s even straightened his posture to loom over her, casting a shadow of threatening vigor over her resolve. 

Ellie’s breath catches in her throat as she suddenly realizes that, no matter the environment nor the circumstance, he will always be a L/n before anything else. And that’s not necessarily the bad thing which everyone makes it out to be. It’s a token of strength and potency. Even a girl who has become so interwoven with the L/n family that she can hardly recall their reputation—even she cannot deny the tangible fear which Ruben can so easily instill upon her with a single look. 

She hunches her shoulders, quite literally cowering from him. 

“I have done more to see her returned than you.” His voice carries like a king’s decree for war. “I have spoken with Marlene every other day. I have created ties with people in high places. I have refused to grow acquainted with anyone in Thirteen. I have made myself indispensable to this revolution and I have made myself look fragile to this naive population. You do not see the efforts I have made to have my sister returned only because I do not want you to see them. This is not a game, Ellie, and you would do well to cease treating it as such. This is a war and everyone has their part to play—it’s high time that you play yours.”

Her lip trembles under his scrutiny and she clenches her jaw to still it. She does not care when people lecture her, for she was raised by Marlene who never stopped lecturing her. But to hear it from Ruben, and spoken so passionately: she can hardly breathe around the shame.

She can hardly bring herself to care about anything anymore. She cares only for her family’s lives: yours, Ruben’s, and Oakley’s. She does not care about sleeping or eating or washing—such things are pointless to her now. She has worked day and night for the past half-year to make Ruben look at her; to make him see her. Now she has gone and thrown it all away. And for what? A few moments of flared anger?

“Don’t cry.” His voice is somehow both consoling and condescending. She wasn’t crying before but, at the sound of his voice and the mention of tears, she cannot help herself. She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, sucking trembling breaths in through clenched teeth. Ruben heaves an audible sigh before he steps forward and encircles her within his arms. “I know what you’re thinking and no, Ellie, I don’t hate you. You’ve certainly annoyed me, but I’ve dealt with Y/ns anger for more years than I can count. Yours is pitiful compared to hers.”

Ellie releases an airy laugh against his shoulder, somehow feeling even more terrible for herself at the mention of your name. “She could be an asshole, couldn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Ruben laughs, “she could.”

“But she could also be so fucking great.” Ellie’s voice cracks but she doesn’t care. Ruben doesn’t judge her, he just rubs circles into her back and continues to hold her. “She was so kind and smart and gentle.”

“She is.” Ruben corrects her. “And she will continue to be after we get her back.”

Ellie nods, tasting the words on her tongue. “She is; she will be.”

03:15.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

The things which Ruben feels for Ellie are complex and tangled. He loves her like a sister, more than willing to die for her if need be; but, simultaneously, he loathes her like a foe, unable to see past his hatred at times. When he ponders how she invited you into her home and loved you better than he ever could, he feels infinitely indebted to her; but when he ponders how she’d abandoned you during the arena, he wants to ring her fucking neck.

It’s confusing and vague and he prefers to not think about it. Instead, Ruben has formed a habit of basing his emotions on hers—creating a mirror. When she is giggly and cheerful, so is he; when she is wretched and angry, so is he. It’s easier that way. 

When she’d spoken of his stagnancy, Ruben basked only in detestation. He loomed over her the way his father would loom over him prior to punishment. In Ellie’s eyes, Ruben saw a fear which he’d only ever seen in the mirror—when he would hide in the solitude of his bathroom, drying his tears and bandaging his wounds. But it only lasted a moment. Then, Ellie took on something else: a guilt so heavy that he thought she’d break beneath the weight of it. And that expression was familiar, too. It was the same guilt which you would don after Ruben took a beating for you. 

So, even when wearing the mask of his father, Ruben remains an older brother before all else.

Even now, Ruben looks down at Ellie’s sleeping form beside him and can only feel fondness for the little girl in her who has lost everything. He tries to hate her; he tries to look at her slackened face and muster that deep loathing he’d been burying for the past month, but he cannot. He looks at her and he sees you. He sees all the little marks which your love has left on this woman. The same marks you left on Oakley. 

With a sigh, Ruben stands from the bed and leaves the room. 

It didn’t take long, after their argument, for him to convince Ellie to get some sleep. Their fight seemed to have drained all the determination she’d priorly been flooded with. She nodded in agreement, walking silently and amendably to her compartment, collapsed into her bed, and promptly passed out. He stayed by her side as she slept, unable to peel himself away for fear of facing all the monsters in his own head. Without someone else to take care of, he’ll be forced to care for himself. And he didn’t yet want to.

The halls are typically empty at this time of night but, after so many days spent in the cavern, people are still bustling around in an attempt to regain a semblance of normalcy. Some of the halls have been completely destroyed by the missiles; others remain untouched. Due to this, the residents of Thirteen have been forced even more clustered together. It’s nigh suffocating down here and Ruben wants nothing more than to escape to the surface and drink in all the fresh air this world has to offer. It’s greedy, but he wants it. He wants it so badly he can hardly imagine it. He looks at the stone ceiling and cannot imagine the stars; when he does, they’re the falsified ones from the arena.

He walks past a family of three, trying not to roll his eyes at the way their teenage son scowls at the back of his father’s head—that damn boy has no idea how lucky he is. A few minutes later, he passes a woman whose husband recently died in Seven’s fires. She offers him a weak smile but he cannot bring himself to return it. 

Everything seems to futile down here. His entire childhood was spent in preparation for the arena—which has long since commenced. After that, his life was spent tending to the tributes of Four—which came to an end after you were placed under his care. After that, his life was spent in hopes of attaining a life with Birdie—which was demolished the moment she was ripped away from him. And now what? Does he search for a new purpose, or does he subject himself to the prospect of never finding tenacity again? 

Just then, he slams into something heavy and metallic. Agony bolts up what’s left of his leg, causing him to brace himself against a nearby wall and try to see through the pain. 

“I’m so sorry!” A small voice chimes, pitched with genuine apology. “My brother, he–”

The child’s words fall short when Ruben lifts his head high enough to be recognized. A small boy in a wheelchair stares at him with wide brown eyes. Behind the chair, a second boy—who looks identical to the first—wears a deadly glower on his lips. Ruben knows these kids; Ruben loves these kids; Ruben failed these kids. 

“Avner,” he nods in acknowledgement, “Noam.”

“Watch where you’re going, fuckface!” Avner bites out, steering his brother’s wheelchair in the other direction, as if to protect him. “You’ve got a metal leg and– and maybe try and get used to the damned thing before you knock someone out with it!”

Ruben tries not to smile at the boy’s unfaltering fierceness, but he can’t help himself. Avner reminds him so keenly of Birdie that he ends up grinning despite his vain attempts—which only adds fuel to Avner’s wrath. He waves a dismissive hand, trying to stifle his grin. “Sorry, kid, I’ll try and practice more. But that wheelchair is quite the weapon, too.”

Noam laughs, pressing the back of his bony hand to his mouth. “Especially when Avner is steering it.”

“Don’t be an ass!” Avner hits his brother in the back of the head, but Noam’s laughter doesn't quiet. If anything, it only grows more fervent. “Ugh, I hate you.”

Ruben’s grin falters. 

Every stubborn child has told their sibling that they hated them. Ruben certainly has, screaming it with all his breath before slamming a door in your face, only for you to kick and scream outside of his room. But as real as the anger felt at the time, he would give anything to take it back. You were both vexatious little children who now know that the words were empty but, still, every moment he spent in your company is a moment he wishes to have back—to have spent better.

Part of him wants to slap Avner across the face and demand that he apologize. But he knows better. Not only because violence would be a terrible thing to give in to at this moment in time, but also because they’re just kids. Kids who don’t understand the gravity of all which has tainted the world. They don’t deserve to be holed up underground, prohibited from experiencing a childhood filled with starry skies and dewy grass. 

“What if I gave you something?” Ruben’s question draws both children to cease their incessant arguing, their gazes both sliding toward his face in unison. Noam is weary but hopeful; Avner is completely absorbed by his hatred for Ruben that he can hardly allow himself to experience anything else. 

“We don’t want anything from–”

“What is it?” Noam interrupts his brother, beaming up at Ruben with those big brown eyes. His cheeks are rosy hope and his body is frail with youth. “I always wanted a library of my own. One where you can’t see the end, and the books stretch all the way up into the sky.”

Ruben’s skin buzzes with a wistful sorrow, your obsession with literature dragging across his body like pin needles. Even as a child, your mind was never far from your books, always rambling on about their premise as though everybody else in the world was equally as infatuated as you. Had you been offered the chance to have anything you wanted, he wants to think that you’d make the same wish as Noam: for an endless supply of books. But he knows that’s not true. He knows you would have wished for nicer parents and a better life. It infuriates him, to know your childhood—despite having starry skies and dewy grass—was equally as restricting as being kept underground.

