you don't bring them home and the war hasn't ended [D5]

[WT]

Zoran's name fits neat as anything onto the line at the top of the form—the only neat thing left about him, now, with his profile destroyed and blood long since caked into his torn clothes. He'd hate that most of all, Samiyuq thinks a little inanely, remembering the way he'd never hesitate to get his hands dirty in the colony room but also beelined to change after a shift, always scrubbed his hands and his face until it looked painful—but mostly ze's thinking not of Zoran at all, but of how many people never get even this much, a person who sort of knew them looking down at their mangled remains and considering that they were a person with a life worth living. Of how many people spend months, years, a lifetime hoping in vain for word from loved ones whose bodies lay on fields and under rubble until they were eaten, burned, collapsed.

The bats disappear into the night, and by morning they're atomized. And they aim true more often than not, or there would be no Nemesis-Cassiel at all, but not every target is a military base, and the death tolls are only ever estimates.

Sometimes ze wishes any of that knowledge was enough to convince hir to go home.

The coroner leaves hir to it, a well-oiled one-person machine engrossed in Zoran's documents. There's something hypnotic in the chaotic, persistent rhythm of her work; in the silence, the rustling pages and scratching pen take over the room as thoroughly as the chatter of bats. It's with some reluctance that Samiyuq breaks the spell eventually, murmuring without taking hir eyes off Zoran's body, "Was the ID all you needed from me?"

The scratch of the pen stills, leaving the room somehow larger than before, colder. "Sorry, yeah, I can handle the rest." She's young, the coroner, even to Samiyuq's not-much-older eyes; the living need experienced doctors more than the dead. Not that she acts it, calm almost to the point of indifference as she maneuvers corpses and works through her checklists—but she does sound it a little, now, startled out of her reverie. Samiyuq knows both feelings. "Do you need an escort out?"

"No, thank you. I know the way."

Nemesis-Cassiel isn't quite Samiyuq's alone now, though it might be sooner than ze'd like. Mikki is still looking touch-and-go down the hall—could still pull through in a week or so, but only if she makes it through today. (Down a limb and a half and still kicking, Samiyuq said when ze visited yesterday, and she smiled, fierce through the haze—even strung together take care of my bats, even though that was about all she managed before she drifted back off.) Either way, the oldest round of pups have their first mid-distance trials tonight, and no one built time into the schedule for mourning.

Names mean little. Not nothing, Samiyuq has conceded this time since last year, though ze figures it depends, still can't imagine caring nearly as much as Helena or Jonas or Maeve about whether the people around hir on those sands knew hir name—but September Yorgos tells hir less than a worker's hands and the yell that rang out after the name, and Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter tells hir less than practical clothes and a proud stance despite evidence of a beating fresh enough that Samiyuq winces at the thought of fighting with the wounds. And none of the above answer any of the questions Samiyuq can't ask here and will more likely than not never have a chance to ask at all—who they are, what they're being taken from, whether the Capitol dragged them here in retribution for deeds during the war or to have Capitol sympathizers stirring the pot or simply because bystanders are never safe from war.

Then again, none of that changes the essentials. They're both barely younger than Samiyuq, separated from hir more by chance than by time. They're both crowded by Peacekeepers—all three of them are, but the ones around Samiyuq give hir a little space, an illusion of privilege allowed because they know they can rely on better threats than a gun in the small of hir back to keep hir in line here. At least one of them, and most likely both of them, will never see this platform again.

The whole caravan comes to a sharp stop at the doors of the train—the last moments, ze gathers from the way ze woke up last year, before they board and the lot of them are split up until the Games themselves. Samiyuq does hir best to catch both tributes' eyes while ze can—tries, too, to soften hir expression a little, though ze doesn't bother to aim for the insult that a reassuring smile would be, only hopes each of them reads in hir eyes whatever reassurances or condolences or bolstering speeches they need to see. More time and fewer ears, and ze would dish out solidarity and condemnation; it's not over until it's over, ze would try to urge them, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise, not even yourselves.

Ze nods once to each of them instead, holding their eyes through the hostile crowd, able to offer Paksenarrion and September nothing more than the promise that whatever else happens, they'll be seen.



Title song is "Waves" by Portugal. The Man.