Tell Me A Riddle, Mama [open, reaction]

Tallow could hear them marching. She heard it in the beating of her heart, the threading of the blood in her veins, over the roar in her ears and the roar of the crowd. In one moment she stopped flinging her stones and looked around at the bleeding world as the last of her adrenaline slipped away, parted like a curtain to reveal the scene. She’d broken the glass. She’d made the earth smell strange and slick with blood. The day of her first reapings, Scutcher had given her a daisy to pin to her shirt and she’d stood helpless with the rest of the sobbing, quaking first timers- helpless at the foot of the capitol. She’d hated them then too, in her own childish way, railing against something abstract that frightened her. A monster in the shadows that was waiting to grab her in clawed hands and drag her away from home. Their heavy hearted obedience was born of fear, and the capitol confused it with respect. But fear was more likely to harden, to crystallize and turn to hate. At least in D10 it seemed.

Perhaps Noreen was the catalyst because of her hand outreached towards the next generation, reminding them all that the line of games was endless, it’s sting pervasive and at the core of everything. Before Noreen there had been Moore Briggs, Liliana Mason and Damaris Benson who’s golden hair had been so beautiful spilled on the earth, Larae Vacanti and quiet Colan Raftor who had died believing it was all his fault and had reminded the twelve year old Tallow of her brother a little, Olivia Bell, Weldon Morris and all the other boys and girls who Tallow couldn’t remember but somebody would; remember and miss like a constant stomach pain. The blood in the district square was theirs too. Perhaps the catalyst was Elon stabbing Noreen and D10 was eager to show that they could stand together just for once, side by side. Perhaps there was already just too much sh-t in the air and there had to be a breaking point, so why not make it today? The right place, the right time, the right amount of blood in buckets.

She watched Elias Poers, best breeder in the district light a match inside of a bottle, send it careening through the air, pitching whatever he was feeling out into the ether and making it matter, for the moments that the fires were alight. Shards of glass shattering into such fine pieces you could breathe them in like shimmering particles of dust, blood, fire and the lingering scent of alcohol from the broken bottles. Tallow couldn’t smell the sh-t anymore.

“For us, for us, because we won’t forget her! We won’t forget what happened! For the mothers, the brothers, the sons! Reap what you sow, Capitol!”

For the daughters, she had to add silently in her head. “For us!!”

Their numbers were not many, Tallow had to admit that but her enthusiasm reached into the thousands. In the crowd, I slipped into We and Us remarkably quickly. I am angry, I am shattering and burning. We aren’t going to take it anymore, we are going to make them hurt. Tallow could almost feel herself slipping into them, without name, without a face. Every girl, every boy. In between the anger, there was something almost like pride. Not the kind of pride that comes from watching a district victor in the games, a singular figure saying ‘I can win at your game, follow your system and survive’ , but for this group of people refusing to play at all, willing to tear up the rule book and choose not to just survive. To their detriment, at their peril. She didn’t know everyone’s names, she didn’t know everyone’s story but for the first time Tallow wanted to. It had stopped being Tallow and Scutcher Tansy against the world and everyone else could just go suck it for a few brief moments; it was D10 against the world. The sense of belonging was intoxicating, pushing people like Elias Poers best breeder in the district to do things together that they would have never done alone.

It wouldn’t last.

The peacekeepers were coming with their guns and their sterile white uniforms and the crowd would soon begin to thin further still. Or at least people would try to thin the crowd, whether the peacekeepers would let them was another matter entirely.

Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.*

Lark hated it here in District 10. HATED IT. She thought that she would find her cousin, she thought that she might have a life. Instead she has nothing, no money, no friends, no reason for being. She saw the girl be reaped a few weeks ago, she had no clue that this was even anything that that was more than just rumors in the crowd, but that day, watching that pregnant girl be ripped away from her family...she wanted to step forward. Call out...but there was the fact she wasn't ACTUALLY from District 10.

If she would've stepped forward she would've been killed on spot and the girl would've still had to go. So instead she held back, watched with silent tears as someones family was ripped apart. She had to get out of there, she had to just leave, back to the wild, back to the forest...back to the Gypsy ways.

The night was thick with the guilt that hung in the air from all the women who didn't step forward, from all the pain from everyone in the District. It would be a good night to run. Everyone would be licking their wounds in the their homes there would be no need for the Peace Keepers to be running the streets. She could just get the hell out of there.

Hoisting her small duffel bag on her shoulder, she ducked out from the shed she had been sleeping in for the past few days and in the cover of darkness headed down through the town square and hopefully off the the fence where she could slip off into the wilds never to be seen again.

The closer she got to the center of town the more she saw that she wasn't alone. Pulling her hat down over her face she figured she she would slip through the crowd unnoticed, just another face in the crowd. Her foot steps padded by the dirt on the ground but a stick feeling was starting to seep through the worn leather moccasins on her feet. A smell was overwhelming, the smell of blood. Just a few moments more and she was surrounded by the screaming and yelling and flinging of rocks. People shouldn't act like this, like savages.

Even the Gypsies knew better, there were some people you didn't want to be in your business, and the Peace Keepers were number one. Now though, it was inevitable. People were tossing buckets of blood everywhere, writing messages to the dead girl on things, breaking windows. Calling out to each other. It was chaos, but in that moment Lark knew it as a unity, a love, that brought these people together. Something she would never know.

