Since refusing my wife, I have taken up sleeping on the nicer couch in the den. It's a lumpy old thing, passable only in that it's higher than the floor. Aches punish my back with relentless stiffness. I get up early for a meager breakfast of bland oatmush, and then leave for the Main Office. I haven't been there nearly as often since the reaping and the upcoming meal/interrogation is a grave concern. If the Peacekeepers are starting to keep tabs on me, they'll find that I'm working a bare fraction of the six day week.
The streets are almost empty. Rays of approaching daybreak scarcely test 11's nighttime horizon. I arrive at the Main Office and check through the security door, lugging my pack down to the lowest level of the atrium again. I should be able to get the remaining pillars analyzed by lunchtime. With all the data gleaned from the research, I could write a decent report and claim to Covas that my absence from the Main Office was spent sifting through the information. Though slim, it may be my only response. I unpack the crawler and get it crawling.
Every thought is laden with the Games. On the one hand, it's very helpful for Rue to be allied with Katniss. The girl from District 12 is obviously more lethal than Rue could ever have become. The replays showed Katniss using her bow to take down game effortlessly, as though she had been doing so for years.
In the arena, all alliances are fleeting as the lives of the tributes. Once only a handful of tributes are left, Katniss will most likely kill my niece. I just can't imagine my niece raising a blade against the girl with the mockingjay pin. It's hard to imagine Rue raising a blade to anyone, actually. She has always been a model of love and compassion toward family and friends.
Perhaps Rue can flee any arrows she may encounter and come to a stalemate. If Rue can get away, she can stay away, but Katniss and Rue can both survive on the wilderness' food and water sources, until the Gamemakers decide to liven things up.
It doesn't matter today since the two girls have decided to focus their efforts on destroying the Career's food and supply dump. They are going to spend the day gathering food until they have created a plan. The world so rarely goes according to plan.
Wistful memories cloud my vision. I let myself be carried away into the past, shrugging off the heavy burden of the present.
"Dad, don't go in there!" Mason's voice cracks as teenaged voices do.
I tilt my head, coat hanging by one hand, other palm on the kitchen closet doorknob. "What?"
Mason glances away. His homework is spread out on the kitchen table. "Well, it's..." He stutters. "See..."
"Son, what's going on?" I crack open the closet door and peek inside. It's dark. Grack! A noise pierces the darkness. I pull the door open wide, bathing the closet in afternoon-window glow.
A fuzzy, yellow duckling waddles out onto the kitchen floor, quacking away. I stare, look to Mason and then stare at the duck again.
"See, I wanted to tell you first..." Mason comes around the table and picks the tiny bird up, cradling it in his hands.
"You could have. Where did you get that and what's it doing here?" I hang my coat and glance around the closet to see if the animal left a mess. None.
"His name's Alpert," Mason replies. "There was a bunch of them in the creek. One of the Peacekeepers shot the mother and so me and a few other kids decided to take care of the baby birds."
I look closer. The duckling looks at least old enough to get around on its own. "Mason, I don't think we can keep a pet. You know how your mother feels about messes in the house-"
"I'll clean up after him and I'll even feed him everyday."
A sigh escapes my lungs. I sit down at the table. "That's a big responsibility, son. Besides, when it's fully grown, we'd have to sell him."
Mason pets the bird's tiny head as it quacks, little, webbed, orange feet sticking out between my son's fingers. "I know we can't keep him forever, dad. I just want to raise him."
My palm finds my forehead to rub. "I dunno, Mason."
"C'mon, dad. Pleaaase?" The bird tilts its head looking around the room with that ever blank stare every that every duck has.
Sigh. "I suppose we can keep it for a little bit, if he stays in a crate that you clean every day. Every day, son."
That funny, off-centered smile warms across Mason's cheeks. "Alright! I can do that!" He holds the bird up to his nose. "Hear that, Alpert? We're gonna keep you!"
"And we're not calling him Alpert. We're going to call it duck, okay? It can't stay indefinitely."
Meyla took some convincing, agreeing only to a one-week trial run. Mason kept his word though, cleaning the crate everyday and feeding the duck worms. It became a slightly more permanent pet after the trial period. It wasn't even as noisy as I expected the duck would become.
Around five months later, when the duck was just about fully grown, my sister gave birth to her fourth child, Sythia. Meyla and I, on several occasions, bought gifts/groceries for them, to help offset their financial burdens. Mason, though it was terribly difficult, volunteered to sell the duck and gave the Amaranths brand new baby clothes. Their old baby clothes had been handed down so many times, they were simply shot.
