7

Rue makes it to the edge of the forest before any other tribute, her little legs zipping faster than I can believe. She's instantly gone and the cameras focus on the melee at the cornucopia. The boy from District 8 is in hand-to-hand combat with the boy from 2 who drops his opponent with a rapid combination of a punch to the gut and devastating right hook to the cheek. The camera pans to show more tributes dying from various wounds.

Then for a moment, it tightens on two girls, Clove throwing a knife at Katniss from 12. The knife stabs into a backpack that the fleeing girl tugs on just in time, dashing furiously across the plain toward the edge of the trees. Clove turns around looking for other targets. Violence reigns on the screen as my eyes scan for the male tribute from District 11, Thresh. He's not in the pandemonium, wisely opting to flee, even strong as he is. I decide I have seen enough for now.

Hannah is on the couch, held by Marek, neither of them watching the screen, looking vaguely at the ceiling and panting off their worry. Rue got away. It won't end today. No one can catch her in the trees. She's worked her whole life in the orchards, her tiny stature helping her nearly become a squirrel in how she can scamper from limb to limb. The size of the forests will provide food and security, at least for a while.

Meyla chose not to watch the initial bloodbath, where a huge number of children perish every year. She's in the dining room taking care of Wren and Breck who are too young to attend school.

My hand slips onto Hannah's shoulder and I whisper, "She's alright."

"Oh, Kip." Her hand squeezes mine and she shakes her head, unable to speak.

Rue's not alright. It's only a matter of time, but I decide to try to comfort my sister anyway. "She's in an enormous forest where she's been her whole life. She has a real chance."

Hannah and Marek both half turn to look at me. "You really think so?" Hannah asks. I glance down, not wanting to accept their staring eyes. Hannah bursts into tears.

Marek pulls her toward himself. "Kip means well, honey." He leans closer to her ear and whispers.

My eyes are already back on the screen where a few more children are engaged in drawn out standoffs, neither wanting to attack first for fear of leaving themselves unprotected. This usually lasts quite a bit, followed by bounding pursuits, the last straggling non-allies trying to get away, chased into the distance until the pursuers gives up or overcomes the fleeing tribute.

The shots tighten up to show the 'action' for the demented fanatics that comprise the Capitol's population. It's sickening, but I know that television usage is being monitored so, leaving it running, I go into the kitchen where Meyla is feeding Breck and Wren is struggling to swallow an enormous bite of cracker. My wife asks me with her expression, what's happened?

I shake my head, "Rue got away. She's in a big forest. She'll live today."

Meyla takes a deep breath and sighs. "Thank goodness." She spoons another lousy glop of oatmush into Breck's mouth, wiping off the smear that the one-year-old pushes back out with his tongue.

"Mey, I was thinking, why don't we give some of my savings to that fund you arranged to sponsor Rue. I've got to have enough to make a substantial donation."

She nods, "I'm sure that would be helpful. We can spare a bit more than most families."

My eyes wince, even though I know she didn't mean anything. Family. We can spare pretty much everything, really. My job isn't hard enough that age will prevent me from continuing and there's no one except for the Amaranths to whom I might consider giving my savings. In Panem, there's no such thing as a retirement fund unless you set one aside for yourself.

The Capitol's cruel economic arrangement precludes most people from being able to save anything; every penny must go to fueling the body for another day. It's an adequate method of control that the Capitol has perfected. But my job is specialized and my pay is significantly better than the average, probably considered a payoff by the powers that be to ensure I do a good job repairing the Capitol's buildings. If it is a bribe, it hasn't worked. It's crossed my imagination more than once this past week to let structural problems go unnoticed; maybe even push them along. Oh, the things you can do with cut cord…

I walk into the bedroom and reach for a metal lockbox we keep hidden behind our dresser. My key opens it with a tinny snap revealing the coins and bills stashed into each of the containers. I don't really have a system; just cram money where ever it will fit. My fingers snatch out two containers-worth of bills and count them. It's a bigger sum than I expected it would be. It should help get something decent for Rue, but Seeder will have to be very discerning.

