Petros and the terrrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

Petros paced around the tiny cell and tried to stop his hands from shaking. He wasn’t regretting his decision to surrender, and he’d known that he would certainly end up somewhere like this, but it was still unnerving. He wished he knew what was going to happen to him now. He liked to have a plan in place at all times; to know that he had thought about his options and could weigh up all the pros and cons of every course of action. He thought he could hear other people moving around on the other side of the walls. Maybe in other cells, or in the hallway outside. He squeezed his hands into fists and pressed them against his thighs. He could deal with this, whatever it was. He tried to calm himself enough to organise his thoughts, but his arrest and transport here had been distressing and unexpected enough that he was having trouble. Unusual for him.
There was a bare metal platform, clearly intended as some kind of bed. He wondered if he would be there long enough to sleep. On one hand, this cell was barren and inhospitable and he hoped very much that he wouldn’t be here long. On the other hand, as long as he was in here, he wasn’t anywhere worse. There was some comfort in that. The process of analysing, categorising and valuing the situation was enough that he started to calm down a little. Not a lot, but enough to think straight.

His family was still dead, but he could rest easier knowing that their murderer had joined them. The thought gave him a bittersweet pleasure. He reminded himself that he hadn’t expected to survive. He’d thought for certain that the peacekeepers would cut him down. Yet here he was. Every day after this one was an unexpected gift. Whatever punishment was coming, it was worth it. And he planned to use every possible advantage he could find.

A clanging sound from outside his cell brought him out of his silent concentration with a start. Moments later a guard’s face appeared in the barred window in the door to his cell. The guard had an ugly scar across his face where a previous inmate had raked him with a shiv. He didn’t like prisoners, especially ones that attacked peacekeepers. That was just not on. His report said that the prisoner in this cell had blown up a well respected peacekeeper while in his own home. And that was about as treacherous a thing as the small minded man could imagine. He peered in at Petros and was surprised by what he saw; he’d been expecting a larger youth, muscle bound and prone to violence. Instead he saw an average sized boy for his age, who looked slightly nervous, but not as scared as he should be.

“You, prisoner. Stand up, hands against the far wall, up where I can see ‘em.”

Petros moved quickly, without rushing. He had no need to resist and draw any more wrath upon himself. There was no merit in it now. He winced as he tried to raise his left arm up, something in the shoulder grinding painfully. He’d injured it in the explosion. It wasn’t going to kill him, but it wasn’t going to heal without some pretty good medical care. He raised his right arm, pressing his hand against the wall, and held his left out to the side, in view of the guard as much as he could manage.

“Raise your left arm!” the guard called angrily, suspicious of why the boy had one arm lower than the other.

“I can’t. It’s not working properly.” Petros sounded polite, not cringing and whining; just stating his case. “I could lie on the floor?”

The guard looked grumpy at this sensible suggestion and glanced down at his clipboard. It stated quite clearly that the prisoner’s shoulder was damaged and he had restricted movement. The guard hoped it also was troubling him, and easy to aggravate. “Just don’t move, scum.” There was the sound of the heavy locks and bolts being undone, and the door opened and closed again, this time with the heavy presence of another person in the cell with Petros. The guard walked up behind the boy, stopping just inches from his back. He pressed the end of his truncheon at the inside of Petros’ ankle and traced slowly all the way up his inner calf and thigh, into his crotch and back down the other leg. He could practically see the boy twitching as he fought not to pull away from the touch. Then the man patted his chest down, rather too vigorously around the left shoulder. When he seemed satisfied that the boy wasn’t armed he gave his head a vicious shove so that Petros’ head connected with the rough cement wall of the cell.

“You likin’ it here, sonny?” the guard drawled with a smirk that Petros could practically hear.

“Not really,” the feel of the guard right behind him made the flesh between his shoulder blades crawl, and his cheek was aching from connecting with the wall. “I’m not going to make any trouble.”

The guard grinned and ruffled Petros’ hair in false affection. “That’s right you ain’t. Not like you did out there. What did you do, son?”

He knew fully well what Petros had done, and Petros knew it. He tried to judge if honesty would get him in more trouble or less, but he did have enough information. “I caused an explosion that killed Peacekeeper Wilks.”

The guard grimaced, appalled at this little punk’s brazen attitude. He punched him hard in the left shoulder, revelling in the feel of his fist connecting with already damaged soft tissue and muscle hot with the effort of healing.

Petros was under no illusion about his skill in combat. His talent was in his mind. He wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t used to a lot of physical pain and he cried out with the unexpected impact, his knees buckling under him as he fought not to be ill.

The guard’s truncheon snagged between his legs in a very sensitive spot, urging him back to his feet. “Who told you to stop keepin’ your hands up, eh? You goin’ for a weapon, you little shit?”

Just get through this. You can get through this. He wants you to grovel, he wants to show you who’s the boss. You can do that. Struggling to keep his feet and not injure himself any further on the guard’s truncheon, Petros leaned his head and his good shoulder into the wall for balance. “No, sir. I’m sorry. Please, I don’t have a weapon, I swear.”

Slightly mollified, the guard lowered his fist, saving his second strike for later. “Won’t be able to grovel like that for long. Hard to beg without a tongue. Sure you’ll find a way but.”

Petros felt the fear that the guard’s words were intended to provoke, “My tongue?” Even knowing full well that no amount of begging was going to change anything, he still needed to try. “Please, no. I’m not a threat anymore. I’m not -” His voice trailed away as the guard shifted behind him.

The guard sensed the boy’s fear and soaked it up like a sponge. He stepped up close behind him so that his body was flush against Petros, pushing him flat against the wall. He snaked two dirty fingers of his right hand into the boy’s mouth, pinching his tongue. “They take it like this,” he gave it a long slow tug out, “and cut it way back here, so it’s just a little stump left, right at the back of your mouth.” He then released his grip and wiped his fingers in Petros’s hair to dry the spit. It was a trick he’d done on many prisoners and boasted that he’d never been bitten once. The element of surprise seemed to work for him.

