Hunger Games fic: Diving Under (1/?), PG-13
Title: Diving Under
Chapter title: Ash and Dust
Rating (this chapter): PG-13
Word count (this chapter): 5,075
Betas: thatgirlsix and a-word-nerd; thank you both SO VERY MUCH! As always, any mistakes or missteps in this fic are mine alone.
Focus: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Characters: Annie Cresta, Finnick Odair, Haymitch Abernathy, Plutarch Heavensbee, original characters
Warnings (this chapter): references to death and gore
Author's note: The title for this chapter comes from Radioactive by Imagine Dragons. A good part of the dialogue when Katniss is present comes straight from Catching Fire. I try to avoid that whenever possible, but sometimes you just have to roll with it.
--------------------
Chapter 1 - Ash and Dust
Finnick is dead.
Fingers dig painfully into Annie’s biceps. She tries to shake off the Peacekeepers, one on each arm, but they only tighten their grip, digging into muscle almost to the bone beneath. Before they drag her more than a step or two, she gets her feet under herself once more.
Finnick is dead.
Everything around her is a blur of light and darkness, all the colors leached away.
Finnick is dead.
It’s hard to put one foot in front of the other without tangling herself up. Her knees hurt with a pain that’s sharp and immediate. She must have fallen again, but she doesn’t remember falling after Shale dragged her from the roof.
Finnick is dead.
The Peacekeepers push her into a waiting vehicle, its engine idling.
Finnick is dead.
Darkness, deeper than before. She’s not alone. She can hear them breathing, though she doesn’t know how many are with her. No one says anything, although one of them breathes with the odd hitching sound of someone who has been crying and can’t entirely stop. Annie knows the feeling well.
Finnick is dead.
A jolt. Everything rocks then settles. Annie opens her eyes onto a white-armored insect. Before she can stop herself she laughs. And laughs.
Finnick is dead dead dead deaddeaddead
She goes under.
xXx
Finnick stares at the half-full plate Plutarch abandoned when the device on his wrist beeped at him. He’d excused himself with no explanation, but Finnick had long since tuned both him and Haymitch out. Partially lulled by the deep hum and vibration of the hovercraft’s engines, his brain falls into old patterns, replaying over and over again the things he can do nothing about.
Had his father heeded his warnings and gotten everyone out? Or are they in Peacekeeper hands? Plutarch said Jo and the others were in Capitol custody, and he’d made it sound like a fact, but was it? Were they alive and, along with Annie, prisoners? Or were they dead, either from the lightning blast or Snow’s anger? Of course, if they are still alive, that could be far worse. And Annie…
Haymitch hadn’t actually said anything about her when Finnick asked, nor has he said anything since. Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe Snow doesn’t have her at all. Martin is dead. Maybe Annie is… Finnick’s torturous thoughts stop short as though running into an invisible wall. Staring at the plate is a far better alternative to what he sees when he closes his eyes, but unlike his conscious thoughts, the mental images continue unbidden. His mind’s eye supplies him with unnaturally detailed images of Annie lying on the ground below the reaping stage, her blood seeping into the dirt, and later of her struggling to break free of the Peacekeeper carrying her to Snow. She’d broken the visor on the man’s helmet, leaving a smear of blood on the door jamb - blood that Finnick’s imagination now insists was enough to drip in bright red runnels down the woodwork.
He clenches his hands into fists under cover of the table, digging his nails into his palms, hoping the physical pain will stop the flow, but it doesn’t work. He sees Annie, still dripping from her arena, staring blankly at the ceiling. The only indication she was alive had been the faint rise and fall of her chest. Her body was in that hospital room, looking so small and fragile, but the surprising girl he’d met in the Training Center was gone, hiding inside herself. For months she’d fought hard to pull herself out of that internal abyss. The only voice she’d responded to was his. This time, he’s not there.
His vision blurs. Hot tears slip down Finnick’s cheeks to splash onto his wrist. Once the tears start, he can’t make them stop.
xXx
The smell of stale sweat. Coarse fabric scratches at cheek and nose, lips and chin. A blanket?
“But what’s going to happen to us?” A woman’s voice, thick and rough and pure Capitol.
“I shouldn’t even be here,” a male voice mutters. Shale? “I didn’t do anything.” A thud and something metal clatters. Annie huddles under her blanket, wishing for a better place to hide.
“And you think any of that matters, little man?” Another woman, her low voice unyielding and icy. She says something else laced with anger, but Annie sinks down again. Down and down and down.
xXx
Finnick stares at his hands. Both palms flat to the table and his fingers spread wide, he studies the green and yellow blobs of his knuckles, fading bruises from his fight with the punching bag after the Peacekeepers took Annie. The red lines, jagged and vaguely lightning-shaped, that crisscross the backs are new, as is the larger bloom of discoloration circling his right wrist and curving around the heel of his hand. He brings that hand closer to his eyes. The hair on the back is gone. Deep red marks surround pale blisters just starting to fill with fluid. He hadn’t noticed any of it when he dressed. Why doesn’t it hurt?
“The burns will heal.” Haymitch slides a bowl of steaming golden-brown liquid across the table toward Finnick and then resumes his seat. He takes a bite of something that looks like oatmeal, grayish and not-quite-solid, but then his lip curls in disgust and he shoves the bowl toward Plutarch’s abandoned plate. Finnick looks down at his own bowl and sniffs at the rising steam. Nothing is gray or congealed, and he’s pretty sure, based on smell alone, it’s some kind of broth. Maybe chicken. His stomach gurgles in anticipation.
“Most of the electricity went to the force field,” Haymitch continues, “but all of you took a hit.”
He doesn’t remember much. Running toward an unconscious Beetee as the air became more and more charged. Shouting for Katniss to get away from the tree. Katniss screaming for Peeta. A thousand-pound weight hitting him in the chest, shoving him backward and then pinning him to the ground. Katniss, bow in hand and arrow aimed at the sky, limned in white fire. And pain. Excruciating pain, just before everything went black.
Turning his hand over and over, tracing the lightning pattern with his eyes, Finnick asks Haymitch the question he’d asked himself. “Why doesn’t it hurt?”
“The medics gave you some powerful painkillers. Thirteen has better access to stuff like that than the rest of us. Pretty sure they make their own.”
“Thirteen?”
“Eat.” Haymitch nods toward the bowl of broth. Finnick dips a spoonful and lifts it to his lips, blowing on it before swallowing it down. “District Thirteen. We’re on their hovercraft.” Finnick looks at the older man sharply before dipping his spoon back into the bowl. The broth is salty and savory and tastes better than anything he can remember - mostly because he never thought he’d live to taste anything again.