Gifts rise in price each hour as the Games progress. Food may be pricey at the beginning, but it's prohibitively expensive later on. Rue probably won't need food in that forest and she probably won't need medicine since residents of 11 are schooled very well in herbal agriculture. Rue could probably find anything she needed except for strength.

I can't think of any weapons she could use well and don't recall ever seeing a weapon sent as a gift. It may not be allowed, or simply too expensive to be worth it, considering the plethora of cruel devices provided at the cornucopia. Nevertheless, I resolve not to leave Rue hanging without support. Seeder will know what to do, if we give her the funding to provide options.

Stuffing the money into my pocket, I close the lid of the box and tuck it away. Back in the kitchen, Hannah and Marek have vacated the living room. I glance in and make sure the television is still on. The kids are chasing each other and the cameras can't decide who to watch as countless tributes race over acres, some alone, some accompanied or pursued.

Hannah has picked up Wren who finished the cracker and is telling her in cute toddler sentences about the stove. Marek has taken over spoon-feeding Breck; Meyla leans against the counter arms crossed, almost satisfied. She hasn't looked this normal since Mason died. She's so beautiful! I never forgot that, even with her hair silver at the edges, face tired and gaunt.

Somehow life is back in her, a liveliness she radiates that sends memories of our past rushing through my vision. I met Meyla while she was buying grain. She was still living with her parents and working in the fields almost every day of the year save Reaping day, having finished schooling.

We were both taken with each other immediately. Our courtship blazes in my thoughts, then our simple marriage; a ceremony held in her parent's apartment. She was so beautiful in the dress we borrowed from a nice aging, couple. Flowers bowed toward her as she crept gracefully into the room. Meyla's skin is a little darker than mine but her hair was a lighter shade of brown. Her golden eyes gleamed as did her smile and I was lost in joy.

She hasn't changed that much, really. What changed was the world. It was never an easy place, yet it has become intolerable. Leaning against the bedroom door frame, I drift into thoughts of Mason's childhood, how things almost seemed acceptable barring the two weeks leading up to each Reaping. Then there was that one thing that had nagged at my mind even though I thought it petty at the time.

Benefiting from my salary, Mason and Meyla serve would only the standard minimum of three months field duty each year, usually during harvest. That was a requirement that I was exempted from, in my Capitol-established position. Mason never complained, accepting the hardship as a simple fact of life in District 11. When he was fifteen or so, I noticed that his hands had become scarred from the work, altogether neither surprising nor uncommon. There aren't enough gloves provided for all the workers. Why provide that many pairs of gloves when a third of the district will only need them for a quarter of the year?

It never bothered me to see anyone else's hands scarred from the forced labor. The savage, humiliatingly public thrashing of anyone who stole food from the harvest bothered me far more. Yet when I noticed the blemishes cut against Mason's soft skin, I reviled the lifestyle the Peacekeepers subject us to!

Mason went about his required chores never slacking. He enjoyed the music in the fields although he was cursed with his father's tone-deficiency. Mason could hit notes only marginally better than his old man, and they weren't the smoothest notes. The scars thrashed my stomach, though.

I had tried to put away the strange sense, but Mason's hands were always nearby, helping me work on the Justice Building's framework. We used gloves there, though even those gloves weren't family property. They were different from agriculture gloves and would have been noticed by the Peacekeepers. No matter what I did, I couldn't wrest away the disconcertion of seeing my son scarred physically.

Meyla already had scars when I met her, even a jagged grind on her left forearm from a branch that had broken above her, jutting across her skin. Mason was untarnished by the flaws of this life. Scars from work really aren't that big a deal. It was a mental abuse for me, knowing that each blemish could have been avoided.

Everything about the Capitol's dealings with the rest of Panem is psychological. Every Hunger Games season initiates during a school morning, the one day out of the year where absence is not tolerated whatsoever. The Capitol prefers the kids to be away from their families, witnessing the butchery of the bloodbath, isolated from the comfort of parents. It's traumatizing, and most of us grow up severely cowed by what we see at so young an age.

