Children of Gods: Chapter One
Title: Children of Gods
Authors: olga_theodora and olga_theodora
Summary: The First Cylon War is also the last.
Fandom: BSG/The Hunger Games (see Author’s Notes)
Pairings: Bill/Laura, Sam/Kara, Lee/Kara UST, Lee/?
Rating: MA
Warnings: Non-graphic allusions to non-con and dub-con, character death.
Chapter Wordcount: 6600
Authors Notes: There are many reasons for this semi-cracktastic venture, but no excuses. “We were drinking” comes close, though. A billion gazillion thanks, yet again, to beta-extraordanaire leiascully for dealing with our many words and generally for being awesome. (She is sooo awesome).
---
PROLOGUE: THE SPARKS ASCEND
---
CHAPTER ONE: CHILDHOOD’S END
In the manner of conquerors of old, the Cylons recognized the necessity of preserving the structure of the conquered colonial society: the rigid class systems, the basic mores and culture, the religious trappings. What changes they made were grafted into place with the skill of a well-trained tailor, altering and tweaking until the new Colonial society seemingly shone stronger amidst Cylon constraints. For those with the wealth and influence to ride out the changes, there existed a new grandeur and power, and- it must be said- a sense of instability that gave life a certain zest. If the human upper-class flaunted their wealth and ease as if there was no tomorrow, that was because there very well might not be one. It was from among these families who flourished and floundered at the whim of those at the very top that the various Cylon copies took their wives and husbands, realizing early on that not only was the facade of a family life paramount in establishing their dominion, but also that interbreeding had thus far proven the only way to establish a line of descendants. As President Cavil once infamously stated to Thomas Zarek, “Copies are all well and good for the business of conquering, but when the dust settles it is best to cut back on the competition and think of oneself.”
It was with this thought in mind that Cavil considered carefully the idea of allowing a Seven, Daniel by name, to found a new House. He thought the Sevens to be a gentler model than was necessarily called for in war, but in this time of peace even Cavil admitted that the Sevens had proven themselves in matters of Peacekeeping and general societal morale. It had been a Seven, after all, who had reopened the grand theatres of Caprica City and begun to broadcast concerts and plays to the other planets, which had produced a noticeably beneficial effect on the general populace. Cavil was not a proponent of allowing the masses to be too happy, but he knew that the occasional sop of seeming kindness would go far in minimizing the threat of insurgents. On the other hand, it had been the Sevens who, to a man, voted against the creation of Cavil’s pride and joy: the Games. They had been joined by a number of the Sixes and a smattering of nearly every other model, as expected, but such an act made the Sevens dangerous.
Still, Cavil appreciated taking risks now and again and he was familiar with the power of a well-placed bribe. Thus, thirty years after taking power, he invested Daniel with all the rights of a leading member of society, albeit one slightly lower on the hierarchy than certain favored members of the Consortium. Shortly after this, Cavil introduced him to the daughter of an old Caprican family, Socrata Plataea. Taking the name of Thrace, Daniel sired a daughter, who was born during the climax of the 33rd Games under the sign of Ophiuchus, her umbilical cord caught tight in the grasp of her fist.
-From The Cylon Annals by P. Tacitus
---
Year 45 of the Unified Era
Kara Thrace is three months shy of her twelfth birthday when she first truly realizes that life is subject to violent, immutable change. As the daughter of a member of the upper echelon of society, she has grown up amongst the young aristocracy of Caprica City, the pampered and made-much-of heirs to the noble houses of the Cylons. Never much of a girl for satin and lace, she is more often to be found in the rough and tumble clothing of a girl far below her station, to the amusement of her father and the silent disdain of her mother.
One sunny summer day Socrata takes her daughter by the hand and leads her to the grandest temple in Caprica City. She has dressed a reluctant Kara in a dress of blue silk and hand-tatted Leonis lace, and though Kara drags her feet in anticipation of an afternoon of boredom, she does not expect her mother to lead her straight up to a priest in a sweeping black robe and say, “Father Leoben, this is my tithe.”
Perhaps it is Socrata’s frustration with a girl who cannot seem to learn her place, perhaps it is the envy she feels toward the child who so often holds the attention of the husband she has unexpectedly learned to love, but with little regard to the suddenly stricken face of her child she thrusts Kara forward into the hands of the priest, who receives her with deceptively gentle hands that take her shoulders in an iron grip.
Some wild, glad emotion flickers in Leoben’s eyes, but he simply says, “I am glad that Brother Daniel is making such a great gift to the faith.”
“He is not! He doesn’t know we’re here!” Kara argues, glaring up at the priest. After her latest growth spurt she does not have to look up a great deal to meet his eyes, but caught in her current situation she feels as small and as helpless as an stumbling toddler.
Leoben makes a show of frowning slightly. “While there are no rules against it, we do prefer the tithe to come with the agreement of both parents,” he reminds Socrata, enjoying the way the girl tenses in his grip. Admittedly, his interest in her for the past few years has been for quite a different purpose- he has his own descendants to think of, after all- but even with the girl as a tithe he has options. He has set new precedents before, and will set them again.
Though even he admits that she would make an exceptional Hybrid. Half-breed children always do.
Taking advantage of the way his hands loosen slightly in the midst of reverie, Kara rips herself from his grasp, leaving a handful of lace in his hands as she darts out of the temple and into the crowded street, ignoring her mother’s threats and the shouts of the Peacekeepers who try in vain to keep up with her.
Three days later she hides with her father in an abandoned barn a few miles from Delphi, fugitives from the Peacekeepers who would ensure that Socrata’s tithe- considered valid by not only the church but also President Cavil- be kept. After nearly three months of living wild in the forest, she saunters arrogantly one day into the offices of the Peacemakers in Delphi, clad in a ragged shirt of her father’s and her hair hacked off at the nape of her neck. Now safely past the all-important twelfth birthday, when a child moves from being a potential tithe to a potential Tribute, they can do no more than send her home scowling to her mother, unable even to force her to admit the whereabouts of her traitorous father.
The House of Thrace is summarily destroyed and the copies of Seven with it. Socrata moves Kara to the small coastal town of Qualai where Kara learns the price of filial disobedience: hunger, and the weight of her mother’s fists.
There is no money and Socrata has never touched spade or shovel in her life, so the first winter they nearly starve in the cold shack that is all they can afford. For Socrata, it is an appalling turn of fate that can be traced directly back to her daughter, who finds herself hiding bruises beneath long sleeves and high necks to avoid questions at the small school presided over by the resident school teacher. For Kara- despite deprivation and the cruel mistreatment of her mother- there is an unexpected air of freedom that she first tasted in the woods of Caprica with her father.
In Kara’s second spring in Qualai she researches local edible plants and learns how to fish. On one memorable day the sons of the local Peacekeeper teach her the basics of pyramid, a sport at which she instinctively excels. When she arrives home covered with dirt and flushed with success, Socrata greets her at the door with a lecture on the importance of remembering her station and takes a belt to her backside.
The next time the Adama boys ask her to play pyramid, she tells them to eat dirt and runs into the woods.
---
Year 47 of the Unified Era
At fourteen Kara Thrace is a gangly teenager most often found in the woods near the schoolhouse, and rarely, if ever, found sitting in her very own kitchen. This is partially because she cannot abide to be near her own mother, and partially because she would be expected to cook.
There is a particular grove of trees near the house of the local Peacekeeper that makes an admirable pyramid court; the limbs part in such a way that she can almost imagine herself in the big stadium, facing off against the Caprica Buccaneers. Many an afternoon and evening is spent at that grove as she twists and dodges around imaginary opponents, occasionally making her own commentary.
On one ordinary afternoon she is narrating in a very enthusiastic tone, detailing her own imaginary take-down of the current 'Bucs champion- a young man fresh from the arena- when the ball slips from her grasp and flies with unerring accuracy towards a figure in uniform half-hidden beneath a nearby tree. The man catches the ball easily and offers her a small smile.
“Afternoon, Kara,” the Peacekeeper Commander says, testing the heft of the ball between his hands. “That was an excellent throw that you made, a minute ago.”
