Since most people here seem to take their writing rather seriously, there are a few things you should probably know before you start reading mine.
Fan fiction is my way of dealing with the dreaded "block", hence I stick to three rules.
1. Don't think too far ahead.
2. Don't go back to revise or fix anything.
3. What gets put on the page, stays on the page.
Yes, it's probably the perfect recipe for an outright rant. So, please don't expect any fancy plotting, well-crafted scenes, or brilliant dialogue. Without any disrespect meant for the author who created the captivating world I'm now mucking about with - this is where I give myself full permission to be sloppy. If you decide the result isn't worth your time, don't read it. Also, since English is not my first language, try not to mind any mistakes - or my general awkwardness with words. Flames are welcome, as long as you make an effort to censor out certain words of the four-letter variety before hitting the 'submit' button.
All that said, here goes.
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THE MOLE WHO TRIED TO DIG UP A MOUNTAIN
CHAPTER 1
It has been five days since I last saw the sky or smelled the open air, but the persistent dull ache in my knee keeps telling me that rain must be on its way. Sure enough, I soon hear first a trickle and then a gush of water nearby, as the drains begin to fill up.
I lock my eyes on the point in the distance where the walls of the Transfer converge. Still nothing. The only movement is that of my own shadow on the pavement, as an orange light over the entrance of a side tunnel blinks lazily. A glance at the watch tells me it's almost midnight. I'm running late.
Just when I've begun to seriously consider whether I should bite the bullet and start walking, a pair of headlights finally appears in the distance. Seconds later, a bright yellow van comes to a stop beside me.
"You're late," I grumble as I climb in and settle into the passenger seat.
The driver only gives a quick dismissive wave before taking off again. He is middle-aged, stocky, very blue-eyed and very quiet - so quiet, in fact, that when I first met him, I suspected he might be an Avox. In reality, he just doesn't like talking. I've hitched a ride with him almost every night for the past year, and his contribution to our conversations so far amounts to approximately two dozen words. I don't even know his name - but I sort of like him, and he doesn't seem to mind me, either.
The Capitol is a strange place. On the surface, the whole city seems like one bright, well-lit collection of doll houses, with nothing irregular about it. However, if one digs just a few inches deeper, its dark, dank and seedy underbelly begins to emerge. Most respectable citizens have hardly even heard of its existence - save, perhaps, a few rumors they might have picked up at a party, some time in the early hours when people are feeling adventurous and whisper of things that are better left alone.
I am not a respectable citizen. And I rarely know how to leave things alone.
From the time I was a very young child, my father taught me two things. First, that there are always choices. Second, that there are always consequences. When I became a little older, I added a third truth: there is always a pattern. So, when I had to take my pick between two undergrounds, I weighed my options and chose this - "the other Capitol". Now my whole life is here, from my home and my work all the way down to the little games I like to play.
While Not Avox - as I've taken to calling him in my mind - stares at the empty road ahead, I take the opportunity to check my communicator. Fancy gadgets are the one weakness I will probably never manage to overcome. This one, complete with all the regular bells and whistles - plus a couple of thoroughly non-standard extras, courtesy of a little repair shop few people ever have occasion to visit - cost me the better part of a month's pay. It's worth every cent.
A quick scan of my messages reveals nothing new, and there are no active alerts from the moles I set free to burrow in the networks last night, so I flick the device off and tuck it back in the inside pocket of my overalls.
Not Avox drops me off at a side entrance to the Block before heading for the delivery bay around the corner. I make my way to the heavy door and wave at the camera mounted two feet above it. When there is no response after a while, I give the door a couple of good bangs with my fist. Even so, it takes another minute until a buzzer finally sounds and the door slides open. The dark-haired Peacekeeper on the other side frowns at me.
"If you are going to keep using this entrance, can't you at least be on time?"
"Sorry, Marcus. Transport issues."
I start down the corridor, but Marcus stops me.
