Snow falls, which isn't quite in the realm of miracles, but is certainly a noteworthy outlier. Any citizens under the age of 17 have only seen snow in their dreams and on their screens. They're in for a surprise when they wake! Like always, they'll wander out in pajama-clad droves (Gamma reckons they may as well don their underwear if the pajamas have continued to devolve in their scanty spiral over all these years), birthing snow-persons, and tracking in mud.

As a mom, Gamma hates the snow. She's been through it a good few times now, and let her tell you, the wanderlust wanders away quick. As a Peacekeeper, she hates it even more! It squelches everywhere, and seeps into her socks until they decompose. Yucky!

Tuck says that he don't mind it much, but he's a big, strapping, guy, so he has to put on that kind of show. Plus, he's got that big ol' mask to hide his emotions behind. Why not make use of it? Her own visor keeps fogging up so that she can hardly see. She spits into it, shoves a sleeve up the gap between face and glass, and rubs. When the haze finally erases, she finds Tuck's expectant eyes. She blinks twice: blink-blink.

"Sorry?" she says.

"Oh I was just asking - I was wondering how the crib was coming," he says.

"Oh it's great," she hugs her belly at even the most arcane mention of her fetus, as is customary. "Just the cutest little crib. Al made it up outta cherry and you won't believe what he said!"

"What?"

"He said he looked it up in this journal from way up in Seven, and found that cherry wood was the least likely of all the woods to splinter. Isn't that just the best?" she beams.

"Geez, you've really softened him, haven't you?" he laughs a good-natured belly laugh.

"Butter in the pan, Tuck, butter in the pan." She rubs her hands together in a facetious display of power. The empty 4:00 streets fill with their laughter. Just for a moment, a pure expression finds a foothold in the victor's village. A rare laugh to go with a rare snow. Generally it's a void, devoid of comfort and company. One would presume that Hertzel Kozlowski is living in his house, and they would find evidence to support that from every year when he is brought out to mentor, but nothing else. He's awful old now, and has adopted the itinerary of a hermit for, what, twenty odd years?

That's what they're doing, Gamma and Tuck, dragging him out for the reaping. Their predecessors said it's a real thorny job; the 3:00 wake up does nothing to assuage their warnings. Golly, it's so cold and dark and soppy, that Gamma has a hard time imagining how it could get any worse.

"We're thinking of naming our babe Hertzel, if it's a boy - of course."

"After him?"

"Well... yeah I guess. It just sounds right, y'know? Hertzel Mason Raye. Doesn't that just have a ring to it?"

"Hey, that's not too bad. Yep! I can see it now," he extends a gloved hand ahead, evoking the future, "Chief Peacekeeper: Hertzel Raye."

Gamma blushes, which in turn, causes Tuck to swell with pride. She's a real sweet kid, and she deserves all the grins she can muster. Contrary to what others want to think, reaping day is just as hard on most of the peacekeepers, and this year it's really getting to her. Maybe it's the stress of the baby, or maybe even the hormones. Probably the hormones.

The house is one of the six put in place by optimistic contractors. Two rows of three, all neat and such. They are all perched on this little grassy knoll. All identical too, which really normalizes their splendor; how to make a mansion look suburban in one quick step! What a waste. Tuck's own little cabin looks better just cause it's unique. These chalets are cold, and much too big for one; Hertzel's must always be reminding him of his solitude.

"Talkers talking that he has been working on something big. Some say that he's trying to make a personable automaton," Tuck says.

"Oh dear. All that free time gets to your head, I'll tell ya."

"Probably just gab, to be fair. Anyways, if he's trying, he'll run into a wall trying to turn it cognizant. Even school-kids know that robotics don't have the capacity."

Yes, even the gossip is subject to scientific query, here in Three.

"Maybe, but I've heard it said too. And you don't win two games without being a little...err..." She waggles her index around her ear."

"Hey, you're the one naming a kid after the guy."

"I liked the name," she says, shrugging.

Tuck has the most sheepish of smiles when he turns to the door and knocks. Big, hollow, oaky knocks, just as the door dictates. Later, he notices a doorbell, a rarity (which played a part in his ignorance of it in the first place). If Hertzel doesn't answer right away, he decides, then he'll use it. Thirty awkward seconds later, he does so. The obnoxious buzz just makes it to the outside to let the pusher know of his success in pushing. Impeccable. Still, another period lulls, ending only with two presses of the bell, but this time, Tuck is already fumbling with his key-ring; Hertzel has a bit of a reputation around the force for being... unwelcoming. It is a treatment they get quite often, actually. Luckily, they have copies of the keys for all the houses. Well, no. Lots of houses don't have doors, and lots of doors don't have locks. But they can get into every house; and it's a results business.