Kara has met Bill Adama before- it would be hard not to, given how often she ends up in the company of his sons- but she cannot say that she has ever really spoken to him personally beyond customary greetings. “Sir,” she says respectfully, suddenly aware that her pants are a good inch too short and her shirt has seen better days. “Err. Thank you.”
He tosses the ball in the air, noting that it needs a bit of air. “Why don’t you ever play with us?” he asks, studiously avoiding her eyes, playing the entire situation casually. “You and me against the boys- we would win.” He smiles directly at her, and tosses the ball in her direction. She catches it easily, unsure as to how she should respond. She does not involve herself in families, as a rule. The smoking ruins of her own is more than enough to handle.
“I have schoolwork,” she demurs. “I study. A lot.”
A lie. Kara is by no means the worst student in her class, but if she were to be honest, her grades could benefit from looking at her books more than once in a while. From the amused expression on his face, she deduces that he knows this already, and silently curses her loose tongue. Of course his wife has told him about her students. In her experience, functional families involve everyone always entangled in the affairs of everyone else in the family unit.
It does not cross her mind at that point that any family would look functional in comparison to her own.
“Come on,” he says, slinging an arm around her shoulder in a move that somehow immediately reads as friendly and non-threatening. “Laura told me she made too much for dinner; if you don’t come she’ll force-feed the rest of us.”
She is not sure how serious he is about the force-feeding. On the one hand, she is fairly sure that he is joking. On the other, Laura Roslin Adama is a force to be reckoned with, in or out of the classroom. Warily she allows him to lead her back to the cozy house near the woods, where they are greeted by an enthusiastic Jake. He is not much more than a puppy, but already large enough to make Kara sway under the onslaught of affection. Were it not for the arm around her back, she thinks she would have ended up on the ground.
Billy spots them first. “Mom!” he cries, dropping his bicycle carelessly on the lawn. “They’re back!”
Kara begins to suspect a plot. “She just happened to make too much food?”
He gives her an innocent look, which is undermined by the sparkle in his eyes. “That woman does not know anything about realistic portions,” he says in reply. “Leftovers last for days, even after the kids fill their spare legs.” He gives her a conspiratorial look and lowers his voice. “I am so incredibly tired of eating the same meal for lunch for a week.”
She pretends to believe him.
The kitchen might have been a large room when the house was uninhabited, but Kara’s first impression when she walks in is of cheery clutter and mayhem. She has never considered herself a particularly quiet person, but she finds herself wondering how the headmistress of her school can cook in the same room as three rambunctious teenage and pre-teenage boys and still look amused by their antics. Especially since- as Kara well knows- this very day three different students started three different fist-fights, the entire preschool class decoupaged their coloring pages to a classroom wall while a substitute teacher tried desperately to keep order, the parents of one student made a very public fuss about the contents of an assigned book, and a much-beloved history teacher disappeared without a trace at some point before dawn.
Other than the disappearance- not an uncommon occurrence in the Colonies, but not a daily event, either- it had been a typical day, which is to say incredibly busy and not helped along at all by Kara herself. The woman obviously has the patience of a saint. Kara suddenly wishes to be anywhere but here, because saintliness is not in her repertoire.
Laura looks up at this moment and flashes a smile. “Good. Sit.” She gently cuffs the back of Zak’s head as he makes (to Kara’s count, but then, she entered the room late in the game) his fourth circuit of the table at a run. “Everyone, sit before I make you.”
The three boys drop into random chairs, apparently unwilling to test the edge of steel in her voice. Kara takes a seat next to Lee and wonders if she will survive the next hour.
In spite of the strict system of rationing that the Cylons use to control food allocation among the human populace, dinner is excellent, and Billy and Zak are enthusiastic enough about their latest project (something about time travel, as best Kara can determine) to completely derail any attempt for table-wide conversation. Kara, feeling well-pleased about herself, sits up and eats her fill, happy to be at a well-stocked table for once. With her attention directed toward her plate, she completely misses the satisfied expression Laura shares with Bill.
It is after dinner, when the few leftovers are tucked away in the fridge and the dishes are safely loaded into the dishwasher that her luck runs out. Laura’s hand snags her shoulder as she attempts to slip out the door after the boys.
Kara remembers her manners, albeit belatedly. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”
“I’m glad.” Laura tips her head slightly to the side, studying her. “I was searching through my book collection yesterday, looking for... well, I didn’t find it, but I did find something I thought you would like.” Her arm slides companionably over Kara’s shoulders, and some portion of Kara’s mind wonders how these people can get away with touching her without inspiring her typical scornful reaction. Laura steers Kara into a small library down the hall, stepping over several pairs of discarded shoes along the way. Laura waves her hand dismissively at them. “The boys have never really mastered the art of putting things away,” she says dryly. “Their rooms: horror shows.”
The library is small, but every inch of wall-space has been covered by filled bookshelves. Laura plucks a small volume off the desk in the middle of the room, a desk covered with what looks to be a ream of school-related paperwork. Laura quirks a small smile as she looks at the stack. “I might not have accepted the position of headmistress if I had realized the amount of paperwork needed in triplicate.” She taps the top page in the stack. “Nowhere near as interesting as student papers.” She hands the book to Kara. “It was my favorite, as a girl.”
Kara thinks she can detect a small amount of strain in Laura’s voice, and is not terribly surprised. She knows a little of Laura’s history, has seen retrospectives of her Games and the inevitable ‘where-are-they-now’ segments. Victors, in general, tend to be an unstable lot, and their lives often tainted by personal or familial tragedy. Her father had said...
She shakes her head slightly, not willing to follow that path of thought. In her hands is a worn copy of Through the Looking Glass. She vaguely remembers her father reading it to her, half a lifetime ago. “Thank you,” she says softly, already thinking of possible hiding places. She cannot bring it into the house; her mother would either destroy it or sell it. “I’ll get it back to you safely.”
Laura’s hands settle over hers. “It’s a gift,” she says. “I want you to have it.”
Kara is not comfortable with the idea of honest emotion, but by the ache in the base of her throat she realizes unwelcome tears are in her future. Perhaps Laura realizes this, or perhaps her own emotions are too close to the surface, but she suddenly releases Kara’s hands and smiles brightly. “Still enough light left to run off some energy with Lee and the rest. Get to it.”
Kara parts company with a minimum of words, stumbling out the door and into the hazy twilight in a somewhat shaken mood. She tucks the small book in one of her over-sized pockets, deciding that she will wrap the book in a square of plastic and leave it in a nook near her pyramid trees. It would be safer in the schoolhouse, at least from the elements, but she has had possessions disappear from her locker in the past.
She feels disjointed and ready to work off her unbidden emotion by causing a little trouble, so when Lee runs up to her with a dare she immediately accepts, much to the glee of his siblings.
“Bet you can’t climb the trellis to the roof in under thirty seconds,” he says with a grin, pointing toward the roses clambering up one corner of the house.
At this point Kara would be willing to claim that she can climb anything in thirty seconds, including the local bell-tower. “Just you watch, Adama,” she brags, approaching the trellis. “I can climb anything.”
It ends badly, but then, such bets usually do.
---
Year 50 of the Unified Era
It’s the afternoon before a debate team practice, and Lee has a thousand other things on his mind to distract him from the televised announcement in the town square. Most people watch from home or their offices, but all those of age to be chosen in Tribute must attend the formal gathering in their communities across the worlds. It is a surprisingly spare event aside from the huge screen hastily put up on a temporary scaffold in the corner of the square. He stands with his brothers, who are bickering genially about something or other, impatient to have the uncomfortable, deeply depressing event over with.
The mayor implores the crowd to be quiet (a futile effort, given the fact that it is a group almost entirely comprised of teenagers) and Lee sourly notes that being oppressed by the Cylons is bad enough without it frakking up his extracurricular plans. Lee’s mind is still elsewhere when his attention is forcibly wrenched back to reality as Gauis Baltar, Governor of Caprica, flashes across the screen. Baltar makes an awkward speech about the great glories of being a unified and peaceful society (both descriptions which elicit dubious glances and eye rolls from the audience at large) before pressing a button on a small circular device which will draw the first name at random.
