say no { kareem + vasco }

[rook]

This feels far worse than when they dragged me away to the detention centre. I thought I knew the price of my transgression. It felt transactional, his life for my freedom - a simple exchange. But I'm still in debt, it seems - and maybe I'll never pay it off if my meagre life isn't worth enough to quench their thirst for blood and justice. We'll see.

Before, they were rough with me when they took my into custody, gloved hands pulling at my hair and flashlights washing over my crimson face whilst my father led there in the grass, dead eyes watching his son's fate. Now as they lead me into the justice building, they're just gentle. To the Capitol I'm now a prize asset, to be left pure and untouched until the moment I am ripe for killing. They know that right now isn't the time for pain.

That comes later.

I gaze up at the portraits of the fabled trinity of Victors from twenty-odd years ago, and they back look down at me silently. They don't wish me luck, nor pass on advice. I wonder if they too hate me.

I'm guided across red velvet rugs and spit-shined wooden floors, over the mezzanine and down to a large wide window that overlooks the now-emptying district square below. I don't get time to try and find my sister's freckled face, a firm shove in the back readjusts my course.

Around a corner, past administration and beyond the archives. I take in the last few things from my district that I am permitted: The smell of coffee. A phone ringing. A northern wind rattling at an unclosed window. Then the huge double doors slam shut behind me, and finally I am alone.

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

v a s c o

It's a sad song
We keep singing even so
It's an old song
It's an old tale from way back when
And we're gonna sing it again and again

Part of me had wished the day had been chewed up by clouds and hail. It would’ve given a better sense of what I was about to face, but with a determined irony, the heat of summer crept across the cracked clay and a yellow sun blazed overhead.

I’d spent the minutes leading up to the reaping leaning back and forth in my chair, trying to reminder the names of the ones we’d lost over the last ten years. One after another, further back, still until I crept further, into the sixties when – I’d stumbled at the sixty-second, blanked on whoever it had been. I closed my eyes tight, as though the harder I scrunched my brows toward my nose I’d summon up something from the depths. But nothing came, nothing before the microphone had crackled and the names echoed out before us.

I opened my eyes and leaned forward, both hands set down at the sides of my seat. I gripped underneath the hot metal of the folding chair.

Morton had turned to the crowd and I could feel my breath catch in my throat. (No.) He moved toward another boy, (please, no), and pointed.

I exhaled through my nose and leaned back into the cushion of my seat with a squeak.

Two more bodies, two fates. More names, more violence. Again and again. Just as the capitol had wanted.

Someone called to me as I stepped around the crowd clearing the square (Any comment on the reaping, Mayor Izar?) but I could only shake my head no. I trailed up the steps through the heavy doors of the justice building.

I met with the buzzing wall of post-reaping traditions: peacekeeper boots clicking down the hall, voices chattering about preparations for the train, and still others calling out reaping night celebrations (my boy turned eighteen yesterday, here’s a card mayor, we wouldn’t mind if you stopped by!). I turned a corner into the break room and flicked a light switch.

I blinked through the fluorescent lights flickering on, now and again humming alive. I pulled open the fridge and found a spoon to scoop out some grounds into a coffeemaker. I placed my hands flap atop the counter as the machine buzzed and the smell of hazelnut wafted out into the hall. I took a deep breath and steadied.

“Okay?” I asked the reflection of the man in the coffee pot. “Okay.”

Someone dropped a set of files on the counter as I stood waiting for the coffee to finish.

All the details of his crime were there. His sentencing. How he’d not repented for killing his own kin. It had been written about, and his father had been one of the wealthier men of the district. I’d half expected him to have been one of the ones to challenge me, considering. We hadn’t been close, but no one seemed particularly sad in the coming months that he wasn’t around.

I struggled to enter the waiting room with a mug of coffee in one hand and a file under the other. I hissed as I spilled on my hand and managed to not-so-deftly close the door behind me.

I took a sip and stared over at him.

“Kareem?" As though I didn't already know, "I’m sorry.”

No one prepares you to be one of the last people to see them leave. And as much as the world had faded into a steady rhythm, I couldn’t ever find the right steps when it came to this. I don’t suppose I ever really wanted to. Death shouldn’t have struck such a consistent note.

“I’m Mayor Izar. I wanted to ask you if there’s anything you wanted done before you were taken to the capitol. I try to help any way I can, tying up loose ends,” I offered.

“Do you have anything you want to say for your family? Or the district?”

elegant

[rook]

I've never seen Vasco Izar up close before, let alone feel the weight of his gaze resting upon me. He is smaller than I imagined, with tired eyes and a five-o-clock shadow dusting his jaw. He could afford finer clothing, I'm sure. But even if he wore the finest suits the Capitol could offer, I doubt anyone in the upper districts would take him seriously. His influence is likely fleeting outside the boundaries of Eleven's farmland hills - Humble beginnings and good intentions don't go far in politics.

