for the record / klaus + kasey

Klaus Goravich

He'd told Daisy of his plans that morning, over a cup of tea on the veranda. They had been watching the children play - Daisy's three boys, chasing each other across the lawn, and Florian, who watched and giggled and squawked from the grass when they came near him, desperate to be big enough to play, too.

He heard her response in the silence. She didn't say it, but he felt the force of it, the accusation there: is this not enough? Can you never stop? You are relentless. 

It was true; since seventeen, he had been a boy with a debt to pay, endlessly owing the world, working tirelessly with no chance of ever redeeming it. Even now, on the eve of his fifty-fourth birthday, he could not help himself but trade more of himself as penance.

Daisy, he knew, thought it was time to slow down, that enough was enough. Klaus knew that what she wanted for him was to find somebody to grow old with, rather than throwing every ounce of his time and effort into the next project; restoring the house, starting the orphanage, taking on the baby, and now, this, the next in his never-ending pursuit of a clear conscience.

She did not understand, of course. He was glad of it. But he was not so old yet, not worn and tired enough to look himself in the eye in the mirror and know that he had done everything he could to make it worth it. Why me? he had asked himself, and then spent every second since trying to carve a reason why out of nothing at all, a retroactive attempt to give meaning to something inherently meaningless, a burden that would never grow lighter. 

Finally, his daughter smiled at him, squinting in the morning sunlight. She was beautiful, he thought - her face so similar to Marina's. He had never had the privilege of seeing his sister as old as Daisy was now. It was a peculiar thought, the way she remained trapped in the borderlands between childhood and adulthood, a perpetual adolescent. He told himself that she would have loved it here, but in truth he could not possibly know. He could not be equated with the version of himself she had said goodbye too, and so how could he assume what a fifty-three year old Marina would like or dislike?

"That's great, Dad. It sounds like a really interesting project."

His last project had focussed around the building of the orphanage; had seen him in front of the camera for the first time. It had been too close to home, really - required him to provide pieces of himself he preferred to keep, and yet it had been his most successful film yet. The people had loved it; any glimpse inside the lives of a Victor was golden, a sure sell.

The baby began to cry, and Klaus set his tea down, half-empty, to collect him from where he sat on the grass. He was generally a happy child, at ease in the busy, loud environment of Goravich House. He fit right in with the teenagers, somehow. As soon as he was lifted up he smiled again, a toothless grin. 

"The first person I'm intending to interview is coming today." 

"Coming by the house?" Daisy asked. 

"For lunch." 

"Who are they?" 

"Her name is Kasey Karataeva." 

Daisy frowned. "Why is that name familiar?" 

"She's old Victor blood. A descendant of Kasia Karataeva, who won the 10th."

A look of realisation came over Daisy's face. "The sewers!" she said triumphantly, pulling the memory from her grade-school education. District Three had a barren history of victory; there was no chance a child could grow up without hearing the Karataeva name. 

Kasia felt like a fitting starting point for his exploration. The question was simple, one that had occupied him for decades now: what makes a Victor? It was a question he asked himself every year, on the train journey to the Capitol with his new blood offerings, and his train journey home: emptyhanded, again. It was a question he asked himself every time he looked into the eyes of a newly-crowned winner, apologising silently for both what had happened and what was to come. It was a question he had asked himself from the day his name was called out, and every day since. It was, in truth, a selfish exploration of his original question, Why me? and it was bigger than that, too, part of the refrain of Why do they never come home? 

These were questions to which clues had been laid out for ninety-seven years now. (Well, eighty-seven with accessible footage.) In this documentary, he intended to unravel it, take it all the way back to the beginning. Surely, somewhere in there he would discover something worth knowing. 

Kasey was due at noon. She had responded to his letters warily, at first. It had taken a little convincing to get her to agree. Felix had helped him to make the sandwiches, always eager to please. 

The camera was set up in the conservatory. He wasn't sure if he would get footage today - it was possible it would be an entirely off-camera conversation - but he wanted to be ready, just in case.

Somewhere upstairs, Klaus heard the giggles of some of the girls - Elspeth? Ada? - as they crowded a third-floor window, looking down on the guest from below. It was not that visitors were rare, just that a new face was always a point of interest. He opened the door armed with a warm smile and Florian perched on his hip. 

"Welcome to Goravich House. Please, come inside!" 

She looked startlingly like the fastest runner, her image projected to the nation in the very first televised Games. The footage had been black-and-white, grainy, and yet, standing in front of him was the flesh and blood mirror of the old Victor, captured in all of her festering, slime-streaked glory. Here she was, reborn in three dimensions, the grey of her hair painted - rightfully - shining red. Certainly, her blood pulsed strong in Kasey's veins. 

He offered her his hand. "Thank you so much for coming! I'm Klaus," he said, "and this-" he tilted his head toward the baby, "is Florian." 

Adoring the sound of his own name, the child clapped his hands with glee.