Urgh. This chapter. Just ... this chapter. I think it gave me more problems than the entire rest of the story combined. I'm not entirely pleased with it, but after months of trying to improve it and getting nowhere, I decided it's the best I can do and I should just post it instead of keeping everybody waiting. As usual, I apologize for the ridiculously long wait. Thanks a million to everyone who's still stuck around through the hiatuses, reviewed, and/or added to faves and alerts! Your comments mean the world to me!
~~0~~
By the time I wake the following morning, warm sunlight is slanting through the windows of the room. As I drift back to consciousness, I realize I'm curled in a rather tight position, still wearing yesterday's clothes. I must have slept the entire night on the couch. A glance down at the opposite end reveals that Arkel has done the same.
I can't help but smile at the scene. Whereas this would be incredibly awkward back home, in the current situation there's nothing uncomfortable about waking up feet away from a boy my age. Fate has drawn us together as companions; fellow victims of its cruel game; nothing more. If anything, it's a slap in the Capitol's face that we feel trusting enough to sleep beside each other when we're technically supposed to be enemies.
A moment later, Beetee strides into the room. His gait is casual, but when he catches sight of the two of us still resting, it slows and softens. I peek over the back of the sofa to see him smiling gently, taking care to be as silent as possible as he takes out some cups and the coffee maker.
"I thought you two were still sleeping," he whispers when he notices me watching him. "Didn't want to ruin the moment before our esteemed escort does."
"Better let Arkel enjoy what time he can," I agree, half joking and half gravely serious.
"No, I'm up, I'm up," mumbles my district partner blearily. He wriggles out of the cocoon of blankets and stretches with a yawn. "What happens today? Interviews?"
"They're tomorrow," Beetee answers, with more solemnity than before. "It'll take all of today to prepare for them. You'll start with me, Arkel, and meet with Gallus in the afternoon. Vice-versa for you, Wiress."
Wonderful. I groan internally, though perhaps a little bit too much of it shows on my face, for Beetee gives a humorless chuckle and Arkel a nervous laugh. If I had a choice of any person with whom to spend my possible last days on earth, Gallus would definitely be in the bottom ten. The only bright side I can see is that at least Maybell is no longer my mentor. I can't help but wonder if an entire day with just the two of them would have made me beg for the arena.
~~0~~
I spend the next four hours of the day learning about presentation, which is just as frustrating and tiresome as I expected it to be. I almost want to ask Gallus what he finds so productive about wearing down his tribute's self-confidence the day before the interviews, because that seems to be all he's doing. Judging by the way he shrieks and moans over every move, a great deal of things I do instinctively are deplorable to the Capitolian eye. My gait is awkward, my steps too small, and I sit too far back in my seat, "as if you're afraid of the limelight!" What gives him the most grief is my apparent unwillingness to make eye contact, a trait I've never even noticed until he points it out that I'm letting my gaze wander around the room.
Hearing every aspect of my natural behavior torn to shreds proves just as dispiriting as weapons training. As hard as I try to tune him out, I can't ignore Gallus when he's in my face. It's with a great deal of relief that I finally leave for lunch, allowing every fastidious piece of advice he's given me to float out of my mind.
~~0~~
"So," begins Beetee, closing the door as Gallus' criticism of Arkel fades away down the hall, "how did you find presentation?"
"Awful," I admit, not seeing any point in lying. "Is it really going to go as badly as he makes it sound?"
Beetee snorts wryly. "At risk of sounding arrogant, I'd say to place more value on what you'll learn in this session. You've probably figured out by now that Gallus thinks the world revolves around him. He'd claim to be giving you the secret to victory if he was teaching you how to juggle."
Some of my tension eases. "So the entire Capitol won't be there with clipboards to evaluate every aspect of my posture?"
"Presentation is important," Beetee answers, greeting my attempt at humor with a firm look, "but what is the audience going to remember most when they're signing up for sponsorships? It's not how you walk across the stage that leaves a lasting impression; it's how you act."
"All right," I say. I can't shake the feeling that I'm merely leaving one alien shore for another. "And how's that?"
"Well, that's what we'll have to work out, isn't it?" My mentor adjusts his glasses and shifts position so that his chin is resting in his hands. He's scanning me, in what I take to be a cold, appraising way more connected to the killer of the 39th Hunger Games than the man who helped me up on stage. Without fully realizing it, I hug my knees in a defensive manner.
