boys are smoking guns — bastion. & flynn.

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

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No one’s really asked about him the pistol he stole. 

Calm down, it’s a prop. Memorabilia of the 87th Hunger Games, an imitation of Lorraine Gautier’s heart-puncturing weapon. Lorraine, he muses as he strolls down the hallway, gun in its deerskin holster, pretty name.

And he begins to whistle mid-stroll some ballad they used to torture his ears with during lawn parties or soirees, and it’s like, your worst memories are the ones that don’t fade, huh? He doesn’t remember much of his good moments but the bad ones come back, unbidden, in clear flashes. Breaking a statue in one of the Fray parties, breaking ten or so laws during that one time he helped out in a gang fight, breaking his father’s nose all crooked and scarlet when the old man got punch-happy after a few drinks.

Damn.

The breaking is a theme, huh?

Someone coming his way takes him out of his thoughts, it’s a kid, “uhhhh, you lost, kid?” Kid looks too young to see the mannequins all broken in grotesque piles across the training center; why the fuckers gotta make ‘em so real, blood and all?

[d6a georgie cham 🐢 frankel]

FLYNN GARNER
YEAR OF THE 89TH

The names of tributes are a one big déjà vu. Names shuffled on repeat. I am just glad the Garners have kept their legs shut tight and focused on something else. There is even another one of those District Elevens from last year, the boy called Six who wasn’t from Six and now another share of victor relatives. The Capitol does not want another Garner in the games. They don’t. They won’t. I hope.

I am a little out of place at the moment, in the training center. Time to give Aurora a second to breath before I pounce on her back again with a list of instructions. So, all I can do is watch. Watch a potential face that might just be the one to take one of my best of friends. Or maybe a few that fall to the next young unlikely one from District Six.

“uhhhh, you lost, kid?”

Uhh, no? Are you?” It is the guy from District One, with the famous surname. Well at least he is not a Le Roux. My eyes drop to the gun holstered to the side of his hip. Great. So, I guess I am in for some torment. Another tease. At least he didn’t open with a comment about my ear. ”You know you don’t look scary at all with that fake gone strapped to your leg?”

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

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“Huh? Oh,”

He pulls out the gun from its holster in one quick movement, spins it around the bony axis of his finger. “How can you,” the barrel moves towards the kid, and Bastian’s already smirking, “tell that it’s fake?” His features mold themselves to an expression of solemnity, though the amused gleam in his eyes is anything but.

And then a not so screwed up part of him recognizes the kid. Brown curls, doe eyes that appear haunted like they fought the monster under the bed and won, the dark look to his gun – “oh crap,” he huffs out a laugh. “You’re the kid victor!” That’s what everyone in district one says. Kid victor, named Finn or something, beat up the Le Roux girl in a fight, “you’re practically a celebrity, ya’ know?” Now the gun part makes sense. Bastion spins the pistol again, this time holding it out by the hilt towards the other.

“C’mon,” his grin shines honestly, “show me your moves!”