our condolences [pierre/vasco] mayors

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

Pierre Hope

For the first time, Pierre has the District Eight mayor’s house to himself.

So many days spent alone in the justice building office, or the little room crammed with officials as they watch the games action live from his portable projector. After nearly ten years of watching games, his little justice building office has been greatly adapted over the years. To ensure that the lifespan of his desks is longer than a year, they are quickly vacated the day before reaping so that no desk flipping can damage them. Pierre still does not know how they swapped his interior walls from dry wall to solid, another deterrent from the year a fist ended up through them.

Well it has nearly been ten years and just like that, hope is dwindling for another twelve month morale boost. Some blame his presence for the dry up of victors although he is quick to point out the lack of winners from one of the formidable career districts. There is still time but each time they are getting closer and closer. Another fourth place in the recent games, Pierre still questions how Eloise Abramovich was unable to finish the little District Six. A small one so close to victory. A small one like Lily and Paige. Then before that, another fourth place for Reyes Calvo. And then before that, a third place For Nell Cyprus. Then before that…Beatrice’s daughter. It has been three years and he still has not had the nerve to consolidate her. Just an annual ratmas card and an update from his siblings that a nephew is living with her.

Five Hope kids in recent years, he thought being mayor would put a stop to it. He thought wrong. It has just been getting worse and the tension after Eloise’s canon is becoming stronger. Something really ought to change, he is running out of services to open and buildings the District can afford to rejuvenate. His election promises are beginning to fade away and his people are recognising that too.

Pierre has managed to book Abi a fine dining distraction to get her out of the house for a few hours. Preston he rarely sees in the house anyway, and the only staff he has left behind is the chef and he tells them to cook something up easy to serve cold and then finish for the day. He needs no ears during today’s meeting, the agenda is written up in his head for only himself to know.

From the offices, eyes have been on Nine and mostly Eleven for their history of upheaval. Especially since two of the mayor’s relatives were reaped coincidentally for the eighty-fourth. Other than filling the bowl with the same name, he really does not know how pulling paper can be rigged…but it was rigged. He does not tell anyone that thought for the fear that the quell twist will be twenty-four Hopes but…it was rigged!

Mayor Izar is probably just the same kind of fellow as Pierre. A man from a strong family and a District with its own mind. He will have experienced the same pain, heard the same whispers. He is the man he wants to exchange brains with and after years of not wanting to speak to a single mayor other than over the phone, an invitation was accepted. Envy follows him as he reads up on updates from other District, just like Four and their recent victories. An already wealthy state being decorated with more…wealth. Their children are trained to fight while his are trained to work in the factories. It is unlikely traditions will change for Eight, it will be hard to wean everyone off knitting needles and onto spears. If the chance were ever given for a career status, Pierre would stop and think. He wants to give every chance to kids but does he really want to feed the one thing that has been wrecking his life? Not that Eight would be offered it anyway.

Pierre carries each small platter the chef has prepared into his dining room, careful not to drop the mini masterpieces of modest sandwiches and mini pies. It really is a bit too much for two people, but he will be sure to pack some of the patisseries up for Vasco to take away. Plates have been set up at either side of the long dark oak table, however Pierre pushes the cutlery a little closer, he will not be able to hear Vasco at such distance. He is fifty in a few weeks after all. Damn old.

Being alone in such a big house, it does not feel real. Pierre was never once alone in the old terraced two-bedroom house that the six of them used to fill up from top to bottom. Not even in the little shop, there were enough customers to fill every hour of his day with company.

The door knocks and his heart sinks a little, he has met a lot of people in his new role but this one feels a little bit different. This one little meeting, it might just change things and it might not.

Pierre scrambles to the door, trying his best not to take his time answering it. He is not dressed formally today. Just a long-sleeved grey shirt. Now that is spring is here, he can finally retire the cotton sweaters.

