It doesn't take long for their world to be destroyed. Within seconds, the Quarter Quell broadcast was cut off in a great burst of light. Within minutes, the Capitol was at their doorstep raining that light back down onto them.
Most are sprinting in the same direction that Clerk Carmine is- towards the edge of the district, away from the flames. Every once and a while, a blonde head whizzes past heading towards the center of town instead.
One of them nearly crashes into Clerk Carmine in the midst of the chaos. He has to shout just to hear his own voice over the explosions and screaming. "Not there, girlie! You're going the wrong way!"
"My mother, my mother," she gasps out. She rips free from his grip to continue her mad dash into the worst of the bombings. On the horizon, one half of the mayor's house collapses into a smoldering heap.
He cannot pursue her. The crowd is already pushing him forward, so frantically that it makes him stumble. He imagines falling and being trampled to death by the stampede. Of being struck directly by one of the bombs and dying on impact. Of getting outpaced by the flames and becoming one with the stench of burning flesh assaulting their lungs.
His feet begin to slow once he manages to break free from the others. A few people pause to extend their hands to him, worried by the sight of an old man not keeping up. He waves them all off. He will not allow anyone to endanger themselves on his account. Especially not when he's about to do something so monumentally stupid.
He turns around and starts jogging back the way he came.
The trip back is short but perilous. Everyone capable of running has already fled this part of the Seam. The bodies left behind lay still on the ground, some burnt beyond recognition. He quickens his pace and is out of his house in a flash, precious cargo in tow.
He's struggling now. Mining injuries from years past agree to make themselves known and flare up at the same time. He can work through the pain easily enough, he's done it before, but the gathering smoke is overwhelming. Soon he's coughing so hard that he can barely move forward.
There's some shouting in the distance followed by the sensation of wet cloth being pressed over his face. "Hold this in place," says a stern male voice. "Come on, old-timer, not much farther now."
He is half dragged and half carried away from it all. At one point he feels something metal underneath his feet and realizes with a jolt that they are stepping over the fence. The barrier marking the edge of District 12 has been toppled over. They are leaving.
The survivors continue pressing further into the unknown. Anything is better than glancing back at the destruction behind them. And once he's gotten his bearings, Clerk Carmine finds that unknown is entirely the wrong word for it. This is a land barely touched by human hands- just the same now as it was decades ago. He guesses where they are headed long before their exodus finally stops at the edge of the water.
Our lake, he thinks dully before correcting himself. It was everybody's lake, once upon a time. You forget that sort of thing after too many years of fences and staying put just because somebody in a white uniform said so.
Nobody quite knows what to do with themselves now that they've made it here, so several people nearby settle for fussing over Clerk Carmine. He finds it unnecessary, but letting them guide him to a comfortable spot seems like the best way to calm their nerves. There weren't many people over the age of seventy in District 12. If the faces around him are of any indication, that number became even smaller tonight.
Everyone stays very quiet. Not even the two small children sitting near him cry. It's as if the shock made them forget how. The young mother tending to them has a desperate look in her eyes as she points to the brown case Clerk Carmine is clinging to. "What is that? Were you able to bring supplies?"
Speaking is still a difficult thing after all the smoke inhalation, so he opens the case to let her peek. The prize inside is visibly worn, the old wood only being held together by years of careful repairs. It's a beautiful fiddle, in his opinion, but the sight of it only seems to distress the mother. He can't help but feel a tad guilty. The thought of grabbing food and gear when he had gone back simply hadn't occurred to him.
They sit there and watch their homes burn down together. It doesn't matter which direction they face. Their only options are looking back at the district or forwards at the reflections in the lake. The waves in Clerk Carmine's childhood memories were clear and blue. Tonight, the surface is all harsh oranges and grays from the plumes of smoke that continue to fill the air. He would be moved to write a song about it if only such a thing were within his skillset. Lyrical writing had never come naturally to him the way melodies and performance did. It's been many years since he last had band members around to make up for his shortcomings.
But life doesn't care whether little people know how to put it into words. It writes the poetry all on its own. When the hovercraft descends on them three days later, it isn't the Capitol come to finish them off. The characters inside are straight from a ghost story. District 13 has survived. And, against all odds, so will 12.
It's a very orderly place, this District 13. They have a plan for everyone and everything. For the kids, that's easy enough. The surviving children of 12 are given classrooms and teachers before they can even blink. Adults are a bit more complicated. You have to figure out exactly what they're good for.
Clerk Carmine is used to introducing himself as CC. It's too childish to be his preferred name, but he likes it quite a bit more than plain old "Clerk" and doesn't trust strangers not to shorten his given name. The mousy woman responsible for screening him sidesteps the issue by getting it wrong in an entirely unique way.
"Good afternoon, Soldier Clade. Today we will be finalizing your schedule. I see here that you've entered your age as seventy-seven. In your opinion, are you in a physical and mental condition suited for work?"
His knees still ache from the trek out of 12. There is a visible tremor in his hands. The cough that started up when he inhaled all of that smoke has yet to fully go away.
"I reckon I'd do alright," he says.
He braces himself for this woman, like the District 12 refugees, to scold him for pushing himself too far. Instead she nods at him approvingly. This had been the correct answer.
