Just as suddenly as he had refilled his glass and raised it to his lips was the vodka gone, shattered into a billion pieces against the wallpapered wall. Liquid dripping down and staining the floor. The woman glaring at him with a burning passion. The anger inside of him was proceeding to grow larger by the second, but he tried to remain calm. But then, then she said something about controlling him.
Who the fuck gave her the idea that she was controlling him?
Ignoring whatever it was that she had said afterwards, Ronan focused every effort on remaining calm and not killing her right then and there. Body shaking. Face revealing what he was feeling. Chest burning. He was in charge of himself. Nobody in this world could control what he did but himself. And it was going to stay that way. And then, the woman proceeded to rant on with her false assumptions and ignorant statements.
He didn’t fucking destroy his body to have some feelings of bliss. To ignore the state of the world around him. All that he thought about every day was how fucked up the world was and how fucked up everyone was, including himself. And it wasn’t fun to get drunk or be high or anything like that. It only magnified all of his thoughts and made everything so much more painful and devastating to him. No, the reason why he did it all? The reason why he was destroying himself with these things?
Because it kept the fire inside him at bay.
Ronan enjoyed being angry, yes. Enjoyed beating people to a pulp. Enjoyed the smell of blood. But he couldn’t just run around and kill people all the time. There had to be a good damn reason to take someone else’s life away. And the shit that he absorbed into his body on an hourly basis reminded him of why he should feel like shit. Why he deserved to be in pain every day of the year. Because he was a fucked up little piece of shit that should have died years ago in the war. All of it reminded him to keep himself in check. To remain calm. To not just blow his top with every little occasion that came along that pissed him off.
The woman didn’t realize how thankful he was that he was having to go through withdrawal. He would need to connect with all of his pain to fully embrace his anger. Something he would need to do if he wanted to survive. To kill anyone that came his way in the arena. It had been a long time since he had let his anger take over his soul.
Fists were at the ready by his sides. Body shaking still. Chest continuing to burn. Eyes still revealing his anger behind their glassy surfaces. But he had to remain calm. He couldn’t be stupid. Ronan wasn’t going to beat up whoever this lady was anytime soon. The Capitol would probably cut off his limbs and throw what was left of him in the arena. They could technically do anything they wanted as long as he was still alive and would create enough drama when he was finally plopped into their fucking arena.
She was yelling again. Screaming at him, asking if he would have the guts to fight. Ronan was cackling inside. This was so funny. Did she really want to know what he would do? How badly he wanted to kill her now? How he couldn’t wait to kill those people in the arena, maybe even more than they wanted to kill him?
But he had to remain calm.
Adverted his eyes from her. Tried to curb his anger. That wasn’t working. Forced himself to remain calm. Heard her demand an answer. Ignored her. Kept his mouth in a thin line. Felt his shirt get grabbed. Slammed into the wall-again. Felt the mirror shatter. Embed large shards in his back. Smelt the iron. Felt his self-restrain growing thinner. Heard blood drip and stain the tiles. Grip tightened on his shirt. Screamed at him about why he wasn’t talking. Turned his head and glared. This bitch wasn’t having any of that.
The woman pulled him forward and slammed him back again. Glass shards dug further into his back. He was really having a really fucking great time, but didn’t want glass to be his newest body adornment. He would rather get some more ink. But still, he forced himself to remain calm. To not fight back. He wasn’t going to get into trouble and risk the few freedoms he had left. But he was angry. He wanted to kill her badly. To make her bleed for what she had said.
The shirt she was gripping so tight to began to rip at the collar, and the extent of his ink began to show. It looked like she was about to slam him against the wall one more time and shred up his back some more so he decided to speak to the fucking woman. Maybe she would calm down then. He racked his brain before settling on the perfect quote. Hoped she would read what it meant. How she would know how wrong she was about him.
“I thought I would be understood without words. Vincent van Gogh.”
