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Eastern Orange
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[M:-100]

527 POSTS
last seen Apr 19, 2019 19:32:23 GMT -5

"I'm Scandinavian, God dammit. We love to be naked!"

This Fight's Fixed [South] Mar 11, 2011 15:52:30 GMT -5

Post by Eastern Orange on Mar 11, 2011 15:52:30 GMT -5

Everybody knows interrogation is just a euphemism for torture.

When Fahrenheit first signed up to be a Peacekeeper, he thought—rather naively—that he could get free training in combat and firearms, and continue on to some random district where he could figure out a way to assist the rebellion and pass on his knowledge. But he should have known that nothing is ever free. What you don’t pay for with money, you pay for in blood, sweat, and tears, and it was time to pay up. In this case, Fahrenheit was literally cutting out his heart, and everything he stood for, and offering it on a slab to the Capitol.

A few days ago, Fahrenheit had been given orders by his Commanding Officer to report to the Detention Center and conduct an interrogation. He was on a train within hours of receiving the order, heading toward District Two with nothing more than what he had on his person, having had no time to return to his house, or even arrange who would feed his cats while he was gone. He sat in his seat, staring blankly out of the window at the passing scenery, his mind whirling with questions on why he had been chosen for this interrogation. Why go out of their way shipping him from District 12, when there were plenty of Peacekeepers in more convenient locations? Was there something more to this?

Fahrenheit had been debriefed on the procedures of the DC just before the train reached the station, and was handed a thick file. He had turned it over in his hands, not opening it. He had wanted to prolong his ignorance, not wanting to know the details of who he’d have to torture until he was in the interrogation room, so he would not obsess over who they were. It didn’t help; he had obsessed any way.

Now, Fahrenheit was standing in the middle of the interrogation room, his head bent over the open file in his hands. Lyla Matheson from District Three, arrested for attempted rebellion and destruction to Capitol property. The file went on to cite several examples of her crimes. Fahrenheit raised an eyebrow when he read ‘computer hacker.’ He had seen many forms of rebellion and hacking into the Capitol’s computers was a first. He tried to quell the feelings of respect that were aroused. It wouldn’t be wise to respect someone you are totally going to destroy both mentally and physically, it’s counterintuitive. He told himself.

Fahrenheit slapped closed the file and eyed the various instruments of torture laid out neatly on the table next to the interrogation chair. He ran a finger over the twisted objects, having no clue how to handle most of them. He picked up one thing that looked familiar, a cigar clipper. It looked a lot like pliers, except instead of a flat, crushing head, it had extremely sharp blades that curled inwards to create a circular space between them where a cigar could be placed. He examined it, turning it around to get a view of all sides. Almost as if in a trance, he lifted his other hand to it, and stuck his finger in the hole.

The lock on the door behind him clicked open, and the door was thrust inward, revealing a young girl flanked by two stone face Peacekeepers. Fahrenheit’s heart sank at the sight of the young girl. He hadn’t thought that she would be so young… Her crimes suggested someone much older, someone who didn’t have their whole lives ahead of them. Fahrenheit grimaced, thinking that he was going to destroy this girl’s life.

Fahrenheit watched her as the Peacekeepers dragged her to the chair in the middle of the room and strapped her in. Dehumanize her. Dehumanize her. He repeated over and over again. She is a traitor. She is probably some dumb bitch. It hurt him to even think bad thoughts about her. How was he going to extract information from her by using torturous methods, when he couldn’t even call her a bitch in his head?

“Lyla Matheson.” He grunts after the other two Peacekeepers had left, and locked the door behind them. “You have been arrested for rebellion against the Capitol and damage to Capitol property. What do you have to say about that?” Fahrenheit hardened his heart against the defeated looking girl in the chair. He could do nothing to help her now, anyway. She was already in the Detention Center. She would be ‘interrogated’ no matter what. He realized that he still held the cigar clippers in his hand. He squeezed the handle over and over, opening and closing the blades. “It is in your best interest to answer truthfully.”

It wasn’t only Lyla who would be tortured today. Fahrenheit could already feel his soul deteriorating into nothing by just thinking about what he has to do to this poor girl.

[/color]
[/justify]

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This Fight's Fixed [South] Mar 11, 2011 17:07:35 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Mar 11, 2011 17:07:35 GMT -5

Actions: 87F717
Speech: F52887
Thoughts: 43BFC7
Others' Speech: FDD017

I may be bad,
But I'm perfectly good at it.

