Hunger Games Canon Divergence AU: The War, Chapter 10
Link to AO3
Petra has a few last realizations, and Brutus finally gets what he's been waiting for -- almost.
President Snow is a liar.
The thought nags at Petra like a muttation tearing flesh and sinew away from bone, refusing to back away from a corpse so the hovercrafts can carry it away. The Capitol used to be Petra’s favourite place - not the parties with the crowds and the people with their too-wide smiles and their hands that slid to her waist and groped at her when Brutus wasn’t looking, no, but here, the President’s mansion, had always been a place of refuge. The home of the President, their leader, the man Petra had fought and trained and risked her life for, the one who’d looked at her and seen the person she tried so hard to be when even Petra lost faith in herself.
She’d thought - it’s stupid, childish, babyish, even, she all but chokes on it, sour and bile and rotting in her throat - that she was safe here. Petra hadn’t been completely naive, she knew she had to play a role, knew the value of telling their glorious leader what he needed to hear, but she’d never had to act with him. The reason she loved the President was that she meant every single word of what she said. Everything he’d asked, she’d been willing to give, and more.
Petra heard the whispers about District 1, of course. The trainers warned them about having sex in the Arena, about making that the centre of their persona, said that was for District 1, not them - never them - and that they’d have to pay it back in the end. And like anything else in Residential, there were always older trainees to tell the wide-eyed, breathless initiates what the trainers really meant.
Petra knew when Brutus told her that the saner tribute from Two always tried to take out the girls from One in the split if they could help it, and it would be up to her if Marco couldn’t get it done. She knew Ambrosia didn’t want to win that night in the Arena when the girl from One bared her throat and said I’m going to kill you with eyes that begged the opposite - knew when Petra worked her over and she lost every ounce of the coy, slinking, for-the-cameras seduction and tore at Petra’s hips and back with chipped fingernails, voice raw and rasping and ugly with the kind of desire girls are never allowed to have in public. And so Petra broke the rules, leaned in close and hissed If I had a knife I’d kill you now, I’m sorry, I’m sorry - as Ambrosia came with a ragged shout.
Except she had wanted to win in the end, hadn’t she - Petra had seen it in her face, the sneer when Petra thought she’d won, and she’d swung her mace and shattered Petra’s leg and she’d meant it, so whatever the price for surviving, all those days on her own had made Ambrosia willing to pay for it. And so Petra had thought … well, maybe it was just stories, something they told tributes to help them sleep at night, make them feel better about killing fellow Careers who’d trained as hard as they did. It could even have been propaganda, so they’d feel that much more grateful for their district even if they had to work harder than their neighbours.
Not that it mattered in the end. Ambrosia was dead, and Petra had her own recovery to worry about, and after a while it was easier not to think about it. President Snow had been kind and understanding, he’d remembered her favourite cookies and always asked about her grassroots efforts back home instead of her fashion choices or her latest endorsement line, and, well. No one who could be so attentive to her could ever endorse something so cruel as what those rumours suggested, could he?
But he did, didn’t he. Holding the contradiction in her head hurts, it’s like trying to grab onto two train cars speeding off in opposite directions. It’s hard to imagine that the man who once put a gentle hand under Petra’s arm when she stumbled and led her to a chair - who made sure there was a chair for her the next time, who sat in his own chair so she’d know she wouldn’t be dishonouring him for sitting herself - could also murder a Victor’s entire family for simply using the Arena to his advantage. That he could smile at Petra and ask her about her favourite place in all of District 2, bring up live footage on the vidscreen so she could show him when words failed, while forcing Victors to have sex with sponsors and killing their loved ones if they said no.
Petra’s chest aches, and the worst part is not that she didn’t know. It’s not that Brutus never told her, or Ronan, or Odin, even though they clearly knew. It’s not even that Brutus died for this and Petra let him, that Petra mourned but never doubted the honour of his sacrifice, not for a second, because the President willed it and thus it must be necessary. The worst part is that she’s scared, because after all of this, what really matters is she’s frightened for herself, afraid of what will happen if the President finds out she’s no longer the blind, complacent pet who’s served him all these years.
After all her talk of honour and loyalty and doing the right thing even when it’s hard, at the end of the day Petra is a coward, self-serving and self-centred and absolutely unworthy. If Brutus were alive he would be ashamed of her.
Tears burn her eyes and choke thick in her throat but Petra refuses to cry. She did enough of that in her play-acting for the President, thank you, and doing it alone without an audience feels uncomfortably like wallowing. Instead something inside her snaps, and Petra pushes herself to her feet and grabs her cane. “I’m going for a walk,” she calls out. Ronan is napping, and Odin glances up from his book with a concerned expression but doesn’t argue when Petra waves him off.
There are no guards at the door, only a pair of Avoxes. Petra can wander the guest floor of the mansion as freely as she likes; the Peacekeeper escorts are only for formal invitations or when she wants to take a turn outside. No one stops her when she leaves the Two-occupied hallway and heads for the wing where the Ones have taken up residence.
Avoxes stand at the foyer there, too, and Petra studies them for a moment, a strange twisting in her gut. Ever since the rebel broadcast - since her Avox escort woke her to show her the unaired footage of the Victors’ Village on fire - Petra can’t go back to seeing them as part of the background, no matter how much she tries.
There will be cameras here, like everywhere, but after wrestling with herself, Petra decides to risk it. “Where from?” she asks, her gestures choppy. The longer her stay, the more she wishes she’d asked Devon to teach her more. (He’ll never teach her anything ever again.)
His gaze flickers. He’s pretty, almost preternaturally so, with smooth, dark skin and arresting green eyes. Petra hopes she’s wrong. He hesitates, but after a moment he responds - quick, furtive, so fast she almost misses it.
The first word she doesn’t recognize. The second, on the other hand, is One.
Petra hisses out a long breath. “I’m sorry,” she signs. She doesn’t ask him what he did to wind up here, serving in the presidential mansion with his tongue cut out, not when she’s pretty sure she knows. Out loud she says, “I’d like to talk to Luxa, if she’ll see me.”
He slips inside. A few moments pass - Petra doesn’t try to chat with the other Avox, a young woman whose eyes are hard as she stares out past Petra into the hallway beyond, jaw clenched - then he returns and nods, holding open the door. Petra exhales, curls her fingers tighter around the handle of her cane, and heads inside.
It’s only Luxa, thank - thank the mountains. Petra had half expected her to invite the others to sit with her, been afraid of finding them all arranged on the sofa, facing her like a tribunal, but whether she’s curious or surprised or wants to keep Petra all to herself when she peels off her skin and eats her alive, either way the room is empty except for the two of them when Petra enters and the door closes behind her.
Silence grows, magnified by the ticking of the enormous clock in the corner. Petra struggles to breathe, to remember what words are. She had three years of intensive image training, several hours every day, you’d think she could manage a simple social interaction. They shook hands on stage at Petra’s Victory Tour. Petra doesn’t remember. I’m sorry I forgot your name, Petra thinks.
Finally Luxa breaches the wall between them. “If you’re here for sex, I hope you saved your allowance,” she says in a throaty voice that trails a fingernail down Petra’s spine. “After that broadcast you have no excuse thinking I’m going to entertain for free.”
Petra flushes hard, the blood hitting her face with the force of a tidal wave. “No!” she bursts out. “That’s not - that isn’t - not at all. That’s not why I’m here.”
Not that Luxa isn’t gorgeous. Dark hair, dark, narrow eyes, sharp-featured and golden-skinned, she could have been thirty-five or fifty and Petra would have no way to tell unless she counted back through the Victor list. She tilts her head and examines Petra with a alertness in her expression that reminds her of a predator, as though if Petra stumbles Luxa will leap off the sofa with a blade in each hand and carve out her insides.
Petra takes a deep breath and tries again. “She asked me to kill her in the Arena,” she says. “That night, the last night we - before the split.”
Luxa freezes, and if they were in the Arena now Petra would be watching her shoulder for the moment when she reaches for a hidden weapon. “If you’re looking for thanks or absolution, girl, I think you were better off with the sex,” she warns.
“It’s not that.” Petra clenches her teeth. This is not working out how she wanted to, not at all. “I meant - she knew. What would happen to her if she won. She knew already and she didn’t want to win. Why do you tell them, if that means you send in girls who don’t want to come back?”
This time the pause carries a different weight, less crackling danger and more tension, like a length of rope dipping under the first tentative step. Finally Luxa lets out a sigh. “You think it would be better to send them in unprepared, do you? Fill their heads with promises of glory and an easy life, then snatch it out from under them once they think they’ve won? You think that’s kinder than giving them the tools they need to succeed, and letting them choose whether they’re prepared to make that trade? Ambrosia was conflicted, yes. It might surprise you to learn that others are more than willing to do what it takes.”
Petra stays quiet. Ever mindful of the cameras, the fear that kept Odin frozen, that wouldn’t let him give in to her arrogant demand for information, she takes a moment to process. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “You thought it was worth it, when they told you?”
Luxa favours her with a hard smile. “I must have,” she says, and Petra knows better than to ask again.
She should probably leave. Whatever Petra wanted by coming here, whatever answers she thought she’d get - absolution, Luxa said with a curl to her lip - it clearly isn’t happening. Yet something holds her here, slides a hook between her ribs and anchors her in place. She digs for it, fishes blindly like sticking her hands in an open wound and searching for a particular organ while her fingers slide in blood and viscera, but finally she finds it.
“Why didn’t they save the Academy?” Petra bursts out. Once again Lexa’s face tightens, pinching around the mouth and nose as though Petra slapped her, but she forges on. “The rebels - they had to know what was happening there. They knew the trainees were innocent. Why did they -”
Petra saw the footage. She can’t think about it now, not without her gorge rising, but the only word for it is massacre.
Luxa’s smile turns, like a knife tilting edgewise. “Oh, little girl,” she says. “You’re one of us, now think. Do you really think anyone out there would look at us, even our children, and see anyone who looks like ‘victim’?”
Petra goes still, her breaths sounding loud in her head. Luxa stretches, the movement languorous and carrying the whisper of sex even as she pulls one elbow behind her head to crack the joints of her spine into place. “But you are,” Petra whispers. Her chest squeezes. “You didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Tell that to the rebels when they finally storm this mansion and put a bullet in my head,” Luxa says idly, then laughs at Petra’s flinch. “No, that would be far too kind. I know what’s coming for me. The best I can hope for is that if all hope is lost, one of the Peacekeepers takes pity on us and shoots us all before the rebels get to us. In a post-war world, Petra, there will be no kindness for any of us.” Her eyes find Petra’s and hold her motionless. “You included. I hope you realize that.”
The roaring in Petra’s ears washes over her, blanking out all thought. She’s frozen, the emptiness threatening to take her away as she struggles to stay present. Luxa lets out a quiet sigh and sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the couch. “Looks like I broke you,” she says, and it isn’t friendly but it’s not - exactly - unkind, either. “I would call for your mentor, but I can’t even do that, can I.” Petra sucks in a wet breath at the stab and Luxa’s mouth curls at the corner in an expression that might be something like pity.
But no, Petra is not a child, and she will not break down and need Odin to come ferry her away like a fresh Victor. She draws herself up, forces herself to breathe (inhale-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, exhale-two-three-four) and takes a step back. “Thank you for your time,” Petra says stiffly. “I won’t bother you again.”
