WIP :: Thirteen :: Quince Loisel III

There are few things in this life that truly terrify me, but storms like this are one of them. When the heavens grieve, shrouded in frostbite black veils, tearing their cloudy garments so the sky is jagged; billowing stripes of lightdarklight onto the damp dust around us. Silver daggers of rain tumble down, between the ribs of the concrete skeleton that makes up District Thirteen's ruins. These water shards stab us right in our rebel heart, flooding out our supplies and preventing us from taking measurements and checks that the land around us is still not detected by the Capitol enemy.

I glide up the slightly damp steps, screwdriver held like a paintbrush between elegant fingers in one hand, flashlight dangling from the other. Behind me, I hear the rasping of my servant assistant's heavy work boots, much in contrast to my own soft leather footwear. I prefer to be silent, and comfortable, in style. We reach the top of the dark stairwell and, fumbling in my thick, expensive jacket pocket for a cigarette, I lean against one wall and nod towards the leaking pipe. "Go on, then." my voice is liquid copper, the syllable conducting hot impatience and twisting round the echoey corners of this annex. The young boy, twelve, perhaps, though it doesn't matter to me - youngsters willing to come to my aid are dispensable - scampers forwards, bright brown eyes filled with awe and a subtle lust to become my companion, or my friend.