"Excellent. Now, the matter of your assignment. Do you have any special skills you would like to report before we place you?"
The words I'm a musician catch on his tongue. From what he'd observed so far, District 13 didn't seem like the best place to admit that. The person who had shown him to his living compartment had the nerve to ask him whether he was going to donate his fiddle for use as kindling. Kindling! As if he hadn't suffered through dozens of bitter winters in 12 refusing to resort to that!
The starched, gray people of District 13 will be neither the first nor the last to think Clerk Carmine a fool for this. No matter how much he may feel it- in his blood, in his spirit, in everything- he is not a musician in the strictest sense of the word. He hasn't been one for a long time. He was hardly old enough for the Reaping when they banned performances at the Hob. The same year they lost both Billy Taupe and Lucy Gray.
After that, there wasn't any way to live off of performing alone. Even if there had been, the music just didn't feel the same. The Covey had done what they could to survive. If Clerk Carmine is anything, he is the same as the rest of the Seam: a coal miner who never had any other choice.
He is taking too long to answer the question. The mousy woman is staring at him.
"Right," she says slowly. "I'll just recommend that they avoid anything labor intensive. You will be able to print your schedule first thing tomorrow morning."
There is so much for him to be thankful for. He is kept fed. Warm. Safe. Alive. At mealtimes he often finds himself scanning the room for faces that may or may not have made it this far. Did that younger miner he had once mentored make it out? What about that peddler he used to haggle with at the Hob? He has searched over and over for the young girl who collided with him on the day of the bombing, but she never seems to turn up.
He should be grateful. He ought to spend every second of 18:00 – Reflection kissing the very ground he walks on. And yet. And yet. It eats at him, being here. He used to think that being tied to one district was the most trapped that a nomad could be. Turns out, it can always get worse: you can be in the same situation hundreds of feet underground.
He's itching for a distraction, so he doesn't need much convincing the day they summon him to Command. His resolve wavers just a bit when he walks in to find the very important, very Capitol faces waiting for him. He reaches out and is greeted with a firm, respectful handshake in return.
There is nothing about Plutarch Heavensbee's manner that suggests him to be anything but a perfectly friendly individual. That doesn't stop Clerk Carmine from monitoring him the way one might monitor a dog who has a history of biting people. The last Capitol-born man he met in person was Coriolanus Snow. He had seemed friendly, too. Until he wasn't anymore.
Despite this, Plutarch's request seems harmless. Exciting, even. Clerk Carmine takes the papers handed to him with careful reverence. It's the wedding song from District 4. The chance to learn a new melody without having to make it up himself. He was starting to think that he'd never get such an opportunity ever again.
"Do you know how to read sheet music?" asks Fulvia.
"Yes, ma'am. I also know my ABC's, in case you were wondering."
Plutarch either doesn't notice the quip or doesn't care. He claps his hands together. "Wonderful! Then we will be seeing you at the ceremony! I'm going to get an effective propo out of this if it kills me."
"Who else is playing? Will we have time for rehearsals?" asks Clerk Carmine.
"Oh, it will just be you. As far as we're aware, you're the only person in 13 who even has a musical instrument, let alone any experience playing at events," says Fulvia. Her eyes narrow a bit at Clerk Carmine's expression. "That won't be a problem, will it?"
"No, ma'am. Won't be a problem at all."
Would it?
He starts to question it more and more as the date of the wedding grows closer. What if he isn't good enough? What if he can't hold his own without a band to accompany him? How is he supposed to prepare for this? He can't even tune his instrument without his assigned roommate snarling about his Reflection time being interrupted.
That's the biggest problem with gigs. They don't wait up on you to get ready. You still have to get on the stage and accept what's coming to you. He remembers being real little, young enough to have not gotten past things like stage fright yet. Barb Azure had been the one to sit him down, smooth down his hair, and remind him that the Covey would always be with him. Even if he did freeze, all it would take is one glance across the room to find all of the people ready to support him.
Things aren't that simple anymore. He is now the sole instrumentalist at the wedding of two Hunger Games victors. The children's choir is waiting for him to give the first cue. Hundreds of people have gathered to observe him. Thousands more around the country will be tuned into the televised feed. He closes his eyes.
"On the fiddle, that's our very own Clerk Carmine!" shouts a squeaky voice. Within the crowd inside his mind sits Maude Ivory, brandishing her microphone and waving at him.
"And what a treat this is for the fine folks of District 13! I don't imagine they've ever seen such an act before, wouldn't you say?" adds Lucy Gray, throwing an arm around her younger cousin. She is looking healthy and happy in her favorite rainbow dress.
Barb Azure smiles softly beside them. "I doubt they have."
"Now, if only he'd hurry up and get on with the show already," says Billy Taupe. He's rolling his eyes, but Clerk Carmine knows his brother well enough to tell when he's secretly pleased. Tam Amber must be as well, even if it never quite comes across in his facial expressions.
Clerk Carmine opens his eyes again. The colorful Covey have been replaced with a sea of gray District 13 uniforms. No matter. They aren't gone, exactly.
He reaches down and plays the first note.