The first move he makes after answering the door is extending his hand out to Vasco for a shake. ”Finally, it is great to have you here Mayor Izar. I hope they have been treating you well at the hotel.” Pierre quickly ushers Vasco through the door, leading him to the dining room. He is fast on popping open a bottle of fizz, pouring two glass before being courteous enough to ask whether Vasco cares for a drink. ”Make yourself comfy, take what you like from the table. There is a lot to talk about this afternoon.” Pierre sets himself up at the head of the table, filling his plate with the picnic pickings from the table. ”My condolences to you for the loss of your relatives in these recent games. It can’t be easy.”

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Vasco Izar

Splitting pain came in at the temples, then navigated from the top of my forehead down through my sinuses.

“Mierda…” I rubbed my eyes with the flats of my palms and brushed the sleep out. I opened my them to see the splotched popcorn ceiling above. I retraced the previous evening in my mind. The bar with terrible music, and dancing. Birdie at the bar. Drinking. Loneliness. Leland. Leland’s fist, and my face.

My face.

I pressed a few fingers along the bridge of my nose and hissed. While some of what had happened was a blur, I could still see him towering over me, grabbing me from the stool. I’d tried to shove him off but then his fist met my face, and – well, that explained the blood on my shirt.

I turned on my side and came face to face with a purring cat. He twitched his tail and hopped up onto the couch, comfortably stepping across my stomach to claim his spot at the edge. I let out another sigh and turned over. The sun was coming bright through the windows, and I still needed time to adjust to the world coming alive. I could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen, and the soft footfall at the top of the stairs.

We’d come back after the bar, after we’d talked and I’d explained the hotel was a ways of a walk that I might not have been able to navigate on my own. We’d come back here, and I’d sat on the couch. And then –

Oh.

I put a hand over my mouth thinking of what Birdie had done, how I’d had to apologize. Why did some people mistake kindness for anything else? I struggled to sit up on the loveseat and put my feet on the floor. I glanced down at my watch and could feel the chill run down my spine.

“Hijo de tu puta madre!” I shot up onto my feet and hissed again, this time moving to put a hand on my knee, still stiff from having curled up on a too small couch. I had an hour until the start of one of the most important meetings of my life, and I was in a lonely woman’s house, still half-drunk from a the night before. I turned at the sound of feet at the bottom of the stairs, expecting Birdie, only to find a waifish young man staring me up and down.

‘Well. Birdie doesn’t usually let you all stay over.’ He placed a hand on the bannister and shook his head.

“You shouldn’t cast judgment on someone who’s seen what she has.” I shot back, headache now in full swing. I pressed my hand over my forehead and through my hair. Why was it that teenagers had a way of simultaneously standing on top of a pedestal while managing to crawl at the bottoms of the earth? Thank god Yani was still years away from being one. “Do you have some coffee? Maybe, uh, I don’t know – would your aunt have any clothes for…”

I motioned to the blood stain across my tee-shirt. The curly haired boy let out an exasperated sigh (that reminded me of a brooding Alfonso) and he turned to make his way up the stairs. Halfway he stopped and leaned down over the railing.

‘Leland and a few of the others have left odds and ends. I just did the laundry and was planning on taking them to the shelter. You can get some instant coffee in the cupboard over the sink and heat some water in the kettle. You know how to use a gas stove right? Ugh. Nevermind. Birdie! It’s Blackston… your little man is still here…”

District eight children were a strange breed. I hoped none of mine were ever that rude to a stranger. What with Birdie the way she was, I could understand why he’d turned out as he had. I’d have to pray for them later.

While the water boiled, I stripped off my shirt and started hosing myself down in the kitchen sink. Dish soap under my arms, on my face, and in my hair. I’d just finished toweling off with my spoiled tee when the kettle sounded, and Blackston stood in the doorframe. He handed me a button down shirt and then held out a paper for me to take.

‘The great and powerful above helps those who helps themselves.’ He said with a smile that lingered a little too long. A few drops of water slipped down my forehead and I took the paper and clothes with a nod.