That was not the answer the woman wanted to hear, for as soon as Ronan turned his head to look away, to try to remain calm, to keep his anger in check, he found his head being slammed into the table. Fucking hell. Did nothing make her happy. His nose began bleeding again, coating his face in crimson. This was not what he needed right now. His body shook violently and he felt like he was going to lose his calm. Like he was going to snap right here and beat her to a pulp. The shirt was progressively ripping as well, meaning that she was losing her hold on him. She went to cause him further damage, but stopped when she saw his eyes, as if expecting him to say something more. So he did. Quite angrily, in fact.
“Anyone who gets in my way will be dead.”
It was then that his shirt completely ripped, freeing him from the woman’s fucking death grip and revealing all of his ink (that was on his chest that is). Taking a few steps, he grabbed on of the napkins from the table, and held his nose until the blood clotted once more. Once his face wasn’t leaking blood anymore, he turned his attention to his back, and started pulling out some of the glass shards. He was angry, and all of this blood was only fueling his fire. He was barely remaining calm, and kept the woman out of his vision. He couldn’t afford to snap. Not now. The silence in the room was both overwhelming and comforting all at once.
A piece of Ronan’s shirt was still clutched in Isle’s hand. It wasn’t like her to lose her temper like that, but sometimes hard love was what got the job done. Great, not only was he perpetually useless, he was bleeding all over floor, too. And could he be anymore cryptic with his small, stupid sentences?
Isle sighed, gesturing for an avox to grab a towel. When she received it, she threw it at the moving heap that was Ronan.
“Napkins aren’t going to do anything except irritate your wounds more.” She said.
She lifted him by his arm, ignoring his grunts of protest, and deposited him in a chair. When she was sure he wasn’t going to tip over and fall out of it, she sat in the chair adjacent to him, throwing her feet on the table.
“You don’t have to tell me your plans for the arena, it’s not like I can help you or anything.” She snarked. “But you are going to talk so I understand even a fraction of what you’re about. I won’t go about this not knowing anything about you. It’s not an option, so suck it up buttercup, and start talking. Complete sentences, this time. Tell me about your brother Ignacius.”
The name seemed to make Ronan still his movements. Isle was ready to duck and avoid anything he threw at her, even if it was himself.
Ronan ignored the woman as she tried to pressure him into eating. He didn’t want to eat anything. Didn’t need to. Let alone the fancy food that was being served to them on this train that was leading them to a whole different version of hell itself. But then…she said statements about him that simply weren’t true.
He wasn’t pitying himself. Ronan knew full well what he would need to do to survive. This wouldn’t be sunshine and roses, because the world was a fucked up place. He had lasted until now without dying, and didn’t plan to take his last breath anytime soon. Not until he had shown the Capitol exactly what he thought of their shit. He wasn’t giving up. In fact, he was just starting to feel that side of him that was angry, that wanted to rebel and hurt and prove that he knew what was just in this world again. And as sure as he was going to hell, he knew this was no one’s fault but his own. He was the one that had shown up at the reaping instead of being smart and leaving. Destroying every trace of his existence.
And he had lived much longer than this woman, and wasn’t about to be chastised by her for his own choices.
Eyes snapped open. Rage filled his eyes, clouding their vision with a blazing anger that he would do his best not to unleash at the moment. He knew better than to harm anyone now. Not until he was in the arena, where he wouldn’t be punished for it. Getting to his feet, he steadied himself in a millisecond. Glared at the woman, hoping his faced expressed that everything she had just said was a lie. That she had misjudged him. Walked over to the bar. Grabbed a crystal glass. Analyzed his choices. Decided on the vodka. Filled the glass to its brim. Brought it to his eyes. Blocked the woman out of his vision. Downed the drink in one go. Placed the glass back down. Waited to see if she would say anything more. Hoped she wouldn’t.
Ronan reached for the bottle to fill up the glass again. The drink had made him feel better already. His body had been screaming at him for going so long without one. Withdrawal was a bitch he hadn’t had to deal with before.