“I thought District Thirteen was destroyed decades ago.” Plutarch had insisted, ages since, that he’d take care of getting them out of the arena if and when the force field fell, but he’d never told them how, not that Finnick had heard, anyway.
Haymitch glances around the small room, lighting on the door controls, the food and beverage dispensers in the corner, light fixtures, everything before leaning forward and fixing his eyes on Finnick. He’s tense and twitchy. His voice is just loud enough for Finnick to hear him when he says, “District Thirteen and the Capitol apparently have some kind of agreement. Or should I say ‘had?’ Turns out Plutarch is twistier than any of us thought. He’s originally from Thirteen, not the Capitol.” Finnick frowns but doesn’t interrupt. If Haymitch hadn’t known about this before, he can’t blame him for being so twitchy, acting as though there are hidden listening devices everywhere. “Thirteen has been watching us for a while, biding their time. They-”
When the door opens behind him, Haymitch stops talking, leaving Finnick to wonder whether “us” refers to the rebels or the other districts. The victor from 12 leans back in his chair, the picture of innocence, as Plutarch Heavensbee breezes in. The ex-Gamemaker tosses a folder onto the table and heads for the dispensers. Coffee in hand, he swings a chair out and sits before opening the folder. Finnick catches a glimpse of what looks like a chart before Plutarch shuts it again, one palm flat on the folder and a single sheet of paper in his other hand.
“Communications are down in Seven, Ten, and Twelve,” he says, looking from Haymitch to Finnick and back down at the paper. Finnick can’t help but notice how relaxed he seems to be, in spite of the edge of excitement in his voice. It’s a sharp contrast to Haymitch with his air of secrecy. “But Eleven has control of transportation now,” Plutarch continues, “so there’s at least a hope of them getting some food out.”
A surge of hope flows through Finnick. No matter where Plutarch is from, if he’s getting reports from the districts… Heart pounding, voice rough from the electricity burns and the intensity of his emotions, he asks, “What about Four? My family?” He swallows hard, wanting more water but not trusting himself to pick up the cup. “Can you take me there?”
“No, I'm sorry. There’s no way I can get you to Four. But I’ve given special orders for their retrieval if possible. It’s the best I can do, Finnick.”
Finnick laughs, the sound harsh and broken. “’If possible?’ First you lose Annie. Now you can’t help my family?” He slumps back in his chair. “I should just fucking kill myself. Then Snow won’t have a reason to hunt them.” He stares at his barely touched broth until it dissolves in more hot tears. “If I’m dead, maybe he won’t hurt Annie.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Haymitch growls at him. There’s fear in his voice. There has only been one other time in Finnick’s life he thought seriously about suicide, and Haymitch was there then, too. “That’s the worst thing you could do. Get her killed for sure. As long as you’re alive, they’ll keep her alive for bait.”
For bait.
Finnick slumps even further, stopping when the back of his head hits the chair back. Haymitch and Plutarch continue to talk, but Finnick tunes them out again.
Haymitch is right. Snow will try to use Annie as bait to lure Finnick back to the Capitol, to push him into doing something stupid. But he’s right about something else, too: she’ll be alive.
But at what cost?
xXx
Music. A siren’s song. Instead of dragging her down ever further until she drowns, the haunting voice draws her up. Diamond bright and shining like a beacon through the darkness that surrounds her, it draws Annie in. Impulsively, she adds her own voice to it, brittle and rough and barely audible, as she would when Finnick would sing after a nightmare, hers or his didn’t matter. For a moment, the siren’s voice falters, but then it resumes between one breath and the next.
In the corner of a barred cell, covered by a thin wool blanket not large enough to act as a barrier between her and the concrete floor, Annie feels the cold seep into her bones. It’s nothing compared to the cold that shrivels her soul at the memory of President Snow and his “regret.” Finnick is dead, electrocuted when the arena fell. Annie curls tighter into herself and waits for the siren to drag her down into death, too.
“I promise you, Annie, I will come home to you if I can.” She can almost feel the warmth of his hands when he cupped her face between his palms, hear the tears in his voice as her own slipped from her closed eyes. The memory is so strong Annie raises her hands to curl her fingers around his wrists, but she catches herself, curling them around each other instead. “But if I die-” She hadn’t wanted to face the possibility he might not come back. “-I need you to promise me that you’ll live your life. Live it for me, if you have to, until you can live it for yourself.” She doesn’t want to face the reality of it now. She made him a promise that day, but neither of them expected anything like this.
Movement a few inches away distracts her, and Annie watches a brown spider make its way along the floor toward the bars of the cell. It transitions from flat floor to vertical bar with ease, climbing in a circular path around and around the bar. When it reaches the ceiling, the spider drops rapidly. It spins as it swings and it spins as it spins, playing out more silk until it reaches the next bar and grabs hold. A snort of rusty laughter escapes Annie as she watches the spider’s aerial dance, perfectly timed to the siren’s song.
The siren stops singing.
“Annie?” A male voice - the questioner and the siren are not the same.
Annie holds her breath. It’s a familiar voice, the questioner’s, but his name won’t come. After a few moments of silence - Annie can almost hear the spider’s legs scratching at the metal bars as it weaves its web - the siren’s song begins again and, before her vision whites out completely with the lack of air, Annie draws in a breath.
A guttural sound of frustration interrupts the siren. “Stop it! Stop that damn noise! You’re driving me crazy!” Shale. Annie is sure the voice belongs to Shale, but she can’t see him from where she lies.
“Please don’t stop,” she says aloud. “I like it.”
She hadn’t meant to say any of it out loud, but the siren begins again, each song blending into the next. Her voice is low and smoky, soothing. Annie starts to relax. She doesn’t listen to the words, just the sounds, notes following each other up and down and around. She watches the spider weave her web, up and down and around.
Her eyes drift closed as the siren continues to sing and the spider to weave. Annie’s muscles go lax. She sleeps.
xXx
The door crashes open and Finnick jumps, catching an elbow painfully against the edge of the table. Katniss stumbles into the room, clinging to the doorknob with one hand, her eyes wild with fear and confusion. Her expression reminds him uncomfortably of the jungle, jabberjays all around them, and he finds himself bracing for the birds to attack.
“Done knocking yourself out, sweetheart?” Concern is foremost in Haymitch’s voice, although he tries to cover it with a scowl. Finnick has heard that tone many times over the years.
