this is it, boys, this is {war} :: streetrats

When we leave the house, it's dark and there's snow on the ground. Question's all pissy with me because I made him put on shoes. He was mad at me, but I laughed because watching the kid try to walk in shoes is like watching a dog walk on it's back legs. He's forgotten even how to tie his laces. I have no idea of where he came from, only that when I got him he was brand spanking new. When I got him, he was a mess. I mean, I've seen my fair share of shit, running a fight ring does that to you. Especially since I've spent the last ten years of my life on these streets, running them, and staying underground. But when Question came to us, when I found him on our door step, the kid was a mess. All cut up, and used as a punching bag. I cleaned him up, but he's never really been clean. No matter how many times I wipe that cloth across his brow in my dreams, I'll never forget the way he scrunched his nose up in pain. I knew then that he was one of my boys. I can't stand seeing one of my boys in pain.

They think it's just an excuse I make, when I go out to punch something. They think it's just because I want to hurt. Only half the time, cut me a break. Truth is, my boys are the only things I know how to protect without my sister. Ever since we got Question, I've wanted to carve a piece out of whoever did this to him. The problem is, I don't know where he came from, hat his real name is. All he gave me was a Question, I've been waiting for the answer since. Shaking my head, I knelt down and tied up his laces, on a pair of oxfords he borrowed from me. In response he glowered at me, and I laughed, a sudden sound in the silence. Most of my times spent with him are silent, unmarked but for the laughter or the words that I expel.

Now we walk along the streets, silent and thoughtful. He's got a notebook, and a pencil behind his ear. I've got a bottle. We do have a destination, but at the moment it's almost lost to me, but I know he knows. He always knows where we are going, what we're doing. Even when I don't. I know we made plans tonight, that Ella talked to me earlier in the week. I've never had anything against the Morenos, but then again, Ella's a friend. So I guess I told the boys about it, and Question decided he was going. Even if it meant wearing shoes. He looks distinctly uncomfortable, buried in a long scarf, and walking awkwardly. I can't help smiling as I look at him, he's grown so much since he rolled into our house. I feel a bit proud really. It was still weird when he insisted on coming with me though.

When we make it there, we settle down somewhere in the back, and we stay quiet. Question pulls his pencil down and starts writing or drawing, or something. I don't know. I light a cigarette, and wait in boredom. There are already some other kiddies there, Not many girls, but a good couple of boys. I recognize a Shore. There's representations from all of the families actually. Not the Morenos. Well, as far as I can tell. It seems that every time I look there's another. There's a few street rats, a couple of kids I've never seen, and some pretty big players. I know why we're here, sort of. Ella told me w were going to fight, and I wanted to be there because I like to fight. She wanted me here because I like to fight and I'm good at it. I've got a recklessness that most people don't have. Of course I'm not useless. Before I left home, I was training to be a career. I never really stopped. You could call me lethal I guess too. First blood at ten. Running a hand through my hair, I set the bottle between the taller boy and me. I leave it there, and he knows that he can have some if he likes. I never offer anything, I have nothing to give.

Finally, the reason we've been called to this alley way in the first place arrives. I don't bother to hide the bottle, don't bother to pop a mint. If he wants to kill me, he's welcome to it. I've been welcome to death for a very long time now. One gangly little runaway bitch isn't going to change anything for me. I almost call for him, not with my voice, but with my expression. I know that if he were to look at me, he'd know exactly what I am. It occurs to me that we have a lot in common, he and I. The only difference between us is that if I were to mention that, he'd look away in distaste. All he sees through those lidded eyes of his is wrong, and the dirt under his foot. He'd see my outsides and not care about my insides. As far as I heard, he wasn't the type to trail a person he was going to kill, to learn about them, and they whys. He was the type to kill without a second thought. I could respect that, but why the fuck would I. I'm not here to respect him, I'm just here to punch a someone in the face and be socially acceptable.