Isle watched as Ronan lifted the full glass to his lips again, smacking it out of his hand and reveling in the sound of it shattering against the wall. She watched Ronan’s eyes follow the trails of vodka as they raced to the floor.
“A drink once in a while is fine,” she said. “In fact, getting black out drunk is sometimes really fun, but when you rely on it to survive, there’s a problem. I don’t care if you don’t see it, but I refuse to let you make it look like I can’t control my tributes.”
At the end of the day, Isle had a reputation to uphold. Had her tributes won in the past? No, but they were far from the first ones to die in the arenas. In fact, most of her tributes made it to the final eight. Ronan wasn’t going to ruin that.
“If you think I’m going to sponsor you doses of morphling or fifths of vodka, you’re so very wrong.” Isle said.
Ronan had yet to say anything, save for the small, almost unheard whimper he let out when the vodka was wasted to the floor. His body was trembling and his face contorted into something disgusting, something that looked like it wanted to kill Isle.
Good.
“I want you to really take in how you’re feeling,” she said. “I want you to feel every bit of the withdrawal as it burns under your skin, because it’s what’s going to both hurt you and help you in that place. You’ve spent years destroying yourself from the inside out, and for what? A couple of minutes of bliss? A few seconds to ignore what the real world is like? It’s fucking pathetic.”
Ronan’s hand was in a fist to his side, trembling with his body. Was je really trembling because of his withdrawal, or was it anger? Isle hoped it was anger, merely because she liked pushing his buttons.
“You going to stick up for yourself anytime here, pal? Because if I can get you this worked up, what the hell are you going to do in an arena full of people who want you dead? Are you just going to take it and wait for them to kill you or are you actually going to do something?” Isle asked.
Ronan wouldn’t even look at her anymore which just pissed her off further.
“Answer me, damnit.” She sneered.
When he still wouldn’t budge, his mouth a thin line, Isle grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him into a wall.
Stepping into the train, Ronan observed the sleekness of it all. It was fucking perfect, metallic to the point where everything in it became a machine. Already missing the forest and the sea, Ronan took a deep breath. It was an automatic reflex for him. Something he did when he was close to snapping. Instead of breathing in the fresh forest air, he breathed in chemicals. He hated it with a burning passion, one that matched the heat one would feel whilst burning in hell.
Navigating his way through the train, Ronan came upon a lavish bathroom. Locked himself inside it. Took delight in the fact that his nose was still bleeding and was staining the otherwise pristine white facade of the small room. Downed what remained in terms of alcoholic beverages in his bag. Opened the small window. Dropped all of the evidence outside. Heard the bottles break. Examined his nose. Realized that it was broken. But not out of position. Held it until the blood clotted. Shot up his last vial of morphling. Threw the evidence outside. Decided that he should probably use the bathroom for its actual purpose. Washed his hands. Decided to leave the dried blood on his face. Exited the small room and headed into the area Kiya and the woman occupied.
Heading to a lavish couch, Ronan moved all of the throw pillows out of the way. Took a seat. Hoped to hell that no one would try to converse with him. And they didn’t, which was the only fucking blessing he’d had bestowed upon him all day. Hours went by, and Ronan felt progressively shittier as time marched on. Unsure of whether it was because of what he had put in him already, or whether his body was beginning to go through withdrawal, he decided that the best option would be to ignore it for the moment. Sat as still as possible. Observed the conversation between the woman and Kiya. Lay on the couch and glared at the ceiling, upset that it wasn’t creating the canvas he was used to. Ignored the woman when she called him to dinner. Even if he wanted to eat (which he didn’t, because it would probably only make him feel worse), he wouldn’t be able to taste any of it. It might as well be oatmeal instead of salad that had fucking goat cheese of all things on it. Listened to the conversation between the woman and Kiya again. Glared at the ceiling more and began absentmindedly playing with a frayed edge of his jacket. Heard the conversation stop.
