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Post by countlivin on Apr 28, 2021 18:48:41 GMT
The man on the projection spoke with such a forceful splitting tone, Aura's head could have burst. It was as if he was trying to hammer the words into the crowds' skulls with volume alone. They need not hear these words again. Twenty-four get shipped off to die every year, and the Capitol regarded it as a joke. Aura already knew the announcement by heart.
"And without further ado, I announce the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games!"
The young man did not waver in his gaze upon the sea. He touched the small white rose in his breast pocket. "What does it mean to you, Gamemaker?" His tone was wistful.
"What does what mean, sir?"
"The concept of hope?" He took the rose and dropped it from the balcony to land in the fountain below. "To me, and to any quality citizen of the Capitol, it is nothing more than a word. But like any word... If it is used incorrectly, in harmony with its brothers and sisters, it can mean your death. So choose carefully."
"It is a truly special occasion. For this year's Games marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of your salvation."
"No, you are not a fighter," her father spoke to her. "You are many things, honey. Many wonderful things, but you are not a fighter. If you try to be a hero, you're going to fail."
"I'm coming back, Dad!" Penn shot back with a defiance that shook the table. "And when I do, this family won't ever have to worry again. No one in this District will."
"And yesterday, President Coriolanus Snow decreed that, in celebration of this magnificent event that unites our nation, a special rule will be placed upon the Games, to quell the ambitions of those who might disagree with our methods."
Saul climbed further into the forest. The oak slowly became pine, and eventually the woods ceased and the valley began. The lumberjacks who chopped down these kinds of trees didn’t care to look outside the walls, and that was how Saul liked it: untouched. When the smoke became so thick that Saul could no longer breathe, he dropped to the ground, and with every foot he put in front of the other, the more the heat burned his skin.
Saul reached the inferno. Where his grove should have been, the green had become black with char. The flowers had long since burnt away into nothing, and flames taller than two men leaped high above the canopy. “NO!” Saul wailed, throwing himself into the fire. Coughing like hell, he looked around for a stream, or anything he could use to quiet the fire. “No no no no NO!”
"This year, we will demonstrate that you are still free to choose for yourselves, and that all citizens, regardless of District, are still children of Panem."
"Aura, you can't leave!" Corvin exclaimed, slamming the door to wall in his sister. Aura flinched. The top hinge was the only thread left. After she left for the Games, there would be nothing to protect her brothers except for that door. "If you leave, we'll have to go back with Uncle Crispin. The last time-"
"While I'm still breathing, you won't be anywhere near Crispin," she told her brother. "I'm coming back, you know. And if I don't...take Barker and run... And don't look back. Don't ever look back. Because the moment you do, they'll know where you are. Relax... In a few months, this family will have another victor."
"For this year, there will be no Reaping. You shall choose amongst yourselves which tributes shall represent you. YOU decide for your District."
"You are nothing. It's time you got that through your skull, fish boy." Ronn scowl burned fire-bright. Marten's knuckles were white, and his fingernails bit into his palm. "You're going in that arena, and the moment the timer hits zero, if you're lucky, you'll make a minute." He waited a moment and then scoffed. "You and your bloody inmate fath-"
Marten Lewis was a monster, and his father's son. At that moment he could no longer deny it. He grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck and shoved him underneath the current in a swift motion. He held him there until he began to gasp for breath. "YOU'RE NOTHING! YOU'RE NOTHING! YOU'RE NOTHING!"
"And so, this year, we speak to not only tributes, but to every child of Panem. Heed our words."
"I respectfully disagree, sir." Theo shook his head, careful to ease the quaking. "If hope is anything, it's glue. It doesn't reduce civilization to dust... It raises it higher."
President Snow spun around with the barest hint of malevolence in his piercing blue eyes. "Well..." He chuckled lightly after a few seconds of shared silence. "I suppose we shall agree to disagree..."
"May the odds be ever in your favor."
THE HUNGER GAMES: THE FIRST QUARTER QUELL
BOOK ONE: THE PAWNS
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Post by countlivin on Apr 28, 2021 18:53:11 GMT
CHAPTER ONE: THE EVENTS OF TOMORROW
Theoram Warrik
Every street in this wonderful city was painted white like marble. Every tree bore the golden leaves of a better life. The faces of every person he passed were jolly and smiling, but all of it was a bald-faced lie. He knew those faces were actually masks hiding their fear. The leaves were merely cheap, plastic knock-offs of the authentic. Under those paints that coated the Capitol was the agony of citizens too afraid to speak up. In the Capitol, drink flowed like water. He could pluck a pristinely-grown apple off of any tree on any street corner. Theo despised it.
Theoram Warrik was a simple man, or that’s how he appeared. He didn’t fall into the chasm of debt and dismemberment that those unnatural body modifications provided. He never wore extravagant makeup like the majority of his peers. He was born with a hard limp in his left leg and a weak eye that he hid behind a thick glass. From the perspective of the average Capitol citizen, Theo wasn’t even worth talking to, and he liked to keep it that way. Theo didn’t much enjoy the petty small talk of the Capitol folk, nor about sports, nor the latest fashion or technology. Theo only cared about the Games.
The day it all started was in January. The place where Theo had taken a seat that brisk afternoon was one he had become very close to: a small coffee shop just outside the condo he called his summer home. It was the only one that served his favorite “winkberry” brand of tea. It was the name of the restaurant and a genetically-modified fruit that they served as sweetener. Though Theo adamantly opposed most things that defied nature, he couldn’t say it didn’t take the edge off.
It was a lovely shop. Several lamps on the wall cast a radiant blue glow over aluminum tables of black and white: the colors of the glorious nation of Panem. There was a likely rumor that before the war, there used to be hundreds of nations with completely separate governments all coexisting with one another. Now, with most of the Earth ravaged by nuclear waste and disease, there was only one: Panem, and its twelve districts.
The tea tasted faintly of olives and the color of early autumn. It was a difficult taste to describe, but it was one that Theo had grown accustomed to through his forty years of life. He watched the men and women around him gallivant through the streets of their beloved city, laughing and chattering about things that mattered little. It pained Theo to know that he was one of them.
“Theo,” a familiar voice rang behind him, “you got the job.”
He swiveled and saw the man he had spent the better part of his life drinking winkberry with beaming with disbelief and pride. Though they had been raised on vastly different paths, Roman Walsh was Theo’s best friend. “You’re joking!” said Theo, almost spilling his tea in the excitement.
Roman climbed onto a black aluminum seat. “How many years have you known me? Enough to know that I never joke.”
Roman’s response confirmed his every hope. Theo had passed the exams and was now a seat on the panel of Gamemakers. He would finally sit with the judges and help forge the arena. He had studied his entire life to become a Gamemaker for the Hunger Games, and had fallen short each and every time. Most pursued the position for selfish power, for the pay, or sometimes even for the thrill of it. Theo needed it because he had seen the suffering of those outside the great marble walls surrounding the Capitol. Ever since the Dark Days drew to a close in his adolescence and the president of Panem instated the Hunger Games, Theo knew he had to put them to an end.
Roman was a man of peculiar taste. It was part of the reason the two had maintained their friendship for as long as they had. Most Capitol folk enjoyed vibrant face paint and exotic clothing. Roman preferred drab ones. Most liked violent ear-bleeding music, whereas Roman preferred older, softer styles like jazz and classical.
His brown hair was awfully shaggy yet still well kempt, and hung below his ears. His beard was neatly trimmed and formed a perfect ring beneath his nose. His most striking feature, though, was his height. In a world with genetic modifications for sale over the counter in local drug stores, it was strange to find someone of his stature anymore. Plastic surgery had developed so far that one could virtually decide their physical appearance, yet Roman Walsh still stood under four feet tall. He enjoyed it though—most likely for the same reason Theo kept his monocle. It separated them from the others; they were unique.
“How does it feel to be a new Gamemaker?” Roman asked.
“That’s funny,” Theo chuckled. “You’ve been head of Gamemaking Department for three years, and you’re asking me how it feels?”
“Yeah, well I thought I would spare you. You’ve been mumbling about this under your breath for years. We’re on equal ground once again, you and I. It’s just like the old days again.” He smiled for a moment, but realized Theo’s silence and continued. “Right, Theo? Just like before the Games!”
“Before the Games was worse. We were never on equal ground.” Theo shook his head. “Your father was Secretary of Defense. You got where you are because of him.”
