"Blurry gaze and limp shoulders
What could've been I couldn't reach
I didn't know that I could fall until I fell off from that peak."
Arden Hornbuckle, 15, District Seven (She/Her)
Arden has been clinging to a pendulum for so long, watching as her parents try desperately to pull her one way or another, trapped in the eternal swing of back and forth.
They send her gifts and make little comments in front of her, if only to make the other look bad. She manages their communications because they can't bear to even speak to the other. And she's watched as their hatred blots out her life, a stain spreading over a canvas of potential until there's nothing left.
She'd never expected the pendulum to stop swinging like this, on a stage at the Reaping. There's a frantic, many-winged hope within her that tells her perhaps this will be the moment when they're united, to bid her a final goodbye.
And she can't lie: there's a part of her that's entirely grateful, though she's been snatched from the jaws of a tiger only to be thrown to the wolves. At least now she will be away from them.
How awful is that? She almost laughs.
Still, how can she truly blame herself? She is a girl fashioned of someone else's spite, and the thrill of her name all by itself, without their strings attached, is undeniably present. Besides, the Games are formless in her mind—she doesn't know enough about them. That ignorance scares her, but it also makes it easy to wish. To long for the prospect of something else.
This is how she gets out. She never imagined it like this. But it's something, and the foolish part of herself clings to that like a barnacle on a boat.
She presses her face into her palm, waiting in the Justice Building. A clamor of sounds emanate from the other side, yelling and scuffling and general confusion. Arden feels her hands ball into fists, but they soften as soon as Sawyer and Shachar enter, finally with no rift keeping them apart.
The chasm of their separation, at least, has closed, and they hug tearfully in the doorway before looking up at Arden with sad smiles, less childlike and more melancholy.
"Sorry it took so long. They didn't want us together."
Anger wells up inside her, hot and fast, but she manages a smile herself. "You girls are finally meeting."
And to think this is the moment that everything finally happens. Somehow, it's not as lovely as she'd imagined. Nothing like she'd planned.
Though, she was never one for plans. Not concrete ones, at least. So it makes sense, in a way, that it would all work itself out beneath the whims of only luck.
"I made you this butterfly," Shachar whispers. "I was gonna give it to you tomorrow."
"And I made you this friendship bracelet!" Sawyer pulls something from behind her back. "So we made this together."
The friendship bracelet and its interwoven threads swings between her fingers, and tied into the lacework is a delicate butterfly, of pipe cleaners and paper clips and sparkles. It's the most beautiful thing Arden has ever seen. She pulls her half-sisters into her arms and they stay like that for a very long time.
Or perhaps it's only seconds, because in the next blink her parents' shouts are penetrating their little haven.
"Let me go first!"
"You didn't even give her a ride. She had to walk—"
"That's because the bank was calling and you refused to pay your bills—"
"Of course, make that excuse again—"
"I'm not the one—"
"I refuse to talk to you like this—"
"Maybe you should have thought about that when you—"
Arden gently steps in front of Sawyer and Shachar, both trembling. It's like pressing against a spout of water, or blocking a hose. The water is building and building and it's becoming unbearable to keep it at bay. Arden Hornbuckle is finally breaking loose.
"That's enough!" Her voice is sharp and serrated; it cleaves through the shouting and the stony silence. Arden might be crying, but she can't tell; it doesn't matter now. "You two better come in here right now, or else leave. I don't care. But you're scaring the girls. Look at them."
She points to Sawyer and Shachar, pale and wordless. Glances up at the Peacekeepers who eye them with open astonishment and curiosity. "Don't you see what a scene you're making? They're your children. I know you don't care about me, but I thought you loved them enough not to do this in front of them." She lowers her voice, ice creeping down her neck. "Or are they a part of this, too? Just another piece in your never-ending game? Is that it?"
Her parents are silent as the grave. They gape at her. "I'm leaving." Lower still drifts her voice, until the rest of the world falls away and it's just them. "And I might not come back. Does that matter at all to you?"
Webster reaches for her, and she pulls away. "This isn't about you, honey—"
"You've been so strong over the years."
(She shouldn't have had to be. Not when she was little and she could feel their tension even if they never said it, curling up against the pillow to try and carve out some kind of peace, something away from them. Not when she so wished for friends but had no room for them in the overflow of conflict clogging her life.