The campaign buttons paperclipped to his jacket at least say that he hasn't given up on doing what's right, I suppose, not that that helps me much. Not unless he has some power to veto what's been done.

As he sips at his coffee and moves deeper into the room, his eyes appear to flicker between the past and the inconvenient present. And all the moments in between. He looks rugged, tired and worn-down - probably from the years of boxing up dead bodies to be sent back to respective families. Families that he most-likely knows personally. I can't imagine carrying the weight of that.

His grief is real, it's his, it's not weaponised like the mayors of other Districts who whip up unity from the deaths of their children. Everyone in this town respects him.

He is a good man. And a good man is a rare thing to find in a place like this.

His introduction is brief, and he extends an offer that isn't really relevant to me. Sure, I can see how he's likely said these words a dozen times over, and the duties he has to fulfil require him to put forward concessions for what comes next. It's like arranging your own funeral. Would you like to be buried or cremated?

I see how he sighs. I know he's just trying to help. I know.

So I decide to meet his gaze, and all too sadly I respond with the truth.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Mayor, what I want, you can't give me."

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

v a s c o

It's a sad song
We keep singing even so
It's an old song
It's an old tale from way back when
And we're gonna sing it again and again

"Right.” I took another sip of coffee and looked down into my mug, “That’s true.”

The truth laid bare was always better than unfolding gradually. As raw a deal as he was getting, he deserved that much. And even if I could still feel my heart pounding in my chest just by saying it, I knew it was the right thing to do. I’d get over how I felt about it in however long I had left on this earth.

I stepped across the hardwood and toward the windows looking out onto the square. A few peacekeepers milled about, running out the clock before the end of each of their shifts. I untucked the manila folder from under my arm and twisted the thing in my grip. I tossed it with a thunk into the bin below the desk behind me. I leaned back against it and brought my arms across my chest.

“I thought it might have worked out differently,” I said, “For once. I know it didn’t and that doesn’t help you now. But I wish it did.”

A whole lot of his life would’ve had to have turned out different to not be here. I pushed the thought down until I could crush it between my toes. As much as had been written about him and as little as I knew, he still deserved dignity.

I stared back at him then. A boy just shy or maybe my height, wiry and looking all the years older than he should’ve. But then, a spell in the detention center would do wonders for anyone, let alone the years he’d already endured under a hot sun and working here. Maybe it made him stronger to have had to live through it. Though putting cracks in a wall never seemed to make it any stronger, did it?

“I guess you can blame an old man for trying.” I gave a shrug, “But that’s all you can do.”

elegant

[rook]

His voice trails off after each hollow comfort and empty assurance. His tone is defeated, a man who campaigned for unity was met with defiance. Whilst he projected strength, it was only seen as weakness. Where there is opportunity, there will always be opportunists. Morton Reus was given power, and he knew exactly what to do with it. He wouldn't have been the only one out in that square today to have done the same. To have picked me.

You deserve this.

His words have followed me inside, and I let them dance around my head as I contemplate whether I do indeed deserve my fate. I am a murderer, one who's sentence was cut short due to age and behaviour. In many peoples eyes I have not been dealt justice, until now. A life for a life seems fair.

Maybe I fucked up. Maybe killing father was the wrong call. I wouldn't be in this mess, so would enduring the hardships of his parenthood have been the lesser evil? Why do I even have to deal with evils?

I glance at the white button adorned on the mayor's lapel. The word 'No' is printed in two black bold letters. He really did try to prevent this. Only thing is that he didn't account for people's contempt for one another. Maybe Vasco Izar sees the good in people too much, in his people. Truth is, people are messy, angry things - and given the opportunity they will always put others who they deem beneath them before themselves.

"What did you really expect?" I ask the older man, "You can't blame him, or any of them. I'm easier to mourn."

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

v a s c o

It's a sad song
We keep singing even so
It's an old song
It's an old tale from way back when
And we're gonna sing it again and again

"Do you really think that?” My voice is quiet as I look at him. He’s wilted in the light.

A younger me would’ve been closer to tears at the sight of him. It’s tragedy, isn’t it? Every year we’re torn from our children and forced to watch them sacrificed for a world that few can remember. Wounds that should’ve scarred and healed decades ago. I should’ve burned up the same way Sampson had, all fury and rage against the wheel that turned to crush us into submission.

