Embrace the Fire: The Avenger Games - Chapter 2

[lorata]

Um, okay, so eventually this will slow down. Just Saiyan.



The nice thing about Capitol trains was that they were always well-stocked. Tony made his way to the dining car and found the liquor cabinet. They'd stocked the whole thing with froofy Capitol stuff that fizzed on your tongue and tasted like raspberries and never actually made it down your throat and into your system. What a waste.

"Right, no, that's not going to work," Tony said, taking the bottles out and setting them on the floor. "Nope, nope, definitely not, nope, nope, I don't even know what that is." Footsteps fell behind him, and he raised his voice a little to address the whole room. "Seriously, when the bottle itself is shaped like a tropical flower? There's nowhere near enough alcohol content. Oh, hey, now we're talking." At the very back he found a simple bottle, etched glass, filled with clear, amber liquid. He pulled it out, grabbed two glasses as an afterthought, and dropped down into a seat.

The girl from the Reaping eyed him. She looked fourteen, fifteen maybe. Hard to tell, but at least in Three she was less likely to be an underfeed sixteen like she might have been in Twelve. "You want some?" Tony asked, offering her a glass. She shook her head; he shrugged. "Suit yourself." Tony poured himself a glass and took a swig; it went down smooth, with a hint of vanilla. He stared at the bottle in betrayal. "Why?" he lamented aloud. "Why would you do that to a perfectly good whiskey?"

"You shouldn't be drinking that!" Madina gasped, mincing over and snatching both glass and bottle from Tony's hands. "You're too young!"

The girl sputtered a bit of laughter, but it quickly turned into a choked-off sob. Tony gave Madina his best over-the-sunglasses stare. "Seriously? You're telling me, a minor on his way to the Capitol to murder twenty-three other minors -- or get murdered by them -- that I can't have alcohol because I'm underage?"

"Rules are rules," Madina said, raising her nose in the air. "Of course, if you win, you'll be granted full privileges to all legal avenues in society, including alcohol consumption."

"If I win, she'll be dead," Tony said, pointing his thumb at the girl, who burst into tears for real. "Honestly, you do this every year, you'd think you wouldn't suck so much at talking to us. I mean, not that I think you should sugar-coat it or anything, but c'mon."

He felt a little bad for making some kid cry, but honestly, the whole thing pissed him off. Fine to prance about and pretend this was some kind of game where everyone got cake and ice cream and unicorns with Tony, he could handle it, but this kid? No way. Maybe if Madina saw her tears she'd let up a little, start taking things seriously. Not that Tony cared.

"Oh, come now, don't cry, you'll puff up that pretty little face," Madina said, handing the girl a tissue. Her lips thinned as she studied them both, and Tony remembered that Madina had being doing this since he was born. A few tears weren't going to crack her facade. Well, he'd just have to try harder, then. Tony was good at taking things apart, even if he didn't always remember to put them back together again.

"So here's the question I've been wondering," drawled a voice, and Tony turned to see a tall, bald monolith standing in the doorway. "You talk a good game, Mr. Stark, but can you back it up?"

Tony tilted his head. "Obadiah Stane," he said, and the man tipped him a salute. "The Iron Monger."

"You've watched the tapes," Obadiah said, crossing his arms. "I'm impressed."

"Well, you know, sometimes it's late, you're bored, and you've seen all the porn already." Tony studied him, the way he held himself, like nothing in the world could touch him. Tony hadn't seen that kind of confidence since his father -- though look how that turned out. Howard Stark had owned District Three, but that couldn't stop the car that hit him. Then again, Howard had never been a tribute; never won the Games by a mix of physical strength and psychological manipulation. "You play a mean game of chess. You psyched out one of the tributes by killing a dog that looked like his and hiding it in his training locker. Nobody knows how you even got the dog in there."

"And nobody ever will. Nothing spoils a good story like too many details." Obadiah smiled, toothy and dangerous, and Tony decided he liked him. Well, like might be a strong word -- Tony wouldn't turn his back on Obadiah even if it doubled his fortune -- but useful? Definitely. Not like Twelve and their sole alcoholic mentor. "I'm here to take you to the top, son, provided you can hack it."

