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chapter forty
ECHOES

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tw:
ptsd, sadness — mockingjay is heavy :(
━━━━

Her body already senses she's not safe before her mind can recall those last few moments of the sky falling in the Arena. Sage inhales the acrid stench of antiseptics, and machines hum around her. It's not difficult to know that she's in a hospital. Something that should evoke relief — not terror.

If only she weren't in a Capitol hospital.

The memories of those final moments in the Arena come in fighting flashes through the drugs. Augustus barreling toward her like a rabid dog. The sharp pain deep in her stomach as his dagger protruded from her abdomen. Tolly screaming for her after the cannon while she begged Peeta to go find Katniss. The lightning striking that tree with a deafening roar. Then the sky falling as the blood-soaked ground beneath her shook.

There was a hand. A metal hand of Fate plucking the bodies from the lightning tree one by one. She thinks she counted four. One distinctly female, the other three male. Tolly. Was Tolly one of them? She thought she heard gunfire beneath Peeta's attempts at reassurances as she continued to bleed out. Then there were the Peacekeepers yanking him off her. "You guys are gonna help her, right?!" She was strapped to a gurney. The Capitol doctor had purple skin like Philo. Blood on her wedding ring.

There's no blood on her wedding ring now as she stares down at it. Her heart aches, the ghostly sensation of Ptolemus slipping it onto her finger haunting her. She can hear him screaming for her again. That metal claw. Was it Plutarch? Did he rescue him like he promised? Did he at least do that?

She whimpers. "Tolly."

It isn't long before her doctors and nurses find that she's awake. They murmur and whisper to one another, shooting her icy looks every chance they get behind their masks. Sage wants to ask them questions, but she knows they won't answer her.

Instead, her heart beats in her throat as they complete their final examinations on her, clearing her as healthy. When they lift up her gown to inspect her wound with their cold fingers, it seems The Capitol doctors have worked tirelessly to stitch up the mangled flesh and tissue, even prescribing what those in the Districts would describe as magic to heal her body at a stunning rate. Just as they did when she won her Games. There's only one reason why they wouldn't let her die, or why they would rush the body's healing process.

It's because they know what she did.

Their candy-colored fingers lack a gentle touch as they mangle her tubes and cords. She can feel the Morphling drip waining, the medicine's hold slowly creeping out of her system. Sage just stays stiffly still, almost hoping if she refuses to move she might disappear. It's no use. Her necklace burns against her chest when she's given another glare by the nurse removing her IV, and her mind races to her family.

What's happened to her family? Did they save her family?

There's no healing the sickening dread that courses through her. A sour taste coats the inside of her mouth, and she must look green, because the nurse shoves a trashcan into her face the same time she heaves up bile.

"Don't worry. The meds will wear off soon," the woman says. The words would be comforting if it weren't for her hateful tone. The worries are relentless.

Her family. Tolly. Did they make it out? Did Plutarch keep his part of the bargain? Are they safe?

She wants to ask if they're safe.

An hour later, two more nurses enter her room, followed by four Peacekeepers. Sage doesn't blink, doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Her fingers threaten to tremble as she just clings to her hospital gown.

"You're being discharged, Ms. Navarro," the taller nurse says.

All she can say is a dumb, "Oh."

Her gaze darts to the Peacekeepers, her wide-eyes blinking back at her through the reflection of their helmets. They don't move toward her yet. Instead, the two nurses stalk toward her, wrenching her out of her hospital bed harshly. She stumbles, trying to obey in hopes that they won't be so rough, but they don't seem to care.

They strip her of her gown and change her into a blaring pair of white pants and a matching shirt. It's when they do that that she notices something dirty and green on the metal table beside her bed. Shep's token. She snatches it quickly, but the motion must startle the nurses, because they shriek, the taller one yanking painfully at her arm.

The Peacekeepers come to their aid instantly. Sage's ankles wobble unsteadily, and when she reaches for something to lean on, something cold and metal pinches her wrists. She winces at the tight cuffs with a sharp breath whistling between her teeth. She clings to Shep's token desperately.

Two hands latch onto each of her biceps, tugging her around recklessly. The Peacekeeper's surround her like a pack of wolves, one in front, one behind, and one at each side. Just as her lips part, a blindfold is yanked over her eyes, shrouding the blaring white walls of the hospital in pitch black.

Her heart hammers as they pull her forward and presumably out of the hospital room. She sounds meeker than she'd like. "Where are you taking me?"

The only answer she gets is the barrel of a gun pressed against her spine. She tries to listen and feel for clues while blind. She doesn't even have socks or shoes. Wherever they're taking her, it's not difficult to figure out it's nowhere pleasant. She tries not to be scared. She tries to be brave. She really tries. She clings to the questions regarding her loved ones' safety, praying Plutarch held up his end of the deal.

Please let them be safe.

The Peacekeepers' grips on her arms are tight enough to bruise, and they walk so fast they're practically dragging her. The stench of antiseptics disappears once they cross through a door, tile turning to asphalt. One of them barks out a command for her to step up. She stumbles to do so as her shin smacks painfully into the bumper of a truck. If it weren't for their deadly grips on her biceps, she'd fall face first. She tries to hear if there's anyone else with her, perhaps other prisoners like Peeta or maybe Johanna, but there's nothing.

She's alone. She's still trying to figure out if that's a good thing. If Tolly and her family aren't here with her, maybe it's because they're safe.

Or maybe they're dead. Already brutally murdered for her involvement in the rebellion. She bites down on her bottom lip so hard she tastes iron to keep herself from breaking into a sob.

