FIC: WEAPON OF CHOICE
WEAPON OF CHOICE (clue: it's not a gun)
the hunger games, boggs, pg-13. SPOILERS FOR MOCKINGJAY.
what he means is this: he understands death.
the future is not what you’ve seen
it’s not what you’ve been to at all
black gold FOALS
if you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. better yet, give him none.
fahrenheit 451 RAY BRADBURY
He knows this war will kill him.
There is, as they said in the ancient time, a feeling in his bones.
Alma comes to his room to give him the Mockingjay assignment. “You are responsible for her life,” she says, you are responsible for her death, she doesn’t. She does not need to. He’s a soldier, war is his business, he likes to say, swap his weapons for words and he could be a poet. What he means is this: he understands death. Only, he prefers to call it sacrifice.
The girl on fire is a bona-fide livewire. There’s martyr in the making there, and let’s not forget: he’s seen his fair share of those.
He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. 6pm. Reflection.
“Why? Do you find this-distracting?” Finnick Odair says, a patented smirk. He turns to the girl on fire, almost laughs when he catches her appalled look. It is too easy to forget that she is only seventeen, sometimes, that all this is fresh and new. He tries to remember the first time he saw a girl half-naked: the gentle swell of breasts, of hips and nipples and a mound between the legs hidden by softly curled hair. He can’t.
“Sorry,” she says when the lift doors smack shut.
“Don’t be.”
District Eight’s a disaster, of course, though he doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting. The footage is good, more by accident than design. He won’t refuse the credit, but Abernathy will smirk yellow teeth over the table and Hawthorne will shift awkwardly on his feet. The girl offers her silent thanks, but he’s not sure what for. He was doing his job. No more. No less.
He studies the floor. His nose hurts more than it should.
are you, are you, coming to the tree?
where they strung up a man they say murdered three?
strange things did happen here
no stranger would it be
“If we met up at midnight at the hanging tree,” he finishes, a glance at Plutarch. It’s an old song, one their grandparents sang from before or maybe during, and he doesn’t doubt that Heavensbee knows that as well as he.
Cressida smiles, and his eyes screw tight shut. Plutatch nods. “Cut the footage.”
Two sets his teeth on edge. There are too many faces that would recognise him, if they would only look twice. There are times he misses his district: mountains and quarries and forest. These are not those times. We are at war, and now when he thinks of his home he tries to imagine his white peacekeeper uniform, starched stiff.
The collar on his new shirt is tighter than he would like. When he swallows it feels like a noose.
“You don’t have to go,” Alma says, scraps her fingers back through her hair. He watches it fall back into position. “I won’t make you.”
“I go where Katniss goes.” He says simply, and her face turns sour.
There is a secret meeting. He tries to persuade Abernathy to join them, he alone can’t fight her corner, but it falls on liquor-deadened ears. It would appear the saying holds true: where there’s a will there’s a way, and Boggs makes a note to ask the other man about his supplier.
For now, though, there is the meeting, and the president’s steely gaze. “We need to draw the focus away from the Mockingjay,” Alma says. She struggles, sometimes, to remember that her talisman is a child.
Abernathy’s where he left him. He grins when Boggs slumps down beside him. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
The floor’s cold. “Fifty-sixth games. I was eighteen, just out of training.”
“Funny,” Abernathy says. Doesn’t laugh, “Didn’t have you pegged as a career.” Career. Peacekeeper. Rebel. Soldier. Someone should write a book.
He smiles tightly. “Top of my year. My brother broke both my legs when he heard I’d been selected”
“Fuck.” Abernathy’s knuckles pop white around the bottle neck. “What happened to him?”
He shrugs. “Bullet through the brain. But my sister- “ he balls a fist inside his pocket, “ -my sister was reaped.”
Silence. “I don’t remember her.”
“You wouldn’t,” he says. His voice has turned hoarse, “She was twelve years old.” She survived for ten minutes. Spent three of them choking on blood and vomit.
“Have a drink, Boggs.”
It’s been years since he’s felt the comforting burn of bootleg liquor at the back of this throat. “Thanks.”
He’s been to war before.
He’s come back before, too. Let’s focus on that.
It’s an odd sensation, realising that those you trust cannot be trusted. He watches the significance of Mellark’s arrival dawn on the girl’s face. Frankly, he’s surprised Alma left it this long.
“She doesn’t deserve this.” He says, pacing along the tree line.
The phone line crackles, and the President sighs, “War is no place for emotions, Captain Boggs.”
“Bull. Shit.”
The trouble is: she’s right.
His collar scratches his throat when he bites back a smile. His mouth twists anyway. “Pull it together, Four-Five-One.”
Alma had told him once: it is not a leaders place to laugh.
The pain feels like fire.
When he was younger, thirty, forty years past, he used to sit by the fire, edging closer to the flames until he could feel his clothes curl in the heat and his mother would shout at him to come away. He lets himself think about her, for a moment, safe home in district two. She thinks he is dead.
He steals a glance down. Soon she will be right.
