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Post by countlivin on May 25, 2021 14:15:38 GMT
CHAPTER NINE: TWISTED
Aura Cantarella
The Owl is a friend... The Owl is a friend... No matter how many times Aura turned the phrase over in her head, she could not pull any meaning from it. Who was this Schrodinger? Throughout all her life, never had she heard such a name. Her fingers ran through the grooves of the owl pendant in her pocket, and questions flooded her mind.
The path behind her was empty. She wondered if Cass and Garth would miss her quite as much as she would miss them. The Haven was a couple miles in that direction, but it felt like she could walk forever and still be farther away.
Late that night, Aura was met with the serene glow of the Victor's Village: a large row of identical houses. Each and every one of them was more spectacular than any other house you could find in all of District Seven, but even that wasn't saying much. Hers was the one on the corner, with a sign in front labeled "the Cantarellas." She sucked in her gut and prepared herself for the lecture she would inevitably receive.
When she drew closer to her home, Aura heard a metallic creak. The door hung ajar by a single hinge. The top one had finally rusted away enough to give, but Dad would never leave the door open like that... He was always scolding each of them about the draft. She clutched the owl tight and approached with caution.
When she reached the door, she wasn't greeted with harsh words, but instead with silence and cold. The kitchen was empty—not trashed like the open door might suggest. In fact, it was almost cleaner than when she had left... She placed the door carefully closed behind her and slid the pin in the hinge to keep it straight. On the kitchen table was a small note, scrawled hastily in pen. She devoured the words.
"Dear Aura,
"I am sorry that I haven't been as good a father to you as I should have. After all these years, I'm still just one drink away from throwing it all to the wall. I'm not afraid to admit that I could have tried harder over the years. All that mattered to me was the Games and my booze. Aura, I'm proud of you after today for what courage you showed at the Reaping, even if it didn't turn out well. Thank you for hearing my words last week. You have earned our Cantarella name despite me.
"But now, by the time you get home, I'll already be gone. You have convinced me that I am not the one you need for a father. I am reckless. I am stupid. You deserve more. Your Uncle Crispin will be there to take care of the boys while you're away. I'm sorry that we didn't leave each other on the right foot, but I still love you, no matter how hard it is for me to show it.
"Sorry, Daddy."
Aura's mind was a flood of shock, denial, and regret. Recent nights, she had fallen asleep whispering a prayer that her father would leave and never come back, but she didn't think he would actually have done it. Then the waters of the flood turned red with anger. Her father had left the three of them alone with Crispin. Aura wasn't truly sure what the man had been like when they were growing up together, but he was much worse now—she couldn't bring herself to imagine he was better.
In a rush of fury, she clutched the note and tore it into a hundred scraps of pulp. She had been betrayed and abandoned. The walls of her life were collapsing in on her, drowning her... She felt more alone now than she ever had before. Aura sat at the rickety kitchen table and dreaded. She had no more tears to cry.
"I see you got the note," came a smooth voice from the corner of the room. She opened her bloodshot eyes and saw her uncle leaning against the doorway. Crispin's thin brows hung tightly on his eyes, and his cheeks sunk into his skull. He was the image of death.
"Crispin!" Aura shouted at him, strategically leaving out the "uncle." "What the hell are you doing here? Where are my brothers?"
"Whoa!" he cackled, bringing his hands to motion for calm. "No 'hey Uncle Crispin, it's great to see you?' What's gotten into you, Aura?"
"Corvin and Barker. Where are they?"
"Oh, they're fine. They're in bed, honey. Lower your voice." He came forward and leaned against the table, almost crushing it in the process. "We need to work on your manners. You aren't going anywhere with your attitude."
Crispin was a relatively tall man in his late thirties. He was not balding, but his blond hair was thin enough she could clearly see his scalp. His eyes were like a vulture's, trained on their prey. When he was fourteen years old, he won the Third Annual Hunger Games, and although Rowan had been older, it was Crispin's play in the arena that inspired him to volunteer the next year.
Aura bored through her loathing long enough to ask a needed question. "Did you see my father before he left? Why did he go?"
"No," Crispin answered. "When I got here, he was already gone—vanished into thin air. Probably sitting at some bar. Pity. He isn't good to raise a family... not like me."
"I know my dad can be a piece of work sometimes—"
He cut her off. "Oh, you got that right."
"But this doesn't seem like something he would do," Aura reasoned. "He's a stubborn guy. It's one of the reasons he's so hard, but he was stubborn about us too. It doesn't make any sense to me..."
"Rowan is gone," Crispin stated plainly, bringing his eyes to narrow slits. "It cuts deep, but you have to forget about him. I'm all the family you need." He stood and approached Aura slowly. "In a way... I could even be your father. Would you like that? I could be your daddy!"
Before Crispin took another step, Aura spat hard on the table. "You're lucky we're even related, Crispin."
"So lucky indeed."
Puke rose up in Aura's throat, but she quelled it and asked, "Crispin... Do you know someone by the name Schrodinger?" She felt at the owl in her pocket.
"Can't say I do," he smiled. "Who is that? Is it a boy?"
Aura clutched the pendant tightly. "No. Just someone I heard about..." She turned into her room and as the light from her lamp washed over her face, she shut the door behind her. She let go of the pendant and whispered to herself, "The Owl is a friend..."
She sat on her bed for a few minutes, then laid down. Her pillow was very soft—almost velvety. There were a few perks to living in the wealthiest neighborhood in Seven. She doubted any of the others in this district could claim to have such luxury. It sickened her. She wanted so badly to take everything she had and give it to all those who really needed it, but she didn't know how to start. Plus, even if she tried, she was sure the Capitol folk wouldn't take a liking to her generosity. But there were some in District Seven who had never even felt a pillow... Unfortunately, she only had the one. It was just one more thing she would have to say goodbye to.
As the thought ran through Aura's head, her door creaked open. She braced herself for her uncle, but it was only her brother, peeking his head through the crack. Corvin quietly entered the room, closing the door behind him. "Aura, you're home!" he whispered. "What took you so long? You've been gone forever."
"Sorry, bud. I had to make a stop by the Haven before I came home." She tilted her head, inviting him to come sit with her. "Where's Barker?"
"Asleep. I couldn't go to bed with his snoring in there. You spent a really long time out there..." Her brother came to sit beside Aura and she cradled his shoulder. "We ate the rest of the banana bread. It was Barker's idea! He got two pieces, and I only had one. I'm sorry."
She laughed. She hadn't even considered the last slice of bread. "It's okay..." She ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead. After a moment, she quieted and said, "I volunteered today."
"I know. We watched it on TV."
"Really?" That came as a shock to Aura. Her father had never let the boys watch the program before.
"Yeah. Dad said you were going to give us another house to live in."
"Wait, you saw Dad?" She perked up. "Did he say why he left?"
"No," Corvin replied, shivering. "He just told us to go out and play... And when we came back inside, Uncle Crispin was here. When is he going to come back?"
Aura covered her mouth before she could utter a swear. Not only had her father left without the intention of ever returning, but he also left without saying goodbye to his sons. She couldn't bring herself to tell Corvin the truth, so she fabricated a lie in its stead. "He's... He's coming back soon. Probably not for a week or so."
"Where did he go?"
"He didn't tell me."
"Why didn't he tell you?"
"I don't know."
Corvin was staring at the door, and Aura knew he was thinking about who was on the other side. "We have to stay with him?" he whispered with pleading eyes. "I don't want to. The last time we stayed with him—"
"Don't," she interrupted. "Don't think about that. Look, I know that Crispin is dangerous, but you need to stay with him for a while."
"Can I just run away from here?" Corvin began to grow frantic. "I swear I'll come back once you get back from your trip."
The words hit her hard. When her brother had entered the room, she had hoped this would be a chance to say goodbye to him, but as the conversation had progressed, that hope had slimmed to nothing. Now, she would only tell him what he needed to hear. "It's not a good idea to run away. If Crispin comes after you... I don't even want to think about what would happen."
"But he wouldn't find me!"
"But he'll be looking," Aura replied. "He may be an asshole, but—"
"Swear."
"Sorry. He may be a piece of poop, but he will do anything to keep a promise." She looked back to the door and made an effort to keep her voice down. "He has to watch you until I get back. He'll look for you. It's dangerous to run."
"It's dangerous to stay too, though!" Corvin cried, mirroring the volume of her last word. "I mean, Aura, he's Uncle Crispin! Do you really think me and Barker would be safe spending a week here alone with him?"
What should Aura do?
[A. Tell Corvin to Stay with Crispin.]
[B. Tell Corvin to Run to Cass.]
You have chosen Aura to [B. Tell Corvin to Run to Cass.]
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Post by foxcobra on May 25, 2021 17:26:12 GMT
[Run to Cass] Aura knows a Crispin is more than a few cards short of a full deck. And she genuinely loves her brothers. If Crispin decides to go after them, at least the boys will be in a more public place, he can’t just hurt Cass and take them back
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raoul
New Member
Posts: 11
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Post by raoul on May 27, 2021 13:59:30 GMT
B. Return to Cass
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Post by InGenNateKenny on May 28, 2021 1:00:32 GMT
[B. Tell Corvin to Run to Cass.] The vibes this guy is giving me are not good. Not good at all. Like, very not good, so I vote this.
Also, Penn throwing a knife into a painting...not cool.
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on May 28, 2021 2:36:47 GMT
[B. Tell Corvin to Run to Cass.]
I completely forgot what an absolute creep Crispin was! Holy smokes, that guy is all shades of bad news. I am somewhat afraid that them running to Cass could put them (and Cass) in danger, but at the same time, I'm banking on him not caring enough to chase after them once they are gone. That being said, staying sounds like the way more dangerous outcome for the boys, as that would guarantee that they are around Crispin the entire time. Neither choice is a good one here, both have the chance to backfire and I'm half certain that both will backfire, because Crispin seems like the kind of guy who doesn't need a reason to lose his shit, he just needs an excuse.
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Post by countlivin on May 29, 2021 1:05:55 GMT
To Liquid and Ingen who have voiced complaints about Crispin. Yeah, he's creepy. Sorry for this next part...
You have chosen Aura to [B. Tell Corvin to Run to Cass.]
"Okay, the moment I'm taken to the Justice Building, I need you to take Barker and get to Cass's house. Her and her mother will take care of you while I'm gone." It hurt her to say those words, but she didn't have much of a choice. "It won't be safe, not by a long shot, but you have to try. You have to escape from him. Promise me you'll try."
"I don't want you to leave," he cried.
Aura wrapped an arm around her brother, and pulled him into the tightest hug she could give him without hurting him. "I know you're afraid. I'm afraid too. But, something tells me you'll turn out alright, kid."
"Thanks," he sighed. "Now, if I can just convince Barker. He was crying for half an hour when you didn't come home. He's such a baby. He thought you'd left without saying goodbye."
"No," Aura told him. "I wouldn't do that. You guys are my brothers! You and Barker are the most important people in my life. Period. If you think I'm going to leave without hugging you for two to three hours minimum, you need to get your head on straight."
"Ok," he said, getting up from the bed. He moped towards the door, but before he opened it, he turned back with nothing in his eyes but a dead stare. "You're going to die, aren't you?"
The words were vicious, tearing through Aura's soul like a saw. She had been trying so hard to keep the truth away from them, but her chances were not great. "What makes you say that?" she fought out. The tears that she thought had all flowed away streamed back again. "I'm going to come home, Corvin. I would never leave you."
"Ava died," he replied. The boy had hidden his eyes. "And now you're going to die, too. And Dad left us here with Crispin. He's not coming back."
"I won't... I can't..."
"I don't believe you," he told her. He opened the door and stepped out. "Good night."
Aura was stunned silent as the sound of the door closing echoed in her heart, and she was unable to tell him good night. She laid back on her bed and closed her eyes, but that didn't stop the tears.
"That was very touching," came a liquid voice from the hallway. When she looked up to see Crispin standing there, lit by the candle in the kitchen, he was smiling through thin lips. "I'll make sure he doesn't forget you when you are gone."
"How long were you standing there?" Aura shot. She had told Corvin to run from him. If he had heard...
"Not very long, though enough to realize that boy is not as stupid as I thought." He laughed.
"Shut up," Aura barked.
"That's not a very nice thing to say to your father." The only way to escape the room was through the window... She saw his false expression of hurt turn to a sadistic grin. "So how do you feel?"
"Pretty bad!" she frowned. "I'm going to die in the Games, for crying out loud!"
"Aura!" he said, coming over to sit beside her on the bed. "The Hunger Games are a great honor! Don't you see? You get to take a moment and be part of something bigger than yourself. You bring honor to your district—honor to your family! The Cantarella name suits you well."
"It's not an honor," Aura said. "How can you even say that? How can you praise a government that sends twenty-four of its children to die every year? It's wrong!"
"Well, that's just not true, Aura." On Crispin's snake lips was a malevolent grin. "Twenty-four tributes go into that arena to live." He reached into his pocket and before Aura had a chance to protest, the man pulled out his switchblade and flipped it. The knife was shiny and clean just like he always kept it. He began to stab the air with it. "On the first day, I was... stabbing this little orphan girl in the bleachers. It was right in the sternum. She bled for a few seconds... coughing... screaming in agony. As the life left her little fingers, I could feel it enter mine. The adrenaline rush was so real, so... magnificent! It was the first time I ever killed."
Aura pushed herself to the farthest edge of her bed to escape the knife. "You're sick in the head..." she muttered.
"No," he sighed, holding his knife in his hands longingly. "I think everyone else are the ones who are missing out. It's like a drug, you know. That girl wasn't the last either. I know you know my record. Go ahead and say it."
"...most direct kills in the history of the Games."
"And how many was that?"
"Fourteen..."
"Fourteen kills, Aura." Crispin's eyes lit up with excitement. "I went down in history as the most bloodthirsty tribute ever to enter the arena. No one ever topped me. Those kids didn't go down by natural causes or anything like that. They went down by my blade, by my rope... by my hand. And when I struck that last tribute's face with my hammer, and I was staring down at him... I knew that I was alive. I could feel my heart pumping in my chest, the blood flowing through my veins. I felt... alive. Aura, the Hunger Games are an honor."
