Combo Divergence Part 3: Misha (Again)
The only thing keeping her together is Selene.
Artemisia watched the Village burn; saw the footage right there on the gigantic wall-sized television screen in her suite as bombs fell from invisible hovercrafts. When the fire blazed bright and the flames danced high above the roof of the Assembly Hall it caused the lower stealth shields to flicker, and she caught the shape of the bottom hull before the craft took off.
The local Peacekeeper garrison sent in a recon team, but they searched the entire Village, every house and basement and apple grove, and came up with no one. They poked around the wreckage of the Hall and came across several bleached and blackened bones, and the squad leader made his grim report to the camera, expression tight and face smudged with dust and ash underneath the raised visor.
Artemisia watched long after the emergency news broadcast finished and the regular programming came back on, frozen on the couch with images of fire and crumbled brick and bits of white bone fragments playing her mind while the ladies on the shopping channel hawked an artificial diamond the size of their fists.
Lyme would make her turn it off if she were there, just like she ordered Misha to shut off the Games the first year she was allowed to watch and their girl was torn apart by spider-mutts. Lyme would drag her out of the room and outside for a sparring match until Misha was bruised and bleeding and the thoughts finally stopped swirling in her head. Lyme would run her fingers through Misha’s hair and tell her to fuck the world and let her paint their nails.
Except that Lyme isn’t here anymore; she left Artemisia to join the fucking traitors who just murdered their entire family.
Devon is dead, and Emory, and Callista and Ronan and all the others. They’re gone, sixty years of Victors wiped out in a single night, and the only reason Artemisia hasn’t screamed herself hoarse and stolen every bottle of wine in the president’s massive liquor cabinet and set the entire mansion on fire is that she has Selene to look after.
Selene doesn’t cry. She’s in shock when Artemisia finally tears herself away and finds her, sitting on her bed with her arms wrapped around her chest and staring at the television. Artemisia flicks off the screen and crawls onto the bed, and she holds Selene tight and runs fingers through her hair as her girls’ shoulders shake and she sucks in shuddering breaths.
It took months for the Village to accept her and stop treating her with silent disapproval but it was her home. Devon let her paint his floor and Emory made small tarts and left them on the counter for Selene to steal before she finally caught on months later, and Ronan taught her to play chess and chuckled when Selene practically oozed off her chair in boredom.
“It’s my fault,” Selene says into Artemisia’s chest.
“No,” Artemisia says sharply, and she curls her fingers around Selene’s wrist and presses against the tattoo inked into her skin. “It’s not, wildcat. Don’t talk like that.”
“It is!” Selene’s voice scales up, spiking high with panic. “It is, I said no mercy and they showed no mercy and it’s my fault, I started this. I made them do it.”
“No!” Artemisia says again, and this is worse than Selene blanking out for hours on the couch while Artemisia choked down the panic and tried to talk her back; worse than Selene staring at the wall and slipping away, worse than her screaming at the top of her lungs and smashing plates and terrifying her mentor that one day she would put her fist through the shower wall. This is worse because while it’s not true it also sort of is.
It’s not Selene’s fault because she was just the pawn, but she was part of the game that led to this moment. Just like the Centre might have trained them all to kill but they’re the ones who swung the sword, and it’s a mess that Artemisia has spent her whole life avoiding only now all their friends are dead.
Except there’s only one answer because Selene is trembling and her eyes have gone wide and white-rimmed and soon she’s going to disappear, and so Artemisia grabs her face and holds her steady, rests their foreheads together and pins Selene with her gaze.
“No, wildcat,” she says firmly, and when a mentor says something then the Victor believes it because that’s the way the universe works. Selene sucks in a harsh gasp but her eyes stay focused, and Artemisia pushes her hair out of her eyes and doesn’t let go. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. You just said the lines, you didn’t make them get into those hovercrafts and fly out there. It’s not your fault. It’s -“
And go figure that Lyme is gone and disappeared with the rest of the traitors because Artemisia finally understands. It’s not Selene’s fault at all but it’s not just the rebels either, it’s the Capitol’s, it’s President Snow and his roses and his breath that reeks of blood and it’s a country that sends twenty-three children to die each year as a smokescreen so the people don’t think about their aching bellies and workers lying broken and buried in the mines and the lash of the overseer’s whip across a child’s back and cameras everywhere you look -
Artemisia knows exactly whose fault it is, and a good chunk of it is hers for being so Games-damned selfish that she’d never looked past her own life to see it.
But now is not the time for her epiphany, and Artemisia tugs Selene up and off the bed. “We’re sparring,” she says, and Selene lets out a wild half-sob but doesn’t argue.