Luxa flicks her fingers, unconcerned, and Petra is very careful not to flee on her way out. She has no idea whether anyone was watching that conversation - if anything that passed between them counts as treason, if she slipped up and said something that might merit a call to the President, a warning that his loyal Victor is having doubts - but she can’t think on it now. All Petra can do is keep going like nothing is wrong.
Until the rebels come and kill them all - or worse, keep them alive for whatever sick example they want to make later. Petra thinks of the burning Village and refuses to imagine whatever punishment they’ll have in store for the girl who stayed loyal on camera to the very end.
The best I can hope for is that if all hope is lost, one of the Peacekeepers takes pity on us and shoots us all.
Petra stops, heart hammering in her chest. As plans go, this isn’t exactly a winner - it’s about on par with jumping off the platforms early, or running straight for the Cornucopia and the gamut of Careers armed with weapons who will slaughter you before you get there. But it would be better than waiting, better than giving herself over and putting her fate in someone else’s hands.
But if the Capitol wins -
If the Capitol wins, the country will go back to stability, no more riots and massacres and bombings, but some things will have to change. And if President Snow still trusts Petra, if he’s still willing to listen to her, then maybe she can convince him. He listened to Ronan all these years, maybe it can be her turn.
And if it doesn’t work - if she’s executed for treason - then maybe that’s the way it should be.
Oddly calm for the first time in days, Petra takes the long way back to the Two guest wing, lost in thought.
After all the weeks and months of preparation, the stealth missions and the recon and gathering supplies, the sneak rescues and extractions and smash-and-grabs and the final showdown in Two, it’s almost unreal how fast the prep for the assault on the Capitol goes down. Within a week, the Second Rebellion has managed to pull its people from all over the district, using stolen hovercrafts and a handful of unmonitored rail lines and the old evacuation tunnels under the city to move everyone into various safehouses scattered around the Capitol.
With the exception of Beetee and Rokia, who stay behind in Thirteen to avoid tipping off Coin, Brutus and the other able-bodied Victors are the last ones in. The older Victors and the ones most affected by torture get flown in on a hovercraft, but those who can walk take the tunnels with the soldiers from Eight. Brutus had no idea the tunnels leading into the Capitol even existed, but as he’s come to learn over the past few months, there’s a lot about the central city he never knew about. Like the fact that the downtown core is rigged with a bunch of Gamemaker traps to make a direct ground assault all but impossible, just in case.
“The whole city is under strict lockdown,” Rigel says when Brutus asks whether ordinary citizens are being drowned in quicksand or eaten by mutts if they risk a trip to the grocery store. “Some areas were evacuated, others are being told to stay inside. We can move around using the tunnels as long as we don’t run into any Peacekeepers. No one bothers to patrol the tunnels because nobody knows they’re there.”
Brutus would be more wary about that except that’s how Rigel and his squad half made half their Capitol runs, and they’ve come out just fine without ever running into trouble. Even Claudius has used the evacuation tunnels, since they couldn’t risk using a hovercraft to get them into the city on the kind of cake mission they took him on the first few times. But they managed to get everyone inside the Capitol without tripping any alarms, so Brutus is more than willing to trust Rigel’s word on this one.
It’s not in his best interests to argue otherwise, anyway. Not when he came to make sure it’s really safe to get into the Capitol for good.
Rigel knows, and the worst part is he doesn’t even give Brutus the satisfaction. “I know what you’re going to say,” he says, holding up one hand. “You promised to wait until we relocated to the Capitol, and we did.” He checks his watch, ostentatiously, not bothering to pull up his sleeve so he can actually see the face. “Roughly two hours ago. I appreciate your patience.” It’s only a little cheeky, but given that Brutus all but took his head off the first time he didn’t get the answer he wanted, he decides to let it go. “And the answer, by the way, is yes. It’s time.”
Brutus grips Rigel’s shoulder, half dizzy with relief, and Rigel reaches up to clasp his forearm. “I know it’s been hard, waiting,” Rigel says. “And I was kidding you just now, but I do appreciate it. Now that we’ve had time to get everything set, we’re in a much better position to rescue her than if we’d jumped the gun.”
He sits and listens to the briefing, which sounds pretty straightforward as missions go. It’s just Rigel’s squad and Brutus, both because they know better than to try to keep him at home and because without him there’s no way they can convince Petra to come along without wasting time. Claudius is staying back from this one for similarly practical reasons.
They’re flying in, for the sake of speed, with the hovercraft staying in stealth a safe distance above the mansion to avoid tripping the alarms. Rigel will spoof the cameras, get them to switch over to a backup feed of innocuous-looking footage until they’re out. “It’s kept in reserve in case we ever need to assassinate anyone,” Rigel says bluntly, and Brutus winces in spite of himself, even now. “The whole point of it is to go undetected by the system and give the security staff plausible deniability. Whereas if you roll back the live footage a few hours, you run the risk of the guards seeing themselves patrolling or going to the bathroom on camera and blowing the whole thing.”
Once they have Petra and the others, it’s a quick trip back to the roof, up to the hovercraft and out. Brutus knows better than to bank on nothing going wrong, but Rigel and his team know the mansion better than anyone, and they’ve already done the recon and memorized the layout of their route based on where the Twos are being held. Most it goes through back hallways and blind spots, and since they’re not going anywhere near Snow’s floor, there will only be a couple of Peacekeepers actually patrolling.
“As long as we stick to the plan and avoid detection, we should be fine,” Rigel says. “This is a stealth extraction, our priority is to get them out as fast as we can with a minimal footprint. Emin will know it was us as soon as it’s discovered they’re gone, but -” He shrugs. “It was only a matter of time. We’re leaving tonight, so I suggest you get your rest now.”
Brutus would say he has no chance of sleeping, except he has two Arenas under his belt and plenty of practice forcing himself to rest even when his brain is racing. He’s heading back to grab a few hours when he runs into Lyme, fully geared up with an assault rifle slung over her shoulder.
“Hello,” Brutus says, blinking at her. “Going for a walk?”
“Got tapped for a mission,” Lyme says. He waits for her to tell him what it is, but the pause only drags out between them.
Finally the sword strikes home, and Brutus stares at her. “Are you seriously ‘need to know’ing me right now?”
“You’re walking right into President Snow’s house,” Lyme says, matter of fact, though she at least looks a little apologetic about it. “So yeah, actually, I am.”
Brutus shoots her a look, but he can’t exactly blame her for it. “Yeah, all right, fine. But you’d better have something good to show for it when we both get back.”
Lyme punches him in the arm. “You too,” she says. “Bring ‘em home.”
They hug - quickly, a one-armed, back-slapping affair, but genuine - because damned if Brutus didn’t die and Lyme come this close not to see each other off properly, then Lyme heads out to find her squad and set off for her mysterious mission. Brutus spends a good five seconds wondering what the hell she’s up to before he shoves it back. Petra and the others are waiting, and they’re relying on him to have his head in the game.
Once he’s in his room, Brutus shuts off the lights, flings an arm across his face, and counts backwards from a thousand until he loses track and falls asleep. It’s Marius who wakes him, already dressed and ready to go, and it only takes Brutus a minute to grab his gear and follow.
Selene and Dash are quiet as Brutus joins them in the hovercraft, no pre-mission banter or mood-lifting today, and Brutus doesn’t try to instigate a conversation. Instead he leans back, lets his head rest against the bulkhead, and listens to the hum of the engines as the craft takes to the sky.
If nothing else, Selene will have to buy Claudius a drink when this is all over, because slipping through the President’s mansion should be the most triggering thing ever but she doesn’t so much as twitch. There are memories everywhere, from galas and long nights doing security sweeps during her first ‘break in the newbie’ tours back in the day to card games in the break room with Scouts who are no doubt here tonight, but Selene is able to put that all aside and focus on the mission, no problem. Marius glances at her once or twice on the way in, before they slide their faceplates down, but he must be satisfied with what he sees because he only nods and goes back to checking his maps.
Petra is a whole other mess, but Selene will deal with that when she’s forced to and not a second sooner. Plus maybe if she’s lucky, Petra will get assigned to a separate safehouse and Selene will never actually have to confront her at all. Wouldn’t that make things simple.
The way in is quick and painless, not that Selene expected otherwise. Extractions rarely go south on the way in, it’s getting out that’s tricky once all the pieces are in play. She stands guard while Dash picks the lock on the servant’s entrance, lets the others file in ahead and takes up the rear. She can see the tense line of Dash’s shoulders as they make their way through - the movement of Avoxes is the only thing Rigel can’t account for, since they come and go according to the whims of the residents and not by schedule - but Selene is calm, even as she’s extra-aware of every sound. If someone discovers them, she knows what she has to do. One problem, one solution, no branching logic or complicated hypotheticals. Easy math.
And then they’re inside. “Petra first,” Brutus says in a low voice, and when Rigel glances at him he shakes his head. “Not that, I just mean she’ll take longer. Ronan and Odin, they won’t need convincing.”
“I’ll go get them,” Marius says, and slips away, leaving the four of them together. Selene almost offers to go with him, but he doesn’t ask her to and she knows what that means. Whether she likes it or not, Selene is the only other person in this room who knows Petra and might have a shot of convincing her. Selene has never managed to change Petra’s mind in their entire lives, but she has managed to annoy her into moving, and maybe that’s one of those skills a person never really forgets.
Brutus lets out a hard breath, a little shaky, and Rigel clasps his shoulder. “You’ve got this,” Rigel says, and Brutus gives him a quick, grateful smile.
Dash steps in close as they slip in through the door. “She sleeps in her pyjamas, right?” he says in an undertone. “I don’t have to close my eyes or anything?”
Selene tries to imagine Petra doing anything as carefree as sleeping naked and a wild burst of laughter tries to claw its way up her throat. “You’re fine,” she whispers back. She even remembers to sling her rifle over her shoulder at the last minute, so Petra won’t wake up to a gun pointed at her head. See, isn’t she thoughtful, Claudius should be proud.
They stand along the back corner at a respectful distance as Brutus kneels by the bed. Selene can’t help but study Petra in her sleep, the scowl puckering her forehead and sticking out her lower lip, the hand she has curled to her chest in the same way she used to hold her mace in the Arena except there are no weapons here.
Brutus hesitates - it’s weird, watching him, seeing anything but determination in his movements from someone so large and powerful, Selene feels like she should have had to pay admission - but then he reaches out and brushes a loose curl from her forehead. “Petra,” he says quietly. “Wake up.”
She does, with a start and a gasp, sitting straight up and darting back so her shoulders hit the wall, the blankets clutched between them in a barrier. “What the fuck!” Petra spits out, staring at Brutus wide-eyed, chest heaving. “What the fuck! What is this!”
“It’s me,” Brutus says, not moving. He holds his hands out, careful, placating. “Petra, it’s me, sweetheart. I’ve come to get you.”
Petra says nothing for several ragged breaths. She doesn’t miss the Peacekeepers, her gaze raking over them, hard and suspicious, and Selene has never been more glad for the opaque faceplate than when Petra’s eyes dig into hers. But then her focus turns back to Brutus, and something in her face breaks, just for a second, before she yanks it back. Not yet, Selene thinks. She won’t let herself until she knows.
