one thousand forms of fear {cato!blitz}

 

I had kept my eye trained on Mason Hammerfell quite a bit.

I wouldn’t dare to admit it, but his thick skull and tough demeanor was somewhat a source for entertainment, and watching him turn fury upon each and every trainer the center had employed was some sort of enjoyment I had not managed to experience in the capitol up to this point. 

I don’t know if I would tell him that, though. 

Instead I stayed content sitting on the sidelines, watching him and predicting the next move, word, or thought. I was right more than I was wrong, often patting myself on the back as he drove fist into another nose or grunted in disapproval. In fact, I kept score, and I was up to seven before breaking the streak, before guessing a step incorrectly and watching him receive a kick to the knee instead of taking the sidestep which I had expected. 

I never knew how exactly the phrase “the bigger they are; the harder they fall” was personified up until this moment. For some reason, it didn’t strike me as a moment of extreme intelligence. Instead, it felt as if the ground beneath me had quaked as if it was the epicenter to an earthquake. 

However he never rested in the dismay but rose with more motivation than I had ever possessed in my lifetime, and as he takes another round before calling for break, I rise to my feet, approaching quietly as if walking upon a hibernating bear before coming to stand face to face—or rather, face to nose, as I find myself continuously staring up to meet his gaze. 

“You should teach me a move or two sometime, you know—” and here I gesture to the bit of blood still lingering on his collar, “after you finish attending to all of that.”