Tony leaned back and flicked his sunglasses back into place. "Bring it on, old man," he said. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"Now that's what I like to hear." Obadiah glanced at the girl and dismissed her just as quickly. "Rhodes will be here in a minute to deal with you," he said, then turned back to Tony. "Come on, I've got a few things to talk to you about before we hit the Capitol."

"Was he your brother?" Carol sat down next to Steve, not touching him, but Steve felt her presence, body whipcord straight and tense.

Steve didn't raise his head. His fingers dug into his scalp, tugging at his hair. "Close enough," he said, choking out the words with effort. He didn't want to talk about Bucky. He didn't want to think about him. At the same time, he wanted to spill every memory he had of his best friend into the open air so that he wouldn't be the only one with them -- except that the girl next to him would die, too, so it wouldn't do any good. He wondered what Bucky -- or the other kids at the orphanage, the little ones who rushed to him and clung to his arms and legs whenever Steve visited -- was doing now.

"I'm sorry," Carol said, and sounded like she meant it. Like she understood there were worse things than being condemned to death, than getting on a train and knowing you were never coming home. "I have a family, but." Carol shrugged. "They'll be all right. Nobody who needs looking after, anyway."

She didn't say anything about Bucky, like she was sure he was fine. She spoke with quiet resignation, and didn't talk about meeting her family again once this was over. Cheeriest car on the train, between the two of them. Steve choked back a laugh.

"It's horrible, isn't it." Carol wrapped her arms around herself. Outside, in the centre of Six, the weather had been stifling, humid with the thick of city grit and smog in the air. Despite that, she wore long sleeves and gloves. Steve spent a second wondering why, until deciding it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. "All those years, I never really thought -- I mean, you have that moment of fear, and then you move on, and then you're so relieved that you don't really think that it's someone up there, someone real. Someone's sister, or brother, or child. Or boyfriend, I don't know. It never feels real."

"Not a lot does," Steve said with a shrug. "I guess if you live in the Capitol, it's all just entertainment. But me, it just seems like another part of life. Like walking past your fifty millionth homeless guy and looking the other way."

"Or being raped, having nobody believe you because the guy told them he bought you flowers and chocolate and romanced you so you obviously wanted it, and then delivering the baby by yourself behind a restaurant." Carol gave him a thin smile, and just, god, Steve wondered how many people walked by him every day, bent but not broken, fighting to keep their heads above water. He wanted to take her in his arms and shield her from everything, which was stupid, and sexist, and old-fashioned besides. "I guess in some ways we're lucky, you and me. Makes you wonder how much worse the Arena can get, in a way."

"Yeah." Steve swallowed, tasting acid. "You don't think you'll be the one to win?"

Carol pressed her lips together. "I wouldn't still be here if I didn't have some fight in me," she said, and toyed with the ends of her gloves. Steve tried not to look, but suddenly he had a few ideas about what the layers of fabric might be hiding. "Still, against a Career? I don't know. You?"

"I don't know." Steve regretted bringing it up, since both of them contemplating their victories meant that the person sitting next to them had to be dead. He didn't want to think about that. "I can't imagine everybody else dead. At the same time, I just, I promised I'd come back."

"At least you've got that, though I don't know if it's a good or bad thing." Carol lifted her shoulders. "Me, I'm good. I've done my deed. I had my baby, and I made sure he got a home with people who took care of him. I didn't leave him behind a trash can when he opened his eyes and I saw his father staring at me." She shuddered. "So I dunno. I guess all my unfinished business, it's about done. I'm not saying I'm going to roll over, just that if I don't make it, it won't be that much of a tragedy."

Steve swallowed. He couldn't imagine having nothing to fight for, nothing to give him purpose. Even if it was stupid and hopeless, even if chances were he'd never see Bucky again, never get to see the drawings and sketches that Bucky showed him -- shy at first, then slowly blossoming with pride -- at least he knew he wanted to.

Not that it helped him, when Steve could no more kill somebody than he could jump from the top of one skyscraper to another. Maybe he could hide himself somewhere and wait for the others to slaughter each other, like playing the world's most dangerous game of hide-and-seek. That had always been Steve's plan as a kid, find somewhere good and stay there until everyone else got caught.

