Theon Kovacks
District Ten Male
16
–
Theon's day starts, really, as any other.
The clatter from downstairs of silverware and plates signaling that his mom was already preparing breakfast, a soft smell of warm honey and oatmeal wafting towards him, the sounds of his sister talking loudly about her latest passion.
He gets dressed, quickly, before he's late for school, or worse, for the rest of his day. He dons a simple shirt and sweater, as well as his trusty pair of shorts now that the summer has gotten warm enough. He glances at himself in the mirror, gone slightly smudged now, arranges a few dangling strands of hair sticking out and about from his head. He's not been one to care about his appearance - no one would be looking at him anyways - but if he was to go on a date with Carley this afternoon, as scheduled, he'd need to look his best.
For the one person who's ever truly looked at him. Not through him.
Theon scuttles down the staircase, right as his mother's about to yell at him to come down, mumbling about being late.
"You're late!" Katrina points out needlessly, still munching on a piece of toast.
Theon reaches for a piece of bread himself, taking a seat across from his sister. "That's so crazy, I haven't noticed," he deadpans, to which Katrina only rolls her eyes.
The rest of the morning continues as usual, albeit a bit more rushed: Katrina and him bicker more over her completing her homework and him spending more and more time with his boyfriend (Katrina said that word as if there was something racy about the very concept), he kisses his mother on the cheek and compliments her raspberry jam, he grabs his backpack from near the door and accompanies Katrina on the walk towards school.
Unfortunately, that's where the comfort in the familiarity ends.
It's clear to anyone as soon as they take a step outside - Theon's town wasn't built with originality in mind. His home, a quaint farmhouse painted white and well-tended to, is surrounded by identical houses, lined up like soldiers in utter conformity. The streets, all identical to his, make a nice curve that leads towards the center of the town, where the school, as well as the other relevant buildings stand.
Perfectly ordered. Perfectly boring.
No doubt that the structure makes it easier for the Capitol to control, to have certain clear sections of neighborhoods and assign them to a precise number of Peacekeepers. No doubt does the total absence of personality help the population, make them easier to control, or whatever the Capitol does. That's probably the reason for it - because if there is no reason for it, Theon's pretty sure he'll go insane.
He's toyed with the idea of up and leaving, making his way down south towards the central parts of Ten, craving some signs of life other than a rogue tumbleweed, but that was purely a fantasy. Ignoring the evident problem of finding a job, money, and a house, Theon knows he couldn't ever leave his family behind. Especially not in a place like this - even if it doesn't seem to bother them as much, he couldn't do that to them.
So, Theon swallows back his complaints and makes his way down the street, for the thousandth time, Katrina by his side, and promises himself that the rest of the day will be better. He's managed to build that for himself, now. He has.
–
For once, Theon wishes that his classmates would choose another topic of conversation.
With just a week between them and the Reapings, it's been on the lips of everyone, whispered worries between best friends and hushed recollections of last year's. Not easy to catch, of course, but Theon's become something of an expert at gleaning scraps of information from passers-by, at hearing things that would rather not be heard. When nobody seems to enjoy looking at you, let alone talking to you, you've got to find other ways to entertain yourself, and if that includes encroaching on somebody else's thoughts, then so be it.
But this particular subject makes him uneasy. Being only sixteen, he has three years left of having his name in the bowl, and if that wasn't enough to unnerve him, then Katrina being eligible makes him slightly nauseous. Of course, it's deeply unlikely that it'd land on any one of them. Ten is one of the most populated Districts, neither of them need tesserae thanks to their parents' income, and neither of them are eighteen. And yet…
Whatever morbid spiral he finds himself about to enter is interrupted by the sound of a chair screeching towards him.
"Hey there, handsome."
Theon turns around to find Carley bringing a chair next to his at the cafeteria table, a disarming grin on his face.
Theon, flustered, feels himself turning slightly red. "Hey, Carl."
"What are we brooding about today, mm?" Carley asks, taking a piece of the apple on his tray.
Theon shakes his head, not wanting to get into such a somber topic with his boyfriend. "It's whatever," he says, and Carley seems to get the hint.