I light a cigarette, glowing in the darkness. Q and I have positioned ourselves so we sit in shadow. It wasn't entirely on purpose. It's just the way we prefer it to be. I guess when you spend a lifetime in darkness, you become accustomed to it. He's speaking at us, spinning words as prettily as Kiera could. I suppose I shouldn't like him. Kiera was more than just my singing partner most nights. She was my bed partner, not in a loving way. Never in a loving way. We weren't like that, just friends. On the television, Ki said that Kaelen was the reason she died. Funny, as she lay there in her own blood on those screens, she reminded me of someone else laying in a pool of her own blood years ago. So although I should hate this boy standing in front of me, I can't. We're too similar, and they look too much alike. I suppose I could join the bandwagon and blame him for the death of one of my good friends, but then I never could, with the knowledge of Nix in the back of my head, always pointing fingers, and always at me. I know how it feels.

Still, doesn't change the fact that he's buggered out of his mind.

"Any questions?"

I listen quitely, smoking my cigarette as everyone else and their grandma has something to say, something to give. They all are deciding things, giving information, leaping on, lapping up his every word like trained dogs. I roll my eyes and take another pull from my cigarette. Children. Sometimes, I feel incredibly old, and definitely not the right one to make a decision. Only Ripred knows how much I despise being the voice of sanity, but now I find myself in a madhouse, full of sheep. So, with a lazy sigh, I climb onto the brick wall I was leaning against, and take a seat, dusting off my pants as I do so. Settling myself in, I take another drag of my cigarette before looking up again. My cigarettes is clenched in my hand, and I'm not wearing a jacket, can't even recall if I own one, my sleeves are rolled up, and I wear a pair of spotted suspenders. A couple of people are looking at me, they know my mouth, expect me to speak, expecting me to give them something, but all I have is one Question.

"Look, all of you, keep your fancy words. All we care to know, is why the fuck Kaelen Dempsey is back in District One, and how the hell he is alive," My voice is mild, as full of anger as a listless summer breeze. I'm mostly expecting a death glare, but if glares could kill me, I'd have died years ago. I stand then, balancing along the wall, and dropping my cigarette onto the ground below me. It smolders for a moment and then goes out, a trail of smoke making it's way in the night air.

Letty stirred softly in the darkness next to him but did not wake, slumbering on in whatever frilly dreamscape her subconscious could put together and for that, he envied her. Ambrose was the one that had a hard time coping with loss. Losses that he could no longer count with just the fingers on one hand. Damien. Todd. Siberia. Kiera. Blair. Moira. The peacekeepers had had no luck in locating his youngest daughter yet, but he highly doubted they cared. What was one more body amidst the blood-soaked foundation of their great district? Wherever she was, he hoped she was safe and warm. Little quiet Blair wandering the streets with her dolls. It was sickening to think about. Moira at least, was old enough to take care of herself, but that didn’t make her silent departure any less saddening. This night found Ambrose sitting on the edge of his bed while his wife slept, recapturing his old vices and wondering which of his daughters he was going to lose next. Sighing, he shook his head and made his way to the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet, downing several shots of brandy and taking out a small box of cigars hidden in the back.There were only three in the little case, the same number that had been there when he had quit smoking years Good role-modeling and all that.

But he was still without a light, and so with one cigar in his mouth and a robe about his body, he decided to swallow his pride and ask his nephew for a light. Kaelen had been smoking non-stop since his arrival and he was the only one that did so. His nephew's residence was not that far away and since he kept such odd hours, Ambrose doubted it would be a bother. And so he got dressed and left his house, making for Kaelen's. He knocked quietly, prepared for anything. However, not a single response was elicited.“Kae?” he said quietly. Still nothing. To his surprise, he found that the door was unlocked and hesitantly made his way inside. It didn't feel like trespassing, not with his nephew reappearing the way he had. It was largely undisturbed but for the smell and single form lying on the bed upstairs. Single? A door clicked somewhere and the cigar fell out of his mouth as he realized that the form in the bed was not his nephew. Kae. No. The cigars forgotten, Ambrose rushed back to the door and rushed out into the dark. It has been his hope that Kaelen might have turned from certain ways, but this did not now appear to be the case.