"The Hunger Games are an abomination," she objected. As soon as the words left her lips, there was a squeaking noise from the corner of the room. At first, she thought it was an old floorboard, but it was a tiny mouse with light gray fur. Crispin noticed it as well. He pounced from the bed, and Aura immediately knew his intent. "Uncle Crispin, no!"
He fumbled around with the animal for a moment, but eventually took firm hold of it. It looked so sad as he held it up to her. Its legs flailed around more rapidly and it screeched the longer he held it there. "I'm going to teach you a lesson, Aura." He took the knife and tossed it at her feet. "Pick it up."
"No," she said, defiantly.
"Aura, so help me, you will pick it up."
"No."
"You will listen to your father!" he shouted, leaning in.
Aura looked the man straight in his narrow eye. "You are not my father."
Crispin's face went white with rage, but within a moment he collapsed back into calm. "Very well," he said. Then he began to squeeze the tiny mouse in his hand. Its squeaks became more and more panicked, but died down every moment. Not five seconds had passed before the mouse's head went limp and fell to its shoulders, dead. Its beady black eyes gazed longingly into her own and its lifeless feet hung just below Crispin's palm. A single tear let loose and rolled down her cheek. Crispin reached out and wiped it away. "There, there. Don't cry. You won't have a chance if you stop to dwell on the loss of life."
"You're a monster!" Aura cried.
Crispin tossed the dead mouse out the window and looked back at her. "In case you were wondering, don't worry. I'll take good care of the boys while you're away. Good night, my little angel."
When he shut the door, Aura plunged into her pillow. The image of the mouse pleading for help ran on a loop within her. She closed her eyes, though she could not sleep. But, before she was able to get comfortable, she felt a lump at her back. She reached underneath her to find what it was and pulled forth the wooden owl. Its large yellow eyes stared back at her with an intense empathy.
The owl was the only hope Aura had left. She was leaving for the Games within the week. Her brothers were being left at home with a psychopath. Her father vanished without a trace and some of the last words she ever said to him were to tell him that she hated him. But the Owl... The Owl was a friend. She realized this was her last hope for a better life. The Owl was a friend in a world with none left. The Owl sees where the Hawk does not. The Owl was her friend.
End of Chapter Nine
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Post by countlivin on May 29, 2021 1:10:01 GMT
CHAPTER TEN: THE SECOND REAPING
Saul Arrem
In the wool cot, Saul could not find a wink of sleep. He had been thankful for the misty skies that afternoon as he had returned from what was supposed to have been the reaping. The water droplets had felt cool upon his skin. Mutters of relief and ascent traveled easily through the posse of St. Rhodes' kids as soon as the news was revealed. Unlike other years, District Eleven would be forced to choose its own tribute, rather than it being chosen at random. It was clearly just a play for additional power over the districts, and for that reason didn't sit right with Saul. But then again neither did the Hunger Games in general. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance at the others' relief, but they were likely just content to be through with it.
On the way back, Cullen Agricola, an eighteen-year-old had danced in front of the pack, loudly whooping and singing about how he had finally escaped the reaping. He was making plans along with Rootlyn, a girl his age, about his plans after primary school, making some vineyard. He had invited her along. When she declined his offer, all the girls had laughed with her, except for one.
All the way back to St. Rhodes' Orphanage, Peara had clung to Saul. As the posse passed onlookers from the district, Saul shielded his sister from nasty looks with his shoulder and from crude jeers with his whispers of encouragement. When they looked at the pair of them, they only saw one thing: an Albar. And frustrations were high on the day of the reaping. An Albar—and a tiny twelve-year-old at that—was an easy target.
All things considered, people hadn't been the worst that day. They'd received the usual snide remarks from Chester and Loaves, two troublemakers at St. Rhodes', but they'd lived around the orphans so long they knew what to expect and could easily avoid it. With the adults, it was trickier, as they could be unflinchingly cruel and Saul could not know what to expect.
But today's route home was full of mostly quiet gardeners and an old woman who, while quite rude, could not hobble fast enough to keep up with Saul when they broke into a light jog. They avoided the main square of Eleven, as the marketplace was usually full to the brim with gamblers and rioters the day of the reaping. They broke away from the group of orphans on a bend midway through the route, and no one caught any notice—at least no one who cared enough to speak up.
Saul clutched his straw pillow close, remembering Peara's words. "Do you think I could win?" she had asked, once they escaped from the crowd. "If I had been reaped, I think I might have died..."
"That's nonsense, Pea," Saul had responded. "You're twelve, your name was only in the reaping one time. And even if you had been in it more, someone would have volunteered. There's usually a volunteer."
Peara shivered with fright. "But what if there wasn't?"
Saul shook his head. "Then I would have gotten right up onto that stage and told them 'you can't have my sister!' And I would have grabbed you and we would have ran as fast as we could. I will not let you die."
"But—"
"I will not let you die," Saul repeated with conviction. "Do you understand me?"
She had answered loosely, as though she didn't believe it, but Saul meant every word he had said. He would not speak a lie to her, no matter how much it hurt.
Saul could not sleep that night, even though he laid down an hour and a half ago. Today was the reaping, but tomorrow would be the second reaping, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous. He would be nineteen next year, and would be forced to leave the orphanage, but Peara was only twelve and still had a chance to be adopted.
Every year, the day after the reaping, St. Rhodes' would hold an event Ethel had affectionately named the "Talent Show." Each orphan would step onto the stage in the event center in front of an audience of two dozen and introduce themselves. They were urged to explain their strengths and talents, and how they could be useful. Then, the little kids would sing a few cute songs, and the older ones would perform some kind of skit they had rehearsed no more than twice. The ceremony would finish with all the kids standing in rows and Ethel speaking a few tearful words about how proud she was of all of them. The ultimate goal of the program was to convince some of the wealthier members of District Eleven to bring one of the kids into their home.
When Saul had been brought to St. Rhodes' he had been only six years old, and Peara had been an infant. For the first couple years, he sang his heart out to that miniscule audience as if it were the grandest theater in the world. Ethel would hug him after and assure him he did a wonderful job, and he would go to sleep that night as proud as a peacock. But he was never adopted. Eventually, he was old enough to understand that the talent show was nothing more than Ethel's attempt to bring her children some hope. After all, food was so scarce in District Eleven that it was all most could do just to put dinner on their own plates. The thought of adding another mouth to feed was a luxury the people of Eleven could not bear.
Even so, nearly every year one or two children would be fostered. A couple years ago, an older kid named Spud had made an offhand remark about how the talent show was like a second reaping, and the others had laughed. Spud turned nineteen the next year and left St. Rhodes' but his term had lingered, taunting the ones that weren't chosen. Ethel disliked the term; she said it gave the day a negative connotation. When she made a clumsy attempt to try and shoo the term away though, it only stuck harder. Saul had never said the words out loud out of respect for their caretaker, but even he could admit it had a bit of sour truth.
In the morning, Saul had bags under the bags under his eyes. He didn't remember falling asleep, but the worry had evidently not kept him awake all night. As he dressed in his father's dress slacks for the second day in a row, he found himself instinctively rubbing the raw part of his arm where his burn had mended itself; he felt no pain from it.
"Are you excited?" asked Tiller, Saul's bunkmate. The kid had a stringy build, with a mop of curly black hair, and a grin spread wide. He was sixteen, and loved the talent show more than most of the older kids.
"Yeah," Saul lied. Tiller had led the skit rehearsals, and it was obvious he was proud of them.
"Can you button me up?" he asked and presented a length of buttons on the back of his wooly coat. Saul nodded and obliged. "What are you doing this year?"
Saul buttoned the last button and began to lace up his shoes. "Nothing much."
Tiller raised an eyebrow. "You're just giving up? This is your last chance, man."
He shrugged. "I can take care of myself perfectly fine, I don't need parents any more. And besides, I need to save room for Peara."
"Oh, come on, Saul," Tiller insisted. "Your sister's got no chance, being an Albar and all."
And this is why I stay in the trees, Saul muttered in his head. He laced his right shoe a little harder than needed and drove the tongue into his foot. Saul didn't have a particular dislike of his bunkmate, but they had an unspoken agreement not to bring up Peara's Albar status. The conversation laid amidst the shambles of that broken agreement.
"Sorry, Saul, I mean--" Tiller started, realizing he'd tread on a nerve. "I'm sure she'll be a shoe in this year."
Saul closed the bunkroom door behind him. That was that.
In the common room, all sixty-six of St. Rhodes' kids--excluding the babies--had gathered wearing their best and brightest outfits. For the boys, it was typical to wear the same formals they had worn the day before in the reaping, as those were the only nice clothes many of them owned. The girls had a curious tradition of pooling together their funds to buy a fancy dress for the girl they deemed the prettiest and most likely to be chosen. Depending on the year, and especially if Eleven had Hunger Games winnings from the previous year, they would be able to scrape together enough for three or four dresses. Last year though, a tribute from Two had won, and the girls had only enough coin together to scramble one dress for Sagee. The girls, young and old, clamored around Sagee, ooing and awing at the frilly pink dress, glitter shining in its wool.
As Chester darted around to grab the five-year-old Jaqil before he could whack his three-year-old brother Pip with a piece of warped wood, Cullen flirted with Rootlyn, Thresh told crude jokes to a group of kids who were too young to hear them, and Tiller attempted last minute rehearsals with his lead actor and actress. No one took notice of him, and he prayed a silent prayer for it. He scanned the room for Peara, and found her nowhere.
A chorus of cries sounded from the room at the nursery door when it opened and Ethel Jugby stumbled out. Fixing her hair back up in a bun behind her neck, she wiped the worry off her face and presented a big smile for the kids. "Okay, is everyone here?" she called, and the group quieted to listen.
"Kale isn't here yet, Ms. Ethel," chimed eight-year-old Diggin.
"Neither is Basil," said Loaves.
"Okay, thank you, guys," Ethel replied, fanning her face with her hands. She was always very flustered for her talent show.
Saul said, "Peara isn't here yet."
From the back, Landon hollered, "Great, let's get going!" A few laughed, but not many. Had Ethel not been directly in front of them, Saul was sure it would have been more. She didn't tolerate bullying, especially against Peara. For that, Saul was thankful.
"Landon, so help me, not today," Ethel flared. "We will make sure Peara gets here before lunch. Did anyone see her this morning?" They all remained silent, even her bunkmate Bayleaf. "Anyone?"
Saul huffed and swiveled toward the girl's hall. "Nevermind, Ethel. I'll go find her." Some of the younger girls made light protest of Saul checking in their rooms, but Ethel trusted him enough to nod.
He broke from the crowd and jogged down the hall, shouting, "Pea?" The rooms that were closed he left closed, but the open doors he widened. The sooner he found his sister, the sooner the others could have lunch. Ethel was able to provide supper for the children six days out of seven, but lunch was an novelty they did not experience often, and all the orphans had been looking forward to the extra portion for weeks. Every minute that Peara delayed it was another cruel eye at her back.
Saul's legs pulsed and ached as he ascended the stairs to the second and third floors, his muscles remembering two nights ago when he had run for his life from the flames. His orchard must have burned to the ground by now, he figured. Tomorrow, he would have to return to Mr. Munrow for work, and he was certain he would find the charred corpse of his home. Saul could have stopped it... All he would have had to do was inform Mr. Munrow and the orchard could have received the help it needed, but it was too late now. And besides, if it became known that Saul had been beyond Eleven, they would have locked him in prison, or worse. There was no point dwelling on it now.
But the cruel eyes would not be on Peara for long. Saul pushed open the door to her bunkroom and found her there, kneeling on the floor in between her bunk and the dresser. He was floored before his fingers even left the doorknob. Sunlight glimmered through the window and reflected diamonds off his sister's pearly white dress. Unlike any dress he'd ever seen, this one extended all the way past her knees and over her feet, and it fit her tiny frame perfectly. In her yellow hair, a crown of glass shimmered. It could not be real... She was beautiful, and not just by District Eleven standard.
"Saul," said Peara. It was all she could manage.
"Oh my God..." Saul muttered. He knelt down beside her and felt the cloth of the dress, delicately patterned with golden lace. It was actual silk, not the faux silk woven by tailors in District Eleven, but authentic from District One or the Capitol. "Peara... You look beautiful."
"Thanks!" She beamed, and stood to hug him. The silk felt soft against his skin. "I still can't believe it! Can you?"
Saul asked, "Where did you get this? This dress is amazing."
"It was hanging on a hook in my room last night with a note," Peara answered.
She jumped across the creaking wood to her cot and retrieved the note from inside her pillow. "From your secret admirer," read the note. It was signed with the name "The Hawk." Saul had not a clue who it could be referencing, but the dress was proof of his commitment...
"Isn't it great?" Peara said, twirling to let the trim of her dress glide around her. "Me and Bayleaf thought it had to be for one of us, and we both tried it on. Turned out it only fit me. Bayleaf was too big for it. But it's okay though, she told me she would keep it secret. What do you think?"
Peara had never had a single admirer, let alone a secret one... Something was off. "It's Capitol silk, Pea."
"Yeah, I know, right?" She laughed. "It must be from someone really rich! I have to wear it to the second reaping today!"
"I don't know," Saul sighed. "Sagee has been really excited about her dress this year, and hers isn't half as beautiful as yours. Don't you think you'd upstage her?"
"And what if I do?" Peara snickered. "This is my chance, Saul! Someone might finally want me!"
The words weren't unexpected but they struck Saul right in the heart. Peara wasn't even a true Albar, but she was close enough in the eyes of Eleven. And no one could ever want an Albar... He didn't blame her for thinking along those lines. Sometimes, in his quietest moments in his orchard, Saul asked himself, If she was not my sister, would I hate her too? It was not a comfortable question.
Saul had never seen Peara happier in his life than when she wore that dress. He had always held hope that someone would take pity on her and bring her into their family, but he always knew it was a long shot. Other girls from the orphanage were prettier, better at doing chores, and younger. And they weren't Albars. The silk could stop them long enough to think his sister might have some merit. At least they would be thinking about her, and the thoughts, just for a moment, wouldn't be about the color of her skin.
