the secret age of the infinite.
thg, coin, snow (implied coin/snow). minor spoilers for mockingjay. 964 words. pg-13.
saint peter is not as busy as you might think. do not forget: we are all sinners here.
power is not a means; it is an end. one does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. the object of persecution is persecution. the object of torture is torture. the object of power is power. now you begin to understand me.
george orwell ; 1984
The truth hurts, he told her once, a very long time ago.
‘I must say, Alma, I wasn’t expecting to be kept in such comfort.’
‘That can be rectified.’ She says, stepping forward so that he can see her. The greenhouse is stuffy, and her palms are getting clammy already. She watches as he considers the dozen roses in his hand, before bending to cut one final flower from its stem.
He sits down heavily on the bench, but he places the flowers down more carefully. His shackles jangle against the painted wood, and when his shoulders slump beneath his waistcoat it strikes her just how badly he has aged. There’s no mistaking the wistful half-smile playing around his puffy lips, though. Coriolanus Snow may be down, but he’s not out yet.
‘You said you wanted to see me.’ She gestures to herself. Her voice is curt. ‘So here I am.’
His nod would be imperceptible, except for the coughing fit it produces. ‘Yes.’ He nods again, when he regains his breath. ‘You see, there are things that someone, perhaps especially someone like me, deserves to know.’
She almost rolls her eyes. Her hands settle onto her hips. ‘Such as?’ She’s half-expecting him to produce a list.
Instead, his tone is one of mild interest. ‘Plutarch, for instance. How long did you have him on side?’ She drops her hands to her sides, fists balling until the knuckles pop white. A frown is beginning to form on her face. ‘It should’ve aroused my suspicions, I suppose, when he volunteered so readily for the Gamemaker’s job. Particularly after the Seneca debacle. My instincts clearly aren’t what they used to be.’
‘Plutarch was the tip of the iceberg, I assure you.’
His laugh comes speckled with blood. Her frown deepens. ‘I don’t doubt it. I do wonder, though, how many of them know you’re not a native of thirteen? Scarcely more than half a dozen, I should imagine. But with the right whispers in the right ears - well, mathematics never was my strong point.’
‘I was a refugee, yes.’ It takes an effort, to wipe her face clean of emotion. When she looks at him again, he is smiling, ‘What’s your point?’
‘But you weren’t just a refugee, were you? Alma Coin, such a beautiful name. However did you think of it?’ He continues to smirk, and she’s beginning to wish she hadn’t promised him to the damn Mockingjay. ‘Power is a fragile thing, you see. You saw the effect Finnick Odair’s - revelations - had. Imagine what they’ll make of you.’
‘I really don’t think you’re in the position to threaten me.’
‘I have nothing to lose. What better position is there to be in?’
Her sigh echoes. The past weeks have been tiring, and she won’t admit it, but she hasn’t been sleeping well. ‘What do you want, Coriolanus?’
He reaches for the bouquet on the bench beside him. The roses are just beginning to open, their petals the colour of an early spring sky. ‘I wanted to give you these. Blue, yes? Always your favourite.’
Her arms extend to take them automatically. His fingers graze hers, and when she speaks she does her best to sound detached. This is too much, even for her. ‘You remember.’
It is his turn to feign disinterest. ‘I have a good memory.’
Her smile catches at the corners of her mouth, and she cocks her head towards him. ‘Who did you replace me with, in the end?’
A silence. Then: ‘I didn’t replace you,’ he says. He stares, unfocused, on the flowers in her hand, and a look she doesn’t recognise ghosts across his face. The quiet stretches until he coughs again, finally looking up to meet her eyes. ‘Tell me: does Miss Everdeen know, yet, that you killed her sister?’
She can feel her heart beating slightly faster under his level gaze. She does not look away. ‘Wars have casualties.’
His lips curve into a grotesque grin. ‘Did I teach you nothing? Battles have casualties, Alma. Wars have victors.’
If he thinks the word is lost on her then he is wrong.
‘In killing the girl you made a fatal error, Alma. In your moment of triumph you destroyed perhaps the best leverage you could ever hope to have over your little songbird.’ She opens her mouth to object, but he raises a hand to silence her. ‘Don’t worry. Like all things, it comes with practice.’
‘I did not give a direct order to assassinate Primrose Everdeen.’
He shrugs. ‘Maybe not, but I personally find distinctions like that are rather unnecessary, don’t you?’ She purses her lips when he continues, ‘For example, what is the difference between assassination and execution? Nothing more than semantics, many would argue. Indeed, in Airstrip One they have abolished all synonyms. To them a murder is just a murder. Good. Plusgood. Doubleplusgood. Newspeak, they call it. It’s really quite extraordinary to hear.’
‘I don’t see - ’
‘It is an old tradition for the outgoing President to write a letter to the incoming, explaining these things. Since your guards seem to expect me to mount an escape attempt with a sharpened pencil, I’m afraid that this must do.’
She does not have time for this. ‘Any more gems of wisdom, then? There is a country to run.’
‘Just remember this, Alma, we make our own worst enemies. The girl on fire, the Mockingjay. It seems Katniss Everdeen was not lying was she said she struggles to make friends.’ He smiles at her retreating frame. ‘The moment she volunteered to take her sisters place at the reaping I knew my days were numbered. The question I have is, did you?’
She tosses the roses over her shoulder as she leaves. The door slams behind her.
end.