natalya fuze * pk/wanderer [fin!]

There's nothing that will scar a seven year old girl more than watching a few gruff strangers drop their mother's stiff body into the dirt. I've always said that on that day, I lost two parental figures. My father, his face had taken on that apathetic look that would remain a permanent set of his handsome features in years to come. The moment we returned home it was evident he was not the same man as he had been just a week before. It would seem he had lost all compassion ever held in that beautiful heart of his. Life would become monotonous; I would become little more than a nuisance.

---

Slowly I stumble into the foyer, fuzzy slippers making odd noises as I scrape my little feet across the carpeted floor. "Daddy?" Muted in fear, my voice barely rises above a whisper. Not even audible to yourself. The kitchen light flicks off and you freeze. It's just daddy stupid. Get a hold of yourself!

With internal struggle I manage to move, though I've began walking normally. Afraid the sounds will draw the monsters from the closets, Natty dear? It's too much. All of it. I whimper then slap a chubby hand over my mouth to muffle any other pitiful noises. Monsters hear everything.

Fear catching a firm grip on my fast-beating heart, I dart into kitchen. "Daddy? Daddy!" You can't run from yourself, Natty. "Daddy!"

"Oh do shut your mouth girl! I'll never understand why you children must talk so loudly." My heart catches for a moment just at the sound of his voice, quickly preceded by the heart-wrenching disappointment I've grown accustom to. Another night he's wasted drowning himself in that foul-smelling liquor. At this age I could not comprehend how grown ups could drink such large amounts of the stuff when it smelled so nasty. Daddy says it makes him feel better.

"Daddy I had a nightma-"

"Child when will you learn," he stumbles forward a bit, clutching at the back of a chair to steady himself. "No one gives a damn about your dreams." His mustached upper lip stretches back, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. "I had dreams like you probably did little Natalya. I dreamed I'd mature and marry the fine young woman of my dreams. And you know, that did happen. When you came along though!" He falls forward again and pokes me hard in the chest with his index finger, an enraged glare giving him a very unattractive appearance. "I'll never forgive you for what you did to your mother. You killed her. You killed her! How dare you, you little bitch!"

My breath hitches in my throat and I stumble backwards. How could he? How dare he! I ball my hands into little fists, biting back the tears. "But I love you, Daddy!"

"Well do you now? Why don't you go tell someone who cares Natty." He gives a hard chuckle and waltzes into his bedroom. Just before he slams his door shut, he hollers over his shoulder: "Love means nothing to me anymore daughter. I don't love you. I can't. I can't love anyone."

Half an hour passes before I'm finally able to turn away and dash back into my room, where I will slowly cry myself to sleep.

---

Needless to say, I've been avoiding my father for the past twelve years. It's been a fairly easy task; all the man ever does is hole himself up in his bedroom and... well I'm not entirely sure what he does in there. We never talk anymore, with the exception of a few hello's or good morning's. I cook him his meals and he takes them into his bedroom, setting the dirty plate outside of his door when he's finished.

Ricson Fuze used to be a charming man, I remember that much. Marane, our housekeeper, would tell me stories while I ate my afternoon pie about how he would sit in his study for hours on end working up a new gadget for mother. A locket made entirely of tarnished clockwork, a necklace formed from the hands of a broken clock. He was like that back then, apparently -- crafty and spontaneous. I'm sure that's why mother fell in love with him.

I'm fairly certain I hate him. My father, I mean. Though I'm uncertain how, I remember that night; the nightmare, my drunken father, how he had breathed in my face and told me he didn't love me like every father should love his daughter. When I needed him, when he was supposed to be there to comfort me and pat my back while I drifted off to sleep, he was too absorbed in his own misery.

Open your eyes.

---

What's wrong with daddy?

Squinching my eyes shut, I shake my head furiously, as if giving myself a whiplash could get these broken-record thoughts of my head.

The schoolyard is nearly empty this afternoon. A light drizzle coats the wood chips and plastic Jungle Gym with a thin layer of mist, forcing most of the kids her age indoors where board games and the television set reigns. It's a wonder Miss Morgana let me out here at all. Is it a rule that your teachers have to be nice to their students when someone they love passes away? Miss Morgana never cared enough about me before to let me play in the rain. People can change, I guess.

Daddy did.

Grasping the rungs of the metal-barred dome, I swing myself up to the very top. Twisting my legs around the big bolt tightly, I take a moment to catch my breath and pull my jacket hood tighter around my face. Grinning, I glance around the deserted field. Up here I feel like the most important person in the world. Maybe Daddy would love me if he saw how well I climbed.

It takes a moment for me to notice the hot tears accumulating at my chin and dripping onto my folded hands. I yelp in surprise. Why am I crying? I'm not sa- The wails begin a moment later. The sounds that bubble from my mouth scare me; they sound like something that might come from a wounded animal -- not a little girl. Hard sobs wrack at my body, squeezing my chest until it feels it's ready to implode and then releasing it again. Tears cloud my vision and my fingers slip from the bars of the playing equipment.

