a pair of eyes [lance//blitz]

If I leave my mark on the world, it will be left with steel.

A year ago, the thought of my mark being left as a simple streak of blood drawn by my steel sent goosebumps onto the surface of my skin and excitement flooding through my veins. A crimson mark left by steel signified a sense of fitting in on this infinite timeline; it meant I could be something better than simply finite despite the reality lurking over the graveyard of fallen careers and broken perfectionists.

But when I remove the crown from my brow and sober up long enough to face reality the thought scares me. But yet I still find throwing knives from my fingers hitting the center of targets and the throats of mock humans and future tributes - it's a placebo for a fear I reluctantly swallow. This is how I was made to leave my mark on the world and scratch the not-so-impressionable surface of history.

I bring my arm back and freeze, spotting District... Nine in the peripheral of my dead set eye, book and pen in hand and vision seemingly fixed on me.

I set the throwing knife onto the table and turn to him and raise my eyebrow.

Sometimes being stared at is fine, but other times in places like this it's discomforting; for all I know he could be outlining the flaw in every throw, the weakness in every movement. "What you looking at?"