“The first Caprican Tribute,” the Governor’s nasal voice announces, “is William Roslin Adama!”
The words fly out of Lee’s mouth before he is consciously aware of deciding to speak them.
“I volunteer!”
Lee and Zak shout the same words at the same time. Billy is trying to fight them off and make his way through the crowd, but at seventeen, Lee is the oldest, and it is his duty to take care of them both. Which is why he sucker-punches Zak before Zak can shout out a second time, and why he shoves Billy to the ground, screaming in his face, “You stay there!”
He turns and hastily shoves his way through the crowd as he advances to the platform. Fights break out in his wake as others are blamed for pushing. He makes sure to keep his eyes forward, his chin up, and refuses the overwhelming urge to look back. Their part of the crowd is so disoriented and absorbed by the fracas that no one has heard the female tribute announced.
When Lee turns around on the stage, Kara Thrace’s expression mirrors his own.
---
Of the few people who are allowed to speak to him before the Raptor whisks them off to Caprica City -- devastated father, guilt-ridden brothers -- it is only his step-mother who looks at him with steel in her eyes and a quiet resolve. Lee knows about her Games, both from the annual highlight reels and his brothers’ insatiable curiosity. Although Laura had forbidden them from watching her competition, Billy and Zak had dug up an old copy some years before and attempted an ill-fated viewing. It had not gone over well.
Still, he knows how the little red-haired girl from Delphi defied the odds; how she called out the President right there in the Arena, refused to kill another tribute.
“Be strong. Be brave.” she says evenly before her resolve cracks and she pulls him into her arms. “Oh, Lee. I’m sorry.” She holds him very tightly for a moment, then kisses his forehead and walks out.
---
A funereal air has settled on their home that night when Bill finds Laura in their bedroom. He shuts the door to keep their voices from being overheard by Zak and Billy. Laura has always kept her secrets closely guarded.
She can see in his eyes the one question he has never asked her, never pushed at or tried to elicit. The unspoken matter hovers between them now, as clear as daybreak. She knows he will ask, just as she knows that when he does, she will answer, and it will probably destroy them both that much more to imagine Lee in the Arena.
“Tell me about your Games.”
Laura’s eyes close heavily.
---
Without so much as a word between them, they are lead to a Raptor waiting on the wide lawn. Lee gets one last whiff of the salt sea breeze before the stark metal enclosure is sealed and the pilots begin prep for takeoff.
He buckles himself in they way he remembers from his father’s many guided tours of the Peacekeeper Headquarters. It is only when Lee’s hands have nothing more to do that his eyes settle on Kara Thrace.
“Caprica City,” she drawls, cocking her head. “No place like home.”
---
“From the beginning, the mentors encourage you to work as team,” Laura explains. “It’s the best way to ensure success early in the Games. Work together, or die alone.”
---
The Raptor soars along the coast, passing houses and towns and marinas that Lee has never seen. Kara seems more inclined to study the pilots’ manual than the changing scenery that neither of them will likely ever see again. Lee, though, cannot tear his eyes away. The last gull; the last flash of a lighthouse beacon; the last fishing vessel, bobbing on the waves.
“I guess it’s you and me, huh?” Kara says. Lee looks over at her, surprised to find her studying him, the manual open, forgotten, in her hands.
“I guess it is.” He presses his forehead to the glass and doesn’t speak for the rest of the journey.
---
“The propaganda begins the moment you arrive in Caprica City. Some of it is broadcast to get the momentum and hype moving. You’ve seen it: the Gamemakers make a speech full of pretty words like ‘honor’ and ‘pride’ and ‘service.’ It’s such celebrity, I suppose, the way you’re handled. For every pair of Tributes there is a kind of escort, someone to navigate protocols and tell you what side of you the cameras like best and who to flirt with to win esteem with the judges.”
---
The Raptor settles at the top of a high, shining building near the waterfront. Lee has never been to Caprica City before; the sheer size and density of the Colonies' central authority is jaw-dropping. For miles and miles beyond their perch he can see only more buildings, roads, factories, ports. Ships land and depart from a spaceport in the distance; cars jostle along the roads below; shining elevators rise through glass skyscrapers. It is as if the city itself is a machine and its inhabitants all the moving parts of a single, massive thing. It is amazing, and baffling.
The Raptor hatch opens. Lee carefully makes his way out onto the wing, jumping to the tarmac below. He helps Kara down a moment later, and is brushing off his hands when a blonde, smiling woman in a pink suit and what can only be uncomfortably high heels, teeters over to them.
“Hello,” she says, her smile as wide and polished as a runway model. “You must be Lee and Kara.”
When neither of them reply, the woman goes on, her smile never wavering as though it is fastened in place. “I’m Ellen Tigh. I’ll be your escort for the Games.”
---
“Cavil created the Games to remind humanity of its subservience,” Laura says, her eyes unfocused and far-away. To lose herself in memories of the Games is to visit a dark place that she has tried very hard to forget. Even with Bill’s strong arms around her, keeping her tethered to the present, “Each element of the production reinforces that goal. Tributes almost never look they way that they appear on the screens before the Games start. They cut your hair, paint your skin and lips like a doll. For the stylists it is an art, but it is an art demanded by the state, and therefore soulless.” She takes a shuddering breath.
“First they take your appearance, which by then is about the only familiar thing you have left. And then they take your name.”
---
“You’ll follow me, please.” Ellen Tigh’s heels clip almost violently as Lee and Kara follow her down a stark, modern hallway of dark, shining marble and glass.
“Normally, the Gamemakers -- they’re the bunch who dream up the challenges each year,” Ellen explains.
“Really?” Kara’s voice is deadpan, but Lee can hear her unspoken snark.
“Of course. As I was saying, normally the Head Gamemaker welcomes you all with a speech at Apollo Park, which you’ll recall from previous Games. Lucky for you two, this year they’ve put off the welcoming ceremony until after your fittings and evaluations. It won’t be until a few days before the Games open.” She leans into them and drops her voice, as if sharing a great bit of gossip. “I think they’re working on a big surprise for this year’s tournament.”
Kara gives Lee a quick, wide-eyed look that says quite plainly Oh, frak.
“Oh, and before I forget,” Ellen removes a black velvet bag attached to her clipboard and pulls out a long chain. No, two long chains. She holds one out to each of them.
“‘Starbuck,’” Kara reads.
Lee looks down at his own. Apollo is neatly etched into the thin silver octagon.
“Your Game names, silly,” Ellen says in her sing-song, cajoling voice, as if speaking to kindergartners.
Of course.
---
Bill presses a kiss to her neck, standing behind her; his arms tighten around her middle, keeping her grounded. “What was yours?”
“My what?”
“Your callsign, or whatever it is. The name they gave you.”
“Oh. Mine was Aurora.”
Bill is for a moment quiet, idly tracing irreverent patterns on the skin of her wrist. “Aurora,” he rumbles, his lips tracing over her pulse point. “Goddess of the dawn.”
“A stupid name,” she scoffs.
“No,” Bill says, kissing her again. “It’s beautiful.”
She leans against his temple as he holds her close, swatting his arm gently at the way he deliberately tickles her neck with the whiskers in his moustache, smiling in spite of herself.
“Go on,” he implores.
---
Kara lets the dog-tag with her new call sign slip beneath her shirt, where it rests like a shard of ice between her breasts. Soon enough the metal will warm, but for the moment it is foreign to her body. In the past five years she has not worn a single piece of jewelry; they were not allowed to take any with them when Cavil exiled her family. She glances covertly at Lee from the corner of her vision and finds him still examining the dog-tag with a worried frown as they continue down the hall.
Ellen Tigh shepherds them into an elevator which shoots up fifty floors, and when the door opens she hesitates before leading them into the private suite of rooms that will be their quarters for the next week. A man roughly the age of Lee’s father waits for them there, a glass of something dark and doubtlessly alcoholic on a nearby table. Both Lee and Kara recognize him on sight: Saul Tigh, the victor of the 20th Game and (presumably) the husband of their blonde escort.
