Booker Ashwood || Psychological Evaluation

[Arrows]

From the Desk of Dr. Imogen Lapointe
Evaluation 06: Year of the 7th Hunger Games

Her pen makes several final flourishes on the page marked for Pascal Gaultier before flipping finally to something fresh. A new page meant for a new tribute. Placing both her pad and pen down on the table, she takes it upon herself to step out of the cell for a second to get a freshly chilled bottle of water to place alongside the muffins. She has already gained more information than she could have imagined and she still isn't done. There's a lot to be said about data derived from such a statistically young age group. 

Returning to her seat, she takes one last look at Booker Ashwood's file before slipping it away into the bag by her chair. As with any visitor of her's, she has to try to find the best way to approach. Often times the initial impression is what everything else is based on. Naturally, she can't account for everything but she can be as prepared as possible for what they may or may not say. Reactions are supposed to be her specialty after all. As for Booker Ashwood, well, perhaps reactions won't suffice. His records are those of intricate designs. They tell a story of strength, but also of burnt wood and falling bombs. She senses something brittle perhaps within the physical fortress the record stouts. 

The sound of the holding cell's door squeaks and she stands sparing a soft, yet considerate smile. "Hi, I'm Dr. Lapointe. I just have a couple questions for you, please have a seat and you're welcome to the water or muffins." She waits for Booker to take a seat before sitting down herself picking up both the pen and the notebook before her. This is the beginning. "Before we begin, I just want to explain why you're meeting me. I'm a psychologist and I really want to get to know each and every one of you. To me, you're so much more than just numbers. You're unique individuals." Her fingers clicks the pen softly as though a prelude to the flowing ink that is to follow. How many times will she repeat this speech today? Another pen click. Many times, of course.  "Since there really is no great place to start considering the circumstances, Booker what does the word fear mean to you? You can use as little or as much detail as you'd like. This is your time, I'm just here to listen."

[gamemaker kelsier]

b o o k e r .

"cry havoc
and let slip
the dogs of war."

They take him underground. He can tell because the room's gone colder and there are no windows lining the long, concrete hall that they walk him down. Booker feels conductive these days, every small change in his environment is felt, every movement in his peripherals noted. It reminds him of being a kid in the woods, the world unidentifiable around him for the first time again.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Lapointe."

He's led into a small cell where a woman waits for him, a notepad in her lap. She gestures at some water and muffins but he ignores the offering. Book's done this before, back at school when they thought that therapy could save him. He'd enjoyed their little sessions only because it'd been fun to lead the psychologist in circles around his head.

"What does the word fear mean to you?" Dr. Lapointe asks him.

The wolves howling. The scent of scotch spilled over an old wool carpet. Blisters on the palms of his hands from holding a wooden pole too tight. The screaming sound of a bomb falling from the sky far too close to their house and the sound thunder makes during a storm, like a bomb landing. The shadow that always comes across his father's face, the looks of pity in the maid's eyes who they see his bruises. Pain in his belly from hunger, the sounds of gunshots in the woods, eyes, iridescent in the dark, following him home.

"Weakness," Booker says and then grins slowly, "If you let it be. It can be advantageous too, an adrenaline spike can be pretty useful in the right situation."