Chapter Text
Despite the fact that he was officially his mentor, it takes until the train ride home, after the interview, for Kaz to see Haskell again. Parties will continue in the Capitol for weeks, celebrating the end of Games season, but he hasn’t been invited to any of them. He won’t be back in the Capitol until six months from now, for the Victory Tour. He’d forgotten about the whole thing entirely until he was backstage after the end of the interview, when Caesar had cheerfully said that he had been great and he couldn’t wait to see him again in six months, that he hoped Kaz would enjoy getting a chance to see the other Districts.
He paces the length of the train, cane tapping loudly on the metal floors, as he thinks about it. Six months. It’s not nearly enough time; but then again that’s the point, isn’t it? Six months might be enough time to start getting your feet back under you, and the Capitol can’t have that. The Games are usually old news to the Districts by the new year, unless a child happens to turn 12 and needs to go down to the Justice Building to take out tesserae, and that’s a private event between them and the bored clerk who handles things like that. Kaz remembers the experience as a dull 20 minutes of paperwork, flown through on a cold and rainy November morning, thoughts of the Games fleeting. He’d been much more worried about surviving the months of hunger and cold weather that lay ahead, a far more immediate threat than the Hunger Games, and he'd only taken it for one year anyway, before he was a full member of the Dregs. That’s how it is for everyone, as far as he can tell, until the Victory Tour comes rolling through in January and the sorry podge who won the whole damn thing last year has to get up on a stage in the main District square and talk about how Six’s Tributes died bravely and with honor and hope they can keep a straight face doing it and remind them all of what’s coming up next July. This year the sorry podge delivering the bad news will, of course, be him.
He’s so lost in thought that it takes him a moment to realize his pacing has taken him to the locked door at the end of the train that he encountered last time he was here. He presses on it lightly, more out of idle curiosity and hope for distraction than any real expectation that he’ll be able to see what’s inside. This time, however, it slides open easily and soundlessly under his touch. Kaz takes an involuntary step back, startled, and his cane scrapes against the floor with a loud noise. Haskell looks up, bottle of ale clutched in his hands, from where he's sitting next to a coffin and seems just as surprised to see him as Kaz is.
He didn’t think about how the bodies got home. He hadn’t wanted to, really. He’s had enough of corpses to last him a lifetime at this point, even as they come back to haunt him every night. Still, he steps into the room, closing the door softly behind him and walks over to the window, looking out at the wilderness rushing past. The woods are dark and deep, trees blocking any hint of the stars or moonlight. The coffin, bare white wood that shines under the humming florescent lights, lies between them.
Kaz speaks first. They’re both Victors now, ostensibly equals despite the some 40-odd years between them. “I didn’t think you cared enough to say good-bye,” he says, and he’s too tired to hide the bitterness in his tone, not that he really wanted to in the first place. “Or was this just the most private place you could think of to drink?”
Haskell sets the bottle down firmly on the coffin, a solid thunk Kaz thinks may be intended to make him flinch. He doesn’t. He doesn’t turn to look at him either. “You’re not as smart as you think you are, Brekker.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kaz asks, turning to face him. Haskell gives him a flat, almost bored look in return, picking up his ale and taking another sip, not answering the question. “Well?” He demands.
“Nikolai Lantsov and his friends are dangerous,” Haskell finally says after a few more slow sips. He looks Kaz up and down, eyes lingering on his cane with a cruel twist to his mouth. “You’ve already got enough problems. Stay away from them.”
“Nikolai Lantsov is a Gamemaker who got stuck having to drag me around because you couldn’t be bothered to do your damn job, old man.” Kaz snaps, temper rising. He’s been more on edge lately, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the feeling of his emotions barely in his control, having to hold them as tightly as he does his new cane. “I am not his friend, and you are not my father. You were barely my mentor. Don’t order me to do anything.”
