Chapter Text
Prologue 1: Uncertain Tides
JOTHAM VELASQUEZ (15)
DISTRICT TEN VICTOR (53RD GAMES)
Jotham was dejected.
Months had passed since his last interaction with District Fourteen, with the Masked Merchants network going quiet about the cold, frozen rebellion stronghold ever since his Victory Tour. With each passing day, thoughts, concerns, worries that maybe, just maybe, their defence systems had been exposed by the Capitol, that their whole system had been blown to smithereens in a flurry of nuclear bombs.
Bombs.
He blinked, gritting his teeth as he grabbed a chair, sitting himself before the memories could overwhelm him.
Ithaca’s face flashed before his eyes, her look of terror before she was blown to bits, the silent scream strangled in her throat in her final moments. Jotham braced himself, gripping the chair’s arms so tightly, his knuckles turned white.
It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t Ithaca’s fault, it wasn’t Ceri’s fault.
He held on to the memory, clung to the feelings of anger and despair, then imagined the Capitol’s seal in Ithaca’s place, being blown away by a type-Ceri bomb. His muscles relaxed, his fists loosening their grip on the chair.
Deep breaths, Jotham, it’s gonna be alright.
He couldn’t bring himself to imagine President Snow or Ruby Ashgrove in Ithaca’s place in the arena, even they didn’t deserve such a cruel fate. The thought of any living being dying in such a manner made him nauseous.
Channel that anger and disgust towards the Capitol’s system.
Jotham squeezed his eyes shut.
Inhale, exhale.
Slowly rising to his feet, he forced a smile onto his face as he tried to ground himself back in reality.
Five things he could see: the chair, the family portrait of him and his foster parents, a shiny, white toaster, a colourful vase and his Victor’s crown.
Four things he could feel: his boots, the straw back of the chair, his white shirt and his cowboy hat.
Three things he could smell: fresh loaves of bread on the white kitchen table, his foster mom’s flowers and a jacket he probably should wash soon.
Two things he could hear: a bird chirping in the distance and the whirring of a small, white fan.
One thing he could taste: well, nothing.
And just like that, Jotham could feel his heart slowing down to a calm, steady beat, the visions that so often plagued his mind fading to black.
His foster parents were out in the local markets, and Jotham decided he probably had some time to kill before they returned and he had to help them with chores.
Perhaps it was time to check the Masked Merchants again.
Grabbing a small bag he kept by the door, he murmured a quick ‘thank you' to Gwen for the breathing advice, quickly realising she couldn't hear him from all the way in District Nine, before venturing out into the Victors’ Village. The quiet, secluded gated neighbourhood was never exactly lively, John and Mare both liked to keep low profiles, after all. But today, both of his more senior Victor companions were away in the Capitol for an ‘exclusive event’, which likely meant they were being further questioned for any signs of involvement in District Four’s sudden fight for independence. He grimaced, his mind beginning to race again with dreaded thoughts of what they would do to John and Mare, but he forced himself to stop, grabbing hold once again on his emotions and channelling them towards finding out what on earth happened with District Fourteen.
As he exited the Victors’ Village and stepped onto the dusty main streets of Austin, his eyes were drawn to the presence of hastily-built guard posts which now dominated the streetscape, sandwiched between meat processing factories and shophouses and even one wedged into the side of a public latrine, though the Peacekeeper manning that station bore the face of a man who probably wished he’d chosen a different profession. The citizens were more mellow these days, their faces turned towards the ground as they shuffled to and fro, donning thick, hooded cloaks even in the warm heat of District Ten. Each time a Peaekeeper stamped their foot, loud, frightened yelps would erupt amongst the crowd, averting their gaze as they darted away, not wishing to find themselves on the end of a bullwhip.
It certainly wasn’t a coincidence that there would be heightened security presence here in Austin. After all, Jotham reasoned, the Capitol definitely wasn’t going to take the tense peace that followed Four’s declaration of independence and One’s uprising for granted.
Passing by a line of beef slaughterhouses, he noted that there were twice as many cows brought in on a daily basis now, with the lines for slaughter now spilling out onto the streets. A few young calves, far too young normally to be killed for meat, let out high-pitched, terrified moos as they swung their heads around, kicking their feet against the dust. One locked eyes with Jotham and he had to steel himself before he did anything rash. The fear in its eyes was all too familiar, he saw it every single day in the mirror.
“Let’s go, move it, come on!” a man shouted from inside the factories, and a couple of young, frantic workers instantly rushed forward to herd the cows into the slaughterhouse. Jotham didn’t miss the fresh bruises on their hands and necks, the fresh cuts on their cheeks, the fresh fear in their pleas for the cows to get a move on.
Forcing his feet to walk briskly ahead before anyone could spot him, he rounded a corner and eventually arrived at a small side street, a neighbourhood of quiet houses amid the raging chaos of a city that had never exactly known peace. Here, the smell of manure and smoke was less pungent, allowing Jotham a quick breather as he shuffled forth. Wary of the families inside the homes, he quietened his steps, carefully trying to avoid the loud crunches of boots against gravel. As he ventured deeper into the street, a few things caught his eye, even here in this mundane, residential area. The dilapidated roofs that were usually at least serviceable, the growing piles of trash in front of each house, the lack of any old men playing chess on small tables as their grandkids watched. The few bits of Austin that gave it a lively reprieve from the gloom of Panem had withered away, crumbling into the dust that the Peacekeeper regiments kicked up in their wake.
Things have changed in District Ten, Jotham thought with a small sigh.