The Capitol even constructed the rules for the Peacekeepers in order to keep heavy antagonism between their police force and the peoples they are policing. Peacekeepers are not permitted to marry unless they are officers and receive permission from the Capitol. Enlistees are not even permitted romantic interests at all, though a number are flogged each year for letting their natural instinct override adherence to Capitol will.

Enlistees are also assigned to a given district for only two or three years at a time, never really forming any kinship with the locals during their entire twenty-year term. Officers typically are assigned to a given location longer, but their jobs are more sequestered from the people. The resulting Peacekeepers are enormously frustrated groups of men endowed with power and an unstated agreement between each other that rules good conduct only apply to district residents.

Murder, Jura Penrose, Volente Covas, and the Capitol's absolute reign over our lives, stealing away my precious niece and pitching her into a vast pen with other kids who have been perverted to a revolting malevolence. For the most part, victors are deplorable when they leave the arena. If the psychosis wears down over time, some of them regain some level of humanity.

Given that, I wasn't altogether surprised to see a drunken mentor on Reaping night, and I can't say I blame the guy for drowning himself in booze. If I had to coach two kids each year, trying my hardest to keep them alive, only to see both eviscerated, year after year-

"Honey?" Meyla's sweet voice culls my thoughts and drags me back to the kitchen. I'm glaring, and when I straighten up my back, my shoulders shiver. "Are you okay, Kip?"

My sister and her husband are staring at me along with my wife. I turn away and shake my head, "Sorry, I'm just... having trouble with all this." My head swirls with fury. "Hey, I'm gonna go run those errands, ok? I'll be back in a while."

Meyla nods and opens her arms to hug me, but I'm already past, abiding the knot in my gut to ignore her renewed compassion. That's bad, I think to myself once out on the street walking toward the center of Three Corners. She's finally able to open up her heart again and you brush her off like a scarf! My conscience nags me until I mutter out loud to answer the thoughts. "You've got your own situation, Kip. You're not supposed to be grieving. You're preparing."

I know Meyla's offer is still worth accepting. For now, I will not let it get in my way. Comfort may have helped months ago. Right now, something more effective is necessary. Nothing will suffice emotionally, except seizing an opportunity to strike back. Scipio need only give a word! Elusive as the old fellow has been, I still trust him for the most part.

The Justice Building looms ahead, like a horrendous monster, dark and foreboding. I haven't come back to the plaza since the Reaping. Sooner or later I'll have to continue working or else I'll have lashes on my own back to add to my list of grievances. I saunter past the Hammock, a restraint device erected next to a tree; walk up the broad stone staircase that I swear is still stained with Mason's blood, and stride into the Building.

I'm familiar with the layout, quickly finding the sign that reads Office of the Reaping. A young man behind the counter asks if he can help me, voice spirited with irritating exuberance. "I'd like to donate to Rue Amaranth's sponsorship."

"Certainly, sir." At least the guy is polite. I don't know how anyone who just escaped the annual reaping could possibly work in this office. He fishes beneath the counter retrieving a copy of a printed page.

I fill in the appropriate boxes: tribute name and gender, donor name, amount, time and date, and sign here.

The attendant looks at the paper and his eyes widen slightly. "That's very generous. Are you related?"

"Uncle."

"Ah, well, good luck to your niece then, Mr. Silvernale. Yeah, usually the gamblers here don't have nearly this sort of money to pad the odds in their favor." He sits down and begins scrawling on another piece of paper. His banter annoys me, the callousness of it; holding regard for Rue on the one hand and casually shrugging off of her humanity on the other. I choose not to reply and the attendant finishes in silence.

He stamps the new page and slides it across the table to me. "This is your redemption receipt. Please retain it."

Setting the money down, I scan the sheet. It's essentially a copy of the other paper, with a serial number scrawled into one box. "What's this for?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Let me explain. Donations are consumed at the mentor's discretion, with sponsorships being expended in order of their donation. In event that funds are not allocated to the tribute during the Games, you can use that slip to redeem back a portion of your sponsorship, subtracting some nominal fees."

