thecapitol | The Execution of a Traitor

The Execution of a Traitor

Who| Everyone.
What| Ariadne's public execution.
Where| Execution is in the public square, threads in the Districts
When| Mid-morning the day before the new arena.
Warnings/Notes| Within the first cut is an execution with nerve-attacking toxins, as well and gore and gun violence. Everyone is still locked into their districts.

Starting at 9:30, in every bedroom in the training center, an alarm has started. Everyone is to wake up, everyone is to see this, and anyone who hasn't wandered out by 9:45 is awoken by an Avox and escort into the suites common area.

The TV's turn on exactly at 10.

The morning is crisp, cool, even this close to the start of summer. Even being so early there is of course a crowd gathered. A small live audience, all Capitol citizens, all thoroughly checked for security, is shown entering by the cameras, gathering before the empty stage. Peacekeepers can be seen, en mass, around the edges.

Finally Cruentus walks out, barely containing her excitement. She tries to keep on a serious mask, but looks more like a child trying to behave so she isn't take away from the Santa greeting line.

"My father, unfortunately, has business to attend to, and couldn't be here. But as the head of the Tribute program, I am here for you instead. As you all know, on the night of the crowning ceremony, one of our guests tried to assassinate our beloved head Gamemaker, Plutarch Heavensbee." She pauses, giving the crowd time to discuss that, waiting patiently for them to settle.

"Ariadne was one of our guests, one of our victors. She was someone we welcomed here, with open arms. And we will not stand for this disrespect. Her act of rebellion, though sloppy and easy to unwind, was unacceptable!"

Another pause, longer, the crowd working themselves up more.

"We will not stand for this. We will not stand for people we welcome into our city, into our homes, to injure our kin. No more!"

With a quick gesture, she summons the two avoxes, Shepard and Holly, both former mentors themselves, to bring Ariadne out to the center of the stage, bound in chains.

For everything that went wrong, Ariadne is absolutely unapologetic. She knows full well that she got sloppy, and that she shouldn't have trusted Eva as far as she could throw her - that's the only explanation, she thinks; she's blissfully oblivious to Eva's public betrayal, but she knows something went wrong somewhere down the line. She's not sorry that she got caught, nor is she sorry that she's in this position now. She caused a stir; she got things going. That's better than the waiting game that everyone else is playing. She can respect it, but it wasn't for her.

Her back still stings from the shrapnel that hit her during the blast: the way that Shepard and Holly hold her makes it impossible to ignore as she stumbles out to the stage, eyes hardened as she looks up to stare at Cruentus over anyone else. She welcomes whatever punishment she's begotten; she's not afraid.

The crowd goes wild for a long time. Booing, loud, raucous - they seem just barely controlled. Hatred comes off in waves towards Ariadne, the first true target of a growing, seething hatred that still hasn't found its purpose yet.

Cruentus lets it go on, draws it out, encourages it. Then, finally, she holds up another arm.

"For such a vile crime, we have cooked up a special little potion for our traitor. Something any of those feeling a touch rebellious might keep in mind."

Glancing back, she gestures for Penny Hsiang to come forward, flashing the other woman the smile she had been struggling to keep in.

Penny steps forward and pulls a syringe out of her wide sleeves like a magician revealing a rabbit from a hat. She holds it up high, bearing a grin that could make someone queasy if it were aimed in their direction. For a brilliant, brief moment, she is the center of attention, and even the crowd hushes slightly.

"This is a poison fit for a traitor," she announces. "It's rapid-onset, degenerative. It strips away the parts of the brain that take the oomph out of bad memories. Then it disables the part of your brain that dampens pain signals. Then it kills you."

She takes a step towards Ariadne. A Peacekeeper presents Ariadne's vein.

"Special order," Penny says as she leans in and whispers in Ariadne's ear, giggling as if she were a teenager girl discussing cute classmates and not a torturer sinking a needle into Ariadne's arm. "Just for you."