It hurts when my body hits the ground, but I manage not to cry out. I curl into a fetal position, hands holding tight around my shoulders as if to hold myself together. The rain widens into a pounding assault, every drop landing on my exposed skin like a needle point jabbing into my vulnerable flesh.

I hope I drown in it.

---

A letter tucked under his bead spread and a photograph stuffed behind the vanity mirror. No sooner after I find these do I regret volunteering to clean father's room. Regret staying here and putting up with his wild mood swings and alcoholic ways. Regret being born into this family.

I fear the time has come. The woman has gotten too curious for her own damn good. I found her nosing throw my tinkers just a few days ago, asking all these questions about where I got the materials to make such things and where I learned. Maybe she was just making small talk, though I have the nagging suspicion that she knows. That wretched daughter of hers too. Acting up left and right, I swear to it. There's never any peace and quiet around here with that loud mouth about.

The only problem now is going to be deciding when, where, and how the plan will be carried out. Maybe a little something in her morning juice. Maybe I'll strangle her with those disgusting clothes of her. Maybe I'll just fill the tub with water and drown her in it.

Yes, that sounds nice. No evidence left behind either because it'd all wash away. No blood on her, and more importantly, no blood on me! I'll tell that little bitch Natalya she had a heart attack while bathing and couldn't holler for help. I'm sure the dim child will buy into that.

The picture reveals a woman -- my mother -- laying in a bathtub. Glancing her over, it's quite obvious she's already dead. Vacant eyes stare into the camera as if the entire thing were posed and her arms hang limp off the sides.

There's a loud noise at the door.

It is time to go.

Throwing random bits of clothing and a few morsels of food into an overnight bag, I burst through the front door -- and land right into his arms.

In just one glance he's on to me. The way his eyes widen, the way his brows slant down and his mustache twitches in that irritated way. "Let's go inside Natty dear. Daddy will make you a snack." Backing away slowly I shake my head, holding my palms out as if to ward him away. "Now Natalya! Now!"

Think Natalya, think. Gasping in a frantic way, I lunge forward, flinging the pack I've prepared into his face. He catches it, as planned, and I take full advantage of his temporary distraction. Turning hard on my heel I run like hell in the opposite direction, screaming for help.

"Natty! Natalya! Get back here this instant!"
"Help! Help!"

---

"We know what you're capable of Miss Fuze." The older man grins at me. "You are your father's kid, after all."

"I'm not following you."

Officer Mustache feigns a shocked look. "You're tellin' me Daddy Dearest didn't tell you he was a Peacekeeper back in his primes? Yes ma'am, best there was. At his job, 'course, not saying anything about his personality but I could tell even back then that man was a stinker. Was always tinkerin' with these little things. Made his own little equipment out of broken clockwork and stuff like that."

This was news to me. Sure, everyone knew my father was an inventor of sorts; but equipment? From clockwork? It sounded ridiculous, even to me. "And what does this have to do with me and my capabilities?"

"Well, Natalya, we have an assignment for you."

---

It's raining again. The downpour has grown steadily stronger in these past few days. Seems to coincide with my oncoming depression -- the slow drops beating along with my heart. Large puddles have formed everywhere, though they seem to be the worst here in the playground. Under the swing, around the jungle gym and especially in the sandbox.

The cold of the metal swing beneath my butt reminds me that I should have brought a damn jacket. It's early spring, but feels more like late fall. The damp weather was killing the summer vibe that had bubbled in the Capitol. The parties in my building have been getting rowdier and rowdier as the participants straggle into rooms everywhere to continue their late night fun without the overbearing presence of authorities to harp on their fun.

Father has gotten worse. He won't accept any meals I prepare for him anymore, instead slumping into the kitchen and making himself dinner when he thinks I'm asleep. I wonder if it's just that he doesn't trust me around his food. He doesn't think I'd slip anything in it would he? Then again, I barely trust myself around him. My loose tongue and worsening attitude could get me in an endless amount of trouble with him. Thankfully I can find my way here every now and then for a bit of a quiet escape.

Except today I'm not alone.

Off to my right a bit there's a man. He sits on the bars of the climbing equipment. Though he looks the other way, I can see him glancing at me every now and then from the corner of his eye. I don't bother wondering why there's a grown man here without a child.

"Hey there miss. What's a pretty flower like you doin' out here on the playground all alone? Ya daddy here?"

Startled, I look up. In my deepening train of thought the man had approached my swing without me noticing. It almost looks as if he has just woken up here -- droopy eyelids, heavy bags under his eyes and a crusty mouth. I've heard of the homeless living among the better off citizens, but never have I seen one.

"N-No. But, uh, he's expecting me at home. I have a lesson tonight, you see, and if I'm late I'll be punished severely. So if you don't mind I'll just be goin-" In an instant he's directly in front of me, his hands gripped tight around my throat. A look of pitiless rage befalls his already sagging features. I wonder if I will die here.

No.

