Adrian Edwards || PK/Capitol {WIP/Fable}

I don't remember the games, I don't remember the year, I don't remember how old we were, but I do remember the way her hips swayed, the gentle curve of her palms as they caressed my cheeks, her breath on my face as she whispered hushed words of affection. I remember the twist of her lips at just the right upward angle and the color of her eyes, pale sea-green. I remember a warm, enveloping circle of gold I slaved and saved for, just to let it grace her fingertips, and lastly and perhaps the strongest, I remember her taste, refreshing, cool, like a winter's breeze with just the slightest hint of spring on the horizon.

Her name lost itself long ago in the recesses of my mind. Occasionally, I'll get a hummingbird wing-flutter, the letter just on the tip of my tongue before it fades away. Sometimes it's something graceful and elegant, like S or G without any hard edges or corners, and other times it's cutting and pointed like A, or N, or even E. I just can't seem to remember. Other things cloud my memory- accurizing, centerfire, rimfire, collateral damage, frizzen, gunpowder, lead. Wash your hands before you eat, before you touch your face, before you touch her hands lose themselves in my dark locks and I can see the tears welling at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill across perfect cheekbones. I want to wipe them away but what can you fix when the thing hasn't broken yet?

Reaver-?

The man's words slap me out of a stupor, and a familiar scowl upon my countenance faces him. These young bloods and their damned 'Holier than thou' attitude, full of so much confidence and swagger like they fucking own the place. His voice holds a hint of annoyance when it should be laced with nothing but respect. Wait until we get alone, when the pistol I hold is not just for cleaning demonstrations. I have more than enough reasons to slap the attitude out of him- the first time he heard of me, that I would be his 'Mentor' for his time in the academy, he laughed. What kind of name is Reaver? he questioned. I wasn't the one to tell him it was just a name some kid like him called me. Reaper, but with a very defining lisp to his words.

"What am I supposed to do next?"

Exasperated. He reminds me of a small, impatient child but god forbid I point out he forgot to swab the forcing cone. "Do it right the first time." I snap back with just as much animosity, though he recoils and glares down at the weapon in his shamefully small hands.

"Show me again."

"Once should be enough for you. Learn on the job." He edges away this time, tender gaze defensive and haughty. Though it hasn't earned me many friends, I have never once been reprimanded for the attitude I take- it builds character they say, prepares them for the harsh realities of the world outside. No one talks to me the way they expect criminals to talk to these children. Actually, I very rarely meet my scores face to face; the life of a sniper is one with relatively clean hands. It is incredibly uncommon and only in the most extraordinary circumstances that I have to get close and personal with my quarries.

The cadet's fingers are eager, but trip and stumble over the complicated machinery. His young face still has a hint of a wealthy childhood, and never has he felt the ache of loss.

The lights overhead dim and flicker down and I can hear the kid's breathing catch in his throat. The little shit doesn't want to be in a dark room alone with me, and the frantic waving of his arms turns the automatic lights back on. "They need to be re-calibrated." he says with a horrified bark of a laugh.

His fingers find the gun on his desk, and he once again begins to incompetently clean the thing, but he quickly gives up and abandons the revolver and its many components and he puzzles them back together, enigmas of moving parts and pieces my hands quickly shuffle together with ease.

His silence allows me to fade back to those gaping memories, gnawing harder and harder than a hungry wolf. No family comes to my mind, no district number. Those have all been purged, burned away. It's difficult to relive anything beyond my late teens, in the academy.

I've tried to find any semblance, any inkling as to the man I used to be or any reasoning as to why I joined the Corps in the first place, but I can assume it was because my name never came out of those crystalline jars, and my 6'7 form never found the chance for battle. Or maybe I was poor growing up, never one with the semblance of riches, or the flash of gold in my face.