/metal strings and smoke-screens [stare]

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shrimp
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/metal strings and smoke-screens [stare] Jun 14, 2011 20:46:34 GMT -5

Post by shrimp on Jun 14, 2011 20:46:34 GMT -5

keep me in your memory

He had left when dusk had settled, promising to return every so often. His mother openly wept, while his father stood there, daggers in his eyes. Obviously, it was apparent to him that he was deserting them for brighter skies, brighter futures, even if this was false. For how would they survive without him? There was no reason for Shean to even want to desert his parents, but the possible prospects of earnings had begun to lead him on his own path, and it wasn't located in District 11. No, it was located throughout all of Panem, playing his simple harmonica in the hopes of gaining some simple cash, cash that they needed so badly that this was worth the risk.

His sister was sleeping when he left through the rust-eaten fence. She would have no idea as to where he went. He could only hope that his parents wouldn't be so bitter that they would tell her lies about him, that he left them to suffer. Because if anything, he was trying to do the opposite - he was breaking the law for goodness sakes, in order to help them survive from day to day with just a little bit of extra cash that would accumulate over time. He'd return after all - there was no doubt about that. He'd prove it in a month, when he would sneak back in through the corroded hole in the fence on the outskirts of town, leaving the (hopefully large) pile of money inside, and make his escape. It'd be better for them to not see him again; they would just want him to stay.

But he had to get out of there, not just for their safety, but maybe for his sanity. Each night as he slept he dreamed about that day, the blood, the scream, the cold eyes that gazed at him unblinking, a mouth that was left open in a silent scream that would last for eternity, appendages twisted at impossible angles. Each night, it seemed as though he woke up in a cold sweat, shallow [gasps] breaths easily audible amongst the small chirping of insects and rhythmic sounds of nightlife. If he stayed there any longer, it would only get worse, he was sure of it. In Shean's eyes, he was a murderer, and perhaps getting away from the scene of the crime would make him slightly more at ease, even though he truly was not at fault. But he would never realize this, at least not for a long time.

He was used to walking barefoot - he had done so for a particularly long time while he trekked among the grain fields, harvesting plant after plant, the quota too far away for him to rest that night, or any night, really. He had gotten used to walking softly, avoiding sharp objects that would most likely get his foot infected and require a visit to the apothecary. This tactic was used here - after all, the environment was basically the same. Sharp stones and twigs littered the floor, and stepping on it would not only cause a twinge of pain, but your location would be pinpointed for all predators out there. He wasn't afraid of this though. In fact, he felt more alive than he had felt in such a long time - months maybe. So with the full moon at his back, he walked.

He walked for such a long time with such few provisions. Water soon became depleted, and he barely made it before wandering into a stream and somehow not becoming sick from the trickling water. Food became scarce as well, but he put this aside. He didn't know how to hunt, and it wasn't like he would need the skill once [if] he got to a district. Food existed in those places, hopefully in more abundance than in District 11. So he moved on, eating the small bit of food that he had brought with him from his home, a few nibbles per day. But just as he was all out, he made it to one of the Districts. Of course, he didn't know which one it actually was, but judging by the look of the thick, grey colored smoke that filled the smoky-scented air, it was either District 3, 8, 5 or 9. Still, the District didn't matter. What did matter is that he was there, and that he was ready to play with his trusty harmonica, and complete this aspiration.

He didn't speak - the accent was different, that much was obvious. And what if he were to encounter a law abiding citizen who had wanted to reap the benefits of reporting some wanderer to the Peacekeepers? He had heard rumors of the Detention Center; dark, desolate, no way of escaping the torture that they had inside. There was no way that he wanted to be there. So he kept his head low, even though he probably stuck out like a sore thumb. At the very least, nobody bothered to report them - they were all busy going to and fro, walking to their jobs, or home from school. He still didn't know where he was until he saw the sign for a Clothing Factory, and a lightbulb seemed to turn on in his mind.

Oh.

