Re: Hero Antagonist, Peacekeeper {Finished}

The river is taking
the tears from your eyes.

He slides back the covers and slips away from another unfamiliar face. Glancing at the wall as he pulls on his jeans, one leg at a time, he is startled by the appearance of haunting blue eyes. A mirror. His own eyes. He wipes the bleariness away with the back of his hand. These are unguarded eyes. Eyes that could tell someone the truth. But he won't let that happen. He prays for the hardness to return, for those eyes to turn to stone. His emotions belong only to him. No one else can have them.

He runs a hand now over his jaw, which has grown stubble overnight. Usually the first thing he does every morning is shave. He has to look neat, orderly. Put together. He isn't allowed to fall apart again. Not like last time. Fingers venture over the smooth skin of his face, the prominent jawline, the cleft of his chin. They find cracks, crevices. Wrinkles that tell him he's getting old, his time is running out. Still. Thirty-three isn't so bad.

Before he puts on his wrinkled linen shirt, he allows himself to study his bare chest in the mirror. Solid, strong, muscular. His arms, too, bulge with muscles he's honed to perfection. Peacekeepers have to be fit, after all. And it only made sense to have an attractive body to fit an attractive face. But then, an attractive face meant nothing if it didn't attract the right attention.

He pulls the shirt over his head, glances back at the sleeping form in the bed. Her hair spills out over the pillow, and her hand reaches absently for a piece of him. A piece he won't give away again. He finds his shiny leather shoes under the bed. Like the rest of his clothing, he keeps his shoes in pristine condition. All his shoes get shined, all his shirts ironed. Not a wrinkle to be seen and not a hair out of place. He must look professional. He must be imposing, and if that meant looking clean and sparkling while the rest of District Twelve rolled in the muck, so be it.

He runs a hand through short brown hair and sighs. Thirty-three years old. He was supposedly in his prime, or just passing it. But most of the time, he didn't feel like it. He was fit, yes, he was strong, but there were still the aches that came sometimes, settling in his back, his bones. He hated that he could feel himself getting old, see it in the mirror. The lines around his eyes, his mouth, the pain in his shoulders and wrists as he rolled out of bed some mornings. But he was stuck in this body. This was who he was, and he couldn't change that. He just hoped he wouldn't get gray hairs anytime soon.

Make believe
There's air to breathe.

One week later, he drives a knife into some girl’s flesh. It’s easy, drawing the blood of an innocent. Well, not quite innocent. If she was, she wouldn’t be in this hellhole called the Detention Center. This place where the screams and blood are one’s best friends. This place is home to him. He likes the smell of sweat and blood, the sound of terrified screams punctuated by silence. It is a cruel place, and he fits well with it, for life has made him cruel.

He doesn’t know this girl’s crimes, but it doesn’t matter. He won’t give the mercy she pleads for. Life doesn’t give mercy, not anymore. Not in this world, and certainly not here. He’s become good at this, at being cold and calculating, unsmiling and harsh. He sleeps soundly at night knowing he is the object of many nightmares. If the people he tortures don’t scream, if they don’t wake up in the middle of the night, a cold sweat across their skin, he hasn’t done his job.

When the girl tries to appeal to his humanity, he laughs. He’s not human, hasn’t been for a long time. Or at least, he tries not to be. It’s easier to be robotic and unfeeling than to suffer the pain a heart brings. In this profession, having a heart is a weakness. His job is to arrest and to punish. He isn’t the one to judge whether another’s actions are right or wrong. He just follows orders, because he’s good at that. He’s good at being a mindless soldier with no thoughts to call his own. The memories that pile up behind his eyelids are unwanted. He drowns them out with the monotony of work.

He thinks back to nights spent in foreign beds, with false touches of tenderness. He allows himself to play at happiness. If he doesn’t, all that would be left is rage. And he’s seen before what that rage will do to him if it remains unchecked. It’s good to pretend, now and again, that he can be loving and kind. Once in a while, he’ll slip someone a smile as he passes them on the streets of District Twelve. He’ll stop and talk to the women in town, joke and laugh with them, occasionally flirt. But only the women. In his eyes, women were wonderfully malleable, quick to accept a compliment and easily tricked. The fact that he could never truly love one of them made bringing them to his bed easier. Some girls came for the thrill of it, for the risk of being caught. Others to protect their younger sisters from any number of horrors. He didn’t usually ask. It wasn’t his business, after all. All he wanted from them was someone he could be sweet and tender with. Someone he could trick himself into falling in love with. Peacekeepers weren’t allowed to have family, but it was still nice to pretend he had the freedom of choice.