Still, the crowd's response to her makes no difference. Cruentus' words don't make any difference, and Penny's barely concealed venom doesn't either. Ariadne is unflappable in the face of her own execution, for she saw that coming; Cobb's words come back to her in that moment - dying was how you got out of a dream, dying was how he and Mal got out of Limbo - and a strange sort of calm comes to her in waves, counteracting the hatred of the crowd and all of those around her.

Ariadne doesn't even turn when Penny whispers in her ear; she's never been much for gossip or chatting idly about cute classmates. She doesn't blink when the needle sinks into her vein, though it sends a shiver down her spine that she can't control. For a moment, she wonders just how good the Capitol is at capital punishment, and how long it's going to take for this to happen. Ariadne might theoretically have all the time in the world, but that doesn't mean she wants to drag it out.

It hits the moment after her mind goes blank again, after her last thought is fully formed; her mind is forced to go blank, simply because of the level of sheer pain that wracks her body. It comes to her in spasms, in seizing that is only contained by the fact that her hands are still bound, and she's still held by the Avoxes she once knew. She doesn't scream. Instead, Ariadne bites the inside of her cheek, the inside of her lip; her teeth go through the flesh - she tastes blood - and it's still not enough to detract from the poison running through her veins. She seizes violently for all to see, every inch of her body trembling and shaking and contorting in a fashion that would make anyone cringe.

Biology had never been her strong suit, and most of Penny's explanation of it went over her head; still, she can tell when the second part of the poison starts to kick in, when the pain almost fades away, leaving her numb and still shaking where she's held, a trickle of her blood spilling down her chin from where she'd bitten her mouth to shreds. And still, she doesn't scream; still, she doesn't tear her eyes away from Cruentus.

Holly and Shepard hold her high and as still as possible as the toxin causes her to twitch, jerk in their grasp. It looks better on TV, of course, but possibly, somewhere in their reprogramming, it is also a way to give Ariadne her last bit of dignity.

When her body finally stops convulsing, when her head drops to her chest and she goes still, the crowd cheers. And Cruentus smiles, knowing her message was sent loud and clear.

Penny steps back to the corpse. A gun materializes from the wide sleeves into her hands, and she places it straight to Ariadne's cold temple and pulls the trigger. She doesn't flinch when there's a bang, nor when the blood and bits of bone and brain and gunpowder spray over Holly's Avox robes, nor when the crowd celebrates even more uproariously.

"Can never be too sure," she says quietly, then to Holly, "go clean yourself up."

It's the last bit of this particular section of footage in the broadcast.

When the viewing is over, a Peacekeeeper appears to sets a box on a table set up just for this. Opening it, within each box are several wrist cuffs, the names of Tributes carved on the inside, one for each named Tribute, a simple motif relating to the District on the outside. A neat hand-written note from Cruentus sits in the white satin in the middle of the box.

A gift, for those among us who need to remember where they are.

It is clear the Peacekeeper is there for anyone who objects to putting their cuff on. After receiving the cuff, the Tributes are permitted to wander, although those with cuffs are given 'special attention' by their Escorts.

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Here it came. He knew he'd have to face it eventually, whatever it was that had happened- but he'd been up all night knowing he should be worrying about bombs only to find his mind doing back to the dance floor. Sherlock's lips, pressed against his. He'd been stuck on it for hours and still had no idea what was going on or what he was supposed to do.

He did love Sherlock. That much he could admit to himself in the safety and privacy of his own mind. It was the only word that fitted with the undeniable truth that he really would do almost anything for the infuriating man. But he really didn't think there was anything in him that wanted to turn their relationship romantic, let alone physical- beyond the strange feeling of guilt that sprung up whenever he thought of the desperate look in Sherlock's eyes just after he'd pulled back.

He wet his lips and met Sherlock's eye.
"Here?" he asked, quietly.

Sherlock paused, hesitating. All too aware of the cameras around them, but in the full knowledge that there was basically no where they could go that wouldn't have them. It was achingly difficult not to immediately launch into a detailed and long-winded explanation of everything he had planned, every meticulous detail, but he couldn't. Not without sacrificing everything.

