keep hold of the lions { d2 train }
Apr 27, 2023 17:34:18 GMT -5
Post by aya on Apr 27, 2023 17:34:18 GMT -5
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fall back into place
blood of no-one
comes from gold
blood of no-one
comes from gold
It's intentional, of course, when you seat yourself in the middle of the dining table, equidistant from the tributes at either end. The table is empty, of course, Hunger Games — apart from goblets of water (crystal) and pitchers of wine (sterling). Not as handy as cutlery, but you could make either into an effective enforcement implement. You'd rather not — but you'd rather wrangle these ruffians yourself than give the pigs an excuse to get involved.
You try not to resent them for getting to roam the train freely, the same way you tried not to resent last year's pair, or the duo from the year before. Like everything else, it's out of their hands. But the hours that you spent bribing, cajoling, and threatening the peacekeepers to let you near your sister's holding cell are hours you never got to spend with her. You remember to hate the Capitol for that. Not these children.
"Drink the wine," you say. "Calories." You're hardly qualified to advise on this fucked up pageant, but you're a soldier. You know starvation rations. You know that empty calories are better than none at all.
They both look like Shear Hill trash, same as you. Barely older than your baby brother. Almost too young to have any real allegiance. Whatever their squabble, it's not the same as the mortal feud that drew your knife towards the Kostas boy that rode the train with you. There is a difference between a skirmish and a war.
You don't really want to play parent — there's a reason you ran away from that to play soldier instead — but it's a long train ride to the Capitol and you suppose you'd rather be a dad than a babysitter.
"Be mindful of the cameras," you tell the children, sighing heavily. You sound tired because you are. Seven years ago, you were confident you could send this spectacle far enough off the rails that the whole contest would be cancelled. Every passing year makes that pipe dream feel more and more unattainable. Now isn't the time to dwell on those thoughts, but it is when they're pressed directly into your face, smothering you.
"The Capitol is good at propaganda." Every year, when you're seated in the audience, your stone face is the only defense against dishonest editing that you can muster. "They can't change your words or actions..." That you know of, anyway. "But they'll do anything they want to your intent." Your blood still boils when you recall the recut of Yejide Jonquil's end — your knife drawing its line of mercy across your little vanguard's throat, your words skipped a second forward to sound mocking, suddenly telling a corpse close your eyes out of context.
You raise a warning eyebrow at both of them. "Try not to give them anything else to work with."
You try not to resent them for getting to roam the train freely, the same way you tried not to resent last year's pair, or the duo from the year before. Like everything else, it's out of their hands. But the hours that you spent bribing, cajoling, and threatening the peacekeepers to let you near your sister's holding cell are hours you never got to spend with her. You remember to hate the Capitol for that. Not these children.
"Drink the wine," you say. "Calories." You're hardly qualified to advise on this fucked up pageant, but you're a soldier. You know starvation rations. You know that empty calories are better than none at all.
They both look like Shear Hill trash, same as you. Barely older than your baby brother. Almost too young to have any real allegiance. Whatever their squabble, it's not the same as the mortal feud that drew your knife towards the Kostas boy that rode the train with you. There is a difference between a skirmish and a war.
You don't really want to play parent — there's a reason you ran away from that to play soldier instead — but it's a long train ride to the Capitol and you suppose you'd rather be a dad than a babysitter.
"Be mindful of the cameras," you tell the children, sighing heavily. You sound tired because you are. Seven years ago, you were confident you could send this spectacle far enough off the rails that the whole contest would be cancelled. Every passing year makes that pipe dream feel more and more unattainable. Now isn't the time to dwell on those thoughts, but it is when they're pressed directly into your face, smothering you.
"The Capitol is good at propaganda." Every year, when you're seated in the audience, your stone face is the only defense against dishonest editing that you can muster. "They can't change your words or actions..." That you know of, anyway. "But they'll do anything they want to your intent." Your blood still boils when you recall the recut of Yejide Jonquil's end — your knife drawing its line of mercy across your little vanguard's throat, your words skipped a second forward to sound mocking, suddenly telling a corpse close your eyes out of context.
You raise a warning eyebrow at both of them. "Try not to give them anything else to work with."
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