there's no {disgrace} like home // cato
Jun 7, 2016 17:30:55 GMT -5
Post by Onyx on Jun 7, 2016 17:30:55 GMT -5
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As I step through the doors of the Training Centre, Justice trailing behind me as he had a final word with Opal, three things cross my mind.
One. Being back here, after so many years, is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. The fear of socialising with other future murderers, of proving myself to an audience of faceless superiors and, ultimately, of fighting for my life for the viewing pleasure of millions of people, pales in comparison to the impending threat that my parents or old friends will hear about this and come looking for me. Or worse - that they won't. In the time I've been away, I have become totally disenchanted with all the hollow people here and their hollow wants and desires. The whole City stinks - not of some foreign odour or perfume, but simply the lack of smell. For all its colourful inhabitants with their colourful language and colourful excitement, the Capitol now looks to be the blandest place I've ever seen. With a shudder, I imagine the undesirables of the Capitol emerging only at night like pale shadows, forbidden by authorities from coming out during the day and letting the citizens know their home isn't so perfect in reality. I suppose some time away has allowed me to acknowledge those shadows. Perhaps I will seek them out for myself - the secret stillness of the night is always where I've felt most at home.
Two. Without even putting my mind to it, slipping back into my persona of The Woman, a rare beauty whose words are rarer still, and who walks everywhere in a fog of enigmatic evasiveness, was easier than slipping into a dream. Five steps off the train and already the sway was back in my gait, one eyebrow slightly raised as I made eye contact right through every single person who looked my way. Let them love me. I'm a performer, albeit in a very specific vein, and all these people are looking for is a show. They don't want to see someone crying snottily as they desperately wave a sword around themselves like a desperate whirlwind. What they want is the heroic Career, the doe-eyed star-crossed lovers, and the independent dominatrix who holds her own. Ta-da.
Three. Harbinger Rhodes stands among the tributes who traipse into the Centre like a shipwreck among a school of fish: big and beautiful and broken. His eyes are as deep as wells and tired, too. Where is he thinking about being instead of here right now? I approach him in quick, light steps, and try to make my usually vicious smile softer. Opal at least has had time to recover from her battle scars. Here is a man who is still fighting. "Mr Rhodes." I greet him with a musical voice, letting the huskiness I put on for clients rumble out like a gentle landslide. His gaze moves from over my shoulder, where no doubt he sees a hoarde of solemn phantoms (perhaps one I will someday see myself), to my own, and my breath catches in my throat. Certainly beautiful. Certainly broken. "Would you care to accompany me inside?" I hold out my arm, patiently waiting for him to offer his own for me to loop through. With any other man, I would be sure they would oblige. But not with this one. Poor Harbinger Rhodes is as unpredictable in his tragedy as I aim to be in my allure.
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