What a strange little gay boy. I mused, looking over the literature before shoving it into my pocket.

I’d sprinted along the sidewalks, excusing myself, bobbing and darting through the folks in my way. A few called out as I passed, but it was too important for me to slow down. This meeting was my whole reason for coming to eight, and now more than ever I needed to talk to Mayor Hope. After four long years in my seat, with one year left – for who knew what the future held – I was running out of time to make a difference.

The apartment buildings and smaller homes gave way to larger estates, and before long the homes had gates and gardens, with stone paths leading to front doors with ornate knockers. I slowed, half from the cramp in my stomach, and at the sight of being in a neighborhood where a man like me – not anything like most of the folks who walked around eight – didn’t run. I staggered along the yards dotted with fountains until I came to the house of eight’s mayor.

I wiped my brow and paced back and forth. Estás listo! Just remember why you’re here. You got this! I hyped myself wandering back and forth, cooling down in the shade of shrubs in front of Pierre’s home. There was no reason to think someone like me, a boy who’d become a farmer, who’d come from nothing, who’d seen year after year of mishaps and tragedy as mayor couldn’t hold his own with the longest serving mayor of panem. I bet we had more in common than not, even outside of having lost our own children, our big families, that we were doing our best.

I closed my eyes and took a breath to center myself before knocking at the door.

Pierre opened the door and offered a hand, which I took with a smile.

‘Finally, it is great to have you here Mayor Izar. I hope they have been treating you well at the hotel.’ He wandered ahead into the hall, and I opened my mouth to answer (no, actually, I fell asleep in your sister’s house, while she cried in her room upstairs) but thought better of it.

“I am happy to be here, Mayor Hope. I managed to spend the evening out and I must admit, I think it got the better of me.” Flashes of Leland, strumming his guitar. Birdie screaming. A rooftop. “You have a lovely home.”

I’d not considered the type of wealth other districts may have had. Not there weren’t a few nicer spaces in eleven, closer to the square. I’d just not grown up around anyone who had money. Never seen a house like this inside. Most of my suits were second hand, and my money went to making sure the rest of the Izars kept themselves fed and out of trouble.

Pierre offered a glass of sparkling wine and I took it, thirsty for a drink. The long table had been set for two, with heaps of sandwiches and goodies plated. My empty stomach gurgled, and I looked from the good mayor to the food. Any man that could put out a spread like this for someone like me couldn’t be so bad, could he?

Make yourself comfy, take what you like from the table. There is a lot to talk about this afternoon.’ Pierre took the head seat and began to fill his plate. I followed, stacking the little sandwiches on my plate in a similar fashion. I was holding one up to my face when he’d offered condolences, trying to determine what the little paste inside could have been (fish? It smelled like fish).

“Oh.” I set down the sandwich and wiped my hands across a napkin. “Well, it means a lot to me, Mayor Hope. I’ve had some time to heal, but it still hurts, deep inside. My family has been through so much… a man such as yourself must know how hard it is.” I stopped, looking from him to my plate. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bring up things you might not want to talk about. I’ve always admired you for how you’ve handled it all, if I may say so.”

I took a long swallow of my drink.

“Sometimes I think about how we’ve been treated, what we’ve given to our districts. And panem.” I started slow, my heart beating a little faster. “I think about what it would take for your people and my people to have better lives. There’s just not enough any one man can do about it though, or one district. Don’t you think?”

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

Pierre Hope

Being mayor comes with a lot of perks. One big house, ‘hard working’ staff and a pay cheque that makes him smile each month. But do all those balance out everything that he has forfeited the day he decided to get up on the stage in the town square and debate with the other candidates? Stress levels have slowly been escalating in recent years, he has found its treatment but there is no cure. Every night now, he is accompanied by a glass of rum or any home-brewed liquor that his favourite vendor at the black market is selling. He is not silly with it though, there is the only rare occasion where he ups to dose to wipe his memory of the events that drew him to his medicine.

Does he think anyone knows about this secret remedy of his? No, nobody must know.