He found a little bench to sit on, whipped out the harmonica, and glanced around. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bright idea to just play - people were far too busy to just listen, weren't they? Nonsense, he told himself. There's always time for music. Placing a small, white ceramic mug [that had an abundance of cracks littering the once-smooth surface] on the ground [for tips of course], he shook slightly greasy hair out of his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to play.

leave out all the rest

Stare
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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

/metal strings and smoke-screens [stare] Jun 14, 2011 21:43:56 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Jun 14, 2011 21:43:56 GMT -5

Senalia Livery

No more pain. No more pain.
Here comes the rain. Here comes the rain.
Let it fall. Let it fall.
Oh, darlin', let it fall.
<><><><><><><><>

I awakened later than usual today. By the time my heavy lids had drifted open, the sun's rays were strong. They shot through the undusted window panes above my bed, reflecting off of the rich brown floorboards and illuminating the room in a warm glow. For a moment, I had smiled, because it was a comfortable light- the kind only the summer sun can give off. But that moment, fogged by sleep, slipped through my fingers almost instantly, and my eyes widened as I realized how late it was. I immediately snapped out of my half asleep state and leaped out of bed, throwing on some worn jean shorts and a stained sleeveless top, yanking a comb through the frizzy mess of golden brown on my head, jamming my feet into a pair of no longer white sneakers, and shooting out the door with my newest weaving and the icy taste of toothpaste still fresh in my mouth.

Now I find myself wandering through the crowds, money gripped tightly in my hand instead of the weaving. I had spent a long time making this one- it had bright hues and was very soft, selling for much more than I thought it was worth. My criticizing eyes found many errors woven into it, but the buyer was blind to these mistakes, which I am grateful for. I shove the money into my pocket, feeling relief flood into me. Finally, I know for certain that I will be able to pay my bills and buy some food for myself. The tessera I received is just barely enough to keep me alive, and I plan on doing much more than just surviving. A few colorful lights bounce next to me as I press my arms tight against myself and squeeze through tiny spaces I find in this mob. I'm not used to maneuvering through so many people- the reason I wake up so early is so I can avoid getting caught in crowds like these.

Finally I manage to break free, stumbling a few steps and quickling straightening in an attempt to keep my balance. There are less people on this road, probably because there are few shops. I recognize one, though. An old jewelry shop that sells the most unique items I have ever seen. My mother got her favorite necklace there- right now it sits in an old jewelry box at the back of the tiny room that I call my library. Sometimes I like to lift it off of the red velvet and hold it to the light, admiring the way that the light shoots in a single ray through the center of the beautiful green stone, resting so perfectly within the gold. There have been moments that I should have sold it, for it's definitely worth a lot. However, I refused, because it carries with it the memories of my loving mother and the warm, beautiful family we once had. Sometimes, when I put it on, the images of us all sitting by a roaring fire and weaving in the flickering light on a harsh winter night become clearer in my mind. My heart often aches for them- I miss having people who actually look out for me.

Will used to look out for me. Well, as much as he could, anyway. He had to work, after all. He never failed to protect me, though. The first day we met he stood up to those men to protect me, and that was when we barely knew each other. I remember being very confused later- why did they hurt him? Will told me that they had been drinking, and when people drink, they don't think right. They don't realize that what they're doing is bad. I think he was sort of mad at them, but I could only feel sorry for the poor men. One good thing came out of the event, though. A friendship. It felt nice, knowing that someone listened to me, and would protect me when they had to. I really miss Will. He was my only friend, and although I'm very happy for him (life must be wonderful in the Capitol), I also wish he was home, here, with me. I wish that he could still be my friend.

I'm broken out of my thoughts by a sudden noise- it takes me a moment to realize that it's music. Joy lights up my olive eyes. Music is rare here in District Eight, and it's a real treat to be able to hear some. I automatically move toward the sound, my steps light and bouncy on the rough concrete. I spot the source of the lovely sound after a few seconds- a young man with short blond hair who is playing a harmonica. The tune is upbeat and fills the air with an undoubtable happy feeling, and a few people turn to smile at him before moving on. There's no doubt in my mind that he's different. I've never seen him before, and something about him just seems... off. Either way, I move toward him quickly, my hair swaying back and forth behind me as I move. I come to a hault in front of him, my face eager and admiring, like a young child's. I dig through my pocket and pull out a small fraction of what I just earned, dropping it into the mug by his feet and smiling broadly, waiting patiently for him to finish before speaking.

