DISTRICT ONE - Pyrite Mendelax
NO ENTRY
DISTRICT THREE - Eclaire Cyppel
Unlike yesterday evening when Auriel, Meri, and I were hanging out in the back of the crowd, far away from the fallen rebels of that day, I am now in the front of the pack. The flames aren’t as high as they were after the battle, but the sorrow is just as evident in the cries and soft voices around me. My sobbing is among them, as is Auriel’s if her raggedy breathing suffices.
The youngest of the rebels, our daring and charming friend, lies on the outskirts of the fire, her dark hair singeing at the edges. Even in death, Meri looks stunningly beautiful, her clear blue eyes shining into the night. And to think just this morning she was as lively as any of us, ready to pounce and take on some Capitol scum with her bare hands if needed.
The stream of tears begins again, quickly evaporating from the intense heat. A strong wind rips through Glory Square, spreading ashes into the night and whipping my hair into a tangled frenzy, but I don’t shiver. The anger I have at Julius Justinius is still as hot as the fire before me. The fact that he slipped our defenses so easily is what really scares me and ticks me off. If one man can do this much damage, who knows what else the Capitol has under their sleeve.
Answering my silent question, a white light shines through the night haze. Everyone is quiet until the Capitol Seal appears. Then, chaos erupts.
“Battle stations, now!” Peter Steele, a high-ranked and beefy man from Two, is the first to make action by grabbing a thick gun and wielding it to the dark shops beyond our camp borders. Iliana forms her team quickly and sprints out of camp without another word. All the while, Auriel and I sit frozen on the tile, eyes glued to the Seal.
The anthem rings out from the speakers all over the square and, after a seemingly long time, stops. The newest gamemaker, Elpis Regnum, takes its place, grinning wildly in his white suit. He clears his throat and begins, “Surprised? You shouldn’t be. We have been watching you. We know your names, your ages, your strengths and weaknesses...” Elpis shoots someone behind the camera an angry glare, then collects himself.
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” The screen changes and shows the flat, desolate land above Rebel Headquarters. A gasp can be heard from everyone as the gears snap into place. No, no, no, no. This has to be a bluff. They can’t get in there so easily. Surely we have precautions for this situation. Right?
A shiver runs down my spine as Alithia, the head gamemaker, swoops to Elpis’s side at the podium, a wave of superiority emitting from her. She whispers something in his ear, then turns toward the camera, all seriousness evident in her tight jaw. “Consider your position. Your numbers are dwindling. Can you really sustain this against the force of the Capitol? More importantly, can you afford to risk the lives of those you love yet again? Give yourselves in and we will let them go and look upon you kindly. Within reason. Goodbye.” The light disappears and the gamemakers are gone.
Below, the rebels are still in discord. Beside me a pair of girls, Pyrite and Amelia, are in a heated fight of visious words. Vibius stops them with a flurry of leadership, but the tension is still hot in everyone.
My mind is also on Alithia’s offer. Wyre and Drifton are back in Thirteen right now and thinking of a bomb hanging over their heads makes me very worried. I could just sneak off in the night when everyone’s asleep and turn myself in; maybe Alithia will be true to her words. I could save them both and we could escape the Capitol’s wrath.
But is that what my brother’s would want me to do? Surely not. They expect us to win this war and we can’t give up now. We won’t.
A cruel smile crawls across my lips on that last thought. I lift my eyes up to the fire and stare at the unrecognizable body that was once Meri. Giving up now would be a huge dishonor on her and I can’t do that. I guess that means one thing; District Thirteen better be ready. I say a silent prayer to my brothers and the rest of the rebel population and then get to my feet.
“Come on, Auriel. We have a war to win.”
DISTRICT FIVE - Amelia Watton
My mother used to tell me that there was nothing in the world that mattered except the friendships we made and the families we had. Everything else could be eliminated and we could still live a happy life even if we didn’t have a home or money or a job. But now here I was, essentially friendless in the midst of a rebellion, my family left in Thirteen. I have broken the one rule my mother always used to tell me to follow.
It’s nighttime but no one is sleeping- we moved from the basement of the store to a larger furniture store across the street after the man killed five of our own. Although most of the store had been ransacked and bullets riddled the ground, we found some extra couches and chairs in the back storeroom and set up base on the second floor, where there was only one way in or out, not counting the window which was impossible to access. The only sounds are of the quiet muttering between pairs, their voices strained. The two girls who are always together try to sleep, a blanket layed out on the floor. They lost an ally on the first day.
