Going. Going. Gone. [Onyx/Frankel/Kousei]

[kousei ♚]

KAE

Suffering is a strange but so familiar high. I'm scanning the surroundings, taking in every detail and soaking in it all. Tents stand proudly erected in almost every square inch of this relief centre. One, two, I've lost count. People have been dragged through here, screaming and wallowing in all various forms of decay. I've counted about two who sport missing limbs and a dozen who looked like practically dead people walking. I stand before the whole scene, mentally counting the number of victims I've seen dragged through here.

I swear I can feel the heat of pages being swallowed by the flames and oxygen.

That's what they are in the end, books that have tumbled from the shelf and into the inferno. I stare blankly at them all; others weep at the sight of broken stories that will never be completed and wasted potential drowned by the wave and burned in the embers. It beads against my shell and rolls away, unable to break the ice surrounding whatever thumps in my chest. I can't say it means anything to me, or really draws any kind of emotional reaction from me.

I'm just watching.

Maybe that's what makes me one of the best options for this job. Empathy is lost on me; I'm selfish. I breathe and begin walking past the tends of mounds of people who would have come to relieve the flood of blood just like me. This isn't exactly all foreign to me, this is what my third trip through this place. I'm used to it, not that I needed to adapt, so I watch. I was given a break from trying to search for broken survivors (if there are any) and I'm kind of relieved. Spending hours and hours a day searching through rubble isn't exactly as fun as I pictured it.

None of this is how I pictured it. I never pictured the spotless sun itself to be weeping over this temple of agony and ashes. I never pictured there to be so many tents sprung up and littered in this field like trees that hang over a forest. I don't care much for the clouds that sporadically decorate the sky or this ugly green shade that stains the floor. I expected the hospital (a suffering goldmine) that watches over this camp to be more jarring, instead it fails to even achieve the effect of daunting. There isn't even a place to sit down.

Despite my standing and fatigue dragging at calves and nipping at my ankles, I chuckle. I chuckle at the bittersweet irony of this whole situation because this time a week ago these people who cry for Panem to rally behind them would have scoffed at the sight of me. Career snobs who have it all. All the people in various stages of agony and not one of them looked a pound underfed. Fish eating pricks. Tragedy is new to them, when I heard about this tsunami I laughed. Oh, how the mighty fall.

I suppose now is as good a time as ever. No actions, no words. I immediately stick my hands in the pockets of my old, fading jeans and close my sweaty fist around the paper. I'm not surprised by the sight I see when I pull it out. "Found you." I say to the picture of the dead man, staring at him coldly. It's not a good picture at the slightest but it's regular and it's routine and it ties me to the shit hole I call home in this foreign land of agony and waves. Black hair, unfinished stature and young face marred by the wrinkles of time my dead father almost seems to be staring past me. I know that in my other pocket I have another anchor to home buried but not ready to see the light of day.

It's all fake, nothing but a memory, the trees, his coat, none of it is relevant to here and now. He's dead, a distant memory and he was never there for me, never even knew I was a thought. I should think he's worthless, good-for-nothing, and irrelevant because that's what he is but when the wind suddenly picks up and I feel the corner slip from my fingers I gasp.

"Shit!" Is all I manage to scream out before it falls from my fingers and the chains binding me to to my home, my past and my memories suddenly collapse at my feet.

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

K E Y S E R

Everything has been different over the past couple of days. I haven’t had the control that I am used too and cannot decide whether it is a good thing or not. Obviously there are both negatives and positives to this but I can’t figure out which one outweighs the other. This woman could be leading me to my untimely death or to the treasure that drove me to follow. Either way it seems that we won’t be arriving at the location anytime soon. For the damned career District decided to detonate itself and the woman insists to go and help them.

The woman I know very little about. Recklessly I had given her my first name, cleverly not followed by my last however. I only ever found out hers due to her rambles in her sleep, she even spelt it out. C-Y-D-O-N-I-A. Cydonia, the woman now with a name. I don’t need to know anything else about her and she doesn’t need to know anything else about me. As soon as I get my hands on those resources, she will just become a forgotten memory. Just another face that helped contribute to my life, she should be proud of that.

Thankfully we had retreated from the beach where we had met in time, otherwise we would’ve been another number to the victims lost in the natural blessing disaster. I’ve pledged the ocean to be the last sight that I see but it will not be the thing that takes my life. That’s not an honourable way to go, it’s too unoriginal, at least over a hundred people will have been taken by that wave from Four. I’d rather have my own creative end…which will not be anytime soon.

Sleeping on high ground, we hadn’t travelled that many days before we realised what had happened. Waking one morning to the sound of air beating into submission, hoards of hovercrafts filled the sky, all heading in one direction. The only thoughts that filled my mind were that of a civil war brewing or the peacekeepers were scouting the wilderness for people like me. Neither would be true, it would instead be something less exhilarating of the two. Cydonia wanted to investigate and when we came to the fence line of a District, all our questions were answered. District Four is the only career District that I have scoured for resources for their fish powers my travels. Entering the District in a weak state that it is in now, is a great opportunity to get my hands on whatever they have left. Of course Cydonia had other ideas…she wanted to actually help the people…and drag me along with her.

The foot she had promised to tend too had healed slowly on its own, it no longer sends a stabbing pain up my leg and the infection seems to have disappeared. Obviously it was clever of me to stand in the salty ocean for a couple of minutes, whatever chemicals the Capitol conjures up for medicine is useless.

We have been here for at least two days and I have seen so many damaged faces. Pain fills the eyes of many, destruction surrounds, me no matter where I go.And so it should. It is about time a District like this experienced devastation. Stuck up healthy pricks, who get everything handed to them on a plate due to their ultimate ass licking of the Capitol. Natural blessings like this shouldn’t stop here; it’s a better way of cutting down population numbers than the Capitol’s idea of the games. Maybe a wildfire should tear through Seven…that’ll cut down the parasites that live there.

I haven’t contributed to much while being here; I’ve only ever observed Cydonia give first aid to so many people, faces that I have wiped from my memory. None of them will thank her for her work; I don’t see why she bothers.

Walking down the centre of the relief camp, tents line the paths, I have heard so many complain about their living quarters. They’ve never slept under a tree like me. Trudging through the dirt, the salt water saturated ground attacks my shoes, painting them in the sediment brought from the ocean. What a powerful beast that wave must have been…

Picking up quickly, the sea breeze attacks my ears and something lands on the toes of my left shoe. Bending down to pick it up…a piece of paper…Turning it round, I’d be met by a face…

Everything stops inside of me, as my mind tries to comprehend what my eyes are looking at. It’s like I am looking down at a mirror…it’s me, at least fourteen years ago…how did a photograph of me end up in District Four…They must be here, the Summits are here of course. To help fix this damned District. Clasping my hand tightly around the photograph, I’d turn around, trying to hide from the familiar eye.

But why would they carry a photograph of me? They are the ones who killed me, they shouldn’t be mourning me.

[Onyx]

C Y D O N I A

Prologue.

A week into their long journey across the country, Cydonia first realised that she'd been talking in her sleep. Since Keyser began to accompany her on the quest to restock her cornucopia of lifesaving supplies, her dreams had been ever more lucid, and with them had come the increasingly unshakeable idea that it was because her companion played some part in the memories she had forgotten.

Although the faces, places and feelings that Cydonia feels in every dream are different, there are certain specific threads which always remain the same. First, no matter what age she is in her visions, she finds herself wearing the same pale green smock and beige felt sandals, as if she's wandered straight out of a hospital ward. The combination of colours reminds her of the smell of TCP, and the mosquito-like whine of a dormant intercom system. It makes her skin prickle inexplicably. More than this, elements of the projected people around her are always the same. Faces and voices are always unfamiliar, but the people they belong to go through the same set of movements right as Cydonia enters the dream, to the point that she can waltz through their routines as if she's part of the dance.

First come the two men, one from either side of the wanderer's body as she walks forwards, meeting in front of her and shaking hands. Cydonia ducks underneath the bridge their arms form and as she does she hears them discussion something on professional grounds... "agreement..." "she meets the terms..." "for what price?" This third snippet especially sets Cydonia on edge as she continues to drift forwards. Next is the woman, carrying a baby, not watching where she's going as she coos at the child. Cydonia longs to reach out for her then, knowing what's about to happen to her, but every time she tries the woman just passes through her grip like a cloud as she falls over, arms flung outwards, baby hurled through the air like cargo. Cydonia can only be thankful that the baby turns to smoke in her dreamworld before she has to watch it fall.