"You're very good, you know," I say, crossing my bare arms over my chest and cringing slightly as the sunburn on my shoulders aches in protest. "It's obvious that you love to play." I giggle as an ultramarine light dances acorss the front of the harmonica, slipping over the edge and falling like a tear before bursting on the ground. I suddenly catch his eyes, though, and confusion floods through me. "Something's wrong with your eyes, though. They were happy when you played, but now... something's lost in them. You should make them happy again. It looks better."

Last Edit: Jun 16, 2011 16:57:58 GMT -5 by Stare

shrimp
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/metal strings and smoke-screens [stare] Jun 16, 2011 22:45:01 GMT -5

Post by shrimp on Jun 16, 2011 22:45:01 GMT -5

I don't care if it hurts
I wanna have control

Whenever he played, he would play with his heart. Perhaps he wasn't the best harmonicist in the world, but nobody could say that he wasn't dedicated to it. After all, throughout his nineteen years, that's all he had. The harmonica, his family and her. Lainey had been the best part of him for such a long time, and the harmonica was tied to that. Every night, they'd sit on that hill and play music. She'd normally sing, and he'd play the metallic instrument, and on occasion they'd switch jobs, but normally it was just him and her and their trusty instruments at odd hours of the night, while at the same time trying not to get caught by Peacekeepers.

After the incident, he couldn't touch it for months. It just sat there on his nightstand, staring him in the eye as if to say "you don't deserve to play this, because that would mean that there would be no qualms to killing her." And even though in reality he didn't kill the girl, his conscience and guilt was so warped that he believed this lie, and he strayed away from it, working longer hours, talking less than before - one might have called him depressed, due to his rather sullen mood and dark thoughts, and they would be somewhat correct. There was a psychological dilemma in the boy's mind that caused this self-mutilation of his happiness, and nobody that he knew would be able to cure it. Only time would make this go away.

But now, here he was, playing the danged thing once more time, even if he sounded terrible. Somehow, the barrier preventing him from even looking at that harmonica had partially dissolved, enabling him to just play and play and play... And so that's what he did, even if nobody was listening to him (which in this case was not a particularly good thing. He still needed to get some sort of income after all). And when the notes finally died down, he felt somewhat satisfied, yet there was something missing. And that thing was Lainey, who was buried six feet underground in the graveyard of District 11. There would be no more singing with the girl with vivid brown hair and piercing blue eyes. There would be no more laughs, or looking at her when she wasn't looking, or slight blushing when she took his hand. None of that would ever occur anymore.

And that was truly the worst part about it all, because he still believed that he killed the only girl he had ever felt happy with. So for a moment he was dragged into his nightmares again, where the moment was relived over and over and over again... And then he heard something fall into the mug. The boy looked down, noticing that there was a significantly larger amount of earnings nestled in the broken ceramic than before, and he picked it up, studying the insides for a moment. This would certainly be able to help his family for a little while, at the very least - income was next to nothing in District 11, and it was difficult to even afford bread. With this amount of money, they would be able to afford something, at the very least.

Grateful, the boy glanced upwards to see a girl - she was much younger than the boy, who was in fact no longer eligible to be reaped. She looked like she was in the right in the center of that age group. Long brown hair, pale skin; she looked frail, like any minute something was going to knock her over, maybe even if someone stood right in front of her and gently blew air onto her face. Olive green eyes stared back at him, but they seemed to be distracted, for they were not locked onto his grey eyes, rather they seemed to be looking at something else that was nearby, but not him specifically. "It's obvious that you love to play," she stated, giggling as if she had just witnessed something overly cute.

But then she turned back to him, her olive eyes locking onto his, and said "Something's wrong with your eyes, though. They were happy when you played, but now... something's lost in them. You should make them happy again. It looks better."

And at first, he was rather taken aback. What did she mean by that - was something strange going on with his vision? Could she tell that when he looked at her, she was slightly blurry, or when he squinted at signs such as the ones he had seen before, it took a while before he actually understood what it said (and when he played the? But no... Nobody could ever tell that from just looking at somebody's eyes. It took a few moments before he was able to have an inkling of what she meant. Fragments of an idea seemed to be juxtaposed together, but they weren't a perfect match - if only he knew that with just a few rotations and edits of these ideas, he would understand what she was getting at.

