They say, "Move on," but you know I won't.
Azrael Krowley, 18
Portón
The Wired Organization of Portón, commonly known as simply The Wired, is a pro-Westam (later pro-Capitol) volunteer organization from District Six. The Wired allows patriotic youth to show their love for the country, connect with their peers, and take an active role in rooting out sedition in their communities. To begin each meeting, members of The Wired recite a pledge:
I am a proud Son of Panem, the last remnant of the American Continent.
It takes more than two weeks for the sealed box to arrive from Denver. I can hardly contain my excitement while Mom slices through the tape and opens the flaps. A custom piece, just for me! Packing peanuts spill across the floor when I grab the jacket. Mom helps me fasten the buttons, a smile tracing her lips in response to my impatient fidgeting. Finally, she's done and I race down the hall to the long mirror in Mom and Dad's room.
Turquoise and indigo plaid, a sharp collar, and shiny silver buttons. It's perfect, exactly what I wanted. And even better, it's the only one in all of Portón, probably even all of Westam! I catch Mom's reflection in the mirror, my joy echoed on her face.
I turn and hug her tightly, pressing my face into her blouse. "Thank you."
I swear my allegiance to Portón, and to the Capitol above all else.
White-hot anger pulses as I pace my room, my mother's voice the only thing keeping it below the surface. Never let them see you bleed. But even that mantra might not be enough to keep me from losing control, just this once – if I didn't have a plan.
Glass shards scattered across the lab table, smashed vials and ruined samples. I didn't have to see him to know that Damon Mirani is the responsible party. My parents warned me but I've had to learn the hard way; some people will do anything to see those on top fall. Sabotaging my research is just the latest in a long string of (failed) attempts to humiliate me.
This time, he'll regret it. I'll make sure of that.
Making up the project was easy enough. Mrs. Vanderbeck worships the ground I walk on, so when I asked to change my topic last-minute, she didn't bat an eye. And my parents were more than willing to provide ample data from the company's research; not like I was cheating, just rectifying a mistake.
It ought to make me happy, at least warrant a smile for a job well done. But that satisfaction is nothing compared to the triumph I'll feel tonight. When the knock comes from the door, and I invite Principal Hewitt in for a Krowley family dinner. When I ask him about the dissidents, and he expresses his righteous disdain. When I tell him (regretfully, of course) of the rumors concerning the Mirani family's anti-Westam activities. And tomorrow, when Damon is escorted from class for questioning, confusion and fear etched across his face.
Then, I'll smile.
I will protect the innocent and support my comrades in arms.
The penthouse is bustling with activity; Leon joked that the entire city must be crammed in here. Everyone wants to be a part of tonight. Krowley Industries, partnering with Wasatch! I keep catching fragments of conversation – the deal of a lifetime, should be proud of themselves, lucky bastards.
They're right.
We've always done well, but Dad says this is something else entirely. And I can feel it. With this distribution contract, the Krow's going to launch the whole Krowley brand to another level. New markets, expansion opportunities, political influence – it's all at our fingertips. We're on the brink of greatness.
This is only the beginning.
I will deliver justice to those who would seek to destroy our great Nation.
My knuckles are white as I clutch the metal railing of the fire escape. Below me, Wasatch burns.
I hear helicopters circling overhead. Something is on fire down the street, the thick billowing smoke blocking my view to the south. The air smells of sulfur and burning flesh. My chin stings, and my hand comes away bloody when I touch it. My heart pounds in my ears, but it's not enough to drown out the deafening cacophony of my surroundings.
I'm not afraid; I know what that feels like. I was afraid when we heard gunfire in the streets. I was afraid when the first tremors shook the building and the power flickered out. I was afraid as I crouched under the metal desk, praying for it to end. I was afraid when the rebels broke through the doors and into Mom's office, and Simeon told me to run.
But this, this isn't fear. This is pure terror. Behind me is an office filled with armed radical soldiers, below me a city ablaze with fires of anarchy. If I look back, I know I'll see my parents, beaten or tortured or worse. Part of me screams that I need to go back, I need to do something, but a stronger part tells me to go. Now.
I know what they would want. So I grip the railing and step over the edge, quickly lowering myself down the ladder two rungs at a time.
Two gunshots ring out above me.
I don't look up.
I will give all I have, even my life, in the fight for freedom.
They called it the Blitz, the rebels' last-ditch attempt at winning the war. Wasatch prevailed in the end, but it didn't matter; somehow, in a span of minutes, they managed to destroy everything I ever loved.
Except Leon.