There's the hum of an engine. She feels earth rolling beneath tires for about ten minutes. Then the vehicle stops, and she's dragged around again. She thinks she feels cobblestone. Another creak of a door, and her nose is assaulted with that acrid stench of roses. Her body runs cold while the terror hums beneath her flesh.

There's only one reason why she'd smell that smell.

It isn't until she's escorted up a grand staircase and down the hall that they finally rip the blindfold off her head. Her eyes squint to adjust from the darkness, and one of the Peacekeepers shoves her forward into a room with walls that appear coated in blood. Her first thought is it's her family's.

Before the panic can squeeze her lungs, her adjusting gaze notices the intricate details of the wallpaper. Bookshelves line the perimeter as well as a few maps. She reaches to brush the hair out of her eyes only for the cuffs to poke sharply against her flesh in response. Another wince.

The soft slam of a book shutting to her left causes her rigid bones to jolt. She whirls around to the source. "Oh do take the cuffs off our guest for now, gentlemen."

His voice draws a chill to her spine. President Snow peers over at her from his desk, those swollen lips pulling into a smile and icy eyes gleaming. The moment blends with a memory of him in her grandmother's rocking chair. The difference is that now she's on his turf — as his guest. She knows she's better off dead than being one of President Snow's guests.

He sets aside the leather bound book he was pretending to read before turning to face her fully in his seat at his desk. One of the Peacekeepers snatches her by the wrists again, roughly yanking her free. It isn't without another sharp dig of the metal, and a drop of blood oozes. She rubs at them achingly as she still clutches the fabric from Shep's flannel. There's no pockets in her pants to stow it away in.

She prays they won't take it.

The President gestures to the velvet loveseat behind her with a gloved hand. "Won't you make yourself comfortable, dear?"

Before Sage can respond, two hands clamp down on her shoulders, shoving her down into the cushions. Her heart hiccups to her throat as she barely stifles a yelp. She simply clenches her jaw, glaring down at her bare feet. Peacekeepers' guns bore into her readily for just one wrong breath. It's his chilling gaze that's the most gnawing.

President Snow's cold blue eyes burn into her expectedly, and she hesitantly meets his gaze. She looks for signs that she failed, that her family is dead, Tolly is captured, and they're both about to be tortured. But his stare is transluscent, impossible to read.

He smiles again. "Comfortable?"

Sage clears her throat, her thundering heart still getting in her way. "Cozy."

"Hm." A twitch of those swollen lips as he watches her, tilting his head thoughtfully. She tries to maintain a blank expression. Her lungs burn from holding her breath as she stares back.

Another polite and lovely smile. When he speaks, his tone feigns an eerie lightness to it. "I'm glad to see you are feeling well, Ms. Navarro." Then comes the false concern. "You gave us quite a scare."

His cold gaze falls to her gut where Augustus's dagger once tore into her. Then his gloved hands fold neatly along the desk as he slowly draws his glare back to her wary one. The temperature in the room drops.

"Even the power of medicine shows no bounds for traitors."

Sage barely hides a shiver despite how frozen she feels. Goosebumps float across her flesh, the fine hairs of her body standing like pins. She keeps her voice as steady and clinical as she can, brows pinching into a slight frown. "I'm not sure what you're referring to, Sir."

He hardly flinches, a cutting sharpness to his voice. "You may have been hospitalized the last ten days, Ms. Navarro, but we both know that's not true." A glance at her wedding ring. Just when his lips seem to pull into a taunting sneer, he continues, tone light and mocking. "We tried to contact your family, even bring them to The Capitol to be at your bedside in such a dire time, but..."

Her heart is pounding so loudly in her skull she can barely hear anything else. She can't breathe. She swears he knows that, squeezing her lungs tighter with the power of his drawn out silence as he holds the answers she's so desperate to know.

"It seems they're missing." A shrug, gloved fingers drumming softly against the desk. "Vanished."

Vanished. Vanished in Panem usually means dead. Before she allows that to sink into her heart, she silently begs for more. She can tell he has more as she barely blinks, eyes burning.

"Just like the other Tributes. Katniss, Finnick, Beetee, and..." He tilts his head at her like a cat and watches, herself the mouse. "Ptolemus. Strange, isn't it?"

The relief washes over her like a wave, submerging her beneath its comfort and shrouding her briefly from this world. Her body is there, but her mind isn't, sinking deeper into the soothing truth. It practically extinguishes the fear that's claimed her since she opened her eyes.

They're safe. They're safe, they're safe, they're all safe.

She did it.

The President clears his throat impatiently, and she barely hears him. "Ms. Navarro?"

Tears are stinging her eyes. There's a sob crawling up her throat, but she chokes it back down, trembling fingers knotting together. When her glassy stare meets President Snow's glacial one, she hopes the tears present as terror — not relief. She's keeping him waiting too long, and her lips move, her voice sounding somewhere.

"Yes." She licks her lips, trying to steady her tone. "I suppose it is strange."

President Snow frowns falsely. "Aren't you concerned?"

"The medicines make my head feel funny," Sage lies. Again, she's so tangled up in her own mind, one phrase repeating like a prayer.

They're safe, they're safe, they're all safe.

She didn't fail. They've been rescued. All her loved ones have been rescued, tucked away in District Thirteen and far from The Capitol's reach.

He nods knowingly. "They tend to do that. The good news is you'll be coming off their effects very shortly."