“When’s the last time you saw the sky?” Ruben asks, tipping his head. Noam’s entire face lights up at the suggestion; even Avner cannot stifle the gasp which passes his lips. “A long time, I’d bet.”

 “The sky?” Noam’s voice is tight with aspiration. 

Avner shifts forward, his expression having closed as quickly as it had opened. “Don’t listen to his asshole, Noam. He’s just trying to trap you the same way he trapped Birdie. And we all know how that ended.”

“You cuss a lot for a little kid.” Ruben says, ignoring the flare of irritation behind his ribs. “How old even are you guys? Seven?”

Avner scoffs at him, knowing better than to take the bait. Noam, however, purses his lips in defiance and says: “We’re eleven! Our birthday was last week.”

Ruben frowns. “And you guys came here when you were five, right? Which means you’ve been living underground for more than half your lives. You’ve not seen the sun and stars in six years.”

“Don’t pity us.” Avner sneers, his hands gripping the handles of Noam’s wheelchair so tight that his knuckles have turned white. “Birdie took us here for our safety and– and then she went to the Capitol and found you. Maybe if she stayed here with us, she wouldn’t be getting tortured to death right now. Maybe if she hadn’t met you, we’d know if she was alive!”

At that, Ruben can no longer repress his anger. They’re kids, he tries to remind himself, but he soon finds that he no longer cares. His rage has never been as teeming as yours, he knows this, but it’s still more ferocious than an average person. He was able to keep it smothered for the most part, acting as docile as his dignity would allow. But after his screaming match with Ellie, it’s quick to act. Like a bear that’s been in hibernation and is now fueled with renewed energy, it rushes to the surface. 

“Watch your mouth, kid.” He snaps, still keeping a leash—albeit straining—on the beast. “I’m the only person in this entire district who knows what you’re going through. You’re pissed because you lost your sister, and I get that. I lost mine, too. But I also lost my fiance. I knew Birdie for years and I know how much she loved the two of you. And now that she’s gone, you’re all that’s left of her. So God forbid I try to form a connection with either of you in hopes of feeling like she’s still here. But of course not, because you’ve been acting like a goddamn asshole since you met me.”

Noam blinks up at him, eyes brimming with tears that threaten to spill over his rosy little cheeks. Behind him, Avner’s entire body is clenched and rigid. He swallows harshly, trying to hold on to the little bit of remaining strength that he can still flaunt. But then he exhales a sigh, all the fight leaving him. He looks down at the floor before looking back up at Ruben’s face, a small—almost shy—smile on his lips. 

“The sun and stars haven’t gone too far, have they?”

10:42.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Thirteen wasn’t the only victim of Fedra’s bombing. 

Though Thirteen was the one who you publicly warned of the attack, Twelve suffered an even worse fate. The district is in complete disarray after what was done to them. Homes and workplaces have been demolished; hundreds of thousands of people are dead. And, according to Marlene, Ellie ought to be the one to ‘mend’ this catastrophe. The conversation between them hadn’t gone smoothly—to say the least. 

After being forced to sleep for almost fifteen hours, Ellie woke with an even deeper loathing for her guardian. First, she visited Cricket’s compartment to assure herself that Oakley was alive. Sure enough, Ellie was pleased to find that Ruben was truthful: Oakley was perfectly safe. He babbled in Cricket’s arms, entertained by the book of fashion designs that she’d inherited from Cat. Ellie thanked Cricket for her assistance, then regretfully asked that she watch him for a few hours longer while she spoke with Marlene. Of course, Cricket was more than happy to oblige—though Ellie still felt guilty for having to inquire.

Then she headed for Marlene. The guards stationed throughout Marlene’s quarters refused her entry, claiming they had direct orders to apprehend Ellie if she were ever to arrive—though they were apologetic for having to do it. She asked them to deliver a message, if nothing else. They agreed. Within minutes, Marlene withdrew her order and grudgingly permitted Ellie entry. 

“You threatened to leave Thirteen?” Was the first thing Marlene said when she entered her office. Ellie nodded, solidifying her decision to flee if she were continuing to be treated as a prisoner. “Where would you go? The Capitol doesn’t want you, and Seven is destroyed. Where would you go, Ellie? You have no home.”

“Far away from you.”

That, of course, was not taken well. They descended into bickering rather quickly, though Marlene had the dignity to keep her voice level despite her seething irritation. After a while of back-and-forth, Marlene slammed her hands on the desk and asked what Ellie wanted, promising to adhere to one wish so long as she agreed to remain as Thirteen’s symbol. The question was a foolish one, in hindsight, for they both knew what she would demand: “I want my wife back.”

To Ellie’s surprise, however, Marlene acquiesced. She pulled a slip of parchment from her desk, clicked her pen, scribbled down her signature, then held it out to Ellie like a treaty. Ellie snatched it from her hand and, without reading it, stormed back to her compartment. Only then—in the solitude of her own company—did she read through it. And what she saw was enough to bring her to tears. 

The document was exactly that: a treaty. It was typed out, clearly having been kept in Marlene’s drawer until she was absolutely forced to use it. The first few paragraphs discussed the role which Ellie would be required to play as the symbol. She would provide Thirteen with eight campaigns to broadcast per month, she would swear and say whatever Marlene demanded of her, and she would travel to whatever terrain needed to film the campaigns—whether that be active war zones or underwater. 

But it was the last paragraph—the last sentence, really—which caught Ellie’s eye.

“In requital to their aid, the Symbol is permitted a single desire which the interim president must adhere to. Regardless of circumstance, the interim president must comply and show corroboration with the Symbol’s desire within a month’s time. Signed: Marlene.”

A hope which she hadn’t before permitted herself to feel suddenly flooded her nervous system. Ellie dropped the paper and smiled wider than she had in months. She could not sleep that night, and nor could she stop her mind from screaming at her—screaming one single fact: she will have you back within a month. She will have you back. Within a month. 

It is five in the morning when her door is slammed open and Tommy apologetically informs her that Marlene has requested her presence. But Ellie merely laughs, assures him that she’d not been sleeping, and follows behind him toward the president’s quarters. Because she will do anything, so long as it gets her a step closer to seeing you again.

It’s odd, Ellie thinks, that time works such as it does: an endless march toward—what, oblivion? Mankind has debated over the meaning of life since the dawn of time, scholars and physicists alike coming together to solve impossible questions. Ellie herself has pondered it more than once, considering what reason could possibly have amassed billions of people into one area. What could possibly be worth such devastation that humanity yields: war, genocide, the fucking Hunger Games? She has long since ceased asking such futility to an unanswering sky, knowing better than to waste her breath. But as she marches toward Marlene with her stomach roiling with anxiety, Ellie cannot think of a better reason to be here but to be with you. If she were put on this Earth for a purpose, it is to love you. 

“The quest with which you will be tasked is no easy one.” Marlene warns her once she and Tommy have seated themselves around her grand table. “It is grueling and tiresome—not only on the body, but also the mind. You will bear witness to horrible things and you will–”

“–do it.” Ellie finishes, hardly able to contain herself. Her knee bounces beneath the table, her eyes wide as she leans forward with anticipation. “I will do it,” she repeats. “Whatever it is, I will do it.”

Something crosses Marlene’s expression, an emotion Ellie has never before seen her wear—not directed toward her, at least. And, if Ellie didn’t know any better, she’d say that it might just resemble pride. Marlene leans back in her seat, arms braced on either side of herself. She eyes Ellie like she is gazing upon a stranger. Then, slowly, she inclines her head. 

“Very well.” Marlene nods. “You will do it.”

What ‘it’ exactly entertains, Ellie perhaps should have inquired more about. Even five hours later, sitting beside Ruben in the hovercraft, she cannot seem to smother her nerves. 

It would be unhealthy, she thinks, if the object of her obsession were anything else. But it’s you—it’s always been you. And so she sees no problem with it. If she has to witness children being burned alive and families starving to death, she would do so without uttering a complaint. If she had to stand in front of a camera and mark herself as the reaper of all bad things, she would do it. If she had to slaughter a thousand people to get to you, she would do it.

A hand lowers itself onto her knee and Ellie glances down to find that she’s bouncing again. She forces herself to sit still, turning to Ruben with a frown as he removes his hand. He eyes her for a moment, almost wary, before speaking. “How are you?”

“Me?” She blinks as though the question is impossible to fathom. Ruben raises a brow at her, but she just lets out a laugh, shaking her head. “I’m good. Great, even. I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t be, considering–”

“Stop.” He tells her. “What the hell has gotten into you? Have you taken something? Morphling?”

She laughs again. “No, Ruben, I’m completely sober. I swear.”

“Then why are you bouncing all over the place like a fucking addict?” He asks. They’re both having to yell over the whirring blades overhead, but she doubts anyone else can hear their voices. The rest of the crew is sitting in random spots around the hovercraft, everyone having been strapped into the same black uniform that she has: a complete contrast against the Capitol’s Peacekeepers. A message of sorts, she would guess. “Has something happened that you’ve not told me?”

