The Origin Of Love [Closed]

like a queen

Think of me more than anyone else

There’s urgency now, to show that the world isn’t falling apart. Numbers from the end of this quarter are grim—production has plateaued across the districts, despite the growth in population. The numbers were projected to stabilize at this point but, as I tried to tell the best of our statisticians, people are not numbers (an oddly seditious statement). Instead we, the Department of Commerce—though who is to say we but me—were tasked with finding a solution. It’s the same reason why I’ve dismissed the staff for the evening for failing to provide any meaningful outcome; it’s why all the avoxes, save one, have returned to my house far out on the outskirts of the capitol. Instead, I’m left to contemplate a solution to an impossible calculation. Forever the president’s whipping post, I’m expected to make something out of nothing, whether or not this is physically possible.

So I indulge myself, not out of desire but necessity. A slow burn of a cigarette, and a sip of whiskey from a glass, it’s all I’ve got for inspiration. The ins and outs of this world have never escaped me. Its secrets are tattooed underneath my skin, the ink fresh beneath my eyelids. It’s not like I don’t know about the ones in District Ten that are drinking too much, or the ones in twelve that laze about in the innermost boroughs of the mines. People won’t believe that there are eyes, always eyes watching them skitter about between all the holes they’ve created. It’s that we choose who to punish, and when to punish. Because constant aggression would lead to an increased fear, and a less happy populace—and where would the productivity be then? No, you have to show them you mean business but don’t take away their will to live.

I swipe across the screen and snort. The charts prepared by the lower level nothings show more of the same, the same answer that none of us want to hear: there will be no solution, so long as our world keeps growing, to the shrinking of resources. There is no way to keep the caviar flowing, the wigs made, all of the—opulence—if it means keeping the children of the districts from starving to death. But then, perhaps that’s what we’ve wanted all along. Of course, then who would be sewing the sequins onto dresses, or churning out all the lipstick, all those little things that we so desperately need? I swipe again, and watch the floating capitol seal twist in a circle on the screen. Without a solution, however, my tenuous grasp as Secretary of Commerce may finally slip. And I’m not about to disappear into the shadows so that an incompetent troll may take my place.

I’m going to be here all night. That much is clear. It’s fine—the apartment becomes my home away from home. The apartment is empty tonight. Despite the usual hum of the lights or the warmth of heat emanating from the hardwood floors, the avoxes have been dismissed to the primary residence at the edge of the capitol, save one. He is lingering somewhere - though out of sight, out of mind is far better than having to stare at his vacant expression - and I am alone. This apartment is reserved for times when I can’t be bothered to go home - the times when there is no need to pay pleasantries to the men and women of the capitol by making my presence known. How many nights have been spent pouring over the files on my desk, or making phone calls to those who’d much rather be with their families - just so that our dearest and brightest citizens can enjoy a glass of fresh milk before going to bed? Or that the displays in windows are not vacant of the finest, featheriest of outfits?

I wrap a hand around the side of my neck and massage out a pain. This work is never done, and never could be by all the idlers wasting their time fluttering about. You know the type: faces pancaked with make-up, lips tart, hair towering over their heads. How anyone could live from one party to the next has never materialized for me. Perhaps an empty existence is better for those who realize there is not much else to put faith into - in a world where everything is at our fingertips, why would work hold prestige? There are few who understand the value in persistence and hard work, and those fellows are usually the ones that get to guide the ship in the end. Take our fair President, for example. A man entirely devoted to his vision, who lets not a single detail pass him by. There is nothing so admirable as a man that sees potential, and perseveres until it has been exhausted.

The screen at the edge of my desk flashes, and I turn my chair back. Warnings scroll across the screen in block letters with a long list of products falling short of goals. Corners of the screen dot with notes (press reports outlining shortages, increase in costs, failure of compliance, etc). These are the same dire warnings received the previous quarter, and the quarter before last. Across the regions, production has flatlined. There are few, if any meeting goals that have been set. Of course, the harsh winter has partially been to blame, but there’s more afoot here. Panem has a growing population that - all things accounted for, won’t stabilize for a good decade at current trends. Even with the implementation of our technologies, however, we haven’t managed to get production to the level desired, so that our output satisfies the needs across districts. This is - and since my placement as Secretary - the hardest reconciliation that I’ve had to make, as the numbers consistently point to a dire solution: either we make a conscious decision toward moderation, or as we have done before (and continue to do) - let the poor bastards of the districts starve.

Now it is an easy decision for others. A public vote wouldn’t change the easing of our restrictions on the districts (as if a vote would ever happen), nor would a word to the president. Some would fear that - breathing a sentence of compliance with the districts would have you disappear into a void, of course. But you cannot have a population become hopeless. The problem with this should be evident: those who have no faith in anything are predictable. Laws won’t stop a savage from rioting, they won’t stop men and women from storming the gates if they believe for one second their death could influence an ounce of policy. It is why this is such a dangerous tightrope walk; appeasing and politicking between two forces. No need to speak of why the Secretary position has been a revolving door for all those who have failed to live up to their promise.

I stand to face the window. The twinkling lights play tricks on my eyes, and I wonder how many are going to bed this evening without the slightest clue - we sit on a path that could draw us all closer to ruin. Unless I - unless we, because there is no I here, unless there is an error - rouse the folk of the districts to make more with less.

Ma’am. He holds a tray with tea and madelines. Please.

The hair on my neck stands, and I turn to face the boy—because he’s not much more than that—who’s in my service now. The one they found outside the districts. I give a small smile. His shock collar blinks but the remote is nowhere to be found. I enjoy the half-avox. It’s so much more interesting having one of them to talk to. A novelty. I wave to the desk and let out a sigh. He moves, foot step by foot step, before placing the tray on my desk. He steps back and folds his hands together. His eyes look down at the floor but, he can’t help himself—he stares back up at me. And I’m waiting, cigarette dipped over my fingers and lingering ash. I smile again. No one else would dare so much as look at me but, this fool since the first day hasn’t put an ounce into my title.

“Now…” I say with a wave. He chews his lip and puts his hands behind his back. “Rum Tum.” Because that’s his real name, not—what have they been calling him? “I’m going to be awake late and, I need a distraction.” I tap away ash. “Tell me a story.” I bare my teeth.