Chapter Text
That night not even Enobaria jokes as the day's count flashes across the sky. Cashmere and Gloss go first, and it's what they wanted and Brutus is -- glad, sort of -- for them, but at the same time it's such a fucking waste.
The worst part is, pretty much nobody liked Cash and Gloss, even the ones who were whored out with them; they were too hard, too bitter, too wrapped up in each other and quick to attack anything that moved. Gloss had been quieter, swallowing his anger and following his sister's lead, but Cashmere could smell fresh blood a mile away and never passed up an opportunity to go for the throat, nasty in the way that only a dog chained up and kicked before it gets its food can be.
"I bet they're applauding," Enobaria says, and she never got on with the siblings either, but that's just because the list of people Enobaria likes has maybe two people on it. "Across the districts, I mean. I bet they're glad One got comeuppance so early." Enobaria doesn't give a shit about District One but she hates traitors more, and her voice takes on a disgusted edge. "I bet the only people crying are their --"
"Don't," Brutus snaps. Technically the kids are too dead to care, but true or not it feels like shitting on their bodies to say it out loud.
"Meanwhile everyone's sobbing their eyes out about Mags," Enobaria continues, thankfully letting Wiress pass without comment. Brutus closes his eyes. "Why? Because she's old and that makes it sad? Who cares? Lots of people are old."
"She's the most successful mentor in all of the districts," Brutus points out, and he's still angry -- her betrayal of the standard Career alliance and all her double-dealing still sting -- but there's no point in stewing in it anymore. It's done, she's dead, and even the parade moves on, flashing up Maria from District Five. However she went, he hopes it was quick, clean and dignified, though in this Arena he wouldn't bet his next meal on it. "And not a lot of people make it to her age. She should get respect for that."
"I hope when I'm old I get respect for more than not dying," Enobaria snarks, but abruptly she snaps her mouth shut, teeth clicking. She turns away from the sky, curling up to sleep with her knives tucked close to her chest.
Brutus sighs. "I'll take first watch, then." Enobaria doesn't answer, and he tosses a branch onto the fire and watches the flames sputter.
Lyme rolls her eyes up to the ceiling when Beetee walks his allies through a painstaking hand-holding to figure out why Brutus and Enobaria aren't on the beach, complete with a question and answer period like he's a schoolteacher and they're a group of rather dim students. Threes, never change. Still, it's got to be boring for him being stuck in a place like this, the man might as well get his kicks somehow. The best part is when they come to the conclusion that the Twos must be close by, and listening -- ten feet back behind the tree line, trapped by the forcefield and hidden away in the shadows, Brutus shoots Enobaria an exasperated look -- but then Beetee goes right ahead and describes his plan in detail anyway.
Lyme would chalk it up to one of those moments where Beetee outthinks himself, or the Three thing where looking clever is more important than acting smart, except that Lumina stiffens at her console. "What are you doing?" she hisses under her breath, and she wouldn't do that if Beetee was making an arrogant mistake and not realizing what he's saying. Lumina notices Lyme's eyes on her and sits back, pressing her lips together, and wait, what?
If it wasn't an accident, then why would Beetee describe his plan where Brutus and Enobaria could overhear? And if so, why would that upset Lumina?
Lyme glances sideways at Nero, and he lifts his shoulders in a shrug. What in the hell is going on?
Onscreen, Brutus listens to Beetee's cockamamie scheme with a skeptical frown and drums his fingers against the tree trunk.
Enobaria folds her arms as the allies pack up and head down across the beach. "I don't care how special that wire is, there's no way he can electrify the whole lake with one lightning strike. I call bullshit."
Brutus ain't an expert either, but he's pretty sure Enobaria's right this time. "Even if he could, it wouldn't work on the sand," he says slowly. "It -- I don't think it would stick together enough, and it sure as hell wouldn't hold a charge afterward. If lightning hits sand it turns to glass, kinda, makes this weird tentacle shit that looks like something from a nightmare. It doesn't make the whole thing into a danger zone."
Enobaria tilts her head. "Glass, really?" she asks, the Arena forgotten for a second. She's always liked pretty, destructive things.
"Yeah, it was one of the Fours' talents a few decades back," Brutus says, staring out over the water as the allies disappear into the jungle. "He'd stick metal poles in the ground before a storm to try and attract the lightning, polish it up after and sell it in the Capitol."