"Listen, Sliver - I don't know how long I can keep letting you in this way. There's been some talk of increasing the security measures lately."
"Why?" I ask. He shakes his head.
"You know better than to ask me that. Anyway, I just wanted to give you a fair warning. You might want to reconsider how you feel about that employee bus."
"Right. Thanks."
I make my way through the maze of corridors, pondering this new development. Security in the Block has never been lax, but during my eighteen months here, I have found out that there are some areas where one can get away with a few things - like using the wrong door to report to work, if the guard posted at it happens to be a... hmm - what? A friend? No, that's not quite right. An acquaintance? Still not right. Is there such a thing as a "former brother"?
I don't like the direction this train of thought is taking me. Memory Lane is for people who like the open air, not for those who keep looking for ever deeper and darker holes to crawl into. I make an effort to concentrate on the present.
Right now, the preparations for the Quarter Quell are at their height. The gong will go off in the morning. The last interviews stirred up some pretty intense commotion all over the city, as well as on all the networks. Everything is geared towards the show of the century and anticipation runs high.
What bothers me is that beneath the surface, a number of usually busy channels have suddenly gone quiet. The rest are still filled with the usual chatter going back and forth - schedules, prep lists, catering demands - nothing interesting. But it's the blank ones that keep nagging at me. Did someone call the silence? If so, why? What do they know that I don't? And exactly how is the security level in the Block connected to it?
There are no coincidences. So where is the pattern? There are bits and pieces I can figure out - the obvious ones, like the fact that someone is about to catch hell for the tricks pulled during the last few days - but I have a disturbing feeling that I'm missing something. Something big. I practically itch to check my moles again, but resist the temptation. I'm pretty confident that my communicator is untraceable, but that's all the more reason not to flaunt it in view of the cameras here, lest someone pick up on that little detail.
The moment I enter the storage room, it's clear that Metella, the maintenance manager, is in a foul temper.
"Be late one more time, and I'm putting you on the cleaning crew," she hisses. I give the shelves behind her a quick glance.
"That might not be such a bad idea. At least I'd have something to do. Any news on the circuit boards?"
"No. And there's another camera that's out in Section 9." After a moment's pause, she adds, "But we still have a couple of crates of light bulbs in the back corner. I'm sure you can think of something clever to do with those."
Just looking at her acid smile makes my jaw ache. I sigh as I heave a portable step ladder onto my shoulder, pick up a box of bulbs and begin to do my penance.
The Block is a monster of a building. Its ten sections of holding cells, interrogation rooms and medical facilities - the latter equipped not for healing, but prolonging life so that pain could be inflicted in more inventive ways - span about five actual street blocks, and it has four underground levels. My maintenance department ID gives me access to all sections except 9 and 10, which require special clearance. Section 1 is reserved for everything that's needed to keep the place running: storage areas, workshops, administration offices, laundry rooms, kitchen facilities, a dining hall and an employee break lounge.
It takes me nearly five hours to work my way through sections 2, 3 and 4, mostly because there is a flood of new complaints to be noted down - blocked drains, leaky pipes, fried sockets, blown-out screens, you name it. It's as if the place is falling apart bit by bit. I fix what little I can as I go, but by the time I get back to the maintenance department, I have a foot-long list of things that need replacing. It does nothing to improve Metella's mood. I try to zone out as she dives headlong into a rant about how impossible it is to keep up with the supply demands, since there are none coming in.
"Besides," she finally complains, "I already have people calling in sick left, right and centre - and the Games haven't even started yet!"
That's one of the many drawbacks of working down here - we don't get the same holidays as most people in the Capitol. The Block never stops running.
"I can probably manage to do something about the plumbing and the sockets with what we've got," I tell Metella as I rummage through some boxes. "But as for the screens and cameras, I'm pretty much helpless."
"Forget about the plumbing," she quips. "I have plenty of people who can dig hairballs and loose teeth out of pipes."
I raise my eyebrows. "Does that mean I get to take a break?"