“Bah!” Roman threw his little arms in the air, a wide grin stretching from ear to ear. “I achieved my position because of my wonderful imagination! Tell me you’ve seen one of my arenas that failed to please an audience and I wouldn’t believe you. And besides, if I rose to power based on higher men than I, how the hell did you become a Gamemaker yourself?” Theo glowered his way, but after a few seconds’ hostile silence, the corner of his mouth turned upward and they both laughed all their breath into the hazy winter air.
“It’s good to be on equal footing, good friend,” said Theo. Their friendship was odd for residing in the Capitol. Both were highly intelligent—perhaps too much so for their own good. They would bicker and banter and argue (sometimes very loudly), but at the end of the day there was no man in Panem Theo trusted more.
Roman waved a hand toward the tea sitting beneath Theo’s chin. He responded with a nod and handed the cup to his friend. He took a long sip and asked, “Do you remember last year’s Games?”
“Of course, the desert ecosystem you designed. What about it?”
“Well, as the time draws near to decide on this year’s arena, I’ve discovered I’ve run out of ideas.”
“You don’t run out of ideas,” Theo called his bluff with a squint. “You’re Roman Walsh. You used to line your notebooks with ideas for arenas during university, and I know you couldn’t burn through all of them in a hundred lifetimes. It would be like if President Snow himself ever stood for re-election.”
“Careful how you speak of Coriolanus,” Roman tsked. “He doesn’t take kindly to foul words.”
“You’re on a first name basis with the president now, are you?” Theo raised an eyebrow.
“Well…” he sighed. “He’s on a first name basis with me. Just between us, for someone with as large a vocabulary as he has, I’d be surprised if ‘respect’ could be found in it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Theo spotted some younger women walking by, eyelashes as long as wings flailing in the breeze. One of them picked up a hint of the conversation and shook her head, but passed it off as nothing and continued on her way. This was the second part of why Theo had never cured his physical imperfections. It made him invisible.
Theo breathed, watching the mist evaporate into the cool atmosphere around him. “I suggest we discuss such things in a more secluded area.”
“Ah! Secluded area! Speaking of which, I was pondering what this year’s biome will be, and I can’t help but think that the vast openness of the desert doesn’t provide much opportunity for stealth. The tributes could see each other from a mile away.”
“Yes… Most of the tributes died within the first night.”
“And, with my wonderful imagination, I had the idea that I would let you decide this year, Gamemaker Warrik.”
“Are you sure?” The words hit him like a ton of bricks in the chest. He was only hoping to sit on the panel. He would have never dreamed to have such a large role in the creation of the Games. This was his chance…
“I’m as sure as the sun will shine tomorrow,” Roman smiled. “You’re just starting, and I believe you’re aware of the concept of beginner’s luck? Just don’t pick a desert…”
[A. Suggest a Mountain Arena.]
[B. Suggest a Jungle Arena.]
[C. Suggest an Abandoned City Arena.]
You have chosen Theo to [C. Suggest an Abandoned City Arena.]
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raoul
New Member
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Post by raoul on Apr 30, 2021 0:53:47 GMT
C! But would’ve much rathered a desert
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Post by countlivin on Apr 30, 2021 1:54:03 GMT
C! But would’ve much rathered a desert Okay, so after I'm done writing this series, I'll write a prequel series about the Hunger Games with the desert arena. Sounds good? I'll just keep making prequels until we get to the beginning of time.
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Apr 30, 2021 3:27:27 GMT
[C. Suggest an Abandoned City Arena.]
Huh, I just checked in the original thread over at Telltale and guess what, I have actually never voted on this one in the remake. I did back in 2016 in the old thread, but I definitely don't remember what I've been voting for back then ^^ I think it might have been jungle, but my preferences have changed since then and now I am also in favour of option C! There's just something about a fight in an abandoned city, houses to hide in, different floors, that sounds awesome!
Also, I am super excited to read the story all over again! Theo has always been a favourite character of mine, he and Roman both. I could not stop grinning during their conversation, I know for a fact that I am going to enjoy their future scenes to come. Roman continues to be Gamemaker Tyrion Lannister and I mean that in a very good way and Theo is such an interesting PoV, I'd definitely enjoy this story even if it'd just be from his perspective. I actually don't fully remember every plot twist for Book 1, but that is probably for the better. Gives me more of a chance to genuinely react to the parts to come. I cannot wait to meet the other PoV's. Aura of course, but Marten and Saul too. Hell, even Penn! You have not heard that from me, I might be wrong here, but I faintly remember her not being the worst anymore, so I think I may be looking forward for her too XD
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Post by countlivin on Apr 30, 2021 3:37:53 GMT
[C. Suggest an Abandoned City Arena.]Huh, I just checked in the original thread over at Telltale and guess what, I have actually never voted on this one in the remake. I did back in 2016 in the old thread, but I definitely don't remember what I've been voting for back then ^^ I think it might have been jungle, but my preferences have changed since then and now I am also in favour of option C! There's just something about a fight in an abandoned city, houses to hide in, different floors, that sounds awesome! Also, I am super excited to read the story all over again! Theo has always been a favourite character of mine, he and Roman both. I could not stop grinning during their conversation, I know for a fact that I am going to enjoy their future scenes to come. Roman continues to be Gamemaker Tyrion Lannister and I mean that in a very good way and Theo is such an interesting PoV, I'd definitely enjoy this story even if it'd just be from his perspective. I actually don't fully remember every plot twist for Book 1, but that is probably for the better. Gives me more of a chance to genuinely react to the parts to come. I cannot wait to meet the other PoV's. Aura of course, but Marten and Saul too. Hell, even Penn! You have not heard that from me, I might be wrong here, but I faintly remember her not being the worst anymore, so I think I may be looking forward for her too XD If I publish the first Penn chapter and I get less than ten pages of rant from you Liquid I will be severely disappointed XD it’s good to be back.
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Post by countlivin on Apr 30, 2021 16:45:15 GMT
You have chosen Theo to [C. Suggest an Abandoned City Arena.]
“Well, I always thought an abandoned city might be a good setting,” Theo said, scratching his chin. “If you want stealth, nothing provides a better blanket of cover than a building, or a basement if you’re lucky.”
Roman nodded his head. “A city, you say? I love the way you’re thinking. It will put the fear of the unknown in the tributes—and in the audience! After all, if they have no idea what happened to the people who used to live there, how could they have any idea what will happen to us?”
Roman was a very humble and encouraging man, making him a pleasant one to spend time with. Theo liked to describe himself this way too, but no matter; he was always the more solemn of the two. Roman was only a few years older than him, and Theo oft found it amusing that he looked up to such a short man.
“So, a city it will be?”
“A city it would be. If it were last year. Or if it were next year…” He stared down into the auburn tea below him and took a sip, warming himself through the chill of January. “What makes this year different, Theo?”
He hadn’t a clue. “I don’t know. What is it?”
“This year is the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games, and to celebrate the roundness of that number, President Snow has told me personally that this year’s Games are going to be something extraordinary—the best by likes no one has ever seen.”
“And how are we going to accomplish that?”
Roman chuckled. “By adding a bit of secret ingredient to our arena—our own little tang… Congrats, Theo. You are now effectively one of six people in Panem who know about this.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “Five, if you don’t want to get us both arrested.”
“They would arrest us for my knowledge that the Games are going to be special this year?” Theo sat back in his chair. “You’re the Head Gamemaker. They can’t do that to you.”
Roman sighed. “You would be surprised how many things are kept secret by the Capitol. I think that’s how Snow gets his kicks—by keeping things from other people. It’s a very hard thing to work my mind around, being a completely honest man.”
They laughed. There were many things that Roman was, but honest was not one of them. It was part of how he rose so high on the corporate ladder. “So… It won’t be an abandoned city?”
Roman contemplated it for a moment, then reached into his pocket and grabbed out of it a small silver coin. It was the dollar coin of Panem with a brave eagle on one side, and the face of Snow on the other. He reached into his breast pocket and found a sewing needle there. He quickly held both items between them, the coin just above the needle in perfect alignment. “Tell me, Theo, which way will the coin fall when it hits the pin?”
“Hm?”
“When I drop this dollar, will it fall to my left or to my right?” He paused for a moment, showing clear delight in Theo’s confusion. “Or perhaps it will fall towards you… or even towards me. Which way?”
“Um… To the left.”
Roman released his grip on the coin, and he couldn’t believe his own eyes. The coin landed perfectly in the center, letting it sit on the head of the pin as if it were the flat surface of the table. It stayed there until Roman let go of both of them and let both objects fall into his hand. “That was unexpected, was it not?”
“How…?”
“When you are forging that arena—when you call yourself a Gamemaker—you have to think of things in a different light. You have to look at something, know that someone else would think about it one way, and then think about it a different way yourself.”
