the broken clock ticks on

Gear Lacerda || Tribute of District 6 I volunteered, but not by choice.

[healing-thyself]

Bula could only imagine how confusing this all was for him. His life had gone from one hell right into another. At least in the arena the rules were clear, you knew what was expected of you and exactly what you were going to have to do to win. To survive. But here? What use was she as his mentor when she couldn’t even see the playing field? What could she even do for him? 

Somewhere behind her a woman’s voice sounded through a helmet ‘Times up Doctor.' the last word more of a sneer than a title. Doctor, Mentor, Victor… Bula suddenly hoped for Gear's sake that they both wouldn't come to regret her unique style of desperately insane determination. With a nod the Doctor obediently wiped her face returning Gear’s weak smile with one only slightly more practiced. Wordlessly she returned her tools to her case and closed the lid without fastening the clamp at the top. “I’ll see you soon I promise.” She told Gear as she stood, the unsecured case in her hand.

“Dammit!” The Victor cursed to the sound of expensive tools clattering across the concrete floor. With a flustered glance at the three Peacekeepers waiting just outside the glass panel for her she mumbled her apologies and fell to her knees once more to retrieve the dozen or so instruments. She was quick and quite save for the sorries and excuses that spilled out of her. Once all her pieces were together again she closed the case with a snap snap and made her successful exit, only looking back at Gear once. A quick glance once the glass panel to the cell was sealed and she’d again more found herself flanked by guards. Follow my eyes, she thought with a little prayer that it might reach him.

Gear. The far corner of his bed. Back to Gear.

That was all the clues the Mentor could give him, all the hints she could spare before the female Peackekeeper jabbed her in the back with the tip of her rife, and like that she was gone.

[the-working-gear]

She was leaving. He was going to be alone again with his thoughts crushing him from all sides until it felt like he couldn't breathe and a vice was around his heart. Gear wasn't sure he could do it all again. The thought of being abandoned and locked away, counting the ceiling tiles again and again. Gear could feel his breath threatening to shorten, panic washing over him like ice cold water. 'I’ll see you soon I promise.' It was enough to keep Gear from completely falling apart. He could do just a little more. He could make it to their next meeting. If he could survive the Game, he could survive this too.  The curse and the dropping of the instruments was loud and sudden enough to have Gear flinching. He would have helped gather up some of the instruments if he wasn't sure that if he made any move towards Bula now the Peacekeeprs would enter into the room. It was enough to keep him firmly seated in his corner. Gear's eyes were trained on her medical bag, on Bula - He watched as she disappeared from his cell and met her eyes.

But it was more than just a wordless goodbye. 

Gear's brow furrowed as he watched Bula's eyes dart to his bed, then back to meeting his eyes. Check the bed. Then she was gone, along with the Peacekeepers. He waited a minute. Then another. And a whole half hour before he finally edged away from his corner towards the bed that's been used so infrequently. There wasn't much room between the bottom and the floor, but with the way he was seated, Gear was able to catch a glimpse under the bed. 

Something... metal. 

Gear lowered himself further to the ground, reaching under the bed. His fingers brushed against cool metal. Whatever it was-... Gear grabbed it, pulling it out while trying to keep his back to the door. There in his hand was a medical instrument, though what it would be used for he had no idea. It was far more sophisticated than anything he's seen, but almost immediately his mind was buzzing away at how to dismantle it. He could use this. And if Bula knew it was here, it was her intention that he did. Stuffing it back under his bed for safe keeping, Gear made plans on just how he could make this work for him. Maybe he really would be okay. 

[healing-thyself]

Bula managed a little chuckle though there was no real mirth behind it. “I doubt my credentials have anything to do with this.” She might have been clueless as to the aim of this little exercise when she’d first stepped into the cell, but she could already feel Snow’s intention. Gear was pale, gaunt, and she could see how he tensed at her touch, how he watched her fingers with sharp eyes. She’d seen these symptoms before back in Six. Children, adults, the elderly- or atleast what counted as elderly in a district run on manual labor- all broken, beaten and terrified. Every time a new shipment of Peacekeepers were brought in the rates of inexplicable beatings rose and she and her colleagues had to tend to the mending. She was used to seeing much much worse, but just as Snow had intended Gear’s wounds affected her much more deeply. He was alive she had to remind herself, alive and in relatively good condition. But knowing exactly what the human body’s limits were did little to ease the ache she felt every time his eyes flicked from her face to her hands. Bula knew all too well that there were wounds even she couldn’t observe with her scopes and gadgets. Wounds that didn’t heal as quickly as a broken body did.