"Don't even dream of it. The head of Section 9 is having a fit over his cameras."
"So?" I ask. "Section 9 isn't my job. I don't even have permanent clearance. Where's Rufus?"
Metella grimaces. "At home. With a broken wrist. I think that one's for real." She sighs. "I promised I'd at least send someone down there to take a look."
"Oh, sure. I can take a look. I can take a dozen looks, for all the good it will do without any parts."
Metella gives me an expression that is almost pleading. "Just go and..." She throws up her hands. "Oh, I don't know. Pretend like you're doing something about it. Anything to get him off my back for a few hours, all right?"
"You'll owe me," I risk telling her. "Let them know to expect me."
Fifteen minutes and a quick coffee break later, I step out of the elevator at the entrance to Section 9 and press the intercom button.
"Speak," a voice barks.
"Maintenance," I say. "About the cameras."
"ID," the voice demands.
I slide my card into the slot under the intercom panel. After a quick whirr from the reader, the door opens. I am met by a gruff middle-aged Peacekeeper.
"You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago," he says.
"Sorry, brother." The automatic reply is out before I realize it, and the mental kick I give myself does no good after the fact. Eight years worth of habit is difficult to break.
The Peacekeeper gives me a hard stare. "Have you been in the service?" he asks. "You look too young to be out."
"Injured," I press out through clenched teeth. "Unfit."
The Peacekeeper shrugs uncomfortably and gestures towards the end of the corridor. "Last door on the left. Flash your ID at the door. They're expecting you."
The small room I'm shown into is a mess. The floor is covered in filth, the walls are streaked with blood and some of the tiles are cracked. A man in a plain dark suit is leaning his hands on the metal table which stands in the middle of the room, pouring over some papers.
"Took you long enough," he remarks when I approach. "Take care of that, will you."
He gestures towards a camera mounted high up in one corner. It's clear from just one look that it's smashed beyond any hope. What the hell happened in here?
"I'm pretty sure we'll have to order a new one," I tell the man. "That could take a while."
He raises his head from the papers and gives me a level look.
"You already took more than that to drag yourself down here," he says. There is irritation in his voice now. And danger. "That means I'm all out of whiles."
Silently cursing Metella, I take a moment to study the camera more closely. The lens is shattered and the whole right side of the body crushed. There is absolutely no way to fix it - but some usable bits might have survived on the left side which is more or less intact. After a quick contemplation of my options, I decide that there's simply no point drawing out the inevitable. Come what may. I take a deep breath.
"Sir, here's the deal. We're low on spares. I know you also have another cam that's got a fried circuit board. If you want something done quickly, the best I can offer is to take apart the two and try to put together a single working one."
I expect a fit of rage, but the man only glares at me.
"That's the first straight answer I've heard from any of you people," he says. "How long until you can have it up?"
I glance at my watch. "If I can salvage what I need - by the end of my shift, at noon. But I can't promise anything until I have a closer look at what's left."
"The other one's two doors down," he says, before scooping up the papers and walking out of the room.
I take down both cameras, carry them up to the workshop in Section 1 and set about picking them apart, making sure to take my sweet time. No one ever stays in Metella's good graces for long, and there's no point giving her a chance to send me off on another light bulb round. Even so, I'm nearly done by the time she appears at the workshop door to check on my progress. "They're about to launch," she says. "Take a break."
I grab a sandwich and find myself a seat in the lounge - not an easy task, as it seems the whole Block has gathered around the screen. The Capitol seal fades out, and there, amidst a glistening expanse of water, are the twenty-four tributes. A brief cut to an aerial view draws an excited whisper from the crowd - this arena is like nothing anyone has seen before.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin!"
The gong sounds and everyone falls silent, eyes glued to the screen.
As the tributes crash their way through the initial bloodbath at the Cornucopia and the bodies begin to pile up, an idea slowly forms in my head. It starts out as nothing but a stray thought, but once the screen cuts to an aerial shot for the third time, it all suddenly comes together in one calamitous flash. Blind spots. Uncharted territory. Blanks in the pattern. An anchor point.