“Prove it,” Petra says, raising her chin. “Tell me what I said to you.”
Brutus hisses. “Petra -”
Petra slashes one hand through the air, the gesture making Dash jump. “You think I give a shit if some random Peacekeepers know, if it means it’s really you? You know what I’m talking about. Tell me what I said.”
Dash inclines his head toward Selene, just slightly, and she lets one shoulder rise and fall in response. Whatever this is, it wasn’t in any of Petra’s files, and Selene can’t think of anything that happened before the Arena that she might have told Brutus that would have this kind of effect. Against her will, Selene finds herself intrigued, Games damn it all. Petra would laugh if she knew.
Brutus lets out a long breath, but then his shoulders set in a stubborn line and he lifts his head, as though daring any of them to say anything. Interesting. “You asked me to help you kill yourself,” he says, and oh. Oh, shit. That is not what Selene was expecting at all. “You wanted me to slip you an overdose and tell everyone you must have done it yourself when I wasn’t looking.”
His voice cracks, and Selene isn’t a Victor, she doesn’t know anything about mentors and the whole mystical bond thing they have going other than what she’s gleaned from files and glimpses while on guard duty, but - that had to hurt. She’s pretty sure that’s about on par with expecting a parent to throw their baby into traffic. She looks at Petra, who’s breathing fast, staring at him with one hand splayed to her chest, fingers pressed below her collarbone.
“But I didn’t,” Brutus says. “I told you no, and I went and I let Lyme kick the shit out of me until I got my head on straight and I stopped feeling like I’d failed you, and then I came back and I pushed you until you snapped. And I kept on pushing and you rose to meet it every fucking time, because you’re my girl and you’re amazing, sweetheart, and I have never been prouder of anyone or anything in my entire life.”
Petra swipes one hand across her eyes. “Okay,” she says, her voice wild and shaky. “Okay. So this is -”
“A rescue,” Brutus says. “Put your clothes on, honey, we’re getting out of here.”
Selene waits to see if Petra will argue, demand to know exactly what’s going on, how Brutus is alive and how he got here and what happened, but wonder of wonders, she slides out of bed without a word and starts pulling a set of clothing out of the drawers. Brutus really must be magic if he can override Petra’s deep-seated need to be difficult for no reason, Selene thinks, then immediately feels bad, because - well, of course. If she’d wanted to commit suicide and Brutus pulled her out of it, she’d probably listen to him, too.
(Well, no, Selene would say thanks and then immediately skip town so she’d never have to see him or be reminded of that experience ever again, but Petra has always been the sort of person to run headlong into her feelings, not away from them.)
Petra’s also not wearing anything except an oversized t-shirt, which means both Dash and Rigel politely turn to stare at the ceiling while she changes. Selene actually forgets she should probably look away, after all the years of changing together and seeing each other at their most raw and vulnerable, and it’s only when Petra catches her - shirt half over her head, an odd look on her face - that Selene thinks whoops and makes a point of turning around.
For someone who managed to go this long without getting caught, Selene really needs to step it up. It’s just that being in the same room with Petra after so long is … really, really weird.
At least it didn’t take very long at all to convince her to come, Selene thinks, which means her guess about Petra being scared was likely right on point. She’d half been prepared for a huge argument anyway, something about Petra having a duty to stay behind and - something, Selene can’t predict what Petra will decide is her honour-bound responsibility today, only that it’s likely to happen, but maybe they’ll actually get away without Petra pulling a Herself today.
Out in the common area, Marius has successfully roused Odin and Ronan, who are dressed and packed and ready to go. “My boy,” Odin says when he sees Brutus, his voice breaking, and he pulls Brutus in for an embrace, audience be damned, and doesn’t let go for a long time.
“I know,” Brutus says as Odin buries his face in his shoulder. “You did everything you could. I know.”
Selene shifts, almost wishing someone would burst through the door so she could shoot something. So many emotions, raw and unfettered and just … everywhere, leaking all over the place. She misses Claudius and his skittish aversion to feelings, wishes he were here so they could go spar or play target practice or have a darts competition.
“We need to leave,” Rigel says, apologetic but with a clear undertone of command. “The longer we stay, the more risk we’re taking.”
Odin pulls back and takes a deep breath. “Yes, of course,” he says, passing a hand over his eyes. “Apologies.”
Petra frowns, looking back and forth between them, and uh oh. Selene knows that face. Whatever’s coming next, nobody in this room is going to like it. “So you already have the Ones?”
Aaaand there it is.
Rigel and Marius exchange glances. “This is a priority mission,” Rigel says carefully. “The other Victors -”
“You mean you’re just going to leave them here and hope they don’t get shot or executed in the final assault, or worse,” Petra snaps, eyes blazing. “Did you even think about what will happen to them if they get left behind? Can you promise me that they’ll be safe? How do you think they’ll feel when they find out there was a rescue mission and nobody bothered to come for them?”
This time Brutus tries. “Petra, of course I want everyone safe, but my priority is you,” he says. “I’m your mentor, you have to understand that. Getting everyone out right now -”
“If you want me then you get everyone.” Petra clenches her jaw so hard a muscle jumps. “If you won’t risk it, give me a weapon and wait for me at the exit and I’ll go get them myself.”
“Petra -”
Oh for fuck’s sake. “We’re wasting time,” Selene says. “We could rescue them twice in the time it takes to change Petra’s mind on anything, so unless someone knocks her unconscious and carries her to the hovercraft in the next five seconds, I say we just go. It will be faster than trying to argue with her.”
Petra whirls on her, features set in a very familiar mix of outrage and disbelief. “Excuse you, eat shit and go fuck yourself!” she bursts out. A shocked silence falls over the group as the laughter bubbles up inside Selene again, and Petra’s mouth falls open. “I mean - that was rude, I don’t know where that came from -”
Selene does, but seeing how thirty seconds of interacting with Petra has blown her cover, she is absolutely not going to risk opening her mouth again.
Rigel clears his throat. “Extraction it is,” he says delicately. “Unfortunately, while I would rather get all of you to the hovercraft first, it will be quicker if we all go together. Let’s move quickly, please.” Before they head out, he fixes Petra with a serious stare. “If we do this, I need to know you’ll follow orders. I can rely on Brutus because he listens and he does what I tell him, because he trusts my expertise and knows I can keep him safe. I can’t do that if I’m worrying you’re going to argue with me.”
Petra actually wilts a little, which Selene would be more amazed at if she hadn’t taken the full force of Rigel and Marius’ disappointed squad commander faces more than once and knows exactly how devastating they can be. “Yes sir,” Petra says without a hint of irony. She even lets Marius place her in the middle of the protective phalanx without protesting.
The Ones, as Selene predicted, are not as sanguine about the whole thing. It takes a bit of Rigel’s charisma dialled up to 11 to convince them that they’re not one of Coin’s rebel groups here to capture them for nefarious purposes, and even then, a few of them are still suspicious and seem half ready to take their chances where they are.
“Absolutely not!” Petra snaps, stepping forward. “You all know what will happen if you stay. We don’t know what happens if we leave, but that’s better odds, isn’t it? Who picks certain death instead of uncertain survival? Meat tributes, that’s who! Are you really going to stay here and wait to be murdered and tortured and used as examples of the old regime by people who don’t give a shit about what you’ve suffered through, just because you don’t want to give me the satisfaction of having rescued you? Come with us, then you’ll have all the time in the world to call me any name you want and make sure I know I’m a self-righteous bitch and you don’t owe me anything.”
The younger Victors cross their arms, but Selene catches some of the older ones trying not to let their lips twitch. Finally Luxa steps forward, and she’s not the oldest or the leader, but something passes between her and Petra that Selene doesn’t understand. She really hopes it isn’t a sex thing, Petra always had a thing for the older female Victors in training and okay, no, abort that thought cadet.
“Let’s go,” Luxa says. “My knives are thirsty, and I know I’m not the only one.”
And that’s that. For all their glaring, the Ones are even better at following orders than Petra, and they fall in line and don’t argue or even whisper to each other as the group moves through the halls. Rigel and Marius take their time, consulting their map now and then - they memorized the layout of the alarms and everything else based on the original extraction, not the whole floor - but it’s a refresher more than anything else. They’ve got this. It’ll be fine.
They almost make it.
Selene doesn’t know what tipped them off, whether they triggered a silent alarm after all, or the security staff caught onto the spoofed footage, or an Avox spotted them and ran to tell the guards. Maybe whoever’s in charge decided to switch things up, or maybe Petra’s delay pushed them over into the middle of the night shift change and nobody realized. In the end it doesn’t really matter why, or how; either way, they’re almost at the hovercraft when they run into a squad of armed Peacekeepers.
This time, at least, they’re not blocking the way to the exit, but making a run for it now is a good way to get everyone shot in the back. The Ones are spoiling for a fight, all taut lines and arms ready at their sides, and unlike Petra they won’t have chatted with their guards on the balcony and offered them flowers. There’s blood in the air and they scent it, and Selene would call them reckless for thinking they could take on a squad of armed Peacekeepers barehanded except she knows full well that for combatants from One, every fight is a potential suicide run.
“Put down your weapons,” says the squad leader, and Selene exhales hard because that’s Troy. Of course it is, of course he’s giving them the chance to surrender instead of firing outright just like Brin, because he and Brin used to take the juniors out for drinks after graduation and he was the best at wrangling cocky twenty-year-olds without setting off Selene’s authority-buttons, and they’ve already condemned Brin to torture and execution, so why not her partner too?
Petra steps forward. “I’m going willingly,” she says. “Please, I’m scared and I don’t want to stay here. They’re taking me somewhere safe. Isn’t that what you want?”
Troy hesitates, and the two junior squad members glance at each other. Selene wracks her brain for a minute, trying to remember who they put with Troy after the last rotation, who they’d give to Petra if they wanted her safe and relaxed and comfortable, and at last it hits her. It’s Corin and Nicholas, two of the boys in their Senior year, the ones who joined the Scouts along with Selene and managed to pull the majority of the diplomatic shifts.
“Petra,” Troy says finally, “the President wants you here, where he knows you’re safe. Whatever these people have said to you, you can’t trust them. They’re traitors.”
Petra flinches, but she doesn’t move, and huh. There was a time when just hearing that word would’ve sent her into a mental breakdown. Rigel presses his advantage, but Selene tunes out the argument. She knows Troy, and he’s fond of Rigel and he has a good heart, but he isn’t Brin. He’s not a revolutionary. He’ll give them the chance to lay down their weapons and surrender but he isn’t going to walk away.
If he knew what they’d done to Brin, he wouldn’t even have given them that.
And so Selene takes the minute or so they have to mark out the terrain, checking the angles and mapping out the distance to the hovercraft, balancing the number of shots at her disposal against the number of opponents and the lack of cover for her to reload. Whatever they do, they’ll have to do it fast.
Rigel and Troy’s argument turns heated. His soldiers raise their weapons, and so does Selene, cradling the butt of her rifle between her chest and shoulder. Petra hisses and falls back without being told, and Selene is vaguely aware of her presence at her elbow before shutting it out entirely.
“Last chance,” Troy warns them. “We can put in a good word if you come willingly.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Rigel says. He’d been shouting a minute ago, but now his tone turns disappointed, almost sad. “But I can’t do that.”