It's not important, especially not now, but talking about stupid shit makes Brutus feel a little bit better. It helps him compartmentalize, occupying the part of his brain that wants to overanalyze and second-guess everything. Too bad it only lasts a minute.
He could've sworn that when Beetee said the Twos would be hiding in the tree line that he'd looked straight back at Brutus. It's just that that makes no fucking sense, if the plan actually will do what he says it will. Why would Beetee waste time constructing an elaborate trap, only to let Brutus know exactly what to do to avoid it?
So. Say the plan is bullshit. Whatever it is Beetee's doing with the wire, it's not actually about making a bunch of fried shrimp and instantly-seared fish. Brutus isn't going to waste a second trying to deconstruct a Three's plan backwards; what Beetee really wants to do isn't the point. The real question is what part Brutus is expected to play in it all, and whether he trusts Beetee's hint -- if it even is a hint, after Mags' 'new players' shit Brutus is a little wary of making assumptions -- or chooses to ignore it.
The one good thing to come out of the conversation is the explanation of why the Arena has been so bizarre, with traps starting and stopping at one-hour intervals, followed by long, tedious stretches of nothing. If it's a clock, that means that outside the one active wedge, the entire place is essentially a safe zone, since the jungle is too thick and impenetrable for them to trek through and find each other.
That seems, to Brutus, to be a really stupid way to set up an Arena, since if no one is inside a live wedge when it goes off then that essentially wastes the hour. As for figuring it out, either a group gets unlucky, running from one trap into another until they're forced to get it, like the allies, or they miss them completely and wonder what the hell is going on, like the Pack. You'd think that would make for an unbalanced viewing experience.
Then again, that's just Brutus' opinion, and why he's in here for the second time and not making the big money sitting behind a fancy desk.
"So what, then?" Enobaria asks, and Brutus pinches the bridge of his nose.
"We have until midnight." Brutus shrugs. "See what they do and go from there."
The first real sense of unease creeps over Lyme when Lumina sends the alliance a pack of twenty-four rolls of bread on the second day. Twenty-four won't divide evenly between them, and that's not a mistake Lumina would make. Lyme tries to push it aside -- there are more important things -- but it happens again the next day, once in the morning and once in the middle of the afternoon, the same twenty-four rolls. As the third day drags on past sunset, finally it hits her.
Lumina sent the bread. Lumina of District Three, where sponsors are thin on the ground and her tributes all but guaranteed to lose. Not even Lyme wants to think about the price of that much bread with half the tributes gone, only three days in or no; for Lumina to have given it, she'd have to have help. It's not feasible, but unless Claudius has fallen asleep at his post, Lyme would know if the other mentors had pooled their funds.
And why? It's just bread, not even necessary with the tree rats and the seafood and everything else. This isn't a wasteland. More than one spile would make much more sense, since once Katniss is dead only the person who steals the metal tube from her corpse will have access to drinkable water.
Unless. Unless it's not about the bread at all.
Twenty-four loaves, twenty-four hours. Twenty-four, midnight. District Three, the third day.
The bread is a signal. On Lumina's screen, Beetee examines the tree and mutters to himself while the Twelves spread their hands and laugh at their own ignorance. Midnight. The lightning tree. The wire. It's all part of something much larger than electrifying the lake and killing all the fish and somehow making the sand conductive. Something else is happening at midnight, and Lumina told Beetee to do it.
Brutus and Enobaria trek through the jungle in silence, Enobaria staring at Brutus' neck and playing with her knife while he pretends his best to ignore her. A drumbeat of panic starts up in Lyme's chest.
It's evening on the third day already, and midnight is closing fast. Lyme gets up from her chair with a clatter and taps her earpiece, signalling Odin on the sponsor floor. "I need to see you," she says under her breath. "Send Claudius up to watch the screens, nothing's happening and it'll be good practice."
She tells him in whispers, but Odin doesn't believe her. "I would have heard something," he says, and he's been mentoring for thirty years so maybe he has a point, but Lyme can't shake the feeling. She doesn't bother arguing with Odin on the basis of a gut instinct; as a mentor she's found that hunches should rarely be ignored, but Odin is old-school and would likely say something about women's intuition having no place in the sponsor ring.
"Something is happening at midnight either way," Lyme says instead. "Three's plan, whatever it is, hinges on that lightning, we know that. Maybe the lightning is just a smokescreen or a distraction to throw us off, but midnight is important. We should be careful."
