Many apologies for the scare last chapter. I'm not really sure what happened to be honest, but I'm back now, and I will be back for the sequel as well. That story will be called Kali Yuga, and I encourage you all to go out and tell everyone in this community about it. I want it to be FAR bigger and more involved than this story has been.
Also, a big thanks to my boy Paradigm of Writing for convincing me to continue writing this! Your encouragement is much appreciated.
Cassie Dawson, Victor of the 107th Hunger Games: 17F
Tuesday Afternoon
3:30PM
Simulation Facility
Thus, Jason Green breathed his last, apologizing to her directly, a thing Cassie had never dreamed could be possible. He fooled her right to the very end; he fooled them all. For, Jason was no common murderer or psychopath. He was merely a man whose mind could not fit properly into the context provided to him by the world, someone who did not understand such simple pleasures as friends and family, love and happiness. Jason was one of a kind, a man who only understood the sword, but this did not make him a bad man necessarily. It only made him a lost one.
Cassie sniffed and wiped her eyes.
"Damn," she muttered to herself, shaking her head, trying to clear the fog of sadness which had settled over her.
There was a time and a place to shed tears. Neither was on live TV. Such behavior was unbecoming, lowering her to a whimpering, sniveling wench. She was better than this.
Cassie took in a deep breath, closing her eyes, then opening them again to survey the scene. Jason's battle with Santana, despite taking place with no weapons had been a bloody one. The floor was covered in the syrupy red fluid; it pooled around Santana's body and soaked his face and neck. She was not squeamish – and whatever small part of her might have been so died during these last nine days – but she still mightily resisted the urge to vomit at the sight.
The room was eerily quiet too, the first time in a long time when Cassie didn't hear her own heart racing, and she could simply sit still. In that stillness, the reality of the situation became immediately apparent to her: she was the winner. These Games – in all their abject horror – they were over, and she had survived.
Was it fair? No, of course not. And yet, every contest needed a winner. One couldn't apologize for being that figure.
But, despite what she might have thought of herself only a few short weeks ago, Cassie felt no sense of elation at this fact. Though she did not hear them yet, she knew the jubilant sounds of trumpets and cymbals which awaited her in the parade through the streets of the Capitol would bring her no joy. Already, she felt bleak, and she could not imagine her state of mind improving to any degree.
What did this all mean? Had she been sold a lie, entered the greatest contest in Panem only to find that – though she still drew breath – she had in some way died too?
"CONGRATULATIONS!" The pantomimic voice returned over the intercom. "CASSIE DAWSON, YOU ARE THE VICTOR OF THE 107TH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES!"
Cassie jumped from her skin, hearing the voice echo around the room. In the stillness and calm following Jason's death, time seemed to freeze. Now, she was harshly reminded that she was, although only physically, still alive at the moment. Time still passed, and her body still felt exhaustion from the hours of conflict in the facility. Most unfortunately, she still felt pain, and the sudden appearance of the voice caused her ears great pain.
Just as quickly as it came, however, the voice disappeared. Cassie's eyes wandered about, glancing back and forth, searching for signs of her inevitable return to the world. Surely some dysgenic freaks would arrive to take her away, lock her back in some cushy apartment to await the time when she would be paraded about like a show dog.
Yet, they did not come, not for what felt like an eternity. She remained sitting in the same place on the white tile, just beyond the reach of the two separate pools of blood around Jason and Santana, stewing in her own resentment.
What was there left to her, after all? She could return home to her family, but there would be only the demanding gaze of her father, his snide remarks and insistence that she should partake in the family business. Would they all still love her, despite the harshness of her father? Yes, they would of course, but would they truly understand what had happened to her?
They could have watched every second of her time in the arena, and they still wouldn't understand what it was like to be here. Their lives were challenging, but they were still somehow incredibly boring and stagnant. Hell, even the miners in District 12 who lived under horrific conditions wouldn't really understand. They had only ever experienced a permanent state of menial servitude, never truly being free.
And, despite everything, that was the true nature of the Games. They were completely liberating, allowing the competitors to revel in the state of nature with no strings attached. There was only a great struggle, the most primal battle which civilized people were not equipped to face. As she pondered she realized – rather ironically – that only Santana truly understood what the Games were at the spiritual level. They were radical liberation, and once one experienced such a thing, there was no real way to go back to menial life, whether that menial life was difficult or not.