They spar until their muscles spasm and their legs won’t physically hold them, and at the end an Avox appears in the doorway with a glass of water and a handful of pills. Artemisia takes them and hands them to Selene, and for a second she thinks it’s going to be like just after her win when she needed to move Selene’s hand to her mouth and tap her chin to make her swallow, but after a second Selene startles and does it herself.
Artemisia stays until the meds take Selene down, and then she stays a little longer, stroking her hair and murmuring ridiculous nothings to chase away any early dreams. Finally she heads out into the sitting area and there’s Nero, dwarfing the ridiculous upholstered chair and staring down at the floor.
She hesitates - she and Nero weren’t exactly close, she had her people and grand-mentors tend to keep a bit of distance - but his best friend and his mentor were in that fire and his Victors are missing or dead or who knows what and now it’s just the three of them. Artemisia sits down on the floor next to him and rests a hand on his knee. A few seconds go by and finally Nero shifts to cover her hand with his.
“It’s all fucked,” Nero says in a thick growl. “All of it. Mutts ahead and fire behind and nowhere to go.”
Artemisia leans against his leg, and the part of her that’s still eighteen and a little bit crazy takes comfort in his anger. “We could just burn it down,” she says, and she’s joking but she isn’t. There’s already been one huge fire, why not another? What’s one more building down when the whole country is collapsing? “Run away, live in the mountains. Be forest people.”
Nero laughs, a shattered sound that turns even uglier halfway through. “Sounds about right.”
She almost asks him what to do just so she can hear him say he has no idea, just so she isn’t the only one sitting there with no fucking clue what they’re supposed to do now.
Instead, she and Nero sit in silence until the city lights outside fade out and the sun comes up, and finally Artemisia hauls herself up to go check on Selene before she wakes.
They survive, though, because they’re Two and that’s what they do. Artemisia used to wrinkle her nose every time Emory intoned “the mountains endure” like it was some sort of key to understanding the universe but now she finds herself saying it under her breath every time she turns around. Emory is dead and Brutus is dead but their stupid quarry wisdom lives on, and Artemisia has no idea whether any of them will be alive tomorrow so it’s pretty much the worst legacy she can give them but that’s all she’s got.
Selene switches over into professional mode, making appearances and giving interviews with a flawlessness that makes Artemisia twitch. Selene is good but this is seamless, this is her putting on a mask and hiding behind the job because it’s better than the alternative. And because it really is better, Artemisia watches her and stands off-camera during every speech and afterward pulls her into empty rooms to spar while the Peacekeepers turn their backs and guard the door.
The mountains endure but mountains are mountains, they’re giant fucking monoliths of rock that don’t notice when hundreds of years pass by. The mountains endure and Artemisia will not give the fuckers the satisfaction of seeing her break and so she doesn’t, but she knows a holding pattern when she sees one. It’s the days before the alliance snaps when everyone is tense and snappish and never takes a hand off their weapons; it’s a summer storm hanging heavy over the distance, purple-grey clouds thick overhead while the air is thick and hot and wet before it all comes down.
It will all come tumbling down eventually, and hopefully before then Artemisia will have some idea which way it’s going to tip and where she should run to avoid getting squashed. Until then she has Selene, and her girl needs food and sleep and sparring and to know that whatever happens her mentor will be here when the very ground opens up beneath them.
One day Artemisia wakes up in the middle of the night, startled awake by a nightmare of assassins sneaking into the palace and putting a bullet through Selene’s brain in her sleep. She scrambles up from the couch in Selene’s room, scrubbing at her eyes, and runs straight into Lyme.
“Hey girl,” Lyme says. She’s wearing all black and her face is smeared with dark paint and she’s carrying a flashlight that lets off a dim red glow but Misha would know her mentor anywhere.
“That is a terrible look for you,” Artemisia says, and then her legs give out and she collapses back onto the sofa.
“We’ve got to get out of here now.” Lyme has a rifle slung over her back and knives at her hip and soft-soled boots that wouldn’t make noise even if she ran, and so much of this makes no sense that Artemisia’s brain goes right around and accepts it all because why not. “They’re coming, the rebels are making a siege on the Capitol soon and that includes the mansion. You’re not safe here.”
“Did you figure that out before or after your friends blew up the Village and killed my best friend?” Artemisia asks, and that isn’t what she meant to say except wait, no, that is exactly what she meant to say. “You left me and you joined the rebels and they killed everyone, every single fucking one of us, and now you’re here.”