“No. Well–” she tips her head to the side, peering at the ceiling with squinted eyes. She considers what exactly would fall under the umbrella of ‘not told me’. It sounds like she’s keeping a secret, although she isn’t. Not intentionally, at least. She hadn’t spared the time enough to tell Ruben about her contrast with Marlene. If she had, she would certainly not have kept it a secret. But, seeing as she knows something and he doesn’t, she thinks it would in fact fall under the aforementioned umbrella. “I signed a contract with Marlene. I remain her the rebellion’s symbol and I will do whatever she asks of me, and–”

“Why would–”

“Shh,” she waves a hand at him, successfully beckoning him into silence. “In return, she will work toward having Y/n returned. Within a month.”

Ruben stares at her, his mouth gaping like a fish. Multiple times, he opens his mouth to speak and—each time—he finds nothing worthy of being voiced. Then he shuts his eyes, inhales a deep breath, and turns his head forward as he opens his eyes again. He stares at the metal wall across from them. It vibrates with the buzzing of hovercraft blades, as the entire fuselage does. 

“Ellie, I–” his voice shakes then breaks off at the end. Ruben turns his head to the side, looking her in the eye as the hovercraft begins to slow. “You cannot trust her. Whatever paper she had you sign, it is only that: paper. It can be burned, ripped, and betrayed.”

Tommy and Robert have both stood up and begun beckoning the crew toward the ladder. Members are descending toward the earth. All the while, Ellie continues to stare at Ruben, her faith unfaltering. 

“We are closer to having her back than ever before.” She tells him, voice sounding much more steady than she feels. “I will not let it slip through my fingers.”

He watches her for a long moment, both of them ignoring the orders being spoken through their earpieces. Only when he gives her a nod of understanding does Ellie return to the world around them. She unbuckles from the harness attaching her to the seat and stands up. Just like she’d done before visiting Seven, Ellie does not spare a glance to the world below. She prefers to not bear witness to atrocities which she can do nothing to halt.

But as she climbs down the ladder, her thighs already burning, she can taste death on her tongue. 

The scent of smoke and rot fill her lungs. And, when her boots hit the earth, a bone crunches beneath her heel. She glances down to find a hand—a small hand—cracked under her weight. It had to have belonged to a child. That, or an extremely malnourished adult. 

Ellie sucks in a deep breath before turning around to face the sight before her. She hadn’t asked Marlene where she was going, though she knows she could have. She could have requested to be told the exact itinerary of the campaign; she could have asked for a long script to read from. But she chose not to. In a world such as this one, authenticity is harder to come by than pure gold.

They’re in District Twelve, where Fedra released bombs on innocent and unsuspecting homes. She supposes she should have expected this, considering Marlene had been telling her about it right before they started arguing. And perhaps the thought would have crossed her mind, had she not been so absorbed with the idea of seeing you again. 

Twelve was never a pretty District to visit. Even during the Victory Tour, during which the mayor is obligated to make their District look as polished as possible, it still settled a heavy weight in Ellie’s gut. The starving children and dying parents still existed, only they were shut behind closed doors and forced to hide away while the shining new Diamonds made their way through the country. Now, all that cruelty and gore is laid out on display. Not only because of Twelve’s harsh conditions, but because of Fedra’s murderous tyranny. 

There is a child wailing somewhere nearby, their voice cracking with a grief that should never strike a heart so young. Farther away, she can hear someone groaning and gurgling as though they’re actively choking on their own blood. She turns toward the sound to find a man a few yards away, buried so deep under rubble that his skin and hair is dusted gray. The only thing which makes her know this human and not debris is the blood seeping down his face. That, and the outstretched hand which reaches toward her. She walks forward, aware of all the eyes tracking her. She looks down at the man—at his dust-covered face and gurgling mouth. He makes noises as he looks up at her, the sun in his eyes. She supposes he is trying to speak, but he cannot. Then, jumbled in with all the unintelligible sounds he is making, she can just barely hear the word: “please”.

Perhaps she should have hesitated; perhaps she should have asked what he was begging for. But she already knew. Because Ellie Williams is no mere soldier fighting some civil war. She is a two-time victor of the Hunger Games. She knows Death, and she knows him well. 

She brings a heavy rock down on his head.

When the man dies, he does it with a silence she doubts he has experienced since the bombs first landed almost a week ago. She wonders how long he has been trapped under there: begging for someone to just end it already. She wonders how long he would have lasted, had she not come along. Longer than most people, she would presume, considering his body is used to starvation and would keep him alive out of habit.

And that’s when she realizes that the people of Twelve are suffering from the bombing, yes, but they have been suffering from far worse for far longer. Those who were instantly killed got off lucky. Not because it was immediate, but because death is a mercy in a place like this.

“How many medics do we have?” Ellie asks without turning around. She knows there is a crowd behind her—she knows Marlene ordered a crew to follow her at all times. Cameramen, designers, directors, coordinators, you name it. Soldiers, too, of course to keep their symbol safe. And medics. 

“With us here today? Two.” Responds a voice she has never before heard. And when she turns, it belongs to a man she has never before seen.

“How many do we have back in Thirteen?”

“Twenty-four.”

“How long would it take to send for all of them?”

“Do you– all of them?” He does not sound judgemental as he says it, merely shocked by the suggestion. He watches her with wide brown eyes and a gaping mouth. When she nods, he continues to sputter for a moment before calculating the answer. “Three hours? Maybe more if their supplies were relocated after the bombing. Are you– pardon me for asking, but are you certain this is something we should consider?”

She ignores him, walking past the man and toward Tommy—who had priorly been kneeling down and pouring water into the mouth of a young woman. She purposely makes her footsteps audible and he turns when he hears them.

“I want all twenty-four of our medics brought here before dusk today.” She tells him.

Tommy does not hesitate nor gape at her the way the other man had. He merely nods and goes about relaying the message back to Marlene—who did not accompany them on this trip, but is watching and listening through everyone’s suits. Except Ellies. She ripped hers out the moment she got on the hovercraft. And, judging by the tear in his suit, she would suspect Ruben did the same.

A few moments later, Tommy offers her a smile and rests his hand on her tense shoulder. “Marlene agreed on sending half. I know it’s not what you want, but twelve medics plus the two that are already here is a good addition. We will help these people, Ellie, and they–”

“I know.” She brushes him off.

She turns back toward District Twelve. The streets were never paved and nor were they buried under gravel, but it seems as though they have cracked nonetheless. Portions of land are elevated higher than others, like the earth has ripped itself apart under the strain of Fedra’s attack. Buildings are decimated, crumbling as easy as if they were made with straw. Perhaps some of them were. 

She walks down the street, listening to the heavy footfall of the rest of the crew following behind. It drives her mad, knowing they’re all hired to spy on her by Marlene. But she supposes she cannot blame the woman. If Ellie were in her position, she’d do the same. Only she wouldn’t waste her time trying to be subtle about it when everyone already knows. 

Some of the crew members are genuine, however. The soldiers, particularly, cannot have their loyalties as easily bought as the stylists and cameramen. Their talents reside in gunfire and blood, not makeup and photography. They have no interest in fame or fortune—only justice. And that is not something Marlene can weasel her way into marring. Ellie likes the soldiers more than the rest of the crew due to this reason, so she naturally sticks closer to them. 

There are three cameramen, all loyal to Marlene. There are seven stylists, all loyal to Marlene. There are two directors, both loyal to Marlene. There are two coordinators, both loyal to Marlene. A lofty amount of spies and mercenaries. But there are also two medics, eight soldiers, and four guards—all loyal to themselves: to the futures they believe in earning for their country. And, of course, there are the authorities: Tommy, Maria, Robert, Ruben, Yasmin, and Cecil.

Ellie thinks it was unnecessarily cruel to send Cecil here—to make him bear witness to what has been done to his home. Marlene insisted that his alliance with Ellie would help to ease the nerves of the people of Twelve who might not be wholly convinced that Thirteen is benign. Ellie had to refrain from saying Thirteen isn’t benign—not under Marlene, at least.

“Sending for medics was a good idea.” Ruben is at her side, making Ellie jump at the sudden proximity of his voice. He sighs, long and deep, as they walk through the District. “You know where to go, don’t you? You know where all the people will have gathered?”

“Of course I do.” She says, because it’s true. If a catastrophe were to befall Seven, she knows where the people would go: the Justice Building. It was the sturdiest structure in the entire District and therefore the safest. She assumes the people of Twelve have turned the building into a makeshift hospital: a place for the wounded to seek help and families to reunite. But that’s also what worries her. If she and Ruben both know where the people will have gathered, who’s to say Fedra doesn’t also know where everyone is? It makes for an undeniably easy target. She only has to cling to the hope that those bombs were the last which he will send to Twelve. Although she doubts it.

