what happens when it's all gone? {kareem&nowles}

[rook]

I am twelve. I'm in father's study. These walls have seen too much conflict. Greed, anger, and lust. I am internally afraid of the life he leads. He draws me close, by the fire, beckons me to sit at his side. It's the only place I've ever aspired to be. He tells me that honest men are idiots, and that they deserved to be cheated. This is his first lesson.


It's not until I am eighteen that I find myself mumbling those same words - like a reflex, some half-remembered sentence. I'm watching the reaped and the selected train side-by-side in the training center, and the study bleeds back into the forefront of my memory. I see the shadows of his face dancing in the glow of the fireplace, I hear the coarseness of his voice.

He often tormented me with his lengthy advice, never tiring of his own opinions, keen to stamp his beliefs on me even at that age. I tried never to to take any of them seriously. I only nodded and went along with it all because I feared what would happen if I didn't.

We've been here for two days, and I've not spoken to a single Tribute. My mentors have advised that I try and form an alliance with like-minded individuals, people I can trust in to survive. Only no one wants to trust a murderer. No one wants to even speak to one. Dirty looks and ignored smiles are aplenty.

It's funny. By the end of the month, half of them will be just like me - hands drenched in blood.

The distorted clanging of metal echoes repeatedly off the high walls. Faraway bodies dance on balance beams with poles in their hands. A rehearsed performance. There is clapping now as one has bested another at their harmless game, and then they reset to repeat the show.

Career trained killers with not a kill to their names. They often claim to thirst for violence, but have any of them had to get their hands dirty at all I wonder? It's not nice, taking another's life. It's not an enjoyable experience, no matter how much you hate the person.

My hand crawls like a spider over the array of weapons on display. None of them feel right - most too heavy or ridiculous. How is any of this practical? A knife best suits me, but I don't think I can pick one up again. I think it would bring back too much that I'm maybe not ready for.

What am I even doing? I'm stood lingering past my time in this world - a lost spectre waiting for judgement. What's the point? What am I going to do with what time I have left? Atone? No. Seek forgiveness? I am way beyond that.

So, what do I want?


I am fourteen. Father is on his third business partner. All of the others have all been arrested for embezzlement. I suspect only he knows the truth.

We are walking down the old garden steps - the ancient stone is infected with ivy and weeds, sprawling and intertwining as they fight for ownership of the ruined craftsmanship. Beyond them is a once impressive four story chateau, with great voussoirs propped up by hand-crafted granite pillars. A detailed cornice tells a story I never cared for, whilst a lone half-moon window frowns at the centre of the pediment.

The rain stopped about fourteen minutes ago. Beyond me the architrave of the great house is weeping in the aftermath of the downpour, some fifty feet high.

An indistinguishable origami animal lies tortured between my fingers, it’s shape contorted and distressed as I pull at its limbs, half-opening the paper to glance at the scratchings of ink imprisoned within. The words are barely legible, black icicles stained into the parchment, damp and blotty from the rain. The malformed letters are constantly interrupted by the harsh folds and creases that run like scars from edge to edge.

I read the note and look back at my father, who nods in confirmation. She's gone, and she's not coming back. Women are bastards. This is his second lesson.


I am eighteen when I see a young girl close to me and I hear his words in my head once more, and in that moment I know what it is that I want.

To know that he was wrong.

[tick 12a / calla]

N O W L E S

► ► ►

If this hippie plants trainer doesn't shut the fuck up about kale I think I'm gonna lose it.

Does dismemberment equal disqualification?

All I asked was if this blueberry would give someone the shits, because yeah, that'd be a funny trick to pull, and this tree-hugger over here took it and ran. I get up and leave halfway through a tirade about the difference between poison ivy and poison oak and they don't even notice.

Best education in all of Panem, huh? I've got more useful knowledge in my pinky finger than these losers have in their entire body. That's street smarts, baby. I beat Caesar Flickerman wouldn't last ten minutes back home.

I guess I could go back to the shooting range. I spent all day there yesterday, firing bullseye after bullseye, trying to make sure the careers all saw my mad skills. But it's not like I'm bragging, okay? I'm just scouting. Recruiting!

That was fun. Everything else here kinda sucks though.

But then I spin right around and hit the jackpot. The guy from 11's standing over yonder like a giant statue, just waiting to be poked at. And call me basic - I'm intrigued. 11's supposed to be some kind of peaceful magical poor person place, but everything I've heard about this dude says otherwise.

One of the rumours said he made a spandex superhero costume and went around being District 11's vigilant, except instead of detaining people, he just killed them. Someone else said that he wanted to run for president, but so did his brother, so he had to wipe him out first. I heard one of the trainers mention that it was actually his aunt, who was set to inherit some kind of fortune, and this guy poisoned her to get the dough.