It was Capitol silk. It was Capitol silk, and she shined brighter than the sun.
What should Saul do?
[A. Let Peara Wear the Dress.]
[B. Don't Let Peara Wear the Dress.]
You have chosen Saul to [A. Let Peara Wear the Dress.]
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raoul
New Member
Posts: 11
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Post by raoul on May 29, 2021 18:38:41 GMT
B. Don’t let Peara wear the dress — tuck it away for later
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Post by InGenNateKenny on May 29, 2021 18:50:08 GMT
[A. Let Peara Wear the Dress.] It's a nice dress, might as well use it.
Hawks? Owls? What's next, penguins? That would be nice. I like Penguins.
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Post by countlivin on May 29, 2021 18:56:01 GMT
[A. Let Peara Wear the Dress.] It's a nice dress, might as well use it. Hawks? Owls? What's next, penguins? That would be nice. I like Penguins. 😱 How did you know
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Post by Stephen on May 31, 2021 18:54:56 GMT
[A. Let Peara Wear the Dress.]
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Jun 2, 2021 11:51:22 GMT
[A. Let Peara Wear the Dress.]
Pretty much the only thing that makes me believe this might be a bad choice is that this dress is from the Hawk and the Hawk is NOT a friend. Maybe. Probably. Truth be told, I don't know much about the Hawk, but we know the Owl is a friend, so it'd make sense if the Hawk isn't. As far as I'm concerned, Saul is a friend, though, and so is Peara, so I hope they don't get too entangled in that whole Hawk business. I'm Team Owl, owl the way.
Also, I checked out the updated song in Aura's first part you mentioned and I like it very much! I wasn't even aware that the Hanging Tree is a D12 exclusive song, but I suppose it makes sense. The new one's definitely neat, well done!
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Post by countlivin on Jun 2, 2021 15:45:17 GMT
[A. Let Peara Wear the Dress.]Pretty much the only thing that makes me believe this might be a bad choice is that this dress is from the Hawk and the Hawk is NOT a friend. Maybe. Probably. Truth be told, I don't know much about the Hawk, but we know the Owl is a friend, so it'd make sense if the Hawk isn't. As far as I'm concerned, Saul is a friend, though, and so is Peara, so I hope they don't get too entangled in that whole Hawk business. I'm Team Owl, owl the way. Also, I checked out the updated song in Aura's first part you mentioned and I like it very much! I wasn't even aware that the Hanging Tree is a D12 exclusive song, but I suppose it makes sense. The new one's definitely neat, well done! Thanks! I had fun writing that song. And who knows, it might get sung again later. Don't know if you noticed, but this is the first chapter so far that's actually completely new. No old material was reworked, since you guys chose to have Saul tell about the fire last time. Tbh, I'm glad though, cause Saul's second chapter in the original story was probably my least favorite chapter I've written. This one I'm hoping stands up better.
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Post by countlivin on Jun 3, 2021 19:26:06 GMT
Sorry for the delay guys, this one was a hard one to write.
You have chosen Saul to [A. Let Peara Wear the Dress.]
Whoever the dress was from, Peara was right. This was a chance for people to notice her, not just because she was an Albar. “If you want to wear it, then go for it,” Saul said, glowing with pride. “And when I go onstage, I’ll hype you up. No one will be able to ignore you.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I love you.” She threw herself into her brother and wrapped him tightly with her spindle arms. Her hair smelt of perfume. Where did she get perfume?
“I love you too.”
The common room was still chattering when Saul returned. Ethel’s head swung this way and that trying to answer the concerns of each of her children. Watching her work was like watching a busy bee buzzing from one flower to the next. Never finished. Her eyes fell upon Saul before the rest did, and she gave a sigh of relief. “There you are!” she shouted over the noise.
Sixty-four heads turned to Saul in unison. Still they chattered. But when Saul stepped to the side and out of the hallway to reveal his sister, all were silent but the babies in the nursery. Peara strode out into the common room, carefully holding the seam of her dress so she did not step over it. A ray of sunlight fell through the hole in the ceiling and refracted off of Peara’s glass crown, casting a rainbow of color over the floor beneath her.
Among the orphans was awe and anger alike. Though he felt guilty for it, he could not help but relish Sagee’s unique brand of jealousy. She was of the same age as Peara and did not allow her to leave the room without a biting comment or two. For Saul, it was easy enough to defend his sister from the boys’ cruel jokes, but the girls’ cold scrutiny was difficult to block. But today, Peara needed no defense.
A few of the young girls who had fawned over Sagee’s wool dress left her side to approach Peara. “Oh, come on!” she protested, but they paid her no mind.
“Where on earth did you get this?” Grasya chimed, turning the white silk over and over.
“You’re so gorgeous!” said Fenellie.
Tears were pooling in Peara’s eyes. All she could manage was a simple, “Thanks!”
As the girls gushed over his sister, Saul couldn’t help but break into a wide grin. For the first time in months, Peara was the center of attention, and not one person had made a snide remark. Those in the back, like Landon, Sagee, Chester, and Loaves, were obviously angry, but to their credit, none of them spoke an ill word past Sagee’s initial complaint.
Landon, Sagee, Chester and Loaves he could understand. But why was Ethel upset?
Ethel had always been Peara’s strongest supporter, after Saul, yet as she watched the group of young girls praise Peara’s attire, she scowled deeply. Her eyes flitted up toward Saul momentarily, and when she realized he’d noticed, quickly she spun around. Was she embarrassed? No, Ethel wouldn’t try to hide her embarrassment, she’d try to explain herself…
Saul tossed it from his mind for now. This was Peara’s moment. He would ask her about it later.
The meal Ethel had coordinated for lunch came and went in a split second. She’d saved all her extra pennies for months to pay the cooks, and it showed. The bowls of fruit cocktail were easy enough. Strawberries, pears, and apples were grown right here in District Eleven. But with it came slices of bread made of real District Nine wheat and a frothy stew with tender beef from District Ten. Not a single morsel had been procured with tesserae—rations provided by the Peacekeepers in exchange for a child’s additional entries into the reaping.
Saul ate slowly to savor each bite, as food of this quality did not come around so often, especially for orphans. Ethel had truly outdone herself this year. And this year, he was finally able to sit alone. At least for today, Peara was surrounded by girls her own age who would laugh and break bread with her. Saul chuckled as he watched the girls practically blanket Peara with scraps of paper so her dress wouldn’t be dirtied by a single crumb or drop of stew.
He wasn’t alone for long. Soon, Tiller arrived at his table with three of his lead actors: Whennig, Soy, and Peppa. Clacking their wooden bowls down on the table, Tiller was the first to speak. “So, I was hoping to get in one extra run of the show before tonight. Why don’t we—?”
“Where the hell did Peara get that dress?” asked Soy, bludgeoning the conversation away from Tiller.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” added Peppa. “God, I wish I could wear it…”
“Guys, I—” started Tiller.
“She has to be adopted, right?” said Soy. “Who would pass her up wearing that?”
Saul shook his head. The Hawk was Peara’s secret admirer. Best to stay secret. “I don’t know where she got it honestly.”
Across the room, Ethel was carrying a tray addled with plastic cups. When he heard one of the younger kids cry “Apple juice!” Saul was thrilled. Had the juice been made from the apples in his orchard? Then he tensed. His orchard was now a blackened pile of sticks, and no fruit would come from it ever again. Saul accepted a cup graciously and sipped from it slowly.
“Can we please get back to the task at hand?” Tiller asked. “The show’s tonight, and we’ve only done one practice.”
“We only ever do one practice, Tiller,” said Soy. “What makes this year any different? And besides, how can we compete with that?” He gestured crudely in Peara’s direction.
“No one will pick her,” insisted Whennig, leaning back in his rickety seat. “She ain’t the right color.” When Saul scowled at him, he held his gaze. “You heard me. None of us are getting picked tonight, especially not her.”
Saul loudly stabbed the table with the prongs of his fork, and the four of them jumped. They quieted. He kept eating.
A crash and a scream drew Saul’s attention. Beside one of the other tables in the cafeteria, Ethel stood with an empty tray and a genuine look of guilt. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” she pleaded. Plastic cups laid strewn on the ground at their feet, and the girls were shrieking. Saul’s heart dropped into his stomach when he saw Peara’s poofy hair wet and flushed against her head. Her face dripped with spilled juice and newly formed tears. Her once so pristine white dress had been stained yellow down the front.
Every head in the cafeteria had turned to survey the scene. Once the shrieks had subsided, the mourning began, and the girls who had fawned over the lace and the silk now tried to vigorously scrub the stains away with their napkins. It was no use. The dress was ruined.
Saul stood from his table and went to his sister, watching the others as he did. Most looked disappointed and sorry. The others were chewing Ethel’s ear off. Sagee, in her unstained blue wool dress had a satisfied grin she failed to hide behind her sleeve in feigned shock. How he would have loved to upend his own cup over her head. Would it be funny then?
“Now she’s got even less of a chance,” scoffed Whennig, and took a smug sip of his juice. On his way to the other side of the room, Saul did not hesitate to smack the kid hard on the shoulder.
“Peara, I am so incredibly sorry!” Ethel cried, fanning her face.
“You’re so clumsy, Ms. Ethel!” screamed Grasya, pointing a nasty finger at their caretaker. “That was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen and you ruined it!”
“It’s okay…” Peara managed weakly. She got down on her knees and gathered the plastic cups one by one. Her dress yellowed further in the puddle of juice on the ground. She was the only one cleaning. “It’s okay… I wasn’t really supposed to wear this anyway.”
“Oh, Pea, it’s not okay,” said Ethel. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”
Saul stepped between them. “I think you’ve done enough.” He bent down to his sister and helped her clean up the spill. “Do you think we can clean it?” he asked her.
“No,” Peara admitted. “It’s silk… It won’t come out.”
“I’m sorry, Pea. I know you were excited.”
Peara nodded, and her teardrops mingled with the spill on the ground.
The afternoon passed without the additional rehearsal Tiller had campaigned for. Saul spent it with his sister in her room. Bayleaf sat on her cot, drawing with chalk she had found on her notepad. After Peara had changed out of the stained dress, Saul took it on its hanger to Ethel. He wasn’t entirely convinced it couldn’t be cleaned, but he relented there was no way it could be in time for the talent show tonight. The Hawk’s gift had been a short-lived one.
With the dress in one hand, he had knocked on the door to Ethel’s quarters, expecting to be greeted by a woman with guilty tears streaming down her cheeks. Ethel cried often and for less than this. He had once seen her shed a tear over a deer Chester and Loaves had caught in the woods. The other orphans would joke and mock her, but Saul knew she had a big heart. Someone like her had to in order to fit in all of her children.
But she hadn’t been crying when Saul brought her the dress. She simply opened the door, offered him a curt “thank you,” and took it. What had she done behind that door, Saul wondered.
When evening arrived, the summer sun still hung high in the sky. The orphans all made their way—the younger ones single file and the older ones in a large clump at the back—to the event center that Ethel had reserved for the night. The stage was dusty, but cozy and familiar. Since the power supply had been cut from District Eleven until tomorrow morning, they were lit by flickering candlelight. Folding chairs had been set in three rows of twelve, and half of them were filled. For the talent show, this was a full house.
The ceremony began as Ethel brought little Mace, the three-year-old, by the hand. “Hello everyone, and welcome to the annual St. Rhodes talent show!” A single pair of hands met in applause. Mace tugged at her pant leg; she patted his head and continued. “I sincerely thank everyone for coming. The kids have been excited about this for months, and I have too! I am so proud of each and every one of them. I think it’s time for you to meet them, don’t you?” Silence. “Okay, we’ll just start with the youngest then. This here is Mace. Isn’t he the cutest thing? Say hi, Mace.”
Mace waved his stubby little fingers and promptly shoved them all into his mouth. A woman in the front cooed at the little boy, but the others remained stoic. Saul hated to admit it, but the boy had practically no chance of being adopted by a hard-working District Eleven family. He was too young to prove any use. Likely as not, little Mace would grow up at St. Rhodes and sing his songs just as Saul did.
As Ethel persisted in gushing the boy’s praises, Saul turned to his sister, dressed plainly in a clean cotton tunic and skirt. “You remember what to say, Pea?” he asked her.
“You said to keep it to only three things since people remember patterns of three better,” she repeated, counting on her fingers. “I’m good at basket weaving, pottery, and checkers.” She beamed with pride.
“Best leave off the checkers,” Saul suggested.
“But I’m really good at checkers.”
“Yes, but you want them to know you’re good at something useful… Something practical. What about scrubbing dishes? You always offer to help wash the plates and cups for Ethel, right?”
Peara sighed. “I do them because Ethel doesn’t like to. I don’t think I’m very good at all…”
“Okay, that’s fine… What about taking care of pets? Remember Augustine’s dog?” Saul put forth.
Augustine Kirby had been an orphan at St. Rhodes several years older than Saul. His hunting dog, Lug, he’d raised from birth, and put meat on the table of St. Rhodes’ for years—good, tough meat that didn’t cost Ethel a cent. Augustine took Saul hunting several times, before he applied for apprenticeship with Mr. Munrow, but the dog positively hated Saul. His voice, his smell, everything. Peara, though, had been as close to that dog as her own brother, practicing her talent show songs with it, reading to it from her storybooks. One morning, after a night of Lug’s barking rattling the orphanage awake, they had found Peara curled up on the kennel floor, the dog splayed out over her lap. When Augustine turned nineteen and left for Peacekeeper training in District Three, he took Lug with him, and also the little piece of Peara that she kept with the dog.
“Do you think people would really want me around to watch their pets?” Peara asked. “Wouldn’t they pick someone that is good at their trade? I don’t really have a trade yet.”
“I think that’s a very good bet,” Saul told her, patting her shoulder. “But more than anything, just be yourself.”
“People don’t like me when I’m myself.”
“Then those aren’t the people you want to be adopted by in the first place, right?”
As she turned the thought over in her mind, she came to a relative calm—not her usual cheery self, but closer. “Thank you, Saul,” she said as seven-year-old Stemmet paced the stage.
