RILEY KANE | DISTRICT EIGHT | FIN

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In the rain, it was hard to see every detail of the boy who rushed along, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, and his face turned toward the ground. Dark hair that fell in a mess of curls bounced with each hurried step he took, covering his forehead and resembling a mop a bit too much. He was tall, long legs and skinny arms, and very lanky. When he looked up, only for a second, just enough time for the light to catch the emerald glare the small amount of light gave from his eyes. Rounded features made him look child-like from afar, despite his large height.

It was obvious that he enjoyed spending time in the mirror, wearing a trench coat like classic detectives wore, and dark jeans. After noticing the scowl on his lips and the glare he held on those shoes of his, he wasn't happy at all that they were getting muddy. He pulled a hand out from it's warm shelter that was his pocket, and nimble fingers ran through his hair, thoroughly soaked, and pushed the strands out of his eyes. It only fell right back in them, but he seemed satisfied enough as he trudged along, clenching his jaw to keep straight white teeth from chattering in the cold weather, which caused veins to pop out of his neck like he was frustrated. Maybe he was.

He came to a rest under a tin roof, shaking the rain from his hair, and looking out at the poor weather conditions. His eyes seemed to sparkle in the bit of light that wasn't hidden behind grey storm clouds, a brilliant shade of green that reminded others of spring time and warmth. Something very sought after in times like these. His nose was wide, and he looked constantly like he was deeply inhaling. A crooked smile was created as his hands pulled out a book from the satchel that hung on his hip, and he bit his bottom lip as he sat on the porch of the building, his parent's tailor shop, and began reading, boringly straight eyebrows knitted together in heavy concentration. After becoming completely engrossed in the book's pages, he began shaking his foot, and with one hand, twirled the chocolate curls on his head. He seemed jumpy, always moving and fidgeting with his hands. It was strange, in an adorable way.

The next day he sat with his friends at a lunch table located directly in the center of a wide room, it's once white walls now yellowed with age. He was only half dedicated to the conversations with his peers, the better part of his attention focused on the toothpicks, napkin, rubber bands and paper clips in front of him, his hands working swiftly to create small, useless things. Eventually, after trying a few times, he created a contraption that only he seemed to understand, even as he showed his friends and explained, laughing when they didn't get it. It seemed like his hands were always holding something, always needing to fidget, and he always looked around him anxiously, like an animal that was eating another, bigger, more dangerous predator's meal.

He liked to keep himself busy, always making plans for the weekend and trying to avoid doing the same thing every time. He liked to have fun, was that a crime? He was sometimes labeled as a wild card, and perhaps he was, but he wasn't for the reasons everyone thought. He wasn't just a typical "bad boy" that defied authority and did what he pleased, he just always managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Which was his fault, since he believed that everyone created their own luck. The only person that could influence his life was him, and his choices.

He has had bad dreams ever since he can remember, and that is, perhaps, the reason he always looks so worried, and his thoughts are always so jumbled together. He was never the neatest person, in fact, it was hard for him to keep anything clean for an extended period of time. Sometimes he wondered if it was because of the dreams he had. His loved ones screaming and him not being able to reach them, standing in ashes so deep it was like wading through water, and knowing they were the remnants of his home, faceless voices whispering to him, promising him that they'll get him eventually, it seriously got to him. It wasn't rare for him to wake up in a sweating panic, or scream until he woke himself up. He was terrified.

He tried to hide how he felt on the inside by making himself look as normal as possible on the outside, spending a bit too much time in front of the mirror each morning making sure he looked perfectly sane, and acceptable to society. He liked clothes, the different styles and colors, when to wear what, it all sort of fascinated him. He had a small arsenal of scarves and beanies hanging in his closet, all scattered around and not organized in the least. (Which was to be expected of him.)

He was known to take things too far, and his pride rarely allowed him to apologize for it, even when he knew he should. He was sarcastic, and he was extremely immature at times, it was no secret. He could feel himself getting onto other people's nerves, but he couldn't stop himself. This was the main reason he preferred being alone with his thoughts, where he had time to sort out the mess that was his mind, and figure out what the best thing to do in a situation was. Otherwise he made stupid decisions, and only dug himself deeper into holes that he only wanted to get out of.

From a young age he enjoyed singing. It was a sort of escape that cleared his mind when things started getting too hard to handle. When he was singing, he only thought of his voice, what to do to improve, what twists and turns he liked adding in. He would test himself, singing high notes and stretching his vocal chords. Sometimes he would sing so long that his voice became scratchy and hoarse, but to him it was something to be proud of. Proof of his hard work.

The young man sat in a chair, still so brand new it smelled like the shop from which it was purchased, a look of bewilderment in forest green eyes as his wife confirmed his suspicion of her pregnancy. Two months from what she claimed. He was in complete shock for a dreadful moment, and in that moment the young woman just knew she had lost the thing that made her life complete after a lifetime of searching, but then he smiled and she knew. They were going to have a baby. Together.

Riley wasn't born with much more than parents that loved him and a roof over his head. But that was okay with him. Some people didn't have that, and he was content that he did. However, eventually, his parents saved up enough to start their own tailoring business, and things got easier for him. Not better, easier, because in his eyes, things were already perfect. He had his father's personality from what he heard, always laughing and cutting up, even when it was needed of him to be serious. Once he started school, it was only more evident, but he seemed to get away with it most of the time. (For a kid his age, he really was funny.)

He liked to build things from a young age, and began making traps simply for the enjoyment of it when he was twelve. However, people began to see them and take them off his hands for a bit of cash, and he decided to make a business of it. Nothing too big, nothing that would end up having peacekeepers involved, but enough that he always had some money in his pocket. It wasn't rare for the buyers to give him a bit of the meat his traps successfully caught, either. At first his parents would ask him where he got it, and when he would reply with the same answer every time, "Just found it." They eventually learned it was effortless to ask.

He was never sure if they ever actually figured out what he did and didn't care, or if they just were too dumb to put the pieces together. It didn't matter, though. They had money and food, and as long as they had it, they were satisfied. Riley liked the satisfaction of making his own traps, and getting a profit from them, considering the fact that he would make them regardless. They had only been made in the first place out of fun, and hunters swarmed him like flies. He admired their bravery, if you want to call it that. (He thought "stupidity" fit better.) He would have never tried to sneak passed District Eight's boundaries, but he wasn't as desperate for food as some, so he couldn't really be sure. Maybe if he were like them he would, who knew?

other

codeword: Odair
lyrics: "mountain sound" by of monsters & men
palette: dog & butterfly
face claim: lennart richter