Prologue I,

Delivered To The Dirt

Chapter One: Euthanasia

From where I lay, let a flower bloom from my bones~

Rasfi couldn't help but clock-watch as the final moments drew near.

He had appreciated the chance to earn some really good money, of course—he wasn't a complete ungrateful swine—but the job had proven to be more tedious than he originally thought. Expecting there to be others or, at the very least someone to manage him, he was surprised to find that he was completely alone, left with a rudimentary list of requirements that he chose to half-ass in order to make his life a little bit easier.

And if there was one thing Rasfi was guaranteed to do, it was to do just that; give minimal effort.

He switched his eyes from the clock to the pitcher of wine before him. All he had to do was serve one more round of drinks to the partygoers and he was done. Easy money. That's what the man in the strange coat had said to him when he offered him the chance. And he was right... but it was just so boring.

He picked up the pitcher of wine and began to pour, filling up the crystal glasses in a sea of red. The smell was decadent—an unusual fragrance that Rasfi had never come across before. He may have only been a street rat but he had shouldered with enough alcoholics to know the difference between cheap and expensive, and this was unlike anything else. These people were rich rich.

Rasfi inhaled the smell as he picked up the tray of twenty-four glasses. A very precise number for a party.

In all honesty, he had barely paid it much mind. But the more trips he made into that room, the more confused he was by the constant silence. He could never see their faces—hidden behind extravagant masquerade masks—but he assumed that was because they were so filthy rich that they enjoyed playing dress-up. That, or ridiculously well-known around the Capitol that they couldn't be seen.

Snooty bastards. Not worth the energy, Rasfi mused as he approached the door once more.

The room itself was so painfully dark that it was almost impossible to make out the two dozen or so bodies scattered amongst the leather couches. Rasfi weaved in and out silently, placing two glasses on each table as he passed, ensuring that he didn't look up at any of the masked figures he served.

Not that any of them noticed him, anyway.

Every pair of eyes were trained on the screen, morbidly engrossed. Rasfi remembered one of the rules—"do not look at the screen"—but curiosity was biting at his ankles with every passing moment he was in that room. He had caught glimpses of what looked like a really old movie with muted colours and no sound. It didn't seem all that interesting, and yet, these people were thoroughly engrossed. The first few times it had barely phased him. But now... he just had to know what sort of party came together to watch a weird movie in even weirder masks.

Placing the last glass down right near the front, Rasfi bowed as he stood upright, making sure to catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

But there was nothing interesting.

The entire field was nothing more than grey static—it fizzled at the edges silently, twitching and convulsing. Rasfi's eyebrows knitted together but he quickly turned away, suddenly aware that everyone in the room might have seen him. With his head lowered, he made haste towards the exit.

As he reached the doors, however, an awful sound stopped him dead in his tracks. It was oddly reminiscent; the sound a poor rat once made as it was torn apart by a stray cat. A mangled, guttural cry for help that caused his entire spine to tense.

Don't turn back, Rasfi commanded himself, fingers wrapped around the handle. Don't be an idiot... it's not going to be worth it. But somehow, in some universe where he decided it was, Rasfi turned around slowly.

The screen that was once filled with dead static had come to life. Despite the muted colour, Rasfi was able to make out the shape of a boy, no older than seventeen, lying unnaturally twisted on the floor, a black pool beneath his writhing body. He was attempting to move on broken limbs—bone protruding from his calf, a wrist fully turned inwards, ribs sticking out of his chest—as a shrouded figure moved to stand over him, a silver hammer in hand.

"Please!" The words made Rasfi tremble. "You... you don't have to do this!"

The silence that followed was deafening. Every fibre in Rasfi's mind told him to move, to get away, but it was as if he was no longer in control of his own body. A marionette without any strings—frozen in motion, all but about to collapse into a heap on the floor.

"You know we have no choice," the shrouded figure replied coolly.

As the hammer connected with the soft tissue of the boy's skull—and a shower of crimson and pink exploded—the audience finally erupted in a chorus of jeers. The sound was enough to snap Rasfi back into reality. With his trembling hand, he swung the door open, charging back to the small kitchen of which had been his hideout for the evening.

Fuck this. Nope, nope, nope. His hands shook frantically as he tried to collect his belongings, kicking a stool and almost launching the now-empty pitcher straight off of the counter. No, no, no, no—

The door behind him opened with a slow creak.