[/size]

Lyla was strangely relieved when two bulky Peacekeepers barged into her cell and woke her from her nap by dragging her out of the top metal bunk by her white-blond hair. The eighteen-year-old nearly smiled as her body hit the cement floor with a dull thud, would have grinned openly if it weren't for the sharp wave of agony that shot like lightning up her recently-broken arm. It was obviously time for her "interrogation," which the young prodigy knew was only sugarcoated slang for torture. Lyla could handle torture, the jagged pink row of scars crisscrossing her right arm was an obvious testament to that fact. One way or another, dead or alive, she had a feeling she was getting out of here today.

"Afternoon, boys," she greeted the hulking pair from the floor in a conversational tone, unable to hide a smirk. She had tried playing dumb when she first got here, but the vapid little airhead act that had fooled so many back in the District hadn't worked on anyone here. Idiots didn't get arrested for hacking. Idiots didn't have a now-well-known IQ score of 193. Lyla had actually been rather glad that no one believed her to be a complete moron, because that way at least she didn't have to put up with the annoyance of pretending in addition to being stuck in the dank hole that was the Detention Center.The only bad thing was that her intelligence made it a bit harder to claim innocence. "Today's the big day, huh?"

The caramel-eyed girl's nonchalance earned her a kick in the ribs, a dusty boot print marring the boring white of the simple tank top and sweatpants they'd given her after confiscating her beloved neon-bright ensemble upon her arrival. Coughing heavily, Lyla was yanked to her feet (again by her hair... what was it with these people?) and shoved out of her cell, the two gorillas on either side of her guiding her none-too-gently through a maze of grey, featureless corridors. She was finally herded to an imposing solid metal door, and felt her bravado falter when it swung open to reveal a chair with arm and leg shackles attached to it, along with an impressive-looking table stacked high with sharp, shiny metal trinkets.

Swallowing heavily, she allowed herself to be strapped down in the chair, painting a grin on her bruised alabaster features as the two musclebound Peacekeepers retreated from the room. "Thanks for the tour, gentlemen. It's been grand."

When the door slammed with an ominous clang, the young hacker turned her molten-gold gaze upon the sole other inhabitant of the room, her supposed tormentor. She found herself quirking a whitish eyebrow at his appearance. He was young, not much older than Lyla if she'd had to make a definitive guess, certainly not the type who seemed experienced with torturing answers out of people. But Lyla's opinion on sadists was somewhat skewed, she knew that. The person responsible for her barely-healed broken arm, the plethora of raw scars covering her torso, and the heap of psychological baggage that could fill its own warehouse had been older, a seemingly distinguished middle-aged man with cold eyes and an even colder heart. But thinking about Julian's father made Lyla's arms tingle uncomfortably, so she tried to push the thought from her mind. She had to stay strong if she wanted to go home, she knew that, but she couldn't stop the flashbacks. They'd been getting worse recently, increasing in frequency and intensity the longer she was trapped in this place.

Oh it hurts it hurts it hurts and there's nothing you can do to stop it and there's so much blood but you have to stay strong for Julian because if you break now they'll only hurt him and that can't happen but it's so painful and your arm is a horrid ragged mess of mutilated flesh that you can't even bear to look at because if it feels this bad it has to look ten times worse and oh thank God he's finally stopped cutting you but now the punches are flying and while they don't hurt as badly they're still horrible but even more horrible is when the hands close around your arm and twist it into an impossible mess with that sickening crunch and now the pain hits and you're screamingscreamingscreaming because it all hurts too much and you know that you and Jules are both going to die no matter what anyway...

When Lyla jerked out of the horrifying memory, her resolve to be a snarky, backtalking little bitch the entire time had vanished. Slumping defeatedly in the chair, the white-blonde teenager clenched her teeth and braced herself for the pain. If she confessed, she was dead. If they didn't break her, she could go home. She had to go home, had to get back to Julian and Prewitt and her parents. She'd looked death in the face and denied it once before. She could do it again.

“Lyla Matheson. You have been arrested for rebellion against the Capitol and damage to Capitol property. What do you have to say about that? It is in your best interest to answer truthfully.”

[/b][/color]

Lyla was surprised at how intimidating his growling voice managed to be, but the slight squirming of fear in her stomach also brought with it the renewed warm glow of her defiance. She wasn't going to sit here and let some Capitol lapdog push her around, no. She was going to get the hell out of here, get back to hacking, and be far more careful about getting caught next time. Smiling dazzlingly and blinking tawny eyes at the young Peacekeeper, Lyla spoke. The torture was coming, but she was okay with that. She could handle torture, and this clown had no idea just how much she could take.