For a brief period of nine days, Cassie had escaped the trappings of modernity, experiencing the life humans had evolved to live. In a weird way, Cassie found that she did not want to go back.
She had the heart of a frontiersman, a Faustian soul. She always wanted more, to achieve via her own striving. Sitting still and calm and quiet, as she did now, was not a life Cassie could stand for long. There would always be one more challenge, one more test, and one more battle.
Now though, it seemed as though her opportunity for battles and challenges had vanished. She would return home to live in a large comfortable house, marry, have children, and so forth – just as all who were able to sheath their swords did. But, Cassie did not want to sheath her sword. She did not want to return home to live a life of safety and mediocrity. Her spirit longed for the frontier, for the very edge of human civilization, not for the heart.
As those dysgenic freaks did finally enter the facility to lift her up and guide her along, Cassie's heart plummeted, for she knew her fate was sealed. Jason's experience, the blaze of glory, the death of a true warrior, was entirely preferrable to the coming life of boredom and misery which she would endure. She hated that she had won these Games, and she hated that these disgusting Capitolites had taken the greatest of honors from her by permitting her to live only to make her a prisoner.
Cornell Viktor, President of Panem: 64M
Tuesday Night
10:00PM
President's Palace
Cornell tapped at his keyboard, finishing the last of some paperwork for the day. There were plenty of things to hate about his job, but first among them was the paperwork. Even his need to hide his investigations into the CSIS and their new surveillance system wasn't this bad. He chose to become a peacekeeper initially for a reason.
He groaned as he leaned back in his seat, the wheels of his swivel chair squeaking slightly. The surveillance situation was perhaps the most concerning event of his entire presidency, for it proved that whatever power he held was only nominal. Cornell, despite all appearances, was in charge of nothing. Some faceless bureaucrat in the CSIS determined every decision about Panem, or maybe a committee of them. Either way, the consequences would surely be disastrous, and as the populations of the eastern districts turned suddenly violent in the aftermath of interview night when the secret tapes had been revealed, life would certainly become no easier.
"Damn," Cornell muttered to himself, standing to find a drink from his cabinet.
His eyes settled on a particularly fine bottle of whiskey which had been gifted to him by some mayor as part of a diplomatic operation. He did not remember who the man was, or what district he represented.
Cornell poured the honey-colored liquid into a crystal-clear glass, swirling it about before taking a sip, savoring its smokey flavor. A good glass of whiskey cured many ailments, most of all, that of the troubled mind. He could easily understand how so many fell into the trap of alcoholism.
Taking another sip, Cornell considered what could be done about any of this. The Capitol could not continue on in the same manner which it had for so long. Panem was coming undone, and the Capitol's behavior was the primary reason for all this. If there was to be a future for this nation, it would reside in the hands of the people, not the Capitolites.
Even in the Capitol, many saw this, and more conservative factions insisted on a national rebirth to combat the decline. Yet, this was folly. Cornell knew well that Panem hosted a population full of freedom-loving people, people that were capable of creating a country worthy of them. All that was required of them was to decide enough was enough. They could show the elites just how powerful they were, if only they banded together.
One could only hope it would turn out that way. Though, signs did point to that outcome as a possibility considering the victory of Cassie Dawson in the Hunger Games only a few hours earlier. Yes, she was a career, but she had not lost the common touch, and she could be a lightning rod for many who felt the oppression of the Capitol government had gone too far. Perhaps she could lead the calls for reform?
Her fire would make her the perfect leading figure of a nationwide movement. If all went well, they would create change nonviolently. Cornell couldn't stomach the thought of open conflict. It had only been a little over a century since the end of the last war, and that was not a terribly long time for a nation to recover, especially considering the economic situation of Panem.
There had to be hope in the future. Cornell refused to believe there wasn't.
"Mr. President?" The voice of his secretary spoke through his desktop intercom. "There's a man outside who wants to speak with you. He represents the CSIS."
With his thoughts thoroughly interrupted, Cornell held his breath. Why would the CSIS be here, now? What did this man want? He could not simply deny the man an audience, as that would simply inform whatever figures were running the new surveillance system and remaking the entire country under everybody's nose that he knew what they were doing.
But what if the man was here for another purpose, a darker purpose? Could they know that he knew? Would they dare bump off the sitting President?
Cornell steeled himself for what might come, pressing the button on his desk.
"Send him in," he said, quickly positioning his body behind the desk.