Finally, Cydonia stands opposite the faceless man. While the other figures she dances between metamorphosise into different people, some bearing faces of Cydonia's patients, some of long-forgotten acquaintances, perhaps even relatives, the faceless man is always the same. His grey coat is wrapped tightly around his form as if he is under seige from the chill of winter. His wide-brimmed hat is pulled low, although it's still clear to see that underneath it is actually an empty hole, rather than just a shadow. At this point in her dream, Cydonia can't help but think Keyser. She knows the power secrets hold, and knowing Keyser's name and what he looks like doesn't allow her to know him any more than his dream counterpart. He might as well be faceless, too. The ominous stranger reaches an arm out to Cydonia, and the hand that materialises out of the end beckons her forwards. After the second or third time having the dream, Cydonia tried to resist moving her legs but to no avail - her dream mind was no longer able to control her body. The first step is shaky, the second stronger, but the third never becomes a step - the ground beneath her feet vanishes and Cydonia finds herself falling, impossibly fast, the ground rising up to meet her like an old friend, and as she first falls through clouds and then through branches, she catches sight of her and Keyser's sleeping bodies, far apart but with hands stretched out towards each other for protection, tries to call out to Keyser - to herself - but both lie as still as corpses...

She always wakes up gasping. At the beginning, she had no reason to believe Keyser noticed this, nor that he was even aware that her nights were so vivid and restless. However, on the day the wave came, he gave it away. They had been walking steadily, stomachs sitting heavily with the remaining meat of a deer they had had for breakfast. Cydonia first assumed the rumble that she heard was simply her body thanking her for the food, until Keyser grabbed her wrist and pointed upwards. There, above the trees, was the wave. Rumbling like a stampede even as it surged high and powerful enough to swallow one whole, it came from a distance. They couldn't see it collapse, but they were both sure that it was in the direction they were travelling.

Without a second thought, Cydonia wrapped her arms around the sturdiest tree near them, even though its needles were also trembling like a lover's limbs, and began to heave herself to the top for a better look. If anyone was hurt, it was her responsibility. That's when Keyser had cried out "Cydonia!", stopping her dead, muscles braced against falling as she turned and looked back down again. It wasn't her aim to keep her name from him - it was just that he had never asked, and therefore Cydonia never assumed it was a necessary fact. However, now that he said it to her, she realised that part of withholding it was to keep her safe - to leave her as the faceless man in his dreams, too. But here it was, her name, from his lips, reaching her ears again. When was the last time she had heard it? Patients usually called her Mother, or Angel, or Messiah, sometimes - although this last word meant nothing to her. But Keyser had called to her, with authority in his voice but also with care, and Cydonia had stopped to hear it. "Say it again," she had asked him, even as he started to explain that she had said it while she was asleep, and that she looked scared, flustered, and what was she dreaming about. Cydonia had no interest in answering these questions - the fears were not his, and even she wasn't sure about the meanings of the dreams, yet. All she wanted was for him to say her name again, to remind her of it, almost. And he did. "Cydonia."

Resumption.

District Four is a living graveyard. Splintered beams of toppled houses have lodged themselves in the ground like markers, each one pointing out a place where Destruction has landed its watery fists. The air is saturated with the sound of water, running off roofs and through street gutters, and falling down the cheeks of wailing adults and children alike. Every surface shines wetly with the piercing sunlight beating down, and Cydonia is thankful that her hair is white and clean, keeping her protected from its deadly heat. Her nose fills with the smell of salt, and blood, and it sits on her tongue sourly, too.

Even after days in the emergency centre set up by Peacekeepers, still dressed in their armour like upright armadillos even in the stifling humidity inside the hospital, Cydonia doesn't think that she can separate herself from the tragedy around her. Her heart aches at the sheer volume of broken limbs and hearts around her. If it was one person, she knows she could float above the emotional response, concentrating on the wounds alone and not the person who wears them. But here, there are the constant presences of loss, pain and hopelessness, too big and bold to block out.

Although Keyser is clearly uncomfortable being here, Cydonia is almost certain that it's because of his aversion to helping people rather than because he too is emotionally affected. Even though she wishes it was the latter, it pleases Cydonia that she is beginning to understand the not-so-stranger who keeps her company. She has no doubt that he's not following her to the Capitol because he's keen for adventure, but rather that he understands that she is someone who not only knows how to get in to a facility to seize valuable supplies, but that, on the rare chance that the operation does fail, she is able to withstand interrogation, too. Keyser must know that her missing little fingers give that away.

As she ties a ligature around a teenage boy's arm before taking  a blood sample, soothing him gently with reassurances - but not promises - that it's unlikely he has an infection in his fresh scars, Keyser stands close by, looking out for approaching Peacekeepers. The pair have already decided on a backstory - they were residents of District Six, Keyser a hospital clerk (the thought of him writing notes behind a desk made Cydonia smile wryly) and the woman herself a doctor - however it;s better to be safe. Cydonia has the hood of her white robe pulled low over her face, and her prosthetic fingers are attached under gloves so they look truly real. Keyser seems jittery, perhaps nervous about being recognised by Peacekeepers, but Cydonia is calm. She knows that as long as she keeps helping people, they won't look out of place.

Suddenly, Keyser stoops down to pick something up off the floor, and Cydonia forgets how sure of herself she felt moments before. Removing the syringe from her patient's elbow crook, she turns her head to him, anxious that their cover has been broken. However, Keyser is simply looking down at whatever he has just picked up off the floor. Sealing the vial of blood and putting it down next to her testing kit, she rises and stands beside her companion. "Keyser," she begins curiously, reminding herself again of the way he said her name in the forest, "is everything alright?"

Moving towards him, she sees that what he's holding is a photograph, still glossy despite its apparent age. The man who smiles there has large, dark eyes, a sadness in them even as he smiles. Those eyes are familiar - more than familiar... in fact, at Cydonia looks up from the photograph to the man who holds them, those eyes stare back at her, now. "It's... it's you." She murmurs, her eyes gliding over the rest of the features in the photograph. Finally she sees movement from the aisle ahead of them, and looks up - into another pair of those sad eyes. These ones belong to a boy of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, but the resemblance is still uncanny. As Cydonia looks from the boy to Keyser, and back and back again, her lips part a little and her eyes widen. "Keyser..." she says again, realisation rising in her like a sunrise, "it's your son."

Made by Frankel

[kousei ♚]

KAE

Of all the books a school has shoved onto my desk, I would kill for a guide on how to bring back the dead. Flimsy piece of paper. That's all it really is. Easy to rip, easy to crumble, easy to ruin. Fire, water or a strong wind; important memories should never be lost so easily to the elements. I'm clutching on straws when it comes to Keyser Summit, a dead man. The slightest jolt, a light tap and just like he's gone. Dead men could never stick around, not for long after all.

I suppose wearing him like armour since I was six years old was always an accomplishment, considering he's dead and all. Sit and let me clutch at his straws just that little while longer, I'm not ready for him to leave just yet. Spit fire in my mouth all they want ('just a flimsy bit of paper') but I'm not ready to let it go yet ('let it go, Kae') and that's why I scream with such vulgarity and shock when the breeze snatches the flimsy piece of paper from my hands.

My eyes follow the paper carried away from me by the breeze. Wide eyed and fearful I hope that it's not lost forever. Once it's gone, it's gone; I never believed in miracles or divinity, just books, statistics and violence. Odds say if that picture gets carried away to some random by the wind that will be the last I see of it. More than a flimsy piece of paper, the dead man that decorates it will be forever lost.

After all, I was never given a book on how to bring back the dead.

I step forward, movement automatic, ignoring the pain in my calves, the fire in my lungs and the panic in my chest I stretch out a hand to clasp my hand around it. "Fuck sake." Spitting out more venom diluted with frustration it is carried away further. Lost forever. It seems a lot more closer than I ever would've imagined five minutes ago. The farther away that picture flies, the more dead Keyser seems to me by the passing second.

Memories should never be snatched away by the elements so easily. Spit that in my ears again and I swear I'll lose it. Keyser Summit cannot become a chapter wiped away from the table of contents just yet. After all, I was never given a guide on how to bring back the dead. A dead father carried away by the wind, I'm useless as he drifts further away and towards the ground, some ten meters away from me.

