i'll crawl home to her [chaos/stare]

You always forget just how fucking big District One is.

Stupid, if you think about it too hard. Spent most of last year wandering the remaining wilds, endless and everlasting, nothing but forest and mountain and grassland for an untold amount of miles - and that's not even touching upon the ocean and its infinite horizon. How could anything compare to something without borders?

But somehow, your brain can't shake the sensation of grandeur.

Maybe it's the sheer amount of people. All crammed into these sprawling walls, heads down, a faceless sea of coloured clothing that seethes with early-morning traffic. They follow their path like rats; never looking up lest a hawk come swooping down.

You melt into the crowd like a ghost, but you always feel unsettled, here. Transplanted protagonist, dropped into the wrong story. You haven't been back since--

Ugh.

It still stings, even now. You left in the middle of the night, helpless and heated and so fucking hurt, vision blurred by tears that didn't fall until you clambered over the fence and back into the beyond. She didn't want to come with you. Refused your outstretched hand, feet planted on these pristine pathways, stubborn in the way you loved just as much as the rest of her. Chose to stay for that-- that fucking girl, that arrogant waste of space who never understood how much she stole from you, who didn't deserve her kindness or her mercy then and certainly still doesn't now.

She stayed, and she didn't want you. So you took the fall and ran.

What else are you good for?

You swallow thickly, shoving your hands deeper into your coat. The implanted metal aches with the sharp spring wind. Long sleeves obscure the machinery running down your forearms, the rows of blinking lights - the cables that keep your wrists stable twist over the tops of your palms like weaving snakes. You're still getting used to their new dimensions, how they click like bones popping in and out of sockets when you clench-curl them, but... it's funny, how hardware is what makes you feel human again.

Deftly, you break away from the crowd and into a small alleyway. Despite your time spent in District One, you've never been here before; public transit is a foreign concept, being from Nine, but a bus shuttles people along manicured roadways without anyone giving it a passing glance. The fact that there's that much space to cover in one place makes you anxious.

Still... there's not a lot of time to dwell on it. The address you were given is nearby, and judging from the sun's position in the sky, you need to hurry. Being late isn't an option.

As you travel, keeping your gaze averted from the thinning population, the buildings change. Certainly not dilapidated, by any means - a far cry from the slums of Nine, or even Six, Five - but they relinquish their proud appearance to the mundane wear of time and temperature, low and leaking and entirely lost in the noise of the city. The streets thin, muddy. Graffiti begins to peek out from darkened corners and backalley bends.

Your shoulders relax by a fraction.

Like promised, you find the door. A single, red stripe, painted along the inside of the frame, invisible unless at a certain distance. The moon resting against your breastbone burns.

Tap-tap-tap.

A moment before the peephole slides open. You angle yourself away, so all they see is your shadow.

"What?" they grunt.

"Personal invitation," you respond, "from your Lion."

Locks - at least four - groan on the other side, rusted metal squealing. You glance around cautiously as the door swings open, but you're alone. Everyone who frequents the area knows how to mind their own business.

You step inside.

A nondescript hallway for a nondescript building. You follow the waddling man through a maze of corridors, mentally mapping them as you go, eyes crawling over every nook and cranny and half-open doorway. There's a window you could potentially punch out, even reinforced as it is. A shadowy set of stairs disappear up to your right. Voices murmur up from their depths, thin and indistinct. You force your breathing to steady, but it can't drown out the loud, liquid thrum of your heart.

She's here. In the building. You-- you can sense her, whether it be sound or sixth sense or something else entirely.

Eventually, you stop in front of yet another door. No different than the others, but he pulls out a jangling set of keys, turning the lock above before the handle itself. Old school.

Smart.

It swings open - you don't spare him a glance as you stride inside, shoulders back and eyes sharp. Like you stepped through a portal, this room lacks the pale, rundown aesthetic that cloaks the building like a cape: a warm office, filled with soft yellow light and comfortable chairs and a single, solid-wood desk, polished to a refractory gleam with obvious care. Your feet step onto a plush rug worth more than anything you own and you have a moment to wonder if you should take off your shoes.

But then your gaze adjusts, and you stop thinking much at all.

There's two people in this room. The first you've never met: slender, svelte, a sharp cut to her cheekbones that betrays the predator in her posture. She has gold-gleam eyes like yours, and they glitter in the low-lamp lighting. You've never seen anyone with the same shade.

But... none of that matters right now. Information relegated to background noise, ambient data, stored somewhere for later dissection - nothing could ever be as important as this, as now, your eyes locking with the other figure and their familiar frame.

All the air leaves the room like ripped out by a vacuum. You'd know that star-studded stare even if they took your vision, too.

You have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from calling her name. It sits in your mouth, hot-heavy like a coal, slowly filling your insides with smoke. Despite the circumstances of your split, how that wound aches like there's still shrapnel stuck in your chest... all you feel is relief. She's okay. Well-fed and well-fitted, her thick clothing undoubtedly keeping out the cold that chases you around.

It was worth it. If she's still here, it was all worth it.

You clear your throat. You manage to tear yourself away for a moment, back to the golden eyed girl, but you always return to her. "Hope I didn't miss the party."