Outside, in the freshly fallen snow, it was easy for Ambrose to follow the footsteps that led away from his house; at least until they overlapped with many others. Was Kaelen killing someone even now? A dark thought crossed his mind and he chided himself for hoping that if that was true then it would be a Moreno feeling his nephews wrath. It was cold, but not unbearably so. Even so, he was surprised to see several people milling about.They all looked young, dirty, threadbare and walked in the same general direction. Had a body been found already? Against his better judgement, he decided to walk after them into an alleyway. What he found was most surprising of all. Kaelen was there all right. But so were many other assorted youths. And they were listening to him make a speech. A speech. Forget that, it was a good one. Ambrose listened in silence near the back of the throng, raising an eyebrow ever so often as the rant continued. When it was over, the rabble erupted into questions and half-hearted fearful jeers, prompting Kae to make a second, smaller speech, telling them why they should fight for themselves.The fervor almost reminded him of Damien. Ambrose was filled with a small sense of pride, this told him that perhaps, his nephew had learned something meaningful as a child. He also felt a measure of guilt for the assumptions he had made earlier. No, finding himself inspired my his nephew was the last thing he could ever have expected. As he had done whenever listening to an orator, Ambrose began to clap, a small gesture, palm on palm, slow in the movements. It was then that he began moving past people with small shoves and walking towards where his nephew stood, speaking all the while in a loud commanding tone.


"So.

You have graduated from senseless killing to rabble-rousing, incitement, property destruction and borderline rebellion against the rich if not the Capitol. The rich have always oppressed the poor. It is the way of things. It should not be, but it is. The Morenos are not the only ones at fault, they have merely rubbed salt in the proverbial wound. This isn't all about my family, though she’s the reason I’m bothering to speak my piece at all. Look at me! I’m easily twice the age of any of you." This was said in response to some of the titters that had gone through the small crowd. "Old enough to be father to any of you. That’s father. Not Grandpa like I heard one of you say. I was once like you. I belonged to gang, broke peoples bones, destroyed property. Thought I was invincible, that what affected others wouldn't affect me. And then I had children. I straightened up. Started playing by their rules.” He had begun to pace at this point, as the timbre of his voice rose in anger. “And do you know what they did? They didn’t care. To them I was still a street rat. Not fit to do anything but crunch their numbers and yes sir no ma’am them until I was blue in the face." By now, he had reached the back of the alley and stood in front of his nephew, ignoring the look on his face and raising an accusatory finger.

"I was angry at him for the longest time.

I thought my ill fortune was because no one wanted to be associated with the name Dempsey after what he was convicted of. But it went deeper than that. No. It was merely an excuse for them to do what they always wanted to do. And do you know what that was? Laugh in front of my face instead of behind my back. To tell me that my family was full of monsters. But are they not the real monsters? Are they not the ones that force people like us to stick to the shadows? Are they not the ones that lord it over us as if they were our betters? Perhaps you lot are monsters. But if you are, it stands to reason that they created you and will now reap the whirlwind they have sown, and the gutters choked with their refuse will drown them. And you? They call children like you rats. But rats are the only ones that can survive here."Was it the lack of sleep or the slackened grip he had had on his inhibitions since Kiera died spilling forth? It was likely both. "I hear a lot of you pissing around and asking why you should listen to him in spite of the reply he’s already given you. The quick answer is that if you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t be standing here in the first place. The longer answer is that any young man that’s been able to do half the things he’s done and not get caught, sure as hell knows what he’s doing. And that should be reason enough for any of you to want to follow him."This last bit was said with a glare towards the Shore that stood near Kaelen.

Ambrose leaned in then, grabbing Kaelen by a shoulder and placing his mouth by his nephews ear, his words barely a whisper above the din of the gathering. “I know you loved her Kae. As I love all my daughters. And in spite of your many failings I still...care about you deeply. And I’m more than willing to stick it to all the people I’ve worked for in the past. Lightwoods, Morenos. It makes no difference. They’ve all caused our family grief at some point.So I trust you. I’ll help in any capacity that I can and I’ll stand by you through this to the bitter end. And I suspect my daughters will help regardless of what I tell them to do. That is what family is for. Isn’t it?” Ambrose released Kaelens shoulder then and turned back to the throng.

"You heard my nephew. You're all in over your heads. They have more people, more money, more weapons, more skill. But you have so much more.

So tell me. Are you children? Or are you rats?"