"We still up for the date tonight?" he asks instead.
Theon nods. "Of course!"
Truth be told, he still feels somewhat lightheaded by all the attention he's receiving. Even if it's from one person, it's still a massive improvement from, well, the rest of his life. He's spent most of it in the corners of parties, ignored and brushed past, a footnote. It wasn't for lack of trying, either, it's simply that conversation with others simply evaded him, a dance he didn't know the moves to. After a couple years, however, he decided he was fine without friends. What good were they, anyway? Apart from providing him with information about the world around him, there wasn't much else that came to Theon's mind.
Yet, when Carley, the complete opposite to everything Theon was - charming, easy, charismatic and sociable, started to find him interesting… something in his heart had stirred, a small candle of warmth lighting up.
It's a feeling he's still trying to get used to, that sensation of closeness, having someone to confide in other than his mother, someone he can trust and someone who enjoys his presence. Enjoys what he has to say. On top of trying to stop staring at his gorgeous blue eyes, Theon has been starting to find it hard to spend moments away from Carley.
But, hell, if it keeps him feeling this perfect and content, he doesn't see why he should.
–
Fuck.
Maybe Theon's pushed it too far.
He's not one to get distracted, or get carried away, or anything that futile. He's never been, not until Carley waltzed into his life and made him forget everything else.
If he's to trust the expression on Mr. Jone's face, he's absolutely pushed it too far.
His boss's face, a bit plump and reddish from years of smoking cigars and easy money, is scrunched up in a disappointed frown, beady eyes staring Theon down from the opposite end of his desk.
"Listen," he begins, drumming his fingers on the table, "I really like you, kid. You've got a real talent, hell, that's why I hired ya, and I'd hate to see you go!"
Theon's stomach dropped at that. See him go? Is he genuinely about to get fired?
He can't - Mr. Jones knows that the job gave him a purpose. He knows that Theon wouldn't know what to do without the newspaper, without his sections to write. That the stories of others was all he had to hold onto, to brave the storm of his boredom, when he was a ghost amidst the crowds. Fine, maybe he'd been slacking off on his duties after he'd met Carley, maybe he'd gotten distracted and started focusing more on dates and kisses and dinners with him, but it's not a crime to be a bit busier, is it? He stopped focusing on other people's lives, stopped keeping up with the town gossip, for what, a couple weeks? He still wrote occasionally, and maybe it was less gripping because nobody wanted to hear about Bethany stealing chewing gum for the millionth time, but he was still trying.
"Mr. Jones, I -"
"Kid, I'm gonna tell you this honestly, okay?" Mr. Jones cuts him off. "I'm glad you found that boyfriend of yours, I think it's doing you some good. Less grumpy and all, it was pretty unbecoming for a young man. But if we're going to have a gossip section in the Daily Poultry, I'm gonna need someone who does the job properly and with care. No one wants to hear about stuff they already know."
Fuck. Is that really how low Theon's sunk? There was a time where he knew everything ahead of everybody, eyes so sharp, observing his classmates. There was a time where he could predict a damn breakup before it even happened, by the way the couple was looking at each other during math class.
Has he really lost his touch?
Mr. Jones continues with a puffy sigh. "So, either you start taking your job seriously and stop seeing that boy, or we're gonna have to let you go."
No. No, fuck that. Theon can't be fired from his job, he can't. It's the only shot he has, in his stupid town, at ever amounting to anything. It's either that or working for his parents' beekeeping, or taking up some bloody job at the butchery, forever destined to that quaint nothingness that seems to loom over the rest of the citizens. He's always needed to be something, anything, other than that, and he's not about to let that go.
But he can't let go of Carley, either. Carley, who'd looked at him on the marketplace when everybody brushed past him, who'd looked at him even if Theon was busy observing, quiet as a shadow, the lives of others. Carley, who'd rekindle some warmth inside his heart, who taught him that there was somebody who wanted to listen to him speak.
Carley, who could very well be the love of his life.