"At the moment," Beetee continues, "you've performed adequately for us – but for the Capitol, you're a blank slate. You didn't respond at the Opening Ceremony. You scored in the middle of the pack, which could mean a lot of things. This, I believe, has been the intention. To tantalize the viewers, leave them in the dark, make them want to learn more."
"Not really," I protest weakly. I feared he would criticize like Gallus, but this overestimation of my strategy seems unfairly demanding of me. "Well, yes, that was Fabriola's idea, but I – I haven't exactly lived up to it. I was more ... numb on the chariots, not aloof, and with training I was really just giving it my best shot and hoping I could scrape as high of a score as I could."
A pause, during which Beetee's expression is, as usual, unfathomable. Then, "Be that as it may, the audience doesn't know that. For all they can see, you've been planning this from the beginning. You've given us enough to work with, in any case. Now it's time to fill in the gaps. Show the audience what they've been waiting for." Another agonizingly long pause. "What do you think that is?"
"Y-you're asking me?"
"This is your interview, Wiress. What do you think would interest the Capitol?"
I don't like where this is heading. The prospect of adopting a fake onstage persona has never been something I'd consider easy, but even less so now that I'm here and memories of past interviews have begun to flit across my mind. For all the trembling, terrified tributes I've seen take the stage, there have always been many who excelled at the back-and-forth banter with Caesar Flickerman, whose angles shone like beckons for sponsorship money. The arrogant, the ruthless, the sadistic. The various breeds of killers.
Not all the angles were so worthy of contempt, of course. There have been the confident, the outgoing, the humorous or flirtatious. But it's all part of the same game, and the rationalizing behind it makes my skin crawl. Be funny or likeable or bloodthirsty and the Capitol will reward you. Because your life isn't worth saving unless you wear one of their masks.
"Nothing I would stoop to, that's for sure," I say distastefully.
"Meaning?"
"There's nothing about me that the Capitol would find interesting," – it's blunt, but true – "and I don't want to pretend to be something I'm not."
The old Beetee fully reappears in an irritable sigh. "We're not playing this game now, Wiress. You know as well as I do what the point of an interview is."
"Of course I do," I respond, as indignantly as I can, "but you're not going to make me act deadly, or cunning, or cocky, o-or – anything like that – just for the Capitol's sake."
"Did I ever say you had to have one of those angles?"
"They're all the same," I scoff. "I'm not going to be part of it. If I act like I care more about victory than morality, they'll expect it of me."
"They'll expect it of you in any case," counters Beetee testily. "You're a Hunger Games tribute. I don't expect you to go for a confrontational angle, but you're supposed to at least act like you care about your own survival."
"Not in the way the Capitol wants me to!"
Beetee lets out a noise of exasperation and clutches the sides of his head with his hands. The joints of his fingers tense as they clutch his thick, black hair. I may not be the most socially aware person, but I don't have to guess at what's going through his mind. It's all there in his cold, black eyes. He's judging. Blaming me for daring to care about my own conscience in the Hunger Games; hating me for being what he could not be.
I'm so entangled in these accusatory thoughts that I barely hear him when he does speak up.
"For someone so averse to acting," he murmurs, "you seem to be doing an awfully good job of it. You can drop it now."
"Drop what?" I ask, bewildered.
"You know," Beetee presses softly. "It's taken me a while to pinpoint it, but you've been doing it this entire time."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"This whole 'high-and-mighty' act," he explains. "I know you don't want to kill. I get that. I ... can respect that. But-"
Heat rushes across my face like I've just been slapped. "I am not high and mighty."
"All right," he replies, unconvinced. "Then tell me why you won't take up an angle."
"Because ... because it's like admitting you're a pawn."
"Everybody else is going to have one," Beetee counters, still in that gentle tone so ill-suited to a murderer. "That boy from 10 you admire. That little boy from 12; the girl from 8. Even Arkel. Are they pawns? Do you judge them, like you would anyone else who acts for the Capitol?"
"Of course not!" The idea is absurd, almost insulting.
"I see," says my mentor. "So these high moral standards only apply to you, then. You wouldn't allow yourself to sink so low, but it's perfectly acceptable if others do so."