The man who entered was of middling height but built like a brick. He wore an understated dark suit with muscles bulging beneath his shirt, and a cold indifference lay in his brown eyes. This was a man who had killed before, killed many times judging by his expression, and he would surely kill again. Cornell looked at one of the CSIS's notorious operatives, figures so secretive and dangerous that even the President was forced to respect their authority.
"What can I do for you?" Cornell asked even as he tensed in preparation of conflict.
In response, the man did not speak. He only withdrew a silenced pistol from his coat, aiming it directly at Cornell's chest. As soon as he spotted the edge of the barrel, Cornell began to move, ducking down beneath the desk and reaching for his own hidden weapon there. A single shot penetrated the wall behind him, but minimal sound was released from the barrel. Subsonic weapons were preferred by all assassins for their stealth. With a silencer attached, they were practically soundless.
Cornell's own pistol was not silenced, which was either good or bad depending on the speed of the CSIS. If they had compromised his personal staff, the shots would alert them to the fight, and if he survived, they would quickly turn him in. On the other hand, if his staff remained loyal, they might come to help if they heard the shots.
Exhaling once and recalling his days as a peacekeeper, Cornell peaked around the corner of the desk to fire a shot at the leg of his assailant. He missed. All the time spent in a cushy palace had dampened his skills it seemed.
Two more shots came from the assassin's gun, one bullet blasting through the wood of his desk, the other bursting through just as Cornell rolled away to his right. Any closer than that, and Cornell would be occupying the morgue. Now, he only had to make sure that he wouldn't end up occupying the morgue anyway.
He fired off another shot as he came to his feet, but his assailant was equally quick. However, as he faced a moving target, Cornell was only struck in the shoulder, while the assassin was struck in the neck, just at the base of his jugular.
Pain exploded in Cornell's left arm, but the CSIS man was certainly worse off. He fired off another two inaccurate shots as his hands went to his neck and he fell to the floor gurgling. Unwilling to take the chance that he might muster enough energy to roll over and fire at Cornell again, the President aimed a single shot at the back of the man's head and pulled the trigger.
With a loud boom, his head burst like a cantaloupe. Cornell breathed in deep breaths, trying to regain his cool. The time had come to move, move on the plan in the districts, move from his position as President, and – most importantly – move out of this office as quickly as he could.
Only pausing for a moment to quickly jam a towel over the bullet hole in his shoulder, Cornell departed posthaste. He did not inform anyway of his plans, nor did he stop to ask for help. If the CSIS had sent one man to end his life, they would surely send another. There was only one person who he could trust with this knowledge. Anyone else might turn him over to the CSIS.
He had to disappear quickly.
He saw just outside his door, his secretary with a hole punched in her forehead, blood and brain matter spattered all over the wall behind her. Cornell shook his head sadly but continued on anyway. She had been a good woman, kind and always helpful.
As Cornell's shoes touched the ground beneath the rear entrance to the palace, he withdrew his phone, dropped it on the ground, and stomped down against the screen. It cracked and broke. He would have to run his accelerated plans from the streets now, and carrying the phone would only be a liability. The CSIS could track him through his phone, and he would not allow that.
Disappearing into the crowd walking along the street, Cornell covered his face as best he could, searching for a corner store of some sort, a place where he could buy some secondhand clothes, spend time redressing his wound, and purchase a burner phone. His heart raced as he wondered if each head turning toward him might recognize him and announce his presence loudly.
His shoulder still hurt terribly, and blood trickled through the fabric of his shirt now. Fortunately, his jacket covered most of the damage, but it wouldn't be long before the blood stuck out like a sore thumb. Yet, the store he sought loomed into view just as the blood began dripping onto the sidewalk.
Quickly, and without anyone noticing his presence, Cornell first purchased some streetwear and a nondescript hoodie, followed by a burner phone. Retreating to the store's bathroom, he stripped and changed, cleaning the wound with water from the sink and paper towels. It was a sloppy job, and it would need to be further checked by a better doctor than he was.
Reemerging onto the streets with his hood up and his eyes covered by sunglasses, Cornell felt much more confident that he would go unnoticed. He pulled his burner from his pocket and quickly dialed a number. It rang three times before it was answered.
"Hello?" The voice of Ricardo spoke in some confusion.
"Hey," Cornell replied, knowing Ricardo would recognize him by his voice. "It's me. CSIS just took a shot at me in my office."
"What?" He questioned incredulously. "Are you okay?"
"Just grazed, but you know what this means. Set up a meeting with our guys. It's high time we met."
"You're sure?"
