Gravel and dirt crunch beneath my feet, walking past the edge of Three Corners town. The ramshackle buildings end abruptly; a designated line demarks the agricultural sector. Out here, the only buildings are multileveled apartments stashed here and there between rolling fields. Off on the horizon, a few clouds slide across the warm sky. Walking, the sole means of transportation for residents provides me time to reflect. Inevitably reflection always returns to one part or another of the year's beginning.
After I saw my son on the stairs, and after I talked to others who swore that it was murder, even after Volente Covas declared the case officially an accidental death, I remember what I planned to say to him.
Captain, your investigation cannot possibly be over. There are witnesses you have yet to interview who can corroborate that this was not an accident. That's what I should have said. Of course, I didn't manage to speak so carefully.
That was the first time I had been to his office, seen the same candles layered with dust from years of nonuse. "Kippen, can I call you Kip?"
I shrug, stomach churning from the fresh pain of my son's funeral a few days prior.
"Come on in and take a seat, Kip."
I linger on my feet, agitation cresting verbally. "How can you throw out my son's case? Just like that!" I fling an arm to the side. Covas sits down daintily, staring at me deep in thought. "Mason was murdered, Captain! Murdered! Please, you just can't ignore this!" Anguished tears slip past my eyelashes so I grind into my forearm to mop the fluid up.
He plots his response carefully. "Kippen," Covas taps his fingers on his desk rhythmically. "I closed the investigation because there isn't sufficient evidence for a case. I declared it an accident because it was."
"But it wasn't! You have to reopen it. You have to!"
"Kippen, it was awful what happened to your son and I wish there was something I could do about it." Covas leans forward. "But he's gone and no one can do anything about that."
His words grabbed me like a knife to the heart. I was confused for a while, until it dawned on me that Covas is a protector from the Capitol. Their way is to guard their own. Nothing more.
I've walked for several miles along a road long-since ground to gravel and turn off past a scraggly field, into a massive patch of trees. The safe house is tucked safely away in District 11's more rugged, beaten countryside.
Soon after my sorrow was converted to hatred by Captain Covas, I ran into an old friend of my father's. Scipio had run a business of some sort as a younger man and still maintained a source of income in his later years.
He was something of an uncle I hadn't seen in years, so we met a few times to catch up. One day about two weeks later, the two of us were taking a walk outside of Three Corners, so I could speak without much concern for my vented words being overheard. Since we avoided the fields and orchards that hosted work, I felt at least whispers of my true feelings would be safe from danger. Scipio understood.
Of course, the Peacekeepers murder people with sickening regularity, but there was something different about Mason's death. It had become the issue people whisper rumors between each other, some true ones and others lacking accuracy. "It's agony, you know? Waking up each day with your entire life's achievement gone?"
Our shoes thumped dully across a wooden bridge over an irrigation ditch. "I just... I don't know what to do. I've gone back to Covas four times. Asked that he at least consider the possibility that Penrose might be guilty. I've even tried going up the chain of command. But no one else will meet with me and the Capitol won't return my letters."
Silence rules our walk, tempered by gentle breeze rustling through the plants that surround the path. Distant sounds of singing creep past as well, the tones of field laborers trying to lighten a hard day's workload with the only comfort they are granted: the right to sing. The sun was nearly setting which would bring about quitting time soon after. Only harvest season requires working after dark.
"We're cattle." I say staring at the gentle rise and fall of planted land melding into the horizon. "Our job is to pull a till and it doesn't matter very much if we die, so long as there are ample stocks to replace those who do."
My wizened and bearded friend finally replies, "It's even more ironic in District Ten." That was where the Capitol had its animal livestock raised by more human livestock. "There are good men, still, though. Even among the Peacekeepers, there are a handful of men who do what is right."
I have no idea what to say to this. I'm not a great man, but a good man. When living in the Capitol, I never became a part of the culture and even after two years, coming home to District 11 was an enormous relief. It was strange to feel comforted by the mercilessness of this place, but at least the sick feeling of uncaring debauchery had vacated my gut. Embracing a renewed peace of mind, I met Meyla Morningstar and married her as fast as we dared. Soon there followed a son, our own little Mason Silvernale. The years ticked off in my mind, like the pages falling from fingertips; Mason's first word, his first day at school, his first song in the field, his first reaping, and on.
Speaking slowly, Scipio adds, "There are a few of us... who are preparing to change some things... in Panem," nothing revealed in his stoic face, just the same sun-dried wrinkles where Scipio's whiskers don't hide his skin. "If you are interested, Kippen, I'm sure a man in your unique placement can be very helpful."