"Brutus and Enobaria are already aware of the plan," Odin points out. "There's nothing we can do but let them play it out. They're good strategists both of them, if something is afoot they'll catch on."
It's not unreasonable, is the thing. It's good advice, especially since Lyme has no idea what the alternative would even be, other than break in and pull them out because she's being ridiculous. Odin is right; as mentors they can't directly interfere, and no gift Lyme can send can help when she doesn't even know what it is she's afraid of.
It's just -- something smells wrong. It's the bread and the message that Lyme may or may not be inventing; it's Lumina and Beetee and the plan that makes no sense; it's Johanna dragging the Threes around for half a day because Katniss Everdeen wanted them; it's the alliance sacrificing themselves to help the Twelves, over and over and over, when only one of them can walk out. It's the Gamemakers penning in the Careers hour after hour while letting the outliers lounge around on the beach roasting shellfish.
"Fine," Lyme says finally, and Odin claps her on the shoulder. "I don't like this, but you're probably right."
"There is much to dislike," Odin agrees, expression darkening. "I'm returning to the floor. I have it handled, if your Claudius wants to take a break for a while. He's been working himself hard."
Lyme nods and heads back to mentor central, slipping back in through the door and standing behind Claudius as he monitors the feeds. "How are they doing?"
"Enobaria is edgy," Claudius says quietly. "Much longer and I think it might break. If something else doesn't happen tonight I'm worried she'll knife him in his sleep just so she won't have to chew his throat out."
Lyme winces. It makes a certain kind of sense, is the sad thing; the closer she and Brutus get to the end, the more spectacular the fight will have to be, and that means reliving a moment that Enobaria would much rather forget. If she does it now, Brutus gets a clean kill and Enobaria can save her crazy for the outliers. Maybe Nero even told her to do it that way.
"It won't be tonight," Lyme says, fighting off the shiver that runs through her at the thought of Brutus dying. "Something is going down, and chances are they'll both be too keyed up to sleep after that. That should buy us at least a day."
"Yeah, I guess." Claudius leans back in his chair and yanks his headset down from his ears; Lyme drops her hands to his shoulders and works the taut muscles with a few deft gestures. "I hate this," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "I hate everything."
"Head back to the floor for a bit, I'll take over here," Lyme tells him, and she takes a quick glance around the room. No one is paying attention to them, since most of the mentors are out and have headed to the common area to drink their feelings away. "Listen, around eleven I want you to excuse yourself and head back up to the rooms," Lyme says in a low voice, and Claudius glances up at her but she shakes her head. "I have a bad feeling, and I want to know where you are and that you're not surrounded by people. Okay?"
Onscreen Enobaria flings a knife at a tree and shouts something, likely complaining about another dinner of foraging while the alliance got something fancy, and Claudius tugs his headset back on and clicks his teeth. Lyme watches as he argues into the mouthpiece for a while, but finally he nods and punches something into the console.
"Sorry," Claudius says a minute later, relaxing when Brutus looks up and catches a parachute. It's a pair of canisters, each filled with soup, one hearty meat and vegetable for him for him and the other blended smooth, no chewing required, for Enobaria. Claudius glances up at Lyme and flicks his fingers: what's up? Lyme doesn't bother signing, just shakes her head, and Claudius nods. "Sure, I'll head back then. Just come get me when you want me, I guess."
"I will." Claudius gives her back the chair, and Lyme sits down and tries to ignore the twisting in her chest.
The insect mutts chitter off to the side as eleven o'clock hits; several of them buzz in close before smacking hard into the forcefield separating the wedges. Brutus doesn't turn his head, even when one the size of a big dog and pinchers the length of Enobaria's forearm keeps trying to get at him.
If she can't chew through that field, neither can you , Brutus thinks in a grim parody of amusement. Enobaria certainly tried, that afternoon when the alliance lounged on the beach and had a party.
No parade of the fallen this time; the third day passed without a casualty. The time gleams faintly on his wrist from the watch Lyme sent him after the anthem, and Brutus keeps half an eye on it, throat closed. There's no need for a watch here in the Arena, not with the clock code cracked, and with the beach closed off to them they have no way of telling which wedge they're in half the time. But Brutus has worked with Lyme for almost twenty years, and Lyme doesn't send useless gifts. This one arrived with a note that said 'TAKE CONTROL'.
