Viridian's POV
I eat my lunches and dinners at a table with my roommates, in an awkward silence. Two days pass with Ross asking questions and each of us giving one-word answers.
Finally, after four awkward-to-the-core meals, we sit in the room, in another silence. It's only broken by the occasional page-flip of a book or the swirling around of water when Brio needs to clean his paintbrush. I feel so dumb for not sneaking something in for myself.
"So," says Ross, shattering the silence, "I think we need to be friends. Because I dunno about you, but I'm gettin' really sick of this silence." We all agree and he lays on his stomach, hair hanging down as he looks at Phoebus.
"So, let's start with somethin' simple." We all agree.
"Age?"
Seems like an okay place to start.
"18," says Brio. "20," I say. "25," says Phoebus. He looks older than he is.
"I'm 22," Ross says. "So you're all in my range then." He grins wryly.
"If that's how you look at," Phoebus says.
"Alright, let's do somethin' personal next." I wonder how personal personal is, exactly. Because there's a difference between personal when you've known each other for five years and personal in a room of people you've just met a couple days ago.
"Sexuality."
Nobody speaks for a second. I certainly don't want to say. I was hoping the subject wouldn't come up so I wouldn't be bullied about it.
"Alright, I'll start then. I'm a 30/70 bisexual."
"30/70?" asks Brio.
"Mmhm," Ross nods, "It's a rough estimate. I'm a historian, not a mathematician. But I find that around 70 percent of the people I gawk are dudes, and 30 percent are chicks." Interesting. Guess I've never thought about it like that before.
"Alright, I said it and nobody beat the snot out of me. You, go."
"Bi," says Phoebus, hewing on his eraser, "50/50."
"Very, very gay," says Brio. "But I consider myself demisexual because I just can't stand to think of making love to someone I don't know."
There's a pause where nobody says anything. I bite my lip.
"Alright, Booty Shorts, let's make it four for four!" Ross says, fist-pumping a little a bit.
"M-Musicsexual, actually." Alright, that sounded really stupid. But Ross just arches his eyebrows, amused. "Oh really?"
My ears burn red and I shake my head. "I'm actually, uh…" I scratch the back of my neck. "Pan, I think. I dunno, I haven't thought about it much."
"Alright!" cheers Ross. I laugh, and so do the other two.
"Alright, next question: virgins?"
"What kind of questions are these?" Phoebus asks. He is… Amused? Either that or annoyed.
"C'mon now! You certainly can't be one."
"You're right. But only twice. I like to be exclusive."
"I'm a virgin," says Brio, sighing.
"Ever jacked off?"
Brio blushes. "M-Maybe once or twice." We all laugh and I realize how nice it is to bond with people.
"Alright, Booty Shorts, you're up. Be honest now, you're too hot to be a virgin!"
I blush. "Definitely not a virgin. Definitely not."
"That's my kinda guy!" Ross says. "I'm far from myself."
"I figured," Phoebus says.
"God, I hope we can keep flirting with each other. This is fun!" Ross grins and I grin back.
Flirting? I didn't know that's what this was. I blush.
"Not too bad," says Phoebus.
"What do you want to discuss next?"
"Talents?" asks Brio.
"Alright," says Ross. "And from there, I will bequeath each of you with your official nickname!"
"Nickname?"
"Yup! Best way to be intimate with people is to give 'em a nickname."
"Alright," says Brio, "I'll go first. I'm a painter. I have an eye for color but I don't really draw."
"That's cool!" Ross says, tongue sticking out of his mouth slightly, in thought.
"Let's see. I really like dogs and volunteer at animal shelters a lot, if that helps."
Ross strokes his chin, in thought. "I know!" he says finally, "Spot!"
Brio laughs a little bit and Ross grins proudly. "Alright, next."
Phoebus speaks, still sketching. "I work with my best friend. He does tattoos and I pierce." He shows us his ear, pierced twice on the lobe and three times on the cartilage. "I was never a gage kinda guy, but I can do them."
"Wow!" Spot says.
"Sexy," says Ross, going upside down to look at him. Phoebus flips the hair out of his eyes and shrugs.
"My sister was always interested in piercings."
"When done right, they can be fucking cool," Phoebus muses.
"Alright, well I think you'd kill me if I called you Pierce, so I'll have to think of something more creative." He thinks. "Your hair is very golden, I can work with that. How about… Krone!"
"Huh?"
"Kind of currency. Gold coins. Gold hair. Gold piercings. It only seems to fit." I think Ross is full of interesting facts. He'd be the person I'd like to talk to while being tipsy and laying on the grass and looking at the stars.
"I like it!" Spot says excitedly, bouncing a little on his bunk.
"Krone it is, then."
"I can live with that."
"Alright, Booty Shorts." I have a feeling in my gut that this nickname is not going to go away very soon. "Even though I think you already have a nickname…"
The other two laugh, "Yeah!" I sigh quietly.
"Music. I play the piano and have a cat and a sister and I can't do anything but music because I'm retarded."
"Hey, that's not a nice word…" Spot frowns.
"I've heard it a lot. That was my nickname back home."
"That's awful!"
I shrug. "I don't need your pity."
"Alright, then we'll just make sure that you're respected here. And that nobody ever uses that word ever again!" Ross says.
"Including you," adds Krone. I sigh quietly.
"However, we should probably call him something that's not Booty Shorts in front of the others," Spot says quietly.
"Well, you like music, so what's a good music term?"
"People at school sometimes liked to call me Retard-ando. It's like ritardando."
"No," says Spot. "Accelerando. The exact opposite. Because that's what you deserve. Optimistic, always thinking forward, bright and lively, energetic."
"Yeah!" the others say.