Ronan had been planning on finding the bar and drinking something (he had determined that the reason why he was feeling like shit was withdrawal), when his ears honed in on the sound of heels making their way across the tiled floor to the couch. Which meant…fuck. Someone wanted to talk with him.
Isle crossed her arms as she stood in front of the heap that was Ronan. She was sure under the torn and dirty clothes there was an equally fucked up frame of a person. Tattoos peeked out from under his color and sleeves, a contrast to the pale skin.
“I’m sure food is a foreign substance to you at this point, but you need to eat something.” She said.
No response came.
“If you plan on surviving at all in the arena, you need to get some kind of strength. Eating helps with that.” She tried
Still no response, which made Isle grind her teeth.
“So what’s your strategy, then? Just lay there and pity yourself while everyone else figures out how they’re going to survive? You’re just ready to lay down and accept your fate? It’s no one’s fault you’re in the position you’re in. Instead of lying there, why don’t you get up and actually try living for once? Because if you die on the first day I will bring you back just to kill you myself.” She snapped.
Finally, Ronan opened his eyes, an anger blazing behind his irises that made Isle smirk.
“Kiya is the heart and Lakota is the brain,” I say aloud with a smile.
I remember papa saying that now. Lakota, I think that she acted with caution. She thought through what I neglected to consider. Whereas I acted on my emotions, wearing my heart on my sleeve. I suppose that I still do. I haven’t lost my expressive nature in all of this. I believe that I rely on my intuition rather than being as calculating as Lakota. She is-was-very observant. I remember running through the trees, while Lakota stopped every so often to examine a leaf, or anything that caught her attention, in detail.
Avoxes arrive, carrying silver plates heaped with food. I think that it would be very awful to not be able to speak. I smile warmly at the avoxes, hoping that it improves their day however much it can. I sip the tea, enjoying the flavor. I leave the salad untouched, noticing the walnuts. A few years ago, I found some in the forest. After eating them, Papa had to rush me to the apothecarian because I was having trouble breathing. But it wasn’t really a big deal.
I look at the man who I suppose is my district partner. He seems very gruff, though I smile at him nonetheless. I couldn’t expect him to be in a particularly good mood considering the circumstances.
Looking up, I meet Isle’s eyes. I had not thought much about the arena. In fact I really hadn’t thought much about this entire ordeal. I find myself thinking about other things at the moment. But I give Isle my attention. “I don’t really know what to expect. Just like mother nature, I assume that the arena will be very unpredictable. But I do have what my papa and mama call a photographic memory, I suppose that could help with preparing me for a wide range of environments,” I respond.
“I think that I’ll just be myself,” I say.
Oh great, Isle thinks. She’s a nature freak.
While heart is all fine and dandy, Kiya is going to need brains in order to survive longer than a few minutes in the arena, whatever it is. What is she going to do if Mother Nature doesn’t exist in the arena?
“Heart alone won’t get you to the end,” I tell her bluntly. “You have to be able to fight, too. That’s the nature of this hell, I’m afraid.”
I notice the untouched salad and wonder if she has an allergy to nuts. She’d have to keep that under the radar so the tributes couldn’t use it to their advantage. It would make her an easy kill if she was incapacitated because of her allergy.
“What kind of weapons are you good with, or are you more of a hand to hand fighter?” I ask.
Sure years in the wilderness benefited her somehow other than ‘being one with nature.’
I realize that I’ve never been on a moving vehicle before, let alone one adorned in such a luxurious fashion. The space is absent of the familiar alpine scent that always lingered in the air at home. Rather, there is no one scent I find myself able to focus on. Strong perfume, akin to roses but not as natural as those I’ve come across. There’s a sort of sterility in the air as well. Without any defining scents other than that of rubbing alcohol.
