Chapter Text
Two bullets hit but dozens more echoed in the mostly empty hall. One into her calf, and one directly below her right shoulder, her dominant arm, the same arm she used to play guitar. But Chara Thistle wouldn’t stop. Not for Peacekeepers, not for Snow. She would run as fast and as far as she could, away from the nightmare that was the Capitol. The endless hours of singing for people who were far more interested in staring further down at something that was certainly not her face, not her voice, not her guitar. Far from the Capitol, where she watched the slaughter of tributes for entertainment. Back to her home, where they sang and danced and laughed. Where her siblings listened to stories of the other mentors, where her parents had created a house so full of love and music. Where her animals, her sweet goats would be waiting. Watching the door
Chara Thistle would run, far away from the man who was the reason she was here in the first place. President Coriolanus Snow. The man who smelled of sickeningly sweet roses, who stared at her with a look she couldn’t place, who lived in her nightmares at night. Flying and flitting around corners, not caring where she ended up. She needed a place to hide, to try and get out of here. She couldn’t go home, not yet, anyways. Hot tears started to pour down her cheeks, not from the pain, there was too much adrenaline for that. No, these tears were for her sweet friends. She was meant to be holding her sunshine, her cake with the cream, his hand as they made their way towards the tribute center. Chara Thistle was supposed to be preparing to bring her first tribute home. Paloma Rivers, the girl who survived the 92nd Hunger Games. Who spent her life slaughtering animals, but had spent the past few weeks slaughtering tributes and trying to survive in a crumbling coliseum.
Slamming into a set of double doors, she ended up in a darker room. Simple chairs and small tables were scattered. Chara Thistle took her chance, bolting to a darkened corner, breathing heavily, she collapsed. Blood poured out of her wounds, creating rose red stains on her dress. A simple one, a cream top with burnt orange sleeves. The gray skirt was pooling around her.
With her breath calming, she leaned into the corner, trying her hardest to blend into the corner the best she could, hiding between chairs. Lord, she felt like bawling, for the second time this games season. Her throat felt raw after singing for so long. It had been nothing but singing, with minor breaks to sleep, and eat, and do basic hygiene. She felt so weak. The final 8 had moved by so fast, that Chara Thistle hadn’t had time to recover much. Other than some minor food and water she had consumed, it was straight from the time she returned from the nightmare, crying in Baria’s arms, to her tribute winning. She started to mumble as quietly as she could, she needed a plan to get out. Chara Thistle Star was not going to be stuck in the Capitol, no, she needed out of this nightmare filled place.
“Okay, I need out. You’ve seen maps, been to a few places, seen the streets. But that’s not enough, you need a map yourself, at least to get out. Maybe a compass? The Covey were from the North originally, before the Dark Days. North… Above Panem… Perhaps it’s possible. Yes, a map and a compass. Maybe some supplies if you can swing it. If not a compass, well, Momma taught you the stars for a reason. You can find North. And then, maybe, you can be free. Yes, you can be fr-”
Chara Thistle stopped, her emerald green eyes blew wide, she could smell it. That awful, awful strong sweet scent of roses. The same scent that she had just got out of her nose, after days on end. After he had asked, no, interrogated her on her songs. The ones from the worn, hand-written notebook that had been left with her Momma all those years ago. The one that her, and her siblings, Aster Ash and Archer Sage, had all learned from. Her eyes snapped towards the door, staring with a look of horror, skin pale. Chara Thistle could hear the footsteps now, the heavy stomp of boots outside the door. She couldn’t get up and run, not now, The pain had started to reveal it’s ugly head. Her shoulder and calf starting to sting and scream in pain. She waited for the door to slam open and her face the end of multiple guns as Snow taunted her. But that didn’t happen.
It creaked open just enough for a small can to be thrown in, and moments later a gas started to fill the room. She panicked, trying to shove her dress over her mouth and nose but it was for naught.
The last conscious thought she had was that her family's wings weren’t clipped like hers were sure to be.