"Now's the right time. We have to move quicker than we anticipated. No more sitting around."
There was a brief pause of apprehension, but Ricardo did answer with resolve.
"Very well," he said. "I'll arrange the meeting."
Quickly, Cornell hung up. He would not spend any longer than the bare minimum on the phone, too dangerous. Instead, he tossed his phone in a nearby trashcan, walking onward through the crowd, just another average citizen going about his day.
Cassie Dawson, Victor of the 107th Hunger Games: 17F
Wednesday Morning
10:00AM
Interview Center
This time, she was not required to prepare herself for the interview. A few makeup professionals bustled about her as she sat, adding continual touches to her appearance, even when no extra work was necessary. Yet, Cassie allowed them to do their work without complaint. It was better for them to do the work than for her to do it. She was no expert at applying makeup.
She looked on at the TV screen across the room – the budget was certainly high in this place – watching a report on the recent shooting at the President's Palace. The banner on screen read: 'Two dead in shooting at President's Palace, President Viktor missing,' and the speculations on the event ranged from suspected kidnapping to an attack perpetrated by the President himself. Cassie was not sure what to think of the situation, though she strongly doubted that the President had shot two people, one of them being his own secretary. Why would he do that? It just didn't make sense.
No, there was another game being played here, and she had escaped one game with her life only to be trapped in a very different one, a much more complicated and intellectual contest. Unfortunately for her, Cassie was no intellectual. She was intelligent, certainly, but not a power player. She was much too blunt for that. Even worse though, she would not be able to avoid this new game. She chose to enter the Hunger Games, but she was thrust into this competition regardless of her will.
"Get her out here," A voice spoke as a thin man with a prominent nose entered the room. "We start in five minutes, let's go people."
With that, she was led out the door, practically carried by the employees into a large open room with a white leather couch in the center. Cassie did not like the look of the place. It was sterile, like someone had recently swept over it with pesticide.
Amethyst Stadler, the Capitol's Master of Ceremonies sat, elegantly poised, on the left side of the couch. Cassie would not look nearly so impressive. The dress provided for her was beautiful – a mix of silver, purple, and black thread – though, she despised it anyway. It was such an impractical article of clothing, one that she would not be wearing in the future if she could help it.
She sat on the opposite side of the couch, facing another TV screen across the room. This one was substantially larger than the one in the dressing room, however. It was blank at the moment, but soon it would be replaying all the biggest moments of the Games, the bloodbath, the battle at sea against Santana and Rel, the final test where she and Tesler warred over the last bullet remaining in the revolver before the District 3 hacker's ultimate demise at her hand.
Cassie didn't want to relive those moments. She would prefer to never think of them again, to push them to the back of her mind like so many buzzing flies where they could be forgotten. Each thought of the Games only reminded her of her many failures, but also of the permanent prison which was erected around her without her noticing.
"Hello Cassie," Amethyst greeted warmly, no doubt trying to make Cassie feel more comfortable. "I hope you're ready for this. I know it can be hard for some victors. Are you going to be okay?"
"I'll be fine," Cassie answered without so much as a second thought.
"Well, okay. You sound sure of yourself."
The master of ceremonies winked at her. Cassie wanted to punch her.
With a signal from the cameraman, a shorter man with a disgusting piglike face, Amethyst put on a winning smile that somehow appeared real despite its performative character, and a curtain was drawn back around them to reveal a cheering and clapping crowd of Capitolites. Their many hairstyles and colors, along with thick makeup and ostentatious jewelry dazzled Cassie, blinding her slightly with their brightness. Yet, they were not a beautiful people. They were simply masking their truly grotesque natures beneath layers of falsity.
"Hello and welcome to the annual victor interview," Amethyst spoke, and the crowd cheered uproariously. "I'm Amethyst Stadler, your Master of Ceremonies, and I'm here today with YOUR victor of the one-hundred-seventh Hunger Games, Cassie Dawson."
The crowd clapped again, cheering even more loudly than before. Cassie adjusted her elaborate hairstyle to avoid it being caught in her gaudy earrings, particularly the left one. It gave her something to focus on that wasn't related to the monstrous men and women – though she wondered whether they could even be called that, or if they were simply beasts – in the crowd before her.
"Cassie, your victory in the Games was very impressive," Amethyst continued. "You were one of the highest scoring tributes this year, and I'd assume you had to train all your life for this moment. How does it feel to finally be a victor?"