Fuck, I'm lucky to have him. He's been my rock through all of this; the aftermath of my parents' murder, the end of the war, and the signing of that ridiculously lenient Treaty. Why should those criminals keep their lives when my parents lost theirs? I remember shaking with anger when the news broke; I felt so powerless. But Leon knew just what I needed.
After everything happened, my aunt Ivana took me in but Leon didn't know where to find me, and when he heard about my parents, he assumed I was killed, too. In mourning his loss, he found a purpose: The Wired. An organization dedicated to eradicating those who would love to see our beloved country fall. When we were finally reunited at a memorial for the victims, we began coming to meetings together. And for the first time since the Blitz, I don't feel alone.
I'm desperate for vengeance. And The Wired are more than supportive.
Panem today. Panem tomorrow. Panem forever.
Two eyes stare out from the small slit in the door. "What do you want?"
"Edwards told me to come here if I was ever in any trouble. He said the word was 'Shibboleth.'" We finally got the password out of him this morning.
"Edwards? No one's heard from him in days," the man says, wary.
I chuckle. "He's gone on another bender, 'cause Liza finally dumped him. You know how he gets with these women." I roll my eyes, shaking my head with exasperation. "Last I heard, he was at O'Riley's on Fifth, probably trying to drink himself to death."
He stares at me for a second longer, sizing me up, and I'm almost afraid he'll turn me away. But then the grate shuts and I hear a sliding chain, and I'm allowed inside. We shake hands, I thank him profusely, and no one notices me fiddling with my watch.
Two or three other groups are huddled around the room, some with kids. So irresponsible, to put young children in danger like this. But it's not enough to deter me; this was their parents' choice, not mine, and if left unchecked, they'll grow up to be just as seditious and dangerous.
Insurgency is a cancer, and you have to kill it at the source.
The room is large and sparse, bare walls, a few mattresses and a table with chairs. Like most rebel safehouses, no one stays here long, just until they have somewhere more permanent to hide out. We've even heard talk of networks that smuggle people across District lines to evade the law. I'm continually amazed by how far some people will go to avoid facing the consequences of their actions.
The minutes pass pleasantly enough. After giving a little more information, I'm assigned a space in the corner for my meager belongings. Some of the children try to talk to me before their parents pull them back, but otherwise, I'm left to myself. So I sit and wait, hand resting on the taser in my pocket. And eventually, they come.
I've seen it all before. The doors cave in, weapons are drawn, the children scream, the parents beg, but their pathetic cries mean nothing to us. In the end, the room is left desolate and barren save for the scant furnishings, and the fugitives are carted away for questioning.
I know what fate awaits them. I've seen it firsthand, even participated on occasion. And maybe I should feel some compassion, some sorrow, some guilt.
But I also know that people celebrated when the Treaty was signed, red and yellow pennant flags flying all over the city because the war was finally over. And I know what I saw that hellish day in Wasatch. I know that one lousy piece of paper isn't enough to stop the people who did that to my city and my family.
As long as rebels still draw breath, the war isn't over. There's still so much work to do.
I'm taking my time 'cause you took everything from me.
Anaphora Shereni, 17
Frontera
Indigo. Goldenrod. Vervain. Sweat beading the rim of my hat, my hair damp beneath the wool cap. Fingernails caked in dirt. Biting into a plump tomato, juice dripping down my chin. Plucking the most beautiful flower in the whole garden, so Mama could enjoy it too. Disappointment as the stem droops and the petals fall to the counter, my prized perennial reduced to a wilted, shriveled corpse. "Nothing lasts forever, Ana."
–
Dull metallic clangs, ripples lapping against the tin boat. The muddy scent of decaying marsh wafting on a September breeze. Rubber boots splashing in bilge. The shimmering rainbow of scales, marvelous and mesmerizing. Begging Daddy to throw it back, preserve its beauty just a little longer.
"Everything dies, Ana."
A moment of silence. "Even you?"
A chuckle, deep and warm. "Even me."
More silence, prolonged now. Afraid. "Even me?"
Dark eyes stare back at me. Affection. Sorrow. Humor. Fear. Hope. "Not for a long, long time." Thick muscled arms wrap around me.
Safe.
–
Ink stains on homemade parchment, weathered and rough beneath my fingertips. Waxy residue on the maple tabletop. The words of the greats: Dickinson, Byron, Whitman, Millay. Words that turn to music in Mama's mouth.
One of her favorites, short but striking. A traveler, pillars in a vast desert. The last words of a long-dead monarch, hollow and empty. "Look on my works, and despair!" A parable for the powerful.
Nothing lasts forever.
–
An empty chair at the head of the table. Angry whispers, slipping under my door in the quiet of oh-dark-thirty. Three place settings. Extra chores while Dad's away, fighting for Erie. Fighting for us. Meager fish, damp wood and smoky fires, tangible reminders of what's missing.