That's the Mason I remember. Generous, caring, and eternally optimistic. That's the Mason I miss. My son.
I sip a thermos of coffee and note it's almost empty. The crawler has another few minutes left to finish the current column, so I go scouting for a coffee maker that's not too close to any Peacekeepers who might give me a hard time about drinking their brew. It's enough of a hassle that I have to work inside this leviathan hall. Can't skip coffee, too.
Meyla's offer that I might still be able to use my heart for something other than a motivator in rebellion was becoming a distant memory. I even hate myself for what my rejection is doing to her. We've only spoken about my sister's family since then. And I've spent each wretched night on the lumpy, worn couch.
A counter in the back of an officers' break room has a half empty pot on the warmer; hopefully decaf. Caffeine won't help my mental state. As I pour the drink into my thermos, I glance over my shoulder. Two officers are watching the television, the backs of their heads peeking over a broad couch.
On the screen, early morning is only just beginning to break. The boy from District 10 ravenously consumes berries. There's no inset screen to show what the other tributes are doing. The Gamemakers probably think something is going to happen, but I can't see any other tributes near this poor lad. He's the one with the bad foot that keeps him limping. It's surprising how long he's lasted with a gimp walk.
I put the pot back on the warmer and sip the coffee. It's not a bad cup, if a slightly weaker blend than what I usually prefer. Oh well, District 11 folk can't be choosers. So declares the Capitol. I take another sip, the piping hot liquid stinging my tongue.
Like a tiger, a mere blur of movement, a huge tribute blasts through the stalks of wheat behind the crippled boy and pounces him into the underbrush, disappearing as fast as he appeared. It happened so quickly, so surprisingly that I jerk, coffee sloshing over the mug's rim, scalding my hand. I grimace at the wet burn.
I set the thermos down and run my hand under cold water, eyes still on the screen watching the sudden attack. It was Thresh, the spindly and giant male tribute from this district. Though the Gamemakers were switching back and forth between shots, they can't seem to find one showing anything more than Thresh's back. The labels are brought back up, floating in the air, pointers dragging off the bottom of the screen.
Not ten seconds after tackling the boy from District 10, Thresh finishes him quickly, almost mercifully. There was no way the crippled child could have gotten away and no real means to fight back. His only weapons were makeshift clubs he'd picked up on the forest floor and those were tucked into his belt. The death announcement flashed across the image. The boy's name was Lydian.
I wipe my hands on a rag and screw the lid onto my thermos. The burned skin still smarts. The Peacekeepers are discussing Thresh's kill, fascinated with his ability to stalk undetected, in spite of his enormous size and strength. He's a very controlled enemy. Anyone who bet on him at the outset of the Games bet wisely. This is his first kill, according to the statistics on the screen. Much more impressive than the Careers who are overconfident and throw caution to the wind in their attacks, year after year.
Walking back to the atrium, I wonder if Thresh killed the boy so handily because he didn't want to kill anyone, because a swift demise is better than a slow, agonizing death. Thresh wants to come home like anyone else, yet his pattern shows that he is reluctant to harm other tributes. He has remained hidden in the field since the Games began, eight days ago. Maybe he's just terrified, in spite of his size and covert ability. Maybe he just can't seem to shake the fear of the arena. That could be the case, as well.
Without more action from him, it would be impossible to really analyze the motivation behind Thresh's choices thus far. And at this rate, we won't figure anything out at all. Less than a dozen tributes remained and only one of the twenty-four had encountered him.
The crawler has finished prodding the pillar and is nearly to the floor again. I replace the memory chip, move it to another pillar and hook up a new battery, getting it under way.
Hot coffee warms through my organs, calming. It's decaf then, the rarer type. So, I have to attend this dinner with Volente Covas. The irony that he'd investigate me, as opposed to the man who murdered my son, rasps through me again and I actually manage a bitter grunt of a chuckle.
The Captain must be a true career Peacekeeper. Sure, investigating Peacekeeper actions are rare; rarer still in the agriculture district where beatings are often more available than food, despite harvesting the food locally. Such investigations do happen from time to time, though. Peacekeepers are occasionally expunged from the corps and in the past there have even been executions.
I sit down on the floor and lean against a pillar, bringing up the data from the recent card. At first it all looks the same as the rest, until I notice pressure fracturing near the hub joint. Judging by the weak points in the massive stone, the hub has collapsed or crumpled slightly on the northwest corner, the side which kept one of the rear wings' roof up.
