Summary: Clark stands you up on your first date. It turns out he has a pretty decent explanation.
A/N: First fic in 3 years!! And about a DC character no less! The things I do for tall brunette lover boys <3
Warnings: Getting stood up, hurt/comfort, 24 hour clock mention, cursing, food mention, (extremely minor) injury mention, use of y/n, reader is described as having hair. Girl discovers how to use em dash.
Word Count: 8.2k
Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader
*
The skin of your legs sticks to the pleather upholstery of your chair as you bounce your leg. Face up on the table beside your empty glass, your phone displays the time.Â
19:37
Your messages and missed calls remain unanswered. He was late. That's what you repeated to yourself, Clark Kent would not have stood you up. Not Clark Kent, who stuttered and stumbled his way through asking you to dinner, a red flush creeping up from his collar. Heâd even double and triple checked you were still up for your date as you walked out of the office together on Friday night, a mere 24 hours ago. Clark Kent would not stand you up⊠so why was he almost an hour late?Â
If this was any other man, you would have cut your losses after 5 minutes and no text back. But you were so stunned, so ultimately blindsided by the possibility that the Clark Kent could (and has) forgotten about your date. This is what you get for putting him on a pedestal.Â
Men, you think. Only it comes out more morose than scathing.
You joined the Daily Planet years ago, fresh from university and desperate to make a change. Your passion in science communication was stunted by an underwhelming lack of reader interest. You managed to put out a few columns here and there, but mainly you worked with Lois, Clark and Jimmy, getting swept up into the seedy dealings of the Metropolisâ rich and powerful. Youâd spent many days and nights hunched over desks littered with notebooks, half-written memos on sticky notes, and letters from legal representatives. Corruption paid the bills in this city, as did writing about it.Â
That was until scientific misinformation about healthcare from capitalistic pharmaceutical companies became increasingly prevalent and public demand for fact rather than fiction roseâyou were happy to rise to the challenge. Now your days are spent knee-deep in scientific journals, scoffing at social media rants about vaccines and having to bite your tongue in the bullpen when one of the sports journalists starts spouting off his questionable opinions on women's healthcare. The cease and desist letters didnât stop though, only signed by a different set of lawyers now. Thatâs the one constant about your job you supposeâshitty coffee, red pens and threatened legal action.
âItâs how you know youâre doing a good job.â Clark had reassured you once, heavy hand on your shoulder, an unusually bold move of affection from him. Thumb brushing over your satin blouse, once, twice, three times before he squeezed softly, taking your dazed expression for dismay at the thick paper envelope that sat on your desk. âWhat youâre doing is important.â He said, quieter but with an unwavering surety in his voice, like there was no argument about it.Â
You wrote that article in record time, lawyers be damned.
When you first met Clark, you honestly thought he didnât like you. He was quietâpoliteâbut quiet. He would chat happily to Jimmy, listen intently to Loisâ rants about a suspicious politician, chiming in with supporting observations where necessary, but with you it was like he short-circuited whenever you were near. Minimal eye contact, stuttering, heâd almost go out of his way to make sure there was never a situation where the two of you were alone together. It hurt, sure, but you figured he was just shy and hadnât warmed up to you.Â
Thankfully, he did warm up to you. It had all started with a tentatively placed coffee on your desk, your usual order from your favourite cafe nonetheless. You stuttered out a thank you which he politely brushed off, sitting down at his desk, his mouth twisting in a way that made you realise he was trying not to grin. You had stared at your desktop in disbelief as you sipped your coffee. From then on things between you two progressed. Clark often found an excuse to hover near your desk, either to get your opinion on an article idea he wanted to pitch or offering to proofread your piece before itâs sent to the copy editor, even just to ask about what you did on the weekend. If you had an issue with the printer jamming, he was always the first one up to help you tackle it. Heâd take an interest in whichever published paper you were reading, listening to you intently as you explained the theory behind certain medications, unafraid to ask if he didnât understandâa quality you found pleasantly refreshing after spending your college experience surrounded by boys who constantly tried to prove themselves as smarter than you. You learnt very quickly that Clark was a dorky sweetheart whoâd grown far taller than was sustainable. Who, to your delight, seemed to enjoy your company just as much as you enjoyed his.Â
When the waitress loops back round to you, a poorly hidden look of sympathy on her face you decide to call it quits.Â
Your phone buzzes on the table. You hold your breath in anticipation.Â
Lois Lane: Superman sighting on fourth street. Aliens. Eye witnesses. You wanna come?
You sigh. The waitress, seemingly also holding out hope, grimaces, which is admirably her first slip of the night.Â
âJust the bill, please.âÂ
You swipe your card, tip graciously, duck your chin as you leave. Youâll wait until your apartment door is locked before you have a full-scale pity party, but you may have wiped a tear or two from your cheeks on your walk.
Lois, thankfully, stands where you agreed to meet. âOh.. wow. Hot date?â She nudges your arm, giving you an approving up and down. You canât wait to see this alien and fling yourself into its path. Your aspiration for a quick end to the conversation must show on your face, as Lois grimaces. âAh, do you want to pretend it didnât happen?â
You snort, âTechnically it didnât.â You keep your eyes ahead, walking towards where the sky pulses with red and blue beams of light. It doesnât mean you canât feel Loisâ eyes on you, assessing, trying to figure out how far is too far in terms of questioning your poor friend who has clearly not had a great night. Investigative journalists, you think. Deciding you canât emotionally take an interrogation, you throw her a bone. âHe didnât show.â
âSorry.â Lois doesnât have any follow up questions. Youâre sure she does, but none she deems tactful to ask.Â
âSo, whatâs the game plan?âÂ
âSupermanâs currently occupied with the second alien in under an hour, so see if we can get anything from eye witnesses, ideally someone will have seen where that thing came from. Itâs a long shot but if we can find anything that ties this to LexCorp itâd fit nicely into my piece.â You nod as the noise from fleeing civilians grows louder. You canât be far away from the barricades now. Tremors from the fight ripple through the ground beneath your heels, your bracelets clink as the impact travels up your arms. You clench your jaw through the natural panic and the rising ire at your situationâan evening of being wined and dined has devolved into you willingly heading towards an intergalactic battle, chasing a lead for a story youâre not even writing. Fan-fucking-tastic.
âI think you have a better chance of flagging Superman down for an interview than you do pinning this to Lex Luthor, Lois. We both know he doesnât cut corners when it comes to covering his ass.â
Lois huffs a laugh, narrowly dodging a street vendor rushing away from the conflict, you watch him flee over your shoulder, smart thinking. âYes, well we all know heâll be too busy giving Clark an exclusive play-by-play of events to make time for the likes of little old me.â
The cacophony from the alien ricocheting between adjacent skyscrapers distracts Lois from the way you freeze at the mention of his name, making you thankful for the decreasing distance between the two of you and the fight. As you get closer, you begin to make out the grotesque appearance of the creature, it struggles to look formidable. It almost reminds you of a chewed up tennis ball a dog would drop at your feet, slobber and all. The gratitude you feel is short lived because, as you approach the police barricade, it becomes quickly apparent that A) the space creature-thing smells worse than it looks, which is no small feat, and B) any and all eyewitnesses have left the scene. Cause and effect. The only people remaining are a few queasy-looking cops, Lois, yourself and a few onlookers with apparently iron stomachs. As the stench hits the back of your nose, youâre instantly glad you didnât eat anything at the restaurant - a silver lining if you will. If this thing was engineered, whatever expense was saved on the appearance of the creature doesnât appear to have been spent on its attacking ability. An unfortunate combination of bad looks, horrendous smell and even worse fighting prowessâyou almost feel bad. Superman seems to be making quick work of it, each hit is purposeful and on-target, albeit with more vehemence than usual.
âHe seems⊠aggressive?â Lois says, muffled by the sleeve she's using to cover her mouth and nose.
âCan you blame him? If I had to smell that up close Iâd want this over with as soon as possible.â
âDo you think he has a super sense of smell?â
âFor his sake I hope not.â
Further up the street, fifty metres in the air, blue and red blurs as the hits increase in speed. With one final blow the creature falls to the street, rendered unconscious. A puddle ofâŠdrool? steady growing outwards from where it lays. When the two of you look back up to the sky, the hero of the hour has disappeared. A still silence surrounds the street.
âWell, that was a bust. Sorry for dragging you along.âÂ
You shrug, looking around as a few stragglers begin to creep out of store-fronts, assessing the danger before stepping out into the street, heading back to wherever they were going. You see a couple, the man helping a woman over a piece of debris in the doorway, hand-in-hand as they walk down the street. You swallow back the burn in your throat and turn to Lois.
âItâs okay, not like I was having a good time before.â You attempt a lighthearted tone, but your ears and Loisâ face confirm it missed the mark by a mile. âAnyway, I wasâŠâ You trail off as Loisâ attention is suddenly snatched by something over your shoulder.Â
Not somethingâsomeoneâyou realise as you turn.
In front of you stands Superman.Â
The Superman.
For an awkward 5 seconds, no one speaks. Even Lois, who has all but begged Clark to be put in contact with superman, is speechless.
âHello, are you two okay?â
Nodding in near perfect synchrony, youâre sure you and Lois are quite the sight. A subtle look of amusement flashes across Supermanâs face before his eyes land on you. Humour fades into something more earnest.
âYou look lovely.â
âŠOh?
Taken aback by the sincerity in his voice, you flounder. Your poor heart has only just begun to pick itself back up and is wholly unprepared to handle whatever this is. You manage eye contact and a small but genuine smile.
âThank you.â
He nods. He doesnât leave, he looks like heâs thinking of something to say. Itâs a strange sight, a man who moves with such purpose and determination, looking unsure.
âYouâre journalists, right? From the Daily Planet?â
This turns out to be what is needed to reset Lois.Â
âWe are, yes. We work with your friend, Clark.â
You look down at your shoes, the momentary distraction from what happened earlier in the evening is shattered. On Monday, youâll see him at work. Hell, youâre standing next to Superman in the aftermath of a fight, Clarkâs probably on his way here now. You canât help but look around in a fleeting panic, thereâs only a handful of people lingering, none of which have tousled dark hair, no one with a pair of glasses that seem incessant on slipping down the bridge of their nose, no oneâs a hulking 6â4â whilst somehow never making you feel small. You look back down at your shoes and blink, hard. Good god, you need to get a grip.
When you look back up itâs directly into the eyes of superman. The intensity of an ice blue stare brings you back to the present.
âIâd be more than happy to do an interview, if youâd like?â
Your eyebrows raise and you turn to Lois. Much to your surprise, sheâs not taking his hand off for the opportunity. Lois shakes her head and nudges you. It takes you a second, and a glance at the man before you to realise heâs asking you. Not only asking, the way heâs looking at you is almost imploring. The offer should be too good to pass upâit is too good to pass up. But youâre so tired of reading things wrong, your confidence has been decimated and then some, your dignity canât take another hit for at least a month. You really, really, really want to crawl into bed and go to sleep.Â
So, pushing down every journalistic instinct that screams against it, you decline.
âOh, if you want a piece written, Lois is the one you want. Iâm uh- Iâm a bit rusty on the superhero stuff.âÂ
He looks genuinely crestfallen for a brief moment, before he nods. You canât shake the feeling of his gaze on you. The way heâs looking at you is not usually how a normal person looks at someone theyâve just metâat least you personally would never look at a stranger with this much awed fondness. Youâll admit you looked pretty in the mirror before you left earlier, but pretty enough for superman to look at you like this? Maybe he just thinks you look familiar. Or maybe itâs more of a thing among meta-humans.
âIf itâs okay with you, Iâm going to head back home.â You tell Lois. Youâd stay, obviously, if she wanted you too. Leaving her alone with a man youâve both never met is not a move youâd normally pull, especially when said man is wearing his underwear over his trousers. However, sheâs got a look on her face that makes you feel a bit guilty that youâre leaving Superman alone with herâLois has an incredible talent at making an interviewee squirm with her relentless questioning. You worry not that even superman will be immune to her interrogation tactics. Youâve been on the receiving end of Lois when she gains momentum (read: the missing mug incidentâit was Steve) and it's no laughing matter. Poor guy.
âYou sure?â
âYeah, I just- I think the sooner this dayâs over the better yâknow.â Lois smiles softly in understanding. She squeezes your arm.
âYouâll be safe getting back, yeah? Text me when you get home.â
âOf course, let me know when you get back too.â You take one last look at Superman who is still watching you, an expression you canât decipher on his face. You say a quick goodbye and start your walk home, Lois sending you a wave and a wink. At least you have some motivation not to call in sick on Mondayâyou canât wait to hear that recording.
*
Monday comes around unpleasantly fast. Your phone has been switched off since you received Loisâ âIâm home!â text on Saturday. Opting to spend Sunday with every intention to bury your head in the sand for as long as possible, a big fan of delaying the inevitable.Â
Your commute is uneventfulâno superman-related delays on public transport, an empty seat next to you on the bus (essentially gold dust during Metropolis rush hour), the forecasted rain blissfully holds off until youâre within touching distance of the entrance. Despite Clark being chronically late, you still watch the lobby door nervously as you wait for the elevator doors to shut. The last thing you need is to be trapped in a metal box with that man. You breathe a sigh of relief as the doors close without incident. So far so good.Â
Unfortunately, everything derails the second you step out into the Daily Planet bullpen. Despite being infamous for never being on time, Clark Kent stands by his desk nervously, muttering to himself whilst straightening his tie and brushing his hands over the material of his suit jacket. His head snaps up as you walk to your desk. You both freeze. The two of you look like deer in headlights, only on opposite sides of the road.Â
He clears his throat. âY/N, I-â
âHey, Y/N!â Grateful for any escape route, you whip around to see Lois racing towards you. âIâm transcribing the Superman interview, dâyou wanna listen?â Truthfully, Lois could be offering you the chance to scrub the sidewalk and youâd take it.Â
Quickly leaving your bag and coat at your desk, making a great effort to not spare Clark any attention, you hightail it after Lois as she motions for you to follow.
âDid you make the man cry?â
Lois snorts. âThat was one time, and no he didnât cry. To be honest after you left he didnât seem too keen on sticking around. Kinda antsy.â
âReally? Clark always seems to get a decent amount of information from him.â You follow her into an empty conference room, the recording already loaded on her laptop.
âThatâs what surprised me. Maybe Clark has a technique of getting him to talk that we donât know about, might be worth asking.â You hum in agreement despite having absolutely no intention of doing such a thing. âBut if you ask meâŠI think it's because Superman wanted you to do the interview, not me.âÂ
You roll your eyes. âLois, you know thatâs absurd. He wouldnât know enough about our writing styles-â
This time itâs Lois that rolls her eyes. âI donât think it had anything to do with writing styles.â At your oblivious expression she shakes her head at you, a sly grin on her face. âYou shouldâve seen the way he was looking at you. Iâm telling you, that man looked like he was one second from dropping to his knees.â You splutter. Before you can respond, youâre stopped by a tentative knock at the door.Â
âCome in.â Clark Kent peers around the door, a flush across his cheeks. After spotting you, he opens the door fully. His eyes lock onto yours, the man who once would immediately look away when you met each other's eyes long gone. Whoever this is seems intent on not letting you out of his sight.