“I don’t—”
“The coin was a magnet and a gyroscope. I bought it at a joke shop, but it proves my point,” he continued, “which is this… Be unexpected, Theo. The world likes it.”
“It’s interesting advice,” Theo told him honestly. “Although, if I’m not wrong, the world likes things the normal way, without change. It’s why they look down on people like us.” Theo gestured to his monocle and to Roman’s height.
“Ah, but do they look down on us? Do they really? Last time I checked, we were Gamemakers and they weren’t.” Theo realized the truth of what his friend said then. Roman pocketed the coin and changed the subject. “What has been your favorite arena to date? Which one stuck out to you the most?”
Theo searched his memory for a second, but the answer was clear to him. “The one a couple years back with the aired-out marine trench. That one worked astoundingly since one wrong move could lead to a fall to the death.”
“Precisely!” He brought his hands together with his index fingers pointed at the sky. “That one was the best one to date. It had little ocean huts jutting out the side of the cliff sides and jellyfish mutts that floated through the chasm. But the best part… The best part was that no one knew what the hell they were doing. Who’s ever been in an underwater trench before?”
“I see what you’re saying now.”
“Oh, this arena will be an abandoned city of sorts… But that would be a light way of putting it.” He looked down into the piping tea and took the last sip from it, appreciating one more bit of wooden flavor. “This year will be so much more than that. This year will be grand.”
“So what will it be?” he asked his friend.
Roman peered back up and didn’t answer. He had confidence in what he was doing. It was a notion Theo often strived for, yet many times, fell short of. It was one that Roman nailed every time. He hopped from his chair and dusted off the underside of his trousers, making them as tidy as possible. “Unexpected, my friend… Unexpected. Just like the fact that I must now make my leave. Sorry we haven’t had much time this week, but I’ve been called to a council meeting.”
Theo managed a chuckle, finally accepting the fact that it was not his place to know yet, even though he had provided the basic template for the arena. “So, I’ll meet you here at this same time next week then?”
He shook his head and slowly edged away from the patio of Winkberry Brew. “I would very much like that to be so, but no. You won’t see me for a long time. I am going on a trip to scope out new territory for this arena, likely for several months. So goodbye, and… May the odds be ever in your favor.”
Theo smiled and waved as Roman turned to leave. After he rounded the corner and passed out of sight, Theo himself decided it was time to leave. There wasn’t much use in taking the part of the lonely old man at the tea shop. He stood and reached for his mahogany cane, yet didn’t find it in time and lost his balance. His hand landed on the table and the teacup toppled to the ground and shattered into fragments of ceramic. An employee named Marigold from the restaurant was swiftly present to collect the pieces.
“Did you have a stumble, sir?” she asked, condescendingly. “Would you like me to help you?”
“No, I’ve got it,” Theo replied, placing his wooden cane beneath the weight of his body. He refused Marigold’s outstretched hand toward him and began down the street in the opposite direction Roman had left. It was a relieving feeling, to sit down. He almost forgot it was his struggle to move anywhere, and an even more difficult one to evade people’s glares of mild disdain. But in those looks, there was anonymity. They looked, but they didn’t see. He was truly invisible.
He wondered if it would ever be any different. Maybe there would come a day when he could walk on his cane as he did and pass amongst the residents of Capitol freely without scrutiny, but it was not today; and it wasn’t tomorrow either. Theo knew that tomorrow would be different, but it would be for other reasons.
End of Chapter One
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Post by countlivin on Apr 30, 2021 16:48:25 GMT
CHAPTER TWO: THE FAMILY LEGACY
Aura Cantarella
"The fiddleman’s home, the fiddleman’s home Was built of sturdy oak. Then he sang a little ditty ‘bout the shining city, And it all went up in smoke, Yeah, it all went up in smoke.
“The fiddleman’s rope, oh, the fiddleman’s rope Waited patient for his dance. But he’d played too little on the Capitol’s fiddle So he hopped right over the fence, Yeah, he hopped right over the fence.
"The fiddleman’s daughter, the fiddleman’s daughter Married a lumberjack. They took her tongue, and him they hung And the fiddleman never came back, Yeah, the fiddleman never came back.
"The fiddleman’s song, the fiddleman’s song They can’t keep from our ears. Be quiet tonight, and you just might Hear the one man the president fears, Oh, the one man the president fears."
Aura placed her guitar down by the oaken chair, her song done. It was among her favorites, and one that her two younger brothers asked for many nights before bed. She would gladly accept the request. She often wondered why they wanted so badly to hear about such a dark concept, but Corvin and Barker were still too young to listen for anything more than melody. She wished she could be so naïve.
Her story was a simple one. She was born into a life of luxury—at least in comparison to the rest of the families in District Seven. All her life, she had expectations of grandeur thrust upon her by her mother and father, until birthing her youngest brother proved too much for Mom. She received much scorn from her peers for being a snotty brat, but in truth, she was farthest from. She didn’t force herself into the idea of being innocent and sweet either. The only thing she could say with precise certainty was that she was, in fact, Aura Cantarella.
“The fiddleman’s rope, the fiddleman’s rope… sang a little ditty ‘bout the shining city!” sang Barker, the five-year-old. That wasn’t exactly how the song went, but with the way the boy’s golden-brown hair bounced jovially as he mimicked her, Aura couldn’t help but forgive him.
“That’s not how the song goes,” Corvin scolded him. With the same golden hair, the boy was three years older. “She just sang it. Don’t you remember?”
“Corvin, lay off him,” she said. “Want to see something else cool, guys?”
“Yeah!” they chimed in unison.
Aura fingered through the leather pack she’d purchased from the general market and retrieved a loaf of bread. The boys’ faces became bright as their eyes fell on it; it was banana bread. It was their favorite, and hers as well. “Where did you get this, Aura?” Corvin asked, struggling to contain his excitement.
“Bought it in the market earlier today.” Aura smiled. It was a lie, but she wasn’t going to reveal to them what they need not know.
“Can we eat it now?” Barker asked enthusiastically.
Aura laughed. “Banana bread? At ten in the evening? No, you can have it in the morning for breakfast. Speaking of which, I think this is late enough for the two of you.” She stood up from her chair and took them lovingly by the collars to the twin bedroom at the end of the hall.
“Can you sing us one more song?” Barker asked, pointing at Aura’s guitar by the table. “I don’t want to have nightmares tonight.” Damn him and those puppy dog eyes, Aura thought.
She squatted down to meet her baby brother eye to eye. “Buddy, there’s a reason I only sing you one a night… What do you think causes the nightmares?”
“The monsters in my room…” he replied shakily.
She shook her head and pounded the wall to prove how sturdy it was. “There aren’t any monsters in your room. All the monsters are out there, outside our house. They can’t get in.”
The front door slid open with a creak and her father, Rowan Cantarella, wobbled into the home on drunken legs. She couldn’t even feign surprise. He clumsily withdrew one of the chairs from the kitchen table and plunged into it, almost shattering his bottle on the way down.
“In there, you’re safe,” Aura whispered to the boys, ignoring her father for a moment. “Now, go in. Turn the lights out. Go to sleep. You’ll be fine.”
Barker turned and obeyed, but his brother lagged behind. “But what about—”
“I’ll deal with this,” Aura said with a commanding tone, stopping him before Dad could hear. “Just go to bed. Get some rest.” Corvin let out a brief sigh, closing the door to the room behind him.
“Deal with this?” Dad quoted, setting the bottle of smelly alcohol down. Damn it. “God, Aura, I’m your father, not some solicitor trash.”
“What are you doing?” Aura glared at him, standing firmly in front of the boys’ door. “Dad, what are you doing here?”
“This is my home, girl,” he sneered. “I got every right to sit down in this chair. In fact, I got more right than you. I won it. I’m the reason we aren’t out on the street right this very moment, fending for our lives.”
“Don’t pull that ‘I’m a victor’ crap with me again. I don’t want to hear it,” she steamed. “You stay out and do god knows what most nights, and on the others, you limp home so piss-drunk you can’t even see straight and sell me the same story about how you do all of it for the family.”
He looked up with enraged yellow eyes. “I am your father, Aura, and I deserve your respect. And both of us know I can hold my liquor.”
She stormed to the table and ripped the bottle away before he could take another swig. “Oh, you deserve something, but it definitely isn’t respect.”
“What’s gotten into you today, girl? Why won’t you get off my back?” He wiped the whiskey from his patchy, gray beard.
A tear fell from Aura’s eye. She didn’t mean for it to, but that didn’t make it go away. “Carla’s mom was taken today.”
His eyes softened. “Carla? Oh honey, what happened?”