Katniss, brandishing some kind of weapon, responds by rushing Haymitch like a wounded animal lashing out at the nearest target. Haymitch catches her by the wrists, both preventing her from hurting him, at least physically, as well as from falling.
Haymitch shoots a skeptical glance at Katniss’ weapon of choice. “So it's you and a syringe against the Capitol? See, this is why no one lets you make the plans.” She stares at him in confusion. “Drop it,” Haymitch orders, tightening his grip. All the fight in her disappears abruptly as she gasps and releases the syringe. Haymitch kicks it away and pushes her down into a chair next to Finnick.
Plutarch sets a bowl of broth and a roll in front of her with a glance at Haymitch, and while she eats, the two of them bring her up to speed. Finnick zones out for most of it. They don’t need him to talk. He’s just as happy to listen, sipping at his own broth and trying hard not to think.
“I still don't understand why Peeta and I weren’t let in on the plan.” Katniss’ voice is harsh, breaking through Finnick’s wall of not-thought. It’s something he and Johanna had both wondered about, deciding that Haymitch understood his fellow 12 victors better than they could. But that deception in particular had never sat right with either of them, both having far too much experience with others directing their lives without any regard to what they might want.
“Because once the force field blew,” Haymitch says, “you’d be the first ones they’d try to capture, and the less you knew, the better.”
“The first ones? Why?” She looks back and forth between Haymitch and Plutarch.
“For the same reason the rest of us agreed to die to keep you alive,” Finnick rasps out, drawing her attention to him.
“No, Johanna tried to kill me.” Frowning, raising a hand almost unconsciously to her head, she turns her confusion on Finnick. For a moment, she looks so much like Annie looking to him for reassurance, for the truth, that his heart twists. He starts to answer her, but Haymitch is quicker.
“Johanna knocked you out to cut the tracker from your arm,” he says, “and lead Brutus and Enobaria away from you.”
“What?” She shakes her head, a negation, and presses both thumbs into her temples. Finnick doesn’t blame her; he has a pretty nasty headache, too. “I don’t know what you're-”
“We had to save you because you’re the mockingjay, Katniss,” Plutarch interrupts, his voice gentle. “While you live, the revolution lives.”
Katniss drops her hands to the table and just stares at him. Finnick watches the play of emotions across her face, so easy to read. More confusion, some anger, a flicker of something that makes him think she wants to run far away and hide from them all, and then a dawning understanding of what that really means as she whispers Peeta’s name.
“The others kept Peeta alive because, if he died, we knew there’d be no keeping you in an alliance,” Haymitch admits. “And we couldn’t risk leaving you unprotected.” The sentiment is brutal, implying that Peeta’s life was nothing more than an afterthought, disposable in the face of Katniss’ survival. Finnick sees the color drain from Haymitch’s face, leaving his skin ashen; he knows just how hard it was for Haymitch to leave Peeta behind. Even so, he can’t help the petty thought that Haymitch deserves that pain now, for Peeta, for Johanna. For Annie.
“Where is Peeta?” Katniss hisses, glaring at her mentor. Her fingers clench and unclench as a growing rage pushes every other emotion aside.
“He was picked up by the Capitol,” Haymitch says, dropping his gaze, “along with Johanna and Enobaria.”
Plutarch’s attention is on Haymitch during the brief exchange, but by the end of it, Finnick watches Katniss. Her agitation at the start becomes something harder edged, and when Haymitch makes his final admission, Finnick sees her rage boil over. She launches herself at Haymitch, fingers curved into claws that rake across his face, but Finnick is already diving for her, his chair clattering to the floor. Sprawled half across the table, he grabs hold of one arm, yanking her away from Haymitch, but he can’t maintain his grip. She breaks free and goes for Haymitch again, and it takes Finnick and Plutarch both to drag the girl off him, but not before she damages his face. From the look in Haymitch’s eyes, the damage inside is far worse.
xXx
“Get back! Face the wall!”
Annie wakes to chaos as Peacekeepers herd her fellow prisoners away from the cell door. She tries to huddle under her blanket, but a white-armored guard whips it away and grabs her by the arm, dragging her to her feet. He shoves her toward the wall; only her outthrust arm stops her from hitting it face first. She steadies herself between a pale woman with metallic gold hair and a tall, slender woman with dark skin and close-cropped black hair. A man farther down the line of prisoners to her right begins to cry.
The surface in front of her is a rough, particulate gray, but the particles consist of all shapes and shades: dark, light, and everything in between. The urge to trace her fingertips over the surface is strong, but she feels the guards behind her, smells the oily metal of their guns. She keeps her hands at her sides.
“Annie Cresta,” one of them says. Annie stiffens and holds her breath, but she doesn’t move. “Shale Arris. Take one step back from the wall.”
No one moves. The man at the other end of the line chokes on a sob.
“Victors Cresta and Arris, take one step back from the wall. Do it now.”
When neither Annie nor Shale steps back, another Peacekeeper jacks a round into its chamber, an unmistakable sound; she heard it a lifetime ago in District 4 and again more recently in the victors’ lounge. Remembering the feel of the rifle in her hands, the kick when she shot the guards, Annie shivers, but she can’t quite make herself take that single step. They can’t mean to punish me, not if they want Shale, too, she tells herself. As he keeps insisting, he did nothing.
On the other side of the gold-haired woman, Shale steps away from the wall, bringing him into Annie’s peripheral vision. “What do you want with us?” he demands. Beneath the typical District 2 arrogance lies uncertainty.
The Peacekeeper’s answer consists of yanking Shale’s arms behind his back and locking his wrists into metal cuffs. Yet another guard slings her rifle over her shoulder and leads Shale from the cell, the victor protesting his unfair treatment as they go.
“Victor Cresta. Now. Or I shoot the crying one.”
Straightening her shoulders, Annie turns to face the Peacekeepers. There remain three guards in addition to the one giving the orders - one woman and two other men. Stepping toward the man in charge, Annie offers her wrists. She doesn’t look at him, instead choosing to focus on her fellow prisoners. In addition to the women she stood between - if she gets the chance, she’ll learn their names - two men she’s never seen before stand with Rafe Simons, Finnick’s stylist. Rafe’s eyes meet Annie’s and he pulls himself up a little straighter, almost as though that brief glance gives him strength. His face is wet with tears.
One of the guards cuffs her wrists behind her back; they handle her more gently than they did Shale. The other prisoners remain silent as the Peacekeepers lead Annie away, but she can’t help a surge of - hope? gratitude? - when the dark-skinned woman raises her right hand, three fingers extended in a salute.