Such an offer would take a great deal of thought and I said as much to him. Over the next week, I found moments to whisper about it with my wife; while the water was running and while a loud storm blasted through the district. Meyla was edgy with the idea of my joining an underground movement, but she told me the choice was mine.
As I see it, Mason was the reason for everything Meyla and I ever did. Every choice was made to improve his life. Since that option no longer remained, I prepared myself mentally to make sure justice would find a footing, gain some hold in the world.
Months have gone by since I joined the underground and nothing at all has changed. I have no concept of who is in the movement, what its plans are, what we need to do to get there, what sort of information I should be providing; the list goes on forever. In my opinion, it seems to be the most disorganized rebellion in history.
As I enter the safe house, Scipio acknowledges me only by word, until I tell him about Rue.
"Your niece?" Scipio is finally drawn out from his writing by my revelation.
"Rue is only twelve years old and not even ninety pounds." I lean against the door. This musty old shack was abandoned ages ago. It was left to ruin because it's too far from the nearest fields, nestled deep into a forest. After a long day of work, walking three miles home is simply too arduous. The Capitol tore down most of the old homes after they reassigned people to the apartment dwellings among the fields. The underground movement in District 11 had appropriated this forgotten home and repaired the collapsed roof, careful that attention isn't drawn to the secluded hideout.
No one ever came out this way. In fact, I have concluded that the underground is not a very big organization since only a few people have ever been here. Each time I come to this sequestered place, the only place in the world where I know I can proclaim my mind without fear of eavesdropping, there's only one or two people, usually Scipio, sometimes no one.
Scipio drops his pen and stands up, scratching his silver beard. He might be the oldest man in District 11. Even so, he's still as physically animated as ever. I don't really understand him. No one could be more worked up over the Capitol's tyranny than he, and yet, he calls incessantly for patience and moderation. For the moment he's slow to reply, doubtless searching for words that would cool my boiling blood; words that don't exist.
"That… is unfortunate." His eyes pierce mine in a stony gaze. "I'm sorry."
My jaw shakes bitterly. "Are you kidding? You've been saying we're close to the right time, that things are under way in the other districts. We have to do something, now!" I stab my finger into the table for emphasis.
Scipio puts his hands up defensively. "We are close, Kippen. We are. But the time has not yet arrived." He sets a hand on my shoulder and I shake off his consolation.
"I need to know the plan! You have to tell me what's going on and what's being done about the Games."
Scipio turns away and lights a new candle to replace one about to burn off the last of its wax. "You deserve some honest answers. None of the other members have gone through quite what your family has." He turns around and sets the new candle on the table. Even with a dozen, the lighting is pitiful, just something you get used to. Bad eyes are a real hassle throughout Panem.
"Tell me."
"Honestly," he matches my glare, voice graveled with age. "I don't know what the plan is."
That statement leaves me speechless. Scipio is the most meticulously detailed person I have ever met, and he doesn't even have a plan for the rebel group he's been building?
He continues. "It can't begin in District Eleven. We are already the brunt of the Capitol's harshest violence and our people can't even afford to eat half of the time. They can't possibly stand up against the size of the Peacekeeper force that is stationed here."
"There's no plan?"
"There is a plan, but I don't have it. We can do nothing until some of the Peacekeepers are drawn out of District Eleven to reinforce other fronts. My immediate concern is with preparing the rebels here for that opportunity, for when that situation arises." Scipio sits down again and brushes his beard with his palm.
"So, you don't know what the plan is?" Scipio shakes his head and I growl, "Then how do you know whether we're close or not?"
"I can get indications-"
"What sort?" My bared teeth bite half of his sentence off.
Scipio hesitates again and it crosses my mind that he could be lying outright. "Kippen, look, the Hunger Games are the key. Everyone in the districts knows they are the focal point of evil for this government. The underground has built up a small support network to use the Games to force Capitol City residents to see what they really are."
"Could you shut the Games down?"
"No, that would only expose who we have in place. The Capitol would replace them with loyalists and execute our agents. Trust me, Kip, we're doing exactly what needs to be done at exactly the pace it needs to happen and no matter how much you or I want things to change faster, they simply cannot."
I don't understand. How can the Games be made worse in the eyes of people who revel in annual bloodlust? "What are you going to do? Make it more boring?"
"I told you. I don't know the plan, and it's better if fewer people know."
Anyone in the underground would naturally understand the necessity of information control, but I can't help muttering, "If anyone actually has a plan in the first place."
