prologues {burn} - [Kheft]

[Kheft]

The experiment was over. He would be going home, that was what they had promised to him. Employ his time and talents diligently as one of their consultants, and they would wipe his record clean. It was mutually beneficial. The last of the testing subjects were being swept under the mat, some few lucky ones shipped home to their families. Those who had been broken and damaged beyond repair would disappear…like he had disappeared once. The Capitol was talented when it came to making people vanish.

In the end, what had all of these scientists and doctors achieved? Oh, they would write it up in the most obscure technical terms they could employ, dragging in deductions by the hair on their legs, but the truth was the experiment had been a monumental failure. Too many variables presented, and no way of detaching them from the data to make any accurate predictions. Smoke and mirrors, that was all they had to present to their financial backers. The ‘Experiment of the Ages’ had turned into a scholar’s joke. Still, that didn’t matter to Marcellus Kane, Capitol convicted criminal. All that mattered was going home…at last.

His eyelids flickered shut, prolonging a moment in which he could imagine just what she must look like now, so many years since they were last together. Hours, weeks, months spent clinging to every memory until they had rubbed threadbare and he could no longer distinguish what was fact, and what he had made up to ease the long span of incarceration.

A loud, echoing tramp of boots shattered his peace and quiet, snapping his eyes back open with the instinct of a man accustomed to fleeing such a sound. Four peacekeepers filed into the room, they were growing them big lately, men with bulky chest and arms, likely chosen for these traits. It sent a shiver of uneasiness down Marcellus’ back. If they meant to release him, then why send a task force obviously hand-picked for their ability to match the ex-con in a struggle? Their guns shifted in trigger-ready hands, these men were tense, anticipating a fight.

Stupid, Marcellus…stupid!

Of course, it was so painfully clear. They had never intended to let him go.

[Kheft]

Alexei Volkov was nothing to look at. His frame, while not scrawny, held nothing to challenge Marcellus' own. Rather than put him at ease, such a trait was one that had every warning flag raised in his head. For a man of no impressive physicality to rise in ranks and be named a head peacekeeper, it meant that there was more than met the eye. Perhaps a clever strategizer, a keen intellect...more lurked within the mind of Keeper Volkov than would be discerned by a single glance. They stood for long moments, each taking a measure of the other, cataloguing their observations for later use when an edge might be required.

A spare frame, but with formal posture, spine straight and shoulders back -- a proud man. Immaculate clothing to the point of compulsion, every hem perfectly straight, pant legs creased, buttons rotated to match -- a perfectionist. A slight smirking pull at the corners of his mouth as he spoke, "We're here to transport you to your temporary quarters" -- a liar.

Marcellus met Alexei's gaze head on, arms folding across his chest, "And it takes an army to do this?" He nodded at the impressive retinue of gun-toting keepers surrounding him.

Do you underestimate me so much that you think I believe we will be making only a temporary stop at some facility and then I will be released? If they had any such intentions, there would be no need for the superfluous number of guards sent to 'escort' him. No, they anticipated a struggle, the question was, should he give it to them?

[Kheft]

The peacekeepers closed ranks around him, their weapons hefted to shoulder height. If Marcellus had intended to make a stand, the opportune moment was now gone. His hands fell loosely down at his sides, the decision made for him, that now was not the time to stage a resistance, he would wait. Head tilted towards Alexei in acceptance, he fell into step amidst the white-washed guards. Their small group wound its way through the bowels of the facility, from his private quarters in the lower levels, upwards toward the surface. Perhaps in contradiction to stereotypes regarding dungeons, or labs where mad scientists lurked, the halls were wide and well lit with a level of cleanliness that bordered on sterility. Gleaming white surfaces and stainless steel reflected back flourescent lighting at every turn. It was an earmark of the Capitol that they operated in the cold sanitation of order and detachment as opposed to the chaotic obsession that he had seen rolemodeled among the criminal minds of Panem.