Annie doesn’t want to hear the sickening sound of a rifle butt meeting flesh, but that sound, too, is all too familiar. The woman crumples to the floor. The cell door clangs shut.
xXx
Finnick lies awake, staring up into the darkness and listening to the thrum of the engines and the breathing of his friends. Some of his friends. He wishes desperately that Johanna and Peeta were here, too, but they’re not. They’re in the Capitol awaiting interrogation, and that’s only if Snow cares enough for them to be relatively healthy before the questions start.
“Katniss. Katniss, I’m sorry.” He knows she’s awake. He hears her restless movements as she tests the straps that hold her down, preventing her from hurting herself - or Haymitch - again. Even drugged as she is, she can no more sleep than he can, not with her fear for Peeta circling around and around in her mind. Just like his for Johanna. He forces away thoughts of Snow interrogating Annie. “I wanted to go back for him and Johanna, but I couldn’t move.” Paralyzed by the shock of the lightning, muscles locked, he’d tried to scream at their rescuers to not leave them, but even that had been impossible.
“It’s better for him than Johanna,” he continues. “They’ll figure out he doesn’t know anything pretty fast. And they won’t kill him if they think they can use him against you.” His voice tries to break at the end, but he doesn’t let it, forcing strength into the words along with breath.
“Like bait?” she responds, unrelenting. “Like how they’ll use Annie for bait, Finnick?”
Her words stab him in the heart, bringing all of his fears for Annie crashing down. He bites back a cry of pain, but the tide is too strong. “I wish she was dead,” he whispers. “I wish they were all dead and we were, too. It would be best.” It would be best. Annie is more valuable to Snow alive than dead, and once he knows she knows nothing of the rebellion, nothing worth anything, her life will no longer be in danger. But he knows all too well what that means.
Rolling onto his side, Finnick turns his back on Katniss Everdeen, burying his face - and his sobs - in his pillow.
xXx
The door opens, admitting a tall woman with blue-black hair and eyes to match, skin the color of old ivory and a too-white smile. Her physical modifications are more subtle than most, as is the shimmering midnight suit she wears, but Annie doesn’t find that subtlety at all reassuring; it speaks to her of power and wealth that has no need to be flashy.
“Miss Cresta?” The shimmering woman extends a hand toward Annie. “I’m Melissa Muhti.”
Annie, curled up in a chair with her arms around her knees, stares at Muhti’s proffered hand but makes no move to accept it. She’s heard that name before, but the when and the where won’t come. Muhti lowers her hand and raises one perfect eyebrow. Her smile twists a little at one corner, turning the expression into something less friendly.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
Not believing for a moment that this polished Capitol woman cares how long she’s been waiting, Annie stares through her, mentally fixing her gaze to a nonexistent spot on the opposite wall as she tries to chase down that niggling familiarity. She’s only half paying attention when Muhti closes the door and crosses to the desk, picking up a folder to read the notes there. With a quick glance at Annie she says, “President Snow asked me to make sure none of this blood,” - she nods toward Annie’s clothes - “is yours.”
Annie gives her nothing. They’ll use whatever she says against her, so it’s better to remain silent. When it becomes clear Annie doesn’t intend to respond, Muhti picks up a pen and scribbles something into the file, but before she can say anything more, the telephone on her desk buzzes.
“I’m in the middle of-” Falling abruptly silent, she sinks down onto the edge of her desk. “Yes, of course. Please put him through.” Half a second later, her smile back in place, she greets the cause of the interruption. “Cori! What can I do for you?” Still staring toward her invisible spot, Annie lets Muhti’s side of the conversation wash over her. Not only is the woman’s name familiar, so is the way she speaks to whoever is on the other end of the call.
Hearing her own name mentioned, Annie’s eyes flicker toward Muhti’s face just long enough to see a frown mar her smooth features. She starts to protest whatever she just heard, but that’s when Annie remembers.
“Is that Annie Cresta? Henrik and I would dearly love to meet her, once the Games are over.”
Shuddering, Annie curls in on herself more tightly, but quickly regrets it. The smell of the blood on her clothes, the anxiety she’s lived under these past few hours - days - combine with the near certainty that Snow will sell her to this woman and her Henrik. Annie’s stomach rolls. She hasn’t eaten anything in she doesn’t know how long, but that doesn’t lessen the sudden nausea.
She must have made a sound. A trashcan appears in front of her, and she reaches for it in something of a panic, but nothing comes up except acid and bile. She spits it out and fruitlessly retches again. Wiping her mouth with the back of one shaking hand, she glances at Melissa Muhti, who watches her expressionlessly.
After a moment of staring at each other, Muhti reaches over and picks up the telephone handset once more. “Neva, please bring me a change of clothes.” A pause. “No. Everything from the skin out.” Returning the handset to its cradle, she leans back in her chair. The whole time she spoke, she watched Annie. “Have you been sick to your stomach before this?”
Annie closes her eyes but doesn’t answer. She looks away from Muhti’s dark eyes to glance around the small office. A framed photograph of a man and boy rests on the corner of the desk beside a small lamp. Stacks of paper, some only a few sheets tall, others an inch or more, cover the desk’s surface. Half a dozen books stand between a pair of bookends near the telephone. There’s a painting on the wall to the right, an abstract of dark shadows mixed with bright blues and grays that reminds Annie of a summer storm. An exaggerated sigh draws Annie’s attention back to Muhti.
“I can’t help you, Miss Cresta, if you won’t talk to me.”
Instead of answering her, Annie begins to hum. She doesn’t know quite why she does it; she just feels it’s a safer course than anything she might say. It takes her a moment before she realizes it’s the same tune the siren sang in their concrete cell.
Someone knocks on the door before opening it, and a young woman enters carrying a stack of clothing that she sets on the desk.
“Thank you, Neva.” Muhti says nothing else until Neva closes the door on her way out, and then she turns to Annie. “I believe you and I are of a similar size, so these should fit you.” She reaches out to touch Annie’s hair, but Annie jerks her head away so violently the chair she sits in rocks back as well. Muhti raises both hands in surrender before lowering them into her lap.
“Fine. You don’t have to talk to me, and I won’t touch you except as necessary in my examination. But there will be a physical examination, Miss Cresta. Neither of us has any choice in that.” She stands, picking up the stack of clothing. “And I would think you’d like a shower, if only to wash the blood from your hair.”