President Snow sighs loudly and sharply, the sound barely pulling her out of her stupor. It reminds her that while her loved ones are far away, she unfortunately is not. And they know. They know what she did. There's the sense of terror slowly creeping back into her system, bubbling beneath the relief and threatening to break through the surface.

"I saw you, Ms. Navarro."

The edge to his voice cuts through her like Augustus's dagger, and her dazed eyes snap toward his. She tries to hold his gaze, but it's so harrowing, she can only look at his lips as they spew their venom. She can feel him dissecting her right now, and she's never felt so open and bare.

"I saw you lie to One and Two where Katniss Everdeen and her allies ran off to. I saw you bury your hatchet into Cashmere's back when she got too close for comfort. I saw you cut out your tracker as well as Ptolemus's. I saw you run to help when you heard Augustus and Enobaria ruining their plan. And I saw you take that blade for Peeta Mellark."

Her heart no longer beats in her throat, threatening to burst out of her body and zip around like a hummingbird. Instead, its wings are coated with iron, sinking into her feet with dread. Like a prison chain.

Because she's a prisoner.

President Snow delivers her Fate coldly with four words. "We all saw you."

Sage doesn't say anything. What can she say? Instead, she clamps her jaw shut, simply glowering back at him. She tries not to be scared. She tries to be brave. She really does. There's at least her victory. Her victory of aiding the rebellion, of saving her family, saving Tolly. She's won — they're all safe.

But she knows she is not. Because President Snow does not like to lose.

The silence is torturous. And yet, what he has to say is only the beginning. The bars of that cage are closing in on her again.

"I'm glad you're well rested, Ms. Navarro." The blue in his eyes dances while malice oozes from his tone. "Because starting today, you're going to wish Augustus's blade cut you deeper."

Sage's stomach churns. Her fingers are shaking, and she fidgets with her wedding ring to steady the tremors. She's smart enough not to doubt President Snow's threats. She knows they are never empty. And even if she was a fool, she's certainly about to find out.

"I hope you enjoy your stay in The Capitol." Another grin in her direction, and he beckons for the Peacekeepers to cuff her once more. "You've earned it."

━━━━

After Plutarch leaves his hospital room this morning, it doesn't take long for the door to his mind and the door to his hospital room to become revolving ones. None of what he said helps Ptolemus. It doesn't change the fact that he's here and she's not. Where satisfaction should have come from the answers, Ptolemus is only left with more questions. Around and around they go, growing in number and never resolved.

Like did Sage survive her stab wound? Did The Capitol heal her like Plutarch theorized? If they did — what are they doing to her? Are they hurting her? Oh God, please don't let them be hurting her.

Are they going to get her out? They have to get her out. They can't just leave her there. After everything she did for them, they can't just leave her there.

Why didn't she tell him about any of it? About her District? About Colt? About the plan? He would've helped her — he would've helped her so she didn't have to do all this alone. She did all of this alone!

Guilt strikes him across the face like a stinging hand.

Why didn't he realize any of it?

It all makes him dizzy on top of the doctors and nurses moving in and out of his room. He imagines this is what it's been like the last ten days that he's been unconscious. They don't frequently talk to him, unless to ask for updates on his symptoms, to which he usually just shakes his head yes or no, struggling to draw himself out of his mind. What Plutarch revealed to him plays over and over again it's almost maddening. They give him his medicines, check his vitals and examine his bruised rib, lacerated eye and the cuts on his arm and knee.

None of the physical injuries he notices. Thanks to the Morphling drip, he's numb to it, that velvety curtain shrouding him from the world. But it doesn't get rid of that blaring hole in his chest. Instead, it spreads like a tumor, turning him into an aching shell as he remembers the distance between him and Sage now. Himself — in District Thirteen apparently, buried deep in the ground safe from harm while doctors tend to his wounds. And her — imprisoned in The Capitol, probably being —

One of the nurses flinches when he starts to weep again. She doesn't put the cuffs back on, though she appears tempted, watching him uneasily. He just ignores her as he stares at the wall, streams of tears cascading down his cheeks and onto his hospital gown again. They tip-toe around him to treat him, and he just cries quietly.

Eventually, once his sobs have been subdued to a numbing silence for a quiet hour, a man in his thirties introduces himself as his occupational therapist, Dr. Fission. For a half hour he tests for Ptolemus's current state of vision and depth perception. It's barely a distraction to that ache that hollows out his entire body.

"Do I still have it?" he asks, skull throbbing. Frustration builds when he struggles to properly estimate the distance to reach for the tennis ball in this exercise, and he huffs, dropping his heavy hand to his side. His voice seems to echo. "My eye?"

He's just noticed the medical bracelet with his name and the term MENTALLY DISORIENTED typed across. That's one way to put it.

Dr. Fission nods, scribbling more notes in his chart. "By a miracle. When you were fighting Enobaria and hit the tree all your wounds opened up again. They had to surgically repair that slice, and it's sewn shut for now to heal, but your vision is lost. Hence why I'm here." A nod, and he clicks his pen with finality. "I'll return tomorrow."

The next doctor that introduces herself to Ptolemus is Dr. Metis. She's not here to treat his aches and pains of the physical body. She's here to treat his mind. She asks him basic questions about himself — name, age, date of birth, names of his parents, where he's from, etc. They bore him. They aren't the right ones to be asking. Instead, all the questions catalyzed by what was meant to be answers from Plutarch gnaw at the edges of his sanity. Around and around they go.

Is Sage alive? Is she alright? Are they hurting her? Are they torturing her right now for answers like Plutarch insinuated? Something else enters through that revolving door in his head, and it sounds like her scream. He physically winces, trying to stifle the tears again.