A nice fantasy, but it wouldn't work. The Gamemakers would never allow anyone to stay hidden that long. There'd be a fire, or flood, or tornado, or wolves, or something. Plus hiding meant Steve had to be fast enough to escape the bloodbath, and unless the Remaking Centre gave him a new set of lungs to go with whatever weird haircut they inflicted on him, that wasn't going to happen. And whether Steve liked to admit it or not, the idea of hiding during all the slaughter just didn't sit right with him. While Bucky would be happy he came home no matter what, Steve didn't know if he'd deserve to come home after that.

The worst part was, a miracle might get him through this, and Bucky could still be called up next year. Or the next. Or the next. Even if Steve did survive, he'd still have this in his gut for the next four years.

"So what's worse?" Carol asked, leaning back and looking out the window as power lines flashed past. They were nearing District Five. "Having something to fight for and knowing it won't do much good, or having nothing to lose so it doesn't matter?"

Steve couldn't answer that. He just wished there was a way -- any way -- to stop it.

Carol blew out her breath in a sigh. "Well, never mind, this isn't helping anyone." She raised her voice. "Do we have a mentor around here, or what?"

"Chester Phillips, young lady, and if you want to survive this game, I suggest you quit your moping and concentrate on the task at hand." The man who rounded the corner had a craggy face, the broad accent of someone from the farming districts, and the carriage of a soldier. He certainly hadn't turned to morphling after his victory. Steve had absolutely no idea what to do with him. "Your mentor is currently conversing with the lovely delegate from the Capitol, but let me give you a bit of advice. Nobody on the field is going to care how hard your life is back home, so you listen to everything she has to say."

Carol's breath caught, and her fingers curled against the soft leather of the seats. The colour drained from her face, and she swallowed hard. "If it's all right with you," she said, her voice shaky, "I'm going to wait in my room. Steve, if you could tell my mentor when she gets here -- thanks."

She fled, and Steve watched her go, confusion settling over him. He glanced at Phillips. "Don't look at me like that," the man snapped. "Whatever happened to her, I didn't do it. I just obviously remind her of the man who did. That's post-traumatic stress for you. Most people wait until they've come back from the Games for that, though." He sighed. "Hopefully Peggy can do something with her, otherwise she's going to have a hell of a time when she gets into the training room with the big guy from Two. But enough of that. Let me take a look at you."

Steve sat still, not sure if he was supposed to stand at attention or go through his paces like some kind of show dog. "Uh," he said.

"Articulate, nice; I like that. That'll go over well in the interviews." Phillips had a way of speaking words dripping with sarcasm in a clipped tone that sounded completely sincere. Steve's head swam a little bit already. "So you've got a friend back home that you volunteered for. That makes your angle easy. We play you up as the underdog hero."

"I -- sir, no," Steve said, braving dissent, because honestly. "I'm no hero, sir. I'm not even a soldier. It just -- it was the right thing to do, that's all."

"Sweet, but save it for the cameras. We're talking about what might get you out of here alive." Phillips squinted at him. "Unless you're serious. My God, you are serious, aren't you? Completely sincere. The audiences really are going to love that. Now tell me, can you fight at all? Street-brawling, anything like that? You obviously didn't come from the nicer part of town."

"No, sir." Steve ducked his head. "They discouraged fighting at the orphanage, and I was pretty sickly as a kid, so even the bullies thought I was too weak to be much fun. I only got up to height about a year back, after my last growth spurt."

Phillips made a face like he'd just bit into a lemon. "Well then, we've got a lot to work on, but nothing we can start here. For now we'll just work on your angle. It starts as soon as the train pulls up, and you can't be sulking back here thinking about your friend the whole time."

"I can't exactly stop it," Steve said, his voice coming out a little sharper than he'd intended. "What am I supposed to be thinking about?"

