Work Text:
When “Prisoner Spare” wakes, he doesn’t try to clear the haze from his eyes anymore. A purplish black smoke fills his vision on a permanent basis now; it’s a comfortable constant, like pain. That’s what they call him these days. The nickname passes through sneering smiles, gifted to him with a joke about the heir that’s tucked away somewhere by rebels he knew nothing about (he’s convinced himself of this). Today, like always, Prisoner Spare is unnecessary, especially after the way he fucked up his last interview with Caesar Flickerman. And yet, here he is, awake and staring at a man in his cell who is definitely not real. He must have known this man at some point before the nickname, maybe even before there was an heir and a spare at all. He looks like the heir a bit, grey eyes, dark hair. The man is holding a guitar, something Spare used to watch being strummed in the back of a black market. The man is also covered in the same black dust that filled that space. Spare hopes the apparition will not strum, or worse, sing… It might fill his brain with something and mess with the pristine blankness the prisoner has cultivated in recent weeks… months? Years? Hopefully, years. The farther he moves from the beginning, the closer the end.
Against all odds, the odds are not in his favour. Shocking. The visitor sits down on a chair that has also somehow appeared in the cell and begins picking at the strings. He gets a steady beat going and Spare is nearly lulled back to honey-flavoured unconsciousness when the rhythm picks up and becomes frantic. It’s joined by something else, something very real – the rolling of wheels down the prison hallway. Ah, Spare’s old friend, the torture cart, full of fun little gadgets and tools and his favourite pick-me-up. The prisoner feels a jolt of excitement and expects the ghost to go away.
“It’s rude to watch people tripping on venom!” – Effie Trinket’s voice chimes in his ear, nearly making him cackle. That woman was unquestionably high most of their time together.
Undeterred by Effie, the musician keeps playing his guitar and even opens his mouth to sing. His first words are uttered just as a grating buzzer announces the arrival of the drug dealers. The prisoner is so taken aback by the man’s voice – almost unearthly – that he forgets about where he is for a second.
At last, / When all of the world is asleep
Then the stomping of boots snaps his attention back. At last, indeed. He hasn’t been doped up in too long. Spare is relieved to have the dealers back. This way, he’s not waiting, dreading, or going through the shakes – begging for his next dose of torture. It’s no surprise that the dealers come in the quiet once the other two have dropped off into exhaustion. This is the best time for Spare to moan and thrash, setting off a new round of screams around the cell block. There’s no rest for the victors. That much he remembers.
You take in the blackness of air / The likes of a darkness so deep / That God at the start couldn't bear
“That’s true.” – Spare says to the ghost who’s still singing. Probably not out loud, his lips sting too much to part. The prisoner prefers this darkness. On some days, he’s dragged into another room, all white and bright. So bright that his eyes burn even when they are closed.
Unfortunately, the dealers’ visit means there will be some fluorescent flashes directed at his face soon, followed by footage so neon and colourful, the exact images are imprinted on his retinas for hours after: blood splattering from a bite on his leg, braided ropes around his throat, arrows pulled and shot straight through his eyes. Yes, the singer in green – singergreen – is right. Spare prefers the darkness, just as cozy as that lump of a soul he keeps trapped inside. As for God… he’s not sure who that is. It’s not him, he’s always been good at retreating into the shadows, easier to avoid rolling pins that way. He remembers that too, the dealers somehow know about it, and they are refusing to let him forget. Singergreen must mean the heir, the one who called on lightening when the darkness was so comfortable. She’s the one who exploded their safe little dome. She’s the one who wanted sparks and thunder. He just wanted quiet. He tells Singergreen to stop messing with his silence, but the ghost continues.
And sit unseen / With only the inner upheld
He tries. He tries his best to sit unseen. If the dealers don’t notice, they might just let him die. After all, he’s given them everything, turned out his insides and held them up on a silver platter like the ones that carried fizzy drinks at Capitol parties. They want more, they want him to drink the bubbly liquid, throw up, eat, and start over again. It’s ironic that they’re starving him. As if on cue, his stomach growls, the dealers laugh and clank their tools around. They pull him up onto a table that has become a fixture in his cell and pummel the lights into his face. His eyes gloss over as he gets ready to check out, but not before he hears the distant and well-known sounds of a wail from somewhere outside the room. The others must be having their visits too, or maybe waking up is scary enough. Singergreen keeps keeping on. It’s almost admirable if it was not so annoying. Spare just wants to shut down and the ghost is making it impossible.
Your reflection can't offer a word / To the bliss of not knowing yourself / With all mirroring gone from the world
They install a screen above him, still black and mirroring his image for that split second before they turn it on. No matter, the image has nothing to say. He hasn’t really seen himself in weeks, has not heard his name in longer. Honestly, he does not want to know who he is or who he was or who he’s losing. That’s the only way to survive until he finally, blissfully, dies. With no streams of water to glance into, no grey eyes to be reflected in, no giant monitors to be projected on, the Spare has no one to answer to for the crime of forgetting, not even himself.
But still the mind / Rejecting this new empty space / Fills it with something or someone
It’s unfortunate but necessary. The dealers are very insistent on it as they push in the needle, his body flooded with sweet agony. Now that the prisoner has erased himself, they must fill the void – replace love with hatred – an ally with an enemy. That’s fine, as long as they keep filling his blood with excruciating madness. There’s more screaming, from his left this time, and some cursing too. He doesn’t care. He just wants more venom.
No closer could I be to God / Or why he would do what he’s done
A sound like the scratching of a record, the clattering of tools on his torture cart. He cares for none of it. This – decadent and horrendous minutes of continuous hallucination – is when he gets to be close to the heir, the mutt. This is the only time he sees her and understands her.
A sound like the scratching of a record, and then the singing man devolves into nonsense.
Bhfuilis soranna sorcha
Ach tagais 'nós na hoíche
Trína chéile;
le chéile, claochlaithe
Bhfuilis soranna sorcha
Ach tagais 'nós na hoíche
Is claochlú an ealaín
Is ealaìn dubh í
All logic fails the visitor now, as the prisoner wanders through horror in a blissful daze. The older man begins singing in a language unheard, something from generations long past. Still, the Spare knows exactly what the words mean.
(You are bright and light / You come to me like night / You and I get mixed / Metamorphosized)
The heir is coming to him in a blaze but somehow in terrifying darkness as well, a night with shadows that devour. They are mixed up in every one of his barely existent memories – the videos they show him – the mutt and the girl, the Spare and the mutt. Who is the mutt? They are metamorphosized into one monstrous being, shaped and moulded by invisible hands, destined to kill, and worthy of death.
Then other voices join in, repeating the prisoner’s new mantra – repetition keeps people sane, they say. The older man sings on, though he seems unhappy about the new additions and maybe the prisoner’s interpretation of his lyrics too. Whatever, the dealers suggested this technique. He starts with the simplest things he knows to be true: Her name is Katniss Everdeen. She comes to him in a blaze but like a night. She brings suffering. She is a mutt. She has become a monstrous being, shaped and moulded by invisible white hands, destined to kill, and worthy of death.
The old miner’s voice dies down and the chorus takes over, the dealers are singing along now too, happy, cackling.
It goes on, and on, and on. The miner plays the same melody over and over, getting ready to go underground; his shift must be starting. He spirals into the floor and disappears.
The room is quiet except for the quick drip of venom, almost like a clock. Tick, tock.
As the prisoner lives out a nightmare, somewhere, many districts away, buried deep in the earth, his god wakes up with a start.