I’m sorry. Bula lost count of the pulsating beats and brought her gaze up to his slowly. “Don’t…” God, training felt like forever ago. Not that she hadn’t relived every day of it in her mind a million times since then. How selfish she’d been. How heartless to think that she had the right to choose one of them to save over the other. Of all the things in her life- of all the things she’d done in the arena and after, choosing between them had been the worst. “I’m the one- I’m so so… s-so sorry.” a hand left his wrist, the pulse forgotten now so she might cover her mouth and muffle the a stilted little sob. “You’re so very brave Gear- so impossibly brave.” Composure was a little beyond her reach now, but even with a shaking whisper and tears streaming down her face she knew what had to be said. “I don’t know anyone who would have stayed with Keely in that arena. Anyone who would have risked their lives for that little girl… Gear you’re stronger and smarter than anyone gives you credit for- and I need you to be strong for a little bit longer. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

[the-working-gear]

Brave. He wasn't brave. He was scared. For Bula, and Aston, and Keely, and his mother back in their District, and for himself... No one was telling him anything. Nothing came through from Snow, or the Peacekeepers. The abrupt and absolute disconnection from the world was taking its toll on him just as heavily. How much longer was he going to be here? When would they realize he didn't know anything? ...would they realize he didn't know anything? Or would they go on asking, and pushing and prodding until he snapped? Bula was crying. He hadn't meant for her to cry- Gear reached out to take her hand again. "Everyone knows the younger ones don't make it. I didn't want her to be alone in there... if she-" Gear knew he was babbling, and revealing thoughts he had no intention of every saying aloud, let alone to Bula. But he felt the need to get these things off his chest, to just talk before he was left alone again. "...yeah, I can do that. I'll be fine." He gave a weak smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. 

[healing-thyself]

Keely… the name alone was enough to make her pause, her stomach clinching a little at the thought of not knowing the child’s fate. All Bula could be certain of was that she’d yet to see or hear any sign of Keely, or Aston, or half a dozen others. But even that information seemed like a mirage. For all she knew they were just being tortured and held in some other facility- or worse, they were already dead… after a moment the sound of ripping velcro brought her back to Gear and the sterile white walls of the cell.

“ I don’t… They only let me out yesterday- I think.” between the blood loss, weakness from dehydration and hunger she really couldn’t be sure of anything as meaningless as the passage of time in one of these cells, but Gear didn’t need to hear any of that. “Snow didn’t tell me why or what. But after my interrogation… they must have figured I’d be more use here than locked up.” she shook the statement away more than a little worried about its implications, instead she fell silent for a moment focused on counting the pulsing beats in his arm. Her free hand found his though, giving it a little squeeze as she watched the second hand on her grandmother’s wrist watch tick tick ticking away. 

[the-working-gear]

Gear watched with a scrutinizing gaze as Bula went about her medical tasks. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it wasn't fair to her - to watch her like she was his enemy, or that she might do something to harm him, but he just couldn't help it. He couldn't bring himself to focus elsewhere, or to look away entirely. "You must be better than their doctors." Gear mused aloud, trying to lift the corners of his lips in a quick smile. But the thought of the Capitol needing a doctor on hand at all was... concerning. "-They haven't hurt me." Not physically, maybe. Other than the lack of food and water.  He kept his hand still for her, allowing her to test his pulse as his other than returned the squeeze she offered him. It was comforting, ever so brief as it was. They wouldn't hurt Bula. She was released, though maybe not free... But she was a doctor. They needed her. They couldn't hurt her now. Still- "I'm sorry." He blurted out. Don't save it until its too late. Gear felt as though he needed to apologize before Bula disappeared forever, or he himself. "-Before the Arena, during the training. I'm sorry."

[healing-thyself]

Bula sat back on her heels placing the stethoscope around her neck with a sigh. “Well your lungs are fine- good even considering the volcanic fumes in the Arena. But I can already tell you haven’t eaten in a while. They’re not feeding any of you enough. All four of you need more calories- but the adults are going to be better off.” She said the words with out a whisper, just a doctorly conversation. She could only tell him what she knew. Maybe it was foolish to think there weren’t more captives, but she’d only ever heard Sawyer, Watt and Elias. For now at least these four men were her only concern.

