blackout | mayor novak snapshots

[MATTIO]

three months before the 95th Elections...

n o v a k . a d r i á n

There is a laser as red as a bull pointed through your window. You could swear it. It flickers through the window screen, aiming for your head. You fortify yourself under layers of blankets, eyes flinching at the thought of sleep for the rest of the night.

How silly you look hiding under the sheets like there's a monster peering through your closet. These monsters are of your own making. In the closet: Lillia, blackmailing you for over sex from twelve years ago. Under your bed, Maverick "Mickey" Martens, angry that all the drugs he trafficked up in your hands. Three-quarters went to the district, you tell yourself, but the last quarter's for Elion profit. Waiting outside the door is the Capitol, prepared to betray you. Looking the other way for one another only goes so far when the Capitol has eyes everywhere.

You pull the pillows from the other side of the bed and embrace them. "Enzo…" you whisper into them as if he's there. He left you two days, nineteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes ago by last glance at your clock. Off to party on a District Four coastal yacht. You've laid claim over him for a long time now. He's like air; you breathe him in once and every atom you're built upon lights up with serotonin. Enzo is the only reason you breathe at all nowadays. He's a secret to everyone but you, entering and exiting your room from the bunker and tunnels.

Now that he's gone, even just for a short while, you're lonely. He's been the one thing you can tangibly protect. Your uncle, your friends, your empire, you control them through the mundanities. Politicking, signing laws, cutting ribbons, and playing negotiator with all the ulterior motives etched underneath your eyelids. Enzo occupies your eyes when he's around, as well as your hands and your heart. In his absence, your eyes wander and your hands pick and pull at your skin and clothes.

Paranoia strikes your heart. A sleepless night where nothing happens. You look out the window in the morning, just to be sure of what you saw. It's more feint in the morning, but red brakelights shine a bit too bright. Maybe that's what it was: a break light, not a sniper rifle.

You check your desk as well to make sure nothing's been tampered with or stolen. Even your nightstand. Everywhere. Your hand slides underneath the table. Strapped underneath is your handgun, ready and available for emergencies. There are a few hidden around the house with only a select few of Elion's crew knowing their locations. Just in case your fears become reality.

They'll come for you eventually. You don't know who, or when, or where. But the unease that prickles your spine comes from thirty years of complex intuition. And with the election on the horizon, your guard is higher than ever.

elegant

[MATTIO]

n o v a k . a d r i á n

Today's forecast called for storms, but the skies transition from clouds, white and pure enough to be painted on, to an accosting grey. You wouldn't blame anyone for rescheduling their appointments for today. You thumb through the schedule of meetings, stacked up through grey sticky notes on your mirror.

Patryk Sho, your liaison from the Capitol, is due for breakfast in twenty minutes, but his strict and punctual nature would've had one of your aids knocking on the door to announce he's already here. You have brunch with the district's orphanage directors in a few hours to discuss their consolidation and resource management. Underlined is a note that you should seat The Pound's directress beside you, to help Enzo. Given how the kids get during storms, you're not sure if all of them will show up. And last up on your afternoon agenda is, as your own notes put it, Ansgar Todd Cult's Big Three meeting. You only know the leader really, Tanner. All of them seem to be on the fringe of society, and it's your job to keep them there. A couple of your guys went out to the prairie that the cult wants to buy out, and as requested, both came back in one piece and never said a word about religion (you were amused, however, by their Ansgar Toad Dick jokes.) But they live in the outskirts and travel by horse. You'd be shocked if any of your meetings actually came through as planned.

No breakfast meeting, no brunch meeting, no lunch meeting. You lean your forehead against the mirror as your stomach growls. You never would have guessed five years ago how much fine dining goes into being a politician.

Locked inside under the barrage of rain, you feel trapped. There's nothing to do in the mayor's house. Elio and the secretaries keep you busy, but unexpected events take their toll and your boredom is the price. And the one thing they insist is no unapproved activities. Whether they are above or under the table, Elio knows where he is. Always. In the family business, everyone has a confidant who knows these things in case something happens. Elio is yours. By nature of their jobs, you are Yury's and Damaris's. Elio had a nephew before you who broke this rule, compromising his safety and the empire in the process.