"How to get out alive so that the defining memory your little friend of yours has won't be your guts splashed across the screen." Phillips didn't care very much about keeping people's feelings in tact. Then again, neither did the Games. "Every Games needs a hero. Oh, sure, the Career districts will set theirs up to be the warriors, and everyone loves them because they know how to play the crowd, but you, you're real. You're everyman. And those coiffured nuts in the Capitol have no idea what real is, but they know it makes them all warm and fuzzy inside. If you listen to me, we'll get you so many sponsors you won't be able to spit without one of them sending you a tureen to put it in. Capisce?"

For lack of anything else to do, Steve nodded.

"Good," Phillips said, with a short nod. "Let's get started, then."

Loki's mentor dropped into the chair opposite, clutching a bottle to his chest like he was afraid Loki would steal it. As though Loki required artificial relaxants -- as though he needed relaxing. "So you," he said, pointing one finger at Loki's face. "You're dead."

Loki smiled, an expression crafted to show he felt no amusement or kinship with the other party whatsoever. "I highly doubt that."

"No, really. You're dead. Possibly suicidal. Most probably insane. But whatever you are, you are dead. Dead, dead, dead." The man shook his head and took a swig from the bottle. Loki watched the movements of his hands and calculated that the man may be soused, but he was faking the clumsiness and slurred speech. This man had stewed too long to be done over by a few shots of scotch. Interesting.

"And why do you think that, old man?" Loki asked, leaning back in his seat. The train ride would take the exact amount of time whether he sat alone or engaged in pleasantries. May as well get to know the local peasants on the way.

"That kneeling nonsense. If defecting and volunteering and all that else wasn't enough to put you on the Capitol's hit list -- and lemme tell you, it was -- then you making yourself out like some sort of god descending to play in the muck, well. That sure did it. I'd watch my food at the Capitol if I were you. I'm not even sure they'll risk putting you in the Games."

"Yes they will." The girl spoke up, and Loki spared her a glance. She caught it and sat up straighter. "They will. They're counting on the showdown between him and his brother. If he didn't have Thor, he'd be dead already. But now the audiences want it, so he'll be alive until game time."

The thought of his continued existence being owed to that lout crawled like insects beneath Loki's skin. He dismissed it. Regardless of Thor, the Gamemakers would want Loki because they knew he could give them what they wanted -- a compelling Victor. That he didn't need to be trained with the Capitol song-and-dance, the leash and treats that kept most Careers in line, could only be the icing on the cake.

"I like you." The mentor grinned, and waved the bottle in the direction of the girl. Loki did his best to keep the irritation from his features; why bother with someone like that, obviously not meant to survive past day one, with the actual Victor right here? "You're spunky. Of course, that won't stop you from getting a knife in the eye, but you know. What will, hey? What's your name, girl?"

"Jean," she said, sitting up straight and holding herself high. "Jean Grey."

Immaterial. All this, immaterial. But if the alcoholic and the meat wanted to have a heart-to-heart, well, Loki was content to let them do it. He stood and left the carriage, heading for his private room.

The opulence of the train car set several emotions warring in his brain, none of which he needed at the moment -- vague shock, left over from his beginnings at Twelve no matter how hard he'd tried to scrub them, that anyone would waste so much money on pillows that could feed a family; disgust, coming from the Centre, at the amount of comfort that the human body did not need in order to function, and which in fact did its best to leech strength from the muscles with its satin and stuffing; and, he had to admit, a certain sense of belonging, that all these riches, while not appropriate for a warrior, somehow befitted the station to which he knew he would rise.

Loki sat on the bed, drumming his fingers against his knees since no one watched him, not until he made it to the Capitol itself. The mentor's words, as much as he tried to dismiss them, still rankled; that the Capitol would want him dead, once this had finished. Loki discounted the idea that they would try to kill him, of course, because the audience loved a show, and Loki knew how to give them exactly that. Still, once he won the Games, then what? Perhaps he'd been hasty; perhaps they knew his ambitions did not stop at playing the dutiful pet.

Perhaps it was time to play a little humility. Loki could do that well enough, though the truth would stick in his throat. He could pretend to be the grateful boy, wanting only to repay the multitude of favours given to him in exchange for their continuance. And if he asked District Twelve to kneel, then what of it? It was no worse than what they did on a daily basis, even if they did attempt to dodge their rulers by poaching and smuggling and building stills.

