Splitting a Match

Fury

11.

[Time: 11:16am]

[Location: IRS Building Seattle, Pangaea]

[December 9, 2097]

Flowers.

It was an uncommon sight these days. We didn't really have anything fun happen that deserved flowers. No relatives over for dinner, no joyful weekend parties in the backyard, no weddings.

But there is one event that our Clan buys flowers for. One that happens often, and one that is not at all happy.

Funerals.

I sat in the second row of folding chairs, one row behind the Polarises. Liv's grandma sat in front of me, her long gray hair flowing behind her seat and touching my knees. I was wearing the fanciest clothes I had in my possession: black jeans, a brown leather coat, and a checkered shirt. All of them, dark and dreary.

The flickering candles that lined the sides and front of the room gave off an unusual scent, one that would normally feel soothing, but now smelled like the scent of death. Nearly literally.

Soothing piano music began to play over the speakers, and Kendrick—Mr. York—made his way to the front of the huge room. The room hushed, and over the music I could hear the frequent sniffles of the people in the room. Many of them, like me, had lost a dear friend or family member during The Match. A baby in the back began to cry, and the lady sitting behind me blew her nose loudly.

Mr. York turned slowly to face his Clan; all one thousand of us. That number had been reduced by eight over the past three months. Eight closed caskets lay at the front of the room, each adorned with flowers and our Clan's insignia. Engraved on the top of each were the names and birth dates of all those deceased. The lettering was all painted gold and looked very stately, yet very business-like. Somehow it seemed like it would be better if we all went up there with a paintbrush and wrote a note on the top of the pine, telling the dead our fondest memories of them.

Mr. York cleared his throat and began to speak. "Today, we mourn the losses of eight of our young Clan members. Ethan Rowell, Rachel Handrich, Winston Lee, Charlie Summers, Leah Brown, Jared Polaris, Quinton Holt, and Jenna Garrison." He paused, collecting his thoughts.

Jared—Livvy's---Grandma began to cry softly, her sobs shaking her shoulders. I looked tentatively toward Liv, who sat to my right. I could tell she was holding back her tears, but her eyes were wet and her chin quivered. I put my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "It's okay. We'll be all right. We're in this together," I said, trying to say something comforting. She just nodded her head and wiped her eyes on my jacket.

"I'm sure all of you have met these young people, and I'm sure your lives have been touched by their spirit, their hard work, and their resilience under hard circumstances. Even in the hardest times, they remained strong. For people that are older, this life is new, but we have grown strength over the years. But for these youths, this life is all they have known, yet they still have that lively spirit we admire. I would like to give a brief eulogy to each of these fallen warriors..."

Fallen warriors. I had not thought of my dead friends like that, but rather as poor victims of an unjust election system. But Mr. York's perspective brought a whole new light to the matter. Rather than being victims, those people were warriors. They fought with bravery, even if it was unjust. They maintained their strong spirit, even in the face of death. They weren't warriors for their own lives, but warriors for a cause—the cause of character.

As Mr. York solemnly read through the eulogy of Ethan Rowell, one of the runners who was in my first winning race, my mind drifted to fond memories I've had with Jared. Though there were just a few, they were rich.