“They made her an Avox, Dad…” She turned away from him, and cried. They had mutilated her—taken the woman’s tongue so she could no longer speak out against the Capitol. Something like that made it hard not to cry.
“Well, I guess it’s good I didn’t take you out for training today,” Dad said, and let out a loud belch. “You’re welcome.”
“Why do you have to be like this?” she asked, hoping she’d receive a different answer than every other night. “Why do you take me out training day after day? Is it fun to watch me throw knives at stumps until my arms feel like they’re being put through a wood chipper? Is it fun to make me kill and cook rabbits all day? We don’t even eat them…”
He looked offended. “I do this for us, Aura… And to uphold our legacy. I won the Games. Your uncle won ‘em too. If your name is Cantarella, winning the Games is your destiny. Winning is in your blood.”
“Just like it was in Ava’s blood, Dad?”
He was shot dead with shock. After regaining relative composure, he replied, “Ava was a misstep. I didn’t train her hard enough. I plan to fix that with you.”
“Dad! Ava didn’t just die in the Games, she killed herself! Her ‘winning blood’ is still all over that boulder in the mountain arena. How can you tell me she was a mistake? The mistake was training her at all—filling her mind with hope of fulfilling her destiny… It wasn’t even her destiny, it was just yours!”
“Aura… Just shut up and listen to what I have to say.” Aura crossed her arms reluctantly and leaned against the creaking wall. “I know I told you that you would volunteer when you were eighteen, but I was just thinking today, what does that really accomplish? Volunteer this year. You’re seventeen. They might even judge you fairer if you’re younger.”
“You’re not serious…” Aura gasped. “You’re gonna make me volunteer this week? You told me I had till I was eighteen!”
“Well, I changed my mind. I was fifteen when I won my Games. You have an entire two-year advantage on me. And look at Crispin! He was the only twelve-year-old ever to win.”
Aura paced around the room, twirling golden strands of her hair nervously. She couldn’t believe this. It had always been Dad’s plan to have his children volunteer, but this was taking it too far. “Dad, Uncle Crispin is insane. You can’t be in the same room with him for more than a couple minutes without him starting to talk about knives and killing things. Remember what happened to Corvin the last time you had him over?”
“Crispin is not the issue. You are,” he said. “You’re going to volunteer next week.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. The moment they call someone else’s name, you’re going to shout at the top of your lungs and claim that spot as your own. This is your destiny.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Honey, why are you protesting so hard against bringing this family pride?” In frustration, Dad turned from her, and his eyes fell upon the banana bread. The gears in his drunken mind turned faster than Aura would have thought. “Aura, where did you get that?”
“I… applied for rations earlier today,” she admitted. She wanted to think of a lie to tell him. But then again, the thought of how furious he would be was enough incentive to tell the truth. He looked confused, but he knew exactly what happened. The district would provide them extra provisions, and the only thing they asked for in return was extra lots in the reaping bowl. But with the man pushing her to volunteer so relentlessly the past few years, she couldn’t help but want to be chosen by the reaping, just to spite him.
“You… what?” Dad grunted through his teeth.
“I went and applied for rations at the Peacekeeper’s office this morning.”
Dead silence perforated the room. Finally, he spoke. “I see. And how many times did you put in your name?”
“One hundred and thirty,” she lied. She had only put in her name thirty times, but she was so angry with her father that she couldn’t resist.
“Aura… You do understand that if you are chosen by the reaping, all of this effort will become meaningless, right? People can’t name you a hero if you didn’t ask to be one.”
“I understand,” she stated plainly.
“A hundred and thirty times… for a loaf of BREAD?” He stood and threw an old, empty glass, tearing the lilac wallpaper. “That’s gotta be a tenth of the entire bowl! What gives you the RIGHT to—”
“What gives you the right to gamble with my life?” Aura shot back quietly.
The creak of a hinge resounded simply. At the boys’ door, Barker stood and whimpered, “Aura?”
“Go back to bed,” Aura and her father declared simultaneously. Fearfully, Barker closed the door.
The father and daughter listened to the creaks vibrate through the house. After Barker had climbed back into his bed, Dad slumped back into his seat and spoke with a lowered tone, “Fine, hon. You win. You don’t have to volunteer. But two victors in the family isn’t gonna cut it. No, we need three.” He sighed, and his yellow eyes drifted to the boys’ room. “I guess I’ll have to train one of them.”
“Don’t you dare,” Aura threatened, pointing a shaking finger. “Those boys are too sweet to be ruined by you. You’re not going to take that away from them.”
“No. You are.”
He stood, and in the gained silence, Dad stole back away the whiskey bottle from Aura’s weak hand. He drank and he drank, until Aura realized he would not stop until he heard her answer. She sucked in her gut. Damn him, Aura cursed inwardly. Damn him, damn him, damn him…
[A. Volunteer.]
[B. Refuse.]
You have chosen Aura to [A. Volunteer.]
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raoul
New Member
Posts: 11
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Post by raoul on Apr 30, 2021 17:27:43 GMT
The "What gives you the right to gamble with my life?" line was so powerful! Really great chapter. I'm going to vote for A, though I'd be curious what you would be able to do with B. I want Barker to be able to eat his banana bread, keep his puppy dog eyes, and live a happy life.
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Post by Zeek on May 2, 2021 21:16:43 GMT
Refuse
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Post by Stephen on May 2, 2021 21:19:34 GMT
[A. Volunteer.]
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Post by InGenNateKenny on May 3, 2021 22:43:29 GMT
[B. Refuse.]
Okay so I have not read or seen the Hunger Games series (but I know the basics), so it will take me some time to get used to this.
Two thoughts: 1) Aired-out marine trench sounds like an awesome arena. 2) I like your dialogue. Sharp. Very good.
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Post by countlivin on May 4, 2021 2:17:30 GMT
[B. Refuse.]Okay so I have not read or seen the Hunger Games series (but I know the basics), so it will take me some time to get used to this. Two thoughts: 1) Aired-out marine trench sounds like an awesome arena. 2) I like your dialogue. Sharp. Very good. Thanks for the kind words and welcome to the story! Yes I know some people coming to this series won’t have read the Hunger Games and since this is a prequel it definitely won’t spoil anything. I’ve tried to make sure everything will be understandable for those who haven’t read the series. And yes, the aired out marine trench was cool, in fact so cool I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to do it Justice lol
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on May 4, 2021 16:50:47 GMT
Aura, wooo! That part was just as awesome as I remember, I'm already getting the feels even though I know most of what's in store for her in Book 1. That being said, I forgot just how much of an utter lowlife her dad is, I can't wait to hate on him some more XD
[A. Volunteer.]
I think this was my vote last time and it shall be my vote again. Not because I don't want her to be defiant, but because I think that in this particular situation, she's not in the right position to do so.
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Post by countlivin on May 4, 2021 17:42:51 GMT
You have chosen Aura to [A. Volunteer.]
“I’ll volunteer,” Aura said under her breath, then louder, “I volunteer, alright? Just don’t hurt them.”
He hiccupped. “Aura, you wound me. I never hurt my children.”
Defeated, Aura sank against the wall. Dad drank, and Aura didn’t interrupt. “What was so great about it?” she asked, weakly.
“Hm?”
“You’ve been in the arena. Tell me what was so glorious about it that you want to get back so badly.”
Dad thought for a moment, but he didn’t deny it. “The winnings,” he answered. “The winnings are how this family survives. We’re running low on rations from Crispin’s win. The settlement is a lot, but it can’t easily support a family of five.”
“The winnings aren’t worth it,” Aura told him. “If we have to, we should sell this house and live out on the street if it means not going in the arena.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen.” He stood up and stepped over shards of broken glass to the corner of the room, touching the wall where he had torn it.
“You used to be a good man,” she put forth. “What happened?”
“I’m not a bad man, honey.” He sighed. She hated when he called her that; it reminded her of a time when it meant he loved her. “You know why I do the things I do. I do them to support us. With what happened to Ava… and your mother… Sometimes it gets pretty hard to do just that, but know everything I do is in your best interest.”
“Yeah…” Aura stepped off the wall, and drifted to the door to her room. In her mind, stormy thoughts simmered, but they did not boil over. It was the same story she had heard a thousand nights before, and she was tired of fighting. Hand on the doorknob, Aura stood. “You’re carting me off to die,” she said.
“I’m carting you off to win.”
“You and I both know that there’s no realistic chance that will happen.”
He shook his head. “Not with that attitude. No, we’re gonna train nonstop starting tomorrow. Get some rest, because we’ll be up at the crack of dawn.”