I sit on a wooden chair, its arms broken from being thrown about, no doubt it is of no value, otherwise the robbers would’ve taken it a long time ago. I sit alone up near the window, staring across the dark skyline, the burning bodies still illuminating the square as if the streetlights were still on, casting strange shadows across the ground, never reaching the dark shadows of the alleys.
They announced it ten minutes ago. The possibility of our loved one’s being kept hostage prey on everyone’s minds, the thought of them being tortured never far away. My mother and sister, Harper so young- they could be in the Capitol right now. I’ve heard stories of the torture. The water and the shocks and the meticulous cuts. The Capitol already knows everything about us, but the question that is still risen is whether or not they were bluffing.
I hear a muffled sniffle come from behind me, but I don’t turn around to see who is upset- there’s no time to be upset. The day before I left my mother came up to me with determination lit up in her eyes. She was a small woman, like me, who, after working in the factory for over twenty five years had gained the walk of someone who had places to go.
She pulled me inside of our room, shared between the three of us, and locked the door, her hands on my shoulders as she sat me down on the hard bed. Even now I can still remember everything she had told me. Her hair was grey, her features dulled by the faint light that buzzed faintly above us. The lines, however, that were etched into her face were evident, my father’s and brother’s death were still showing.
Taking a breath, she held my hands and said, “Amelia Mae, did I ever tell you you were named for your grandmother? Your grandmother, she lived in the times when the Games first began, when the first Rebellion was ending. Five years after I was born, seven after my brother, my mother disappeared, much like we have now that we’re in Thirteen. No word from her, no word from the Capitol. We feared the worst, which I’m sure you can assume.
“Unfortunately, Amelia, those things happen. My mother was a wonderful woman who did just a bit too much for the cause. And now you are taking in her footsteps.” I nodded solemnly. I could only hope what happened to my grandmother was good, but deep in my heart I knew it couldn’t be true. And now my mother was telling me I was just like her, predestined to die at the hands of what I was fighting for. I could only hope I went peacefully, or not at all.
“My darling, I always knew you would do great things. You were always the one who seemed a bit odd when you were a kid, but you were my odd child, and I loved you for it. And now, darling, I need you to look at me and understand this.” Her eyes were a beautiful blue, light and faded yet they still held a pretty tone. “Your sister and I, I want you to know we both know the consequences of what could happen now that you are leaving. But I want you to know, we accept it and we love you no matter what happens. You were chosen out of many, Amelia. You are always going to be my baby, and you will always be special. You are following what you think is right, and we support you every step of the way. No matter what.”
No matter what. Those were the last words both my sister and mother wished me as I left Thirteen. “No matter what, you go kick some butt,” said Harper.
“No matter what.” Those three words linger with me, I can still hear my mother’s voice as she hugged me and waved me off.
And as I sit here watching the fires burn that are fueled by our comrades and our enemies, I can’t help but continue to whisper to myself those three words that mean so much. I was never a sentimental person, never one for crying over the death of someone whose time was destined to end. I was never one to be upset over the big things. I was always moving forward. But now I realize- perhaps moving forward all the time isn’t the best thing to do.
I feel the possibility of my family being tortured in my soul, the pain of the fifty percent chance they are hostages for once overriding the other fifty. I always told others to contain and control how they felt but for once I understand the pain they must’ve felt.
Deep in my mind, I’m sure the Capitol was bluffing- they want us unhinged, upset, not our best, so that they can control us. But my heart overrides it and as I stare out the window, I whisper the words over and over again, until the words feel like gibberish and I can feel my body become tired. It is only when I feel a hand on my shoulder do I turn away from staring at the walls of fire.
“Are you okay? You should really rest.” It’s Peter, shadows under his eyes are evident too.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’ll get some rest soon. How about you?” I turned to face the window again, staring out at the light that was supposed to represent warmth but now only loss.
“I’m fine, Vibbius and I are going over some strategies. But I mean how are you with the Capitol announcement? Vibbius and I don’t think it’s true, however if it is, I want to know everyone’s okay with it.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be fine no matter what.”
DISTRICT SEVEN - Canary Thicket
The message appeared in the sky shortly after midnight. Immediately everyone decided that the best thing to do would be to lose control and panic, just like the Capitol wanted. Now that things had gotten personal, they regretted signing up for this. I didn't. There are sacrifices you have to make to get what you want, no matter who is killed along the way.