âI was wondering if I could speak with you? Alone?â You pause. Itâs sickening, really, the way your immediate reaction is to nod and follow him blindly. You have to remind yourself that he had the chance to speak with you, alone, on Saturday night. But even with him right in front of you, itâs still difficult to put his face to all that hurt.Â
âCan it wait? Weâre kinda in the middle of something.âÂ
âOh no itâs fine, sheâs all yours, Clark.â
âLois-â Too late, she's already shutting her laptop and sliding off her chair.
âThere were no tears, promise. Not even a little bit of squirming. Youâre not missing out on anything here.â
âBut, Lois-â She slips past Clark, still in the doorframe, and disappears down the corridor. You sit in shocked betrayal.
Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - a nervous tick or a necessity youâre not too sure. He closes the door. The only noise in the room is the rhythmic ticking from the clock hanging on the wall. You look down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your skirt.
âIâm- Iâm so sorry.â To his credit, he sounds genuinely remorseful. You donât think you have it in you to look at him. You donât know what a contrite Clark Kent looks like, but you have a gut feeling that it would be potentially life-ruining. In the interest of self-preservation, you donât look up. Clark, filled with an increased sense of desperation, makes his way towards you. He hesitantly pulls out the chair next to you and weighs up his options when you stiffen. After a brief second he decides sitting is still better than towering over you. As the chair squeaks under his weight, you find your voice.
âDid you forget?â
âNo, of course not. I- I was looking forward to it the whole week.â He sounds wounded at the accusation, which only makes you more frustrated.
âYou didnât even text, I called you, and you couldnât even-â You shake your head and look directly at the fluorescent ceiling light, hoping the searing burn will distract from the tears welling along your waterline.
âI canât tell you how sorry I am, I swear. I was on my way to the restaurant and⊠something came up.â
You laugh, itâs pitiful and humourless. Out of all the excuses in the book, thatâs the best he can do?
âSomething came up?â You say sardonically. When you finally look at him, you canât tell if he flinches at your teary eyes or the poorly concealed ire in your voice. Youâve never spoken to him with anything other than kindness or good humour beforeâyouâve never had a reason to. This is unfamiliar ground for both of you.
âY-yes, I⊠Iâm so sorry.â He looks at you with a heart-stopping hurt. Behind his glasses, you think heâs about to cry.Â
âYouâre going to have to do a bit better than that, Clark. What could possibly be so urgent, that you had to abandon our dinner plans without even sending a text? I sat there, alone, for almost 40 minutes, like an- an idiot! And you couldnât even spare ten seconds to let me know you werenât going to make it?
His face twists, an internal debate going on in his head that youâre not privy to. He looks at you, really looks at you. You can see the moment he comes to a decision, his shoulders slump impossibly further and his eyes squeeze shut before he looks at you, resigned. You brace yourself for the impending let-down.
âI canâtâŠâ He sighs, shaking his head. âI canât tell you. Iâm really sorry, Y/N.â
You search his face for any sign that heâll change his mind, but his face remains the sameâpained, but resolute. You push up to stand, all thoughts but one blurringâyou need to leave this room. A shaky hand reaches to wipe away a tear rolling down your face. You take one unsteady step, then another until you reach the door.Â
âFor future reference, Clark, there are much kinder ways to let someone know youâre not interested, instead of leaving them to figure it out for themselves.â
Clark feels physically sick as you shut the door behind you, leaving him sat in the aftermath of your words. His instinct to immediately refute the possibility that he doesnât like you, dies on his tongueâbecause how could you not think that? As you pointed out, he invited you to dinner and didn't show, he didnât even give you the courtesy of letting you know he was going to be late. If he was in your shoes, he would come to the exact same conclusion. The months of building up to asking you out unfortunately means nothing if he canât even show up to the date. The way you looked at him, as if you expected more, as if you never thought he would be the one to cause such pain, has burned into the back of his retinasâhe sees it even as he drops his head into his hands, scrunching his eyes shut. He wishes he could replace it with the image of you dressed up on that night. You looked gorgeous, pretty in your shiny jewellery and a dress he hadn't been lucky enough to see you wear before.Â
Clark was a firm believer that a relationship can never be built on liesâa lesson Pa had instilled in him during his teenage years. He knows if he wants something meaningful with you (and he does, he really does) the superman conversation is one that will have to be had sooner rather than laterâthat is, if by some miracle he hasnât ruined any chance he had to get to know you in that way. But he doesnât think itâs fair to use it as an excuseâthis isnât how he wanted to tell you. Your feelings are understandably hurt and whilst there was a glaring reason as to why he didnât show, he still got too caught up in the motions to send you a quick text. Heâs admittedly not above blame, so he wonât use superman to get him out of a corner heâs backed himself into.Â
The soft sound of your sniffles hit his earsâhe rips his glasses off to scrub a hand over his eyes. Heâs made you cry. Super-hearing is a tool he can dial down when needed, but Clark doesnât try. He sits there and tortures himself with the muffled whimpers from the upset he caused. He figures itâs the least he deserves.
*
After taking some time in the bathroom to compose yourself, you return to your desk. You keep your gaze steadfast on the screen of your desktop for the rest of the day. No matter how often you feel Clarkâs eyes flicker towards you, you donât let your eyes stray from your desk.
For the rest of the week you feel like youâre constantly expecting Clark to corner you again. You donât linger in corridors, you donât spend more time next to the printer than you absolutely have to. Every morning he shuffles in, bouncing his shin off Jimmyâs desk chair, perilously balancing a tray of coffees, stacks of papers, and his briefcase. He always sets your coffee down with the utmost care, as if heâs terrified heâll spill it onto your neatly stacked papers (an entirely plausible scenario, in his defence). Youâre determined to be professional, so you say a polite "thank you". He looks as if he wants to say something but decides against it as you turn back to your work. Behind your back, Jimmy shakes his head, Clark waves him off.
*
Saturday nightâan entire week since the Incident. Youâre curled up on your couch finishing off a nice, yet deceitful, one-pot meal (you can count at least three from where youâre sat). A movie youâve seen before plays idly on the TV, but you catch your focus straying back to the events of last week every five minutes. Saturday nights are something you look forward to the entire work week and itâs starting to grate that you canât settle. Sighing loudly, you drag your hands over your face. Without thinking, you flick the TV off, stand up and grab your bag, pulling on your coat and shoes before leaving your apartment.
Distant rumbling a few blocks down and a quick look at your phone notifications is all you need to confirm that supermanâs saving the city once again. Only this time youâre walking away from the fight. When you arrive at the office it's peacefulâno hubbub, no news livestream, no telephones ringingâso different from the day-to-day that it feels almost surreal. The novelty of being there at night is a guilty pleasure. You turn on a few desk lamps in order to get enough light without having to turn on the dreaded fluorescents, and make yourself comfortable at your desk.
For a span of almost an hour, you manage to get a productive start on your newest pieceâa deep dive into the health consequences of inadequate sanitation caused by the mayor's neglect of the rundown neighbourhoods of Metropolis. Eventually, your fingertips slow over the keyboard as your bout of inspiration wanes. You stare at the blinking text cursor as you try to rack your brain for any ideas on things to add. Thatâs one of the downfalls of trying to work at night, thereâs no one around to bounce ideas off of. After a failed attempt at reinvigorating your focus with some online games, you figure a walk around the office couldnât hurt.Â
Once youâve trailed aimlessly for twenty minutes or so, and nosed around the supply closet to see if thereâs anything worth nabbing for your desk (there wasn't), you idle back to the bullpen.Â
You freeze.
Superman is standing at Clarkâs desk.
âWhat the fuck?â You whisper under your breath.
He whips around, startled. A piece of paper flutters to the floor by his red boot. You blink at each other from across the bullpen before he straightens up to his full height, broad shoulders squaring.Â
âHello.â
â...Hi?â You glance between him and Clarkâs desk, papers in a state of disarray from where heâd been rifling through them. âWhat are you doing?â It comes out more as a squeak than a question, so much for being a journalist.
âOh,â He looks behind him to the desk as if heâll find a suitable answer there. âI was looking for something.â
You nod hesitantly. âIs Superman breaking and entering these days?â A weak attempt at a joke that you instantly regret. Because, if for some reason he has gone rogue, in what world are you able to take on superman? You give him a once over in the suitâyouâre not sure any human would be able to take on superman. Mortifyingly, he catches you looking. You wish the ground would swallow you up as he raises an eyebrow slightly, a small smirk on his face. He chuckles lightly at your nervous questioning.
âI wouldnât call this breaking and entering, I-.â He pauses, his eyes lingering on you as he thinks through his options. âThe journalist, Clark Kent, mentioned something about a link between LexCorp and a new development in the suicide slumâhe thought it may have been used to stash weapons, or house something illicit.â His eyebrows pull together in concentration. âSomething caught my eye earlier, when I was fighting the kaiju, and I wanted to see if heâd found out anything about it.â
You didnât know Clark was investigating something in the underbelly of metropolis, nevermind a dodgy dealing in the suicide slum. Is that where he disappears off to? You canât picture Clark in those streets, a bumbling dork (said with nothing but love), wonky glasses, suit and tieâitâs a wonder he hasnât been mugged. Eager to have something to do and quietly curious to see what Clark has been getting himself into, you nod at the remaining stack of files.
âI can help you look, if youâd like?â He looks appreciative of your offer, but hesitates to accept.
âOh, I wouldnât want to interrupt your..â He trails off as he looks towards your desk where you monitor sits, a more genuine look of humour appears on his face. You follow his gaze and curse loudly in your headâFreeSudoku is displayed at a dazzling brightness on the screen, on a maximised tab nonetheless. The serious journalist image you were aiming for dissipates into thin air in secondsâfalling victim to a partially filled 9x9 grid. Heâs kind enough to bite back his toothy smile when he looks back at you, but it appears that dimples are a little harder to conceal.Â
âItâs okay, I've got plenty of time before the deadline.â You wander towards Clarkâs desk, quickly pressing the standby button on your monitor as you pass. âI donât normally come in at night. I just- I, uh⊠needed the distraction.â He pauses at this, regarding you with a look you donât have time to analyse before he turns to grab half of the stacked files. Your fingertips graze his hand as you take the manila folders from him. Youâre about to go back to your desk but Superman has other ideas, clearing space on the bench adjacent to Clarkâs and pulling out the nearest desk chair, also Clarkâs, for you to sit in.Â
Thereâs a comfortable silence between you, filled only by the shushing of the pages as you scour through the headlines, pull quotes and everything in between. Itâs heart-warmingly similar to the nights you, Lois and Clark would stay late when a deadline was fast approachingâsurviving off of nothing but takeout, the dregs from the coffee pot, and hope that a hive-mind approach would be the key to finally piecing together conflicting tip-offs and witness statements.Â
Youâre not confident in what youâre supposed to be looking for, but youâre determined to impress. What you lack in direction, you make up for in tenacity. You feel the familiar rush when you notice a small insignia, almost indistinguishable, in the corner of a photograph in the article youâre holding. Something to disregard, except youâd seen the exact same insignia earlier. Flicking through the pile of read articles you finally find the one youâre looking for. You compare the two badgesâidentical. Thereâs an inkling in the back of your mind, one which years of investigative journalism has taught you to trust, that makes you grab the remaining stack of unread articles and tear through them. You grin as you find one after the otherâarticles, all about unexplained and unsolvable crimes in the suicide slum. Granted, not an uncommon occurrence, but the presence of two Lâs encased in a square in at least one image per article is unusual. Spray painted on a wall, tattooed on someoneâs arm, a sticker plastered on a streetlightâeasy to miss, but a clear message for those who know to look for it.
Supermanâs thigh bumps your chair, subsequently bringing your attention back to him.
âYou got something?â You nod eagerly and spread the articles in question out for his convenience.Â
âHere, see this logo? It appears in almost every article to do with crimes in the suicide slum. Only itâs never mentioned because itâs never noticed.â
Superman leans over you, one hand braced on the desk, the other on the back of your chair. Your eyes dart from his forearms to his clenched jawline then swiftly back to the articles in an attempt to calm yourself. The hand leaves the back of your chair to grab the nearest page, he stands tall as he brings it closer to his face to get a better look.
âYes! This is the insignia that was branded on the kaiju's back.â He shows it to you enthusiastically, as if you hadn't just been searching for it.Â
âSo whateverâs going on down there is linked to wherever theâŠkaiju came from?â Heâs started to pace now, deep in thought but nods along with your pointing-out-the-obvious anyway. You watch him as he turns things over in his head. He eventually comes to a stop. Youâre feeling far too inquisitive to sit quiet for much longer.
âWhat are you going to do about it?â
âNothing tonight. Iâll have to scout it out first, try and get more information on what the badge means.â You nod along, a glint of a name plate catches your eye.
âYou should tell Clark.â He blinks. âYouâll probably be due an interview soonâyou should definitely tell him about the insignia in the articles, and now its connection to the kaiju.â
He swallows and nods. âI will, but I imagine youâll see him first.â
âAnd exactly how do I explain that I know it was branded on an alien?â
âYou interviewed Superman?â
âYou think heâll take that well? With you two being exclusive and all?â You tease, revelling in the reluctantly amused eye roll you get in return. He ducks his head, and for the first time you notice a cut near his hairline.
âAre you hurt? He raises his head, looking puzzled. The earlier events of the evening must come flooding back as he raises a hand to poke at the abrasion.
âOh, no. Really itâs nothing.â He tries to disregard your concern but to no avail, youâre already on your feet.
âItâs alright I haveâŠâ You rifle through the bottom drawer of your desk before you pull out a small first aid kitânothing too fancy, but enough to patch up a scrape here and there. âThis. If youâve been near that alien-thing you never know what germs might have gotten into it. The last thing Superman needs is an infected wound.â You open the box open where you were previously, and pull out an alcohol wipe. Superman is standing so close to you that your elbow brushes against his firm torso as you tear the packet open.Â
âYouâre going to have to sit if I have any chance of reaching that.â
In an uncharacteristic show of false confidence, you stare up at him expectantly as he looks down at you. You wait for an argument, but he relents suspiciously easily, easing himself into Clarkâs desk chair. You wonder if thereâs more to his injuries than heâs letting on.
âYou sure itâs just this?â
He nods affirmatively. You notice, with a burn in the pit of your stomach, that he shifts to spread his legs further apart, a silent invitation for you to stand between them. He watches you closely as you take a step forward, your heart jumping as his muscled thigh brushes yours. You take his face into your hands, tenderly, and begin carefully cleansing the wound. After a second, he leans into it, eyes dropping closed followed by a long, drawn sigh easing from him along with the remaining tension in his shoulders. Your previous notions about superman blur at the edges as he softens under your tentative ministrations. Does he have a family? Does he have anyone looking out for him? Someone to hug? Under careful consideration, it dawns that he is more likely to be on the receiving end of touches meant to harm than those with the sole purpose of comfort. You resist the startling urge to kiss his cheeksâcoddling the universe's strongest superhero is probably a futile venture. Or at least you thought it was, only he suddenly appears alarmingly human. This monolith of a man squeezed into a too-small desk chair, who can shoot lasers from his eyes, one-two punch a foe back to whatever planet they strayed from, practically melts under your gentle touches.Â
If he notices you take a bit longer than necessary to disinfect a surface wound, he doesnât mention itâ he seems more than content to keep your hand on his cheek, fingers grazing his jawline. When you stop, unable to pretend there's more to clean, his eyes slowly open to meet yours. Again, almost a mirror image of the way he looked at you when you first met, with so much familiarity and intimacy that you struggle to put it down to coincidence. Itâs far more than a fleeting appreciation for how you look, youâve seen men who stumble after Catâthe double takes, the agape jaws, a poorly concealed heat behind their eyesâbut this is different, this is more. This man must know you.Â
Letting your lingering hand drop from his face, you tuck the wipe back into its packet. You immediately miss the warm bracket of his thighs pressed against yours as you step back to discard the wipe in the small pedal bin under your desk. His warm gaze tracks each movement, drinking you in. The persistent questions bouncing around in your mindâwhere could he possibly know you from?âbecome uncomfortably loud. As if he can hear your thoughtsâshit, can he mindread too?âhe shifts in his chair, only to wince as something in his side tinges.