Chapter 2 - Waiting and Fading and Floating Away
Chapter title: Ash and Dust
Rating (this chapter): PG-13
Word count (this chapter): 5,075
Betas: thatgirlsix and a-word-nerd; thank you both SO VERY MUCH! As always, any mistakes or missteps in this fic are mine alone.
Focus: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Characters: Annie Cresta, Finnick Odair, Haymitch Abernathy, Plutarch Heavensbee, original characters
Warnings (this chapter): references to death and gore
Author's note: The title for this chapter comes from Radioactive by Imagine Dragons. A good part of the dialogue when Katniss is present comes straight from Catching Fire. I try to avoid that whenever possible, but sometimes you just have to roll with it.
--------------------
Chapter 1 - Ash and Dust
Finnick is dead.
Fingers dig painfully into Annie’s biceps. She tries to shake off the Peacekeepers, one on each arm, but they only tighten their grip, digging into muscle almost to the bone beneath. Before they drag her more than a step or two, she gets her feet under herself once more.
Finnick is dead.
Everything around her is a blur of light and darkness, all the colors leached away.
Finnick is dead.
It’s hard to put one foot in front of the other without tangling herself up. Her knees hurt with a pain that’s sharp and immediate. She must have fallen again, but she doesn’t remember falling after Shale dragged her from the roof.
Finnick is dead.
The Peacekeepers push her into a waiting vehicle, its engine idling.
Finnick is dead.
Darkness, deeper than before. She’s not alone. She can hear them breathing, though she doesn’t know how many are with her. No one says anything, although one of them breathes with the odd hitching sound of someone who has been crying and can’t entirely stop. Annie knows the feeling well.
Finnick is dead.
A jolt. Everything rocks then settles. Annie opens her eyes onto a white-armored insect. Before she can stop herself she laughs. And laughs.
Finnick is dead dead dead deaddeaddead
She goes under.
xXx
Finnick stares at the half-full plate Plutarch abandoned when the device on his wrist beeped at him. He’d excused himself with no explanation, but Finnick had long since tuned both him and Haymitch out. Partially lulled by the deep hum and vibration of the hovercraft’s engines, his brain falls into old patterns, replaying over and over again the things he can do nothing about.
Had his father heeded his warnings and gotten everyone out? Or are they in Peacekeeper hands? Plutarch said Jo and the others were in Capitol custody, and he’d made it sound like a fact, but was it? Were they alive and, along with Annie, prisoners? Or were they dead, either from the lightning blast or Snow’s anger? Of course, if they are still alive, that could be far worse. And Annie…
Haymitch hadn’t actually said anything about her when Finnick asked, nor has he said anything since. Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe Snow doesn’t have her at all. Martin is dead. Maybe Annie is… Finnick’s torturous thoughts stop short as though running into an invisible wall. Staring at the plate is a far better alternative to what he sees when he closes his eyes, but unlike his conscious thoughts, the mental images continue unbidden. His mind’s eye supplies him with unnaturally detailed images of Annie lying on the ground below the reaping stage, her blood seeping into the dirt, and later of her struggling to break free of the Peacekeeper carrying her to Snow. She’d broken the visor on the man’s helmet, leaving a smear of blood on the door jamb - blood that Finnick’s imagination now insists was enough to drip in bright red runnels down the woodwork.
He clenches his hands into fists under cover of the table, digging his nails into his palms, hoping the physical pain will stop the flow, but it doesn’t work. He sees Annie, still dripping from her arena, staring blankly at the ceiling. The only indication she was alive had been the faint rise and fall of her chest. Her body was in that hospital room, looking so small and fragile, but the surprising girl he’d met in the Training Center was gone, hiding inside herself. For months she’d fought hard to pull herself out of that internal abyss. The only voice she’d responded to was his. This time, he’s not there.
His vision blurs. Hot tears slip down Finnick’s cheeks to splash onto his wrist. Once the tears start, he can’t make them stop.
xXx
The smell of stale sweat. Coarse fabric scratches at cheek and nose, lips and chin. A blanket?
“But what’s going to happen to us?” A woman’s voice, thick and rough and pure Capitol.
“I shouldn’t even be here,” a male voice mutters. Shale? “I didn’t do anything.” A thud and something metal clatters. Annie huddles under her blanket, wishing for a better place to hide.
“And you think any of that matters, little man?” Another woman, her low voice unyielding and icy. She says something else laced with anger, but Annie sinks down again. Down and down and down.
xXx
Finnick stares at his hands. Both palms flat to the table and his fingers spread wide, he studies the green and yellow blobs of his knuckles, fading bruises from his fight with the punching bag after the Peacekeepers took Annie. The red lines, jagged and vaguely lightning-shaped, that crisscross the backs are new, as is the larger bloom of discoloration circling his right wrist and curving around the heel of his hand. He brings that hand closer to his eyes. The hair on the back is gone. Deep red marks surround pale blisters just starting to fill with fluid. He hadn’t noticed any of it when he dressed. Why doesn’t it hurt?
“The burns will heal.” Haymitch slides a bowl of steaming golden-brown liquid across the table toward Finnick and then resumes his seat. He takes a bite of something that looks like oatmeal, grayish and not-quite-solid, but then his lip curls in disgust and he shoves the bowl toward Plutarch’s abandoned plate. Finnick looks down at his own bowl and sniffs at the rising steam. Nothing is gray or congealed, and he’s pretty sure, based on smell alone, it’s some kind of broth. Maybe chicken. His stomach gurgles in anticipation.
“Most of the electricity went to the force field,” Haymitch continues, “but all of you took a hit.”
He doesn’t remember much. Running toward an unconscious Beetee as the air became more and more charged. Shouting for Katniss to get away from the tree. Katniss screaming for Peeta. A thousand-pound weight hitting him in the chest, shoving him backward and then pinning him to the ground. Katniss, bow in hand and arrow aimed at the sky, limned in white fire. And pain. Excruciating pain, just before everything went black.
Turning his hand over and over, tracing the lightning pattern with his eyes, Finnick asks Haymitch the question he’d asked himself. “Why doesn’t it hurt?”
“The medics gave you some powerful painkillers. Thirteen has better access to stuff like that than the rest of us. Pretty sure they make their own.”
“Thirteen?”
“Eat.” Haymitch nods toward the bowl of broth. Finnick dips a spoonful and lifts it to his lips, blowing on it before swallowing it down. “District Thirteen. We’re on their hovercraft.” Finnick looks at the older man sharply before dipping his spoon back into the bowl. The broth is salty and savory and tastes better than anything he can remember - mostly because he never thought he’d live to taste anything again.
