the method in your madness // stare
Jun 8, 2016 7:13:15 GMT -5
Post by Onyx on Jun 8, 2016 7:13:15 GMT -5
{gilead locke - 52 - peacekeeper}
The only thing that stops the infinite, cornerless walls of the domed top floor of the Gamemaker Centre from setting me totally on edge (isn't that ironic?) is the stale-tasting cigarette hanging between my lips. I drag in deeply, letting the smoke pool in the reservoir of my throat before inhaling it painfully down into my lungs. The burn is blissful. As calm settles over me like a breeze, caressing my face, chest, and the organs beneath, I let my eyes flicker shut. Smoking is a rare habit in the Capitol, where anything considered dirty is completely taboo, but there is no official law banning it - not even inside any of the perfectly white, perfectly odourless buildings - and I find it meditative. Besides, though I would never use my acquaintanceship with such a powerful figure to claim a personal advantage, being friends with Hazel does have perks. No one would dare tell me to stop, knowing there's a chance they might have to answer to her. I take care of Hazel, and I know when she acts to take care of me, too.
In my left hand I hold a smooth, spherical bottle of mint-infused water, her favourite. I find myself irrationally annoyed by its inconvenient shape - for such smart people, they sure as hell appreciate aesthetics over practicality. The same, I've heard, applies to this Games' Arena, one of the most expensive yet, Although I haven't heard more than passing comments about it and its flora and fauna, what I have heard is all in the same vein - the earth afire, and dark as death itself. I feel sort of sorry for the record number of volunteering bastards who have no idea what they've got themselves into. However, no matter what the Arena is, the whole build-up to the Games has made Hazel more frantic and irrational than her usual poise of admirable calm. It may not be visible to others, but I know her, and people, well enough to see the way her eyes dart upwards during conversation as her mind plays with two thoughts at once, or the way she increases her voice in volume to sound more confident about her plans - or in the way she would have stopped eating and drinking altogether, if it were for my interventions such as this one.
As she breezes out of the meeting room, I can hear the voices of her inferiors still bowling questions after her, and I know her beautiful mind is already storing away an answer to every single one. She almost doesn't see me, my white armour practically transparent on the glossy white wall behind me. I almost go to grab her hand, an instinctive gesture that I would use with anyone but her, but then remember my duty-bound limits and call her name instead. "Hazel," she turns, and I am struck once again by just how young she is. So young, and come so far, how could anyone not be amazed by her? I hold out the orb, warmer than it was but still cool in my grip, and although my mouth stays straight and solemn I know she can see the smile in my eyes, "you're not going anywhere until you have something to drink."
I resent it when publications like that damn Victor's View, the main source of all the tripe they put in young Capitolites' heads to stop them asking questions or, worse, gaining some culture or intellect, call me Hazel's father figure - or even (can you believe it!) call me her actual father, but I cannot doubt that sometimes I act less like a bodyguard and more like a guide, what Marshall, my trainer, would have called a dinh in his foreign vocabulary. Nevertheless, I am not ashamed of actions like these - after all, protecting a person is about preserving their mind and their soul, as well as their body. And it means I would give my mind and my soul to save her, too.
In my left hand I hold a smooth, spherical bottle of mint-infused water, her favourite. I find myself irrationally annoyed by its inconvenient shape - for such smart people, they sure as hell appreciate aesthetics over practicality. The same, I've heard, applies to this Games' Arena, one of the most expensive yet, Although I haven't heard more than passing comments about it and its flora and fauna, what I have heard is all in the same vein - the earth afire, and dark as death itself. I feel sort of sorry for the record number of volunteering bastards who have no idea what they've got themselves into. However, no matter what the Arena is, the whole build-up to the Games has made Hazel more frantic and irrational than her usual poise of admirable calm. It may not be visible to others, but I know her, and people, well enough to see the way her eyes dart upwards during conversation as her mind plays with two thoughts at once, or the way she increases her voice in volume to sound more confident about her plans - or in the way she would have stopped eating and drinking altogether, if it were for my interventions such as this one.
As she breezes out of the meeting room, I can hear the voices of her inferiors still bowling questions after her, and I know her beautiful mind is already storing away an answer to every single one. She almost doesn't see me, my white armour practically transparent on the glossy white wall behind me. I almost go to grab her hand, an instinctive gesture that I would use with anyone but her, but then remember my duty-bound limits and call her name instead. "Hazel," she turns, and I am struck once again by just how young she is. So young, and come so far, how could anyone not be amazed by her? I hold out the orb, warmer than it was but still cool in my grip, and although my mouth stays straight and solemn I know she can see the smile in my eyes, "you're not going anywhere until you have something to drink."
I resent it when publications like that damn Victor's View, the main source of all the tripe they put in young Capitolites' heads to stop them asking questions or, worse, gaining some culture or intellect, call me Hazel's father figure - or even (can you believe it!) call me her actual father, but I cannot doubt that sometimes I act less like a bodyguard and more like a guide, what Marshall, my trainer, would have called a dinh in his foreign vocabulary. Nevertheless, I am not ashamed of actions like these - after all, protecting a person is about preserving their mind and their soul, as well as their body. And it means I would give my mind and my soul to save her, too.