He gives the order to fire. A second later, Troy’s faceplate explodes in a mess of blood and bone, and his body collapses to the ground in a heap. For a moment there’s no sound except Petra’s harsh breathing and the rattle of the empty shell casing as Selene slides the next round into her rifle’s chamber.
Then the spell breaks, and it’s tightly controlled chaos.
Selene disappears into the fight, but she doesn’t disappear, even when quarters get close and she has to abandon her guns to fight hand to hand. Even though it’s Peacekeepers - even though it’s friends - Selene keeps her head on straight, and she doesn’t slide sideways back to the Centre or her Field Exam or anywhere else, doesn’t fall away into the joy of it and start listening to the song of blood on her knuckles.
(Okay, maybe a little. She finds herself grinning once after taking one of her opponents down with a particularly slick move, and whirling to see if Petra caught it, take that - but then she brings it back, remembers sparring with Claudius and coming at him with a knife again and again, and next time she stays right here.)
And then they’re through, and running for the hovercraft, and one of the downed Peacekeepers squeezes off a few wild shots before another - Corin, Selene can’t help thinking, now that there’s some distance, he came back from his Field Exam pale and shaking and they all thought he would be cut but somehow he clung through till the end - yells, “Don’t, you’ll hit the Victors!”
And because they don’t have orders on that score - the President must not have specified “kill them if you can’t keep them here” - that hesitation is enough for Rigel and Marius to manage to get the last of the Victors on board. Selene scrambles onto the ramp after offering Petra a hand up, and as it closes and the hovercraft wheels away, she’s very conscious of the blood pounding in her ears and the fact that there’s nowhere left to hide.
Petra rounds on her immediately. “You,” she says, pointing a finger in a gesture that’s very much like Brutus and almost makes Selene laugh, if they were anywhere else. “Take your helmet off.” Selene bristles in spite of herself, but Petra only steps closer. “Selene,” she says, slowly and deliberately.
Well, fuck.
Resisting the urge to snap and tell Petra she’ll take her helmet off only if she can shove it in her stupid face (apparently Petra isn’t the only one with teenage comebacks ready and waiting to spring out unbidden), Selene reaches up and pulls her helmet off, tucking it under her arm. She keeps her expression neutral even as Petra sucks in a sharp breath, gaze flitting over her face.
“It is you,” Petra says, her expression unreadable. “That explains why hearing a random Peacekeeper’s voice made me want to punch something.”
“You’re welcome for backing you up in there,” Selene says, tamping down a spark of irritation. “And for rescuing you. And saving your life, by the way.”
“Hang on,” Brutus interjects. “What the hell is -”
They’re interrupted when Odin, quiet and forgotten in a corner of the hovercraft, collapses to the floor with a heavy thud, blood seeping between his fingers and blooming across his shirt. “It’s nothing,” Odin says, staring down at his bloodstained hand in surprise. “It’s nothing. I hardly feel it.”
Then his eyes roll back and he sinks down, unmoving, and Selene and Petra’s stupid teenage rivalry hardly matters anymore.
Brutus grips Odin’s hand in both of his, fingers slipping in blood. Odin’s gaze slides away from his, eyes fading, struggling to focus, before they fix on him. “My boy,” Odin says again. Red stains his teeth, the corners of his mouth. “I can’t believe -”
“I’m here,” Brutus says. He lifts Odin’s hand to his chest, holds it close even as it aches to breathe. “I’m okay. Everyone’s okay. Devon, Emory, Hera, everybody. They’re all safe. We got them out before the Village burned. Everyone’s fine.”
Tears leak from Odin’s eyes. He coughs, a bloody spume falling from his lips. Dash and Marius work in silence at his side, trying their best, but Brutus has seen too many Arenas, has watched too many good kids die from the mentor seat. He doesn’t need an overlay with vital signs and sponsor odds to know that if he tried to order a medkit now, the system would override it as a waste of money.
Petra sits at Odin’s head, cushioning him in her lap, her face pale and stricken. She strokes his hair back from his forehead, tugs her sleeve over her hand and curls her fingers tight to keep the fabric steady, then reaches down to wipe his mouth. Her mouth trembles but her hand is steady, and she doesn’t make eye contact and Brutus doesn’t try to make her.
“You’re safe,” Odin says again. His head falls back, eyes going distant. His grip loosens in Brutus’ fingers but Brutus holds on. He can’t let go, not yet. “I’m so glad - you’re safe.”
“I’m safe,” Brutus says. And fuck, all those times he wished he could be there for his kids while they died, bleeding out with their skulls smashed in or their guts sliced open, but here he is with the man he’s known half his life and he can’t come up with a damn useful thing to say. At least the Ones know better than to open their mouths, because whatever valid point Petra made about not leaving them behind, Brutus is really not in the mood.
His throat closes, and as much as Brutus would love to tap in deep inside himself and find the secret well of feeling that would let him spill out all his emotions in a final goodbye, he scrabbles around for awhile but comes up empty. “You made me who I am,” Brutus says finally. His eyes sting, and fuck, fuck he hates this, he hates the whole fucking war, hates knowing that this is the first time it’s touched him for real and that’s a Game-damned luxury and a privilege. “I hope I make you proud.”
“Every day.” Odin smiles, though it takes him longer to get the words out. There’s a whistle in his breath now, a rattling in his chest that means it won’t be long. Dash and Marius glance at each other but keep trying, and Brutus hopes they know how grateful he is that they keep trying even though it’s hopeless, just because it would feel wrong to sit back and wait. “And Petra -”
Petra lets out a soft noise like a whimper made of air, but either it’s too much effort to talk or Odin’s mind has wandered, because he smiles up at her but doesn’t try to say anything else. She bends down and presses their foreheads together, shoulders shaking even as her hands stay strong and steady on either side of his face.
They stay like that together until Odin’s hands fall and his face goes slack, until his chest goes still and the blood slows from his wound as his heart stops pumping. Brutus sucks in one breath, then another, aware that each new breath he takes brings him further into a new world without his mentor. Every heartbeat is one more that Odin will never take. Brutus slams down on his thoughts before they can propel him any further down the road of melodrama, he’s dealt with loss he can deal with this, he can and he will, but his mentor is dead and Brutus can’t breathe.
In front of him Petra lets out a long, shuddering exhale, and Brutus hasn’t seen his girl in months but he knows how much she wants to scream, to take all her pain and rage and fling it at the world, shout and scream and sob and swear until her throat is raw and sore and scratchy and her voice disappears into a whisper. How much she wants to rip everything down, tear apart the harnesses and throw the supply crates across the hold and rip everything she can to pieces.
Brutus also knows damn well that no matter how much Petra wants to scream, she’s not gonna do it with a hovercraft full of staring witnesses.
What she does do is hiss without raising her head. “They didn’t mean to shoot him,” she says. “They were just trying to stop us from leaving. They’d be horrified if they found out. It was a waste. This whole war, all of it, we’re all fighting and killing each other and it’s all just a fucking -”
Petra cuts herself off, and Brutus should know what to say, he’s the mentor that’s his job, he’s supposed to know what to do in every situation, but they never trained him for this. Nobody ever told him what to say when they’re sitting with his mentor dead in his lap, Odin’s blood smeared across his hands and soaking through his clothes.
Without looking up, Petra straightens her shoulders and sits back, smoothing Odin’s hair back from his forehead and cleaning the last of the blood from his face. “Now would someone like to tell me what’s going on?” she says. She’s calm now, controlled, or so she sounds. The truth of it, Brutus knows, is that she’s gone straight from furious to exhausted.
“I’ll vote for that,” says Dexter, because of course he does, and Brutus turns to give him a baleful look. “Hey, no, I’m not trying to take away from your loss here, but you were dead. I don’t suppose any of ours were faking it, either?”
(Cashmere’s blood stains the water, her hair floating in the waves. Gloss hits the rocks first and rolls, eyes open and heavy with shock -)
“No,” Brutus says, the weight of their deaths dragging him back all over again. “I’m sorry.”
Dexter crosses his arms, taps his fingers against his bicep in a gesture of unconcern that fools nobody. “Never hurts to ask. But I’m not really in the right mood to tell the story again, so -”
“I watched you die,” Ronan says crisply, and Brutus turns to him, half in shock and half in surprise that anything could penetrate the shroud of grief surrounding him. “I was there when Coriolanus ordered the Gamemakers to assassinate you as punishment for my failure to placate his ego. And now Odin has paid the price for our escape. So yes, I really would like to know what happened and who we’re dealing with. Officer, do you mind?”
“Of course,” Rigel says quickly.
Brutus eases his way out from under Odin’s weight. He doesn’t dare risk holding Petra, not in front of the others, but he’s waited this long to see her and damned if he’s going to stay at arm’s length. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says, coming around to sit beside her. “You wanna sit back? You’re gonna stick to the floor once - when all that dries.”
“He took care of me,” Petra says. For a moment she doesn’t move, but then she lets herself lean a little into Brutus’ side, almost as though she isn’t sure it’s a good idea. “While you were - when you were dead, he made sure I - he kept me going, he was - and I couldn’t save him.”
Brutus finally takes a risk and slides his arm around her, and they don’t speak until the hovercraft returns to the safe zone.
Lyme shows up two days later, grinning and not dragging anyone ahead of her on a medical stretcher or hauling bodies in bags, so they must’ve done all right. Brutus goes ahead to meet her because he figures it’s best to warn her, he’s given Petra time to get used to the idea of Lyme and Claudius being allies instead of traitors but she’s hurting, and it’s only fair that Lyme not walk into this unprepared.
“Hey,” Brutus says. Lyme looks good, pleased with herself even with the shadows under her eyes that mean she hasn’t had much rest the past few days. “How’d it go?”
“You first,” Lyme says.
Brutus swallows. “Got Petra and Ronan. Odin’s dead.”
Lyme goes still. “Oh no,” she says, and she and Odin never got along, she thought he was old-fashioned and a little sexist and he thought she was a few squirrels short of a forest, but that doesn’t matter, not with something like this. “Shit, Brutus, I’m sorry.” She runs a hand through her hair and glances back at their hovercraft as a clatter of boots sound from the inside. “I probably should’ve gone first.”
Brutus has two seconds to ask her what the hell she means by that when Katniss Everdeen, her boy, and Finnick fucking Odair exit the hovercraft, along with half a dozen soldiers and a handful of pretty-looking folks who gotta be Capitol.
“Told you I should’ve gone first,” Lyme says, shooting him an apologetic grimace. “Now you see why I couldn’t tell you ahead of time.”
Brutus can’t deal with this shit, not right now. The kids look scared and overwhelmed, the soldiers are suspicious, and Finnick looks like he needs a drink or a nap or five minutes alone with the President and a table full of pointy objects. “I’m getting out of here,” he says. “Catch me up later.”
Lyme catches his arm. “I’m sorry about Odin,” she says. “Talk later?”
“Yeah,” Brutus says. A low headache starts up at the base of his skull and winds around from his temples to the hollows of his eye sockets. “Hope you brought booze.”
Lyme punches him in the arm, and Brutus slips away before anyone recognizes him. Three people in that group were trying to kill Brutus the last time he saw them, and vice versa, and after the week he’s head, he really cannot deal with that right now.
Instead he heads for the makeshift common area, where for the first time since the Reaping, all his kids are waiting for him.