She whispered “I hate you.” In the deepest pit of her heart, she wished it was a lie. As the door closed behind her, she got a glimpse of his face: not anger or confusion, but genuine hurt. Why was he hurt? Aura asked herself. How could he not see that she should hate him, had every right to hate him? She tossed herself onto her bed. Why was he hurt?
On nights when Crispin didn’t throw raucous parties, the Victor’s Village was quiet. Her bed was provided by the Justice Building and the Capitol: a plush one with fitted sheets and feathers. The rest of District Seven didn’t have that luxury; theirs were cots and straw.
From the window, Aura watched the full moon. Sometimes, she would gaze upon it, and become envious. It was so far away from the world she called home. It didn’t have to deal with the pressure it meant to be human. It didn’t have to deal with the Hunger Games.
End of Chapter Two
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Post by countlivin on May 4, 2021 17:46:37 GMT
CHAPTER THREE: THE DARK CANOPY
Saul Arrem
The branches of this forest were rough and firm, and Saul called each one a friend. The acres-wide apple orchard was his workplace and second home. He spent countless liberating hours amidst its treetops, longing to cling onto one more branch or pick one more delicious fruit. The moment he climbed down and his feet touched the black, grainy earth of District Eleven, he had descended back into hell.
He grasped onto another branch and swung gracefully to the next tree in the row. There was a little area within the canopy ahead where two trees’ branches became entwined so tightly they created an almost solid ground. It made a perfect resting spot on an exhausting day like this one. With four walls, a ceiling and a floor, it was almost as if these couple of trees were a room. It was a place Saul could get away from everything.
Saul had almost outgrown the shabby orphanage named St. Rhodes’. At eighteen, he had everything that was once his stolen from him—everything except his sister and his own life. He scarcely remembered his parents, and Peara didn’t even recollect their faces. He was very young when his father died, and his mother left long before that. But what memories hadn’t fled were ones that brought peace in the chaos of Eleven. All he could conjure was that his father was a good man—a man of the like Saul strived to become.
He gazed towards the twilit sky and took note of the light, dusty haze that he hadn’t noticed on the long walk over to the orchard. It was frequently foggy in District Eleven. Saul found it kept him sharp, having to peer through the distance and search for the meaning behind it. But today, the fog made it hard to breathe. Saul slowed his pace and breathed deeply, so as not to trigger his asthma again.
Eleven was not a place one could exist without a backup plan. It was cold, brutal, and every time your tongue slipped to the wrong place, you could be forever branded a title. That was if the upper class were feeling considerably generous. Its main export to the Capitol was agriculture, and anyone worth their salt was tough as nails. It was a massive privilege for Saul to have a place like this to escape to. He would have brought his sister along with him, if only she could climb as well as he. Peara could barely lift even her own weight, let alone traverse the orchard canopy.
Saul had skin as dark as coffee, just as all the others did in District Eleven. Here, you were hard-pressed to find a person that wasn’t black, but those paler few were the lowest of class. They could never seem to keep the spittle off their shoes. Saul’s kid sister, Peara, was one of them. An albino girl with white hair and pink eyes, she couldn’t even find help with the white folks. People called her a freak and worse. When Saul defended the girl (and he did with every fiber of his being) he was always caught in the crossfire of their hatred. He didn’t mind too much, though; whenever he felt lonely, he could always retreat to the canopy. He felt whole up here where the breeze was cold and the air smelt clean. He was invincible while he was up here.
Peara was home today—or what could pass for a home for the two of them. St. Rhodes’, much like the rest of the district, was torn apart by scavengers and other unpleasant groups. Saul fought every day as hard as he could to shield his sister from it, but she had grown too old for that. She turned twelve earlier that month, and Saul decided once she was old enough to get shipped off to that forsaken arena, she was old enough to handle herself. And for once in his life, he could finally journey out to his orchard in some peace.
It wasn’t always the orchard that gave Saul comfort, but also the woods behind the orchard. There was a defined line between the apples and the oak on the edge of the orchard, and that was where Saul went today. The oak limbs were firmer, providing more structural support. The first of them he stepped onto was one which used to be his favorite tree in the whole of Eleven. On its trunk near the base were carved his initials and the initials of a young girl, woven inside each other. Her name was Beth. They had spent countless hours at this tree and this orchard when they were young. When they were foolish, they discussed plans of marriage. On the days he was alone, he sat atop the trees, chewing on overripe apples and wondering what the next day would hold for him. This place was where Saul first fell in love.
From tree to tree he hopped across pathways made of interwoven wood. It was a very serene way to live—the leaves of the apple trees dancing about him and the sun just barely kissing the ground below. Today, though, the sun was far dimmer the farther south he climbed. He wasn’t quite sure why.
On the way to the grove, Saul came upon the gnarled pond tree. It wasn’t like the others; bent near the base it made a nice place to sit overlooking the calm waters. Because the branches above were dense and an absolute mess to navigate, Saul found it best to avoid this one when he traversed the canopy. Underneath, though, he had spent many hours. After they started seeing each other, Beth and Saul came out to this tree almost every day and drank moonshine by the moonlight. It was their thing, and that’s what Saul liked to remember this tree by. It was where he had first tasted alcohol.
Vaulting over branch after crooking branch, Saul continued on his wayward journey. Saul was very adept at climbing the trees, and he had been ever since he’d taken the apprenticeship to the owner of the orchard, Thurgood Munrow. He’d spent most waking hours within these branches, plucking out bad apples before the trees were harvested. He had the job ever since. It was always more than a job to him though.
The next important trees he passed were the twins—two trees about three apart. They were so close together that Saul not even Peara could squeeze between; Saul considered them one. The first time they’d laid eyes on them, Beth had laughed and suggested that one day the two might be just as close. That was the tree where Saul shared his first kiss.
As Saul drew farther past the orchard, the light became faint and red, though the sun had not yet dipped below the horizon. When he coughed, he smelled the brimstone. This was no fog, but smoke… He brought out his inhaler and continued with a quickening pace.
Saul brought a deep breathe from the little plastic walls; he hated the device. It reminded him that he would never be able to spend very long in the forest he loved so much without being caught by a piece of the man-made world. Nevertheless, he had asthma, and without his inhaler, he could succumb to an attack out here where no one would ever find him.
The old giant came next, a massive walnut that stood straight and sturdy—the largest of the woods. Its leaves covered even the canopy itself. This used to be a favorite of Saul’s to climb, as at the top, he could see out miles past Eleven to the great beyond. But one day, when Beth and Saul came through this path, a hooded man jumped them from the bushes, stabbed him in the shoulder, and tried to take the girl while Saul laid bleeding on the ground. Saul beat the man within an inch of his life. Here was where Saul first tasted blood.
Now, Saul took great care to avoid the giant, even navigating through a prickly pine to manage a detour. These woods were an orchard of memories, and the ones previously had been those easy to remember. Truly, Saul wished the grove was closer so he would not have to dwell on those darker parts of his life each and every time he ventured out there, but there was no better place to think than his grove.
The next tree on his path was a small one, though it was obscured by clouds of smoke. Saul coughed and covered his mouth as he progressed. It was a baby tree, but it was even smaller when Beth had broken things off. “You’re a monster, Saul,” she had told him. “I can’t be around you anymore. I love you, but you’re dangerous.” It was the tree where his heart was broken.
Saul had scoured the district for Beth for months following that day. No matter where he searched—at her house, through the market, even on the outskirts near the fence—he hadn’t found her. So much time passed, and eventually Saul accepted that he would never see his best friend again. She had left him and was never coming back. Then, he found her.
As Saul ducked under the next branch, he spotted the last tree in his story: the tall ash in a sea of oak. He remembered the horror he felt that day. He had been on his way to his grove, wanting nothing more than to escape his exhausting work, when he spotted her. Her bones hung there by a wire. After he buried her, he felt brazen nothingness for weeks, staying silent for the inability to find his words. Saul’s life fell into fragments that day, and many of them he left in the dirt there with the girl he would have married. That day was two months ago.
With a heavy heart, Saul put it out of mind and proceeded to the route. After several minutes he passed the fence, electrified and barbed. It was meant to keep people from leaving District Eleven, but it had never stopped Saul before. The forest extended past the fence and the grove was behind it. Saul stepped past, knowing if he were caught out here, he would surely be arrested. He knew what they did to people who tried to leave the district. Occasionally, when the escorts would arrive in the district to spirit away the tributes, they would bring a slave: one of those men without tongues, the Avoxes.