Why didn't she tell him? Why didn't she tell him about any of it? He would've helped her. He would've beared it all so she didn't have to.

He would've helped her and let them take him instead! Instead, he was useless to her in that Arena just like he's useless to her now.

He's fucking useless.

He remembers Plutarch standing in his hospital room this morning. The thought of the man ignites something just beneath his mutilated and wounded heart. One of his questions is answered by another question.

Why wouldn't they let her tell him?

Someone says his name from behind the curtain of Morphling. He hates how fuzzy and heavy it all makes him feel. It reminds him of that night. The night he lost her. Something warm sparks where the hole is and threatens to illuminate it.

"Ptolemus?" Dr. Metis repeats. She peers over at him patiently, her clipboard in her lap. "Do you know where you are right now?"

Even her voice sounds distant with only five feet between them. That deep ache in his chest threatens to paralyze him again. It's the worst pain he's ever felt, and yet, the Morphling does nothing. It's useless too. His gaze trails from the IV in his left hand to the drip hanging above his head. Dr. Metis shifts uncomfortably as she not so subtly reaches for her pager.

"Ptolemus."

He shakes his head to rid himself of the effects, but it's useless. Just like when he tried in that dark jungle, the blaring white walls around him shifting to that dreadful night. Worlds blend, and he's straining and fighting against the heavy medicine in his veins to get to her. To find her. He couldn't find her. He couldn't find her and because of it she's in The Capitol now.

She's in The Capitol. They're hurting her in The Capitol because he couldn't get to her in time. He hears more of her screams somewhere in the caverns of his skull as his mind tortures him with all the possibilities of how they're torturing her right now.

Ptolemus lurches to rip the IV out again. "Get this shit out of me."

Dr. Metis stands from her chair sharply, trying to reach for him and prevent further damage. Then she hesitates with her palm hovering, probably remembering what happened to the last person that tried to intervene. When he struggles to rip it out, heavy fingers fumbling, he grunts in frustration, teeth ground together.

"Ptolemus, we can't —"

He mangles at his IV with a snarl, and his blood splatters on his new gown again. "I don't want it!" He yells. His voice echoes again, and he can barely tell if he's thought it or said it, so he yells louder. "I said I don't want this shit — get it away from me!"

His motions are sloppy and erratic, but he tries to hurl the tube and the Morphling drip away from his bed. There's a clatter from the stand falling against the tile. Dr. Metis's voice reaches him as his chest heaves. He's ready to dig into his own body and tear the medicine from his veins.

His mother. His mother did this on purpose. She gave him the Morphling in the Arena because —

"Ptolemus, I want you to listen to my voice —"

The anger shoots out of him like a solar flare, providing the illusion that he's alive. "FUCK OFF!"

She flinches, and his furious gaze latches onto her unnerved one. The room spins from the jerky motion, and he grunts with frustration as his head weighs him down like an anchor. The jungle illuminates with blinding lightning, and the white walls of his hospital room return to him. Sage is gone.

He remembers her stupid question. "I know where the hell I am, Doc! I'm safe in Thirteen, and Sage is in The Capitol being questioned and tortured while I tell you my favorite fucking color!"

His hands tug at his hospital blanket, and he thinks he feels it rip. It isn't satisfying as he glowers at the psychiatrist, trying to tear through the curtain of Morphling. Tear through it and get to Sage, rewriting history.

"I know where the fuck I am, so STOP asking me that!" Another glare at the clear bag of medicine laying limply on the tile. "And STOP pumping me up with that fucking Morphling — I don't fucking want it! You hear me? I said I don't fucking want it!"

Dr. Metis inhales a deep breath as she struggles to maintain a calm and level tone. "Ptolemus, it is for your pain, your injuri— "

"My pain?!" He barks out a scoff. That hole in his chest continues to echo, the vibrations more torturous than a thousand cuts. He tastes salty tears again as his lips bear into a snarl. "You know nothing about my pain!"

Dr. Metis just stares at him. His chest is heaving again, lungs straining for air, and he begs for the Morphling effects to fade so he can feel something else. Anything else. Flames across his skull. Throbbing at his bruised rib. Stinging at his arm or his knee. Even just a sore joint from all the years of fighting. Anything else but this.

But none of it comes yet. He's returned to sobbing again as he trembles in his hospital bed, the fleeting fire going out. He sinks with defeat.

She writes several notes along her clipboard again. Then she sighs softly through her nose, folding her fingers neatly on her lap. He can feel her waiting for him to look in her direction again. He won't as a sense of shame builds.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? Just hold me down and knock me out again," he pleads, still choking on his cries. He tilts his head back against his pillow, clutching his ring finger to his chest like a wounded dog. He shakes his head over and over. "I don't want to wake up. I don't want to wa—" He hiccups on his sobs, every word true. "I don't want to wake up until she's safe."

A sad silence passes for several beats. All Ptolemus can hear is Sage's pained panting as she laid on that jungle floor with that dagger in her gut. He'll never be able to get that image out of his head. Not to mention the million others his merciless mind conjures up as it imagines her torture. It makes him cry harder, caving into himself physically and emotionally.

"Unfortunately, I'm not able to do that for you," Dr. Metis starts. If he didn't scoff he might be able to hear the sympathy in her voice. She straightens from her seat again. "But I can let your doctors know you would like to be taken off the Morphling. It's clearly a trigger. Is that what you want?"