"You mean if Rue dies."

Leaning back in his chair, the attendant doesn't hesitate a bit, or show the slightest discomfort. "Not necessarily. If she wins and funds are not consumed you will be remitted whatever portion isn't consumed by the Capitol's exchange costs. See, they make the money available to the mentors immediately after processing the paperwork over the telephone, so some of it is lost in the expenses of processing." This kid seems proud to know all this. It might be interesting if Rue wasn't alone, hiding in a tree, waiting for someone to gut her.

"Whatever."

I fold the paper and slip it into my pocket, the young man drones ever on. "They'll probably use the actual cash to help balance the debits and credits between the bank here and in the Capitol." He taps his hands on the counter in some offbeat of rhythm. No scars.

The bank in District 11 is a joke. No one trusts it except Peacekeepers, and if anyone did, residents don't have any money to save anyhow. My mind mulls as I turn to walk away, suddenly turning back. "Let me ask you something. Where did you grow up?"

"District Three. I went to the University in the Capitol, though. I'm working here for a few years until I can get cleared to apply for the Capitol." He grins broadly.

I nod and move away, back out into the broad entryway. Figures. The kid wants to be a part of the Capitol. Through the huge front doors and halfway down the stairs someone calls my name. "Kip!" At the base of the stairs Volente Covas is waiting, waving.

I don't need this, not today. Don't really have much of a choice though. I steel myself as best I can and reach out my hand to meet his. The shake is cold, if firm and gruff. "I was just out for a walk around the plaza and saw you leaving."

"Yeah,"

Covas puts a hand on my shoulder and guides our walk. "Hey, listen, I heard your niece is a tribute this year." He looks for my affirmative nod. "Well, that's just plain strange, having a twelve year old selected like that."

"A twelve year old was selected in District Twelve, too, you know."

"Sure, but that's District Twelve. We're in District Eleven."

No, you're not from District Eleven, I nearly reply.

Covas lowers his voice. "How's your sister doing?"

My sister? "The best she can."

"Marvelous," Covas chuckles. "Seriously, though. We were supposed to have dinner sometime. Did you forget to get back to me?"

No, but I'll get back at you "It's just been so busy, you know, with the Games and everything-"

"Oh, I do understand. What shall we say then? Next Tuesday afternoon, we meet in the plaza? That should give you some time to square everything away."

Next Tuesday is fully a week away so I say that would be fine. Covas bids farewell and heads away toward the Main Office. My composure loosens with every step I put between his duplicitous presence and myself.

Scipio should be proud of me today. Every opportunity has presented itself for a potential outburst of honest, justifiable rage, and fresh wrath, not the festering spite of Mason's murder. Still, I've held my tongue better than I have expected to. I was sure Covas would notice the awkwardness, the lack of confidence in my gait; each leg feeling like it's trying to push aside a rushing current and plant between slimy rocks in a riverbed.

He didn't seem to take any hint. Maybe he's oblivious, too high up the food chain to deal with nuances anymore. Probably not. He's an investigator, after all. More likely, it's all part of his twisted game, his satisfaction in watching people squirm under the boot heel of the Capitol. Every time we speak, he just loves being that heel, torquing. He just refuses to leave me alone! When I wanted him to investigate Jura Penrose he tacitly ignored me. Now, he can't get enough of my attention.

I skirt down a side alley, nearly home, debating whether or not I'm feeling up to facing my wife and my sister's family who are probably still there., though it will soon be time for the Amaranth kids to leave school, no doubt disturbed from the footage of the bloodbath.

My numbed feet choose an aimless path, wandering from street to street, block to block, working off steam. I'll go home in an hour or so and maybe Meyla won't bring up the morning's events, or the afternoon's discussions. I will have to bring up the dinner, but that's not till Tuesday. I just don't feel like talking about the fuel that's feeding my inner fire. I feel like using that fire, putting it into play.