“I didn’t say you were.” Haskell takes another sip of his drink. Kaz wrinkles his nose at the smell, which is getting stronger the longer he stays in the confined space. Haskell’s a Victor, can’t he afford to drink something that doesn’t smell like shoe polish? Kaz will certainly be asking for top shelf liquors. “You may not be as smart as you think you are, Brekker, but you’re smart enough to know you don’t have to be friends with someone to get involved in whatever trouble they get themselves in.” He leans back in his chair, fingers brushing against the top of the coffin. “Don’t waste all my hard work.”
“Your hard work?” Whatever minimal control he had over his temper crumbles away entirely at that, and Kaz snaps. “Your hard work? Are you really that arrogant or are you just that deluded?” Haskell opens his mouth like he might say something but Kaz steamrolls right over him, words barreling from his mouth as quickly as the train they’re riding on. “What the hell do you think you did for me, old man? I didn’t get a single saints-damned sponsor gift until hours before I won! The pills you sent nearly took my fucking leg off except that you insisted they just cripple me instead!” He laughs, high and a little hysterical. “Were you drunk off your ass when you sent those? Or are you just that fucking stupid? Genna was a better mentor than you and half the time she’s too high to remember her own name! Your hard work!”
For a moment he thinks Haskell might hit him. The hand not holding his drink tenses, forming a fist, and he lifts himself an inch, like he might rise from his chair and take a swing at him. Kaz tightens his grip on his cane, ready and able to break Haskell’s wrist like he broke that touchy stylist’s. That story was all around the Capitol by time he left—he heard people whispering backstage, saw production assistants eying him nervously. Another gruesome story to add to the newly developing legend of Dirtyhands. Haskell seems to remember it too, and his hand reluctantly relaxes, as harshly as he’s glaring at Kaz. He sits back in his chair and takes another sip of his drink. “Get out,” he spits. “Get out and when you get caught, don’t drag my name into it. I tried to warn you.”
“I don’t want your name associated with me at all,” Kaz snaps, turning and slamming the door behind him, leaving Haskell to his brooding. He doesn’t envy Imogen the company.
Back in his room he sits on the bed, picking up a book from the bedside table—some trashy mystery novel he’d grabbed in another attempt at a distraction, one that hadn’t worked—and throws it at the wall as hard as he can, picturing it hitting Haskell’s face—or better yet, hitting his precious model ships, shattering them all one by one. Lazy, arrogant, stupid—he picks up one of his dozen pillows and presses his face into it, letting out a guttural cry of frustration. What is wrong with him? Where is the control he spent five years crafting? How can it all have fallen apart in a month? Will it take him another five years to get it back? He doesn’t have that kind of time, not with the promises he made Lantsov, or the cameras he knows are waiting to meet them. He can’t fall apart. He can’t let anything—the pain, the memories, the dreams—get to him.
Sleep has never come easy to him, not since he was 9 years old. Not that Kaz has ever welcomed it in the first place. Sleep is a waste of time, and it’s rarely ever brought him anything good. He fights it off with coffee, paperwork, shifts in the Crow Club, even trashy Capitol mystery novels like the one currently on his floor. Still, he’s human, as much as the Capitol might currently be whispering otherwise, as much as he sometime tries to pretend that’s not the case. He needs sleep, as much as he hates it. They’re well into nighttime now and there’s only so long he can ignore the rocking of the train that lulls him into a doze. Kaz sleeps, propped up in a sitting position against his headboard, still in his day clothes, one hand resting on his bad leg, trying to work out the pain in his exhausted muscles.
He dreams. He always dreams. He dreams of fire, of fever, of the rivers, both of them, of a sword handle coming down on his leg over and over again. He dreams of drowning, of corpse’s hands dragging him down to the depths below, of screaming and screaming and no one coming to answer.