Hustling up to the crawlspace, I make my way around the gigantic steel ring and confirm my suspicion. The Main Office took some type of aerial bomb from a Capitol attack during the Dark Days. A number of the roofing beams on this side were replaced and welded to the humongous hub. The replaced I-beams stretch the enormous length on the northwest wing in a spider's web maze of steel and stone, finally meeting the distant edge of the building.
Those walls of the wing have their own concealed support lattice which I haven't tested. I got some readings from the data I gathered outside, just not enough for a real understanding of the wing stresses. I've put off studying inside that wing for a while because that's the barracks and it would require constant escort and disruption of every room adjoining the outer wall or any interior supports.
The hub itself is damaged; its gentle warp is superficially visible when I lean my face down against the painted metal and play a flashlight across its surface. An electric toner should reveal any serious defects. I switch mine on, touching the electrodes to various places on the hub's edges. Nothing here, or here. I shift the electrodes about. The toner sends an electromagnetic pulse through the metal and the readings indicate the molecular consistency of the steel. So far, all readings are right in the appropriate range for the massive ring.
If there are any problems with the structure, they're too small for this undersized tool to detect. I have a bigger toner at my storage locker, a huge apparatus with hundreds of electrodes. It requires a trip to carry by itself. I'll have to use it on the hub at some point. For now, the pillar readings will do.
Far below, the crawler has finished another cycle and settled back at the floor. I hurry back down to get it rolling again. Then, I head back to that officers' lounge, finding it empty, to see if Rue and Katniss are being featured.
They are still just gathering plants to eat, talking about the supply dump. Katniss says, "The boy from District Three? He's working with them?" She drops a handful of berries into a pouch on her mud-splotched backpack.
"Yes, he stays at the camp full-time. He got stung, too, when they drew the tracker jackers in by the lake." Rue's birdlike fluttering through the trees enables her to observe from where no tributes really should be; clever little dear, and brave just like she promised. "I guess they agreed to let him live if he acted as their guard. But he's not very big."
"What weapons does he have?"
"Not much that I could see: a spear. He might be able to hold a few of us off with that, but Thresh could kill him easily." That I do not doubt any longer. The two girls move on to find more edible plants. Thresh could probably kill everyone in the arena easily, which makes it perplexing as to why he has not pursued an offensive strategy instead of maintaining a territorial approach. His interview with Caesar Flickerman was awkward. No matter what Caesar asked, he couldn't get Thresh to say two words in a sentence.
"And the food's just out in the open?" Katniss asks Rue who nods. "Something's not quite right about that whole setup."
"I know. But I couldn't tell what exactly. Katniss, even if you could get to the food, how would you get rid of it?"
"Burn it, dump it in the lake, soak it in fuel," Katniss grins and pokes my niece's stomach. "Eat it!" Rue giggles as Katniss continues, "Don't worry. I'll think of something. Destroying things is much easier than making them."
They talk for a while longer covering various topics. The inset screen shows the Career tributes are still battling to overcome their tracker jacker stings, lacking the remedy so common in District 11. There will be very little traffic for a while. Overnight shifts are ending and day shifts have just begun, leaving the entertainment room unused for the next few hours.
Rue tells Katniss about how people in District 11 love to sing and how the mockingjays sing the field songs back. Meyla and I used to take walks through the countryside, when it wasn't harvest season, to hear the singing and to sing along. My wife has a splendid voice, but I would just hum because mine is crunchier than the gravel roads. Mason was more independent by that time, allowing my wife and I to become closer than ever, enjoying every moment of each other.
When I return to the present, I find the kids have begun discussing a real plan. The Career tributes haven't yet left the pile of supplies surrounded by landmines. Katniss and Rue don't know about the mines, however they know something is amiss I decide to go back to work, since it will be several hours before anything will happen.
I send the crawler up. Only two more cycles to go following this one and I'll have a complete data set on the pillars. After that, I plan to pack up and head home. I'll try to look at the information before going to the dinner tonight. I better have prepared what I'm going to say, so I should plan on going through some practiced phrases too.
Scipio really should be told about the minor structural defects in the Main Office's atrium support columns. He's so elusive about what the plan for rebellion actually is; I'm beginning to bet he just doesn't have a plan that would work. If I could come up with a way to bring down these supports, he just might go for it. It could rally the abused and withered people of District 11 around the rubble that would bury so many of our oppressors!
If only another bomb was dropped, maybe the pressure fractures would burst right through the polished stone and the whole building would come down. No more Volente Covas, Jura Penrose, or a few hundred other lash-wielding thugs hired by the Capitol. I wonder if Jura Penrose is on the day shift or not. It doesn't matter anyway. Not because the idea isn't palpable to me, yet. It is. I just don't have a bomb.