Brutus and Lyme have been fluent in the mentor code of sponsor gifts for some forty years between them, and this one has the mark of desperation. Lyme may as well have sent a giant sign with the words "STOP THE ALLIANCE'S PLAN" scrawled in giant block letters, and Brutus made sure to strap it to his wrist as soon as realization sank in.
Nero sent Enobaria two small rolls of Two's dark wholemeal bread, and Enobaria stared at them with a dark scowl on her face before shoving both in the pouch at her belt. She doesn't like fresh bread because it gets caught in her fangs, turns soft from her spit and requires effort to get it all out between the serrated points, but it's not about the bread, is it. Enobaria doesn't show him the note, but Brutus can read Nero's handwriting in the gift anyway: two loaves from their home district. Stick together and trust her district partner, at least for now.
And so here they are, crouched in the vines halfway between the lightning tree and the beach, waiting for the girls from Twelve and Seven to bring the coil of wire down.
"I want to fight," Enobaria hisses under her breath, fingers playing over the hilt of her sword. After the anthem, she and Brutus headed down to the Cornucopia and restocked themselves on weapons, but since then it's been nothing but waiting. "I'm sick of this."
Brutus doesn't answer her. He's the leader and he will stay the leader as long as Enobaria backs him. They're going to take the most effective route and stop the girls from bringing the wire down to the beach instead of trying to take on the trio back up at the tree. It might only be Odair who's combat-ready, but that's good enough when he's in the fortified position.
Sure enough, the girls head down through the vines, Mason going first with the coil in her hands, shoulders whipcord tight, and Everdeen following, eyes and stance alert and her bow held at the ready. Enobaria shifts, but Brutus reaches over and holds her down with a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the sting of pain when she digs her teeth into his fingers in retaliation. He'll take her sulky complaints if it means she listens.
Everdeen's voice floats up, offering to switch roles, and once they're past Brutus slips out of his hiding place and nods to Enobaria. She creeps up beside him, draws her knife and slices through the wire. There's a moment of resistance but then it parts, and with the tension released the wire snaps back in either direction. Brutus throws himself back to avoid getting sliced open by the sawn-off end as it slithers past.
"Now," Brutus barks at Enobaria, and they burst through the trees into a small clearing, the moonlight bright overhead. It illuminates the silver blade of Mason's knife as she brings it down toward Everdeen's prone body.
The hell ?
"She's mine!" Enobaria protests, but again Brutus holds her back. It's not a kill strike -- there's blood, black and shining in the moonlight, but not enough to cause death, not yet -- and soon Mason slips off into the trees. Enobaria stops fighting against Brutus when it's clear that Mason isn't going to finish the job. "My turn," she says with savage glee, a knife in each hand. "I'm going to set her on fire and cut her open and show everyone there's no baby because she's a filthy little liar."
Brutus swallows a growl. "Not yet," he tells her, hand curled hard around his spear. "You'll have time to play with her later, but not now. Now we have to stop them so you'd have to make it quick, and you don't want to waste her on a quick kill, do you?"
Enobaria bares her fangs at him, but Brutus stopped being impressed by that over ten years ago and she stops. "No," she grits out finally, eyes darting down. "But you could stop them and I take my time. What if she gets up and runs away --"
This time Brutus lets the rumble of anger starts in his chest and escape him in a snarl. "She's as good as dead!" he snaps. "Come on, Enobaria!"
The hard command doesn't go unnoticed, and Enobaria glares at him for a full second before she puts away her knives and pulls the sword from her back instead. "Fine," she mutters, and they take off through the jungle after Mason. Brutus has to get Enobaria as far from her prey as possible, give her someone else to kill and something exciting to do or he'll never drag her away, and he might not have a fucking clue what's going on but he knows this isn't the damn time for an extended torture show.
They follow Mason's trail through the jungle, snaking down and across in a crooked zigzag moving down toward the beach. They're catching up, and Brutus keeps an ear out for any sound of a pause, any indication that she's going to stop and make a stand instead of run. He's still listening when he has to fling himself sideways to avoid running straight into Chaff.
"Where the fuck have you been ?" Brutus bursts out, and that's not his finest moment of showmanship except that honestly, where has he been? Brutus and Enobaria have trekked all over the jungle and the alliance has held the beach and there's been no sign of him for three days.