Once, he hadn’t had to fake it. The smiles and laughs had been genuine. But life has taken joy away from him. He is left clinging to the remnants of emotions he isn’t sure he wants. The worst of these is hope. That tiny, ugly, flickering flame, telling him he still has a chance. He can still be someone else, making different choices and getting different outcomes. One day, he’d like to murder hope. It’s a terrible, horrible thing. But without it, he wonders if he’d have the strength to go on.

The girl pleads again for mercy. And why should he give it? Life has never shown him mercy. This girl does not deserve it. No one does. Mercy is a false thing, a lie. So is freedom. No one can be free, not truly, not ever. There’s always someone that touches you, ignites the stone inside your heart, wraps their fingers around it and squeezes. There is no freedom in love, and there is no mercy. And after all, all’s fair in love in war. This was close to war, wasn’t it? So there would be no mercy. The only people that give mercy are those that are too afraid to carry out the action. He slides his knife across the girl’s smallest finger, leaning into the blade until the digit comes free of her hand. He lets the sound of her screams and the smell of her blood flood him. He stops himself from taking more. This is the closest he will ever get to mercy.

Later, in his room all alone, he bites down on his lip until he draws blood. He struggles to keep memories and emotions at bay, but he’s only human, after all. All’s fair in love and war. But there are no heroes in war. Only victims. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be a victim; he never has. But he’s never been a hero. He’s never been enough. Not enough to be noticed, not enough to be given a second glance. Not enough to risk one’s life for. He swallows half a bottle of whiskey, praying that the face behind his eyelids fades, and the voices from the past dull to a whisper. It has the reverse effect, and he finds he hates himself for trying.

When he lays in bed that night, the things he’s done rattle around him. They demand to be heard. But if he is one thing, it is stubborn. He won’t let them in. They can hover, but they can’t become a part of him now. He won’t risk falling apart like he’s done before. He allows one lonely tear to slip loose as penance for the lies he’s forced on the world. These smiles are fake. The hatred is only half-true. He hides the grim reality beneath the blankets of his soul, and there it lingers, screaming to be free. He’ll never let his secrets out. It’s easier to hide, or so he tells himself. It’s easier to be alone, inviting girls into his bed to chase away the chill.

He’s just as human as anyone else.

Your greatest reward
Is what you are fighting for.

A house. Two floors, with yellow siding and a bright blue door. Small red flowers spill like blood from the window boxes. This is where he grew up. They named him Hero, but he never felt like one. There was another child, too, straining to see the baby brother in her mother’s arms. Victoria was three years older, and she thought having a baby brother would be the best thing in the world. Unfortunately, they never really got along. Hero was too young to play with those first couple of years, and by the time he was old enough to tag along, Victoria had friends from school to depend on. The siblings never really got in fights, or acted mean towards each other. They just didn’t fit together. They were like two strangers drifting through the same house. They rarely even spoke. The two of them lived separate lives.

At least, they did until Hero was fifteen. He and Victoria were both careers, and had been training for a good portion of their lives. Being raised in District Two, it was almost expected of them. Their parents were proud of them, though they secretly hoped neither of their children would ever be in the Hunger Games. Not long after Hero turned fifteen, a new career trainer showed up. His name alone, Guess, had been enough to intrigue Hero. The fact that he was a phenomenal fighter only made Hero want to train under him even more. Guess was tall, though at fifteen, Hero was already at the same height as him. He was twenty or so, still young, and quick to smile. Hero loved training with him. He loved spending entire days with Guess, honing one skill after another. He craved the intimacy of hand-to-hand combat. It wasn’t until Victoria noticed her younger brother’s trainer and begged a lesson of him that Hero realized what was happening. He was falling in love with Guess.

By then, of course, it was too late. It would have been awkward to admit his feelings before, but even more so now that Guess and Victoria were dating. There was no hope that Guess would reciprocate his feelings. But still Hero trained with him. Still he held on to that small hope that it wouldn’t work between Guess and Victoria. He tried even harder in training, working to get Guess’ attention, his praise. But it just wasn’t the same, now that Victoria was constantly on Guess’ mind. When Victoria passed her final Reaping, she announced her intention to join Guess in training careers. She brought Guess home and introduced him to their parents. Hero was forced to watch from afar, forced to wait and hope for something that would never come. The bonds between Guess and Victoria were strengthening. Honestly, Hero was starting to lose hope.