I cringe when he finally hits the ground, a silent bang sounding in my head like a canon. If he ever had a canon then it went off ten years ago. I have to remind myself that, the flimsy piece of paper is a constant reminder that Keyser Summit's death rattle was carried away by the breeze ten years ago before I even knew who he was. 'Just a flimsy piece of paper.' or 'you need to let it go, Kae.' Two sentences playing through my head as I watch the paper begin to wither and wilt on the ground.

There are no books to bring back the dead. I don't need reminding twice. I ignore the agony that surrounds the ash, manifesting itself as black ash, it cannot blind me to the past I never remembered. A memory battered by the elements, it never should have been carried away so easily. Stupid Kae, allowing a healthy, outdated corpse to slip from my fingers so easily in a strange place; I should have known better.

My single step is broken, staggered along the grass by what I see. A man. Ash black hair sits on his scalp and from here, the curious look at what landed at his feet is obvious. I see a corpse while he probably sees a flimsy piece of paper. Two more steps and I've frozen once again because he bends down to pick up the corpse lain at his feet by my carelessness. A flimsy sheet of paper, he could so easily pocket it and walk away.

A pounding heart so easily carried away by the undistinguished breeze I stare at him frozen in time. "No. A single word muttered from my lips I feel too powerless as I watch another woman take a glance at the picture. Golden curls sitting on the top of her head, they instantly repulse me; they remind me of blonde snakes sitting on a scalp.

One more step, she looks at me, then back to him and says something inaudible. That's fucking enough. Steaming cold fire rips through my veins, and I breathe in. I breathe in very deeply. Blind to the ashen suffering around me, I've never been one to care about helping selfish career snobs anyway, I stop taking steps. I take strides. 'I want you to make stuff happen, Kae.' Mother's voice from ten years ago playing in my ears I feel the ground move past me in a blur.

Tunnel vision, it's focused around the two who dared touch my father's corpse while thinking it's a flimsy piece of paper. Red mist frames it all, blocking out my footsteps and reasoning I come to a halt before the two, fists clenched at my side and fire gathered in my throat, I'm ready to hit the one holding him with the force of all my lies. They both look like they could be in their thirties and I don't even know their names. I've never been one to think things out when the past is shaken.

"I want you to give me that picture back before I fucking kill you!" That's not a threat, that's a promise. Venom was never easily masked by me, despite the training I've had with all my lies, something I can never cover up.

It's a cold fact. There was never any book to bring back the dead but damn the facts, I'll kill to keep the corpses.

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

K E Y S E R

Hidden within my fingers, an archived memory, pushed to the back of my mind. Carried in the wind, it has found me in an unexpected place. Tightening my grip around the flimsy piece of paper, I dare not take another glance at the young face that centres it. That’s not me, not anymore. Sweat begins to bleed from the palm of my hand, soaking the paper that sits within it.Ten years I have gone without being reminded, ten whole years I haven’t had to mention the name that follows my first. But now that statistic is becoming endangered, I can’t have them see the sight of me.

No matter how hard I try to erase the small image from my head, it remains, projecting itself and blocking whatever I send to mask it. A memory frozen in time on a piece of paper. I’m at least seventeen in the image. Taken by a girl. A girl at time who had affections towards me. A girl at the time who hid me away from the tarnation that I called a family. Not long after the photo was taken, I never saw her again. I never wanted to see her again. She was just a girl, another memory in the back of my head.

Maybe it’s her.

Only she took that shot, none of the Summits could have got their hands on it. So she is here and she has a photograph of me. Shit. I can’t have a woman like that, loathing after me for so many years. I was just a child and so was she, it was just fun. I can’t have the burden of a woman falling for me, not now, not here. Not in front of her.

Looking down, my head would quickly rotate a circuit as I try to hide my face from the familiar eyes. So man faces fill the area, she could be any one of them. Years have changed me, I can see now from that photograph and I can bet that she is unrecognisable today. Placing my other hand across my mouth, I’d mask my appearance trying every possible method to disguise myself without it looking obvious. I am already under threat by being here. Men draped in white armour know my face however Cydonia’s backstory idea seems to be working without them questioning our identity. Although I still do not see the point in us both remaining in this District, especially doing what we’re doing…

Mending ungrateful career snobs, without one word of a thank you. Even though all I am doing is standing over the dying like a sitting duck, it is still a tiresome process, watching the unappreciative being worked on. Whatever Cydonia does though, it works. Maybe she will be a valuable asset, maybe I should call off the plans that I have conjured up for her. However she will have to pay me back for this diversion of a trip. A journey to the centre of hell, an example of why it is that, laced to my palm in sweat right now.

Looking back down at my hand, I’d release my fingers, the photograph staring up at me in the centre of my palm. Worn on the edges, creases march across the centre of it, indicating that it must have had a whole lot of use. She has been carrying me around like a sentimental object. What an absolute wally. I can’t have her find me, not if she is that unstable to carry me around everywhere she goes. She really must have done something good in her life though, to volunteer and help these stuck up unthankful buffoons.

"Keyser," The sound of my name brings me back to reality as I exit from my mind. "is everything alright?" I must have been lost in my thoughts for too long, my weaknesses are shining through all because of this forsaken piece of trash in my hand. Moving towards me, she glances down at the photograph that I unwillingly present. Unknowingly, the expression that marches across my face, matches that of image. And it makes it easier for her to figure it out. "It's... it's you." Frowning as she states the obvious, I’d close up my fingers, burying the photograph in my hand.

Movement bursts the scene as I see someone hurrying towards us both, another needy career snob most likely. A young male, his hair as dark as my own but his iris’ look a grey or blue from this distance. The characteristics of his appearance remind me too much of the typical District Seven stereotype but why do I care? There are so many faces in this District right now; every single one of them that I have met with my eyes will be forgotten. Anyone who has looked at me will forget who I am. After all they’re all ungrateful snobs.

The only thing I should be worrying about is if she is here. The one whom dropped the lost memory of me in this oceanic District.

"Keyser..." Turning my head back towards Cydonia, I’d exhale, what now? I question as I wait for whatever she has to say. Usually she asks me to retrieve some complicated tool for her to use on these people, tools that they do not deserve. "it's your son." Every muscle on my face tenses up as I contain the laughter that wants to burst out from inside of me. Glancing back at the male that has moved closer to us both, I’d shake my head. ”Have you been injected yourself with those drugs, woman? What are you talking about?”

Turning my head back towards the boy, he halts in front of us both, fire burning in his face. "I want you to give me that picture back before I fucking kill you!" The little boy fires threats at me but they don’t unnerve me. He’s a Summit. What is he doing with an image of me? Is he one of the many offspring of my siblings? Why would he have an image of me?

Relaxing the hand that contains the photograph, I’d raise it in the air, presenting it to the boy. Since its been sitting in my sweaty palm, a small tear has formed down the left corner, cutting straight through my face. Ruined. Sweat still lingers in my hand as Cydonia’s words repeat in my mind. your son. I don’t have a son, the woman has soaked up too much sun.

”What are you doing with this? Where did you find it? Do you know who that person is?” My other fingers points directly to my own face. Maybe he works for the peacekeepers, they’ve been searching new methods to try and capture me…but what is he doing with a photograph of me?

Why have all these past memories joined the flood in District Four…

[Onyx]

C Y D O N I A

As Keyser and the boy's hands join over the tear in the photograph, Cydonia suddenly feels a wave of vertigo and has the intense sensation that she's looking sideways into a pool of water. The two are perfectly reflected - perhaps the boy is a little rougher than Keyser is, and perhaps the wrinkles that sit on Keyser's face are more pronounced, but the similarity is undeniable. However, no sooner has Cydonia begun  to ease herself into this thought, fascinated by the reflection of her companion in this new stranger, than the latter's face contorts with rage.

"Give me back that picture before I fucking kill you!" His mouth is a red moon, wide open and loud as a thunderstorm. Cydonia's eyes grow wide as she looks around her - several Peacekeepers have looked up to find the source of the outburst. Her leg muscles tense as she gets ready to grab her crate and run should any of them start coming this way, but quickly she relaxes them again. How could she even think of abandoning Keyser now? To him, at least, the Peacekeepers aren't the only danger. This boy looks fit to kill either of them should they provoke him again.

As Cydonia waits anxiously for either of the men to talk again - she daren't, as she can already tell this was not her discussion to have - her mind unwillingly fills up with the age-old speculations about her own father. If she is right, the boy has lived with an awareness of both his father's existence and his absence for (judging by the photo's age) over a decade. To Cydonia, the absence is there, however she has never felt it for the lack of the existence. She might as well have never had a father. Certain flashes of memory, like dolphins suddenly jumping from a dark sea and then diving under again, suggest one: a bedtime story read by a deep voice, a pair of large, hairy hands presenting a birthday gift wrapped in gold paper, the strength which could only belong to a man, pushing her on a swingset... but still Cydonia has no idea who the man is, really, and feels no emotional connection to him.