Petra has a few last realizations, and Brutus finally gets what he's been waiting for -- almost.
President Snow is a liar.
The thought nags at Petra like a muttation tearing flesh and sinew away from bone, refusing to back away from a corpse so the hovercrafts can carry it away. The Capitol used to be Petra’s favourite place - not the parties with the crowds and the people with their too-wide smiles and their hands that slid to her waist and groped at her when Brutus wasn’t looking, no, but here, the President’s mansion, had always been a place of refuge. The home of the President, their leader, the man Petra had fought and trained and risked her life for, the one who’d looked at her and seen the person she tried so hard to be when even Petra lost faith in herself.
She’d thought - it’s stupid, childish, babyish, even, she all but chokes on it, sour and bile and rotting in her throat - that she was safe here. Petra hadn’t been completely naive, she knew she had to play a role, knew the value of telling their glorious leader what he needed to hear, but she’d never had to act with him. The reason she loved the President was that she meant every single word of what she said. Everything he’d asked, she’d been willing to give, and more.
Petra heard the whispers about District 1, of course. The trainers warned them about having sex in the Arena, about making that the centre of their persona, said that was for District 1, not them - never them - and that they’d have to pay it back in the end. And like anything else in Residential, there were always older trainees to tell the wide-eyed, breathless initiates what the trainers really meant.
Petra knew when Brutus told her that the saner tribute from Two always tried to take out the girls from One in the split if they could help it, and it would be up to her if Marco couldn’t get it done. She knew Ambrosia didn’t want to win that night in the Arena when the girl from One bared her throat and said I’m going to kill you with eyes that begged the opposite - knew when Petra worked her over and she lost every ounce of the coy, slinking, for-the-cameras seduction and tore at Petra’s hips and back with chipped fingernails, voice raw and rasping and ugly with the kind of desire girls are never allowed to have in public. And so Petra broke the rules, leaned in close and hissed If I had a knife I’d kill you now, I’m sorry, I’m sorry - as Ambrosia came with a ragged shout.
Except she had wanted to win in the end, hadn’t she - Petra had seen it in her face, the sneer when Petra thought she’d won, and she’d swung her mace and shattered Petra’s leg and she’d meant it, so whatever the price for surviving, all those days on her own had made Ambrosia willing to pay for it. And so Petra had thought … well, maybe it was just stories, something they told tributes to help them sleep at night, make them feel better about killing fellow Careers who’d trained as hard as they did. It could even have been propaganda, so they’d feel that much more grateful for their district even if they had to work harder than their neighbours.
Not that it mattered in the end. Ambrosia was dead, and Petra had her own recovery to worry about, and after a while it was easier not to think about it. President Snow had been kind and understanding, he’d remembered her favourite cookies and always asked about her grassroots efforts back home instead of her fashion choices or her latest endorsement line, and, well. No one who could be so attentive to her could ever endorse something so cruel as what those rumours suggested, could he?
But he did, didn’t he. Holding the contradiction in her head hurts, it’s like trying to grab onto two train cars speeding off in opposite directions. It’s hard to imagine that the man who once put a gentle hand under Petra’s arm when she stumbled and led her to a chair - who made sure there was a chair for her the next time, who sat in his own chair so she’d know she wouldn’t be dishonouring him for sitting herself - could also murder a Victor’s entire family for simply using the Arena to his advantage. That he could smile at Petra and ask her about her favourite place in all of District 2, bring up live footage on the vidscreen so she could show him when words failed, while forcing Victors to have sex with sponsors and killing their loved ones if they said no.
Petra’s chest aches, and the worst part is not that she didn’t know. It’s not that Brutus never told her, or Ronan, or Odin, even though they clearly knew. It’s not even that Brutus died for this and Petra let him, that Petra mourned but never doubted the honour of his sacrifice, not for a second, because the President willed it and thus it must be necessary. The worst part is that she’s scared, because after all of this, what really matters is she’s frightened for herself, afraid of what will happen if the President finds out she’s no longer the blind, complacent pet who’s served him all these years.
After all her talk of honour and loyalty and doing the right thing even when it’s hard, at the end of the day Petra is a coward, self-serving and self-centred and absolutely unworthy. If Brutus were alive he would be ashamed of her.
Tears burn her eyes and choke thick in her throat but Petra refuses to cry. She did enough of that in her play-acting for the President, thank you, and doing it alone without an audience feels uncomfortably like wallowing. Instead something inside her snaps, and Petra pushes herself to her feet and grabs her cane. “I’m going for a walk,” she calls out. Ronan is napping, and Odin glances up from his book with a concerned expression but doesn’t argue when Petra waves him off.
There are no guards at the door, only a pair of Avoxes. Petra can wander the guest floor of the mansion as freely as she likes; the Peacekeeper escorts are only for formal invitations or when she wants to take a turn outside. No one stops her when she leaves the Two-occupied hallway and heads for the wing where the Ones have taken up residence.
Avoxes stand at the foyer there, too, and Petra studies them for a moment, a strange twisting in her gut. Ever since the rebel broadcast - since her Avox escort woke her to show her the unaired footage of the Victors’ Village on fire - Petra can’t go back to seeing them as part of the background, no matter how much she tries.
There will be cameras here, like everywhere, but after wrestling with herself, Petra decides to risk it. “Where from?” she asks, her gestures choppy. The longer her stay, the more she wishes she’d asked Devon to teach her more. (He’ll never teach her anything ever again.)
His gaze flickers. He’s pretty, almost preternaturally so, with smooth, dark skin and arresting green eyes. Petra hopes she’s wrong. He hesitates, but after a moment he responds - quick, furtive, so fast she almost misses it.
The first word she doesn’t recognize. The second, on the other hand, is One.
Petra hisses out a long breath. “I’m sorry,” she signs. She doesn’t ask him what he did to wind up here, serving in the presidential mansion with his tongue cut out, not when she’s pretty sure she knows. Out loud she says, “I’d like to talk to Luxa, if she’ll see me.”
He slips inside. A few moments pass - Petra doesn’t try to chat with the other Avox, a young woman whose eyes are hard as she stares out past Petra into the hallway beyond, jaw clenched - then he returns and nods, holding open the door. Petra exhales, curls her fingers tighter around the handle of her cane, and heads inside.
It’s only Luxa, thank - thank the mountains. Petra had half expected her to invite the others to sit with her, been afraid of finding them all arranged on the sofa, facing her like a tribunal, but whether she’s curious or surprised or wants to keep Petra all to herself when she peels off her skin and eats her alive, either way the room is empty except for the two of them when Petra enters and the door closes behind her.
Silence grows, magnified by the ticking of the enormous clock in the corner. Petra struggles to breathe, to remember what words are. She had three years of intensive image training, several hours every day, you’d think she could manage a simple social interaction. They shook hands on stage at Petra’s Victory Tour. Petra doesn’t remember. I’m sorry I forgot your name, Petra thinks.
Finally Luxa breaches the wall between them. “If you’re here for sex, I hope you saved your allowance,” she says in a throaty voice that trails a fingernail down Petra’s spine. “After that broadcast you have no excuse thinking I’m going to entertain for free.”
Petra flushes hard, the blood hitting her face with the force of a tidal wave. “No!” she bursts out. “That’s not - that isn’t - not at all. That’s not why I’m here.”
Not that Luxa isn’t gorgeous. Dark hair, dark, narrow eyes, sharp-featured and golden-skinned, she could have been thirty-five or fifty and Petra would have no way to tell unless she counted back through the Victor list. She tilts her head and examines Petra with a alertness in her expression that reminds her of a predator, as though if Petra stumbles Luxa will leap off the sofa with a blade in each hand and carve out her insides.
Petra takes a deep breath and tries again. “She asked me to kill her in the Arena,” she says. “That night, the last night we - before the split.”
Luxa freezes, and if they were in the Arena now Petra would be watching her shoulder for the moment when she reaches for a hidden weapon. “If you’re looking for thanks or absolution, girl, I think you were better off with the sex,” she warns.
“It’s not that.” Petra clenches her teeth. This is not working out how she wanted to, not at all. “I meant - she knew. What would happen to her if she won. She knew already and she didn’t want to win. Why do you tell them, if that means you send in girls who don’t want to come back?”
This time the pause carries a different weight, less crackling danger and more tension, like a length of rope dipping under the first tentative step. Finally Luxa lets out a sigh. “You think it would be better to send them in unprepared, do you? Fill their heads with promises of glory and an easy life, then snatch it out from under them once they think they’ve won? You think that’s kinder than giving them the tools they need to succeed, and letting them choose whether they’re prepared to make that trade? Ambrosia was conflicted, yes. It might surprise you to learn that others are more than willing to do what it takes.”
Petra stays quiet. Ever mindful of the cameras, the fear that kept Odin frozen, that wouldn’t let him give in to her arrogant demand for information, she takes a moment to process. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “You thought it was worth it, when they told you?”
Luxa favours her with a hard smile. “I must have,” she says, and Petra knows better than to ask again.
She should probably leave. Whatever Petra wanted by coming here, whatever answers she thought she’d get - absolution, Luxa said with a curl to her lip - it clearly isn’t happening. Yet something holds her here, slides a hook between her ribs and anchors her in place. She digs for it, fishes blindly like sticking her hands in an open wound and searching for a particular organ while her fingers slide in blood and viscera, but finally she finds it.
“Why didn’t they save the Academy?” Petra bursts out. Once again Lexa’s face tightens, pinching around the mouth and nose as though Petra slapped her, but she forges on. “The rebels - they had to know what was happening there. They knew the trainees were innocent. Why did they -”
Petra saw the footage. She can’t think about it now, not without her gorge rising, but the only word for it is massacre.
Luxa’s smile turns, like a knife tilting edgewise. “Oh, little girl,” she says. “You’re one of us, now think. Do you really think anyone out there would look at us, even our children, and see anyone who looks like ‘victim’?”
Petra goes still, her breaths sounding loud in her head. Luxa stretches, the movement languorous and carrying the whisper of sex even as she pulls one elbow behind her head to crack the joints of her spine into place. “But you are,” Petra whispers. Her chest squeezes. “You didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Tell that to the rebels when they finally storm this mansion and put a bullet in my head,” Luxa says idly, then laughs at Petra’s flinch. “No, that would be far too kind. I know what’s coming for me. The best I can hope for is that if all hope is lost, one of the Peacekeepers takes pity on us and shoots us all before the rebels get to us. In a post-war world, Petra, there will be no kindness for any of us.” Her eyes find Petra’s and hold her motionless. “You included. I hope you realize that.”
The roaring in Petra’s ears washes over her, blanking out all thought. She’s frozen, the emptiness threatening to take her away as she struggles to stay present. Luxa lets out a quiet sigh and sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the couch. “Looks like I broke you,” she says, and it isn’t friendly but it’s not - exactly - unkind, either. “I would call for your mentor, but I can’t even do that, can I.” Petra sucks in a wet breath at the stab and Luxa’s mouth curls at the corner in an expression that might be something like pity.
But no, Petra is not a child, and she will not break down and need Odin to come ferry her away like a fresh Victor. She draws herself up, forces herself to breathe (inhale-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, exhale-two-three-four) and takes a step back. “Thank you for your time,” Petra says stiffly. “I won’t bother you again.”
