sticky fingers // sasha

He's anxious since he's alone. Some of the other Peacekeepers, along with Reiner, are gone on a mission, and very few of them are left in the Capitol. Being by himself is something that fuels the anxiety that plagues him constantly. Normally he'd go to Reiner when these spikes of fear hit, or go sit by the ever-stoic Annie, but neither are within reach. The realization that he only has himself is frightening.

Bertolt pulls his knees close to his chest on his bed and hauls the thin quilt over his head, enveloping himself in a warm darkness. The fabric blocks out only a little of the night life the Capitol has to offer -- it's nothing like the blissful quiet of Thirteen. There, back home, you could hear a leaf hit the ground from a mile away. Outside his window here within the walls and rocky mountains, there's a constant lull of voices and motorized vehicles, clicking of shoes and jingling of bells, and children's high-pitched laughter while they run under the ember light of street lamps and neon billboards.

These Capitolites are terrifying. Colorful, privileged, and horrifying.

Unable to lay with his thoughts any longer, Bertolt throws the quilt off him and gets to his feet. He's dressed in a ratty old T-shirt and loose shorts, and a pair of long black socks clothe his feet. Running a hand through his hair, he opens his door with quiet creaks, and green eyes carry their gaze up and down the hall. Not a sound is heard and not a soul in sight. He steps out and carefully closes the door behind him, turning just slightly to listen and see if anyone's heard him.

Fortunately, not a sound still.

A very quiet exhale leaves him and he tip-toes down the hall to a certain door, lightly tapping his knuckles against the wood.

"Sasha? Sasha, are you awake? Do you want to raid again?"