No, Loki didn't have to worry. They wanted a show, and a show they would get. And in the end, Loki would stand over his brother's body and see defeat writ in those handsome features, right before Loki stamped the life from him forever.

Thor settled into his bunk and turned on the television set into the wall across the car. District Two had one of the shortest train rides to the Capitol; just enough time to watch the Reapings from the other districts. His bones thrummed with anticipation as he loaded the proper channel, flicking through the various commentaries and fashion shows. Other than the actual Games, this was the best part -- checking the competition, seeing which of the other Tributes would issue the best challenge, and which Thor would end quickly in order to spare their suffering.

He always watched the Reapings from beginning to end back in Two, even commandeering a television to himself so he could check the channels broadcast to the other districts, in case the official Capitol feed missed something. The parade, the interviews, even the training lost most of its appeal for him, and he rarely paid attention until the Games started, but the Reaping -- ah, the Reaping. The time when the audience tried to pick out the Victor from the line of brave and noble youths.

Wanda passed by his room and glanced in. "Care to join me?" Thor asked, though he knew she would refuse -- which she did, with a roll of her eyes. Away from the cameras, Wanda treated him with indifference and vague dislike; not unusual, if rather childish. You could not blame a mountain for his shadow, or the Earth for blocking out the moon during an eclipse. In front of the cameras she turned sly and snakelike, and Thor knew to watch her. She would not be his ally once the countdown ended, though she thought he didn't see it.

No matter. Time for that when they reached the Centre. Thor found the proper channel at last. He sat back and watched.

Right from the start, Thor knew these Games would not be the usual fare. Rather than the pomp and frills typical of District One, this year's Volunteers stood silent, unadorned, and entirely indifferent to the cameras in their faces. Thor wondered that they'd made the cut at all, until the proper Volunteers lunged at the stage, screaming epithets. Ah. Well, that explained it. Thor made a mental note to deal with these ones early. Waiting to the end would make the best show, of course, but anyone willing to deal with the retribution that came from bucking District One's orders could not be sane. Thor would rather the final showdown be with someone worthy, not a pair so obviously desirous of suicide.

Ah well. His own Reaping was splendid, as he'd expected; the young boy whose life he'd saved had wept in gratitude, and Thor was certain that not a dry eye remained in the Capitol after seeing the footage. Every detail of his costume, his stance, the lighting, it all sung perfect. He watched Wanda, dressed in blood, with narrowed eyes. Yes, he would have to be careful. Like as not she'd try to have a knife in his side as soon as she left the platform.

Thor couldn't help harrumphing in amusement at the male tribute from DIstrict Three, a cocky youth who thought himself above the entire process. Still, his shock only lasted a few moments before he turned on the charm, dazzling the cameras with a smile and stage patter designed to win hearts and kindle jealousy at the same time. If he had any fighting skill at all, he could make for an interesting opponent, but Thor doubted it. Anyone with that much flash could not have much to back it up, or he would act more, talk less.

The girl was small, frightened, and in tears. Thor marked her for the bloodbath; he would make her death swift, and as painless as possible, and above all, ensure that Wanda did not get to her. Even in training, Wanda enjoyed torturing her opponents a little overmuch; Thor did not think she would afford this little girl his level of consideration.

The same went for the boy from Four, the girl from Five, both the children from Eight and Ten, and the girls from Nine and Eleven. Small and frightened, all of them, but less than half the assembled Tributes. Not a bad mix, though perhaps not enough for Thor to handle on his own, if any of them decided to run for it instead of freezing. Still, he'd be able to give a fair share of them decent deaths, and do his best for the rest.

The girl from Four intrigued him; sun-browned skin mixed with fiery red hair, green catlike eyes, and the lean, muscled build of a swimmer, she would likely make for a good fight, but Thor disliked killing women. He would leave her to Wanda, or perhaps the strange duo from One, since she looked a good opponent, rather than sport for Wanda's baser tastes.

The Five boy, who would be even taller than Thor and bigger built, if not as well trained, on the other hand, impressed him, even if he had the twitchy, cautious, half-vacant look of one with a few pieces missing. An addict, perhaps, or mentally deficient; if that were the case, then not a proper match for Thor after all, no matter how physically intimidating. Let one of the others handle him.