Lyme clicks her tongue, a mannerism so achingly familiar that Artemisia nearly throws everything away and flings herself into her mentor’s arms except no, not this time. Not this time. “You can be as angry as you want later,” Lyme says, clipped and urgent. “But we have to be alive for you to be angry. Wake Selene and come with me, we’re getting you out of here.”
Selene balks, which Artemisia should have seen coming. “Tell me why I should trust her,” she says, staring past Artemisia at Lyme, who stands in the doorway and says nothing even though she’s got to be burning with impatience. “Give me one good reason.”
“I can’t,” Artemisia says, and damn if her voice cracks without permission. She reaches over and plays with the ends of Selene’s hair, smoothing and combing the strands with her fingers to give herself something to do. It’s been months of the worst experiences of her life heaped over on top of one another until even hyperbole means nothing anymore, but then Selene’s expression softens with sympathy and she grips Artemisia’s hand. It’s backwards and wrong not to come up with a single reason - she’s my mentor used to be enough, but that was before Lyme left, before Emory pulled glass out of the soles of Artemisia’s feet when she lost it and smashed Lyme’s kitchen - and worse that Selene’s anger melts into something sad and helpless and Artemisia can’t wipe the hurt off her face.
Artemisia swallows. “I’m sorry wildcat, I can’t, but we can’t stay here. If the rebels take the palace, I -“
(Selene staring proud and angry into the barrel of a rebel soldier’s gun, eyes flashing and head held high - “No mercy” says the soldier and fires - everything is a spray of red and Selene falls and Artemisia’s soul tears right through her chest)
“If nothing else, I trust Lyme not to shoot us,” Artemisia says. It should be funny, it almost is, but it’s like the time she played on the swings as a kid and tried to go all the way around and she thought - for a second - that she’d done it before the chains collapsed and she ended up on her back, gasping up at the sky. “That’s one up on the rebels.”
“She is a rebel,” Selene says, flat-eyed, and Artemisia supposes she should be grateful that she didn’t say ‘traitor’ with Lyme right there. “Won’t she just be taking us back to the people she’s telling us to run from? The people who -“
The Peacekeeper outside the door makes a disgusted noise and pulls off her helmet. Her face tweaks something in Artemisia’s memory but she can’t catch it, and there are more important things than wondering if she’d ever gotten tipsy and flirted with a soldier half her age. “We don’t have time for this,” the girl says. “Selene, we have to go.”
Apparently the night isn’t out of surprises yet, because Selene stops dead and stares at the Peacekeeper, recognition flickering in her eyes. “Petra?”
Still nothing twigs for Artemisia, and where is Devon and his magic memory when she needs him (buried under half a ton of rock, bleeding out onto the rubble and gasping for air before the final cave-in). “Lene, fill me in here.”
But Selene is still staring at the girl, who slashes her hand in an impatient gesture. “Not the same rebels, I promise. We can explain when you get there but right now, I’m sorry, but you need to move.”
“You’re a traitor,” Selene bursts out, only this time it’s not a weapon or a mouthful of poison, it’s genuine surprise. The girl flinches anyway. “You want me to believe that you, that Petra - you’re a traitor.”
The girl’s mouth tightens and she raises her head, and oh there, there Artemisia gets it, this is the girl she passed over for Selene three years ago because she was too patriotic, too boring, more suited to Brutus and his line of loyalists. “Yeah, I am,” she says, voice tight. “Because it turns out I love my country more than I love the rules, and I love our people more than that. Are you going to come, or do I have to stun you and drag you out myself?”
“Unless you grew three feet and packed on a hundred pounds since going crazy, I’m going to say fat chance,” Selene throws back, but she’s scrambling out of bed and that’s more than Artemisia expected. Old habits are powerful things, and grasping for a bit of normality in an insane situation is hardly the worst coping mechanism.
“Good,” Petra says, and dons her helmet. “The others are outside. Let’s go.”
Artemisia curls an arm around Selene’s shoulder and pulls her in to press a kiss to her hair. “I love you, wildcat.”
“You too,” Selene says, and she doesn’t say anything to Lyme as they pass but she does shoot her a pointed look and moves a little more into Artemisia’s space. Pain spasms across Lyme’s face just for a second before she smooths it away, and Artemisia has never been a good girl, let alone a saint, and she can’t help the stab of satisfaction.
Claudius is there when Artemisia and Selene make it out to the main suite. Selene stiffens against Artemisia’s side but she doesn’t say anything to him either, just looks right past him and lets the squad commander tell her where to go. Claudius gives her an agonized look for a second before he’s called away to watch the side entrance, and that’s pretty rich for a guy who took one of Selene’s speeches and made her into the poster child for the Capitol’s cruelty.