But Chaff is not in the mood for banter. His good hand clutches a machete, and there's blood and murder in his eyes. Brutus will bet that wherever he's been, it wasn't sipping drinks in a hammock and letting the others have all the fun. His skin glistens with sweat, his shirt is gone, and deep claw marks score his chest and arms.
Brutus blocks Chaff's retreat back up the hill, and Enobaria slips down on the other side, stopping him from heading back toward the beach. She has her knives again -- if nothing else Brutus will always admire the way she switches weapons in a matter of seconds -- and that means she's going for her usual combat style, death by a thousand cuts.
They don't have time for that; Chaff's eyes gleam with madness and dehydration, and he might be fun to torture when he's half-crazed and out for the kill but midnight is coming. "You're not going to ruin this," Chaff rasps out. Enobaria darts in, slices him low across the ribs and dances back before he can swing -- but he doesn't try, doesn't even seem to register the wound at all. Enobaria hisses in disappointment and circles again, readying her other blade. Once one has tasted blood, the other won't be far behind.
Brutus narrows his eyes. Maybe Chaff knows about the alliance's plan; maybe he's raving. It doesn't matter. It's too close-quarters for his spear, and Brutus cross-steps back, leaves it against a boulder and brings his sword up to bear.
Chaff lunges first. Brutus blocks his wild strike with ease, but the footing is uncertain and Chaff is big and fighting out of rage, not self-preservation, and Brutus stumbles back a step. "Enobaria!" he bites out. "Now!"
But Enobaria doesn't move to take Chaff out from behind; instead she tears off to the side and catches a startled Finnick Odair.
Fuck.
Brutus drives Chaff back, and like it or not they're each on their own. Enobaria can handle Odair at close quarters without the element of surprise, so he'll just have to hope she does her job instead of getting caught up in the excitement and the bloodlust. Chaff comes at Brutus again, and Brutus wrenches his brain back to the fight, shutting off everything else.
It's the first honest fight Brutus has had since the initial bloodbath at the Cornucopia, and after two days of frustration and impotence, fighting the Arena and his doubts and everything else, it feels good -- real good -- to cross blades with someone who honestly just wants to kill him. It's uncomplicated, and the fight sings in Brutus' blood and his muscles burn and yes, this is perfect. Chaff shouts at him the whole time, spitting curses while foam flecks his mouth, but Brutus tunes it out and focuses on nothing but the trill of combat.
He's almost disappointed when the cannon sounds. Brutus pulls his sword free, grabs a handful of leaves from the tree above him and wipes off the blood as best he can before it dries and turns sticky. Enobaria and Odair have gone, racing away back up the jungle path toward the lightning tree, and Brutus will trust that Enobaria can take care of it.
That leaves Mason as the wild card. Brutus grabs his spear and takes off through the jungle where she disappeared.
Nero holds his breath as his girl trades blows with Finnick Odair. Of the remaining tributes, Odair is the only one besides Brutus with a danger of taking Bari out at hand-to-hand, and Nero has faith in her but accidents can happen. If the last year has taught Nero anything it's that nothing is sure; he staked his honour as a mentor that Bari would never have to kill again, and look how well that ended up.
At least Bari isn't playing; she has her kill face on, eyes narrowed and mouth thin instead of grinning, and she's forgotten all about her games with Twelve as she darts in and catches Odair in the arm. A long line of red bubbles up on his skin, and Odair dances back, parrying her next blow but not responding.
And -- what the hell? Because the Twos are the only ones who'd be able to take out Odair unless he lets Twelve and her bow get a bead on him in secret, and the boy is too smart for that. Except somehow he's not smart enough to do more than take the defensive against Bari, apparently, like that will make her spare him or do anything but get annoyed and kill him faster.
"Stop playing!" Bari snaps, and yup there we go. Nero's hands tighten on the edge of the desk, but this is her pissed and focused and she can do this. Stay on task, he pleads silently. She lunges forward, sword flashing, but again Odair ducks under the blow and moves out of her reach, and still doesn't run. "Stop being such a coward and fight me for real!"
"You really don't get it," Odair says, and he keeps his weapon up but he doesn't attack her, and what is going on . "This is so much bigger than you, or me, if you would just stop being so crazy and listen for a second!"
Rookie mistake; never call Bari crazy, and sure enough she pulls back her lips and snarls at him, teeth shining in the pale light. "Say that again, you fucking cheater. I know you fuck the Gamemakers to try to help your tributes."