But to know, and never see them? Cydonia cannot imagine the pain of it. In a flash which passes like a lightning storm, she feels intense anger and hatred for Keyser. Why couldn't you stay with him? Underneath his anger, the boy still looks lost, scared, confused - emotions which surely have been building up for years and years, and will soon crash down all at once, just like the tsunami which has brought them all here together. Her caregiving urges make Cydonia desperate to reach out to the boy, and tell him that he has nothing to fear anymore.

The second thought Cydonia has is even more unwilling and troubling than the first. She sees Keyser, naked from the waist up and wrapped in blankets below that, embracing a brown-haired woman with this boy's beautiful blue eyes. She could see how he fell for those eyes. The wind blows around the room they lie in, their little bubble of paradise holding it off, and Keyser's young face smiles. He loves her. As these visions pass before her eyes, Cydonia's mouth twists down in repulsion and she tries to brush them away. They loved each other, and he's the father to her child... She can't tell why the image affects her so much, but she knows that to bring herself back to the present, she can't stand silent any longer.

"Please," she says steadily, turning to the boy with a solid expression, "we'll all get killed if we're loud." It isn't really a plea, despite her opening word, it's a statement of fact, and if the boy can't accept it then Cydonia knows they're doomed - she was right before, she won't leave Keyser now. Ignoring her warning, Keyser begins to reel off questions to the boy, but Cydonia doesn't let him respond. Instead, she urges again, "please, not here." This time, desperation does seep into her voice. For such a significant event to occur, the other two must be able to see that it would be a terrible shame to get killed experiencing it.

Made by Frankel

[kousei ♚]

KAE

Even in a raging storm, the odds do not lie. Blind but not quite deaf to reason. Moments like these are defining. A logical mind, a heavy book slammed onto my desk; I've always thought of myself as practical and analytical. Nothing tends to slip past my gaze, not a single blur, not a single smear, everything caught and collected; archived like a library I always thought of the pros and cons of stuff. Things never tended to slip by me, and I never used to make rash decisions, someone was always there to do my dirty work for me. Calm as a doll, I was rarely stirred.

Until now that is.

Two versus one, the odds aren't in my favour. Numbers dilute the air, statistics say that I'll lose if they take the first swing. Chances are I'll probably still lose if I take the second swing. Two grown people against one overzealous, overemotional kid from seven. The odds don't lie, even with the brewing fire storm in my heart and venom thrust into my veins I know that the odds don't lie. Always listen to the back of my mind, it's usually the calm in the storm.

Clap. There is no calm in this storm. I said I'd kill to keep the corpses and I fucking meant it. Corpses could never kept with an empty promise. It's not a threat, it's a steel promise spat with venom from my tongue. He cannot simply touch the flimsy piece of paper and expect to walk away with it weighed in his pocket. A stranger would have to pry it from my cold corpse for that to happen, even two grown people; one with gold serpents tumbling from the top of her head and one who doesn't look the least bit shaken by the venom spat in his face.

Get it back or die trying? Easiest decision ever. I'll fight (and die apparently) to keep the cold corpses.

My gaze is locked on the picture and I feel the soft breeze claw through my hair. Numbed and blind to everything (from the ashen suffering binding us all together to the blades of grass under my feet) but that picture resting in his hands I feel my knuckles bulge and my nails dig deeper into my palms.

Blind to everything logical; the statistics, the possibilities and the men in white but I'm not quite deaf to reason. Yet. "Please, we'll all get killed if we're loud." A woman's voice cuts the red mist but it doesn't quite pierce it. I don't even turn to face her. Thump. Like running into a brick wall, she cannot pry my eyes away from the past I never knew or the chains of a man who's eyes I never saw at my feet.

He holds it up to me and my eyes widen but it takes all my willpower to not let my jaw drop. Is that a tear?

Smear. Blur. That was not there before. Itwasnottherebefore.

Right by father's face, it sits there, a blemish of mockery on his face. Disrespect the dead and you disrespect me, I take another step forward. Fuckshitbastardfuckshitthatwasnottherebefore. It seems I'm not quite deaf to everything logical yet because I don't let my fist fly right then. Knuckles bulge and I feel my fingernails dig even deeper into my palms. If I hadn't bitten my fingernails to useless stumps I would have broken the skin a long time ago. Fucker. Disrespect the dead and you disrespect me, I will make him pay for this. Venom shot into my veins and the unmovable storm raging in my core, I can't let this go.

('Just a flimsy piece of paper.')

('Let it go, Kae.')

Memories should never be blemished by a stranger's fingers so easily.

As if ignoring her to, the man holding the picture speaks and I hear him loud and clear, I'm still not deaf to reason. Yet.

”What are you doing with this? He asks.

"Where did you find it?" He asks.

"Do you know who that person is?” He commands.

Three questions smeared across the red mist, I tear my eyes away from the atrocity and back to the logical. "Please, not here." Her words don't cut or graze, this time they pierce.

There's a huge gaping hole in the red mist, but there's no blemish on the storm. It can't be quelled.

'What are you doing with this?'

My voice drops, this time so only the three of us can hear. I'm not quite deaf to the logical and the peacekeepers will surely shatter a rib if I keep this up. "None of your business," I answer confidently, almost spitting, I'm not going to tell a stranger what I do with my weight.

'Where did you find it?'

A smeared memory across the pages, it's easy to confine to a single chapter of my disintegrating past of lies and violence. One of the few chapters that are untouched by my casual lies. 'This is your father, I want you to have this.' A small child and the weight of the past was thrust into my hands.

"It was just a gift." I spin more lies. Can I even call the weight of a dead man and the memories of what could have been a gift?

Add it to the pile, lies got me to where I am now.

'Do you know who this person is?'

I want to laugh but if I laugh I might hit him. I've memorised every curve, every blemish, the texture, the feel, any tug on his lips, the clothes draped over his body, how his hair looks. Every detail archived like a library and condensed in a single chapter. Prologue: Kael's origins. I'd love to think I know Keyser Summit. In reality he's an enigma, a figment of the past, a construct of memories and what-ifs to put together a person.

"No, I carry around a picture of a stranger for fucking laughs," Sarcasm burns, constantly used but sarcasm still burns. Spin more lies, add to the web; it's easy. "Doesn't matter who he is because he's dead, just like you will be if you don't drop him right now." My voice is still low, just so we can hear. No one else needs to know about this.

Spin more lies, fire more promises. It always mattered who he was, to me at least. Keyser Summit will never be insignificant to me, Keyser Summit will always be dead to me.

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

K E Y S E R

Ascended in the air, a forgotten now damaged memory sits neatly between my fingers. A livelihood that I had abandoned many years, to suddenly find me in the wind and be in the possession of this peculiar boy. It’s not fate, a miracle or any of that nonsense. It is torture. To fight the memories away for so many years for them to be brought back in the flood. It is lurid. There is no way to defeat it now for it has replenished my mind, the only thing I can do is question how it got there. Why does he have it? Who is he working for?

Weeks.Months.Years. Deceiving has really become my trademark. An insurance value of my existence. Be it tricking those in the white armour or the poor fools that stumble upon me on my travels. One of which is standing right next to me. There is no other way to get what I want, it has to be done and it is oh so simple. Meek –minded idiots, that’s what those who are dressed in white armour are like. Just because they wear a uniform, they believe they’re the hierarchy of everything, when everyone…including myself, can walk right over them.

Shuffling in their garbs, the peacekeepers that surround this area, have likely noticed the commotion that the lad has quickly stirred up. They likely have their eyes on him, making sure he is doing his job correctly…I know what they’re doing, giving me a piece of my own trickery. Well it is hard to deceive the master. There is no way that this scruff, who is throwing a tantrum in front of me, is going to help them escort me to the detention centre. Not a chance. But how did he get this photograph?

He’s a Summit. His appearance is too much of a replicate to the damned family gene, he doesn’t look like a familiar one of the brood but he’d have likely been a toddler when I left. His eyes. His eyes don’t match. They’re not the typical brown that has found its way into the family tree. Blue…like hers. No. Cydonia’s words claiming this brute to be my offspring finds its way into my mind again. No. There isn’t a possibility. No. It’s just an eye colour, lots of people have blue eyes. Don’t be an idiot Keyser. He looks the same age as the years that I last saw her…No.