"I’ll make sure they bring you something." she told Gear, determined to make it so. If he could keep them guessing as to what he knew about the rebellion she would have a better chance at advocating for better treatment. They wouldn’t be easy on him. She knew that already, so did he she was was sure. But… broken was better than dead. "Gonna take your blood pressure now." Or at least she hoped so.

[the-working-gear]

"Keely and I tried to keep our mouths covered when we noticed the ash..." Gear replied distantly. It felt as though the Games occurred a life time ago. Maybe not even his own life, like it had happened to someone else.

-Has she just answered his question? 'All four of you'. There were four of them here. Almost everyone got out okay. Or so Gear had to believe. He had no true way of knowing if Keely was okay, or Aston, or even Silver. So he had to hope they weren't found, that they weren't blown out of the sky... He shuddered again, grasping his hands together so tight his knuckles began to turn white. Focus on Bula's words. "Thanks, Bula." Though again, he had to wonder why they would listen to her at all. "-Why aren't you in a cell?" He hoped that it was an innocent enough question. 

Gear knew that having his blood pressure taken wasn't frightening. Or it shouldn't have been, anyway. "Okay." Just make it fast.

[healing-thyself]

Because it’s not over her eyes said as clearly as if her mouth had. She refused to let her gaze fall from him though, no matter how hard the truth was for her to tell him.

She didn’t know why she was here. Not in so many words, but the intent was beginning to become clear. “You’ve been through a lot Gear.” It was true, he’d been through one of the most grueling Arenas in living memory, and from the looks of him now, the weeks since then hadn’t been kind either. His features looked gaunt, his skin paler than usual, he looked exhausted and she could tell by the way his eyes searched hers frantically that his psychological state was no better.

She wished there was something more she could do for him, that there was some pill or shot she could give him to fix it all. “I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to make sure you’re alright.” with a metallic snap the case to her right popped open and for the first time Bula got a look at what she could only describe as a medical toy box. Gadgets and gizmos glistened and shined, each and every one the product of half a dozen years of of half a dozen districts labor and ingenuity, all to benefit the Capital and it’s citizens. It made her stomach turn. In the end she favored familiarity for invention, digging to the bottom for a stethoscope. “Pull up your shirt.” she directed him as she warmed the scope in the palm of her hand, breathing a warm breath on to it while slyly placing a finger to her mouth, her back to the Peacekeepers. If they were to communicate they would have to do so quickly, and quietly, no doubt they were being listened to this very moment and all the others as well, so just like old times really. “Take a deep breath for me…. you’re no use to them if you don’t know anything… and out. Again…don’t let them know what you don’t know… Good, once more real deep this time…”

[the-working-gear]

It wasn't over. Of course it wasn't over. He was stupid to think for even a moment it would be finished now, that he would be set free to return home. He won the Game- Except that he didn't. The Game never finished. It never would. Gear had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and if he listened to it, it would tell him that he'd never be going home now. His mother... Gear's eyes burned, and he pressed his lips together, refusing to let a single tear drop. He was stronger than this. He was supposed to be stronger than this.

Gear let out of a snort of a laugh, shaking his head. "No shit." First the Games, now this. There wasn't an end in sight. At least with the Games, he knew it would be over when all except one were dead. Would this be over when he lost his mind? It certainly felt as though he was beginning to lose it. The lack of food, the lack of information, the lack of care- Bula was here. She seemed... mostly okay. She wasn't in a cell. That didn't make any sense. She was a mentor, though, or had been. No doubt she had known more information about the break out. Did she give them answers when they asked?

He flinched openly at the sound of the medical case being opened. She wasn't going to hut him. But the quickest glimpse of the various tools in the bag caused Gear's stomach to flip flop. A cold rush of panic flooded over him and he edged as far away as he could, though he was already in a corner. There wasn't anywhere he could go. He could fight her-

She wasn't going to hurt him.

Swallowing hard, and though his hands were shaking, he complied with her request. He tugged up his shirt, trying his best to will himself into remaining still when the stethoscope made contact with his skin. It was cold, but not as much as it could have been. Deep breaths. He was good at that. Catching Bula's quick gesture, a finger to her lips as she focused on her medical tasks, Gear's eyes watched as she listened to his lungs. But what could he ask? What could they discuss in there short time they had? "Did you see the others?" -Because there had to be others. He knew there were, he just didn't know who exactly they were.