"That's not it, either! It's-" I'm suddenly at a loss for words. What is it? I frantically search my mind for some sort of justification, some way to explain my beliefs without seeming judgmental or condemning of my fellow tributes.
I find none. Beetee has severed the threads holding up my self-righteous worldview, and it is only now that I realize their fragility. The faint smile spreading across his face confirms my fears that I've fallen straight into his trap.
"I don't know what I'm getting at," I admit, conceding defeat. "I never meant to seem ... superior. Especially not to the others. They don't-" most of them don't "-deserve this."
"I know," says Beetee, very quietly. He tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. "What I don't understand is why you feel you have to act like this with me. I'm your mentor. You should know that you can trust me."
Can I? All I know for certain is that I don't want to deal with this now. I never thought I'd miss his cold glares and icy silences, but I find they're what I'm yearning for more than anything at the moment. I need that excuse to distrust him, to continue seeing in black and white. This new Beetee, with his patience and sympathy and uncanny understanding of everything I'm feeling, adds a disquieting shade of grey. And it's exactly that feeling of growing comfort that increases my dislike of him. In spite of everything, I'm finding it harder and harder to hate him – and I desperately need to. With only two days left until the arena, I need the difference between moral and immoral to be clearly defined. If I show acceptance to killers, how long will it take me to accept killing?
"I – I can't."
"But why not? I'm on your side. What have I done to make you think otherwise?"
"I don't know. Just ... please, don't talk about this. Not now."
"All right, then, Wiress," he replies, and the part of me that's not struggling to loathe him detects what may be a hint of sadness. "But can you at least explain why you don't want to have an angle?" As if to placate me, he hastens to add, "If I can understand why you're so opposed to it, I – we – might be able to find something that works for you."
"Well," I begin, "It's just like..." I drag my feet meditatively over the floor, trying to conjure up some analogy with which to describe my feelings. The carpet is so rich; a brilliant cobalt blue with golden embroidery. I've never seen its equal, not even in the Justice Building. The only place in District Three that might house such luxury would be the Victor's Village. How fitting, then, to the Capitol, that so few are able to enjoy it. I assume that Beetee, with all his wealth, sees something like this every day, whereas some street urchins don't even have floors to walk over...
"It's like this," I burst out. "Imagine if you saw twenty-four starving children on the side of the road, and you had exactly that many pieces of bread. With all that food at your disposal, how would you decide to distribute it?" I stare straight at him, supposing that he may very well have been in this situation before. "Would you give it to the one who looked the nicest, or the one who told the best jokes, or the one strong enough to beat all the others up if they got more than him? Anybody with a crumb of human decency would try to help them all. There'd be no contest. But it's the exact opposite with sponsorship. It's the only time Capitolians actually bother to help us, and they make it into a competition of who deserves it most. When I'm sure they have more than enough money to sponsor every single tribute. It's sickening."
Silence on Beetee's part. Typically, his reaction is impossible to gauge. "Does – does that make any sense?"
"Absolutely," he responds softly. "I've told you this before, Wiress, and I'll say it again – you're very ... insightful. Not many people see things in the same way as you. It's quite a talent."
Somehow this prompts a wry laugh from me. "If only the Capitol would agree. I'd have the interview in the bag without having to pretend at all."
"You know why you can't do that," Beetee counters, though not unkindly. "As deep as it is, there's no place for that kind of sentiment in a contest for sponsorship. But I don't see why we can't go for a compromise. I know you don't want to lie about who you are, but how about some simple exaggeration?"
"What do you have in mind?" I ask hesitantly.
"You'll see," is all I get for an answer. A more serious tone hardens his voice. "First – and most importantly – we have to agree to work together on this. I can't make you see me as an ally, but if we're going to get anywhere, you have to at least recognize that I'm trying to help you. This won't work if you view everything I say as an attack on your personal ethics. Do I have your promise that you'll consider my advice, knowing that I'm keeping your best interests in mind?"
I stare down at the carpet again, deep in thought. At least half an hour has elapsed since this session began, and unless I take up Beetee's offer, I'll still be no closer to dad and Talee. Moreover, while I can't let myself forget whatever he did to win the Thirty-Ninth Hunger Games, the fact remains that for the first time, I'm unable to envision him urging me to follow in his footsteps. I've learned more about him in the past thirty minutes than I have all week. I may not know how I feel about this change in him, but I would be a fool to deny that it's happened.