My family never wanted me to sign up for this. I was always the precious little baby, that was kept sheltered away from harm as my parents refused to let me see the true evils of this world. My mother didn't want me playing with the kids who got in trouble at school, but I did anyway. I'd tag along and follow them to the fence at the end of the district, but I was too cowardly to go through. I suppose I got some of my cowardice from my parents, they were terrified that my brothers and I were going to commit some terrible sin and get slaughtered by the Peacekeepers because of it.
I always took my family for granted, because they were always there. Every day when I got home from school, my mother would be in the kitchen and my brothers would be in the garden. My father would arrive home from work soon after that and we'd all sit down at the table together and talk about our day. It was the perfect family, but I never realised what I had because it had never been taken away from me.
There was a girl in my class at school, her name was Acacia and she always sat by herself at lunch and didn't speak to anyone. Occasionally I saw some brave person go up and try to talk to her, but she just answered them with blank stares. I felt bad for her, she was all alone and nobody wanted to be around her, but my friend Fern said she kept pushing people away when they tried to talk to her, so I just let her be.
Acacia kept her head down in lessons too. I sat next to her in my history class, and one day I decided I would try and talk to her. I waltzed into the classroom and slid into my chair. She was already there, she was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. It was her way of avoiding people.
"Hi," I said, giving her my brightest and most welcoming smile. "My names Canary, you're Acacia right?"
I wasn't expecting much of a reaction, but to my surprise Acacia actually lifted her head and nodded. "You know my name?"
"Of course," I replied. "We're in the same class, it'd be weird if I didn't know your name."
She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ears. I could see a cut on the side of her face that had been hidden by her hair, I wondered if this was part of the reason she never wanted to talk to anyone. "None of the others bother to learn my name," she almost whispered, "They just call me that weird girl."
"You're not weird," I lied, even though I thought the complete opposite. "You're just different, and there's nothing wrong with that."
Acacia smiled, and from that moment on we were best friends and we were inseperable. I learned that her mother had recently passed away due to illness, and that her family struggled to survive. Because of this Acacia headed straight to work after school, and the cut on her ear was from the axe of a Peacekeeper after he thought she was slacking off. She was actually exhausted from the laps around the grounds we'd been running in school that day, but the Peacekeeper didn't listen and he cut her.
As the years progressed, my others friends seemed to come and go, sticking by me when we needed each other, and drifting apart when we didn't. Acacia was always beside me, and I knew that no matter what I could tilt my head and she would be there, smiling and waiting for me to say something. I didn't need to say anything, she always knew exactly what I was thinking.
When my family left for District Thirteen, Acacia and her father accompanied us, and luckily we all made it there safely. I remember the fearful week we spent running through the woods, never knowing where we were going or where we were going to end up. But we made it.
She was also against me signing up to join the rebel squad, but I pleaded with her to let me do it. She caved in, like she always did, and agreed to keep my parents safe whilst I was out on missions. Now there's a chance that the girl that promised to protect my family whilst I couldn't was going to die, and it was all because I signed up.
If my family was killed, I would be the one to blame. They've been watching us, gathering notes on us and now they're going to kill our families because we're in with a chance at beating them at their own game. My family was against me signing up, and if they were to be killed it would only prove them right.
There is only one way to ensure that I am right, and it is to assassinate the Gamemakers. Once they are gone, the rebels take charge and Panem becomes free and equal. I will be safe, but more importantly my family and those I love most will be safe. Even if it means sacrificing myself to enable that to happen.
DISTRICT EIGHT - Taffeta Awl
For the first time in a long time, Taffeta was dreaming of home. She could smell the smog in the air from the clothing factories, and her fingers were numb from a long days work stitching seams. Despite the weariness in her body, there was still a bounce in her step as she walked home along the worn dirt trail.
Her house was in sight before she could no longer contain her excitement anymore, and she raced towards the front door , mimicking her 14 year old self. Yet she wasn't that old anymore, she was an adult now and tonight she would be saying her wedding vows.
Stopping in front of the door, she twisted the piece of fabric on her ring finger, kissing it, the smile not dropping from her face. The love of her life and her family stood behind that door, waiting for her to walk in so her mother could sweep her away to put her in the dress the older woman had worn 25 years earlier, and Taffeta could begin her new life.
However, when she opened the door, the room was empty of all decoration or person. The furniture was covered in dust and shadows hung from the corners like light had been banned from the home. Taffeta brought a hand to her mouth, stepping inside in shock, "Mama? Papa? Olefin?" She called, her voice sticking to the back of her throat, thick with unexplained tears.
