Chapter Text
She was no stranger to the feeling of darkness. Having grown up and lived her whole life in District Thirteen, a large part of her world was shrouded in shadows. In the areas where artificial light couldn't reach, leaving the shadows to remain against her gray world, so she naturally learned to adapt to the darkness. The shadows had become a constant companion to her, and she had learned to adapt to the darkness, to use it as a tool and weapon, to hide her true intentions amongst it. The shadows had become her ally, an extension of herself, and she knew how to wield them to achieve her goals.
Or at least she thought she knew how.
Alma Coin's eyes snapped open as she inhaled sharply, filling her lungs with air and bringing life to her body. She couldn't recall any details of her dream, but her chest ached, and her heart raced as if it was trying to scream out something vital. She gazed at the dull gray ceiling, much like the surrounding walls. Something felt amiss, but she couldn't pinpoint what it was. With a deep breath, she slowly rose from her bed, feeling the familiar stiffness of the mattress that had become her constant companion over the years. The room appeared the same as any other day, but the faint light seeping in from under the door hinted that she was not alone in being awake.
As she tried to jog her memory and recall what had happened recently, she struggled to grasp the details. She remembered the intense revolution that had occurred, the fierce uprising against the oppressive Capital, and the brutal war that had ensued. However, the ending of the rebellion felt hazy and distant, with events and occurrences blurring into one another. She couldn't quite recall how it all ended, and it felt as if the memories were slipping away. Perhaps it was all just a dream, and they were still caught up in the midst of the struggle. A deep sense of unease washed over her as she pondered these thoughts, leaving her feeling lost and uncertain.
Despite the confusion, Alma preferred to rely on logic and reason to untangle the mess in her mind. She knew she was in District 13, but it felt like she wasn't supposed to be there. With a sense of urgency, she got out of bed and made her way in search of clues to help her make sense of her situation. When she stepped out of her bunk, she found no one in the hall.
As Alma walked through the empty hallways, the sound of her footsteps echoed, intensifying the eerie silence that enveloped her. She peered into each empty room, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone, but they were all deserted. Alma was heading to the control center, but as she walked, she felt a chill run down her spine when the lights flickered slightly. It was odd because if it were curfew, the lights would have been turned off, and even then, she would have run into the guards on the night shift by now.
Alma knew that Beetee was always tinkering with something and was unlikely to leave the control center, even when it was curfew or his scheduled time to eat. Beetee was always engrossed in his work, whether cracking into the Capitol's frequency to send propos to the other districts or making weapons for the rebellion. Alma seemed to have no problem leaving the handicapped Victor to his work of assisting the cause. This decision made it easier for her to locate him quickly during emergencies, not that it would be difficult to find the one man in a wheelchair; he wouldn't be able to use the stairs, after all. If he was present, he could inform Alma of everyone's whereabouts or, at the very least, provide information on the locations of Plutarch Heavensbee and Boggs.
She turned around and made her way down yet another dimly lit hallway. As she walked, her eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for any signs of disturbance. Everything seemed to be in order, except for the unsettling silence that hung in the air. That made her glance back at the halls she had just passed through before opening the door to the control center. The room appeared abandoned like every other room she had passed. Alma flipped on the lights, but when she tried to log in, the monitor stayed off, showing a black screen and reflecting her bewildered face. None of this made any sense. Yesterday, there had been people, or at least, she thought she remembered talking to someone. But the memories felt distant as if she hadn't been here in days or weeks. Alma clenched and unclenched her fists in frustration as she leaned over the table, desperately trying to get the computer to turn on. She checked the back and saw the soft orange glow that indicated the power was still on, but when she held down the power button and the side button for a hard restart, the screen remained blank.
This was pointless.
Alma looked up at the spot where the clock usually hung, but instead of the familiar timepiece, there was only an empty space on the wall. Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion as she tried to understand what was happening. She approached the empty wall cautiously, examining it closely. She could just barely see the faint outline of where the clock had been hanging before. It was as if the clock had vanished into thin air, leaving behind nothing but a few tiny holes in the wall where the nails had been.
She couldn't help but wonder if someone was playing a prank on her. But the idea seemed unlikely. District Thirteen was known for being a place of order and discipline, and horseplay or practical jokes were usually met with severe punishment. Alma couldn't imagine that many people would risk punishment just to pull off an idiotic prank like this.