"Okay, Mr. Jones, I totally hear you." He makes his best attempt at sounding easy, relaxed, trying to imitate the way Carley would brush away problems with the wave of his hands. It's not very good. "How about this: you give me a little bit of time to get my schedule in check, alright? I'll get my performance back on track and keep my relationship, no problem. I just got a bit distracted."
Mr. Jones hesitates, reaching for an unlit cigar sitting on his desk. "Mm. Alright, but only 'cause I like ya. You've got till the Reapings to get back on track."
Theon swallows, the tension clenching his muscles relaxing slightly. "Thank you," he says, and he hopes it sounds sincere, because for once, it fucking is.
The Reapings - that gives him a week. A week to solve his schedule, sort things out.
He can do that, he's sure of it. Maybe if he slacks off a little bit on homework, not that that matters, because only Ten kids from downtown have a chance at education. Maybe if he explains his problem to Carley, who always has a solution to his problems.
But for that, Theon'd have to admit to him that he was the Passer-By, the gossip columnist of the town who'd embellished stories of local divorces and broadcasted them to everybody, the mysterious that prevented anybody relevant around town from having a private life. It's been eating at him, of course it has, to keep such a huge part of himself away from Carley. He'd started to feel like he was living a double life, like the dishonest husbands and the cheating wives from his stories. Though, what could he do? What if Carley hated him for it, hated that he'd pried so many lives apart and shone a flashlight on them. What if Carley hated that he'd embellished some parts, left others for implied interpretation, suggested and started rumors that spread around town like wildfire?
If you asked Theon, of course he hadn't done anything wrong. If you do something in public, it's public information, it's that simple. And if you do something interesting… well, then the bored citizens around town deserve a little bit of entertainment, don't they? In compensation for the dull life they've been forced to live?
Theon's only been providing.
He just hopes Carley will be able to understand that.
–
Mahra Kozlov-Ilves
District Ten Female
18
–
When Mahra receives her latest grades, her sheet of paper handed to her face up, she already knows what to expect.
A hundred percent, written in strict black pen. A comment on the side: high potential.
Perfection. As always.
Though it's not perfect, of course. Not in its truest sense. Mahra's intelligence will never reach ultimate perfection, free of any flaws and burdens and inconsistencies. It's a funny word, really. She hasn't made a single mistake on her latest exam, demonstrating unequaled prowess at war tactics and formation. But that absence of mistakes isn't perfection, not really.
Mahra can always go further.
And so she will.
"Holy shit," Angus breathes next to her, leaning over. "Another hundred?"
Mahra doesn't mind the boy, not as much as her other classmates. Too many of them are from the richest parts of the District, heads held high and snotty, expecting excellence without putting in any effort. Angus doesn't rival her skills, of course - nobody does, but he tries, with admirable dedication. And he never once scoffed at her for being the daughter of butchers.
Mahra nods, wanting to remain modest, but not wanting to discourage Angus either. "Yeah! What about you?" she asks, eyes darting towards his own test, that had been handed out flipped down.
"Um…" he shrugs awkwardly. "An eighty-something."
Mahra smiles at him, knowing that encouragement is what he needs to keep him working hard. "That's a pass!" she assures him, though without unnecessary fuss. "If you'd like, we can study together, next time."
Angus' eyes light up at that, which Mahra finds a bit touching. "Oh, I'd love that!"
"Perfect," she says, and places her test sheet meticulously in her binder, organized in neat annotations and stickers demonstrating every class and unit within classes. As far as Mahra is concerned, an organized life is one more likely for success.
And if Mahra liked anything in the world, it was succeeding.
–
"Have a good day today, sweetheart?" her mom asks, setting a bowl of pasta down on the dinner table. Her dad nods in agreement, showing he's interested in her answer as well.
Mahra serves herself a portion, thick with fragrant spices and sophisticated sauce, delicacies that she knows most of her District can't afford. The benefits of being allies of the Capitol, she supposes, of not rebelling like too many citizens do - a foolish effort, of people unwilling to accept the way the world is. "I did, yes," she replies easily. "My teachers say I have high potential, the best in most of my classes."
But not all.
Mahra can always do more, do better.
