iron walls: will you shatter and fall? [turner/nanette]

Several grains of sand slip from my shoulders as the breeze bellows in the from the beach. Stares from the shapes below still gaze up to my bare skin on the stage. As if anyone in this District hasn't seen this much skin. We live on a fucking shoreline after all. I ignore the conclusion from the escort and focus on sharing a couple well timed smirks with the lookers. I know right about now I am probably supposed to be feeling afraid or anxious or some kind of shit that makes the heart race, but I don't. All I feel is the sand falling from my drying skin. Oh, and a little bit of a wedgy from my trunks. A free hand of mine adjusts the suit slightly before the boys in white come to guide us into the Justice Building.

Inside the tiles on the floor flood my feet with creeping chills. The sensation is somewhat similar to that of stepping into the sea, only this floor is far more smooth and fun to slide my toes across as I walk. Even inside the murmurs manifest, colorful Capitolites with their cameras follow my face to the edge of the main room before I am buried behind a door. Just before it shuts I can hear one of them even mention putting something more suitable on and I stop the slam with my palm.

"No one fucking asked you did they?"

Inside the room it's just a waiting game, probably better than the one that will be happening sooner rather than later now. I make my perch 0n the windowsill as my skin shudders up against the cold panes of glittering glass. I can see the surf shop across the Square along with the families that slowly walk by its boards and wetsuits. I catch my Dad's eyes from his place on the porch and I give him a wave. He returns a double tap onto his chest before going along the side of the shop to grab the board I left standing there. It's a thing we do in the family before anyone goes out to the ocean. Two taps meaning I trust you and I'll see you soon. I let my head lull back against the wood of the window and my eyes slide shut. They won't be coming to see me off, everything that needs to be said has been. I wonder whether that girl is crying. Who knows, she didn't really seem like the type.

When the door opens again and my escorts in white return, I give them a shrug before following them out. The walk to the train is filled with familiar sights. I see the arcing avenue that leads to the training center lined with palms. I see the spot where I beat the shit out of some boy who got all sorts of attached. Why do they always do that? I see the spot where I kissed his sister too. Alright, I guess by some standards that may have been somewhat shady of me. Oh well, it gives me one more good laugh before I board the train turning towards trial by combat.

Inside, I let them lead me through the twisting tunnels before ending up in some kind of bedroom. Without a care in the world, I throw my body onto the silken bed letting sand scatter off of my skin. I could get used to this kind of quality if they are going to throw me into the arena. However, I quickly lose interest in the isolation and seek out some kind of actual entertainment or action. That's when I find the girl cranking open some window and staring off towards the sea. I walk inside of the room and turn an eye towards the coast.

I don't know the blonde girl from what I can remember, but that really isn't all too surprising. I've never been one to really put all that much effort into names, or people, in general. She looks pretty similar to me actually, almost with the same strands of blonde hair as my own. Her eyes tell the story of someone far away, searching the sea for some kind of answers she can't find. I've seen plenty of those types. They usually end up lost in the waves.

"Looking backwards might not be the best way forward with where we're heading."

Though I do admit, I do wish I were out on the waves myself right now. I'm still dressed for it after all.

"Don't you think putting yourself through more pain before they do is pointless?"

I sit across from the girl and reach out a hand to her's. My thumb runs over the scarlet stain from her mouth. I don't hold her too long before leaning back and staring her straight in the eyes.

"Already doing their job for them?"

Fear.

It's an anchor tethered to the ankle of existence. Damn, that's deep enough that even I'm impressed by it. Still though, it's true. I've spent my whole life watching others drown being pulled down deeper and deeper into misery by a weight they shackle to themselves. Sure, everyone has it in some shape or form. Fuck yeah Praying Mantises scare the shit out of me, I'm not immune. But being afraid of some religious insect isn't going to make me insecure enough to not go outside. Anyway, the point is that I've spent life witnessing countless people adjusting their lives in accordance to fear. Not me.

Alright, fair enough that a Game of death where twenty three of the kids that go in are brutally butchered and the one that lives is absolutely emotionally rocked, isn't really on the same level as Praying Mantises. However, the main take away is although she may say she feels no fear, I sense a disconnect in her truth. She is like most people. She feels the emotions, the sadness and the fear. Meanwhile, to me they are just white noise on the edge of my hearing. I wonder whether that's something that will last when I'm being shot in the shoulder or stabbed in the leg. Maybe, but then again I've only ever ended fights out of necessity, not anger. (Side note here, my therapist would heavily disagree).