"I promise."
"Thank you. And I, in turn, promise I'll do all I can to work within your moral comfort zones. Within reason, of course." He clears his throat formally. "Do we have a deal? As ... mentor and tribute?"
"All right, then." I nod. "Mentor and tribute."
~~0~~
"I think that's as about good as we're going to get," says Beetee, glancing at the clock whose hands signal the impending end of our session. "Arkel and Gallus will be back any moment now, and it's against protocol for me to give you more time than I did him, anyway." His face eases into what may be the closest thing to a smile I've ever seen him wear. "Have a little faith in yourself, Wiress. You did well."
"Thanks," I answer tiredly. Three-and-a-half hours of constant dialogue have left me more mentally wearied than any school exam or shift at the factory ever could. As I already knew from my lack of sociability back home, the language of numbers and calculations is far more comfortable to me than that of people. The angle I've been practicing is as close to my true personality as I could hope for – all thanks to Beetee, I admit – but it was still a struggle to come up with adequate replies to every one of his queries. Even more daunting was the thought that these responses may be my last shot at securing my survival. After all, I won't get much chance to impress sponsors in the arena.
"Just remember," he says, "Caesar Flickerman knows how to deal with nervous tributes. He's been doing it for nearly twenty years. If you find yourself in a situation where you don't know what to say, he'll help along until you do. Guaranteed."
"Okay." I certainly hope he's right.
"And don't shy away from saying something just because it seems strange. The more eccentric, the better. Remember what we're going for here: pensive, reserved, not completely unaffected, but not completely with it, either. If we embellish your intelligence enough and pull the right strings, I believe we can make this work."
I nod, too relieved this is over to continue the conversation. I have barely a moment to myself, however, before a worrisome thought pricks at my mind.
"Beetee?"
"Hm?"
"What if they ask me about my family?"
"They undoubtedly will, Wiress," he replies with slight surprise, looking up from cleaning his glasses. "We've already been through this. If the subject matter is uncomfortable, remain as collected as you can and allow Caesar to guide you to another topic."
"I know, but..." Now that the stress of finding and practicing an angle has begun to subdue, I've suddenly remembered that it's not only the sponsors who may be getting their final glimpse of me tomorrow. "There's no telling what will happen in the arena. If I end up next to a Career..." I gaze up at him beseechingly. "This may be the last opportunity I ever have to talk to them."
Beetee hesitates. "That's true. But you did agree that you'd be willing to compromise for the sake of the interview. This won't work if you start crying on national television."
"I won't." My nails dig into my palms; I pray he doesn't detect my lie. "But I can't die knowing I left things unsaid. I ... Didn't you feel the same way before you went in?"
My mentor sighs. "When you put it like that, there's really no way I can stop you. Contrary to what you seem to think, I'm not heartless. Just don't give the audience the impression that you're saying – whatever it is you'll say to your family – because you've given up. It's your own choice what you'll do in the arena, but nobody will sponsor a tribute who they don't think will do what it takes to win."
I wish I could tell him more. I wish I could say that I don't care what the audience thinks of me; that I have every right to speak to my family with the full understanding that I may not make it. So that if – or when – I die, they can be comforted by the knowledge that I preferred it to living as a murderer. For one time in this wretched week, I want to be completely free of the Capitol's corruption and lies.
In spite of this, something makes me hold my tongue. I'm not sure if it's pragmatism, the lure of sponsorship, or the acknowledgement that Beetee has done all that he possibly can to accommodate my non-violent approach. He's stretched my initial prejudice against him to its breaking point; asking for more when he's already surprised me so much would be ingratitude. Much as I hate to admit it; it's my turn to compromise.
~~0~~
The lighting in the factory is dim; that at home, even more so. Winter nights stretch long and cold. With electricity being restricted to workplaces, mandatory broadcasts, and the residences of those with the best Capitol connections, our house is one of the many to go without. Dissatisfied with the darkness, I seek out my own light.
"I still can't see why you need to do this," Talee chides, ever practical. "There's plenty of warmth by the stove fire, and it's bright enough to do your homework. What's the point?"