How is the man in front of him coping with the same obstacles that Pierre tries to avoid on a daily occurrence? So many questions for a person that is living his same life. Maybe it is a little bit harder in Eleven. The perks of Eight is that it is so overlooked that no whisper carries that district eleven and their secret rebellion, instead it is just the granny knitting club District.

Pierre takes a large sip of the sparkling wine as Vasco thanks him for the condolences. ”I think this job helps a lot with coping.” His eyes drop to the glass in his hand as he places it on the table. ”It kind of forces me to, there is enough going on to keep my mind busy. As you must know yourself, there is never a quiet day being mayor.”

Of course, the real reason for this conversation was not to trade wool for grain but when Vasco starts poking at his brain, his lips quickly seal up; a sudden reluctance to spill. It is as if he is in interrogation room and President Snow has a gun pointed at his temple. Just let it out, slowly. Pierre fiddles with napkin on the table, twisting it between his fingers and occasionally scrunching it up into a ball. ”A whole lot needs to change for anyone in Eight or Eleven to have a better life. Yes no one District can do anything about it except y’know, the one in the middle of them all. The Capitol makes every decision, even as mayors we have to do as we are told and accept whatever they command of us…” It is a half thought, a realistic one without any consequences. For the entire decade, he has taken note of every wish that President Snow sends via the telegrams and Capitol official communications and just gotten on with it. Is there really any chance for a change, right now before another quell twist looms? ”What can Eight and Eleven really do? There have been some small demonstrations here in the past and the peacekeepers have not let them last past the hour. They are so good at ushering them away that any talk of them ever happening, never gets past my office. “ Pierre finally drops the napkin in his hand and begins to fidget with a bread knife instead, his fingers following the blunt edge of the steel. ”The morale is dropping though, since our last victor I can tell there is no joy left in anyone, even after the Ratmas market. It just did not last long enough. Is that the same in Eleven? What is the morale like there right now?”

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Vasco Izar

Would it have been better if I could have separated out the work from how I felt? I wanted to admire Pierre for the thought, but I don’t know if I’d ever be able to do the same.

Eleven had taught me that we may have planted seeds and tilled the soil, but hard work and patience would be the things that brought a good harvest. If we didn’t put a piece of ourselves in our work, we’d miss all the little signs to a bad crop: weevils that fester, how the rains have spread out better or worse across acres, or missing topsoil. The work was more than just a means to an end, it was life – it was us.

Maybe that was why it hurt so badly when no matter what I could have done, the results wound up the same. A blighted crop questioned whether what I did served any purpose at all. Time was supposed to heal the wound, but it wouldn’t ever bring them back to us.

‘A whole lot needs to change for anyone in Eight or Eleven to have a better life. Yes no one District can do anything about it except y’know, the one in the middle of them all. The Capitol makes every decision, even as mayors we have to do as we are told and accept whatever they command of us…’

I see how he’s been a politician for ten years, and likely would be for more if he chose to. The tactical, centered position that kept a man out of trouble. One that the bugs inside his home would record and set off no alarms.

‘What can Eight and Eleven really do? There have been some small demonstrations here in the past and the peacekeepers have not let them last past the hour. They are so good at ushering them away that any talk of them ever happening, never gets past my office.’

We’re relics. Sitting here in a house that would’ve been big enough for three families in Eleven, eating prepared sandwiches and drinking sparkling wine.

Men raised under the height of the capitol’s power, both of us had seen what their cruelty could do. I remembered the demonstrations of the late 50s, and the disappearances. I’d kept my head down afterward for Emma, my children, and for the rest of the Izars. We didn’t have the luxury of not working the fields and marching against the peacekeepers without starvation or a hanging. Promises of a better life always seemed imaginary; especially when our family looked out for one another. We kept a quiet dignity that celebrated small victories, and kept our hope alive.

But this hadn’t stopped them from taking Benat. Iago. Levi. Salome, Raquel, or Gabe. Alfonso. Sarina.