âIâll get you a glass of water.â Youâre halfway across the bullpen before he can begin to protest.
You linger on that memory as you fill your mug under the tap.Â
When you make your way back to the bullpen, Superman is back on his feet, hunched over Clarkâs desk as he pores over the papers spread across the hardwood. Your stomach drops to your feetâyouâre grateful that you have two hands on your cup or that wouldâve joined your stomachâbecause just for a split second itâs not Superman standing there, itâs Clark.
Youâve never noticed how the broadness of Superman's shoulders is the exact same as Clarkâs. Or how, tussled from his previous fight, Superman's hair is identical to how Clarkâs looks when he rushes in late. Could it be?
Superman(?) turns towards you, somehow made aware of your presence. He smiles at you, slightly bemused. âAre you okay over there?â
You nod, then have to manually put one foot in front of another to walk towards him. With each step, it feels like another piece of a puzzle slides into place. Clark, who is the only journalist to interview Superman. Clark, who is never around when all hell breaks loose. Clark, who swears he doesnât live in the gym but is built like a greek god. Clark, who is never seen without his glasses. Clark, who stood you up at the exact time when superman was occupied with an alien three blocks down.
Oh god.
Youâre close to him now, your heart beat loud in your ears. Your eyes dart around his face, scrutinising, desperate to find any similarities. Itâs the same rush you get when youâre chasing a leadâwhen you know a breakthrough is in reach but you just need a final push to get there.
Superman double takes as he catches the expression on your face and pales. From your look alone, he knows you know. And a man who stands tall, a man who rarely falters, begins to fidget nervously.Â
Thatâs what does it.Â
The final piece clicks.Â
Clark Kent is standing in front of you.
âClark?â Itâs barely even a whisper. Youâre petrified to be wrong, scared to be right. He reacts as if youâve screamed it, flinching back.
âW- what do youâŠâ He trails off as he sees the look on your face, a mix of confusion, desperation and shock. Clark is tired of having to lie to you. âIâm sorry.â He hesitantly steps towards you, like heâs unsure if heâs allowed but canât help himself. You feel that pull too, it's what keeps you rooted in place.
âWhen you didnât show, at the restaurant-â He nods urgently.
âI wanted to be there. I canât tell you how badly I wanted to be there. I bought you flowers, I- Iâm so sorry, honey.â
The pet name and the tenderness he delivers it with breaks your shock. You feel tears creeping along your waterline.
âYou were right, I shouldâve texted you. I was too caught up in trying to wrap it up as quickly as I could that I- gosh, please donât cry.âÂ
Youâre still staring at him, he reaches out and, when you show no signs of pulling away, wipes your tears away with a level of care that causes a fresh wave of tears to join them.Â
âI thought you didnât like me.â Clark canât handle the gut wrenching vulnerability in your tone, or the slight wobble of your voice. He swiftly takes your mug from between your trembling hands and places it on the deskâhis deskâthen wraps his arms around you and tugs you towards him. You sniffle and hug him back as a large hand comes to cup the back of your head, tucking your face into his neck as he stoops down to press his nose against your hair. His other hand tightens around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him.Â
âIt would never be because of that. I really like you, and Iâm sorry that I made you doubt that.â You slowly lean back to wipe the wetness off your cheeks, a warm sticky feeling settles in your chest when Clark doesnât pull away from you, keeping you enveloped between his solid arms and even sturdier torso. You meet his eyes and smile softly. He visibly melts, affection and adoration almost tangible as his eyelashes touch. Clark slowly drops his forehead to rest against yours.Â
âYou looked beautiful in your dress.â His gaze traverses your face with enough dedication you swear heâs trying to memorise every feature. He gently strokes his thumb from your cheek to your hairline, tracing the path with his eyes. âYou always look beautiful.â
âI canât believe youâre superman.â
âHow did you figure it out?â
âSuperman suddenly looked like ClarkâŠand the whole interview exclusivity thing doesnât help.â
He frowns lightly, lips forming an endearing pout. âI offered you an interview, I gave Lois an interview.âÂ
You smile up at him. âLois said Superman was a bit reluctant to share any information though, not quite the same in-depth report you get.âÂ
He shrugs, âWell, weâll be sharing a byline for this piece. If youâd like? Technically you got the in-depth report from Superman for this one.â
âItâs your article, Clark. You did all the research.â
âAnd you made the connection.â
You both stare at each other, honeyed with affection. Clark squeezes you gently.
âWould you like to go to dinner with me, please?âÂ
You tilt your head, a semi-teasing grin on your face. âThat depends, are you going to turn up?â
âThereâs nothing in this universe that could stop me, I promise you.â
Emboldened by his unguarded eagerness, you dare to relish in the adoration of a handsome man. âIâll wear that dress again.â An elated grin lights up his entire face, accompanied by dimples that beg to be traced with your fingertipsâyou grant yourself the pleasure, and Clarkâs happiness turns enamoured.
âI canât wait.âÂ
You canât help the happy sigh that slips from your mouth. Clarkâs eyes flicker to your lips, then quickly back to your eyes when he catches himselfâyou have the small joy of watching a pink flush spread across the apples of his cheeks.
âClark,â you say softly. âKiss me?â
He looks stunned for a second before his brain catches up. A large hand raises back up to your cheek, thumb softly brushing across the skin it touches. Clark leans in slowly, giving you the chance to back out, like he canât believe heâs been given permission. You close your eyes and he closes the gap. The kiss starts off slow, with a tentative press of his lips to yours before you slip a hand around the back of his neck, fingers weaving into the soft curls that lie there. With your hand in his hair, Clark unravels. His other hand snaking around you to rest on your back, pulling you closer to him as he deepens the kiss. Your teeth clack and you remember you require air to breathe. Reluctantly, Clark pulls back just enough so he can see your face.Â
âI still have your flowers at my apartment, if youâd like to come home with me?â You raise your eyebrows in shock that he kept the flowersâClark misinterprets this and flusters. âI swear that wasnât a line I-â His soon-to-be rambles are cut off by your laughter.
âI know, Clark. I was justâŠyou kept the flowers?â
âTheyâre on my coffee table, I hoped Iâd be able to give them to you before they wilted, I got your favourites.â You smile at the sentiment, reaching up to squeeze his hand that still cups your face.Â
âIâd love that. Let me grab my bag.âÂ
As you hurry to pack your bag you share giddy glances with Clark as he hastily tries to tidy his desk, lest your coworkers think itâs been ransacked when they arrive on Monday morning (no doubt before Clark).
You pause, an abrupt realisation hits you. âWait, are we flying there?â
Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader
Word Count: 17.8k
Synopsis: Here!
Playlist: Listen up!
Tag list: Â @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn, @meandurdaughtergotaspecialthing, @innercreationflower, @kisskittenn, @xngelsau, @honethatty12 , @drunkfrogg, @sundawn1990, @paperncvks, @sat0run4iha, @quietinthebedroom, @ashmem, @holy-minseok, @vai27, @triangleofsadnesss, @blackdxggrÂ
A/N: HeyâŠit's me, I'M ALIVEEEEEEEEE, close to graduating, and I've had a few chapters sitting collecting dust. So I decided, what the hell, y'all have waited long enough. However, there are trigger warnings for this chapter over on AO3. This is darker than you're likely prepared for. Happy black history month Ramadan Mardi Gras lent new year! (The tag list is a little different this time, it's not just ppl who asked to be tagged, but ppl who've imboxed me about the story and patiently waited for this update. If you'd like to be a regular tagger, pls go to my tag list masterlist.)
Past (i) - You
[8] - DISTRICT ELEVEN
You remember the gleam of the sun off their shiny white helmets like something out of a nightmare.
It sticks with you more than how the tears blurred your vision, or the way your mama dug her fingers into your shouldersâanchoring herself to you. Stopping you both from doing something truly foolish.Â
You remember how your neighbors fell to their knees, screaming and crying at the injustice. Held up by family and friends, the side of shacks, or by nothing but sheer grief as Peacekeepers stormed into homes, dragging out men and women without so much as an explanation.Â
Why?Â
Why were they here when it used to be beneath them to travel so much as a foot past the city limits without superiors ordering otherwise? Why were the people you loved, and never prepared to lose, taken to face a judgment that didn't balance out all the good they'd done?
Whips and extra work and reduced rations and, andâŠ
You remember them taking your daddy above all else.
You remember what yâall were doing right before, too. You got a real good memory; everyone always tells you so. You wish you didn't. You wish you didn't get to remember the feeling of warmth and safety and calm blanketing you, just before it was snatched away by the sun gleaming off white armor as they stormed your shack.
You wish you never remembered the way your big, unshakeable daddy became small as they forced him onto his knees. You wish you could remember anything but the shrill shriek your mama made as they slapped cuffs on his wrists.
Youâd wish, you'd wish, you'd wish on a thousand dandelions to forget the wet sheen in his eyes as he tried to speak over their voicesâvoices that drone on about things too big for your small head. The way you cried, the way he refused to. You were one of the many who begged for mercy, for something more powerful than the people who dragged your daddy to the gallows to save him.
You wish you didn't remember how nothing answered you, nothing came and saved your daddy as they tightened the rope around his strong neck. The same neck and shoulders that carried you above the crowds, above the world.Â
The same ones that thrash and struggle and go still after he finds your eyes in a crowd of hundreds, thousandsâyour stricken, angry face the last thing he chooses to see.
[8 œ] - DISTRICT ELEVEN
You donât like school.Â
It feels like a cage, all those rows of desks and words on the chalkboard that donât mean anything, not really. Whatâs the use of learning things when all youâre doing is marking time until they decide youâre ready for the more advanced fields? Or worse, when they decide youâre ready for the Games? It's not like you need to learn anything they wanna teach you anyway, you won't be the mayor one day, won't hold any power that's worth more than the dirt you walk on now.
You didnât like school much before, but you definitely donât like it now.
Itâs too quiet, too full of eyes that look at you for a little too long. And the teacher, Mr. Burrow, gives youâŠspecial attention that you hate, attention that feels prickly, like thorns under your skin. Not the kind of attention that makes you wanna try harder, but the kind that makes you wanna curl up in on yourself like a roly-poly, only coming out when the coast is clear.Â
Heâll come up behind you while youâre working, hand on your shoulder, voice oily-sweet, murmuring about how brave you must be, how proud your daddy wouldâve been if only heâd made better choices. He doesnât know a damn thing about your daddy. Doesnât know what he stood for or the way heâd pat your head and tell you that, one day, things would change.
If you ever need anything, any help understanding how your father could be so thoughtless, Iâm here for you. You can stay behind after everyone leaves, I'll help you understand why he had to die, heâd say, but you ainât dumb.
Since they killed your daddyâand there is a difference, he didnât just die, it didnât just happen to him one dayâyou canât bring yourself to go, not when they talk about him like he was a fool, like he wasnât worth mourning. Not when they look at you like that. They think you should be grateful to have a seat in the classroom, to have a teacher who knows so much.
The only thing worth going for is Sage.
Now, Sage might actually be something someday. He already is, but you mean in the eyes of the ones in charge.Â
Heâs waiting for you by the bakery, fidgeting in front of the display case. He always has a look about him, like heâs just waiting for someone to tell him he shouldnât be there, even though heâs got every right to be. Tall as he is, with that mop of light hair and pale skin, he stands outâeven more so out on the fields. And heâs always scowling, eyes darting around like heâs just waiting for something bad to happen.
When he spots you, his expression softens, his face lighting up. He shuffles over, looking at you in that serious way he has. âYou donât have to work today, right?â he asks, already knowing the answer.
You shake your head.
âNope,â you say, hands in your pockets, watching him with a faint smile.
âSoâŠare you coming to school?â he asks, hopeful, as he fiddles with the strap on his worn satchel.
You shake your head.
âNo?â he says, his brows creasing with that concern you know too well. âWhy not?â
You shrug, already halfway turned toward the open road. âBecause,â you say simply.
He makes a face, hurrying to catch up. âBecause what?â
âBecause I donât wanna. Itâs not like itâs gonna do anything, me going.â You put your hands on your hips, squinting up at the sky. âBesides, I have somewhere way better to go.â
He sighs, biting his lip, already worried. âWell, weâre gonna get in trouble if we skip.â
âNo oneâs making you come, Sage,â you say with a shrug, turning on your heel to head toward the fields. âBut no oneâs gonna pay us any mind. Kids go wandering all the time. People only pay attention when it suits them.â You say it like itâs true. Youâre mostly right. No one pays unattended kids much attention, not here. Unless, of course, itâs the wrong kind of grown-up with the wrong kind of attention. The kind of grown-up who notices just a little too much, their eyes lingering for too long. But you shake that thought away, and you keep walking, unbothered, letting him trail behind you until heâs half-running to catch up.
He pauses, trying one last time as if you'll change your mind if he says it just right. âButââ
âCome on, Sage.â You grin, rolling your eyes. You've been doing it a lot since you learned how. He hesitates, looking toward the direction of the school building, his lip caught between his teeth. But then he sighs, his shoulders slumping a little, and he hurries after you. Itâs always like thisâhe complains, he worries, but he follows anyway.
You cross the fields, weaving in and out of the rows of crops, waving to workers you know and ones you donât, Sage following a few steps behind, muttering about how much trouble youâre going to be in, how schoolâs important. Heâs still going on about it when he trips over a tree root and goes sprawling, face down in the dirt with a yelp.
âOw,â he mumbles, pushing himself up, tears welling in his eyes. âIâm okay⊠I justâŠâ
You shake your head at the sorry sight he makes sprawled out in the dirt. âSage, you big crybaby.â
ââM not crying,â he mutters, his face bright red, but thereâs a watery glint in his eyes.
You sigh, crouching beside him, brushing the dirt from his cheeks with one hand. Sage winces, sniffling as he blinks back tears, and you feel a warm, gentle pull toward him, something both annoyed and soft. Then, without thinking much of it, you lean over and kiss his cheek, a quick peck that leaves him wide-eyed and blushing.
âWhatâŠwhat was that for?â he stammers, blinking up at you.
You look away, your ears burning. âMy mama always gives me a kiss when I get hurt,â you mumble, wiping your hands on your dress. âAnd it stopped you from crying, didnât it?â You grab his wrist before he can respond, tugging him back to his feet. âNow come on.â
âOh. Okay,â he says softly, his cheeks still pink as he lets you pull him along. He barely gets the words out, too stunned to argue. Heâs quiet the rest of the way, barely looking up from his feet, but you catch him sneaking glances at you every few steps.
He stays close, clutching your hand as you lead him along, weaving through the fields, dodging rocks and gnarled roots. You lead him off the path, through a small grove of trees that smell sweet and damp, the kind of place that only you know about. You canât go to any of your other secret spots because they were all shown to you byâŠwell, it doesnât matter much now, does it?Â
The two of you settle down in the grass, the air thick and warm, the leaves casting dappled shadows on your faces. Itâs the closest you can get to peace here. Youâre both quiet for a while; the only sounds are the rustling of leaves and the occasional bird.