He reminded himself that he had to be grateful, at least, that things in District Ten were not quite as dire as they were elsewhere in the Districts. District One lay in smouldering ruins, its people chained more tightly than ever to slavery and poverty, those few who were ‘lucky enough to survive the Capitol's onslaught at least. Districts Seven, Eight and Nine too, were facing immense difficulties staying afloat with district-wide crackdown and the wrath of Mother Nature wreaking double havoc on the Outlying Districts of Panem.
But being grateful did not mean he accepted District Ten's current status quo.
He knew full well that all it took was the snap of a finger and his beloved District and its people could face a fate no different from the other Districts.
Shelving away his thoughts, he finally arrived at his destination: a nondescript red-brick home with a rusty, crumbling mailbox as its only decoration. Fishing into his bag for the spare key he’d been entrusted with, he quietly unlocked the door and, after doing a quick scan of the area to make sure no Peacekeepers were watching, slipped into the house of Jackal Samson.
The rebel leader, however, was nowhere to be seen, out working to attain double his normal quotas for the day in the duck processing factory he worked in. It didn’t matter, though, as Jotham made his way across the tiny kitchen cramped with boxes and cooking appliances to a small section of wall hidden behind a cupboard of rotting ingredients.
Once again, Jotham fished into his bag and fumbled around, looking for his mask. As he sifted through its contents, a singular photograph fluttered out, giving a little twirl in the air before he reached out and swiped it. Turning it over, he allowed himself a moment, as he did nearly every day, to look upon the girl with light brown hair and mischievous, twinkling hazel eyes staring back at him with a sly grin that spelt trouble.
“Morning, Ceri,” he whispered softly, a small smile of his own creeping up his face as he remembered his friend and first love from District Eight.
She could've been alive today if it weren't for Jotham.
Jotham scowled, repressing that ugly train of thought. No, he did not want to spend his life miserable about the ifs, buts and maybes of his time in the arena. Laura and Ceri both deserved to go home alive and well, that was for certain, but regretting being the one to receive a continued life was not how he wanted to honour their loss.
Tucking the picture back into his bag, he dug deep and finally, his hand felt the plastic curve of his mask. Yanking it out, he strapped it around his face, fidgeting as he tried to adjust it to suit his facial structure. The baby tiger design had always irked him, but it was a gift from Maize O’Connell, Ceri’s best friend in District Eight, which felt like one final prank Ceri was pulling on him from the afterlife. Still, that same stupidly designed mask was one of the few remaining tokens he had of Ceri and he couldn’t bear to get a new one for himself. Plus, who would suspect a Victor strutting around in that?
Zipping up his bag, Jotham pushed against the wall, nearly falling through the opening into the tunnels as the secret door swung open.
Safety clearly hadn't been a consideration in its construction.
Stepping gingerly down the worn, weathered steps leading further into the earth, Jotham took a moment to adjust his eyes to the dim light of the tunnel networks. A few dusty lanterns hung haphazardly from the walls, with a few already snuffed out and smashed against the ground that Jotham had to carefully avoid.
His heart raced, his throat closing up at the burst of darkness.
Home sweet home, Jotham, just like in the arena.
Shadows danced in his vision, flecks of black darting across the glowing orange hues of light. Jotham blinked, forcing himself to breathe, to keep his head down, to stay focused on the present as he trudged down the stairs.
A face seemed to loom in the shadows.
Jotham's eyes shot up, alarm bells ringing in his ears as the tear-stricken, bloodied face of Tamsin Reid stared back at him, her mouth open in a silent scream.
You're not real.
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to scream. When he opened his eyes again, the face was gone, and the path ahead seemed quiet, peaceful, worlds away from the accursed woods of the arena.
At long last, he brushed aside a pile of cobwebs and pushed open another, more secure door, coming face-to-face with a giant, bustling cavern teeming with masked vendors silently waving products from Panem and beyond behind rickety wooden stalls and quiet, hooded figures huddled in small nooks discussing in hushed voices. There could've been anywhere between a hundred to a thousand people shuffling by this section of the network, it was hard to tell, but the atmosphere was quiet, tense, perforated by thin, eerie layers of mist and smoke that swerved through the soft clanging of metal against wood and the intelligible hush of a plot being brewed.
The Masked Merchants.
Taking another deep breath to soothe his growing nerves that he could be watched even here in this hub of rebellion, he strode forward towards the little offshoots of the tunnel systems, lined with railway tracks and more tiny nooks and crannies for quiet dissent.
Quietly peering into some of them, he found most to be empty save for a few pieces of burnt litter and cigarettes.
They could've at least tried to keep this place clean.
A railway cart rolled by, two masked blonde figures riding atop it. Jotham instantly flattened himself against the tunnel walls, allowing them to pass. The pair gave him curt nods and Jotham managed to spot a few crates tucked beneath black sheets inside the cart, no doubt stocked to the brim with contraband goods waiting to see the light of day in a fight somewhere in the Districts.
Once the cart had disappeared into the darkness, Jotham carried on, still wary of stray pieces of glass and potential traps laid out to halt any Peacekeeper raids.
And then, he stopped.
His head turned, his brows furrowing as he bent over to get a second look, scarcely believing his eyes.
I must be hallucinating, he reasoned with himself, blinking rapidly.
Yet, there she was, hiding in plain sight, with a rainbow mask that was such a commonality in these tunnels that none would have given it much thought.
But the swirls, the specific patterns, the subtle outline of a reindeer etched into the sides, Jotham had been trained to recognise this lady amongst a sea of faceless names. That little tilt of her head, undoubtedly paired with her signature cheeky grin underneath her mask, was all too familiar to Jotham.
“Hello, Jotham,” uttered the conspiratorial whisper of Dawn Lind, the sound of her voice filling his heart with a newfound hope that had been missing for months now. “Now, are you gonna just stand there or are you gonna get in here? I've got loads to tell you about what's going on in District Fourteen.”
A/N: I'm back with another SYOT :)