Push. Pull. [Vasco / Mourn]

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

v a s c o

Yeah, I don't wanna fall asleep, I don't wanna pass away
I been thinking of our future, 'cause I'll never see those days
I don't know why this has happened, but I probably deserve it
I tried to do my best, but you know that I'm not perfect

I’d checked my watch for the fourth time. Six and fifteen. Not a knock yet, but maybe the drizzle of rain had slowed them down. I flipped through the pages of yesterday’s paper and listened to another Saturn City ad come over the radio. I sipped at the espresso in my cup. I couldn’t remember the last time I got to have a piece of toast with butter. Savoring my coffee seemed a luxury I’d forgotten, done away with in exchange for a mix of insta-beans and a disappointing aftertaste.

By now, there should have been at least three peacekeepers at my door. Sometimes knocking slowly, others letting themselves right into the house, still others honking the horn of their jeep until I arrived at the porch to greet them.

When it was nearly seven, I tucked away the newpaper and clear my plates into the sink. I grabbed an umbrella from the bin by the front door and start out from the porch and down the gravel road. I shook it out under the awning of the bus stop and gave a wave to an older woman waiting along with me. Heard it might flood again in the lowlands. (Oh?) Well you know how they are down there. (Underwater.) We laughed and chattered about how years ago it’d be hours between buses, but now they came like clockwork.

I didn’t take credit for the buses running on time, or pouring money into something that made lives easier. The reward was seeing the silver double decker come to a halt in front of us, and the man behind the wheel wave us both aboard.

I watched the farms roll by. The waves of cornfields and curves of sprinklers overhead sprawled across the horizon. A great expanse of life growing up out of the ground we till. Farmers already hard at work to make sure the coming rains didn’t damage their yield. We passed some on horseback heading the other way, ambling along with some cows, slow and steady.

The justice building came into view after an hour and a half, and part of me wondered what kind of scolding I’d be getting for heading out on my own. Except when I’d gotten through the double doors and approached the metal detectors, only one white armored guard was working.

“Is Lt. Harlow in my office?” I asked. I could see my reflection back in the guard’s helmet. For a second we stood facing one another as though they were still processing anything had been said at all.

‘Lt. Harlow has been temporarily reassigned. He has instructed me to tell you that your curfew is still in place but that you have been granted travel access while the eleventh battalion has joined him on his business in district –.’ The radio crackled and echoed through the hall until he cut himself short. ‘… until he returns from business.’

“Uh huh.” I nodded. He handed my wallet back to me, and I inched down the hall. I turned to stare at the guard as though he might decide to finish whatever he had to say.

The office had been cleaned out of all their things. The files they’d carelessly strewn about in attempts to start witch hunts on various districters, the constant stack of Styrofoam cups scattered about, and always an extra pair of boots lying next to the couch against the wall for no reason. Gone.

He was gone.

Even if it was only a temporary reprieve (since what could possibly keep him from returning on his investigation into my ‘traitorous activities’?), I couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

I threw myself back into my old chair behind the desk and put my feet up. I put my hands behind my head and stretched.

And as the drops of rain slid down the windowpane beside me, I knew that I didn’t have time to waste.

As no one else had declared in eleven, it meant I had a chance to reach out to all those who’d be running in other districts. Even if the phones were bugged, I didn’t have the monster breathing over my shoulder with his hand on the holster of his gun.

But who to call first?

I’d heard the whispers about who intended to run. One and two were out, at least for now – somehow it didn’t seem as though they’d have been receptive. Who was running in three? And four felt a longshot. I started dialing for six but kept getting a busy signal. I set down the phone and tapped my fingers against the wood of the desk.

“Hello… I’m looking to speak with Mr. Adroxis, please. It’s Mayor Vasco Izar.” I spoke slowly into the phone. I found people were more receptive when they didn’t feel as though they were getting run over by your words. Especially if the call had come from the deepest recesses of my brain.