“I thought District Thirteen was destroyed decades ago.” Plutarch had insisted, ages since, that he’d take care of getting them out of the arena if and when the force field fell, but he’d never told them how, not that Finnick had heard, anyway.
Haymitch glances around the small room, lighting on the door controls, the food and beverage dispensers in the corner, light fixtures, everything before leaning forward and fixing his eyes on Finnick. He’s tense and twitchy. His voice is just loud enough for Finnick to hear him when he says, “District Thirteen and the Capitol apparently have some kind of agreement. Or should I say ‘had?’ Turns out Plutarch is twistier than any of us thought. He’s originally from Thirteen, not the Capitol.” Finnick frowns but doesn’t interrupt. If Haymitch hadn’t known about this before, he can’t blame him for being so twitchy, acting as though there are hidden listening devices everywhere. “Thirteen has been watching us for a while, biding their time. They-”
When the door opens behind him, Haymitch stops talking, leaving Finnick to wonder whether “us” refers to the rebels or the other districts. The victor from 12 leans back in his chair, the picture of innocence, as Plutarch Heavensbee breezes in. The ex-Gamemaker tosses a folder onto the table and heads for the dispensers. Coffee in hand, he swings a chair out and sits before opening the folder. Finnick catches a glimpse of what looks like a chart before Plutarch shuts it again, one palm flat on the folder and a single sheet of paper in his other hand.
“Communications are down in Seven, Ten, and Twelve,” he says, looking from Haymitch to Finnick and back down at the paper. Finnick can’t help but notice how relaxed he seems to be, in spite of the edge of excitement in his voice. It’s a sharp contrast to Haymitch with his air of secrecy. “But Eleven has control of transportation now,” Plutarch continues, “so there’s at least a hope of them getting some food out.”
A surge of hope flows through Finnick. No matter where Plutarch is from, if he’s getting reports from the districts… Heart pounding, voice rough from the electricity burns and the intensity of his emotions, he asks, “What about Four? My family?” He swallows hard, wanting more water but not trusting himself to pick up the cup. “Can you take me there?”
“No, I'm sorry. There’s no way I can get you to Four. But I’ve given special orders for their retrieval if possible. It’s the best I can do, Finnick.”
Finnick laughs, the sound harsh and broken. “’If possible?’ First you lose Annie. Now you can’t help my family?” He slumps back in his chair. “I should just fucking kill myself. Then Snow won’t have a reason to hunt them.” He stares at his barely touched broth until it dissolves in more hot tears. “If I’m dead, maybe he won’t hurt Annie.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Haymitch growls at him. There’s fear in his voice. There has only been one other time in Finnick’s life he thought seriously about suicide, and Haymitch was there then, too. “That’s the worst thing you could do. Get her killed for sure. As long as you’re alive, they’ll keep her alive for bait.”
For bait.
Finnick slumps even further, stopping when the back of his head hits the chair back. Haymitch and Plutarch continue to talk, but Finnick tunes them out again.
Haymitch is right. Snow will try to use Annie as bait to lure Finnick back to the Capitol, to push him into doing something stupid. But he’s right about something else, too: she’ll be alive.
But at what cost?
xXx
Music. A siren’s song. Instead of dragging her down ever further until she drowns, the haunting voice draws her up. Diamond bright and shining like a beacon through the darkness that surrounds her, it draws Annie in. Impulsively, she adds her own voice to it, brittle and rough and barely audible, as she would when Finnick would sing after a nightmare, hers or his didn’t matter. For a moment, the siren’s voice falters, but then it resumes between one breath and the next.
In the corner of a barred cell, covered by a thin wool blanket not large enough to act as a barrier between her and the concrete floor, Annie feels the cold seep into her bones. It’s nothing compared to the cold that shrivels her soul at the memory of President Snow and his “regret.” Finnick is dead, electrocuted when the arena fell. Annie curls tighter into herself and waits for the siren to drag her down into death, too.
“I promise you, Annie, I will come home to you if I can.” She can almost feel the warmth of his hands when he cupped her face between his palms, hear the tears in his voice as her own slipped from her closed eyes. The memory is so strong Annie raises her hands to curl her fingers around his wrists, but she catches herself, curling them around each other instead. “But if I die-” She hadn’t wanted to face the possibility he might not come back. “-I need you to promise me that you’ll live your life. Live it for me, if you have to, until you can live it for yourself.” She doesn’t want to face the reality of it now. She made him a promise that day, but neither of them expected anything like this.
Movement a few inches away distracts her, and Annie watches a brown spider make its way along the floor toward the bars of the cell. It transitions from flat floor to vertical bar with ease, climbing in a circular path around and around the bar. When it reaches the ceiling, the spider drops rapidly. It spins as it swings and it spins as it spins, playing out more silk until it reaches the next bar and grabs hold. A snort of rusty laughter escapes Annie as she watches the spider’s aerial dance, perfectly timed to the siren’s song.
The siren stops singing.
“Annie?” A male voice - the questioner and the siren are not the same.
Annie holds her breath. It’s a familiar voice, the questioner’s, but his name won’t come. After a few moments of silence - Annie can almost hear the spider’s legs scratching at the metal bars as it weaves its web - the siren’s song begins again and, before her vision whites out completely with the lack of air, Annie draws in a breath.
A guttural sound of frustration interrupts the siren. “Stop it! Stop that damn noise! You’re driving me crazy!” Shale. Annie is sure the voice belongs to Shale, but she can’t see him from where she lies.
“Please don’t stop,” she says aloud. “I like it.”
She hadn’t meant to say any of it out loud, but the siren begins again, each song blending into the next. Her voice is low and smoky, soothing. Annie starts to relax. She doesn’t listen to the words, just the sounds, notes following each other up and down and around. She watches the spider weave her web, up and down and around.
Her eyes drift closed as the siren continues to sing and the spider to weave. Annie’s muscles go lax. She sleeps.
xXx
The door crashes open and Finnick jumps, catching an elbow painfully against the edge of the table. Katniss stumbles into the room, clinging to the doorknob with one hand, her eyes wild with fear and confusion. Her expression reminds him uncomfortably of the jungle, jabberjays all around them, and he finds himself bracing for the birds to attack.
“Done knocking yourself out, sweetheart?” Concern is foremost in Haymitch’s voice, although he tries to cover it with a scowl. Finnick has heard that tone many times over the years.