He dreams that he’s trapped in the fuel refinery as it burns, smell of roasting flesh surrounding him. He never could eat pork after that. Never could stand the smell. The flames roar up around him, choking him on the smoke and then he dreams of the river, stagnant ashy water flooding his mouth as corpses, eyes alight with malevolence, pull him under. He doesn’t usually dream the corpses with faces, except for Jordie. Jordie’s face, dead and twisted, is stamped so clearly in his mind he can never escape it, not even in his sleep. The rest, though, are always faceless monsters, features worn away with water and pox scars.
Not tonight. Tonight the dead have faces, and they’re all dead at Kaz’s hand. The boy from Nine, neck a weeping ruin, eyes wide with shock. The girl from One, knife still lodged in her heart, bloodstain forming a ragged star across her chest. The girl from Seven, dark curls tumbling around her shoulders, released from her hair ribbon when Kaz pulled her back by her ponytail to get a better angle to slit her throat. The girl from Four, face still flushed with fever, barely holding on to her mace. The boy from Ten, arms coated in blood and skin half gone, eyes wide and pleading. The boy from Five, blood dripping slowly from his empty eye socket, mouth open to reveal his missing teeth. Oomen, laughing. Filip, a sunny grin on his face. Evie, tossing her hair. Saskia, blue eyes sparkling. Anastasia, twirling in her interview dress. Theo, chewing on his pinky nail.
And the boy from Six, Kaz floating in the river, Kaz dragged down to the depths with them, Kaz screaming wordlessly, soundlessly. Trying to claw his way back up, hands bare, but his nails are cut short and his fingers sink into rotting flesh, unable to get a grip. When he opens his mouth to scream he chokes on the stagnant ashy water, the warm water of the river in the Arena.
Jordie stands on the riverbank, watching him struggle, his expression blank. Kaz can see his face through the ripples of water, surface miles and miles above. He tries to call his brother’s name but doesn’t have the oxygen to form the words. He tries to pull himself up to the surface, reaching for him, but the corpse hands on his arms are strong, stronger than any human hands could be and he can’t break their grip. On the bank, he can see Jordie shake his head in disgust and turn to walk away.
Blood trails through the water as he sinks to the depths below, but it doesn’t come from the wounds of the people pulling him down. The blood flows from Kaz’s own bare, uninjured hands, turning the waters around him red. His hands are dirty. Dirty hands. Dirtyhands. Kaz Brekker, the monster. Kaz Brekker, the Victor.
Kaz Brekker, who is no longer Jordie Rietveld’s brother.
It’s still dark outside when he wakes up gasping for breath, Jordie’s name dying on his lips. The lights of some District are flying by—Seven, maybe, or Nine. Both with dead Tributes at his hand. He can’t imagine he’ll get a pleasant reception in either, when the time comes.
He sits up in bed, rubbing his aching leg absently. It’s worst in the mornings, when he first wakes up and at night, after a long day of exercising it. His shoulder is starting to hurt too—he’s still getting used to using the cane. The physical therapist said his arms and shoulders would likely be sore for a while, as he learned to adjust. She wanted to see him in six months, when he was back in the Capitol, for follow-up to see how he was adjusting. Win the Hunger Games, get a lifetime of free medical care. All you need to do is murder a bunch of other teenagers. Simple.
Then again, plenty of people do worse for less. Kaz murdered a man before the Games began, and he didn’t get anything out of it but the chance to try and do it again the next week. Pekka Rollins killed half the District and didn’t even manage to knock off his true target. People steal and murder and sell themselves for morphling, for a handful of kruge, for a mouthful of food and a place to sleep at night. If he was a little older, if he hadn’t—well, if he was a little older when Jordie died, things might have been very different. Is the Hunger Games really so special? Can he really claim some particularly despised place, some unique hatred? Or all they all monsters, under the skin, just needing the right pressure to come out?
Is he really so different from Filip and Saskia, from Oomen? From Pekka Rollins? From Alexander Lantsov, from Jan van Eck?
Murderer, Jordie’s voice in his head says, and Kaz replies, yes.