After a long silence, Sage speaks up, his voice low and careful. ââM sorry âboutâŠyour daddy,â he says, his gaze fixed on his hands, fingers picking at the edge of his bag.
You donât look at him, but you sniffle, rubbing the back of your hand under your nose. You canât cry now, not after calling Sage a crybaby. The words hang between you, something you donât know what to do with, and you just nod, keeping your gaze fixed on the far-off horizon as your chest tightens.
When you don't speak, he rushes to fill the silence. You'd feel bad about making him nervous if you could feel anything other than grief.
âMr. Burrow, he gives you special attention, doesnât he? Picks on you? I⊠I know thatâs why you donât like school. I knowâŠthatâs why you skip.â He goes quiet again, but then his words are slipping out like he doesnât want to say them, but canât hold them in any longer. âHe says things. He talks about people. People like your daddy. HeâŠhe said those rebels deserved what they got. Said they were dangerous, and all of us are smarter than that, smarter than those foolish people.â He stumbles over the words, voice barely a whisper. âI hate it, too.â
You swallow hard, the anger bubbling up in your chest. Youâve heard Mr. Burrow talk about rebels, about the people who were brave enough to believe in something better. Youâve heard the way he twists their bravery into foolishness, the way he looks down on them. People you knew. People who risked everything so kids like you wouldnât have to keep their heads down.Â
Those werenât just ârebels.â They were people you grew up with, people like your daddy. People who were trying to make life better.Â
Sage shifts uncomfortably, the nervous energy in him building as he speaks. âI just⊠I thought maybe thatâs why you donât wanna go.â He swallows, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his shirt. âWhy you always skip.â
You take a breath, the air feeling thick in your lungs. âWhyâd you come with me, anyway?â you ask, turning the conversation back on him. âYou love school and all that learning shit.â
He gasps, his face scrunched up, looking scandalized. âDonât cuss. What would your mama think if she heard you?â
You scoff, crossing your arms. âWell, she ainât here, is she? Now answer my question.â
He shifts, his cheeks pinkening again as he stares down at his lap. âWell⊠because youâre my best friend,â he says. He bites his lip, then adds, âAnd⊠I like you more than school, soâŠâ
Your eyes go wide, feeling warm all over, like your skin is catching fire from the inside out. Your heart flutters in a way you donât know what to make of. You stare at him, a little owl-eyed, until you finally say, âOh⊠okay then.â
Sage stares at the ground, scuffing the dirt with his shoe. âYouâreâŠyouâre not gonna make fun of me?â
You shake your head, trying to keep your face neutral. But thereâs a little grin tugging at the corner of your mouth, and before you can stop yourself, you give him a light shove and knock him off balance just enough that he tips sideways, landing in the dirt with a surprised yelp. âShut up.â
He laughs, and he straightens up, brushing the grass from his clothes and watching you with those wide, earnest eyes, like youâre the only person in the world. And for a moment, you forget about the weight you carry, the hurt that follows you like a shadow. For a moment, itâs just you and Sage, hidden under that big old tree, pretending thereâs no such thing as Peacekeepers or rebels or gallows in the square.Â
Lilâ Oakley.Â
Theyâve called you that for as long as you can remember, and maybe even longer. Probably because of the way you used to follow your daddy around everywhere, two steps behind him or high up on his shoulders, so high you swore you could see the whole district from there.Â
Your daddy was the sun that shone above you, and you were his pride and joy. He took you everywhere he could if Mama wasnât there to stop him. Sheâd just shake her head and laugh when heâd come back with you trailing behind, your shoes caked in mud, your pockets full of bugs, berries, and shiny pebbles.
Your daddy could never tell you no, not really. He told you it was because you looked just like your mama, and he could never tell her no, either. But when youâd ask aroundâwhether you meant to or notâpeople would always say the same thing: you didnât look a lick like your mama. You took your daddyâs whole face, every line and angle of it. Theyâd say thatâs another reason they call you Lilâ Oakley, because itâs like he carved you out of himself, down to the dimple in your cheek when you smiled.
âYou got her eyes, though,â your daddy would say, tapping the side of your face as if he were making a point no one else could see. âHer stubborn streak, too, if weâre being honest.â
That always made you giggle, and heâd lean close, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. âBut you got my heart. Donât let your mama hear it, but I think thatâs the best part.â
You didnât know how much youâd miss hearing him say things like that. You didnât know how much youâd miss all of him.
Now, youâre not sure what to do with the quiet he left behind. People still call you Lilâ Oakley, but it feels different. Like theyâre trying to keep something alive that slipped away the moment he was gone. You wonder if theyâll keep calling you that, now that heâs not here to shade you. How could someone cast such a large shadow and not even be standing anymore? It doesnât seem possible, but then, so much doesnât seem possible these days.
Youâd ask your daddy about it, like you always did when you had a question too big to hold in your chest. He had a way of answering impossible questions, of making them seem small and manageable, like pieces of a quilt that could be tied together if you were just patient enough. But now, it looks like youâll have to start figuring out those impossibilities on your own. And that scares you, more than anything.
Because you know, one day people will stop seeing you as Lilâ Oakley. One day, theyâll start coming to you for answers instead of reminding you how much youâre like him. And you donât know if youâre ready for that, ready to go from the sapling to the big oak tree, to be more than the shadow of someone else.
You havenât even had time to figure out who you are yet.
For now, though, you tell yourself youâve still got time. Time to grow, time to learn, time to be the kid your daddy always called his pride and joy. Because he wouldnât want you to rush it, wouldnât want you to try to be him too soon. Heâd want you to stand tall in your own way, to figure out how to be you first, before you take on the weight of being anything more.
You sit in comfortable silence, the weight of your troubles fading just a little, the warmth of Sageâs presence like a shield against the things that wait outside the trees.
You look to the sun; it's getting close to lunchtime.
"C'mon," you say, tugging Sageâs sleeve. "We can help my mama. She's cooking big tonight."
Sageâs eyes light up, his face breaking into a wide grin. âIs she making gumbo?â he asks, his voice filled with such excitement that you canât help but laugh.
âNot if we donât help, she isnât. Now put some pep in your step!â You say, breaking into a quick stride. He doesnât need any more convincing. Sage matches you, stumbling a bit but keeping up, his eyes shining.
You hurry back toward your Shacktown, running side by side. The houses grow closer together as you near your little corner of Eleven, winding through the familiar paths between weathered shacks and little gardens where folks try to coax life out of whatever will grow. People call out as you pass, voices warm and familiar.Â
Mrs. Davis is out on her porch, swaying back and forth in her old rocking chair, waving with a knowing smile as she watches you two skitter by. Sheâs always there, like a lookout, watching over the town. You wave back, and Sage throws in a polite, âEveninâ, Mrs. Davis!â
A little farther down, Old Man Reeves is out hanging the dayâs wash as his sister, Miss Azalea, helps. Her arms are strong and weathered, fingers steady despite the years. He tips his hat, chuckling at the sight of you.Â
âAinât yâall supposed to be in school?â A voice calls from one of the porches. You canât see who it is, but it doesnât matter. You and Sage just giggle and run faster, ducking around corners and through backyards as the adults shake their heads with fond smiles.
You pick up the pace, silently prompting Sage to race you, the cool air rushing past as a couple of the littlest kidsâtoo young for school, barefoot and wildâtake off after you, their laughter ringing out as they chase you down the path and their small feet kicking up dust. You pretend to run slower for them, letting them think theyâre catching up as they squeal with laughter, darting in and out of the tall grass. You turn a corner and see the crooked roof of your home, the familiar sight of clotheslines, and the bright patch of herbs growing by the door.
You burst through the doorway, panting and breathless. âMama!â you call, and she appears from the little kitchen nook, hands on her hips, shaking her head.
âNow didnât I tell you to stop runninâ in and out of my house?â
âSorry, Mama,â you say, grinning wide, not sounding sorry at all as you catch your breath. Sage follows behind, ducking his head.
He mumbles a sheepish, âSorry, maâam,â trying to look serious.
Your mama shakes her head, coming closer to look him over, checking him from his scuffed-up shoes to his freckled nose. She gives Sage a warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. âSage, how many times I gotta tell you? You can call me Mama, too.â
You roll your eyes as Sage turns bright red, his mouth opening and closing as he stammers, âY-yes, maâamâI mean, MamaâuhâŠâ
âAw, hush now,â she says, chuckling. Then she raises an eyebrow, giving you both a look. âAinât yâall supposed to be in school?â
Before Sage can open his mouth and blow your cover, you jump in. âNo, Mama, itâs just a catch-up day, and, and weâre already caught up.â
Your mama stares you down, the knowing look on her face making you shift uncomfortably. âMhm. Well, if yâall are here, then yâall are gonna be workinâ. Go on, clean up,â she says, pointing to the door.
âYes, maâam!â you both say, and you race back outside, heading for the water pump by the side of the house.
You take turns working it, its cool metal handle sticking in your grip as you pump until a steady stream pours out, cold water splashing over your hands as you scrub away the dirt from the road. Sage nearly splashes you, but you manage to dodge, shooting him a grin as you shake your numb, wet hands in his direction. Sage stumbles again, but you catch his arm, steadying him with a grin as he blushes, mumbling a thanks.
Once youâre clean, you hurry back inside, ready to help. Your mamaâs in her element, her sleeves rolled up, stirring the big pot thatâs already filling the room with the warm, spicy smell of gumbo, the rich scent curling around you like a hug. She hands you a spoon, nodding toward the vegetables laid out on the counter.
âPeel these,â she says, then gestures to Sage, who stands at attention like heâs taking orders from the president. âAnd you, go fetch me some more water from the pump. Big pot like this, weâre gonna need all we can get.â
Sage nods, scurrying outside again, and you watch him go, grinning to yourself as you start on the pile of vegetables. The spoonâs a little dull, but youâve gotten good at working with what youâve got, slicing each piece just the way you were taught.
After a while, the pot is full and bubbling, steam rising as Mama tastes the broth, closing her eyes with a satisfied sigh. She wipes her hands on her apron, then nods at you. âWhy donât you go on and let everyone know, baby,â she says, her voice softening. âTell âem to come on and eat. We got plenty.â
You donât need telling twice. You grab Sageâs hand and dart out the door, racing from house to house, calling out to each neighbor as you pass. âMama says come eat! The gumbo is ready!â Your voice echoes through the streets, and you can see faces start to appear in doorways, hands waving as people call back.
One by one, folks start to emerge, following the sound of your voice. Mrs. Davis is already on her way, her steps slow but steady. Neighbors drift from their homes, the call of a hot meal drawing them together.
They arrive with their own bowls, each bringing something to add to the potâMiss Azalea arrives with cloth-wrapped okra, Old Man Reeves has a small jar of spices heâs been saving, and the Johnsons bring a little basket of tomatoes from their garden. The little kids from earlier run up to you, grinning wide, their faces smudged with dirt as they hold out a few wild greens they picked along the way. The pot is seasoned with more than just food; itâs filled with bits of everyoneâs lives, the little pieces they can spare.Â
Some of the neighbors are family, blood kin who come with stories of shared ancestors, and others are family in every way that counts, people whoâve helped raise you, whoâve stitched up skinned knees and shared what little they had. A jar of pickled vegetables here, a scrap of salted pork there. They come from every direction.
The food is ready, the smell of your mamaâs gumbo thick in the air, and everyone gathers close with bowls in hand. The little ones bounce on their toes, wide-eyed and eager as their mamas and grandmas remind them to wait, to let the grown-ups serve it to them. The older folks sit on creaky chairs or lean against the doorframes of shacks, their tired faces softening as they watch the scene unfold.Â
Inside, the kitchen fills with laughter and warm greetings, with the clatter of bowls and the rich smell of the gumbo. People find seats on benches, on the floor, anywhere they can fit, and your mama passes back bowls, ladling a serving into each one, her smile bright, her laughter loud. You and Sage squeeze in next to each other, his elbow bumping yours, both of you grinning as you watch the room fill up with warmth and people.
But when the bowls are handed out, and everyone gathers close, their faces lit by the dim glow of lanterns and the setting sun, thereâs a pause. A heavy silence settles over the group, thick and expectant. Normally, your daddy would lead them in the blessing. His voice would rise above the crowd, steady and sure, his words weaving everyone together like the baskets he used to make.
But heâs not here anymore, and the weight of that absence hangs heavy in the air, and the space he left behind feels as large as the empty sky above your Shacktown. The silence stretches, and you can see the older folks glancing at one another, unsure of who should speak.
For a moment, no one moves. No one speaks. Sage is sitting next to you, looking like he might faint if anyone even thinks of asking him to do it. His shoulders are hunched, his cheeks pale, and his hands fiddle nervously with the hem of his shirt, his eyes darting to the ground like heâs hoping itâll swallow him up.
Then your mama glances at you. Her gaze is the saddest you've ever seen it, and she nods once, giving you permission for something you didnât even know to ask for. âGo ahead, baby,â she says softly, her voice gentle but firm enough that it feels like itâs already decided.
You blink, your throat tightening as you push yourself to your feet. The eyes of the entire Shacktown are on you now, and itâs terrifying. Your breath catches.Â
Can you do this?Â
Youâre eight years old. Youâre not your daddy. You donât know if you can fill the space he left behind, and for a moment, you think about sitting right back down. But one of the older women smiles and says, âLook at lilâ Oakley,â full of warmth and pride, it keeps you standing.
âGo on, now,â another voice adds a rough but kind encouragement.
Your legs are shaking, but you clasp your hands together like youâve seen your daddy do a hundred times and close your eyes.
The words donât come right away, and they donât come easy. You try to draw on the many speeches you remember your daddy giving. Your chest feels tight, and your heart is beating so fast it might burst. But then, you take a deep breath and start, your voice small.
âWeâŠwe give thanks,â you begin, the words tentative but growing stronger as you speak. âFor the hands that made this food. For the soil that grew it and the water that fed it. For the ones who gave so everyone could have enough.â
You pause, swallowing hard as the next words catch in your throat. âAndâŠfor the ones weâve lost. We hope theyâve found the Harvester, and that their spirit is full.â Your voice wavers, and your hands start to tremble as the weight of your daddyâs absence presses down on you. âAnd weâllâŠweâll keep them with us, always.â
Your voice breaks, and your throat tightens so much you canât say anything else. Tears sting your eyes, and for a moment, you think youâll really have to sit down, that youâve ruined the whole thing. But then someone calls out, their voice warm and sure:
âYou got it, baby.â
âTake your time, lilâ Oakley.â
âCâmon now, heâs right here with ya.â
And for a moment, it feels like he is. Like your daddyâs there, his strong hand on your shoulder, steadying you, guiding you the way he always used to. You breathe in deeply, the air filling your lungs, and somehow, you find the strength to continue. âAnd we give thanks for each other. For the chance to sit here together and share what we have. Thatâs enoughâmore than enough.â
When you finish, thereâs a moment of silence, and then a ripple of approval runs through the group. Their voices are like the rustling of leaves in a breeze.
âThat was good, lilâ Oakley,â someone says, their voice thick with pride.
âSounded just like him,â another adds, their face crinkling with a smile, and thereâs a chorus of agreement, heads nodding, smiles spreading.
âLooks like weâve got another leader on our hands,â one of the older men says, and thereâs a ripple of laughter, full and genuine, that makes your cheeks burn.
