If Kaiko has been Reaped, he would have seen less violence, less death. He had that thought often as of late: the notion that an act of violence had only perpetuated more, led him away from the insulation of an academy and into frontline combat. Against rebels, who had once been people, who were now enemies of the state. And he, as an agent of that institution, was tasked with quelling their noise. They were his enemies now too.
There was a deep envy in being unable to attend the tribute parade. He should be there, in a chariot, looking up at President Snow. Not here, stuck in the Tower, watching the crowds from the windows. In that moment, he resented it all. The uniform, the posting, the night that had changed it all. But anger was short-lived, here in an instant and gone in a flash. A flash--
The sound hit Kaiko before the blast did, but it followed in quick succession. The bright light, the intense heat -- he was thrown forward, the glass window shattering, and he was flying. Out from the Tower, over the street below. The explosion had projected him out of the building, and he was soaring toward the pavement below. He opened his mouth in soundless scream before the force field caught his form. Kaiko sputtered, floundering on his stomach, staring down at the street below. At the masked insurgents who stormed through the sides of the Tower. It was not an accident, a horrible accident. They were under attack. And then he was crawling back toward the Tower, all adrenaline. In through another shattered window, to a space he didn't know and could barely perceive through the curtain of smoke. People screaming. Choking. Surging out through the stairwells, panicking if they were alive. Silent if they were dead.
All instinct, all muscle memory. Kaiko began to pull from the wreckage. But it was carnage. Few were still alive to be saved. He choked on smoke and ash, the hazy yellow shading that blocked visibility, hands searching blindly for anything soft. He grabbed onto another form, this one half-up on its own: a good sign of life. It lunged, and Kaiko lifted a hand in response. But they were not opposed. Just two innocents caught in this chaos. Victims of the brutality of insurgents who would see their country fall. Kaiko helped him up, taking stock of his wounds, deeming them non-emergent enough that neither of them would drop dead in the next hour. The room was near-empty now; only the injured and dead remained.
"We're under attack!" He shouted back, ears ringing. Loud, louder than his own voice. Was he audible at all? "Rebels!" Kaiko grabbed the other's arm, pulling him toward the stairs. To safety, as was his duty. To protect. To protect the good people. But before they could reach the stairwell, masked figures surged out from it, rushing like rats up from the darkness. Insurrectionists. Hiding their faces in shame. In disgrace. Kaiko released Monty, reaching for his gun -- finding nothing in its holstered place.
"Fuck," he spat, but that was only an advantage lost. Kaiko still surged forward, snatching a splintered piece of wood from the floor, bringing it down with a brutal, controlled rage.
