Lucky Ones [Quest One Shots]
Apr 8, 2019 22:06:29 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 8, 2019 22:06:29 GMT -5
[googlefont="Aguafina Script:400"]
Quest Hertz
In the land of the free
Land of the free, land of the free
Move on there's nothing to see
In the land of the free
Land of the free, land of the free
Move on there's nothing to see
It took three months to get this shithole into shape. I got a down payment from Teddy, and a loan from some star-struck lender that gave me a sweet interest rate (but not sweet enough) to open Second Chances, a watering hole tucked away a few streets back from main, closer to the warehouse district. When I’d gotten a first look at the place there were rats that came out of the floorboards, and the windows had mildewed beams of wood blocking up what should’ve been glass. It was perfect, really – a tragic looking place that hadn’t gotten a chance for its full glory.
My brother helped tear some of it apart. Ether was better at figuring out the electrical, though I didn’t mind putting in the hard work. He kept telling me that I needed to rest after the eightieth, that a part of me hadn’t come back whole and it needed fixing. He was right, you know. Since stepping off the train, I felt like I was coming out of my skin. Every morning I’d wake up and wonder how many more days it’d be until I wound up going crazy – from the grey skies or the purpose that’d come and gone – Ether put it somewhere in the ball park of two years, if I was lucky.
Shy wasn’t much on the phone. The two of us could spend hours not talking, and he knew I liked that. I would play some tracks for him and he’d say the same thing, how much he liked them, but how much could a kid like that know music? I think it’s about as sorry as I’ve ever been, knowing that I had one more chance in the reaping bowl while that poor sap had to sit through another five. Still think he should’ve won in the finale, if the rest hadn’t gone and ganged up on him. But that was fucking life, you didn’t really have a fair shot at it.
Bloom got to be Mayor again, and all the talk about what happened to the underground disappeared. I guess I stopped following it, to be fair. What was I supposed to do, other than bang on her door and tell her how much bullshit it was that I still didn’t know if my friend was dead and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere, or if he was alive and locked away, his brain the next big experiment for the capitol shitbags to take care of. Wilfred, I guess I could’ve tried a little harder but – it was getting harder to fight.
Being back home had me realize the sort of people I was dealing with, the sort of life I could choose for myself. Not that I ever had a hard time letting people know what it was that I wanted – think that’s what people knew best about me – but it’s hard to be stuck spinning your wheels in a place that has you strapped down, going nowhere fast.
I didn’t even have a bed to sleep in when I came back. Dad had gone and sold it, along with pretty much all the stuff I’d ever owned. Called it collectible merchandise because apparently I’d turned into a hot commodity for a minute. Forced him to give everything he hadn’t spent to me, after we went through half the china in the kitchen, and smashed in the tv, too. It was a night I like to think marked a move to adulthood. Not one of those teenage tantrums, but the sort of screaming that you can’t take back, words that cut deeper. He’s not my father anymore, at least, that’s what I told Ether. Family’s a choice, anyway.
Wasn’t all bad, though. Banged out more than a few bitches – spent about two weeks going from bed to bed, playing on the celebrity, and telling them all the shit I saw – and I’m not going to lie, it was fucking sweet. Something about how they would say my name while I jammed my face between their legs made me feel a little more alive, less numb. I told Shy that it was a side effect to dying, you get this urge to live a little harder than before.
Tonight is busier than usual. The neon light along the window flickers and all of us are watching the last remnants of the feast on the screen. Different faces of the fateful eleven popping up and sob stories of lives back home played in clips. Exover Endor’s tawdry history and missing eyes is played again, and I put the television on mute. People have asked me if I want to watch the games, what I think about the boys and girls this year. And I tell them the truth, that I don’t feel much about it, that there’s not a person that’s caught my eye (well – the girl from eight, up until she got stabbed in the eye).
What about the boy from six? The girl?
I wipe a rag across the wood of the bar and turn it over in my head. I had planned on going to the justice building to give them lifetime supply tickets, but someone (Teddy, if I recall) had told me it’d be too cruel. And I didn’t have much advice, finishing ninth and all wasn’t so great achievement. Maybe I’d taken more than a few hits, fought my way through some good fights, but more than anything, I just didn’t give a shit. Death had been a sweet release from all of it, and all I could see on these kid’s faces was fear.
I poured one out for Leticia. Struck her name from the board. We have a whole list of them, odds tallied, my brother kept on as a bookie (with me going over the figures to make sure shit wasn’t going awry). She’d been a young thing, made it further than a lot of folks thought she could. That was – I saw a bit of Shy in her, someone willing to fight, even as scared as it seemed – too bad it had to be that way, though. The boy from nine put an axe to her head, and that was that.