"Personal satisfaction," I mutter, more focused on the elaborate set of wires than the impatient ten-year-old behind me. The stove fire may be adequate, but it's the fact that we have to resort to it that frustrates me. This isn't about practicality. It's about rebellion.
It begins with a lightbulb, discovered in a trash bin behind the factory overseer's home. I'm taking the long way around the factory to avoid a rather ill-tempered peacekeeper when the pristine sphere of glass catches my eye. Nothing wrong with the thing – probably a size too small for his fixtures – and yet he discards it like garbage. But it's all the better for me. Several more weeks of scrounging and late nights, and my creation takes shape.
"Needs better wire," I conclude, observing the faint white glow with disappointment. "Something like ... tungsten. Yeah. Tungsten wire would work great here."
"Where in Panem do you expect to get that?" counters Talee. "Not exactly something you could sneak home from the factory."
"No," I muse thoughtfully, "but I bet one of my coworkers could." Everyone knows about the black market of sorts that goes on behind the authorities' backs. Basic appliances and supplies are stolen from large shipments and sold at reasonable prices for the district-goers. It may be illegal, but it's certainly fairer than Capitol-regulated trade. I'm positive at least one of my fellow workers has ties to it. "I've heard some ... rumors ... about Ilyia..."
"Ilyia Calcite?" Talee scoffs. "Let me know when you get along well enough with her to ask for a favor."
I make a face. Ilyia Calcite is one grade ahead of me in school, two workstations to my left in the factory, and about a world apart in personality. Although she's as much of a social misfit as I am, it took only one of her cutting remarks to convince me she deserves it. If I had it my way, I wouldn't go near that sour, pointed face and white-blonde hair for all the money in the world.
"Not anytime soon," I persist, before switching my voice to a gentle tease. "But I know someone who might. Someone who gets along well with everyone she meets and who still owes her big sister a birthday present."
"Nuh-uh. You have to deal with some people on your own, Wiress." She rolls her eyes at my still-pleading face. "Besides, how would you pay her back? District Three will have a ten-year winning streak before she'll give you a speck of dust for free."
As it turns out, Talee carries the message that I'll pay Ilyia extra shifts' wages for two months in return for a bundle of tungsten wires. I never see her reaction, but if my sister's account is anything to go by, she is nothing short of delighted at what must seem an absurdly one-sided deal. It doesn't matter to me. Once the wires are hooked up to our block's generator, I have a precious light source all my own. Every evening I huddle near the bravely shining bulb, reveling over what I've created without the Capitol's knowledge and in defiance of their disapproval. Concealed in this dark house is my personal act of revolution.
Inevitably, it is not to last. One week after I set up my masterpiece, Talee bursts into the room and snatches it out of my hands. Just as she's about to smash it against the wall, I come to my senses and yank it away. A vicious tug-of-war ensues.
"What are you doing?"
"Wiress, this thing's dangerous," she insists. "Rumor in the factory is that someone overheard some peacekeepers talking about a disruption in the power supply. That means you. If they find out who's been tapping into their electricity, they'll be furious."
"But-" I can already tell I'm losing, but sentiment demands I fight.
"Shut up," Talee snaps, frightened beneath her firmness. "This is serious. Ilyia already came to tell me that if they find you, you didn't get the wires from her. Dad's too paranoid to so much as bring it up to you, but he's worried, too. Do you honestly think I'm going to let you get arrested – or worse – over a stupid invention?"
Just like that, my little feat is over. Seeing how upset I am, Talee allows me to dispose of the contraption myself, which I do discreetly and on the outskirts of town. Memories of the broken glass fresh in my mind, I return to the monotonous routine of daily life. Within two weeks, the extra shifts at the factory and black nights by the stove have stamped out the last few sparks of rebellion from my heart.
I'm not sure when the dream-memory ends and reality begins, because I'm crying in both of them. I wake to a dampened pillow, and from then until Gallus arrives, my thoughts are consumed by the things I have had to destroy for the sake of the Capitol, and those which I may have to yet.
~~0~~
I had hoped today's meeting with the prep team would take less time than the previous one, seeing as they'd already removed a lifetime's worth of soot from my body. Instead, I am left baffled at how many things they still find it necessary to correct. My skin is further blanched with a coating of makeup, while my usually dull hair acquires an obsidian sheen I never knew it could possess. I recognize the reappearance of the girl from the chariot rides long before Fabriola arrives with the finishing touch.