Artemisia doesn’t blame him, not with everything else a gigantic shit-show, but it is a kick in the head to see him in his military uniform with his hair cropped off, looking at least five years older than the last time. So many things have changed now that it’s hard to keep track, and it’s easier to listen to the Peacekeeper-rebels and let them tell her what to do and where to go.
They take back passages out through Snow’s mansion and actually make it to a hovercraft without incident. The whole time Artemisia expected to be gunned down, but maybe they’ve actually worn through their quota of bad luck for once and are due one thing to go right. Either way they all end up bundled into the craft and strapped in for takeoff, and Artemisia holds her breath until one of the soldiers announces they’re clear.
“So,” Artemisia says, unbuckling and reaching over to take Selene’s hand. It’s as much for her own comfort as anything, and Selene grips back hard and doesn’t pull away despite the audience which means she probably got that memo. “Anyone going to give us the nightly recap version?”
The commander is a young guy around Devon’s age, dark-haired and handsome in a roguish sort of way that reminds Artemisia of a young Ronan, and means that he’s either messed around with Devon in Residential or at least was made a very enthusiastic offer. “You’re the last,” he says, and Artemisia jerks back because she knows that, she watched the Village burn on television, but then he holds up a hand. “We picked up Brutus the night the Arena fell. Enobaria was a few weeks after that. The rest of the Village was evacuated before the bombs hit. You were the only ones left. We waited on picking you up because at least you were safe, for now, but now that’s it.”
“What?” Artemisia’s mind spins, and she has to stop herself from accidentally breaking Selene’s fingers. “You - everyone’s alive?”
“Everyone’s alive,” he says, the businesslike tone softening just a little, though not enough that Artemisia gets the urge to punch him for getting all mushy on her. “And safe, for now. That’s where we’re taking you.”
“Everyone?” Nero echoes. He and Lyme haven’t managed to look at each other yet; Lyme slipped away to lead the formation when they started out through the mansion, and Nero can’t fit into the copilot’s seat to talk to her now. “What about Calli?”
“V41 - Callista - is fine,” the man says, though he makes a face that looks like he wants to pinch his nose but knows better, and that seems about right for anyone who’s had to deal with Callista and isn’t used to it. “She and all her cats.”
Nero lets out a bark of laughter and collapses back in his seat, and Artemisia lets out a long breath. “And Devon?”
“He’s fine. He wanted to come with us to get you, but he’s needed back at the base to - he’s been with Enobaria.”
Nero nods, and Artemisia winces. She can’t even imagine Enobaria without her mentor, especially after another Arena and whatever else has happened to her in the meantime. Selene gets out of her seat and crosses to stand next to Nero, resting her hand on his shoulder. He gives her a small smile, and an hour ago Artemisia thought they were the last Victors in their entire district and now everything is upside-down and inside-out and who knows what’s going to happen next.
She glances toward the front of the hovercraft, but Lyme is talking with one of the other soldiers and Artemisia doesn’t know what to say anyhow, so she lets it go.
“So I think there’s still one important question waiting,” Selene says. She’s perched on the edge of Nero’s chair, and she zeroes in on the girl - Petra - with the laser focus of someone who really can’t deal with everything else but this, at least, is safe. “How did Ms. ‘I actually mean it when I say I’m doing this to bring honour to my district’ end up on the other side?”
Petra rolls her eyes. She has her helmet tucked under one arm and her rifle balanced in her lap, and she blows out a hard breath. “Fine,” she says. “But only because I want to get this over with.”
It’s a long flight. Selene wanders back after Petra finishes her story, and she curls up in the uncomfortable seat with her head on Artemisia’s shoulder and eventually falls asleep. Artemisia dozes off and on, but finally they land and are ushered out into a grey building made of concrete. That at least marks it as one of the middle districts, but Artemisia can use her fancy detecting skills or she could just fucking ask the next time there’s a lull so whatever.
Artemisia has no idea what time it is, only that she’s that strange, twitchy, keyed-up mix between exhausted and manic, and she keeps Selene close as they’re led through the corridors. Now that they’re here the relief has burned off, replaced with a creeping, gnawing worry. No one just pulls off a covert military rescue operation for free; is she really supposed to believe they did it out of the goodness of their hearts?
(Well, maybe Petra. A few hours in a hovercraft and Artemisia is half convinced she’s not actually real, but the look of familiar exasperation on Selene’s face at least tells her it’s not just her.)
If they think they get to use Selene again - though how they’d reclaim her image for them after everything the districts have heard her say - then Artemisia will tear them all to pieces with her bare hands. No one gets to use her girl again no matter what side they stand on or lofty cause they support. Selene has done her part for this war, better or worse, and Artemisia will not let anyone drag her back in.