That’s the thing about the games, after all, they were just a big pissing contest. All the kids put in there hardly knowing each other, creating these rifts, allies, enemies. None of it really mattered. But you can’t escape it, even if you don’t care one way or another. They all want to come home, no matter what it is that they’re coming home to. Maybe I never felt that. Made it a lot easier when I thought dying would be better than being back here.
I stare out at the bar and move to take a tumbler out for myself. I pour a pull of whiskey and lean back, staring at the old television above the bar, watching, listening. I let the night wash through, and get a better look.
*Land of the Free, The Killers
My brother helped tear some of it apart. Ether was better at figuring out the electrical, though I didn’t mind putting in the hard work. He kept telling me that I needed to rest after the eightieth, that a part of me hadn’t come back whole and it needed fixing. He was right, you know. Since stepping off the train, I felt like I was coming out of my skin. Every morning I’d wake up and wonder how many more days it’d be until I wound up going crazy – from the grey skies or the purpose that’d come and gone – Ether put it somewhere in the ball park of two years, if I was lucky.
Shy wasn’t much on the phone. The two of us could spend hours not talking, and he knew I liked that. I would play some tracks for him and he’d say the same thing, how much he liked them, but how much could a kid like that know music? I think it’s about as sorry as I’ve ever been, knowing that I had one more chance in the reaping bowl while that poor sap had to sit through another five. Still think he should’ve won in the finale, if the rest hadn’t gone and ganged up on him. But that was fucking life, you didn’t really have a fair shot at it.
Bloom got to be Mayor again, and all the talk about what happened to the underground disappeared. I guess I stopped following it, to be fair. What was I supposed to do, other than bang on her door and tell her how much bullshit it was that I still didn’t know if my friend was dead and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere, or if he was alive and locked away, his brain the next big experiment for the capitol shitbags to take care of. Wilfred, I guess I could’ve tried a little harder but – it was getting harder to fight.
Being back home had me realize the sort of people I was dealing with, the sort of life I could choose for myself. Not that I ever had a hard time letting people know what it was that I wanted – think that’s what people knew best about me – but it’s hard to be stuck spinning your wheels in a place that has you strapped down, going nowhere fast.
I didn’t even have a bed to sleep in when I came back. Dad had gone and sold it, along with pretty much all the stuff I’d ever owned. Called it collectible merchandise because apparently I’d turned into a hot commodity for a minute. Forced him to give everything he hadn’t spent to me, after we went through half the china in the kitchen, and smashed in the tv, too. It was a night I like to think marked a move to adulthood. Not one of those teenage tantrums, but the sort of screaming that you can’t take back, words that cut deeper. He’s not my father anymore, at least, that’s what I told Ether. Family’s a choice, anyway.
Wasn’t all bad, though. Banged out more than a few bitches – spent about two weeks going from bed to bed, playing on the celebrity, and telling them all the shit I saw – and I’m not going to lie, it was fucking sweet. Something about how they would say my name while I jammed my face between their legs made me feel a little more alive, less numb. I told Shy that it was a side effect to dying, you get this urge to live a little harder than before.
Tonight is busier than usual. The neon light along the window flickers and all of us are watching the last remnants of the feast on the screen. Different faces of the fateful eleven popping up and sob stories of lives back home played in clips. Exover Endor’s tawdry history and missing eyes is played again, and I put the television on mute. People have asked me if I want to watch the games, what I think about the boys and girls this year. And I tell them the truth, that I don’t feel much about it, that there’s not a person that’s caught my eye (well – the girl from eight, up until she got stabbed in the eye).
What about the boy from six? The girl?
I wipe a rag across the wood of the bar and turn it over in my head. I had planned on going to the justice building to give them lifetime supply tickets, but someone (Teddy, if I recall) had told me it’d be too cruel. And I didn’t have much advice, finishing ninth and all wasn’t so great achievement. Maybe I’d taken more than a few hits, fought my way through some good fights, but more than anything, I just didn’t give a shit. Death had been a sweet release from all of it, and all I could see on these kid’s faces was fear.
I poured one out for Leticia. Struck her name from the board. We have a whole list of them, odds tallied, my brother kept on as a bookie (with me going over the figures to make sure shit wasn’t going awry). She’d been a young thing, made it further than a lot of folks thought she could. That was – I saw a bit of Shy in her, someone willing to fight, even as scared as it seemed – too bad it had to be that way, though. The boy from nine put an axe to her head, and that was that.
That’s the thing about the games, after all, they were just a big pissing contest. All the kids put in there hardly knowing each other, creating these rifts, allies, enemies. None of it really mattered. But you can’t escape it, even if you don’t care one way or another. They all want to come home, no matter what it is that they’re coming home to. Maybe I never felt that. Made it a lot easier when I thought dying would be better than being back here.
I stare out at the bar and move to take a tumbler out for myself. I pour a pull of whiskey and lean back, staring at the old television above the bar, watching, listening. I let the night wash through, and get a better look.
*Land of the Free, The Killers
