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Jun. 16th, 2021 01:30 am[ He didn't even protest when the Peacekeepers came for him.
Leif, five feet tall and eighty-seven pounds precisely, had been sitting at the table tearing bread apart with his fingers and dipping it into olive oil with cracked pepper, an old comfort food, when they banged on the door. He stood, navigated calmly to it, and stared up at them with green eyes that were fearless mostly in defeat more than in bravery. Come with us.]
Do I have time to pack some things? [ Not disinterested, but unconcerned. ]
No.
All right. [ He picks up the bag he keeps by the door and follows them, flanked two by two, a quadrant of faceless danger. They bring him to the train. District 11 will never see him again, but it doesn't matter. He has no one here, anyway. So it doesn't matter. Nothing much does anymore.
He sits against the window though there's no reason to, really, and watches out the window as the rest of his life rolls past and away from him. His vision's good enough to navigate, to identify faces and places, but the fact is that his cornea are so scarred over by now that they look like puddles of heavy cream, just a spill, an accident, something that was never supposed to happen in the first place --
The Capitol comes sooner than he expects, and there was never magic in it in the first place - not before, not as a tribute, not now as a victor, either. Not led in unbuckled overalls and flannel and a plain white t-shirt, not with his quadrant of peacekeepers doubled to a formation of eight that brought him like a well-earned prize, delivered him like a gift. Leif says nothing. ]
Leif, five feet tall and eighty-seven pounds precisely, had been sitting at the table tearing bread apart with his fingers and dipping it into olive oil with cracked pepper, an old comfort food, when they banged on the door. He stood, navigated calmly to it, and stared up at them with green eyes that were fearless mostly in defeat more than in bravery. Come with us.]
Do I have time to pack some things? [ Not disinterested, but unconcerned. ]
No.
All right. [ He picks up the bag he keeps by the door and follows them, flanked two by two, a quadrant of faceless danger. They bring him to the train. District 11 will never see him again, but it doesn't matter. He has no one here, anyway. So it doesn't matter. Nothing much does anymore.
He sits against the window though there's no reason to, really, and watches out the window as the rest of his life rolls past and away from him. His vision's good enough to navigate, to identify faces and places, but the fact is that his cornea are so scarred over by now that they look like puddles of heavy cream, just a spill, an accident, something that was never supposed to happen in the first place --
The Capitol comes sooner than he expects, and there was never magic in it in the first place - not before, not as a tribute, not now as a victor, either. Not led in unbuckled overalls and flannel and a plain white t-shirt, not with his quadrant of peacekeepers doubled to a formation of eight that brought him like a well-earned prize, delivered him like a gift. Leif says nothing. ]