I only live for myself, a fact I’ve never bothered being discreet about, something I’ve always thought to be the best approach to life and all the theoretical curve-balls and “plot twists” it hurls your way. I never have to worry about anyone else and whatever shit they’re going through, steering clear of being tied down and all the drama that comes with it. I drink, I smoke, I party, and I don’t give a damn about who it hurts or what price anyone else may have to pay for it, because I sure as hell don’t have anything to lose in the games I play. That’s what I’ve always liked about the street rats. Drunkards and sleazes, most of them have either already lost everything they have to live for or have the same self-absorbed outlook on life as I do, so what else can they do but focus on the one thing they have left in their pitiful lives - themselves? The only difference between me and them is that I have an out. I can go back to my pretty little house on the hill where the beds are warm and the food is exquisite. I get to warm my toes by the hearth and dine with kings. The only problem with that, however, is that kings often demand for too much than what I’m ever willing to give.

The tense shroud of silence has long been lifted over the crowd, and voices are piping up all over the place, cigarettes flaring up and the Dempsey boy’s control slipping away as quickly as he had instilled it. I can’t deny that I’m a little proud of myself for having sent it spiraling from his grasp, but I also can’t ignore the little pang of disappointment I feel as well toward Dempsey. I find myself waiting, watching the almost distressed expression on his face and the gears turning in his mind as he tries to sort out a way to calm his audience. I know he can.

A young boy suddenly appears in front of me, all dirt and misplaced bravery as he tries in vain to reason with me. "You would be amazed at what an angry mob can do. I mean, have you ever seen a riot? That's basically a rallied up crowd. And without weapons they can still do a lot of damage. Sure, families can have more power, but still, their regime will fall eventually, nothing lasts forever. And quite frankly, I think this crowd has a fighting chance." My eyes slide from the boy on the crate to the child in front of me, arms crossed over my chest and the cigarette hanging limply between two slender fingers. “I know what a riot is, and a “rallied up crowd” is nothing if it’s full of drunken derelicts who only know how to throw their weight around. And if you think mere chance is going to bring down the Morenos, then you are sadly mistaken.”

Another boy comes forward, around my age and with a face I recognize immediately as one of the Rex twins. And judging by his tentative demeanor and the caution in his eyes, it’s Tarquin. I’m a little shocked to see him here, honestly – he’s never really struck me as a child of the night, not like his twin, but the facts and figures that come spilling out of his mouth come as no surprise. "The Morenos have amassed an army far bigger than ours, uhm... sir. There is an influence there that cannot be ignored. By my calculations, they've already gathered thirty or more people, vicious and willing to fight. They are not to be taken lightly and at the current rate, without any sort of order besides your obvious charge, we will surely fail in... two weeks and four days, give or take. At our current rate, we have no velocity. That's not all. If we don't make a tactical strike within the next week, there is likely to be too much ground to recover." And then, to my utter astonishment, he brings a shaky hand to his forehead and salutes Kaelen Dempsey as though he were a soldier ready for battle. “So when do we start?”

"Look, all of you, keep your fancy words. All we care to know, is why the fuck Kaelen Dempsey is back in District One, and how the hell he is alive.” Ender Winters is standing on a brick wall above me, but I’m too focused on why in Ripred’s name Tarquin Rex is offering his service to the street rats, even as the swell of voices speaking out continues to rise. They’re going wild, some angry and even more too scared out of their wits to speak, and I think fools, they all won’t even be alive long enough for a “tactical strike”, but even as the words run through my mind I’m suddenly not so sure.

“EVERYONE SHUT UP.”

Dempsey’s voice rings out over the crowd, and any of the gathered crowds’ ready words die on the tip of their tongues. The older teen has regained control once again, though it looks as though his feathers are a little ruffled by the momentary chaos. He takes a moment to snap at the little boy who’d spoken up earlier before launching into a run-down of exactly what it will take to match the Morenos and possibly even bring them down. I listen in silent interest, face tilted upward curiously. "How many of you know how to fight? And I mean really know how to fight, not just flailing around in that stupid fight ring that Ender runs on the weekends.” Tarquin’s hand goes up along with one or two others, and after a few moments of quiet deliberaton, mine goes up as well. The look on Dempsey’s face is nothing short of pained, but there’s a determination there that keeps him standing tall on his pedestal as he gives a solid elucidation of what the next week will hold. And I have to say, I am duly impressed.