Cassie considered her answer. In reality, she truly wished she had not won, but achieved a hero's death just as Jason had. This conversation would not be taking place if that were so, and she would be better for it. So, she had to say something simple, something platitudinous that these moronic base creatures would nod up and down to.
"It's relieving," she answered. "I did work hard for this, as you said, and finally seeing my efforts rewarded is pretty surreal."
"I'd imagine so, all that time spent training for one short period of time where anything can happen, especially this year with THIS arena," The crowd applauded loudly at the mention of the arena. "What were your thoughts on the arena Cassie."
"Honestly," and she did speak honestly in this instance. "I was shocked. It's impossible to be prepared for something like that, dealing with powers that shouldn't be possible, and landscapes from outer space to the middle of the ocean. It was extremely different from previous years, and very unexpected."
"Were any parts of it particularly tricky to handle?"
"Well, I'd say Sector 3 definitely. A wide-open sea is a very unusual landscape, and one I didn't prepare for at all. Thank God for Murchad. Without him, we would have had no chance out there."
As the crowd chuckled, evidently finding her joke funny, a somber feeling settled over Cassie. Murchad was gone. He would never come back, and these shitstains were laughing at his memory. She regretted bringing his name up immediately, as it was not exactly the best way to avoid the memories of the Games.
"In a lineup of tributes that was just outstanding, were there any who stood out to you more than the others?"
Cassie really did NOT want to answer this question.
"Many of them were very skilled: Jason was good, Santana, all of my allies really. I'm not too sure about the others, since I didn't see them much."
She bit back a choking sob as she thought of those she lost in the contest. She hated this. It was perhaps the worst thing she had ever endured in her entire life.
"Well, why don't we take a look at some of the highlights?" Amethyst asked the crowd; they answered with a chorus of cheers. "We'll start with the bloodbath. The careers performed very well, especially considering you had to face an alliance of outer district tributes looking to take out as many of you as possible early on."
Cassie only nodded. She had nothing to say, and she did not have to perform for these people any longer.
She saw the fighting in the fountain. Her form on the TV threw Scott into the water, then jumped in after him, holding him down no matter how he struggled. She answered some questions from Amethyst and did her best to ignore the rabble in the crowd, but mostly Cassie tried not to vomit. The nausea was growing in her gut, rumbling and broiling.
The way the crowd reacted to her kindly spoken words regarding the fallen tributes disgusted her; they cackled as Scott drowned, hollered as Mila was decapitated, and howled as Tabby's head burst. She wondered how she ever could have seen these people as anything more than beasts, for that was what they were. They hated her, everyone like her, and everything she and her people stood for.
In that moment, Cassie came to understand how people could hate for seemingly small characteristics as location of birth. In fact, they were not small or meaningless. They demarcated friend from foe, one culture and one people from another. It had become inescapably clear in the last few minutes that these Capitolites simply were not the same as District 2 residents. They were enemies by nature of their birth alone. No one in Panem could live free so long as the Capitol remained a sovereign entity and Capitolites controlled positions of importance.
If there was to be a new regime – and Cassie was beginning to want that more and more of late – they would all need to be punished severely. Cassie started internally as she realized she would be more than happy to dish out that punishment. She was self-aware enough to realize that this was how tyrannies formed, but she didn't care. The more these demonic Capitolites laughed and jeered, the more Cassie's hatred grew.
"We just saw Tabby Gold's death, one of your fellow careers," Amethyst said, speaking far too casually. "She was a rather disappointing career compared to the usual crop that emerges from District 1. What were your thoughts on her? Did you find her performance disappointing, or did you expect it?"
Cassie simply could not take it anymore. Once again, she knew what she was doing was wrong, and she knew it was certainly ill-advised, but she simply could not sit here and listen to this continue. It hurt her to think that the lives of district citizens were treated so flippantly, and her fury simply boiled over. Cassie was filled with passion; it was both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness.
"Look, I'm tired of playing these games Amethyst," Cassie answered, her anger remaining in check only barely. "How can you all sit here and laugh at this?"
She looked around at the crowd as they went dead silent, their eyes all cruel and animalistic. Every last one of them looked like some kind of psychotic barbie doll, and those who weren't made up so ridiculously appeared like the worst soulless bankers imaginable.
"Really, have you ever stopped to think for a moment that you are – quite literally – FORCING KIDS at gunpoint to fight to the death? They didn't ask for this. I did, and I regret it completely. This is the lowest of low competitions. You take hopeful young kids and turn them into animals. It sickens me.