You pull the telephone off its hook and begin to dial Enzo's personal number. He's far away on a yacht doing god-knows-what with god-knows-who, but on the off chance he's not busy, you'd love to hear his Ten accent cut like butter into your ears.

It rings. You could tell him about how shitty it feels not to be around him.

It rings. You think of the storm's growls and how it's some kind of poetic metaphor for how you're starving for his touch.

It rings. Oh, the things you'd say to him through this white piece of plastic. Unspeakable things.

The telephone stops ringing and you hurriedly push it back into place. "Fucking prick." Uncle Elio is your business confidant, but where is he in times when you feel like this? You piece together an outfit from your dresser. It's casual, almost loungewear as it becomes clearer and clearer from the visibility outside that no one, not even your neighbor down the street, would want to brave this storm.

After the night of worry you had, the circles under your eyes come as no surprise. You pull a stick of concealer from beneath your sock drawer. You'd gotten them for your Aunt Drea as a gift last year but secretly kept a stick for yourself. For times like this. When you feel weak, when you can't let anyone notice. As for your hair, no amount of energy after tossing and turning could fix it. You pull a black cap over your head and call it a day.

As you step out into the dining room for breakfast, all eyes seem to be on you. No liaison, no directors, no religious freaks. Just family and business.

"Rough night, Adrián?"

elegant

[MATTIO]

n o v a k . a d r i á n

Five seconds in the room and you already feel cornered. You immediately turn your attention to the half-empty brew of coffee at the center of the table. A gaze of eyes moves with you. Could it be any more obvious that your friends and family were talking about you when you entered? Your guard stiffens as you pour the coffee, leaving it black in the mug.

"Rough night? I had a great night, thank you very much." Even you can't tell if your tone is that of deception or denial. It's none of their business either way. You're thirty fucking years old, confrontation like this is childish, even for Uncle Elio's patronizing way of parenting and leadership.

Uncle Elio leans in, his knuckles knocking against the wooden surface. "I think the rustling in your bed, the groaning, and the occasional scream would beg to differ. You havin' nightmares, son?" You were clearly uncomfortable last night, but screaming? You can't remember that part.

Ruslan, Elio's childhood best friend and partner in crime nowadays, rests his hand on the blade of your shoulder. "Adrian, when you were a boy, even before you started livin' with Elio, I used to babysit you." When distant memories would go on drug runs for Elio, Ruslan would look after you like a hawk. Knowing what would happen in the years to follow, you feel as though it was more out of intent and strategy than goodwill. You try to shoot him down."Please don't try and psychoanalyze me with stuff from twenty years ago. You know I don't believe in that shit, Rus."

"I'm not! I'm just sayin' that you're doin' a helluva lot nowadays. We don't want you spreadin' yourself too thin, y'know?"

"So what, you all decided to throw a fucking intervention at my dining room table?"

A few people try to reason with you, but it's Elio's authoritative voice that quiets them and forces you to listen. "You're distracting yourself with the shit that doesn't matter. You wanted to help the empire by being mayor. You started off good with the money, the drugs, and the guns, but now you're just pokin' your nose into that orphanage? You knew that was supposed to become a gentleman's club for our guys. And all this entertaining those revivalist creeps, what's that about? We have great plans for Ten, and you're hurtin' us."

He's right, you know. You ran for mayor to further Elio's plans. You started with a step forward but now you're only taking steps back. Enzo's made a soft spot in your heart, a weakness that's been exploited ever since you met him.

"When was the last time you took a break? Went on a date? Got laid?"

"Oh, so you're a matchmaker now?" You roll your eyes, dropping your half-drank coffee onto the table. It splashes over the white cloth.

Elio tries to calm you down. "Of course not. Adrian, we all know you're not a family-style man. We know some very discrete women. Any time, any place, any sort of interest-"

Ruslan pipes in assuredly, "It doesn't need to be a girl eith-" but Elio gives him a stern look before he can finish the thought.