"That's wonderful!" her father beams, ever her biggest supporter. It means a lot to her, of course, to hear her parents praise her. She owes them everything, after all, their loyalty to the Capitol providing them a comfortable life, paying the expensive fees for the Peacekeeper Academy without arguing. Still, she wishes they wouldn't settle for just this. Mahra isn't training in war to earn praise, or riches. She's here to find her purpose and hone it to its highest potential.
Her parents have never understood that part of her, not fully, preferring to compliment her loyalty to the nation, daydreaming about the riches she'll be able to bring back to them once she moves to the higher Districts, or perhaps even the Capitol itself.
They don't understand that she isn't here to defend her country out of love, some patriotic urge like theirs to see their great nation succeed.
The art of war is simply her calling. And Mahra doesn't see the point in settling for second-best.
As if on cue, her mother sighs dreamily. "Our little Mahra, can you imagine, moving to the Capitol to serve under General Asane, protecting Panem from those filthy uprisers."
"It's so exciting," her father nods vehemently.
They've always been like this, infatuated with nationalist ideals, teaching Mahra to respect the Capitol, to be grateful for all they've given to them, to venerate and serve and end up nothing like her traitorous, disrespectful neighbors. Even if Mahra would be willing to do anything for them, perhaps the only people she fully trusts in this world, she's never quite understood where this adoration comes from. Of course, she's nowhere near rebelling. Rebelling is foolish, desperate, only leading to more death and suppression - if the people want to lead a strong life, they need to collaborate with those in power, as simple as that.
But Mahra finds it hard to admire people who haven't earned their power, and the Capitol is a prime example of laziness, privilege.
Once she makes her way up the ranks, however, she'll be able to reinstate order, make things right. Her country deserves someone leading their armies who earned their position, worked day and night, put blood, sweat, and tears into their efforts. She'll be able to squash the uprising movements, silence the insurgents in Eight, and make sure the country finds its structure again.
With structure, the country will flourish once more, and there won't be a need to rebel anymore.
It's that simple.
It's a shame that Mahra seems to be the only person trying to find solutions in Panem, but so be it - she'll do all the work herself. She always has.
–
Mahra always found the world clearer through a gun's scope.
The regular lines, all driving towards the center of the circle in perfect alignment, not a inch left for error, precision pushed to its furthest when she pulls the trigger - dead center.
There's two branches to the Peacekeeper Academy: one for soldiers, and one for strategists. Mahra's never been one for brute strength, she finds nothing graceful about putting down terrorists or beating petty thieves in marketplaces, contrary to the true beauty of a battlemap. However, even strategists such as herself have mandatory weaponry classes, so as to not look foolish in front of the men they're to lead, and to fully understand the implications of using firearms.
Mahra hadn't been thrilled about the weapons classes at first, and the hand-to-hand ones were just as disappointing as she expected, full of blundering punches and kicks to the shins, unlawful ways of winning a fight, if you ask her. But, to her relief, the firearms class had turned out to be a bit more rewarding, keeping some of the beauty of war she's come to appreciate.
Aim, fire. Center.
It's a rewarding pattern, yet another place where her teachers award her flawless scores, even if she knows, of course, that she can always aim better, shoot from further away, have a smaller target, have a moving target, and a thousand other things preventing her from ultimate perfection. A fleeting thing, that she never seems to quite catch as it slips through her fingers… not that she'll ever give up, of course. Nothing more cowardly than that.
"Good work, Kozlov!" Her instructor shouts at her, over the noise of her classmates' gunfire in the adjacent stands. "You're really a natural."
Mahra nods, curt. "Thank you."
"Say, are you sure you don't want to become a ground operative? Or perhaps join the sniper training program?" The instructor asks her, and Mahra's heard these words far too many times.
She makes her answer as decisive as possible: "I belong in the strategy program." And that's final. She's starting to get tired of people offering her other paths, talking to her as if she doesn't know what her damn purpose is. She's sacrificed far too many sleepless nights on perfecting her strategies, on learning the terrain of Panem and its geography, shoved away invitations from classmates time and time again because, sorry, I need to study tonight. She doesn't want anything easier, she doesn't want to settle for the second-best program, and she will not become a simple soldier when she can become a goddamn general.