Katniss, brandishing some kind of weapon, responds by rushing Haymitch like a wounded animal lashing out at the nearest target. Haymitch catches her by the wrists, both preventing her from hurting him, at least physically, as well as from falling.
Haymitch shoots a skeptical glance at Katniss’ weapon of choice. “So it's you and a syringe against the Capitol? See, this is why no one lets you make the plans.” She stares at him in confusion. “Drop it,” Haymitch orders, tightening his grip. All the fight in her disappears abruptly as she gasps and releases the syringe. Haymitch kicks it away and pushes her down into a chair next to Finnick.
Plutarch sets a bowl of broth and a roll in front of her with a glance at Haymitch, and while she eats, the two of them bring her up to speed. Finnick zones out for most of it. They don’t need him to talk. He’s just as happy to listen, sipping at his own broth and trying hard not to think.
“I still don't understand why Peeta and I weren’t let in on the plan.” Katniss’ voice is harsh, breaking through Finnick’s wall of not-thought. It’s something he and Johanna had both wondered about, deciding that Haymitch understood his fellow 12 victors better than they could. But that deception in particular had never sat right with either of them, both having far too much experience with others directing their lives without any regard to what they might want.
“Because once the force field blew,” Haymitch says, “you’d be the first ones they’d try to capture, and the less you knew, the better.”
“The first ones? Why?” She looks back and forth between Haymitch and Plutarch.
“For the same reason the rest of us agreed to die to keep you alive,” Finnick rasps out, drawing her attention to him.
“No, Johanna tried to kill me.” Frowning, raising a hand almost unconsciously to her head, she turns her confusion on Finnick. For a moment, she looks so much like Annie looking to him for reassurance, for the truth, that his heart twists. He starts to answer her, but Haymitch is quicker.
“Johanna knocked you out to cut the tracker from your arm,” he says, “and lead Brutus and Enobaria away from you.”
“What?” She shakes her head, a negation, and presses both thumbs into her temples. Finnick doesn’t blame her; he has a pretty nasty headache, too. “I don’t know what you're-”
“We had to save you because you’re the mockingjay, Katniss,” Plutarch interrupts, his voice gentle. “While you live, the revolution lives.”
Katniss drops her hands to the table and just stares at him. Finnick watches the play of emotions across her face, so easy to read. More confusion, some anger, a flicker of something that makes him think she wants to run far away and hide from them all, and then a dawning understanding of what that really means as she whispers Peeta’s name.
“The others kept Peeta alive because, if he died, we knew there’d be no keeping you in an alliance,” Haymitch admits. “And we couldn’t risk leaving you unprotected.” The sentiment is brutal, implying that Peeta’s life was nothing more than an afterthought, disposable in the face of Katniss’ survival. Finnick sees the color drain from Haymitch’s face, leaving his skin ashen; he knows just how hard it was for Haymitch to leave Peeta behind. Even so, he can’t help the petty thought that Haymitch deserves that pain now, for Peeta, for Johanna. For Annie.
“Where is Peeta?” Katniss hisses, glaring at her mentor. Her fingers clench and unclench as a growing rage pushes every other emotion aside.
“He was picked up by the Capitol,” Haymitch says, dropping his gaze, “along with Johanna and Enobaria.”
Plutarch’s attention is on Haymitch during the brief exchange, but by the end of it, Finnick watches Katniss. Her agitation at the start becomes something harder edged, and when Haymitch makes his final admission, Finnick sees her rage boil over. She launches herself at Haymitch, fingers curved into claws that rake across his face, but Finnick is already diving for her, his chair clattering to the floor. Sprawled half across the table, he grabs hold of one arm, yanking her away from Haymitch, but he can’t maintain his grip. She breaks free and goes for Haymitch again, and it takes Finnick and Plutarch both to drag the girl off him, but not before she damages his face. From the look in Haymitch’s eyes, the damage inside is far worse.
xXx
“Get back! Face the wall!”
Annie wakes to chaos as Peacekeepers herd her fellow prisoners away from the cell door. She tries to huddle under her blanket, but a white-armored guard whips it away and grabs her by the arm, dragging her to her feet. He shoves her toward the wall; only her outthrust arm stops her from hitting it face first. She steadies herself between a pale woman with metallic gold hair and a tall, slender woman with dark skin and close-cropped black hair. A man farther down the line of prisoners to her right begins to cry.
The surface in front of her is a rough, particulate gray, but the particles consist of all shapes and shades: dark, light, and everything in between. The urge to trace her fingertips over the surface is strong, but she feels the guards behind her, smells the oily metal of their guns. She keeps her hands at her sides.
“Annie Cresta,” one of them says. Annie stiffens and holds her breath, but she doesn’t move. “Shale Arris. Take one step back from the wall.”
No one moves. The man at the other end of the line chokes on a sob.
“Victors Cresta and Arris, take one step back from the wall. Do it now.”
When neither Annie nor Shale steps back, another Peacekeeper jacks a round into its chamber, an unmistakable sound; she heard it a lifetime ago in District 4 and again more recently in the victors’ lounge. Remembering the feel of the rifle in her hands, the kick when she shot the guards, Annie shivers, but she can’t quite make herself take that single step. They can’t mean to punish me, not if they want Shale, too, she tells herself. As he keeps insisting, he did nothing.
On the other side of the gold-haired woman, Shale steps away from the wall, bringing him into Annie’s peripheral vision. “What do you want with us?” he demands. Beneath the typical District 2 arrogance lies uncertainty.
The Peacekeeper’s answer consists of yanking Shale’s arms behind his back and locking his wrists into metal cuffs. Yet another guard slings her rifle over her shoulder and leads Shale from the cell, the victor protesting his unfair treatment as they go.
“Victor Cresta. Now. Or I shoot the crying one.”
Straightening her shoulders, Annie turns to face the Peacekeepers. There remain three guards in addition to the one giving the orders - one woman and two other men. Stepping toward the man in charge, Annie offers her wrists. She doesn’t look at him, instead choosing to focus on her fellow prisoners. In addition to the women she stood between - if she gets the chance, she’ll learn their names - two men she’s never seen before stand with Rafe Simons, Finnick’s stylist. Rafe’s eyes meet Annie’s and he pulls himself up a little straighter, almost as though that brief glance gives him strength. His face is wet with tears.
One of the guards cuffs her wrists behind her back; they handle her more gently than they did Shale. The other prisoners remain silent as the Peacekeepers lead Annie away, but she can’t help a surge of - hope? gratitude? - when the dark-skinned woman raises her right hand, three fingers extended in a salute.