Alexei Valkov could be a Panem mascott. Marcellus' eyes followed the back of his head, not a hair out of place, his stride swift and precise, if much shorter. It carried them up into the muted sunlight of the facility's train depot. Resting on the tracks, it's engine still warm and rumbling, smoke rising in writhing columns to pollute the snatches of azure sky visible. Without a backwards glance, Marcellus allowed the keepers to hustle him up the folding steps and into the gut of the steaming beast. It was not the opulence of a celebrity coach -- not that he had ever been in one to compare -- but the seats were padded, and the leg room was ample enough for even his own monstrous span.

With body stretched out on the seat to maximum capacity, a guard on either side, and hands folded across the clean but worn knees of his trousers, Marcellus turned attention back to Alexei. "What brings a head peacekeeper so far from his dominion to manage the debriefing and release of an insignificant pawn?"

[Kheft]

This man wanted to play games with him, with his life…and Marcellus felt far, far too weary to match him in it. The last few weeks had been brutal, and he’d watched children die; others fall apart like empty shells of human life. He’d helped pick apart their minds, pushing them beyond the limits of sanity and then recording each action and reaction that their animal instinct drove them to. He was stained, in a way that a criminal life had never come close to. He’d always managed to keep his hands clean, his conscience quiet. But now it threatened to break through and overwhelm him. Did it matter that everything done was for a good cause? Is it worth killing five unknown kids so that one very precious face could be saved?

Shades of gray

The food laid out was quality, if not elaborate, certainly far better than he’d eaten in…god knew when. Prisons and experimental facilities are not renowned for their exquisite cuisine. The smell of it was intoxicating. Spices and fresh produce…

With movements carefully restrained and measured, he allowed himself to fill one of the bread bowls with stew, accept a small dish of the sliced fruit, all the while repressing the desire to snatch at whatever was in arm’s reach. It is very easy to have the most formal of table manners when your stomach is ritually treated to a full meal, it takes a great deal of practice and control to do so when one’s navel is intimately associated with the backbone. It was, however, the front that he needed to present to Volkov, and it was what he wanted. Bored, this man was bored, and Marcellus presented an interesting puzzle to tinker with. If this is what it took to buy his freedom, then the games were afoot…for now.

“You have my file, it should tell you all that you need to know. I have no great mysteries Mr. Volkov, I am just a man ready to live under his own command once more.”

[Kheft]

Marcellus didn’t even bother to look up when Alexei paused for effect, and to deliver his precisely clipped dialogue. His criminal life was all that these keepers would ever see, a man on the run, a man who might have committed murder. What did it matter? Why bother playing into this again, he could practically predict the questions. Instead, he allowed the delicious flavors to absorb him; the stew was thick, chunks of tender beef floating in rich gravy with tender carrots and peas. The bread had a thick crust to it, and some seasoning pungent with garlic. A small bit of his brain nagged at him, reminding that he should be paying attention to this opponent, cataloguing all his smallest of traits for later meditation. That part was hushed with a firm hand. Volkov wanted this tete-a-tete, he was looking to read significance into everything that Marcellus would do. So, let him read into being ignored. In his experience with men of this type, being ignored was always a pressure point.

Besides, this food was really good…

However, with Alexei’s final statement, he couldn’t resist responding, “You won’t see me shedding tears for a peacekeeper out of a job.” Maybe not the wisest jab to make, seeing as he was surrounded by men of said profession, but with Volkov’s detached personality, it seemed unlikely to garner a violent reaction. If it did, well, that would be telling.

[Kheft]

The cuff on the head was more insulting than it was painful, but revealing. It had been unlikely that Volkov would react to the insult, but his guards presented a plainer target. How controlled were they, and how familiar was Volkov with their reactions? How much had he trained them? These details were so much more than idle speculation; they were priceless nuggets of information if any escape attempt was to be made successfully. For all Marcellus’ knew, this could be an impeccably, hand-trained squadron that Volkov had worked with for years. Or, they could be a sloppy crew thrown together and handed over for this mission only. If the latter was true—and he was hoping for that—then it would be much easier to create some chaos and slip away. Alexei was not the weak link here; it would be the trust and cohesion between himself and his men.

