"I am reaching, but I fall
And the night is closing in,
And I stare into the void
To the whirlpool of my sins."
Alessio Spades, 18, District Twelve Male
The nights are never easy.
Well, he supposes that's a pointless statement; Alessio's life hasn't been easy for a long, long time.
He remembers days in the Capitol with his mother, Eurydice, his sister and his father. They were a family. Life was easy and luxurious and Alessio took everything for granted. His father, Hades, was the Minister of Construction, and on the President's cabinet, which meant that Alessio and his sister wanted for nothing.
When he was ten, his mother was murdered. Everything was chaos, and he doesn't really think about that time anymore, but he remembers huddling close to Melinda, the only person he had left, on a train to somewhere gloomy. A man met them on the other side.
"Your name is not Alcyoneus anymore," he said. "You are Alessio Spades, and your parents are gone."
Alessio knew only a few things: that Eurydice was dead, and that his father had left them. They were sent to an orphanage, where every day was a struggle. You couldn't cry there, or you'd be silenced. There was little food, and none of the kids were very friendly. The adults eventually figured out they were from the Capitol, and that made them different. Unwanted. One day, Alessio was beaten so badly that his vision went fuzzy and his head felt too swollen; a concussion, Melinda had later told him, as she nursed him back to health. They ran away soon after. Alessio was scared, but Melinda reassured him.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "We'll find somewhere safe to stay. And I'll always be here to take care of you."
He's worked so hard over the past two years to find his way back to her. The ghosts of old miners guided him along the way, sharing their wisdom with him; they were the only ones he could confide in. But he doesn't like to think of those times, because that makes him afraid. What if he loses her forever?
A knock comes at the door. The apartment is cold and silent. He does not want to move. Something about the tranquility of it makes him believe he could almost sleep; but his dreams would only be tortured, haunted by his past. So he stands, his movements sluggish from exhaustion. It is dangerous to be so vulnerable. He needs to be better.
"What do you want?" he mumbles.
The timid voice of his Mentor floats into the room. "Someone very important would like to see you. He says it cannot wait."
Who would want to talk to him? Did they somehow find out that his sister was an avox here in the Capitol? Is it his sister's master, trying to reunite them, or a Peacekeeper who will shoot him for being associated with a criminal?
But all of that is foolish. He supposes he has no other option than to go with his Mentor. "Fine." He pulls open the door.
It is late, almost one in the morning. They walk down many hallways, down a staircase and through a locked door. They turn a few corners before stopping at a small door. His Mentor pulls it open. Alessio reluctantly enters the room at his Mentor's insistent ushering. He stares for a long moment, uncomprehending.
Sitting at a desk, looking so familiar and yet totally alien, is Hades King—Alessio's father.
"Alcy—" Hades catches himself before saying Alessio's Capitol name. "Alessio. My son."
Hades' face is dreamlike in the night, cloaked in shadow. Alessio steps backward. Hot rage builds inside him, built from the ashes of grief and bitterness that have built up inside him for so long.
"Alessio, I'm so sorry that I haven't talked to you sooner. You were so busy with training, and then—"
"You abandoned us." Alessio's voice is dark and gravely, as if lined with coal dust. "You abandoned my sister in Twelve."
"It was too dangerous for you to stay in the Capitol," says Hades, his voice heavy with defence. "My brother sent a hitman to kill your mother so that my reputation could be spared. I was trying to protect you."
Alessio can hardly breathe; the rage has reached his lungs now. "You thought that leaving us in a community home in Twelve where we'd be outcasts was protection?"
"Your mother was from Twelve. I thought—"
"Was forcing us to live in the streets, barely scraping by, a protection? Did you ever stop to wonder about Melinda?"
Hades blanches. "Of course I did! It was foolish of you to Volunteer and leave her alone?"
Images flash through Alessio's mind. It was Melinda's thirteenth birthday, and Alessio went to the market to use his stolen money. He bought her a cheap skull ring for a gift. But when he came back...
"She was caught stealing from a Capitol woman," Alessio whispers, "and then she was arrested and avoxed."