"Kippen," Scipio waits until I sit across from him. "Good minds and passionate hearts are in this. Some of them are making decisions that are far more difficult than anything you and I have to worry about, and I really mean that. Hard as things are, you have to continue doing what's right. Don't let the Capitol take your dignity from you. There is more going on than the tragedy of our own lives. It's bigger than us."
My breath heaves out stress. At least in this rustic, forgotten shack I can speak my mind, grieve and rage, I can think without having to mask my words. "Then give me some hope. Give me some sense," I wave my hands in frustration, "of this change we're close to achieving."
Scipio stacks the papers he was writing on and slides them into a large envelope to protect them from the elements that seep into the cabin. "I know the Hunger Games will be different this year. There's someone special that was involved, someone important in one of the reapings."
"But not ours?"
"No, our District is under too much pressure and scrutiny. The security is just too high for us to have much subversive latitude."
"So, you don't know where and you don't know what and you don't know how, and really, you don't know when? What? Did you have a mayor fixing a selection?"
"I'm not sure if we actually have a mayor but we at least have someone close to the process that we can trust. You will be following the Games more than usual this year, I suppose?" I nod. "I will too, but you have to give your attention to more than your own personal strife if you want to make a difference in this world."
My hands wave dismissively. "So, Rue's just… gone?"
In the flickering light, Scipio's bushy eyebrows angle upward slightly. "I am truly sorry, Kip."
I storm out of the cabin, grateful for the tree grove which surrounds the safe house since it will give me time to reseal my exterior. I can't display myself, no matter how infuriated. Light wafts through blanket of leaves here and there. The air is dry, cooling already with the oncoming approach of the fall season.
Use the Hunger Games against the Capitol? I had come to see the people of that wretchedly lavish city as too animalistic to ever see the district residents as anything besides beasts for entertainment and labor. The only way they'd ever turn against the Games is if their own children are subjected to reapings. Whatever the plan is, it's not going to work.
The only people who will ever rise up are those in the poorer, weaker districts, those who lose everything or have nothing, and already hate the Games. They've hated the games for the seventy-some-odd years since the Treaty of Treason created this annual event. What more atrocity could there be to get Panem's subjects to rise up? I feel it's too late, already and yet another member of my family is lost to the ravages of the Capitol's insatiable lust for evil.
The sun pummels glaringly across the landscape, still several degrees above the horizon, as I emerge from the trees. Night will fall before I have made my way home. Meyla will probably have dinner already prepared so I entice my stomach to grumble as hunger joins hate.
Do nothing! That same command Scipio gave to me months ago has resurfaced. Of course, he never used those words, always advocating his underground agents to learn what we can and relay information into the network, to keep track of everything possible. He was especially insistent that my role is passive intelligence gathering, since I have regular access to government buildings.
But what good is information if you just pass it on and no one ever does anything with it? All I have found out with intelligence gathered is this: the underground is entirely submissive and the Capitol maintains impunity to do as it pleases, whenever and however it pleases.
My thoughts are plagued by emotional conflicts: my hatred for the Capitol, the Peacekeepers, Jura Penrose, and that two-faced Captain Volente Covas, who pretends to be a friend so he can see me squirm and stew in the misery of my son's death. I'm confident, every one of our conversations, blood steaming from my eyes, is the subject of jovial Peacekeepers around their cafeteria meals or the occasional liquored drink which even the Peacekeepers have in a few illegal basement bars around District 11. Capitol sadism is a way of life and it must be stopped.
The final warm rays set and orange ochre fades quickly into lavender before disappearing from the sky, leaving cold grey clouds and a mirth of stars scattered above. I can see the road alright in the silvery moonlight. In two days Hannah and Marek will have to watch Rue die a muddy, bloody, sick, and lonely death. Do nothing? My toe kicks a clump of dirt back into the roadside ditch.
Sparse trees laze between each field; mockingjays sing the tunes of workers who are already heading back home. My path brings me near them and I time my gait just between the groups. I'm lacking the clothes and equipment of field work and would prefer not to answer questions about what I'm doing out here, as opposed to enduring the lash of overeager shift watchmen.
Meyla greets me at the door when I finally arrive, with a hug no less. This is different from the usual, and I hug her back, needing respite, needing a cradle for my weary head. During a dinner of potatoes and a few slices of ham we discuss my sister's family.
Compassion for my sister's family has revived my wife from the aimless days we've been living, given her a reason to go on. Similar to the way the underground had given me inspiration months ago.