She turned to the door and walked out till she came to the meeting room. Alma crossed over and looked up to where the clock was and again was meant with an empty gray wall. She felt the irritation build and looked around the room for a clue. The table had some papers on the sides that she and Plutarch usually sat at, but there was no indication that someone had walked away intending to come back. Alma looked the papers over, and even though she recognized Plutarch's handwriting, she couldn't read it. No dates either. Plutarch wouldn't partake in this, so why couldn't she read his handwriting or find him?
What prank would require the absence of the clocks and messing up essential documents?
Don't they know we are in the middle of a rebellion, which could get them all killed?
Unless…
Alma highly doubted that they would leave their president. She would have been the first to be notified, and even if she were asleep, Boggs would have broken down the door to wake her up if it was important enough for everyone to take shelter deeper down to the emergency bunkers.
So why isn't he here?
It vaguely reminded Alma of the pox break out, and everyone who wasn't sick had to stay in their bunkers till the people with symptoms were contained to the medical wings. The elections for the next president were happening. Still, it got postponed, so there was little reason for Vince and her to leave their bunker, at least, that was until Gen started coughing about two weeks into their makeshift lockdown. Makeshift because where was there really to go when you're stuck underground? The same air circulated throughout 13. Gen was promptly moved to the west medical wing. Three days later, Vince was sent to the east wing when he started coughing.
She walked to the elevator, swiftly clicking the button for the lowest floor. The memory of having to help Vince into this elevator and down to the east medical wing popped up next, and she breathed unevenly, closing her eyes as she felt his phantom weight on her shoulders from that night. He could barely keep himself up, and she practically had to beg him to walk or move so she didn't fall with his added weight. It had been easier with Gen and her small frame to get her to the medical wing faster… not that it made a difference in the end.
They both ended up another tick mark to the still-growing number of casualties.
The elevator stopped, and there was a pause of silence. Alma waited for the doors to open, clicking the door open button after a minute had passed, but it didn't help.
Was it stuck?
The lights flicker subtly again, and the doors open. Alma exited the elevator with an urgent movement that calmed down once her feet were on the floor and walked to the stairs leading to the emergency bunkers. They used the elevator to get to most places in thirteen, but they had only had the entrance and exit to the emergency bunker be a door that leads to these stairs and then the next floor and then the elevator to go up. There were stairs that led to each floor, too, if someone wanted to take it, and she made a mental note to use them when coming back up, not wanting to take the risk of it stopping and actually breaking.
Alma opened the not locked doors, which was the first sign that no one was in there, but she still had to see herself. To make sure. The door made a screeching noise as she opened it. Rows of bunk beds and open space with no blankets or people to fill them. Alma felt her heart pound, the blood thumping through her still body, making her walk forward, the sound of her footsteps getting lost to the thumping in her ears.
Crash.
The once sturdy bunk bed fell down, and Alma couldn't stop herself, she tore the emergency room apart.
Why wasn't everyone here!?
Why can't she figure out what was happening!?
Alma stumbled to the floor, her breath hard, and she was shaking softly. The thought that solitude would drive her to feel this scared added to the already fueling frustration. She was used to being alone, distancing herself even when people were here. So why? Why is she struggling with only….
How long has she been here alone?
The soft shivers ran up her spine at the realization that she never did find out what time it was or how long she had been searching for the presence of someone, even the stupid cat that she allowed to take shelter in thirteen or that annoying drunkard Haymitch Abernathy, would have been better than being alone. Getting up from the floor, Alma walked out of the room and onto the stairs. If she can't find anything in the bunker, she'll just have to go outside.
Thud.
Thud.
Alma trudged up the stairs, the sound of her footsteps being her only company. Her heart picked up as she kept walking up the stairs, and soon, the ragged sound of her breath accompanied her footsteps. It was strange how her heart stung and ached like it had been stabbed or squeezed, making it hard to go up the stairs Alma had grown accustomed to, which gave her no problem before today. Her vision blurred, and she gripped her chest. The ringing made her wish for the sound of her footsteps to be the only thing she heard. Just a little more.
Thud.
Thud.
The cold metal of the door felt nice on her sweaty forehead. Alma leaned on the door until she could stabilize her breath. Reaching a hand to the keypad that will open the door, Alma tapped in the password…
It didn't open.
Alma dropped to the floor. She didn't even try again to open the door. There was no point it wouldn't open even if she put the numbers in again. She was stuck down here alone like how she had been when she lost Vince and Genevieve all over again, but this time, she didn't have the election to fall back on to drown herself in work because she didn't have the guts to drown herself with water. The feeling of hot, wet tears on her cheeks surprised her, but Alma didn't try to stop them. What was the point? No one was here to see her break down anyway.