“When we get back to Thirteen, I need you to show me your contract with Marlene.” He says, which sounds more like a demand than a request. He then drops his voice to a whisper to avoid being overheard by any of the spies’ suits. “There are loopholes which that woman is not afraid to take. I want to find them so we can anticipate how she might try going back on her word.”

Ellie shakes her head. “We don’t have to wait until we get back to Thirteen.”

“You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did.” She says. “You don’t think I didn’t also consider how easily paper can be destroyed, did you? Considering we’re all out on this campaign and Marlene stayed back, what would have stopped her from entering my compartment and taking it? Nothing. And so it is here.”

Ruben looks at her, “I’m impressed.”

“Me too, to be honest.” She exhales shakily. “I could hardly think around my excitement. I didn’t even sleep last night, too busy trying to weigh all the possible outcomes of this contract. But even amid all of that, I knew better than to trust Marlene so easily.”

When they reach the Justice Building, Ellie has to conceal her horror at just how many people are crammed into the space. It’s no small building—not by any means—which makes the congestion even more horrific. Hundreds of people lay wounded, their shabby clothes stained red and brown. So many cots have been brought here that they must have run out because some patients are laying on mattresses and others are on the hard floor. There are so many people tending to wounds that she knows all of them cannot be medics. In fact, she would argue that only two percent of them are. The rest are simply good people who couldn’t bear to see their neighbors bleed out.

She feels frozen in place, like her feet have been nailed into the floor. She can hear Thirteen’s medics rushing to aid those who need the most help. She can hear soldiers and cameramen alike murmuring their concerns. Loyalties aside, politics aside—this is a terrible, terrible sight: a fate no one deserves. 

Slowly, Ellie moves her feet across the floor. She walks between the cots, weaving through the room as the residents of Twelve pause what they’re doing to gawk at her. Patients look up at her as she passes, eyes wide and watery as though they’ve just witnessed a miracle. 

She passes a man who’s lost both arms. She passes a woman who’s lost her unborn child yet must still carry it to term. She passes a blind twelve-year-old, a deaf four-year-old. She passes so many people that they start to blur together, forming one great big mass of gore and terror. She reaches the center of the room and turns around to find that the rest of the world seems to have stopped.

They’re all staring at her, waiting for something to come of her presence. She regrets knowing that she is waiting for the same thing.

She sees Tommy and his shaky hands as he helps a senile man lift himself from the floor to get a better look at Ellie, the man’s wrinkled eyes wide and dilated. She sees Ruben whispering to a little boy who just lost the same leg as him, making the child giggle—which makes the boy’s mother descend into harsh sobs as she explains that she’s not heard that laugh in so long. 

She sees Robert and his blink, blink, blinking camera. 

But she does not speak to the Capitol, she does not speak to Marlene. She speaks only to the people of District Twelve who have endured horror after horror and got back up. 

“I’m no hero.” She admits to them, drawing the final whispers toward complete silence. She can hear her own heartbeat in her ears. “I have done nothing to earn your faith or your trust, I have done nothing to deserve it. I have done terrible things and I have done them unapologetically. I wish I could say that this war was not yours to fight; that it is between Thirteen and the Capitol alone. But that’s not the truth and so I will not say it. This war is between Fedra and the people; this war is between a tyrant and the oppressed; this war is between the singular and the many.” 

She turns, chin trembling with the vigor of her honesty. She has spoken to crowds before, many of them. But how often has she been able to speak from the heart? How often has she been able to say what she knows the people need to hear? She could cry from the passion flaring in her chest. She feels shaky all over from it.

“You should not have to suffer any more than you do. You should not have to starve or freeze to death in your homes. You deserve all the luxuries which reside in the Capitol—and more! Your babies deserve to live past the age of five. Your husbands deserve to work jobs that do not risk their lives each day. Your wives deserve to breathe once and a while without fear of collapse. Your parents, your siblings—they deserve a better life than this!” She looks across the crowd, meeting all the wide eyes of people who have never before heard such destructive things spoken aloud. Her gaze lands on a little girl whose head has been dented, their eyes meet and the girl straightens her shoulders as though to appear more brave. When Ellie speaks again, it is directly to her—to all the brave little kids across the country. “And the only way to get it is to fight for it.”

The silence which follows her speech is deafening. The little girl with the dented head is the first, the bravest, to call out: “Fuck Fedra!”

Ellie has never been a particular fan of that exact war cry, though she can understand the sentiment. She wishes this country had something more symbolic, something more heavy to bear the weight of their sorrow and their troubles. But, then again, what better to bear such a weight than Tommy Miller’s rage?

The chant is still singing through the air when a sudden explosion goes off. 

Everyone falls silent as the earth trembles and all their ears start to ring. A bomb—not a big one, but enough for all the people of Twelve to recognize its message. Fedra could have landed it on the Justice Building and killed them all in an instant. But he wanted to cause fear; he wanted them to slowly emerge at the realization that their safe haven is not so safe after all. He wanted them to suffer before they died.

Another goes off, closer this time. 

The walls and ceiling of the Justice Building start to crack. A few people start to recognize what is going to happen, panic gripping their throats. But they seem to accept it rather than fight it—which only enrages Ellie. 

“We need to leave!” She shouts, turning to Robert.

And, for all Robert’s faults, he seems to recognize the gravity of their situation. He nods at her, passing his blinking camera to one of the guards—who fumbles with it before training it on Ellie. She has no doubt that they’re live streaming all of this, revealing in real time the cruelty which Fedra has no problem wreaking. She ignores the camera.

“Everyone, out!” Robert shouts, pushing the doors open to reveal a dust-ridden world beyond. But nobody moves. He grinds his teeth, raising his voice to the point of cracking. “Out!”

“There’s no point.” Says a pregnant woman from the floor. Her left leg is mutilated, both hands cradling her stomach. Her voice is rough and her hair is splotched with bald patches. “If we go out there, we die under rubble or die from inhaling too much smoke. If we stay here, death will be instantaneous. A mercy.”

“That’s–” Maria shakes her head, struggling to fathom the idea. “That’s a terrible way to think.”

“It’s th’ only way t’ think.” Says a man from the opposite side of the room. Half of his face is burned off, skin peeling back from bone. Beside him, a cat is curled up atop his cot but Ellie is unsure whether it is alive any longer. “We’ve lived in fear our entire lives. We ain’t gon’ suffer any longer than we have to.”

“You said it yourself.” Calls another voice: a teenage boy with burn marks all down his body and an older man—likely his father or grandfather—laying unconscious beside him. “We don’t deserve to live like this anymore. We deserve to rest.”

Maria scoffs, though there are tears in her eyes. “You can’t seriously be–”

“Leave us.” Says the first woman again. “You will be faster alone.” Her eyes then slide over to Ellie’s, landing on her face before managing a small smile. “The world needs you guys. It does not need us.”

Maria opens her mouth to argue again, but there is a third and more imperative explosion which interrupts her. Pieces of the ceiling crash down onto the floor, burying people who do not scream as they die. The walls and pillars tremble under the weight of their impending destruction. Tommy grabs his wife by the arm and begins yanking her out of the building. She fights against him the whole time, screaming and begging for someone in the damned building to save themselves. No one does.

Ellie remains anchored to the floor, unable to leave. Ruben is saying something to her, his voice furtive and beseeching, though she cannot hear his words over the ringing in her ears. He touches her shoulder and she pulls away, snapping back to the material world around her. She stares at the half-dead people in the building, offering them one more piece of advice.

“Don’t save yourselves if you don’t want to.” She announces, her voice carrying over the room. “But save your children. Twelve doesn’t have very many, so they won’t slow us down. Send them with us and I promise you: I will keep them alive. I will give my life for theirs, if you trust me enough to do so.”

For a long moment, no one moves. 

Then, from the back of the room, a mother can be seen pushing her little girl toward Ellie. Her hair is blonde and cut short to her ears. She wears a little pink dress, stained with filth and blood. She is crying, but she obliges her mother’s wishes. She runs into Ellie’s arms, and Ellie crouches down to meet her. 

After that, every parent in the room who still has children to spare sends them running forward. Little toddlers, traumatized teenagers. They all come forward, seeking Ellie’s aid and protection. Ruben helps her pick up the youngest ones, carrying them on his back and his shoulders despite the way his prosthetic is likely screaming his protests. She does the same, carrying as many as possible and shouting for Thirteen’s soldiers to help her carry more. They do.

They stumble out of the building: a little clan of children pattering behind. She walks as fast as she can with their weight slowing her down. The guard holding Robert’s camera turns over to them, broadcasting the moment all across the country. She hopes Fedra knows this is not for him—she hopes he knows, deep down, that she is not doing this out of spite or to send a message. She is doing it because the people of Twelve deserve someone who is willing to save them.

The rest of the crew assist in carrying the children until everyone has at least one or two on their hip or on their back. Even Yasmin L/n scoops up a pair of whiny toddlers and runs ahead of the group, shockingly agile for her age, to take them as far from the building as possible. 