Kara notes that while the Tighs do wear matching rings, the nod they exchange is cautious and tinged with a spectrum of emotions she has trouble pinpointing: there is resentment, to be sure, and frustration, but lurking beneath all of that is what might be a futile longing. Ellen clasps her hands nervously and one foot taps subtly against the floor, the first visible signs of anxiety Kara has seen from her.
“This is your mentor, Saul Tigh.” She pauses for a brief moment, as if unsure whether to reveal anything else. Finally she beams a practiced smile and says with false pride, “My husband.”
Lee glances over at Kara, hoping to catch her eye, and finds her slouching against the wall, her face a portrait of utter boredom.
---
“I was introduced to my mentor, Saul Tigh. Do you remember him?”
Bill is silent, remembering the 20th Games. Over the course of three days, 23 tributes bled out their lives in an abandoned university complex on Libran. The female Caprican tribute had been the best friend of one of his young cousins, and the cameras had taken a voyeuristic glee in replaying in slow motion her suicidal leap from the top of the bell tower. Near midnight of the third day Saul Tigh had stabbed the last tribute with a shard of mirror, so filled with coursing adrenaline that he never seemed to notice the loss of his eye in the final fight.
Laura shakes her head slightly, and grasps his hand tightly. “I would be lying if I said he was kind, but after 13 years of sending children to near-certain death, I did not expect him to be.”
“He was helpful, though?”
“He was honest.”
---
Ellen quickly excuses herself, explaining with a bright smile that she has to brief the stylists. She strokes a hand over Kara’s short locks on her way out the door, chattering something about giving them a lot to work on. Kara has to restrain herself from snapping at the hand, and sees Lee trying to repress a smile.
Saul studies them in silence, his gaze so penetrating that Kara feels as if he knows her from the inside out. After several long minutes, he tosses back the contents of his glass and begins to pace the floor around them. “Fishermen and amateur Pyramid players,” he grumbles. “I’ve never met a one who could parley those skills into something useful. You kids seem to think that you can persuade the Gamemakers to see the error of their ways, or find a hiding place and wait everyone out, never raising a weapon.” He grabs Kara’s right arm and examines the muscle there as she grits her teeth in annoyance. “Well, Tory Foster may have gotten away with that little trick, but even she had to cut a few throats at the end.” He finishes his inspection and grunts in what seems to be mild approval. “Never had a hybrid chosen before,” he comments, and Kara suspects that this is his way of being subtle.
Lee looks somewhat confused, which she doesn’t find surprising. She has never attempted to hide her parentage, but she has never volunteered it, either. Surely his father and stepmother knew, but they obviously had not passed on that bit of information.
Her only reply to his comment is a defiant stare.
“Could be an advantage, is all I’m saying,” he mutters, and moves away to inspect Lee.
---
“What strategy did your mentor suggest?”
Laura sits at the end of the bed, absently tracing the quilted lines on the blanket. “He said I was good with a bow,” she says dully. “He told me to stick to the heights and aim for the heart. I was too idealistic to listen.”
---
Saul does not choose to linger long in their company. After finishing his initial evaluations, he retreats to one of the rooms off the living area, slamming the door behind him. Lee moves to the window and considers the view. From their suite they are able to see a long stretch of metal, glass and immaculately clipped greenery, all rose-tinted by the setting sun: the sprawling eastern quadrant of what was once Graystone Industries. Though the buildings have undergone extensive work to make them fit for living and training, Lee thinks that they still have the air of cubicle farm and research station about them, and suspects that once upon a time this room was the office of a highly-ranked executive.
Kara takes a moment to examine their immediate surroundings inside the room, noting the sleek, spare lines of the furniture and the tastefully chosen colors. The whole picture is too clean for her, too prim, and she tosses her jacket haphazardly onto a small table. Better.
Lee looks as if he is repressing the desire to hang her jacket neatly in a closet somewhere. After a moment of indecision he unbuttons his own jacket and tosses it on a chair. There is a small kitchen stocked with the makings of a cold dinner, though Kara notes that there is not a knife or a fork to be found, sharp or dull. There is also not a drop to drink other than water; their mentor must have cached the liquor in his own room.
“Fingers or spoons only, I guess,” she comments in an off-hand manner, a chicken leg in one hand and an apple in the other.
“It’s an automatic death sentence for tributes to kill each other before the opening of the Games,” Lee replies absently, searching in vain for something capable of slicing bread. As Kara shakes her head, he gives up and tears the loaf apart by hand.
“They’re not worried about tributes killing each other,” she says bluntly. “They’re worried about suicide. Doesn’t look good to the folks at home when scared kiddies would rather slash their wrists behind a locked door than die in a blaze of glory in the arena.”
Lee looks at her sharply at this statement, realizing that she speaks the truth. “Do you think that there are sheets on the beds?”
She looks amused. “They're trying to put on a show of civility. Civilized people don’t sleep on bare mattresses.” She wanders off into one of the unclaimed bedrooms, appearing again a moment later looking aggrieved. “The sheets are pink. You sleep in that room, Lee.”
“They could be pink in the other room, too,” he points out. He personally cannot bring himself to care about the color of the sheets; he himself slept on pink sheets for years after Zak accidentally threw a red shirt in with the whites. He still remembers Laura’s small smirk the first time she handed him a stack of newly-dyed underwear.
He can tell that the thought had not occurred to Kara, because she immediately flies into the other unclaimed room, emerging in seconds looking relieved. “Gray. I’ll fight you for it.”
“Time enough for that later,” he says simply. She stills momentarily, then tosses the chicken bone in the trash and reaches for a chunk of bread.
Neither sleeps well that night. At three in the morning Kara awakes from a half-remembered nightmare. Tangled in gray sheets, she catches her breath and tries not to think about how easily a sheet can be knotted into a noose.
---
Early in their attraction, Laura had realized that Bill did not know who she was.
A training mission, she eventually learned, in the icy, windswept mountains of northern Aquaria had prevented him from seeing anything of the 34th Colonial Games. It had kept him out of touch for weeks, and by the time he’d returned to Caprica, he’d had far more pressing matters at hand than to catch up on the events of the tournament. Namely, a pregnant ex-girlfriend and a somewhat literal shotgun wedding.
Despite the catastrophic marriage that had resulted, Laura was never been more grateful for the Fates’ guiding hands. With Bill, she exists only as she is now, as he has known her. No looks of contempt from non-Capricans, no flickers of reverence and revulsion as someone in town places her, which (thankfully) happens less and less these days. She is only Laura, teacher and mother. Not Aurora the Caprican Tribute, who killed seven of her peers in a fight to the death.
By Bill’s intense expression she can tell there is more on his mind. A question that he wants to ask and, so very clearly, does not want to hear the answer to. “Do either of them stand a chance?”
Her voice sounds very far away as she weighs their strengths and weaknesses aloud. “Kara has so much anger. That will be useful in the arena. But she’s unpredictable. Reckless.”
“And Lee?”
“Lee...” her voice cracks as she says his name. Their headstrong idealist. “He’s too much like I was at that age. Always wanting to do the right thing, not the smart thing. By some mathematical absurdity I managed to win my Games; it was a fluke. Some fortuitous combination of luck and animal instinct. Each of the Games has been more vicious than the last. He won’t win by chance the way I did. But,” she reasons, “he’s strong. And clever. Saul will encourage him to make alliances with the Tributes who have trained for this their whole lives. Work together, avoid being caught at a moment of weakness. That’s probably the best advantage he can hope for.”
They fall into silence as the truth of the matter hangs in the air like a funeral dirge. To support Lee is to support Kara’s death, and vice versa. The cost of victory can only be paid in blood.
---
Coming next week in Chapter Two...
Billy gestures vaguely in the air with his index finger, honing in on the crux of his argument. “So the real question is: Why would they want me in the Games? I’m not one of the strongest of the kids who spend their lives training to become a champion, so this isn’t about pride or glory and the triumph of Caprica. And if I’m not a winner, then I’m dead. If Kara’s not the winner, she’s dead. The odds are stacked against both of us.”
Billy pauses, though she already knows what is coming next. “Why would the President want me dead?” He looks up at her, searching her expression. “The only answer that makes sense to me is as punishment.”
Gods forgive me, Laura thinks.