"But let's not forget your role in all this. You all, every one of you, cheer this on. You laugh and giggle and cheer as kids DIE. Do you honestly like it? Do you get off on it? Maybe it's just because you're all dysgenic freaks, with your colored hair and your fancy perfumes and your sparkly outfits? Maybe you're all just disgusting beasts right down to the core?
"Look at all of you," she continued, gesturing to all of them. "Half of you probably look at those kids like they're supermodels. So, you not only have a fetish for killing kids, but also fucking them! Take your perversions and shove them up your ass! You'd probably like it! At least the old Capitolites were tough enough to crush a rebellion, but today, NO! Today, Capitolites would run around screaming, and they'd be obliterated in any upcoming war because you're all SOFT, you're WEAK, and you disgust me and millions more like me."
Cassie stood from the couch in her rage and began stomping from the room, turning back as the chorus of jeers and boos came from the crowd. She stared them down with righteous fury.
"Fuck you all! I hope you all receive live and celebrated television deaths!"
She extended her middle finger defiantly while photographers' cameras flashed, capturing the moment. Cassie smiled to herself, a great weight relieved from her soul as she strode proudly from the room. She would await whatever fate the Capitol regime decided for her. Cassie did not fear them.
Lyla Stryka, Capitol Senator: 28F
Wednesday Afternoon
4:00PM
Capitol Senate Floor
The voices of whispering men and women grated against her ears. Their character and honesty were questionable at best, but such was life as a senator. Politicians, while they may not have been trustworthy in the slightest, were her people though. Lyla's mother served in the senate, and her father was the last High Commander of the Capitol's army. That position no longer existed in the modern state, as the power of the army had waned over the last twenty years, and even before then it was losing influence.
Truly, Lyla always felt closer to her father, both in temperament and in personality. She was not one to mince words or put on false expressions. Her father, being one of the last admirable military men to serve the Capitol, was always quite stern, and he would not compromise with anyone. Lyla was much the same, and it was oft said that her seriousness tarnished her immense beauty.
Yet, Lyla cared not for such things. Her appearance was carefully managed, but not overly so. She strove to maintain a sense of professionalism, not the visage of a supermodel. And in today's world, she would need that professionalism to evolve even further. She would have to become more like her father if her sudden spark of inspiration was ever to be realized.
She watched idly as the senate chairman called the floor to order, sitting in her chair on the right side of the chamber. She appreciated that some traditions remained in place, where senators would take their place on the right or the left based upon their own ideological alignment. Two stadium style platforms were arranged in the room such that the senators of the right would sit to the right of the chairman's central position, and those on the left would sit to the left. It was a hallmark of an age long passed, during a time when senators held some relevance in politics beyond the marching orders they received from bureaucrats.
The chairman began to speak, but Lyla did not follow his speech. Specifically, he addressed the recent disappearance of President Viktor and the growing violence in the eastern districts. Soon the floor would be opened to various speakers, where the agenda was to determine what course of action should be taken on both issues. Lyla wished only that a strong candidate would be put forth for the position of President, but on the riots, she was much more certain: they had to be put down and put down hard. Her father would not bother with negotiations, and neither would she.
Yet, she had other plans for her own time on the floor. There was another event, which currently had not been mentioned by the chairman as part of the agenda but held great importance. The words of Cassie Dawson in her victor's interview acted as a slap across the face to many Capitolites. They sought to destroy her for them. Lyla wanted to thank her. For, the girl had reminded the senator of what was most important, and of why she had entered the political arena in the first place.
As senator after senator spoke, Lyla awaited her own turn to speak. Many of them sought to suppress the riots as she did, but the position on the riots was not bifurcated by the aisle on the floor as many other issues were. The riots seemed to be viewed as the fault of the former President, and a senator's position of Viktor determined whether they sought concessions or repression.
When at last she was called to speak, Lyla rose, many of those on the left and right whispering. She was polarizing, either loved or hated, never ignored. Some of the elder members likely only knew her for the rumors which spread about herself and Howard Malterk. Those were not true, yet many believed them.
The chairman stood aside hesitantly, knowing Lyla's words might contain painful realizations for all of them. She had a way of stoking rage in the hearts of those who opposed her. For, they feared her voice and her ability to capture hearts and minds with only a single word.
