Book 3 babyyyy we're almost done.
This took a bit longer than usual but thats cos I wanted to release a few chapters to begin with, so enjoy :)
---
(M/N) stared down at his shoes, watching as a fine layer of ash settled on the worn leather. This was where the bed he shared with his sister, Eri, stood. Over there was the kitchen table. The bricks of the chimney, which collapsed in a charred heap, provided a point of reference for the rest of the house. How else could he orient himself in this sea of grey?
Almost nothing remained of District 12. A month ago, the Capitol's firebombs obliterated the poor coal miners' houses in the Seam, the shops in the town, even the Justice Building. The only area that escaped incineration was the Victor's Village. (M/N) didn't know why exactly. Perhaps so anyone forced to come here on Capitol business would have somewhere reasonable to stay. The odd reporter. A committee assessing the condition of the coal mines. A squad of Peacekeepers checking for returning refugees.
But no one was returning except (M/N). And that was only for a brief visit. The authorities in District 13 were against him going back. They viewed it as a costly and pointless venture, given that at least a dozen invisible hovercrafts were circling overhead for his protection and there was no intelligence to be gained. He had to see it, though. So much so that he made it a condition of his cooperation with any of their plans.
Finally, Kan Sekijiro, the Head Gamemaker who had organised the rebels in the Capitol, threw up his hands. "Let him go. Better to waste a day than another month. Maybe a little tour to Twelve is just what he needs to convince him we're on the same side."
The same side. A pain stabbed (M/N)'s left temple and he pressed his hand against it. Right on the spot where Neito Monoma hit him with the coil of wire. The memories swirled when he tried to sort out what was true and what was false. What series of events led him to be standing in the ruins of his city? This was hard because the effects of the concussion hadn't completely subsided and his thoughts still had a tendency to jumble together. Also, the drugs they used to control his pain and mood sometimes made him see things. He guessed. He still wasn't entirely convinced that he was hallucinating the night the floor of his hospital room transformed into a carpet of writhing snakes.
(M/N) used a technique one of the doctors suggested. He started with the simplest things he knew to be true and worked towards the more complicated. The list began to roll in his head.
My name is (M/N) (L/N). I am eighteen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me. Katsuki was taken prisoner. He is thought to be dead. Most likely he is dead. It is probably best if he is dead...
"(M/N). Should I come down?" The sound of his best friend Shoto's voice reached him through the headset the rebels insisted he wear. Shoto was up in a hovercraft, watching him carefully, ready to swoop in if anything went amiss. (M/N) realised he was crouched down now, elbows on his thighs, his head braced between his hands. He must have looked on the verge of some kind of breakdown. That wouldn't do. Not when they were finally weaning him off the medication.
(M/N) straightened up and waved Shoto's offer away. "No. I'm fine." To reinforce this, (M/N) began to move away from his old house and towards the town. Shoto asked to be dropped off in 12 as well, but he didn't force the issue when (M/N) refused his company. Shoto understood (M/N) didn't want anyone with him today. Not even his best friend. Some walks you had to take alone.
The summer had been scorching hot and dry as a bone. There had been next to no rain to disturb the piles of ash left by the attack. They shifted here and there, in reaction to (M/N)'s footsteps. No breeze to scatter them. He kept his eyes on what he remembered as the road, because when he first landed in the Meadow, he wasn't careful and walked right into a rock. Only it wasn't a rock - it was someone's skull. It rolled over and over and landed face up, and for a long time (M/N) couldn't stop looking at the teeth, wondering whose they were thinking of how his would probably look the same way under similar circumstances.
(M/N) stuck to the road out of habit, but it was a bad choice, because it was full of the remains of those who tried to flee. Some were incinerated entirely. But others, probably overcome with smoke, escaped the worst of the flames and now laid reeking in various states of decomposition, carrion for scavengers, blanketed by flies. I killed you, (M/N) thought as he passed a pile. And you. And you.
Because he did. It was his arrow, aimed at the chink in the force field surrounding the arena, that brought on the firestorm of retribution. That sent the whole country of Panem into chaos.
In (M/N)'s head he heard President Nezu's words, spoken the morning he was to begin the Victory Tour.
"There have been uprisings?" (M/N) asked.
"Not yet. But they'll follow if the course of things doesn't change. And uprisings have been known to lead to revolution. Then in a fraction of a second the whole system collapses."