Suddenly, there was a gasp from the audience and the stage alike. Saul peeked behind the curtain to see what the commotion was. Stemmet had stopped dancing; no one watched him anyway. All their eyes were fixed firmly at the back of the room. There, standing at the door and flanked by two Peacekeepers wearing all white was a woman with startlingly bright skin and hair the color of a tangerine done up in three silly spikes pointing in different directions. Lipstick of two shades, violet on the upper lip and pale yellow on the lower, made her lips look like a wedge of plum. She wore a tight-fitting white gown that fit her slender form beautifully, shinier than even Peara’s dress had been.
“Excuse me?” Ethel called through the microphone. The woman ignored her. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
The strange woman’s high-heeled, uncomfortable-looking shoes clacked loudly on the tile. The footsteps were the only sounds in the room except the buzz of the speakers. She kept her petite chin turned up over the room, only barely glancing down at the pair on stage, and never at the members of the audience. The Peacekeepers—black visors down and machine guns stationed neatly on a strap around their backs—stood to each side of the woman, forming the picture of power. The sickly sweet smell wafting off her alone would signify she was Capitol.
What was she doing here in Eleven?
“What is she wearing?” Stemmet asked Ethel, pulling loosely at the hem of her jeans. “She looks funny.”
“You should ask the young one to watch his tongue,” spoke the woman in an overly high-pitched squeaky Capitol accent. “I’ll have him know that I am wearing the very latest in Capitol fashion. Or at least I would be…”
Ethel spoke nervously. Capitol folk almost never showed their faces in the districts, and never someone like her. “Did… you come to view our talent show, Miss…?”
“Heavensbee,” replied the Capitol woman. “Aphrodite of the noble house of Heavensbee. Pleased to… Well, I am meeting you.” The woman’s eyes flitted around the room. Not one thing held her attention for longer than a second.
Several of the girls behind the curtain gasped in realization, Sagee and Bayleaf among them. When the other kids inquired to them, Sagee whispered excitedly, “She’s one of District Eleven’s stylists for the Hunger Games!”
Saul gagged. A stylist for the Hunger Games? He understood that in the Capitol, all those who worked on the Games were worshiped like heroes, and that they became household names. But did they here in the districts need to grant them such a gold standard? Sagee might have a chance to meet her hero in person if she was reaped next year, and Saul had doubt she would be so excited then. Besides, she was an Albar. But, of course, they only cared about skin color when they came from District Eleven. Easier targets to bully, he supposed.
Aphrodite Heavensbee surveyed the crowd finally, and brought her hands together in a clap softened by the delicate fabric of her gloves. “I would like to see your most beautiful young woman,” she announced. Silence. She glowered at Ethel, and fire burnt in her lime green eyes. “Bring her to me now.”
Ethel shuddered. “But, ma’am… Respectfully, we have—”
The Peacekeepers gripped their hanging guns tightly and metallic clicks echoed through the event center. “Listen when spoken to,” one of them barked.
Startled, Ethel sighed and muttered, “Okay…” She picked up Stemmet and hugged him close on the way backstage. Saul could see fear rising behind her thick glasses. After all, who wouldn’t be afraid of Peacekeepers? They were the only ones in the district allowed to have guns.
Ethel set down the boy and scanned over the group of St. Rhodes’ kids, most of which had pasted themselves against the wall. She was breathing so heavily, Saul could feel the wave from across the room. “I don’t…”
“Don’t worry, Ms. Ethel,” Sagee smiled. And before anyone could stop her, she marched onto the stage, twirling the wool of her dress and making sure the lights caught the glitter.
“Sagee, get back here this instant!” Ethel whispered forcefully. Sagee must have heard, because her foot stuttered on stage. Then she decided to ignore her. What is she doing? Saul brooded. Capitol folk were dangerous, let alone Peacekeepers!
“I believe you called for me, Ms. Heavensbee,” Sagee said proudly with a radiant grin.
Saul didn’t like Sagee, but even so the woman’s cackle hurt his soul. She laughed and laughed until her throat was hoarse, took a deep breath, and laughed for longer. Sagee shrank into her shoes. “Darling! Darling! You thought I had meant you?” Aphrodite Heavensbee stifled her laughter long enough to hiccup. “Oh my, excuse me!” She continued. “Darling, look at you. Your hair has tangles, mats, and it hasn’t been dyed even once! And your outfit… Your outfit is truly dreadful, dear. Just dreadful. It is ragged, mono-color, mono-fabric, and… Wait a minute, is that wool?” She choked back another laugh. “Pardon me while I throw up in my mouth. Darling, present yourself with some class next time and perhaps my eyes won’t bleed upon the sight of you.”
Even from backstage, Saul thought he saw something break inside of Sagee. She had been the belle of this ball. Her beauty was her favorite aspect of herself, undeniable to anyone in District Eleven, and with a tiny pin prick, Aphrodite Heavensbee had popped it like a balloon.
“Well, someone please move the wooly girl away and bring me someone beautiful. Chop chop!” Aphrodite clapped her hands again. Several of her friends came out onto the stage to bring Sagee away, quickly so their heads wouldn’t be next on the chopping block.
Some in the crowd shifted restlessly in their seats. Without the guns, surely a couple of the men would have lifted her up off those obnoxious shoes and toss her out. But with them, there was nothing to do but grit their teeth and bare it. One older woman stood, mustering as much dignity as she could and stormed from the event center, her husband on her arm. Several followed, but not everyone.
Every eye was on Ethel. She fanned her face, spun in circles, and melted. “I can’t…” she muttered. “I don’t know what to do, everyone. I’m sorry!”
“Just go tell her she can’t have what she wants!” Cullen spat. “And if you won’t, I will!”
“Yeah!” Bayleaf cried. “Sagee is our most beautiful!” With that, Sagee let out a repressed sob and buried her face in Bayleaf’s shoulder.
“Don’t make me wait!” announced Aphrodite Heavensbee in front of an empty stage.
“Oh my God,” Cullen growled and began to fight through the group towards the curtain. “I’m gonna tell her to shove off!”
“No, don’t!” Rootlyn pleaded, clawing at his arm to stop him. “They have guns, Cull!”
The younger kids were wailing. The older kids were swallowing their anger. Sagee was in shambles. Ethel was useless in times of stress. Saul bit the bullet. He pushed past Tiller’s complaints and Ethel’s shivers and strutted onstage. Time to sing a song, he thought to himself.
“We don’t have what you want,” he reported.
Aphrodite tittered wickedly. “Perhaps you misheard me! I am looking for the most beautiful girl, I’m afraid. You’ll not do. You’re not so easy on the eyes anyway with those abhorrent grays…”
Saul gave a brief glance back towards the curtain. They were all frozen, watching him. Peara was whispering frantically under her breath, most likely words of encouragement. “Go away,” he said. “We don’t want you here.” The Peacekeepers shifted uneasily.
“Brave though, I’ll give you that,” she smiled. After a pause, she threw back her orange hair and blurted, “Oh, come now, I know she’s here! How long must you keep her from me?”
“…Keep who?” Saul asked.
“The girl with my dress. Duh!” Aphrodite smacked her forehead. “Bring her to me so I can see her.”
So this did have to do with the Capitol silk dress… Saul had had a sneaking suspicion. So Aphrodite Heavensbee was the Hawk? Somehow that didn’t seem right to Saul. The stylist was much too flamboyant and proud of herself to use a moniker.
When he heard the shuffling coming from backstage, Saul jumped back to the present. Peara. He shouldn’t have even paused for a moment to think. When he turned, he watched as Peara came stumbling from the curtain directly into the limelight. Damn it, Saul cursed to himself. If he had been backstage, he would have been able to stop that. A couple thirteen-year-old brutes wiped their hands clean of their handiwork.
“Pea!” Saul shouted, and went to go help his sister off the floor.
“That’s her!” shouted Loaves backstage. A jolt of fury shot through Saul, and if Peara weren’t in his arms right now, he would have socked him hard across the jaw.
As Peara got to her feet and smoothed down her skirt, Heavensbee hiccupped in exasperation. “I swear, you district can be so imbecilic! This girl wearing rags, not my dress!”
Saul went to fire off at the stylist, but Peara spoke first. “I did have your dress,” she said. He bit his lip. What was she doing? “It got juice on it. I’m sorry.”
Aphrodite was speechless, and then brought a thin smile to her lips. Her eyes bounced around the room looking at the door, at the Peacekeepers, at the curtains, but never at Peara. Saul took this as an opportunity and took his sister by the shoulders, guiding her backstage. “Come on, Pea. Stay close to me.”
“No.” The stylist’s utterance was concrete, and stopped Saul in his tracks. “Bring her back where I can see her.” Reluctantly, Saul did so. She finally turned her lime gaze to Peara, and held it there acutely. “Darling, do you know how much that dress cost?”
“I’m sorry…” Peara started to cry.
“Yes, you’d better be,” she said calmly, and turned to Saul. “I take it this is your sister?” Saul nodded. “Are you aware that your sister is a thief?”
“It was a gift.”
She threw her hair back and guffawed. “Hardly! She stole the dress and ruined it, out of spite I’m sure! She is a little devil, and I want her cuffed.” She turned to the Peacekeepers. “Gentlemen?”
The white-clad enforcers stepped toward the stage and Saul instinctively shielded his sister with his body. He wasn’t prepared to die, but he wasn’t prepared to let her die either. “Step aside!” one of the Peacekeepers bellowed at him, but he held his ground. Then a man from the audience stood and with a single arm had a Peacekeeper in a chokehold. The soldier’s gun came up, but before it got anywhere, his partner had struck the wrestler with an extended baton. In the chaos, Saul saw some of the orphans backstage had fled from the building. Ethel had frozen there, sinking into a curtain. As one Peacekeeper beat the man to a bloody pulp, the other raised the barrel of his gun to Saul and shouted, “Stay right there!”
Aphrodite brought a pink bottle from her purse and dusted her neck with sour-smelling drizzle. She gave a sigh of relief and fanned her cheeks. All the members of the audience had fled but for one: a heavy-set man under a black hood. “Please, now!” she uttered. “This frivolous violence needn’t be. All I ask for is the girl.”
“You can’t have her,” Saul barked. “You’ll have to go through me.”
“Then I’ll take you too,” she said. She clapped her hands once, and the Peacekeepers stood at attention. The man who had defended them laid bloody and unconscious on the ground. “Boys? Bring both of them.”
Abruptly, the curtain in Saul’s peripheral vision was thrown aside, and Ethel ran onto the stage, waving her arms in the air. “No!” she cried. “You can’t take them! They still belong to St. Rhodes’ orphanage, of which I’m the caretaker. I’m their guardian. You need my permission to bring them in for questioning don’t you?”
One of the Peacekeepers stepped forward. “Don’t try to interfere with the request of a Capitol citizen, miss. It doesn’t end well for you.”
Then, the screech of chair legs on tile alerted the room. The man in the black hood stood and approached slowly. Saul knew the way he walked, he had seen it before. Before the man even lifted the hood, Saul realized his identity. The hood fell back on the shoulders of Thurgood Munrow.
“They don’t belong to you, Miss Jugby,” he stated plainly. One of the Peacekeepers raised his gun, but the other lowered it with a swat of his palm. Munrow stepped neatly beside the Capitol woman, and they gazed upon Saul and Peara together like they were inspecting apples for bruises and imperfections. “They belong to me.”
What was he on about? Saul met Mr. Munrow’s eyes, looking for hope, but he did not find the usual understanding they shared. There was no warmth to be found in those eyes. What are you getting at, sir? Saul wondered.
Mr. Munrow brought a stack of folded papers from his coat pocket, unfolded them and laid them upon the stage in two piles. He turned to the Peacekeepers and said, “It’s all there, boys.”
Saul inched forward to see the papers, careful to keep the barrel of the Peacekeeper’s gun in the forefront. He read it with shock. “This is to certify that Peara Arrem has been formally adopted into the family of Thurgood and Ophelia Munrow.” By its side laid an identical page with Saul’s name. The page was dated June 23rd, almost two weeks ago.
No… No, it couldn’t be. The Peacekeepers climbed the stage and strapped Saul’s arms in cuffs behind his back. They did the same for Peara, but Saul didn’t struggle. He couldn’t… He glared at Ethel, petrified with fear and concern. She mouthed a few words to him out of view of the Peacekeepers, but Saul was too dazed to make out what they were.
“Very well,” Aphrodite said, clicking her heeled shoes against the tile and spinning towards the exit. “I think that takes care of that excellently. Come along now, darlings. We have much to discuss.”
Saul and Peara were led by the shoulder from the event center, black batons at their backs. “Why?” he asked Munrow. “Why after all this time, why now?”
Munrow did not respond. He stared sullenly forward.
Who was Ophelia? Munrow had never made mention of having a wife. He was a bitter old man with no children, no life outside of his orchard! In Saul’s mind, questions chased each other in circles a thousand miles a minute. But the part of this all that hurt the most wasn’t the Peacekeeper’s cuffs. It was Ethel’s signature on the document, and the date at which she signed it.
But he would not call himself Saul Munrow, even if the whole world insisted he should.
End of Chapter Ten
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Post by countlivin on Jun 3, 2021 19:28:37 GMT
And now I bring to you, the longest chapter ever!
CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE ULTIMATE PRICE
Theoram Warrik
"You have the opportunity to save someone you love and hold dear to you. But, doing so has a very likely chance you will never come back. And there is a slighter chance that everything and everyone else you love will be gone. Would you take it? Risk everything to save everything?”
What should Theo say?
[A. Yes.]
[B. No.]
You have chosen Theo to say [A. Yes.]
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raoul
New Member
Posts: 11
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Post by raoul on Jun 4, 2021 0:05:57 GMT
Yessum
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Post by InGenNateKenny on Jun 5, 2021 4:11:43 GMT
Ooo, interesting part. After a pretty emotional one too.
[B. No.]
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Jun 5, 2021 13:44:41 GMT
[A. Yes.]I love how the shortest part ever follows right after the (I think) longest one yet, that made for a nice contrast ^^ Also, I must admit I did not notice that Saul's part is a completely new one, but I like that. It was a really nice part as well, Saul is definitely one of my favourite characters at the moment and I'm looking forward for his next part Munrow meanwhile definitely isn't one of my favourite characters, but I don't entirely remember what his deal was, so I am looking forward for reading about it again!
