This story was inspired by several things, but the most important one, that gave its title to it, is the song Vicarious by Tool. I invite you to go and listen to it before reading!
Please leave a review if you liked it or be kind if you didn't. And as I'm not a native English speaker feel free to correct me if you see something wrong on that subject, I'll take all advice!
I leave you with the story now…
Vicarious
Eye on the TV
'Cause tragedy thrills me
Whatever flavor it happens to be like
Killed by the husband
Drowned by the ocean
Shot by his own son
She used the poison
In his tea
And kissed him goodbye
That's my kind of story
It's no fun until someone dies
Chapter 1
Haymitch was sitting in his armchair. Watching the news on TV. Drunk.
As always.
And it was only noon.
He was sipping his best bourbon on this fine day of June. That day deserved nothing but the best! He had opted for a 20 year old Blanton. A gift from one of his very rich, very arrogant, mine director of a neighbor.
Life in Kentucky had its virtues…
The news were depressing as always. Mine incidents, economical crisis, suicides, murders… Dead people, dead people, dead people… That's all they have to say, again and again. Even him didn't dare make a drinking game out of it. Even just a sip for each death announced in one day would be enough to kill the strongest drunkard of the country.
His life came down to that. Death. Everywhere.
He had lost, killed, and almost been killed.
And everywhere he looked, that was all he could see.
Whatever he does, it's the only thing he ends up doing.
Killing. Willingly or not.
The idea of people feeding on these news, like it was just some entertainment was enough to make him gag. How can they watch that and do nothing? How can they watch people die and just change the channel with a "oh, how sad" and laugh the next minute watching SNL?
And the more gruesome and detailed the better…
Always the same hypocrisy. "As long as it's not me..."
Well, it doesn't just happen to others.
If only they knew…
If only they knew that for some sick people, it is entertainment.
He has been part of it. He did come back from it. He fought for his life, and now, he is a prisoner.
He is torn from his dark and bitter thoughts by an alert on his phone.
He know perfectly well what it is, but he unlocks the phone and reads it. He has to.
The annual Discord message from CapitolBot.
"4:00 pm"
followed by an incomplete link and a key to crack the code and complete it.
They really love games. Twenty-four years ago it was a simple coded letter in the mailbox. Now they have more and more technology at their service, and they enjoy it. Like butchers with newly sharpened blades.
He knows what's gonna happen in a few hours. He doesn't want to know. But he will have to. Because he is the only one who can.
When the hour comes, he is in front of his computer. Waiting for the page to appear.
When it does, the screen is black, with a symbol in the top center. A stylized bird. The "Capitol Organization" emblem. "A phoenix rising from its ashes" they say.
Under it the bird is a table. Three columns, the middle one with numbers from 1 to 12. The two others still empty.
He waits as they are filled up one after the others.
They are filled with names and ages. Girls on the left and boys on the right. Etiquette, ladies first.
Glimmer Taylor 17, Marvel Johnson 17, Clove Adams15, Cato Reed18…
He waits for the last column to get filled. His column.
The names of the two children, "tributes", he will have to accompany to their certain death. He'd rather kill them directly than giving them false hopes. Than treating them like cannon fodder. Than sending them into that gladiator arena.
He knows they will die. They always do.
24 children are going to disappear tomorrow.
Papers, news and politicians will talk about it. They will say that it is terrible, like every year. When someone will point that it is odd and that it happens every year, they will put the blame on Cults or chance, like every year. When someone will ask why nothing is done about it, they will say that it's complicated -and make the spoiler disappear too -, like every year.
Like if they didn't know. Like they didn't take part in it…
24 families will cry, wait, and hope. Believing that their child will come back, that he is only lost and alive somewhere, that they have been kidnapped by a madman and that the police will find them.
They will see their cases being closed, most likely labeled "fugue" or "unexplained disappearance".
They will never know. They will never know they are dead. They will never know how they died. Why they died.
They will never know that their child has been taken to serve as a toy, as a jester for the sickest people on this fucking planet.
… Rue Ward 11, Thresh West 18
Only one child will come back.
Only one will come back to his home, but not to his life.
He will have to bear the weight of his actions. He'll have to live with the lives he has taken to save his own. He'll have to suffer the looks of those whose child didn't come back. He'll have to endure the stares of those who will recognize him, know him. He will have to stomach knowing his tormentors and knowing that he can't do anything against them.
Against the Games.
Only one will come back.
And when he sees the names appear, he knows. He knows that his chances are low. That, once more, the odds hasn't been in his favor.
And he drinks.
He toast to them.
Peeta Mellark 16
Primrose Everdeen 12