But he was almost there - clearly, he looked different when he played the harmonica. Happier, sort of. And it would be good for him to try to look... Happier? He hadn't quite understood this point, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, a small little "Hmm?" being audible. Whatever did she mean? A very confused Shean even forgot that the accent of someone from District 11 was completely different than one from 8, muttering "I don't understand..." before realizing that he had just inadvertently showed how he was from somewhere else, and closed his mouth, cheeks turning red from embarrassment and shame.

Now she'd know that he truly was a criminal, even if he had kept the worse reason from everybody in Panem.

I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul

Last Edit: Jun 17, 2011 12:37:30 GMT -5 by shrimp

Stare
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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

/metal strings and smoke-screens [stare] Jun 20, 2011 20:15:19 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Jun 20, 2011 20:15:19 GMT -5

Senalia Livery

You see rain?
That's odd, 'cause I see a rainbow.
<><><><><><><><>

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise when he speaks. I immediately drop my smile and put a finger to my lips. I suppose it's slightly my fault, for inspiring him to speak, but I didn't realize he was from somewhere else until right after I had finished my sentence. My olive eyes suddenly intense, I search for Keepers that may have heard. There is a pair nearby, one a tall, strong man, and the other a short woman. Both wear very serious looks on their faces, and are totally unmoving. They don't even glance at us, which surprises me. The Keepers seem to watch me more than the average citizen, but today they are simply watching the large crowd. I'm guessing that they expect more crime from the constantly moving group of people than they do from the young girl standing nearby. I sigh in relief, then turn back toward him, shaking my head. "You shouldn't talk so loud. Your clothes already make you obvious. Speaking will definitely get attention."

It probably wasn't the smartest idea to come and try to make money in District Eight while wearing those clothes. Other districts don't get advantages because of their industry- in District Eleven, where he's from, they don't get extra food just because they grow it. Their harvest is given to the Capitol. But in District Eight, our specialty is textiles. And yes, while most of our cloth is given to the government, the clothes we do have are well made. It is, after all, our specialty. It's not that his clothes aren't nice. It's just that they aren't District Eight nice. Even my clothes, worn out and faded, have a that touch of neatness and perfection that only the textile district can create. Someone who just glanced at him wouldn't notice a thing. But if anyone stopped to talk to him, like I did, they would realize that his clothes aren't made here. In Panem, he could be arrested just for that.

Relaxing at the fact that the Keepers aren't looking this way, I smile slightly and tilt my head to the side knowingly. I see ice cold fear flicker in his eyes. The lights swim around his head, growing and flickering, then darkening slightly in color. I immediately understand. I am a greedy little girl who would do anything for money. The Keepers are nearby, and it would be easy for me to just turn him in and collect my reward. Too easy. But there are two problems- I'm not greedy or cruel or mean, and I hate the Keepers. I always have, ever since they refused to let me live in an orphanage. Because of them, I almost starved.

But enough of those dark thoughts. On such a beautiful day with such a delightful stranger, I should be overjoyed. After all, conversing with an odd but facinating foreigner is very rare and offers many opportunities. I giggle a little, and it is a light, happy sound. A sound like music. Like his music. "You talk funny. District Eleven, correct? And don't worry, I won't turn you in. I like you. You play music nicely." My eyes are bright with curiosity and happiness. I love music, because it can light up even the darkest of days. People hear noise when they hear music, but I see the golden sunshine that flows along with it, warming hearts and lighting up faces that have remained empty for too long. "And what I meant about your eyes is that they were happy before, but they don't look happy anymore. They look... lost. And you look much better when you're happy, so you should be happy more."

Getting tired of standing, I spin around and sit down next to him with a grin on my face. Most wouldn't sit next to a stranger, being more cautious than I am. But what is there to be cautious about? It's not like he's going to kidnap me or something like that. People say that I trust too easily. They say that I should be more careful- that seeing the good in people can actually be a bad thing. But that's just silly. There's nothing wrong with seeing the light in people. Yes, it's ture- some people have more good than others. But that doesn't mean you should call them bad people. People tell me that I have to open myself to things other than the good. What else is there except for good? People say that many have dark sides, and those are the sides you should pay attention too. But people say a lot of silly things, and I find it odd that they still try to tell me things. I rarely listen.