[healing-thyself]

A sickening wave of relief flooded over her as he spoke her name. To hell with the consequences she thought as she rushed over to embrace him for the first time ever. “It’s alright. Shh, it’s alright.” Bula murmured clutching the tribute as tightly as she’s ever clutched anyone in her life. Leaning her head on his her eyes clinched to fight off the wave of tears suddenly welling inside her. Bula hadn’t realized how desperately she’d needed this, how desperately she’d needed human contact. She hadn’t had any since her beating- not any she could remember, God only knew what she couldn’t. It felt… like there had been a knot tightening all the time in her chest. And she knew if she could just hold Gear a little longer it might loosen enough to allow her to breath again.

“Shhh, shh.” she repeated soothingly almost rocking the both of them back and forth the way Aston had always done for her. There was so much for them to discuss, so much she needed to warn him about, advise him, mentor him on, and so little time. A hiss like the brakes of an ancient train interrupted her thought and her body instinctively flinched as the black medical bag slid to a stop beside her.

Exactly as you’re told. The voice in her head repeated coldly. With gentle force Bula broke the embrace with a weak smile, wiping a tear away with the back of her hand. “Nothing to worry about alright?”She said patiently, softly as if speaking to a brave child- which he was. So very brave, and still so much a child. “I’m just gonna do a little check up on you, yeah?”

[the-working-gear]

As he felt Bula's arms around him, finding himself pressed against her tight... She was real. She was here. And his body shook with the force of him finally relaxing in her embrace, though it took a long minute before he lifted his arms to wrap around her. Before the Games, maybe he had his disagreements with Bula. Maybe he wasn't the friendliest to her, and maybe there were harsh words spoken between them, but it didn't matter now. She was here and Gear felt the acute desire to fall apart in her arms. But that was one thing he wouldn't let himself.

"I- I-..." He wasn't sure what he wanted to say. He wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. So he quieted himself, obeying her shushing, moving with her rocking, all while continuing to cling. It was okay. It would be okay, because Bula is out. She's not in a cell. There had to be some explanation for that. "Are we leaving? Can we go home?"Gear hated how small he sounded, how unsure- 

Bula pulled away, and Gear's eyes were drawn to the medical bag. It was Bula, she wouldn't hurt him. That didn't quell the sudden panic. "Why?"

[healing-thyself]

She couldn’t wait for the glass door to open all the way. Slipping past the statuesque Peackekeeper to her right Bula forced herself into the stark white cell only to pull herself up short once inside. Gear. He hadn’t looked up, hadn’t even reacted to the sight of peacemakers at his cell window. What she wouldn’t give to see him afraid right now- afraid, angry, sad anything but… unresponsive. She wanted to run over to him and hug him and tell him everything would be alright that he would be alright, that she was here to help… but she was afraid to. She didn’t want to lie to him.

“Gear?” the word echoed hollowly against the concrete walls. “Gear it’s me- it’s Ambula…”

[the-working-gear]

He could hear the door being open, and he could hear footsteps. If they were back to ask him the same stupid questions- Gear wasn't ready to face that again. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that these people knew exactly what they were doing. They knew the best ways to get the answers they wanted, and Gear was sure their methods have worked in the past, though what would happen now that the answers don't exist in the first place? He shuddered inwardly, the need to inch back even farther coming to mind, but before he could do so, there was Bula's voice. 

It was a sound he wasn't expecting and he couldn't stop himself from looking up abruptly, his brow furrowed as he took in the sight of his mentor standing there. "Bula..." He murmured under his breath, though with the silence of the cell, it was audible. Gear repeated himself, sitting up a little more as he tried to understand- "Bula. What are you doing here?" 

[healing-thyself]

Exactly as you’re told.

[healing-thyself]

The words rang in her ears now just as loud as they had when Snow had uttered them- no, hissed them the day before. He hadn’t elaborated, there hadn’t been a need to. A lab coat just like those worn by the Capital physicians was waiting for her at the foot of her bed in the morning. Bula still wasn’t sure when she’d fallen asleep, some time after emptying her stomach of the rich breakfast feast- the first food she’d eaten in days- no doubt.