And for once, she thought she could say a normal goodbye, could take her last glance at Seven in peace. She imagined a family who loved her, who could be strong for her.
But she shouldn't have hoped. She knows better than that.)
She turns away, glancing back with heavy eyes and an aching heart. "You never gave me the choice. Maybe I didn't want to. Maybe I can't—can't bear anymore. Has that crossed your minds?"
They stare mutely. "Sweetie," Tamar starts, "you're so much like me. You have so much spirit—"
"Oh please, she's nothing like you. You have my chin, Arden—"
If she's like her mother, perhaps she has enough spirit to run away. To say goodbye.
And if she's anything like her father, she can stick up her chin and shake off all the pain her parents left trailing after her like streamers. They've given her an inheritance of hate and pain; the least they can do is allow her to be free of them, to parse this ounce of good from the maelstrom.
Walking back into the room without another word, she hugs her sisters fiercely, all of them smushed together. They cry silently and hold hands and Arden keeps them upright, and they keep her grounded. She holds them and she whispers gentle, reassuring words that she's starting to believe less and less, until the Peacekeepers haul her away.
...
Zean Deveraux, 18, District Two (He/Him)
No one comes to visit him at first.
It panics him more than he'd like to admit, staring at those empty walls and remembering Aria's smug, disparaging look when he Volunteered. Her eyes had seemed to pierce him through the sea of bodies, as if to say 'I know something you don't.'
What right has she to look as if he's some kind of brainwashed, delusional fool? He's not, he can't be... she likes to pretend that she wasn't in the group with him, that she didn't train and do good deeds in the name of the Capitol. She likes to play at being high and mighty, but he's never done anything wrong. All he's ever wanted is to be what the Capitol needs, to win glory—and to gain grace.
(Is that what the other kids see him as now? Some kind of fool who's fallen into a trap? Someone who doesn't know better?
Is that why no one comes?)
He knows, he's seen what war does to people and he's seen death and violence and some part of him will forever be shaped by it... as if it's the air he breathes and the words he speaks and the wind that blows over his face. If the Capitol only knew, if they saw—
"Zean."
He startles, feeling ashamed that he didn't hear his parents coming. His mother stands over him and watches, while his father hovers in the doorway, shoulders sagging.
"Oh!" Zean straightens quickly. "I didn't think—I'm glad you came. Not that I didn't think you'd come but—you know. You look nice, I know I saw you this morning but it's different now... is that for me?" He points a frantic finger at the crystal in his mother's hand and pauses for breath, cursing his tongue. It's always overactive when he's nervous.
"Zean." It's as if his mother can only say his name, her vocabulary cut short like puppet strings because...
Because of him.
He can't decide what to make of it. Whether to feel powerful or horrible or both.
"Why have you done this?" His father steps closer, finally deigning to look at him.
"Don't you understand?" Zean steps forward, his voice hushed and almost reverent. "No, you wouldn't. You couldn't."
Zean never asks... he doesn't want to know but he still feels the vibrations of his parents' rebellion beneath his feet. Hears the echoes in the way they speak.
They were on the Districts' side in the war. And a part of himself can never forgive them. He'll always feel it, like a debt he needs to repay to the Capitol. If no one else will, then he must.
"You want..." His father runs his fingers through his hair. "You want to fight for the Capitol."
The words burst free from him again. "Think of it. Another Victor for Two... it would be incredible. I'd bring honor to the District. Don't you want to make up for the rebellion? Don't you think it's our tithe to pay?"
His mother stares with empty eyes. "I don't understand."
"I said you wouldn't." He paces circles around the confining walls of the Justice Building. "I'm—I—"
But he's not sorry. He can never truly be.
"You've been keeping things from us." His mother touches Zean's arm to keep him still, keep him with her, and it reminds him of that longing deep inside of him. To be safe and secure and never count out the food like rations, never worry about his parents living to see the next day. Or stepping out of line.
A soft place to land. A steady rope to cling to. It's what he needs, and it's what the Games will give him.
"I've... I've trained for this," he says finally. "I know you think I can't do it, but I'm in a secret pro-Capitol group. I have big dreams, big plans. Things that could affect us all. Things that could cement our legacy."
