Hell of a Thing || Mohs Oneshot

For days and days the clouds overhead threaten to part and unleash a windy, rainy hell upon the world, though they keep it well contained and swallowed, trapped tight in a clamped throat leaving the male to stumble and forge a path onward in purgatory- not quite the heaven the world should have been, nor the hell he deserves to fall into.

Regardless of their final meeting and his promise, Mohs has yet to visit the tribute's family. He wishes he could blame it on work, pulling him from even his dreaming thoughts with nightmares of extended lists and misgraded reports. He even finds himself pacing through years of memories, imagining as many blurry classrooms as he could to double, triple check his facts.

No, he was certain everything he teaches is comparable to capitol standards.

Though this part of the District is unwelcoming and unfamiliar, with weed-stained arms and decrepit fingernails, he feels perfectly at pace with the dilapidated buildings and cracked streets. His cane clacks upon the ground, his form heaving itself along as his thoughts race faster than his body could ever carry him.

Even here, the poorest of the district, Panem anthems blare and blast through shattered windows. Of course no one in this fucking district would want to miss the magnificent pageantry the games offer, especially in this neighborhood. Idolized tributes offer a path from poverty to the limelight, and popularity is sure to come with a victor status- the entire district, lifted up a rung on the social ladder.

He doubts the male has the will to come back at all, let alone some fragment of whom he used to be. The formula is almost always the same- add a self-conscious teenager, throw him in a pit of hell, add in a few capitol generated mutts and a magnificent prize at the end, and POOF! A victor is born.

Mohs stops his approach, and gazes through a cracked and open window. The house itself is a single story, and was once a pale blue, but the peeling paint reveals some kind of wood below, swollen yet cracked. The house should have been condemned, leaning more on the left than the right sinking down into the ground, but he can hear the sounds of excited children and that 'Magnificent' anthem blaring through the darkness.

It must be later than he thought if they are already showing the shimmering, glittering faces of the sacrifices. His eyes lift to the left, and focus on that smiling face of the female- Ruthless, whom had no one to step into her position. She earns herself an eight, and Mohs relaxes a bit. She must have known exactly what she was to do when she stepped forward but Septys-

His shit-eating grin surprises even Mohs.

A fucking ten.

That little shit, with his sheepish smile and trembling fingers so full of uncertainty now grins, his smile perfect and shining and white. Teeth bleached and blessed by the beauticians of the capitol, he looks like a savior, no possible way he came from the slums of one.

Confidence looks great on the male, and Mohs finds himself grinning at the jubilations of the family inside- maybe District One can have yet another victor after all.

A renewed vigor fills his veins as he thunders down the broken sidewalk, roots and weeds overgrown above and below the bumpy pavement. Fuck he might as well walk in the road for all the good it did.

Clenched tight below his fist rests a crumpled list- a grading sheet, with information- height, weight, eye color. A name, an address. It's a lower number than the homes he currently passes, his gaze slipping across four-digit pass codes as he wanders.

A hurricane of emotions collide in his stomach, drip-fed through a tight throat. His heart bubbles tight, pattering and trembling worse than the clouds overhead. The sun drops beyond a distant horizon, casting pale blues and opaque yellows through the sky, and his fingers lift, counting houses.

That one- that's it.

It lacks broken windows like those surrounding it, though the lawn is just as unkempt. As he approaches the door, parted curtains in the front room flicker and flap, as though someone were there, watching, waiting. Cane clack-clack-clacking, he moves forward, thrown against the threshold of peeling paint and an aching heart, and an unbreakable promise.

Twenty one eighty five.

The numbers, emblazoned on a dull smack of tile are all he needs- this is the Lexig house. For a moment, he can't help the sinking feeling in his gut, and Septys' words- 'Spend time with them, for me.' The final words of a dead man.

A quiet 'Fuck' passes through his lips as rough, brazen knuckles rise to the oak wood door, hovering just above the surface, but something holds him back. An enormous ache rises through his right side, eyebrows knitted together uncomfortably. He curses once, twice, and allows his fingers to fall.

Today is not the day.

At least he knows where they live now, for when he's braver, less guilty, and a better man than he is today.

Mohs Aurum departs without a second glance back, though he leaves behind a heart crackling and coated in resentment and pain. He'll come back later, during another day.