"Very well. You're aware the strategy program becomes even more selective past the Reaping age?"
Mahra's aware, of course she's aware. She knows the entirety of the curriculum like the back of her hand, during her spare time she makes sure to get ahead and familiarize herself with the post-Reapings content. She doesn't need anybody to tell her things she already knows.
"I am, yes," she says, her tone too sharp for someone talking to a superior.
Mahra doesn't believe in that, anyways. She'll give respect to those who give her respect, and nothing else, no matter how many ensigns they have and medals they bear. In fact, if there's anything her years at the Academy has taught her, it's that those at the highest positions often have done nothing to earn them, simply descendants from great men whose greatness has decidedly not been passed down, rich people with money to throw at evaluators. Half her classmates in her program don't deserve their spot, bought out like cowards. When Mahra starts earning her ranks, she'll make sure that the lazy, the unworthy, don't advance anymore than they should.
When Mahra starts earning her ranks, she'll set everything right.
Her instructor looks at her for a moment, hesitant, and Mahra wonders if she's about to admonish her, but she simply nods and turns away. "Keep up the good work."
That she will.
–
The Reapings are about a week away now, the warm summer air blowing through windows, and with it, bringing forth another exam season.
Mahra's well-prepared, of course. Being eighteen, it's her final year in the pre-Reaping section of the program, and her grades will determine whether or not she can continue in the program. Too many of her classmates are off celebrating the near-end of the school year, organizing some house party at… she doesn't remember whose house, despite receiving a (needless) invitation, but she remembers it's around the Mayor's neighborhood, which should say enough about the students' studiousness. Perhaps they're not really aiming to pass, Mahra's thought before. Maybe their rich, high-society parents wanted them to have something to add to their resume, a prestigious education, and have no real ambition in becoming strategists. Maybe that's all it is, and in that case, Mahra can't quite get angry at them beyond wasting space, but truth be told, she's afraid that she'll be seeing them next year, that their parents will be paying off the instructors to let them pass.
It's fine. Once Mahra's part of the institution, she'll begin to fix it. She'll make it right.
Angus has come over to her house to study with her, as promised, his curly dark hair in a mess and his eyes wide with stress. He's evidently not been sleeping much, and unlike Mahra, isn't the type to handle that lack of sleep well. She's already told him that not sleeping before tests and exams lower your performance, but he doesn't seem to listen, almost as if he knows that Mahra does it too. He doesn't know that, of course - nobody does. The very idea of showing to her classmates that she happens to be stressed sometimes is…
Well, that's not the point. She mostly hides it to not be a bad influence.
"Thanks a lot for this," Angus says for the millionth time, leafing through her detailed notes written in meticulous handwriting. "I really, really, really need to pass."
"You're going to do fine," she assures him, and though her voice is hardly warm, she knows that her opinion holds a lot of weight in his eyes.
Whether or not he will do fine is up to be seen, but Mahra respects his determination to pass, even if it stems from his regretful poverty, and she's found that encouragement improves his performance.
She, of course, will be passing with ease - she sees her notes everytime she closes her eyes to go to sleep. All she needs is for summer to pass, the last Reapings along with it, and then her future will finally be within grasp.
Mahra's never been more ready.
–
Decker Delahaye
District Six Male
18
–
It's been getting worse.
It'd started with a dull pain, an ache. He's used to that sensation, been so for years, so he pushed it away, shoved another painkiller down his throat to wash it down.
He thought nothing of it. Decker's life has been riddled with pain, from birth to epiphany, and it was as common to him now as eating or sleeping.
But then, it started growing, like a plague stretching its bony hands through his gut, his stomach, his skin, his muscles. A feeling he hasn't known since childhood. Skin turning yellow, food coming up his throat as bile, movements becoming clumsy and imprecise, limbs tired and heavy.