When the bomb goes off and the Justice Building is destroyed, Ellie feels the blow. It rattles her bones and sends her flying to the ground. She scrapes her hands and knees on rocks, gathering herself as quickly as possible and making sure the children she was carrying are uninjured. They both assure her that they’re fine before resuming their positions.

They clamber into the hovercraft one at a time, sending the children up first to make sure they reach the top. Ellie is sent up after them, made priority for her position as the symbol. Just as she reaches the top, she can hear the whirring of two other hovercrafts approaching Twelve at great speed, only to slow down at the sight before them. She already knows who they’re carrying: the twelve medics she’d sent for.

But there’s no one left to save.

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first & foremost: i graduated high school literally three days ago, on the 22nd—summa cum laude baby!! (4.5 weighted gpa)

that alone is enough to make me super fucking overwhelmed. but if you know me, you know i'll always find a way to stress myself out to the absolute max. and this is no different

because i decided to commit to a college that's 1,236 miles away from home—which means i'll be moving away from my parents, my little siblings, and all my friends in august. but at least we have the summer together, right?? wrong

because i also decided to start working as a camp counselor over the summer!! it's a wonderful opportunity for building a good portfolio for my wring, because i'll be helping the kids to strengthen their reading/writing comprehension through there camp newspaper. so this is a good thing because it is considered an internship for my english major . but that's a good thing because it'll be a nice little get-away from all my stress, right??? wrong again!!

because the camp is in different state than where my family lives and a different state than where my college will be! and the camp is farther away from home (1,309 miles)!!!

so basically, i'm moving over a thousand miles away from home in less than three weeks & i here's what i need to do in that time: get a new debit card because my last bank won't carry over states, pack all my clothes (and books ofc) for camp and college, apply for a shit ton of student loans, figure out all my transportation to get to the camp & college & to attend honors summer orientation !!!

all that to say: please bear with me if i don't respond to my inbox or messages on time!!

07:55.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN HOVERCRAFT.

Within her ear lives a bug which Ellie cannot seem to rid herself of. It crawls under her skin and into her brain, whispering nonsense into her mind. She wants to rip it from its home, but knows Marlene would punish her for it—as it’s the only way for them to communicate once Ellie is deployed.

“Remember: this is a campaign to bring people to our side.” The bug says, its voice sounding as though it’s being filtered through metal can. Ellie hates earpieces, but knows better than to show her annoyance. Marlene is watching her in the mirror. Very closely. 

After their altercation which resulted in Ellie being slapped across the face, her relationship with Marlene has been—understandably—rather strained. Well, it hadn’t been particularly stable to begin with, but it’s only gotten worse since then. They can hardly even hold a conversation anymore without one of them exploding on the other. It’s strange, being both Marlene’s subordinate and ward; such conflictions allow for a rather peculiar ebbing of necessary dependence and stubborn independence. 

“Understood.” Ellie responds into the insectile earpiece.

This mission was planned from the moment your campaign took hold of all the screens in the country, but Ellie was just informed of it this morning—a week later. And, if that weren’t enough, Marlene has thus refused to tell Ellie what this mission will entail, only that it is going to be filmed and thereafter broadcasted as war propaganda. 

Ellie’s knee is bouncing with anticipation and anxiety. Her thumb twitches toward her index finger, only to be reminded that her ring was given to you. After five months, one would assume she’s grown used to its vacancy—and yet, here she is. She wonders if you still are wearing it, or if the Capitol had it confiscated. 

The hovercraft can be heard whirring deafeningly overhead, its blades slicing through the air as they fly high above the Districts. Ellie has long since stopped looking down. At first, she had hoped it would give her hints as to what the mission would be, but it only resulted in making her feel sick. 

At least there is one good thing about all of this: Ruben is here. After their five-month aversion, they have finally, finally rekindled their relationship. And, if she were to be daring enough to admit it, Ellie would even go so far as to say that it’s even stronger than it had been prior. Now, they need each other. Without Ruben, Ellie would have no one; without Ellie, Ruben would have no one. Sure, they might have their friends and supporters and acquaintances, but nothing so deep and so raw as each other.

They sit side-by-side now, hands touching but not quite clasped together. If you were here in Ellie’s place, she knows Ruben would be holding your hand; and if you were here in his place, she would be holding it too. And yet neither can bring themselves to act as though what happened to you is not rotting them both from the inside. 

The mere act of being in close proximity with someone sets Ellie’s nerves ablaze—all except Oakley and Ruben: the two people who most remind her of you. Your absence weighs on her, pressing against her shoulders until all of her bones are broken and as useless as the rest of her.

Neither Ellie nor Ruben speak during the entire flight, too afraid of shattering the fragility of their relationship. To lose what they’ve so precariously built would be the end of everything. There would be nothing worth continuing for. Save for Oakley, though she sometimes wishes he had someone better than herself to care for him. She watches his staggering gait and listens to his unintelligible garbling and can think only one thing: he deserves someone better. If she weren’t here to hold him back, what could he become?

The hovercraft begins its descent and Ellie has to physically hold herself back from lunging toward the window to lay witness to their destination. But Marlene is still watching her and Ellie cannot risk her thinking that she holds any sort of advantage over her. Even one so fickle as acumen.

Once they are low enough to the ground that a ladder can be lowered, Ellie is beckoned to her feet by a sneering Robert. She grudgingly obliges, rising before casting a weary glance back at Ruben, who can not so easily use a ladder as she. 

“Mister L/n stays.” Marlene’s tinny voice speaks into all of their ears at once, staying Ruben’s movements. Ellie turns toward the cockpit, meeting Marlene’s narrowed eyes in the mirror. The tenacity in her gaze is undeniable and Ellie knows better than to challenge her, regardless of how her skin itches for a fight.

When she turns back to Ruben, apologetic, he merely waves a dismissive hand, as though to say ‘I wouldn’t be able to go anyway’. She frowns at him, but neither speak.

Robert slaps a hand on her shoulder, sending Ellie’s entire body rigid. She whirls to face him and he glowers at her. “We cannot stay here all day, Williams. Get down there or I’ll push you down myself.” His words are not filtered through the earpieces, as he knows better than to threaten her so outwardly—no matter how strained her relationship with Marlene is, they are still conversant. Instead, Robert speaks plainly, and just barely loud enough for her to hear him over the whirring blades. 

She shoots him a scowl before taking her leave. The entire climb down, she keeps her eyes off the ground which resides below. If this place were so tenuous that Marlene could not inform her prior to the mission, Ellie knows she will become too shaken to be of use. And her position as Thirteen’s symbol is the only thing keeping her in Marlene’s coterie. 

But the moment Ellie’s boots hit the ground, she is overwashed with such sorrow that she nearly buckles under the heft of it. 

She turns around to find herself in the very center of Seven’s town square. The air is thick with a heavy fog that nags at her memory, but its importance is reduced to vanity in the light of seeing her District for the first time in so long. She wants to lay down and bury her face in its soil, to decay in the dirt of her home. But the incessant whirring of the hovercraft keeps her mind from complete insanity. 

At the head of the square, the Justice Building is in shambles. The stones of the ceiling caved in, the walls are all clouded with ash, and the rubble lays at her feet like a dog begging for mercy. She knew what happened to Seven—more or less—but to see it for herself, clear as day, is nigh unbearable. 

“You will allude to the pathos of this country’s broken heart.” Comes Marlene’s voice. While she speaks, a camera buzzes in front of Ellie’s face. It’s as aerial as the hovercraft up above, tilting and whirring through the air like an insect. A little red light indicates that it’s recording her every move. She resists the urge to cower from its attention. “Fedra’s people are ruined after what the war has done to them; I need you to show that you feel that same ruination. They will see you as a friend, someone who understands them, and that can be used by Thirteen to build alliances.”

Ellie doesn’t respond, Ellie can’t respond. 

Her throat is lodged with something she can hardly breathe around, not to mention speak around. She swallows harshly before turning away from the Justice Building. But when she does it, she finds that she’s even more tortured by the ulterior sight. Homes—more homes than she can count—have been burned to the ground, leaving peoples’ belongings strewn across the dirt. The most private aspects of their lives are laid bare for the world to see: their beds, their books, their dinner tables. In how many of these homes were children taught to read, to live, to love? And now it’s all gone. 

She begins to walk toward the lower towns, where she and Marlene once lived. The camera buzzes behind her, watching her every move. She knows Robert will edit the entire thing, likely making her appear even more weakened and distraught as she is. But she can’t bring herself to care. She pays no mind to the camera or the orders Marlene is barking in her ear: say something, do something, touch something. 

Ash shifts beneath her soles as Ellie ascends the steps to the porch she’d walked so many times before. As she opens the door, the wood frame creaks and cracks at being disrupted. It had likely been content in its lack of human activity, but she likes to imagine that it recognizes her as she recognizes it. She enters the home and imagines that it’s a hug from a childhood long since abandoned. 

