Disclaimer: Sadly, I must say that I don't *sob* own the Hunger Games idea or *muffled cries in the distance* my favorite book character, Darius. I don't own any characters in here, unless they do not appear in the actually HG trilogy. All rights go to Suzanne Collins.
"Get in there," is the only warning we get. I stumble forward, my bare foot catching an uneven block of stone on the floor. I trip, and barely manage to catch myself before I face plant.
I must say, Lavinia's fall is much more graceful than mine. I grit my teeth when I hear her squeak; I think her foot caught the same brick, and at a glance, it seems she might've twisted her ankle. Obviously, they don't know how to treat a lady. No wonder the Capitol citizens are considered such idiots by the District people. Lavinia, and, from what she's written down for me about her brother, it seems, they're the only two exceptions.
I squirm a little, brushing my hand gently along the length of her pale, slender arm.
She looks up and the corners of her small, thin lips pull up a bit, assuring me that she's alright, or at least not too badly injured. Her auburn-red hair's fallen into her line of vision, so I take this moment to tuck it back behind her slightly pointed ear.
"Aw, now ain't that sweet? Knock the flirting off, redheads." The guard places a calloused hand on one of the bars of our jail cell, eyes glued to me.
I blink a few times as if to say, 'Who, me?', then yank my attention from him. After a moment or two of surveying the bland outside of my cell, basically a wall and some dust and dirt, I turn back to my prison-mate and fellow friend. She's kneeling in the corner with her back against the wall, eyelids parted only slightly as she daydreams. Her nimble fingers are running through her greasy, knotted red hair, I'm guessing to try and keep herself looking presentable. Even now, being in this filthy environment, treated in this way, she's real pretty. At least, she is to me. She doesn't think so, though, because the people we work fo- excuse me, the people who own us, they call her ugly. Like Medusa, they say. Since neither of us knew who that was, they were kind enough to explain the gross teeth, twisted face, petrifying eyes and scaly snake hair. Yeah, whatever. Medusa. Whoever that is. I tell her, through pen and ink, of course, to ignore them. You've seen them before, I wrote once in my scraggily handwriting. They're hideous, but they think they're gorgeous! Trust me, they don't know true beauty when they see it. She would always smile and nod, as if to say that they didn't bother her, but I know it does. I can see it in the way she shields her face from them whenever they walk by. They're breaking her, and I don't like it. Not one bit. I clear my throat and settle for a sitting position with my legs pulled up to my chest, leaning my bare back against the cool grey stone. Lavinia glances in my direction, the noise having torn her from her thoughts. She sends me a smile, like she hasn't a care in the world, trying to distract both me and herself from our mind. The one thing that could ultimately make us go insane. Katniss blew up the Arena. After that, both Lavinia and I and Katniss's stylist team were put on lockdown, moving from one cell to another seemingly daily for about two weeks now. We're both hungry and sore from being in awkward positions for long periods of time, squealing animal sounds to avoid beatings. My back is raw from our guard's belt, but, thank god, Lavinia hasn't been 'punished' yet. Unlike me, she cooperates and isn't hardheaded, though sometimes it seems to mean next to nothing to the Capitol's interrogators. Unlike me, with bruises and cuts and scrapes covering my body, she has only one black and blue mark on her left cheek. She smiles softly in my direction and winks, and I turn red and quickly look away, not having realized I've been staring at her. I can hear her huff, a hardly audible sound, while soon after being matching with an equally quiet squeaking sound; an Avox's version of a giggle. I turn my head to her and make a goofy face, and she squawks in awkward laughter. The Peacekeeper outside our cell is on us in an instant, smashing his beating stick thingie (I could never remember what the damned things were called when I was a Peacekeeper myself, much less now) against the metal bars. An animal sound escapes my lips as I quickly shut my eyes and my hands cover my ears. I'm sure the same happened to Lavinia, and a glance over in her direction tells me I'm correct.
The man behind the bars, or, really, in front of the bars, snickers. I guess he likes torturing us. He probably kicks toddlers and spits in people's hair, too. Wouldn't surprise me none. He had the look; under that snowy Peacekeeper uniform, which was tight to his skin, were well developed muscles that rippled whenever he walked. He seemed proud of them, especially his biceps. Under his helmet was close-clipped chestnut hair, and his jawline was squared and pronounced. Those dark brown eyes narrowed, spotting me stare. Honestly, he resembles Thread a lot, or at least, how I guess Thread looked when he was younger. "Oi! You got a problem with staring, boy? This ain't no place to practice taboo, neither, so keep them prying eyes to yourself." I feel blood rush to my cheeks, knowing exactly what he meant by that, but cover it up with a snort and a roll of my eyes. I'm not a homosexual, first of all, and second, they way he speaks really irritates me. Since he's a Peacekeeper, he should at least have enough modesty and self-pride to talk with grammar. Even I, a redheaded District 2 boy who was trained from the beginning of age six to be the kill now, learn to speak later kind of guy, can still speak alright at least some of the time. Or, at least, I could. I can write alright. The real thing that pisses me off, though, about this man is how he thinks that he can control me. He thinks he's so much better than me, and he can treat me like crap and I won't do anything about it. But he's wrong. He's so in over his head, he won't know what hit him when I fight back. He may be able to control me now, but in the end, I will win. I will be free once again So screw him. Screw this jail cell. Screw Thread. Screw President Snow. Screw being an Avox. Hell, screw the Capitol. If I'm going down, I'm not going down without a fight. If I'm going down, I'm bringing the Capitol and all these hell-bent souls with me. I will go down some way or another. But I'm taking the Capitol down, too. And I can assure you, it will end in flames.