A funny little song... (Luna, Prenten)

His royal highness, the sun, was definitely enraged as his obnoxious cousins, the clouds, decided to barge into his domain and be up and his business, covering his heating progress with their big, fat bodies, white as albino can go. Though the king of heat was distracted, his work was not impeded. The day was blazing, one could smell it in the air, even through the water. The sun was that mad. The clouds could not give a care; they were during their business just as their kingly cousin was doing his. In a few days time, when they were to grow more puffier and large due to the massive intake of water, their job of shedding tears throughout Panem would be fulfilled.

Illusions of forming puddles on the streets were to show under the intense bombarding heatwaves. Dogs would start panting, the citizens sweating, the streets, perhaps, melting. That was for those in the lower Districts.

In District 13, there were no streets left. No animals for comfort, no people to comfort, and even the necessities like running water and food to dry up or spoil, respectively. The air spelled out 'summer'; and, in District 13, though the possibility of thunderstorms was promising, it actually only made the condition five times worse. The humidity would jack up to the near three-digits; any human being would die in the ruins with many holes, cracks, blown-off tops, and other unrecorded damages.

Without water, the wanderer hiding under in the overhanging holed and formerly-known as a veranda would have passed and baked like bread in an oven to a charring black. As droplets of salty water streaked his cheeks and over the lids, the old man swigged from the waterskin dependently gripped by his long, muscled fingers, weakening, slacking in strength. The tongue was turning to papyrus paper, the mouth now a cavern without a stream or moisture, and the man had to repeatedly - in short intervals of time - replenish his system of valuable liquid.

A skinny pole of shadow stretched out to his face, striping one cheek as the other half was covered by said pitiful veranda. He laid a knee up and the other leg stretched out. He could have been depleted of water right there.

But he had to return to the task at hand: to refill the sacks. The two he always carried with him were starting to run low of herbs and meat. However, there was another problem after spending a ten or so minute break: water reserves.

Can't believe this day.

The older man rose - slowly to prevent blacking out. He started off to the journey of foraging and collecting.

Sweat still pouring out, the older man would, from time to time, keep his balance against a wall. He almost fell down from exhaustion; a song stopped him from doing so. He kept the panting to inaudible breathing as the old ears perked to the words. The barrier between the singer and himself was a wall of marble of thin width, tall height that covered his wearied body fine. The wanderer just listened in, eyes shut to the world of heat and immersing himself to the realm of darkness.

The song gave him no pleasure for long. A hard smile pasted on, the old wanderer allowed his boot to crack a branch while exposing himself to the singer. "Nice one. The song. Kept me distracted from workin'. Heh."

"Jeez, impatient much?" A chuckle wheezed out. "Ya think I haven't given much thought about death? Silly kid." The older man had received threats much like his. It was not new; the newness was in the choice of weapon. "And I wouldn't waste a bullet on an old fart that is thirsty, tired, weak, and just looking for some grub."

He began to rapid-fire the answers: "Hidgero; District 9; wandering; and already stated: why waste a precious bullet on me? Never heard of any gun shops in my life, so correct me if they're not rare." Rough fingernails scratched against a stubbly chin. "You guys are all jumpier than jackrabbits these days."

Blue eyes saw to the storm making its way here. The grass beneath them, deprived of life for years, was perfect for setting ablaze. One crack of thunder or one match would start up a kicker. "Ya know, one lightning could kill us both." He was chuckling softly, playing with his words: "If you're wanting to kill me, how's about you take me prisoner so we can get skedaddling to some shelter? Or you could just shoot me in the leg and take off, let Nature kill me in time."

Tes-ty. The older man only chuckled internally at his own comment. He had done as told, following the young man through District 13 once more, some parts recognizable. The degree of damage lessened the more they got closer to the supposed epicenter of the former District. Roads turned from crumbling mess to finishing pavement, damaged asphalt to smooth asphalt, raising the brow from the elder wanderer.

Interesting.

When following the younger lad, the smells of wholesome goodness started to waft to his nose, and it took mental energy to try to suppress any noise from coming out of him. The boy ordered a drink, conversing little to the bartender. Hidgero took a seat adjacent to his 'captor'. He only grinned wide and grim when he put his hands behind his back, shrugging to anyone that met his eye. Inside, he was laughing a whole lot.