She adjusted the microphone slightly, looking over the senators in their seats and media teams at the back of the chamber. They would hang on her every word, just as they always did. Her voice was her greatest gift, greater even than her supposedly squandered beauty. It shook the floors, walls, and ceilings of every hall, rattled the hearts, minds and souls of all who heard her.
"My friends," Lyla began, not reading from a sheet of paper as so many speakers before her had; she knew only what topics to speak of, but that was enough for her. Her words carried her along just as they did her listeners, like she was possessed by some divine spirit. "It is with a heavy heart that I come to you all today. Our President, the much beloved Cornell Viktor – once a Peacekeeper of District 6 – has disappeared. Whether he has done so of his own accord is still unknown. Yet, this is not the reason for my heavy heart, nor indeed are the riots which plague our constituents in our eastern districts."
She paused for a moment, preparing for the hail of objections she was sure to receive, but Lyla would not falter. She would walk the right path, just as she always did.
"No, my heart is heavy witnessing the state of our homeland. Our people are SOFT; they are WEAK; they are mired in a culture of decadence and consumerism with no hope of stretching for any higher ideals. They would prefer to wallow in a state of gradual degeneration than to STAND UP! We must stand up, not only to prevent stagnation, but also to regain our rightful place!
"I see many of you now looking at me as might so many cattle, so allow me a moment to explain. This society we inhabit is collapsing, falling in on itself, crushed under the weight of its own bloat. Our fathers and mothers carved out this civilization with their iron wills and sheer determination, and what have we done?
"We have made up our minds to rest on our laurels, to sit back contentedly as the districts get further out of control and our rulers dictate to us our path. Make no mistake, these rulers are real though you do not see them. I have met them before, seen them with my own eyes, listened to them speak with my own ears, and they do not want what is best for you.
"They do not want you to be strong or to value the lives and ways of your forefathers. They want you to be servile, to be a slave, to be subject to their will and every whim! I would not have this be so! So, I ask, what were the ways of our fathers and mothers which prevented this, which built this civilization we so foolishly call our own? The answer: they had something to fight for, something beautiful, something worth dying for!
"They believed in a nation, in a people to whom the world belonged if only they were strong enough to make it so. I believe in this same nation, in this same people. For, are we not the descendants of those same men and women who carved Panem from the wasteland? Thus, I propose a new nationalism to lift our people from the state of decay into a new light! I would have you fight for the rebirth of this great nation, for our very survival depends upon it!
"To this end, I am forming a new political party," she said, suddenly inspired by her own vigor despite the consequences which would surely follow. "I would combat this failing directory with new life! That life will be found in the form of the Panemanian Nationalist Coalition, an organization to promote the renewal of greatness in this nation!"
Thunderous applause echoed from most on the right, and some members of the media crews even joined in. The chairman looked genuinely appalled. Lyla did not care. This was what she was born to do. She would lead the new Panem into a new and brilliant light. The time to capitalize on her momentum was now. She would stand before the crowds which would await her in the streets soon enough. The process of rebirth had only just begun.
Raj Mansoor, Director of CSIS: 53M
Wednesday Night
9:00PM
Capitol Incarceration Center
Raj sat down in the uncomfortable metal chair, though prisons weren't really known for their comfort. He did not mind the hard surface so much, just so long as he wasn't required to sit on it for hours a day.
He found himself rather frustrated with the situation demanding his appearance at the prison. Viktor managed to survive somehow, and not only that, but he killed Devo as well. Raj was down his best enforcer, a man he whose presence he would have very much appreciated given the likelihood of violence in the near future. With Devo killed, it was obvious that Viktor had fled. The press speculated on the possibility that the President had been kidnapped by an insurgent group, or that he was responsible for the shooting. Either theory suited Raj's purposes. He did not care which version of events gained dominance.
Then, only the next morning, the District 2 victor, Cassie Dawson, bombed her interview massively. He was not a diehard consumer of the Games, thus he wasn't really sure why she had lost her head so. It couldn't have been that hard to remain calm for just an hour or so. Regardless, many were calling for her head, but frankly, Raj could not afford to indulge the interests of the mob. If he gave them one head, they would inevitably call for another, then another, and so on. A simple sentencing in the victor's home district would do.
The senate on the other hand, was another matter entirely. Already, in just a few short hours, dozens of senators had joined Lyla Stryka's Panemanian Nationalist Coalition. They would be far more challenging to contain. He cared not for their rhetoric; Raj found it distasteful and somewhat lowbrow, but he neither agreed nor disagreed with their messaging. Yet, he understood clearly that, when Senator Stryka spoke, her words were aimed squarely at him.