Pulchra said he's one of Panem's most prolific serial killers and his reaping was just one giant conspiracy since the DC couldn't hold him anymore.

I dunno, I don't think that one's quite true. Avriel made us watch all the reapings and I didn't really get serial killer vibes from this one. But maybe a proposed serial killer would be a good person to have on your side? Unless that's what his cousin said right before the hatchet came down.

I sidle up to him anyways. Shit's getting boring and now my sight's locked and loaded.

"Heard you killed your uncle."

I've got an uncle and he left me here to die.

"That's pretty hardcore."

[rook]

Rumours move like smoke through a keyhole, twisting shape and form each time, bending to fit whatever narrative is set. The Adroxis girl marches up to me with vibrant confidence and pluck. Her words are quick, to the point, no pleasantries. She wants to know more, spare the introductions. Her nonchalant expression could range anywhere between mildly curious and completely disinterested, it's difficult to see at all through her bravado.

I wonder how the truth got so warped. I wonder how the media are painting me now. I expect however the hell they want to. No one is going to discredit their claims, the more shame they can pile on me the better.

"I killed my Dad - 'Don't have an uncle." I explain, my voice firm.

I should keep the details to myself, it's my burden to bare. I'm used to this sort of thing, people asking about what I did - quite common in the detention center - but that doesn't mean I should be happy about being used to it. It's always the same questions, and I'm an answering machine on tape.

The cool touch of air conditioning on my skin sends goosebumps all up my arms as I glance around at the huge expanse of the training center. The stations, the instructors, the dummies, and between all of them the two-dozen tributes moving like ants from point to point. Enclosing the entirety of it are the great pale walls that arch upwards, rippled in columns as if we are inside the ribcage of an ancient beast.

It is odd to me that Nowles finds it *hardcore*. She must be someone who revels in violence, celebrates it even. But I suppose that's not too surprising given her heritage. All that Victor money filtering down over the last hundred years - what does that leave? A bored kid with an appetite for violence, or something more?

"What of yourself? I hear you Adroxis' make guns. Ever had to use one?" My tone lightens, maybe for the first time in weeks.

Time to find out if I'm the only killer in the building.

[tick 12a / calla]

N O W L E S

► ► ►

"I killed my Dad." The maybe-serial-killer says.

I squint at him.

"Huh." Looks like I owe Raf half of my lunch. "'Guess that's cool too."

Scratch serial-killer off the list, then. Wealthy heir is still a maybe.

Now I'm wondering what it would be like to kill my dad, y'know? The thing is, when you're Crazy Old Sal's kid, then everyone in Nine knows you're Crazy Old Sal's kid. When he let mom die and let our side of the business fall apart, that kinda overshadowed the whole Adroxis thing.

Dad went off the deep end for a while, damn near everybody heard about it, and instead of cowering when I walked past him at school, Ricky Turin asked me if I was crazy too, right in front of everyone, so I punched the coward right in the nose and I've still got a little scar on my knuckle from it.

Dad was proud that I got in a fight but I never told him he was the reason it started. But that's just how it is. Uncle Mourn got all the nerves, Uncle Buck got all the stupid, and my old man got all the co-dependancy issues.

The family's a shit show.

Don't tell Babe.

I don't think I could ever murder my dad though. Like, I know the reverse is kinda tradition for Night and Eve, but I dunno what's going on there. I don't ask. And it's not even because I hate my dad? Because I don't. I just can't look at him sometimes. As long as he keeps paying my allowance we're fine, but I know that he knows that I know that a gang skirmish doesn't end with just one dead body.

Anyways.

"I hear you Adroxis' make guns." Duh. "Ever had to use one?"

"You kiddin'?"

I point a pair of finger guns up to the ceiling, energy up to ten, bang, bang, bang!

"I'm the best shot in the whole family."

And it's not an exaggeration, okay? Even if it was, this guy'd never know. I'm better than my brother and that's all that matters.

I put the guns down and hold a hand out.

"I'm Nowles. 'Hope your dad deserved whatever you did to him."

[rook]

"I'm the best shot in the whole family."

That's not what I meant by *use one*, but I guess she's answered my question there.

Finger-guns sheathed, she extends her hand to shake, introducing herself. There's no hesitation as I grip her palm in mine and shake it firmly.

"Kareem Hasim."

No limp handshakes was somewhere between father's ninth and seventeenth lessons. I've forgotten exactly the story behind that one, but it involved him squeezing my palm so hard that I thought all the bones in my hand would break.