No that it should’ve been so surprising – their name held weight across districts. I could still remember the stories about the old man who’d emerged a victor before I’d been born. The work he’d done for his district. The pride he’d had in nine. And how the family had been reminded to pay a price. Though I suppose that was so many of our stories, now.

Mourn Adroxis had backed Shiv the last election, and it could not hurt to make sure both knew what my intentions were, come win or lose.

“I hope you don’t mind me calling. I've wanted to talk to you... about you, and your family. And nine.”

elegant

[gamemaker kelsier]

m o u r n .

"no time
limit to
grief."

The sun rises, fingers slow over the buildings in Nine, gripping the edges of the old brick for purchase and pulling itself up and over the factory stacks.

Mourn watches from his desk on the second floor of the factory, feet resting on the edge of the windowsill and a cup of coffee in his hand. There are clues as to the contents of his night scattered around the room. An old box used for files sits open beside the desk, filled to the brim with memories of his children's youth. Paper ties scribbled with crayon from father's day past, old art projects they'd given him and some photos lie across the surface of the old desk. Diagrams of some of Nowles' first designs rest in his lap, slightly faded from time.

She died yesterday afternoon.

He runs his thumb over old pencil marks and smiles a little to himself. This time in the grieving process has always been confusing for him. Mourn is trapped in the moment where he knows she is dead but he's unable to fully grasp it.

People begin to trickle into the courtyard, the work day is starting soon. The factory has a surplus of workers, more than they really need to be running but Mourn is the first since Babe to not mind the financial loss. Where his own father ran the place like a miser, Mourn's always understood the reason why Babe kept the place running in the first place.

Shelter, a community, a home.

He stands and gazes down into the yard, a hand raising in acknowledgment every now and then as his employees wave up at him. One thing the ammunitions factory has always offered is security. To those that are loyal to the Adroxis family, they never have to worry about their safety again.

The underbelly of the business has always kept that silent promise.

He can't help but wonder if it's enough. For a long time now, he's spent his focus on taking territory from other gangs, of widening their scope of safety to reach down as far as Nine's slums. The blocks around the factory, the homes and the businesses all fall under Adroxis protection.

Mourn doesn't rule with a cruel fist, a gun has always sat in the holsters on his chest but they rarely actually get use. Babe's philosophy had always been to strike a deal first and only shoot when necessary. Mourn's father had believed the opposite, he'd raised Mourn's older brother Vern to be ruthless while Mourn had been born gentle and molded to be the second-born son, business savvy and charming.

Vern's death had put him in a position that he'd never truly wanted.

The sun finishes rising, it rests now against the back wall of the factory, settled in for a long day of work. The night is gone, the unsavoury tasks paused for the daylight. The world has begun to make noise again as the factory floor finishes filling and people get to their tasks. Mourn sighs softly and turns back to his desk to clear a space to work in.

He lifts the phone on the first ring, cradles it against his cheek and his shoulder as he cleans.

"You've got him," Mourn says. It isn't uncommon for officials from other districts to call him, District Two in particular receives a lot of their product. Mourn's never spoken to the mayor from eleven however, not in all his years of office. A man focused on peace should want nothing to do with the owner of a factory that builds killing tools.

"What can I do for you, Mayor Vasco?"

He's heard his speeches before, televised through all of Panem. The man has a natural charm to him that makes him seem warm but Mourn has never been so easily fooled. Even as the mayor states his intentions, Mourn knows that this call could be about anything.

"Are the history books in Eleven lacking? The Adroxis line is detailed well enough in the third edition of Panem's official history." he says, tone mild but carrying a warning note. He isn't ready to talk about Nowles, not with a complete stranger.

Mourn pauses, understanding dawning slower than usual thanks to his sleepless night and the grief that weighs him down.

"If you want to talk about Nine, you've got the wrong person. You should be speaking to Mayor Irvine."