"I've decided to start a collection drive to sponsor Rue," Meyla says over the meal. Sponsors can pay the Gamemakers to deliver gifts to tributes in the arena: things like food, medicine, or survival supplies. The rates are exorbitant and it is always up to the tribute's mentor when and what they would receive. Rue's mentor is a gentle old woman named Seeder who had won the Hunger Games the better part of two decades before I was born.
"Oh, yeah? How are you doing that?" I ask, savoring the sweet juicy ham, opulence for district residents.
"I talked to someone in the Reaping Office and they told me how to set up a donation box. They even contacted Seeder for me and they're going to let me put up signs and ask for donations from people."
I nod. "That's good. Have you told Hannah yet?" The potatoes and butter melt in my mouth.
Meyla almost smiles, "She's having a rough time, but we're going to be there for her." My wife is the affectionate one between the two of us. She could always be counted on for a comforting touch or some gentle words.
That was missing after Mason died since neither of us had the will to take care of each other. I suppose she can now work up compassion for my sister. It's a strange sensation, the light jealousy that she should have been there for me, even though I wasn't there for her. Jealousy mixes awkwardly with the relief that my sister and her husband won't be alone in this public nightmare. Meyla will be with them the whole time, taking care of the children when they can't, cooking and cleaning and being a strong shoulder.
This distance from my wife may never heal, but my heart still beats every at moment with love for her and I sometimes dream that we will be alright some day. Never great without those we love, but okay, if the underground stops hiding and starts fighting.
Once dinner is finished, we wash the dishes. In the living room, we turn on the television, it tunes to the Hunger Games program which has already begun tonight. Nothing is live tonight. More propaganda glorifying the Hunger Games and then they will announce the tribute's scores.
Over the past three days, the tributes have trained in weaponry, wilderness survival, and other assorted talents. During that time the Gamemakers have observed them and at the end of the third day, each of the tributes gets to perform before the Gamemakers by themselves for private scrutiny. They are scored on levels from one to twelve, based upon whether the Gamemakers think they will do well or poorly in the arena. Essentially, the scores provide a bearing for odds-makers since betting goes on in the districts and the Capitol alike. The higher a tribute's score the better.
Children's snapshots flash up on the screen, new images that have been taken since the arrival procession. Beneath the faces their score number is stamped on the screen. Plainly, this year will be no different than those of recent memory. The volunteers from the richer districts garner eights, nines, and tens. The others are typical: fours, fives, and sixes.
Then the male tribute from District 11 flashes up, an enormous boy named Thresh who towered over his female counterpart and competitor. He has been awarded a nine which seizes attention. District 11 hasn't had so strong a tribute in years. Rue's face graces the screen, sweet and tan, her cheeks more full than I remember. They have been feeding her well, better than she's ever had it, actually. She has a seven underneath her chin and for a fleeting moment I'm proud.
Seven is a much better score than I thought she would receive even if it's hopeless. The screen changes to the pale boy from Twelve and I look away, standing up from the couch. I'm almost out of the room when I hear my wife gasp. "Kip! Look at that girl who had that burning costume!"
The young girl had a natural scowl, as though her eyebrows were shaped by a hard life, as they surely were. But she was pretty, nonetheless. I recall she was the one who volunteered for her sister so I decide to like her, admire her selflessness. The number is ridiculous. I haven't seen anyone get a score of eleven for decades. Eleven! The name beneath the number reads "Katniss Everdeen" and it rivets into my mind.
"Wow. I wonder what she showed the Gamemakers." I muse.
"She doesn't look like she could do much, she's pretty small." Meyla notes. Even with an eleven and twenty pounds on Rue, this Katniss couldn't possibly overpower the other teenagers. "She must have done something amazing. That would fit." Meyla refers to the flaming outfit that Katniss' and the boy's stylists dreamed up. Katniss' image lingers on the screen like the Capitol really wants to show off how they gave her an eleven.
"Maybe this year will be different." I quip. Maybe Thresh will win or this girl, Katniss. I remember what Scipio told me and wonder if District 12 winning will have any sort of affect on the Capitol. Try as I might, I can't think of any way it would make a difference to the Capitol.
They love heroes, the victors of the games, and each year the ceremonies are lavish with winners who have survived previous Hunger Games. Following a year with a little girl victor from the pathetic coal mining district, won't the Capitol's crowds be ravenous for more displays of the fierceness they so love? Unusual as they would be this year, Rue will be gone and my sister will experience the heart-stopping agony of mourning your child's death along with twenty-two other families this year.
No different. Do nothing. I shake my head.