Rasfi's heart was in his throat as he spun around, only briefly seeing the gold feathered mask before pressure soon squeezed around his throat. His instincts kicked in even as his vision immediately began to blur. He pawed weakly at the hands around his windpipe, desperate to pry them off, as his feet lifted from the ground. Darkness clawed at the edges of his eyesight—and as he felt the back of his neck connect with the wall in a loud, sharp bang, the last thing he saw before he slipped into unconsciousness was a pair of emerald green eyes staring down at him.

"Oh my, oh my. You poor thing... this is very disappointing indeed. If only he had followed the rules."

The words were muffled, as if spoken underwater. Rasfi recognised the voice from somewhere, though he couldn't place it in his current state. The back of his head drummed, sending waves of numbing pain across his scalp. His throat was tight and claggy, burning with every weak attempt he made to swallow.

"What should we do with him?" A second voice; much deeper than the first.

"Hmm. What to do... what to do. He is a vagrant, after all, so it wouldn't be such a stretch of the imagination to assume he simply overdosed. This one will be much easier than the rest."

Despite the sheer panic that resonated somewhere deep within him, Rasfi couldn't fight back. It was as if he were looking from the outside in, unable to translate the desperation to survive into his fingertips and feet.

"Understood," the deeper voice replied, "I'll deal with it."

A sudden weight crushed Rasfi's chest. His mouth opened; a guttural, dry sound as he gasped at the rush of fresh air that filled his lungs.

"Stay still."

He made an attempt to move—only for the crushing weight to pin him down even harder in response. As his vision pieced back together, he was met with the shocking green eyes of the assailant boring right through him.

"Please..." Rasfi croaked, "You... don't have to do... this."

A parallel to what he had heard what felt like moments ago.

"You saw too much," the man replied, reaching for Rasfi's throat.

Panic immediately set in. He scrambled—so weak and feeble and yet so desperate—but the mountain of a man above him didn't sway. His pulse began to slow down into a muted thump against the man's fingers. Blackness curled at the edges of his vision so painstakingly slow and yet, it felt like Rasfi had barely any time to rationalise the oncoming emptiness he plunged into before it completely suffocated him.

Standing in the doorway, the man peered into the darkened room with cold eyes oddly full of admiration. The screen—once alive with murderous colour—was back to a crackling, grey static, draining the room of any residual light. He only made it a few steps inside as something crunched underfoot. He lifted his foot, revealing shards of gold plastic and peacock feathers from an ornate mask.

A few feet from him lay the owner in a pool of her own blood and innards.

"Oh my, oh my. What a waste."

Behind the intricate details, however, there was something much sinister that the man plucked free with his hands. A small device—no bigger than a pebble—that flickered ominously with a green light. He rolled it around in his fingertips, humming under his breath, before crushing it in the palm of his hand.

The air, thick with acidity, told of her last moments sipping on the fateful wine that would have instantaneously burned her oesophagus. The shards of glass scattered across the carpet told of her haste to flee, knocking it over in a blind panic. The way her hand held her throat, soaked in crimson and black, told of her desperation to breathe as it peeled open from the poison. She may have even screamed; though the sound, he imagined, would've been nothing more than a wet gurgle.

It was an unfortunate end to a wondrous evening but a completely necessary one.

A heavy price for their sinful enjoyment.

A looming presence appeared behind him. "The boy has been dealt with."

The man hummed musically, "Such a shame. An innocent life snuffed out like a dying flame. A waste, if you ask me. Now this one on the other hand..."

Despite the songful tone, there was true sadness in his words. He may have been many things. He may have done even worse in his thirty-three years alive. However, his own sinful enjoyment—though contradictory—came from a place of eternal misery.

"Will you clean this up?"

"Yes," the green-eyed assailant replied.

The man hummed again as he picked up a broken piece of mask speckled in blood, so engrossed in the beauty that her almost liquefied corpse seemed insignificant. "The ultimate pleasure... is it really worth the price?"

deliveredtothedirt .weebly .com

So, hi?

I've taken far too many hiatuses to count at this point but I keep comin' back for more.

To keep this relatively short and sweet—this idea was utilised in a previous story of mine that I most likely will never revisit. I've fleshed it out further to fit a whole new verse (cause it wouldn't be a JabberjayHeart story unless it's giving new Panem-AU vibes!) so please see the above blog for a few more details if you're interested in submitting to this concoction.

The form is on both the blog above and my profile. Feel free to submit either through PMs or my discord (_coreyjay). I'm not sure how long I will keep submissions open for—I suspect until early/mid-August but I'll decide on a date by the next prologue!

Otherwise, join me for the ride :)

—Corey.