She’s winding up for one hell of a warning speech when the sound of her name cuts through the haze of protective rage. And not just her name but her nickname, and Artemisia hasn’t been Misha since they arrived in the Capitol and the president asked Selene to address the nation but there it is.
Devon grabs her around the waist and spins her around, and he’s there and real and solid and alive, he’s alive and not buried under rubble, alive and laughing and touching her cheek, alive and holding her close and crying and oh Misha is so going to make fun of him except he grabs her face and kisses her and everything else disappears.
“You’re here,” Devon says when they finally break apart, and he runs his hand over her face, stroking her cheek like he can’t believe she’s real, and maybe he can’t. It’s been a long few months for everyone. “You’re here, you’re safe, I’m going to make E knit us a giant sweater big enough for both of us because I’m never leaving you again.”
Misha laughs in spite of herself and kisses him again to shut him up before he says anything else stupid, and it’s wet and tastes of salt but she doesn’t care. Devon threads his fingers into her hair and pulls her close, and Misha winds her arms around his neck and holds on tight.
At least until Selene catcalls, and Devon pulls back with a giant grin and tackles her. “Aw, were you jealous?” he asks, catching her in a hug and smacking a messy kiss to Selene’s cheek. “That’s okay, there’s lots of love to go around.” Selene squawks and punches him in the ribs, but then she hugs him too. “I’m glad you’re safe,” Devon tells her, ruffling her hair before letting her go. “Two of my best girls back again, this is a good day.”
“You’re crying, loser,” Misha says, elbowing him.
“So are you,” Devon points out, and Misha is about to call bullshit except he touches her cheek and shows her the moisture on his fingertip. “It’s okay, we can just pretend the sprinklers went off.”
Misha pulls them both in for another hug, and everything is still on fire and she has no idea how she’s going to look her mentor in the eye without cracking but for now, right this minute, the rest of the world can go to hell.
They bunk her and Selene together, which works just fine for Misha. She can’t bring herself to talk to Lyme about everything, not just yet, not when everything is still strange and new and the old wound that had started to scab over when she figured Lyme was never coming back is now raw and oozing all over again. Lyme isn’t exactly leaping to hear what Misha has to say, either, and she squirrels herself off to talk to command and leaves Misha and the others to get on with their reunioning.
Nero, at least, follows Lyme after an hour or so, and that at least Misha knows will go fine. There’s nothing Lyme could do that would make Nero stay angry at her, no matter how hurt he felt when she left him. In the end it’s always the mentor’s fault, and if his girl didn’t trust him then it’s because of everything he’d let happen during the Quell that pushed her away.
Misha can’t tell which is better, Nero’s guilt or her own quiet, twisting anger. Anger used to be simpler than guilt, which is why Misha always used one to drive out the other, but now - well, now it’s harder to pick them apart. There’s nothing clean about Misha’s anger anymore, that’s for sure, now it’s just as confused and churning as guilt ever was.
They have two bunks in their shoebox room but Misha holds out her arm for Selene anyway. “I’ll let you sleep soon,” she says, and Selene tucks herself in against her mentor’s side. “I just want you here for a bit, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah,” Selene says, curling her fingers in Misha’s shirt. “Misha, is it really okay?”
Now if that isn’t just the kicker question; Misha can almost feel Caesar Flickerman staring at her, the floodlights and the expectant gaze of the crowd pressing her back. She lets out a breath to give herself a second, even though that will be a tell in and of itself to Selene, and runs her fingers through Selene’s hair. “I don’t know,” she says. “I know we couldn’t stay in the Capitol. It’s not safe, and I care about you being safe more than I care about any cause. But if these people aren’t the ones who bombed the Village - if they saved the Victors - then that at least makes them better than the other guys.”
It’s not the time now to talk about her rage at Snow and the Capitol and that whole mess that still makes Misha’s vision fade out to red. It took Misha long enough to get there, and Selene isn’t anywhere near that point. She’s been isolated and protected by Misha’s concerted efforts, and Misha would rather not deliver the death blow to whatever faith Selene does have in the system right just yet. In order to make Selene care about injustice she’d have to make her feel it, and no rebellion is so important that it deserves to make Selene unhappy.
Selene butts her head against Misha’s shoulder unhappily. “I don’t like owing people.”
“You don’t,” Misha says fiercely. “And if anyone says you do, fuck them. There are shuttles, if anyone tries to make you do anything I’ll steal one and we’ll get out of here.”
She doesn’t say let them see how it feels because that thought is beneath her, but she can’t stop it from bubbling up in her head. Judging by the tone of Selene’s silence it didn’t escape her, either.
