G. Flynn District 2 (Finished)

Whispers on the black market: ‘Do you fear the reaping? Do you have nightmares of your unborn children volunteering and going to their gruesome death? Well, for a modest fee I can help you with that.’

A heavily pregnant woman walks with caution through the dark alley, steadied by the arm of her loving husband. She struggles up the stairs, pressing a hand to her swollen belly as she feels a twinge of pain. She’s not in labour yet, but it’s only a matter of hours, she fears.

The room is a stark contrast to the dark, dingy alley; full of warm lamp light and cozy comforts. The husband helps his wife lower herself into a warm but comfortable sofa and he settles beside her. The man at the fireplace, turns slowly, smiling in welcome. He seems old, like a grandfatherly type, at least seventy, with a paunchy belly and a large nose, but the only features the couple will remember later is the eyepatch, and the warm, kind smile of a man who cares deeply.

He fusses around making sure they are comfortable before introducing himself. “We need to be careful and avoid real names, peacekeepers always about in these parts, but you can call me Mr Fagin.” He glances at the woman’s extended stomach, “Looks like we need to hurry eh?” he chuckles and some of the tension leaves the couple. “Sure you want to go through with this?” He sighs, showing them what a worry all this matter is, and that if it weren’t for his big heart he wouldn’t take such a terrible personal risk and do them such a huge favour.

“Mr Fagin,” the husband says tentatively, “my cousin’s child volunteered for the games last year-"

"And her twin too, back in the 64th!" Even interrupting the woman almost choked on each of her words, her emotions were so raw. 

The old man took note of this detail, surmising who these people must be.  He said nothing of course and the husband continued oblivious to it being pretty obvious who they were.  "I won’t say their names, best to be careful as you said. But my wife,” he hesitated and laid a hand on his wife’s leg in reassurance and she gave him a pitiful glance back, “and I, we just can’t stand the thought that our child may grow up to do the same. And then we’d have to watch them die.” His wife choked back a sob as she recalled watching their distant relatives die so brutally.

Fagin nodded sadly, “Aye, ‘tis a terrible thing. To think fate spared them, but they gave themselves up anyway. And hard to avoid in this District. Only one way I know of, and it is very risky to myself. I can’t do it for just anyone. You know what they’d do to me if I was caught hiding children from the law?” He draws a dirty nail under his chin slowly, miming the consequences of such a crime.

The wife dabbed at her tear streaked face. “But how do you make the children safe, Mr Fagin?”

The old man sighed again and focused on the fire, the light reflecting from his one hazel eye. “I make sure they never get registered, so the authorities never know they exist. It ain’t cheap though. I have to hide them and care for them in secret, and of course I provide schooling and a happy home, with all the creature comforts. They want for nothing.” He smiled sadly at the couple, “And I will tell them often how much their parents loved them, how they sacrificed so much to keep them safe. If that’s what you want.”

The couple exchanged glances, before the husband spoke for them, “We think it might be best if they never know about us. Is that alright with you, Mr Fagin?”

The old man nodded graciously, “As you wish. Some I have adopted by loving families in the Capitol, people who can’t have their own children, and there they live in luxury.” He winced in apology before continuing, “That does cost extra I’m afraid, because of all the bureaucratic red tape getting them into the Capitol safely, you see.”

They exchange another glance, knowing that the price they were paying already would probably cripple them financially, but the thought of their children living in the Capitol was just too tempting. It was the life they’d always longed for for themselves. They pay Fagin a fortune, some in cash, the rest in family heirlooms and treasures that he will have to fence.

A few hours later the woman delivers in Fagin’s basement, and reluctantly allows him to take the baby from her arms after the most cursory of embraces. “It’s easier if I take her now. The bond fades faster, and will spare you much grief.” To the husband he says quietly, “Tell your friends and anyone who asks that you lost the pregnancy. Speak of this to anyone and I cannot assure you the safety of your child or any of the others I have risked everything for.”