Annie doesn’t want to hear the sickening sound of a rifle butt meeting flesh, but that sound, too, is all too familiar. The woman crumples to the floor. The cell door clangs shut.
xXx
Finnick lies awake, staring up into the darkness and listening to the thrum of the engines and the breathing of his friends. Some of his friends. He wishes desperately that Johanna and Peeta were here, too, but they’re not. They’re in the Capitol awaiting interrogation, and that’s only if Snow cares enough for them to be relatively healthy before the questions start.
“Katniss. Katniss, I’m sorry.” He knows she’s awake. He hears her restless movements as she tests the straps that hold her down, preventing her from hurting herself - or Haymitch - again. Even drugged as she is, she can no more sleep than he can, not with her fear for Peeta circling around and around in her mind. Just like his for Johanna. He forces away thoughts of Snow interrogating Annie. “I wanted to go back for him and Johanna, but I couldn’t move.” Paralyzed by the shock of the lightning, muscles locked, he’d tried to scream at their rescuers to not leave them, but even that had been impossible.
“It’s better for him than Johanna,” he continues. “They’ll figure out he doesn’t know anything pretty fast. And they won’t kill him if they think they can use him against you.” His voice tries to break at the end, but he doesn’t let it, forcing strength into the words along with breath.
“Like bait?” she responds, unrelenting. “Like how they’ll use Annie for bait, Finnick?”
Her words stab him in the heart, bringing all of his fears for Annie crashing down. He bites back a cry of pain, but the tide is too strong. “I wish she was dead,” he whispers. “I wish they were all dead and we were, too. It would be best.” It would be best. Annie is more valuable to Snow alive than dead, and once he knows she knows nothing of the rebellion, nothing worth anything, her life will no longer be in danger. But he knows all too well what that means.
Rolling onto his side, Finnick turns his back on Katniss Everdeen, burying his face - and his sobs - in his pillow.
xXx
The door opens, admitting a tall woman with blue-black hair and eyes to match, skin the color of old ivory and a too-white smile. Her physical modifications are more subtle than most, as is the shimmering midnight suit she wears, but Annie doesn’t find that subtlety at all reassuring; it speaks to her of power and wealth that has no need to be flashy.
“Miss Cresta?” The shimmering woman extends a hand toward Annie. “I’m Melissa Muhti.”
Annie, curled up in a chair with her arms around her knees, stares at Muhti’s proffered hand but makes no move to accept it. She’s heard that name before, but the when and the where won’t come. Muhti lowers her hand and raises one perfect eyebrow. Her smile twists a little at one corner, turning the expression into something less friendly.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
Not believing for a moment that this polished Capitol woman cares how long she’s been waiting, Annie stares through her, mentally fixing her gaze to a nonexistent spot on the opposite wall as she tries to chase down that niggling familiarity. She’s only half paying attention when Muhti closes the door and crosses to the desk, picking up a folder to read the notes there. With a quick glance at Annie she says, “President Snow asked me to make sure none of this blood,” - she nods toward Annie’s clothes - “is yours.”
Annie gives her nothing. They’ll use whatever she says against her, so it’s better to remain silent. When it becomes clear Annie doesn’t intend to respond, Muhti picks up a pen and scribbles something into the file, but before she can say anything more, the telephone on her desk buzzes.
“I’m in the middle of-” Falling abruptly silent, she sinks down onto the edge of her desk. “Yes, of course. Please put him through.” Half a second later, her smile back in place, she greets the cause of the interruption. “Cori! What can I do for you?” Still staring toward her invisible spot, Annie lets Muhti’s side of the conversation wash over her. Not only is the woman’s name familiar, so is the way she speaks to whoever is on the other end of the call.
Hearing her own name mentioned, Annie’s eyes flicker toward Muhti’s face just long enough to see a frown mar her smooth features. She starts to protest whatever she just heard, but that’s when Annie remembers.
“Is that Annie Cresta? Henrik and I would dearly love to meet her, once the Games are over.”
Shuddering, Annie curls in on herself more tightly, but quickly regrets it. The smell of the blood on her clothes, the anxiety she’s lived under these past few hours - days - combine with the near certainty that Snow will sell her to this woman and her Henrik. Annie’s stomach rolls. She hasn’t eaten anything in she doesn’t know how long, but that doesn’t lessen the sudden nausea.
She must have made a sound. A trashcan appears in front of her, and she reaches for it in something of a panic, but nothing comes up except acid and bile. She spits it out and fruitlessly retches again. Wiping her mouth with the back of one shaking hand, she glances at Melissa Muhti, who watches her expressionlessly.
After a moment of staring at each other, Muhti reaches over and picks up the telephone handset once more. “Neva, please bring me a change of clothes.” A pause. “No. Everything from the skin out.” Returning the handset to its cradle, she leans back in her chair. The whole time she spoke, she watched Annie. “Have you been sick to your stomach before this?”
Annie closes her eyes but doesn’t answer. She looks away from Muhti’s dark eyes to glance around the small office. A framed photograph of a man and boy rests on the corner of the desk beside a small lamp. Stacks of paper, some only a few sheets tall, others an inch or more, cover the desk’s surface. Half a dozen books stand between a pair of bookends near the telephone. There’s a painting on the wall to the right, an abstract of dark shadows mixed with bright blues and grays that reminds Annie of a summer storm. An exaggerated sigh draws Annie’s attention back to Muhti.
“I can’t help you, Miss Cresta, if you won’t talk to me.”
Instead of answering her, Annie begins to hum. She doesn’t know quite why she does it; she just feels it’s a safer course than anything she might say. It takes her a moment before she realizes it’s the same tune the siren sang in their concrete cell.
Someone knocks on the door before opening it, and a young woman enters carrying a stack of clothing that she sets on the desk.
“Thank you, Neva.” Muhti says nothing else until Neva closes the door on her way out, and then she turns to Annie. “I believe you and I are of a similar size, so these should fit you.” She reaches out to touch Annie’s hair, but Annie jerks her head away so violently the chair she sits in rocks back as well. Muhti raises both hands in surrender before lowering them into her lap.
“Fine. You don’t have to talk to me, and I won’t touch you except as necessary in my examination. But there will be a physical examination, Miss Cresta. Neither of us has any choice in that.” She stands, picking up the stack of clothing. “And I would think you’d like a shower, if only to wash the blood from your hair.”
Chapter 2 - Waiting and Fading and Floating Away