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Chara Thistle Star woke. Not instantly, no. She faded in and out of consciousness, never awake long enough to figure anything out. Just long enough to see nothing but pure white. But eventually, she fully woke up. Her shoulder and calf felt numbed now. The bandages were visible when she moved her head, but that was all she could move. There were thick, black straps across parts of her body, keeping her stuck to the bed. Her eyes moved from the straps to the few tubes coming out of her arms, hooking up to machines and small bags. Turning her head to the bedside table, there sat a beautifully decorated vase, filled with purple roses. She blinked, and just stared confused. They weren’t white, after all. She let a small smile come as she turned to face the door. Maybe she hadn’t left the mentors room, and she had just gotten sick and had to be rushed to the hospital. Perhaps, well she hoped, that the entire nightmare of the running and being trapped was just a bad, fever-caused dream. Any second now, Baria, Brutus, and Cecelia would walk in with her darling Argyle.
Right?
….
The smile dropped. Chara Thistle knew, knew that this wasn’t some sickness that she had contracted from the food in the Mentor’s room. She knew that she was now stuck, in whatever hell would come from Coriolanus Snow. Knew that she wasn’t that lucky, just like she wasn’t lucky enough to avoid the reaping, avoid irritating the President. She didn’t think she was going to die, not anymore. If she was, then she would’ve just been dragged from the room where she hid to be executed. Chara Thistle knew she wouldn’t die, at least not today.
Then she could smell it, the metallic floral rose smell. It wafted in, under her door, from the vents, all around her. Chara Thistle’s heart started to race, her eyes blew wide, and thousands of thoughts ran through her head.
‘ Oh lord, oh no, no, no, no, no. I’m sorry Momma, I’m sorry Papa, I’m sorry Aster Ash and Archer Sage. I’m sorry for winning, for being reaped, for some reason pissing off the president. Maybe he’ll focus on me,and y’all will be safe. Maybe, just maybe, you can live. ‘
At that moment, the door slammed open, hitting and ricocheting off the wall. In walked the president, with two peacekeepers at each side, and guns trained on Chara Thistle. The president himself had an eerie, nightmarish smile. Lips stretched thin, and perfectly white teeth on full display.
“Why, Miss Baird. How lovely to see you here today. After all, you were not meant to survive this long. But, I suppose, that is just how you Covey girls are.” His smile seemed to widen forcefully.
“It’s Star, sir. Not Baird, Star.” Chara Thistle stared Snow directly in the eyes. She wouldn’t be afraid, not anymore.
“Yes, Yes. Baird, Star, same thing.” His hand moved slightly, as if he was simply discussing the difference between the color of clouds. “That doesn’t matter. What does is you, my darling songbird. You were not meant to make it so far, you were to die in that corridor. For the dear mentors you care for to see you, wings clipped, body bleeding such a lovely shade of red on the floor. That, sadly, did not happen. I thought for a while, Miss Baird, on what to do with you.”
“Why not just kill me.” She sneered. “Wouldn’t it be easier on everyone? Just kill me and I can’t do nothing anymore, even though I didn’t do anything in the first place!” The words came out faster and louder as they tumbled out.
Snow tipped his head back and laughed. A loud, dark thing. One that sent chills down Chara Thistle’s spine. The laugh turned into a bloody cough, as he bent back forwards. Brandishing a handkerchief with a flourish, he coughed heavily into the cloth, spraying red all over the cloth as white as his name. Snow straightened after a moment, with a grin so wide Chara Thistle thought she could see all his teeth. She tried to sink into the bed as he stalked towards her, teeth stained as red as his cloak. He stopped next to her, the scent of roses so strong it flooded her nose. With a quick hand, he grabbed her chin and tilted her head towards his.
“Now, now, now, my dear. Why would I? Not when you can live in my mansion.” He spoke, with the manic grin still there and eyes blown wide. “Snow lands on top! I may have lost my songbird over eighty years ago, but a newer, better, one has been sent to me. Reaped and won with rainbow snakes, in an arena meant to start a rebellion! Oh how history repeats!! No, my dear songbird, you will live with me, perform for me and mine. My sponsors, and no one else will know.”
“And what if I decline you sick fuck!” Chara Thistle cried out, hoping for any other option.