She peers into the kitchen, though the walls and counters and cabinets are all scorched black. But the skeleton remains the same as it had always done. That same stool upon which she sat while Marlene forced her to divide numbers over and over until she understood the method; the same sink which she stood for hours in front of while she washed dishes and scrubbed pans. She can even see the melted glass of the cup which once held all the flowers Ellie collected on her hunting trips with Riley.

Ellie turns around toward the hallway, but as soon as she sets her sights on the long expanse before her, she gives up the idea of entering her old bedroom. She can hardly stomach the kitchen. The bedroom could very possibly be the final blow pushing her into madness. The camera circles around her, catching a panorama of her profile. She swats it away like a pesky bee, but it remains in proximity.

“Ellie, stop acting like a child and give me something to work with.” Marlene demands, her sharp voice cutting through Ellie’s thoughts. “I did not take you all the way out here to watch you sulk. Say something of worth or you can abandon all hope of seeing your wife again.”

At this, Ellie turns to the camera and opens her mouth. But the only sound which leaves her in a pitiful sob before she descends into tears. She leans against a nearby wall, only for it to groan against her weight. 

Once she has managed to regather herself, she resolves to leave the house to avoid causing any additional damage to its remains. Once she is back out under the sun, she turns her attention back toward the hovercraft. But something causes her to dither.

She can’t leave yet—there’s so much more to see.

Ellie lets her legs carry her through the ash-covered streets, over crunchy patches of grass, and, finally, into the Victor’s Village. The gate is swung open, hinges crying against the wind. She passes through it, looking between the identical homes. There are so many, though only two were ever lucky enough to be inhabited. She casts only one glance toward Joel’s old home before hastily turning away. The quickness of the movement is almost enough to strain her neck. 

When she enters the home she’d once shared with you, she knows this part of the District hadn’t been nearly as damaged by the fire. Perhaps because the homes were built much sturdier, or perhaps because the Capitol knew nobody lived here anyway. 

There are hints of damage done to the house. She can see where fire scorched the window panes, and where Peacekeepers must have sifted through your belongings in hopes of finding something which hinted at rebel correlation. But past that, the home looks almost identical to how it did the day she left. Your shoes and coats reside untouched in the foyer, as though you’ve just left for a quick trip to the Hob and you’ll return home any minute. She almost starts crying again at the thought.

Instead, she walks farther into the house. The camera continues to buzz behind her, spinning to take in the scene of the home. It zooms in on certain aspects, exploring the house like a companion—though she knows it’s Robert who controls it, seeking out something he can exploit.

She enters the living room to find one of your novels laid haphazardly on the coffee table, facedown like you’d expected to pick it up again the next morning. She almost doesn’t want to touch it for fear of disrupting your will, but she cannot help herself. The cover is old, its title worn away from time. She lifts the book, scanning the page before her eyes land on one name: Odysseus. Then another: Calypso. 

Ellie runs her fingers over the names, as if they could somehow provide a clue as to how to get you back. Alas, they are fictional and thereby tell her nothing. She never read the novel herself, of course, but she listened to your recollections enough times to have it memorized. It was one of your favorites. And she cannot help but draw similarities between the poem and her own current tribulations. 

Here she is, akin to Odysseus: fighting to be reunited with her love. And here you are, akin to Penelope: a million miles away and so very out of reach. She already fought her own Trojan War during the Quarter Quell, yet she has been thrust once more into battle. And Marlene, who she would relate to being Calypso in this particular scenario, has trapped Ellie and offered her opulence—although it means nothing in comparison to seeing you again. But where is Ellie’s Athena? Who will convince the divine to give her just one good thing?

“I understand your sorrow,” it’s Ruben’s voice which comes to her ear this time, “but you must remember that Marlene has all the power. She is the one who decides whether Y/n is returned to us or not. Give her something, Ellie, no matter what it is. Just– please.”

“Okay.” She responds.

Placing the book back onto the table with as much delicacy as she can offer it, Ellie turns toward the camera. It buzzes around the kitchen, focused on the items attached to the fridge: letters from Ruben, recipes from Jo, designs by Cat, and a cacophony of Oakley’s crayon drawings. Ellie clears her throat and the camera spins around toward her, zipping forward until it almost knocks into her. It retreats backward, but she watches as the lenses contract to zoom into her face.

“My wife and I built a home here.” She says, feeling a bit awkward considering she’s all alone. “Not just a place to sleep and work and eat, but a place to live. There were– we made so many friends. Everybody here in Seven was close-knit. We were a family to each other when our own families were lacking. Two of the best people in this world, Kayce and Dakota, were the first friends Y/n made here in Seven. They accepted her when others were still weary. They let us in their home and gave us whatever we needed. When Dakota was– when he passed away, Kayce fell into such terrible sorrow that she could no longer care for herself, not to mention her infant son. That son was named Oakley. In her stead, Y/n and I took on the responsibility of raising him. Not because we were fit for the job—we weren’t, by any means, mothers—but because Kayce and Dakota were more than our friends. They were our family.

You see, District Seven was more than just a lumber supply, it was a home. It was my home and it was Y/n’s home and it was going to become our son’s home. Now, he will have no recollection of this place. He will never know the scent of pine or the crunch of leaf-litter under his boots. And who is to blame for that? The very Capitol which burned this place to the ground. They suffocated its people with virulent spores and then reduced their homes to dust. If you do not want revenge for what has occurred here in District Seven, so be it. But imagine it were your home which suffered this. You would want to fight a war, too.”

18:56.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

It’s three days later when your response comes broadcasted from the Capitol. 

Ruben, in all honesty, does not know why they still choose to film you live. Anyone who knows you can recognize that it’s foolish to expect you not to lash out. You’ve been separated from your entire family, yet they think you will sit obedient and prim for them. He almost wants to laugh at their optimism.

When the Capitol seal and anthem fade away to reveal you, however, all amusement dies in his throat. He reaches for Ellie without thinking, grabbing her forearm for support despite neither of them being on their feet. They’re in her compartment, sitting side-by-side on her bed while Oakley plays quietly with blocks on the carpeted floor. Even he turns his attention toward the monitor when he hears their gasps.

You’re sitting in the same plush chair as before, though you’ve deteriorated significantly. Your eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, like you’ve been prohibited from sleeping. Your collarbones are prodding against your skin, like you’ve not been fed in days. Your hands are twitching with those familiar spasms you suffer, though they’ve grown much worse since the last time he laid witness to their severity. You look like a corpse. 

You’re dressed in the same sterile white as before, the fabric covering as much skin as possible. He does not have to guess why: to hide markings the Capitol’s abuse has adorned you with. Ruben has to bite back bile that collects in the back of his mouth. 

Oakley crawls toward the screen, but makes no noise. Ruben considers removing the poor child, but there are screens everywhere and he would lay witness to the broadcast no matter where he is taken. Also, selfishly enough, Ruben does not want to leave—he can hardly bear the thought of letting you out of his sight, though he knows he can do nothing to help you from so far away.

“Good afternoon.” Your voice is hoarse, and it doesn't take much to understand why that is. “I’ve no doubt that we have all bore witness to the rebels’ broadcast earlier this week. It is important to remember, however, how imperative unity is in a time like this. When war is on each of our doorsteps, we must remain integrated if we hope to purge its presence in our lives.”

Ruben knows you like the back of his own hand, but it does not take familiarity to know that you’re reading from a script. Last time, during your interview with Balandin, he could tell that you were fluctuating between reading a script and creating your own responses. You took initiative when you were able, yet relied on Capitol propaganda when it was needed of you. Now, there appears to be no room to fluctuate. You are wholly at the mercy of your captors. None of the words in your mouth belong to you. He only hopes that the rest of the country can realize this, as well.

“El– Ellie Williams came onto all of our screens.” You say. “She claimed to be in District Seven, advocating for a war which none of us can risk eliciting. She spoke of family and of friends, but it is those people who will be lost. If this rebellion act truly takes wind as she wishes it to, it will be the innocents on both sides who perish first. That is what the rebels want; that is what they truly advocate for. Death and misery and–”

Your words are cut short as your head twitches to the side, just slight enough for Ruben to catch sight of the little earpieces wedged against your tragus. You blink a few times, clear your throat, then continue. This time, with more passion than the monotonous tone you’d priorly donned. 

“We must end this war. Kill it in its crib before it learns to crawl.” Your brows twitch at the line you’d just read, likely realizing the same thing Ellie and Ruben both seem to: that was no mere metaphor, but a threat to Oakley himself. Your eyes flick between the camera and the script beyond it, seeming to be considering something dire. Then, with a deep inhale, you speak again—and this time, it’s your own words. You blurt them out quicker than you think, knowing it’s only a matter of time before you’re intercepted. “How do you suspect this will end, Ellie? How do you think this war will impact our people? Do you truly think that Fedra will relent—that Marlene will relent? This isn’t– No one is safe. Not in the Capitol, not in the Districts. And not in Thirteen, either.” You lean forward, eyes flicking all across the room. Shouts can be heard in the distance, like people are rushing toward you at this very moment. “They have District Two! They have bombs, and–” The door slams open. “Thirteen– dead by morning!”