It turned out he wasn't exaggerating or simply trying to scare (M/N). He was, perhaps, genuinely attempting to enlist (M/N)'s help. But (M/N) had already set something in motion that he had no ability to control.
Burning. Still burning, he thought numbly. (M/N), the boy on fire, had provided a spark that could grow to an inferno that destroyed Panem. The fires at the coal mines belched black smoke in the distance. There was no one left to care, though. More than ninety percent of the district's population was dead. The remaining eight hundred or so were refugees in District 13 - which, as far as (M/N) was concerned, was the same as being homeless forever.
He knew he shouldn't think that. He knew he should be grateful for the way they had been welcomed. Sick, wounded, starving and empty-handed. Still, (M/N) could never get around the fact that District 13 was instrumental in 12's destruction. That didn't absolve (M/N) of blame - there was plenty of blame to go around. But without them, (M/N) would not have been part of a larger plot to overthrow the Capitol or had the means to do it.
The citizens of District 12 had no organised resistance movement of their own. No say in any of this. They only had the misfortune to have (M/N). Some survivors thought it was good luck, though, to be free of District 12 at last. To have escaped the endless hunger and oppression, the perilous mines, the wrath of their final Head Peacekeeper. To have a new home at all was seen as a wonder since, up until a short time ago, they hadn't even known that District 13 still existed.
The credit for the survivor's escape had landed squarely on Shoto's shoulders, although he loathed to accept it. As soon as the Quarter Quell was over - as soon as (M/N) had been lifted from the arena - the electricity in District 12 was cut, the televisions went black and the Seam became so silent, people could hear one another's heartbeats. No one did anything to protest or celebrate what had happened in the arena. Yet within fifteen minutes, the sky was filled with hover planes and the bombs were raining down.
It was Shoto who thought of the Meadow, one of the few places not filled with old wooden homes embedded with coal dust. He herded those he could in its direction, including (M/N)'s mother and Eri. He formed the team that pulled down the fence - now just a harmless chain link barrier, with the electricity turned off - and led the people into the woods. He took them to the only place he could think of, the lake (M/N)'s father had shown him as a child. And it was from there they watched the distant flames eat up everything they knew in the world.
By dawn the bombers were long gone, the fires dying, the final stragglers rounded up. (M/N)'s mother and Eri had set up a medical area for the injured and were attempting to treat them with whatever they could obtain from the woods. Shoto had two sets of bows and arrows, one hunting knife, one fishing net, and over eight hundred terrified people to feed. With the help of those who were able-bodied, they managed for three days. And that was when the hovercraft unexpectedly arrived to evacuate them to District 13, where there were more than enough clean, white living compartments, plenty of clothing and three meals a day. The compartments had the disadvantage of being underground, the clothing was identical and the food was relatively tasteless, but for the refugees of 12, those were minor considerations. They were safe. They were being cared for. They were alive and eagerly welcomed.
This enthusiasm was interpreted as kindness. But a District 10 refugee who'd made it to 13 on foot a few years ago, leaked the real motive to (M/N). "They need you. Me. They need us all. A while back, there was some sort of pox epidemic that killed a bunch of them and left a lot more infertile. New breeding stock. That's how they see us." Back in 10, the man had worked on one of the beef ranches, maintaining the genetic diversity of the herd with the implantation of long-frozen cow embryos. He was very likely right about 13, because there didn't seem to be nearly enough kids around. But so what? They weren't being kept in pens, they were being trained for work, the children were being educated. Those over fourteen had been given entry-level ranks in the military and were addressed respectfully as "Soldier". Every single refugee was granted automatic citizenship by the authorities of 13.
Still, (M/N) hated them. But, of course, he hated almost everybody now. Himself more than anyone.
The surface beneath his feet hardened, and under the carpet of ash, (M/N) felt the paving stones of the square. Around the perimeter was a shallow border of concrete where the shops stood. A heap of blackened rubble had replaced the Justice Building. (M/N) walked to the approximate site of the bakery Katsuki's family owned. Nothing much left but the melted lump of the oven. Katsuki's parents didn't make it to 13. Fewer than a dozen of what passed for District 12's well-to-do escaped the fire. Katsuki would have nothing to come home to, anyway. Except (M/N)...
