The Sterling Nightingale ⟷ Finnick Odair/OC

Extravagances of well bred intricacies

CHAPTER WARNING: To anyone who isn't a fan of graphic scenes, this is a heavy chapter.

Chapter Sixty Three | Extravagances of well bred intricacies

"She seemed suddenly to have lost all faculty even for suffering: her heart, her nerves, her brain seemed to have become numb after all these hours of ceaseless anguish, culminating in this awful despair." Emma Orczy, The Scarlet Pimpernel

Felix brings her to the Justice Building. She doesn't make it easy for him. Her fingers turn to claws. Her words are spikes meant to pierce. It doesn't seem to do her any good. Everything she does only bounces off of him like so many blunt stones. He's got armor a mile thick and it extends far beyond the physical shield of his protected vest.

She's surrounded by the puffed up, furious peacocks of District 1. They look downright ridiculous dressed in their fanciful suits and Capitol inspired fashions. She sees herself in them. It makes her sick.

The sneers they send her do not match their opulent outfits. Sil knows that she is to become a rebel martyr, at least if they have anything to say on the matter. She's almost relieved when Felix drags her inside and away from the mobbing crowd of familiar faces who spit at her and send grabbing fingers her way.

Almost.

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"We have to go after her," Finnick thunders, grasping Gemma's shoulders with tight fingers. His expression is quilted with grief. He looks afraid.

Gemma just drags a hand through his hair and bemoans, "Sil...Silver...Silver..." like he's gone insane and can't say anything else. Beside him, Aurelian grips his shoulder so tightly that her knuckles blanch white.

Tommy steps in, the voice of reason, and seriously says, "We can't go after her until Plutarch sends reinforcements. I'll contact him and let him know what's happened. Maybe he can pull a few strings for us."

Finnick, though, just shakes his head and leans heavily against the wall.

An hour, a night – what's the difference, really?

Whenever Felix is involved, the world goes to hell.

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Her prison cell is not really a cell at all, but a room. It is barren but for a flimsy table and a couple of chairs. There aren't even curtains on the windows.

She's already bruised and battered from her trip. Felix hadn't been gentle then, and he isn't gentle now. He tosses her into the room like she's a ragdoll. She falls with a painful grunt and hits her chin on the polished wooden floors. Despite the lack of furnishings, her prison reeks of District 1 extravagance. It's almost amusing.

They say that your life comes full circle when you die. That you are placed back at the very beginning. Your first breath becomes your last. The familiarities of your initial years become haunted ghosts that creep towards you as you shudder out your final symphony. She isn't sure if that's true. Not yet.

"You might as well get comfortable," Felix tells her. "Who knows how long you'll be in here?"

Who knows, indeed. Sil turns a sneer his way.

"Well you could have chosen a room with a bit more color," she mutters in her posh accent, just to aggravate him.

But he only laughs and shuts the door. A moment later, he's heaving her up and throwing her against the rickety table with an amused, "Don't be flippant, Silver. Beggars can't be choosers."