Yes. He can't take it. He can't take that hazy feeling weighing him down and numbing him to everything but the one thing he's desperate to be freed from. It only reminds him how useless and wounded he is.

Ptolemus musters a nod between his sobs, large frame trying to curl into a ball. His bruised rib won't allow it.

"Very well then. I'll notify them. I'll also let your family know you might need another few hours to... collect yourself before another visit."

His ears perk at that word. Family. He knows who she means. The Navarro's, Almanzo's request to eat a meal with him returning his memory.

Part of him is desperate for their company, for some semblence of Sage, but another is ashamed. Ashamed for them to see him like this, ashamed for the fact he couldn't save her, ashamed for the fact that he's here and she's not. He immediately strains to mangle his sobs into silence. Just like he would for all the cameras.

"I'll be seeing you again tomorrow, Ptolemus."

━━━━

He's collected himself by the time the knock comes to his door. His eyes ache, the left from all the crying, the right from his wound. Sure enough, the Morphling is slowly creeping out of his system, the other pains in his body making themselves known.

A nurse opens his door wide enough for two other figures to come strolling behind. His heart thunders rapidly against his chest bone at the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Navarro. Despite those District Thirteen jumpsuits, there's touches of Ten worn well in their faces. The nurse sets his tray of food down along the table beside his bed, and he thinks he bids her a nod of gratitude. Sage's parents trickle inside after her, but he struggles to look them in the eye. He just stares quietly in their general direction.

"You have thirty minutes," the nurse reminds lightly.

Mr. Navarro nods. "Thank you."

The door shuts softly behind her. Ptolemus's chest is very still. He has to remind himself to breathe, only inhaling small and short breaths through his nose. He thinks he manages a meek, "Hi," but he isn't sure. He feels them watching him, and he waits for the screams and curses for failing to protect their daughter. Why else would they want to visit him? He can clearly see they've been mourning too.

Luna Navarro starts toward him first. He braces for a stinging hand. "Oh Ptolemus, it's such a relief to finally see you awake."

She sidles up beside his bed quickly, plopping down into one of the stools. There's a flash of color sprawled along his lap, and he flinches. He waits to hear sarcasm or malice in her tone, but it's only sweet. Genuinely sweet. "You look cold. Here."

He gazes down at the colorful quilt she's strewn over his thin, white hospital blanket dumbly. It's well worn, various patches stitched together with different patterns. He notices a familiar initial stitched into a corner with purple thread as Mr. Navarro sits down beside his wife.

"We'd been taking turns visiting you, waiting for you to wake up. When Zo told us the news we wanted to rush over, but the doctors told us we shouldn't overwhelm you," Sage's father explains.

Luna nods in agreement. "We're only allowed to visit you during meals. And only a few of us at a time."

"This place has a lot of rules." Santiago scratches at his beard. "But once you're discharged, it sounds like you'll get to live with us in our... Compartment."

He just stares at them in wary disbelief. Live with them? They want him to live with them? Why? After everything he's done —

"Hurry and eat your food before it's cold dear," Luna pipes up. She offers him his tray, gently placing it on his lap. It looks like some kind of stew with mashed carrots and a glass of water. "It doesn't taste much better than it looks, unfortunately."

"They've got farms down here." Santiago struggles to hide his mystifcation and awe at such a fact, clearly impressed. "Crops, poultry, other livestock. Who would've thought? I've been asking to tour their facilities —"

Luna squeezes his callused hand to silence his babbling for a moment. Her husband stops in his tracks, features flushing briefly as he ducks his head. Ptolemus just stares at both of them sitting so closely to his bedside. Then he stares at their warm eyes watching him, waiting to spy the fire or rage. Another glance at that quilt on his lap. The sight of Sage's intitials stitched onto it springs tears back into his gaze. They said they've been visiting him.

His breath hitches when Mrs. Navarro's hand latches onto his. Her voice is soft and quiet, but well measured. "We'd ask you how you are, but we're sure you've had a lot of people asking you that lately."

She peers at him gently, and he knows she can see the tears building in his eye. Her gaze drops to his wedding ring, and her thumb grazes it fondly. The corners of her lips tug upward bittersweetly. "Your vows to my baby girl were beautiful."

Ptolemus feels the sob creeping up his throat, lurching out of the gaping hole again. He chokes it back down as he inhales a shuddering breath. His voice is hoarse from screaming. "Thank you."

Mr. Navarro cracks a sad grin. "We just wish we could've been at the wedding."

He can't take it anymore. The guilt. The guilt mounts on his chest, threatening to break him apart even more. He's surprised there's anything left of him as one tear bubbles over the surface, and the rest follow suit. "I'm sorry," he whimpers.

Santiago straightens at his tone. Remorse flashes across his warm eyes for his comment. That isn't how he meant it to come across. "Oh Ptolemus, no, I didn't mean —"

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he repeats, breaking into another sob that rattles his heaving chest. "I'm sorry I couldn't find her, I'm sorry I let her out of my sight, I'm sorry I fell asleep, I'm sorry I — I'm so sor—"

"Stop it," Mrs. Navarro interjects firmly. She squeezes his hand to anchor him. He's still choking on his sobs, trying to heave it all back down as he nods blindly. Who is he to cry? They've lost their daughter. Another squeeze to his hand as he stares at his lap in shame. "Stop it right now and listen, sweet boy. There is nothing to be sorry for."