‘The morale is dropping though, since our last victor I can tell there is no joy left in anyone, even after the Ratmas market. It just did not last long enough. Is that the same in Eleven? What is the morale like there right now?

“We’re resilient in Eleven. Kass coming home should have been no surprise; our children know hardship and have a strength that the capitol seems to have forgotten.”

I finished off another one of the sandwiches and moved to wipe my mouth with the edge of the cloth napkin.

“Mayor Hope, I grew up in that soil back in eleven. We were lucky to have a meal some days, luckier still to be surrounded by folks that showed me the best side of human nature. And I guess I grew up with a piece of my heart stuck in that soil, too. Until now I’d been like you, thinking how there’s only so much we can give to our people.”

I could feel my heart beating, and the sweat collecting underneath my arms as I spoke. Ten years ago, I’d have never have spoken this way.

“And hard as these last four years have been, I’m thankful to have had the friends, and family I’ve had. Because they’ve helped me heal, and they’ve made that little piece of soil resilient in a way I’d never thought it could be.”

We had our traditions back in Eleven.

Quiet pieces of dignity patched together that made us who we were. A way of life that came from generations stretching back, hands that had prepared paella and prayed over beads, had seen to teaching about death as a part of life to be celebrated, and a language that sang so that each word rang out with meaning.

“There are people that think power makes life worth living that will do anything for it, and to hold onto it, too. Well – I’ve tasted what power does and I don’t want it, and doubt I’ll hold onto it. But I’ll be damned if I don’t use it to do what’s best, not just for eleven, but for everyone.”

What the capitol had done was enough to take a man who believed and hoped, who prayed and worried over his family, and ignite the sort of fire to end this cycle or die trying.

“Is it that they are joyless, here in eight, or hungry for something new? Because Eleven could help to feed them, my friend. But do you think they would welcome someone like me offering a hand?”

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

Pierre Hope

Everything is centred around the games, it should not be, but it is. Life dictated by an annual event. Nearly every stage of Pierre’s life has been ruled by it. Teenagerhood spent trying to dodge it, a parenthood that has been torn apart by it and now being mayor, it is the thing that drives most of his policies. He can make life in the factories better. He can give holidays to the seamstresses and cut the shifts of those stitching the peacekeeper’s uniform. The Games? Pierre can do nothing about the games but send condolences to the friends and relatives of the pair that die. Every year.

Life cannot be fulfilling when an entire District must witnessed two of their own be murdered every year and there is simply nothing Pierre can promise to do about it.

Vasco talks about his history, times of empty stomachs and a hard graft. Pierre drops the little meat pastry from his hand, leaving it on the plate. His appetite quickly swiped away at any mention of hardship. Of course, it is a little battle of who has had it the hardest. Pierre has had his share of what he calls a struggle. A childhood missing out on sunshine while avoiding losing his fingers in the mills. Since getting the shop it got a little bit better, each year got a little bit better. Until the seventieth.

“Is it that they are joyless, here in eight, or hungry for something new? Because Eleven could help to feed them, my friend. But do you think they would welcome someone like me offering a hand?”

Eight ticks away on a continuous conveyor belt, with the odd malfunction. Pierre leaves his house everyday to the same District. To the same landscapes. To the same faces. Some people thrive with the routine, but he guesses the odd rebel who defaces the justice building now and then likes to see the odd malfunction last a little bit longer.

”For sure greater changes are needed. Changes that are little out of my grasp. But I am not too greatly sure about two Districts working together. There is some pride here in Eight, but we could try it. Any means possible to putting a smile back on their faces. Another drive in life than to just slug on working the industry.” Pierre, if he had the choice to choose the industry to work in, it would be six’s. Not the handling of the human body but maybe mixing chemicals together to make all the medicines. A subject he lacks any knowledge in but for sure he would thrive in it. It is just like stitching two textiles together to see if they match.