Luxa flicks her fingers, unconcerned, and Petra is very careful not to flee on her way out. She has no idea whether anyone was watching that conversation - if anything that passed between them counts as treason, if she slipped up and said something that might merit a call to the President, a warning that his loyal Victor is having doubts - but she can’t think on it now. All Petra can do is keep going like nothing is wrong.
Until the rebels come and kill them all - or worse, keep them alive for whatever sick example they want to make later. Petra thinks of the burning Village and refuses to imagine whatever punishment they’ll have in store for the girl who stayed loyal on camera to the very end.
The best I can hope for is that if all hope is lost, one of the Peacekeepers takes pity on us and shoots us all.
Petra stops, heart hammering in her chest. As plans go, this isn’t exactly a winner - it’s about on par with jumping off the platforms early, or running straight for the Cornucopia and the gamut of Careers armed with weapons who will slaughter you before you get there. But it would be better than waiting, better than giving herself over and putting her fate in someone else’s hands.
But if the Capitol wins -
If the Capitol wins, the country will go back to stability, no more riots and massacres and bombings, but some things will have to change. And if President Snow still trusts Petra, if he’s still willing to listen to her, then maybe she can convince him. He listened to Ronan all these years, maybe it can be her turn.
And if it doesn’t work - if she’s executed for treason - then maybe that’s the way it should be.
Oddly calm for the first time in days, Petra takes the long way back to the Two guest wing, lost in thought.
After all the weeks and months of preparation, the stealth missions and the recon and gathering supplies, the sneak rescues and extractions and smash-and-grabs and the final showdown in Two, it’s almost unreal how fast the prep for the assault on the Capitol goes down. Within a week, the Second Rebellion has managed to pull its people from all over the district, using stolen hovercrafts and a handful of unmonitored rail lines and the old evacuation tunnels under the city to move everyone into various safehouses scattered around the Capitol.
With the exception of Beetee and Rokia, who stay behind in Thirteen to avoid tipping off Coin, Brutus and the other able-bodied Victors are the last ones in. The older Victors and the ones most affected by torture get flown in on a hovercraft, but those who can walk take the tunnels with the soldiers from Eight. Brutus had no idea the tunnels leading into the Capitol even existed, but as he’s come to learn over the past few months, there’s a lot about the central city he never knew about. Like the fact that the downtown core is rigged with a bunch of Gamemaker traps to make a direct ground assault all but impossible, just in case.
“The whole city is under strict lockdown,” Rigel says when Brutus asks whether ordinary citizens are being drowned in quicksand or eaten by mutts if they risk a trip to the grocery store. “Some areas were evacuated, others are being told to stay inside. We can move around using the tunnels as long as we don’t run into any Peacekeepers. No one bothers to patrol the tunnels because nobody knows they’re there.”
Brutus would be more wary about that except that’s how Rigel and his squad half made half their Capitol runs, and they’ve come out just fine without ever running into trouble. Even Claudius has used the evacuation tunnels, since they couldn’t risk using a hovercraft to get them into the city on the kind of cake mission they took him on the first few times. But they managed to get everyone inside the Capitol without tripping any alarms, so Brutus is more than willing to trust Rigel’s word on this one.
It’s not in his best interests to argue otherwise, anyway. Not when he came to make sure it’s really safe to get into the Capitol for good.
Rigel knows, and the worst part is he doesn’t even give Brutus the satisfaction. “I know what you’re going to say,” he says, holding up one hand. “You promised to wait until we relocated to the Capitol, and we did.” He checks his watch, ostentatiously, not bothering to pull up his sleeve so he can actually see the face. “Roughly two hours ago. I appreciate your patience.” It’s only a little cheeky, but given that Brutus all but took his head off the first time he didn’t get the answer he wanted, he decides to let it go. “And the answer, by the way, is yes. It’s time.”
Brutus grips Rigel’s shoulder, half dizzy with relief, and Rigel reaches up to clasp his forearm. “I know it’s been hard, waiting,” Rigel says. “And I was kidding you just now, but I do appreciate it. Now that we’ve had time to get everything set, we’re in a much better position to rescue her than if we’d jumped the gun.”
He sits and listens to the briefing, which sounds pretty straightforward as missions go. It’s just Rigel’s squad and Brutus, both because they know better than to try to keep him at home and because without him there’s no way they can convince Petra to come along without wasting time. Claudius is staying back from this one for similarly practical reasons.
They’re flying in, for the sake of speed, with the hovercraft staying in stealth a safe distance above the mansion to avoid tripping the alarms. Rigel will spoof the cameras, get them to switch over to a backup feed of innocuous-looking footage until they’re out. “It’s kept in reserve in case we ever need to assassinate anyone,” Rigel says bluntly, and Brutus winces in spite of himself, even now. “The whole point of it is to go undetected by the system and give the security staff plausible deniability. Whereas if you roll back the live footage a few hours, you run the risk of the guards seeing themselves patrolling or going to the bathroom on camera and blowing the whole thing.”
Once they have Petra and the others, it’s a quick trip back to the roof, up to the hovercraft and out. Brutus knows better than to bank on nothing going wrong, but Rigel and his team know the mansion better than anyone, and they’ve already done the recon and memorized the layout of their route based on where the Twos are being held. Most it goes through back hallways and blind spots, and since they’re not going anywhere near Snow’s floor, there will only be a couple of Peacekeepers actually patrolling.
“As long as we stick to the plan and avoid detection, we should be fine,” Rigel says. “This is a stealth extraction, our priority is to get them out as fast as we can with a minimal footprint. Emin will know it was us as soon as it’s discovered they’re gone, but -” He shrugs. “It was only a matter of time. We’re leaving tonight, so I suggest you get your rest now.”
Brutus would say he has no chance of sleeping, except he has two Arenas under his belt and plenty of practice forcing himself to rest even when his brain is racing. He’s heading back to grab a few hours when he runs into Lyme, fully geared up with an assault rifle slung over her shoulder.
“Hello,” Brutus says, blinking at her. “Going for a walk?”
“Got tapped for a mission,” Lyme says. He waits for her to tell him what it is, but the pause only drags out between them.
Finally the sword strikes home, and Brutus stares at her. “Are you seriously ‘need to know’ing me right now?”
“You’re walking right into President Snow’s house,” Lyme says, matter of fact, though she at least looks a little apologetic about it. “So yeah, actually, I am.”
Brutus shoots her a look, but he can’t exactly blame her for it. “Yeah, all right, fine. But you’d better have something good to show for it when we both get back.”
Lyme punches him in the arm. “You too,” she says. “Bring ‘em home.”
They hug - quickly, a one-armed, back-slapping affair, but genuine - because damned if Brutus didn’t die and Lyme come this close not to see each other off properly, then Lyme heads out to find her squad and set off for her mysterious mission. Brutus spends a good five seconds wondering what the hell she’s up to before he shoves it back. Petra and the others are waiting, and they’re relying on him to have his head in the game.
Once he’s in his room, Brutus shuts off the lights, flings an arm across his face, and counts backwards from a thousand until he loses track and falls asleep. It’s Marius who wakes him, already dressed and ready to go, and it only takes Brutus a minute to grab his gear and follow.
Selene and Dash are quiet as Brutus joins them in the hovercraft, no pre-mission banter or mood-lifting today, and Brutus doesn’t try to instigate a conversation. Instead he leans back, lets his head rest against the bulkhead, and listens to the hum of the engines as the craft takes to the sky.
If nothing else, Selene will have to buy Claudius a drink when this is all over, because slipping through the President’s mansion should be the most triggering thing ever but she doesn’t so much as twitch. There are memories everywhere, from galas and long nights doing security sweeps during her first ‘break in the newbie’ tours back in the day to card games in the break room with Scouts who are no doubt here tonight, but Selene is able to put that all aside and focus on the mission, no problem. Marius glances at her once or twice on the way in, before they slide their faceplates down, but he must be satisfied with what he sees because he only nods and goes back to checking his maps.
Petra is a whole other mess, but Selene will deal with that when she’s forced to and not a second sooner. Plus maybe if she’s lucky, Petra will get assigned to a separate safehouse and Selene will never actually have to confront her at all. Wouldn’t that make things simple.
The way in is quick and painless, not that Selene expected otherwise. Extractions rarely go south on the way in, it’s getting out that’s tricky once all the pieces are in play. She stands guard while Dash picks the lock on the servant’s entrance, lets the others file in ahead and takes up the rear. She can see the tense line of Dash’s shoulders as they make their way through - the movement of Avoxes is the only thing Rigel can’t account for, since they come and go according to the whims of the residents and not by schedule - but Selene is calm, even as she’s extra-aware of every sound. If someone discovers them, she knows what she has to do. One problem, one solution, no branching logic or complicated hypotheticals. Easy math.
And then they’re inside. “Petra first,” Brutus says in a low voice, and when Rigel glances at him he shakes his head. “Not that, I just mean she’ll take longer. Ronan and Odin, they won’t need convincing.”
“I’ll go get them,” Marius says, and slips away, leaving the four of them together. Selene almost offers to go with him, but he doesn’t ask her to and she knows what that means. Whether she likes it or not, Selene is the only other person in this room who knows Petra and might have a shot of convincing her. Selene has never managed to change Petra’s mind in their entire lives, but she has managed to annoy her into moving, and maybe that’s one of those skills a person never really forgets.
Brutus lets out a hard breath, a little shaky, and Rigel clasps his shoulder. “You’ve got this,” Rigel says, and Brutus gives him a quick, grateful smile.
Dash steps in close as they slip in through the door. “She sleeps in her pyjamas, right?” he says in an undertone. “I don’t have to close my eyes or anything?”
Selene tries to imagine Petra doing anything as carefree as sleeping naked and a wild burst of laughter tries to claw its way up her throat. “You’re fine,” she whispers back. She even remembers to sling her rifle over her shoulder at the last minute, so Petra won’t wake up to a gun pointed at her head. See, isn’t she thoughtful, Claudius should be proud.
They stand along the back corner at a respectful distance as Brutus kneels by the bed. Selene can’t help but study Petra in her sleep, the scowl puckering her forehead and sticking out her lower lip, the hand she has curled to her chest in the same way she used to hold her mace in the Arena except there are no weapons here.
Brutus hesitates - it’s weird, watching him, seeing anything but determination in his movements from someone so large and powerful, Selene feels like she should have had to pay admission - but then he reaches out and brushes a loose curl from her forehead. “Petra,” he says quietly. “Wake up.”
She does, with a start and a gasp, sitting straight up and darting back so her shoulders hit the wall, the blankets clutched between them in a barrier. “What the fuck!” Petra spits out, staring at Brutus wide-eyed, chest heaving. “What the fuck! What is this!”
“It’s me,” Brutus says, not moving. He holds his hands out, careful, placating. “Petra, it’s me, sweetheart. I’ve come to get you.”
Petra says nothing for several ragged breaths. She doesn’t miss the Peacekeepers, her gaze raking over them, hard and suspicious, and Selene has never been more glad for the opaque faceplate than when Petra’s eyes dig into hers. But then her focus turns back to Brutus, and something in her face breaks, just for a second, before she yanks it back. Not yet, Selene thinks. She won’t let herself until she knows.
