Not about {Angels}//Jack//Gabsy

I was fortunate that I lived quite close to the districts relative central area, everything was easy access. Whilst it was still early in the afternoon - 1400 hours to be exact -, I plotted my route to find my way to the closest pub, with no plans for anything else this day. I had been stupid enough to allow my anger to slip once again in front of one of the trainers, and now I felt the need to regain my hold on my emotions. Drinking probably wasn't the best of ways to do as such, but who do I have in my life that would even dare judge my actions?

At age 16, I knew I shouldn't be even contemplating consuming alcohol, for it would do no good towards my health, nor would it benefit me in my training - in all actuality it would disrupt my training regime, but yet, I couldn't find it in myself to care this day. I would reign myself in, however, and keep from drinking anything too strong, as I couldn't allow myself to lose control. Never could I allow such a thing to occur, not again.

Making my way over to the pub, I couldn't help but mull over my earlier actions, trying to find reason in them. Reaching up with my right hand, and running my thumb over my lower lip, I could feel the freshly split skin and dried blood that resided on it. Picking at the scab, I flicked out my tongue thoughtlessly, the metallic taste of blood reaching my senses. Damn Miles had a good right hook, as I had already known (why else would I have agreed to be trained by him?) and agreed to be on the other side of, but yet, instinct in me had risen to the surface, causing me to lash out and return the favour ten-fold upon the un-expecting man. Dropping my hand, and rolling my shoulders back, I ceased all thought of the days earlier events, and continued to make my way to the pub.

In direct sight before me sat one of District Two's oldest pubs and bar, Spartan; acknowledging the name (Spartan - a title for soldiers from the ancient rulings of Sparta), I couldn't help but snort out a small laugh, noting that Spartan was something just so typical of someone from District Two to title anything. Whilst being placed across from the training centre, the building was nothing flashy - large enough to hold at maximum, a good two hundred people should they stand chest-to-chest, and small enough to not take up much land-, nothing that truly caught the eye other than the large sign held up by two fraying that seemed prepared to release their weak holds on the heavy wood at any moment. The walls ('recently' painted - as in maybe 10 years ago) were painted a dark maroon, closely resembling spilled blood, suspicious stains of brown littered each wall, and paint was beginning to chip away at each corner, peeling back to reveal off-white concrete studded with awkward pit holes.

With a last flick of my eye over the exterior of the building I made my entrance, pushing through the door and entering into the artificial-light tinted darkness of the space. Not-so-surprisingly, there were numerous people scattered throughout the pub having a good-ol' drink with friends, and playing rounds of what seemed to be beer-pong. Some appeared to have only just appeared in the pub (like I), however, most did seem to have been there the entire night - if not most of it, with their clothes wrinkled, odd stains at the necklines of their shirts, dishevelled hair and ruined makeup.

Scrunching my nose in their (those who had obviously been there for many hours) direction, I made my way over to the bar, taking a seat upon a stool located closest to the door, with the best visual range of the entire pub.

"Light beer," I requested straight faced, leaning onto the bar in front of me, my elbows resting on the dark, sanded, and polished wood. My head turned to look over my right shoulder at those which resided at tables behind me or close to the door, ignoring those who sat alongside the large bar with me.

My eyes are fixed on the row of whiskey bottles that line the back of the bar in front of a mirror, that's in desperate need for a clean. Between the bottles I can see my own reflection, pale and unhealthy, staring back at me with little joy. I look like shit. Good-that suits the way I feel.

When the beer arrives I first wrap my hand around the mug to feel it's coldness for a bit and look at the foam spilling over the top and running down onto the sticky counter.
Then I blow a little on it before I take my first sip. It's cold and very aromatic. This beer is really good and runs down my throat perfectly. Soon it will help wash away some of the pain I still feel...it's not so much pain any more, discomfort would describe it better.

Out of the blue a girl scoots closer to me and adresses me with my name. How the hell does she know it? From the news maybe?
My head remains in my hands when I turn it slightly to see her.

“Matthew Dunham, isn’t it?” She says in a voice that sounds a little sweet and seductive. “You should know me, we trained a few times together, and I am a very hard person to forget, so why don’t you take a guess to who I am. If you dare”
It's true, I've seen her before. Probably a few years ago at the career center. i don't remember her in particular so our joint training didn't reall stick with me. No wonder: She's a blonde girl, who's maybe two years younger than me. Exactly the type I tried to avoid at all costs.
And her game doesn't really tickle my fancy either so I blow out some air and take a wild guess.
"You are a blonde girl with a shot of whiskey."
I guess that doesn't sound very friendly.

I turn my attention back on my beer and have a sip.
I'm still curious why she remembers my name since I have no clue of hers.
"How do you know my name?"

My mind was working in overdrive. I couldn't help but allow my mind to run wild as I continued to stare at the couple before me. I know I've seen them both, somewhere before! Who were they?

Why was I so determined to figure this out? They looked to be two absolutely ordinary people, on a date nonetheless, but yet, something was off. Maybe it was the uncomfortable look upon the mans face, or possibly it was the straight forward way the woman talked, but something was definitely off.

With a roll of the neck and a drooping of the eyes, I turned my attention back to the bar,
deciding that it (whatever it was) wasn't worth losing my head over. They both were most likely no-bodies, here to have a good time (at such an ungodly hour too) - nothing that would affect my desired future, nor should affect my day. Above me was a television, with reruns of the recent reapings flashing across the screen; faces of younger women and men were presented to me, some looking horrified at their oh-so-foreseeable demises, and some looking ready to wipe out entire nations. Another obvious set of tributes... I thought with a smirk. Who will last till the end this time?

"The cold-eyed, fiery haired girl, or will it be the-" My mumblings were cut off when I heard the words of the woman next to me. Sudden pain filled my senses as a small amount of alcohol found itself spilling out of my slightly open mouth and onto my freshly split lip. The news? My eyebrows rose in confusion and disbelief as I looked at the man before me.

This man must be something I couldn't help think as I ran my eyes over him, scanning to look for anything that would help me place a name to his face. Nothing, nothing seemed to make him any more distinguishable than any of the others around me, and I couldn't help but get annoyed at that. Why was this man so damn special?