He just hadn't really realised until this moment what it was going to cost him. That look on John's face read worlds, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to assure him, to point out the cameras and smirk, but it was impossible.

So instead he would have to keep acting, even to his best friend. Even alone.

Because the truth was, here, they were never alone.

"... Not good," He said slowly, as if realising it.

"Well, considering- last night wasn't exactly private, either, so I suppose it's fine," he said, shifting awkwardly. "I would have thought the park was better? Though I suppose everyone's a little preoccupied, anyway."

Sherlock glanced down again at his wrist, the metal glinting.

"... I doubt I will be afforded much privacy at all," He said slowly, wondering not for the first time what was in the bracelet. If it had been him? An auditory device, for certain, not that they needed more. A GPS tracker. Probably something to alert nearby cameras to his presence, and train them more specifically. Whether the bracelet came with further surveillance he couldn't be sure, but he could suspect.

He looked up at John, his face grim as he held up the bracelet. "If they have any brains at all, everything I could say, whispered or not, will be recorded."

He sighed, glancing at his feet before looking him dead in the eyes, absolutely serious. "I swear to God, Sherlock, if I find out they had good reason to put that thing on you and you're doing something stupid-- don't you dare do that to me, alright? I am not going to watch you end up like that. Do you understand me?"

Sherlock actually looked a little affronted - though whether or not it was from being told what to do (because even from John, that rankled) it wasn't clear. He knew where to channel it, however, knew how to cement what he had said earlier.

"I've done absolutely nothing since the cameras," He hissed lowly. "I have absolutely no intention of jeopardizing your life for--" But he cut himself off, angrily. He straightened, waving the bracelet. "This is just a reminder. The fact that you don't have one is my consolation prize. They know very well I would care more about that than this."

"I'm not talking about my life, I'm talking about yours," he hit back. "But alright. If you say you haven't, I believe you. Just- remember, alright? Somehow getting through this without you isn't getting through it at all. We do it together."

It took everything Sherlock had not to roll his eyes, but he somehow managed it.

"Yes. Alright. Together, I promise." It was an easy enough lie to make. There were many things in universe that Sherlock was sure of, but the chances of him surviving in the Capitol were not one of them.

"Alright," he said, cooling down significantly. "Good. That's all I want."

The rest of it, he didn't know how to even begin to handle.

"Good." He forced himself to relax, wishing he could shove his hands in his pockets but all too aware that the ones in this jacket were 'decoration only' because god knew that function was completely underrated in this place. So instead he just had to stand awkwardly.

It was a difficult position, to be sure, but he let that difficulty show on his face - quietly warring with himself on how to approach this.

"... John, I don't expect..." He trailed off, frowning. "I'm well aware of your - ah - preferences. And current... commitments."

John cleared his throat and shifted his weight awkwardly.
"It's alright," he said, quickly- almost automatically. "I just- I need to know what you do expect from me. Because, Sherlock, I-you caught me off guard, that's all. Might not have been the best way to go about it."

Sherlock glanced away down the hall, rather than look John in the face. There was no way he could say that the publicity was the point.

"... It isn't exactly my area," He said after a long moment. "Based on my limited research on the subject, I had thought--" Again, he faltered, shifted his weight, brows furrowing. "I miscalculated. Individual opinion obviously accounts for more than general statistics of preference. And gender differences must be taken into account. I won't make the same mistake again."

"I'm not saying I don't appreciate the, uh, effort that you went to, but- it didn't occur to you that it might put me in a bit of an awkward situation? I have a- well, as you said. I'm already seeing someone, and..."
He sighed. "I had no idea, Sherlock. None. You told me you weren't interested- you even refused me when I hadn't even been asking!"

Sherlock frowned. He entirely forgotten about that - deleted it almost completely from his memory. But a quick search back -

Ah, yes, Angelo's. The frown deepened.