Breakfast is a quiet, solitary affair. He drinks three cups of strong black coffee and forces himself to eat some eggs and toast. Strength, for the day ahead. The train will get to the station at mid-morning, an inversion of the Reaping. The District will be waiting there, along with half the camera crews in the Capitol, to see him arrive. Pekka Rollins will make a speech and shake his hand. He’ll get the keys to his new house in Victor’s Village. The Games will be over until January, when he takes the Tour, and then they’ll start again after that next July. And this time, he will mentor. He’ll take Haskell’s place—he already knows the lazy, arrogant jackass will hand over all his responsibilities the second he gets the chance, and he’s effectively responsible for both of Six’s Tributes already. He’ll take Haskell’s place and the Games will continue.
Part of Kaz thinks they’ll continue forever, despite what Lantsov and Nazyalensky and all the other members of their little group say. It’s been 71 years after all, what the hell is District Thirteen waiting on? Are they planning to do anything at all, or is it just some long elaborate con? If he hadn’t seen the footage and the communications himself he might believe that the lost District is just another comforting lie, like the saints or those other District gods he has no name for. Something to depend on that makes the worst of the nightmares go away. That gives them all a little hope that this might not be the world forever. He might mentor for the rest of his life. He might send dozens of teenagers to their deaths. He might grow as old and bitter and lazy as Haskell, hiding in his house and drinking to forget.
The train comes to a grinding stop and Kaz picks up his cane, the same wooden one he’s been using since the hospital. He already knows the metalworker he wants to go to get a new one. He has crude sketches of the design he did on the train ride earlier, enough for him to get the idea of what he wants. It should only take a few weeks for it to be ready, especially with the amount he intends to pay. The wooden one will do for now.
He can already hear the crowd waiting at the station, even through the thick walls of the train. When he looks out the window he can see the people, rows and rows deep, pressing against temporary wooden barriers erected at the entrance to the depot. Camera crews have taken over that for themselves, all the lenses pointed at the arriving train, waiting to catch a glimpse of them. He lets the curtain fall, blocking any view they might be able to get through the train window and taking a moment to breathe.
Home. He can already smell it. It’s not a nice smell- back alleys, blood, gasoline, the river—but he breathes it in deeply all the same. The train door opens and he steps down to the platform, carefully judging the distance with his new cane. The camera people start the round of applause, and the people behind the barriers pick it up, some more enthusiastically than others. Pim and Anika have pushed their way to the front of the crowd, right behind the wooden barriers. Pim waves enthusiastically and Anika’s smile is too big for her face. Kaz finds himself smiling, raising his free hand to wave back.
His smile fades when Pekka Rollins steps forward, blocking his view of them and the other Dregs who’ve come to welcome him home. Kaz studies him, and says nothing, waiting for the older man to make the first move, seeing if he remembers him. There was no spark of recognition on the Reaping stage of course, but his face has been on every television in the nation for the last month. If Rollins was ever going to remember him, it’ll be now.
Still, there’s nothing. Kaz almost screams. He doesn’t, really, know what he expected.
“Mr. Brekker,” Rollins says, holding out his hand for Kaz to shake. “Welcome home.”
Kaz takes his hand for as long as he can stand, but he still drops it more quickly than he would like. There’s a flash of light and he knows that a camera has captured the moment. He arranges his face into a haughty expression, like Rollins isn’t worth his time or attention, and wipes his hand pointedly on his pants. Rollins’ face flickers, mask slipping to reveal the anger underneath for just a moment. Kaz doesn’t flinch. “Thank you.” He says, voice low and raspy.
“The keys to your new home.” He hands them over and Kaz takes them, sliding them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Victor’s Village is halfway across the District from here, the entirely opposite side from where Kaz grew up. They’ll have to take a train to get there. Moving all his things is going to be a pain. It’s the nicest part of the District—the factories and refineries are far enough away that the air is almost clear, and plants can actually start to grow. The houses are huge and far apart, with the only neighbors other fellow Victors. Haskell and Genna. Maybe he’ll move back to the Slat. He knows he’ll prefer the company, even if he doesn’t enjoy the thought of going up and down three flights of steep, narrow stairs multiple times a day.