“Mom...what have you been doing?"
Authors: olga_theodora and olga_theodora
Summary: The First Cylon War is also the last.
Fandom: BSG/The Hunger Games (see Author’s Notes)
Pairings: Bill/Laura, Sam/Kara, Lee/Kara UST, Lee/?
Rating: MA
Warnings: Non-graphic allusions to non-con and dub-con, character death.
Chapter Wordcount: 6600
Authors Notes: There are many reasons for this semi-cracktastic venture, but no excuses. “We were drinking” comes close, though. A billion gazillion thanks, yet again, to beta-extraordanaire leiascully for dealing with our many words and generally for being awesome. (She is sooo awesome).
---
PROLOGUE: THE SPARKS ASCEND
---
CHAPTER ONE: CHILDHOOD’S END
In the manner of conquerors of old, the Cylons recognized the necessity of preserving the structure of the conquered colonial society: the rigid class systems, the basic mores and culture, the religious trappings. What changes they made were grafted into place with the skill of a well-trained tailor, altering and tweaking until the new Colonial society seemingly shone stronger amidst Cylon constraints. For those with the wealth and influence to ride out the changes, there existed a new grandeur and power, and- it must be said- a sense of instability that gave life a certain zest. If the human upper-class flaunted their wealth and ease as if there was no tomorrow, that was because there very well might not be one. It was from among these families who flourished and floundered at the whim of those at the very top that the various Cylon copies took their wives and husbands, realizing early on that not only was the facade of a family life paramount in establishing their dominion, but also that interbreeding had thus far proven the only way to establish a line of descendants. As President Cavil once infamously stated to Thomas Zarek, “Copies are all well and good for the business of conquering, but when the dust settles it is best to cut back on the competition and think of oneself.”
It was with this thought in mind that Cavil considered carefully the idea of allowing a Seven, Daniel by name, to found a new House. He thought the Sevens to be a gentler model than was necessarily called for in war, but in this time of peace even Cavil admitted that the Sevens had proven themselves in matters of Peacekeeping and general societal morale. It had been a Seven, after all, who had reopened the grand theatres of Caprica City and begun to broadcast concerts and plays to the other planets, which had produced a noticeably beneficial effect on the general populace. Cavil was not a proponent of allowing the masses to be too happy, but he knew that the occasional sop of seeming kindness would go far in minimizing the threat of insurgents. On the other hand, it had been the Sevens who, to a man, voted against the creation of Cavil’s pride and joy: the Games. They had been joined by a number of the Sixes and a smattering of nearly every other model, as expected, but such an act made the Sevens dangerous.
Still, Cavil appreciated taking risks now and again and he was familiar with the power of a well-placed bribe. Thus, thirty years after taking power, he invested Daniel with all the rights of a leading member of society, albeit one slightly lower on the hierarchy than certain favored members of the Consortium. Shortly after this, Cavil introduced him to the daughter of an old Caprican family, Socrata Plataea. Taking the name of Thrace, Daniel sired a daughter, who was born during the climax of the 33rd Games under the sign of Ophiuchus, her umbilical cord caught tight in the grasp of her fist.
-From The Cylon Annals by P. Tacitus
---
Year 45 of the Unified Era
Kara Thrace is three months shy of her twelfth birthday when she first truly realizes that life is subject to violent, immutable change. As the daughter of a member of the upper echelon of society, she has grown up amongst the young aristocracy of Caprica City, the pampered and made-much-of heirs to the noble houses of the Cylons. Never much of a girl for satin and lace, she is more often to be found in the rough and tumble clothing of a girl far below her station, to the amusement of her father and the silent disdain of her mother.
One sunny summer day Socrata takes her daughter by the hand and leads her to the grandest temple in Caprica City. She has dressed a reluctant Kara in a dress of blue silk and hand-tatted Leonis lace, and though Kara drags her feet in anticipation of an afternoon of boredom, she does not expect her mother to lead her straight up to a priest in a sweeping black robe and say, “Father Leoben, this is my tithe.”
Perhaps it is Socrata’s frustration with a girl who cannot seem to learn her place, perhaps it is the envy she feels toward the child who so often holds the attention of the husband she has unexpectedly learned to love, but with little regard to the suddenly stricken face of her child she thrusts Kara forward into the hands of the priest, who receives her with deceptively gentle hands that take her shoulders in an iron grip.
Some wild, glad emotion flickers in Leoben’s eyes, but he simply says, “I am glad that Brother Daniel is making such a great gift to the faith.”
“He is not! He doesn’t know we’re here!” Kara argues, glaring up at the priest. After her latest growth spurt she does not have to look up a great deal to meet his eyes, but caught in her current situation she feels as small and as helpless as an stumbling toddler.
Leoben makes a show of frowning slightly. “While there are no rules against it, we do prefer the tithe to come with the agreement of both parents,” he reminds Socrata, enjoying the way the girl tenses in his grip. Admittedly, his interest in her for the past few years has been for quite a different purpose- he has his own descendants to think of, after all- but even with the girl as a tithe he has options. He has set new precedents before, and will set them again.
Though even he admits that she would make an exceptional Hybrid. Half-breed children always do.
Taking advantage of the way his hands loosen slightly in the midst of reverie, Kara rips herself from his grasp, leaving a handful of lace in his hands as she darts out of the temple and into the crowded street, ignoring her mother’s threats and the shouts of the Peacekeepers who try in vain to keep up with her.
Three days later she hides with her father in an abandoned barn a few miles from Delphi, fugitives from the Peacekeepers who would ensure that Socrata’s tithe- considered valid by not only the church but also President Cavil- be kept. After nearly three months of living wild in the forest, she saunters arrogantly one day into the offices of the Peacemakers in Delphi, clad in a ragged shirt of her father’s and her hair hacked off at the nape of her neck. Now safely past the all-important twelfth birthday, when a child moves from being a potential tithe to a potential Tribute, they can do no more than send her home scowling to her mother, unable even to force her to admit the whereabouts of her traitorous father.
The House of Thrace is summarily destroyed and the copies of Seven with it. Socrata moves Kara to the small coastal town of Qualai where Kara learns the price of filial disobedience: hunger, and the weight of her mother’s fists.
There is no money and Socrata has never touched spade or shovel in her life, so the first winter they nearly starve in the cold shack that is all they can afford. For Socrata, it is an appalling turn of fate that can be traced directly back to her daughter, who finds herself hiding bruises beneath long sleeves and high necks to avoid questions at the small school presided over by the resident school teacher. For Kara- despite deprivation and the cruel mistreatment of her mother- there is an unexpected air of freedom that she first tasted in the woods of Caprica with her father.
In Kara’s second spring in Qualai she researches local edible plants and learns how to fish. On one memorable day the sons of the local Peacekeeper teach her the basics of pyramid, a sport at which she instinctively excels. When she arrives home covered with dirt and flushed with success, Socrata greets her at the door with a lecture on the importance of remembering her station and takes a belt to her backside.
The next time the Adama boys ask her to play pyramid, she tells them to eat dirt and runs into the woods.
---
Year 47 of the Unified Era
At fourteen Kara Thrace is a gangly teenager most often found in the woods near the schoolhouse, and rarely, if ever, found sitting in her very own kitchen. This is partially because she cannot abide to be near her own mother, and partially because she would be expected to cook.
There is a particular grove of trees near the house of the local Peacekeeper that makes an admirable pyramid court; the limbs part in such a way that she can almost imagine herself in the big stadium, facing off against the Caprica Buccaneers. Many an afternoon and evening is spent at that grove as she twists and dodges around imaginary opponents, occasionally making her own commentary.
On one ordinary afternoon she is narrating in a very enthusiastic tone, detailing her own imaginary take-down of the current 'Bucs champion- a young man fresh from the arena- when the ball slips from her grasp and flies with unerring accuracy towards a figure in uniform half-hidden beneath a nearby tree. The man catches the ball easily and offers her a small smile.
“Afternoon, Kara,” the Peacekeeper Commander says, testing the heft of the ball between his hands. “That was an excellent throw that you made, a minute ago.”