"On the second night we met. And I believe I said I was 'married to my work', as it were." He shifted, slightly. "From which I've had an abrupt and final divorce," he pointed out, before dropping his eyes.

It was easier to lie when there were grains of truth in it.

"I'm well aware that I'm not considered particularly empathetic or... 'in touch' with my feelings, John, but that doesn't mean that I have none. And the last few months..."

He offered Sherlock a tight, almost nervous smile.
"I never said I didn't believe you had feelings, Sherlock. And I really am sorry, about your work. I miss it too."
He paused, wetting his lips. What was he supposed to say? The Arena had thrown things into sharp relief for him, too, but he hadn't come out of it wanting to pursue a physical relationship with Sherlock.
Though, he had to admit, on seeing him again once he'd returned to the Capitol, he had wanted something . Some kind of proof. But it hadn't been romantic. Had it?

"It's been hard for both of us," he said, in the end.

Sherlock didn't reply right away, his eyes anywhere but on John's face and he started to play vaguely with the bracelet on his wrist - careful not to trigger its tightening mechanism, but hyperaware of it all the same.

"... Yes. I know. If I had known that they would bring you here--" But he cut himself off, took a breath. "Regardless. I miscalculated my attempt, but I considered the attempt important, misguided or no. At least now you are aware of the facts," He said, perfectly aware that all he'd really given John were lies upon lies but unable to say so.

He was slowly coming to realise that it was unlikely John would ever forgive him, for this.

But Sherlock never had cared about other people's opinions, not when he knew what he was doing was right.

"I won't put you through that again."

"Oh, I don't know, your dancing wasn't that bad," John joked, his smile wry and a little forced, but the sentiment genuine. He wanted to reassure Sherlock that nothing had been irreparably damaged. "Though maybe a little more warning beforehand might not have gone amiss."

A very small answering smirk twitched at the corner of his lips but then disappeared. After a long, long pause he finally said:

"... And if I had given warning?"

"If you'd told me you were going to dance with me at the crowning ball in front of everyone? I probably wouldn't have believed you," he admitted. "Look, Sherlock- you know I'm not- I don't really know what you want, from me."

Clink, clink, clink, went his thumbnail against the metal bracelet. It was nice to have a reminder of what he was doing, even here.

The fact of the matter was he didn't need John to change for his plan to succeed. And he didn't even particular want John to change (though him leaving Effie was a desirable outcome, all things considered, it wasn't really the point). He said nothing for a moment before offering John a tight and obviously completely falsified smile.

"... Nothing. Something that it has become all too apparent I can't have. But it was worth the attempt."

He swallowed, that sick twisting feeling in his gut coming back in full force as Sherlock forced a smile onto his face. He lifted a hand and gently grasped Sherlock's upper arm- and let go, because he couldn't think of a single thing to say that didn't come across condescending.

Sherlock allowed the touch to happen but took a step back when John let go, letting out a breath and glancing down the hall. It was better this way, he reminded himself. Playing an unrequited love was easier, he wouldn't have to fold John into the deception - could still play at being devoted even as John kept himself firmly apart.

Why, then, did a part of it bother him? He had always assumed John would follow him anywhere, regardless, but having John choose anything over him - even if he hadn't actually wanted to be chosen in the first place, was annoying. Especially considering that it was Effie-- Enough. This was getting ridiculous. He took another step back.

"Yes, well. Hungry?" He asked, though it came out weakly.

"Breakfast at mine?" he offered with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I hear there's a feast..."

Sherlock's smile was stiff. Attempting to continue this, but in front of John's entire suite of district mates? No. No, that sounded like the worst possible use of his time ever.

"No, I think I'll pass," He said, rising an eyebrow. "Wouldn't want to - ah - tinge your good fortune. I'll take breakfast in my rooms, I think. Another time." He turned before John could argue, giving a short brief wave before walking away, much less happy with his plan than he was two days ago.

But there was no way to back out now.

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The Execution of a Traitor

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