"Y'know what? You were right. I am having nightmares. This. This right here," you draw a circle through the air with splayed fingers at Ruslan and Elio. "Nightmare." It irks you, slightly, that they still associate so much of you with the way you were as a teenager, cruising around for fun. Whoever. Whenever. Wherever. Enzo's consumed your mind recently, and for better or worse, he's your biggest secret.

"Just stay focused, son. You're one of us, not some hero. Don't worry about getting your hands dirty. There's a dozen people who can clean it off for you in a matter of seconds."

"I know. My head is in the game. You just gotta trust me. That's how politicking works. Let them think we're the good guys now so they'll look the other way later." They wouldn't get away with nearly as much as they do without you looking the other way. It's a selfless job, really. "And if Calvin O'Keefe came to our dinner party last week, he woulda known that we were planning to buy a hairdresser's store for his fucking gentlemen's club. Pile'a paperwork to make it out to be a district storage unit on my desk. You people think I'm just blindly sayin' yes to everything you want without communicating. Wrong." People like Calvin O'Keefe and Ulrich Benjamin take your role for granted. After all you've done for Elio's empire, they still don't believe you're smart enough to figure it out.

A bolt of lightning sparks from behind the window curtain, breaking the conversation. Your Aunt Drea is the one to resolve the conversation. "Well, we'll tell him to come over and discuss it with you tomorrow. Would that satisfy everyone?" The oversaturated masculinity and inflamed testosterone in the room agree with nods and stoicism. That's fine with you.

With that conversation out of the way, you take a cinnamon raisin bagel from the dish and spread cream cheese across either side. Then, you move back to your room, knowing that staying here will only lead to more tension between you, your uncle, and all the others who 'were just trying to help' you.

Instead, they've left you feeling more pissed off, isolated, and paranoid than you were last night.

elegant

[MATTIO]

n o v a k . a d r i á n

An overwhelm sears above your brow as you eat breakfast in bed. You are the fucking mayor, goddamnit! Why do you let him get under your skin like this, picking apart cells and rewriting them with his own DNA? You've done all this for them, aiding them or looking the other way whenever shipments of drugs from Six or guns from Nine come in.

And shit, you want it for them. After years of sitting beside Elio at meetings, the one thing he desired above all else could not be clearer: power without consequences. And you offer it to him by becoming the most influential resident of the district. But he obsesses over every inch of power he doesn't have in his own hands. That's who you get it from if it wasn't clear. The need to control, the need to know. Once you began to live with him as a boy, Uncle Elio told you that there were two people you could ever fully trust to get the job done. First: yourself. And second: him.

You want to believe him. All the other advice he's given has gotten you to this point. It irks you, though, that he tapped your shoulder as a boy to be the face of his empire's future. Trust yourself, trust him. Not reciprocal, judging by this morning's "intervention." You tear each piece of the bagel like its meat from a bone, silently brooding. You're not a doting boy looking for advice on how life works anymore. Now with thirty years of life and five years as an elected– not self-crowned– official, Elio's advice on how to do your job means nothing to you now.

The red in your face fades over time. Feuds come and go in this house, no matter how intense they may be. Unspoken forgiveness often comes when the hot-headedness cools. It'll be fine the next day when one of you needs something from the other. Mutually assured destruction is the number one killer of empires, especially those barely skating by on cracked ice. You wonder if today's argument will be any different. Usually, there's something else to focus on in the meantime. Celebrating Yury's successful cellar invasion. Making a public appearance. Occupying yourself with your boy. What is there to do now, alone in your room?

First, you clean. Slipping back and forth from the storage room, you meticulously organize the bedroom. Loose papers and invoices are filed away into alphabetized folders. Any dust and fringe is swept up and thrown away. Every surface is wiped down and spotless. It'll be a nice treat for Lorenzo the next time he crawls through your closet hatch. The peace of playing the stay-at-home husband, just for half an hour, makes you smile. "I thought I'd clean up the place while you were away, dear," you whisper for gratification as if he was in the room. "Just so we can make a mess of it again."

