fig. seven. fin

Look.

Take your meds. Don't talk to cops.

That's it. That's all you need from me, really, I promise, even though I know that it's not really what you want, not really what you're looking for. 

I know what you're looking for, okay? I've heard the questions a million times, know that, really, there's no way in fucking hell I am ever going to be able to completely outrun the life that I had back in One. Worse still, the bullshit semblance of a life that I let myself get thrown into in Nine before Seven found my lousy ass and realized that my eyes were worth a whole lot more than spotting the cheaters in the casinos from across the hall.

You want to hear about what it was like to have parents who turned your childhood into a commodity. Sunday's with Scout! the headlines used to always read, Your child's new best friend at the click of a button! They didn't care that it let the whole district bring you into their homes, made you into this shell of a thing that people looked at the same way the looked at one of their children's toys, one of their storybooks, one of their weapons.

One of their things.

You want to know what it's like to never have a single friend because everyone in the district grew up on you, and now they've outgrown you.

Imagine that. Twelve fucking years old, entering the reaping for the first time, and there's not a goddamn person in One who actually gives a damn about me more than they give a damn about the personality I'd been wearing for four years on their screens. Pretty, perfect little Scout. Washed up.

I was not having a fucking second of that.

Can you blame me?

I bolted, and that was that. Like, I'm not gonna get into the details of it all, you know? I'm not interested in throwing anyone under the bus. Honestly, I'm not even really that interested in telling you anything about how I ended up in Nine, but the long and short of it was that headlines started showing up about Scout Sunday's Cancelled Indefinitely followed quickly by one's about my disappearance.

Made it all the way to Nine before I finally settled.

I really, really like the guns.

But, you see the thing is with the guns around here, they come with name tags. Pretty little markers that say you fire this? we own you. I sold my soul before I even knew that I had a damn soul left in me to sell, to be honest. I didn't know anything about myself, about the world, not really, just knew the ugly path through the woods and over boing rolling fields towards that decrepit city. I was in the main city for three days before I found myself being hauled off by three guys twice my size because I'd laid my hands on the wrong gun and gotten the wrong eyes on me.

I spent another three years running drinks around one of the gangs casinos.

The gang? Oh, I'm not name dropping them. Good fucking luck with that one. I'd sooner rip your eyes out than let myself be a snitch and, trust me, I do not have any desire to rip your eyes out.

I don't know what it was that made him see me.

I was a ghost thing, quiet and with quick hands, and he had no reason to notice me. I was doing everything in my power to blend in, to serve out my goddamn time and just start living my life, whatever shape it ended up taking. I didn't want anyone to take special notice of me, had seen how that had gone for the girls around me, and just wanted to be safe.

And, like, maybe get in on a game or two.

But that's a conversation for later.

Seven was never a customer that I really noticed, but he'd been noticing me, must have spent weeks watching me watching the room. I was always supposed to keep an eye out for cheaters, and it gave me a keen eye, made me perceptive, and I guess he saw something in me because he bought out my contract one day and put a glock in my hand the next. Shoot the apple, he'd said, taking a step back.

I remember grinning, turning my back to the red fruit.

Gun aimed, the bullet ricocheted off metal right into its flesh.

I'd thought he'd be impressed, but he just blinked at me like it was exactly what he expected. No one ever believed in me like that. Not me. Just who they wanted me to be.

So now, when he needs, I go where the guns are needed. Sometimes that means on supply runs, and sometimes it means trailing Amber and her lot of runners and making sure that there's no one tracking them, making sure that they're safe. It's not my favorite job, if I'm being honest, like it better when everything it high paced and horrible and I can't breathe and there's nothing better than that sharp inhale of breath after a high stakes fight. I like challenging myself, like finding the toughest shot and always taking it.

Trailing after Amber's brood does things like get me stuck in Seven when the borders close, and as much as I don't mind staring at her hair in the sunshine, I'd like it better on a rooftop in Nine.

Someone, please. Get me out of here. 

Bring her with, if you really want.