You sit back down, feeling hands patting your back, squeezing your shoulders, each one grounding you. Not filling the space your daddy left behind, but making it a little less lonely. Sage nudges you gently with his elbow, leaning close enough that you can hear his whisper over the hum of voices.
âYou did a real good job,â he says softly and earnestly, his cheeks pink as he looks at you.
You blink fast, your vision goes blurry, and you quickly swipe the back of your hand under your eyes before anyone can see. âThanks,â you mumble, your voice a little rough, but you manage a small smile that lingers as you both turn to your bowls and dig in.
The moment passes, the crowd digging into their bowls, the gumbo a comfort that spreads through your chest as the sounds of laughter and conversation rise around you.Â
For a little while, it feels like everythingâs okay again, like your daddyâs still here, sitting beside you, watching over the people he loved. Or even just his spirit, sitting among the neighbors, alive in their smiles, their laughter, their shared stories. And even though the ache in your chest doesnât disappear, it feels just a little lighter.
The gumbo pot sits at the center of it all, the steam rising in fragrant curls as everyone takes turns ladling a bowl. Your mama moves among them, passing out bowls and offering seconds, her face glowing with pride. Sage volunteers to help ladle out seconds, his face red from the warmth of the pot, a bright smile spreading across his face as he hands back bowls to the neighbors.
You hadnât known it then, but this would be one of the last meals youâd share with him.
Not long after, Sage was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Pitstone, the bakers whoâd taken him under their wing. It should have been a good thingâa kind family, a roof over his head, food every night. But it wasnât the same. He wasnât the same. They took him out of the fields, so you didnât see him working beside you anymore, didnât hear him humming off-key songs or tripping over his own feet as he tried to keep up with you in the rows.
And at school, he wasnât in your class anymore. You skipped as often as you could get away with, anyway, but on the days you went, heâd be sitting with the older kids, his face hidden behind books and notebooks, his eyes downcast. He never looked your way, and you learned to ignore the ache in your chest that flared every time you saw him in his clean clothes, his hands soft, no longer calloused from labor.
You were angry, then. Angry that theyâd taken him away, that he didnât even try to stay in touch, didnât try to keep up the way he used to. They took your daddy from you, and then, as if that hadnât been enough, they took Sage too. It didnât feel fairânot that anything ever felt fair in Eleven.
Now, you avoid the bakery whenever you can. You walk the long way around, take side streets just to keep from seeing him through the window, his tall, gangly frame moving behind the counter, his hands gentle as he kneads dough.Â
You wonder if he misses itâmisses the long days with you in the fields, your mamaâs gumbo, the nights spent aching from work but laughing all the same. You wonder if he misses you, if he ever thinks back on those days and wishes, even for a moment, that he could come back.
Present (I) - You
THE CAPITOL
You feel weightless.
No.Â
Not weightless.
You don't feel anything, anything at all.Â
You can't feel your fingers or your toes.Â
Not your hands or feet.
Arms or legs, your torsoâyour side.
It burns. You can certainly feel that. You can feel nothing but that for what seems like years. A tender pain every time you breathe and a sizzling one every time you don't.Â
It occurs to you sometime later, or maybe no time at all, that you can't see.Â
Where are your eyes?
It's pitch black. Not like the lights are off, but like your eyes are closed despite it feeling as if theyâre wide open.
Are you dead?Â
You don't remember dying.Â
You would remember dying, wouldnât you?Â
You don't remember anything or anyone coming for you. No Death, no Harvester.Â
You lose consciousness between one breath and the next.Â
When you come to, it's to blurry figures dancing around your head. They swim in and out of your focus. White coats, white lights, rough hands. You open your mouth to say something, to ask a question, maybe? Youâll never know because they slip the mask over your nose and mouth before you can.Â
Your ears are full of cotton; whatever words theyâre speaking above you are muffled. Theyâre hardly words at all. You feel the cool metallic glide of scissors sliding from your vagina to the divot where your collar bones meet, cutting off your clothes. Hands lift your limbs. Your left hand and right foot in tandem. Something soft and wet drags against your skin, working in slow, methodical circles from your fingers and toes. The back of your hand and the front of your foot. Shin, calves, and forearms. Front and back of your knee, biceps. Thigh and shoulder. Another pair of hands moves your head this way and that, cleaning your face as the slow scrubbing circles your neck and moves down to your breast.
Itâs the first time you truly feel the hands hidden under the rubber gloves. Thoroughly feeling your left breast, thumb pressing underneath and then on top. Moving the fat and muscle around, stretching the skin. Squeezing and releasing and squeezing again. Checking orâŠjust feeling? The thumb rubbing against the edge of your nipple feels inhumane, something wearing human hands.Â
There are more muffled words before the hand is replaced by warm and wet. A mouth? No, whatever theyâre using to clean you.Â
The entire process is repeated with your right breast. It distracts you enough to almost forget about the hands working below your waist. Hips to crotch to vagina and back again, working their way down your other leg. They get to your stomach, and you flinch full bodily.
Soft and lukewarm becomes coarse and icy hot. Your sideâyour wounds. Your vision is still blurry, but you can still see them holding you down long after you feel hands cuffing your wrists and ankles. That doesn't stop you from trying to kick and punch as they dig further into your side. It feels like they're being rough just to spite you.Â
â...told you⊠Should've tiedâŠbitch down.â
âAnd IâŠno need⊠NowâŠturnâŠover.â
The world spins as you're tilted, and you groan when your weight is put on your side. You wheeze once you're pushed onto your front. The rest of your clothes mustâve been cut off because the warm and wet is scrubbed down your back all the way to your butt. Someone spreads your thighs, and someone else cleans the rest of the injury. Tears spring to your eyes. You can barely breathe in this position.Â
âHurtsâŠâ you rasp. âTooâŠhurts.â You try to get their attention, putting all your minimal energy into flapping your hand. Someone grabs it using the vantage point to stab you in the elbow with something. Whatever they're pumping into you burns nearly as much as your wounds.
âShould weâŠof her wounds?â
âNo⊠Won'tâŠthere for long.â
You've never been exposed to these kinds of Capitols before. Cold, sterile. Treated, not like a victor, but as a task to get done. The fire in your veins cools into a smolder, lulling you to sleep. A state of stagnation.
-
You jerk awake. Blessedly, you can see fully. And what you see is blindingly white and glossy. You're propped up by the gurney you're on. Your fingers grab at nothing, suspended in the air becauseâŠ
When you jolt, the railings you're handcuffed to stop you from going far. You're in a gown as white as the walls around you. Thereâs an IV drip on your right, held in the crook of your elbow with tape. You only know that someone's in the room when they speak.
âCalm, calm.â
You zero in on her, a short woman standing at the front of your bed. Your heart monitor picks up as you take jagged breaths through the oxygen mask strapped to your nose and mouth.Â
âCalm down. You're safe now.â She soothes, raising her hand as she approaches you, only working to make you more anxious the closer she gets. She begins to pet your hair. âThis is all just a precaution, you understand. Until President Snow can determine your loyalties.â
Loyalties? What does that mean for the others? For Finnick?Â
You're a little foggy, a little blurry around the edges, but gather enough strength to look up, stare into her glittering Capitol eyes, and say, â...where are the others?âÂ
You cough around the last word, but refuse the straw she tries to press to your mouth. She shakes her head disappointedly at you, and thisâthis is the type of Capitol you're used to. Preppy and intrusive with your space because she thinks she's owed it.
âWhere is Finnick?â
âOh, you poor, poor thing.â She places a hand over her heart. âYou don't know, how could you possibly? The arena was attacked by terrorists. It was just horrible.â She sighs, petting your hair as you stare up at her in confused horror. It feels like she's comforting herself more than you.Â
You know Katniss escaped, though you aren't sure how. You saw it briefly, her being lifted in the air, before you finally succumbed to blood loss. There are no other victors in the room with you, but it doesn't mean they aren't here too. Finnick may be a room over, right next to you, strapped to his gurney just like you are. Who else? You'd wish this on no one, especially not Finnick, but for you to be here, he must be here too. That's the only outcome that makes sense.Â
This nurse is being nice to you. So you must not have been branded as a traitor. What does that mean for the revolution? For Finnick?Â
Finnick, Finnick, Finnick.Â
She pouts. âPresident Snow was able to rescue a few of you before the rebels were able to get to you, thank goodness.â You don't understand. What doesâhow⊠Rescue? ThenâŠthen Snow, he mustâve handpicked a handful of you to keep alive andâŠand executed the others? Branded them as rebels, and that's the end of it?
âNo,â you shake your head in jerky motions. Because that would mean⊠âNo, no, noâWhere is he? Where's Finnick?â You demand, tears filling your eyes again, but no hands are pressing into your tender spots. You feel cut open, burned to your atoms. You stare ahead at nothing, your blood is cotton, your bones have dissolved, your muscles are paper, and your mind and body are separated as you begin to float away.Â
The nurse beside you is talking; you know this because of the muffled noise trying to make its way into your ear canal. Something she says, though, the sounds become letters become words become sentences in your mind long after sheâs said it. Almost as if someone snapped in front of you, you come to.Â
You blin,k and youâre seeing behind your eyes again, back in your body. You turn your head to her slowly, dry and cracked lips falling open as you ask, â...what?â
The nurse frowns dramatically. âThe rebels, they escaped. Katniss, Finnick, and the little twitchy one, I believe. It's hard to accept that they would betray us in such a wayâI completely understand how you must be feeling, sincerely. I never thought it possible for them to be so cruel. Sweet Katniss. And weâve known Finnick since he was a boy. To use you and poor Peeta like that,â she clicks her tongue. âWell, I guess there truly are no limits those beasts won't go toââ
What? Finnick. Finnick made it out? How? Your relief is battling with your confusion. He's safe. You don't know how, but heâs safe and alive, and Snow can't hurt him. You laugh, melting into the bed.Â
âOh dear.â She puts her hand on your forehead. âPerhaps there's something wrong with your head? No matter. Dr. Steele will take care of you. After your procedure, of course.â
That gets your attention.
âProcedure?â You ask. âWhat kind?âÂ
She doesnât answer your question, only smiles as the doors slide open, and a stern-looking man with closely cropped neon green hair stalks in. She smiles and smiles and smiles as your gurney is lowered and detached, hovering out the door.Â
You float down the hallway, followed closely by the man. You try to glean as much as you can from your surroundings, but itâs practically nothing. Nothing but shiny white walls and big white doors. Youâre approaching a fork, two different hallways, when one of the doors you pass opens up. You crane your head back to catch a glimpse of what comes out. You see another gurney, another burly guard-nurse following behind it. You hear her before you see her, cursing up a storm, but her handlers donât even acknowledge her.Â
âJohanna!â you yell, straining against your restraints. âJohanna!â The insults stop for a moment, and you know sheâs heard you.Â
âThey snatched you u,p too?â Johanna calls after you before breaking out into laughter. She laughs and laughs and laughs. So much so that even after they take her down the left hall and you the right, you can still hear it.Â
â...where are they taking her?â You ask, uncertain if you really wanna know.Â
âThatâs none of your concern.â He says and leaves it at that. Youâre left to focus on your breathing as you continue on in silence, with nothing to break up the quiet other than footsteps and the sound of your audible panting. Youâre teetering on the edge of a panic attack when he finally speaks again. Leaning closer to you, he whispers for your ears only.Â
âYou were always my favorite victor. Itâs an honor to meet you.â
-
Before you knew what the procedure was, you hoped they wouldnât put you to sleep again. What if you didnât wake up? What if, while you were gone, something else became theirs? Your body. Your mind. Theirs to admire. Theirs to touch. Theirs toâ
That was before.Â
They were kind enough to numb the areas, you guess. Slathering an orange paste all over you. Not that you could truly tell with how they had you strapped down. Then they stuck you with needles, deep into the muscle. And, with pain like that, youâd have taken your chances with being put to sleep. It doesnât last for long, the numbing. They shaved off your calluses, feet and hands still raw and pink. It hurts to move your fingers and toes; you imagine itâll hurt to stand.Â
They went too deep; you tried to tell them it was too deep. But it was like you spoke a different language, tied down as you were. A pig squealing at the butchers that the knife is too sharp. A full-body polish, they had called it. The scars on your side may as well have never existed. Youâre brand new. You donât even know whose body youâre in anymore. Itâs more theirs than yours anyway. Maybe it always was.
âThis one's a toughy, huh?â The doctor had said as his fingers dug into your side, baring his permanently dyed gums in a laugh. First, down at you and then, with his colleagues around the room. A bright and nauseating green-pink gradient.
They transfer you to a room, but to call it a room may be too generous. You don't remember the trip, not how long it took or what they said to youâif they said anything at all. Itâs hard to say if you were even conscious for it.
You do remember being unhooked and lifted off the gurney, being placed on the cot, and them leaving out the door without another word.
You shift, trying to find a way to sit up without pulling something or breaking in half. The burning in your side tugs at you, but you canât even escape into the numbness anymore. You blink hard, trying to gather enough strength to stay conscious.
Then the door opens.
The nurseâthe one from before with the overly bright eyes and the way-too-soft handsâsteps back into the room. She looks down at you for a moment, standing still in the doorway as if giving you a chance to get yourself together, but youâre too sore, too broken to do anything but look up at her, eyes wild and clouded.
âYouâre going to have to stand now,â she says flatly, the words cutting through the haze of pain and exhaustion.
You donât respond. You canât. Youâre not sure if itâs out of sheer defiance or because youâre so tired that your muscles are already starting to lock into place.
The nurse sighs, a sound that mixes pity with annoyance. Her fingers find your wrist, jerking you up by the force of her grip. The moment your feet touch the cold, unforgiving floor, you know youâre not going to make it.
But you have no choice.
Barefoot. Your skinâs raw, your soles already stinging from the rough treatment, and the ground beneath you seems to mock you. You try to ignore itâtry to ignore the burn of the cold metal on your skin, but the sharp ache doesnât let you forget. The sharpness of your pain flares again as she drags you forward. You stumble, almost tipping into her.Â
"Come on, now," she says, her voice a little more insistent this time. "We havenât got all day."
You donât have the strength to argue. You donât have the will to fight back.
With every step, the weight of the silence grows heavier, like a thick fog trying to drown you. You canât even hear the sound of your own feet dragging against the ground anymore, just the harsh pull of your breath and the constant ache that gnaws at you. Each hall you pass feels endless, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead blinding, as if theyâre intentionally stripping you of any hope you might have had left.
There's no point in trying to memorize the path; it all looks the same. And your brain can't be bothered to focus on any words you pass.Â
The only way you're getting out of here is in a body bag.
The walls are sterile and perfect. Nothing here feels real. The polished floors stretch out before you, gleaming under the fluorescent lights like a twisted, gleaming path leading you toward your fate. The facility is quiet, almost too quiet, except for the rhythmic sound of the nurseâs heels and your uneven steps behind her. You chance a glance back and expect to see bloody footprints behind you, but what you see back there is the same as what you see before you.Â
Nothing.Â
You wonder, briefly, if sheâs enjoying thisâdragging you through these halls. You wonder if itâs deliberate, the way her fingers press into your arm, like sheâs guiding you, or perhaps controlling you, making sure you donât stumble or fall.
âYouâre going to see the President now,â she says, as if itâs supposed to be some sort of comfort. âHeâll want to speak with you.â
You can barely hear her over the pounding in your head, but you know what she means. President Coriolanus Snow. You have a few questions of your own, chief among them is why you aren't dead yet.Â
He has to know he won't get any information out of you, doesn't he? You hardly know anything worth telling to begin with; your knowledge begins and ends with the arena. He'll surely kill you after he finds out how useless you are to him in that regard.