Mr. Navarro nods vehemently. "We saw you protect our daughter with your life in that Arena. Every step of the way." His callused hand overlaps his wife's as he clings to Ptolemus too. The broken Legacy shakes, straining to hear their consolations through all that ache again. It always comes back with a vengeance. "We know you love her as much as we do, and that's all we could ever ask for."

Ptolemus flinches when Sage's mother wipes away one of his tears. "It's not your fault, Ptolemus." Another shaky breath, and she cracks a wry smile this time, almost cursing her next words. "Our daughter has always been smarter than us."

That last part is something he can agree upon. Sage's beautiful mind has always been so brilliant. Working tirelessly and relentlessly, sharper than any sword. The only time he'd curse it is when it would hold her captive, that veil over her eyes and locking her somewhere far away that Ptolemus could never reach.

He remembers their fight after Adonis's party. Both of them arguing on who was going to die for the other. He said to her, "This is a fight neither of us are going to win."

But she did. She did win. She outplayed him.

"Besides." Luna straightens and clears her throat, squeezing his hand again. He's not sure if it's for him or for her, or maybe both as he notes the glass veil over her eyes. His gaze catches on her family locket again. "Our sweet girl is a fighter. We know she's going to come back to us."

"In the meantime, please try not to blame yourself." Santiago clears his throat, and he looks Ptolemus right in the eye as he says it. "Because we most certainly don't."

Sage's father then reaches for his matching locket, that Navarro mantra gleaming beneath the flourescent lights. He lifts it over his head, before popping the latch with a soft click. He offers Ptolemus a smile as he gently places it into his palm. "How about you keep this safe for me? When I miss her or miss my son I can always look at my wife's."

Ptolemus just weeps and nods as he stares down at the family picture Sage showed him in The Capitol. Sure enough, it's the same, her and Colt still arguing while he ruffles her hair and she pulls at his hat. Even though she isn't smiling, she still looks so happy. That ache inside him throbs.

Mrs. Navarro smooths down the quilt on his lap again. "When they came to get us they let us grab some belongings. This was one of the items I thought to grab." A sad and ghostly grin, and a tear slips out of her eye and onto the well-loved fabric. Her voice rattles. "It's her favorite blanket. I made one for all of my children when they were babies, and I sleep with Colt's every night." She chokes on her son's name, but she still smiles that bittersweet smile. "Would you like to hold onto this for me too?"

His chest rattles at the thought. His spare hand is already brushing the worn fabric in a self-soothing manner. He sounds like just a boy as his voice breaks. "Can I?"

Mr. and Mrs. Navarro smile through their tears. The couple clutch one another as they weep, barely holding each other together. Luna nods. "Of course you can."

If it weren't for their insistence, Ptolemus might forget to eat his meal, too caught up in cradling that picture of Sage or sobbing into her blanket. Nevertheless, Luna and Santiago manage to get him to clear his plate between the tears, revealing to him all they've learned of Thirteen.

Like that they have schedules tattooed to them every day, or that there's levels going into the ground to the thousands. They're addressed as "Soldier" with their surname, which can be confusing, so they add in the first initial. Which can still be confusing given Santiago and Shiloh both have the same initials.

Mr. Navarro is just explaining the jobs he's been assigned the last few days when the nurse from earlier returns promptly a half hour later to collect them. As they leave, they tell him that Almanzo and his family will be joining him for breakfasts, Shiloh for lunches, and themselves again at dinner. Mrs. Navarro kisses Ptolemus's hand.

Ptolemus clings to Sage's blanket all through the night, wrapping it around himself and clutching it close to that hole in his chest. He inhales her faint scent with each breath as he tries to calm the obsessive questions rolling through his fatigued mind. He's exhausted, but he's petrified to fall asleep. He doesn't know what kind of world he might stumble into if he closes his eyes too long, but he can imagine it won't be any better than this one — perhaps even worse.

He's just dozing into a grayish slumber when someone in the room to his left starts screaming. It sounds like a woman, and the first thought he has is that it's her. He jerks awake, and his rib scolds him for it as he clutches Sage's blanket closer to his chest. Just when he's about to bolt out of his bed, half-delirious from exhaustion, he realizes the scream isn't hers.

It isn't hers because she isn't here.

He tries to go back to sleep while the person to his right starts moaning and weeping loudly. His body aches as the last drop of Morphling evades his system.

Almanzo, Coretta and Erabelle return to join him for breakfast promptly, just as Mr. and Mrs. Navarro said they would. When Ptolemus notes they aren't eating, they simply explain that they ate already in the cafeteria. Food isn't allowed to leave the dining hall nor the kitchen unless you're a patient or prisoner. Ptolemus feels like both. He forces the oatmeal down, folding his side of blue berries within in hopes of elevating the bland taste. The texture is what's most difficult to muster through.

He listens quietly to Almanzo and Coretta as they talk more about their new life in Thirteen. About the space in their compartment, about the training they have to attend, all the chores enscribed on their arms and the refugees from Twelve — a District firebombed for being the birthplace of the Mockingjay. It barely distracts him, but distracts him nonetheless. Being closer to her family makes him feel like he's closer to her.

Meanwhile, Erabelle's brought him another drawing in that blue crayon. It's of the Navarro farm with all the dogs, horses, and cows labeled by name.

"We don't know what's happened to them," Coretta mentions sadly.

Almanzo squeezes his wife's hand comfortingly. "I'm sure they're doing just fine. They took care of us more than we did them." You can hear it's more of a hope than a certainty.

Erabelle won't stop staring at Sage's blanket. When she realizes he notices, she just tucks her face sheepishly into her mother's arm. Ptolemus carefully offers her one of the corners to touch, and after a few more moments of eyeing it quietly, Erabelle grazes the fabric with her small hand. She ducks back into her mother to hide her tears.