From the corner of her eye she caught movement, and turned, a smile jumping to her face, yet falling when she saw it wasn't her mother that had created the silhouette, but the President, a cold smile on her face. "We have them; your family, your friends, your lover, make the right choice and give yourself up before we have to do something... Drastic to them. Then again," she paused, taking in the empty room around her with a single laugh, "it looks like we already have."
Taffeta bolted upright from her slumber, catching the last statement from Alithia before she vanished from the sky. "Give yourselves in and we will let them go and look upon you kindly. Within reason. Goodbye." Taffeta's dream jumped to her mind and she curled herself tightly into a ball, tears stinging her eyes.
She had nobody. She had left Eight because the government had taken all her family, and then she lost the last person she cared for before she could make it to safety. They had nothing to use against her, not a relative, not a friend, or a lover she would want to give her life for. Everything had already been stolen from her, everything but her own life, which was looking bleaker and bleaker by the hour.
Nobody saw her crying, hidden in the corner she had claimed. Many were too busy questioning what they would do, how they could possibly save their loved ones. Others offered comfort, hiding their emotions inside. Although none spoke to Taffeta, who had isolated herself from the start, not wanting to be hurt again, like she always seemed to be.
Yet that pain that she had tried so hard to bury kept coming back, stronger and more damaging then ever. It ripped into her, reminding her of everything she had wanted to forget. The memory of her parents being fired at, their eyes locking with hers just before they fell to the ground dead. Her dear Olefin, smiling in the face of death as he proposed, knowing he was leaving her an unmarried widow too young. Her pain causing her to cry herself to sleep night after night before she finally pulled it deep within her, just for the flood gates to open now, at a time when she was supposed to be strong.
All because, while the others suffered, knowing their loved ones may be hurt or killed, Taffeta had no such pleasure. She would have killed to have even one of her loved ones being held, so she could worry and putter about risking her life to save them. So she could know, that even if they died she had tried her hardest and risked everything to save them. Not stood idly by and watched as the blood blossomed from their chests.
Taffeta was surrounded by suffering people, yet she wasn't like them; they had someone to fight for, someone to die for. Taffeta had no one, and the thought only made her cry harder, rocking herself back and forth as her mother had done to her as a young child when she accidentally hurt herself. She was surrounded by people who were fighting the same battle as her, yet undeniably, Taffeta was completely alone.
DISTRICT NINE - Auriel DeFarro
Eclaire and I sit around the dwindling flames of the funeral pyre, watching carefully as the flames begin to disappear. Ever since Meri’s death neither of us have said anything, or even tried to interact with each other. We just watch as small, fragile tongues of flame reach up to the sky, slowly but surely growing smaller and weaker. I can see the similarities between the small flames and our own army, we started off strong but slowly we’re getting weaker.
Everyone else has left the pyre and are walking around the square, likely either on guard or trying to make sense of all the deaths. It sounds easy to just say ‘people die, this is war’ and move on, but after having our numbers nearly halved it’s hard to keep that mindset. We had signed up to create freedom for our country, but at least to me it feels like the deaths of people I’ve cared about have done nothing but make me feel more trapped.
I'm just rolling these thoughts around my head when I first hear the noise. First the Panem anthem, then a voice I assume to be Elpis. The screens that used to display television or play music around the square now shines in the darkness with the faces of the Gamemakers, obviously addressing us. They've been watching our every move, heard our every plan.
They know everyone we care about.
As their words begin to register with the people several cries of protest and fear echo up from the crowd, each one fearing for the lives of their loved ones. To the surprise of many I just sit there, seemingly unaffected by their threat. Eclaire has left the seat beside me, no doubt wanting to be alone to think about what to do. I just sigh and continue to watch the fragile flames, letting my thoughts wander around in my head with no real direction or purpose.
They can’t hurt me any more than they already have. I haven’t seen any of my family for five years now, since the night before Eryn’s sixteenth birthday. She’d invited me over so we could seize the entire day; make it a day we would remember for the rest of our lives. I’d said goodbye to my parents and Mason, and was given a farewell hug from Pippa. Even Cecily had come to say goodbye, as if they'd all known what I would do alongside Eryn once the clock hit midnight. That'd I'd never see them again, never return. Then I’d walked out, not knowing that it would be the last time I saw them.