“Prove it,” Petra says, raising her chin. “Tell me what I said to you.”
Brutus hisses. “Petra -”
Petra slashes one hand through the air, the gesture making Dash jump. “You think I give a shit if some random Peacekeepers know, if it means it’s really you? You know what I’m talking about. Tell me what I said.”
Dash inclines his head toward Selene, just slightly, and she lets one shoulder rise and fall in response. Whatever this is, it wasn’t in any of Petra’s files, and Selene can’t think of anything that happened before the Arena that she might have told Brutus that would have this kind of effect. Against her will, Selene finds herself intrigued, Games damn it all. Petra would laugh if she knew.
Brutus lets out a long breath, but then his shoulders set in a stubborn line and he lifts his head, as though daring any of them to say anything. Interesting. “You asked me to help you kill yourself,” he says, and oh. Oh, shit. That is not what Selene was expecting at all. “You wanted me to slip you an overdose and tell everyone you must have done it yourself when I wasn’t looking.”
His voice cracks, and Selene isn’t a Victor, she doesn’t know anything about mentors and the whole mystical bond thing they have going other than what she’s gleaned from files and glimpses while on guard duty, but - that had to hurt. She’s pretty sure that’s about on par with expecting a parent to throw their baby into traffic. She looks at Petra, who’s breathing fast, staring at him with one hand splayed to her chest, fingers pressed below her collarbone.
“But I didn’t,” Brutus says. “I told you no, and I went and I let Lyme kick the shit out of me until I got my head on straight and I stopped feeling like I’d failed you, and then I came back and I pushed you until you snapped. And I kept on pushing and you rose to meet it every fucking time, because you’re my girl and you’re amazing, sweetheart, and I have never been prouder of anyone or anything in my entire life.”
Petra swipes one hand across her eyes. “Okay,” she says, her voice wild and shaky. “Okay. So this is -”
“A rescue,” Brutus says. “Put your clothes on, honey, we’re getting out of here.”
Selene waits to see if Petra will argue, demand to know exactly what’s going on, how Brutus is alive and how he got here and what happened, but wonder of wonders, she slides out of bed without a word and starts pulling a set of clothing out of the drawers. Brutus really must be magic if he can override Petra’s deep-seated need to be difficult for no reason, Selene thinks, then immediately feels bad, because - well, of course. If she’d wanted to commit suicide and Brutus pulled her out of it, she’d probably listen to him, too.
(Well, no, Selene would say thanks and then immediately skip town so she’d never have to see him or be reminded of that experience ever again, but Petra has always been the sort of person to run headlong into her feelings, not away from them.)
Petra’s also not wearing anything except an oversized t-shirt, which means both Dash and Rigel politely turn to stare at the ceiling while she changes. Selene actually forgets she should probably look away, after all the years of changing together and seeing each other at their most raw and vulnerable, and it’s only when Petra catches her - shirt half over her head, an odd look on her face - that Selene thinks whoops and makes a point of turning around.
For someone who managed to go this long without getting caught, Selene really needs to step it up. It’s just that being in the same room with Petra after so long is … really, really weird.
At least it didn’t take very long at all to convince her to come, Selene thinks, which means her guess about Petra being scared was likely right on point. She’d half been prepared for a huge argument anyway, something about Petra having a duty to stay behind and - something, Selene can’t predict what Petra will decide is her honour-bound responsibility today, only that it’s likely to happen, but maybe they’ll actually get away without Petra pulling a Herself today.
Out in the common area, Marius has successfully roused Odin and Ronan, who are dressed and packed and ready to go. “My boy,” Odin says when he sees Brutus, his voice breaking, and he pulls Brutus in for an embrace, audience be damned, and doesn’t let go for a long time.
“I know,” Brutus says as Odin buries his face in his shoulder. “You did everything you could. I know.”
Selene shifts, almost wishing someone would burst through the door so she could shoot something. So many emotions, raw and unfettered and just … everywhere, leaking all over the place. She misses Claudius and his skittish aversion to feelings, wishes he were here so they could go spar or play target practice or have a darts competition.
“We need to leave,” Rigel says, apologetic but with a clear undertone of command. “The longer we stay, the more risk we’re taking.”
Odin pulls back and takes a deep breath. “Yes, of course,” he says, passing a hand over his eyes. “Apologies.”
Petra frowns, looking back and forth between them, and uh oh. Selene knows that face. Whatever’s coming next, nobody in this room is going to like it. “So you already have the Ones?”
Aaaand there it is.
Rigel and Marius exchange glances. “This is a priority mission,” Rigel says carefully. “The other Victors -”
“You mean you’re just going to leave them here and hope they don’t get shot or executed in the final assault, or worse,” Petra snaps, eyes blazing. “Did you even think about what will happen to them if they get left behind? Can you promise me that they’ll be safe? How do you think they’ll feel when they find out there was a rescue mission and nobody bothered to come for them?”
This time Brutus tries. “Petra, of course I want everyone safe, but my priority is you,” he says. “I’m your mentor, you have to understand that. Getting everyone out right now -”
“If you want me then you get everyone.” Petra clenches her jaw so hard a muscle jumps. “If you won’t risk it, give me a weapon and wait for me at the exit and I’ll go get them myself.”
“Petra -”
Oh for fuck’s sake. “We’re wasting time,” Selene says. “We could rescue them twice in the time it takes to change Petra’s mind on anything, so unless someone knocks her unconscious and carries her to the hovercraft in the next five seconds, I say we just go. It will be faster than trying to argue with her.”
Petra whirls on her, features set in a very familiar mix of outrage and disbelief. “Excuse you, eat shit and go fuck yourself!” she bursts out. A shocked silence falls over the group as the laughter bubbles up inside Selene again, and Petra’s mouth falls open. “I mean - that was rude, I don’t know where that came from -”
Selene does, but seeing how thirty seconds of interacting with Petra has blown her cover, she is absolutely not going to risk opening her mouth again.
Rigel clears his throat. “Extraction it is,” he says delicately. “Unfortunately, while I would rather get all of you to the hovercraft first, it will be quicker if we all go together. Let’s move quickly, please.” Before they head out, he fixes Petra with a serious stare. “If we do this, I need to know you’ll follow orders. I can rely on Brutus because he listens and he does what I tell him, because he trusts my expertise and knows I can keep him safe. I can’t do that if I’m worrying you’re going to argue with me.”
Petra actually wilts a little, which Selene would be more amazed at if she hadn’t taken the full force of Rigel and Marius’ disappointed squad commander faces more than once and knows exactly how devastating they can be. “Yes sir,” Petra says without a hint of irony. She even lets Marius place her in the middle of the protective phalanx without protesting.
The Ones, as Selene predicted, are not as sanguine about the whole thing. It takes a bit of Rigel’s charisma dialled up to 11 to convince them that they’re not one of Coin’s rebel groups here to capture them for nefarious purposes, and even then, a few of them are still suspicious and seem half ready to take their chances where they are.
“Absolutely not!” Petra snaps, stepping forward. “You all know what will happen if you stay. We don’t know what happens if we leave, but that’s better odds, isn’t it? Who picks certain death instead of uncertain survival? Meat tributes, that’s who! Are you really going to stay here and wait to be murdered and tortured and used as examples of the old regime by people who don’t give a shit about what you’ve suffered through, just because you don’t want to give me the satisfaction of having rescued you? Come with us, then you’ll have all the time in the world to call me any name you want and make sure I know I’m a self-righteous bitch and you don’t owe me anything.”
The younger Victors cross their arms, but Selene catches some of the older ones trying not to let their lips twitch. Finally Luxa steps forward, and she’s not the oldest or the leader, but something passes between her and Petra that Selene doesn’t understand. She really hopes it isn’t a sex thing, Petra always had a thing for the older female Victors in training and okay, no, abort that thought cadet.
“Let’s go,” Luxa says. “My knives are thirsty, and I know I’m not the only one.”
And that’s that. For all their glaring, the Ones are even better at following orders than Petra, and they fall in line and don’t argue or even whisper to each other as the group moves through the halls. Rigel and Marius take their time, consulting their map now and then - they memorized the layout of the alarms and everything else based on the original extraction, not the whole floor - but it’s a refresher more than anything else. They’ve got this. It’ll be fine.
They almost make it.
Selene doesn’t know what tipped them off, whether they triggered a silent alarm after all, or the security staff caught onto the spoofed footage, or an Avox spotted them and ran to tell the guards. Maybe whoever’s in charge decided to switch things up, or maybe Petra’s delay pushed them over into the middle of the night shift change and nobody realized. In the end it doesn’t really matter why, or how; either way, they’re almost at the hovercraft when they run into a squad of armed Peacekeepers.
This time, at least, they’re not blocking the way to the exit, but making a run for it now is a good way to get everyone shot in the back. The Ones are spoiling for a fight, all taut lines and arms ready at their sides, and unlike Petra they won’t have chatted with their guards on the balcony and offered them flowers. There’s blood in the air and they scent it, and Selene would call them reckless for thinking they could take on a squad of armed Peacekeepers barehanded except she knows full well that for combatants from One, every fight is a potential suicide run.
“Put down your weapons,” says the squad leader, and Selene exhales hard because that’s Troy. Of course it is, of course he’s giving them the chance to surrender instead of firing outright just like Brin, because he and Brin used to take the juniors out for drinks after graduation and he was the best at wrangling cocky twenty-year-olds without setting off Selene’s authority-buttons, and they’ve already condemned Brin to torture and execution, so why not her partner too?
Petra steps forward. “I’m going willingly,” she says. “Please, I’m scared and I don’t want to stay here. They’re taking me somewhere safe. Isn’t that what you want?”
Troy hesitates, and the two junior squad members glance at each other. Selene wracks her brain for a minute, trying to remember who they put with Troy after the last rotation, who they’d give to Petra if they wanted her safe and relaxed and comfortable, and at last it hits her. It’s Corin and Nicholas, two of the boys in their Senior year, the ones who joined the Scouts along with Selene and managed to pull the majority of the diplomatic shifts.
“Petra,” Troy says finally, “the President wants you here, where he knows you’re safe. Whatever these people have said to you, you can’t trust them. They’re traitors.”
Petra flinches, but she doesn’t move, and huh. There was a time when just hearing that word would’ve sent her into a mental breakdown. Rigel presses his advantage, but Selene tunes out the argument. She knows Troy, and he’s fond of Rigel and he has a good heart, but he isn’t Brin. He’s not a revolutionary. He’ll give them the chance to lay down their weapons and surrender but he isn’t going to walk away.
If he knew what they’d done to Brin, he wouldn’t even have given them that.
And so Selene takes the minute or so they have to mark out the terrain, checking the angles and mapping out the distance to the hovercraft, balancing the number of shots at her disposal against the number of opponents and the lack of cover for her to reload. Whatever they do, they’ll have to do it fast.
Rigel and Troy’s argument turns heated. His soldiers raise their weapons, and so does Selene, cradling the butt of her rifle between her chest and shoulder. Petra hisses and falls back without being told, and Selene is vaguely aware of her presence at her elbow before shutting it out entirely.
“Last chance,” Troy warns them. “We can put in a good word if you come willingly.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Rigel says. He’d been shouting a minute ago, but now his tone turns disappointed, almost sad. “But I can’t do that.”
