aeneid adamantium ; kay/loony ; white elephant

They told him it was his age. Like 40 was the new fucking 80, like a peacekeeper with a perfect track record would fall apart the moment his hairs turned gray instead of black, like he was trash. They reeled him back into this prissy landscape without so much as a sound thought in their empty skulls. He was their white whale, and shoving him behind a desk would be their victory. But they forget that whales can sink ships, and in the upheaval that was the post-71st Games, he proved his worth by demanding to be back in the woods, capturing those whose hope was too high and killing those whose common sense was lost. He proved he would let age be his downfall, and yet, here he was, back in the Capitol.

His pale fingers trace the outline of his crystal glass, the scotch at the bottom aged to perfection. His cold stare focussed entirely upon the night sky that lay before him. Lights tangoed against the platinum buildings, a man made night sky in these dark hours. He despised the Capitol, not for the Hunger Games, like most his targets, but for their refusal to embrace their maliciousness. He could interview each of those bumbling, drunk, baboons prancing beneath his building if they thought the games were murder and they would turn their nose to him. He could here their voices sharpen in defense and shock, stumbling to put together a response before simply laughing and walking away. Pussies

Öde Calamit embraced his darkness. He watched the games in his sick delight fully aware of the sins he was committing. He didn't hide behind ignorance or stupidity. He got his kicks off suffering, and he would be damned if he allowed anyone else to rain on his fucking parade. So when he returned to the Capitol, he knew he would not enjoy forcing himself to be civil amongst these morons, but he was also aware that he had a mission to fulfill.

"This is Velocity Rush, your avox."

The voice drifted to his ears; whiskey causing him to process them a moment slower. He set down his glass slowly and turned to the girl. Her dark hair covered part of her face, but it was clear who she was, and it wasn't Velocity Rush. Even the most promising plastic surgeons cannot hide scars perfectly, and this girl had many. She was not the girl who died first in the 69th Hunger Games, but she was close enough.

She would be satisfactory, her relatively recent death would make her recognizable enough. But he couldn't help but wonder why they couldn't bring him an Embersatt or Shore, surely those would make for better bait.

He pushed the trepidations out of mind, instead focusing on what he had to work with. In all reality, this was the result of a busted knee, some fucking District 11 scum thought it would be funny to climb into the foliage. A bullet through the back of the head sure did change his mind, but it also cost him his left knee. So, like the angler fish, he would rely on bait to lure his prey, and who better than the tributes the rebels view as martyrs?

He had already had had a Margaret, but had she not flinched like a little bitch the bullet wouldn't have hit her heart as well as the rebels. So she settled for the next best, this... Velocity.

He handed her a notebook and pen, knowing he wouldn't be very good at reading or caring about her sign. And straightened his shoulders.

"I do not accept disobedience. I do not accept unruliness. And I do not accept whining. You will listen to my orders, you will only ask questions when I allow you to ask questions, and you will never ever leave my side when we are in the woods. Disobedience and abandonment will result in your immediate termination. I will not be kind. I will not be loving. But I will be fair," He peers at her, fear poorly hidden.

'She's just a girl' the thought is opaque, something he can barely envision, but it gives him enough humanity for the moment to treat her decently. He glances at the small bag at her feet, and picks it up.

"Do you need anything else?"