Misha sighs and extricates herself, letting Selene stretch out on her bunk. “Let’s not get too far ahead,” she says, tugging the thin blanket up over Selene’s shoulders and bending to kiss her hair. “There’s enough shit going on without us inventing more to worry about, yeah? We’re here, we’re safe, and if anyone tries to hurt you I’ll rip their heads off.”
Selene reaches out and catches Misha’s hand as she stands, gripping her fingers. “I love you, too.”
There’s no point to sleeping in the next morning; Misha recalls waking up half a dozen times during the night, and most of the time when she rolled over to check on Selene she heard the artificially-measured cadence of breath that meant her girl was awake and trying not to worry her. They’re both groggy and spiky when they wake up, and Misha drags Selene out and into an empty room for a sparring match. It’s not magic but she does feel better at the end, and she tugs Selene in for a hug and kisses her forehead.
“The mountains endure,” Selene says suddenly into her shoulder, then starts to laugh. Her throat catches in a way that doesn’t if she finds something genuinely funny, and Misha joins in because what else is there? They laugh together in the empty corridor, shoulders shaking, and finally Misha steps back and brushes her thumbs at the corner of Selene’s eyes, and they head back to find showers and fresh clothes.
The rest of the Victors are there at breakfast, crowded around the tables in the mess. Devon and Emory, unsurprisingly, are glued to Brutus, Enobaria is all but in Nero’s lap - and Lyme and Claudius are off to the side with a group of the rebels, keeping their eyes on their food. The strange cocktail of anger and guilt swims up inside Misha again, and this time it’s even less pleasant than before. She picks up a tray and heads for the food, and tries not to think about how the weeks in the Capitol have soured her taste for regulation slop. At least she knows how to keep it off her face; even without this crazy-ass situation, Misha doesn’t need Emory giving her sincere frowny-faces over being ungrateful for good, solid food that working people would be happy to get.
Selene sticks close by her until they sit down, and for a second Misha thinks her girl is actually going to crawl into her lap like the early days of her recovery. At the last second Selene doesn’t, dropping down onto the bench beside her instead, but she does lean against Misha’s arm and glare out at the room at no one in particular (yeah right).
Lyme glances over once or twice only to look away before Misha can make proper eye contact, and suddenly the food turns to sand in Misha’s mouth and her coffee mug is too heavy to lift and none of this matters anymore. The whole world can go to hell - it is going to hell - and all Misha wants is to have her people here with her and for everyone to know that they love each other. Lyme’s guilt gnaws at her the same as her betrayal ever did, and whether she asks for Misha’s forgiveness or tells her that she doesn’t deserve any, whichever way Misha is tired of drowning in shit and just wants to breathe.
Selene’s rage at Lyme is every bit as exhausting as it was those first days in the Village, but at least it gives her strength for now. It goes against every mentor rule in the handbook but Misha lets herself cling to that strength, just a little, and when Selene notices that Misha isn’t eating and starts fussing at her to eat this morning’s third runner-up in the egg impersonator contest, Misha smiles. “What would I do without you to take care of me,” she asks, taking a bite of yellow glue.
Selene doesn’t answer, just nods in satisfaction, and when Misha looks up Devon is watching her with a sad, knowing expression.
The good thing is, the rebels leave them alone. Nero is apparently happy to debrief and give information as he’s always been practical - expecting the worst from life means he’s rarely disappointed and usually ready for it, his Victor running out on him notwithstanding - but Misha is not even going to think about what would happen if they tried asking Selene. Luckily someone else in command must have had the same thought; instead they’re given the day to do whatever, which means catching up with the other Victors not already squirrelled away for duty. Selene also looks around for her former classmate, but apparently Petra is either busy or very interested in appearing that way because she doesn’t show up.
Emory stops by that afternoon, and Selene bristles automatically and reaches for Misha’s hand, gripping it not for reassurance or comfort but in readiness. “I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re all right,” Emory says, and Selene’s mouth opens for a second before she shuts it. “We were worried about you. They hit the Village and we got out okay, but you guys were still out there and who knows what could’ve happened. Glad you’re safe.”
“I -“ Selene’s eyes flick to the side, and she has never liked Emory and Emory has always been pointedly polite in the face of Selene’s dislike, but now she only nods. “Thanks. You too.”
“You’re our people,” Emory says simply. “Good to have you back.”
After she leaves Selene throws up her hands, just a little. “Is it bad that now I’m mad at her for being nice?”
Misha laughs and tousles her hair. “Don’t feel bad, I think that’s how she gets her power. How else do you think good people could stand being so good all the time?”
