rook to h7 [alice & rhaegar] | cato
Oct 8, 2017 22:25:44 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Oct 8, 2017 22:25:44 GMT -5
"And where do you think you're going?" The escort, Sparky, says with hands on her hips. Alice just stares back, eyebrow raised. "I'm making a grand escape into the streets of the Capitol, obviously." To be honest, Alice does feel a little bad for embarassing the woman on reaping day - she's been nothing but helpful to Bruce and Atticus (Alice, for the most part, has been ignored. Fair.) and she's clearly been around for a long time. But respect her? No way in hell. She's the face of everything they're making her do - and she'll do it, but how does this woman even sleep at night?
"I'm just getting some air, mom. It's not like I'll get hurt." She already knows that much - the building's been stationed with guards at every hallway, and every window is made of impenetrable glass or has a force field surrounding the openings. Squabbles would be stopped and attempts to escape fate would be squashed. She just needs some space. Being cooped up in this building is a lot for her - she used to spend evenings running around the junkyards with the crew, kicking the can and punching the people who looked at them the wrong way.
This routine is different: too strict too much to learn too much to do; at nights it feels like she's drowning and she can't tell whether the liquid is an inferno that bubbles in her chest and her fists, or something darker. So tonight she takes a walkabout. In the elevator she looks at her options, and her hand wavers towards the roof before pausing. There's a lounge right underneath; she'll make a pit stop first.
Ten minutes later the elevator doors open, the wind blowing through her hair and sending endorphins through her body. This air's much purer than what's in Three - she lives (or lived, she guesses. She'll be back, this is just a temporary assignment) in a clean area but you can still feel the smog in the air, taste the slightest tang of metals in your breath. Here, there's nothing. And she knows it's just the filters, but it's a welcome feeling.
She takes a swig from her swiped bottle of white wine as she steps out, heading towards the railing. And when she getes there, takes a deep breath.
This is a lot.
This is a lot.
But she's Alice fucking Sullivan
She thinks of Bruce, Moreno, Mila, Fennel, the others whose siblings met their deaths, the Career girls and Five (who creeps her the hell out).
There's nothing she can't do. Nothing.
It's only at this moment that she realizes she's not alone - there's someone a quarter of a roof down. Two, she thinks. Hammerfell. She doesn't know much about him; he's spent most of his time training, and she's never spoken to him on off hours. Atticus' words flood her mind again - she knows he's not someone that her mentor would advise to put on her list. And she's trying, she swears. And maybe Hammerfell wants to be alone.
But there's still time before they get to punch each other to death. And there's nothing wrong with conversation among those who are about to have to kill each other, right? So she walks towards him, taking another swig of the wine.
"Reflecting? Dreaming? Thinking of how to bash someone's brain in?" She jests as she gets closer. "What're you doing up here?"
"I'm just getting some air, mom. It's not like I'll get hurt." She already knows that much - the building's been stationed with guards at every hallway, and every window is made of impenetrable glass or has a force field surrounding the openings. Squabbles would be stopped and attempts to escape fate would be squashed. She just needs some space. Being cooped up in this building is a lot for her - she used to spend evenings running around the junkyards with the crew, kicking the can and punching the people who looked at them the wrong way.
This routine is different: too strict too much to learn too much to do; at nights it feels like she's drowning and she can't tell whether the liquid is an inferno that bubbles in her chest and her fists, or something darker. So tonight she takes a walkabout. In the elevator she looks at her options, and her hand wavers towards the roof before pausing. There's a lounge right underneath; she'll make a pit stop first.
Ten minutes later the elevator doors open, the wind blowing through her hair and sending endorphins through her body. This air's much purer than what's in Three - she lives (or lived, she guesses. She'll be back, this is just a temporary assignment) in a clean area but you can still feel the smog in the air, taste the slightest tang of metals in your breath. Here, there's nothing. And she knows it's just the filters, but it's a welcome feeling.
She takes a swig from her swiped bottle of white wine as she steps out, heading towards the railing. And when she getes there, takes a deep breath.
This is a lot.
This is a lot.
But she's Alice fucking Sullivan
She thinks of Bruce, Moreno, Mila, Fennel, the others whose siblings met their deaths, the Career girls and Five (who creeps her the hell out).
There's nothing she can't do. Nothing.
It's only at this moment that she realizes she's not alone - there's someone a quarter of a roof down. Two, she thinks. Hammerfell. She doesn't know much about him; he's spent most of his time training, and she's never spoken to him on off hours. Atticus' words flood her mind again - she knows he's not someone that her mentor would advise to put on her list. And she's trying, she swears. And maybe Hammerfell wants to be alone.
But there's still time before they get to punch each other to death. And there's nothing wrong with conversation among those who are about to have to kill each other, right? So she walks towards him, taking another swig of the wine.
"Reflecting? Dreaming? Thinking of how to bash someone's brain in?" She jests as she gets closer. "What're you doing up here?"