"And what does a legacy matter, Zean, if you leave the remains of others' destinies in your wake?" His mother stares into his eyes, searching. Challenging.
His father has stopped looking at him again. He sags against the wall while Zean puzzles over this statement.
"And what if my—our destinies are greater? What if they deserve to last?"
His mother sighs and stares up at the ceiling. "You truly believe this. It's something you love?"
He wonders what she means by that. Perhaps it doesn't matter. He loves the Games, the Capitol, the prospect of glory. It's a kind of hunger within him that both frightens and enthralls him.
He squares his shoulders and wills his voice to be iron and steel. "Yes. More than life."
And for some reason, that seems to break something in her. She embraces him and he reminds himself that he is not a child, but he clings to her all the same because he loves his family, too. And it's all tangling up in his mind.
"Come home safe to us, my darling," she says, "and remember that some things hold more of a price than we realize."
His father hands him the crystal wordlessly, sad-eyed. "Goodbye, son."
(They do not tell him they are proud of him. But if Zean is honest, their pride matters less than all else, in the grand scheme of things.)
He watches the go, numbly, his only visitors. And he returns to imaginings of grander things.
...
Oriole "Ori" Morgenstern, 18, District Seven (He/Him)
Oriole stands very still beneath the sterile light of the Justice Building and tries very hard not to fall apart. He imagines himself like some kind of clockwork creature, held together by seams and hinges, tiny lines where the myriad parts of him fit together. But if that's the case, his joints are rusted and his mechanisms are cracking and he worries that he will become naught but scrap metal in the next few moments, if he's not careful.
He has always been so careful. Careful with his heart, careful to always make it to shifts on time, careful for his parents not to see what lies beneath the pristine exterior. He's sectioned off his life with a soldier's precision into neat margins, and nothing touches. That's always how it's been.
But how can he manage this new development? Who will keep his flowers from dying, his sister from breaking, the foundations of his household from cracking? Someone will need to keep the shelves stocked and the hedges trimmed, and someone will need to protect Sparrow. Protect them all.
But he never was very good at that anyway.
The door whispers open to reveal none other than Markham Black in the doorway, his eyes hooded with heavy makeup, artfully applied. He seems to shine in the bands of light leaking in, but Oriole can only stare. As if he's forgotten how to be anything but a statue, waiting for someone to give him commands.
(They were never supposed to touch, the neat sections of his life. They can't cross.)
"Ori?" Markham's lilting voice is distant. "You look pale."
Ori unfreezes, very suddenly, and crosses to stand in front of Markham, close enough to smell woodsmoke on his skin. "You can't be here." Ori's voice is low and soft, but it suddenly doesn't sound like his.
(He is reliving. Remembering. And he can't abide going into shock, not now, because part of him is screaming, too.)
"I know." Markham watches him, as if detailing every line of his face. "But I—"
"Please." Ori does not deal in panic, but it's starting to edge its way into his voice regardless. His stomach flips. "They'll see—"
"And what's so awful about that?" He closes his mouth quickly, upon seeing Oriole's face. "I only wanted to say goodbye. And to wish you good luck. You'll be wonderful."
Wonderful. Like he's trying a new skill or—horrors—performing in front of people. Though technically, both are now true.
He passes a hand over his face. "I can't—I can't do this right now—"
"I'm going, I promise. Just—wait." He reaches out, and Ori shouldn't, but he takes Markham's hand. "You are always good enough, Oriole. Good enough for me. And there is nothing you can do that will ever change that."
He doesn't believe it. He can't. It's never been true.
(He is doomed to let them all down.)
"Can I give you a hug?" Markham's voice is uncharacteristically soft.
It's all becoming too much. But the truth of it is, Ori has been friendless and grief-stricken for so long. Not that he needs someone else, but it's... it's nice. "Yes," he whispers.
They've only embraced for a few seconds, holding each other as Ori tries not to shake apart, before a sharp voice penetrates the cushioning silence. "Oriole!"
Ori resists the urge to gasp as Markham releases him slowly and vanishes like quicksilver.
It's happening. The segments are touching, and his order is crumbling, and it's the worst thing that could happen... other than the fact that Ori is being sent away to die in the most horrifying fashion. On second thought, perhaps it's even worse than that.