“Thank you,” he repeats for lack of anything else appropriate to say on television, as much as he hates the man he’s being forced to thank. Rollins gestures for the camera crews to step back and they do. Kaz tightens his grip on his cane as he begins to speak, some garbage about Kaz’s bravery and the sacrifices he’s made for the District. It sounds good coming out of his mouth, even if they all know it’s complete bullshit from both ends. As he speaks, the Capitol attendants begin unloading boxes and bags from the train and now Kaz knows why the crowds are here, why they’re staring at him with wide eyes and whispering in excitement.
Parcel Day will come once a month for the 12 months until the next Games, a reward for the winning District. Extra food, clothes, basic supplies, as well as countless little luxuries, free to anyone in the District. The packages will be measured out by population and available for pickup at the Justice Building. Kaz has no illusions about how that will work in practice—Rollins and his cronies will take control of the supplies, distribute them in a way most beneficial to them. Still, even the idea of the packages offers hope to the District, and they’ve come out just to see them. Suddenly Kaz understands why the Careers train their children, why so many saints are Tributes and Victors.
What would he have believed, if someone brought him all this bounty when he was nine and starving, nine and desperate? What would he have done, to get his hands on more of it?
He watches the first handout of the parcels the next day from the steps of the Justice Building, leaning on the cane. A few Dime Lions have organized the parcels and are distributing them, checking names off on a list as the crowd moves along.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” He feels Pekka Rollins behind him before the man speaks and his shoulders tense, teeth grinding. “All the bounty you’ve brought home to us.”
“I didn’t do it for you.” His tone is level, the only way he can keep from screaming. He shoves his hands deeply into his pockets, wanting another layer of protection. “Or them.”
“You don’t care about the District at all?” Rollins sounds amused. “They showed what a cold-hearted skiv you are on television, Dirtyhands, but that’s a bit much, even for you, isn’t it?”
Kaz turns to face him, spitting out his words in a low raspy voice, throat tight with anger. “The only thing I care about,” he hisses, taking a step closer to the older man, who watches him with an amused look “is seeing you rotting in the river.” It’s more than he meant to say and Kaz storms off, practically running before his fraying grip on his temper slips completely.
He finds Pim and Anika in the Slat, washing dishes in the kitchen. The chore board is unintelligible as usual, so he can’t tell if it’s an assigned duty or not, though he thinks he sees their names buried under illegible scrawl on another section of the chart. He watches them from the doorway for a moment, bumping their shoulders up against each other as they work. Anika flicks a little water on Pim, who respond by shouting like he’s dying and collapsing dramatically against the counter. He pictures the Reaping stage. He remembers District Thirteen. “You didn’t want parcels?” he asks as he steps fully into the kitchen, not bothering to knock.
“Rotty’s picking them up,” Pim explains, recovering from his dramatics and pouring a cupful of soapy water into the copper soup pot for it to sit. “We wanted to come and see you, but I figured the Justice Building wasn’t the best place.” The Justice Building was, after all, the place where they said good-bye. A place Kaz was convinced he’d never return to. He’ll never admit it, but he appreciates the thought.
Anika sets down her dishcloth, dirty water dripping onto the floor. Her half-shaved hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. “It’s good to have you back, Brekker,” she says, and it’s a more genuine welcome home than anything he’s gotten from the Capitol camera crews or Pekka Rollins. If he was someone else, someone who could, he might hug her.
Instead he just smirks, taking Pekka Rollins’ watch out of his pocket, watching their faces as they realize what it is. “Leave the dishes for whoever was supposed to do them and come with me,” he says. “We’ve got work to do.”