He hates to say it but:
he told you so.
end.
the hunger games, boggs, pg-13. SPOILERS FOR MOCKINGJAY.
what he means is this: he understands death.
the future is not what you’ve seen
it’s not what you’ve been to at all
black gold FOALS
if you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. better yet, give him none.
fahrenheit 451 RAY BRADBURY
He knows this war will kill him.
There is, as they said in the ancient time, a feeling in his bones.
Alma comes to his room to give him the Mockingjay assignment. “You are responsible for her life,” she says, you are responsible for her death, she doesn’t. She does not need to. He’s a soldier, war is his business, he likes to say, swap his weapons for words and he could be a poet. What he means is this: he understands death. Only, he prefers to call it sacrifice.
The girl on fire is a bona-fide livewire. There’s martyr in the making there, and let’s not forget: he’s seen his fair share of those.
He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. 6pm. Reflection.
“Why? Do you find this-distracting?” Finnick Odair says, a patented smirk. He turns to the girl on fire, almost laughs when he catches her appalled look. It is too easy to forget that she is only seventeen, sometimes, that all this is fresh and new. He tries to remember the first time he saw a girl half-naked: the gentle swell of breasts, of hips and nipples and a mound between the legs hidden by softly curled hair. He can’t.
“Sorry,” she says when the lift doors smack shut.
“Don’t be.”
District Eight’s a disaster, of course, though he doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting. The footage is good, more by accident than design. He won’t refuse the credit, but Abernathy will smirk yellow teeth over the table and Hawthorne will shift awkwardly on his feet. The girl offers her silent thanks, but he’s not sure what for. He was doing his job. No more. No less.
He studies the floor. His nose hurts more than it should.
are you, are you, coming to the tree?
where they strung up a man they say murdered three?
strange things did happen here
no stranger would it be
“If we met up at midnight at the hanging tree,” he finishes, a glance at Plutarch. It’s an old song, one their grandparents sang from before or maybe during, and he doesn’t doubt that Heavensbee knows that as well as he.
Cressida smiles, and his eyes screw tight shut. Plutatch nods. “Cut the footage.”
Two sets his teeth on edge. There are too many faces that would recognise him, if they would only look twice. There are times he misses his district: mountains and quarries and forest. These are not those times. We are at war, and now when he thinks of his home he tries to imagine his white peacekeeper uniform, starched stiff.
The collar on his new shirt is tighter than he would like. When he swallows it feels like a noose.
“You don’t have to go,” Alma says, scraps her fingers back through her hair. He watches it fall back into position. “I won’t make you.”
“I go where Katniss goes.” He says simply, and her face turns sour.
There is a secret meeting. He tries to persuade Abernathy to join them, he alone can’t fight her corner, but it falls on liquor-deadened ears. It would appear the saying holds true: where there’s a will there’s a way, and Boggs makes a note to ask the other man about his supplier.
For now, though, there is the meeting, and the president’s steely gaze. “We need to draw the focus away from the Mockingjay,” Alma says. She struggles, sometimes, to remember that her talisman is a child.
Abernathy’s where he left him. He grins when Boggs slumps down beside him. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
The floor’s cold. “Fifty-sixth games. I was eighteen, just out of training.”
“Funny,” Abernathy says. Doesn’t laugh, “Didn’t have you pegged as a career.” Career. Peacekeeper. Rebel. Soldier. Someone should write a book.
He smiles tightly. “Top of my year. My brother broke both my legs when he heard I’d been selected”
“Fuck.” Abernathy’s knuckles pop white around the bottle neck. “What happened to him?”
He shrugs. “Bullet through the brain. But my sister- “ he balls a fist inside his pocket, “ -my sister was reaped.”
Silence. “I don’t remember her.”
“You wouldn’t,” he says. His voice has turned hoarse, “She was twelve years old.” She survived for ten minutes. Spent three of them choking on blood and vomit.
“Have a drink, Boggs.”
It’s been years since he’s felt the comforting burn of bootleg liquor at the back of this throat. “Thanks.”
He’s been to war before.
He’s come back before, too. Let’s focus on that.
It’s an odd sensation, realising that those you trust cannot be trusted. He watches the significance of Mellark’s arrival dawn on the girl’s face. Frankly, he’s surprised Alma left it this long.
“She doesn’t deserve this.” He says, pacing along the tree line.
The phone line crackles, and the President sighs, “War is no place for emotions, Captain Boggs.”
“Bull. Shit.”
The trouble is: she’s right.
His collar scratches his throat when he bites back a smile. His mouth twists anyway. “Pull it together, Four-Five-One.”
Alma had told him once: it is not a leaders place to laugh.
The pain feels like fire.
When he was younger, thirty, forty years past, he used to sit by the fire, edging closer to the flames until he could feel his clothes curl in the heat and his mother would shout at him to come away. He lets himself think about her, for a moment, safe home in district two. She thinks he is dead.
He steals a glance down. Soon she will be right.
He hates to say it but:
he told you so.
end.