Let's pick the truth that we believe in
Like a bad religion
Tell me all your original sins
~ Bastille
PROLOGUE II
Emilian Kouris, Head Gamemaker
Raindrops falling onto the roof above their heads creates a steady background of noise; Emilian would be grateful for the distraction were it not for the way it was overpowered by much more closer and pressing noises. Like the ceaseless drumming of the President's fingertips against the wooden desk separating them.
Like the audible echo of his heartbeat pounding restlessly in between his ribs, like a marching band thrown off-key.
He finds himself unable to keep still. He can't pace, under the watchful, hawk-like stare of President Arkin, so instead he just shifts his weight from foot to foot whilst being careful not to make a sound against the carpets beneath him. Emilian Kouris is not a man prone to fits of anxiety - a lifetime in the public eyes has made sure of that - but his body betrays him as he faces the most powerful person in Panem.
"Yesterday.." Begins President Arkin, as her dark green eyes flash, like sun rays hitting glass shards of a broken wine bottle. Her voice is a swarm of contradictions: soft yet hard, harsh yet forgiving, probing, yet utterly unreadable. "You convinced the soldiers guarding Theophilus Kouris's cell to let you enter."
It's a statement, not a question.
Emilian swallows, thickly.
"I invoked my familial right to visit him."
"To visit him.." Octavia Arkin tilts her head up as she mulls it over. "There's a difference between visiting and killing. You entered his cell, and then murdered him. No?"
Why deny the obvious, "I did, Miss President."
She doesn't respond straight away, and the silence is deafening.
Emilian casts his gaze across the room to pass the time, from the two bodyguards at the door, to the closed blinds keeping out the sun as it rises over the Capitol skyline, to the carved desk of the President's office, and back again. He's half tempted to feel for the knife at his side, even though he knows it isn't there. It was confiscated after he used it to kill his brother, when it was still stained with glistening red blood. It doesn't matter. His father grilled the art of hand-to-hand combat into him just as much as he taught him how to use a blade, ensuring that Emilian would never feel helpless.
But to get out of this predicament, he's painfully aware that he'll have to rely on his words, not his fists.
"If you wish to defend yourself, Mr Kouris, now is the time to do so." She replies, evenly.
Emilian meets her stare.
"With respect, Miss President." He states, "My brother would have been dead in a week either way."
"The public wanted a public execution. You denied them a chance to see justice done. And what is the Capitol without justice?" She replies, unrelentingly.
"The public will have the games in several months to satisfy them," he replies back with impressive speed. Flashes of past games, everyday citizens with their faces glued to screens, eyes wide with suspense, dance in front of his eyes - as if to strengthen his point - as he continues, "You entrusted me with overseeing the games. In order to carry out the duty that you bestowed upon me, I needed to be able to fully focus on them."
"You killed your own brother to be able to focus on the games?" The President blinks as she runs her tongue idly over her lips.
It sounds worse when she says it out loud.
Emilian's face flushes as he feels a ripple of discomfort running down his spine.
Regardless, he too, blinks, as he carefully arranges his racing thoughts into a coherent defense. It would be easier if he could gauge what The President thinks of him; what the possible consequences of his blood-soaked decision might be, and what's at risk if he doesn't defend himself well enough. But The President's face is a blank mask, and he knows better than to waste time trying to peel it away.
Plus, such probing actions might be interpreted as disrespect and that's the last thing he wants to risk.
Emilian's always been ever careful to walk the line of obedience. He doesn't walk to be seen as a troublemaker, and his brother's actions have made it even harder to avoid that association.
Now, he's determined to avoid any comparison to Theophilus, whatever it takes.
"I needed a clear conscience." He says, softly.
Octavia Arkin's lips twist into a sharp-edged smile.
"Murder is a very... unique means to a clear conscience."
"Respectfully, I think my circumstances are fairly unique, Miss President." He replies.
"Very few bloodlines are pure, Emilian." The familiarity of her use of his first name sends a shiver through Emilian, because he doesn't know what it means or how to interpret it; still, he senses that the mood in the room has changed. "Every tree has a rotten apple, if not several. The fact that one of yours - your brother, that is - was more rotten than most, doesn't change anything."
"Of course." Emilian remarks, flatly, "I also support your metaphor of the rotten apples. although personally, I believe that any tree, and all the apples hanging from it, should be responsible for the outcome of every other apple on that tree.
"Are you saying you consider yourself responsible for Theophilus's actions?" President Arkin's question comes with lightning-fast speed, as she raises one eyebrow.
Emilian exhales.
"..."
"I'd be lying if I said I knew how to answer that questions fully." He confesses, letting his voice bleed with raw honesty. "I- maybe? We grew up together, I probably spent more time with him than anyone else. We were twins, and to say we were close is an understatement... "Emilian pauses, lost for a moment in a sea of memories. "So... I have to wonder if I influenced him somehow."
"Did that affect your decision to kill him?"
"Of course." Emilian doesn't try to hide the bluntness of his reply "If I did have a part to play in the creation of a monster, then it was my job to end it."
"That's understandable."
Emilian is taken aback.
"I... see." He says, slowly.
