your brand of danger // reagan & lore

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So, I haven't been completely focused. 

The whole point is getting ready, right, not like my life depends on it or anything. Every so often, I get this wave of cringe, realizing what I've committed myself too and I've been trying so hard to stomach that down. Swallow it. Bite the grit and get through the moment - I'm going to die. I'm still working through it, the worst days aren't here yet and I just want to keep going. 

Keeping doing. I've been trying to pin together some sort of crop top moment the past hour, cutting improv textiles into bases and furs. Stripe dyed pink, folding the bottom into a make shift hem and it could be cute if I could get the fucker cinched. I've been eyeballing the most of this, comparing my finger inches to knife sizes, making rulers out of daggers is my new strength I guess. Versatile girls always look good. 

I've tried a test dummy and Syren and neither worked out, one wouldn't stop moving and the other wasn't my size. Too much of a barrel, and Syren got touchy every time I pinned something too close to her skin. Guess she doesn't fully trust me, and I don't blame her; I don't trust me either. Just kidding, I just said that for the hell of it. It's like, the most overcrowded isolation I've been in-- I hate talking to these guys. 

All depression and shit, but I need someone's help and it's gonna be "you!" 

She'll do just fine. I eyeball her at first, namely chest and waist and thighs, and she's doing a little bit better than I am. Pretty girl, small and shorter than I am and a little porcelain face. She seems like she'd do crack if somebody offered, "want to be a model, babe? I've got a jacket in mind and these mannequins aren't cutting it." I flap the fabric base before folding it in half, tucking it beneath my arm. Maybe I can kickstart a fashion line before getting my head chopped off, aspirations and all that. 

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

TONIGHT THE HILLS ARE WATCHING HER.

They were surprisingly understanding in the Capitol. Well, you know, about as understanding as one could be when they were ushering you to your funeral. It was like being abducted on her way home from school and tied up in some basement, except her kidnappers let her have cigarettes when she asked. They had asked politely for her to keep it to the balconies or the roof or, at the very least, her own room. But, also they were planning on killing her, so she was smoking wherever the fuck she wanted, and right now that put her taking a break along the outer boundary of the Training Center, puffing it up.

She'd gotten more than a handful of volatile and scornful looks, but she matched them and then upped them with the sheer demonstration that she didn't give a single fuck.

The girl approaching her looks like a weekend partier. She was probably popular, leader of the bitch pack by day and secret slut by night when she climbed over the white picket fence and played with the kids she would've mocked if there were witnesses.

Reagan was one of those kids. She'd seen this girl a hundred times, thinking she was hard because she'd smoked weed once and went and bought a pair of socks with marihuana leaves. Sweet enough, though. Girls like her were good kissers. Reagan thought it was because they got off on the thrill of creating a secret. Something about opening the door to social ruin and reveling in the fact that no one ever notices.

She bit her lip and eyed the fabric.

"Fuck it," she said, standing for the girl to lead the way, "I gotta scrape this nail polish off anyway."

They'd tried painting them a bright red, but the bottle of black polish she'd found in her pocket was the only thing she'd allow. They could paint over it as much as they wanted, but it was a fight she was determined to win.

"Bathroom? Or your place?"

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This girl looks me over before looking back at her nails, like she has better things to do. I guess I'm content with complacency, she doesn't seem like an energetic girl. We all don't have to love life after all. Good enough with me -- I shrug my shoulders, grabbing the base and fabric in my hands by the time she asks the location. 

"Huh? Oh," I was just going to do it in the training center honestly. It takes a second for my brain to catch up; bathroom or bedroom. My place, like it's not just a dead man's hotel room, "oh!" Snarky bitch would have shamed the hell out of me, I always love assuming what people think of me, fun times. She doesn't seem like she could fight well, so I guess she won't stab me to death in the elevator or hallway. 

Which brings up that good question -- bathroom, bedroom, why can't we just get naked in public? I swallow my spit, "bedroom, duh. That way we don't have to worry about interruptions." Does she- is this flirting? This is flirting right? I've got the fabrics over my shoulder and leading her to the elevator ways. Shelby's never home, our escort's out shopping and Kane could be anywhere, you know what that means? 

Home alone, baby. 

If anything, I can just kick this bitch out and eat chocolate fudge bricks in my panties until I get sugar sick. "Just wait until you see the shit I snuck in," that's the way to make friends around here. That D.C. bartering comes in handy after a while, it's its own talent trading cigarettes and picks for a blunt. "Fair warning, I stole a bunch of shit from Seven's closets. 

If you snitch, I'm killing you first. Deal?"