So, Yeah, We're Going Down {Marcelline

Add to the memory you keep, remember when you fall asleep
hold to the love that you know

Cygnus paced along the front of the community home, somewhere between the carefully tended rose bushes and the beaten path. The flowers were in full bloom, quite content with the unyielding, dripping heat. No matter how many summers he passed, Cygnus would never get used to the damp hot, the kind that soaked through shirts instantly, that made his pants' seam hug his thighs. It was disgusting and distracting, two things he hated most in life. And there was nothing to be done about it. Not salted ice in packs, not a dunk in the algae'd pond. One just had to endure.

But Cygnus wasn't that sort. He designed fans, rigged them together, turned them outward and in until he had designed his own little cool oasis in the room he shared with his brother. It was a good five degrees less than the house in the day and fifteen at night. That was saying something when the humidity pressed on everything. He mostly just enjoyed it when he slept, though, as Mace found other projects once he realized what Cygnus was up to. If it wasn't for the good as the home as a whole, Mace disapproved, and that usually meant some deep bruises, if not a cracked bone or two. This particular invention had earned him darkened eyes and a shoulder that ached like hell. It would go away, he told himself, without any conviction. What little he could learn about healing in district ten told him that shoulder injuries were rarely the sort to brush off. And yet, what choice did he have?

That he could have forgiven - had, already. Because what was one more bruise, cut, break? But when Mace came home one day moodier than usual, Cygnus took to him. It wasn't long before he teased out the answer. He had approached the mayor's daughter, talked to her, and insulted her. Deeply. Cygnus had felt heat, all the humidity and fire of the day, in his eyes and his cheeks. He had shouted and sworn but none of it seemed to leave a dent on Mace. And when Cygnus finished, his brother just shrugged and went back to his bloody gorram cows.

But Cygnus could not be so easily distracted. He had known about Marcelline, watched her from afar. Cygnus did not have as many opportunities as Mace to go to the market, but sometimes a cow just had to be walked there, and then usually he was on hand, being the home's usual butcher. He had seen her, had inquired, had known without being told that she was special. Important. And he had already drawn up plans, in detail, for how he would court her.

And now his stupid, brainless, oaf of a brother had ruined that. Cygnus sawed through bovine trachea after trachea (well, three, to be exact) that evening without a second thought. He always killed cleanly, giving them an easy out. Certainly an easier life than wandering around in the heat, being kicked and prodded and whipped by his stupid brother. The livestock came and went, passing from this world to the next, and providing meat on the way. His siblings would prepare and salt it; in the morning, Mace would take it to the market.

But Cygnus couldn't chance that. Not after something so disastrous. So, for the first time, he threatened, and wielded more than his intelligence to coerce his siblings into salting early. And then he packed up two sacks of meat and headed for town, even though the butcher was likely closed, even though he had no real reason to visit the Mayor's house. The northern community home had some of the best cattle in the district, but it was still a risk. By the time twilight descended on ten, Cygnus had made it to the white picket fence part of the city, traipsed his way down to the mayor's mansion, and knocked.

He had even thrown on tie and jacket, leftovers from another boy who passed through the home. And though the sack reeked of his prize, Cygnus looked quite presentable.