banana pancakes ☄ justice/lysette [ blitz ]

It's just as sad as I figured it would be.

Bits of the foundation of the Justice Building are crumbling, nearly every face in the crowd is made up of sunken cheeks and half-dead eyes, and I'm certain that the coal dust has only been swept under a rug for my benefit. First stop on my victory tour and I don't feel like much of a winner.

I rattle off the scripted speeches like the good, obedient, well-trained dog I am and don't bother adding anything. It's impersonal and detached; I don't even bother looking up from the notecards my escort gave me, rattling off my deepest sympathies and condolences like I'm relaying a list of instructions on how to build a desk.

It's not that I don't care. Because I do, I really do. But I don't have the strength to do this twelve times and also give a shit.

This is just easier. I just want everything to be easier.

I finish with the speeches as quickly as I can. My missing leg is throbbing and the prosthetic is rubbing uncomfortably against the what little leg I've got left. They offered me a crutch to use for when I walk through the district to shake hands and take the grand tour, but I refused despite how unsteady I am. Opal is close enough that if I stumble she'll catch me.

Climbing down the stairs of the stage is nearly as challenging as smiling into the faces of the tired souls being forced into this meet-and-greet bullshit. Most of the crowd dissipates as soon as I've stepped four feet away from the stage and I really couldn't be more thankful to continue this sad tour in peace.

And I'll admit, I do roll my eyes when I hear my name.

"Mr. Fray!"

And if the voice didn't sound so small I might have winced at the title. But it's sweet and endearing on her lips.

"Mr. Fray, I need some questions."

I raise an eyebrow as the hints of a smile turn the corners of my lips up. She's small. Like really small. Nearly as small as Percy looked in Stevie's arms, nearly as small as Scout felt in mine... Shit.

"Wait, I mean, I need to ask some questions. I need your answers -- or uh, some. Some answers."

I really do think about shoving past her and pretending I didn't hear. It'd be easier. But she's got a soul that simply just reaches out and touches, sprinkles glitter in my hair, and puts flowers behind my ears. Who could possibly say no to someone who shines so bright?

"Call me Justice and you can have some of my answers," I say with a small grin. "But only some."

Children frighten me. And this girl is no different. They're small, breakable. They look at me with expectant gazes with questions that I don't have the answers to.

There are so many different ways to screw up, so many wrong answers I can give. So many different ways that I can become a child's biggest disappointment and so many ways that, even when I believe I'm saying and doing the right thing, that they can grow up with twisted hearts and broken souls. Because I, the big kid, the big brother, the adult, the idol, the king, the victor–one wrong answer and I can shatter a beautiful dream.

She tucks her hair behind her ear, eyes averted. She scares me, but never have I had the strength to tell a child, "No."

"Wait, not here, um uh--"

Her hand doesn't even fit around my wrist.

"This way!"

I've never held a hand as small before. Surrounded by younger siblings and I've never once held their hands. ("They have to learn to stand on their own.") If I had known how fragile, how soft, how surprisingly steady their tiny hands were I would've ignored that advice. Hands like these don't deserve to be left empty, begging.

I already feel an apology forming on my lips. Because I'm bound to answer incorrectly, and I'm bound to break a heart.

But I don't protest. I could tear my arm away, I could throw her over my shoulder without the slightest bit of effort, I could pull against her advances, but--

I run. As fast as I can manage, I run alongside her. And I think my smile is as bright as her own.

District 12 is beautiful. I can see the poverty in every crumbling building, sure, but beyond the buildings and beyond the sullen faces and coal-dust covered ground there is beauty. Rollings hills and mountaintops stand tall on the horizon and I can see the appeal of this place. They may be poor, but without the streetlights and flashing neon signs, I'm sure the stars shine brightest here.

I'm just about to tell this girl as much when the gravestones start appearing. One after the other, solid, strong and black. Black like death, not black like the night sky. It's then that I begin to slow, my heels growing heavy, my back straightening.

"Wait--"

But I think we're already there. Too late for me to protest, too late for me to get away without a few new scars. One more story to keep my head spinning, one more death on my mind–could it really make everything that much worse?

Huh, doubt it.

"Who are we visiting today?" I ask, perfectly capable of reading, but letting her tell me anyway. I sit, out of breath and heart racing. I cross my legs as best as I can, moving metal as I see fit.

I try to smile. Not for her sake, but for mine.

And the gravestone says, 'Lysander Grey' in crooked letters, dusted with coal and dirt. And I didn't think it was possible, but looking at her now—legs crossed, eyes cast down, and hands so small against the stone—she seems even smaller than before.

"Uhhh..."

She's unsure and she's still not looking at me. And I wish there was some way that I could reassure her that I'm not-- that I'd never-- that I don't want to be the monster she saw on screen. That I'm a murderer, but I don't want to be. That I've killed and hurt and let people suffer, but I would never do it again. That I'm a monster, but I'm not dangerous; I'd never mean to cause her harm. I can't help who I am. I'm trying.

"My papa."

Fingers dancing over dried out flower stems and withering petals, hair brushed behind her ear, and eyes kept as far from my steady gaze as possible, I try not to wonder at her for too long. But if she were to glance in my direction I'm sure she'd see the shock in my eyes, gliding across my jawline.

"How do you-"

And I don't know whether I should sit next to her or not, but my knee feels weak, and there is a pain in my chest that's making my entire body feel heavy. So heavy that sitting next to her is the only option if I don't want to join her father in the grave.

"How did you get over them?"

And she's got her knees to her chest and I wonder how long it's been since her father died. How long has she been staring at this grave just waiting for an answer to this question? Why does she think I have the answer? I may look like an adult, but curled up next to her I feel just as small—maybe even smaller.

I don't even know her name. How am I supposed to give a sincere answer to a stranger whose name I don't even know?

With knees pulled to my chest and a pain in the stub where my metal leg rubs funny against stitches, I wish I had more of an answer for her. But all I can tell her is how much a fuck up I am and how many answers I just don't have.

"I don't know," I mumble into my own knees, eyes searching her father's gravestone for a hint of an answer. I find nothing; it stays silent. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

And suddenly I'm thinking about blood soaking through blonde hair and flesh splitting and bones cracking beneath my axe. And it all feels so heavy that on my shoulders that I'm sure I'll sink into the ground to join all the corpses beneath me. And I think I want to cry, but I don't even know this girl's name. I can't cry in front of a girl whose name I don't even know.

"Hey, you never told me your name."

But I think I really need to cry.