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Post by countlivin on Jun 5, 2021 16:26:49 GMT
You have chosen Theo to say [A. Yes.]
“Of course,” Theo replied. Although Lysistrata had asked for hypothetical reasons, Theo knew exactly the feeling of having to choose. It felt like being dragged into a pit with your own guilt. He was determined such an incident would never occur again.
“I knew it,” Lysistrata laughed, shaking her head. “The man’s an optimist.”
“Why would you expect anything less from the old war horse?” Kirt smiled. “He’s been in school longer than we’ve even had this job. I couldn’t put up with that for too long without a dash of idealism along the way.”
Theo set his hand on the railing and began to limp to the steps of the museum. He had to put most of his weight on the marble stone wall simply to lift his bad leg high enough to reach the next step, but he was confident in himself. Whenever either of his friends offered their hand for assistance, he would refuse it. He knew where he was going.
The three of them reached the top of the staircase and Theo leaned against the wall to peer out upon the tiled floor below. It had mementos of times long past. Before the war—before even Panem… Though not much was known about the time before Panem, anything that seeped through the cracks always wound up in this museum. It was something Theo took a delight in. He’d strolled these halls for weeks on end. He had come to memorize the names of every bust, every painting, and every collection this place had to offer. They once offered him the position of curator, but there was no chance in hell he could stray away from his goal. He knew from the very beginning he would be a Gamemaker. It might have taken him decades to achieve, but his task never left his mind. This was the first year on the job. This was his only chance to make the world right.
“So how’d you enjoy your first several months as a Gamemaker, Theo?” Lysistrata asked him. The curiosity in her voice was evident. “You’ll be handling the sponsor drones, correct?”
“The sponsor drones, yes,” he replied. His mind was elsewhere.
“Quite a big job for someone on their first day, huh?” She patted him on the back.
He smiled, reaching his arm out to control an imaginary joystick. “Roman trusts my steady hand.”
“That’s not all of you the man trusts,” Kirt laughed. “If any one of us had the same amount of favor he places in you, we’d be sitting pretty in our seats with income practically flying into our wallets.”
Theo laughed modestly. His friendship with the Head Gamemaker had earned him quite a spot on the panel.
Lysistrata Vickers had been young for a Gamemaker when she first took her seat, having been straight out of the Academy. Even at thirty-three, she was one of the most senior members of Gamemaking Department. She had yellow hair which she kept finely braided behind her back. She had never been a huge advocate for Capitol fashion, but she was picky enough to put waves in every morning. They were never in the same place it seemed, moving around arbitrarily each day. Theo had known her for approximately four weeks, two of which were spent discussing the Games. She was surprised when Theo told her he had volunteered a jungle as the setting for the arena. She was less impressed with the jungle as she was with the fact it had been Theo’s idea.
Kirt Beckham, on the other hand, he had known for years. They’d met at the Academy when they were only separated by a five-year gap. He had thicker glasses back then. Even though corrective measures were in place, Kirt’s love of technology eventually prevailed and the optometrists gave up, settling with glasses. Regardless, the other kids picked on him day after day for his eyes. Theo had taken pity on the kid, knowing what it felt like to be different. He walked with him every day, making sure he got to his courses without the stinging volatile looks. He took those for himself.
“What is the time?” Lysistrata asked. “She should be here by now.”
“It’s ten thirty-wo,” Theo told her, checking his golden pocket watch. “She shouldn’t arrive for another eight minutes.”
“Be nice to her, Lysistrata,” Kirt said, leaning up against the railing. “Even if she’s a bit late, she’s got a kid to worry about. Give her some air.”
“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. Any passersby might mistake Lysistrata’s reaction for a dislike of children, but this was not the case. The woman was severely annoyed by tardiness. The first time Theo had met her was when he was scolded for being four minutes seconds late to the first panel meeting for the Games. He had misplaced his monocle.
The woman the three of them were waiting to meet went by the name Rhetora Flickerman. He had arranged this meeting in the museum of all places. For what, the other two did not know, but he made sure Lysistrata and Kirt would be there.
Theo leaned on his cane and limped to the displays in their immaculate glass cases. This one was some sort of carpet remnant singed by burn marks around the edges and rolled up onto a pole. What was visible was a bronze eagle, similar to the sigil of Panem. He read the label aloud: “The carpet on the floor of the Oval Office. District Thirteen.”
“District Thirteen?” Lysistrata raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t heard about them in a while. I thought Coriolanus was doing all he could to wipe that page clean from our memories.”
Coriolanus, Theo thought to himself. He cringed hearing the president’s first name aloud. Lysistrata had been instated onto the panel of Gamemakers by the president himself—one of the first few acts of his administration. Of course she knew him well.
“Forgive me, but you were only a child when the war ended. I was there to witness it in all its glory.” Theo sighed, not losing sight of the mysterious blue rug. He assumed the reason of the scorch marks was tied to its being from District Thirteen. “There are some things you would rather wipe off the slate.”
“I remember it,” Kirt said. “I stayed home from the Academy with measles the day the war ended, but I was there for the rest of it. I remember the terror… The fear everyone felt. Let’s just say I’m glad it’s all over with.”
It’s not over with, thought Theo. Not by a long shot.
“How about you, Theo?” Lysistrata asked him, turning in his direction. Her yellow bangs flowed evenly with the motion of her head. “Where were you when they ended?”
“I was in class at the University,” he replied. “Someone shouted into the room that it was over, and everyone poured out into the streets. There were cries of hallelujah, and parties for nights on end.”
“Sounds wonderful,” she smiled, expecting the same reaction from the two of them. She didn’t get one. To break the tension, she added, “My family let me drink spirits for the first time that night. I was eight.”
Kirt shook his head. “Everyone was simply glad they could go to sleep that night without the threat of bomb fire above their heads.”
“Though that last day, after the call was made to drop the warhead on Thirteen, the rebel president made his final statement to the world. Neither of you remember it, most likely, it wouldn’t be shown in a classroom full of eight year olds. But it was broadcast across all televisions in the Capitol and beyond. Afterward, it was wiped from the tapes and everyone was told to forget it ever happened. Hearing him speak… It was like the deathrattle of a fallen people…”
“What did he say?” asked Lysistrata curiously.
Theo remembered President Revarius Cinders’ final words as clearly as he remembered Panem’s national anthem. Ladies, gentlemen, and Capitol dogs alike, it had started. “I cannot repeat it,” he spoke finally. “No one can. The feed continued until the bomb finally dropped and destroyed his home. We all watched the camera melt live on the air.”
“And the rebel president?” Lysistrata probed.
“He died with his country.”
As Theo glanced anxiously at the clock, he admitted Rhetora was late. He had specifically called for this meeting at ten forty in the morning. Fifteen minutes had passed since that deadline. Kirt and Lysistrata were becoming visibly antsy.
“Are you sure you said today?” Lysistrata asked. “Maybe she misunderstood and thought the meeting was next week.”
“No one misunderstood. She’ll be here within the hour,” Theo said, watching down on the curator. He couldn’t overhear, or they would be finished. This museum was built long ago, before the Dark Days, and was one of the few places in the Capitol where their voices weren’t monitored. He would have called the meeting in his apartment, but that would have been overly suspicious. This was a simple museum visit between friends.
Lysistrata frowned. “Well, the hour just started again. I don’t know if I can wait here that long, Theo. I was going to meet with Domitia after this and go to that fashion show in our quadrant.”
“Fashion has no say in this matter,” Theo struck back, seriously. “You may leave if you wish, but I urge you to stay.”
Kirt tugged lightly on her arm. “Lysistrata, please. This must be important if the man took all this time to prepare.”
“Kirt is correct,” Theo added. “What I’m going to share with you today will be very valuable, and very volatile should anyone hear who shouldn’t. I’ve chosen you three because you have the most open minds. But if you have any objections, say them now, and you’re out. Because after I tell you, there will be no going back.”
“God…” Lysistrata sighed into her palm. “This is serious, isn’t it?”
Theo turned away again. He could never keep eye contact with anyone for longer than a few seconds, always feeling guilty for some reason. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”
As soon as he was done, he heard the unmistakable cry of Rhetora’s son. Why did she bring the kid? I told her to come alone… Theo peered over the railing and found her there on the lower level, speaking briefly with the curator. She had a mop of pink, fluffy hair atop her head that matched her son’s. “Oh, come on, you!” she shouted angrily. “Just stop tugging on my arm for one second!”
“I don’t want to go to the museum! We always go to the museum! Why can’t we go to the movies?”
“I already told you—”
“Excuse me, miss…” the curator said, with hidden frustration. “If you cannot contain your child, you’ll be asked to leave. This is a quiet place for observers.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. It’s just—” she started.
“Hey, hold on a second,” Kirt called down to him, leaping into action. He quickly rushed down the steps. “Mr. Plato, are you really going to keep this child from his learning because he’s being too loud?”
“He’s distracting the visitors.”
“With utmost respect, sir, look around you.” Kirt gestured to the rest of the museum. Theo and Lysistrata began to climb down the staircase to meet them. “We are the only visitors here.”
The curator was stunned, but sighed and waved a hand of dismissal. “You can stay as long as you can keep that boy under control.”
“Thank you,” Kirt replied. The five of them found their way back up the stairs to the alcove beside the shredded rug from a dead nation. “That was a close one,” he breathed.
“Caesar, honey, you can’t be so loud.” Rhetora turned to her child, who looked up at her with a twinkle of greed in his eyes. “This is an important meeting. I’ll take you out to the shooting range afterwards if you can stay quiet and act like a good boy, okay?”
“Okay…” Caesar pouted. Theo knew the boy well enough to know that he threw these tantrums on a regular basis, but only because that’s what he was taught by the Capitol around him. The lad was impressionable to say the least. “The shooting range and the demolition show?”
“I already told you,” Rhetora replied sternly. “I never bought the tickets to that.”
“Alright, Rhetora, if you’re done with all that, let’s get down to business,” Lysistrata whispered loudly. The four adults sat upon a stone bench along the wall behind a painting of a dignified man in a top hat. He wore all black: a plain style which hadn’t been seen since before Panem. Caesar slumped down on the wall next to it and immediately pulled out his handheld gaming device. “I’m sure we’d all like to know what Theo called us here for. Care to shed some light?”
“Yes,” Rhetora added, pulling her eyes with heavy liner away from her son and to the conversation. “What’s the big problem?”
Theo sighed and eventually worked up the will he had been saving since first he’d heard of the Hunger Games. It was though the first bit of his plan was beginning to fall together finally. “I need your help with an ideal…”
“An ideal?” Kirt repeated, intrigued.
“I guess you could say I’ve become obsessed with the prospect of life returning to the way it was when he was around.” Theo pointed to the portrait and read the name underneath: Abraham Lincoln. “I’ve called you three to this meeting because each of you have something I need to make this ideal a reality.”
“You rehearsed this, didn’t you?” Kirt asked.
“More than once.” Theo laughed. “I need to know if you’re on board.”
“I’m in,” Rhetora replied immediately.
“As am I,” Kirt repeated.
Lysistrata was baffled by their responses. “How can you guys sign onto something when you don’t even know what the hell it is?” Caesar looked up in bewilderment at the curse word, but she waved him off. “What are you talking about, Theo? I’d really like to know before I wrap a blindfold around my head and fumble through the dark.”
Theo stared at various black and white tiles on the ground. “I’m going to put a stop to something… Something that has been continuing on for far too long.”
“Just spit it out,” Lysistrata punctuated.
Theo made sure his voice was a whisper before replying. No one was around to hear but the old curator, yet he wasn’t taking any chances. He looked up to meet her gaze. “I’m going to end the Games.”
It stunned them into silence. Even Caesar seemed astonished, hearing the conversation. His game read a game over screen and the beeping ceased. Rhetora was the first to break the silence, with a hearty laugh. When she met Theo’s eyes though, she stopped dead. “Theo… You’re joking, right?”
“No,” he replied flatly. “The Hunger Games have taken too much of a toll on Panem. It’s only a mere fraction of what it was when I was born.”
“When you were born it was constant chaos,” Kirt said, more confused than frightened. “People died left and right. How could you want that back?”
Theo answered the question with one of his own. “Tell me, Kirt, why you joined the panel of Gamemakers.”
“Well…” The question had caught him off guard. “I joined because I thought perhaps I can provide from my family better here. Don’t get me wrong, the Games are awful, but it’s hard to support a family of five on nothing but selling stuff door to door.”
“And you, Lysistrata?” Theo turned to her expectantly. “Why did you join?”
“I mean… Coriolanus offered me the position, and what am I supposed to do? Decline it? He’s the president! He’s my friend, I—” There was a whimper in her hyperventilating voice. “I thought it would be fun, maybe… I don’t know!”
“Rhetora…” He turned to his right side to see what she had to say. “Why did you quit the panel last year?”
She smirked and looked down at her child to the right of her. “I was frankly tired of watching people die. I couldn’t help but think, what if my little Caesar was in their place? Would I still set the dogs after him? Would I still let the twister loose?”
“Mom, I would never be in the Games.” Caesar lifted his pink eyebrow. “I’m not district!”
“Thank you for your input, you all,” Theo said. He stood and hobbled over to the railing overseeing the first floor of the museum. “You see, I’ve called you all here today because you three have something in common. You all hate the Games as much as I do. Even you, Lysistrata, though you’ve tricked yourself into believing they are fun. You are the only ones I can trust.”
“Theo…” The stress had produced tears in Lysistrata’s eyes. “Maybe you’re right, and they need to go. What would we do? How do we single-handedly shut down the organization the entire new world order is built upon? And maybe you’re wrong. What if it doesn’t work? President Snow would have us all executed—if not worse…”
“It’s the ultimate price,” Theo replied. “You’re right, dear friend, except in one regard. Whether either of those scenarios come true, we win this war.”
“How can we win a war if we’re pushing up daisies?” Kirt asked.
“Because the other Gamemakers will see what we’ve done. We could inspire something. It’s time to think bigger than ourselves.” At that, Kirt seemed excited while Rhetora looked vainly interested. Lysistrata still looked afraid. “It’s time to take a stand.”