Saul climbed further into the forest. The oak slowly became pine, and eventually the woods ceased and the valley began. The lumberjacks who chopped down these kinds of trees didn’t care to look outside the walls, and that was how Saul liked it: untouched. When the smoke became so thick that Saul could no longer breathe, he dropped to the ground, and with every foot he put in front of the other, the more the heat burned his skin.
Saul reached the inferno. Where his grove should have been, the green had become black with char. The flowers had long since burnt away into nothing, and flames taller than two men leaped high above the canopy. “NO!” Saul wailed, throwing himself into the fire. Coughing like hell, he looked around for a stream, or anything he could use to quiet the fire. “No no no no NO!”
A blazing branch fell from overhead and Saul was not agile enough to escape. The boy cried for pain and the cloth of his sleeve went up in flames. Frantically, he ripped it away, but not soon enough; a major burn had marred his arm. “AGH!” he squealed. Tendrils of pain scrambled up and down the inside and outside of Saul’s arm, and it was all he could do to bolt away.
Saul bounded over fallen branches and stumps, past dead deer and burning brush. This place that was once so full of life and wonder was now barren and empty. Stumps littered the ground like craters from the Dark Days. Those trees were the only things that Saul could call his own, and now they were gone.
When Saul finally escaped the fire, he climbed a tree using his good arm and ran. The scorch marks cut through the ground like horrid scars. Everything throughout the entire valley was gray, ashen, and lifeless, and the pyre was growing closer. It would reach the District within minutes. Adrenaline flooding his system, Saul was like lightning through the trees. He had to get back and warn someone.
It wasn’t until Saul passed over the electric fence again that he finally let himself realize that his home was dead. A pain rose in his chest; even after he took a breath from his inhaler, it lingered. He had to make it back to the orchard and to his master. The orchard wouldn’t be the only thing affected within Eleven, since it could spread to the town and other settlements, but it would be the first. But Saul had been behind the fence… They would arrest him, lock him up, or worse…
[A. Run to Get Help.]
[B. Keep the Fire Secret.]
You have chosen Saul to [B. Keep the Fire Secret.]
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Post by InGenNateKenny on May 4, 2021 21:03:34 GMT
[B. Keep the Fire Secret.] I liked the use of the trees as a way to explore past memories. Clever.
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Post by countlivin on May 4, 2021 21:15:44 GMT
[B. Keep the Fire Secret.] I liked the use of the trees as a way to explore past memories. Clever. Thanks 😅 I remember when I wrote this one in particular, I had trouble because I usually write scenes with dialogue in them and this one was difficult. I tried to use the imagery of the trees to provide a sort of structure for the chapter.
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Post by Stephen on May 5, 2021 2:15:59 GMT
[B. Keep the Fire Secret.]
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on May 6, 2021 22:27:55 GMT
[B. Keep the Fire Secret.]I don't know what I chose last time and I have come to the conclusion that I won't check every time. I think I still have a vague idea of what happened in Saul's storyline, but let's see if there's any surprising twist ahead. I certainly don't know every turn the story will take and I think it is much more exciting for me if I don't re-read the old parts and save myself some surprises for Book 1. But ah, I am certain there will be more than one moment (not just for Saul), where I'm really going to regret this approach, but so be it
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raoul
New Member
Posts: 11
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Post by raoul on May 7, 2021 3:51:05 GMT
I vote for A. Run to get help
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Post by countlivin on May 7, 2021 4:14:18 GMT
[B. Keep the Fire Secret.]I don't know what I chose last time and I have come to the conclusion that I won't check every time. I think I still have a vague idea of what happened in Saul's storyline, but let's see if there's any surprising twist ahead. I certainly don't know every turn the story will take and I think it is much more exciting for me if I don't re-read the old parts and save myself some surprises for Book 1. But ah, I am certain there will be more than one moment (not just for Saul), where I'm really going to regret this approach, but so be it Yeah it looks like we’re gonna be keeping the fire secret this time. That will be the first of what I’m sure are many deviations from the original story, so I wouldn’t count on knowing Saul’s storyline. At least I’m keeping it somewhat consistent though haha. Depending on what gets chosen, Marten’s story may take a complete overhaul
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Post by countlivin on May 7, 2021 7:30:27 GMT
You have chosen Saul to [B. Keep the Fire Secret.]
Saul gripped his blistered arm so tightly the skin stretched taut over his knuckles, and he pored over his options. He had to keep this secret. If the truth got out—that Saul had been outside the fence in the valley beyond District Eleven—they would lock him behind bars for the rest of his life. And then who would protect Pea?
Saul used to be the trusting kind, but that slowly declined when he was seven years old and his father died. It had been less than a year after their mother had born Peara and run off. He told the young Saul that he would never leave, and yet he did. Granted, it was out of his control, but he didn’t realize that at the time. He knew he couldn’t count on other people, and it was this notion that caused him to want to be—as best he could—the type of person you could actually count on. It was all for his sister now, because without Saul, she would truly have no one.
As the smoke and the flames drew nearer to the district, Saul paused to reflect upon his forest and his orchard. He passed tree after tree, remembering the memories he had made underneath their branches. These trees had been his spiritual journey through so many years of his life, and though they told a story he hated to remember, he couldn’t bear seeing them die.
The pain within his arm crawled quickly from a dull nuisance to a grand roar, and he finally fell from the canopies, touching down on the orchard’s thinly cut grasses. Even if he couldn’t tell them why, he would need to find treatment for his arm, and soon, or he was risking permanent damage. In the patches of moonlight shining between the apples, Saul risked a peak down at the burn. Under a tattered sleeve, red boils surged and swelled their torment. But how could he manage to keep it secret? The first question the healer would ask is where he got the wound, and what could he say without incriminating himself.
Saul approached the cabin, nervous sweat pouring from his brow. It was a rickety, moldy building on the edge of the orchard where Mr. Munrow and Saul packaged the apples. The place was three times as old as Saul, and did little more than keep the rain off their heads, but it was where the old man lived. He’d asked time and time again if Peara and himself could be allowed to stay there so they wouldn’t have to suffer the orphanage, but Munrow had refused. There was barely enough space for his own purposes.
Quieting his heavy breath, Saul snuck into Mr. Munrow’s home. The hut was as pathetic as ever, with ceiling panels missing and large sections of torn wallpaper hanging loosely from the wall. It was dark and quiet; Mr. Munrow must have been in the other room, Saul figured. As soon as he entered, he took his olive windbreaker from the coatrack and threw it on. Blood and pus slid down Saul’s arm as he put it through the sleeve, fusing it to the fabric painfully, but it would conceal his burn, and that was all that mattered.
“What are you doing here, boy?” came the voice that Saul had been dreading all the way to the cottage. “I sent you home an hour ago.”
Saul froze in the doorway, stunned into submission. Mr. Munrow lit a lamp and set it on the table beside his rocking chair. The old man rocked steadily back and forth, his tight lips forming a scowl as usual. His graying beard stretched all the way across his chin but never quite reached his scalp. Life expectancy in Eleven was around fifty, and at sixty-five, Munrow had blown right past that threshold with no signs of stopping.
With the hand that hadn’t been singed, Saul took a deep puff from his inhaler. As best he could, he tried to divert attention away from his injured arm by keeping it tucked away in his pocket. “I was…” he started, though it was tough to keep a sturdy tone. “I was doing a little bit of extra work before I head back to town… There were a couple fallen branches I dragged into the forest.”
Stoically, Munrow stood from his chair and carried the lamp over to the washbasin. Saul watched longingly as the old man turned his hands methodically over in the water, rinsing them of the day’s work. Even a drop of that water could dull Saul’s arm from a roar to a simmer… But of course, he couldn’t show it.
“Very well,” he spoke matter-of-factly. “I’ll see to it you are rewarded for the extra time. Now run along.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Saul coughed.
Before he made it to the exit, Munrow interrupted him. “You smell smoke, Saul?”
Saul feigned a deep sniff of the air. “No, sir,” he lied.
“Interesting…” Munrow savored the word as he said it, and towelled off his hands. Saul started for the door again, but then he heard the clinking of glass. Munrow set a brown bottle on the table along with two glasses. “Why don’t you stay for a moment? We got things to talk about.”
“I really should be going…” Saul croaked.
“Sit down,” Munrow demanded.
He should have left. Saul should have walked out the door right at that moment, Munrow be damned. But Mr. Munrow’s voice had a forceful power behind it that simply could not be matched. Against his better judgment, Saul sat. “I can’t drink. I think I’d throw it up,” Saul protested, not even mentioning that he was only eighteen.
“Then throw it up.” Munrow poured both glasses a quarter of the way full with amber liquid which shined in the twinkling firelight. He took one and made a half-baked attempt at a toast before downing it all in one go. Then he watched Saul expectantly.
