face forward // [machiavelli's last]

In the end he has the strangest feeling that he's forgotten something. Like he's five years old, in kindergarten, his stomach mewling piteously because his lunch box is still on the kitchen table back home. Like he's twelve standing in the reaping pits for the first time with pants too big that keep sliding down his skinny hips because his belt is still hanging in his closet. Like he's sixteen and he's laughing in the attic of his best friend's house, then suddenly he's forgotten what's so funny and he's just staring at a perfect pair of lips.

When Jimmy's blade cuts across him, Machiavelli Hope is lost.

He falls, crashing to the blood coated floor of the elevator. His breathing is so heavy, his mind so blank. His fingers search for square shape, tracing around the edges of his ribcage. Four points and straps. Something he's lost.

The chestplate. Back in the medical wing. He moans.

And then there's other shapes, little circles drawn soothingly on his back.

He stills. "Can you turn me?" His voice is thick, syrupy. "I don't want to -- I want to see the doors."