Every Tuesday. Hours of anticipation, waiting on the mailcart. The dread in our hearts melting to relief with each new letter.
The week when nothing comes.
"Everything dies, Ana. Even me."
–
A memorial service. Strangers trying to hug, to touch, to comfort, ignoring my protestations. All I want is alone.
Nothing to grieve, nothing to hold onto. No body. No coffin. Just an old fishing net, a favorite shirt, and an old love letter, all bundled up together and burned. Goodbye. Just like that.
We stumble back to an empty house. It doesn't feel like home.
Around us, the war rages on.
–
Rations of beef, oil, sugar, cloth. Closed shutters. Sirens and air raids and bomb shelters. News bulletins tell of Westam victories, starving farmers, camps overwhelmed by illness and injury, a new Commander. Desperate pleas for more men to fight. Men like my brother.
Mom won't hear it. This war's already taken enough from her.
Mutilated men return home – boys, even, some younger than Petrarch. In his eyes, I see shame, and anger. Whispers turn to shouts, no longer pretending to hide anything from me. Petrarch's vehemence, his fury – I know he means to follow Dad.
An agonized shriek, inhuman and bone-chilling. Frigid winter air streaming through a half-open window. My mother sprawled on the perfectly-made bed, his note clutched in her hand. Her grip vise-like, as though he's already dead, his words all that remain.
–
The girl next door. Brienna is fourteen, a year older than me. We've grown up together, but I never realized how beautiful she is. Dancing on the frozen lake. Climbing down an abandoned well in search of lost treasures. Singing on the roof, a full moon hanging overhead. A wild spirit. Fearless.
I dream of loving her.
Spring comes and goes, but scarcity persists. A dying garden, rows of failure and futility. The high-pitched whine of an approaching sprayer jet. Dwindling catches and fraying nets. A bitter metallic aftertaste. And a girl with long caramel hair.
Drenched in decay, I find growth. Amidst death, life. In her.
–
Hours become days become months, and not a word from Petrarch. Mom sits in her study, poring over old scripts. No one checks the mail.
Wind sweeps the world, but the tides refuse to turn. Defeat looms on the horizon. Still more reports, a barrage of disappointment and despair. One final attempt, a siege on Wasatch itself.
For a moment, the clouds lift, the town breathes. A flicker of hope. Only Mom seems unaffected, her face set in a grim line. And then the betrayal. Everything comes crashing down.
Armistice declared on the eve of summer. The thud of bags and boots on the wooden floor. Petrarch, alive against all odds, returned to us at last. Harrowing tales of destitute villages, children languishing in barren fields, bodies hung from rafters.
Was it all for nothing?
–
Brienna dies in May. Three long agonizing days. They say she was poisoned, ingested toxins from the lake. She always loved her midnight swims.
I never told her what I felt. Maybe I thought there would be time later. I linger on the dock, staring out over the water, remembering her footsteps on the ice. Her sparkling eyes. Her lilting melodies. Her caramel hair, glinting in the moonlight.
And reaching back, back into the recesses of my memory. The rubber boots. The tin boat. The rainbow. The blood.
He warned me. "Everything dies, Ana."
–
The word comes a week later. A condition of the Treaty of Treason. Our land has been deemed unlivable. We have to leave.
Two days to pack, then the massive trucks arrive. I don't want to go, don't want to lose the only connection I have with my father. But I know we can't stay.
Trailers filled to the brim with mothers, grandparents, babies, even some livestock. My neighbors, my community. Most I've never spoken to. I don't start now.
One last glance at the town I've called home for fourteen years. Then we're off. From trucks to trains, through Chicago, Louis, Ozark. A glass window, cold against my cheek. An ever-changing landscape outside our cramped cabin. Golden fields of grain, thick dark woodlands, a river flowing south. I see the ocean for the first time.
I know that nothing lasts forever. But couldn't it have lasted a little longer?
–
Metroplex. A filthy urban cesspool with an appropriately dull name. The putrid smell of urine and unwashed bodies. Shouting and metal and sirens and music and wind, coalescing into an inescapable din.
They say we'll be sent away shortly, but first, a health inspection is required. We're each assigned a different clinic. Three girls sit in the starkly-lit waiting room. They tell me their names. Yara. Linnetta. Charlotte.
I don't even pretend to care.
A nurse, her demeanor even colder than the metal exam table. A clean bill of health, then back to the depot. Mom and Petrarch aren't back yet, so I stay with the girls. We learn about our new home, a temporary housing camp in Frontera. Plenty of opportunities for work. It's far from perfect, but I know it could be a lot worse.
