facing tempests of dust {jb: karmichaels}

[rook]

jano karmichael

up on melancholy hill there's a plastic tree
are you here with me
just looking out on the day
of another dream

My anger is now repressed. I feel more in control of myself than I did a few minutes prior. Mother always said that once you understand why you are angry, you can control it. I don't always find that to be the case, because I'm not always certain as to exactly why I am angry. I'm angry at Castor, I'm angry at the Capitol, I'm angry at those dirty bastard Peacekeepers. I can recognise that there is nothing I can do, that the things that have made me in such a state are beyond my control. What I can do is manage myself, accept what has happened, and move forwards.

When you don't believe in anything at all you lose sight of where you're going. We all need direction in our lives, even if that direction is somewhat unorthadox, it is better than losing yourself. Everything I am has burned to char, left smoking in the open, the exposed remains of something once quite magnificent blowing away in the wind. I used to be a good person, I know that much. I was bright, optimistic, with goals that were both realistic and commendable. I was going to make a difference in this world. I had a future. Now, I don't even have a tomorrow.

But that was my choice, wasn't it? Even if Castor was the one to volunteer, I still chose to follow her into this calamity. You could argue I didn't really have a choice given that she is my twin sister who I would go to hell and back for - and it seems I am, but ultimately this was my decision, and I made it without much hesitation at all. I merely asked myself a simple question - Am I going to regret volunteering to protect my sister?

The answer was simple - Could I live with myself if I didn't?

Despite it's vibrant red walls and thick velvet carpets, the Justice Building is not a warm place at all. The walls have a certain coldness to them, like the very bones of this place are dead. I'm standing in a carcass, the belly of the beast, and these walls are rotting. Portraits of past Tributes hang on the walls, staring down at me. My eyes move across from frame to frame, my head bobs up and down as I note each one dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. I move around the room, corner to corner, dead, dead, dead, dead. Where the portraits end, Castor stands, facing slightly away from me. I take a shaky breath.

"I don't care that you did it," I tell her, swallowing the lump in my throat. If she wanted to die, she would just kill herself, so there's something more here, "I want to know why you did it."

Ultimately, one of us, or both of us are going to die. That's how it is. We don't get to come out of this together. I'm pretty sure that she knew I would volunteer if she did, so she must have something planned here. Is she trying to be a martyr? Send some kind of message to the Capitol? Is this a revenge thing?

"Why do we have to die, Cas?"

Why do I have to die? Maybe if I can understand a bit better, that side of my anger can then be controlled.

But then, why control it when I'm definitely going to need it later?

well you can't get what you want
but you can get me so let's set out to sea
'cause you are my medicine
when you're close to me
when you're close to me

[Python]

castor karmichael

Her obituary was pre-written: a girl who couldn’t count her mistakes on both hands. Castor was not built for tragedy, yet it stalked her like a shadow. When the riot evoked her rage, it swept the Square like a hurricane until her knife found that Peacekeeper’s heart seven times, plunge after plunge after plunge. It was overkill. Later on, when she was labeled fugitive and fled to the forest with her brother, she began to contemplate regret. The loss of their baby sister was an everlasting wound that would bleed until the earth was satiated with suffering, but what would’ve happened if she hadn’t lost control? They could’ve fled, buried their sister, and lived with the tragedy in the safety of their home. Their father wasn’t an ideal man, but he could grant a roof over their heads.

They lost everything instead. A sister, a home, a normal life, an entire sanity’s worth of happiness. And for what? An impulsive act of vengeance. It created a chain reaction of consequence after consequence, each one direr than the last. The chain had wrapped itself around her throat like a noose, pulling her into the trees they once thought they could hide behind. In reality, there was no escape. It was a fabricated construct, a children’s story. They could rebel and rebel but the Peacekeepers would always spit on their bowed heads, and she had long since lost her energy to fight back. Her eye was the last thing she had wanted to lose, but history tends to repeat itself.

She stared out the window of the Justice Building, contemplating everything that had led up to this moment. Logically she knew there were other options, but when the world felt as if it was closing in, there was tunnel vision. At the end of the tunnel was death, winking at her from the reflection of a scythe. If she stayed here, she would wither away. If she volunteered, she would probably die some other awful death. But it would be quicker.

Now she was counting her regrets. She wanted to be angry, she wanted to smash her fists against the window, but that would solve nothing now. Powerlessness had cornered her. She would not bite back this time.

”Why do we have to die, Cas?”

She grimaced. The death sentence was meant for one.

”We didn’t have to,” she said, pointedly. She turned to face him but couldn’t keep her expression twisted into a scowl. It was too exhausting, too pointless. She knew why Jano did it. She simply wished he hadn’t. ”But I didn’t want to stay here and die in a dark alley while Peacekeepers laughed at us.”

Do you have pride, Castor?

”So, I’m taking another route.”

[rook]

jano karmichael

up on melancholy hill there's a plastic tree
are you here with me
just looking out on the day
of another dream

My sister has always been a figure of solidarity to me, resolute in the face of all our troubles. I would argue that she has lost far more than I have in this whole ordeal, because she was the one who was holding Elise when she was shot, the one who stabbed the Peacekeeper, the one who had to do time in the Detention Centre, who lost an eye and felt so void of hope that she volunteered her life because it was the only way forwards. Or at least, so it would seem - I'm yet to be sold on exactly why she is doing this, moreover why she's dragged the two of into a nightmare scenario. There is something bigger going on, some larger plan working the gears inside her head, I can sense it, I just don't know what it is.