(M/N) backed away from the bakery and bumped into something, he lost his balance and found himself sitting on a hunk of sun-heated metal. He puzzled over what it might have been, then remembered the Head Peacekeepers recent renovations of the square. Stocks, whipping posts, and this, the remains of the gallows. Bad. This was bad. It brought on the flood of images that tormented him, awake or asleep. Katsuki being tortured - drowned, burned, lacerated, shocked, maimed, beaten - as the Capitol tried to get information about the rebellion that he didn't know. (M/N) squeezed his eyes shut and tried to reach for Katsuki across the hundreds and hundred of kilometres, to send his thoughts into Katsuki's mind, to let him know he wasn't alone. But he was. And (M/N) couldn't help him.
Running. Away from the square and to the one place the fire didn't destroy. (M/N) passed the wreckage of the mayor's house. He thought of the Mayor's daughter, the one who came to help Shoto after he was whipped. There was no word of her or her family. Were they evacuated to the Capitol because of her father's position, or left to the flames? Ashes billowed up around (M/N), and he pulled the hem of his shirt up over his mouth. It wasn't wondering what he was breathing in, but who, that threatened to choke him.
The grass had been scorched and the grey snow fell there as well, but the twelve fine houses of the Victor's Village were unscathed. (M/N) bolted into the house he lived in for the past year, slammed the door closed and leaned back against it. The place seemed untouched. Clean. Eerily quiet. Why did he come back to 12? How could this visit help him answer the question he couldn't escape?
"What am I going to do?" (M/N) whispered to the walls. Because he really didn't know.
People kept talking at him, talking, talking, talking. Kan Sekijiro. His assistant. A mishmash of district leaders. Military officials. But not Kaina Tsutsumi, the president of 13, who just watched. She was in her late 40's yet looked young, with purple hair that stopped just above her shoulders. Something about her felt off to (M/N), but he didn't know what.
What they wanted was for (M/N) to truly take on the role they designed for him. The symbol of the revolution. The Mockingjay. It wasn't enough, what he had done in the past, defying the Capitol in the Games, providing a rallying point. He now had to become the actual leader, the face, the voice, the embodiment of the revolution. The person who the districts - most of which were now openly at war with the Capitol - could count on to blaze to the path to victory. (M/N) wouldn't have to do it alone. They had a whole team of people to make him over, dress him, write his speeches, orchestrate his appearances - as if that didn't sound horribly familiar - and all he had to do was play his part. Sometimes he listened to them and sometimes he just stared at the closest wall. Eventually, he left the room because his head started to ache or it was time to eat or if he didn't know how to get above ground he would start screaming. He didn't bother to say anything. He simply got up and walked out.
Yesterday afternoon, as the door was closing behind (M/N), he heard Kaina say, "I told you we should have rescued the boy first." Meaning Katsuki. (M/N) couldn't have agreed more. Katsuki would've been an excellent mouthpiece.
And who did they fish out of the arena instead? (M/N), who wouldn't cooperate. Tenya, an older inventor from 3, who (M/N) rarely saw because he was pulled into weapons development the minute he could sit upright. Literally, they wheeled his hospital bed into some top secret area and now he only occasionally showed up for meals. He was very smart and very willing to help the cause, but not really firebrand material. Then there was Denki Kaminari, the sex symbol from the fishing district, who kept Katsuki alive in the arena when (M/N) couldn't. They wanted to transform Denki into a rebel leader as well, but first they would have to get him to stay awake for more than five minutes. Even when he was conscious, anyone talking to him had to say everything three times to get through to his brain. The doctors said it was from the electrical shock he received in the arena, but (M/N) knew it was a lot more complicated than that. He knew that Denki couldn't focus on anything in 13 because he was trying so hard to see what was happening in the Capitol to Kyoka, the mad girl from his district who was the only person on earth he loved.
Despite serious reservations, (M/N) had to forgive Denki for his role in the conspiracy that landed him here. He, at least, had some idea of what (M/N) was going through. And it took too much energy to stay angry with someone who cried so much.
(M/N) moved through the downstairs on hunter's feet, reluctant to make any sound. He picked up a few remembrances: a photo of his parents on their wedding day, a blue hair ribbon for Eri, the family book of medical and edible plants. The book fell open to a page with yellow flowers and (M/N) shut it quickly because it was Katsuki's brush that painted them.
What am I going to do?