Dr. Fission returns between breakfast and lunch. He coaches Ptolemus through a few exercises, most of which are frustrating. His vision in his left eye is perfect. It's his right that gets in the way like an annoying itch, knocking him slightly off center. But again, it's another distraction, and Ptolemus desperately clings to it. When Dr. Fission suggests they try a walk down the hall, he barely stifles the urge to leap out of bed.

He's given a cane, and his therapist sidles up to his blind side, gently gripping his bicep to let him know he's there. They practice a few steps in his room first. It's mostly just strange. While the rest of his body remembers how to walk, the lack of peripheral vision and the slight difference in his depth perception makes him feel a bit unsteady. Then they start down the hall, and instead of concentrating on his steps, he finds himself gaping at the newest expansion of his tiny world the last eleven days.

There's various hospital rooms scattered, doctors and nurses moving busily. Ptolemus isn't sure what he was expecting, but given they're supposed to be underground, he wasn't expecting all this. They're running rampant with high technology, screens and monitors everywhere. While it's dim, the hallways aren't too narrow, nor are the ceilings obnoxiously low.

He's tired by the time he reaches the end of the hall, and his bruised rib is aching again from the panting. Thankfully, Dr. Fission thinks that's plenty as they turn back around. Ptolemus tries to peek at the name tags hanging outside each hospital room. He's just passing the one where he heard the screaming last night when he recognizes one.

KATNISS EVERDEEN

He's thinking of asking about her when another familiar name catches his eye. Right on the door next to his where he heard the weeping. His other neighbor.

FINNICK ODAIR

His gut churns, and the right side of his body swarms with heat. Dr. Fission doesn't seem to notice as Ptolemus halts right in his tracks, still leaning on his cane. Perhaps he assumes he's just catching his breath after his long walk — spending so many days bed-ridden. He mentions something about getting him an ice pack for his rib. Ptolemus clenches and unclenches his jaw when he remembers what Plutarch said yesterday.

"We sent Finnick Odair to recruit her for the plan at Adonis's party."

Those words ring in his skull on a loop for the remainder of the day. Even when Shiloh and that Dalton guy join him for his lunch, Ptolemus half-heartedly partaking in a game of cards. Dr. Metis visits him again like she promised, and while he knows he needs to participate in her methods, he struggles to focus on anything else. He keeps staring at the wall to his right. The tiles specifically. There's only tiles between them.

Between him and the man that killed his sister. Between him and the man that recruited Sage. The man that asked her to risk her life and demanded her secrecy.

Ptolemus suffers from a nightmare later that evening. He races through that dark jungle as he desperately searches for her, her screams echoing between the canopies, but always sounding too far away and just out of reach. It doesn't matter how fast he runs, nor how much thick greenery his sword tears through. His body continues to weigh him down, never able to reach her in time. Thunder roars and lightning strikes as his world is illuminated into a blinding white again. He screams for her, but he's only left with his own ragged echo calling back to him.

His body springs up from the bed too quickly, bruised rib punishing him with another ache, and his eye snaps open with a petrified violence. His cry is muffled by her blanket, his face buried deep into it from when he fell asleep. But the echo. The echo of him calling her name still lingers, trailing into something else.

It takes him a few minutes to realize it isn't coming from his own vocal chords, nor is it coming from his haunted mind.

It's coming from him.

Ptolemus is still as he listens to Finnick's muffled sobs between the wall. The sound strikes a match just beneath his diaphragm. It sparks irrational and inexplicable rage, and his knuckles twitch around Sage's blanket.

The ache in his ribs doesn't bother him anymore as he swings his legs over to the edge of his bed in one fluid motion, standing sharply. He reaches his right hand out carefully to his side like Dr. Fission showed him to navigate through the dim lighting of his hospital room.

He staggers and stumbles a bit, his hands shaking, fumbling with the knob. He grinds his teeth together with frustration, eventually heaving himself out into the dim hallway. The cries from next door grow louder. When Ptolemus glances down toward the hospital lobby, there's one figure on watch, his back turned to him. Leaning on the wall to his right, he feels for the knob to Finnick's door. It surprises him when it's unlocked, and he slinks inside like a whisper.

If Finnick notices his entrance, he can't tell. The bronze-haired Victor sobs in his bed, the sound almost bewildering. It's a stark contrast to that arrogant purr he's always fashioned. His hands are moving methodically, and while the shadows make it difficult to make out, he thinks it's a rope he's tying. Too short for a noose.

Ptolemus just glowers at him in the doorway, his chest heaving. All he can think about is Sage. Sage is being tortured right now, and Finnick is the one crying?

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

He knows Finnick's heard him now, his hunched and trembling shoulders growing still. It's like pausing a frame on a monitor, even his chest half-expanded with another one of his sobs. The man blinks through teary lashes as he yanks at another knot on his rope. He doesn't even look in Ptolemus's direction, which provokes him.

Anything Finnick does will provoke him.

A muscle in his cheek twitches, and Ptolemus launches forward at the other Victor, knuckles reaching for his throat. "You slimy piece of shit."

While ferocity pumps through him, his aching and wounded body more so staggers as he bumps into a monitor to latch onto Finnick's collar. The Victor from Four jumps, teary and dazed eyes wide in a panic. He doesn't fight back as Ptolemus bears over him like a rabid dog.

"Why didn't you let her tell me?!"