For only a moment the image appears, and then it is gone. A blindingly white room, as white as the hair that cascades down my back. People in lab coats with syringes in their hands. I feel a sharp pinch in my arm, as though a needle is being plunged into my flesh. But I realize that it’s only the corner of the glass table.
It is the woman who sits across from me who pulls me from my daydream, just as papa and mama would. I meet her eyes and I smile. She is making an effort to be kind to me. To relieve me of what troubles I am plagued with. But I imagine they will only strengthen me. That is what papa says of Crow women.
“Yes, I remember her now. I find it coming in bits and pieces, like I’m gluing shattered pieces of glass together. I know that we were close. That she was more reserved than I was. I know that she was always warning me not to do things that could arouse trouble,” I respond.
I know that I have always been expressive of the way I feel. Holding things in does no good, it takes away freedom. I feel relieved now that I know everything about myself. I know that one thing that was trying to scream out to me for the past few years. But it is up to me whether I can understand the person I once was and come to terms with the person that I am, now that I know my secret.
“Yeah, your sister was definitely a thinker. That’s what helped her stay alive so long. She didn’t just rush into things like most other tributes. I really hope that’s hereditary.” Isle says.
Talking with Kiya really makes her realize how different in mannerisms she and Lakota are. Kiya truly is a free spirit who doesn’t seem like she could hurt a fly. Hopefully, though, it’s just looks, because there’s twenty three other people ready to take her out at any given moment.
More people begin to fill the train car, avoxes holding plates with silver covers. They set them down in front of Kiya and Isle, a third plate left off to the side. Another avox deposits a large plate of Danishes and pastries in the middle of the table for them to grab from. Lastly, a picture of orange juice is placed on the table as well as one full of water. Isle looks to where Ronan has tossed himself on a couch.
“Are you coming to eat real food or are you just going to lay there and ferment?” She asks him.
He gives her no response which really ticks her off but she waves him off for now, uncovering her plate and finding a steaming omelet. The idea of eating anything really just turns Isle off since she’s already battling the moving train. She reaches for a yogurt parfait next to the Danishes and settles on that for now.
“Tell me, Kiya,” she says. “What do you expect to find in the arena? Have you thought about what your first move should be? Having a plan is beneficial for you survival.”
Isle dips her spoon into her yogurt, making small designs as she waits for Kiya to answer.
The train ride to the Capitol is always the worst for Isle. Partly because she doesn’t travel well to begin with, and because it’s always awkward. The tributes either start asking questions the moment the doors close, or they don’t ask anything at all. It seems like this year Isle is on board with two zombies. Ronan sits off to the side, seemingly trying not to move too much. Isle guesses withdrawal is starting to kick in and it’s not being nice to him at all. She decides to deal with him later, wanting to prepare herself in case it’s like talking to a brick wall.
Kiya, though…
Kiya sits at the long dinner table that’s been set up for the tributes and mentor, staring at nothing that Isle can see. She hasn’t said much since the reaping, and Isle isn’t rude enough to eavesdrop on someone’s goodbye. She still can’t get over how much Kiya looked like Lakota. Sure, it’s been years since her death, but it’s as if she’s sitting right in front of her.
“Do you remember her at all?” Isle asks. “Lakota, I mean. Surely you have some sort of memory of her?”
Isle has to know, because Lakota deserves to be remembered. If there was ever a tribute that she regretted losing over the others, Lakota was on that list. If Isle could help Kiya remember her late sister, then that’s what she would do.
“Did you say something, Miss Hart?” A peacekeepr asks.
“No, don’t worry about it.” I assure him. “Just wanting to get this over with.”
He nods, returning his attention elsewhere. As protocol, I’m given a guard wherever I go during the reapings. If only they’d give me one that actually looked like he could do something.
It’s been so long since I’ve actually felt nervous for a reaping that I forgot what it did to me. Throughout Nik’s eligible years, I was always jittery until I knew he wasn’t selected.