On the train, the girls chatter incessantly as I close my eyes, my mind drifting back to denim shirts and roaring fires and beef stew. Rolling down grassy hills. Racing home in the rain. Out on the lake with Dad, just the two of us, and the gentle rhythm of the boat lulls me to sleep.
–
I wake hours later, the girls still prattling on. I feel the train rocking beneath my feet. It's dark outside, the stars hidden by thick clouds. Charlotte says we're probably halfway to Frontera by now.
So why hasn't Mom come to find me?
My feet pound the tiled floors as I tear down the hallway. Compartment after compartment, faces turn towards me, but never the ones I'm looking for. Panic swells in my chest as I consider the possibility.
A Peacekeeper stops me, his gaze stern and reproachful. I ask him, beg him for help, and he leads me to the front of the train before disappearing into an office. In his absence, I pull at a loose thread on my jacket, bite my nails, pace the hall. Anything to dispel this nervous energy.
Finally, he returns. His voice is calm as he delivers the crushing blow and my heart turns to ice.
Mom and Petrarch are not on this train.
He says it's not supposed to happen, there must have been some mix-up at inspections. He says families are meant to stay together. He says he'll pass my case on to someone in Frontera. He says I should prepare myself, it could take a while. He says he's sorry.
I don't hear anything after their names.
I've never been so alone.
–
The Frontera camp isn't what we were told. Shoddy cots in communal bunkhouses where illness spreads like wildfire. Thin walls and thinner blankets that do nothing for the cold nights. We rise at dawn and work till dusk, even the children and the old folks. We're not prisoners, but we've got no place else to go.
At least I've got Linnetta. Turns out she's from Erie too, no family of her own left. Took a while to warm up to her – I've never been any good with new people – but now she's family. Sometimes I think she could be even more.
Work is dreary, earning a pittance butchering chickens in a stuffy slaughterhouse. The thick stench of blood hangs on all my clothes; I've given up trying to wash it out. Wages are so poor, can't even afford to leave, but Linnetta and I are saving up. We sit around the campfire and dream of escape. We'll get out. Soon.
–
I haven't seen Mom or Petrarch in three years. I don't know where they are. I don't even know if they're alive.
I'm not sure it matters. Wherever they are, they can't help me. I can't see them, I can't talk to them, I can't hold them. They're as dead to me as Dad, as Brienna, as Erie and the rebellion and the garden and the lake and the poems and the flowers and the stupid tin boat. Everything I ever had, everything I ever loved, has been stolen by the Capitol and their insatiable greed.
My brother. My mother. My father. Some days, I can't even remember their faces.
But I remember what they taught me. And I know it's only a matter of time.
Everything dies. Nothing lasts forever.
Not even the Capitol.
mad woman by Taylor Swift.
A/N:
Nope, it's not Tuesday, but I had a shitty week and wanted to post ASAP for some semblance of normalcy and accomplishment amidst all the chaos. Special thank you so much to Ali (sock-feet-and-stirring-sand) for always being there when I needed to talk.
Also yes, these formats are cracked beyond belief. It took me all of two intros to decide to experiment, who's surprised? Idk if the rest will be as weird and irregular or if we're going back to normal formats now, I guess we'll see!
Hope y'all enjoyed this chapter as much as the first! Credit to my inspirations: my initial idea for Ana's intro structure came while listening to All Too Well by Taylor Swift, which is quite possibly the best song she's ever written, and while I deviated quite a bit from that first idea, it would be a very different chapter without it. Go give the song a listen; hopefully you can see the influence! And for Azrael, shoutout to the USA Pledge of Allegiance, the Girl Scout Promise, the LDS Young Women's Theme, the Netherlands Oath of Allegiance, The New Colossus, and many other oaths, pledges, and mission statements from around the world for helping me write the Pledge of the Wired.
Speaking of, here is the full text of that, when it's not broken up by POVs for Artistic Vision or whatever:
I am a proud Son/Daughter/Child of Panem, the last remnant of the American Continent.
I swear my allegiance to Portón, and to the Capitol above all else.
I will protect the innocent and support my comrades in arms.
I will deliver justice to those who would seek to destroy our great Nation.
I will give all I have, even my life, in the fight for freedom.
Panem today. Panem tomorrow. Panem forever.
I will defend her to my last breath.
Thank you to tracelynn and david12341 for beta-ing Azrael and Anaphora respectively, love you both muchly.
Please leave your comments on these two characters in the reviews! I'm loving the feedback so far; it's been really interesting to see how different readers can interpret these characters in vastly different ways, and which ones readers connect to the most.