And then came the news. Victoria was pregnant. She didn’t want the baby, but Guess did, so she tried to act happy about it. Hero could see, though, the way it worried her. He could see how she despised the child growing inside her for getting in the way of her career. All Victoria wanted to do was train careers and be the best at it. She didn’t want a family the way Guess did. So that’s why, when the baby came, Hero persuaded Guess to put it up for adoption. He told Guess that Victoria didn’t want to be a mother right now, that she’d despise him for making her be one. So Guess and Victoria talked, and they decided that they could have children later if they wanted, once their careers were more stable and they’d established names for themselves. Hero could see the sorrow in Guess’ eyes at the thought of giving up his baby girl. He hated himself for being the one to suggest it. But he had to. It would drive a wedge between Victoria and Guess, and that was what he wanted. That was what he needed. Before Guess gave the baby away, he put a cord around her neck, around which hung a ring engraved with his name.

A year passed. Hero’s final reaping came and went. One day, Victoria went to the store alone. No one expected what happened. No one expected the maniac, with a gun they couldn’t explain. But when Hero heard that his sister had died, he expected the aftermath. He made sure he was there when Guess heard the news, made sure he was available whenever Guess needed someone to talk to. He’d be there all the time, and when Guess had healed enough from his wounds, Hero would tell him. He’d tell Guess how he felt.

The plan worked, for the most part. Hero listened while Guess talked, and offered comfort. But then Guess did something Hero hadn’t anticipated. He said he was going to become a Peacekeeper. Hero couldn’t let him go that easily. He signed up to be a Peacekeeper too, because he knew he couldn’t live without Guess. Couldn’t live without at least telling him how he felt. They trained together, lived together, practiced together. Hero became Guess’ best friend. This gave Hero hope. A stupid, foolish hope, but a hope all the same. They were both very good at doing what was expected of them at training. When the Peacekeepers-in-training were asked to race a mile, Guess and Hero always came out on top. They excelled in combat. And when they had to fire guns, Hero found that after a bit of practice, he could hit his mark nearly every time.

When they were finally assigned a district, Hero was pleased to find he and Guess and both been assigned to District Twelve. It was a dirty, poor place, not what they were used to at all, but they were content. They had each other, after all, and they’d learned that was all they needed. Hero knew the time to tell his feelings were coming. They could keep their relationship a secret. No one would have to know. They wouldn’t get in trouble if they kept quiet about it. But every time Hero came close to telling Guess, he changed his mind, telling himself he had to wait just a little bit longer.

Hero was twenty-two when Guess told him he was being transferred to another district. Hero couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t let him go. He went to the Head Peacekeeper of the district, begged him to let Hero go along with Guess. He was denied. Hero couldn’t speak to Guess. He felt horrible for it, but he couldn’t. He was afraid of falling apart if he spoke even one word to his friend. The night before Guess was to leave, Hero pleaded with him not to go. He said they could run away together, desert their jobs, find a place out in the forest somewhere where they could live. Guess didn’t understand what he was implying. Hero couldn’t bring himself to be more clear. Guess told him, finally, that the real reason he was leaving was so he could find his daughter. He still thought about her all the time. He needed to find her; he wouldn’t rest until he did.

There was nothing Hero could do to stop him. Guess left, and Hero stayed. Hero drank himself into a stupor. He shirked his duties. He didn't know what would have happened if one of the other District Twelve Peacekeepers hadn't told the Head Peacekeeper that he was sick. He spent three days cowering away from light, alternating between nursing a bottle of beer and a headache. On the third night, he found his gun and held it to the side of his head. His finger wavered on the trigger. He'd never have Guess now, so what was the point in living? The only reason he'd become a Peacekeeper was because of Guess. He had no other life. Shaking hard, he stayed that way for a few long minutes. Finally, he dropped the gun. He had an idea. He'd keep on living. He'd become the best Peacekeeper he could. It didn't matter to him how many bones he had to break to make that happen. One day, Guess would hear of him. He'd hear of Hero's ruthlessness, and he'd know, he'd have to know, that he was the reason for it. And one day, when they met again, Hero would make sure Guess suffered as he had. Only after he'd accomplished this would he allow himself to leave the world.

As the years went on, however, things changed. Hero found that he liked being cruel, liked being the villian in other people's stories. He still thought about Guess all the time, but not so much as he once had. He still burned with fury at his leaving. But he found another purpose in life. His job now was to be the enemy. He had to be feared. He threw himself headlong into work.

odair