District Six gave the Games their first non-Career Volunteer, and Thor sat forward in interest. The boy had a camera-handsome face and not entirely unimpressive build, but he was clearly untrained, and looked harassed, unsure. Still, he'd Volunteered for a child, willingly putting himself in danger, and Thor gave him credit for that. That, if nothing else, earned him an honourable kill, perhaps nearing the end, before the final showdown. Wanda's self-appointed role as villainess meant she would take her time with this one, were she to find him, and Thor thought that an unworthy end for anyone so brave, no matter how frightened. The girl he couldn't quite pin down; she had a mix of world-weary cynicism and desperation that Thor found compelling, but did not seem vulnerable enough to warrant a mercy killing. She looked as though she would fight well, if backed into a corner. Perhaps she could give Wanda a run for her money.

If he'd been standing when the little girl from District Seven Volunteered, Thor would have fallen over in surprise. In all the history of the Games, he couldn't remember any child who'd done so, save perhaps once, on an ill-advised dare, and the foolish boy had vomited all over the stage once he realised what he'd done. This girl did not appear coerced or harassed, and she clung to her district partner with a fierce protectiveness that made Thor grin. He would let her live past the bloodbath. She was small, and unskilled; likely she would poison herself early on, but she deserved a bit of time to charm the audiences and give them a show, at least. After that, the boy -- generic, handsome, well-built but bookish -- hardly bore any scrutiny.

But District Nine -- oh, District Nine. Thor stilled and watched the footage again and again. The boy, seventeen or eighteen, stared at the cameras with a quiet menace and confidence that matched any Career Thor had ever known. Interesting. This was a farmer, not a warrior; he could not have had the time to train, but his arms bulged beneath his sleeves. He spent hours slinging heavy bales of grain, swinging scythes and axes, toiling in the hot sun. Here was a boy discontented with his lot, who saw his chance to change his life and make his fortune, and he took it. He would make a thrilling challenge indeed. Of course, with three districts remaining Thor could not yet know for certain, but barring something spectacular, this man would be Thor's final opponent.

The silent, possibly half-witted boy from Eleven and his tiny, terrified companion only verified Thor's theory, and while the girl from Twelve glared at the cameras and balled her fists, she seemed half-starved and would never make it past the rigours of survival. All that remained was the Twelve boy, but considering the last time Twelve had a Victor had been over two decades ago --

Then Thor's brother took the stage, inciting a spectacle so blasphemous that Thor was surprised the Peacekeepers didn't gun him down right there. The world slowed until eternities passed between heartbeats, and Thor watched Loki -- foolish, proud Loki -- stare into the cameras and deliver his challenge.

Thor offered a silent apology to the boy from Nine, now relegated from triumphant final battle to penultimate warmup. Thor had to confront his brother, and the only way to do that with any satisfaction would be to wait until everyone else had died, lest someone interrupt them. The Capitol would surely approve of the final showdown, and would likely not interfere with his plans, but oh. Oh.

"Oh, my brother," Thor said aloud, and pressed a button to pause the image, frozen on Loki's madman smile and burning eyes. "What have you done?"

"Called it," Wanda said from the doorway, and Thor jumped. That she'd sneaked up on him at all was a testament to his current mental state. Not good. He must deal with this before they reached the Capitol -- and the cameras. "You really didn't know, huh? Pietro owes me a fifty when I get back." She gave Thor a poison-dripping smile before sauntering off.

The train could not be more than an hour away from the Capitol; once it arrived, Thor would be whisked off to the Remaking Centre, but not before thousands of spectators and journalists had the chance to see him. At that time, Thor must be composed, poised, and perfect, with no hint of any weakness or turmoil behind his breast.

Forty minutes, then. Thor stood and closed the door, despaired briefly at the lack of a locking mechanism, then wept and pounded the bed with his fists until the supports cracked in half. Fifty-three minutes later, when the train swept around the last curve into the Capitol, Thor stood with Wanda by the large windows, smiling and waving to the cheering crowds.