“We're in over our heads here, I'm not going to lie to you. The Morenos have more than us in just about every respect. They have more people, more money, more weapons, more skill. They have a clear advantage. But we've got one thing, just one thing that they don't. The Morenos are pissed off that someone had the nerve to steal their thunder. We're defending our friends, our families, and just maybe making our lives a little better. At the end of the day, that's what we have that they don't. Something bigger than ourselves." The crowd is silent, captivated, eyes wide and watching with varying levels of hope sparking behind their irises. And then a particular pair of eyes locks onto mine, such a dark shade of amber for the fire smoldering within them, and I find the corner of my lips quirking up to match the one on Dempsey’s face. “And that, Beryl Shore, is why you should fight for me.”

People began stepping forward then, offering themselves up, stating their skills and why or why not they’re good enough to fight, but I hardly care to listen. I am too caught up in Kaelen Dempsey’s stare even as it leaves me, the Rex boy’s shaky-handed salute and the silent promise of a revolution like no other hovering in the air above the crowd. So this vengeful ghost hasn’t yet lost his poisonous touch – though it manifests itself in a different form now. Instead of cyanide and icy smiles, it swims through the veins of the street rats gathered here in this darkened back alley and taints their minds with the prospect of war. And despite myself, I find that not even I am immune to this particular brand of poison.

I remember a party once – at the Morenos, no less – and I remember the bass-heavy beat of the music, each burst of laughter from the partygoers and every intoxicated grin shot my way, the eyes of the rich and powerful swimming with alcohol as they danced and laughed with a carelessness and a disregard for anyone but themselves inherent in the way they moved, the way they talked, how they grinned like they had not a care in the world except for their own power. I have nothing to gain in this war, but neither do the Morenos, or my family for that matter. What would winning do for them except for bring back a few ounces of foolish pride? They’d still be the most powerful, the most feared, the top dog family of the district. I asked for a reason why I should fight for Kaelen Dempsey, and he gave me one – and damn good one, too. But he had it right about the Morenos being more powerful, more likely to win. So it begs another question, why should I not fight for the Morenos?

The answer comes in form of a man, bedraggled in appearance but with a certain sagacity about him that sings of a person who’s been thrown far too many curve-balls in his lifetime. He speaks, and in his words I find what I’m looking for. A reason why the Morenos don’t deserve to win, and why these street rats do. They fight different battles every day, just for the right to make it to the next morning, and only to continue the war. They struggle, they work for what little they have only to have it shoved back in their faces by families like the Morenos, families like mine, and at night I come to reap the benefit of their sacrifices and delight in their squalor. I'm just as bad as the Morenos, and as far as anyone here is concerned, I don't have the right to be here. I haven't earned it yet.

And in Ambrose Dempsey’s words, I find another reason to fight – not just for his nephew and the other street rats – but for myself, as selfish as it is, and my right to be here and my right to walk these streets in the night, because that’s all I know how to do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. And if I fight for the Morenos, or if I don’t fight at all, I lose that right, and of that I have no intention.

I take one long drag of the cigarette between my fingers (I’d almost forgotten about it), before stepping fully out of the shadows, adjusting the lapels of my jacket and looking up at Kaelen Dempsey with a quirk in my mouth and smoke spiraling from between my lips. “You’re quite something, Dempsey, I’ll give you that.” I let the cigarette drop from my grasp and onto the snowy ground, snuffing it out beneath my boot as I make my way to the front of the crowd where a few of the volunteers stand. “And I’ll fight for you, but under the condition that my identity remains a secret from those on the opposite side of this little revolution of yours. I’m going to function as I always have – under the radar - and I’ll help train, as well. I learned how to snap a neck around the same time I learned how to tie my shoe, and Ripred knows you’ll need whatever help you can get to turn this band of dim-witted vagrants into an army. So…” I extend my hand out towards him, and I have to fight to keep the smirk on my lips from pulling into a full-blown grin. “Do we have an agreement, General?”