He gives the order to fire. A second later, Troy’s faceplate explodes in a mess of blood and bone, and his body collapses to the ground in a heap. For a moment there’s no sound except Petra’s harsh breathing and the rattle of the empty shell casing as Selene slides the next round into her rifle’s chamber.
Then the spell breaks, and it’s tightly controlled chaos.
Selene disappears into the fight, but she doesn’t disappear, even when quarters get close and she has to abandon her guns to fight hand to hand. Even though it’s Peacekeepers - even though it’s friends - Selene keeps her head on straight, and she doesn’t slide sideways back to the Centre or her Field Exam or anywhere else, doesn’t fall away into the joy of it and start listening to the song of blood on her knuckles.
(Okay, maybe a little. She finds herself grinning once after taking one of her opponents down with a particularly slick move, and whirling to see if Petra caught it, take that - but then she brings it back, remembers sparring with Claudius and coming at him with a knife again and again, and next time she stays right here.)
And then they’re through, and running for the hovercraft, and one of the downed Peacekeepers squeezes off a few wild shots before another - Corin, Selene can’t help thinking, now that there’s some distance, he came back from his Field Exam pale and shaking and they all thought he would be cut but somehow he clung through till the end - yells, “Don’t, you’ll hit the Victors!”
And because they don’t have orders on that score - the President must not have specified “kill them if you can’t keep them here” - that hesitation is enough for Rigel and Marius to manage to get the last of the Victors on board. Selene scrambles onto the ramp after offering Petra a hand up, and as it closes and the hovercraft wheels away, she’s very conscious of the blood pounding in her ears and the fact that there’s nowhere left to hide.
Petra rounds on her immediately. “You,” she says, pointing a finger in a gesture that’s very much like Brutus and almost makes Selene laugh, if they were anywhere else. “Take your helmet off.” Selene bristles in spite of herself, but Petra only steps closer. “Selene,” she says, slowly and deliberately.
Well, fuck.
Resisting the urge to snap and tell Petra she’ll take her helmet off only if she can shove it in her stupid face (apparently Petra isn’t the only one with teenage comebacks ready and waiting to spring out unbidden), Selene reaches up and pulls her helmet off, tucking it under her arm. She keeps her expression neutral even as Petra sucks in a sharp breath, gaze flitting over her face.
“It is you,” Petra says, her expression unreadable. “That explains why hearing a random Peacekeeper’s voice made me want to punch something.”
“You’re welcome for backing you up in there,” Selene says, tamping down a spark of irritation. “And for rescuing you. And saving your life, by the way.”
“Hang on,” Brutus interjects. “What the hell is -”
They’re interrupted when Odin, quiet and forgotten in a corner of the hovercraft, collapses to the floor with a heavy thud, blood seeping between his fingers and blooming across his shirt. “It’s nothing,” Odin says, staring down at his bloodstained hand in surprise. “It’s nothing. I hardly feel it.”
Then his eyes roll back and he sinks down, unmoving, and Selene and Petra’s stupid teenage rivalry hardly matters anymore.
Brutus grips Odin’s hand in both of his, fingers slipping in blood. Odin’s gaze slides away from his, eyes fading, struggling to focus, before they fix on him. “My boy,” Odin says again. Red stains his teeth, the corners of his mouth. “I can’t believe -”
“I’m here,” Brutus says. He lifts Odin’s hand to his chest, holds it close even as it aches to breathe. “I’m okay. Everyone’s okay. Devon, Emory, Hera, everybody. They’re all safe. We got them out before the Village burned. Everyone’s fine.”
Tears leak from Odin’s eyes. He coughs, a bloody spume falling from his lips. Dash and Marius work in silence at his side, trying their best, but Brutus has seen too many Arenas, has watched too many good kids die from the mentor seat. He doesn’t need an overlay with vital signs and sponsor odds to know that if he tried to order a medkit now, the system would override it as a waste of money.
Petra sits at Odin’s head, cushioning him in her lap, her face pale and stricken. She strokes his hair back from his forehead, tugs her sleeve over her hand and curls her fingers tight to keep the fabric steady, then reaches down to wipe his mouth. Her mouth trembles but her hand is steady, and she doesn’t make eye contact and Brutus doesn’t try to make her.
“You’re safe,” Odin says again. His head falls back, eyes going distant. His grip loosens in Brutus’ fingers but Brutus holds on. He can’t let go, not yet. “I’m so glad - you’re safe.”
“I’m safe,” Brutus says. And fuck, all those times he wished he could be there for his kids while they died, bleeding out with their skulls smashed in or their guts sliced open, but here he is with the man he’s known half his life and he can’t come up with a damn useful thing to say. At least the Ones know better than to open their mouths, because whatever valid point Petra made about not leaving them behind, Brutus is really not in the mood.
His throat closes, and as much as Brutus would love to tap in deep inside himself and find the secret well of feeling that would let him spill out all his emotions in a final goodbye, he scrabbles around for awhile but comes up empty. “You made me who I am,” Brutus says finally. His eyes sting, and fuck, fuck he hates this, he hates the whole fucking war, hates knowing that this is the first time it’s touched him for real and that’s a Game-damned luxury and a privilege. “I hope I make you proud.”
“Every day.” Odin smiles, though it takes him longer to get the words out. There’s a whistle in his breath now, a rattling in his chest that means it won’t be long. Dash and Marius glance at each other but keep trying, and Brutus hopes they know how grateful he is that they keep trying even though it’s hopeless, just because it would feel wrong to sit back and wait. “And Petra -”
Petra lets out a soft noise like a whimper made of air, but either it’s too much effort to talk or Odin’s mind has wandered, because he smiles up at her but doesn’t try to say anything else. She bends down and presses their foreheads together, shoulders shaking even as her hands stay strong and steady on either side of his face.
They stay like that together until Odin’s hands fall and his face goes slack, until his chest goes still and the blood slows from his wound as his heart stops pumping. Brutus sucks in one breath, then another, aware that each new breath he takes brings him further into a new world without his mentor. Every heartbeat is one more that Odin will never take. Brutus slams down on his thoughts before they can propel him any further down the road of melodrama, he’s dealt with loss he can deal with this, he can and he will, but his mentor is dead and Brutus can’t breathe.
In front of him Petra lets out a long, shuddering exhale, and Brutus hasn’t seen his girl in months but he knows how much she wants to scream, to take all her pain and rage and fling it at the world, shout and scream and sob and swear until her throat is raw and sore and scratchy and her voice disappears into a whisper. How much she wants to rip everything down, tear apart the harnesses and throw the supply crates across the hold and rip everything she can to pieces.
Brutus also knows damn well that no matter how much Petra wants to scream, she’s not gonna do it with a hovercraft full of staring witnesses.
What she does do is hiss without raising her head. “They didn’t mean to shoot him,” she says. “They were just trying to stop us from leaving. They’d be horrified if they found out. It was a waste. This whole war, all of it, we’re all fighting and killing each other and it’s all just a fucking -”
Petra cuts herself off, and Brutus should know what to say, he’s the mentor that’s his job, he’s supposed to know what to do in every situation, but they never trained him for this. Nobody ever told him what to say when they’re sitting with his mentor dead in his lap, Odin’s blood smeared across his hands and soaking through his clothes.
Without looking up, Petra straightens her shoulders and sits back, smoothing Odin’s hair back from his forehead and cleaning the last of the blood from his face. “Now would someone like to tell me what’s going on?” she says. She’s calm now, controlled, or so she sounds. The truth of it, Brutus knows, is that she’s gone straight from furious to exhausted.
“I’ll vote for that,” says Dexter, because of course he does, and Brutus turns to give him a baleful look. “Hey, no, I’m not trying to take away from your loss here, but you were dead. I don’t suppose any of ours were faking it, either?”
(Cashmere’s blood stains the water, her hair floating in the waves. Gloss hits the rocks first and rolls, eyes open and heavy with shock -)
“No,” Brutus says, the weight of their deaths dragging him back all over again. “I’m sorry.”
Dexter crosses his arms, taps his fingers against his bicep in a gesture of unconcern that fools nobody. “Never hurts to ask. But I’m not really in the right mood to tell the story again, so -”
“I watched you die,” Ronan says crisply, and Brutus turns to him, half in shock and half in surprise that anything could penetrate the shroud of grief surrounding him. “I was there when Coriolanus ordered the Gamemakers to assassinate you as punishment for my failure to placate his ego. And now Odin has paid the price for our escape. So yes, I really would like to know what happened and who we’re dealing with. Officer, do you mind?”
“Of course,” Rigel says quickly.
Brutus eases his way out from under Odin’s weight. He doesn’t dare risk holding Petra, not in front of the others, but he’s waited this long to see her and damned if he’s going to stay at arm’s length. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says, coming around to sit beside her. “You wanna sit back? You’re gonna stick to the floor once - when all that dries.”
“He took care of me,” Petra says. For a moment she doesn’t move, but then she lets herself lean a little into Brutus’ side, almost as though she isn’t sure it’s a good idea. “While you were - when you were dead, he made sure I - he kept me going, he was - and I couldn’t save him.”
Brutus finally takes a risk and slides his arm around her, and they don’t speak until the hovercraft returns to the safe zone.
Lyme shows up two days later, grinning and not dragging anyone ahead of her on a medical stretcher or hauling bodies in bags, so they must’ve done all right. Brutus goes ahead to meet her because he figures it’s best to warn her, he’s given Petra time to get used to the idea of Lyme and Claudius being allies instead of traitors but she’s hurting, and it’s only fair that Lyme not walk into this unprepared.
“Hey,” Brutus says. Lyme looks good, pleased with herself even with the shadows under her eyes that mean she hasn’t had much rest the past few days. “How’d it go?”
“You first,” Lyme says.
Brutus swallows. “Got Petra and Ronan. Odin’s dead.”
Lyme goes still. “Oh no,” she says, and she and Odin never got along, she thought he was old-fashioned and a little sexist and he thought she was a few squirrels short of a forest, but that doesn’t matter, not with something like this. “Shit, Brutus, I’m sorry.” She runs a hand through her hair and glances back at their hovercraft as a clatter of boots sound from the inside. “I probably should’ve gone first.”
Brutus has two seconds to ask her what the hell she means by that when Katniss Everdeen, her boy, and Finnick fucking Odair exit the hovercraft, along with half a dozen soldiers and a handful of pretty-looking folks who gotta be Capitol.
“Told you I should’ve gone first,” Lyme says, shooting him an apologetic grimace. “Now you see why I couldn’t tell you ahead of time.”
Brutus can’t deal with this shit, not right now. The kids look scared and overwhelmed, the soldiers are suspicious, and Finnick looks like he needs a drink or a nap or five minutes alone with the President and a table full of pointy objects. “I’m getting out of here,” he says. “Catch me up later.”
Lyme catches his arm. “I’m sorry about Odin,” she says. “Talk later?”
“Yeah,” Brutus says. A low headache starts up at the base of his skull and winds around from his temples to the hollows of his eye sockets. “Hope you brought booze.”
Lyme punches him in the arm, and Brutus slips away before anyone recognizes him. Three people in that group were trying to kill Brutus the last time he saw them, and vice versa, and after the week he’s head, he really cannot deal with that right now.
Instead he heads for the makeshift common area, where for the first time since the Reaping, all his kids are waiting for him.