“That’s funny, coming from the cripple,” Kirt laughed. Normally, Theo might have been offended, but he knew the words coming from his friend weren’t meant to wound. “What I said before doesn’t change. I’m in.”
Rhetora nodded in agreement. “Whatever plan you have, Theo, I trust you.”
Lysistrata cursed under her breath, careful not to let the sound reach Caesar’s young ears. “How can I do this? You’re asking me to risk everything, and I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do!”
“Risk everything to save everything?” Theo responded. “Wasn’t that what you said before? If I can agree to it without context, why can’t you?”
She had lost and she knew it. She began to climb down the steps of the balcony and away from the conversation. “Lysistrata, wait!” Kirt called quietly, so the curator wouldn’t hear. “Come back!”
“Let her go,” Theo said, placing a firm hand on the man’s chest as he tried to reach out to her. “It’s a lot to ask. Honestly, I didn’t even expect you two to agree to it immediately.”
Kirt sighed as Lysistrata left the building and the glass doors shut tight behind her. “So what did we sign on for?” he asked. “What do you want us to do, captain?”
“I can’t explain just yet,” Theo replied. Rhetora stood up too and the three of them were arrayed in a circle with the portrait of Abraham Lincoln. “Just know, I will eventually need both of you to accomplish this task. Just keep going on with your normal lives until I give you the signal.”
“What is this signal?” Rhetora asked, growing more interested by the second.
“I will send each of you a letter when the time is right,” Theo said. “I can’t send it to you through the network, because they track it like bloodhounds. From now on, everything I do will be written on paper.”
“What will the message be? How will we know it’s you?” said Kirt.
“You will know it’s me.” Theo lifted his bad leg and began to walk around the balcony until it did not feel so locked. “You will know by the way I curve my ‘S.’”
“That’s not a lot to go on,” he complained, leaning against the marble railing.
“When you’re tampering with something as complex as the human psyche, you need to know when and where to stop.” Theo shook his head. “It’s not just the Games. We’re dancing around the mind of Coriolanus Snow.”
“Mom!” Caesar whined. “I’m bored. Can we leave now?”
“Not quite yet, honey,” Rhetora instructed him.
“But I wanna go NOW!” He began to shake his head violently and made to leave. Rhetora caught him hard by the arm and held him in place above the stairway.
Theo felt a light buzz in his pocket. When he checked his device, he saw the text message. It was sent by an unknown number, but Theo could assume the identity. “You are being summoned to the Capitol Center,” it read. “Report at precisely 3:00 p.m.”
Theo immediately became very worried. There was no way Snow could have traced their meeting. He took such care in making sure they would not be found. The museum had no sound detection technology in their security cameras. The curator was partly deaf. No one would be here at this hour. He came to the conclusion that if there was some reason to be summoned, it wasn’t because of his plan. It couldn’t be. He’d worked too long for his final act to be cut short.
When he put the message from his mind, his heartbeat fell back into place. Mr. Plato had made his way up to the balcony with them and was arguing with Rhetora about Caesar’s rowdiness. “You will have to leave,” he told her. “This place is one of knowledge and serenity.”
“Please, sir? Just five more minutes,” she pleaded. “I would really like to look at this painting a bit longer.”
Caesar couldn’t sit still. “Let me go! Let me go!”
“No. You’ll have to leave now.”
Theo took Rhetora’s arm. “It’s okay. We’re done now. We should leave.”
“Well…” she sighed. “Okay.”
When they exited the building and emerged on the curb, Theo felt that it was warmer than before. Yet still, Caesar would not stop moaning. “Hey kid,” Theo said to him. The boy paid him no mind. “Caesar.”
When the boy turned, he scowled with a mouth full of teeth stained orange from candy. “What do you want?”
Theo bent down to eye level with the boy and waved his mother off with the flick of his wrist. “Why are you so angry? What has happened in your life that you are not able to let go of your wants for more than a few minutes?”
Caesar seemed less rambunctious than before and more curious. He calmed and finally Rhetora released his arm. “Sir? I’m just a kid.”
“I know that you’re just a kid, Caesar,” Theo continued. “But I’m going to speak with you as though you are an adult like us. Wouldn’t you like that?”
Caesar nodded. “My dad’s on TV,” he blurted out of nowhere.
“Most certainly he is,” Theo smiled. Caesar’s father Lucretius had been the host for the televised Hunger Games for the past fifteen years. “And I have no doubt that one day you’ll join him. But one thing that your father does is talk to people. He does that a lot. How can you talk to them if you’re so angry all the time?” Caesar shrugged. “You see, each one of them is someone just as human as you. Each have their own lives and feelings. Everyone has something about them that’s special. Every single one of them has a demolition show they’d rather be watching. I want you to remember this.”
Caesar nodded. “I will, Mister…”
“Warrik,” Theo replied. “You may call me Mr. Warrik.”
“But why, Mr. Warrik? If those people are all grown-ups, they can go to the demolition show whenever they want. Why don’t they go now?”
He shook his head. “That’s because life moves on around them. If you don’t take a minute to stop and observe it, you’ll go your whole life without ever seeing what’s really there. Go today, and instead of rushing from one place to the next, take a minute to stop and appreciate the shining city you live in. It may not always shine so brightly.”
“Okay.” Caesar smiled, and looked around. Theo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out of it a small coin. When the boy turned back to him, Theo put his hand behind his ear and pulled it out: a coin displaying the head of Coriolanus Snow. “How did you do that?” he asked excitedly.
Theo cranked his leg and stood up tall. “You can find a lot of things around you when you look hard enough.” He set the coin in the boy’s hand. “Look for the good in the world. Look for the good in other people. If you search long enough, you’ll find something worth discovering.”
Caesar turned the coin over and over all the way from the museum. Rhetora grabbed him by the hand again and led him off to the east. The wind blew softly and the birds were chirping and Theo found it amusing to watch Caesar looking around at everything he could set his eyes on, drinking it all in. Before they left, Rhetora told Caesar to wait a moment and ran back to Theo. “Thanks, Theo. You were really good with him,” she said. “Have you had experience with kids?”
“Not much,” Theo replied honestly. “I had a daughter.”
“Had?” she asked. When she saw Theo’s head slowly shaking, he knew it best not to probe deeper. Kirt knew the story—at least part of it—and nodded. “Well, thank you anyway. I hope we speak again soon.”
After Rhetora had left with her son, Kirt said “So, Mr. Warrik, I assume if you gathered us all here today, you know exactly what you’re doing. I would hope so.”
Theo laughed falsely and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He squeezed tightly, trying to convey the gravity of the situation. They were outside the museum now. Their conversation could be overheard by cameras, drones, and passersby. “Yes,” he said, beginning to weave around a lie. “The museum is a perfect place to set up the study group. We will have to do this more often.”
Kirt nodded, understanding the ruse, and followed along. “I found the dusty portrait to be quite fascinating.”
“I will meet you here next week at around the same time.”
“Agreed,” Kirt laughed. “Goodbye, my friend.”
“Until we meet again.” Theo shook Kirt’s hand and casually pivoted on his cane. As they walked away from each other, Theo knew his plan had begun. He limped across one black and the next, hobbling on his mahogany cane. The neon lights around him flickered, pointing to their respective stores and restaurants. He wasn’t sure why he was being summoned to the Capitol Center, but he fought off his nerves. He forced himself to believe it would be okay.
Lysistrata had one thing right. There was a considerable chance they could fail. This was the first time Theo really felt as though he were gambling with death.
End of Chapter Eleven
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Post by countlivin on Jun 5, 2021 16:29:46 GMT
CHAPTER TWELVE: THE CONCEPT OF HOPE
Theoram Warrik
Theo arrived at the steel gates of the Capitol Center carrying the anxiety and fear of a man who might never return. The building was enormous and painted white, with the eagle sigil of Panem emblazoned upon its side for all the citizens to see. He suspected President Snow had it built to look like a castle deliberately. It reached into the sky and broke the clouds, yet it still didn’t stand as high as the man himself.
Theo checked the time on his pocket watch and saw the hour hand pass three. He hobbled up to the gate and observed its artistic design with flourishes and the white rose crest of the Snow family in the metalwork. An echoing voice sounded from all directions. “State your business,” it said.
“I was summoned here four hours ago,” Theo repied, not quite sure where the sound was coming from.
“You the new Gamemaker?”
“Yes.”
The gates slid open at a snail’s pace. Once they were ajar, the marble pathway to the Capitol Center beckoned to him. On either side, it dropped off into a giant fountain enveloping the entire building like a moat. It was easily the largest fountain Theo had ever laid eyes upon, with spouts laid fifteen feet apart from each other. There wasn’t any railing on the path, rendering it difficult for him and his bad leg.
When he finally managed the entire way down the path, the doors opened for him automatically. Inside the building blared the trumpets of Panem on the speakers. This place was over the top, even more so than the rest of the Capitol. A land of glimmering skies and a hope for tomorrow, or so they said. So hypocritical. So ignorant.
“Ah, you’re the new Gamemaker on the panel!” the secretary greeted him with her wide smile of purple lipstick. He walked into the room on his cane and stood in front of her, expecting directions. “He’s been expecting you, Mr. Warrik.”
“Who has been expecting me?” Theo questioned.
“President Snow,” she answered. His eyes went wide. He hadn’t dreamed of meeting the president this soon. After all, the man was so exclusive that it was difficult for anyone to get an audience. And who was Theo? Just a humble Gamemaker. “Tell me, what’s it like being a Gamemaker?” the secretary asked. “It has to be exciting, right? Like playing in a sandbox!”
“Yes. It’s exciting,” Theo replied in monotone. He had joined the panel for only a few reasons, and none of them were personal enjoyment. “I would ask where I go for this meeting.”
“Oh, no problem,” she replied, going back to her computer and typing on the holographic keyboard. “A man should arrive shortly to escort you to the meeting room. You can take a seat and we will be with you in just a moment.”
Theo took one last fleeting look at the secretary, and had a chuckle about her green, curly hair contradicting with her blue contacts and purple lips. He never had understood the Capitol’s primal need for vibrant color. Maybe it was the lack of any in the architecture and world around them. Black and white were the flag, and gray was the city, though they would have him believe it was gold.
Sitting in the room, it suddenly felt as though he was very small. Most likely that was the intent. It was too large for a simple information desk and a few rows of seats.
The giant eagle flag of Panem hung like a tapestry on the far wall, but otherwise, the room was barren. That was President Snow’s way. He would belittle everyone by overwhelming them with the altitude of his power—that’s how Roman put it. Yet, there was something the president that Roman admired: the same thing that Theo despised.
After approximately five minutes, a ding issued from one of the twelve elevators and the doors slid open smoothly. A man stepped forth with his hands behind his back and a smile on his face. He stood very tall, as though to appear formal. His hair was well-coiffed, and for once, was a natural shade of brown. Just from looking at him, Theo was refreshed.
“Theoram Warrik!” said the man. Theo rose and limped over to the elevator. The man extended his hand for a shake and Theo shook. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Marcellus Proden. I am the president’s personal advisor, and I will show you to your meeting hall!”
In the elevator, Marcellus slipped a small silver key into a slot above the normal buttons before it flashed yellow. The elevator flew upwards, and would have knocked Theo prone if not for his cane.
“You’re the advisor, you say?” he asked. “What is this meeting about?”
“No way to tell for sure, sir,” Marcellus responded. “It’s always something different with him. He’s got that sort of personality, always on the move. I can tell you, however, that he usually makes it a priority to speak to each member of Gamemaking Department at least once, and seeing as you happened on the task earlier this year, I’d say he has readied his speech. I imagine your coworkers would be better candidates for the question.”
“What do you advise him on?” Theo scratched his face, keeping his gaze solely focused on the doors. “Because I imagine he gets a lot of his own ideas.”
“Yes,” the man said, flashing his gleaming white teeth. “The man is very self-made. He’s the kind of man we should all strive to become someday. You think that could ever happen?”
“No.”
He seemed confused and a bit hurt. “What do you mean, sir? I think everyone can have their role model. President Snow is as good as any.”
Theo stared resolutely at the wall, refusing to answer. He wasn’t the type for small talk, and especially not small talk about Coriolanus Snow. There was one reason, and only one reason he was here. Once his goal was accomplished, Theo would leave, and if he was lucky, he would never have to come back.
The doors of the elevator slid open, and another grandiose room presented itself. It was a broad hallway with a meeting table extending its whole length. Glass candles hung from the high ceiling and were dimly lit, only barely casting an auburn glow on the navy blue wallpaper. At the other end of the hallway was not a wall, but an open balcony. Only a thin steel railing stood between Theo and a fifteen story fall. Leaning on the railing was a man who didn’t look a day over thirty.
“Gamemaker, step into the room,” said Coriolanus Snow. “Marcellus, you may leave our presence. We have to discuss a simple matter.”
“Yes, sir,” said Marcellus. He knocked Theo on the arm in a friendly manner before the elevator doors closed behind him. He left Theo alone in a room with the most important man in all of Panem. The railing was right there. It would be so easy to simply shove him to his death, and yet it was Theo who felt trapped.
“Please, I don’t bite,” said Snow with a crooked smile. He beckoned Theo to the railing. “Let’s look upon our nation together.” He held up a glass of white wine and sipped.
Theo leaned on the railing, allowing his cane some relief for a moment. From up here, the golden city was truly golden. The sun reflected off the swimming pools, the roofs of buildings, and freshly polished streets to create a sheen of perfection. It was a sea of industry. This was the heart of Panem.
“Theoram Warrik,” said the President, tasting each syllable. “Can I call you Theo?”
“I would prefer that you do.”
“Perfect.” Theo looked at Snow and saw a man wise for his years. His blond curls were neatly arranged about his head, and his blue eyes felt just as piercing as a dagger. A small white rose tickled his breast pocket. “I like that name. Would I be mistaken that your father was Caellus Warrik?”
“My father was Renaldus Warrik. Caellus was his brother—my uncle. My father died in the early stages of the war.”