It's silent for a long time. Alessio sees Hades crumble, and he hears the Fates humming in satisfaction in the back of his mind. This is what Hades deserves.
"She... she was? I had no idea..."
"That's what I thought," mutters Alessio. "Now she's—she's a slave in the Capitol. None of this would've happened if you'd just told everyone about Eurydice. Why did you have to be so secretive?"
Hades blinks. "Son... you don't understand. Eurydice was from Twelve, and she was just a fling. If anybody had found out—"
"You were ashamed of us," Alessio says, his voice rising with accusation. "You were ashamed of me."
"You couldn't have possibly believed—"
But Alessio's done hearing his father's excuses. "Well, I'm ashamed of you. I hate you. You Melinda will, too. Once I save her..."
Hades stares at Alessio. "That's what this is all about? Alessio, that will be your destruction. Why didn't you just stay in Twelve?"
"Because I actually care about my family!" His voice rings and reverberates and bounces off the walls; it fills every corner of the tiny office.
Finally, Hades is silent. Alessio turns on his heel and storms away.
Back in the apartment, Alessio cannot stop shaking. The Fates whisper inside his head.
'What else did you expect? Everyone leaves you in the end; you can't trust anyone. You'll always be alone. All people do is hurt you.'
He's been trying to get back to his sister for so long, consumed by the need to get her back. To give up on something like that would be unthinkable.
But what if she's already gone? What if she's angry at him, for leaving her alone? What if all these lonely hours were a waste?
But that only compels him to try harder. If he dies reaching toward Melinda, so be it. This is all he has left now. He thinks of Caldwell Kingsen, as he's often done in these past days, and his kindness. These people don't deserve to die. But neither does he, and neither does Melinda. People like Hades King have used up District kids and discarded them when they weren't needed anymore. Nothing will ever change that. But maybe Alessio can rescue Melinda and they can get away from it all. Maybe, when this is all over, they'll find peace.
If he dies trying to reach that goal... he might be somewhat content.
...
Pericles McMaster, 48, Master of Ceremonies
Pericles was worried, at first, when the President announced this new way of doing things regarding the Games. It was a bold move, and a sudden one, that would surely cause chaos in the Districts and the Capitol alike. But luckily for him, the publicity has brought him great reward; his job has become more strenuous, but his income has increased sharply. And really, all Pericles ever cared about was money.
Well... perhaps not all. But it does bring him a great satisfaction, to feel as though life is finally looking up. If only he didn't have to deal with his unreasonable wife, after such a tiring night of interviews.
He knocks on the door to her quarters—it's been a long time since they shared a room. His avox answers. His eyes are shadowed, his hair flopping into his face. He is unnervingly silent.
"Where is Mirabelle?" Pericles snaps.
The boy withdraws into the room. He hears the lilt of his wife's voice. How are they communicating? He thought he'd made sure that there would be no way...
Mirabelle comes into the doorway. Her eyes are like precious metals fresh from the forge. They are steely and bright. Pericles doesn't like it.
"What do you want?" she demands. No more fake sweetness, no more carefully controlled calm. She is angry.
Unease coils within Pericles. He thought that the matter of quelling her spirit would only be a simple thing. Utilizing the avox—which came at no small cost—and making sure to make Mirabelle feel as small as possible... that was supposed to crush her. Why is she still so passionate?
For as long as he can remember, Pericles has felt numb. He has gotten all he wanted and more, and he has felt nothing. What is her secret?
"You are in high spirits, my darling," he observes.
"Don't call me that," she snarls.
Pericles feels something cold fill his heart. "Do not use that tone with me, Mirabelle. You know that I have power. I could send you to your execution whenever I wanted."
Mirabelle gives no reaction. "I have lived a long, hard life, my husband. I am tired of being afraid."
He stands still, speechless, for what feels like an eternity. Mirabelle stares him down: a challenge.
Finally, Pericles lets down his guard. He has very rarely been kind to Mirabelle—the first time they met and the day before her Games were the only other occasions—but he pleads with her now.
"You have to stop this fire you are spreading. We will lose everything if you keep on with this."
Her eyes narrow. "What would you give me in return?"
