Fletch :: District Thirteen (wip)

..........

The man next to him pumped up his chest and squared his shoulders, locking eyes with the captain in front of him, the spit of the latter's sliding down his left cheek. Nostrils flare and eyes sharpen, and one big 

big 

breath is breathed in as if the man will release every ounce of anger and frustration inside him within moments.

"Yes sir." He said with as much indifference and calmness one could muster.

..........

Drill Sergeant Drill had been obsessed with even numbers, and Fletch could hardly count the number of times Drill had instructed him to count the number of men in lines with his fingers on his fingers. "Sets of two, please." Drill had told him, before flailing his arms and hands as if Fletch had done something wrong when the boy began counting "two...four...six" he'd then instructed him that the way he was doing it was all wrong, and that what he'd meant (and apparently, what Fletch should have known) was to count each set of two people by pointing two fingers at the both of them, counting each pair by ones, but each one meant two.

"It's a simple equation, Mr. _____" 
Head tilt.
"You see, if we have twelve pairs, then we simply multiply twelve by two, giving us the twenty four men. So therefore, twenty four men is equal to twelve sets of two men."
Head tilt. The other way.
"Isn't it easier just to count by two's?" 
Drill Sergeant Drill scoffed and laughed in his face until his pair of one set of two cheeks turned red.
"Answer me this, will you have time to count by two's when fighting off district citizens?" 
And he'd walked away confused whether or not one was two or two was one.

..........

They demanded that each man button themselves up with uniforms whiter than the snow that covered the starving bodies of District citizens. He'd write in a journal before stowing it away, Sergeant's eyes too focused on the nothingness to not focus on the fact that he was writing. 

"Fletch! What is that?" 

Slurred words, the thing about alcohol is that it likes to make its home in a person's system. 

"Journal, sir." 

One giggle from between two lips stained with alcohol and prostitute diseases. 

"Ha!-" 

Hiccup, finger shakes as he points at him. 

"I don't want to catch you writing about whatever you write about in that journal again." 

One of his uniform buttons had popped out, string in its wake. 

"We don't write, we fight. Now get back to reading through the officer letters." 

.......... 

Every bump inside the