He brought her into his council, informing her and others of the surveillance system, and now she was spitting in his face. Lyla, and by proxy her followers, wished to strip power from his hands and wield it themselves. They did not understand that ideology and rhetoric did not gain one any power. Only careful maneuvering could do that, and once one gained power, every next move had to be made with the intent to keep and grow one's power.
Once again, however, Raj could not simply execute her for her insubordination. To do so would be tantamount to walking out into the public square and revealing himself to everyone who listened. No, Raj was much better off doing what he always did, playing the game from the shadows, directing Panem without anyone's knowledge. Thus, he required an alternative solution.
Mostly, he needed a face through which he could speak. Last time, he had been unwise, allowing the vote for President to go unchecked. This time, he would not be so foolish. He would name a new President himself in all but name.
And that was why he sat in an uncomfortable prison chair, watching a thin figure being led through the door. He was a young man, only in his late twenties, sporting an orange prisoner's uniform and dark standard issue leather shoes. His eyes were grayish, and his hair was dyed pink, or it had been once. Now, its color was fading into a more natural brunette.
"Hello Mr. Silver," Raj greeted with a calm smile on his face. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
He turned to the guard who led Silver in, then to his own personal guard – a hulking CSIS operative whose name he had not yet learned. He paled in comparison to Devo and would not do as his new enforcer.
"Take the guard out. Make sure no one enters. I'm going to need some time alone with President Silver."
"Yes sir," the operative nodded once, then took the guard by the arm, leading him from the room.
Once they were finally alone, Raj turned back to face the young man. His gray eyes squinted skeptically at Raj.
"Who the hell are you?" He wondered aloud.
Farrow Silver was nothing if not a character. The former head Gamemaker only held his position for a short time before his deposition by the, also former, President Viktor. He garnered quite a reputation as a party animal, hitting the Capitol's clubs every practically every night, frequenting brothels, and purchasing drugs from every dealer in town. At one time, it was supposed that at least twenty percent of Panem's illegal drug sales were made to Silver who threw many a party with all of his merchandise.
He had a brutal streak as well, urging his underlings – for he did very little work himself – to make the Games as violent as possible. He loved a grotesque death, and he loved terrorizing the tributes more than perhaps any Gamemaker in Raj's lifetime. All this made him an enemy of President Viktor, a straightlaced kind man who could not tolerate Silver's behavior.
When he was removed from his position of Head Gamemaker, Viktor cited 'corruption' as the reason for his firing. Though, Raj and everyone else knew Viktor fired Silver because of the brutality of the Games. Infamously, Viktor threw him down the stairs in front of the President's Palace just before he was arrested by the Peacekeepers.
Farrow Silver was just the man Raj was looking for.
"I'm the man who's going to make you the next President of Panem," Raj answered, smirking superiorly.
Farrow's jaw dropped, practically to the floor. His hair, which had once been meticulously styled, was floppy on top of his head now, and it swished side to side as Farrow shook his head.
"Huh?" He wondered stupidly.
Yes. He would be perfect. Farrow would want nothing. He would do whatever minimal work was required of him as long as he was left alone in the evenings.
"It's really quite simple," Raj replied. "You'll be confirmed in an hour or so in a late-night emergency meeting of the Senior Senate Committee. You see, President Viktor has disappeared. I'm sure you'll find out all about that soon enough. But all I require of you is a small speech tomorrow morning. It won't be long, and you won't have to write anything. Just read what you find on the paper tomorrow morning. If you do that, you're free to do whatever you like in your free time. Do we have a deal?"
Farrow was not the hesitant type, and Raj watched the man nodding emphatically.
"I get to be the fucking President?" He asked in shock.
"Indeed you do. What do you say President Silver, a few simple tasks whenever I require them, and – in return – you're the President? Not such a bad deal."
"Hell yeah I'll do it."
"Excellent," Raj said, standing from the chair.
He turned to leave, just reaching the door before he heard Farrow's voice.
"Wait," he said. "Can I at least know your name so I can thank you?"
Raj sighed heavily, wanting to avoid this man for as long as possible, but he turned back anyway and, with a smile on his face, replied:
"No."
Hello! I am drunk as fuck!
None of that which I posted at the end of last chapter matters. This story will be finished, and the sequel will come out sometime soon. Only one more chapter to go before Vicarious is finished!
Thanks for reading!
-Lars