"Well, sir, one thing I can say truthfully is that you have absolutely no proof and I'm being held on a groundless accusation."

There was no point in acting dumb, no point in simpering pleas of ignorance. But using the justice system against one of its own enforcers sent Lyla on a heady power trip that made the slightest shimmer of a smirk alight on her face. She was right, and he knew it. After all, that's why she was here. Without a confession, they had nothing on her. And if they couldn't torture a confession from her lips, they'd have to send her home. Home. The word rang through her mind with a warm corona of comfort that felt like her bed and sounded like Julian's laughter and tasted like her mother's cooking and and smelled like the burnt plastic and xerox paper of her lab looked like her beloved neon clothes and nail polish. She'd do anything for home, including going through hell and back.

She'd done it before.

"Now, please, let's not fool ourselves. We both know what's going to happen here, so I implore you to skip over the niceties and delve right into the questioning interspersed with agonizing methods of torture. I assure you, I'll be truthful with or without pain. All I want to do is go home." She looked him in the eye unflinchingly. Lyla had always been able to read people, and she could tell that before her stood a man who was out of his element. Excellent, chinks in the armor. The blonde genius decided she could work with this, painting a pained, desperate expression on her face and bringing tears to her caramel orbs on command. "Don't you know what it's like, being so horribly homesick? Being away from everything you've ever known and loved?"[/color][/size][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Mar 11, 2011 17:13:54 GMT -5 by Deleted

Eastern Orange
Career Tribute

[M:-100]

527 POSTS
last seen Apr 19, 2019 19:32:23 GMT -5

"I'm Scandinavian, God dammit. We love to be naked!"

This Fight's Fixed [South] Mar 11, 2011 19:13:44 GMT -5

Post by Eastern Orange on Mar 11, 2011 19:13:44 GMT -5

Fahrenheit had to laugh bitterly at the girl’s fake tears. She wasn’t the only one who could read people. “Word to the wise,” He snarled, walking slowly closer to Lyla, and leaning down placing his face inches from her’s. “Don’t act all tough and then switch your tactics to play the scared little girl. It insults my intelligence, and down plays yours.” He was slipping into his role of malicious Peacekeeper nicely.

I am not Fahrenheit Foster. He chanted in his head, detaching himself from the situation. I am Peacekeeper Frost. Peacekeeper Frost. He was using the name that the people in his District had given him. They had named him Frost because his flat expression and his seemingly unsympathetic disposition. Frost was emotionless, he was sadistic, and he was crude. Everything that Fahrenheit had to be right now. So he willing shrugged on that persona like he would a jacket. It was the only way he was going to be able to carry out his job. He wanted to get home too.

He leaned back and smirked down at her. Without warning his hand snapped forward, and he backhanded her across the cheek, wiping her head to the side. “Now that we have that little bit of ugly out of our system, let’s continue.” Peacekeeper Frost says dully. He spins the cigar clippers on one finger, and holds the folder open with another. “You are naïve to think that 1) our accusations are groundless and 2) this will be over quickly.” He shook his head, and grinned as he read something in her file. "The Capitol has been monitoring you, my dear. From your everyday life with one,” He checked the name in the file, “Julian Rockshaw, to your little gallivants in the Capitol’s systems, with presumed accomplice Prewitt Pierce.” He tossed the file to the floor, and it skidded away.

“We don’t much care for your confession. There is no one here to say that you never gave it. There is no one here but me and you. I can just say you confessed to everything.” Peacekeeper Frost shrugged offhandedly. “I’m more interested in knowing about what isn’t in that file.” He walked back towards her and leaned over her again. He clasped her right hand with his left hand, and isolated the middle finger, slipping the cigar clipper on it. “And to help loosen your lips…” Peacekeeper Frost hesitated. Fahrenheit broke free for a second, and feelings of regret and sickness filled him. No. It is me and my family - for they would surely punish my family if they find me out - or her. She won’t die from a few missing fingers.

[/i] And with that thought Peacekeeper Frost was back in control.

He squeezed the handle of the clippers, making the stainless steel blades bite into her flesh. They sliced through her soft skin effortlessly, but got stuck on the bone. “How long have you been against the Capitol?” He asked harshly, shoving his contorted face into her’s.
[/blockquote][/justify][/size][/color]

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This Fight's Fixed [South] Mar 11, 2011 20:30:40 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Mar 11, 2011 20:30:40 GMT -5

Lyla Matheson

Fully alive,
And she knows how to believe
in futures.