"We’ll all get killed if we're loud." Cydonia’s pleas finally erode through the musky fog that was blocking my mind from reality. Being alone for many years, I’ve had to rely on my thoughts to keep me company, but they haven’t rambled like they have today. All because of this crumbled forgotten memory, the face of my past. Because of this child that presents himself in front of me.

Glancing around the area, eyes fall onto the scene, hoping to witness drama unfold. Drama that I am not willing to present to them. If I were to be killed by the peacekeepers, it will not be for being loud. Feeling the tension ease after my series of questions, the boy takes an intelligent turn in the situation, lowering his voice. Although his body language throughout tells another story. Why is he so protective over a photograph of me?

"None of your business,"[ What a discourteous scoundrel he is, he certainly was brought up in that household to possess such rudeness. If only he knew. And he won’t. I’m not revealing myself to this scratty rat, allowing my identity to be eradicated because of a silly little trick.

Shifting my eyes to the peackeepers, some of them have exited the area, while others have their attention on other matters. They are not watching us, the tension has subsided… Why aren’t they watching?

"It was just a gift." Am I really that special to be presented as a gift to someone? Lies rattle around in this kid’s words, he is not fooling me. He could have conjured up a better explanation as to the origins of the image. He’s a novice, a beginner let loose on an important mission. How reckless of the peacekeepers… But why would they have an inexperienced child doing it?

"No, I carry around a picture of a stranger for fucking laughs," Frowning, the obvious sarcasm slaps me across the face. What a temperamental runt. The idea of him working undercover for the peackeepers slowly fades to the back of my mind. Nothing calculates together smoothly, surely they would have planned it out better than this if they wanted to capture me. How would they know I’d be in District Four? "Doesn't matter who he is because he's dead, just like you will be if you don't drop him right now."

He’s dead.

So they pronounced me dead, I knew it. Scrunching up the photograph, it would crumble up more between my fingers, likely ruining it further to the damage that I have already committed. Why? Why does he have it?

”He’s not fucking dead.”

The peacekeepers know I am not dead, they wouldn’t bother to try and hunt down a corpse but truths need to be unfolded from this kid’s brain.

His eyes Keyser.

Fury marches up to my temple; I can feel heat hiking across my face as my heart begins to knock at the outer walls of my torso. Whatever this burden is that stands before me, I need to jeopardies something, just so I can get the answers. Answers as to why forgotten memories have found me today. Answers to why his eyes are the mirror image of hers…the woman who was a forgotten memory, the woman whose image sits perfectly in the centre of my head right now.

”Whoever told you he was dead, lied. He left that damned house before he’d get killed. And now he stands in District Four, wanting to know why an obvious runt of his family, carries a photograph of him.” Fighting back the urge to raise my voice, I'd only allow it to project to the boy and Cydonia.

Throwing the image to the ground, I’d let loose the forgotten memory, hoping that it would leave me permantley from now.

[Onyx]

C Y D O N I A

Cydonia can't help but feel like she's witnessing a scene she definitely wasn't invited to witness. She feels like a ghost, almost-there, as Keyser and his son this boy throw hot, hateful fire at each other. If only she really was a ghost, and could drift away from the conversation on the sad, sweet wind...

As the poison in her companion's words increases ("He's not fucking dead.") Cydonia thinks back silently to that day on the beach. They packed up their things in near-silence. Keyser's backpack seemed almost empty as it sat forlornly in his lap, but the way his body was hunched over it, sheltering it like an old tree, his shoulders rounded forwards defensively, suggested to Cydonia that it was much weightier than it seemed. The smuggler allowed herself to wonder what secrets it could hold as she buckled the latches of her own box and fastened it to its wheel-mounted frame. At the time, she was sure that the stranger had a much richer history than he let on. "I am just like any other District run away, with a name that will likely get forgotten," he had said. Just a lie?

As the waves sighed and the sun's heat made her skin shine, the smuggler pictured Keyser running away from more than just unmanageable responsibility, like most wanderers who have crossed her path in her time as a saviour for the common people. She imagined a man plagued with nightmares of whatever drove him away; death, destruction, poverty or famine. They're things she sees every day she comes to administer her wares to the desperate; to make their lives that little bit more bearable.
And now she knows what it was he was running from - for  here he stands, right in front of her.


Thinking about Keyser's secrets leads the smuggler to dwell on some of her own. Her dark nights are lonely, and her own nightmares are frequent and fleeting, although rarely with substance. The smuggler wouldn't be able to name many of her conscious fears, though. She's seen enough horrifying injuries, as well as the repulsive crimes which cause them, to be immune to any sort of violence or gore. More than that, she's spent so many nights in the dark, aware that she shares the forest floor with a carpet of rodents and insects, and with the deathly cold kissing every inch of her skin, that fear of lack of sight, or death by exposure, are unimaginable. Perhaps she would be afraid of getting old, if she acknowledged that she won't be able to climb trees, vault over fences and, indeed, drag the heavy crate around with her forever. In the present, her nightmares are not based on what she knows she's afraid of, but what she doesn't know she should be afraid of. Her mind registers the images as if through water, providing the sleeping smuggler with a haunted carousel of the blurry faces and muffled sounds which make up her inaccessible memories.

She wonders if one day, Keyser will show up in that carousel - one more figure in her nightly dance, or perhaps finally provide a face to the haunting stranger who appears just before the end.

"Keyser," Cydonia's voice is softer now, and although her eyes never leave the boy's face she unconsciously reaches he hand out to touch her companion's, "please, be careful." Their fingers touch briefly, one of the first times that either has let the other come into contact with them, and Cydonia's breath catches uncharacteristically. Is she afraid of him? She doesn't dare to reach further for his fingers, but draws her hand back to her side hastily. The lump in her throat feels like a rock. She can feel the rage still rising like the wave that brought them all together. It would certainly be easier to be a ghost.

Made by Frankel

[kousei ♚]

[attr="id","prestoPicture2"]

K A E

It's in your stare and at your core

Chapter X: to discover a man is to discover yourself.

Everyone's life can be summarised in a book, every page and and chapter intertwining with the intrusion of others. Even I, with all my methodological organisation and endless introversion, have lost count of the chapters filled with pages that hang above the embers. It wasn't long before I went on calling each chapter X before giving it a title. For all my love of the sporadic and my constant sneer of the organised straight life, even I know that my life is nothing special; firmly organised and archived and waiting to be burned when the command comes calling.

When the cold command comes calling I don't want to go like my mother (a traitor to her own blood) or my father (a would-be legacy cut short) and at this rate I think I'll go a different way. Two against one have never been favourable odds and for my love of the numericals and figures I know that so well. I don't care though, I'll kill for the corpses of the unseen if that's what it takes to keep them.

Tension the three of us is like a taught string. We're the head of two opposing armies ,with me massively outnumbered, and unlike the books I'm not the outnumbered good guy. Every twitch of muscle and every shuffle is a blade drawn in preparation for the charge. The unlabelled overzealous boy with a corpse to keep and and memories to die for. If my pages were to burn in the embers today then at least I could say that it was something worth dying for. And since when could I, the rational and desensitised, ever consider a flimsy piece of paper worth dying for?

Chapter X: to discover a man is to discover yourself.

The only thing I've discovered so far is that this man and his bitch are both massive cunts, at least in my eyes. The way he callously holds my father with contempt fills me with rage like a volcano about to erupt. My fists clench at my sides to tightly that I feel as if they are turning as white as bed sheets at my sides. The way this woman stands and looks so uncomfortable isn't much better, constantly stating the obvious (we'll be killed if we're loud) and not helping the situation at all.

”He’s not fucking dead.” He spits venom in my face and ignites a fire deep in my core that only ever burned when people disrespected the picture tucked in my pocket and clutched in my palms. With every breath I take, the heat from the embers draws nearer, my body feels like it's about to move on it's own.

Chapter X: to discover a man is to discover yourself.

I cannot discover the dead, only lament on what they could have discovered.

”Whoever told you he was dead, lied. He left that damned house before he’d get killed. And now he stands in District Four, wanting to know why an obvious runt of his family, carries a photograph of him.”

