FIN :: One :: Petrichor Moreno

namedpetrichor bullet tanami-moreno
agedseventeen
locateddistrict one
presentedfemale
orientatedheterosexual
biography

"Who am I?" I ask Christian 'Hercules' Tanami, owner and founder of the Tanami Theatre in the North quarter of District One, while we're outside in the interval of a matinee performance of "CRUSHED: The True Account of the District Thirteen Rebellion and the Heroes Who Suppressed It", smoking cigarettes and turning our collars up to the wind. The play, we both know, is bullshit, a candied appetiser for the President and his minions who, although they will never see a performance themselves, will certainly hear reports of it. Kissing arse is necessary if we don't want to see our theatre burnt to the ground along with all the others. Tanami, like its namesake, is ancient and reputable, slightly crumbling but still standing tall and proud amongst its surroundings. Its name shines in bright lightbulbs and glitter, none of the modern laser technology that other institutes use. It's part of Tanami's fame - we do things the old, 'traditional' way. However, it's probably the reason for the company's recent fall in profits and audience figures; the youth of the District spend all their time training - I should know, belonging to the family I belong to - and the adults would rather pretend they were from the Capitol, forgetting that they're still as low as Twelves in that city's eyes, sticking with the times and wasting their lives with trends of clothes, gossip and raising victors. Ah, yes, my foster parents are particularly guilty of that.

"Why, you're Rory, of course." Hercules remarks, his wheezy voice as comforting as it has been all my life. He's always been a paternal figure to me, even after the Morenos found me and made me one of theirs. They told me that, if I wanted I could keep the surname of my last family as part of my own, just so I wouldn't forget them. But here, I've always just been "Rory", no surname or identity at all. And that was comforting. With a surname, particularly one as reputable as Moreno, comes attached a title, an expectation. I know how to cope under pressure, but I prefer the pressure that I put on myself, rather than put on me by the previous generation. Still, like all teenagers, I get curious, which is why now I approach Hercules with the question I've never dared to ask before. I'm almost eighteen. Isn't it my right to know? So I ask: "yes, but who am I?" I know I'm walking on dangerous ground here, trying to find out about the past that the rest of my Tanami "family" have kept secret all my life. Hercules, for all his presence - the ability to make a whole theatre go silent instantly when he stands to speak - is still cowardly, a fact that only justifies my argument that I can't be related to him. Bravery is the trait that I'm most proud of, whoever I inherited it from. It's a blessing I've found indispensable in my job in the playhouse.

Since I was old enough to walk, I've been climbing the rigging around the stage of the theatre, setting lights, tightening scaffolding and preparing for each on-stage event before and during every show. With bare feet, my preferred state, acting almost as a second pair of hands, I tug myself up the often fragile lighting racks to replace bulbs and remove coloured films without even thinking about the effort it takes to do it. One time, Crane, the costume girl who's always been my closest friend, tried to pull herself up, but couldn't do it. The trick is not to think about it, to just tell yourself that the ground is right below your feet the entire time. With every rung, although you may get higher in the air, you tell yourself that you're going nowhere. I hate sentimentality, but it's true, what they say. If you believe in something hard enough, it's almost the truth. In the end, I had the confidence going up and coming down to do it a little more adventurously. After the theatre closed, Crane and I would come back to the stage, with a bundle of costumes and a torch, and I'd scramble up to the spotlights, torch between my lips, ragged and scabby from constant biting, my bad habit, while she arranged the clothes in a sort of cushion, below. Then the light would go on, shining down on my landing point like I was one of the performers, rather than one of the stagehands, and I would leap.

The first few times, I tumbled clumsily, my long limbs failing as I tried unsuccessfully to gather myself into some sort of effective landing position. Crane, a hundred times more compassionate than I, rushed over immediately, and I'd have to stop frantically worrying my lips for just long enough to promise her I was fine and let her rearrange the 'safety mattress' a hundred times until she was happy with it. However, after a while, I worked out how to control myself. I may not have the sharpest mind, but when I work something out I rarely lose it again. All I needed was to accept my own control over my balance, and my senses. Yield that to myself and my mind was the master, not my body. My name is Rory and I am perfectly balanced. My name is Rory and my feet are underneath me. My name is Rory and I am not afraid of falling. And so, just like that, it was.

And that's why the Morenos chose me.

It was the second night of "Romeo and Juliet"; a play from the Dark Days about love and death and some bollocks like that. Most plays older than seventy years have been all but erased from Panem, but a few choice favourites of each District Mayor still linger. The original script is unperformable, full of old words we have no clue to the meanings of, but an updated and abridged version was acceptable enough. I was fourteen, but even then I understood that it was an important performance, if wealthy, reputable clients such as Mr and Mrs P. Moreno were coming to see our spectacular. Hercules wrung his hands and told us all how important it was that we didn't make any mistakes. I'm not a naturally focused person, but I sure listened then; when the people I love need my help, I'm there to give it as best I can.

I wish I could say now that everything did go exactly how it was supposed to, but I'd be lying. Lying is delightful, and oh so useful, but there's a clear division between when lying is a necessity, and when it's a mistake.