Though she was loathe to admit it, the slap made Lyla plunge headlong into panic. This was how it had started last time, a swift backhanded strike, followed by the blade besmirching the skin of her arm over and over and over again. She had know this was coming, but sitting through it was going to be another story. The other side of her face made impact with the icy metal of the back of the chair, ensuring that both of her pale cheeks would later be heavily bruised. “Now that we have that little bit of ugly out of our system, let’s continue.”

Caramel eyes aflame, she glared at the stoic man as he flipped nonchalantly through a thick manila file, presumably her history and charges. "The Capitol has been monitoring you, my dear. From your everyday life with one Julian Rockshaw, to your little gallivants in the Capitol’s systems with presumed accomplice Prewitt Pierce.”

[/i][/color]

"Leave Julian and Prewitt out of this!" She didn't care that he had found her weak spot, didn't care that he knew how to break her now. Even if it cost her freedom, her life, Lyla wasn't going to let them go after her loved ones. She had given in surprisingly quickly with absolutely no bloodshed, which surprised her. She'd had grandiose fantasies involving her battered and broken but still claiming her innocence until they dragged her prone form all the way back to District Three as a free woman, but all of that had gone out the window at the mention of her shy friend and the little dancer who was so dear to her. She'd admit that she'd done a few recreational hacks, just the stuff that wasn't serious, which would still probably be enough to warrant them taking her tongue and shipping her off to the Capitol, but anything more would endanger Prewitt and Julian. Lyla wouldn't break, she would merely fracture. The blonde knew that she was as good as guilty as the words flowed over her chapped lips, but she couldn't bring herself to care, so frantic was she to save Julian and Prewitt from the Capitol's icy death grip. "I'll tell you the truth, just leave them alone. They don't know anything, they're both completely in the dark, please."

“We don’t much care for your confession.” The statement made Lyla give pause, lips parting and whitish eyebrows knitting together in confusion. They didn't want a confession? Then why was she here? Synapses rapid-fired in the blonde prodigy's brain, the wheels of her logical reasoning spinning until they ran white-hot. There were two reasons they tortured criminals. Confession, or information. And if they didn't want a confession...

“I’m more interested in knowing about what isn’t in that file. And to help loosen your lips…” Obviously he wanted specific information out of her, which she couldn't give him. Specifics would land Prewitt here as well, maybe even Julian if they took guilt by association to the extreme. The thought of either of them in this horrible place made her heart nearly stop in terror. She couldn't let that happen. Lyla was aware of her finger being placed between the blades of the wicked looking pliers, and realized what was going to happen a second before it did.

She had to hand it to the Peacekeeper for his excellent sense of irony. Taking her fingers so she couldn't type? Classic.

The muscles in his arm tensed, bringing the razor-sharp implement slicing down through the skin and muscle effortlessly. Unable to stop herself, Lyla shrieked in agony as the blade ground against the bone of her finger with a awful, gut-wrenching sound reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard.

Happy place Lyla happy place just deal with the pain you can do it find something anything happy you're eighteen and you've finally learned how to do a grand jete but you're not really all that pleased with yourself because Julian's probably been doing it since he could walk but the smile on his face and the way that he hugs you makes you so happy because for some reason him being proud of you is so much better than you being proud of yourself...

"How long have you been against the Capitol?"[/i][/color] The low growl shattered the warm embrace of her happy memory, allowing the pain to flood her senses all over again. She couldn't stop the tears from spilling hotly over her eyelids, wiping clean tracks through the grime that stained her heart-shaped face. Oh, it hurt. This was so much worse than what Rockshaw had done to her, it was the white-hot flame of a laceration mixed with the dull throb of splintering bone, a symphony of agony that crescendoed with the growing pressure of his hand on the little silver handles, the descant of her slowly diminishing screams that faded into sobs making an eerie harmony.

"I'm not a rebel!" she choked out tearfully. She wasn't going to say anything about how the Capitol had taken her life away from her for five years, murdering her twelve-year-old brother for their own sick entertainment, causing her to live in a horrifying bubble of numbness until that first hack when she was fifteen, the first time she had felt true, all-consuming hatred. No, Lyla couldn't say any of that because even though Leo was gone and she'd still get those bastards for what they did to him, she had people who were very much alive that she needed to protect. "The hacking was just something I did for fun, a hobby! I never did anything big, I swear, just messed with a few food-delivery systems or thermostat settings. Practical joke stuff. I know it's still illegal, but that's all I did, I promise!"

