Hurricane • F. Odair

twenty-five » one head at a time

A L T H E A

The first sense Althea regained was touch. Restraints around her wrists and her waist kept her bound to a bed of sorts. She wasn't wearing anything tight and her body felt heavier than she'd ever experienced. Scent came next. Sterility mixed with gunpowder filled her nose and lungs. It ticked her nostrils beside the cannula that pumped oxygen into her. Her hearing came next. Voices were everywhere, but nowhere near her.

With a bit of struggle, her eyelids peeled open. They had a crust that fought to keep her lashes together, the kind that you obtained after sleeping for a long time. Faint light powered overhead, causing her to squint. It was a makeshift hospital room with curtains for walls. Multiple voices spoke outside her little room but she couldn't make out the words. An IV stuck out of her hand, likely keeping her hydrated.

She was in a hospital or medic's space, but where? Flashes of Peeta and Johanna's panicked faces as she lost her breath crossed her mind. Where were they? Were they alive? She pulled against the restraints, but they were firm. Her throat was dry and tasted of dried mucus. But even if she felt the need to call out, it might not have been wise. She didn't know the people that kept her. She might have been held by people from the Capitol, but something nagged in her that the gear around her would be much more expensive.

Althea pulled again at the restraints, the frame they were attached to jolting and making clunking noises. She stopped sharply as some of the voices outside the curtains cut off.

Play dead. Her blue eyes closed and she steadied her breathing to the best of her ability. The curtain rustled across from her.

"You were never one to fake sleeping, Al. That was all Graham."

Althea's eyes flew open, heart soaring. A dark-haired woman, a near picture of her older sister, stood in front of her. She wore a sweatshirt, utility pants, and work boots, but she looked just as she had when she left. "Aunt Flick?" The rubber band holding her walls in place snapped. Tears pricked at her eyes immediately. "Aunt Flick," she cried. Felicity Parker, aka Aunt Flick, rushed to Althea's side, tears filling her eyes just as swiftly. She hugged Althea's head to her chest.

"Hey baby," Flick cooed. She pressed a dozen kisses on Althea's head.

The twenty-five-year-old tried not to sob, but being held by her aunt for the first time in years after the past few weeks she'd had was making the task difficult. She pulled her head away. "Where am I?"

"You're in Eight, honey." Her aunt smoothed her hair.

"How? Why? Where's Finnick? The others--" Althea tried but coughed.

"We got you out using a special serum that slowed your heart rate, my love. As for the others... I don't know," Flick said.

Finnick, Peeta, and the others. Her aunt didn't know. "What do you mean you don't know? Is it over? Fuck, are they all dead?" Her chest rose rapidly. Was this hyperventilating?

Flick grabbed her chin, brown eyes stern. "Listen to me, Althea Elizabeth. Katniss shot an electric arrow into a weak spot in the force field surrounding the arena, causing an explosion. We have no further information. You hear me?"

Tears leaked down Althea's face, but she whispered, "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

She pulled her chin from her aunt's grip. "Yes, ma'am. I forgot how military you were," she scoffed.

"Yeah, life sucks, and then you die, so." Her aunt stood. Althea had also forgotten how sometimes her aunt didn't make sense. "I'm going to get the Paylors. They'll debrief you and get you released."