He shoots through my skin with lies like the pages of the chapters I could never numbers are shot through with ink. His words are a tattoo in the air between us, lingering for what feels like forever. I've spent years spinning webs and seeing through smoke - his smokescreen cannot phase me. Liar. Instantly, his words are brushed to the side; dismissed like a torn page. His smokescreen is thick but I've been surrounded by people who lie and even joined their ranks. He cannot throw me off with his cloud of smoke.

He drops the picture into the grass and I scowl at him, the red flame burning hotter than ever before, but I contain the explosion and all its shrapnel.

Chapter X: to discover a man is to discover yourself.

I haven't discovered anything, control (even over myself) was something I could never easily relinquish. Control over people and the untameable was something I would die to keep control of. I've always known this. It takes all my will and strength to calmly swipe the picture from the ground, my gaze never once leaves the opposing side before me and my scowl is unmovable.

When his female partner speaks she only adds to the thick smokescreen with her lies. "Keyser," and the rest of her sentence blurs.

This time I can't quite see through the screen.

"Why do you keep calling him that?" I ask, despite the blue flame that feels like it's melting me inside out, my voice manages a cold tone.

Chapter X: to discover a man is to discover yourself.

Some things screens of lies are too thick to see through, a shocking discovery. I, who spends all his time with thieves, rapists and murderers, cannot quite see through this cloud of smoke diluted with deceit. Despite the shock and all the fresh crinkles I feel against the surface of the illusion of memory I feel the blue flame begin to die.

When I speak, my words weigh a ton but they fall slow. "He cannot be Keyser Summit," I pause, blurred thoughts slowly sharpening to connect the dots, "because if he was Keyser Summit, he would know a Portia Adler," my body moves on it's own, closing the distance as the dots connect and the blur sharpens. "Keyser Summit died a long time ago, that's why he was never there. If this Keyser knows my Portia then he's-" I cut myself off, as if the words sputtered and ran out of fuel. I'm practically half an arms length from him and I swear, I feel control itself between to come tumbling down.

Chapter X: to discover a man is to discover yourself.

If I discover a man then I've discovered a new thing about myself - the prologue of my story starts with scum who would abandon the pages because they even felt the heavy hand of ink.

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[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

K E Y S E R

Escaping from a forgotten life, just for it all to come running back. And I thought I had a pot full of luck. Ten years without even a glimpse to that family, to that house, to that District. I had tried my best to never even go near the perimeter fence. District Seven doesn’t need me and I don’t need it. My past was hard to shake off but it seems it will take more of a fight to batter this away. It’s like a shadow, no matter where I go; it is always there…unless I am out of the sun. I need to hide in the shadows myself for it to be truly forgotten.

Tension stings the air, like the saltiness from the ocean, the boy adding most of the coal to the burning embers that surround us. He is really one angry kid. If it wasn’t for the fact that peacekeepers surrounded us and that we’re located in a career District, I’d have likely allowed the tension to snap and lash out at this rude boy. He’s most certainly a Summit. But whatever is keeping me calm in this situation is doing well in its job.

Whatever Cydonia is meant to be doing in this situation…well she isn’t doing anything. Her presence is becoming worse than this boy. A useless vegetable. Dropping comments on being careful now and then. Why does she remain standing next to me? Has she not got some ungrateful District Fours to attend to? The levels of awkwardness grow with her being here, the matter of this moment does not concern her and I am likely to get it under control by myself. She’s acting like an anxious mother, worried that her child is going to get hurt. I am not her child, I am nothing to her. Just a man who is going to take something from her in the end.

”Keyser,” Again, her unwanted words cut through the tension although I sweep away the rest of her comment, most of my attention falling on the boy who picks up the image from the ground. Why am I so sentimental to the little runt? I’m probably his uncle; does he have an influx of love for his uncles? What a strange boy. And a nuisance at the same time. "Why do you keep calling him that?" He directs his question towards Cydonia but I instead step in to answer it for her. I can’t allow her to be any more useful in this situation.

”Why do you think, stupid boy?” I’d rather not confirm my identity, just in case he is actually working for the peacekeepers, I can’t allow myself to walk right into the trap. If it is a trap, the peacekeepers have really strung together a creative plan but they cannot deceive me. I’ve been deceiving them for so many years, I know their strengths and this is certainly not one of them. I can’t allow a rude little runt to get me arrested, even if he looks like a Summit.

"He cannot be Keyser Summit," As the boy pauses in his words, I’d wipe my hand across my brow, sweat beginning to attack my face. A humid air fills the tautness of the area, attacking my body with its army. Soaking my skin, the sweat trails down to my eyes, I catch it with the palm of my hand before it can reach them. Everything around us seems to carry on as normal as everyone’s attention has finally shifted elsewhere, I cannot see any prying eyes falling on us.

"because if he was Keyser Summit, he would know a Portia Adler," Every bit of debris has been forced in with the flood. Portia Adler. A name that I had let sink to the bottom of my memories and for it to be fished out by this boy… "Keyser Summit died a long time ago, that's why he was never there. If this Keyser knows my Portia then he's-" The sweat that trails down my forehead begins to multiply, my palm unable to fight it from my eyes. My jaw begins to chatter uncontrollably, I try to fight it by clasping my mouth shut.

”You’re filled with lies boy.” I’m able to stop the chattering with my words, although I feel my right hand begin to shake, slipping it into my trouser pocket to hide the nerves. ”Portia Adler probably died because she was a whore, she had silly ideas.” The woman who wanted to create a family, who wanted me to bound to her for eternity. She wasn’t a whore, that’s a lie. She was too controlling. ”Then he’s what?”

You know the answer Keyser, you can’t deny it.

This flood has too much floating within it and right now I am a piece of that debris. A piece of debris that has no sense of direction. A piece of debris that has likely got stuck behind something and just needs to be released. This boy needs to go.

835

[kousei ♚]

[attr="id","prestoPicture2"]

K A E

It's in your stare and at your core

Chapter X: Everything comes full circle in the end.

Sixteen years and I've been been trapped within a semi-circle. From the day my tongue could form words and my words could form a coherent sentence I was destined to never have it complete. Too many questions from the day I learned what a sentence was, my path was set clear stone in that damn ring but I could never follow the track. Too many questions to look forwards, too many 'whys' and 'hows' to fully complete the cycle. In my case, there were also too many 'where's' for the cycle to ever become viable. A cycle with too many loose ends has no hope of being complete.

(Mummy, where's Daddy?)

The first question I ever asked my mother. One type of question to define me, three words to put a dent in the circle. The moment I asked 'where' the circle was doomed to never complete. Three damn letters and I've defined my existence with a single question that was unanswerable by the woman who had given one service too many. An existence defined by an unanswerable question can never come full circle, it's impossible.

Chapter X: Everything comes full circl-

Negligible, because I'm doomed to never cross the gaping gap left in the cycle of my existence. A segment blown to smithereens by a boy far too curious for his own good. It's impossible for me to come full circle now.

Just like it's impossible that I'm keeping myself calm right now. ”Why do you think, stupid boy?” He adds to his smokescreen of lies and I'm surrounded by venom. Interwoven with hate and spite, the duo's lies get that much thicker but I refuse to allow myself to be blinded to the truth. He is not Keyser Summit, he's lying. I've spent my time avoiding the struggle of the straight life by throwing in my lot with the scum of the earth. The psychotic men and women who were cast out by their families. Lies have that familiar feeling.

Where is it?

He is not Keyser Summit. I can't tell if I'm reaffirming the truth or convincing myself any more. The line between being clear sighted and denial appears blurred before my very eyes.

When he speaks he doesn't add to his lies but he drives his verbal blade where it hurts. ”Portia Adler probably died because she was a whore, she had silly ideas.” And when he leaves the wound I feel the passion ignited that I had only ever felt five minutes prior. It takes far too much willpower, that could only ever be exercised by my lust for control and the desire to not die under a hail of bullets from Peacekeeper gunfire, to not bring my fist back and bring it right beneath his jaw. With enough force against his jaw, I suppose I could knock him unconscious. The only problem would be retaliation from her.

But he knows who she is.

I shoot her a suspicious look from the corner of my eye. Ever the logical one, I never let intricate detail slip my mind. She would retaliate and the Peacekeepers might end up shooting me. Caution is key.

And he looks like the man in the pictu- I'm not allowed to finish that thought.

She had silly ideas. Another tendril to add to this web of lies. The only idea she had was to feed me, clothe me and keep me safe. The only outlandish idea I can ever say she had was to see everything come full circle. As if selling your essence could ever have any kind of happy ending for you or anyone involved. The moment she couldn't locate Keyser the cycle was doomed to stay broken for her.