“I didn’t imagine everyone was going to sacrifice themselves. That’s hard thing to ask of anyone, let alone children. But I wanted the world to know that I’m tired of seeing us pitted against one another like we’re animals. Like one of us isn’t going to stand up to say no.” I set the porcelain mug down on the table behind me and turned to draw closer to Kareem. I wanted him to see the lines on my face up close. The scar from when I’d been blown from the stage. The cut across my hand from the whip I’d taken as a boy. The laughter lines along the edges of my cheeks, too.

“I didn’t bring you mercy this time, and I don’t really believe in justice. Not the way the world is.” I keep quiet, voice projected across the few feet we have between us. “But I’ll always try. Because to give up is like admitting there’s no good left, Kareem. And I don’t believe that’s true, no matter what terrible things someone is said to have done. There’s always a chance.”

They needed someone to speak up. To lead. To show them that we hadn’t abandoned them.

“The next room over, there’s a girl who chose herself. And I don’t know why. But she made that choice, in spite of everything.”

elegant

[rook]

“She what?”

Silence falls heavy over the room, creeping between the floorboards and over the polished oak desk. Its so immense that I can feel the pressure of it in my ears. I can hear my heart beating faster in my throat and the shakiness of my breathing.

Someone said no? I had completely forgotten about the girl who’s name was called. Yes, I remember her and Morton being brought to the stage, but the next thing that happened was the behemoth pointing me out and Peacekeepers dragging me away. I didn’t get a chance to stick around and see what happened with the girl.

She really put herself in? When given the choice to pass it on? Why? Even Vasco is baffled by it, but it gives him a fire that stokes life into his words.

I swallow hard, his eyes piercing into mine. I dare not break his gaze. He’s the only person left who believes in me.

”Who is she?” I enquire.

The seriousness of my tone and the harshness in my face relay a more serious question. I’m beyond redemption, and my days are numbered, but hers might not be. So what I’m really asking is, well. We both know what I’m asking.

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

v a s c o

It's a sad song
We keep singing even so
It's an old song
It's an old tale from way back when
And we're gonna sing it again and again

The wrinkles wrapped up at his temples as he asked about Celeste. Something that, having seen Morton cast off his reaping could’ve easily done the same. Yet she’d been bold enough to volunteer herself. Whether anyone else saw it as an act of defiance I wouldn’t know. But at least she’d said no.

I’ve found comfort in silence after all this time. Some might wield it as a weapon, but I’ve found it nurtures and cures when a moment becomes too much. The quiet drowns whatever else may have ruled, and leaves many wanting it broken. And in between thrashing thoughts you’re forced forward, so long as you’re brave enough to speak. Often unvarnished and true.

I listened to the soft whistle of his breath and tapped my fingers against my palms. Maybe no one else had calculated that a person would choose to accept their fate. There were still those who weren’t so ready to make the easy choice and condemn another to death.

His voice cracks through the stillness and he asks who. He’s filled with a need to know how anyone could make that choice. Especially when it’d been so easy to cast him aside.

“Celeste Brere,” I repeated her name slowly so as not to stumble over the pronunciation. “I don’t know much more than you. I came here first because… well, what you’d been dealt. I plan on seeing her after you.”

I didn’t dream of how they might fare together. I tried not to after some of them had turned on one another in hours.

“But I do know she’ll need all the support she can get when she steps on that train.”

elegant

[rook]

"Celeste Brere." I repeat the name under my breath, whispering it - a secret.

To choose to die is a terrible thing. She had an out, all that Celeste had to do was pick someone, anyone, and could have carried on with her life. She had an out. I shiver in the realisation that, maybe, this is her out.

Maybe she really believed in Vasco's message, felt compelled to accept her calling. Or, what if she simply couldn't stomach sending someone else in her place. It could be anything. I won't know unless she tells me, unless she trusts me with that.

Trust.

Who is ever going to trust a person like me? I'm never going to scrub the red from my palms, atone for what I did. Even in death they will vilify me. In years to come, mine will be the name that people are too disgusted to speak - one omitted from obituaries and wiped from history. A smear of ink on the history books under the number 90.

'You deserve this'

There is a rapping on knuckles on the polished timber doors, and with a sharp creak a white ghost of a solider marches inside.

"Time"

My eyes widen as adrenaline finds me, accelerating my pulse and quickening my breaths. The room suddenly seems a lot smaller. Varnished oak walls are pressing in around me, and Vasco feels out of reach.

Gloved hands press down on my shoulders and drag me to my feet, the chair beneath me giving way in the sudden scramble.

I'm not ready, not for any of this. Not ready to part from Vasco Izar who has shown me a rare kindness. Not ready to leave Eleven, my home. Not ready to go back into the Capitol's custody, to be told where to go and how to hurt.

Not ready to kill again.

"Please, Vasco, my sister. Look after her."

I am wrestled towards the door, but I have enough fight in me to turn back and look the mayor in the eyes in time for his answer.