The fact that the keeper reacted physically meant that while he might have been handpicked, he certainly hadn’t been fully trained by Volkov. That their leader hadn’t anticipated the reaction, also told Marcellus that it wasn’t likely his own man whose weaknesses he would be familiar with. With only the smallest of gestures, the guard was banished elsewhere, and he complied without a hint of argument. That fact, while not negating the other observances, was still a matter for concern. Obviously this man was someone that the underlings knew to obey regardless of their own tempers and desires.

His spoon had dipped back into the stew, dismissing the guards as if the incident had not occurred, when Alexei moved on to a topic that Marcellus was far from open to discussing. He lifted the spoonful to his lips, forcing a suddenly constricted throat to swallow the food without hesitation. Any small tic on his part would be easily read as concern or anxiety. “None that I’ve heard word of in over twenty years. Probably still some brothers and sisters about, if they haven’t died in stabbings or overdoses. The streets aren’t a kind place to grow up, and they don't lend themselves to growing old.”

[Kheft]

“Or maybe I just don’t have a name, Mr. Volkov. I don’t have any idea who killed the lady, never even saw her face before the day they put her picture under my nose during interrogation.” Marcellus’ large shoulders rose once in what might be a shrug of confusion or pity for a woman who died young, but he face remained downturned, giving the final bites of food his visual focus. This line of questioning was one he would prefer to ease past. The stew gone, his fruit slowly disappeared, pieces of orange and slivers of strawberry being studiously demolished. When that at last was also eaten, Marcellus raised the napkin from his lap and took a long moment to dap his lips with a corner.

“What of yourself? A head peacekeeper in District eight, but you didn’t grow up there, did you?” It was a leap, granted, but something in this man didn’t sit right. His tones didn’t have the same muffled consonants as natives from Eight did. He’d spent a few months in one of their factories, finding large employers to be the best disguise. Lose yourself in the masses of nameless employees, and you are usually guaranteed a modicum of anonymity. Marcellus’ ear was sharp for linguistics, breaking apart the intonations with a similar process he followed in every other aspect of his career. It was swift work to catalogue the sounds, and it proved useful information to retrieve at a later date. Such as this one. His sharp eyes watched Alexei’s face closely. It might have been interesting, this little game of chess, if it wasn’t for the fact that he stood to lose so much more than his opponent.

If it was a battle of wits, Marcellus intended to win, and he would never win in a head on match with all the cards residing in Alexei Volkov’s pocket. No. He had no intention of playing clean and fair. The three remaining guards were all in an at-ease posture, knees relaxed and guns belted, he could easily take out one or two before they got to their weapons, but the third would put a bullet in him. Alexei himself appeared unarmed, but appearances can be deceiving. With him present, and reaction time might be halved, and Marcellus’ would never make a successful getaway. The attempt would have to wait until he could separate himself from this intense scrutiny.

[Kheft]

Marcellus shuttered his eyes, burying the satisfaction down deep where Volkov and his observations would never discover it. This man, so desperate for entertainment and challenge, was rapidly losing interest in their conversation. This was good, this was important, and it only remained to see if the specifically planted impressions had been absorbed as readily as they seemed to. This peacekeeper was intelligent, and intelligent men overestimate their abilities. He was bored, and bored men read everything they can into the actions of their opponents, hoping for a keen mind beneath it. Lastly, he was meticulous, and meticulous men rarely overlook a tell, no matter how unobtrusive. No, Marcellus would wager that the conversation had progressed ideally, with the perfect balance of revelation and obscurity.

“Ahh, I guess we have, Sir. I should have known better than to try and hide information from you. You’re like me, aren’t you? You read people; their faces speak to you, the tiny movements they don’t even know they make? You’re right though. I have a wife and child in the districts.” The information drops smoothly from his lips, given with hardly the blink of an eye. “Been years now since I had to leave them. My son was only three…”

His face pinched with real emotion, letting the grain and chafe mix together in an inextricable knot. The best lies are born from truth, after all. Let Alexei pick them apart.

“I miss them, headed back there after all this is done and you release me. But you…I don’t suppose it really matters, does it? You don’t intend to go back.”