Exactly as you’re told. She hadn’t asked, not because she didn’t want to know but because she was afraid to. Afraid of what she would be told to do, of what she had agreed to do just to save herself. She thought about that as she buttoned the high stiff collar of her coat feeling as imprisoned as ever. She would spend the whole ride to- wherever she’d been kept in the first place- flanked by silent and stern Peacekeepers each reminding her of the man with the glaciers in his eyes. At one point they must have gone underground because towards the end everything in the transport had suddenly gone very dark and Bula in her panic had begun hyperventilating. Not one of her jailers had moved to help her. With thick clumsy fingers she had found her throat to franticly unbutton the collar. Deep breaths until the terror passed leaving behind a sense of general dread. One that wouldn’t go away even once it became evident her first task would be to tend to her fellow captives.

For a moment a little ray of hope had filled her, at the idea of seeing Gear, Sawyer, Watt and Elias… but it didn’t last.

Because she’d known. Even before she’d seen them, she’d known.

The cell was squalid despite there being nothing in it to cause the state other than the form folded over its self in the far back corner. “Open it.” her voice had squeaked as soon as she’d let out the breath she’d been holding. No one moved. “Open the cell.” she repeated as the anger rose up in her. This time she turned to look into her own reflection in the Peacekeeper’s cold helmet view screen, willing herself to look past the bullet proof fiberglass and into his or eyes. 

[the-working-gear]

Alone. 

Gear couldn’t remember now when he had last spoke to Bula. He couldn’t remember how many days its been since the Games, or when those men had come in to ask him questions he couldn’t answer. When they had cut his arms- Gear grasped at his arms, checking and rechecking that there were no wounds there. Nothing. He’s fine. But the way they were capable of manipulating him in such a way was... frightening to say the least. 

And he was still hungry. 

He didn't remember when he curled up into the corner, somehow feeling comforted by the walls. Gear pulled his legs up to his chest, resting his forehead on his knees and wrapping his arms around himself. He felt tired, though he hadn't done anything that would truly warrant the lack of energy. Though maybe it was the stress. The stress of being here. The stress of being left alone with no information- It was going to drive him crazy. 

Deep breaths. 

They couldn't keep him here forever, could they? Then again, who would be there to stop them? Did anyone know he was even here? What did his mother think? Was anyone left in the other cells? He could be alone for all he knew. Gear struggled to take his next deep breath with the thought on his mind. 

[the-working-gear]

[the-working-gear]

Back and Forth || Self-Para

Gear paced, unbound, with his hands against his ears pressing tight before he let them fall to his sides. It was useless. He could hear it all. It was too loud. Too mind numbing.  

They couldn't have been here more than... three days- Or was it four? Maybe only two. Gear wasn't sure just how long he has been hold up in the little cell he now occupied. He wasn't sure if he was alone now, impossible to speak through the wall with all the sounds that were assaulting him- day and night... It was driving him crazy, and he had a feeling that it was all according to someone's plan. 

He couldn't sleep at night, or what his body assumed was night (his internal clock could askew at this point). If it weren't for the noises, he was plagued with nightmares. Of Keely, and Silver, and Aston, and Bula, and S.D. Falling, and falling, into that icy cold river. Gear would reach for him, and he'd slip away, just centimeters from grabbing him. The lack of sleep wasn't helping his state of mental health. 

It wasn't helping that he had been so abruptly pulled from the Games and thrust into a new situation, without a chance of respite. 

It wasn't helping that those two men came in to interrogate- no. It was torture. They came in, tricked him into believing he was being cut... and when he was released and collapsed to the ground with exhaustion only to find his arms clean and unbroken... Gear wasn't sure he could trust himself. 

He leaned against the wall, allowing his weight to shift forward, his forehead resting against the cool stone, before he leaned back, pacing to the other wall and back again. Over, and over. 

[the-working-gear]

Gear training for the Arena 

[the-working-gear]

Cold Metal || Self-Paragraph

He couldn't think. He couldn't even hear himself speak. The noise was deafening. Gear wanted nothing more than to throw his hands over his ears and grant himself some blessed relief, he couldn't- Not the way he was bound now. 

Somewhere in the mix of the terrible sounds that were caving in on him - cats screeching, dogs howling, and horns blowing - there was the sound of a door opening. The sound of heavy boots. Gear tilted his chin towards these new sounds. Has someone come to release him? Please, let someone have come to make the sounds go away, before he lost himself in the din and the darkness of the hood that concealed his vision, causing his glasses to rest uncomfortably on his nose, almost slipping if not for the fabric that kept it barely on. 