Why did he separate you and Finnick by lying? He could've done so from behind the scenes, and it would've been heartbreaking, but inevitable. This feels intentional. He gained something by doing so, but you just can't figure out what.Â
The hallway stretches on and on, and with every step, it gets colder. The scent of the sterile air burns your nose, mixing with the staleness of sweat that coats your skin. Your throat is dry, and your mouth is full of cotton. All you want is to be done with itâto get to where youâre supposed to be. But the dread you feel thickens, turning your stomach to ice.
Your thoughts are fractured, unable to hold onto anything for long, but one name rises over everything else: Finnick.
His face keeps appearing in your mind. Him in the arena, teary-eyed and broken down. Him begging you to stay hidden, him beautiful and alive. Maybe it's because youâre so used to him being there, always just within reach. Maybe because heâs the only thing that hasnât felt wrong, that hasnât tried to hurt you. You donât even know where he is now. If he made it to Thirteen. If heâs safe.
Then, you realize why your mind keeps looping back to Finnick. You're scared.
The nurseâs hand presses against your back, now pushing you forward more urgently. âKeep moving. It wonât be much longer.â
Itâs all you can do to keep your feet moving. The thought of stopping, of sitting down again, is too temptingâbut thereâs no way you can give in. Not now. She won't let you. You reach a door. A thick, solid door, gleaming like the rest of the facility, heavy with the weight of whatever comes next.
âInside,â the nurse orders, pressing a button, prompting the door open.
You hesitate for only a moment before you step in. The room is larger and colder than you expected. The air smells like metal, like sterile hands and unspoken threats. Like greenery and faint, wet sweetness. Roses painted in blood. You can feel your pulse quicken as you take another step into the room. White and grey, roses in every corner.
And there he is. President Snow. Sitting behind a desk, his expression almost cordial, watching you with an intensity that makes the air feel even heavier.
You want to speak, but your mouth is dry, and no words come.Â
You are scared. You donât want to be, you were expecting to never see him againâand if you did, it would be as he's executed. Neither of those things came true, and you're scared. Shouldn't you feel empowered knowing you disobeyed him? Knowing that there's a whole operation dedicating its time and power to taking him downâand you were a part of it?
No. No, it makes you terrified. That and the subconscious response he's trained your body to have around him. You're a creature of instinct now. Prey backed into a corner.Â
âAh, there you are,â Snow says, his voice as smooth as ice and twice as cold. He looks you over, cataloging you from your lowered head to where the medical gown stops at the middle of your thighsâthighs pressed together to stave off the coldâbefore stopping at the unsteady rocking of your feet. âYou must be terribly sore. Please, take a seat.â
You would like to deny him. You want to deny him, a small act of rebellion. But the pain in your feet makes it hard to focus. Shifting your weight from heel to toe, you search for some relief, some part of your feet that doesnât ache. You find none. Rocking unsteadily from the soles to the outer edges, every inch feels the sting of their relentless polishing.
Besides, you know a command when you hear one. Heâs not offering, but even if he were, youâre still too tired to do anything other than move towards the chair. You keep your back straight and your eyes focused on the floor as you hobble over to the only chair that sat in front of his desk. For a moment, you can pretend this is like any other meeting you've had with him. Sit, listen, collect, be pet if he's in a particular mood, and then the sweet relief of finding Finnick wherever he's waiting for you.
But it's a short-lived fantasy. You're not supposed to hurt before the meeting. Any physical pain you feel should be contained to a time and a room number on a piece of paper.Â
You are scared. You're terrified. So much so that you're shaking with it. Or is that the exhaustion? The pain?
As you near the chair, though, you stop. Heâs watching you, and his gaze makes your stomach drop. You donât know why you hesitate now, but you canât stop your mind from racing. This room. This situation. Everything about it feels wrong.
He stops you. Not with words or even by raising his hand. It's his eyes.Â
Not there, they seem to say.Â
Instead, his eyes slowly glide to an area on the floor, you're reminded of the glide of the scissors they used to cut you out of your clothes. You blink. Following his gaze down, down, downâthereâto the rug and the pillow that sits atop it.
You almost think youâve misunderstood. Why would he want you to sit on the floor? He can't possibly⊠It canât possibly be that he wants your mouth, can it? You swallow, but your body moves without you, which is what it's used to doing in rooms like this with men like him.Â
Luckily, or unluckily, for you, the pillow feels like silk against your raw skin. It's incredibly plush, so soft and gentle on your skin. The first soft touch you've felt since you woke up.
âThere,â Snow says. âDoesnât that feel better?â
You canât look at him. Canât even look at the chair he sits in. You roll your tongue around your mouth, feeling the indent of your molars and then your incisors, back and forth.Â
You nod.
He watches you for a beat, a small, satisfied smile curling the corners of his lips.
And then he speaks again.
âIâm sure youâre quite baffled by your being here.â He prompts you to speak, to ask a question instead of just telling you himself. A tactic, surely. To limit the information he gives you.
You ask the one thing thatâs eluded you since you woke up here.
âWhy aren't I dead?â
Snowâs lips curl faintly. Not into a smile this time, but not a frown either.
âStraight to the point. Have I ever mentioned that being an exemplary quality of yours?â
âI don't know. Sir,â you correct yourself, risking a glance up at him to gauge his reaction, his being pleased with you shouldn't be such a relief.Â
âIf you're asking why you didn't meet a grizzly end in the arena, rebels attacked right as Miss Everdeen overpowered the shields. But that's not what you're referring to. Is it?âÂ
Your eyes return to your hands sitting limply on your lap, but a gloved finger curled under your chin pulls your gaze back to where he wants it. Back to where he'll always want it.
âIs it.â
Not a question, but he wants to hear the truth from your lips anyway. Your jaw clenches, teeth grinding, and throat tightening. There's a pressure behind your eyes, under your chin, deep in your throat. You blink back what feels suspiciously like tears. Your lips tremble, and you sink a canine into the bottom one.Â
âNo, sir,â you say with blood in your mouth, and he smiles down at you with blood in his.
He leans back. âYou are alive because I want you to be. Despite being a traitor of the state, despite the betrayal,â you flinch, âI saved you after they left you for a slow, agonizing death. Because I am merciful.â Rubber rubs against rubber as he laces his fingers together. âI like to think I know you quite well, better than most, even. You're far from stupid. You're quite intelligent, even. Useful. You'll continue to be useful, won't you, my dear.â
Your head begins to nod without any input from you, but your eyes catch on his handkerchief. Blue, the color of the sea, mixed with green. Sea glass playing background to a simple white rose.
âYou lied.â You say instead, and it's just as damning.
The way his brows raise is almost imperceptible, easy to miss if you weren't watching for it.
âYou told me,â you say, relearning in real time how to speak above a murmur again, âyou told me you'd allow us to stay together if I stayed on my best behavior. And you told Finnick the exact opposite. ThatâŠthat you'd kill one of us. Kill me. You lied,â you say, each word landing like a blow youâre too weak to deliver otherwise.Â
It's the most you've spoken since you woke up, and the silence you sit in afterwards is daunting. Your throat aches, but you don't clear it for fear that it'll remind him that you're alive when you shouldn't be.
For a moment, Snow says nothing. His head tilts, the gesture almost indulgent, like heâs humoring a child mid-tantrum. And then he chuckles, and it cuts through the fragile illusion of your rebellion.
âOh, dove,â his voice is soft and low, a mockery of tenderness as his fingers toy idly with the white rose pinned to his lapel. âIs that what he told you?â
You blink up at him, disoriented. He clicks his tongue, a sound that makes your stomach twist, shaking his head as though youâve disappointed him.
âI recall having a much different conversation with Mr. Odair,â he continues, his gloved hands resting calmly on the desk before him. Heâs at ease, completely unhurried, as though there isnât a single thing you could say or do that might rattle him.
Your pulse stumbles. âNo,â you manage, but your voice falters.
âOh, yes,â he continues, his words are slow and deliberate, each one a weighted stone dropping into deep, still water. His pale eyes gleam with something you canât name, and would never want to. âHe told you exactly what you wanted to hear, didnât he? What you needed to hear to let him slither back into your good graces. Along with other places, Iâm sure.â
The insinuation feels like a slap, leaving a hot flush of shame rising to your cheeks and ears. You try to tell yourself not to react, not to give him the satisfaction, but your breath hitches anyway. His words are needles, sharp and precise, sewing doubt into the seams of your mind. You donât bother correcting him, but he doesnât stop. Your silence only emboldens him.
âLook at the mess caused by Miss Everdeen and Mr. Mellark,â he muses, his tone cool and clinical now. âAnd they were from the same district. Imagine the chaos, the anarchy, if I allowed you and Mr. Odair to continue as you were. Together, youâd have been...dangerous.â His gaze sharpens, piercing through you. âNow they all know what Iâve always known. You, poor, innocent you, were tricked. Used.â
Your head shakes, a reflex more than a decision. Itâs small, halting, but itâs all you can manage. You were wrong. His words are poison, not needles, and they seep into the cracks of your mind, twisting the truth into something unrecognizable.
âNo,â you whisper, but itâs a breath, a wisp of sound.Â
Thatâs not right. That doesnât align with what you know to be true. The truth you can feel in your bones.
No. No, thatâs not true. Finnick is not like that. Finnick, your Finnick, wouldnât lie to you. Not like this.
You know Finnick. You know him like the back of your hand, like the constellations you used to trace in the night sky. Heâs your North Star, the steady, unyielding constant in a world thatâs always trying to tear you apart. Heâs one of the only truths you know.
âYouâre wrong,â are the words you decide on rather than asking what his version of events is. You canât let him know thereâs even a doubt in your mind. Your words hang heavy in the air, trembling with conviction. Snow doesnât speak right away, but the curve of his lips tightens, his amusement thinning into something colder.Â
The hair on the back of your neck stands up. Danger.Â
âOh?â His brow arches. âIs that so?â
âNo,â you say, the only word you seem to know. âThatâs notâthatâs not him. Thatâs you.â You force your eyes to meet Snowâs, and you donât look away. âThatâs not my Finnick.â
Snow doesnât respond immediately. Instead, his gloved hand reaches out, brushing along your hair in a gesture that might seem soothing or kind. It isnât. All you can think about is the animals youâve seen in Eleven, being shushed and stroked as theyâre lined up for slaughter. You think, suddenly and desperately, of Rue, and you wonder if this is how she felt in those final moments when you tried to shield her from the inevitable.
Snow sighs softly, but it doesnât sound exasperated. If anything, it sounds almost...wistful, as if heâs reminiscing with an old friend rather than tormenting you.
âSo clever,â he murmurs, his gloved hand withdrawing as he sits back. âSo conniving at such a young age. Charmed the masses, killed his own allies... Itâs commendable, truly. What heâs willing to do to survive.â
Your breathing stutters, your heart pounding painfully in your chest.
âIt may be difficult for you to understand,â Snow continues, âbut I was always rather fond of Mr. Odair.â
Your stomach turns violently. You know what becomes of Snowâs fondness.Â
âHe reminds me of myself as a boy,â Snow says, his pale eyes distant, as though looking past you. âHeâs willing to do whatever it takes to survive.â
Your heart hammers in your chest, your breathing shallow. âButâbut why would heâŠhe loves me,â you say, your voice cracking, trembling all over. âHe does. He doesnât need to doâŠthat.â
Snow tilts his head slightly, as if the notion amuses him, like youâve said something endearingly naive. âAnd what a valuable ally you are,â he says softly.
âHe didnât use me,â you say, nothing more than a croak. The words feel small in your mouth.
âHonesty, my dove.â Snow leans forward, resting his chin lightly on his steepled hands, a faint note of reprimand in his tone. âWe do not deal in falsehoods. They have no place in this room.â
You force yourself to look at him, your nails digging into your palms. âHe gains nothing byâby using me,â the word tastes bitter on your tongue. You can barely get it out. âSoâŠso I know youâre wrong,â you say, though your voice falters.
âDonât sell yourself so short,â Snow says, almost gently, and the softness is worse than his malice.Â
He leans back in his chair, watching you intently, and his gaze feels like itâs burrowing under your skin. âIt wasnât entirely one-sided, hm? You gained companionship,â he says, but it feels like judgment. âA âsafeâ haven. Perhaps he gained something far more tangible: leverage, protection, someone to ease the burden. Love is not a sustainable resource. Love doesnât fill an empty stomach. Love doesnât keep out the cold or stop pneumonia from setting in. A true survivor knows that.â
You stare at him, your mind racing, your heart screaming that itâs a lie. That it has to be a lie. But the way he says it, so calm, so sure of himselfâit makes you hesitate. Just for a moment. And that moment is enough.
Your mind feels sluggish, your thoughts clouded by the weight of his words. âYouâre wrong,â you whisper, but the conviction is slipping. âHe loves me.ââ
âAm I?â He tilts his head again, and you regret ever opening your mouth in the first place. âYou loved your father, didnât you?â Snow asks, his tone light as the question rips the air from your lungs. âWhy didnât that love stop the noose from breaking his neck?â
The room tilts, the words slamming into your stomach with the force of a train, with the force of a noose. You feel your throat tighten as the weight of the memory crashes over you. All the while, Snow watches you with that maddening calm.
You canât breathe, canât think.
âThese are only theories, of course,â Snow continues dismissively. Agreeing to disagree over some sort of philosophical debate. âUntil we can ask him ourselves, we can only speculate.â
You can feel the pressure building behind your eyes, your throat tightening with the weight of unshed tears. But you wonât cry in front of him. You wonât give him the satisfaction. You swallow hard, clenching your fists so tightly that your nails dig painfully into your palms, and force yourself to hold onto the only truth you have left.
You know Finnick. You know him better than anyone. But his voice, his touch, his smile? They all feel distant now, clouded by Snowâs words. He wouldnât. He couldnât.Â
Could he?Â
The question festers, and you hate yourself for even thinking it. Yet, you can think of nothing but it.
Snow regards you for a moment longer, letting his last words settle into the room like a fog. His pale eyes linger on you, savoring the way your breath hitches, the faint quiver in your lip you try so desperately to still. His smile widens like a crack splitting across stone, as if the fracture itself satisfies him.
Leisurely, he adjusts the vase of roses on his desk yet again, his gloved fingers brushing one of the pristine white petals. The movement is infuriating, in its calmness, in its repetition. âBut speculation has its uses, doesnât it?â he muses. âIt reveals thingsâtruths weâre too afraid to confront.â
You swallow hard as you fight to keep your expression blank. Youâve already given too much away. Too much in the way you shift, the way your hands fist the fabric of your gown. But no matter how still you force yourself to be, you can feel his words burrowing into you.
Before you can fully steel yourself, he pivots, his gaze sharpening as it lands back on you. âOf course,â he begins, his tone now deceptively relaxed, âthis raises an entirely different matter. As you would know, we normally donât punish the family of traitors for one manâs failures.â
Your breath stutters in your chest, but you say nothing. Heâs laying a trap, and you donât know yet where it leads. But your unease builds, rolling over you in icy waves, your body tense and bracing for impact.