If Ori closes his eyes, he can almost imagine his parents never saw them.
(He can almost pretend nothing bad has ever happened.)
"Who was that... that boy?" Meredith grips his face with her pointed nails.
"Nothing—I mean, just a friend. An acquaintance. Wanted to—" He's always been awful at improv. It's not in his nature, and nothing he can say could fix it. "He had a question for me."
But he doubts they'd looked like acquaintances to his parents. They stare at him, stormy-eyed.
(Ori once looked up to his father. But ever since he's found out that Lachlan had never been honest—that he'd been unfaithful to Meredith—he feels betrayed and bereft.)
"This is... it's highly inconvenient," Lachlan says softly, and it makes such perfect sense.
A typical family response. They talk about the weather instead of confronting their demons, throw missiles of words instead of admitting vulnerability. It's all Ori has ever really known.
"It is. I'm sorry about the shifts—"
"Who cares about the shifts?"
Sparrow bursts into the room, a riot of color, and throws her arms around Oriole. He clings to her and feels something in him crumble. "Sis," he whispers.
"I can't believe this. I—"
"Sparrow, listen. Are you listening?" His voice is a metronome, calm and steady.
"Yes, you nerd. I'm listening." She's choking on her muffled sobs, and Ori can only gaze at her helplessly. He's never been good with tears.
"You need to be very good, all right? Think of what I would do."
She snorts. "No."
"Okay, maybe not me. But you can't be..." He lowers his voice even further, but his parents are in a silent stand-off, not listening. "You can't climb through windows or burn down buildings or whatever it is you get up to. Mom needs you."
"I need you." Her voice is a whisper.
His heart twinges. He blinks very quickly.
"I'm so sorry. I can't do anything right—"
"Oh, shut up." She grabs his hand. "This is not your fault."
(It certainly seems that way. Maybe it's always been easier to blame himself.)
Peacekeepers come to take him, and Sparrow begins to sob openly. All the while, his parents don't say a word.
...
Concorde Zemītis, 18, District Six (He/Him)
Concorde can still see the sky from the Justice Building.
It's all he can think of, and he idly wonders if something is broken in his brain. Of course, he's angry and scared and hopelessly upset with the universe. But the sky is still there. And when nothing else in the world is making sense, that's his sole comfort.
Funny, how the world can still be so exquisitely beautiful, even as ugliness runs rampant inside Concorde. He's always been able to find beauty, was almost lost to it—to the dizzy rush of girlfriends and parties and new, shiny things that grabbed his attention but were little more than glitter between his hands. He's just found his footing.
But of course, there is nothing and no one that can stop the Capitol from untethering him. The Capitol has never cared about him; why would they start now, just because he's managed to find something real?
(People have proven to be untrustworthy and insubstantial. Why shouldn't Fate be as well? His father, his mother, in a way—having left him and been lost to her own personal misery. Now, will he be the one to abandon his child?)
But there's still something to cling to, more vibrant than the sky. Laura comes rushing through the door, tears streaming down her face. For a moment, they just hold each other. They bear the weight of their silence and sorrow until Concorde can stand it no longer. He never could keep quiet.
"Laura," he whispers. "Hey... it'll be okay. See, Six won last year, remember? They always say 'second time's the charm.'"
"Third time," she whispers, her eyes puffy and tear-streaked.
Concorde feels his heart sink to his toes. He has never felt so powerless before, so immensely ill-equipped.
(And there have been moments when the helplessness overwhelmed him. When his stepdad broke his mother's wrist, when his father blew in on the wind and destroyed her life, already in shambles. Concorde has felt alone, but never so powerless as this.)
"Well, who cares what they say? 'Cuz this District's charmed, I just know it. Don't you think I'm lucky?"
There's a vein of bitterness in his words even Concorde cannot ignore. Laura laughs tearfully. "Lucky," she mutters.
He lifts her chin. "Maybe I'm not making the best cases. But if Six won last year, why can't they win again? I'll be okay. I'll take it home again, and no one will know what hit them."
Laura continues to sob. "Haven't we lost enough?" she whispers.
Her purple hair winks mockingly at them. He looks out at the uncaring world, so innocent and full of promise. Never has such beauty felt so ugly.