The blood spattered from her wounded hand, spreading in an eerie crimson flower across the pure whiteness of her sweatpants. Panting desperately, Lyla tried to fight off the flashbacks to no avail, her mind only serving to torture her as well as the outside forces acting on her body.

You're not really sure what dying's supposed to be like but you didn't think it would be so scary, lying here on this cold floor as you're gradually surrounded by a sticky red puddle of your own life and you're able to hear your own heart slow down as you lose your fuel through every broken vein and artery and your vision's grey and oh it hurts so badly that you just want for it to be over but you know that you've got at least another few minutes to lay here and bleed out and think about how all of this is your fault until you finally have release...

Lyla jerked herself sharply out of the recesses of her consciousness, forcing herself into the moment. Even though the pain was so bad that she felt herself teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, she had to keep her wits about her. Breathing in short, sharp gasps through clenched teeth, the genius forced herself back to lucidity. She had to be in her right mind for this, had to master her pain. She had to lie, and she had to lie well. For Julian and Prewitt, for her parents, for everyone in the world that mattered.

This wasn't about her own welfare at all, because she was going to die anyway. It was all about them.[/color][/size][/blockquote]

Eastern Orange
Career Tribute

[M:-100]

527 POSTS
last seen Apr 19, 2019 19:32:23 GMT -5

"I'm Scandinavian, God dammit. We love to be naked!"

This Fight's Fixed [South] Mar 13, 2011 16:57:25 GMT -5

Post by Eastern Orange on Mar 13, 2011 16:57:25 GMT -5

“Attempting to hack the Gamemaker’s computer is not a prank.” Peacekeeper Frost hissed, and gave the clippers one final squeeze. The bone snapped with an audible crack, and the finger came free. He looked at the dismembered finger with surprise, not really believing that he actually just cut off a poor girl’s finger. He picked up the finger and threw it on the table that held the instruments of ~~torture~~ persuasion.

Peacekeeper Frost’s face is paler than usual when he turned back to the girl. Despite burying his empathy and morals in some dark corner in the back of his mind, the girl’s screams were enough to bring them rushing back. How the fuck am I supposed to continue? Fahrenheit thought frantically, wiping his bloodied hand on the white fabric of his pants. Just think of Ariel, and Mom. They will be sent here if my superiors think I’m not as dedicated to the Capitol as I say I am. Block out the screams. Block out the blood. You are unfeeling, you are unseeing.

Peacekeeper Frost shoved away the feelings and thoughts of sympathy, and stepped closer to the girl, the traitor. “Why do you hate the Capitol?” He snarled. “The Capitol provides you food when you hunger and protection when you are in danger. The Capitol places a roof over your head. If the Capitol was not here, we would all be savages on the verge of extinction. The Capitol gives us life.” Fahrenheit did not believe any of these things, but he was not Fahrenheit anymore.

“To hate the Capitol is to hate life.” Peacekeeper Frost slid the cigar clipper onto the traitor’s ring finger. “Do you hate life Lyla?” He purred, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. “I’m assuming by your actions that you do hate life. I guess you won’t be needing this finger…” Peacekeeper Frost squeezed the clippers with more force than before, severing the digit in one clean cut. He shivered as he felt the crunch of the bone. Peacekeeper Frost picked up the finger, seemingly nonchalant, and threw it next to the other one.

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This Fight's Fixed [South] Mar 13, 2011 19:57:50 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Mar 13, 2011 19:57:50 GMT -5

Lyla Matheson

I'm sorry, I don't mean to remember.
It's true that I dream less often.

“Attempting to hack the Gamemaker’s computer is not a prank.”

[/i][/color] Lyla's head snapped up in surprise. How could they possibly know about that? All of her important hacks were performed on untraceable computers, shrouded in so much encryption that they could never... Unless you ran headlong into the Project Beta firewall. The prodigy's mind flashed back to the day she had attempted to gain entry into Gamemaker headquarters, the blaring sirens as her prized laptop had gone into full meltdown. She had created Project Beta, a protective program that not only destroyed invading computers remotely but also isolated their location, on commission for the Capitol years ago, just a side project to earn enough pocket money to buy parts for a new processor. How strange, Lyla thought to herself, to be destroyed by your own creation. Jolting back to reality, her caramel eyes widened in horror as she watched the blades close the rest of the way with a sickening crack.

You are weak.

