devil's advocate. district one train

[hesper hart 🐺 d9f]

I already hate the boy, by the way. He's everything that's wrong with One these days, all uppity snot-nosed brats with tailored coats and daddy's inheritance to keep them warm. We would've bullied him back in school, or maybe stolen from his house. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd fuck him based on his eyes alone, I just know I'd feel shitty about it afterward. Still, though. If he was interested...

The girl, though, I'm not certain about yet. She isn't from the scraps that's for sure, otherwise I'd know every detail there is to know about her. But even still, she's District One, baby- real District One, from the spiky hair to the fuck you attitude.

"You both better be fuckin' ready," I say cheerfully, pointing my acrylic-adorned finger into the air accusatorily.

I take a seat between them, one hand coming to a tender halt on the scruff of the boy's neck, my nails lightly dragging themselves along the nape, and my other hand lacing itself into the hand of the girl on my other side.

"If either of you gets in there and wusses out, I'll come down and fuck you up myself." If this is becoming a sport, a game, a... thing- and all of the shit I've gone through in the past twelve goddamn months- no, the last... however many months three whole years is... it might all actually amount to something? I might get to feel... peace? Abso-fucking-lutely am I gonna make sure there's a show every. single. time. until it finally happens.

"Remember it's you or them. Nothin' else should matter. You do whatever you have to do, and don't you feel bad for none of it."

It worked for me. I said I was going in, killing the tributes from Ten, letting Terra Montague know I'm going to fucking get her one day, and win. I did literally all of that. Didn't even allow myself if there was another option until it was done, and you know what? I choose living every time. Fuck remorse.

My eyes bounce between the two of them for a moment, and then I stand, pose to show them my outfit.

"I look so fuckin' good in bottom lashes too though, right?"

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

b o o k e r .

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

Delia Blake might be an idiot.

Booker's been watching her the last five minutes, trying to get a read on her but she makes it hard. There's lukewarm boredom in her eyes one moment, freezing cruelty the next and the words that come out of her mouth never seem to match.

Whatever game she's trying to play, the rules must change fast.

She sits down, an iron fence between Sully and him, her hand on the nape of his neck like she owns him as so many believe that they can. His jaw tightens but Booker doesn't move, he refuses to shrink like prey for her. She's got death in her eyes, yeah, but Book was raised by war and a man who wielded it like a knife in the dark.

He knows what she sees when she looks at him because Booker's spent a lifetime crafting a flawless image. He's still in his school uniform, the reaping was right after breakfast. The crest on his chest practically reads 'money'.

Spoiled rich boy, daddy's money, privileged. Good. They can all think that if they want, it won't change anything, all of them are still going to die.

"Nice pep talk," Booker drawls. He stands up and moves down the car of the train, away from her and Sully. "You want to hold my hand while I piss too, Delia?" he asks, "Or you think you can trust me to do that alone."

His tone is casual, light, but Booker is angry. No surprise there, he usually is.

But he's not supposed to be here, he did everything right and after everything his father put him through, this is what he gets.

"Your final test," his father had whispered as he hugged his son for the first time in years for the cameras.

Anger still burns, coals kept warm in the pit of his stomach. Booker's barely had time to register the fact that Sully's here too and Delia is running her hands down his neck like he's her property. He doesn't want to be touched, to be held like he's a soft thing because Booker Ashwood is not.

He was cut down again and again until he was sharp enough to kill.