The Scarecrow // PK // [FIN]

Smile. That's what they ask of me, as if it were the easiest, most natural thing in the world. So I try to pull the corners of my lips up, try to flash my pearly whites for the camera, the way I remember from when I was just a little boy - but that boy is dead and that smile only falters into a smirk. But that's good enough isn't it? I don't need to smile. Besides, it's me job to break smiles. Shatter souls, break smiles, smash bones, tear veins open, force tears from the eyes of children, put bruises on criminals' faces - yeah, "Peacekeeper." That's what I'm called. I wear a uniform, pressed and pristine, a badge upon my chest that bears the Capitol seal, shouting to the civilians the power I hold over them. And oh do I hold power over them. I suppose that's why all of the mothers around the district shield their children when I walk by. That's why I like to talk to them, just so that I walk further into their minds, deeper into their nightmares. "Aren't you just adorable." I would start, lifting some poor girl's chin so that she looks me in the eyes. "Really a shame the Capitol says your name will be drawn next. You're going to get slaughtered." And then that smirk would appear on my face and I would watch the fear flash across the innocent face and walk away. I strike fear into the hearts of the people here and let me tell you something - it is so much fun.

And it only makes it that much easier looking the way I do. I mean, that is how the bedtime stories go after all. He walks the streets like a shadow, stalking the children with a viscous sneer. That's how it starts I think. That's what I have heard as I listened through the open windows at night, watching parents tuck their children into bed. (Why do you watch? What are you looking for?) Ink twists and coils around his body, a dark mess of skeletons and death. The make his inner core known to the naked eye. You only have to look upon him and you see the evil from within on the outside. And the sneer only grows wider at this part of the story, as I trace the words drilled into my skin by a needle. They started as just a rebellious act and turned into so much more. One bit of ink followed the other until they coiled around each other. They begin to twist together and overlap until I was one giant piece of inked art. Beautifully designed and created to become a hunter. A killer. A monster. The Scarecrow.

His eyes are black holes that glow red when his rage boils over. His hair is not long and golden like the scarecrows in the fields of District 11, but cropped and dark in an attempt to conceal his true form. Creative. Especially considering I know that these older people knew me as a child when I did have long blonde hair. I dyed it many years ago, seeing as dark really is my color. He wears a Peacekeeper's uniform but if you look closely enough, you can see that beneath the jacket there are blood stains. The blood of children that used to walk around Panem, but now only belong to the graveyard. Nice touch, but horribly untrue. I don't kill children. In fact, I don't kill anyone. It may actually be one of those crazy flaws within me. I refuse to kill anyone, no matter who demands it. But don't worry, by the time I am done with my victims, they will wish they were dead.

You see, that's my real job. Interrogation. I guess that's why I was recruited by the Blind Man himself. Truth is, I had met him when I was much younger and trying to run away from the world in general. Back when my parents threw me and in the streets and told me to never come back. My hatred was festering just then and not yet completely developed. (Hatred at what? Tell us? The world?) He sells morphling, his own special brand, when his superiors have their backs turned. Honestly, it's much more fun than my day job with all those children. Turning people into mindless, drug addicts? Only a fool couldn't see how much product can be sold with such an addictive and possessing drug. And me? If you think I am stupid enough to try the stuff you are dead wrong. In all honesty, I rarely even help to sell the drugs. My cut of the profit comes from being able to find people. Like a debt collector who uses his "persuasive powers" to get you to pay up. The Blind Man likes his money on time, likes to be in control, and I am his right hand man. That means I make sure your blood spatters on my shoes and not his. The point is, you should enjoy seeing my boss considering I am the alternative. And I love to make people suffer. Slowly ... Painfully ... Laughing as tears and blood mix on the floor beneath you. Let's just say that when their is someone that needs to be broken, the rest of the Peacekeeping crew calls on me. I've worked in the Detention Center in 2, traveled to the Capitol, helped out in Reapings, and certainly have led my fair share of public whippings. It's a gift of mine; how brilliantly I can make you suffer, how loud I can make you scream, how much I can make you talk.

That's what got me started I guess. I had been in the streets for some time by then. I was beginning to have to scrape through trash cans for my food. Korse found me kicking some kid to death. He had stolen my piece of bread if I remember correctly. Idiot that he could cross me and get away without a broken face. Comical. I didn't stop until my leg hurt so bad that I couldn't manage to move it. I was probably 18 or so. I had been wandering around the District streets for almost 3 years by then and I had heard of this man. He was a Peacekeeper though, so naturally I had tried to run only to find myself in a dead end street. He made an offer; I listened. Simple as that. He needed some strong and ruthless like me. Someone hardened by years of hatred. And I just happened to fit that bill. That's when I enlisted in Peacekeeper's training. Korse explained to me that would help me to hold that status, that it would make me nearly invincible. No citizen dares to cross a Peacekeeper, not when any one of us could have you shipped off to the Detention Center before you could count to 3. And besides, I seemed to excel in training. I got my badge and my ID real name? The Scarecrow, nothing else. and I was officially in business.

Blow a kiss at the methane skies
See the walls through your playground eyes
We're all in love tonight
Leave a dream where the fallout lies
Watch it grow where the tearstain dries

But only until just recently have I had any real excitement. There was a point in time when it looked as if this whole morphing business would take off and the entire District would turn into nothing but a bunch of crazed addicts and no one would object. That was until the Killjoys rose to a more powerful status again. For a few years they seemed to have almost disappeared, and then all of a sudden they were an immediate problem. "A band of Rebels that must be crushed at all costs. Wanted dead or alive. Top priority. Reward if you have any information on them." All sorts of posters and fliers have been put up around the District in an attempt to squash out the rebel force. The Capitol sees them as a threat and every dealer and buyer and Peacekeeper that is involved in BL/ind certainly sees them as a threat. The Killjoy downfall is essential, and oh I cannot wait until I get my hands on one of them. It's almost become my main assignment now: Capture the Killjoys. And with my skill, if I catch one, I got them all.

His heart is non-existent. His only purpose is to find the children who misbehave and to make them disappear. His heart is non-existent. That's what the bedtime stories say. That is what I believe. I think I was born without one. Just like the scarecrows in the fields with their hollow bodies filled with nothing but straw, I am nothing but hollow. My soul left me the instant it couldn't find a single thing within me to hold onto. Emptiness. It makes me stronger. It gave me the power to look my parents in the faces and tell them each that I hated them right before they threw me into the street. (Tell us why? Why did they banish you from home? Enlighten us.) They couldn't stand the sight of me - never could if you ask me. I was always the troubled one. Trouble at school, trouble at home ... If you ask them, I deserved everything I got. Beatings, no supper, locked in the closet at night ... I hated them and they clearly hated me. And there really is nothing more to the story. Even when the sweet innocent children ask, "Why is he like that mommy? What made him so evil daddy?" It takes so much restraint not to jump through the window at that point and point a knife in their face with a smirk.

No one knows why he is the way he is. He has just always been The Scarecrow.

And it's the truth. And I have known it all along. Everyone around me has known what I would grow into, the monster I would become. Did they stop me? Did they give me a hug and tell me not to? That they cared about me? No. So why should I care about anyone else? We all know my logic is straight on. Beat a dog long enough and eventually it will quit whimpering and cowering and bite you - tear you to shreds. It will fight back. And it will hate you more and more with each day that passes until the loathing is what defines you. That is what everyone describes you as. I am nothing but hateful. And it's because the world kicked me one too many times.

And now it's surprised that I am biting it back.