Finnick doesn't answer quickly enough as he barely snaps himself into reality, just sputtering and blinking dumbly. Ptolemus grips the collar of his hospital gown tighter. He has no patience for any of it.

"Answer me! Why didn't you let her tell me?! Huh?! I would've helped her if she could've told me!"

Finnick still isn't with him, and he shakes his head with visible disarray. "Who?"

Oh God. Ptolemus could fucking kill him. He will fucking kill him.

"Sage!" The Legacy shakes him, and Finnick tries to grasp the name. It's probably from all the drugs. He notes he has a bracelet just like his — MENTALLY DISORIENTED. "You recruit her for all that and you make her do it alone?! You made her do it alone!"

There's a sense of recognition. It's distant, fighting through some kind of fog, but nevertheless it's there.

Finnick's voice sounds more like himself when he speaks again. "I didn't —" A shake of his head as he blinks. "I didn't tell her she couldn't tell you." He still clenches his rope with trembling hands as he stares up at a furious Ptolemus, but he doesn't break eye contact. "I told her to use her discretion."

Liar. Always a fucking liar.

She would've told him. She would've told him if she could've.

...Right?

There's no time to humor that nagging thought as a muscle in his cheek twitches. His voice booms agains the tile walls, and his knuckles turn white around the hospital gown fabric. "Are you trying to say she didn't trust me?!"

"No." He's giving him that look again. That look at training after he broke the trident. That look from Marcellus's party near the fountain. That look of pitiful knowing. "I'm trying to say she probably didn't tell you to protect you."

Ptolemus almost doesn't let the words sink in. Not because the words are shocking or hurtful. But because they're sound, they're rational, they're true, unlike all the mangled up rage he's been feeling.

And that means that Sage chose to do this alone. She chose to do this alone to protect him — again. Which means he failed to protect her like he promised.

He hates that he's right.

Finnick shakes his head at him, stumbling for words to continue. He doesn't try to pry himself from Ptolemus's lethal grip. "If you were captured, maybe they wouldn't hurt you once they knew you didn't know anything."

Tears pool in his sea-green eyes again, and his gaze drifts past his shoulder now. He swallows thickly, and his voice breaks when he says her name. "It's what I tried to do with Annie."

Ptolemus frowns. He shouldn't care, but he does, repeating the name dumbly. "Annie?"

There's a hazy face attached. His first year mentoring — a boy he trained alongside with in The Academy dying in that Arena as he failed him. They flooded the Arena, and the strongest swimmer, Annie Cresta from Four was declared the Victor. A girl gone mad after watching her District Partner be beheaded by the female Tribute from Two.

Finnick nods as his bottom lip quivers. His chest rattles with a sob, and Ptolemus feels his grip on him waining. "They got her too."

It's as the sparks die out that he can hear it and make sense of it. That broken tone in Finnick's voice. It's the same as his own. He loves her. He loves her in the same way that he loves Sage. Ptolemus peers down at the shell of a man in his grasp, and it feels like staring back at a mirror.

He hates it.

"Do it."

Finnick's glazed eyes blink back at him, and just like before, his trembling frame stills. He glances down at Ptolemus's threatening fists still clutching his collar and centimeters from wrapping around his throat.

"Please do it."

Ptolemus's brows pinch together in a deep frown as he blinks. He straightens warily, the hollowness to Finnick's voice and the grimness to his ocean eyes unnerving. "I wish she was dead." The Legacy flinches, but the other man doesn't. It's clear he's had a great bit of time to think about this, and he means it. "I wish she was dead, and I wish we were too."

Another tear slips down Finnick's cheek as he falls into an empty abyss.

"I wish we were all dead too."

There's so much weight to his words that Ptolemus isn't sure how to bear them. But once you've heard them, you can't unhear them, and he feels them echo in that hole of his own. He hates how he feels them rooting themselves deep inside, and he glowers at Finnick, shoving him away with a grunt. Tears warp his vision as he staggers backward like he's been shot, almost bumping into another monitor.

He isn't sure how he manages to get back to his room so quickly, but he knows he's made it when he feels Sage's blanket clutched to his chest. He gapes for air, and he inhales her scent, body breaking out into a cold sweat. But it doesn't matter what he does, even twisting his eye shut and begging for sleep.

There's still the echo of Finnick's sobs next door. And there's still the echo of his words vibrating through his very being. For a fleeting moment, Ptolemus actually agrees with Finnick.

He wishes they were all dead too.

━━━━

»»————-　♡　————-««

Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed! Feel free to comment, I love hearing from you!

Ugh, Mockingjay is rough man. Everybody's so sad.

I'm ngl, I HATED writing the first scene with the Peacekeepers being nasty to Sage, it felt so hard and uncomfortable to write ya know? So I said this before but I will not be including actual torture scenes for Sage. You'll know what happened in passing and just fleeting sentences but I'm not going to write any of it in graphic detail.

Both her and Ptolemus are going through it rn. I'm going to take my time writing this bit because I want to do these delicate moments for my characters justice, so please be patient with updates!

But please feel free to comment your thoughts/reactions/predictions! I love hearing from you!

Also, I haven't introduced them yet but I'm so excited for you to meet some new characters I've come up with who are the rebel leaders in 10! Here's their casting and even tho they barely get more than a few paragraphs mention since this story follows Sage and Ptolemus I have whole backstories developed lmao. Highkey tempted to write them a little novella or something.

But here they are! You'll get to learn more about them in the upcoming chapters :) coming up with their names to fit District 10 was too fun.

Word Count: 9138