âHowever,â Snow continues, eyes finally leaving you to rove around his office, âwith the influx of rebels, weâll now have to trial any family as rebel sympathizers. Necessary policy adjustments, Iâm sure you understand.â
For a moment, your vision goes black and fuzzy around the edges, and youâre certain youâll pass out. Your hands grip the fabric of your gown so tightly that your knuckles ache. But you donât let yourself react. Not aloud. Not where he can hear it. Thatâs exactly what he wants.
He leans forward slightly now, his eyes snapping back to you with a look that makes you flinch, cowering in on yourself. âYour mother still lives in that big, beautiful house by herself, doesnât she?â
No, no, no. He canâtâhe wouldnâtâ
There are things happening to you that you canât categorize or describe. Youâve never felt this kind of fear before; you never thought it possible.
âI allowed her to continue living there, of course,â Snow says, clasping his hands together with a faint creak of leather. The sound is too loud in the silence. âAll because of my mercy.â
The world tilts. Your vision tunnels again, and you feel yourself sway, the air around you thick and suffocating. Youâre in the blood rain again. Youâre going to vomit.
That canât be true. It canât. The rebels promised sheâd be safe. They swore it. They said theyâd get her out, no matter what happened to you. It was their final thank-you, they said. For everything youâd done. For what youâd sacrificed.
They swore it.
Does anybody keep their promises?
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, struggling to hold onto the thread of control slipping through your fingers. You canât call his bluff. You canât risk it. Heâs waiting for you to break. Heâs waiting for you to give him exactly what he wants.
But your mind races, clawing desperately for some certainty, some thread of hope to anchor yourself to. You force your face to stay neutral, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the tremor in your hands that you canât quite still. Snow sees it. He always sees it.
And he knows. He always knows.
âSuch a shame,â he says, and youâd call his voice venomous if it wasnât so indifferent, âthat weâre forced to make these changes. I had hoped to avoid unnecessaryâŠlosses.â He lets the word hang in the air. âBut rebellion leaves me with so few options.â
You want to scream at him, call him a liar, but your throat feels like itâs closing, your fear stealing your voice.
âIsnât it curious, though?â he continues, tilting his head slightly, as if lost in thought. âHow easily safety can be taken for granted. Mercy, after all, is such a fragile thing. It canât survive in chaos. It canât thrive in defiance.â His gaze sharpens as he straightens in his chair. âMercy is a finite resource. Much like love, it must be earned. Sustained.â
His words are daggers, each one sliding deeper, twisting, finding every vulnerable piece of you. He knows where to aim. He always has.
Your silence stretches too long, and Snow smiles again, that faint, hollow thing that feels more like a scar than an expression. âI do hope your mother continues to enjoy her home,â he says, and you could almost imagine having this very conversation over tea with how casual it is. âIt would be such a pity to see herâŠdisplaced.â
The word hangs in the air like an executionerâs axe, its implications ringing louder than the word itself, ready to lop your neck off. You bite down harder on your lip, the metallic tang of blood sharp on your tongue. You make yourself nod once. Small, stiff, mechanical. Itâs the only thing you can do.
âGood,â Snow murmurs, leaning back again. âI knew you would understand.â
You sit there, frozen. Your heart pounds painfully in your chest, each beat like a hammer driving you deeper into despair. Every instinct screams at you to respond, to fight back. But what could you say? Denying him will only make him push harder. Agreeing with him will hand him everything he needs.
So you say nothing.
But Snow smiles anyway, as if your silence is victory enough. Winner in a game you didnât even realize you were playing.
Your gaze drops, falling down, down, down to your hands. Smooth, raw, shaking. Your nails dig into your bare thighs, trying to ground yourself in a body that no longer feels like your own.
And Snow watches you. Weighing you. His expression softens, not into kindness, never that. It is a pale imitation of gentleness. Then, slowly, he rises to his feet, his hands smoothing the front of his coat in a motion so deliberate it feels ceremonial. The small smile playing on his lips isnât just satisfactionâitâs pride, as though heâs accomplished something significant. Something heâs proud of.
âThis isnât cruelty, my dear,â he says pensively, and you could nearly trick yourself into thinking youâre a cherished companion of his. If you believed he was capable of feeling such a thing for anyone. âThough I imagine it must feel that way to you. No, everything Iâve done, all of this, is because I care.â
Your stomach twists, bile rising in your throat. Care. He says it like it means something.
âI care for you,â he continues. âNot just as a citizen of Panem, though that alone would be enough. But as an individual. Someone with⊠so much potential. You see, I believe in your capacity to survive, your ability to thrive.â
His words are honey-laced with arsenic, dripping with false warmth. You want to shout at him, scream that you donât want his care, donât need his belief. But your throat feels thick, clogged with his lies and your own terror, and all you can do is listen as he spins his web around you.
âFor as long as you prove your loyalty to Panem,â he says, each word measured, âI will continue to care for you. To provide for you. To protect you.â
You hear what heâs leaving unsaid. Loyalty to Panem means loyalty to him. Protection is only offered so long as you fall in line. Anything less than compliance will cost you everything.
You feel the leather of his glove against your cheek before you see his hand come closer. A thumb rubs over the apple of your cheek, trailing down to your chin, lifting your gaze up past the chair, past his legs, up to his eyes. Theyâre shaded from this angle, making his eyes even more ghastly.
Your body tenses, but you donât speak. What could you possibly say? Snow leans forward now, his pale gaze fixed on you, his voice dropping just slightly, as though sharing a secret meant only for you.
âYou should rest. Gather your strength. But first, youâll need to check in with the doctor.â
The doctor. The word pulls you out of your haze, confusion flickering across your face before you can stop it. The doctor?
Snow notices, of course. He always notices. He smiles, small and sharp, as if your confusion is some sort of private joke. âOh, youâll want to hurry,â he says lightly, releasing you. âPunctuality is a virtue.â
Your lips part, the faintest beginning of a question forming on your tongue, but you donât get the chance to ask it. Snow presses a button on his desk, the soft click echoing through the room. Behind you, the door opens, and the draft brushes the back of your neck. Itâs faint, almost imperceptible, but it makes your skin crawl. Youâre already cold.
Two gloved hands grab your arms, firm but unrelenting. Peacekeepers. One on each side. They haul you to your feet, the sudden motion making your side burn, and a pained gasp slips out before you can stop it. Your hands and feet have already frozen over; any pain from them is dull in comparison. You donât have the strength to fight them, and even if you did, you know better than to try. You let them drag you, your feet barely finding the floor as they march you toward the door.
You stare at Snow, your gaze locking with his as they pull you backward. He doesnât move, doesnât flinch, his eyes holding yours as steadily as if he were the one restraining you.
âGive my regards to Dr. Steel,â he says, his voice pleasant.
The door slides shut behind you, cutting off the sterile air of his office, but the weight of his words lingers, settling heavily in your chest. You donât struggle against the Peacekeepers. You donât have the will. Your bare feet slide against the cold, polished floor as they drag you down the endless halls.
-
The room they drag you into is a reflection of everything youâve seen since you woke up.
The walls are the same glaring white as the halls, smooth and seamless, offering no hint of where one panel ends and the next begins. Everything gleams: polished steel, blinding white tiles, fluorescent lights that buzz faintly above you. Thereâs nothing personal in the room, no warmth, no imperfections, only sharp edges and flat surfaces.Â
There are no windows, no natural light, only the harsh glow of the strips overhead.Â
Even the air feels unnatural, stinking of faint chemicals. Itâs sharp and artificial, like antiseptic and ozone. It pricks at your nose, makes the back of your throat sting. You can feel it settling on your skin like a film. At the center of the room, under the merciless overhead light, is the chair.
Itâs not really a chair, not in the way youâd think of one. Itâs something designed for function, not comfort. The seat is hard, molded plastic or steel, you canât tell. The rest is made of metal, shimmering silver and chrome, and itâs bolted to the floor, immovable.Â
The base is solid, the armrests wide and flat with leather straps hanging loosely from each one. Thereâs a headrest, tilted slightly back, and you can see the faint indentations on the surface where other heads must have rested before yours. A thick bundle of wires snakes out from the back of it, trailing across the floor to a machine that hums softly in the corner of the room.
The machine itself is alien and a labyrinth of knobs, switches, and translucent displays that flicker with symbols you donât recognize. You donât know what half of them mean, and you donât want to. Thereâs a cold, mechanical menace to the way it hums, as though itâs alive, waiting for its next command. Two assistants flank the chair; their movements precise, their faces blank. Theyâre dressed in crisp white uniforms that match the walls, their gloves spotless, their posture unnervingly rigid. With their faces half-covered by masks, each one looks as impersonal as the last.Â
Their gazes skim over you like youâre an object, a task to be handled, nothing more. They donât speak as youâre handed off to them. They guide you forward, their grips firm but devoid of malice. They donât need to speak. Their purpose is clear.
You donât fight. You canât. Your body is too heavy, too raw, your mind too fractured to muster any resistance. They press you into the chair, and itâs colder than you're prepared for, the metal biting through the thin fabric of your gown and downright tearing at the exposed skin that comes in contact with it.
The armrests splay wide, forcing your arms out to either side, held down by tight, unyielding straps. Your legs are similarly restrained, spread apart, ankles cuffed to the chairâs base. Thereâs nowhere to hide, nowhere to shift, nowhere to go. The headrest cradles your skull like a vice, straps across your forehead and chin, keeping you from moving more than a fraction of an inch. The restraints are snug; any attempts to wriggle free only dig them deeper into your skin. The entire position makes your side flare, the dull ache threatening to boil over, but you grit your teeth and try to breathe through it.
The assistants step back, moving in perfect synchronization, and for a moment, the room is silent except for the low, steady hum of the machine.
The rest of the assistantsâyou try to count how many of them there are, many of which look so identical that you have to recount over and overâmove around you in near silence, their footsteps so faint and unhurried that your mind conjures an image of them floating.Â
None of them speaks. They donât meet your eyes. They donât even look at you, not really. Theyâre almost ghost-like in the way they glide from one piece of equipment to the next, retrieving tools, adjusting knobs, checking wires. Their movements are methodical, detached. You feel more project than patient.
Your mind races, one of the only parts of you capable of movement. Snow mentioned a Dr. Steel. Did he mean this room? Was it just a cruel joke about the chair youâre becoming well acquainted with?
And then, he enters.
You hear his footsteps first. Slow, echoing faintly against the floor. A rhythmic, measured tapping. When he steps into view, your first thought is how composed he looks, how calculated.Â
Heâs a tall man, lean but not lanky, with a presence that makes the room feel even smaller.Â
His suit is sharp and tailored to perfection. It is a deep charcoal that seems incredibly out of place in this sea of white and silver. The crisp edges of the fabric cut clean lines against his frame. His hair is swept back, dark blond streaked with silver at the temples, every strand knowing its place.Â
His gloves are black, and like the rest of him, the contrast is striking. He walks with a grace that feels out of step with the clinical severity of the space, like heâs been plucked from a dinner party. But itâs his face that unsettles you most. Itâs his face that draws you in and keeps you there, whether you want to or not.
Heâs handsome, in a way that feels dangerous. Or maybe itâs a face that should be handsome, should be inviting, but thereâs something wrong. His features are as sharp as the rest of him, carved by someone who valued symmetry over realism.
His cheekbones are high, his jawline razor-sharp with no hairs in sight, and his thin eyebrows donât raise or furrow. They donât articulate anything. They give nothing away; not a flicker of emotion, not a hint of humanity. Thereâs an elegance to his features, but itâs the kind that masks cruelty.
And his eyes⊠God, his eyes.
Theyâre a pale, pale blue. The kind of pale that feels wrong. Something vitalâs been leached out of them, drained until thereâs nothing left but the cold residue of powder. Snowâs eyes are pale, too. Faded, clouded, like the blue cataracts of the blind. Snowâs gaze always felt like it hung over you, distant and ghostly, like the creeping inevitability of death itself. Impersonal. Unshakable. His eyes were terrible, yes, but their terror came from what they refused to show. They hung above you, lofty and untouched, as if nothing human could ever reach them. Snowâs eyes didnât look at you; they looked through you.
But his eyes?
Theyâre the frosted film of the dead.
They almost shine, like a thin layer of ice glinting under a pale winter sun. No, they latch onto you, burrowing under your skin like splinters. They donât freeze you in placeâthey cut. Slice. Peel. Sew you back up again with parts missing and gained. His gaze moves too much, roves over you like a scalpel searching for the best place to start. Thereâs no stillness in them, no blindness. His eyes see everything, and yet they feel utterly lifeless. Glassy and cold and hollow, like the corpse of something that died hungry and refused to stay buried. Like something that doesnât care to stay dead.
You thought Snowâs eyes were the most unnerving thing youâd ever seenâthe kind of stare that made you feel small and helpless, like you were already buried six feet under and just waiting for him to shovel the last heap of dirt. But these? These are worse. So much worse.Â
They crawl over your skin, prying, probing, reaching deep like fingers under a woundâa feeling youâve felt again and again. They donât feel human, not really. Not because of their color, though that doesnât helpâbut because of what lives behind them. Or what doesnât. Thereâs no mercy in them. No pity. No distance. Just an emptiness so serrated it cuts you open and digs its way inside.
Snowâs gaze judges you from above. Dr. Steelâs gaze dissects you from within.
You canât breathe. You canât think. You canât look away.
The frosted film of the dead, yesâbut you were wrong. There is something alive beneath it. And itâs looking straight at you.
His gloves draw the eye again. Black leather, smudged faintly at the fingertips, likely from years spent working with delicate tools that have worn the pristine shine away. He wears them like theyâre a second skin, flexing his fingers absently as he watches the assistants prepare you. Youâre not sure if the gloves are for precision or protection, but they make the simple act of movementâof touchâfeel intimate in a way that makes your stomach turn.
Dr. Steel doesnât move like the assistants. He doesnât hurry, doesnât glide. His every step is purposeful, an elegant dance where youâre his unwilling partner. He doesnât need to rush. This room belongs to him. You can feel it in the way the assistants defer to him with every flicker of a glance, the way they stand just slightly straighter when he passes. He doesnât need to speak to command them.
He circles you slowly, the soles of his shoes clicking softly against the floor. The sound echoes faintly in the room, filling the silence left by the assistantsâ quiet movements. His gaze is heavy, lingering on you as though youâre something to be studied, dissected, cataloged. He looks at you like youâre an equation heâs already solved, a puzzle heâs taken apart and put back together again in his mind a hundred times before this moment.
And yet, thereâs something in his demeanor that feels uncomfortablyâŠhuman. Itâs not warmth, not even close, but an unsettling kind of fascination, like heâs looking at you and seeing something no one else can.
He speaks.
âGood evening,â he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, the kind of voice that could lull you into a sense of safety if not for the words it carries. He stops just in front of you, clasping his hands behind his back as he tilts his head. âYouâre awake. How fortunate. I always find the initial assessment is far moreâŠilluminating when the subject is conscious.â
Subject. The word hits you like a slap, and you bristle instinctively. He notices, of course.Â
âI am Dr. Steel,â he continues, his tone polite. âAnd you, madam, are my newest patient.â
You note the correction from subject to patient, but thatâs all you do.
You donât answer. You canât. Your throat feels like itâs closing, and youâre not sure you could force words out even if you tried. But it doesnât matter. He doesnât seem to want your words.
âPlease, donât trouble yourself with unnecessary questions,â he says, confirming your thoughts. âAll will be explained in due time. For now, Iâm afraid we have a rather tight schedule to adhere to. You understand, Iâm sure.â
Your gaze darts to the assistants, hoping to find some flicker of humanity there, some chance of reason. But they avoid your eyes, their focus entirely on their work. Theyâre laying out equipment on a trayâwhite squares, wires, syringes. Your stomach churns at the sight of it, but you force yourself to look away, to stare at the ceiling instead. Itâs blank. Endless.