As if somehow hearing his wordless plea (though perhaps not wordless, maybe he asked aloud... though Gear certainly couldn't hear himself), the sound disappeared all at once. His ears were ringing, and he cringed at the feeling, at the sudden lack of noise. . Too much of a change, all too soon, and despite the lack of sound, he still found the desire to put his hands over his ears. He could hear himself breathing. He could hear himself thinking.

He could hear that he wasn't alone. 

The hood was pulled off without warning, and the whiteness of the cell and the lights overhead temporarily blinded Gear, and he blinked, turning his head away against his shoulder as he gradually forced open his eyes, bright spots clouding his vision. Rough hands pulled him up to his feet, forcing him in place. He wanted to pull away, could feel it was only one man. He could take him. He could fight. He wanted to say something about their treatment- But the words died on his lips as his vision cleared enough for him to see the little surgical table that had been wheeled into the room, the man that stood beside it pulling on gloves, the assortment of knives-

"What are you doing?"

No answer. 

Gear tried to tug away from the man holding his arms, forcing him to lean forward awkwardly, as if presenting himself. He couldn't find purchase with his own boot clad feet. He had to move. He could grab one of those knives. Gear looked to the door- It was probably locked. He couldn't escape even if he got away from these men. 

What would they need knives for?

He could feel his breath threatening to shorten, his heart steadily building up to a rapid rhythm as his mind raced to conclusions less than favorable. 

"Hold him."

Gear wasn't even aware of himself thrashing, moving side to side, trying to kick his leg backwards to connect with the man behind him. Where was Bula? Where was Aston? Where was Keely? The man not holding him, the one by the knives with the short black hair and sharp eyes, finished with the gloves, selecting a long, thin blade from his collection as he turned to face Gear straight on. And he knew- He knew what was going on, what would happen, with such clarity that it sucked the breath from his lungs and sent him spiraling down some hole. 

"What are you doing-" Gear asked again, this time a whisper, as the man with the knife crossed the short space between them, picking up the discarded hood that had been left on the ground. They had allowed him to see this for a reason, to understand what was coming, to fear it, to break down before it began. They succeed. Gear was terrified. 

The man barely blinked as he opened the hood, placing it over Gear's head once again, plunging the tribute into darkness, his breathing too loud and his heart too fast.

"You can't do this." He tried again to escape, but the man behind him held him all the more firm, so tight that he felt as though his shoulders may pop out of their sockets. And really, that was reminder enough. He had no rights here, he had no say. They could do this, and who would stop them?

Like everything else in his life now, made up of macabre surprises, Gear received no warning when he felt the cold metal of the knife pressing against the skin of his exposed arm, no longer hidden under thermal clothing and heavy jackets that he found himself strangely missing. He could feel the pressure being applied, but still there came no cut. No pain.

"When do Thirteen attack?"

The question confused him, and the lack of an answer hung in the air as Gear's mind raced to understand what was being asked of him. It was an interrogation. It was torture. And the only way to save himself was to answer whatever questions they forced him to face, but what if he didn't have the answers? How could he save himself then? He was alone now, with less protection than he had in the Arena. 

"I don't- Thirteen?"

"When. do. Thirteen. attack?" The question was repeated, slower, each word carefully pronounced. Nothing else was said, but there didn't need to be. The man had applied more pressure on the knife, the threat was clear. 

"Listen, I don't know what-"

The knife was pulled down, fast against his skin. Gear gave a shout, louder than even he expected in the now too quiet room, trying to move away, but going no where. A cold rush of adrenaline filled him, his nerves on edge, his arm radiating pain up and down. 

And so the questions began, the man's voice remaining calm and unwavering despite his actions while Gear's voice turned to a panicked waver, growing louder as he became desperate. 

"When do Thirteen attack?"

"I have no idea!"

Another kiss of the knife against skin, on his forearm. 

"When do Thirteen attack?"

"Please-"

The knife. 

"When do Thirteen attack?"

"Stop!"

Again. 

"When do Thirteen attack?"

"I don't- I don't-" 

No respite. 

"When do Thirteen attack?"

"I don't know!"

He screamed it. 

Question after question.

"What weapons do they have?"

"How long have you known of the Rebellion?"

"Where did the hovercrafts go?"