Was there any point to anything at all? (M/N)'s mother, his sister, and Shoto's family were finally safe. As for the rest of 12, people were either dead, which was irreversible, or protected in 13. That left the rebels in the districts. Of course, (M/N) hated the Capitol, but he had no confidence that him being the Mockingjay would benefit those who were trying to bring it down. How could he help the districts when every time he made a move, it resulted in suffering and loss of life? The old man shot in District 11 for whistling. The crackdown in 12 after he intervened in Shoto's whipping. His stylist, Keigo, being dragged, bloody and unconscious, from the Launch Room before the Games. Kan's sources believe he was killed during interrogation. Brilliant, enigmatic, lovely Keigo was dead because of (M/N). He pushed the thought away because it was too impossibly painful to dwell on without losing his fragile hold on the situation entirely.
What am I going to do?
To become the Mockingjay... could any good he do possibly outweigh the damage? Who could he trust to answer that question? Certainly not that crew in 13. Now that his and Shoto's families were out of harm's way, he could run away. Except for one unfinished piece of business. Katsuki. If (M/N) knew for sure that he was dead, he could just disappear into the woods and never look back. But until he did, he was stuck.
(M/N) spun his heel at the sound of a hiss. In the kitchen doorway, back arched, ears flattened, stood Eri's cat. "Buttercup," he said. Thousands of people were dead, but Buttercup had survived and even looked well fed. On what? He could get in and out of the house through the window they always left ajar in the pantry. He must have been eating field mice. (M/N) refused to consider the alternative.
(M/N) squatted down and extended a hand. "Come here, boy." Not likely. He was angry at his abandonment. Besides, (M/N) wasn't offering food, and his ability to provide scraps had always been his main redeeming quality to Buttercup. For a while, when they used to meet up at the old house because they both disliked this new one, they seemed to be bonding a little. That was clearly over. Buttercup blinked those unpleasant yellow eyes.
"Want to see Eri?" (M/N) asked. Her name caught his attention. Besides his own, it was the only word that meant anything to him. He gave a rusty meow and approached (M/N). (M/N) picked him up, stroking his fur, then went to the cupboard to dig out his game bag and unceremoniously stuff Buttercup in it. There was no other way he would be able to carry the cat on the hovercraft, and Buttercup meant the world to Eri.
In (M/N)'s headset, he heard Shoto's voice telling him that they had to go back. But the game bag had reminded (M/N) of one more thing that he wanted. He slung the strap of the bag over the back of a chair and dashed up the steps to his bedroom. Inside the wardrobe hung his father's hunting jacket. Before the Quell, he brought it here from the old house, thinking its presence might have been comforting to his mother and Eri when he died. He was happy he did, or it would have been ash.
The soft leather felt soothing and for a moment (M/N) was calmed by the memories of the house spent wrapped in it. Then, inexplicably, his palms began to sweat. A strange sensation crept up the back of his neck. He whipped around to face the room and found it empty. Tidy. Everything in its place. There was no sound to alarm him. What, then?
His nose twitched. It was the smell. Cloying and artificial. A dab of white peeked out of a vase of dried flowers on his dresser. He approached it with cautious steps. There, all but obscured by its preserved cousins, was a fresh white rose. Perfect. Down to the last thorn and silken petal. And (M/N) knew immediately who sent it to him.
President Nezu.
When he began to gag at the stench, he backed away and cleared out. How long had it been there? A day? An hour? The rebels did a security sweep of the Victor's Village before he was cleared to come here, checking for explosives, bugs, anything unusual. But perhaps the rose didn't seem noteworthy to them. Only to (M/N).
Downstairs, he snagged the game bag off the chair, bouncing it along the floor until he remembered it was occupied. On the lawn, he frantically signalled the hovercraft while Buttercup thrashed. A hovercraft materialised and a ladder dropped down.
"You all right?" Shoto asked while helping (M/N) up from the ladder.
"Yeah," (M/N) said, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve.
He left me a rose! (M/N) wanted to yell, but it wasn't information he was sure he should share with someone like Kan looking on. First of all, because it would make him sound crazy. Like he either imagined it, which was quite possible, or he was overreacting, which would buy him a trip back to the drug-induced dreamland he was trying so hard to escape. No one would fully understand - how it wasn't just a flower, not even just President Nezu's flower, but a promise of revenge - because no one else sat in the study with him when he threatened (M/N) before the Victory Tour.
Positioned on (M/N)'s dresser, that white-as-snow rose was a personal message. It spoke of unfinished business. It whispered, I can find you. I can reach you. Perhaps I am watching you now.
---