Dr. Steel steps closer, his gloved hand reaching for your face. You flinch, but the straps keep you in place. His fingers brush lightly against your skin, tilting your chin up until your eyes meet his. Thereâs a curiosity there. Your blood runs cold at the sight of it.
âThereâs no need to be afraid,â he says in a way that could be mistaken for kindness. âPain, after all, is a necessary part of progress. Youâll find that the human mind is far more resilient than you might think. Malleable, even.â
He straightens, his hand leaving your face, and turns toward the medical tray. âNow,â he says, picking up a small white square with a thin wire trailing from it, âweâll begin with a simple test. Nothing too invasive, I assure you. This is merely an aptitude assessmentâa way for me to better understand how best to help you.â
Youâre scared stiff despite, and partially because of, his attempts at comforting you. Itâs hard to pay attention to him and not the flurry of silent movement in your peripheral vision, or the frantic beating of your heart.
âYouâre likely wondering what Iâm about to do,â he says without looking at you. A mercy. He presses a button, or maybe he adjusts a dial, and the translucent display glows a faint blue. âOr perhaps youâre wondering why Iâm doing it. Both are fair questions, though I doubt the answers will bring you much comfort.â
You sit there helplessly as he presses the square against your temple, the adhesive cold and wet. The machineâs humming picks up like a beast purring as he operates it with ease. Sitting this close, the sound settles like static in your ears, scratching faintly at your nerves.
You jerk your head, instinctively trying to pull away, but a handânot rough, but firmâkeeps you in place.
âWhatââ Your voice cracks, trembling with the weight of your fear. âWhat are you doing?â Itâs the only question you can force past the panic rising in your chest. A stupid one, because he's right. Knowing whatâs coming wonât help you any, but you need to know.
The man pauses, tilting his head slightly, as if your words are the most curious thing heâs ever heard. Slowly, he straightens and looks at you, and you wish you hadnât asked. He smiles something scarily genuine, and his face doesnât bend the way it should. No wrinkles crease at his eyes, no laugh lines pull at his mouth. There arenât even any soft creases in his skin. Not in the Capitol way, not Botox or cosmetic corrections. He is a man unacquainted with joy, and itâs clearly an unpracticed expression.
âI am so very pleased you asked,â he says, and you believe him. âNormally, those in your position waste their breath on crying or begging. They turn this joyous experience into a spectacle. And, well,â his voice turns conspiratorial. âIâve always preferred academics.â
You swallow thickly, spit going down like cotton. âWhatâs the point of any of that?â You ask, surprising even yourself. Your voice cracks, dry as a dead leaf. You lick your chapped lips. âCrying or begging, I mean. IâI doubt itâs worked on you before.â
His smile faltersâjust slightly, just enough to let you see the flash of something behind it. Interest. He takes a small step closer, looming over you. His sharp eyes wander over your face, eager, assessing, waiting. You want to shrink away, but you canât. The straps keep you pinned, and what little of your pride remains refuses to let him see you cower more than he already has. So instead, you fix your gaze on the ceiling and finish, âWhy would I be any different?â He turns with a small hum and begins to fiddle with the tools on his medical tray. Since your head is strapped in place, your eyes are the only thing you can move to follow him.
âVery astute analysis.â His gloved hands pick up another set of squares, their edges gleaming faintly with gel. âAnd in such a short period of time.â He presses them to your forehead, one after the other, the freezing adhesive making you blink. âThese,â he says, gesturing with a gloved hand to the wires trailing from the squares, âare electrodes. Through them, I will deliver a controlled electrical current to your brain. The goal is to induce a seizure.â
Your head jerks without your input again. His words swim in your head, but you canât seem to piece them together. Electric current. Brain. Seizure. They donât belong in the same sentence. They shouldnât. They canât.
Your heart lurches in your chest, and you struggle against the restraints, but itâs no use. âWhy?â you rasp, your voice barely audible.
âWhy?â He tilts his head again, like a bird of prey. âBecause the mind is an endlessly fascinating thing. Memories, emotions, identity itselfâtheyâre so easilyâŠedited. Altered. Or removed entirely. And you,â he breathes, âare a most promising candidate.â
Heâs already at the machine before you can respond, his hands sliding across its controls with a kind of care you thought him incapable of. The translucent display glows from blue to green, covered in symbols and graphs that blur under your glare. He flips a switch, presses buttons, and adjusts dials. You can see the glow of the display reflected faintly in his eyes, giving them an unnatural brightness.Â
He pauses, resting his finger lightly on a button labeled STIMULUS CONTROL.Â
âHow bad will it hurt?â The question tumbles out before you can stop it. You donât bother asking if it will hurt. You already know.
He pauses, turning his head to look at you with a kind of delighted curiosity. âOh,â he says softly, gently, his lips curling back into that strange, unsettling smile. âHorrifically. The kind of pain that canât be described. The sweetest kind of torture.â He leans closer, so close you can see his blond eyelashes, his voice dropping to a murmur. âBut youâll endure it. Youâll survive. Thatâs what makes you so fascinating.â
Your heart pounds so violently now that youâre certain it might actually burst. His finger lingers above the button, and your chest heaves as you try to suck in air, but itâs no use. Heâs watching you again, his gaze crawling over your face, and you wince like itâs a physical thing.
âI think,â he murmurs, seemingly to himself, âIâll enjoy our time together quite a bit, madam.â
He nods to someone behind you, and you stiffen as a woman steps into view. Her eyes are vacant, her face expressionless as she moves closer. One of her hands forces your mouth open, her grip mechanical and unyielding. Her other hand pushes something bulky between your teeth. A mouthguard. Itâs rubbery and alien on your tongue, the handle protruding awkwardly from your lips. You feel the hard plastic edges dig into the corners of your mouth as the faint taste of chemicals coats your tongue. Thereâs a hole in the center, you realizeâa cruelly calculated design, just big enough to let you keep breathing.
The rubber tastes like ash, chemical, and acrid on your tongue. It wedges between your teeth, forcing your jaw open until your muscles strain and ache. You canât scream. You canât even bite down on the pain. All you can do is breathe wet, ragged gasps through the gaping hole theyâve left you.
âWe wouldnât want to ruin that pretty mouth of yours,â he says.
His voice drops to something quieter, more intimate, just before he presses the button. âYou know,â he tilts his head, reflecting something you canât name back at you, âitâs fascinating, really. How little it takes to reshape a thing.â
The machine hums louder, gears shifting beneath the surface.
The electrode pulses against your temple, icy at first, then hotter. The heat spreads outward, jagged and quick, sinking deep into your skull.
Your muscles coil. Tight. So tight your bones might snap under the strain.
A sharp breath leaves your lungs as the woman refits the mouthguard into place.
Iâll be fine.
The thought isnât yours. It sounds like Finnick.
The rubber pinches at the corners of your mouth.
Iâll be fine.
The hum crescendos.
You smell it before you feel it. Burning hair, maybe yours.
âSometimes the mind plays tricks when it's under stress,â Steel says, adjusting the electrode along your temple. âItâs common during these sessions. Perfectly normal. Most ignore it.â
The electrode now bites deeper, searing into your skin.
He presses the button.
Iâll be fineâ
The first jolt hits you like lightning striking a tree, and for a moment, the world fractures. It feels as though every nerve in your body ignites at once, a surge of blinding, white-hot pain that makes you want to tear yourself apart just to escape it. You think of a cow you once saw struck by lightning. You think of how it thrashed on its side, kicking sluggishly. How its hoarse, broken moos echoed through the field. You remember its eyes rolling back, the way it laid still afterward, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.
You feel like that cow now. Struck dumb. Kicking. Something raw and primal rips out of your throat, muffled by the mouthguard, but itâs not enough to drown out the sharp, mechanical click of the machine as it surges again. And again.
Your back arches.
The lights grow brighter. So bright.
Your muscles seize, locking you into a position that feels unnatural, unbearable. Your vision flickers in and out, the ceiling above you warping and twisting, morphing into flashes of something else. Memories, maybe. Or hallucinations. Or both. Youâre not sure anymore. Youâre not sure of anything except the pain, the way it digs into the edges of your mind, leaving pieces of you scattered in its wake.
And then, mercifully, it stops.
Youâre dimly aware of your body slumping back against the chair, the straps digging into your skin as you gasp through the mouthguard. You donât have the strength to move, barely the strength to think. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a voiceâhisâ, but it feels far away. Like itâs coming from underwater.
"Good," you think he says. "That was a promising start."
The world is still, and you float somewhere between the pain and oblivion. The chair hums beneath you, faint vibrations trickling through the bolts holding it to the floor. A high-pitched ringing pulses faintly in your skull.
The straps dig into your shoulders, but the edges of your skin feel numb. Were they always this tight?
Your chest heaves, each breath rattling through the rubbery mouthpiece wedged between your teeth. The taste lingers, bitter and stale. Someoneâs speaking nearbyâyou thinkâbut the words drift in and out, slippery and distant.
You try to swallow, but your throat wonât work properly.
Something shifts behind you, and with a soft click, the mouthguard slackens. Your jaw loosens with it, muscles trembling with the release. It's not a relief. Your teeth feel too far apart. Will they ever fit together again?
The woman wipes something from your lips.
Why?
You blink slowly, dragging your gaze toward the assistants. The edges of their faces blur, indistinct shadows circling you. The hum of the machine tapers off, but the weight of something invisible still sits at the base of your skull.
Your fingers twitch faintly against the restraints. One at a time. Curling. Testing. The tips press into your palmâcold, clammy, unfamiliar.
My hands. My hands. Theyâre mine.
Your body sags against the chair, limp and wrung out like wet fabric. The mouthguard slips from between your teeth with a slick pop, dangling from its strap as one of the assistants sets it aside.Â
Itâs over.
Your head lolls to the side, eyes half-lidded, catching glimpses of white shoes moving around you. Distant shapes, smudged by the fuzz at the edge of your vision. A hand touches your wrist, fingers curling over the welt left by the strap. The pressure is light. The kind of touch that makes you want to cry.
Dr. Steelâs voice slips through the fog. âRelease her.â
The assistants move without hesitation, loosening the bindings at your wrists, your ankles. They unfasten the straps completely, and your arms drop to your sides, heavy and boneless. The weight of them makes you wince. They guide your arms down to your lap, lifting your head upright with just enough care to stop you from slumping forward.
You donât move. Not yet. Not until you can trust that the floor beneath you is real.
Your legs dangle uselessly from the chair, trembling too hard to hold you if they made you stand. But they donât.
Itâs over.
You tell yourself that over and over, desperate to believe it.
Steel crouches in front of you, so close that you can see the faint reflection of yourself in his pale, glassy eyes. He tilts his head, studying you with that quiet fascination.
âYouâre still with me,â he murmurs, fondly. His hand rises, brushing along your damp forehead to your damp hairline. âGood. Weâre making progress.â
His thumb catches on your chin, gently lifting your face to meet his. A small light flickers on in his other hand. Itâs bright and invasive as he shines it into your eye.
You try to turn away, but his grip tightens just enough to stop you. The light dances back and forth, pulling at the threads of your focus. His eyes flick between yours, pupils tightening as the light flashes. He hums low in his throat, satisfied.
âPupillary response is adequate,â he says, as if you arenât even there. âCoordination appearsâŠintact.â
His palm lingers over your pulse, pressing lightly at the hollow of your throat. His fingers slide up, pressing against your jaw, coaxing your mouth open with patience.
âLet me see.â
You donât move. You canât move.
He hums softly, unimpressed, and his thumb slips between your lips, prying your mouth open wider. Your muscles tremble from strain.Â
His thumb drags along your cheek, tugging the soft flesh outward, then trails across your gums.
Slow, methodical.
This isnât my mouth.
This isnât my body.
I left this chair an hour ago.
His touch lingers at the edge of your teeth. His thumb presses down, tracing the ridges of your molars like heâs cataloging them.
âGoodâŠgood,â he murmurs, pulling your cheek to the side. His thumb scrapes the back of your tongue, making you gag, but he doesnât stop. His thumb presses down, flattening it, testing the softness there. âNo fractures. Minimal soft tissue damage. Remarkable durability.â
You hear the soft scratch of pens behind himâassistants scribbling notes, recording the details of your body like numbers in a ledger.
Steel releases your mouth, but the absence feels worse. His other hand lifts from your throat, dragging down the length of your arm. His hands skim along your wrists, thumbs brushing over the faint indents left by the straps. Your skin burns beneath his touch, raw and tender.
âTheyâre already sore,â he says aloud, absently, for the assistants to jot down. âA healthy reaction.â
He lingers too long, considering something.
You barely notice the assistants anymore. They drift at the edges of your vision, quiet as the shadows on the walls.
Until one of them moves toward the machine.
Itâs subtle. Just a flick of the switch. The blue glow returns, flickering faintly across the screen.
Your breath slows.
Itâs just a reset.
Standard cleanup.
Theyâre powering it down.
But the hum doesnât fade.
Steel's hands pause at your throat, feeling the fragile flutter of your pulse beneath his thumb. It picks up from its sluggish churning. He smiles knowingly. You donât want to decipher what it means.Â
You barely hear his next words.
âBut I think you can take more.â
Your body goes rigid.
Suddenly, the straps are tightening around your wrists and ankles once more.
Your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes.
Dr. Steelâs voice is calm, but his smile is razor-thin.
âLetâs begin again, shall we?â
The mouthguard clicks back into place.
The light shifts from blue to green to yellow.Â
The hum rises.
You brace for the pain. And thenâ
And thenâŠ
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps.
Faint, but deliberate. Somewhere behind you. Too far to be Steel.
Your eyes flick to the assistants. None of them moves. Their eyes stay fixed ahead, hands adjusting knobs, pressing buttons in mechanical synchronization. You canât speak around the rubber biting into your mouth, canât turn your head far enough to seeâ
But you know someoneâs there.
The hum rises.
Steel leans closer, sliding his hand along your jaw. âTry to stay with me this time,â he murmurs, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheek. His touch leaves something cold behind, an invisible mark. Like a brand.
But the footsteps⊠theyâre still there. Pacing behind you.
You try to shift, the restraints cutting into your wrists. Steel tilts his head slightly, like a parent humoring a child mid-tantrum.
âIs something wrong?â he asks, though his tone says he already knows.
You shake your headâor try to.
He brushes sweat or tears or both from under your eye. Why? âDonât get distracted. Thereâs no one here but us.â
Tap. Tap.
Your stomach flips.
The footsteps stop.
Steel doesnât.
His hands ghost over your temple, adjusting the electrodes. âYouâre stronger than most. But strength has limits. Weâll find yours.â
The light flickers from blue to green.
Tap.
Behind you.
Your fingers twitch uselessly against the straps.
You hear breathing now. Someone elseâs. Close. So close you feel it against the nape of your neck, hot and damp.
But Steel is in front of you.
Your chest tightens. The hum crescendos.
âRelax,â Steel murmurs, eyes glinting under the harsh white lights. âYouâre imagining things.â
He presses the button.
The pain returns like fire licking the inside of your skullâ
But this time, you canât decide what terrifies you more.
Im sorry I didnât reply to your message for three weeks. I did not forget about it infact I thought about it regularly every day. It will happen again