And Snow’s eyes got an entertained, manic gleam. “Then I suppose, your family will get into a terrible, terrible accident. A rogue bull, perhaps? Or how about a house fire! All your precious little instruments and music up in flames. Those lovely little victors from two, the ones who you are so fond of? Perhaps the sponsors get a little too, disorderly, with them. Oh, and how can I forget? Your lovely little sunshine from district 8, along with the poison victor. Perhaps her children are going into the next games to punish her! And him?” Snow leaned in close, right next to Chara Thistle’s ear. “Well, it would be far too easy for him to come to the Capitol to visit a few sponsors. And who will say anything when he never returns. After all, illness can be faked so easily, and the peacekeepers can always use some, interrogation practice.”
Chara Thistle’s eyes blew wider than she thought was possible. The tears pricked at the corners of her eyes quickly before making their way down her face. The president leaned back, eyes still manic and smile still wide.
“Have we come to an understanding, Miss Baird?” He stared down at her, knowing he had her trapped in a corner.
“Yes, sir” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Then I suppose it’s settled, isn’t it?” He turned, and started to make his way towards the door as he continued to talk. “When you are released, you will be privately taken to my mansion. No one will see you make your way there. Your dear victors think you are dead, or at least never coming back. The straps will be removed, and if you try to run, then the ‘accidents' will happen.” He made it to the door, the peacekeepers turned to leave as well, their guns no longer trained on Chara Thistle. The peacekeepers walked out the door but the president stopped, and turned his head just slightly to the side. “And do please, call me Coryo”
Snow fully made his way out of the room, the door shutting silently behind him. Chara Thistle stared at the door. She stayed silent for a few moments, before bursting into tears.
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Chara Thistle stared at the ceiling, exhausted but able to move again. Snow had kept his word of having the straps removed. She had hardly slept, tossing and turning, split between worrying about herself and worrying about anyone she had ever cared about. Her eyes were rubbed red, having spent time crying. Chara Thistle was tired, but her mind remained fixed on one single line. ‘Call me Coryo.’ She couldn’t help but think about that one simple line.
‘But why Coryo? What is so special about the nickname Coryo? Does it have to do with Lucy Gray? Is that what she called him? I feel sick.’
Just her thoughts made her want to puke. She didn’t want to call him Coryo, but she had to. She had no choice unless she wanted her whole family dead. Baria and Brutus, Cece and her children, and her sunshine. Oh her sunshine, her Argyle. They all probably thought she was dead, or maybe they hoped that she had gotten out and escaped.
‘Maybe, maybe if I hadn’t been shot. Maybe I could’ve made it out of this nightmare. Maybe I could’ve gone North. There were always whispers that District 13 had escaped the bombing all those years ago. I noticed the same bird in the corner of it for years. Maybe I could’ve made it there. But North, North to where the Covey originated. Where I could be free. No Snow, no Capitol, nothing. Just me, the forest, and my songs. That would be nice, nicer with my family and friends. But nice.’
There was a soft rap at the door, and in walks an Avox. Balanced in her careful hands was a tray, and on her arm was a small bag. The tray had an assortment of fresh fruits, a cup of tea, and a small vile. Also on the tray was a tiny bowl with a few sugarcubes. The avox set the tray and bag down on the table that could twist to allow her to eat it. The Avox bowed and left the room. Spinning the table towards her, Chara Thistle ate the fruit, adding two sugarcubes to her tea and holding the small vile in her right hand. It wasn’t very big, about the same size as her pointer finger. The liquid inside was thin and a pale blue. Assuming it was medicine, she pulled the cap and downed the liquid, quickly grabbing the tea to get rid of the taste.
It was bitter, but it would heal Chara Thistle’s bullet wounds fast. After finishing her fruit and tea, she grabbed the small bag and peaked inside. Inside was a beautiful purple dress that sat off her shoulders, with short puffy sleeves. The purple was a light shade, and flowed down. It was cotton, with embroidered thistle flowers and stars at the bottom of the skirt.