Selene snorts and headbutts Misha’s shoulder.
That night after dinner Devon catches Misha by the elbow. “You think you could come stay with me tonight?” he asks. His hand is warm against her skin, and for a second Misha almost loses it and collapses against him right there. But no, no Selene is watching her from the table, sharp-eyed and concerned like Misha is in danger of fainting right there, and if she does Selene will probably go stick a fork in Lyme’s eye.
“I think I need to stay with Lene,” Misha says. “I’m - I don’t know how she’s taking it, yet. I just want to make sure she’s all right.”
“Okay,” Devon says. He strokes his thumb across the curve of her bicep and he’s right there, so familiar and comforting, but not yet. Not yet. “Just let me know.”
Misha nods, snags her tray and joins Selene. She knows better than to try to fake enthusiasm, but having Selene there and safe with guns nowhere near her does lift her mood on its own. “Tell me about the Peacekeeper,” Misha says. She’s with her squad in the corner, back to them, but the red hair and her relative size compared with the largest member of the group makes her easy to spot.
Selene perks up. “We hated each other,” she says brightly but without real malice, and Misha remembers a few Centre rivalries of her own, though none of hers made it into her file like Selene’s did. “I forget which of us broke more bones, but I hope it was me. I never would have expected her to turn tr - to join a rebellion, so I really want to tease her about it.”
Misha starts asking questions and soon enough Devon joins in, and by the time the meal has wound down they’re all relaxed a little more. Selene shoots Petra a sharp, aggressively friendly grin as they pass, and the other girl makes a face that’s much more based in years of instinct than any kind of professional training.
“Maybe I’ll bug her tomorrow, if she’s around,” Selene says with that dreamy sort of tone she gets when plotting. “I wonder if her squad knows we used to call her chipmunk…”
The next night, Selene is awake and sitting on the edge of her cot when Misha comes back from the shower. “Hey,” she says. “I’m okay, you know. You don’t have to stay with me. I mean -“ she adds, holding up a hand when Misha frowns automatically, “I know you probably want to spend some time with Devon? You haven’t seen him in a long time, and we thought he was dead and everything, so if you want to go see him it’s okay.”
Misha gives her a long look, but this is Selene being sincere and not trying to be mature or strong or anything, and she smiles and sits down. “Thanks, wildcat, but I’m okay,” she says, and Selene gives her a suspicious look. “Ha, no, right back at you, I promise. Why don’t you and me stay here tonight and I’ll go see him tomorrow, how’s that sound? Unless you’re trying to get rid of me.”
Selene scoffs, and Misha grins and tweaks the ends of her hair. “Yeah, that’s good then,” Selene says, and the tense line of her shoulders loosens just a little.
“C’mere,” Misha says, holding out her hand. “There’s no elastics or nail polish, but I can at least make your hair look pretty. You know, for all the people in here who care.” Selene grins and turns to face away, and Misha sits on her knees and starts separating Selene’s hair into sections.
Devon doesn’t say anything when Misha kisses Selene on the forehead and leaves her at the junction between corridors. He doesn’t touch her, either, even though Misha is all but shaking with the need to feel his arms around her - or maybe that’s exactly why. They walk back to his room in silence, and when the door clicks shut behind them Devon opens his arms and pulls her in against his chest.
And - yes, okay, Devon made the right call, because as soon as the embrace closes around her something inside Misha crumbles. She hasn’t burst into tears in years and she doesn’t now, either, that’s too much effort; it’s just that everything she’s been holding inside her starts leaking out. Misha clings to Devon until her fingers ache from clutching his shirt, and she doesn’t remember starting to cry or giving herself permission but suddenly the fabric underneath her face is soaked and her lungs burn from lack of air and now, now she’s sobbing.
“Aw, Mish, it’s okay,” Devon says, and he twists and gets his arms around her shoulders and behind her knees and lifts her up, walking them awkwardly backwards onto the small cot. It’s awkward, both their legs bent and knees knocking, but he manoeuvres them so they’re sitting with Misha against his chest. His arms are strong and solid and Misha has never been so grateful for Two and its quiet, ever-present strength as she is right now. “It’s okay, babe, I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
“It’s been so hard,” Misha gasps out. Her chest spasms and her eyes sting but it feels so good to cry that she doesn’t even try to stop. “I’m so tired, I can’t - I’m just so tired.”
“I know,” Devon says, rubbing a hand over her back. He tips her head up and kisses her, slimy with tears and snot and everything else, and Misha lets out a small, desperate sound and kisses back. Everything is jumbled and confused and the only thing that makes sense is Devon here, familiar and safe and so Misha presses closer, but he pulls away and shakes his head. “No, Mish, you don’t want that. Just let me protect you for a while, huh?”