And the moment I spoke those three damned letters was the moment I blew the segment to pieces and left my existence doomed to never come full circle. The moment I spoke those three letters I was doomed to ask more questions (When's Mummy coming back?), and more questions (Will Mummy be back soon?), and more questions (Mummy's not coming back is she?) until the whole system came crumbling down. The cycle of my existence was doomed to never come full circle the moment I asked spoke those three damn letters. Mummy, Where's Daddy?

I can't even remember the lies she spoke to console me, just the damn question.

And that's why when he calls her a whore and says she had silly ideas I almost snap. To feed a child you never wanted and to hope his existence comes full circle is perfectly reasonable, it's just not possible, therefore it's just not logical.

If he was the Keyser I imagined in the pictures, he wouldn't be gone, he would be buried in the ground. The pages of my story can't begin with scum who would abandon them before they'd felt the touch of ink. They just can't.

”Then he’s what?” My attention is drawn right back to his voice and I find myself looking back at him. But he seems almost nervous.

"Then he better damn well hope he's dead." I answer him, my voice cold.

Chapter X: Everything comes full circle in the end.

Not like this, faith never passed my mind but I pray nothing comes full circle like this.

"Don't talk about my mother that way." I sneer at him, it's not a command. It's a threat daring him to do it again. He's disrespected my father but to disrespect my mother is reprehensible.

Chapter X: Everything comes full circle.

Negligible, an existence defined by denial can't come full circle.

"You can't be Keyser." I tell him, convincing myself more than telling him and there's a tremble in my voice, it's drained of all anger and left monotone.

She told me Keyser would be a great dad when she found him. She told me Keyser treated her well and she told me he was missing us both.

If only I was clear-sighted enough to see through smoke at six years old. Maybe I could know. He's not him, Keyser Summit's dead, he has to be.

"Because you're nothing like she said he was when she gave me this," I hold up the picture so he can see, "you're not him." There's no tremble in my voice.

Chapter X: Everything comes full circle-

How can my existence come full circle when I can't accept the answer to the question that's defined me since I dared speak those three damn words?

"Keyser Summit's dead."

Three words of curiosity broke the cycle, now three words of denial is going to keep it from being mended. I accepted an existence that could never come full circle the moment my mother couldn't give me a valid answer.

---

(WC:1109)

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[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

K E Y S E R

Ten whole years. Despite hiding from the army of white armour, I was still free or still are free. Nobody to dictate my existence. Everything was controlled by me and that is the way it will always be. Nobody will attach strings to me; no obstacle will halt my freedom. I’ll find a way to get around it, by myself. And I’ll find a way to cut the loose strings that somehow find their way onto me. Nothing will do away with the sovereignty that I have formed myself. This runt is just a tiny obstacle which I can easily walk over the lies that he is generating.

I never had a child with Portia Adler.

It’s impossible. It’s possible.

I can’t even remember how we met. Probably in the District, it’s the only possible way in that damned place. What made me fall for her? Everything. A strong independent woman, with the drive to live. That’s what I wanted. That’s that I wanted myself to be like and she helped mould me. A new improved me, better than what that family had brought me up to be like. I was only young when I met her, likely a juvenile but as time went on, I truly knew what love meant…

But here I am doomed by this boy. He’s not mine. She probably slept with someone else after me and thought to claim yours truly as his father. Definitely not mine. His eyes are blue, he is definitely hers but not mine. I need to wash away this poison that has halted me before it festers into a wound. I can’t allow false accusations to pull be down, especially now. The great plan that I have woven with that woman cannot get untangled because of this. My freedom will grow wings if the plan succeeds, I can’t allow this boy to pluck the feathers.

"Then he better damn well hope he's dead." What is death? Death is failure. Death means the end of the game and at this premature time it means I botched the game. Nevah has death crossed my mind, whatever pain comes with it, I’d rather not imagine. I don’t fear it. It’s just not a part of my plan right now. Living in a world full of chaos, death is a complete norm and I’d rather not join the popular trend. That’s not the way to leave a mark.

"Don't talk about my mother that way." Defending his mother, what a typical boy. My mother, she is not worth defending and she is probably dead. But I have defended his mother before. Not too long into our friendship the damned boys of the District, all they had on their minds was the cock in their pants and they liked to wave it around, especially near Portia. A few black eyes and a burst lip sent them home and soft. My own damsel in distress but I am not a knight in shining armour. A knight always has a king to bend his knee too and the only time I will bend my knee is to tie a shoe lace.

"You can't be Keyser." My name has been thrown around a lot in this confrontation. Glancing around to the faces that surround the area, I hope it does not blow my cover. I should have created myself a more diverse disguise. Never have I ever shared my surname with anyone while being free but I’ve always kept my firstname.Probably the only good thing my parents did for me. Keyser. It rolls off the tongue so easily and it sounds vicious. But I need to stop being soft and let go of something I treasure. I soon as I leave this District, I am changing my name. I can’t allow my identity to be let loose; it’s already crossed the defensive line a quarter of mile today as it is.

He’s not yours.

Clearing my mind of the thoughts, my eyes would send invisible daggers towards the boy. Just go, just leave. I’d have swung a knuckle to his face already if it weren’t for the audience. I’m not going to hit a child for the entertainment of others.

"Because you're nothing like she said he was when she gave me this," Rising the old memory in the air, the photograph would find its way back into the conversation. The damn photograph that found its way to me, the damn photograph that started all of this. "you're not him."

I must have been at least seventeen in that photograph, maybe younger. My juvenile side had been extinguished and the man I am today was being built but I wasn’t quite there yet. I wasn’t truly the man I am now. ”I’m not the same man as I was in the photograph.” Extending my finger towards the photograph, I’d be inches away from touching the tear that I had created on it.

"Keyser Summit's dead."

Throughout this he has been adamant that I must be dead but here I stand. Maybe he is Portia’s child but he is definitely not mine.

”I am Keyser but I am definitely not what your mother told you I am.” He is not my child. I had never planned to have offspring. This will not be an unexpected glitch in the plan.

Moving my hand up to my mouth, I’d run the palm of my hand over my lips before keeping my hand by my chin.

He isn’t mine. He’s hers but he is definitely not mine.

[kousei ♚]

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K A E

It's in your stare and at your core

'Your father was-'

Denial sits on the edge of my throat and slowly rots on the tip of my tongue. I was always bitter at the thought of living on a broken circle, a cycle doomed to never be complete because I spoke three fateful words the moment my tongue could string together a sentence 'Mommy, where's Dad?' The moment she could never give me an answer I was doomed to live a broken cycle - not everything can come full circle in the end after all.

Now here I stand, smokescreen faded in the distance and the metaphorical click of pieces finally falling back into place and a cycle mended. I could answer the equation, could always find X, could always find Y, could always find the endpoints and the start points of everything but my own origin. The one question my mother passed onto me that I could never answer 'Mommy, where's Dad?' Now the smokescreen has cleared into the distance and I can see clear as day, the answer to sixteen years of mystery and lies.

I refuse to believe it.

"Keyser's de-" This time denial catches itself in my throats and rots at the back of my tongue. I was never stupid enough to deny the answer when it was right there in front of me. Click. The cycle slowly mending, the missing piece sliding slowly into place like a jagged jigsaw puzzle.

My movement automatic, two steps and I'm further away from him. Despite never backing away from a fight or a question, I know this is something I won't win. I can't win, the answer is crystal clear. He's so adamant that he's Keyser Summit. ”I am Keyser but I am definitely not what your mother told you I am.”

I freeze, like a loaded gun has been pressed into my chest. There's a mountain of evidence and an uncanny resemblance to the man in the picture, my foot are rooted to the ground, no amount of denial can dodge from point blank range. Every key point in that sentence a pull of the trigger followed by a click.

'I am Keyser-'

(Click.)

'but I am-'

(Click.)

'definitely not what your mother told you I am.'

(Bang!)

The end point of the sentence is a canon, ripping through dreams, bone and sinew to strike where it's true. I look to the ground; I've already bitten the loaded bullet. Easily broken muscle, bone, dreams and all I'm left to chew the bitter ashes, the remnants of the hollow muzzle pressed to my chest with a simple sentence and a mountain and mountain of evidence.

'Your father was strong, he was kind and he defended me from all the silly boys.'

(Bang!)

'He would have loved to meet you, he would be proud of you.'

(Bang!)