“Was, was this just made? It looks brand new… I wonder who made it?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Sitting at the bottom of the bag was a pair of leather lace-up boots, similar to her normal ones, with just a bare bit of a heel. She got up and changed, freshened up the best she could in the bathroom, and sat on the bed, waiting. After a while, a peacekeeper, this time without a gun, opened the door and stepped in without knocking. In silence, he gestured to follow him, and walked out. Chara Thistle stood, feeling a bit more like herself in the cotton dress and leather boots. She followed the peacekeeper, down below the hospital and into a place that was reserved for when people high up in Panem needed treatment.
There sat a shiny black car with the windows tinted dark. The peacekeeper opened the door and gestured for Chara Thistle to get inside. After she did, the peacekeeper shut the door and the car started to move. She could see out of the windows but no one could see in. She watched the bright Capitol colors pass by, seeing posters with her tribute's face on it and celebrating Capitol citizens. Paloma Rivers, 10’s new Victor, and her replacement. Chara Thistle sighed and turned to stare at the floor.
Eventually, the car came to a slow stop. Something ahead creaked and the driver’s window rolled down slightly, before it went up again and the car started to move once more. Just a bit later, the car stopped and her door opened. An Avox with electric green hair and pink eyes stood to the side of the door as Chara Thistle slid out. Standing a bit in front of her was the President. An eerie smile present on his face, he spoke to her, voice cold with a hint of something else.
“Welcome songbird, to your new home. You will have your own room, in the familial wing of the mansion. Once a day, you will have lessons in a new instrument of my choosing. That will come later, however. For now, your personal avox will take you to your quarters. At seven, it is breakfast, at noon is lunch, and at six sharp it is supper. You will attend every meal at precisely the time said and if not there will be consequences. You may wander the familial wing of the mansion without your avox but will require its presence if you choose to go anywhere else. Enjoy your stay, my dear.”
And with that the president stalked off. An avox with hair that faded from black to a dark blue stepped forwards. Her eyes were gray and skin pale. She simply bowed and took her hand gently, leading her through the mansion.
The mansion was large and beautiful. The floors were made of marble and the walls were decorated with hand-painted murals. Large paintings of men and women were hanging and small tables with vases of white roses were everywhere. Chara Thistle looked all around her, in shock that here, the President lived in absolute luxury but in her district, many worked long hours with hardly any water or food. Children learn to feed an animal before they learn history. Before long, they ended up in front of an ornate door, painted thistle purple and silver metal stars placed around it. The door had an ornate nameplate that simply said “Chara Thistle Star” and it seemed perfect. Except for the peacekeepers placed at the end of the hall, the multiple locks that locked from the outside, and when the door opened, the first thing Chara Thistle noticed was the golden bars seemingly made into the window. The walls were painted cream and in the corner sat a four poster bed with floral sheets. There was a guitar and a piano in the large room. Two doors sat on opposite ends, and there was a desk in the corner. Across from the bed, was the holo tv, and the remote sat next to the bed. The avox bowed and stepped out of the room, shutting the door quietly.
Through the windows, the sun was setting. It had been later in the evening when she had been picked up from the hospital, and now Chara Thistle was completely exhausted. She had been earlier, but now it was awful. She opened one of the doors to see a high tech bathroom, fancier than the one she was used to seeing in the bathroom in the tribute center. The other door was a large closet, filled with dresses that looked like they could be Covey, and leather shoes that looked like they came from home. Chara Thistle knew they weren’t, and that made her feel so much worse. She furrowed her brows and slammed the door. Plopping down on the bed, she ripped off the leather shoes and buried herself under the covers. She started to cry. Chara Thistle missed her home, she missed her family, her Momma and Papa, Aster Ash and Archer Sage. She missed Baria, Brutus, Cece, Argyle, and all the other mentors. Chara Thistle wanted to be anywhere but in the President’s mansion. Her sobs slowly came to a stop, and became sounds of upset breathing as she slept fitfully.
In the President’s office, he had a wide, creepy grin as he stared at papers laid across his desk. He just started to laugh again, that manic, high-pitched, insane laugh that echoed under his office door and down the hall. Coriolanus Snow had plans for his songbird, better plans than having her killed.