It was an assumption; a stupid one at that, but Pluto tended to trust her gut and the mental record she kept in regard to her darling cousin’s behavior. She had gone back to the tower, excusing herself briefly making veiled statement that she needed to ensure that her daughter had made it home okay. She was really checking up on Micra. A knock on her door was all it took, but she was concerned, so she let herself in. “Sweetheart, are you home?” Pluto called out as she walked in.
“What do you think of it, love?” Pluto asked cocking her head to the side, cautiously, nervous to hear what Micra had to say about the entire show that was out in front of them – the pagentry of the Games. “Honest opinions only, please,” Pluto implored, wringing her hands together.
It was simple, it had been done beforehand so why couldn’t she figure it all out? Pluto threw yet another balled-up paper to the floor – stupid imbalanced chemicals – the end of her pencil found its way crowded into her mouth, bite marks sinking into the yellow skin of the pencil. Her hand moved to write again as she mumbled to herself, “If the sequence of – no – because that plasmid couldn’t complement –”
She groaned, the pencil snapping under her grip and she leant forward onto her desk, fingers desperately tangling into her hair. Pluto’s jaw clenched, heavy breathing falling in and out of her nose as she stood and she began to pace her office. Frenzied hands moved from her hair down to her waist, back up to her hair, only to cross one arm in front of her chest, the other bringing a hand up to cover her mouth. Pluto was an expert in all of this - she had done enough alterations on biological beings in the godforsaken Games, why was it that she couldn’t come up with a simple way to clone food for everyone back in Thirteen? But she wasn’t a loyalist. No, no. It wasn’t that she was so endeared to her home but...the thought of how people were likely starving struck something in her.
Her lip began to quiver and a gasping breath blew out of her mouth, her teeth coming down to bite back the sob that wanted to break out. Pluto paused where she stood, whole body moving into a shake. She just wanted to help Micra; after seeing her at the Victor’s Ball she wanted to stop the withering state her little cousin was in, didn’t want her to eat like it was her last day on Earth. Dragging her hand down her face and ignoring the goosebumps that fell in the wake of her fingertips, a careful inhale through her nose, and a shaky exhale out of her mouth. Micra was more than just a cousin – she was like a sister, her original protege, more dear to her than Holland. It was obvious she was prioritizing Red over herself, ensuring that he had enough to eat. It was logical. After her own daughter and Micra, Red was Pluto’s favorite person on this planet, but...
Why couldn’t Micra be selfish this once? Why couldn’t she care for herself or ask for help! Pluto didn’t even know how to help her on a small scale and if she did what would that do? If she helped Thirteen on a grand scale, Micra wouldn’t have to worry about it being a targeted thing.
“Would she care?” Pluto asked aloud, a crackle behind her voice. Would Micra care if Pluto made a gesture that wasn’t wholly loyal to Thirteen, and instead loyal exclusively to her? Would that even matter? If it was her little sister’s life or death, why would pluto even take appearances into consideration?
Swallowing her pride Pluto picked up her phone, digging through her contacts, freezing the moment she tapped on Micra’s; the photo was a picture of her and little Red. A quiver of her lower lip threatened a release of tears, a lump building in her throat as she looked over the photo. Coming to the Capitol had been good for her career, sure, the obvious next step since there was nowhere left to climb in Thirteen but – but what was life like when she couldn’t have those she loved most close again?
She sniffed, quickly dabbing at the corners of her eyes, refusing to allow the floodgates to fully open; homesickness didn’t suit Pluto in the slightest, she was far too old to be crying over something so simple. Collecting herself, she began a call to Micra, each buzz making her lose confidence. She just needed to ask Micra if it’d be okay to send her something to help out. Pluto couldn’t solve the issue of starving in Thirteen, but she could take care of her little sister. The line became live.
“Vena, I have something I need to ask you.”
The tone was tired, coming across the line. “Cava? Wha-?”
Pluto breathed successfully for maybe the first time in the past thirty minutes, maybe the past hour and gave a small laugh into the phone, fully unintentional, more than relieved to hear Micra’s voice, “I’m worried about you, and I’m not too proud to admit that – I – you’re going to get sick if you keep self-sacrificing like this, kiddo.”
There was some shuffling, some crackling on the other end, but maybe that was the connection from the capitol down to thirteen’s tunnels. “Pluto… I’m fine. I’m a doctor.” a beat, and then an omission. “I’m not going to let Red stunt. He needs all the height he can get.”
“I am too,” Pluto responded, the weight of her weariness thick in her voice. “Starving yourself isn’t smart, you know better,” She said, not bleeding any niceties into words.
“I’m not starving myself. I’m eating as much as I can.” she wasn’t trying to be defensive. “There just isn’t enough.”
“What if there was,” Pluto jumped on the words, not attempting to speak over Micra at all, but wanting to get a word in, to stop the argument before it truly got started, and knowing their track record, well, fights could get ugly. “What if there was enough for you, and Red, and mom, and dad,” Pluto muttered into the phone cradling it impossibly close to her face, eyes coming closed as if Micra were there in front of her,
The response was slow. It was hesitant, but it came because that was all Micra wanted, and they both knew it. “...you could… do that?”
“I could figure something out,” Pluto vowed, nodding along with her words, “I am so worried sick about you, I haven’t stopped thinking about how small you were getting, Micra.”
“We need food.” she nodded. “I need it. I’m… I’m not going to let red take the hit. I won’t. But-” she trailed off, and understanding grew between them. Micra was doing her best, but she needed food.
“Then I’ll send canned peaches by the truckload,” Pluto joked. A breath fell from her lips, and she allowed her tone to grow serious again, “But – please – send me a list, tell me what you both need, tell me how to help.”
“Funny story, actually, Jeannie showed up the other day with canned peaches.” it was off-topic, but a quiet agreement also. “I think the whole tower knows I like peaches somehow.”
Pluto’s hardened exterior broke away, the mention of Jeannie and then the rest of the tower throwing her into a quick chuckle, “So, I’m guessing you’re overstocked on those if anything.”
A laugh, chuckles that faded into the cackle of the line before the list came. “Protein. Nonperishables. Starch.”
“I’ll do my best,” Pluto, again, vowed, “I’ll talk to – Lysander might know or –” She broke off mid-sentence, sucking in another breath, wanting to keep herself away from the tears that were still biting at the back of her throat. “I’ll figure it out and if I can’t send it I’ll bring it.”
“We’d love to see you.” and then, tentatively, a question. “Are you okay? You sound…” tired… beat… “not ideal. Not to be a hypocrite, but when did you last eat?”
“I’ll be fine,” Came the response, maybe quicker than she could get away with, eschewing her own safety for that of her family wasn’t an unfamiliar feat for her; ignoring food and drink just to care for others. Pluto wasn’t a selfless woman, but for Micra and for Red she would be.
“Tell you what. Shower, get a snack and a glass of water… and maybe if you call back red will be home from hockey. You can call us both?”
She wanted to argue, wanted to put up a fight, but Micra was right. Micra was always right when it came to nitpicking at any of Pluto’s unhealthy habits. “I’d like that,” She spoke softly into the phone, “I’ll text you to see if you’re free?”
“I will be.” a breath, a bone stretching and cracking, or maybe that was the line. “I love you, cava. Thank you.”