"One request, related to the upcoming Games," says Pericles. "You want to choose the Victor? I am close with the Head Gamemaker; we will arrange anything if you stop this resistance."
She considers, sizing him up, before shrugging. "Alright."
He must be missing something. "You will stop being troublesome? You will call off the rebellion?"
"Let me make my request first. And then we will see."
Pericles frowns. "That is not—"
"I am more powerful than you think," says Mirabelle softly. "We may as well negotiate like proper business partners."
Pericles sighs. They are like two sharks circling, testing the waters. "What is your request?"
"Come, sit down."
"No, thank you."
She shrugs. The avox lingers a few feet away. "Send that away," says Pericles, gesturing.
A wrinkle of discontent crosses Mirabelle's brow. "He is not an object. And I don't see why."
"This is a private matter." Pericles bites out the words through a clenched jaw.
"And apparently, he is not intelligent enough to discern our words. He will not understand. Just leave it alone."
Pericles glances at the wraith-like boy. His face is still hidden. Pericles wants to push it further, but... he is intrigued to hear this woman's request. She has always been a puzzle to him, begging to be solved; though her edges were always too sharp to get close to.
"Fine," he mutters. "Speak your request."
"When I was in the Games," murmurs Mirabelle, "I thought I was going to die. I had left my family forever, expecting a life of luxury and love, but was sent into a death match almost immediately. I would have given anything to write to them one last time."
"So?" Pericles conceals his feelings on the matter; they aren't relevant.
"Perhaps these Tributes might want to do the same. Allow them all to write letters to whomever they choose; a family member, another Tribute, anything. And send them off when they die. That way, they will at least have one remnant left in this world. They won't be forgotten. Their voices will be heard before their last moments."
Pericles is stunned by the requn. "You have thought this through."
"Extensively. I have had much to think about, being locked up in here this past week," she says scathingly.
It is a touching request. It can't hurt. He will do anything to keep his job, this secure place in the Capitol where he feels nothing but is safe nonetheless. "Fine. It's not yet very late; the Tributes will probably still be eating dinner, or at some party. I will speak to Avarette and she can arrange everything." He pauses. "Please, Mirabelle. You must stop this. There will be disastrous consequences otherwise."
Mirabelle considers him. "You are being sincere," she decides. "I will think it through. Thank you... for giving them the chance I never had."
"We did have a deal."
It is not a goodbye. It is not a surrender. But somewhere, a bridge has been built between them. Someday, they might be brave enough to cross it, and to make peace.
...
Avarette de la Lune, 28, Head Gamemaker
She's just about to enter the dining hall for a last dinner when she's accosted by Pericles McMaster.
She sighs, reluctantly turning around. Her plan was to get this dinner over with and go back to her Arena... and her baby. Since when has Stelle been her second priority? Panem's sake, what is she turning into?
For the past day, she's been consumed by her plan for the Arena. The Games are, after all, tomorrow; it's about time she started; and she has thrown herself into the project with feverish fixation. She rehashed the private sessions in her mind and watched the interviews with keen intensity, trying to glean every detail from the Tributes' every action and word. She must have an Arena specifically catered to them... and there are a few that she will have hand-picked surprises for. Needless to say, it has become her one thought for the past day, and she is constantly getting new ideas she wants to write down. But this slightly snobby coworker had to get in the way.
"Look, Pericles, as much as I'd love to speak with you right now, I really have to get to this dinner so that it can be over faster—"
"Miss de la Lune, this is a serious matter," Pericles snaps. "I trust you will treat it as such."
That really gets under Ava's skin. She is so tired of being discounted, belittled, and gossiped about. She's found that the only way to cope with it has been to brush it aside, act like she doesn't care. But even the Head Gamemaker has to have feelings sometimes. And she has the right to be exhausted and angry and ready to get back into her project. Why do other people keep getting in the way?
"What could you possibly want from me?" she says, throwing her hands up in the air in a gesture of absolute defeat.
"I have a request pertaining to the Tributes," says Pericles. "And I can pay you."