My ears turn red. "That's very nice…"
"You deserve it!" Ross says.
Of course I don't. But I smile and accept it.
"Alright, Queer Squad," Ross says, "I guess it's my turn. I'm a historian in training, though right now I'm mostly interested in studying Victors and what affected them. This essay is so interesting, it's comparing the eerily similar lives of Nate McIalwain, the second Victor, and Finnick Odair, the 65th. It's so cool, interesting how similar their lives are and the things that changed their fates."
"Victor Historian," I say.
"You're like, the Victorian!"
"Ha, that's cute."
"Settled then. The Victorian it is!" Spot says.
"So cute," the Victorian muses, lying back with a smile on his face. "Let's hit the sack, now, it's going to be a loooong rebellion."
~.~.
It's been one week and three days since we've begun training.
I'm about to get to sleep when another guy, in a different hall, wakes up screaming. I wake up and sit up. I wipe my eyes and check the clock to see it on 2:30 A.M.
I groan. I've always been pretty okay with waking up early, and I roll out of bed without too much conflict from myself. I rub my eyes as the guy is shaken awake and yelled at by our Sargent.
My stomach turns uncomfortably.
I sit on the foot of my bed. There's no way I'm going back to sleep now, not with everything that's happened.
My name is Viridian Turner. I've been drafted. I have to fight a rebellion I don't want to fight.
I rub my sleepy eyes, trying to get them to stop feeling so cloudy. There's no way I could fall back asleep now, no matter how hard I tried. I keep waking up with thoughts of gunshots.
Every day is worse than the day before.
Every day I tell myself, "It'll be better tomorrow." And every day, I prove myself wrong once again.
It's never going to get better.
Even someone as stupid as me knows that.
But I'll never stop denying it.
I yawn and stretch, sitting up and accepting the reality that there's not a chance I will be able to get back to sleep, though I feel so tired it feels like I could… that's the worst part.
My mind dances around the prospect of Vienna, of the memories we shared, of the laughter we had with Diesel. I miss my sister. I miss my cat. I even miss Vienna's cat, though I think his name is stupid and he is generally annoying (constantly trying to court my cat, who is way out of his league). I miss Mary Catherine, and I want to know how she's doing with her baby. I'm worried for her health sometimes. I miss Diesel, badly, and I want him back and the times we shared.
But, more than anything, I feel an overwhelming pain for my piano. It was the only way I ever had to tell anyone how I felt, because I struggle to show them any other way. Without it, I feel totally and utterly lost. How do I tell anyone anything anymore!? How do I express what I feel? How do I even know what I'm feeling anymore? Not like I can sing.
My vocal chords hum and rub my temples, trying to force my mind to come up with something, anything, one universal truth about myself that I can hold on to. Nothing substantial is coming, though.
My name is Viridian. I do not want to fight the rebellion. My name is Viridian. I do not like the Games. My name is Viridian. Our government is corrupt.
I shake my head quietly and rapidly. These thoughts are coming out of nowhere and I don't like them!
I glance to the other bunk, where Krone rolls over with a grunt. The Victorian lays above him, curled up in a tight little ball. I know that Spot is above me, I can hear his shallow breathing.
I rub my temples. My heart rate picks up and I start to sweat. I feel... Dammit, I don't know how I feel anymore!
Memories come to mind, of Diesel's funeral and his letter, and of the feeling of absolute horror and doom that filled my sorry soul... That's how I feel now.
It's not fair. No one deserves to live like this, not even District people. How have so many families had to feel like this for 75 years!? I can't even take it once!
My name is Viridian. I am weak.
I take a deep breath as if it will scare away the thoughts. My stomach tightens uncomfortably.
My name is Viridian Turner. I have no reason why I shouldn't die right now. I would just be going home to a girl that will never love me, parents that are humiliated to admit they even have a son, and a sister that would finally be relieved of her responsibility to babysit me all the time.
All of my roommates and I avoid the reality of the draft. But, when it comes down to it, we are going to die for something I don't support. They do not care about our lives, our families. They care about our undying allegiance. They care that we are dumb enough to keep them in power!
They don't care about Vienna, and they don't care about Mary Catherine. They don't care about me, either. Not about Spot, or the Victorian, or Krone... They care that they have a meat shield protecting the big-money, big-name officials. And I don't think the others realize that.
The second-to-last thing I want is for them to think for even a second that I think anything of any of them. And the absolute last thing I want is to give them the satisfaction of causing my death. They already have Diesel's.
I would much rather die by my hand than let them think I fell for their little show. I get out of bed and grab paint from Spot's backpack.
Using hurried, angry strokes, I make a less-than-pretty staff of all colors on the wall. My hand shakes and my treble clef looks like shit, but I keep going, knowing that I have to finish before anyone wakes up.
I splatter paint on the staff in ugly blobs of color: G, B flat, A, D.
My name is Viridian. I am officially a traitor and a rebel.
I pick up a piece of paper from one of the notebooks laying on the desk and scribble a note with shaking hands, glancing at the other boys to be sure they're still sleeping. I slip the note into one of the Victorian's books, because I know if they find it they will dispose of it, and I want my roomies to read it and spread it like wildfire.
Then, I go into my backpack, pull out the gun they keep hidden and secure, and pick the lock to give me access to bullets. That takes longer than expected, and each second of the clock crescendoes with the pounding of my heart.
By some miracle, nobody wakes up, or if they are then they haven't said. I use what they taught us in training, loading up with shaking hands.
I get down on my knees, fingers clenched tight. I press the shaking gun to my temple.
My name is Viridian. I am a dead man.
I hear movement and take a breath, holding it in as I let my finger pull the trigger.
Bang.
