azon césaire // d3m // fin

Endless problems only come with infinite solutions.

The pieces of a puzzle meant to be subjugated to find the perfect placement. Every circuitry soldered together by a steady hand until the current functions. Gates leading into results until finally everything makes perfect sense. Every burnt thumb becoming an obstacle in the circuit board of the universe around them; a piece of the convoluted wheel of the world. At the center, there's people, animals, and plants, but around them is the construed beliefs of how society functions. Politics, economics, technology, history, and so many more. Piece by piece, society makes less sense over time. Justifications of beliefs becoming blurry beneath the soldered metal of wires and chips. Azon's never known peace. Irrational blurred lines of humanity never quite fit right into their mind. Ideas ever burning, but the words never connecting like the circuitry he's seen others have.

A war is no place for a child; death and decay lingering in the eyes of the innocent. Children scarred by the desires to find a better place, a better world, and an orderly one. Azon's own eyes had experienced the hellfire of the sky; watched circuits break, smelt the heaviness of electric charges, and seen the endless piles of rubble where buildings used to be. Days spent underground as a babe unsure of when their father would return home. Their hands covered in grease or oil from the appliance he's sworn he'll put back together for his mother once he's done. The insides marked into their head like a fully imagined blueprint as bolts and wires and plating is removed and put together. Pieces having gone on the fritz; always three steps ahead of the appliances in their home away from home. Days spent afraid of the bombshells above; sprinkling the sky in fire and ash.

Not many survived; bodies torn to shreds, burnt in massive graves that still are being filled seven years since. And those who did, were left with scars deep enough to show the wires and circuits that've been torn from their connections. Even he, the great Azon Césaire of district three, had been left with scars from the war. Nightmares, haunted glows of red amber, and the one time he had been frightened on one of their hunts for a new pair of microchips for the air quality monitors and forgetting to stay grounded around electrical wires. (Luckily, the wires weren't too high of a voltage for him, but man did he hate the way he felt afterwards. Mom also gave him the biggest grounding he'd ever received for it. Though, it was worth the energy.)

Every single day, there's still remnants of what once was Three, the bustling tech giant of Panem. Lost power grids, leftover metal panels lost in the seas of debris and ruin. During the war, Azon hadn't known why people were fighting. His own father didn't want to. Even told Azon so before the man had walked out of his life, probably left in a ditch somewhere. The only plausible conclusion being his father's death by the hands of rebels or even the capitol themselves. No matter what Azon had always missed his father, but things had gone better for them with him gone. No more angry fights between his parents, no more fear of being called rebel synthesizers, and safety in a way that was undeniable. Sure, some of the kids used to call them capitol scum and on the wrong side of history, but he didn't really understand their anguish. War had two sides of opposing forces where opponents clash. At the end of the fight, no one wins. People still die. The only logical reason war existed, at least in their mind, was to claim resources and create blurry lined beliefs that effect a populace. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The best thing about the eternal morale dilemma of war was the scraps it left behind for them. A graveyard of scrap and technologies left to the winds. Anyone could scoop up the remnants of what had been left for them. All of his life, he's spent days scouring through the pieces of a dead society, over and over, looking for new materials. Old laptops, chunky fridges, lost circuit boards that surely belonged to televisions ruined by destruction. All of it was free for the taking and he always made sure to grab enough for themselves. A mother always smiling when he'd come through with the massive backpack he'd been allowed to keep when they first found shelter in the bunker nearby. Repairing old appliances that didn't quite make sense to many of the other families down there with them. All of them always appreciative of his own intelligence, putting pieces together over and over.

People only cared about their capabilities though.

Never about them.

Oh, Azon is so talented!

Empty words.

He'd make a great scientist for the capitol.

Blank eyes.

He'll go so far in school, María.

School had only came after the war. The place he'd found to be excelling in. Students staring at them when he'd come in with a dozen or so scraps from the junkyard across town. Peacekeepers having always warned them of the dangers, but never stopping their quest for more supplies. Teachers staring at them with curiosity until he'd always outwit their questions with responses above their paygrade. An ease to be left alone with his computer and circuitry.