Tuck puts it in the wrong way round the first time, but the second try allows him to turn, and the padlock gives way with a clack.

Stale air rushes out. The smell of alcohol is unctuous and unchecked, the molecules rush up into their nostrils and latch with a tingly burning sensation. Mustardy.

"It's time to go, Hertzel!" Tuck calls out into the dark, but more directly, into the back of his hand which is blocking his sinuses from the airborne poison. He creeps ahead as Gamma lingers behind, prodding and poking through all the clutter in the foyer. What in the world is glycemic acid? She finds it printed on a label, half-stuck to an erlenmeyer. Then she prods it, as if that will reveal anything. The dregs slosh around the bottom, releasing a hazy cloud of perfume.

"Oh! Oh mercy!" Tuck screams.

Gamma was already walking away from the stink bomb, but now she breaks into a jog. "What is it? Tuck?!" The room is midnight, and all she can see is the husks of things; silhouettes. A new aroma presents itself, but it is no oasis. A musky and wretched stench that clings to everything and never lets go. "Are you okay?"

The figure turns toward her, his face as pallid as the moon itself! "Aww geez, Gamma, he's dead! Golly!"

"Where? How? Are you sure?"

He steps aside to reveal a rocking chair. As her eyes adjust to dark, she could swear she sees the outline careening. The man sat inside is motionless, and -oh golly! Bloated, but at the same time harrowed. That stink is death incarnate!

"Are you sure, did you check his pulse or anything?" she says.

"Well," he is rightly bamboozled by her insistence, "no, I didn't. Don't think I could muster it, to be honest. By all means though, have a go if you want... Isn't he just the most miserable thing you ever set eyes on?" His mumbling of platitudes and observations continue as Gamma reaches for the corpse, too shocked to see that it is such.

It's face is hardly recognizable, puckered and chubby. One jaundice eye stares ahead at Gamma, the other is dripping down the left cheek as an ooze. Maggots hang from the corner of it's agape mouth. Stains mark the flea-mottled clothes in the most embarrassing of places.

Gamma takes a step forward, her fingers poised towards the gaunt and greening neck.

Something clicks.

***

Hertzel Kozlowski turns a page. This one is noticeably more sloven than the prior. The neatness and organization he accepted during his middle ages is surrounded by a personal controversy (was it maturation, or self-subordination?), but it was surely is better than this - unlearning his native script just because his mind wants to wander. His hands suffered tremors then, and they full-on shake now. Dexterity deteriorating, and now he reads just to remember his own odyssey. Argus recounts his fables like it were an ear-worm, but the only thing he has yet to forget is the hurt.

I settled on the crag which the siren left me stranded on. Each one of us had our own little island, close enough - and the biome flat enough - to see each other. I was just east of Eden, which was disconcerting. Ashre to my north was situated on a rock only precariously above the deep blue deep. Waves licked at his shins, and sprayed at his face. Throughout the night, when the paradise sun took leave, he shivered. I have no proof of that, not even to convince myself. Most everything in indiscernible at that distance, but I am sure that I somehow spotted it.

He's not sure anymore. Mercy! He is incompetent. His earlier writings should be scripture no matter how his mind rejects them as such. Any narration coming from him now should be dealt with as slander is. The deficiencies of his youth have persisted, but any part of him that may have been considered exemplary, has long since succumbed to normalcy. He feels as a husk must when its sweet yellow pearls are torn away by the farmer in harvest.

None of us dared to wet a finger. I assume the threat of the siren was prescient to all of us, as it certainly was my own reasoning for the trepidation. And what stellar reasoning it was! One night, the waves reared through (I can only assume) artificial interferences. Ashre was unlucky to have chanced upon the island he did, and when the waters finally eschewed his grip, he tumbled off it. In a second, a metallic glimmer whisked him away. Was it the same creature which graced me with her sympathy? I cannot say with any certainty.

It would have been a mysterious disappearance were it not for the bellow of a cannon. Still left were Eden, Percy, who had kept himself hidden for the period, but would wind up as my ultimate foe, and myself. I was quite surprised to see Eden in the air the next night, and have no idea of the nature of her decomposition. Sure, the tapes of it may have flashed before my eyes afterwards, but no comprehension has ever occurred.

