Misplaced Memories (Onyx)

“growing in numbers, growing in speed”

PETRICHOR MORENO - seventeen - district ONE

Petrichor considered her abandonment of the Moreno family through the past several years a sort of detox. Ever since they began to get caught up in gang wars, blood feuds and revenge plots, and with child after child dying at the hands of another in the Arena, the girl had felt the legacy of a once such influential family was wavering. Being a Moreno, whether a "pure-born" or an adoptee, like Petrichor, was becoming synonymous with being chaotic, unpredictable and, sometimes, downright villainous. Petrichor didn't mind being thought of as chaotic now and again - after all, her job was to climb, tumble, twist and turn around the sets of theatrical plays. But although this always looked to someone watching like perfect Brownian randomness, the girl herself knew better. Her job wasn't to create chaos, but to harness it. With ropes, pulleys, shutters and blinds, Petrichor stunned audiences and casts alike with the magnificent light and sound shows she created in real time from the wings. Chaos was her friend, but only in moderation - which is why she had to separate herself from her Moreno ties.

As much as she tries to avoid the family, the fact they their origins are so sprawling and their number so large makes it difficult for Petrichor to roam any of the busiest areas of the city without seeing one. She's lucky that during her time with them, stealth and attacks with an acrobatic basis were her training focuses of choice, and so she never had difficulty finding a place to hide out of sight - and importantly out of reach - of her forgotten siblings. The risk that her brightly coloured hair would give her away was lower now she had dyed it a much tamer dark red - why, she didn't know. Perhaps without really realising it, she was mourning for the fact she was back to being a wandering soul, with no familial anchor, no history, nothing but question marks, just like when she was a child. Nevertheless, Petrichor had accidentally bumped into other Morenos a few times - which was absolutely enough times for her. Her new resolve was to avoid the crowded areas completely, choosing to survive through the lesser known haunts of the District.

Today, wanderlust had got the better of her, and while she would usually spend calm days like today sweeping or folding costumes with her crew, Petrichor had to relieve her cabin fever with an exploration. Her senses took over her mind as soon as she left the large doors of the theatre, and Petrichor followed strands of colour, temperature, odour and sound as she wound through the outskirts of the District's capital. For a time, she closed her eyes, and let the coughing splutter of a stream lead her to a large spiralling storm drain. She lingered there for a while, knowing the dense electric smell there was called petrichor, like her. Then the wind changed direction, and she meandered with it on its course, liking the way the long ends of her hair pointed the way as she was blown gently forwards. When the breeze changed her mind again, she picked up the sent of warm spices and herbs, and set herself onto its path. A small market, she assumed, the perfect place to browse and admire for a while.

Dried herbs and spices hung in wooden cradles from every stall, and Petrichor took the time to admire the craftmanship that had gone into building the structures as well as breeding the plants - a worthy feat in a District known for its mastery with artificial materials beginning with "poly" or "faux" or "synthesised". She passed several coins deftly between her pale fingers, considering each item but always moving on. She had no use for the spices - they were not reminiscent of any homely memory, and none were powerful enough to be used in a production. The latter was something that did require the fake flavours; woodland smells constructed from chemicals, the odours of food wafting from wholly inedible ingredients. Reality had no place on the stage of a theatre. Reality was, by principle, left at the door. As such, Petrichor found herself tiring of breathing in the self-forbidden smells, and pricked up her eyes and ears for the next sensory strain to pursue.

The guitar music reached her like a breath, light, warm, intimate and, above all, compelling. The tune had a certain familiarity to it which filled Petrichor with a mixture of security and longing. She stepped towards its source in time with the lilting phrases, one foot in front of the other, waltzing and skipping lightly. As the volume swelled, she closed her eyes and felt the pull towards the sound from the centre of her chest. Her dance increased in pace and - to her own surprise - she began to hum softly along to the tune. For Petrichor, who couldn't place the melody anywhere in her memory, this was unsetlling, and brought her to a halt, her eyes suddenly opening. In front of her, to match the familiar tune, was a familiar face.

"Remo," the girl murmured apprehensively, yet warmly. Of all the Morenos Petrichor could have found at the end of her waltz, she was at least glad it was him. Remo was notoriously one of the gentler siblings, and from his heartfelt playing, Petrichor was certain that was still the case. For a moment, she wasn't sure if the boy remembered her, and encouragingly added, "it's me, Rory." Not sure whether to remain standing, or if the flicker of recognition in his blue eyes was an invitation to sit, the girl shifted her weight awkwardly onto her other foot. She had no idea what Remo was thinking, how he felt about seeing her again or, terrifyingly, whether he was dangerous. Petrichor could only hope that the near future held something safe for her.