Now here I am, jittery all over again. I find a small relief in knowing he’s up against hundreds of other men. I took a peek at the list of eligible citizens a few days ago, and did a double take. The roster was twice as big as the usual one. I knew there would be more to choose from this year, but I had no idea it would be so vast.
“Snap out of it, Isle. Get your shit together.” I say.
“I’m sorry?” The peacekeeper asks.
“Alright, why don’t you go scout the hallway or something, you’re annoying me.” I wave him off.
He must be a fresh recruit because he actually listens to me, leaving in confusion to go walk the halls.
Unfortunately, my silence is short lived as a short, young girl pops her head in the room I’m currently occupying.
“Oh hi there,” she says. “I’m Vara. You must be the mentor this year?”
“Oh God,” I say. “Please tell me you’re just an assistant or something.”
Vara tilts her head at me, as if trying to examine me. I don’t like it.
“I’m not? I’m the escort!” She says.
“You look like you should be a tribute.”
“Oh wow, thank you so much. That’s such a compliment coming from the Angel of District 7!”
It wasn’t supposed to be, I think to myself.
I shake my head at her, hoping that this one isn’t Capitol trash through and through. I was just beginning to tolerate the last escort, now I have to do it all over again? I need a drink.
A peacekeeper comes in looking a little distressed.
“I’m afraid the reapings have been delayed momentarily.” He says.
“What happened, someone open fire again?” I ask.
The reapings four years ago were a real adventure.
“There is a citizen unaccounted for, some of us have been sent to go find her.”
“Well I guess I’ll just have to go out there and entertain our audience until it’s time to begin.” Vara says.
“You have to be kidding me. What are you going to do, cry on cue?” I ask.
“Take me to the stage!” She directs the peacekeeper, completely ignoring me.
I sigh heavily when the door closes behind them, pinching the bridge of my nose. If I have to deal with Vara as well as whoever she selects to send into the games, it’s going to be a long trip this year.
Whoever decided not to come to the ceremony must have really screwed up. They couldn’t possibly have forgotten what today is. Perhaps they tried making a run for it? Most of our peacekeepers are in the square today making sure citizens are in check. The outer perimeters are definitely more vulnerable.
Part of me really hopes whoever it is made it out.
Vara peeks her head back in the door, interrupting my train of thought.
“Good news, Isle, they found the person! I guess it’s time to get started.” She says.
I want to punch her in the face if it means her excitement gets toned down even a little bit. I follow her out to the front of the building, wanting nothing more than to just get it over with. They say the hardest part of the games is winning them, but I’ve got years of being a mentor that tell me otherwise. The worst part of them is trying to help two more tributes them, just to fail every time. You’re left sitting up at night wondering what else you could have done to help them survive, even for just one more day. That’s why I’m hoping Nikolas isn’t reaped today. It would be like watching Mileena die all over again.
I wait towards the back while Vara does her escort duties, all while being annoying about it. If they were going to send another escort, couldn’t they have had a brain? Perhaps a little bit of training? Ridiculous.
Seeing the citizens herded like cattle made the jump in numbers even more noticeable. The groups took up almost all of the square, no room for onlookers to stand at the sidelines to witness the reapings first hand. Instead even more screens were set up, Vara’s face plastered on all of them.
The movie begins to play and I watch as many of the people’s faces change and show even more fear than before. They were one step closer to the inevitable. If there is anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that no one is ever really prepared for when their name is read off that simple piece of paper. I’ve watched young children’s lives flash before their eyes in mere seconds as they drag their feet to the stage. It’s fucking depressing.
The anthem plays once again at the end of the movie and Vara goes off on another tangent about something. Really, all it would take is a simple shove and she’d fall off the stage. I bet I could make it look like an accident, too. Before I can act on my devious thoughts, Vara steps toward the bowl with female names.
My eyes scan the female group, really seeing for the first time the large age range. There are young girls and then there are old women who can barely stand. For God’s sake, at least give me something to work with.
“Kiya Crow!” Vara shouts.