Again, and again, and again, until Gear no longer had a voice to give an answer if he had one to give. Until he was sagging in the arms of the second man holding him, his breath slow, and the knife wielding man's voice something too far away to recognize.

When the next question was asked, and the cut received - When Gear failed to show recognition of the knife at all, it was only then he was dropped to the ground unceremoniously like a broken toy, his arms heavy as led and his shoulders sore. He wasn't sure how long they had been at it, or how many cuts he must have received... He wasn't sure when the men left the room. He wasn't sure when the awful clamor of sound returned to drown out whatever thought he had left. 

But he wasn't tied again. 

With shaky hands and arms that felt as though they were on fire with every cursed inch of movement, Gear pulled away the hood, not bothering to fetch his glasses when they were taken with the motion. 

Look at your arms. You have to look at your arms. You have to take care of the cuts. 

And he did. He looked-

-but what he found was nothing. 

No blood. 

No cuts. 

No evidence of mishandle other than a few angry red lines where a blunt knife had been pressed against him that were already beginning to fade. His brow knit as he tried to comprehend this, replace the imagine he believed he would see with the unbroken skin of his arms - replace the clear feeling of pain and anguish he thought was so real with the lack of physical harm. 

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

It wasn't real.

Gear let out his breath, exhausted, letting his head rest against the ground as his eyes slid shut. 

It was all in his head. 

The sounds weren't so bad after all. 

[healing-thyself]

(A)lone || Open To Capital Captives

[healing-thyself]

Do you think they got away? The question made her stomach knot, not only because she didn’t know the answer, but because it meant Gear knew something. Even if it was only that they had meant to escape. It was enough to make Snow eager to know more. Bula knew of far too many ways of making the tribute talk. So she didn’t answer him, they needed to focus on their own situation for now, where they were, who had brought them here, and for what purpose.

"Don’t worry about me." compared to the half starved and exhausted young man her bill of health was practically glowing- not that she expected for that to last. Cells weren’t built for casual conversation, not these kinds anyway. "Gear do you see anyone else? In the other cells can you see anyone?" maybe they weren’t alone in this place.

[the-working-gear]

Though he may not have expressed a fondness towards Bula in the Capitol... she was still from his District, and of course he wouldn't wish harm on her. So of course he was going to worry. He was going to worry about her, about Keely, about Aston- He was going to worry about himself, and where they now were. He was going to worry, and worry, and drown in some more worry, because worrying was all he could do now. 

"I don't know..." He hadn't really looked for anyone else - hadn't even thought of others being left behind. Gear moved away from the wall closest to Bula's voice to search for others outside his own cell. It was too quiet. Too empty. They couldn't be alone here. He was just about to turn away, when he spotted a bit of movement in one of the other cells. It was just a flash, maybe someone waking up- "I think so. I'm not really sure... But, uh... I'm sure we're not the only two here."

[healing-thyself]

(A)lone || Open To Capital Captives

[healing-thyself]

“I don’t know.” she answered only somewhat truthfully. She didn’t know. Not really, not for certain. But it was a safe bet that they were still in the Capital and seeing as she didn’t remember anything between being shoved into the back of a Peacekeeper paddywagon and waking up here just a few moments ago, it was safe to bet they were nowhere good. And that meant they were being watched.

“Don’t have any new injuries do you?” she asked running a hand gently over the glass wall. Glancing in the direction of his voice all she could see was concrete, it did little to aid her diagnosis. “The rash has it spread any?” She’d been keeping a close eye on his health in the arena- Keely’s too. Keely… no she couldn’t think of that now, she needed to focus on what was in front of her, and that was Gear.

[the-working-gear]

They were left behind. After the beginning of a rebellion- Were they in prison? It made sense... Gear knew nothing of the workings of the escape from the Arena, or where those who escaped might have gone... if they got away. The thought that Aston and Keely and whoever else was on those hovercrafts may not have gotten very far occurred to him then. It was a sinking feeling, ice cold. "Do you think they got away?" He asked, though he wasn't expecting any sort of answer back. 

Gear shook his head, though of course Bula couldn't see him. "No... no, I think I'm fine." It was weird, how she knew about the rash (he hadn't given much thought to the cameras) and must know of his reaction to the limited amount of food they had in the Arena. -thinking of food now reminded him of just how starved he was. "...It's gone. My tongue doesn't feel like its taking up my whole mouth. I can breathe. I think I'll be fine. Are you okay?"