The handwriting is quickly becoming tedious to comprehend. His old, tired eyes can't take this. Only the coffee is keeping him awake - perhaps alive. Bless caffeine. He so wants to forgo this wretched nostalgia, and just get it over with. The chemicals have sat for more than long enough. Can't he finish just one thing in his life; one thing before he retires for good? It doesn't matter whether or not he can. He must. Finish a book; sounds easy.

It was the third day when the sea arose. By the fifth, not a globule remained. Left was a desert, rolling hills of bone-dry sand, punctuated by the mountains I had called islands just the night before. Layers and layers of fish died; got in everyone's way, and stunk up the entire arena. You couldn't step without a crunch. But you had to - walk, that is. The implicit message from the Gamemakers was clear enough: go back to the island. And we obliged, Percy and I. Crunch crunch crunchy crunch crunch!

I remember thinking that there was no way I swam as far as I was walking then. The sun was a killer, searing all of my energy into steam. Now I know how raisins feels; weak, squished, and just about everyone hates you.

He wonders to himself why he added that. The joke is utter gash; complete trash.

Finally, my forty day and night journey came to an end. The trapdoor labyrinth was not only a tempting oasis (such an obvious destination, I should've know the minotaur too would seek it out), but the site of an ulterior motive of mine: a quest to retrieve the leg. I wanted it as a memento of Adel and all that I owed her, but also for an experiment. An experiment which I now see as so foolish, that I refuse to disclose it in print, just to spare my blushes.

Ah yes, Adel. The pain has a name once again. Her leg is still with him, somewhere within the clutter which his house has once again become filled with. So too, the other pieces which he can only allude to.

I found the leg, laying bloodied, just as it was so long ago. Poking from under that limestone bench. I hugged that thing until I was sure it was safe; a long while after I escaped the arena. Percy came quickly afterwards. Obviously, he had heard me come in. I was tired, sloppy, bullheaded, and unsighted. I was so far estranged from what I wanted - nay, expected myself to be.

He looked so young; an attribute which recked my conscious. Conversely, our bloodbath encounter spurred me on. Aye, he spared me, if you can call walking away from a stale sparring, a sparing, which he duly did, frequently, as we gauged each other up. 'I let you live, let you leave, so long ago. Won't you repay the favor?' he said. At the least, that was the gist. You may review the tapes for a more accurate representation, but I still cannot. He spoke romantically, a didactic and forward, rather than a flowery romance, but a romance nonetheless. A true Four accent: crass airhead coos.

With curses, Hertzel slams the book shut, just to reopen it and spit between the pages and re-close it with intent to smudge. He's done this to all the pages which he really finds discomforting. There are quite a few soppy pages in that tome. He jumps up, ignoring the pangs and aches, and hobbles to the kitchen counter. There lays a tray holding his last supper: glycerin. It is quite simple to concoct, and considering his profession, none of the orders would rustle up any suspicion at all. He grabs it carefully. Even the slightest of stimuli could set it off. Not that the consequences would be so dire...

Just walking brings forth intolerable convulsions into his tendons. Everything is so weak, but it all has to be strong, and steady, just for a minute. He blows down at the lantern on the wall until it sheds only a spark, all the while carrying the tray. Carrying it back to his seat, to the loose floor boards before it. To the pressure plate.

The pressure plate was an ode to them. It was always their modus operandi.

His shadow on the far wall dwindles, threatening to dissipate. To exit without a whimper, without anyone even noticing for a good long while. Just this morning it was so outlined and belligerent. Hmm, time takes another victim.

The shadow kneels to the ground, pries open the canister, and drizzles an invisible slime from its flask. It close everything back up tidy, and returns to the shadowy rocker. So close, it leans back with one final sigh. So close.

Hertzel Kozlowski dies. Not in the poetic way he hoped, but from the disease and ailing which drove him to hope for such a thing. His book lays beside him, never to be opened again, and with a scraggly ghost of a bookmark stuck between the final pages. He didn't read till the end because he knew that part by heart.

'I killed him and I don't really know how. To be honest I don't want to get into it.'

The glycerin sits where it was set, and glycerin hates sitting. It lurks, and seeps through the hardwood, but doesn't dare make a mark. Nobody would have a clue it preys there, until they hear the click.