The foreplay ends with you lying in bed. Your imagination runs wild today, more than usual. You're no trophy husband. Not in roleplay, not in bed, and certainly not in real life. When it comes to Enzo, you love his body and the game you're both playing, two kings caught in a stalemate. But there's no way you love him. It's hard for you to love. Love is a trust with its guard down dealing with butterflies. You're not willing to be that weak. Hell, you don't care enough to meet your daughter, your own flesh and blood, let alone love her. How can you love a goofy boy like Enzo for anything more than what he offers you?

You wait out the storm in your room. Hours of anticipating how you'll respond the next time Elio and Ruslan try to talk to you that way. Scenarios play in your head. Next time something like this happens, you refuse to be caught off guard. You'll tell them that you know what needs to be done as mayor. You have your part under control: you'll stick to your job and they should stick to theirs.

And as for your personal life…

Flashes of Enzo tell you what you want more than anything else after the toll today's had on your mind.

It's dark when the storm outside subsides for good, going from torrential downpour to a light drizzle. You walk out of your room dressed from head to toe in black and dark grey, the signature color of your nightlife.

"Going out?" Ruslan questions you as you pass his office, not even looking up from the report he's reading.

"Business." You hear a slight scoff from his room, both of you knowing you're caught in a lie but neither caring.

"Have fun!" There's a brief pause as he pulls open his desk drawer and throws something in your direction. "And be safe."

You open the blank box he tossed in your direction, pulling some of its contents out and slipping it into your pockets before heading out the door.

You would've rolled your eyes and called him embarrassing if you hadn't forgotten about these entirely.

elegant

[MATTIO]

n o v a k . a d r i á n

Cruising has become somewhat of a challenge for you over the past five years. It's different now that, aside from victors and the year's pageant queen or king, you're the most recognizable face out there. Finding a quick partner isn't possible anymore. Your way of finding a one-night stand has shifted from anonymity to a need for discretion. The leverage your ex-girlfriend has exercised over you has only shown that people will do anything to survive. District Ten isn't rich, no matter how much you and your predecessors have tried to make that not the case. You carry one-fifty in your wallet, a transaction you'd never require but always offer after the fact.

It's been nearly a year since you started seeing Lorenzo exclusively, and you hadn't gone out for a few months before that, either. Still, you recognize the streets where prospective partners may be. The queer community in District Ten is by no means hidden. Everyone loves their cowboy fantasies, yourself included. Your platform on it, like most things regarding social and moral values in the district, is that it's none of your business. Uncle Elio advocates that you turn into some sort of prude to get the support of the conservative men of the district, but how much of a hypocrite would you be if you did? This is one of your favorite pastimes, after all.

You walk through the alleyways out of personal preference, poking your head out into each main street corner to test your options. Most times, there's no one of note, people clearly not interested in your sort of activities. Others have older men occasionally pace around, fifty or more years of suppressed sexuality on display with their dropped lips and wrinkles. But eventually, you manage to find a man. His tawny beige skin is wrapped up in a loose flannel and blue jeans. The smirk on his lips reminds you of Enzo. The thought of how much you miss him comes flooding back in your mind. Hiding him underneath your covers, helping him get out through the panic tunnels, erasing that smile of his with a night of love.

You miss him, but you miss yourself with him more.

The silver rings on your hand startle the man as you rest them on the side of his arm, played off as if you bumped into him by accident. You tip the front of your baseball cap. "Howdy," you whisper half an octave lower than your usual tone. This is the most awkward part: the yes or the no, whether or not you were right to assume he was looking. The man bumps his elbow into your stomach playfully.

And the rest, as they say, is history that only the tavern's furthest bathroom will ever know. You get the sense that this guy doesn't even know who you are, but you take a fifty from your wallet and slide it into the pocket of his unbuttoned flannel. He questions it, plucking it out. "No, you can take it." You kiss his chest. "Just because you're damn handsome. I gotta scamper off, though." Scamper? Seriously? Late nights with your boyfriend wrapped around your arm has made your language a bit too cute. The man spins your ring and asks you if you have a wife you need to get back to. Three little tsks tell him that you're not revealing any secrets. "Look at you, wanting to be a little homewrecker."