Laura is the greatest thing to happen to him, and if he could cling to the wall like a child and refuse to go, he would. He can see it now; he'd wind up and give the Peacekeepers a good right-hook. All the techniques he'd learned at those parties, when boys got mad at him for stealing their girls... they'd finally come in handy. And he'd swing like lightning, and his fist would crack like thunder, and he'd say, "You can't take me."
And they'd listen. For once, the world would listen to him. Instead of take, take, take, things could be his to hold for once.
"Concorde."
"Sorry. I'm so sorry..." He clenches his jaw. "I can't leave you like this."
He sees the despair in her eyes. Laura, whose father expects the world from her, far more than any daughter should have to give. He's not surprised that the world has taken yet another thing from him—his freedom. But Laura? How could this happen to her?
(She could be like his mother, raising a baby alone at nineteen, living in an absent dream, waiting for gifts and attention. Waiting for a boy who will never come back.)
"Don't worry about me," she whispers, as if she can read his mind. "Concorde, I mean it. I'll be alright."
"But you shouldn't have to, I mean—"
"I know."
The Peacekeepers knock twice. "One minute."
"I'll have so many stories to tell you!" he says quickly, almost desperately, as if his words can stop what's happening, can summon starlight back into the world. "I wonder if the stars look different there? Maybe I can get someone to send you pictures... and the names! Imagine if we named our baby something Capitol-y like—like Euphrasia! Or Fabrizio!"
"Concorde..." But Laura is laughing, that unexpected snort he's come to love so much. "We will not be naming our child Fabrizio."
"Oh alright... it's your loss." He takes her hand. "How's the baby doing?"
"Good." She blinks away more tears and Concorde finds sadness building behind his own eyes. "I felt it kick just earlier. Here, feel."
Gently, Concorde puts a hand on Laura's belly, wondering at the idea of a new life beginning, of a heart small and quiet as the thrum of butterfly wings.
That's their baby. It's their future. It's a hope, reborn.
But it's not... it's not quite that way, anymore. He might be gone—
But he can't think like that. He won't. He has to believe he can beat the odds, like the heroes he'd once dreamed of.
He gasps as he feels the baby kick against his hand, and it's the most beautiful, surreal feeling—more amazing than tipping your head back and staring at all that sky.
"Goodbye, baby," he whispers. "Goodbye, angel. I'll see you soon."
He looks up at Laura and thinks of all the people who have left him, girls he met for a night and the endless trail of boyfriends his mother paid host to. This time, he's the one doing the leaving. But he would give the Earth and the moon itself just to come back to her. He's not going to let this joy slip away so easily, not if he can help it.
"I'll be back, Laura. I know it. I will. Before you can even blink—"
"Yes, Concorde." She catches the tear that slips down his cheek and kisses him, gently—like the old cars he repaints, she refinishes and redesigns all the pain he once carried, his old ideas of love giving way to something wonderful. "I know."
...
Yosemite- Half•Alive
HI dear friends! Lovely to see you on this January Wednesday! I hope your week has been lovely and I'm glad to come to you with this update as things will continue to get busier for me in the next few weeks! We have officially entered pre-games and I can't remember if I told y'all this last chapter, but I likely forgot! These POVs will all be roughly 1k in length as I've found that's where the sweet spot is, but we'll see if that changes once we get to the actual Capitol portion—in which case, your kid would get one shorter POV and one longer; but I'm kinda bad at organizing so only time will tell lol! Each chapter will have four POVs (not counting next chapter because the math wasn't math-ing) kinda like I did with IIDY if y'all were around for that! And a random fun fact, today marks the two-year anniversary for IIDY starting which makes me really happy but also I can't believe I've been doing this for that long! Wild!
Anyhoo, this chapter we heard from four very lovely people. Arden struggling with her parents, Zean struggling with his parents, Ori struggling with his parents, and Concorde struggling (and being happy) at the onset of being a parent himself! Yay sad hours! For real though I had quite a lot of fun with this and I hope you did as well. Thanks for reading you amazing humans!
Also, bonus question! If you could pick an ally for your kid, who would you pick? Silly answers are okay lol I just love hearing from you guys, and who knows it may influence me... you never know! But that's about all I have to say, I'll see you next time for Train Rides with Ithaca, Rat, Enzo, Blade and Pandora!
Much Love,
Miri