highway ninety-nine { lucy&stevie

( s t e v i e )

"Damnn, this is riding in luxury," my fingers rubbing the cushions of the train's seats, "this some good shit, ay Lucy?" 

Lucy. 

It's all jumbled in my mind, like I'm chewing on cotton candy and that shit went up instead of down (what the fuck am I saying,) I don't know this girl like that. Lucy, Echkart. The name's practically bitter on my tongue because I know if one of us makes it out the crowd isn't gonna want me. I can tell that now, I know that right now even as my syllables are as fluffed as my cotton mouth that the capitol isn't going to want me; hell, I barely want me compared to her. She's an Eckhart, the third goddamn one but a volunteer at that. And in a row, well honey this isn't looking bright for me.  I lick the air, the strong smell of wine basically edible by itself. 

Just by being in these games alongside her I know my ass isn't making it out, and I guess that means I should hate her. Lucrezia Eckhart and Stevie Masinova, I can hear it now. In the recaps it'll be her, the third in a line alongside her district partner, so hell they're gonna try to forget me as best as they can.

But hell if I let them. 

("I vollllllunteer,") it repeats in my mind and each time all I recall is the jaded air around my body, its hold on my body - shit. I can't lie and say this isn't the dumbest shit I've done - and I've done a good bit of them, I got some might fine options - and I know it, because this might be the fucker that brings me down. An entire life of bad choices, shit, I finally found the single one to fuck me up. The cotton of my sweater picks at my neck and my hair bobs as I walk, "it's Stevie," I high five'd the kid I saved and practically gave a hand job to death on that stage myself, "Stevie Masinova." 

What a charm. 

And up there I stood next to Lucrezia, blonde and as tall as me and I'm practically as irrelevant as I was before I got on that stage beside her; I should hate her. That's what they want right? Some compelling ass story to sell on the market, but I've got my own quick rich scheme here, alright, I'll let you in on a little something. Us tributes are allowed a tribute token, one thing to bring from home with us to the arena and boy if I could bring narcotics I probably would - if anytime is the time for drugs it's now - but instead I'm bringing merchandise; what can I say, I'm a investor at heart! People bring broches and rings and the like all the time, so what's so different about bringing a pair of panties? They're stuffed in my pants pocket and they're practically a good luck charm, I mean. Nothing's going wrong when you have lingerie on. 

Back to the point, the entire crowd's looking at me and I stare back and I see people from my school - Crescent, Radio (she's a cool thing) and these twin boys that always refused to buy - and I see my parents in the back, my father holding my mother's hand mortified. And through my state of mind and my bloodshot eyes all I see is them with my coffin already because they know I'm dead anyways. They didn't see me at the justice building like I thought they would, and I can't really blame them.

Sober-Stevie is pissed too, trust me. 

But at the time I was fine; well, not y'know, fine fine, I was a little fuck't up and really tired but it's whatever.Nothing had caught up to me now, stroking the seats and feeling as light headed as a fucking balloon. The building echoed with door slamming and the talk of I'm guessing the remaining Eckharts, I sat there counting on my fingers how many times I heard somebody else say fuck besides the constant repeat of it in my mind until the peacekeeper swung upon my door, "Masinova."

"Wassah,"

"You two have five minutes,"

And my first thought wasn't "oh! I wonder if my parents finally decided to show up!" it was fucking "wow, could I orgasm in under five minutes." The answer is yes, probably, I haven't clocked myself but I probably could. A white twink turned through the door way, sweating his ass off like he was the one on that stage - "Stevie." I wasn't really in the mood for a pity party, I'm fucking going under ground in three weeks cut me a goddamn break. Save the mourning for when the sun rises again, I punch his arm and he stares at me. Now see, me and this kid we weren't ever close. We saw each other through school a few times, I mean, I'm a fucking drug dealer and he's just my market except he never bought anything, "Stevie, what the fuck?"

"It's cool my guy, my friend, pal buddy twink dude-"

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Huh-uh, a lot of shit I guess?"

I shrugged and he left before the five minutes was up, and I'm guessing Lucy wrapped up her shit a little while after because our escort came and walked us out to the train station, the drive in the capitol car estrange. And on the train at first I watch the district leave behind us, Lucy in a different corner of the train than me and the city's smoke gradients for a second as I whistle some burlesque show tune that my mother would play on repeat. And it's weird, having a home for seventeen years and then just poof you don't, and I grab the seat, feeling the air run out my head. 

That, of course, was when I hit that layer after being fucked up where you just are fuck't up. And you know what? Fuck that shit, I roll up my cotton sleeves and scratch my arm, bitting the hair tie off my wrist and putting my hair up out of my eyes; this is good shit. It's just my partner and I, and every avox I could ever need and every fucking alcohol I could ever even fucking want to taste - "I'm gonna fucking enjoy this." A whisper, a dare to myself, let's fucking play, Stevie.

"Hey, Lucy, let's play some party games, you know never have I ever?"