A Circus of Eagles [An HG Fanfic]

Avox - Milo

I remember his face, purple with rage, shouting at me. I remember falling against the wall, the blood, the sensation of being kicked. I remember my Ma screaming - but I remember that Pa had kind eyes.

And I don't remember how much of this is real and how much is hijacking.

Sometimes, I wish I could remember what my own voice sounded like.

***

In the Silence Halls, I change out of my work clothes. I don't have a formal outfit but I do have some clothes, presents that I have accumulated over the last few months, that will do. I check around the dorm but there's only the new boy there, crying in the corner, and he hasn't picked up on our language yet so he won't tell. Coast clear. I draw the thin privacy curtain anyway. Then I lift up my mattress and pick up the silk shirt and the pants that Cornelius accidentally bought two sizes too small. The material slips through my fingers as much as it did on the first time I held it and the slats under the mattress have creased it, but there's no time to deal with that. Already I am running late. So I slip out of the silver uniform and into the silks, pausing for a moment to savor the feeling of them against my skin, and pull back the privacy curtain.

The new boy is there. Just stood there less than a foot in front of me, staring right into my face, his eyes wide in an exaggerated pleading expression. He's small and still wearing the clothes he was left in; brown cargo pants with rips in the knees and a grubby shirt that has lost all its color. His pale face is dotted with freckles and surrounded by a fuzz of ginger. His eyes are red raw with crying. He's trembling.

What follows is a difficult conversation. We've developed our own language here in the Silence Halls but since nobody is supposed to know that Avoxes can communicate with each other it's not official and you have to pick it up as you go along. How do you teach a language when you can't speak?

One finger, tapped once on the outer wrist. Have you seen the time?

He frowns, then shakes his head.

Two fingers, same gesture only with two taps. Fast time - we're running late. Or they were late. Or they are going to be late. Timing is a problem that we've yet to sort out and it all depends on context, something that this boy won't know. As it was it took me a few years to get the hang of it. Now it feels almost instinctive.

Another frown.

I pinch the collar of my shirt with my right hand and flick the gesture for 'outwards' with my left. Are you going dressed like that?

He copies. I'm going dressed like this.

Two fingers pointing upwards for 'authority', merging into a thumb pointed downwards for 'dislike'. They - the people in charge - aren't going to like it. The whole thing is one swift movement and I have to repeat it twice, slower, before he shows any sign of even understanding a little bit of it. He plucks at his collar again. Clothes.

This conversation is pointless.

I give him a gesture he can't misinterpret and storm out.

***

Compared to District Ten, Haematite is a luxury. Compared to the rest of the Capitol, it's a dump. The buildings are all squat two-storey lumps made of brick, with small windows and leaking gutters. The streets are narrow, only big enough for one cab at a time, and the sidewalks are cracked. Everybody here wears black or dark colors, apart from the household Avoxes on their way to or from work. Most people keep their eyes to the floor to avoid having to look at anybody else. The way Falcon and some of his friends talk about Haematite, you'd think that it's just Avoxes living here. That's completely untrue. We're the minority - there's probably less than five thousand of us in the whole Capitol, only half of whom are not constantly tied to one household and who therefore live in Haematite - in a sector crammed with the absolute back end of Capitol society. It's a vicious cycle. Haematite can't afford decent schools or anything like that and their reputation stinks, so the children can't get good jobs, so they can't get the money to leave. The people out here are no more Capitol than District Ten. But the rebels didn't know that. They're punished - we're punished - with the rest.

A current of Avox-talk sweeps across the crowd. Tiny little gestures, glimpsed out of the corner of the eyes, passed on by instinct, our survival mechanism. A finger slashed across the neck. Death is coming. Fists bumped together. Would you fight? Fists bumped together again, stronger, for emphasis. You have to fight.

If it's one of us, we have to fight. We might be individuals but we represent something much bigger, something more important even than Haematite, a thousand times more important than the Capitol. We represent those wronged. And then punished with their oppressors, just for an added kick in the teeth. So we have to fight.

The crowd is restless, uncertain. We haven't seen the other reapings. We've been working. The Neon reapings will have happened by now; Ani and Cornelius and Falcon will be back at home and I should be there with them, except today all reaping-age Avoxes have the evening off. Lucky us. In front of me in the pens one of the fifteen year olds twitches constantly, automatically betraying thoughts that he wouldn't dare say aloud. But nobody but us other Avoxes can understand him. A few of the ordinary citizens frown at him.

We sit through the film and half of us agree with it. I'm not sure how I know. We just do. There's a general feeling of relief when we see the Capitol burned down, all those fancy buildings we can see in the distance going up in CGI smoke, because after all a good proportion of us are from the districts anyway. If we hadn't been caught we would be the people in charge now. It might have been one of us on the stage, instead of the pale dumpling of a man with the dodgy wig and the fat fingers. When he announces the girl's name his voice is little more than a squeak.

"Romily Cray!"

She's not an Avox. I can tell straight away from her bearing, the way that despite having her hands in her pockets she stands tall and with her shoulders thrown right back as if she's trying to make herself look bigger. Because she's small, smaller than the new boy from the Silence Halls, and narrow. She looks like if you'd turn her sideways she'd disappear completely. Her hair has been badly cut and lies in a shaggy brown mess around her ears and when she licks her lips out of nerves, her tongue is sharp and pointed.

You notice people's tongues when you haven't got one.

Even from back here I can see that her face is covered in creases, which isn't helped by her squinting. Not at anything in particular, she's just looking out over our heads and squinting. She looks as if she's deep in thought. The rest of her expression is closed off and shrewish, the sort of face my Ma would call a plotting face. If there's anybody in the crowd for her - and there might not be; this being Haematite she could easily have no relatives left - they're saying nothing.

She dithers over making a speech, opening her mouth and then closing it again, and then opening it, but then when she has the mike in her hand she just stares at it. Prompted by the escort she says a few words - "It wasn't my fault, I swear" - and then goes quiet, squinting out at the distance again. One or two people shuffle to see what she's looking at.

A quick gesture darts through the Avoxes: left hand clapped onto right shoulder. Luck. Luck be with her, or she'll be lucky. It could be either. Take your pick.

I grip my hands together after I've passed the gesture on, because up next is the boys and it could be me, it could be me, it could be me. And I'll fight. I'm ready to fight. I'm ready to tear at the people who stole my tongue and mixed up my memories, if I have to. We all are. Right hand to left shoulder. Strength.

And the boy's name is Voster Denue.

And that's the new boy. The one who cries, the one who I stormed out on, the one who isn't strong and doesn't even understand our gesture for strong.

And it's obvious what I have to do.