Ugh, did it just start raining? No gurl, thats PISS! // A+H
Feb 13, 2024 22:22:48 GMT -5
Post by pogue on Feb 13, 2024 22:22:48 GMT -5
A X Y L
He's assembled something like a bucket list in his short time in the newly built Training Center, staring up at the ceiling as the hologram walls spit out a District he'd never felt home in, pondering the meaning of what little life he has left, chewing on his own mortality.
They'd rebuilt the walls and the coffins but kept the ghosts all the same, he sees tributes past sitting in the shadows and bleeding their sins all out over the carpet. It's why he steals bottles from the bar cart and watches the red eye of the security camera follow him on the way out, flips it the bird and drowns himself in little liquids that do nothing but burn. Until the walls fold in on themselves, until they melt away completely.
Honestly, maybe it's more of a fuck-it list? After all, he's resigned himself to a fate unknown by this point.
Anyways, item one (and the only one he's actually written down so far, hastily scribbled on the back of Lucky's birthday invitation):
Axyl stands on the edge of his own convictions, neon lights of the Capitol staring back at him in hues of red and orange. Parties blip and blur in the windows of buildings he'd never reach, silhouettes of shuffling figures and clinking glasses and a life they knew tributes dreamed of. It should make him angry, it should make him sick to the pit of his stomach, the way it's dangled in front of them- just out of reach unless they bloody their palms.
Instead, there's a hollowness that works its way up from his bones and into his veins, fangs sunk into his flesh and rotting him from the inside out. Somber reflection, hollow heart and he's been led up to the rooftop sometime after midnight. A wandering soul would probably mistake his silhouette for something pitiful, filled with sorrow and teetering on the edge of extinction.
They'd be wrong. Really- he's just here to get shit done.
He'd been chugging water since eleven for this moment, fly pulled down and something of a relief rushing through him as he pisses off the roof top of a building brand new, christening it for all the ghosts to come. When he's dead and gone they'll cross his name out in red and black, bloody lines to forget. But for now? Right now he's chewing through his own bucket items, written in black and crossed out in yellow.