Kara has met Bill Adama before- it would be hard not to, given how often she ends up in the company of his sons- but she cannot say that she has ever really spoken to him personally beyond customary greetings. “Sir,” she says respectfully, suddenly aware that her pants are a good inch too short and her shirt has seen better days. “Err. Thank you.”
He tosses the ball in the air, noting that it needs a bit of air. “Why don’t you ever play with us?” he asks, studiously avoiding her eyes, playing the entire situation casually. “You and me against the boys- we would win.” He smiles directly at her, and tosses the ball in her direction. She catches it easily, unsure as to how she should respond. She does not involve herself in families, as a rule. The smoking ruins of her own is more than enough to handle.
“I have schoolwork,” she demurs. “I study. A lot.”
A lie. Kara is by no means the worst student in her class, but if she were to be honest, her grades could benefit from looking at her books more than once in a while. From the amused expression on his face, she deduces that he knows this already, and silently curses her loose tongue. Of course his wife has told him about her students. In her experience, functional families involve everyone always entangled in the affairs of everyone else in the family unit.
It does not cross her mind at that point that any family would look functional in comparison to her own.
“Come on,” he says, slinging an arm around her shoulder in a move that somehow immediately reads as friendly and non-threatening. “Laura told me she made too much for dinner; if you don’t come she’ll force-feed the rest of us.”
She is not sure how serious he is about the force-feeding. On the one hand, she is fairly sure that he is joking. On the other, Laura Roslin Adama is a force to be reckoned with, in or out of the classroom. Warily she allows him to lead her back to the cozy house near the woods, where they are greeted by an enthusiastic Jake. He is not much more than a puppy, but already large enough to make Kara sway under the onslaught of affection. Were it not for the arm around her back, she thinks she would have ended up on the ground.
Billy spots them first. “Mom!” he cries, dropping his bicycle carelessly on the lawn. “They’re back!”
Kara begins to suspect a plot. “She just happened to make too much food?”
He gives her an innocent look, which is undermined by the sparkle in his eyes. “That woman does not know anything about realistic portions,” he says in reply. “Leftovers last for days, even after the kids fill their spare legs.” He gives her a conspiratorial look and lowers his voice. “I am so incredibly tired of eating the same meal for lunch for a week.”
She pretends to believe him.
The kitchen might have been a large room when the house was uninhabited, but Kara’s first impression when she walks in is of cheery clutter and mayhem. She has never considered herself a particularly quiet person, but she finds herself wondering how the headmistress of her school can cook in the same room as three rambunctious teenage and pre-teenage boys and still look amused by their antics. Especially since- as Kara well knows- this very day three different students started three different fist-fights, the entire preschool class decoupaged their coloring pages to a classroom wall while a substitute teacher tried desperately to keep order, the parents of one student made a very public fuss about the contents of an assigned book, and a much-beloved history teacher disappeared without a trace at some point before dawn.
Other than the disappearance- not an uncommon occurrence in the Colonies, but not a daily event, either- it had been a typical day, which is to say incredibly busy and not helped along at all by Kara herself. The woman obviously has the patience of a saint. Kara suddenly wishes to be anywhere but here, because saintliness is not in her repertoire.
Laura looks up at this moment and flashes a smile. “Good. Sit.” She gently cuffs the back of Zak’s head as he makes (to Kara’s count, but then, she entered the room late in the game) his fourth circuit of the table at a run. “Everyone, sit before I make you.”
The three boys drop into random chairs, apparently unwilling to test the edge of steel in her voice. Kara takes a seat next to Lee and wonders if she will survive the next hour.
In spite of the strict system of rationing that the Cylons use to control food allocation among the human populace, dinner is excellent, and Billy and Zak are enthusiastic enough about their latest project (something about time travel, as best Kara can determine) to completely derail any attempt for table-wide conversation. Kara, feeling well-pleased about herself, sits up and eats her fill, happy to be at a well-stocked table for once. With her attention directed toward her plate, she completely misses the satisfied expression Laura shares with Bill.
It is after dinner, when the few leftovers are tucked away in the fridge and the dishes are safely loaded into the dishwasher that her luck runs out. Laura’s hand snags her shoulder as she attempts to slip out the door after the boys.
Kara remembers her manners, albeit belatedly. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”
“I’m glad.” Laura tips her head slightly to the side, studying her. “I was searching through my book collection yesterday, looking for... well, I didn’t find it, but I did find something I thought you would like.” Her arm slides companionably over Kara’s shoulders, and some portion of Kara’s mind wonders how these people can get away with touching her without inspiring her typical scornful reaction. Laura steers Kara into a small library down the hall, stepping over several pairs of discarded shoes along the way. Laura waves her hand dismissively at them. “The boys have never really mastered the art of putting things away,” she says dryly. “Their rooms: horror shows.”
The library is small, but every inch of wall-space has been covered by filled bookshelves. Laura plucks a small volume off the desk in the middle of the room, a desk covered with what looks to be a ream of school-related paperwork. Laura quirks a small smile as she looks at the stack. “I might not have accepted the position of headmistress if I had realized the amount of paperwork needed in triplicate.” She taps the top page in the stack. “Nowhere near as interesting as student papers.” She hands the book to Kara. “It was my favorite, as a girl.”
Kara thinks she can detect a small amount of strain in Laura’s voice, and is not terribly surprised. She knows a little of Laura’s history, has seen retrospectives of her Games and the inevitable ‘where-are-they-now’ segments. Victors, in general, tend to be an unstable lot, and their lives often tainted by personal or familial tragedy. Her father had said...
She shakes her head slightly, not willing to follow that path of thought. In her hands is a worn copy of Through the Looking Glass. She vaguely remembers her father reading it to her, half a lifetime ago. “Thank you,” she says softly, already thinking of possible hiding places. She cannot bring it into the house; her mother would either destroy it or sell it. “I’ll get it back to you safely.”
Laura’s hands settle over hers. “It’s a gift,” she says. “I want you to have it.”
Kara is not comfortable with the idea of honest emotion, but by the ache in the base of her throat she realizes unwelcome tears are in her future. Perhaps Laura realizes this, or perhaps her own emotions are too close to the surface, but she suddenly releases Kara’s hands and smiles brightly. “Still enough light left to run off some energy with Lee and the rest. Get to it.”
Kara parts company with a minimum of words, stumbling out the door and into the hazy twilight in a somewhat shaken mood. She tucks the small book in one of her over-sized pockets, deciding that she will wrap the book in a square of plastic and leave it in a nook near her pyramid trees. It would be safer in the schoolhouse, at least from the elements, but she has had possessions disappear from her locker in the past.
She feels disjointed and ready to work off her unbidden emotion by causing a little trouble, so when Lee runs up to her with a dare she immediately accepts, much to the glee of his siblings.
“Bet you can’t climb the trellis to the roof in under thirty seconds,” he says with a grin, pointing toward the roses clambering up one corner of the house.
At this point Kara would be willing to claim that she can climb anything in thirty seconds, including the local bell-tower. “Just you watch, Adama,” she brags, approaching the trellis. “I can climb anything.”
It ends badly, but then, such bets usually do.
---
Year 50 of the Unified Era
It’s the afternoon before a debate team practice, and Lee has a thousand other things on his mind to distract him from the televised announcement in the town square. Most people watch from home or their offices, but all those of age to be chosen in Tribute must attend the formal gathering in their communities across the worlds. It is a surprisingly spare event aside from the huge screen hastily put up on a temporary scaffold in the corner of the square. He stands with his brothers, who are bickering genially about something or other, impatient to have the uncomfortable, deeply depressing event over with.
The mayor implores the crowd to be quiet (a futile effort, given the fact that it is a group almost entirely comprised of teenagers) and Lee sourly notes that being oppressed by the Cylons is bad enough without it frakking up his extracurricular plans. Lee’s mind is still elsewhere when his attention is forcibly wrenched back to reality as Gauis Baltar, Governor of Caprica, flashes across the screen. Baltar makes an awkward speech about the great glories of being a unified and peaceful society (both descriptions which elicit dubious glances and eye rolls from the audience at large) before pressing a button on a small circular device which will draw the first name at random.
