children of the vault ✹ amara&flak

The longer the ride goes on for, the quieter things seem to get. I feel like unwanted cargo, being tossed around district to district as if even Panem doesn't know what to do with me. That is okay, the price to pay for the hunt I suppose. As the bus continues down this rutted road, I still picture the library the day of the shoot out: decades on decades of literature sprayed with bullets, sheets of knowledge floating through the stiff air like debris. If it were not for the clouds in my vision, I would still be high off the satisfaction of seeing the archivist's reaction to it all.  

Glorious. I need more, it's an irresistible itch I cannot scratch alone. The smell of hot gunpowder still burnt in my mind, I can't deny I haven't felt a high quite like the adrenaline of that day since. 

For all it was worth, the punishment has not been half bad. Boring, sure, but I have had much worse days at the library. They held me in District 2 for five months and nine days, I never lost count. Worked me like a dog and held me in a cage after, I was almost relieved when the news came. 

District 9. 

They took the peacekeepers first, and emptied the holding cells next. We were not loaded in hovercrafts but buses, chains on our feet but our hands were free. I pretended to sleep on our travels, everything a blur of color as I pet Chewie. The ears and eyes to my trigger finger, I think I would be more panicked had I not been accompanied with him. With each screeching halt of the bus, I could hear as my fellow inmates thinned out. Even the person sitting next to me left before myself, which came as a relief. 

Mouth breathers bother me. It was almost peaceful, for a few minutes, to be one of the few left. Chewie grew more and more on edge, but I never felt tense until the driver began to shout. "OUT!" He yelled, after an abrupt stop I had not felt coming. I was laying in wait prior, slamming my face into the seat in front of me as we halted. 

"Both of ye, get the HELL out!" 

I hardly had time to properly get on my feet as he rushed us out. Even with my blurry vision, I could see it was just myself and one other woman. She took off first, with us following from the back of the bus. I prepared myself to be surrounded by a city of smog, but stepping off the bus I found myself in a deserted area of orange clay. What looks like haphazard sheds and shacks line the street, and as I step out onto the clay terrain I hear the door shut quick behind me.

"Where... are we?" I do not hesitate to ask, introductions a pleasantry I do not bother with.