“Hm. I’m afraid I had not heard of Renaldus.” Snow took a sip of his wine. “Caellus, though, served under my own father as his second in command for a time. He used to arrive at the Snow Estate for parties following my own father’s victories. A shame. Had things shaken out differently, we might have met as children.”
“Not as children, sir. I am forty-five.”
“Are you? You look well for your age, Theo.”
“Thank you, sir.” Somehow, a compliment from President Snow seemed null.
“Surely you remember the name Crassus Snow?”
“Of course,” replied Theo. “The legend of his battle with the fleet of District Four is still taught in Academy textbooks.”
Snow smiled. “He was a strong man, but not of build. He was strong of will. I imagine you are no different.”
“I strive to be, Mr. President,” Theo said. He felt nervous; one wrong word could mean the end.
“That’s good. Will is what defines a man. It isn’t his wealth, or his manner… It’s his will to stand in what he believes in like his own shoes. He has to wear his values like an undershirt and his dreams as his jacket. I look at you and the other Gamemakers and I see a bunch of people in their jackets, sitting at a computer and doing what they love. This defines you as well?”
“Yes,” lied Theo. “I have wanted this for a long time.”
Snow smiled in satisfaction. He finished his wine. “It’s a noble thing to want: to serve me and this country. I’m sure you are aware of the purpose of the Games.” Theo nodded slightly, yet it didn’t seem enough for him. “The war is still poignant in my heart all these years later. Surely it is worse for you. I was only a child when it ended.”
“Panem has never had a chance to properly heal,” Theo admitted. It sounded like something that would please him.
“Heal it has not,” Snow agreed. “And heal it will not. But the wound has closed. The Hunger Games are the stitches. They keep the twelve districts in their places. If one rises up, as Thirteen did so long ago, we will crush it into a fine paste, but that would be such a waste of life—a waste of bravery. The Hunger Games ensure that one will not rise up. And our order is maintained.”
Theo turned and leaned against the railing on his back, allowing his leg some relief. He couldn’t stay still for too long or his knee would lock. Snow plucked the rose from his pocket and stared into it longingly. “This nation is on a slow incline to perfection. When Ravinstill was in charge, he was weak. He was not able to keep the masses in order, but I have been able to accomplish what he never could. It’s why I wear this rose.”
“Why’s that?”
“The white rose has always been a symbol of my family. I’ve worn them ever since I was old enough not to prick my fingers on the thorns. When I look at the rose, it reminds me of who I was before I took up office, and what the office was while I was still so young. I’ve perfected this nation. You look to the south and you see order. You look to the north and you see tranquility. This is a world I want to be able to raise my children in. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” Theo told him. “If I had any children, this is the kind of world I would bring them into.” The mentioning of children brought his daughter to his mind and his anger flared, but he quelled it back into submission.
“It’s not like you have a choice, right?” Snow patted him on the back, and laughed for a moment. “I like you, Theo—and all the Gamemakers. You’re like toymakers, endlessly trying to make a new toy for the Capitol to play with. I’ve heard you are good friends with the Head Gamemaker.”
“Yes,” Theo replied. “Roman and I have been friends for as long as I can remember.”
“Then I’m sure it won’t startle you to know that he has been taking a keen interest in these particular Games. He presented me with the idea of the Quarter Quell, I okayed it, and he ran away with it—at the speed of light too. I was told you gave him the idea for the arena. An abandoned city was it?”
Theo nodded. “An abandoned city is an exciting prospect for the audience. Already my fellow Gamemakers have been theorizing as to which city it is.” But he gave pause, turning the words over. “With all due respect, sir, did you say that it was Roman’s idea for the Quarter Quell? In your commencement speech you explained that the Quarter Quell was mentioned as one of the commandments of the Treaty of Treason?”
Snow smiled. “Yes, well… Perhaps it is better to keep this between us. You are one of my Gamemakers after all. You see, it is far better for both my own image and Panem as a whole to believe that the Quarter Quell was written by dead men. Of course, that is not entirely the case, but no one reads the damned thing anyway, not all the way through. And by the time the copies have been edited by my scribes and historians, no one will ever tell the difference.”
“Apologies, sir…” Theo knew the president was not particularly trustworthy, but editing historical documents? This seemed a new low. “You plan to change the Treaty of Treason?”
“Precisely.” He swirled around the white wine, watching the whirlpool in the glass. “You seem perturbed by the idea, Theo. As well you should. But anything related to the Hunger Games must be approved by me first. I have brought many new elements to the Games that have improved them a hundredfold. The chariots in the opening ceremony? Giving scores to tributes so the people of the Capitol can better judge their sponsors? Those were all my additions. But the biggest addition by far is treating the tributes with respect.
“I had the very fortunate task in my youth of mentoring a tribute in the Games, one of the very first mentors in fact. I saw what feral conditions they were treated with. Because of that, I decided that if we are going to kill them anyway, why not do it with some class? So I commissioned the Training Center so they might prepare themselves. I gave them beds so they might sleep softly. I gave them food of the utmost quality, the same we dine on here in the Capitol. The tributes get to feel like kings before the Games. Did you know that during my Games, the tributes were held in a zoo? They may not be Capitol citizens, but they are far from animals.”
“I would drink to that, sir,” Theo said. President Snow requested the open air for a drink. Theo was presented a glass of white wine by a waitress within the minute. They clinked their glasses together and each took a sip. The wine tasted sweet, of a spring that may never come.
“The Quarter Quell is just another of my additions, my friend,” Snow said, “envisioned by the mind of the brilliant Roman Walsh. There is a reason I appointed him Head Gamemaker. The man has an eye for detail. He can see art where the world before him is bare.
“But now it comes to your allegiance. I like you, but there’s still a very likely possibility that you don’t think the same of me. That would be disheartening to say the least. I want to know where you stand, because there’s nothing that can ruin a perfectly good day more than betrayal.”
“I stand with you.” Theo did his best not to say it through his teeth. “I have nowhere else to stand, sir. If you haven’t noticed, I haven’t been much to stand recently. My leg is just too weak.”
“The only weak part of you, I would hope.” He turned and leaned against the railing with his back and finished his wine. “This world has too many spineless people in it. A man with a good backbone always has a place in Gamemaking Department. Your position is…?”
“I handle the sponsor drones, sir.” Theo sat down in the chair beside the long conference table. As he did, he noticed an ornate red and white flower garden hanging from the railing. It brought a bit of color to this otherwise drab room. Every now and then, Snow would take another glance at it. His presidential garden was world-famous—the best garden ever grown some called it. Theo had never seen it; he’d only heard stories.
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.”
What should Theo do?
[A. Appeal to Snow.]
[B. Disagree with Snow.]
You have chosen Theo to [A. Appeal to Snow.]Attachments:
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Post by countlivin on Jun 5, 2021 16:31:16 GMT
I don't know what the attachment B is or how to get rid of it
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Post by InGenNateKenny on Jun 5, 2021 17:58:42 GMT
Very interesting parts. Tension, and I like the allusions to the history of this world. For someone who really only has a surface-level knowledge of The Hunger Games, I quite appreciate them.
[A. Appeal to Snow.] Hmmm. Sure. Although I admit this is a spineless thing to do, to be honest.
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Post by countlivin on Jun 5, 2021 18:35:04 GMT
Very interesting parts. Tension, and I like the allusions to the history of this world. For someone who really only has a surface-level knowledge of The Hunger Games, I quite appreciate them. [A. Appeal to Snow.] Hmmm. Sure. Although I admit this is a spineless thing to do, to be honest. Not necessarily spineless, it’s definitely a smart thing to do.
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raoul
New Member
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Post by raoul on Jun 6, 2021 23:08:35 GMT
A. Appeal to Snow *shudder*
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Post by countlivin on Jun 8, 2021 23:51:27 GMT
You have chosen Theo to [A. Appeal to Snow.]
“I agree, sir,” Theo said, forcing a smile. “Hope is dangerous, and thinking otherwise is even more so. It reduces civilizations like Thirteen to dust.”
President Snow spun around amiably, but Theo could see the hint of malevolence in his piercing blue eyes. No one seemed to notice it except for Theo. “You are a wise man, Theo. The removal of hope from the districts is the reason Panem lives on while the rest of the world doesn’t. We are alone, but we are alive.”
Theo knew without a doubt that disagreement was one way to make the president an enemy, and a ferocious one at that. He was pleased with himself. Maybe now, the man would let him get home in time for supper.
“I have to say, I’ve enjoyed our talk here today,” said Snow. He laughed in a chipper kind of way that made it impossible to tell if he was lying. “I hope we have more soon… And I hope you make the Games well.”
“You will be pleased with me, Mr. President, I am sure,” Theo said.
If Theo hadn’t been wearing his monocle, he might have seen a snake’s tongue flit from Snow’s thin lips. He placed a hand on Theo’s shoulder, conveying a certain authority. If this man had ever had a mote of humanity, it was gone now. “You’re a good man,” he said. “I would love to keep it that way. We’ll be watching your progress towards the Games from here on out.”
“You’re monitoring me?” Theo seized up and calmed himself with a deep breath. “Will I have no privacy?”
“What is privacy when compared with security?” he shrugged. He scanned the Capitol city below for the thousandth time, drinking it all in. “This city is full of dark places. No matter how many lamps you hold, you always cast a shadow. Don’t be the man who cowers in the shadows, Theo.”
“I don’t even know where to look for them,” Theo lied. “This is the shining city, after all.”
The president laughed quietly. It was a cold laugh—scornful. “It comes to my attention you have been making friends on the panel already. Kirt Beckham, and Lysistrata Vickers, if I am not mistaken?”
“You aren’t.” There was no point in lying.
He smiled. “Both have stood here with me upon their entrances to the panel. Kirt was rather unremarkable, but Lysistrata has always had quite the eye for detail. She is the most senior member of the panel. And you are the most junior. Are you familiar with her?”
“Yes,” said Theo confused. “We’ve been friends for the past few months.”
“Are you familiar with her?” he repeated.
Theo paused, cold tickling the hairs on his arms. “No,” he replied, understanding the implication. “We’ve talked briefly about the Games, and news issues, but our conversations rarely deviate above small talk.” Now, that was a lie. At least as of today.
“Oh really?” prompted Snow. He seemed to know exactly where the conversation was going, and led it there by the reins. “I have an eye witness report of the two of you being… more than friends to say the least.”
“That’s not true,” Theo frowned. He’d never thought of Lysistrata as anything more than a confidant—a friend at arm’s distance. They’d never been together. “Where was your source?”
“You question my source?” Snow flared slightly. It was the only true emotion Theo had seen so far. “I believe that information is behind a wall of strict classification, but what I saw was the two of you speaking in an alleyway, dragging one another along by the hand. It was quite the romantic scene. A tryst away from the public’s eye… But of course, nothing is truly private.”
He pulled a holographic device from his jacket pocket. He set it down in the garden, pushed a button and watched as the scene unfolded. It was like he said. Theo met Lysistrata just outside the coffee shop. He was becoming very close to her as he spoke, and for the first time, Theo noticed she hadn’t backed away. He took her by the hand and guided her to the alleyway behind the store.
Theo remembered that day clearly. It was the first day he had attempted to make her acquaintance, trying to express his ideals against the Capitol as covertly as possible. Luckily, this footage was not shot from a security camera, as it was too shaky; no audio could be heard. It meant, however, someone had been behind it, watching him. Theo admitted he’d gotten a bit close to her that day, but it was only because of how intensely he meant to demonstrate his point. It had not been romantic in intent, yet he could see how President Snow could mistake it for such an action.
“Yes,” Theo sighed, admitting something that was not the truth for the second time today. “We became involved through the past month. Even so, is this a bad thing? What say do you have to intervene?”
Snow was shocked by the bluntness, but quickly lightened. “She is a close, personal friend of mine. We were brought up together. When I was a mentor in the Games, she was my district partner. And I would ask that you stay away from her.”
How could this happen? In one sentence, Theo’s entire plan began to unravel. Lysistrata was irreplaceable. He had known Lysistrata had been a friend of the president, but he did not know the lengths Snow would go to in order to keep them apart. Lysistrata held Theo’s trust, his plan, and his hope, all together in her hands. Then it struck him. Theo’s perceived romantic intentions for Lysistrata had struck Snow jealous. He wanted her. But he was a married man, with a child of his own!
“I’m… I’m sorry.”
“I know this must be frustrating or shocking to you,” he nodded, “but, it’s the truth. It’s more than what you gave me. I do not like being lied to, Theo. Do you understand?”
“I understand, sir,” he said, shrinking into his place. He felt smaller now… weaker… older.
“Normally, there might be discipline involved, but I have a proposal for you.” Snow extended his hand, and Theo glared down at it, mistrusting. “You leave Lyssie in peace, and I will forget we had this discussion. Are we clear?”
Lyssie. He called her Lyssie.
Theo took the president’s hand and shook firmly. He was surprised to find a tight, firm grip from such cold, small hands. There was something unsettling about the texture of his hand alone. It was too smooth… “We’re clear, sir.”
“Now, leave my company, Gamemaker,” he commanded stiffly. “With luck, the next you’ll hear from me will be congratulating you on a Games well made. I haven’t lost my hope in you.”
Theo turned and exited past the seemingly endless meeting table. As he passed leather chair by leather chair, he thought to himself about how his plans had changed. He would need to notify Kirt and Rhetora about this. President Snow had spoken to Theo about hope, but the man didn’t know a thing about it. Theo laughed when he thought about it one more time. After all, hope was only a word…
End of Chapter Twelve
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Post by countlivin on Jun 8, 2021 23:53:18 GMT
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE CLASS OF TWENTY-FIVE
Ionys Banks
At the far end of Wiring Pavilion, the trumpets were blaring. The national anthem had a prideful triumph to its melody and didn’t make for bad listening, even if it stood for a nation built on slavery and child-killing. Each year, the school band made its attempt to reproduce the anthem with their broken instruments and their twenty members, and until today it had never failed to disappoint. The passing of the school’s conductor the past year had been a blow, but the new instructor—a young woman with messy brown hair and an upbeat attitude—had picked up the students and turned the music into something not only tolerable, but enjoyable. Everyone in the pavilion thanked her silently.