As soon as the couple leaves he carefully latches the door behind them and dumps the baby into a cot. He tugs off the fake nose, revealing his own much smaller one beneath. He removes his outer layers of clothing so that he can strip off the padding that was strapped to his torso. Underneath all that he is a fit man in his late thirties. He runs a hand through his hair, dislodging some of the flour that gave him the dusting of white and grey streaks of old age, and his natural red brown hair can be seen under the last of the flour. He slips the eyepatch to the opposite eye, hazel like the other, to give it a rest; it gets hot and itchy under that thing for hours.

The baby has started to cry so he shoves a pacifier in its mewling mouth, scoops it up and hurries out of the building by a hidden entrance. He leaves the signal message and later meets with his contact at the back of the hospital. The old nurse gives him a quizzical look, clearly curious about where he gets all these babies, wondering if they are all his. But that is what Flynn pays the nurse for; discretion. So she says nothing. The nurse takes the baby into the hospital and does all the paperwork and identification required by the authorities. She returns less than an hour later and gives Flynn the baby, now fed, dressed and sleeping, along with a new name and legal identity.

Flynn doesn’t bother to thank her, just pays her well and fairly as per their agreement and takes the child back awkwardly.  Despite all the years of this arrangement he still isn’t comfortable carrying small infants. Or maybe it’s the human contact he doesn’t like. Regardless, he hurries to drop the baby off at his ‘baby farm’ and be done with the child for a few years.

The old run down building smells bad; like faeces, urine and mouldy bread, but he grew up in far worse conditions on the streets and in slums and he's pretty used to it. The building is meant to be abandoned due to safety violations, but if a few of the children die from the unsanitary conditions, he figures that is just weeding out the weak.

Inside, ropes are strung all about the rooms with washing drying. Flynn slips his eyepatch off and tucks it in his pocket. The children seem to swarm about him, all wanting his attention. He sneers at them and makes a scary grunting sound that causes them to back off in fear. He dumps the baby into the arms of the old woman he employs as nanny. She looks more than a little exhausted and overwhelmed by the idea of yet another child to care for.

“Any of them showing any promise?” Flynn asks, but he doesn’t sound like he expects to hear a response in the positive.

“Oliver’s twelve next week,” she says, unbuttoning her shirt and shoving her old, distended nipple into the baby’s mouth. Flynn grimaces, the woman must have been breastfeeding for over a decade, but he doesn’t see why he should have to watch. “You takin’ him?” She sounds hopeful. One less child to care for.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “Which one is he?” He scans the pale, dirty faces in the gloom.

She points to a small boy, ragged clothes hanging off him, just like the rest of them.

Flynn gives her a skeptical glance. “You sure he’s twelve? I’ll be checking the paperwork you know. Can’t claim tesserae if he’s too young.”

She pokes her tongue through the gaps in her teeth thoughtfully. “Pretty sure. Yeah.”

With a warning glance, telling her wordlessly what he’ll do if she is wasting his time, he takes the boy by the elbow and drags him downstairs. He cries a little as he loses his friends and the only adult he’s ever really known, but Flynn gives him a stern shake. “None of that or you’ll be out on the street. Hear me?” The boy nods meekly. “I’m the only person in the whole world who ever cared about you. Your parents didn’t even want to set eyes on you, wished you’d never been born.” The child starts to cry once more, and Flynn indulges him for a few moments, letting the force of his words sink in. “Stop snivelling now and you can have a sweet when we get to the training yard.” The boy scrubs at his eyes and snotty nose, pulling his emotions under check at the promise of such an incredible reward.

On the street Flynn holds his hand in a more caring gesture, in case anybody notices them. “I’m your Uncle Flynn, Oliver. And from now on you’ll be living with me and my other nephews and nieces. I’ll be training you to work for me, won’t that be nice?” When the boy doesn’t say anything and just looks scared, Flynn gives his hand a painful squeeze. “You say, yes Uncle Flynn.”

With a gulp the boy nods nervously and repeats the words, “Yes Uncle Flynn.”