I'm absolutely positive that what I'm thinking of is not a good idea - in fact, I'm sure it's a very bad idea - but like so many times before, I'm already past the point where I can help myself. Still, I force myself to chew slowly and reconsider.
In the arena, one of the morphlings is caught in the stomach by a flying axe. He doubles over and drops to the sandy ground like an empty sack. A circle of blood begins to spread in the white sand. Around the dead morphling, the battle rages on, and again, there's a brief cut to an aerial view to put it all in perspective.
To bring out the big picture. To show the pattern.
This is about as much as I can take. I quickly tuck the last bite of the sandwich into my mouth and squeeze my way over to where Metella is sitting. She is so absorbed in the action playing out on the screen that I have to tap her shoulder twice to get her attention.
"I've got to go," I tell her. "Can you give the guys at 9 a call and let them know I need a couple of extra hours to finish up with the cameras?"
Metella only gives me an absent nod before turning back to the screen.
It takes me well past the end of my shift to rig everything up. It's all really very simple - a subtle beacon is all I need - but I make sure to be careful. It's only when I'm finally done that I take a step back and force myself to answer one question. Why am I doing this? The answer, of course, is the same as always. Just because.
Like with all my little games, there is no purpose, unless I count the fact that I want to - so much that I really have to. Section 9 is a blank in my pattern, a missing piece. It's of no real consequence - I don't need it for anything and have never given it much thought before. However, now that it's found a way to my attention, I know with absolute clarity that I cannot stop until I have it. Even if it's useless, even if it's a waste of time - even if it kills me, I have to have that link up with the rest.
Hello, my name is Sliver and I am a junkie.
It's nearly half past two by the time I finally have the camera back in its place in Section 9 and clock out. Not Avox isn't around during the day and I'm too hyped up to be able to stand the long walk on the Transfer, so I decide to make an exception and brave the streets above. By the time I finally get off the bus and descend the narrow stairway into my den, my head is spinning and I'm seeing stars.
My home is another thing which belongs to the part of the Capitol most people never lay their eyes on. Compared to this basement room, the center apartments everyone seems to hate so much are pure luxury. When I first moved out of the Peacekeeper barracks, all I cared about was finding a cheap place with a roof over my head, but as time has passed, I've learned to appreciate the peace and quiet it offers.
I navigate towards the glowing screens in the far end of the room without bothering to turn on the lights. It doesn't take long to find the beacon. For a brief moment, I wonder if it's too conspicuous - that is, if it might attract any unwanted attention - but then the excitement of the moment catches up with me and I brush the thought aside.
So here goes, the moment of truth. I bite my lip and hook onto the feed like a starving baby latches onto a bottle.
It's working. I'm in the game.
My screen shows a small tiled room. On a metal chair in its center is a hunched figure with its wrists cuffed to the armrests and its hair matted with blood. Its clothes are in tatters and for a while I cannot make out whether I'm looking at a man or a woman. Then the figure slowly raises its head and moves its - no, his eyes searchingly across the room, until his gaze finds the camera.
At that instant, something happens.
Although we are miles apart, connected only by a mesh of cables stretching between us, our eyes seem to lock from opposite sides of the screen. For what seems like an eternity, the man does nothing, except keep his eyes fixed on the lens - no, on me. I feel naked and cold in that unrelenting stare. Finally, his lips curve in a slow smile that makes the hair on my neck stand on end.
At that moment, disconnecting from the feed doesn't seem nearly enough. I want to disconnect myself from everything, to turn myself off, to simply flip a switch and fall away into nothingness.
He does not release me.
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Note: I don't know when I'll return to this story, but chances are I will at some point. In the meantime, if anyone who stuck with it through this chapter has any bright ideas as to what "absolutely needs to happen", let me know. I don't do requests as such, but I may work some of the suggestions into the next chapters if I like them well enough.