Survival instinct takes over where my mind has drawn a blank. My foot kicks out, connecting with his shin. He grunts in pain and his grip on me lessens. Taking advantage of his off-thrown reflexes, I slide out from under his hand and follow through with a hard punch to his gut. My hard, however, is like a man's not-even-trying punch. He has recovered in an instant and is bearing down on the few feet I've ran. If only I can reach the main intersection. He'll have to stop chasing me there or face apprehension.

A few feet more and he has me. We're rolling by then, bits of leaf and grass sticking into my hair. I kick and punch with all my might, eventually throwing the stinking man off of my stomach. He rolls face down into a mud puddle just at the bottom of the hill. Full of an astounding rage, I leap over to where he struggles to his feet and kick him back down.

"Filthy bastard!"

Clutching at his side, the man falls back down into the shallow water. I hop onto his back and push at the back of his head, forcing his face into the murky depths. Bubbles roil to the surface, his screaming heard even from up here.

I do not relinquish my hold until he lies still and I feel no pulse beneath my tense fingers. Only then do I run back home.

---

"You see, there's been rumors of a few stragglers in the ruins of Thirteen and the surrounding forest. We haven't the proper force to send in an... evacuation team, so we've been hiring recruits to get in there and do the job for us. You will be one of these recruits."

"And if I don't want to do it?"

The two men laugh, glancing at each other and then back at me. Tapping his fingers against the side of the desk, the first one replies, "Natalya I don't think you understand. We aren't giving you a choice. You will go whether you want to or not. You've been an irritating little bug to the Peacekeeping force in the Capitol since birth. With your mother dead and your father a reclusive hermit, there is no one to support you and you refuse to seek employment. We've so graciously paid your rent these past few months, but your small pick pocketing franchise isn't sustaining you. Check in tomorrow morning for your gear and your official issue. Good day."

There is silence in the room when the girl leaves. Both men lay in deep thought, not necessarily about the young woman they've just sentenced. Their lives are interesting enough as it is. One man has three wives -- they don't know about each other of course -- and has to balance time between the trio accordingly. The second man has four kids and is grateful for any minute he spends outside of home and its wild splendor.

"What did you think of her?"

The first man. The second gazes away while he silently contemplates her and her reckless aura. "She's different from the others. I'm fully trusting them to carry out the task to their full capabilities. With this one... I'm not sure. There's something rebellious about her."

"Well her mother did pass rather suddenly and according to her, her father hasn't talked to her in years."

"True, true." Just the sound of rustling papers and the organizing of files. The second man stops for a moment, perking his brow as if something has just struck him. "You know that's something else I don't quite understand. Why would she stay with him if he won't even give her the time of day."

The first nods before responding. "I was thinking of that as well. The only conclusions I can draw is that she's fiercely loyal, loves him, or has nowhere else to go."

"I'd go with the latter. She doesn't seem to be a very compassionate young lady." The two share a laugh before returning to their work. A steady working hum resounds through the bare room and the subject of Natalya Fuze is dropped.

Floorboards creak under my feet as I slowly make my way through my house. I place my hands on the walls as I walk. I feel like an intruder, as if I don't belong even here in my own home.

Only now do I realize how bare the walls are. That wouldn't have been so if mother were still alive. I imagine the other kids' mothers in third grade hanging the macaroni art on the wall, framing the school pictures on the walls, taping those extra special reports on the fridge. Who would do that for me? Surely not my father, even if he weren't behind bars.

I wonder if he thinks about me.

A steady trickle sounds from the bathroom. "Damn faucet." I push the door aside and linger at the threshold for a few moments, just taking in the room. The squeaky-clean toilet, the stained sink. After a few moments, I briskly cross the room and snap the faucet off. I turn to the mirror.

Fresh tears fill my already-red eyes as I take myself in. It's been a while since I've noticed my reflection -- really noticed it. I look so much like my mother. Daddy always said that. Well, before he hated me. I have the same hair as her. Natural curls bounce up and down when I move my head about, my strawberry hair just a bit darker than hers. Even my bangs are pushed to the side like she wore hers.

My face wars over the features of my mother and father. I have mother's eyes: a dark green, eyelashes long and curled at the tips. My nose belongs to father. Boxy and straight, long enough to earn the nickname "Bird". And then there's my mouth. Definitely my mother's. Almost heart-shaped and a shade of pink paler than the norm. A petite chin barely visible beneath.

I've never really credited myself on fitness, but I guess I'm more or less in shape. Lord knows it's hard to run about picking pockets while tripping over your own fat. A flat stomach and strong calves -- for running. But am I strong enough to track down a few rebels?

The thought stops me almost as effectively as a cup of cold water would have. I haven't really thought about the "task" I've been given. What it requires. What if they fight back?. "I'm ready," I reassure myself. And with that I straighten up my ruffled shirt, gather my things and exit for the hangers without one glance back.

* Porcelain -- Marianas Trench (thank you Pika, love <3)
** Bridget Mendler
*** Sort her as a wanderer please. Not official Peacekeeper work so she wouldn't really be considered one.