Petros tried to collect his thoughts, but they were flying too fast, searching for some way out of this, trying to change the intractable. He couldn’t think of a way. He wanted the guard away from him, struggled to think of a way to do it without inviting a beating. His voice sounded weak and almost apologetic, “I’m going to throw up.”

The guard shoved himself away from Petros. “Use the latrine, don’t make a mess or I’ll make you sit in it for a few hours before someone comes to clean it.”

The metal toilet was barely a meter away and Petros only just made it, falling to his knees in front of the bowl and being noisily ill. When he was finished he wiped his mouth and stayed slumped where he was, panting slightly and hoping the guard would just leave him alone. He needed time to think.

The man watched him retching, and seemed to soften a little in his stance, waiting until he was done to speak again. “So why’d you kill him?”

Lying was pointless, “He killed my family. There were others there, but the orders were his.”

“Don’t you think your family deserved to die? Being traitors to Panem and all?” Some of the vitriol and aggression was coming back.

Petros felt a stirring of anger. The same quiet rage that he had felt the first day he had heard why his family was dead. The rage that fueled him as he planned his revenge, and carried him to see it through. He struggled to keep it out of his voice as he answered, “My family were not traitors. That was a lie. He lied.” Definitely not the most diplomatic thing to say, idiot.

The guard’s face turned red, all except for the white scar that ran down over one eye and cheek. “Well, he can’t exactly stick up for himself now, can he? You murdered him, like a coward. Snuck in and blew him up. Didn’t even have the guts to look at him while you killed him, did you? Bet they were filthy traitors, especially your Mother. I heard she spread her legs for anyone and then stole their secrets for the rebellion. Fuckin’ whore.”

The look Petros shot him was withering, “You didn’t hear that. You’re trying to rile me into attacking you.”

“Ain't that what you’re good at? Killin’ people what are just doing their jobs?”

“Is this some kind of messed up trial? Am I supposed to tell you my side of things? I didn’t just run off and murder him, and I didn’t kill any of the other peacekeepers who were just there following orders, and doing their jobs, did I? And I looked right into his eyes when I detonated the charge, so I wasn’t exactly sneaky.”

“How did a weak little snotling like you manage to get a high level peacekeeper to stay still while you blew him up, if he were awake and aware of it?”

“I drugged him, so he couldn’t move.” No point in hiding it. Petros was sure it was already in a report somewhere. His problem now was making sure this guard left without hurting him any more.

The guard glared at him, “Trust you to use poison, weak coward’s weapon that is. How’d you trick him into taking this drug then?”

“I had someone send a package addressed to my mother. The peacekeepers intercepted it and he helped himself to the contents, which included a bottle of wine. I went to his house to beg him to return it, as it had sentimental value, and he opened it and drank it in front of me. I’d had it drugged before it was sent.” Petros shrugged slightly.

“Didn’t care that your own Mother could have died if they hadn’t confiscated it?”

“She was already dead by then. They assumed the package was sent by someone who didn’t know she had died.” It hadn’t been a foolproof plan, but it had done the job well enough. “My family were not traitors. I think my mother probably just turned down Wilks’ unwanted advances so he had my whole family murdered. Not that it matters anymore why he did it.”

The guard walked towards Petros slowly, tapping his truncheon on his palm.

Petros eyed him warily and reached up with his good arm to flush the toilet. Whatever else happened, he didn’t plan on being drowned in his own vomit.

“You had no proof, and even if you did, your family deserved what they got. Fuckin’ traitors. You can’t go around accusin’ peacekeepers of falsifyin’ evidence and lyin’.

Hating that he had to ask, and trying to keep his voice steady, Petros tried to change the subject, “Are they really going to cut out my tongue? Why not just kill me?”

The man stood over the prone boy, glaring down menacingly. “More fun keepin’ you alive but all broken, I suppose. But that ain’t decided for sure just yet. They might just kill you. Various ways they do that here. I hope it’s the chair for you, and that I get to be the one to put you into ol’ Sparky. I like the way they jitter and drool while they die slowly, cookin’ in their own juices.”

Petros shuddered. He didn’t actually want to die. He had no illusion about his likelihood of escape either. His best hope lay in trying to withstand whatever torture they threw at him. Not by being strong and toughing it out, but hopefully by convincing them that he was weak enough that they would stop before they broke him. Dignity wasn’t worth anything in here. He wasn’t foolish enough to try to hold onto it, or save face under pressure. He hunched up, trying to look as pitiful as possible. “I’m sorry. I was just angry and I made a mistake. Will you tell them that? Please?”

The guard spat on him and then laughed, “Sure. That’s all I do ‘round here. I’m the bloody messenger, that’s me.” He pointed to a blinking light in the corner of the room, “Look there, stupid.”

Petros had registered the cameras when they had first put him into the cell, but hadn’t really given them much thought. He hadn’t been in a state to give much thought to anything.

“On your feet, boy-o. Someone wants a word with you. Can’t keep her lady-ship waitin’, can we?” He nudged Petros with his boot, and Petros climbed slowly to his feet, still feeling shaky.

The guard had him stand against the wall again while he snapped cuffs on his wrists and ankles, connected by a chain, and then marched him out the cell door and up a long corridor. Faces peered out of some of the cells, looking miserable and desperate between the bars. Petros was marched through several locked doors, and joined by two more heavily armed men wearing peacekeeper uniforms.

The guard knocked on the door respectfully. “We’be brought the prisoner, Miller here for you, as ordered Ms Psyche. If you’re ready for him now, Ma’am.”