I truly don't believe she wants to die. She has survived too much to throw it all away so rashly. Things did not look good, granted - the burned remains of our treehouse sanctuary were still a steaming hot pile of ash and char in the forest, and our entire collection of evidence and corruption claims against the District were completely destroyed, but it wasn't like we didn't have options, because we did. We had plenty of options, they were just all less favourable than our previous situation.

It boiled down to either falling in line or moving back in with Father. The latter of which is something Castor would never consider, and I have my doubts, but I'm a far stronger person now than I was two years ago. He wouldn't dare hit either of us now, I don't expect. He is far too weak, and we have grown too strong. He's a grubby little coward, hitting children who were too terrified to fight back or say anything against him. If we wanted, we could have marched in and taken that house, and he could have done nothing to stop me. I'll be fucking damned if I ever let that shit-stain of a human being hit my sister again.

I take measured breaths, trying to calm myself down, but each one is more shaky than the last. Panic is like a white hot fire inside of my head, bleeding down heavy onto my chest. I raise a hand to my forehead, grimacing as my cold palm presses against my almost fevered skin. Three days food wasn't a lot, but at least it was time to think and plan our next move. It was better than giving up and volunteering for the Hunger Games because all life had lost meaning. She is stronger than that, I know she is.

"We didn't have to..." She puts emphasis on we, and I frown. Surely she knew that by volunteering she was sealing both of our fates? There was no way I would ever, ever let her do this alone. I look the other way, back to the paintings. Dead, dead, dead. There hasn't been a District Seven Victor in living memory, nor in recent history. The odds of her coming out the other side of this are ridiculously slim, given the additional hurdle that is the Quell twist. I bite my lower lip as the reoccurring realisation that either I am going to die, or she is going to die or both of us are going to die hits me for maybe the fourth time in the space of a minute. Each time it's a twisting punch to the gut, knowing that we won't be coming out of this alive together.

"But I didn't want to stay here and die in a dark alley while Peacekeepers laughed at us. So, I'm taking another route." She tries her best to explain, but it's just not sinking in for me. Does she think she can win? Is that what this is all about, or does she really want to die? I am sure as hell not ready to die yet. I didn't spend all that time fighting the Capitol to let them win.

"Yeah, no offence Castor but your route sucks." I say, half joking, but then there is no lightheartedness in my defeated laugh, "It really, really fucking sucks."

The air feels thin, so I press my palms against the wall and lean on it, like it's the only think keeping my upright. Breathing hurts my chest, so I hold my breath, digesting what she's just said, and eager to hear what her plan of action is, all the while unable to look in her direction for a great number of reasons.

What's next?

Two broken souls facing the great bastion of authority, just like it always has been I suppose, only now we're leaning on the edge of infinity, blindly taking a step into the unknown.

And I'm going to fall, fall, fall.

well you can't get what you want
but you can get me so let's set out to sea
'cause you are my medicine
when you're close to me
when you're close to me

[Python]

castor karmichael

In her half of the world, she could see two finales; death and death, one slightly more ambiguous yet less excruciating than the other. There was a mirror image of her corpse; starved and pale sat the one on her left, crumpled like the ashes of their home, and the other was a silhouette leaking black ichor because she didn’t know how the Games would kill her. She was gambling how she spent her last moments. What lay in store for them could be more painful than they could ever imagine (although she had her doubts), but she was willing to risk her own sanity for a death that wasn’t humiliating.

She didn’t expect to win. She expected to lose, but at least nobody would be laughing.

Jano didn’t deserve to be wound into her thread of bad decisions. She wished she could’ve planned it out. The Capitol had to thrive off of drama – a warning could’ve prompted a more calculated outcome. She would’ve made her decision in the dead of night and talked it over with Jano. Perhaps he wouldn’t have volunteered solely based on the refusal to leave her side.

So stubborn, he was. She should’ve known. What a mess you’ve made.

That was a fucking understatement.

She wanted a route to freedom. Feeling trapped among ashen trees with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide forced her back into the prison persona – a frightened, cornered child stricken by learned helplessness. She controlled nothing, she rebelled against nothing, she was reduced to nothing. Perhaps this is exactly what they wanted, to corner her and watch her squirm until she made another bad decision. Only this one truly counted. Death was not to be trifled with, after all.

But no matter what, it was still better than that hellhole. I’d die before I returned. She supposed she intended to. However, she hoped Jano didn’t believe that this was her way of giving up. No, this was control. A grasp on her own fate, more solid than what lay in store here. Unfortunately their fates were tangled together, and it was too late to cut the strings. Jano was stranded with her, and of course he wouldn’t understand her power struggle or the reasons that plagued her. She didn’t expect him to. She also wouldn’t fault him for it. He could be angry, he could blame her, and she would only accept it. There was nothing she could change about the past. I just wish I could.

Through some miracle, maybe one of them would survive.

”Every route I’ve taken sucks,” she mused, practically sighing in exasperation. ”Is this one really that different?”

Yes.