Leaning back against the unbroken window of the bar she had first come into when she snuck into District Ten she started watching, just observing the love and compassion of these people. Next to her she saw the words "Noreen Lives In Us" dripping in blood down the window. Her name was Noreen. What a boring name, what a sad story. Her eyes searched the crowd and there was not a familiar face in it. She had no reason to be there, but yet she couldn't leave. She wanted to feel part of something for the first time.

Picking up a rock and turning in it her hands she debated on throwing it. Tossing it to release all the tension inside of her. Letting her relax for once. When suddenly the sirens sounded. In front of her a man stood calling a rallying cry “For us, for us, because we won’t forget her! We won’t forget what happened! For the mothers, the brothers, the sons! Reap what you sow, Capitol!” a girl next to him raised her fist and agreement and without thinking Lark raised hers, joining in on the crowd. A smile crossed her face til she saw the bottle fly next to her.

The fire took a moment to catch, her eyes transfixed on the flickering flames, but suddenly there was a deafening roar and then nothing but pain. It was as if someone had tossed her whole body into a briar patch and she couldn't get out. Ripping, tearing, slicing her body she felt shards of something sticking into her and the licking flames start to catch on her clothes. She wanted to move. Wanted to put them out, but each fraction of an inch she moved forced her to scream out in pain. "HELP ME! HELP!" her lungs ached for air but a slowly drowning sensation was taking over.

A man with his children looked down at her but just kept running unsure of what to do with her cries. The flames now took over and the pain was gone her lips stopped moving and she lay still. Watching the rest of the group scatter as the boots of the Peace Keepers sounded closer and closer. Her blood mingled with that of the pigs and within a few moments the spark inside of Lark was gone.

The Games had claimed another, one not even in their arena.

That flow, that spark, that crown, you looking at the king of the jungle now
Stronger than ever can’t hold me down

The aircraft zipped along the fields and orchards that marked the boundary between Twelve and Ten. Dick Tucker had been testing and training some of the newer Peacekeepers in the last district; it was a job decided beneath his station. And yet. He'd grumbled about it, ticked off the marks on the sheet provided to him by the Capitol, lived in one of the plush compartments of the aircraft he'd arrived on. People might say that it wasn't such a far cry from his life in the glorious Capitol, but people, well, they were often wrong.

So when the call came from the Capitol for him to get his derriere to Ten, Dick didn't hesitate. In fact, he actually barked through a number of routine orders, much to the surprise of the lower ranking officers assigned to him. Dick Tucker actually giving orders? More like to see a tribute marching valiantly to his death (and wouldn't that be a sight?). But these things, these rare events, they happen. On occasion. Given enough provocation. Dick was thinking about that on the lightning fast flight over. What if the deaths in the arena were given more weight? What if all of District Ten burned? What if Coriolanus had listened to him and not sent a pregnant girl to her death?

The aircraft tilted, slowed as it descended near the train station of District Ten. Dick stood at one of the windows, his hands behind his back, wrists chaffing at the newly pressed whites. The uniform was a distraction, from the starched collar to the stiff black boots. He rarely ever wore it, and never in this sort of condition. But the missive had been very clear - the best, anything else was a disappointment - and Dick did hate to disappoint the President. He lifted his chin from the restraint of the collar, took in the smoke, ash and blood wafting up to greet them. He saw a lot of paperwork, because he'd been a Peacekeeper for a long time. But he also saw the chain of events that had led to this moment.

He pitied the citizens almost as much as he pitied the President. Dick rolled his wrists, crackled the knuckles of his fingers as the aircraft settled into the dust without incident. The smoke did a good job of hiding them, and even if it hadn't, the worse they could expect was a greeting from the district denizens, armed with cattle prods and rakes. His gun felt heavy at his hip, weighed down the right side of his body. He had discharged it before, but Dick had no desire to do so again and he felt that way every time he fired another round.

The ash hit him first, filled his nose, mouth, lungs. He coughed to the side twice, forced himself to realize that he would not die from the smoke. Not yet. Another subordinate shoved a helmet in his direction. Dick rolled his eyes. He had the privilege of wearing a black beret, fitted with one unique pin indicating his rank. Not that anyone knew what that was, just that when Peacekeeper Tucker was sent on a mission, he was in charge. Usually that meant a few extra beers, an efficient cleanup, and a good night's sleep. Not today.

"I want the fire containment to be the priority. Find the pumps, use whatever fountains and ponds we have at our disposal. The ship's well, too."

The sweaty recruit in front of Dick swallowed, his adam's apple wobbling as he took the orders and ran. Dick felt like giving him a pat on the back for good measure, but the lad was already on his way. He lifted his wrist communicator, dispersing the orders. "Any medics are to report to the train station. Wounded are to be brought there, treated, and detained. I want my squadron to work on the perimeter." He couldn't be sure that the Peacekeepers this far out had equal access to the communication he used from the Capitol. But that's what the boy had been for; to make sure that they all moved in sync to keep this disaster from spreading any further.

"Looks like they wanted to burn their home to the ground," said one of his lieutenants, a man of high enough rank to stand on the sidelines with Dick. Although he wisely had his gun already in his palm.

Dick sniffed and finally caved. He flicked his wrists, and began to roll up the uniform, the fabric crunching with each twist. "I think you'll find there's a lot in life you can't control, Parkson." Like fires. Like reaping pregnant girls. Like having to answer directly to President Snow.

And as the ash fell into Dick Tucker's eyes, he prayed they would have at least a few people to bring back to the Detention Center to appease the President. A few. That's all he wanted.