Off camera, orders can be heard shouted across the room. They clamber and clang together like swords, each fighting to be heard over the rest. Until one stakes its claim, louder than all else: Fedra. “End it.”

The camera loses focus, but does not turn off completely. Someone knocks it over, and then it is ignored as the broadcast is assumed to be ended. Chaos flashes across the screen, white boots stomping over the tile floor as Peacekeepers and government officials alike attempt to mend the wound you’ve inflicted upon their entire campaign. The floor is white, pure, and clean—until it’s not.

The sound of impact can be heard resounding across the room, a cry of pain pouring from your lips as your hands and knees can be seen collapsing to the floor. Your face is out of view, though the blood dripping from it is not. The purity of the tile—of the Capitol’s entire facade—is marred by your agony.

This carries on for longer than necessary. 

Men continue to move around in front of the camera, causing it to shift in and out of focus. But despite all the motion, one thing is kept evident: your pain. Fedra does not speak as he inflicts it. He does not tell you what you did wrong, because you already know. He does not tell you to fix your mistakes, because you already know. It’s unclear what exactly he’s doing, but your screams are enough. Electrocution, mutilation. All the worst options flood Ruben’s mind like a tsunami he cannot stop breaching his skull.

Then someone notices that the camera has fallen over. Their pure shoes stop in front of it, their hands blurring the display as they lift the camera from the floor. Then they see that it’s still on. A curse escapes their lips before the screen goes black.

Silence envelops the room. 

Ruben assumes it has enveloped the entire country, too.

In the wake of quietude, he can hear Oakley’s whining. He slides off the bed without daring a glance toward Ellie. He lifts the child into his arms, rubbing his back in hopes of soothing his fretful sounds. He knows not what happened, only that it was bad. Children are odd like that: always aware but never informed.

Ruben sits on the edge of the mattress, exhaling a heavy sigh as Oakley falls quiet. Only then does he risk looking in Ellie’s direction. Instantly, he regrets having not done it sooner.

She has a hand pressed to her sternum, eyes squeezed shut as she tries to keep her panting quiet. She is hunched over herself, clearly out of sorts. He places Oakley gently on the bed, trying not to alert him as to what is happening. Thankfully, he entertains himself with the fray of Ellie’s knitted blanket. 

Ruben scoots closer to her, unsure what to do. He grabs one of her hands, clutching it tightly in hopes of grounding her. She seems not to notice, wholly trapped within the confines of her own mind. He curses. If this were caused by anything—anything—else, he would be much more helpful. But he’s struggling to keep his own thoughts organized.

He knew you were enduring something terrible, but to bear witness was more agonizing than anything he’d ever priorly experienced. To hear your screams with no way to console you; to see your blood with no way to staunch it. He’s useless. All of them in Thirteen are completely and utterly useless. Marlene audibly prides herself on being the leader of this revolution, being the good among evil. Yet what does she do aside from watch as you’re reduced to cattle?

Ruben sits beside Ellie for a long time, holding her hand as she collects herself. Oakley crawls around the mattress, babbling but distressed all the same. He eventually comes over and sits with his head laid in his mother’s lap. Poor thing. 

Her breathing finally regulates itself and she releases Ruben’s hand in favor of caressing Oakley’s hair. He hums, shutting his eyes with a little smile on his lips. She looks down at him with a pinched expression, clearly concerned for his safety after hearing what the Capitol’s scripts entailed. Then her face takes on a more serious mien and she lifts her gaze to meet Ruben’s. “We will get her out of there.”

“Now that the Capitol has publicly displayed themselves as abusive, it shouldn’t be as hard to convince people onto our side.” He says, trying to take on a more diplomatic mindset. Because if he speaks his mind, he will cause more damage than good. “And Marlene, she–”

The door to the compartment slams open, the handle banging against the stone wall. They both jump at the sudden sound and Ellie reaches over her shoulder for a quiver that isn’t there. Oakley blearily raises his head, turning alongside his counterparts toward where Tommy stands. He’s out of breath and disheveled, one hand braced on the doorway as he struggles for air.

“Quick–” He manages to say between breaths. 

Just then, a blaring alarm goes off, lights flashing across the stone marrow of the District. Over Tommy’s shoulder, Ruben can see people rushing down the hallway toward safety. They’re not running or pushing, just walking with haste. It’s oddly impressive how prepared these people are, though it shouldn’t be. Ruben has experienced more than a dozen drills during his short time here, and even he knows exactly where to go and how to get there.

Ruben hops off the bed and Tommy holds the door wide for him and Ellie to pass through. Oakley clings to her, his arms encircling her neck as she plugs his ears with her hands. 

Bodies press on every side of them, but everybody is respectful. And those who take the time to recognize him look upon him with such pity that he could choke on it. Ruben glances over his shoulder every few seconds, just to be sure that Ellie and Oakley are still right behind him—Tommy, too. And, every time, they are.

The crowd weaves through the labyrinthine hallways, taking turns and corners which otherwise are never used. Then, they begin to descend flight after flight of stairs. Nobody speaks, for it would be futile and unheard over the alarm anyway. It’s unifying, this sense of fear and complacence which has overtaken the entire District. He wonders if Marlene is here somewhere, though he doubts it. She would have already been in the bunker before the alarm even started.

As they get lower and lower into the ground, the sirens grow more and more tolerable. His ears pop and he knows that they are getting close. Stephen told him once—back when they were mentors together—that mine shafts are so deep beneath the ground that miners’ ears pop during the descent. He’d told him because he wanted to know if the ocean was the same. Ruben said that it was, though he didn’t know from experience. He thinks of that now, and wonders where Stephen and Cecil are. Together, no doubt.

The cavern of the bunker is larger than Ruben can fathom someone even building. It seems to continue forever, though that may be due to the shadows. There are sleeping bunks lining the walls like war barracks. There is so much space, though, that there are shelves filled with non-perishables and a cut-out area for toilets. And, at the very back, there is a space for medical emergencies—a curtain hanging from a pole to keep any potential patients out of sight. 

There are also signs with letters for different ‘wings’ of the cavern. This way, it is easier to find people and to make sure everyone is where they’re meant to be. It’s a safety precaution, though it reminds Ruben of cattle. As most things in Thirteen do.

“Here ya go.” Tommy says, leading the three of them into H Wing with a hasty wave of his hand. He lingers while they enter the wing and get comfortable, but seems itching to go. Once he is certain that they are settled and have no questions, he presses a quick kiss to Oakley’s head before rushing to help more people—always the damned hero, that one.

The amount of bodies squished into this space would typically be too overwhelming to even imagine placidity. Alas, Thirteen displays no such panic. Women, children, and elders are guided to their assigned wings with practiced ease. It’s almost easy to forget the calamity which engulfs them all in its manacles. Almost. 

Ruben heaves a sigh before dropping himself onto the bottom bunk. The springs groan under his weight, poking against his skin through the thin mattress. He attempts to feel grateful for the preparedness of the entire situation, but he can feel naught aside from loathing for Marlene. To imagine her caged away somewhere safe and reticent while her people are forced to share beds with strangers due to overpopulation—that’s only a fraction of his loathing. What truly irks him is knowing that, had she heeded Ruben and Ellie’s warning, you wouldn’t have had to suffer the abuse of the Capitol tonight. In fact, had she taken action from the start, you would likely be here now: sitting beside Ruben on this god forsaken mattress with Oakley in arm’s reach.

So, no, he feels nothing akin to gratefulness nor relief. There’s no room for it.

Ruben risks a glance in Ellie’s direction and immediately regrets it. Her eyes are glossed over as though her mind is tucked away somewhere far from here; her skin is pallid and gaunt, like she’d just seen a ghost. But worst of all, she’s shaking from head to foot. She’s holding Oakley so tight against her chest that he’s begun to whine at the strain of her grip.

He pushes to his feet—foot, rather—with a wince. Ruben dithers for a moment, pondering how terrible of an idea it would be to touch her. In the end, he inhales a deep breath before laying a hand on her shoulder. She reacts like something vicious, all bared teeth and protracted claws. And yet he doesn’t so much as quail, holding her pained gaze until she has returned enough to recognize him. And when she does, reality hurls itself back toward her. Her chest stutters and she does not refuse him when Ruben gently peels Oakley from her embrace. She blinks harshly, chin trembling.

Ruben guides Ellie toward the bed—both for her sake, and for his leg’s. When she sits down, she seems to collapse under the weight of everything. She buckles over, burying her face in her hands as her shoulders begin to twitch in unison with inaudible sobs. 