It's where he currently is. Alone in a room meant for the old robotics club before the war had torn the school into a mess of students and faculty where not every room is used anymore. The laptop in front of them is open; code set in the same format he's used since he was twelve. Their eyes scanning line by line only to see a backslash off. A sigh from their lips as Azon lifts themselves forward a bit more to see more clearly. "C'mon you piece of shit." Fingers fluttering away as the project responds quickly to his own speed and frustration. A silence filling the room as the light over the window's ledge begins to dip slower and slower. Night time coming with a raging white moon. Mom would be fine with them staying out late. Dinner was leftovers from the neighbors anyways.

The files and files of code meant to test his own internal connection the receiver back home had failed twice already. A third time would mean losing all the focus he's had since the start of this project. If that were to happen, who knows when he will finish the damn receiver. An echoing of their own voice continues from lungs containing the frustrations of signals no connecting correctly. "You're not supposed to crash on me. I thought we fixed that in the last experiment." The code crashes with a flash of light that flickers, setting them back scrambling through the lines of code over and over again.

Normally, Azon would have solved the issue by now, but his brain had already been short circuiting, as their mother would say, all day from trying to keep up on the school life. No one really saying what they mean with their words. Azon couldn't really keep up with the way kids talked about one another. Who cares if Tesla found a new boyfriend of the week? They'd break up anyways. No, he didn't want to hear the boys blabber about the new sport of the week or their fathers' war stories. All of it was already too real and Azon didn't need anyone to tell them how weird they already were. Everyone already knew their father didn't come home, so it didn't matter anyways.

The computer was a better companion than anyone else. Diving deep into codes lead to a new fascination; one that'd lead to some greatness in seeing the world through a different light. Who didn't love the way that trial and error lead to creative solution. Every problem had an answer and if they didn't, he could find one. Code was easier than the faulty system of human connections, but despite that he still found themselves wrapped up in the school's gossip. Three had grown from the war, but there's still scars in the way the world still carries the fried motherboards of the pain. The Hunger Games having been a cause of the disloyalty that Panem people created. An illogical system to punish the disloyal, but he had to commend the Capitol for one thing. The games truly were a feat in itself. A place where even the kids were starting to whisper about the death games. A name being called meant certain death in three. Except, it would always be illogical. Statistically, there wasn't any discrepancies in the odds. All twenty four had the same odds as one another. The odds deter when the games begin, but that's another calculation for someone else. Azon didn't care about all of it. Their name wasn't going to be called ever, so it wouldn't matter.

For a second, their code fires with lines of text that scramble down the black background until a silence fills them. He stares at the lines of code for a moment before the realization hits. Stress peels across their face before he stands up, desperately trying to stop his execution. "Shit! Shit! Shit! You aren't supposed to receive anything back!" The illogical balance of their own determination to fix the code and send a signal out had been flipped somehow. Instead, the frequency he's found himself on is the restricted one. The one he's seen countless times at the school. Capitolite servers were easy to spot when one finally figures out what they look like. And right now, their own computer was currently accessing private and restricted databases of tech distributions.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

Once the mistake is caught, he tries to terminate the whole code, but instead the screen fills with statistical analysis of whereabouts tech production is going. Scientists' names filling the screen and even the companies buying from Three. Their eyes goes wide as he stares at the place until the screen gives an error. The panic setting in as he completely sees the Capitol logo and the whole operations of his computer beginning to shut down. "Oh shit! They've found my signal. Shit! Shit! Shit!" Once their fingers glide across the keyboard, finally realizing the best way to stop this is to just completely shut down the system itself, he gives an annoyed sigh before shutting down the system, the Capitol logo vanish in that instance before he can catch his breath.

Azon's eyes wide at the moonlight reaching into the room. The eerie silence of a moonlit night where their own heart beats in through their throat. The panic having set in as he leans against a desk. Their mother was going to kill them. Oh god, he was going to be grounded for a month again. Pacing quietly, he sets himself straight before heading out of the school, the glittering sky reminding him of the logical conclusion people would make. Azon wasn't a rebel. Most likely, they would charge them a fine and call it good. Absolutely no other consequence could happen right?

Except...

The world isn't a place where problems are solved; it's where they're created.