we run } brooke&atlas { blitz

For someone who's lived a life of nothing but smoke and mirrors, it's only natural that my first response at the sight of a garden of all things is thought to be nothing more than an illusion. After all, in the Capitol all I hear is the harmonic hum of the engineering that comes with a force field to thwart attempts of premature madness and the light ticking of borrowed time slowly reaching amounts lower than subzero. In my experience, nothing beautiful could flourish in an atmosphere so thick and ripe with desperation; the sun tends to remain shielded by the ignorance of anything other than the present matter at hand.

There's a desperation in my heavy chest to see anything but red run through my stitched heart and to see anything but the threads of fate.

In this prison of the doomed and damned, it's no wonder that I leave the thought of sleep behind for the fourth night in a row and find something incomprehensible within the walls of human reasoning as we slowly leave behind the pm's and approach the am's.

“Out exploring? Or can you not sleep?”

It's impossible to miss the voice of someone who's tragedy makes the weight of the world on my shoulders seem trivial. I recognize Brooke Destin straight away, immediately matching the voice that offered soul as sacrifice on the reaping tape and the voice that asks me a question even I cannot pinpoint the answer to. "I suppose you could say I'm doing both." I say, surprise at the ginger locks and nightgown that appear from my peripherals nonexistent.

“You're Atlas, yeah?" I only close my eyes and nod. “What are you running from?”

(what aren't I running from?)

My eyes flick open and the old desperation for a stand still in motion comes floods right back. She holds no fear: no fear of a tarnished family bloodline, no caution of a career mindset long since taken root.

There's a shock and almost hollow desperation in my chest but I only respond the only way I know how with a soft smile. "I don't run, I don't need to run, never have run." It's a lie so well-rehearsed that it feels almost sinful to speak it in this sanctuary.

(how else could I ever be strong enough to hold the weight of the world on my shoulders?)

Polarized to the righteous path since five, there's no surprise that it's practically automatic.

Her smile is like a pink line across a white page, a signature to distinguish maleficence from magnificence.

"I love exploring, but I think sleeping is such a bore. Don't you agree?"

There's a natural light in her eyes, a wanderlust in her soul - an innocence that belongs here, in a garden filled with nothing but natural wonders and away from the neon and false fluorescence of the Capitol's concrete. I nod because that's all I think to do, nod and agree and smile because it's nice to forget why I'm here, nice to forget this garden isn't what Capitol indoctrination makes it out to be.

She turns and I'm numb, to have been shown a rare glimpse of innocence that seems so out of place. When she smiles I don't know whether to contribute it to the all-too familiar acting of people smiling because they want something or people smiling because there's something better, that they're somehow better than all of that. I would almost call it an act, after all, she's also from a career district full of statistics and spears and training centers; for all I know she's cut from the same stone as me.

I almost call her to come back before she speaks, setting about a notation of dreams and control if we concentrate hard enough. But there's not a single needle in sight, only flowers and petals - I surrendered my sphere of control when I set aside my golden crown and volunteered to solve an irrelevant problem and save a family line's reputation touched by madness.

Lucid dreams are for sleeping anyway.

But the thought dies in the back of my mind because although I told her I don't run and I've never needed to run, I came here to do just that. To hide from reality underneath this system of celestial bodies and forget about flashing neon Capitol lights while under the guise of nature.

"Then let's not run tonight. Let's explore together. We should watch out for the violets, though. I hear they ask for your darkest secrets."

And her hand is outstretched and my hand twitches, aching at the memory is Diorite and Eva's hands in mine.

For someone who's only pre-determined mark on this infinite timeline is to be marred red with tragedy she seems so cheerful, too cheerful - with a natural wanderlust in her eyes and a burning light that doesn't dare flicker.

"I guess I better stay away from those," and I let out a nervous chuckle because it's nice to smile without the intent to seduce.

"My name's Brooke, by the way — and you're safe with me." But she leaves out the name Destin and I suspect it's because she sees us as more than just a pair of bloodlines.

"I'm Atlas."

(but do I?)

My thought process is usually cyclic, starting with the sunlight that pries open my eyes and lingers on the wall, and ending at the time for celestial orbs and astral fantasies I'd dismiss during the day because dreams aren't meant for a place where I'm learning how to aim true. It's selfish, and it's irrational for me to surrender to the shared wanderlust she exhibits and the kindness she exhibits over the broken mask of tragedy but I break the cycle when I stretch out my hand and take her fingers in mine.

"I've never been much of a plant person, care to show me a few things?"

(somewhere, far away in the distance, I feel this cycle begin to break)

Wanderlust -- it calls, we forget.