Before I get the chance to say anything, my eyes follow her's as they dance down and up my body. I raise a slight eyebrow in anticipation of what she might say. Does the week old hickey on my neck bother her? Is my sculpted figure really that different from all the other careers? I like to play this game with myself whenever I sight a stare. I like to wonder what I would see if I gave a damn to look at myself in a mirror more than... maybe once a day? What does Turner Grey really look like? Ripred, I nearly snort at loud at the thought. I really don't care.

Her response actually curves the corners of my lips up slightly into a smirk. The escort's eyes when they watched me take to the stage is something I'll never erase from memory. Something about the way I could almost hear her screams of horror through her irises is entirely iconic. I appreciate that someone else agrees with the sentiment. My fingers pull out the front of the waistline slightly before letting it snap back against my skin.

"Maybe I should wear it all the way into the arena."

My eyes turn to the cut on her lip for a second before returning to her eyes followed by a shrug. I haven't really put much thought into the actual fighting that will be happening soon now. I'll pick up a spear and stab the shit out of someone when I need to, but for now I'm chill. That's the thing about some careers, their minds are always crossed with kills and violence. Those are usually the ones who can't ride a wave to save their life.

"I mean, I guess. If you want to put it that way."

Joining my hands together and reaching them towards the train's ceiling, I stretch as she asks the golden question. Why? That's always what they want to know when it comes to volunteers, especially since most end up dying anyway. It's a fair question, the question of why someone would seemingly go against their innate human instinct for self preservation. Truth be told, hand on the Holy book and all, I'm stilling putting that together myself. I was going to go back to the beach and surf. So why had I shoved that overly eager kid back into his spot? Not because I think I can win, I am trained so who knows. But maybe because I need something more than waves and empty emotions. Yeah, I'm sure as hell not telling her that load of...

"Mmm, I seem like the glory type to you?"

An eyebrow raises again as I slide onto my side laying across the chair. My face turns towards the ceiling. 

"What if I said I didn't have a reason? No fucked up backstory or honor kink."

I raise a hand upward to catch the draft of wind blowing in from the window around my fingers.

"I get the feeling you wouldn't like that. You like to know things, have answers. Right?"

She reminds me of Harper.

Just the thought of him transforms train into cliffside watching while the gulls glide across the gulf. The ceiling becomes the sky and it's no longer her that I'm with, but him. His cackle sounding off of the nearby rocks. His hands reaching up to block out the bright beams of the sun. And I'm just here, my hands fallen onto my chest and the sun shading my skin into a shade of scarlet that sure as hell is going to hurt tomorrow. But I don't mind the burn or the wind wrecking my hair. I turn my eyes to him and look at his olive skin and dark brown hair. I listen to his voice with an unamused smirk.

"Here is what is on Turner's mind today."

His voice is low, wrapped in testosterone but layered in gentleness. He goes on to craft some story of how I need to build another board before my Dad knows I've broken another. He tells me how out of a sense of guilt I will end up making two and in the end give the other one to him. That brings my eyes to a roll. He had a way of making me do that. He had ways of doing a lot of things, but in the end they stopped. In the end, his face was bruised and I was alone on that cliffside. And honestly, I was happy. But still, this idea of her's to understand my "mystery" is a lot like him.

I continue to keep my eyes on the ceiling as she speaks. I let her paint the picture of the a boy bound to a board on a stirless sea. I think of myself out on the ocean, searching for a current to cut inward on. I can see the manifestation of the mundane, the endless desire for a sense of direction. Then I see the jolt, the boy thrown backwards and the two blonde boys kissing before the cameras of the Capitol. Fuck, her story sure as hell is convincing. So much so that I don't even notice that her eyes have turned towards me until I drop mine back towards her as well.

As I look at her from across the way, I wonder whether she's right. Certainly she isn't entirely there, but there are moments. Something about what she said about diving right into the belly of the beast strikes a chord. Is that what made me move? Was the board I was riding not big enough for the wave I wanted most to catch? It's interesting enough to solicit a slight sigh from me before I turn my face back towards the ceiling and let my lips trill the tiniest bit upward.

"Something like that, but I wouldn't call you a sharpshooter."

Give her just enough, but not enough to know what is right. The chair beneath me squeaks as I stretch again only this time arching my back. I feel the ease rush down and through my legs before settling back towards the chair. Now I rest by head on my hand and turn back towards her with a raised eyebrow.

"Call me a mystery all you want, but you're hiding too."

My free hand runs through my mop of blonde stirring sand free from the roots. Maybe it's just the impending death game of who stabs who, but her anchor is obviously heavy. I've seen people like this, the ones who tend to sink themselves sooner than others can. Her confidence is real, but what is lurking beneath it is as well. Why the hell not ask? It's not like we have anywhere to go other than the grave.

"You didn't lay down until the ocean was out of sight and not because you are daydreaming about that summer tan. Family? Lover? Dead body you forgot to bury?"