Pierre adjusts his position, sitting upright in his seat, both hands resting on the surface of the table. ”Alliances have proven to be quite powerful, especially in the games. What are you trying to propose Vasco? There is no point drawing out this conversation, I am the only one listening.” There is a rumble in the air, a shift in the ground of Eight. Pierre can take them all in either direction, maybe Vasco knows the way.

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Vasco Izar

I’m afraid to think that no one could see me as a revolutionary.

Tío Vasco, the man that tucked his daughter into bed with a kiss on the forehead. Paid pull price at market, even after a sheepish attempt at haggling. I showed up early to cook outs with a case of beer under my arm or a set of freshly baked brownies. I tucked my shirt into my pants (when Emma reminded me). I prayed, and not just for myself. Someone that’d been lucky enough to be surrounded by the warmth of family to guide him through any patch of darkness.

We’d taken the salted earth of Casco Viejo and tilled it into something that could survive for generations. Even through summers that choked our crops with drought, or winters that brought sickness and hunger that gnawed at our stomachs, we persisted. Not because we had thought we could go it alone; we’d only survived because we’d known it was more important to lift one another up, than hold one each other down.

A man could be broken by the cruelty of the capitol standing alone. Growing up I’d seen enough times the men who grew red in the face and snapped back at peacekeepers and overseers. That their anger didn’t serve as resistance so much as an opportunity to be made an example.

There was power in picking apart the little differences we showed, as though there was something subhuman in clinging to old traditions. The mocking sing-song of them repeating us speak in our language. That of a million little cruelties, a peace keeper had once grabbed my foil covered lunch, taken a bite of an empanada and said to me if I liked to eat things stuffed with shit, I could help myself to the fertilizer on the ground.

Hatred bred so they could file us down and clear away the bits and pieces that set us apart.

Xuxa had told me once how hatred had seized the rebels, too. Back in the dark days, that as brave as some had been, they were willing to commit atrocities to settle the score.

‘For sure greater changes are needed. Changes that are little out of my grasp. But I am not too greatly sure about two Districts working together. There is some pride here in Eight, but we could try it. Any means possible to putting a smile back on their faces. Another drive in life than to just slug on working the industry.’

Is this how it had started ninety years ago, when they’d met to hang their hats on a hope of starting a new world? Had they the same flutter of hope in their chests, soon replaced with the fear of the choice they’d be making?

Pierre wasn’t a fool, and he had to know what coming together could mean.

‘Alliances have proven to be quite powerful, especially in the games. What are you trying to propose Vasco? There is no point drawing out this conversation, I am the only one listening.’

“My nephew Gabe, he allied with a girl from eight. Gilly, I think her name was?” I started. “It’s true, a good friendship can be powerful in helping one another. In doing better. Or standing up to those that would do us harm.”
Eight and Eleven were a start, but we couldn’t be the only ones.

“I want to work with you, Pierre. I’m tired, and eleven is tired, of going it alone. We’re so much stronger when we come together. If we could convince others to join, too – to stop trying to keep everything to ourselves, to really commit to helping one another, we could change things. Give them something better to live for.”

Treason was a half-step from truth.

“We both know what it means to sacrifice. And if it’s taught me anything, if I’m still standing, it’s not that I’ve done it on my own. It’s that my family, my district has had my back. And so I want it to be the same between us. For whatever we might face.”

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

Pierre Hope

Nearly ten years as mayor and Pierre has never stepped out of line. Well not publicly. There is no written handbook as mayor, no time to have a play with training wheels. One acceptance speech later and he was thrown into the office with a pile of affairs to deal with. All these years, he has just gone with the history of Eight. Continued with everything that all the citizens have grown to live with. A routine. A simple lifestyle of getting up each morning to work.

Is it really the time for a change? What difference has there been over the past eighty years?

Pierre has made a dramatic change to his life. Once a simple modest tailor with his own shop and a loving big family. Now he is a man in power with a smaller, withdrawn family. Changes come with consequences and what consequence will come from what Pierre predicts that Vasco has brought along with him today? Whatever it is, it will be a big leap for such a little District. He does not know whether anyone is ready to put down the needles and stitchwork, is a revolution something that District Eight can really lead on?