The lights immediately swarm around me when I land next to him, flashing bright colors, and I laugh, swatting at a lime green one. My hand passes right through it, of course- you can't touch pure light. Admiring the rainbow that swirls around me, I can't help but feel sad that other people can't see them, too. There's something about the lights... something that seems to spread happiness through me. They're so beautiful and graceful, inspiring me to spread joy just like them. I glance over at him, my olive eyes clear and obviously happy at finding someone to talk to. "So, what brings you to District Eight?"

[OOC: Bleh. I'm... sorry for this.]

[/size][/blockquote][/justify]

Last Edit: Jun 21, 2011 20:35:36 GMT -5 by Stare

shrimp
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/metal strings and smoke-screens [stare] Jul 17, 2011 0:23:48 GMT -5

Post by shrimp on Jul 17, 2011 0:23:48 GMT -5

'cause I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
He was doomed. This fact seemed to be engraved in stone. Even this oblivious boy knew that the girl could easily run and tell the Peacekeepers that there was some foreigner here. Travelling between the districts was strictly forbidden, and although it hadn't been as enforced recently, the punishments for this crime was rather severe. And as soon as the girl turned around and whispered something in the man-dressed-in-white's ear, he'd be shipped off to the Detention Center, the unspeakable horrors visible before his very eyes. He trembled at the prospect, his harmonica almost falling from his grasp. Eyes looked back upwards at the girl, begging her not to turn him in. He didn't dare speak again, lest it would entice her to run away.

But then she did the exact opposite. Not only did she correctly guess his district [automatically, he nodded slightly in response before realizing that perhaps it could just be a ploy to get him to reveal even more secrets. Then he just stopped doing anything, simply looking at her with eyes wild with fear and anxiety], but said that she liked his music. The scared look in his eyes vanished ever so slightly, replaced with the smallest bout of pride. She was one of the only other ones to ever say that. In fact, the only other one to ever say something remotely close was Lainey. "You're good," she would state. Sometimes she would hum along to the tune. Other times they would switch roles, with her bringing her cherished guitar, him singing some melody that they had just made up. She liked his singing as well.

Perhaps it was a particularly stupid reason to put a little trust into another teenager, but she reminded him so much of Lainey - both were so innocent, seeming to be detached from the horrific world that they had been thrust into. How could this little girl be so happy in a world that stank of cotton fibers and smoke, just as Lainey was content in the land of sweltering heat and sweat? Those times with Lainey were the only moments of joy that Shean had ever had, and maybe he was going down a wrong pathway, but he just knew that trusting the girl was good. There had to be more than one Lainey in the world - he had to be able to trust more than one person. Simple logic, even he was able to understand this. And now he was able to understand what the girl meant by the eyes-comment, whispering a small "Ah," in acknowledgment.

The brown-haired girl sat down next to him, oblivious to the dangers of the world. She seemed overly happy, like something was a bit off in her mind. But Shean didn't mind. If anything, he welcomed the change. Oftentimes, he felt that people were far too normal for their own good. It made them upset, bleak, bland. He was similar to them of course - why else would he still be in a small pit of despair and hopelessness that entrapped him every which way he turned? But still, just looking at her, the girl without much care in the world, he felt jealous. He wanted to be that content with his life. He wanted to be like Lainey, like this girl. He wanted to feel fulfilled. Of course, he would have to work at it, but that was why he was here, correct? He was working to make a new life for both his family and himself. He was working to be free, even though he would never admit that to his overbearing parents. He wanted to see the world, to explore just a little bit. District 11 had always been a bit desolate.

As if on cue, the girl asked "... What brings you to District Eight?" Yet, he had to think about the right answer for a moment, conveying his thoughts into tangible form, into words that were understandable to the everyday man, because after all, that's who he was. And saying things that one didn't understand was rather ridiculously incompetent. So he thought for a few seconds, maybe more, before answering warily. She was still a stranger after all. She could still have him arrested, or have him exiled to a remote area outside of Two, but for some reason he highly doubted that. Still though, it would be good to express some form of caution, just in case someone overheard. The words were quiet, laced thick with his District 11 accent - he kept her advice to heart, talking softly and to-the point.