The child-killing had not yet begun this year. Head Gamemaker Roman Walsh had appeared as a larger-than-life hologram at the “reaping” to announce that fourteen days would be adequate for the district officials to decide which of their children would die. And die they most certainly would. District Three’s tributes had placed in the Hunger Games’ top twelve nine times out of ten, and yet not once in twenty-five years had there been a victor.
Over two hundred plastic chairs were arrayed in rows in the center of the Wiring Pavilion, and several thousand more flanked either side. All the markets, bulletin boards, and mothers with their crying children had been shunted to the side for the event. The place was one of the largest open areas in civilized District Three, and the buildings forming a fence around them were some of the least decrepit. The skyline was formed by smokestacks spewing gray clouds that smelt of tar, but that was nothing new. Ionys Banks had not seen a white cloud in her life, but for the ones on the pages of her textbooks.
She sat at the very front row of the pavilion onlooking the rudimentary stage the carpenters built for the occasion. The gown she wore was a scratchy, black polyester that hung between her knee and ankle, and the cap of cardboard with a white tassel that swayed in the oily breeze. Beside her, clutching her hand nervously was twin sister Iris, and to the other side were a crowd of boys and girls she had grown up with, all wearing identical getups.
Today, Ionys and Iris would graduate from their school with the highest of honors. Their tassels were six inches longer than the kids in the back of the pavilion, the last of which hadn’t even been given a tassel at all. Only one tassel was longer than the sisters’, one they had both fought tooth and nail for until the very last exam, but in the end they lost. Gizmo Haffix sat to Iris’s right, with a tassel an eighth of an inch longer than hers.
Knowing the boy, he might have smirked proudly at his prestigious placement in the class’s ranking, but not after the reaping. A loud silence passed over the crowd as they watched the ceremony begin. Everyone knew what was about to happen.
A tear dropped from Iris’s eye. Ionys reached up and wiped it away with her glove. “Be brave,” she whispered.
“They can’t do this…” Iris whispered back. She shivered with fear. “They can’t do this to us.”
Ionys squeezed her sister’s hand, reassuring her. But there was only so far a touch would go when the Hunger Games were involved. She was afraid too, terrified even, but she couldn’t let it show. She couldn’t let them win. She couldn’t give an inch.
Doctor Vikto Quaymain, a sturdy old man in both stature and manner, was the first to take the stage, stepping with purpose to the microphone. Behind him hung an old, weathered flag: the gear-and-smokestack sigil of District Three. Ionys used to be proud she came from District Three. It had been the second richest district, leading the world in technological advance, and compared to the other districts, they were quite well fed. Then she got older and realized these sentiments were just sound bites echoed by the old and the bitter: those who still remember what District Three was before the Dark Days. Now, Three was broken, sixty percent of its people lived in poverty, and all the Capitol had given them as compensation were two hundred thousand pieces of gray, tasteless bread: the tesserae. “We could have been the Capitol,” Doctor Quaymain made sure to remind everyone. Ionys used to believe it.
“Thank you all for coming to this: a celebration of our up-and-coming young men and women,” announced Quaymain unenthusiastically. There was not an emotion in his voice. “District Three’s best and brightest are among this lot, I can proudly say. Without further ado, I commence the graduation of the Class of Twenty-Five.”
Meager claps spread lazily through the crowd. The school’s staff of four dozen quickly took the stage behind the principal. The conductor Ionys had been impressed by left her baton on the stand and scurried down the middle of the aisle, throwing out clumsy apologies as she brushed past the students. When she climbed onto the stage, a stray splinter caught the hem of her dress and tore a hole in it the size of an arm, but she just laughed and bowed low. The comical entrance did quite a bit to soothe the crowd’s unease. She could feel her sister’s grip loosening.
The conductor darted over to the microphone and ripped it from Quaymain’s hands for long enough to mutter. “Congrats, everyone! I’m so proud of you all! Prouder than him, anyway!”
When Quaymain wrestled the mic away, the pavilion roared in laughter. “Please, Briar,” he barked away from the microphone, so only the front row could hear. “Would you like to be suspended again?”
“No thank you, Doc,” she laughed, flicked his black tie harmlessly in the air, and took her place next to her coworkers. The audience snickered appropriately.
Quaymain straightened his tie and collar and apologized to the audience. Then he said, “I welcome this class’s valedictorian to deliver a speech he has prepared to commemorate all the hard work he has spent and all the ground he has gained thanks to our education system. Please welcome, Gizmo Haffix!”
Gizmo’s mother and brother applauded the loudest of any of the twenty or so who cared enough to clap. “Good luck,” muttered Ionys with a sincere smile as the boy stood. He couldn’t even manage to return one as he made his way to the stage.
Iris shivered, fear perforating her eyes. Since the crib, they had always been able to hear each other’s thoughts, and right now Ionys could hear her crying for help. As Gizmo climbed the stairs, Ionys leaned over and whispered to her sister, “We could still do it, you know.”
“No,” she choked.
“We could make the switch,” Ionys continued. “I helped you rehearse, I know all the lines.”
“Mom would know.”
“She wouldn’t,” she assured her sister. “Mom’s sitting in the back of the pavilion, we’re too far away.”
With the same scarlet hair and emerald eyes, same rosy cheekbones and slender frame, Ionys and Iris were the spitting image of each other. Iris was a little thinner and Ionys had more freckles dotting her face, but to the eyes of passersby, they could be one and the same. Many times in their youth, before the repercussions became too harsh, the sisters used to swap places in each other’s lives. Ionys would go to Iris’s violin lessons, and Iris would go to Ionys’s literature class and take her notes. And then they would meet out past the solar panel field where no one cared to look and swap their stories. They told each other everything, trusted each other completely, and by the time they were done, Ionys felt she was living two lives: both hers and her sister’s.
Until they were fourteen, they had managed it without anyone finding out. A girl they had confided in, Coil Fenwright, decided she valued her class honors over her friendship with the twins, and snitched to Doctor Quaymain. As punishment, each was suspended from school for six months, and each of their names were submitted to the reaping an extra time. Since then, they slowly stopped their life swapping, but they never forgot about it.
And now it was almost over. So why not one more time? “Please, Iris, you’re so scared. Let me take this burden for you.”
“No, I need to do this,” Iris mumbled, though the confidence was not there. “I earned this.”
“By two-hundredths of a percent!” Ionys shot back.
Iris shivered. “But what if they—”
“I can’t lose you!” Ionys stopped her.
The words hung over their heads as Gizmo took the microphone. Yes. That was what was happening now. They were going to lose each other. It was inevitable. They couldn’t fight the Capitol. They couldn’t even fight District Three.
Gizmo began his speech as only Gizmo could. “Last year, I was among you, groveling for food, scraping for every penny.” Ionys couldn’t help but throw up in her mouth. “But this year, I’m here. My hard work and my dedication have gotten me where I am today, standing here with the longest tassel among you. And I swear I will make you all proud, doing all I can with what I’ve earned. Because we all know where I’m going.”
“No,” Iris murmured. “He’s not going to…”
“They were going to announce it at the end of the ceremony today, but why should I care when they were planning to?” Gizmo put forth, angrily. “Everyone already knows it. It’s going to be me. It’s going to be me and Iris.”
Iris stifled a whimper. Ionys caught her hand and squeezed.
Peacekeepers at the edges of the pavilion brandished their guns as they saw unrest begin to scatter through the crowd. Quaymain, strict as he was, was quick to try to diffuse it. He stepped forward to stop Gizmo, but another of the teachers stopped him with a hand across his chest.
“I am going to do great things for this district and this country!” Gizmo ripped off his graduation cap and threw it to the ground. “I am going to do them, regardless of whether the Capitol decides to throw me away. My designs will not go unrealized. That is why, I announce to you, here and now, that I am going to win the Hunger Games.” The pavilion was still. “And when I am done with them, I will come back to District Three and finish what I started. Thank you.”
Ionys could see Gizmo shaking in his gown. It had not been an easy speech to deliver, especially with the threat of the Peacekeepers looming large in the pavilion. As his classmate, Ionys could testify that Gizmo was proud, arrogant, and his ego rose higher than even his masterful intelligence could reach. But he didn’t deserve to die.
Gizmo left the stage not by walking down the stairs, but by jumping off the front without being asked to. The valedictorian speeches were usually full of offers of thanks, kind words for teachers and fellow students alike, and humble words of irreverence. Gizmo’s speech had been a stab of declaration. It was much briefer than usual, but he had said what he needed to.
Gizmo marched out of the pavilion and past the Peacekeepers who allowed him to leave reluctantly. “He left without even getting his diploma…” Iris said.
“I think he thinks he doesn’t need it,” Ionys replied.
Then it set in. Along with the valedictorian, Iris was set to give a speech as well, a speech they had prepared together. As Quaymain drew closer to the microphone, that time drew closer, and Iris’s tremors grew deeper and harsher.
“I can do this…” Iris said. “I can do this… I can do this…”
She couldn’t do it. Ionys knew her sister. Iris was an optimist, but as the realist, it was Ionys’s job to know when it was misplaced. She would arrive on the stage with eyes red from crying. If Ionys stood up when Iris’s name was called, no one would be able to tell the difference.
Ionys remembered the conductor’s unwavering confidence; she was pretty sure her name was Briar. If Ionys could bring to the stage even a fraction of what Briar had had, it would set Iris’s mind at ease. But after a quick glance at her sister, Ionys saw steel in her eyes. Iris was trying to convince herself of the same thing, quieting her nerves.
“I sincerely apologize for that, everyone,” said Doctor Quaymain. “But there is no use for dwelling. Now, we will—”
“Is that true?!” shouted one of the graduating kids.
“Yeah!” echoed a worried parent from the crowd.
“You can’t do this!” cried a mother.
“It ain’t right!”
Quaymain held a hand to his wrinkled temple. “Please, everyone, please… I have such a headache, please save your questions for the end.”
“Screw that!”
“Tell us now!”
“You can’t do that!”
A Peacekeeper stepped on stage and asked Quaymain a question that Ionys could not hear. Quaymain nodded and rubbed his temples. The Peacekeeper issued an order on his radio, and several Peacekeepers made quick work of the protesters, dragging them hand and foot from Wiring Pavilion. One man raised a hand to a Peacekeeper, and the butt of a rifle to the skull spread his blood on the pavement.
“We have to help them!” Iris worried. She held Ionys’s arm with a titanium grip. “We have to do something!”
“What can we do?” Ionys shot back. “We just have to lay low. Don’t say anything. Standing up to Peacekeepers always makes things worse…”
It always makes things worse, Ionys had found. Every single time. Their father had discovered that four years ago, after he and some of his friends from the factory attempted to stop an execution. With resolution, she remembered her father’s cry. He had been fearless until that day when the bullet met him: the rock of their home. He was invincible. He could do anything. But when he begged for his life like a coward, Ionys realized that no one was truly strong—not at the end.
Ionys and Iris were identical, but they weren’t the same. Their father’s death had toughened Ionys, but it had broken Iris. The family used to visit the cemetary every day, and then it was every week, and then it was every month. But Iris never stopped visiting, never compromised. Even when Iris had been deathly ill with the flu, she had made time. She would always be sweet like that.
District Three had never had a victor in the Hunger Games, and the people suffered for it. The districts were fed and rewarded based on their tributes’ wins. As the years kept rolling by, more tributes died, more citizens of District Three starved, and the dregs of the district’s former riches waned to nothing. The mayor and others in charge were growing desperate for their former glory—the glory they had had to sacrifice to keep their people alive.
What were two children against an entire district’s survival?
In a strange, twisted way, Ionys understood the decision. Gizmo had been right of course. Both he and Iris would be chosen as the tributes for the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games: the two children that had been deemed the most intelligent by techniques hundreds of years old. If District Three was going to have a victor, it would be this year.
After the pavilion had calmed, Doctor Quaymain finally uttered, “Now, let’s continue the ceremony. To follow that very… unique valedictorian speech, we will listen to a few words from our runner-up: Iris Banks.”
It was now or never.
What should Ionys do?
[A. Give the Speech for Iris.]
[B. Let Iris Give the Speech.]
You have chosen Ionys to [A. Give the Speech for Iris.]
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Jun 8, 2021 23:56:26 GMT
[A. Appeal to Snow.]
Yeah, disagreeing with a homicidal tyrant is perhaps not the best idea, so let's do this one insteadI swear the new part was not yet there when I went to post my reply to the last one Give me a moment to read the new one, then I'll edit my post!
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Post by countlivin on Jun 9, 2021 0:17:00 GMT
[A. Appeal to Snow.]
Yeah, disagreeing with a homicidal tyrant is perhaps not the best idea, so let's do this one insteadI swear the new part was not yet there when I went to post my reply to the last one Give me a moment to read the new one, then I'll edit my post! Lol were you reading at the time I posted?
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Jun 9, 2021 0:21:04 GMT
[A. Appeal to Snow.]
Yeah, disagreeing with a homicidal tyrant is perhaps not the best idea, so let's do this one insteadI swear the new part was not yet there when I went to post my reply to the last one Give me a moment to read the new one, then I'll edit my post! Lol were you reading at the time I posted? Yes, that has to be it! When I started to read the part, the new one hasn't been there, then you posted the new one as I was writing my reply. Bad timing on my part XD
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Jun 9, 2021 0:36:22 GMT
Oh man, new PoV! This is so amazing, I love going into a storyline completely blind, without knowing anything about what's in store for the characters. Ever since you announced that we'd be getting a new PoV, I've been excited for it, but I didn't think it'd be this soon. And one very unique thing here is that Iris seems to be the tribute, whereas Ionys is our PoV, so I am really intrigued by what her storyline is going to offer not as a tribute or someone directly involved with the games such as Theo, but as a tribute's family member, that's really an angle that hasn't been explored yet.
[A. Give the Speech for Iris.]
I don't know about this. Iris wants to give the speech, she has made that one clear, but Ionys seems like she has a much better grip on herself and a much better understanding of the situation. Of course, she might just be underestimating her sister and I honestly feel a little bad at denying her the opportunity to prove herself, but if Ionys is right, then Iris really shouldn't give the speech.
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