Ruben shifts Oakley’s weight into his lap so he can rub the line of Ellie’s back in hopes of offering some semblance of consolation. He doubts it does much to alleviate her pain, but he can’t bring himself to do anything else. To speak of her sorrow—of what happened to you—is far too much for him to bear. He’d rather gouge out his eyes and bite off his tongue before allowing his mind to replay those images. 

For a long time, they remain like this: drowning in their respective sorrow as the world spins around them. The people of Thirteen enter and exit H Wing in waves. Families hunker down into their beds and cling to the few belongings they’d managed to rescue prior to the evacuation. 

Cecil and Stephen passed through the Wing at one point, giving a tour to their army of children so that they perhaps don’t feel so lost in the maze-like cavern. Tommy returned, too, but lingered only long enough to flash a smile in Oakley’s direction before he was being beckoned elsewhere. Maria did the same a few minutes afterward, asking where her husband had strayed. 

By the time Ellie lifts her head from her hands, an eternity has chrysalized and a new world has eclosioned. Her cheeks are tinted pink and her eyes are bloodshot, but she appears to withhold a determination which threatens to burn the entire world down. Ruben shudders at the sight.

Ellie turns toward him, gaze intent. “She–”

“Don’t.” Ruben interrupts. Considering the seething rage in his chest, he very well could have shouted it. But he didn’t. Instead, it emerged as a whisper: a glance into the shattered resolve of his soul. Ellie’s expression softens but she is no less murderous. He sighs, lowering his head. “Sorry. You deserve to have someone to speak to, I just– I can’t. Not now.”

She nods. “I understand.”

The Wing has become flooded with people. The bunked beds are so close together that there are only two feet between each one. The one Ellie and Ruben have laid claim to hasn’t yet been disturbed, though that cannot be said for everyone. He watched a family lay claim to a pair of beds only to leave for a few minutes and return to find it reclaimed by a different family. They bickered, but eventually grew too exhausted to fight among themselves any longer. They both had children to feed and spouses to cheer. It was simply not worth the time. So they split the bunk in half—one family per bed. It was borderline disquieting to watch four people clamber into one twin-sized mattress. There was an air of dehumanization to it.

Ellie and Ruben will both be privileged enough to sleep in a bed alone, bar Oakley. Yet Ruben feels sinister to do so. He cannot stomach the idea of having a bed all to himself while, just a few yards away, a single mother sleeps with four toddlers’ elbows prodding at her ribs.  

“We should share a bed.” Ruben announces.

He almost expects Ellie to balk and deny him, for it would be passing the line they have wordlessly drawn between one another. However, she seems to have witnessed the same atrocities as he. She nods. “Agreed. The top bunk can be given to someone who needs it more. Besides, I doubt either of us will be able to sleep a wink tonight.”

He nods knowing, despite his attempts to stifle the memories of your announcement, slumber will certainly call them to the surface once more. If he dares close his eyes, you will be waiting for him: screaming and bloody and on your knees. He refuses to lay witness to your pain again. 

Ellie shifts across the mattress, adjusting the pillows against the wall so that she can lean against it without feeling the stone bite into her spine. Then she holds out her arms and Ruben already knows that she is requesting to have her son returned. He glances down at the boy. Oakley is enveloped in a thin veil of sleep, easily woken yet unconscious enough to earn himself an ounce of rest. His eyes flutter beneath their lids, watching events pass in his dreams. His face is dotted with the same freckles he left the womb with, though they are much lighter after spending five months barred from sunlight. His fist is clenched around the front of Ruben’s shirt, as though beckoning him to never leave. 

He knows it’s stupid, but he can see you in him. Not in a hereditary sense, of course, but in the smaller details. He can see you the way Oakley purses his lips when he’s vexed; he can see you in the way Oakley’s eyes flick across an unfamiliar place as though to assess it; he can see you in the way Oakley reaches first for her face when he tries to comfort Ellie. 

Ruben knows that Oakley is Ellie’s as much as he is yours, but he cannot see it that way. When he looks at your son, he sees only the marks you left on him—not the malicious marks which your parents left on you both, but the doting kind of marks that a mother will always leave on her kin. Ruben never wants to let him go; he never wants to let him out of his sight. And yet he must. 

He places Oakley into Ellie’s arms with as much gentility as he can muster, trying to keep him asleep. It doesn’t work, of course, and Oakley’s eyes flutter open despite his attempts. He whines and writhes but the waking world doesn’t quite grip him and he ends up falling right back into the arms of slumber. Ellie smiles down at him with all the love in the world, her heart spilling over with it.

She’s a wonderful mother, Ruben knows she is, and yet he cannot help resenting her for being the one to raise Oakley while you cannot. How is that fair? How is any of this fair?

Just then, the first bomb hits.

The world trembles under its rage, giving a hard shake to the entire cavern. Children begin to wail and the overhead lights swing from side to side, causing an eerie atmosphere to overwash the entire Wing. Ruben’s instinct is to grab something solid and ground himself to it. He grabs the metal bedframe, only to hiss at the searing gelidity of it. 

Before Thirteen can regain its composure, a second—more vicious—bomb makes impact. Ruben can feel his organs and his bones all quivering from the resonation. And, a few moments later, the lights flicker into darkness. Silence envelops the entire cavern, from Wings A to Z. Mothers hush their babies and children whisper fretfully among one another. Ruben rests his hand on Ellie’s shin, hoping to provide both of them some comfort from the connection. Oakley does not whine and does not cry, but there is a distinct quiver to his little breaths. 

Bzzzz. A low hum emanates from somewhere both over and under the cavern. A generator, Ruben realizes, when the lights flicker back to life. H Wing gives a collective sigh of relief and Ruben turns immediately toward his nephew. His eyes are squeezed shut, his entire face scrunched up. Ellie is rocking him back and forth, muttering consolations into his ear. Still, he does not cry.

“Thank fuck we found you.” Jesse’s voice yanks Ellie’s gaze upward before Ruben has even the time to process who it belongs to. He turns to find Jesse with a sheen of sweat clung to his skin. Beside him, Dina stands with a tight expression and a face tinged with green, like she’s about to be sick. 

Ruben scoots over to make room, gesturing toward the mattress. “Sit down, Dina, before you vomit all over my boots.”

She appears reluctant but does not dare to argue as she approaches the bed and exhales a contented breath when she takes the weight off her legs. Jesse follows suit, despite the springs groaning their complaints against the weight of four full-grown adults. 

“Sorry to disturb your peace,” Jesse’s voice has dropped to a whisper so as to not disturb everyone in H Wing’s peace. “We were technically assigned to X Wing but I don’t think anyone is actually obliging the rules when it comes to the beds. Entire families have been separated. Nobody wants to be alone if we die tonight.”

“We won’t die tonight.” Says Ellie. 

“That last bomb was a bunker missile.” Jesse tells her, frowning as though not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. “It’s made to dig under the ground like a mole. Hitting the surface is futile and Fedra knows it. He might be a shit person, but he’s smart: he knows better than to waste nuclear power. Especially considering District Two is toeing the line of abandoning the Capitol’s war efforts.”

There is a tense silence after that and Ruben hopes none of the children overheard Jesse’s grim tone.

“Do you think there will be more?” Dina asks warily, as though afraid to know the answer.

“It’s unlikely,” Jesse muses, scratching at his chin in thought. “Both sides know just how detrimental a nuclear war can become. Killing off the entire human race would be pointless. Fedra and Marlene want the same thing: power. They cannot achieve that if there is no one left to hold power over.”

His voice has lowered to almost inaudibly quiet. As much as the four of them can agree on their resentment for Marlene, many of the people in Thirteen adore her as a savior. To suggest that she and Fedra hold their desires in similar places of greed would be akin to blasphemy. Ruben grows sick at the thought of it. Marlene has the same hold on Thirteen that Fedra has on the Capitol. 

“That’s good news at least.” Dina sighs, pressing her palm against the swell of her stomach. “There’s so little of that these days.”

Jesse nods, solemn, as his eyes trace the curve of her belly. “Good thing Y/n warned us in time. We had hardly an hour before the bombs landed. I can’t imagine what would have happened if she hadn’t spoken.”

“I can.” Ellie says. “We would all be dead before the broadcast ended. They were probably planning on making her talk the whole time, hooking our minds on her words while they dropped death from the sky. And, you know, the first bomb wasn’t nearly as terrible as the second. The first would have killed some and injured many. We’d be lying in the halls with half our bodies missing and our organs hanging out—just enough time to think God I wish I hadn’t sided with Marlene. Then the second would hit and we’d all be dead.”

There’s a great, long pause. 

Some of the other residents in H Wing cast long glances in their direction, expressions mixed somewhere between fear and solemn acknowledgement. It’s a terrible thing for Ellie to have said, but it’s the truth—and some truths are better faced than ignored.

“Well,” Jesse hums, “that’s one guess.”

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