your floor {my stop} ree/rhetoric; blitz

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I roll my shoulders, footsteps tapping with the clicking of my joints and the thudding of my heart. Faces of the unknown but equally just as damned flicker in and out of view of my peripherals. I decide I'm done trying to decipher whether the major consensus of those that are here is whether they are blessed or cursed, I don't care anymore.

I'm not a career with a chip on his shoulder. Who's been holding blades since he could walk and carrying the golden shroud of glory and gore on his shoulders like an atlas curse. The opposite may fall into play for me but I don't have the saving grace of a family name bathed in public tragedy that will carry me on its shoulders past my weaknesses. The Fer family quickly developed a healthy habit of suffering in silence after all. Any path I carve will be my own and with a knife duller than the next guy's -- I'm nothing great. I am no Atticus.

The cursed and the bless begin to file out of the training center and I keep watching, no longer bothered about who's who. I let my eyes fall to the ground so I can sit and stare as the minutes are scattered and lost.

It's not long before the lost minutes become too much and I find myself wandering into the elevator, evidently not the last one to leave because the girl from District Eight gets in with me. Response automatic, a close-lipped smile finds its way onto my features and I raise an eyebrow. "Huh, so I'm guessing you're not a climb the stairs for an extra bit of exercise kinda girl?"

Thinking before you speak is overrated, I guess.