.:Fanning Flames:. [Solo]

The heat we get in Eleven has never particularly bothered me. Grams never ceases to be amazed by how long I can stay outside for. I've never been burnt, never overheated, never grown tired and slipped into the shade. It's familiar, comfortable in a way. Emmanuel has always been the complete opposite. But I guess with a family so large, you're bound to find differences.

Sampson and I aren't all that different. Passionate about what we believe, strong tempers, emotions that ride high. I think the difference is he's not afraid to let it all out. He doesn't care what happens to him, to the point where he's recklessly daring, and sometimes I wonder if he values his own life. I'm more selfish than he is, I think. I'll fight for my own life as hard as I can, and as for everyone else, they can deal with things themselves. At least, most of them can. Emmanuel and Sofia are my only exceptions.

Crunch, crunch.

Peacekeeper boots are louder than ours. We have soft leather, worn down by years of working in the orchards, while their's are all shiny and new; black, steal-toed boots, fresh from the Capitol. They wink at me in the sunlight, tiny stones crackling beneath them as they walk. Their white suits stick out against everything else, painfully clean next to the grimy clothes of Eleven.

They're watching him. I can't know for certain, because they have helmets covering their faces, but I'm certain their eyes are on Sampson. My glaze flickers down to the ebony black rods at their sides, gloves resting casually on the handles. Or at least, it seems that way. All too easily I can see them drawn into action and whipping against my cousin's back. Of course, he wouldn't care. And I suppose he'd deserve it.

But at the same time, I've never been one to keep quiet.

"They're watching you, y'know." I tap his little soap box with my foot to get his attention, then nod sideways in the Keeper's direction. They're nearly halfway across the square, too far to hear us.

A grin pulls at my lips as I stride past him, pulling myself up to sit on the four-foot stone wall behind him. I curl my fingers over the edge and tighten my grip. "You sound cockier than usual when you refer to yourself in third person." I tighten my lips together, as if I've just eaten a particularly sour lemon, close my eyes, and stick my nose in the air. "And Raquel Izar thinks you look a bit like a peacock on that box of yours."