two shades of red. |atticus.florence|
Jun 5, 2018 16:02:35 GMT -5
Post by mat on Jun 5, 2018 16:02:35 GMT -5
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He remembered the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games very clearly, despite it now being five years since it’s pass. It was his second year sitting on a train with two red-headed kids, one confused and another scared. Their names were Deja Hatcher and Bolts Spark. For a while, he remained confident that perhaps one of them would be the victor, and Atticus Manor might finally fade away into a more normal life. They remain to have been his greatest chance to date, but close is no good when the result of not getting there is four or five days of a lost cause.
On occasions when the days of the Hunger Games were looming overhead like thunderclouds before a storm, he wondered if District Three would ever get close to victory again. Hell, it took Klaus over a decade to get Atticus to finally take over as mentor for Three. Ever since he knocked Ezero Laffan down into the sinkhole, he was a different person. Victor. Mentor. Winner. Yet none of the titles brought upon him any joy, besides enough money to move away from a monotonous tinkering family in the district.
It’s impossible to be a mentor if one is still unsure what actions caused them success or if one doesn’t understand why they were brought success. Atticus Manor could read, or he could study for nights on end, but he would not learn how to win, and he would never be capable of giving any valuable advice to ensure this year’s tributes’ survival.
He knew he couldn’t save Bolts and Deja, Ave and Wylla, Cade and Maisie. He could not save them.
Atticus tapped his glass of water above the dining table of the train.
They’d have to learn to save themselves.
Florence Spark was one of his past mentees’ sisters. He questioned silently as he waiting for the boy, Akira, and her to board the train. Whether or not they were willing to talk remained completely up to them.
Taking a sip of his water, Atticus waited for either one to sit across from him in the booth. He’d let them scream, or cry, or complain, or bitch to him. He would listen and act as a source to let out their emotions. However, he would not answer their questions, for all their questions could result in are shrugs of his shoulders or half-assed answers at best.
Closing his eyes for one moment, he let the train’s travel begin in silence, but moments after opening them, a small girl stood in front of him.
“You must be Florence. Hello,” he let out a hand, a calm gesture.
Time to see if her persona matches at all with her brother’s.
Atticus Manor
He remembered the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games very clearly, despite it now being five years since it’s pass. It was his second year sitting on a train with two red-headed kids, one confused and another scared. Their names were Deja Hatcher and Bolts Spark. For a while, he remained confident that perhaps one of them would be the victor, and Atticus Manor might finally fade away into a more normal life. They remain to have been his greatest chance to date, but close is no good when the result of not getting there is four or five days of a lost cause.
On occasions when the days of the Hunger Games were looming overhead like thunderclouds before a storm, he wondered if District Three would ever get close to victory again. Hell, it took Klaus over a decade to get Atticus to finally take over as mentor for Three. Ever since he knocked Ezero Laffan down into the sinkhole, he was a different person. Victor. Mentor. Winner. Yet none of the titles brought upon him any joy, besides enough money to move away from a monotonous tinkering family in the district.
It’s impossible to be a mentor if one is still unsure what actions caused them success or if one doesn’t understand why they were brought success. Atticus Manor could read, or he could study for nights on end, but he would not learn how to win, and he would never be capable of giving any valuable advice to ensure this year’s tributes’ survival.
He knew he couldn’t save Bolts and Deja, Ave and Wylla, Cade and Maisie. He could not save them.
Atticus tapped his glass of water above the dining table of the train.
They’d have to learn to save themselves.
Florence Spark was one of his past mentees’ sisters. He questioned silently as he waiting for the boy, Akira, and her to board the train. Whether or not they were willing to talk remained completely up to them.
Taking a sip of his water, Atticus waited for either one to sit across from him in the booth. He’d let them scream, or cry, or complain, or bitch to him. He would listen and act as a source to let out their emotions. However, he would not answer their questions, for all their questions could result in are shrugs of his shoulders or half-assed answers at best.
Closing his eyes for one moment, he let the train’s travel begin in silence, but moments after opening them, a small girl stood in front of him.
“You must be Florence. Hello,” he let out a hand, a calm gesture.
Time to see if her persona matches at all with her brother’s.