“The first Caprican Tribute,” the Governor’s nasal voice announces, “is William Roslin Adama!”
The words fly out of Lee’s mouth before he is consciously aware of deciding to speak them.
“I volunteer!”
Lee and Zak shout the same words at the same time. Billy is trying to fight them off and make his way through the crowd, but at seventeen, Lee is the oldest, and it is his duty to take care of them both. Which is why he sucker-punches Zak before Zak can shout out a second time, and why he shoves Billy to the ground, screaming in his face, “You stay there!”
He turns and hastily shoves his way through the crowd as he advances to the platform. Fights break out in his wake as others are blamed for pushing. He makes sure to keep his eyes forward, his chin up, and refuses the overwhelming urge to look back. Their part of the crowd is so disoriented and absorbed by the fracas that no one has heard the female tribute announced.
When Lee turns around on the stage, Kara Thrace’s expression mirrors his own.
---
Of the few people who are allowed to speak to him before the Raptor whisks them off to Caprica City -- devastated father, guilt-ridden brothers -- it is only his step-mother who looks at him with steel in her eyes and a quiet resolve. Lee knows about her Games, both from the annual highlight reels and his brothers’ insatiable curiosity. Although Laura had forbidden them from watching her competition, Billy and Zak had dug up an old copy some years before and attempted an ill-fated viewing. It had not gone over well.
Still, he knows how the little red-haired girl from Delphi defied the odds; how she called out the President right there in the Arena, refused to kill another tribute.
“Be strong. Be brave.” she says evenly before her resolve cracks and she pulls him into her arms. “Oh, Lee. I’m sorry.” She holds him very tightly for a moment, then kisses his forehead and walks out.
---
A funereal air has settled on their home that night when Bill finds Laura in their bedroom. He shuts the door to keep their voices from being overheard by Zak and Billy. Laura has always kept her secrets closely guarded.
She can see in his eyes the one question he has never asked her, never pushed at or tried to elicit. The unspoken matter hovers between them now, as clear as daybreak. She knows he will ask, just as she knows that when he does, she will answer, and it will probably destroy them both that much more to imagine Lee in the Arena.
“Tell me about your Games.”
Laura’s eyes close heavily.
---
Without so much as a word between them, they are lead to a Raptor waiting on the wide lawn. Lee gets one last whiff of the salt sea breeze before the stark metal enclosure is sealed and the pilots begin prep for takeoff.
He buckles himself in they way he remembers from his father’s many guided tours of the Peacekeeper Headquarters. It is only when Lee’s hands have nothing more to do that his eyes settle on Kara Thrace.
“Caprica City,” she drawls, cocking her head. “No place like home.”
---
“From the beginning, the mentors encourage you to work as team,” Laura explains. “It’s the best way to ensure success early in the Games. Work together, or die alone.”
---
The Raptor soars along the coast, passing houses and towns and marinas that Lee has never seen. Kara seems more inclined to study the pilots’ manual than the changing scenery that neither of them will likely ever see again. Lee, though, cannot tear his eyes away. The last gull; the last flash of a lighthouse beacon; the last fishing vessel, bobbing on the waves.
“I guess it’s you and me, huh?” Kara says. Lee looks over at her, surprised to find her studying him, the manual open, forgotten, in her hands.
“I guess it is.” He presses his forehead to the glass and doesn’t speak for the rest of the journey.
---
“The propaganda begins the moment you arrive in Caprica City. Some of it is broadcast to get the momentum and hype moving. You’ve seen it: the Gamemakers make a speech full of pretty words like ‘honor’ and ‘pride’ and ‘service.’ It’s such celebrity, I suppose, the way you’re handled. For every pair of Tributes there is a kind of escort, someone to navigate protocols and tell you what side of you the cameras like best and who to flirt with to win esteem with the judges.”
---
The Raptor settles at the top of a high, shining building near the waterfront. Lee has never been to Caprica City before; the sheer size and density of the Colonies' central authority is jaw-dropping. For miles and miles beyond their perch he can see only more buildings, roads, factories, ports. Ships land and depart from a spaceport in the distance; cars jostle along the roads below; shining elevators rise through glass skyscrapers. It is as if the city itself is a machine and its inhabitants all the moving parts of a single, massive thing. It is amazing, and baffling.
The Raptor hatch opens. Lee carefully makes his way out onto the wing, jumping to the tarmac below. He helps Kara down a moment later, and is brushing off his hands when a blonde, smiling woman in a pink suit and what can only be uncomfortably high heels, teeters over to them.
“Hello,” she says, her smile as wide and polished as a runway model. “You must be Lee and Kara.”
When neither of them reply, the woman goes on, her smile never wavering as though it is fastened in place. “I’m Ellen Tigh. I’ll be your escort for the Games.”
---
“Cavil created the Games to remind humanity of its subservience,” Laura says, her eyes unfocused and far-away. To lose herself in memories of the Games is to visit a dark place that she has tried very hard to forget. Even with Bill’s strong arms around her, keeping her tethered to the present, “Each element of the production reinforces that goal. Tributes almost never look they way that they appear on the screens before the Games start. They cut your hair, paint your skin and lips like a doll. For the stylists it is an art, but it is an art demanded by the state, and therefore soulless.” She takes a shuddering breath.
“First they take your appearance, which by then is about the only familiar thing you have left. And then they take your name.”
---
“You’ll follow me, please.” Ellen Tigh’s heels clip almost violently as Lee and Kara follow her down a stark, modern hallway of dark, shining marble and glass.
“Normally, the Gamemakers -- they’re the bunch who dream up the challenges each year,” Ellen explains.
“Really?” Kara’s voice is deadpan, but Lee can hear her unspoken snark.
“Of course. As I was saying, normally the Head Gamemaker welcomes you all with a speech at Apollo Park, which you’ll recall from previous Games. Lucky for you two, this year they’ve put off the welcoming ceremony until after your fittings and evaluations. It won’t be until a few days before the Games open.” She leans into them and drops her voice, as if sharing a great bit of gossip. “I think they’re working on a big surprise for this year’s tournament.”
Kara gives Lee a quick, wide-eyed look that says quite plainly Oh, frak.
“Oh, and before I forget,” Ellen removes a black velvet bag attached to her clipboard and pulls out a long chain. No, two long chains. She holds one out to each of them.
“‘Starbuck,’” Kara reads.
Lee looks down at his own. Apollo is neatly etched into the thin silver octagon.
“Your Game names, silly,” Ellen says in her sing-song, cajoling voice, as if speaking to kindergartners.
Of course.
---
Bill presses a kiss to her neck, standing behind her; his arms tighten around her middle, keeping her grounded. “What was yours?”
“My what?”
“Your callsign, or whatever it is. The name they gave you.”
“Oh. Mine was Aurora.”
Bill is for a moment quiet, idly tracing irreverent patterns on the skin of her wrist. “Aurora,” he rumbles, his lips tracing over her pulse point. “Goddess of the dawn.”
“A stupid name,” she scoffs.
“No,” Bill says, kissing her again. “It’s beautiful.”
She leans against his temple as he holds her close, swatting his arm gently at the way he deliberately tickles her neck with the whiskers in his moustache, smiling in spite of herself.
“Go on,” he implores.
---
Kara lets the dog-tag with her new call sign slip beneath her shirt, where it rests like a shard of ice between her breasts. Soon enough the metal will warm, but for the moment it is foreign to her body. In the past five years she has not worn a single piece of jewelry; they were not allowed to take any with them when Cavil exiled her family. She glances covertly at Lee from the corner of her vision and finds him still examining the dog-tag with a worried frown as they continue down the hall.
Ellen Tigh shepherds them into an elevator which shoots up fifty floors, and when the door opens she hesitates before leading them into the private suite of rooms that will be their quarters for the next week. A man roughly the age of Lee’s father waits for them there, a glass of something dark and doubtlessly alcoholic on a nearby table. Both Lee and Kara recognize him on sight: Saul Tigh, the victor of the 20th Game and (presumably) the husband of their blonde escort.