You leave the tavern and return to the shadows, hood up over your hat as you traverse through the alleyways. Eight out of ten, you rank him in your head. Maybe it's the man, maybe it's the environment. But a perfect score only seems to happen in your bed, perhaps because home is the only place you feel safe enough to let your guard down.

The gates to the mayor's house are loud and noisy. Given that it's the middle of the night, you hop over the backyard fence. Doing this at twenty-five, sure, but thirty? The ache upon landing gives you a momentary limp as you creep to the back door. Delicate with the screen door, you slide it open just enough to squeeze through.

You feel the walls of your home, turning corners and dodging tables or plants as you head to the bedroom. It comes to your attention through the gap beneath your door that the light in your bedroom is on.

One strict rule you've given to anyone who steps foot in your house: The Mayor's Bedroom is off limits. You barge through the door, tongue ready to chastise whoever broke your rule.

"HEY! What the fuck are you–"

elegant

[MATTIO]

? ? ?

Get what you need, don't waste time, and get the fuck out. Those were the instructions that they were given. A window in the kitchen stayed open, even through the cooler months, as it was always hot in there otherwise. They would climb in there to avoid the cameras marked at the front and back entrances of the mayor's house. Take a left. Walk past the staircase. Don't wake the old guy who keeps his door open. They found the path easier than how it was explained the morning before. One with the shadows of a house in its nighttime slumber, they slipped past the archways and offices to make it to Mayor Novak's bedroom. They could tell it was his by the intricate designs etched into the door frame.

Gloves strapped on, they opened the door. Even with the lights on, the texture of the room felt dark. Minimalist, expensive, and organized. Was this what people like Novak spent their government paychecks on? They scoffed, shutting the door behind themselves. It didn't matter to them what a prestigious prick with an obviously fake accent was doing with the money he "earned." "Just an observation. Nosiness comes with this job," their head bobbled with amusement.

What was their objective, again? Ah, yes: to dig up dirt on Mr. Mayor himself. They're in the know enough to have realized that the mayor did not surround himself with do-gooders and good samaritans. Was he an underground criminal? They wouldn't guess so, but the impression they've gotten over the past five years was that he was a bad boy in high school who got nowhere in life, so he forced his way into becoming mayor instead. Apparently, according to the details they'd been provided, it goes much deeper than that. They turned straight toward the office desk and began opening drawers, ripping through pouches and checkbooks, and reading stray notes.

A letter about protecting an orphanage? Aww. How sweet.

A notepad where every page was scribbled out? They held the white pages up to the light, trying to make out what the initial text was underneath the disastrous lines. It's not helpful. They weren't an expert in reading horrible handwriting.

And what are these? They picked up a paperclipped assortment of Polaroid photographs, letters, and bank notes hidden away under a stack of notebooks in the bottom drawer. Half-written checks addressed to a woman named Lillia, 'For Kara.' The letters seem to match: half of them are written by whoever "Lillia" is, and half seem to be written, but never sent, letters from Mr. Mayor himself. It was therapeutic to do such a thing, as one could say what they felt without any consequences. "Keep all this away from me," one read, "and you'll continue to get your money, you fucking leech." Damn. And last, because they knew it would be the most satisfying: the photographs. They were pictures of a young girl, probably not much older than Reaping age, if that old at all. They flipped to the backside of the Polaroid, and that was where Novak gave it all away: Kara.

The chair rolled back toward the wall as they sat down to process the juicy details. Mayor Novak… with a secret kid. This must have been what the interested parties were looking for. This… now this was dirt. They bit their lip at the thought of a scandal, triggered by them. A fuzziness prickled their palms, a satisfactory giddiness as they stuffed the stack of papers and photographs into the inner pocket of his jacket.