"A bribe, hmmm? Well, I wasn't looking for a co-designer for the Arena; I've already got a troop of overly annoying assistants for that—"
"I'm not talking about the Arena," he says. "I'm talking about something that you'd have to announce at this dinner."
Ava sighs. "Why are people always making me announce things for them? Why not just do it yourself?"
Pericles pauses. "I suppose I could arrange that. But you would have to actually hear my request first..." His tone is testy and impatient.
"Whatever," she mumbles. "Just tell me already."
Pericles looks as if he's about ready to punch her, but he manages to school his expression into one of diplomatic calm. "We've thrown these Tributes into a terribly unfamiliar situation. They still don't really know what the Games are... they'll be in for quite a nasty shock. Don't you think they deserve a small mercy?"
Ava is about to deny that she'd ever care about the little brats, but she stops for a moment and allows herself to think. She thinks of the boy from One, so easily disarming; the girl from Ten, so fierce, yet kind. They all have their stories to tell, like everybody else. And she never really wanted this job anyway. Well... not until yesterday... but that's beside the point.
"I suppose so," she murmurs. "What did you have in mind?"
He explains to her about his idea for the letters; almost like a will, a last word, one final communication before their light blinks out forever. Ava stares at him for a long time.
"That's... that's not a bad idea. I suppose I could allow that."
Pericles looks mildly taken aback. "Really?"
"Well, if you give me money, then of course."
Because she doesn't want to admit that as she's delved into these Tributes' hearts in order to figure out the best way to make them suffer, she's grown attached to them. And even if she has had some deliciously wicked ideas about how best to do that, it doesn't mean that she wants to see them silenced. Besides, one little letter can't hurt; especially if it's right as they die, so they can't make too many crazy plants. It will add a little extra flavor for the Games' big Panem premiere.
Ava isn't sure when she got so coldhearted, when she started thinking like... well, like an emotionless monster. What of her daughter that she raises alone but still loves deeper than the sea? Can she live with raising her in such an environment?
But... but Stelle won't be affected. It's an intrusive thought, one that Ava wishes she could undo. But it's true. And she feels better now, justified, that little voice inside her shoved hurriedly in the deepest corner of her brain like dirty laundry in a messy room.
She watches as Pericles makes the announcement, as the Tributes stare open-mouthed or smile in quiet joy. They are all going to be gone forever in a few days. To grant them one moment of happiness seems more than reasonable.
Ava leaves the dinner, returns to her Arena and her sleeping daughter. A smile spreads across her face as she adds another detail. What she's doing might be less than good. But at least she's getting to know them, and remembering them, in some unusual way. At least traces of them will be forever captured on the screens, and in the plains of this Arena.
She has to believe that, because doing this will break her if she's not careful. Maybe doing it for eight years has already broken her, but this feels different because everyone will see it; and Ava is committed this time, as guilty as that makes her.
At least she is feeling again. At least she is living for something.
But she is also thinking of her daughter less; the one who used to be her everything. Every bargain comes with a catch. Ava supposes that, if she doesn't think too hard about it, she can live with this one.
...
Buck Taurean, 17, District Ten Male
Buck misses home with a deep ache. He mises his father, long since dead. He misses the rolling fields. He misses the dogs he'd bring up, and the animals he'd care for. He misses his siblings. He even misses the work.
His first instinct, when he was told that he'd have to write a letter to someone, was to write to his family. But why would he do that, when his every intent is to return to them? He'll see them again in a few weeks or a few days, depending on how long the Games last. There is no use writing something to them if he can speak to them firsthand in a blink. He knows exactly who he needs to write to.
Felicia Simmons, whose eyes follow him adoringly as he passes her and waves cheerfully. She smiles at him, doe-eyed. He hurries past her, guilt choking him.
He wants so badly to like her. But he knows they can never work; all the girl seems to care about is finding a guy, when it's almost imperative that he wins. It's inevitable, unavoidable, that she dies. And when she dies, he'll likely be there, and he likely won't stop it.
It's a cruel thought. The girl is so sweet, so easily manipulated. It's not that he doesn't pity her, and in another life they might be friends. But he has to get back to his family. And in order to do that, she has to die, like the twenty-two others who will fall with her. Buck can't be one of them. Does that make him so evil?