Kara notes that while the Tighs do wear matching rings, the nod they exchange is cautious and tinged with a spectrum of emotions she has trouble pinpointing: there is resentment, to be sure, and frustration, but lurking beneath all of that is what might be a futile longing. Ellen clasps her hands nervously and one foot taps subtly against the floor, the first visible signs of anxiety Kara has seen from her.
“This is your mentor, Saul Tigh.” She pauses for a brief moment, as if unsure whether to reveal anything else. Finally she beams a practiced smile and says with false pride, “My husband.”
Lee glances over at Kara, hoping to catch her eye, and finds her slouching against the wall, her face a portrait of utter boredom.
---
“I was introduced to my mentor, Saul Tigh. Do you remember him?”
Bill is silent, remembering the 20th Games. Over the course of three days, 23 tributes bled out their lives in an abandoned university complex on Libran. The female Caprican tribute had been the best friend of one of his young cousins, and the cameras had taken a voyeuristic glee in replaying in slow motion her suicidal leap from the top of the bell tower. Near midnight of the third day Saul Tigh had stabbed the last tribute with a shard of mirror, so filled with coursing adrenaline that he never seemed to notice the loss of his eye in the final fight.
Laura shakes her head slightly, and grasps his hand tightly. “I would be lying if I said he was kind, but after 13 years of sending children to near-certain death, I did not expect him to be.”
“He was helpful, though?”
“He was honest.”
---
Ellen quickly excuses herself, explaining with a bright smile that she has to brief the stylists. She strokes a hand over Kara’s short locks on her way out the door, chattering something about giving them a lot to work on. Kara has to restrain herself from snapping at the hand, and sees Lee trying to repress a smile.
Saul studies them in silence, his gaze so penetrating that Kara feels as if he knows her from the inside out. After several long minutes, he tosses back the contents of his glass and begins to pace the floor around them. “Fishermen and amateur Pyramid players,” he grumbles. “I’ve never met a one who could parley those skills into something useful. You kids seem to think that you can persuade the Gamemakers to see the error of their ways, or find a hiding place and wait everyone out, never raising a weapon.” He grabs Kara’s right arm and examines the muscle there as she grits her teeth in annoyance. “Well, Tory Foster may have gotten away with that little trick, but even she had to cut a few throats at the end.” He finishes his inspection and grunts in what seems to be mild approval. “Never had a hybrid chosen before,” he comments, and Kara suspects that this is his way of being subtle.
Lee looks somewhat confused, which she doesn’t find surprising. She has never attempted to hide her parentage, but she has never volunteered it, either. Surely his father and stepmother knew, but they obviously had not passed on that bit of information.
Her only reply to his comment is a defiant stare.
“Could be an advantage, is all I’m saying,” he mutters, and moves away to inspect Lee.
---
“What strategy did your mentor suggest?”
Laura sits at the end of the bed, absently tracing the quilted lines on the blanket. “He said I was good with a bow,” she says dully. “He told me to stick to the heights and aim for the heart. I was too idealistic to listen.”
---
Saul does not choose to linger long in their company. After finishing his initial evaluations, he retreats to one of the rooms off the living area, slamming the door behind him. Lee moves to the window and considers the view. From their suite they are able to see a long stretch of metal, glass and immaculately clipped greenery, all rose-tinted by the setting sun: the sprawling eastern quadrant of what was once Graystone Industries. Though the buildings have undergone extensive work to make them fit for living and training, Lee thinks that they still have the air of cubicle farm and research station about them, and suspects that once upon a time this room was the office of a highly-ranked executive.
Kara takes a moment to examine their immediate surroundings inside the room, noting the sleek, spare lines of the furniture and the tastefully chosen colors. The whole picture is too clean for her, too prim, and she tosses her jacket haphazardly onto a small table. Better.
Lee looks as if he is repressing the desire to hang her jacket neatly in a closet somewhere. After a moment of indecision he unbuttons his own jacket and tosses it on a chair. There is a small kitchen stocked with the makings of a cold dinner, though Kara notes that there is not a knife or a fork to be found, sharp or dull. There is also not a drop to drink other than water; their mentor must have cached the liquor in his own room.
“Fingers or spoons only, I guess,” she comments in an off-hand manner, a chicken leg in one hand and an apple in the other.
“It’s an automatic death sentence for tributes to kill each other before the opening of the Games,” Lee replies absently, searching in vain for something capable of slicing bread. As Kara shakes her head, he gives up and tears the loaf apart by hand.
“They’re not worried about tributes killing each other,” she says bluntly. “They’re worried about suicide. Doesn’t look good to the folks at home when scared kiddies would rather slash their wrists behind a locked door than die in a blaze of glory in the arena.”
Lee looks at her sharply at this statement, realizing that she speaks the truth. “Do you think that there are sheets on the beds?”
She looks amused. “They're trying to put on a show of civility. Civilized people don’t sleep on bare mattresses.” She wanders off into one of the unclaimed bedrooms, appearing again a moment later looking aggrieved. “The sheets are pink. You sleep in that room, Lee.”
“They could be pink in the other room, too,” he points out. He personally cannot bring himself to care about the color of the sheets; he himself slept on pink sheets for years after Zak accidentally threw a red shirt in with the whites. He still remembers Laura’s small smirk the first time she handed him a stack of newly-dyed underwear.
He can tell that the thought had not occurred to Kara, because she immediately flies into the other unclaimed room, emerging in seconds looking relieved. “Gray. I’ll fight you for it.”
“Time enough for that later,” he says simply. She stills momentarily, then tosses the chicken bone in the trash and reaches for a chunk of bread.
Neither sleeps well that night. At three in the morning Kara awakes from a half-remembered nightmare. Tangled in gray sheets, she catches her breath and tries not to think about how easily a sheet can be knotted into a noose.
---
Early in their attraction, Laura had realized that Bill did not know who she was.
A training mission, she eventually learned, in the icy, windswept mountains of northern Aquaria had prevented him from seeing anything of the 34th Colonial Games. It had kept him out of touch for weeks, and by the time he’d returned to Caprica, he’d had far more pressing matters at hand than to catch up on the events of the tournament. Namely, a pregnant ex-girlfriend and a somewhat literal shotgun wedding.
Despite the catastrophic marriage that had resulted, Laura was never been more grateful for the Fates’ guiding hands. With Bill, she exists only as she is now, as he has known her. No looks of contempt from non-Capricans, no flickers of reverence and revulsion as someone in town places her, which (thankfully) happens less and less these days. She is only Laura, teacher and mother. Not Aurora the Caprican Tribute, who killed seven of her peers in a fight to the death.
By Bill’s intense expression she can tell there is more on his mind. A question that he wants to ask and, so very clearly, does not want to hear the answer to. “Do either of them stand a chance?”
Her voice sounds very far away as she weighs their strengths and weaknesses aloud. “Kara has so much anger. That will be useful in the arena. But she’s unpredictable. Reckless.”
“And Lee?”
“Lee...” her voice cracks as she says his name. Their headstrong idealist. “He’s too much like I was at that age. Always wanting to do the right thing, not the smart thing. By some mathematical absurdity I managed to win my Games; it was a fluke. Some fortuitous combination of luck and animal instinct. Each of the Games has been more vicious than the last. He won’t win by chance the way I did. But,” she reasons, “he’s strong. And clever. Saul will encourage him to make alliances with the Tributes who have trained for this their whole lives. Work together, avoid being caught at a moment of weakness. That’s probably the best advantage he can hope for.”
They fall into silence as the truth of the matter hangs in the air like a funeral dirge. To support Lee is to support Kara’s death, and vice versa. The cost of victory can only be paid in blood.
---
Coming next week in Chapter Two...
Billy gestures vaguely in the air with his index finger, honing in on the crux of his argument. “So the real question is: Why would they want me in the Games? I’m not one of the strongest of the kids who spend their lives training to become a champion, so this isn’t about pride or glory and the triumph of Caprica. And if I’m not a winner, then I’m dead. If Kara’s not the winner, she’s dead. The odds are stacked against both of us.”
Billy pauses, though she already knows what is coming next. “Why would the President want me dead?” He looks up at her, searching her expression. “The only answer that makes sense to me is as punishment.”
Gods forgive me, Laura thinks.
“Mom...what have you been doing?"