Odair breathes out hard and his eyes go hard, but he catches himself. "Just listen to me! I'm trying to help you. It doesn't have to be like this, there's another way. Just come up with me to the tree for five minutes, okay? Wait for the lightning. You can kill me after the lightning."
Bari snorts and draws blood again but still Odair doesn't return the blow, and Nero winces as his girl's expression starts to slip, concentration giving way to the madness underneath. "I could kill you right now. I'm going to kill you right now, because I'm a special Victor and you're a piece of traitor trash."
"I won't fight back," Odair says. "I'll just let you kill me right here, and that will be boring. Or you can come to the tree, see what I have to show you, and after if you don't like it I'll fight you for real and it'll be interesting. Okay?"
Bari narrows her eyes and tosses her sword from hand to hand in thought, and just like the day before with Lumina after Beetee saying his plans where Brutus could overhear, this time it's Odysseus who sits up straight and mutters "What are you doing ?" at his screen. Now Nero officially has no idea what the hell is happening, and it's his girl's life on the line and the other districts have been fucking around behind Two's back the entire damn time. If Odair wants to have a flash of conscience about it, Nero isn't going to complain.
Finally Bari takes a step back. "You'll fight me for real?" she asks slowly, and Nero can't decide if he wants her to go with it or run in the opposite direction. All his alarm senses have gone off at once, but the problem is they're just firing at everything every which way. Odair promises, and Bari nods once, sharp. "Fine. But if I don't like your surprise and you don't fight me then it's going to take me until morning to kill you and you'll wish you didn't lie to me."
Odair nods. "Deal," he says, and he and Bari run off toward the tree together.
Nero looks over at Lyme, but she's fixated on her own screen and doesn't return his glance. Well, fair enough; Nero has hung his first Victor out to dry this year, with all his attention on looking after Bari, but what choice does he have? Lyme he can fix later if she feels betrayed or goes crazy; Bari being dead, there's no coming back from that.
One thing is for sure; if Odair kills Bari anyway and wins, it doesn't matter about the old adage and what happens in the Arena. Nero will hunt the pretty boy down and tear him to pieces.
"This has gotten out of hand," Coriolanus says, setting down his teacup with a rattle of porcelain against porcelain. "I don't like this. I don't like any of this. Something is going on and I won't have it."
Ronan does not tell Coriolanus to join the damn club. He does not say any of the million things that have been flying around in his brain since the president overextended his authority and turned one vendetta against a single girl into an all-out attack on the entire country, including those loyal to him. He does take his napkin and mop up the spilled liquid on the table before it can stain the mahogany. "It's a Victor Games," Ronan says, keeping his voice neutral. "You can't expect them to behave logically."
"I can expect whatever I want, Ronan, I am the president," Coriolanus snaps, and this time Ronan does freeze because he knows Coriolanus' tantrum voice and this is it. "Get me Heavensbee," he says, and for a moment Ronan thinks Coriolanus is actually asking him to play messenger before he registers the man's hand against the comm button on the side of the table.
"What is it exactly that has upset you?" Ronan asks, treading carefully. He certainly has a list of his own, but most of the things that have caused Ronan to lose sleep would only set Coriolanus to cackling.
Coriolanus jabs a finger at the images floating between them, cycling through the feeds with irritated taps of his finger against the controls. Finnick and Enobaria, side by side; Beetee unconscious after his unsuccessful attack on the forcefield; Katniss surveying the area with her face screwed up in a mix of panic and determination, following the line of the loop of wire from the ground to Beetee's abandoned knife; Peeta screaming Katniss' name from the one o'clock wedge, Johanna cursing and changing direction to come after him. Brutus, working his way up toward the mess at the top.
"There are plans afoot," Coriolanus hisses, eyes bloodshot and lips flecked with blood and foam. "Too many plans, and I didn't orchestrate any of them. Do you know how it makes me feel, Ronan, knowing that the tributes are scheming against me?"
"No one in this room is scheming," Ronan reminds him. "Two is doing its duty by you as always."
"Are you?" Coriolanus demands. "Because what I see is your Enobaria teaming up with Finnick Odair when she should be gutting him and peeling off his skin."
Ronan swallows, but before he can rally, the president's comm beeps and Heavensbee's smooth, cultured voice interrupts. "Sir?" he asks. "What can I do for you?"