Internally, he recoils with surprise at her quiet agreement. He can't help but feel like he's missing a piece of the puzzle, and it bugs him. He had expected a reproach for his bluntness, not agreement. He almost misses the interrogation-style pace of her questioning, when contrasted with... this.
Pursing his lip, Emilian tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he contemplates the possibility that's he's being played. The possibility that he's being manipulated into saying something he'll regret.
Has he already said it?
He shakes his head, jolting himself back into reality.
"Can I trust you?" The President asks him, out of the blue. Emilian straightens his back.
"One of the reasons for my actions, as I've explained to you, was so that I would be able to focus completely on the upcoming Hunger Games. I know they're a Quarter Quell, and I know it's important that we get them right. I did... what I did... to be able to carry out the duty you entrusted me with, to the utmost of my ability." He pauses to take a breath, before answering her question without a single trace of doubt, "Yes. I will always be loyal to you and the Capitol. You will always be able to trust me, Miss President."
She lets out a steady breath of acknowledgment, before fixing her emerald gaze on him once more.
"Under normal circumstances, I'd probably have replaced you as Head Gamemaker after this whole... situation." She tells him offhandedly, running her tongue over her teeth. Emilian's heart skips a beat, before the President adds, "However, given the nature of this year's Quarter Quell, I think your... unique... circumstances still make you the best person for the job. Therefore, I will forgive your insolence this once."
"Yes, Miss President."
"The public will be told that you visited your brother in his cell, and that he attacked you. His death was merely an act of self-defense. You had no other choice."
"Of course."
Emilian fights to keep the flame of relief burning inside his chest from showing. He wonders if President Arkin can see the glow of it, radiating out from him.
Still, he doesn't want to test his luck, hence why he keeps his answers short.
A wry smile leaps across the President's face, like a spark from a guttering candle.
"Aren't you curious about the twist of this year's Quarter Quell? You haven't been informed of it yet, unless I'm mistaken."
"You'll tell me when I need to know, Miss."
"Of course." Her eyes flash with satisfaction, "That moment is now. In the upcoming 125th Hunger Games, every pair of tributes from each district will be brother and sister, to remind the districts of how their rebellion pitted brother against brother, and sister against sister. To remind them of how their rebellion tore families apart, and of the blood that was spilled as a result."
"..."
She clearly expects a response, but for Emilian, the words refuse to come, sticking like bitter honey in his throat. Instead, he stays silent; lost in thought.
Ha.
He sees why he's 'the best person for the job' now. Appreciates the twisted irony, even.
In a Hunger Games that will pit sibling against sibling, who better to organize it than someone who murdered his own brother in cold blood?
"..."
Unable to do anything else, Emilian nods in acknowledgement, mind numb.
"You are dismissed." Octavia Arkin's eyes harden, "I will have further instructions sent to your office later today. I expect these games to be perfect, given what you've done to prepare yourself."
There's only one possible answer to her command, and Emilian replies, automatically.
"Yes, Miss President."
...
It feels like there's a swarm of bees moving around inside his skull, a cacophony of buzzing that makes him feel fuzzy and causes him to act on auto-pilot. He barely notices the wary look that the guards give him, tinged with traces of surprise, as they open the door for him. He barely hears the rhythmic thump of his shoes against the polished wooden floor of the corridor as his feet lead him back to his office.
Seconds pass in a blur, like a trickle of water.
Sagging against the wall of his office, Emilian feels the hard surface sapping the strength from him. He eyes the bottle of alcohol on his desk - a conciliatory gift given to him at his parents' funeral, but refuses to sink that low, this early in the morning.
Briefly, he reflects on Octavia's words. He feels relief over the forgiveness, and that, despite the blood soaking his hands, he hasn't compromised his social position. In fact, a small, niggling part of him wonders if the blood on his hands was inevitable, sooner or later. He doubts Octavia's hands are clean. From his experience, climbing the ladder of status in the Capitol means crushing those beneath you, and also those against you. The fact that the blood on his hands is more literal than most changes nothing.
Maybe his recent actions have created new political enemies.
He can cross those bridges when he gets to them.
Meanwhile, his heart thumps with suppressed excitement as he eyes the tasks ahead of him. The Games. If he lands this right, his name will go down in history.
He's already working out the logistics in his mind. The pre-existing familial bonds between the tributes will create more emotional turmoil. More spectacle. It will tug at the audience's heartstrings more. If he utilizes this twist correctly, these could be one of the most engaging games in Panem's history. Theo's face flashes in front of his mind once more, but he quickly shakes it away.
Despite everything, he doesn't feel too much sympathy for the tributes. Fear breeds desperation. If he can become desperate enough to carry out the murder of his own sibling, so can everyone else.
Shared blood doesn't mean loyalty. It doesn't mean trust, or even mercy.
Blood, in the end, means nothing.
So, that's the second prologue. As always, reviews on what you think so far are much appreciated. I've started writing the intros, and I've decided to take all 24 tributes as submissions. Submission slots are still open, and I love all the tributes I've recieved so far.
Also, the website is now up and running too, so check that out too, if you're interested. The link is on my profile.