Some people are crying, others are pacing as they decide what to do. Losing the people they care about, the people they love is becoming too much. I just sit by the burnt out coals and remember, wondering who they would have that would get to me. They've already taken everything they can from me. My voice, my family, my chance of ever being viewed as normal again.
Eventually as I let the thoughts bounce around my mind the numbness turns to anger. Everything. They've taken everything from me that I ever cared about. My decisions may provoke them, but the effect still remains. Eryn is dead. My family thinks I'm either dead or a terrible criminal who should be dead. My own tongue is probably sitting somewhere rotting. I needed a punishment, but why this? A jail sentence. Community service. Not having my tongue cut out and being dragged to the Capitol to work as a slave.
I rise to my feet and look over the fire, only a few burning coals remaining. The rest is grey and bleak, looking almost it like it could be cold to the touch. Yet, I know that underneath the ashes there could be more, burning stronger if you reveal them.
Using my sword I stir the ashes, and sure enough a few more flickering embers appear. I throw a few small twigs onto them and watch them begin to burn, turning into a small flame. Just watching it makes me smile, the way every time wood is added to it the flame grows.
We will be the flame. This may be a setback, but as I quickly glance around the square at the other rebels I'm sure they'll agree. The Gamemakers are doing nothing more then creating even more anger and hatred for the Capitol inside the hearts of the rebels. We'll have more determination then ever, promising ourselves and our families to avenge those who were killed.
We're the flame, I'm sure of it. The more you fuel us, the stronger we'll get, and once a big enough fire is started it's some hard to stop.
DISTRICT TWELVE - Alana Grey
As the message fades from the sky, I smirk confidently. They’ve got nothing on me. My loved ones are already dead. They’ve got nothing to break me with. But my mind still keeps going back to that knowing twinkle in Elpis’ eye. The small smirk when he said ‘We know your names, your ages, your strengths, your weaknesses’... what did it mean? It means that he knows something I don’t.
I scan the room we’re in. From the worn, red armchair in the corner, I have a good view of the small group of rebels huddling in small groups discussing the message. Eclaire and Auriel sit in the corner opposite me, far away from everyone else – probably mourning the loss of their friend, Meri. I don’t linger on their little group for too long; that would be disrespectful, so I stare down at my chair, where a lone thread of fabric protrudes from the right armrest. I play with it absent-mindedly for a while, before I realise something. They never confirmed that my mother died in the District 12 bombings. My mother could still be alive. Alive, and in horrible pain from the Capitol’s relentless torture. The thought makes the floor and walls sway, and shapes and colours blur into one. My body shakes with the effort of hyperventilation, and the concerned glances from the others make it worse. Almost without thinking, I spring out of the chair and rush out of the room, salty tears streaming down my face, splashing from my face onto the cracked tile floor below my feet.
Staring into the bathroom mirror at my tear-stained face, the horrible thoughts in my brain stop swirling around, and I finally see sense. They wouldn’t have my mother. I feel it inside me. I wrap my hand around the small ring of silver I keep around my wrist, keeping me together, holding in my inner feelings. It keeps me safe. I don’t know how, but it does. I don’t even know where it came from; all I know is that we were the only things that survived the bombs, and that keeps me safe in my mind.
But then I start to think again. I think about whether they might actually have my mother. Then I think about the day it happened. I remember waking up to the sound of a deafening scream and the clunk of wood on bone. Then I remember how close these walls are, and how little air there is in this room. Then I remember how I hate small spaces. The more panicked I get about small spaces, the smaller the space appears. This bathroom is already quite small, so I need to get out before I pass out completely. I can’t face the rest of the rebels after my break-down. Frantically surveying the room, I spy a small window in the corner, just above street level. It’s just big enough for me to fit through, if I squeeze a little. I walk closer to it, and size up my tiny opponent. It appears that I will be able to fit through, just barely.
Sliding free from the cramped window onto the empty streets, I can finally breathe again. I look up into the dark, starless sky and wonder what I was panicking about. Maybe I’m just going a little crazy. They’d never have my mother. She died. I saw her dead body. It was lying next to my bed, in a pool of blood, face down with a wooden beam sticking into her head. Then they dropped a bomb outside my front door, and I never saw her again.