She babbles on about how beautiful the name is and how pretty the girl’s hair is.
Wait…
Crow? As in…Lakota Crow?
Kiya is guided to the stage and when she gets closer I see my suspicions are unfortunately true.
“Oh that is just wrong…” I mumble.
Kiya looks exactly like her late sister, Lakota. Lakota, who was a handful to work with, but showed so much damn potential. I still beat myself up occasionally for losing that one.
Kiya, though, looks as if she has no idea why exactly she’s here, why her name was in the bowl. Could the rumors of her parents’ meddling of her memories actually be true? It would explain her father’s sudden resignation of his position. A medicine like that would cost a pretty penny, one that would even cripple me. I do the math in my mind and figure that Kiya is around nineteen and seems to be in decent shape.
Vara steps over to the bowl of boy names and my heart finds home in my throat once again. It feels like everything slows down when she reaches down into the bowl.
Not Nikolas, not Nikolas, not Nikolas… I chant.
Please, just give me this.
“Our male tribute is…” Vara announces.
Not Nikolas…
“…Ronan Kauri!” She finishes.
I let out the breath I didn’t even know I was holding, letting all my nervousness bleed out with it. There’s a small commotion from closer in the back as a redheaded, older gentleman makes his way to the stage.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble.
I’ve seen him around town and each time, he was on a different kind of drug. He’s a loose cannon who could blow even before he gets into the arena. He makes a huge scene about not needing to be guided by the peacekeepers and it makes me want to knock him down a few pegs. I have the feel that I’ll end up throwing him into a wall at least once.
“Here are the District 7 tributes, Kiya and Ronan! I think you shake hands now, so do that.” Vara says.
I watch Ronan merely nod at Kiya before quickly dodging Vara’s attempts at touching him to look at his tattoos. I want to laugh but at the same time I want to kick him.
Here they are, the tributes of District 7: A borderline basket case whose parents decided messing with her head was the better decision, and a man whose blood had probably been replaced with alcohol and Morphling, running through his collapsed veins.
Wonderful.
One of them better make it past the bloodbath or I’m going to be pissed.
The anthem plays again and I turned on my heels to head back into the building. One of the peacekeepers are about to rest their hand on my shoulder to direct me and I point a threatening finger at him.
“Don’t even think about it, kid. I’ll use your arm as a back scratcher.” I warn, walking past him when he stops in place.
The doors close behind Vara, the tributes, and myself. I crack my neck and sigh at the relief.
“You’ll be placed in individual rooms now and await for us to retrieve you to leave for the Capitol. You may get visitors during this time.” I instruct.
As I’m talking Ronan practically waves me off, walking past me and not listening to anything I say.
I shove him into a wall, slamming my arm across his chest and pinning him there.
“We haven’t even left yet and you’re already acting up? Here’s my first bit of mentor advice to you, don’t start overstepping too soon. At any given moment I could be your determining factor between life and death. Wouldn’t want me to turn a blind eye, would you?” I spit.
Ronan has an attitude, a fire that burns under his skin. On that we can relate, but that’s where the relation stops. He’s not a child, he’s a grown man who’s made a fucking mess out of his life. I’ll have no problem watching him fall in a ditch and dying somewhere in the arena.
“You’ll be the first door on the right,” I tell him. “Don’t wander off or I’ll shoot you myself.”
I let go and shove him farther down the hall, crossing my arms and watching him stumble. He takes a quick second to turn around and glare daggers at me, but I’ve seen worse. Kiya finds her own room across from his, stepping in without a word.
“Wow, is that even legal to do?” Vara asks.
I raise an eyebrow at her and shrug.
“They don’t pay me to do this for nothing,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be readying the train or something?”
“I don’t think so?”
“Well go figure it out, somewhere that isn’t near me.” I say.
I leave her gaping in the hallway as I go to find quiet somewhere else before my hell begins with the tributes.
baratheonpilled
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