Trying to combat the pain, tears welled in his eyes, and Saul reluctantly took the drink. When the liquid passed through his lips, the burn spread from his arm to his entire body. He had tasted liquor before, but this was stronger than any he had ever imagined—much more potent than the moonshine. When he swallowed, white-hot nails pierced his stomach and throat and arm, but moments later he found it all lessened considerably. Even his arm stung no more than a minor scrape.
Apparently, Saul’s relief was evident on his face. Munrow nodded joylessly. “Capitol stuff. Kills the pain. You’re welcome.”
“How did you—?” Saul asked, before letting it go. “Sir, I’m not allowed to drink, I’m only eighteen.”
For the first time that night, Munrow cracked a smile. “Don’t matter. Now you want to tell me what really happened out there?”
“I don’t… I told you what happened.”
“Right. Then you’d best be on your way.” Munrow stood and crossed the table to pull Saul’s seat out for him. After he did so, he clapped down hard on Saul’s shoulders, his fingers sending flares down his arm. “After all, you have a big day tomorrow, with the reaping… Wouldn’t want anything to ruin it.”
Every word Munrow spoke was condescending; it was unlike him. Mr. Munrow had always been somewhat apathetic, but today was different. Never before had he inquired about Saul’s life outside the orchard. Today, he spoke with a snake’s tongue, and left Saul with not a clue as to why.
Mr. Munrow sent Saul away from the cottage with nothing more than a cryptic remark: “When you’re ready, you’ll return to me.” When the door of the cottage closed, Saul made haste to get as far away as possible. Once he was out of earshot, he knelt on the dirt path and shrugged off the windbreaker. The blood had turned to glue between his arm and the plastic, and it was uncomfortable to remove. But beneath the blood, the burn was gone—replaced by faded patches of dead skin where his boils had been. Saul touched the arm and felt not even a sting of pain.
He gazed to the sky and watched the smoke plumes rise to form gray clouds blanketing Eleven. Even now, the flames ruthlessly ate at the valley beyond the district, razing all they touched to char. Likely, the next time he returned to the orchard, it would be nothing more than a blackened pile of sticks. A part of Saul had died with his home beyond the fence. Munrow’s magic whiskey had cured his burn somehow, but that piece it could never return.
End of Chapter Three
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Post by countlivin on May 7, 2021 7:32:46 GMT
CHAPTER FOUR: BLOOD IN THE WATER
Marten Lewis
Marten Lewis cast the iron-tipped spear into the midst of the creek with the brutish strength of an ox. When he was sure the bladed end had found its mark, he pulled it from the water and admired his work. Straight through the skull it had pierced, leaving the muscle fully intact. Proudly, he placed the perfect catch in his satchel. This, he supposed, is what life is supposed to feel like. Marten never wanted to step on dry land again.
“Nice catch, small fry,” called his sister. She whipped her dirty bangs behind her neck and breathed a short sigh. On the tip of her own spear was a fish of better size and quality. Willy laughed. “Mine’s better, but hey, yours was farther away.”
“Yup,” he replied simply.
Willy was three years older than him, and was a giant compared to most girls in the district. She stood just above six feet tall and could bench more than most thought humanly possible; Marten was no different. The members of the Lewis family were not renowned for their good looks, but for being tough as bricks. As long as he could remember, Marten had never met anyone stronger than him that didn’t have his Grandad’s blood in their veins. Everyone knew them as “those giants down in Amber Creek,” and Marten could not argue.
Marten couldn’t argue with many things, in fact. He wasn’t anything of a talker. He’d always figured actions spoke far louder than words, and if he ever had something to say, he’d make sure he wouldn’t have to. He enjoyed the silence; it was rather peaceful, and in District Four, peace was a rare commodity. It was loud, raucous, and annoying. Every inch of this district, down to the children playing in the streets reeked of fish. Of course, what could he expect from a district where half the men ride the ocean till December?
His sister tossed her spear into the creek once again and the giant trout narrowly escaped her. Almost instantaneously, it swam to the north and out of view. “I think we’ll call it a day, man,” she said. She tossed her wicker satchel to the riverbank and tiptoed her way to the shore. Marten did the same. As he sat down in the coarse gravel of the beach, he peered up into the maroon sky lit with a blistering summer sun. He knew that somewhere just on the other side of that horizon, the world dropped off completely—on the other side of the ocean… Not even President Snow knew what resided past the Great Sea.
“So, I’m thinking tomorrow, we bring an extra spear,” Willy offered. “We can bring Jill along. She’s been wanting to come out here with us for months. I say it’s high time we let her.” Thrusting her powerful legs through the running water, Willy trudged to shore and saw all the catches they’d made that day. When she went to celebrate, she saw Marten didn’t share her enthusiasm. “What’s wrong, kid?” After a brief moment of silence, she knew the answer. “You heard?”
Marten hung his head in concentration. Earlier that day, the bell’s toll had arrived in the form of a call from the hospital and Auntie Myra. Last night, the cancer had finally broken their grandad. Marten wasn’t usually one to brood, but Grandad’s death had had a strange effect on him. The Lewis family was four dozen strong, and they’d experienced deaths in the family before, but Grandad had always been the glue. After he’d beaten his cancer the third time, they all thought he was invincible—a pillar of strength for the family to stand behind. And with that pillar being as tall as it was, the fall had been too hard for him to bear. But Marten couldn’t shed a tear, and that was the part of it that scared him.
“Grandad wouldn’t have wanted us to loom over his death,” said his sister, shaking her head. “He was the kind of man who took his spear in one hand and his life in the other.” She paused for a moment before twisting her toes in the mud. “He was…”
When she trailed off, Marten finished her sentence. “The best damn fisher in Four.” Marten knew she was right. He would have said the same about his grandfather if he was good with words.
“That’s true.” Willy collapsed onto the sand, and patted the ground next to her invitingly. Marten nodded and they watched the sun set together. “Mom is heartbroken… Did you see her this morning?”
Marten nodded his head. When he’d passed through their house and out the door, the only thing he’d managed to glimpse from their dusty kitchen was the way she held her head in her hands on the table, silent and sullen. Marten had only seen her that way once before: when Dad was sent to prison.
“She’s too hard on herself,” Willy said. “She sees situations and blows them up like hot air balloons. I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty shaken up about this to. I can’t imagine what it’s doing to her.”
Marten sifted through the sand and found a tiny blue-stained pebble; he chucked it at the creek with a short spat of range. The stone skipped four times easily and landed halfway to the other bank. The forest was dense and treacherous over there, and it seemed like the moment he stepped in, he’d never be able to find his way back out again. He’d never built up the courage to check.
“You know, the company’s yours now, right?” she put forth, knocking him playfully on the arm. She spread her arms in the air as though to gesture to a neon billboard that wasn’t there. “Lewis n’ Son’s Sport and Bait… I guess the son is the Lewis now, eh? Gotta find a new son.”
Marten scoffed, but didn’t feel like laughing. She knocked him harder, this time managing to get a smile. “I’m not,” Marten said. “Dad’s gonna take over the business when he gets out.”
“Dad’s not coming home for a long time. We’ll be lucky if he even gets out before we’re in our thirties. That would be for good behavior, and let’s be honest… That’s not Dad.”
Marten sighed, knowing his sister was right. Dad was a good man, and Marten stood by most of his decisions, questionable though they were. But there were times when someone would mouth off at him, or in some other way prove themselves a threat, and Dad would become vicious and bloodthirsty until the problem had been neutralized. There were times when Marten was much younger that he was genuinely afraid of his old man, but that was before he learned why his father had been imprisoned in the first place. The words “that boy is a sorry excuse for a son,” were the last words that man ever said before Zak Lewis ended him.
The moment the life had left from Grandad, Marten became the sole heir to Lewis and Son’s. It had become a Lewis family tradition to pass it off to the eldest son in the generation. He loved fishing as a hobby, but he had come to dread the day he would take on the business. He only ever came to this creek to laugh and spend time with his sister. He was never made for direct trade with the Capitol. He wasn’t built like that. But that was what the family asked of him, and he would be a coward if he shied away from that. In all honesty, Marten didn’t even know what he would do if not take up the business. He never allowed himself to ask that question.
“I wonder what it will be like with a picture of you on the logo instead of him,” Willy laughed, letting out her signature snort. “I bet you’ll look even more lame.”
“Do you want to run the company, Willy?” he asked genuinely. “If you want the job, it’s yours.”
She shook her head and laid back in the sand. “I don’t want the company. The world is screwed up as it is without my help.” Marten grinned and stayed silent. He knew she didn’t want the job—no one in the family did. Who would want the burden of taking up Grandad’s mantle? No one casted a shadow as large as his.