"They're planning something and I want it to stop," Coriolanus says, the ire in his voice cooling to ice. "End it, now."
"Sir?" Heavensbee's voice comes back after a moment's pause. "I'm not sure I understand."
"End it! All of them. Kill them, I don't care how. Activate the Arena wedges, whatever it takes, and don't stop until everyone but one is dead."
Heavensbee takes even longer to respond. "Sir, are you sure that's wise? The sponsors --"
"The sponsors are not the leaders of this country, and they do not hold the keys to your freedom, or have you forgotten?" Coriolanus snarls, but it's cold fire now and Ronan has to fight to keep his breathing even. If he were screaming this would be one thing; his hot rages burn out fast, and after acquiescing to him and appeasing his immediate fury, it's often possible to talk him down. But this -- this is the snake, and Ronan has never won a negotiation against this side of him.
"Seven-F and Twelve-M are in the blood rain zone," Heavensbee says. "That can be activated immediately, no problem. But the majority are in the twelve wedge, and the lightning countdown has already begun. There's no way to preempt that, and safety overrides will prevent us from activating anything else until it's dissipated. Fortunately it's only minutes away."
"Do it," Coriolanus orders, and now he's even calmer. "As soon as you can, flood the entire twelve o'lock wedge with nerve gas. Who else is left?"
"Two-M, currently in the two o'clock wedge, but we don't have the fog cued up yet."
"Nerve gas, then," Coriolanus says coolly. "Do it now."
Ronan only just stops himself from leaping over the table and throttling Coriolanus with his bare hands. "I'm not sure that's the wisest choice," he interjects, and up until this moment he had Brutus pegged for the perfect martyr but plans change, and Ronan can be flexible. "You still need a Victor, and of the remaining choices, Brutus is the obvious one. He's loyal, as is Two. It will send a good message to spare him; that you reward those who are faithful to you. Kill him and what sort of message are you sending to the country? To District Two?"
Coriolanus turns his gaze on Ronan and tilts his head to the side. "That sounds like a threat."
"It is not a threat," Ronan says immediately, but now he's backpedalling, and once on the defensive against President Snow there's no coming back. "It's -- I'm just asking you to be realistic. There's no one else who would be a more grateful recipient of your mercy than Brutus, and the district will stand behind him."
"And if I don't, you and your district will turn against me, that's what you're saying," says Coriolanus, tapping one finger against the tabletop. "You've overreached this time, Ronan. Heavensbee?" The man makes an affirmative, and Coriolanus keeps Ronan trapped in his gaze, cold as steel and unblinking. "Execute Two-M immediately as ordered. Nerve gas seems the most efficient."
"Yes sir."
Coriolanus cuts the connection and gives Ronan a smile that slithers in between his bones. "Now. What were you about to say? That I'm making a mistake? That I'll regret this?"
Ronan takes a long breath without moving and lets it out through his nose. He offers up a silent apology to Brutus, about to become a martyr after all. "No," he says, and he doesn't manage to wrangle his face into a smile but Coriolanus won't want to see it anyway. There are times for Ronan to lose with grace; today Coriolanus wants to see him crawl. "Far from it. You've made the right decision, as always."
"I thought so." Coriolanus lets out an indulgent sigh and reaches into the tin in front of him. "Have a scone," he says pleasantly, and slides it over.
It will be poisoned, of course, and Ronan will spend the evening hunched over the sink, vomiting up everything he's eaten since the morning. Ronan takes the biscuit and bites deep.
Lyme's console explodes with warning a second before Brutus drops, clawing at his throat. His collapses to his knees in the jungle, and there's nothing onscreen to explain it but his vitals have gone crazy, his respiratory functions kicking into overdrive as something unseen attacks his lungs. Brutus' limbs convulse, and he thrashes amid the vines, staring up at the cameras with his blue eyes wide and accusing.
Nerve gas. Lyme finally dredges up an old memory of training and makes the connection, not that she can help him one fucking bit for knowing.
Brutus twitches and writhes, but he fights, his right arm coming up in slow, jerky movements, and he closes his fingers into a fist even as his entire hand spasms. Tears and streams of red trickle from the corners of his eyes -- his nose runs with blood and mucus -- but Brutus never loses sight of the camera as he brings his fist up to his chest.