One key to their job was that they had to cover up their tracks. Hide what's gone by making a mess of everything. They rose from the office chair and began to destroy the room. No drawer in the desk was left in its place. Old-fashioned inkwells dumped out onto district documents. Paperclips and staples spread sharply over the desktop. By the time they turned back to look at the desk, nothing made sense. It looked like the office bitch threw up all the shit he'd been taking. Perfect.

After the desk, they moved on to his dresser drawers. His casual clothes, certainly. Why did the mayor so often prefer neutral and dark tones? They always thought he might look better in a crimson red or cerulean blue. It disturbed them to think that the man who did his best to embody a District Ten cowboy wore gym wear when he wasn't making a public appearance. "Honestly," they said aloud, picking up a pair of sweatpants and throwing them against their legs, "might have to take these with me." The mayor was just their size.

"HEY!" Without warning, the bedroom door burst open. They turned to see an accusatory white-collar finger pointed at them. "What the FUCK are you doing?" The mayor.

They remained silent, pulling the bandana to their upper lip and tugging at the tip of their hat. Mayor Novak stomped toward him, red in the face. Fair, considering there was an intruder in his room. It was only when the mayor got into their face and began reaching for the bandana that the intruder pushed him back.

The brawl that followed was mostly an even one. He would punch, and they would kick. He would push them toward the wall, and they would swing them back toward the middle of the room. Being cornered is a sure way to lose a fight. To their surprise, the mayor was quite strong.

They could tell, though, that Novak was trying to get somewhere. Closer to his bed, by the looks of it. They wondered why he would be forcing them deeper into the room rather than forcing them out.

It was then that they remembered the last piece of advice given when they were hired from the task. Novak pushed them against the wall just beside the nightstand of his bed. They bent down, gripping underneath the nightstand table for what they'd hoped was still there. Once they felt the handle, they pulled.

They ripped the handgun from underneath the nightstand and whipped it across the side of Novak's cheek, forcing him to stumble backward. The mayor tripped at the foot of his bed and landed on the ground.

As for the intruder, they kept the handgun firm in their grasp and pointed directly at the mayor.

"Hey– you can put that down. You can have whatever you want. Money? Drugs? A favor? Take it."

They enjoyed the dynamic of power. The gun stayed aimed at the mayor's head. They could say it was self-defense. A tragic accident. Who knows, maybe a mayor with enemies wasn't fit to be a mayor at all. Novak shook, practically– or maybe even literally– pissing himself as the gun's barrel trained closer and closer to his forehead.

Get paid and get the fuck out. Those were their objectives, those were their goals.

But they could have some gratification on the road.

"An unhappy citizen's tax." They angled their gun lower, directly toward the mayor's knee, and shot. They threw the gun back onto the bed and exited through the window, practically silent underneath the mayor's screaming.

[MATTIO]

n o v a k . a d r i á n

You are going to die here. The sound of your bedroom window opening and feet rushing against the freshly mowed lawn is just the cherry on top. Your palm rounds the pain within your kneecap. It's a rock ready to tear apart in two if you don't let it go. Several sets of feet stomp overhead where the rest of your family and allies reside. "H-help…" The drowsiness in your voice cannot disguise its panicked cracks.

"Adrián? What's going on?" Uncle Elio's at your side as soon as he enters the room, braving any thumbtack that pierces his knees. Your eyes are open, blinking left and right, but all that comes through is the ceiling light. You're at the morgue already, being cut open and repaired for a funeral.

Will Enzo be there? Your kid? Any of your friends? What friends? You can only think of enemies as your head rolls back and forth on the ground. "I'm dying." A long sigh displays your discomfort. Elio pulls the hair away from your forehead, telling you that you're not dying. People don't die because of their knee, he tells you.

Aunt Drea is saying something about calling the doctor. "W-w-wait. Be discrete. I don't want this getting out." Even when you've convinced yourself that you're at death's door, you still strategize, commanding orders best for your image. "Only guys we trust. No fucking loudmouths."

You rest your head again as Antoine and Elio start to take care of you. You hope your family can take directions. If this gets out, that you were unable to protect yourself from a home invasion, no one's going to take you seriously as mayor.

And that just can't be.

elegant