It was funny, or maybe a bit stupid, that Violet had been more worried than him at first, snapping at him that he needed to pick himself back up, that too many people were watching him now, that he had an image to uphold and being consumed by sickness was no way to keep it. Stupid. It was fucking stupid - Decker knows better than anyone that the body is a prison not easily escaped, no matter how Violet made it seem.
His followers were probably wondering where he was, now. He hadn't gone down to the ring to host a fight in a few weeks, locked in his pitiful room with blinds pulled over the windows and curled up in his bed, saving up the precious energy he has left for…
Well. They probably aren't wondering where he is, not if Violet's been off running her mouth again, word spreading that the great fuckin' Decker was dying, consumed by his own body, unable to outlive himself, control himself. How ironic. They probably think he's giving up, willing to rot and wilt away like some contaminated flower, given up on his ideals, given up on his life.
They're dead wrong.
Decker doesn't give up. He never has, not after childhood shattered his body till it was left a fragile husk, not after he ended up alone, still a child, in a place of filth and rats. He doesn't give up - it might be the last thing has, that determination to take the punches and get the fuck back in the ring.
No, Decker's not going to give up. He won't let go of the scraps of life he had to fight for, he'll create something even better for himself, he'll build his future with his bare hands once more.
He's been preparing, to the best of his ability, making sure to keep his body active even when his legs won't stop giving out from under him, even when he can't keep his food down. He needs to make sure that he doesn't let himself rot any more than he has to. That'd be giving up, letting himself languish and fall apart at the seams until there was nothing less. He won't let himself be erased like that. Not anymore.
Not after he was paraded around, poster-child for weakness and a martyr for all, used as a doll until there was nothing real left inside him. Not after his soul was cut away, piece by piece, one injection at a time, as he lay, corroding in a hospital bed, unable to lift his hand or do anything for himself.
Decker needs to be well-prepared if he wants to save himself again. He waited for years before he did it the first time, making sure he had everything ready and that his body had regained some strength before slipping out his bedroom window.
The Reapings are in a week, now, if he's been counting the days correctly. Jagger's been knocking at his door once or twice, asking to talk to him, but he sent him off every time. Decker doesn't need to hear about other solutions, he doesn't need to hear about patience and rationality, about waiting and seeing. He doesn't need to hear about anyone who thinks they know what's better for him, who want to convince him that things are fine, that they'll get better with time. He's had enough of that for a whole lifetime.
Decker Delahaye knows when fate is about to snuff him out. And he knows when to play with it, one final time.
The Reapings are in a week.
Nobody will be able to stop him from fixing his life, from taking back his future into his own hands, from deciding what type of agony his body will be in.
Nobody will be able to stop him.
No one.
–
Some months before.
Holy shit.
Decker doesn't think he's seen a crowd quite this big.
The newcomers at the halfway house's basement are nothing resembling esteemed company, of course, but when the fuck has that ever been Decker's crowd? Some girls hanging around, buzzcuts and piercings and tattoos, smoking cigarettes and popping pills, men with bald heads and inked arms drinking beers and having arm-wrestling competitions. They're all part of the streets like him, born from scum and bruised from the hardships of life, sullen and looking for something to wake them up.
Decker has just the thing to remedy that.
He hops into the center of the room, striding into the makeshift fighting ring represented by a circle of tables and chairs.
The room falls silent when they spot him, turning towards him with something like reverence in their eyes. It burns in Decker's chest, a warmth, maybe even a joy to be seen with such importance, people hanging over his every word before he'd even spoken.
"Thank you all for coming tonight!" he exclaims, smiling wide and revealing a sharp pair of canines. The crowd cheers at that, raising beer and clapping in a wonderful cacophony. "I'm already spotting some familiar faces, as well as some new ones! Welcome, welcome all! Make sure to let your friends know we've got this every Friday and Saturday night!"