My eyes were watering, I remember that much.

Gods, I just can't escape that old man, can I? Even when dead he's still finding ways to gaslight me. Half my thoughts aren't even my own. I need to find a way to somehow shake his ghost loose from my bones, even if for just the next ten minutes.

Nowles seems like just the sort of person that I can lose myself in. She's *strange* for sure, but she's new. I need new. When was the last time I enjoyed someone else's company, got lost in an actual conversation without feeling attacked or interrogated? I laid my cards on the table, and I'm thankful that she isn't judging me for it - let's go move on from there.

"And, yes, he absolutely did." I remark with surprising fulfilment in my voice.

The plucky girl from Nine absolutely radiates confidence, whereas I'm flat-footed, and out of practice when it comes to socialising. I'm so used to four walls and a locked door that I've forgotten how to be anything other than abrasive.

Luckily for me she's got enough energy for the both of us.

"Some people just don't deserve to live," I continue.

"Do you agree?"

Cheerful. I'm not looking for validation, just an answer. Her answer.

[tick 12a / calla]

N O W L E S

► ► ►

Kareem's got a handshake that reminds me a lot of Aunt Rimi. It's all no nonsense. Straight to the point. Even his palm is serious, like it's about to start talking about math, but he doesn't have the same calluses that Aunt Rimi does.

I think about that wealthy heir rumour again.

But Kareem says his dad deserved to die, so - "Banger."

I don't really care what people get up to on their own time, y'know? People die every day, and not just in Nine. I smile and it's sharp, shrugging a shoulder like we're just talking about the weather.

"Some people die when they shouldn't. Some people live when they shouldn't."

Poetic right? I read it on the back of one of Kade's comics.

I think my mom was somewhere in the middle though. I guess being in any kind of gang messes with your moral compass - everyone's even when everyone's a piece of shit. There's probably an endless line of people that want my family wiped out, from both sides, thanks to that stupid rebellion.

Jack Price was just the next lucky one to get her shot in.

"I think it's different when you're close to them."

That's why dad's still alive right? Everyone blames him for Rune Adroxis' death, but he's still Uncle Mourn's brother. He still gets invited to every family dinner. Uncle Vern died when dad was just thirteen and he doesn't talk about it, but I know he thinks about it. People die all the time. So what if we're cursed - we're rulers.

I wonder if I'd be like them if that ever happened to Kade. But I don't think so. I think I'd still be me.

Being sentimental's kinda like being a sap. It makes the ladies go wild, but everyone else thinks it's just stupid.

"Is that why you got picked then? Some guy thought you didn't deserve to live?"

[rook]

A gunsmith and a murderer loom beneath pale
blinking lights, exchanging theories on death, ethics, and mortality, here in their laminate-floored purgatory.

Nowles tries to argue the cruel injustices of life. Says it's all down to change, a series of random happenings. Circumstance doesn't matter - death doesn't care. It'll come for whoever it wants, and it doesn't have a preference for if you're a good or a bad person.

I agree with her statement, it's why I took that knife to my father as he stood there in the quiet tranquillity of our garden and put him down for good.

Because life wouldn't do it for me.

I do wonder if in that moment was I really the one in control, or if I was losing it entirely? I saw a fire in his eyes, the same flames that flickered when he took her favourite books and burned them whilst she watched. Burn the fairytale, Aiza, you need to make your own happily ever after.

Yeah? Well how's a knife in the chest for a happy ending, you old, sad fuck?

Control's an illusion. We're emotional creatures, and sometimes we're driven by things that stride beyond logic. I didn't consider consequence, I didn't care what would happen to me after. I let them take me, I let them hurt me. I deserved it, didn't I - for betraying life and taking a man before his natural time?

And now my own District have played god too. They know what it's like to choose the moment another dies, out of spite, out of vengeance. It's all a cycle.

Blood spills blood spills blood.

Oh well.

"Pretty much. Though, he wouldn't have been the only one." I theorise, the jeers from the crowd still fresh in my memory.

I pause, Morton's face is there, his finger extending to single me out, passing judgement. Look to the murderer, the criminal, he should be the one to die. How's that any different? How is it any fucking different?

When I decide that my father should die, it's murder. When my District decides that I should die, it's sport.

"They're all hypocrites. The freak who picked me? Hypocrite. That girl who picked you? Hypocrite."

So much anger all of a sudden. I guess that's what happen when your entire District - the place you called home for so long - throws you to the wolves. Says they don't want you. Says you should die. Just die. You're better off dead.

And if I won? They'd celebrate me - that's the farce of it all. I'd be a hero, when they sent me to die.

"If you get out. If you win - will you go after her? That girl?"