“Shit,” Misha mumbles as her brain clears, but Devon doesn’t let her get to mortified, just hugs her again and combs his fingers through her hair. He starts talking, saying - what, she has no idea, some nonsense about finding an empty bird’s nest under his windowsill and thinking about where the babies are now - but she drifts off to the soothing sound of his voice and his heartbeat against her cheek.
Every time she starts awake Devon is there, stroking her hair or her back, and he keeps saying nothing and everything and pressing light kisses to her eyelids and her temples, and finally, finally Misha falls asleep for the first time in months.
The next morning she catches Selene on the way to breakfast and spins her around, and Selene squawks in surprise until Misha sets her down and kisses her smack on the cheek. “Sleep well?” Selene asks incredulously, and she shoots Misha and Devon both a look that’s half suspicion and half dawning horror with a little bit of morbid curiosity and fascination sprinkled on top.
“Oh yes,” Misha says, grinning at Selene, and Devon plays his part and winks. “C’mon, let’s eat, I’m starving.”
“O-kay,” Selene says slowly, but she lets Misha drag her off to the mess.
Devon slides his arm around Misha’s waist and kisses her when they enter the room, and Selene is left to puzzle it out on her own instead of exchanging gossipy whispers with Claudius because the world is still tilted sideways, but for once Misha has found some footing.
Petra, near the door, says “Morning, Selene,” with the kind of casual bravado that means she’s been debating whether to do that all night.
“Morning, chipmunk,” Selene shoots back before sauntering off toward the food, and Misha laughs at the look on the girl’s face and the delighted expression of her young squad partner all the way to the stack of indifferent pancakes.
“I was talking to the weapons master,” Selene says. She’s lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling, tossing a knife in one hand and catching it two-fingered by the blade without looking. Misha isn’t going to ask where she got it. “He says I’m allowed to come down and use the firing range if I want to. I was thinking I might go tomorrow.”
Misha glances at her, studying the curve of muscle in her arm and the line of her jaw, but as far as she can tell it’s the ordinary tension that’s bled into them for the past while and nothing new. “Yeah?” she says, surprised, but then a memory sparks. Selene didn’t talk about her family much, not like Misha used to, but that’s what happens when you’re happy, mostly. Those memories are easier to lose beneath the Centre’s relentless pressure. “You used to shoot with your dad, you said.”
“I think so, yeah.” Selene pauses, flipping the knife over in her fingers in a thoughtful motion. “Anyway, they don’t have swords here and I’m going a little bit crazy, so I thought, why not? Besides Petra’s some crack shot now and I don’t like knowing there’s something she’s better at than me.”
It’s not just habit that makes Selene fall into the old rivalry with her classmate, Misha is pretty sure, not when Selene won in every way that mattered and some that don’t, but she isn’t surprised. Centre rivalries were clean and uncomplicated; everyone knew what they were there for, and while broken noses and knives stuck in calf muscles might feel personal, the drive behind them wasn’t really. Competition for the same slot - competition fostered and encouraged and even rewarded by the trainers - that’s simple, and right now anything simple is like a clean drink of water in the third week of the Games.
“That sounds like fun,” Misha says instead. There could be worse coping mechanisms; Selene still hasn’t managed to talk to Claudius, and Misha isn’t eager to push them to try to talk it out. The rebellion might look down on their secret base exploding into a giant fireball. “You’ll have to let me know how it goes, maybe I’ll join you next time.”
After all those weeks of living together in Snow’s mansion - the fear and uncertainty and paranoia that started creeping in - it’s like peeling back fingernails to let Selene go anywhere on her own, but if they’re ever going to survive this then Misha needs to find the veins of normality and tap them. That means letting Selene out of her sight now and then, and it might make her clench her teeth but it’s the right thing.
Selene just smiles at her, and it’s not bright or cheerful or any of the things it might be back home, but it’s better than the gleeful one she’d worn in the Capitol, all steel and blood and bloodlust. That’s good enough for now, and Misha reaches out and catches the knife on the next throw, grinning when Selene squawks in indignation.
Their small suite doesn’t give much room for wrestling but they do anyway, and Misha smacks her elbow hard enough against the floor that she grunts, but they end up tangled in a heap and actually almost giggling. It’s more than a little hysterical and they probably look insane but Misha will take it, and when Selene actually chomps her shoulder in retaliation Misha lets loose a howl of laughter that shakes her right to her core.
“Terrible mentor,” Selene says, biting Misha one more time for good measure.
“Terrible Victor,” Misha retorts, grinning, and kisses her forehead.