tornado warning; 92nd train Katrina/Beck

k a t r i n a .

They took my damn boots.

Spare me the extra advantage bullshit. When has anything about the games ever been fair? Aren’t we careers supposed to get an edge anyway? But no, no weapons on the train and that extends to my steel-toed boots.

As if I needed boots to kill someone if I wanted to. I’m getting strangled by the red tape here. Bet that peacekeeper is a fuckin’ foot fetishist.

Am I being childish? I don’t think so. My boots…man.

Nothing intimidating about a pair of black ankle socks. Putting my feet up on the table and leaning my chair back to the wall just doesn’t look right without sand encrusted shit kickers dirtying up the tablecloth.

I mean, I’m doing it anyway, but its lost some of its charm.

Can’t believe they waited until I was on the train take them. What about the Justice Building? Would have given me time to grab a regular pair. You know, I spent some time saying goodbye to Juliette and Irene and that went just about how you’d expect.

Julie was actually upset and also hungover, and Irene looked like death warmed over. I told them not to worry about me, I’ll be back as a victor in a few months. Then it’s easy street from that point forward.

But you know, while I’m angrily chewing a slice of seaweed bread that still isn’t as salty as I am about my boots, who should walk in to interrupt my brooding but Beck Hailsham himself.

“How’s it hanging Becky?” I say with a lopsided salute. I know I shouldn’t antagonize someone who could give me arena pointers, but man, some people just give off a vibe that tells me they are easy to fuck with. “Big fan of the way you took out that kid from 3. Gotta be one of the best fights a d4 victor has had.”

I mean it. That’s an actual compliment. Katrina Sykes is genuine and bona fide, 100% of the time.

I pick up one of the forks and turn it over in my hand, imagining stabbing it through the eyeball of that bottle blonde that volunteered while I grind it into the table. Gruesome I know, but I gotta start thinking like that now.

Gonna have to kill to go home, and watching the reaping replays, chances are its going to be pretty faces. Lot of hair I'd like to run my fingers through among my opponents, so its better to prepare myself for the eventuality of killing instead of kissing them sooner rather than later. 

Hey, I'm not a psychopath or anything, I'm just a realist. And I’m no stranger to blood. I’ve gutted plenty of fish, cracked open my share of clams.

Hm. I’m starting to work a nice groove into the table with this utensil.

And who the hell does Elle think she is anyway? There’s a hundred other girls just like her. Mad at mommy and daddy, walking around like a pretty little liar not knowing everyone can see right past the mascara. Careers like that think they’re smart, think they’ve perfected being a china doll everywhere but the sparring mats.

Careers like that get read like books and put away on the shelf. It’s only when I look down at my whitened knuckles that I realize I’m steaming so bad I bent the damn fork.

Volunteering for some nobody when I’m out here giving the Capitol the kind of heartstring pulling sibling story they won’t even need to manufacture.

Bad idea honey. Nobody tries to steal Katrina Sykes thunder and gets away with it.

Cause I’ll bring the lightning.

“ So you got any tips, Becky? Or better yet, got any shoes?”