"It's complicated," he muttered, slowly standing up from his spot on the bench, picking the mug back up and looking around some more. The crowd had thinned out, no doubt most of them had already reached their destination. It would be good to relocate, that way he would get the most money out of his work. Turning back to the girl, he beckoned for her to join him. Logically, it would be best to keep her in sight, to make sure that she wouldn't go and tell someone something that they ought not to know, but in reality, Shean simply wanted company. He was a rather simple boy in that manner - as long as he had someone to talk to, someone to listen to, he was content. And trying to become content was the intended goal. Perhaps it always was.

"You wanna come?"
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here

Stare
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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

/metal strings and smoke-screens [stare] Jul 18, 2011 22:42:10 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Jul 18, 2011 22:42:10 GMT -5

Senalia Livery

My name is Senalia Livery,
And I am not insane.
<><><><><><><><>

People almost never find time for me in this district. I can understand, because I am often busy myself. The Captiol designers are getting more and more creative, with multi-hued fabrics that are beginning to make our cloths look a bit dull. Of course, we're keeping up (we are the District Eight, after all), but just barely. I don't have a family to support, yet I'm still finding that I have to work almost twice as much as I used to, late into the night hunching over and weaving, sometimes by candlelight when the power is out. Today is hardly an exception, but I feel that perhaps I can celebrate just a little after earning myself some money? After all, it's enough to keep my sade for at least one more month. And what is more fun than walking the streets of District Eight with a 'complicated' stranger?

I nod eagerly, bouncing up out of my seat and going over to walk beside him. I like this stranger. He has time for me, and doesn't glare at me, like the Keepers do. And he plays very nice music. And he's from District Eleven, which I find just absolutely facinating. The only time I ever really hear about other districts is in the Hunger Games, and even then, I only learn about the district industries, which I already know from school anyway. I wonder about other parts of life- District Eleven is supposed to be less fortunate than us, but he looks healthy enough. What does he do in his free time? What are his friends like? What about his family? I'm bubbling with questions, each one that surfaces even more eager than the last, but I swallow them all down because I remember that 'complicated' people don't really like to talk about their lives.

For me, life is pretty clear and straightened out. I don't have to worry about other people, because they generally leave me alone (except for a few times when they stop to laugh with me, although I rarely know what we're laughing about). My parents were brilliant weavers, and they spent much of their free time teaching me how to be just as amazing as them. I can clearly remember those summer days spent under the trees in our back yard, with the swaying grass making our legs itch and the sun beating down hard on our skin. My mother would point out how beautiful a butterfly was, and then she would draw my attention toward the lovely hues on it's wings, and draw a larger picture of it so she could point out how detailed they were. She said that anything that was woven should be similar. Brightly colored and detailed. My father preferred to teach me inside. He told me more about weaving techniques. With both these skills combined, my talents grew greater. Of course, I wouldn't call myself one of the best weavers in the district. I'm still a child, after all. But thanks to my parents, I am extremely gifted for my age.

So, while weaving is not always easy, it makes me enough profit to keep the house and support myself. Extra cash is a bit harder, but not impossible, either. It's the same routine almost every day- wake up early and sell any extra work I have. Buy any materials I need. Eat lunch at one of the shops. Go home and work for the rest of the afternoon and into the night, only stopping for dinner and sometimes a break spent reading. I'm just not a complicated person, and I don't think I ever have been. I'm organized enough (although anyone who saw my library would most certainly disagree), and life is simple for me. I gaze at this mysterious young man, wondering what exactly makes his life so different from mine. So much more... complicated.

I feel the Keepers' icy gazes following my movements as we walk by, and lift my chin up and purposely avoid looking at them. The Keepers here aren't lazy, like I've heard they can be in some other districts. They are clean and crisp and cold, as if someone carved them out of stone. The uniforms they wear never seem to have a speck on them, arms stiff and straight at their sides, like rulers. They are always muscular and tall. I have always been intimidated by them. Yes, I do wish I could do something about their harsh actions, as many do. I hate them because they hate me, and ruined my childhood. But I go with the crowd, because I am weak and could never do anything against them. While my head is held high, I keep my eyes lowered, and will this stranger to do the same. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves (too late, the Keepers are always watching me, trying to find something that will prove that I am a threat to the district.)

Once we are out of earshot, I quietly say, "I might know a place where there are a lot of people, but few Keepers. You could make a lot of money there. Would you like me to show you?"

[/blockquote][/justify]