They watched the clouds float by in peachy crests, feeling the last light of summer hit their skin. Willy said, “This world is nothing but a bunch of dead people, looking to find life in the wrong place…” A tear trickled down her cheek. “But we got it, right? We got it…”
“Yeah,” he replied weakly, remembering his grandfather. Maybe the company was why he couldn’t manage a tear. Until the company was dead, Grandad wasn’t really gone. The thought was small solace.
An hour later, the sun finally waned beneath the tree line, and the day was over. Willy was the first to stand, brushing away all the sand, and Marten followed her at a distance. She picked up the spears and jokingly vaulted them into the river current. Marten was frustrated until she said, “Better go grab those,” and ran off down the road, giggling like a little girl. “I’ll see you at home!”
Marten dove headfirst into the deep of the creek, racing after the spears. He caught one within seconds and cast it to shore, but the other rode the water downstream. His powerful arms cascading in and out of the river, Marten was like a fish being propelled by the current. Within moments, he snatched at the spear and triumphantly held it above his head, shaking the droplets from his hair and eyes. But when he turned to show his sister, she had already vanished.
In Willy’s place on the bank were three boys—all slightly older than him yet not nearly as tall. He recognized the one in the middle as the carpenter’s son, Ronn. He had a tuft of blond hair on his head only a touch lighter than Marten’s own. He and the others strode down the beach with nothing but smirks and jeers, and Marten watched there, waist deep in the creek.
“Great evening for a swim!” Ronn called out acidly. Pulling off one tattered shoe after the other, the boy waded out to meet Marten. He gestured to the spear. “Oh, my bad! You were out here trying to catch something! Well don’t let me interrupt you, now…” The two on shore snickered as Ronn advanced towards Marten.
“It’s late,” Marten protested. “I’m going home.”
Marten dragged his feet along the creek bottom, making his way to dry land, but the carpenter’s son put a hand on his chest and forced him back with an aggressive shove. “With no fish, Marten?” he raised a cocky brow. “I don’t see no fish around here, you going home empty-handed.”
“Willy’s got—”
“Such a pity. My family has been looking forward to buying from your grandad, but of course, can’t do that if you got nothing to sell, right?” The boys howled into the early moonlight, and Ronn held a palm to his mouth to catch a feigned gasp. “Oh wait! We wouldn’t be able to do that anyway, with him being dead and all…”
A rope within Marten pulled taut. He clenched his teeth. “What do you want?”
Before Marten had time to react, the pistol was drawn. Ronn had a malevolent grin from ear to ear as he aimed it directly at Marten’s forehead. Marten froze cold with shock. “I want that spear of yours, first of all. Give it here…”
Easily, Marten threw the spear in the water at the boy’s waist. He caught it with his free hand, but kept the gun trained. “Good,” said Ronn. His quick, amicable smile turned into bloodthirst as Ronn plunged the spear hard into the brook, slicing all the way through Marten’s foot and into the sand below. The current carried a crimson streak down the rapids; Marten yelped in intense pain. “How long is it going to take for you Lewises to get it?” the carpenter’s son spat. “We own you. We always have. We always will.”
“Wha…?” Marten choked out. Red-hot needles pierced every fiber of Marten’s being as sand flayed the wound.
“Did your grandad really not tell you? C’mon, Marten!” he scowled. In a desperate attempt for the upper hand, Marten leapt up to grab for the gun, but the carpenter’s son easily evaded, causing Marten to collapse face first into the water. “Nuh uh, fisher boy. That would be too easy.”
“Just kill him, man!” shouted one of the boys on the sand. “We got places to be!”
Ronn heard his complaint and scoffed it away. The carpenter’s son brandished the spear and continued, “Your grandad was a git and a fool, transferring his work to his grandson and dying before he had a chance to tell him about it. Your family’s been getting by on trades with us since you were still in the crib. My daddy’s been real good about keeping up his end of the bargain. It’s time you keep up yours.”
“Trades?” Marten cried, clutching his injured foot. “What are we talking about? If you need money, I can get you what you need.”
“Nah, money’s not gonna do much for us,” Ronn shook his head and slashed at the water with Marten’s spear. “We just need what’s owed.”
Marten tried to respond, but the agony was too sharp. “I gotta get to a hospital!”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll see to it you get what you need,” Ronn nodded. “You don’t gotta die today if you’re smart.”
Marten didn’t understand. They had come out here to kill him with his own weapon? He watched the steel tip of his spear with caution and asked, “What do you want? Please, just tell me…”
“Fine, since he didn’t have the decency to tell you himself.” He paced through the water, the spear trailing ripples across the surface. “Your family’s company, Lewis n’ Son’s? You didn’t honestly think you got as filthy rich as you are on fishing alone, did you? Bait and tackle, it’s all just a front… I mean, honestly, it’s hilarious how easily we had the Capitol fooled.”
Rage boiled inside of Marten, and he shouted, “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
“The stuff, man, the morphling!” Ronn screeched. He bound forward and jammed the barrel of his pistol into Marten’s temple so hard it left a bruise. “Two months! We gave your grandad two months to get us what he owed us, and he assured us he’d recover in time, but that was just a dirty lie, weren’t it?!”
Morphling? What was he talking about? Grandad had never even used morphling; he hated painkillers and other drugs so much he refused to accept the hospital’s offers in his final days. Ronn had to be lying… Marten gasped for breath. “I don’t—”
“I’m gonna cut you a deal, Marten.” He heard the metallic click of Ronn’s finger kissing the trigger. “With you being the new owner and proprietor of the business and all, I see this as a mutually beneficial situation. We get triple what we were owed in two days’ time. That’s three month’s worth. Or, if that little arrangement doesn’t tickle your fancy, I kill you here and we take it ourselves. This creek leads right out of Four. No one would ever have a hope of finding you… What’s it gonna be?”
Terror and turmoil chased each other in circles around Marten’s mind. How the hell was he going to find three months of morphling in two days? Even if he took the deal, he would have no idea where to start. If there had been a shred of suspicion within him that his Grandad had ever had a hand in something like smuggling, perhaps the revelation wouldn’t have struck him like ten tons of bricks. The reason Marten had a warm bed to sleep in and a roof over his head… The family business… It was all a lie… But it didn’t have to be. To his family, Grandad had died a pillar of strength. The unsavory parts of the business could die with him and be lost to the winds of time, should Marten choose.
Like a moron, Ronn had brought his gun within Marten’s reach. It could be that Marten’s reflexes were faster than Ronn’s and could snatch the gun away before Ronn could shoot; after all, he was his father’s son… It was risky, and if he screwed it up, the river would run red all the way to the ocean.
[A. Fight Back.]
[B. Take the Deal.]
You have chosen Marten to [B. Take the Deal.]
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Post by Stephen on May 9, 2021 20:29:16 GMT
[B. Take the deal.]
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raoul
New Member
Posts: 11
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Post by raoul on May 10, 2021 0:12:59 GMT
Fight back!
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Post by InGenNateKenny on May 10, 2021 19:04:30 GMT
[B. Take the Deal.] An offer we can't refuse...
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Post by countlivin on May 10, 2021 19:54:22 GMT
[B. Take the Deal.] An offer we can't refuse... I mean you can, you just might die
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on May 10, 2021 23:25:11 GMT
[B. Take the Deal.] Damn, I don't know about this! Ronn is an arse and I don't trust him in the slightest to keep his end of the 'deal', but the one thing I do trust him with is that if Marten refuses his offer right here, he is going to try and kill him. Also, this part was great! Marten has always been a cool character in the old story, but compared to his original first part, I feel like he was really improved on here and I'm looking forward for what the story holds in store for him.
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Post by countlivin on May 11, 2021 7:22:45 GMT
[B. Take the Deal.] Damn, I don't know about this! Ronn is an arse and I don't trust him in the slightest to keep his end of the 'deal', but the one thing I do trust him with is that if Marten refuses his offer right here, he is going to try and kill him. Also, this part was great! Marten has always been a cool character in the old story, but compared to his original first part, I feel like he was really improved on here and I'm looking forward for what the story holds in store for him. Yeah, if I'm being honest, I think Marten's parts were the least interesting part of the book in the original iteration. I'm essentially just rewriting his entire story here, which I think is important, cause I want him to be a cooler character than I think I originally made him out to be, especially since he's on the cover of the book Since Marten took the deal, that will cause a major shift to his story during this book and far beyond, since in the original story, you guys chose to fight back. (Granted the situation and choice were completely different back then lol)
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