[healing-thyself]

(A)lone || Open To Capital Captives

[healing-thyself]

Some part of her still hoped this was a dream, that she would wake up with hellish hangover any moment and the white walls and shining glass would melt into nothingness. The more Bula groped at the walls however the less likely that all seemed. And then she heard his voice. That one impossible voice.

Bula wasn’t sure who she had expected to answer her cries. Aston maybe in some sick wish not to be alone, a stranger who could answer the questions mounting by the moment even, but not Gear. Never Gear. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He had promised to get them out, to get both of them out. He had promised her. It was all wrong but still somehow her heart lept to know he was alive atleast. “Gear! Gear are you alright?”

[the-working-gear]

That was definitely Bula's voice, coming from the other side of the wall. Gear took another glance about the cell, at his hands now clear of the angry red rash that had begun to form in the Arena- 

In the Arena. The hovercrafts. It all came rushing back in full as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool white wall. "I'll live." The words felt strange now, as just a few hours ago (had it been a few hours? days maybe?) he was fighting for his life. Maybe he wasn't done fighting. Wherever they were now, it probably wasn't good. "...where are we?"

[healing-thyself]

(A)lone || Open To Capital Captives

She’d always loved the way the sun reflected off the snow. Bright white and brilliant, little puddles of sunlight reaching up off the ground mirroring the crystal clear blue sky so common of early spring in District 6. As a child she’d made a game out of jumping into them, jumping into those little pools of sky. She’d never considered that one day one of them might be too deep.

At first Bula thought she was dreaming- any number of nightmares plagued her sleep these days, most of them covered in snow and ash. But there was something about the sun. The bright blinding light that filled her vision… it flashed. Blinking in and out with an almost steady rhythm. Something was off. When she opened her eyes the sun didn’t go away. Throbbing like a heart beat it blinded her but her other senses remained. She could hear a distinctly mechanical whirling somewhere just above her, feel the cold concrete she lay on, and smell the disinfectant she knew all too well and that, for the first time, made her stomach churn.

“H-hello?” she croaked as her eyes adjusted to the stark light of her cell “Aston… Aston! ASTON!”

[the-working-gear]

His memory came in little bursts of light and sound. The Arena. The hovercrafts. The peacekeepers - resisting leading to an exploding pain in the back of his head. A white room - rough hands. Couldn't breathe, wheezing, a prick in his arm... relief as darkness overcame him.

Gear awoke with a start, and perhaps that was a mistake. It sent his head spinning and he felt as though he might just be sick. He cringed, holding his head in his hands as he curled up where he laid. 

“Aston… Aston! ASTON!”

He blinked open his eyes, glancing about to find the source of the shouting but clearly it had not come from anywhere in his-... Was this a cell? Gear used the wall closest to him to guide himself up to his unsteady feet. "Bula." It had to be her. "Bula!" He shouted back, hoping for a reply. 

[the-working-gear]

Left Behind || Rebellion Begins || Self-Paragraph

He wasn't going to make it. 

That was a realization he made the moment he saw Aston, so unfamiliar in the Arena now, gathering Keely up for the escape. It was the only time in the entire Game that he had left his District partner's side, just to get water for the rash that was beginning to spread across his hands, and hoped that by drinking, it would help the fact his tongue had begun to swell.  An allergic reaction, maybe. To something in the Arena, maybe the cracker he ate. He could ignore it. Just get out. Get to Aston, and Keely. Ignore it.

He couldn't.

Gear felt sick, and hot, and he wasn't sure if that was just part of the reaction, or the panic sinking in that he wasn't moving fast enough to make it to one of the hovercrafts - to Aston, and Keely, and Bula wherever she was.

Maybe it was both. 

Gear stumbled a step, grabbing at his chest as he began to wheeze. What were the chances, that this should happen minutes before the Rebellion began. Of all the cards he could have been dealt... Don't let this be how he dies. Not when rescue was another fifteen feet away.

"Ast- As-" 

And as if responding to the butchering of his name, and the desperate underlying plea in Gear's voice, the mentor looked his way. No more time. It didn't need to be spoken, or gestured. Gear knew it. Could see it in the pained expression seemed to cross Aston's face, before he turned away. 

He was being left behind. 

Gear wheezed out another breath as he stopped running, as haphazard as it had been in the first place. There was nothing left to do. He stopped running and watched.