His dying act as the Gamemakers murder him is not to flip them off -- as Lyme would have done -- but to give the District Two salute. Lyme laughs even as she rocks back and forth in her chair, the sound bubbling up damp and wild, and she touches her fist over her own heart. Spit runs from Brutus' mouth -- the spasms intensify, full-body shudders that roll faster and faster -- but still he fights, and Lyme holds her eyes wide open and refuses to blink and miss even a second.
The live broadcast indicator died when Brutus fell, but the mentor consoles are hardwired; it would take a full system reset to knock out Lyme's feed, and so she watches because the rest of the district can't. She salutes him back in place of the people he thinks are with him as he dies.
The cannon fires.
Lyme claps both hands to her face as tears burn trails down her cheeks and her head fills with pressure. A scream builds up inside her and fights to release itself, and Lyme might have been lying when she told Brutus she knew he would win but she never thought it would be like this. Not like this. The sound makes it halfway out, and Lyme clamps it down to a half-crazed gurgle and bites the flesh on her palm to keep it inside.
A message flashes across the bottom of Lyme's screen: HANGAR 15, 10 MINUTES. TELL NO ONE.
Lyme stops rocking, hands still plastered over her mouth, and she sucks in several long, wet breaths. Onscreen the hovercraft descends and picks up Brutus' body; he hangs limp in the claw, arms extended and head flopped to the side, and he's dead. Her friend is dead. The best, most loyal, most stupidly honourable Victor Two ever produced is dead and the Capitol killed him. Sure, they killed him the day they announced the rules for the 75 th , but this is worse, so much worse.
The message flickers out, and Lyme takes another breath. Brutus is dead but this isn't over. The people who did this are still alive, and Lyme will make them pay. Them and the whole system they built -- the one she's been a part of since she was seven years old -- and she is going to tear it to the ground and set the foundations on fire. Brutus would hate her for it, he'd tell her he's not worth it, but he's not here, is he.
Lyme takes one last look at the screen as the claw retracts -- presses her fingers against the glass over Brutus' body before it disappears -- then pushes herself to her feet and slips out. Nobody even glances at her, too transfixed by the drama on their own screens, and Lyme heads straight for the elevator that will take her to the Two floor. It'll be a stretch to make the hangar in ten minutes, and this doesn't exactly qualify as telling no one, but they take Lyme with Claudius or not at all.
He's sprawled on his bed with one arm over his eyes, dozing after working almost twenty-four straight hours on the sponsor floor, but he sits up with a jolt when Lyme tosses his bag at his head. "Well?" Lyme snaps. "You coming?"
Claudius scrambles out of bed, shoving his arms through the straps of his bag. "Thought you'd never ask."
Lyme pulls him in and presses a hard kiss to his hair a she tugs him out of the room. "It's just us," she says. "We've got a ride out and everything."
Claudius nods, eyes darting as he takes in the hallway cameras and does his best to keep his body language and expression neutral. "What happened?" he asks under his breath, not moving his lips.
Lyme exhales. "Brutus."
Claudius says nothing, but he twines his fingers into hers, and Lyme grips back hard.
The corridor leading up to Hangar 15 is empty, and inside is a small personal transport shuttle. "I said come alone," says the man waiting at the ramp, but Lyme doesn't let go of Claudius' hand, and he clicks his teeth after a short staredown. "Never mind. Let's go."
Lyme looks back once, but there's nothing to look at. The others are still doing their jobs, still hoping if they play by the rules then there will be some exception, some salvation, but there's nothing. Brutus is dead, and with him any hope Lyme had of surviving in this hell without setting it all on fire. She's leaving her mentor and her girl, Nero and Artemisia still working to bring Enobaria home, and a part of Lyme tears itself loose and stabs her in the heart but what can she do? Nero would argue with her and try using logic, Misha would beg her not to go, and both would ask too many questions and waste time. Maybe it would even work -- maybe Lyme would calm down, agree not to do anything irrational, come back home and mentor tribute after tribute until the day her body gives out around her, but no, she can't. No more children will die if she can help it, not next year or any year after that.
"C'mon boss," Claudius says, and Lyme nods. She turns her back on her life and loved ones and everything she knows to stalk into the shuttle, holding her breath until the ramp closes behind her and the vehicle lifts off into the air. Tears press at the backs of her eyelids but she blinks them back in a fury. It's too late for that. Lyme will shed no more helpless tears, not ever again.
"Now that I'm here," Lyme says to the man, lifting her head and squaring her shoulders. "I'd like to know who I'm working for."