It was the only thing that Lyla's mind would give her as she saw her own finger fall to the floor. She couldn't muster a single happy memory to soften the sharpness of the anguished scream that split the air as the blades sliced cleanly through bone and marrow, the thin, elegant digit severed from her hand as blood spurted in liquid projectiles from the remaining stump. Sobbing brokenly from both the pain and shame at her own weakness, the blonde hunched forward in the chair and resigned herself to her fate. They could kill her for all she cared. She'd rather die than say something that could hurt Prewitt or Julian, and at this rate they'd break her in no time. She wanted death, welcomed it.

Of course, it wasn't that easy. A few seconds of rest and then he was back in her face, snarling questions as the cruel blades settled around her index finger. “Why do you hate the Capitol? The Capitol provides you food when you hunger and protection when you are in danger. The Capitol places a roof over your head. If the Capitol was not here, we would all be savages on the verge of extinction. The Capitol gives us life. To hate the Capitol is to hate life. Do you hate life, Lyla? I’m assuming by your actions that you do hate life. I guess you won’t be needing this finger…”

Crack.

Another horribly agonizing splinter of bone, another screeching movement in the symphony of her agony, another pale white finger thudding to the floor with its nail painted with chipped neon-pink polish looking so wrong against the shiny puddle of red in which it sat. The blonde genius felt weaker than ever for screaming, but she couldn't bring herself to stop, because it just hut, it hurt so horribly and she knew there was nothing she could do except try to keep her silence about the things that really mattered as the earsplitting shrieks faded to tearful whimpers.

"Why do I hate the Capitol?" her voice was thick and broken around lingering sobs, but still stronger than she thought it would be. The explosion had been building inside Lyla's chest for five years, and that one simple question had made it grow to the point where she could no longer contain it. And why not let it out, right here, right now? There was no one she could hurt but herself.

"Why do I hate the Capitol? Where the fuck do I start? Could it be the fact that every day I walk to school I see kids on the street that are starving to death while people in the Capitol gorge themselves to the bursting point? No, I think it goes farther back than that. Maybe it could be that the Capitol restricts every fundamental freedom from the Districts 'for our own protection?' No, I'm not starving and I really don't care too much about personal freedom, so I wonder what it could be. Oh, I remember now. The Capitol murdered my brother!"

Lyla found that her rage lessened the pain somewhat; the raging fire in her veins bringing an odd sort of numbness to the raw nubs of flesh that had once been her fingers. As long as she stayed angry, she could deal with this. Her voice simmered down from her previous shouting, the rage that pervaded her dow calling for a softer, more deadly delivery. "Five years ago, the Capitol took an innocent twelve-year-old boy who had never done anything wrong in his life away from his family, shoved him in an arena with twenty-three other kids, then sat and laughed when a fifteen-year-old from Two snapped his neck on live national television."

Molten-gold eyes glinting with fury, the blonde found herself staring the stoic-faced Peacekeeper in front of her down unashamedly. Really, what did she have to lose? More fingers? Let him have them. "The way they dehumanize innocent children is disgusting. Sure, they watched Leo Matheson die, and it was entertaining for them. But it would have been a little more traumatic if they'd known he was a person, a human being with thoughts and feelings just like them. They didn't know that Leo Matheson was a soft-spoken little boy with a kind smile and a beautiful singing voice who could do quantum physics in his head. They didn't know Leo Matheson played violin for six years or that his favorite flavor of ice cream was rocky road or that his favorite color was powder blue. They didn't know that Leo Matheson never stepped on spiders but carried them outside because he thought they deserved a chance at life as much as we did, or that he once built his big sister a computer from scratch because he felt bad about accidentally knocking her old one off the desk and breaking it."

She was crying again by this point, tears of loss and anger pooling together and flowing in a hot, salty river down her cheeks. "The Capitol killed my baby brother, and they didn't even know him. What gave them the right to take his life away? What did he do to deserve death?

"You can torture me all you want. I can handle torture," Lyla said dully, nodding her head towards the uniform pink lines that slashed over the alabaster skin of her arm. "You can cut off every last damn one of my fingers, but just know that as long as I'm alive, I will never stop going after the bastards who slaughtered my brother. Never. " [/color][/size][/blockquote]

Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] Retired Staff 6,346 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen Nov 17, 2023 15:15:56 GMT -5 cozy, queer af	This Fight's Fixed [South] Apr 1, 2011 20:49:48 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] on Apr 1, 2011 20:49:48 GMT -5 Finished. [/size][/blockquote]
	warehouse