Pierre holds so much doubt for his people, yet he has seen the community spirit. The market brought so much sharing and compatibility with other Districts; it is clear they can work with the other numbers. Eleven and Eight, maybe they can be allies. Vasco talks about the young Gillian from a few games back, the faces of the tributes that have fallen during his run as mayor are still clear in his mind. There is no way their names will fade, they have been burned onto his flesh as soon as their relatives come knocking on his door, begging for answers.

He does not feel comfy in his seat anymore, every wooden bump is felt across his back. Old knots in his muscles quickly make their appearance and he tries to adjust his posture to fix it with no avail. It is the sudden realisation of pressure, of the reality of the choice he makes today and how much of an impact it will be, not just his personal life but on everyone around him, including strangers he has never met. Signing contracts to fix factory roofs is much easier than this.

”Well I suppose this is not just a trade deal you are after. Although we could really do with expanding our grain supply. The last time Eight saw any change was when they chose us for the Ratmas market, the people have had their taste of a different communities. What is the goal of this new alliance then, Vasco? What is it that you predict we are to face in the near future, I am all ears?”

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Vasco Izar

When I’d sat in my hotel room the other night on top of the stained comforter in a room bathed through red neon light, I’d thought this was a mistake. We could talk about a trade deal, our children, and I’d smile and be on my way back to eleven. I’d have told myself it was too big a risk to let Pierre know what I really thought. We were too old and too far trod on the path of grief to ever want to take such a risk; it’s why the capitol had put both of us in as mayors. Faces that calmed the districts. Men tied up in puppet strings for their masters, too afraid of what might happen to their family should they step out of line.

I suppose Birdie Hope was to blame.

Watching her in the light of the bar, the tempest of a woman that reeked of loneliness and desperation, she was still more whole than most of the folks that walked the district. There was passion there, broken as it might have been. A woman who’s still beating heart threatened to show you everything with such raw honesty, you couldn’t look away. She’d mistaken my kindness for more, and who’s fault was that? She’d lost her daughter and it was all because of us; she’d lived in a lonely house because no one had bothered to pick their heads up to see she’d gone missing.

Yet despair wasn’t all that was there, not by a longshot. The genuine warmth, and curiosity was enough to bowl a weaker man over. She worse her heart on her sleeve and cut you in the same breath. And it was the indomitable spirit she possessed, even after all the pain and suffering, that inspired me.

We had to do better, to live for one another, to reach out a hand and hold one another because we owed it to one another.

And all the pain that they could rain down on us from the capitol? I wasn’t scared anymore. I’d rather been whipped in the public square having spoken the truth than spent another twenty years sitting in the mayor’s chair nodding my head as they stripped us of our dignity.

“It’s been four years, and I can’t sit back in my chair and keep telling the people in my district that things are getting better. I can’t dig another well or fix up another school when it’s liable they’ll steal every last ounce of rice or work us until we collapse in the fields.” It’s strange, the sweat that collected under my arms and the way my heartbeat grew fuzzy, but how I couldn’t help smiling. “An alliance? I want to join forces, Pierre. You and me – three, four, maybe twelve, who knows.”

My voice was low and crept to a whisper, “Enough with trade talk, that’s too small. We need to plan bigger. It’s time enough,” I imagined Uxue then, dragged from her home. The way they’d burned down our village, and left us for dead. The seven other children, and my daughter, who’d paid for a war we’d forgotten.

“We’re stronger than they want to admit. Especially now.” How had they let Sampson escape? How had there been an explosion at all in our district? Were they really that afraid of us that they thought taking two more of our children would be enough to silence us? “We’ve done enough suffering. It’s time that we put an end to it. Or…”

I chewed my bottom lip and looked down at the long wooden table.

“Or we waste our time, and retire. As footnotes.”