He passes Jack, his District partner, as he enters the apartment. She eyes him with a neutral gaze, and he grins at her. "'Night, Jack," he murmurs. She nods once, head bent over a paper. Jack is kind, innocent. She doesn't deserve this.
And yet they're all here. And somebody has to rise up from the ashes, bearing the deaths of twenty-three kids they once knew on their shoulders. Can Buck live with the guilt?
He never wanted to hurt anybody. It's just... life has not been kind to him. His family is all he has. It'd be wrong not to fight for them. He is not evil; he is a boy whose mission is so important that a few casualties are only necessary.
He wishes it didn't have to be this way, all the same.
He slips into his room and unfolds the paper that the Capitol provided him, slipping the pen from his pocket. He's never been a writer. Yet this is one of those things that he has to do, or else unspoken punishments could befall him. And besides, he needs to do this. To ease the burden resting on his shoulders somewhat.
He is weary and guilt-ridden, and his pen scrapes across the paper in slow, jagged strokes. He is trying to claw out of this prison while somehow not bringing anyone down with him.
This all feels too big, too impossible.
"Dear Felicia," he whispers. "If you're reading this, I am dead..."
He isn't sure what happens if the Tribute dies before the person writing their letter. Perhaps it will be delivered to their grieving family. Perhaps this is all a futility, some part of the labyrinthine game the Capitol plays. But Buck writes anyway because he is now under their spell, and because he wants Felicia to understand him. In case he is forced to betray her. In case she never forgives him.
He wishes that he wasn't here. He wishes he were home, wrapped in a sturdy blanket with the crickets singing outside, his siblings lingering close beside him for warmth. He doesn't want this.
And yet the love for his family is stronger than his guilt. Perhaps that's what life is: making difficult choices. He has bared the burden of a father long dead for so many years; why would he cast that aside now, for a girl who thinks she loves him?
The letter takes him an eternity. When he signs it and looks up, he expects the gentle haze of dawn peeking through the clouds, but the moon still hangs heavy in the sky—it seems to stare at him accusingly, as if challenging him.
What is right and what is wrong?
He knows that protecting his family is right. And he knows that they depend on him. And he knows that if he dies, they will crumble. And he knows that he can kill, if he has to.
But he doesn't know what to do about this girl who has put her trust in him. He doesn't know what he'll do if he's faced with an innocent soul who stands in the way of his victory, of his return to the ones he loves. This is all too much for him. He never wanted this.
He seals the letter, blinks away his worries, and wanders out into the living area to hand off the note to his Mentor. He is sleepy and sad and uncertain, but the Games are tomorrow and he needs to rest. Worrying about all this won't change anything.
So he just has to live life as he always has; he needs to go with the flow. Troubles will come when they come, and he will face them, but for now everything is too much. So he lets calm overtake him, stores his worries away and curls up beneath the covers. He is heavy with the kind of exhaustion that reaches his very bones, a kind he's deeply familiar with. Still, it takes him a very long time to fall asleep that night.
...
Who Am I? - Les Miserables
Hiiiii friends! Are you having a lovely day? I sure hope so! It's already in July and I am shook! In this chapter, Alessio had a bit of a confrontation with his dad, Pericles had a conversation with Mirabelle, Ava had a conversation with Pericles and Buck had some internal struggles going on! What do we think? Also hey guess what, we only have launch and then it's going to be the Games—I actually can't believe it, I'm very excited. I know we haven't gotten through everyone's second POVs—some of the Tributes will have them during the Bloodbath because I couldn't fit all of them in Pregames and I needed to do some Capitol subplot things. I might have already said that but I just wanted to let everyone know again and apologize for my poor planning skills. Oh well, it'll be a blast and a half and everyone will get their proper screentime.
So umm I think that's about it, other than there's going to be a poll next chapter and Launch is going to be very fun so I look forward to seeing you there! Thanks a million to everyone who's supporting and reading and for giving me your children, I hope I am doing them justice. See you all next Monday!
Much Love,
Miri