The crowd cheers again, the ferocity of the sound making his heart swell. "I'm glad you're all here tonight, folks," he continues, taking on a more compassionate tone. "I know life has been hard, I know it'll keep on being hard, but I also know that you're all here to lighten up that load, aren't you?" Taking the cue with enthusiasm, the crowd makes noise once more. "Perfect! Perfect. You know, if there's one thing I've learned while living here in Six, it's that life will be filled with pain." He adds emotional weight to the word, letting it drop onto the crowd, making them simmer with it. "Never-ending hardships, unable to find a meaning, or a purpose in your life, slipping through your fingers as time passes. I know you all know what I'm talking about." At that, the crowd nods, glad to have someone who will put words to their sorrows. "But today, I'm offering you an opportunity to set yourself free from that. To take back. Look pain in the eyes and take it with pride, with courage. Delect it, revel in it. Become its master once more, and take your life back in your hands!"
At that, the crowd explodes in celebration, banging fists against the table and chanting for the first fight. Laughing with the ease of a politician, Decker raises his hands. "Alright, alright, I hear you. You want to fight - very well! Raise your hand if you want to go in the ring first!"
A dozen hands fly up, maybe more - Decker's never had the time to learn how to count really good. He selects two men, both burly and well-built, no doubt from long days of carrying merchandise and loading them onto trains, and gestures them towards the ring. "It's all yours, gentlemen."
The men make their way into the ring, Decker stepping aside to let them have center-stage. Spectators turn towards the betting stand, whispering and arguing with their friends about which seems most likely to win. One of them's a newcomer, if Decker's correct, with the other being a regular with good success. He's quite curious himself about how the match will end up going. Naomi, loyally manning the betting booth, strawberry-blonde hair and her gentle smile greeting the clients, scrawls down their names and choices with efficiency.
"Everybody ready?" He shouts, and both men raise their fists in the air, the rest of the crowd banging once again in a steady rhythm all around them, smiles of rotten and chipped teeth in the amber lighting.
"On my mark: three, two, one-"
The crowd erupts once again, and Decker hears the sound of a nose breaking, cartilage snapping and crunching and -
–
Two years before.
Crack.
Decker feels his nose shatter against his face, stars flashing in his vision and the world spinning around him, blood dripping down onto his lips.
He steps back, dazed, the pain not even feeling real yet, thrumming through his veins, nothing like anything he's felt before.
"Did you just fuckin' punch me?" he asks, but a laugh bubbles up his throat. Goddamnit, it's the most that's ever happened to him in years, it's the most awake he's felt since the motherfucking womb. A sharp pain, precise and pure and all his own fault, crack!, snapping him to his senses. Nothing like the dull ache in his mind and in his heart, nothing like his life-long headache.
The girl who'd punched him, all cropped dark bangs and black ripped jeans, spits back at him. "That's what you get for fucking around with me."
The funniest part is that she's right. Maybe she started it, claiming that Jagger was a lazy freak who didn't earn his money or his place in the streets, but he'd riled her up, shoved at her until she could do nothing but throw fists. He'd brought it upon himself.
Is that why it feels so much better?
Is that why it feels like liberation instead of yet another cage, yet another prison of sensations? Because it's his pain, his only, something he'd been fuckin' asking for and received? Because it wasn't the feeling of pills being shoved down his throat, syringes digging into his arms and an eternal fog clouding his mind? It was sharp. Purposeful. His.
The girl spits at his feet again, a bit feral around the edges that one, then turns her heels and walks away, slinking into the dark corners of Six like an alleycat.
Decker stands there, watching her disappear into the smoke and the guck, still amazed, blood now tasting copper in his mouth, nose throbbing so hard it's impossible for him to feel anything but alive.
He's weak, of course he's weak. Whatever his mother has done to him in those blurred years of his childhood hasn't fully disappeared yet, leaving him malnourished and unstable on his feet, a bird who hasn't quite learned how to fly.
Maybe he should start exercising, rebuilding muscle mass, taking his body back from the hell it came from. Maybe he should start becoming a worthy opponent, someone who can take more than a punch and strike one back. Maybe he could start more fights, then, feel that pain again, so perfectly his.
Maybe that's where he found his purpose. How he reclaimed his life after years kept prisoner, paralyzed, unable to choose for himself.
Pain on his own terms. There was freedom in that, a freedom he's never known before.
And in freedom, there was a spark of something Decker knows even less -
Joy.