Writhing in pain at the horrible memory, I bring a hand up to my face, and sink to the floor. I try to hold back my free-flowing tears, but there’s no use. I don’t need to hide my tears anymore, there’s no one to hide them from. There’s no one around to see me cry, no one around to feel my pain, no one to share my burden. That’s how it’s always been in life. I’ve pushed people away, told everyone I was fine. They all had their own problems, and I didn’t want to seem selfish. I never let anyone care about me, I never cried on anyone’s shoulder because I knew that they wouldn’t care about me, I was just little Alana Grey, grey by name, grey by nature. The background figure; always there, never acknowledged. No one knew me in 12, no one knew me in 13, no one knows me now. I know that, if something happened, I wouldn’t be missed. No one would notice. No one at all.
I curl into a ball, close my eyes and wait for death to take me.
CAPITOL - Iliana Noble
Our camp is plunged into chaos as the projection fades to the faint hum of the national anthem. Some of the squad have started to cry, others are talking loudly amongst themselves, and some, like me, stand isolated in silent contemplation. At first, the Capitol’s threats make me laugh. Our loved ones? If they truly knew who I was, they would know that I don’t really have any of those. For a brief moment I revel in my triumph, until I become aware of the circumstances.
Everyone around me, those muttering to themselves with wide eyes and furrowed brows, those who have gone off to sulk and can be heard kicking bins or throwing objects to the street, those engaging in constructive debate in a calm but passionate manner, all of these people are worried by the Capitol’s threats because they have something to lose. Gloating because I have no loved ones to kidnap is like rejoicing when a mugger finds out you have no cash. Nothing gets worse, but only because it was impossible for that to happen in the first place.
Do I truly love no one? At all?
What about my parents? Mother and father were always pleasant enough to me. They spent extortionate amounts of money to send me to school, and to hire people to look after me when they were at work. They bought me nice clothes and nice toys, and I expect would have caved in to my constant requests for a pony had we lived in the countryside and not the biggest city in the world. Most everything I asked for, they got. So do I not love them? I don’t think I do. After all, they were never really around. If I was sad, I would go cry to matron, when at school, or to one of the housekeepers. I remember one time I tried to hug father, and he just stood there, arms limp at his side, as if so unused to physical contact from his daughter that he didn’t know what to do. Calling me precious, buying me gold and silver and diamonds and pearls, none of these signified love. They signified parental duty. Carelessness. The belief that they could make up for their absence with material things. No, I don’t love my parents. I might be sad if they died, but I would not cry. I would certainly not deviate in order to save them.
Is there no one else? My governess, Miss Renshaw, was always good to me. She would make me hot cocoa on a cold winter’s day after I returned, shivering and exhausted, from playing in the snow. When ill, and slumped by the fire surrounded by blankets, I would often lie back and listen to her soothing voice intertwining with that of the crackling fire, dozing to the poetry or the story she read from leather-bound books. Of course, there were times she would shout at me, and times where I could tell she wanted to shout, if only it were permissible. And that is the problem. I think, had she not been paid a lot of money, she wouldn’t have treated me so. I was a source of money, not a little girl to love.
Leo? Surely Leo means something to me. The boy who I spent my teenage years idolising, with his long black hair and baby face, with his soft, well-spoken manner and bulging muscles. Could I so readily discard that gratitude? But then, memories of kisses in the rain, of cosy nights in huddled together in front of a film, are faint and dream-like to my grown self. They come from another time, many years ago, and I have not spoken to him since I was eighteen. I don’t even know if I could pick him out of a crowd, now. He has changed, and I have changed. I do not love him.
“What do you reckon, Noble?”
I jolt my head up. It’s Vibius, towering above me yet regarding my troubled face with an unintimidating warmth.
“Reckon?”
“What do you think? About the announcement.”
“I don’t really think anything,” I say, shrugging. “There’s no proof they have anyone. We can’t possibly act on what is most likely a bluff.”
“But if it isn’t? If they follow up with evidence?” He’s leaning in close, searching my face for an answer I cannot give.
“Then,” I say, considering my words carefully, “we reconsider. But I won’t be swayed by threats.”
“Why not?”
“Because we can’t trust them. Chances are, we’d give ourselves up, and then they’d kill everyone anyway. It’s the Capitol. Mercy isn’t in their DNA.”
“And is it in yours, I wonder?” His eyes, a fading purple that betrays his age, probe me. Something in the swirling pigment, projects melancholic vibes wherever he looks, and I, as his target, feel even worse than I did before.
“I… What?”
“Mercy. Compassion. Love.”
“Of course!” I huff, raising my shoulders and turning my back. But he knows. Both of us know.
This is me. Iliana Noble: unloving, unloved. In the context of war, it is a good thing. In the context of life, I’m not so sure it is.