Every fantasy torn through with the single bullet from the gun loaded with mountains of evidence. This time there is no smoke screen to blind me to the truth and no deceit cloud to hide behind, I'm motionless, as weightless as air. My fists unclench at my sides and my arms turn limp.

With the hollow bullet hole torn through my chest, the stories my mother told me and the illusions I clutched onto for sixteen years, I have accepted that this is a battle I cannot win. I've always been rational, always followed the steps to get from the start to the end and the end point back to the start point - the loaded evidence stares at me like the barrel of a gun, ready for another shot if I dare speak any more denial.

'Your father was-

Stories my mother would tell me like she was reading them from a book are useless now, I'm ready to tear them cover to cover because they are all lies.

"My father is Keyser Summit." The words fall heavy like led, dispelling the rotten ashy denial.

"She told me you were-" I cut myself off, stopping more foolishness from falling from my tongue. "I suppose it doesn't matter..." I pause, looking up from the ground and up to his eyes. We were like two people of different ideal, the head of two opposing armies; now I am ready to stand down. A battle only would have been fuelled by denial and hate but the both of them are already spiralling down the drain. There's nothing to fuel the embers, nothing to fuel the flames, I stand down.

"That means... that means you're my father," I pause, the words sounding like they're in slow motion, "and that means you ran away, we needed you and you ran away."

Instead of taking a step back I take a step forwards. He left us, he left us but I don't have the energy to hate him. All my hatred and denial spiralled down the drain the moment I confirmed who he was. Instead I almost feel the urge to recoil. Scum. He abandoned the pages of my story before the pages could even feel the heavy hand of ink. I didn't have anyone to teach me what it was to be a man, or anyone to teach me about women or anything of the sort.

He left the pages to be burned before they even felt touch of ink.

'Your father was strong, he was kind and he defended me from all the silly boys.'

(Bang!)

I take another step towards him, my shoes feel like led and the paper in my pocket feels heavy. However, the movement is automatic. I pull it out, clutching it tight in my hand. "I think... I think she loved you, y'know. Looking back at it, I remember. The way she spoke about you, like you were some kind of knight in shining armour whenever I brought you up, she even kept the picture of you when she couldn't find you." I tell him, no thought goes into my words - completely out of character for me.

Every step I take feels like my character spiralling down the slipping slide of sanity. Every word spoken is like another bullet put through muscle, bone and sinew; a new wound that can't be fixed, more mounting agony just at the thought of my mother. I grab his hand and push the letter into his palm. "It's a mystery I'll never understand, how could she love someone who clearly never loved her back?" I ask him, glaring right into his eyes.

In all honesty, I hope she died cursing his very existence - that's what I would have done.

I'm decorated with bullet because I denied the obvious truth, I learned the hard way that not even denial can dodge the bullet when the evidence is pressed against your chest as point blank range. Perhaps it's time he takes a bullet or two.

"How about you answer me that, dad." I allow the question to hang in a silence only broken by the past played in the corners of my brain like a broken tape recorder. In the silence I feel weightless.

'Your father was-

It doesn't matter what he was, not when what he is sits in the loaded pistol of evidence pressed against my chest. It stares me right down to my core and it's ready to tear right through it with a single bullet.

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[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

K E Y S E R

Lies filter the air, sucking out the oxygen. Nothing that is being said is true, it can’t be. These are blatant lies or a mistake and I am not standing for any of it. My life is planned by me not dictated by anyone else, it is the whole reason I departed from that damned District. No, forgotten memories cannot be resurrected from the dirt, they aren’t sufficient enough to be types of evidence. Nothing that is being said is believable; I can’t fall for any of it. This kid isn’t mine, he doesn’t even resemble me, it’s not like I am staring straight at my own reflection…

Standing here, all I see is a lie. Denial has taken over and I am allowing it, for it isn’t true denial, I am only denying it because I know none of this is a fact. There is no evidence, just an image and a boy spitting out lies. Anyone could have given him that photograph, there are that many Summits, any of them could have easily placed it in his hand. Ten years of freedom are not going to be torn down within an instant. All those hours, days, months spent moulding the true life that I relish in. I can’t let this child take it away from me….with blatant lies.

"Keyser's de-" The boy cuts off his words but it is easy to finish it off for him. Dead throughout all of this Keyser Summit is dead. If he is Summit, I know too well what that family thinks of me right now. Disregarding my life and presuming I am dead. I’ll allow them to believe that for I am never going to step at that front door to surprise them. Seeing their shocked faces isn’t something that will please me, for I’d prefer to see all their faces lifeless.

A burden now stands in front of me and I must shake it off before I have the chance. Slowly the chains are growing ever so closely towards me, readying themselves to wrap around my limbs and restrict me. I must break the chains before I am locked up in this mess. This isn’t a mess for me to clean, to solve. I haven’t the broom to sweep it away so I must stop it before it becomes one. Even if one of the blatant lies is in fact true, a link in the chain will catch hold of me.

"My father is Keyser Summit." Grabbing hold of my ankle, the first chain pledges to drag me down but it’s another lie. Breaking the chain before it got any tighter, the evidence isn’t sufficient enough. Fending off the other chains that are slowly creeping towards me like snakes, only the excessive lies can save me and evidence will be the thing that defeats me in this fight. He is not my child. I have never had a child.

it is possible though Keyser, every bit of it is possible.

Fixing my eyes on the boy, they haven’t moved from his direction, my eyes are helping fight for the truth while my mind is in utter turmoil.
"She told me you were-" She being Portia of course. It’s possible Keyser, the evidence is there. Retaking my ankle, the chain clasps on tightly this time, while attacking my other foot. Securing me to the ground, the evidence is slowly outweighing the lies but this is a battle that I am not going to surrender too. The white flag is not ready to be raised yet; I can fight for the truth. . "I suppose it doesn't matter..."

It’s possible Keyser, the evidence is right there. But there isn’t enough to be sure.

"That means... that means you're my father," No, he is repeating the lie, this isn’t sufficient enough. Easing ever so closely, the remaining chains are ready to pounce on my freedom. , "and that means you ran away, we needed you and you ran away."

I ran away for my own good, for my own freedom. If I remained at that house, in that District, I’d have likely ended up in the detention centre or under the dirt.

Remaining silent as my mind erupts in utter destruction, I’d allow the boy to flood out the lies, hoping that they tackle the chains that I beginning to smother me.

"I think... I think she loved you, y'know. Looking back at it, I remember. The way she spoke about you, like you were some kind of knight in shining armour whenever I brought you up, she even kept the picture of you when she couldn't find you."

Portia Adler always loved me. And I loved her. But she is a forgotten memory, a memory dragged from the past to add to the lies, the girl is dead and should be forgotten. Pouncing towards me, another chain wraps around one of my arms, dragging me further and further away from freedom. Slowly the lies are disappearing, the evidence is there…

It’s possible Keyser, he’s your son.

Pushing a piece of paper in my hand, I’d open it up, the lettering being familiar. It’s Portia’s writing. All these memories…all these unwanted memories. "It's a mystery I'll never understand, how could she love someone who clearly never loved her back?" Not bothering to answer his question, my eyes run up and down the parchment, the chains tearing me down to the ground as they do.

For once my heartbeat is noticeable as the words begin to fill my mind, every single memory fights through the blockage, all the evidence shines brighter than the denial.

I hope Keyser is treating you well, I hope the Summits are treating you like real family. All of her words, it’s her speaking to me through paper. I can’t deny it. I doubt he ever got treated like real family by the Summits and I would have never likely treated him well. I tore down two lives for my own freedom but is that the price to pay?

"How about you answer me that, dad." Looking up from the paper, the thought of someone calling me dad sends an uneasy feeling through my body. ”Of course I loved your mother, that’s why I left, I didn’t know she was preg…” Cutting off my words, the thought of her carrying my own child ignites itself in my mind as I slowly suffocate under the loss of my freedom. Extending out my hand to the boy, I’d place the paper back in his hand. Sufficient enough evidence.

What do I do now? I am not going back to that damned District with him, how am I supposed to raise a child? He is probably nearly an adult, he doesn’t need me anyway. ”What do you want me to do?”Pleading with him, the sweat begins to return to my brow, I can’t make myself look weak, this too out of character for me.

Wings clipped, embarrassed entirely in front of Cydonia, forgotten memories pulled from the grave. My whole livelihood shattered in just a day. I knew I should have never agreed to come to this District. If it wasn’t for meeting Cydonia, all of this would have remained unknown to me and for the better if it was.

”What did she name you?”