"Your mentor's been filling me in on your angle," she informs as I step into the strapless, floor-length gown, "and I believe that this outfit strikes the balance you are looking for. The serenity, the aloofness, of the opening ceremony costume is there – in the long lines, the elegance of the skirt, the lack of vibrant colors – yet the pattern shatters the illusion that you are completely reserved. It adds the dash of character the Capitol has been waiting for – the character which, I trust, you are preparing to tantalize them with tonight." She clucks disapprovingly as I attempt to tug the neckline higher than its low resting place. "Don't bother with it, girl. Look in the mirror already."
I see immediately what she is going for. The dress, which cascades from my chest to the floor, is pure white, yet adorned with a bewitching arrangement of black swirls, beads and sequins. It's certainly not as flamboyant as many of the outfits I've seen on past interviews, but memorable in its own right. Just like me. Or, at least, the me I'll hopefully be able to present to the Capitol.
"Well, don't stand there gawking. What do you think?"
Fabriola's impatient tone diminishes the small swell of happiness the gown had given me. It's her brusque words that remind me what all this really means. To me, and possibly Beetee, the dress and its symbolism are a ray of light in this last, desperate bid for sponsors. To her, they're merely another paycheck, another creation to display on some hapless tribute before both are discarded and forgotten.
"It's nice," I respond briskly.
My stylist lifts her ridiculously expressive eyebrows, but gives no other response before turning to shoo the prep team from the room. The ensuing silence makes way for the sounds echoing from the City Circle. Screams, whoops, chanting. They're a pack of wolves, howling for our blood. They're so close ... it's so close.
The terror I've been trying to repress for days builds like a tidal wave. The noises of the crowd, Fabriola's cool unconcern over my fate, the sudden nearness of the arena; all combine in a sickening rush of dread. Before I'm even aware what's happening, my fingers are buried deep in my hair and I've started to hyperventilate frantically.
"You're hardly the first tribute to panic before the interviews," comes Fabriola's voice above my panicked breathing, "and you won't be the last."
"Is – that supposed to – comfort me?"
"That depends on your definition of 'comfort,'" she responds, as infuriatingly austere as always. "If it was supposed to reassure you that everything is perfectly fine, that nothing bad will ever happen to you and that you'll be back home by tomorrow, then absolutely not. As I'm sure you already know, I'm not one to stand for false consolation. My intention is to prepare you as best I can for the Games, through whatever means necessary. In this case, that means providing you with enough confidence to go up on that stage and face the Capitol with your head held high, 'comforted' or not."
"Of course," I mutter, at once incredibly frustrated with myself for expecting any real compassion from my stylist. "You're perfectly happy to help me when it reflects well on you; when it comes to how I'm actually feeling, I'm on my own."
"Have I ever given you any reason to think that?"
"You don't have to," I retort, determined not to be softened by the similarity of her words to Beetee's. "You work for the Games. Isn't that enough?"
Fabriola sighs. "You ask far too many questions that have no straight answers. All I can say is that the world is not as black and white as you think it is, Wiress."
"How so?"
I'm not sure whether or not I imagine the ripple of sadness that crosses her face. "That isn't for you or I to say, girl. Not here."
"Five minutes 'til broadcast!" screams a voice from outside. Snapping flawlessly back into business, Fabriola straightens my dress and hurries me over to the door. I have less than a minute to regain my composure before the rest of the District 3 team materializes on the scene and we begin our progress towards the elevator.
Down on the ground floor, the twenty-two other tributes are being shepherded into a fidgety line. Between the flustered stylists making last-minute touch-ups and the number of teenagers nearly in tears, everyone seems to be in some state of agitation. It's only the career pack, whom Arkel and I are placed in the center of, the pair from Ten, and a handful of dead-eyed mentors who appear completely together.
"Hair, Wiress," tuts Fabriola, reaching over to slide a comb through my slightly dishevelled locks. "I can't speak for all my fellow stylists, but I won't stand for a tribute being sent out as a mess."
She shoots a pointed glance at one of the District Eight crew, reminding me of poor Dimity's hysterics on the opening night and how it took Orford's interference to return her makeup to its original state. The look of disgust Fabriola had worn jumps to my mind. Momentarily, it dawns on me that the girl from Eight may not have been the target of her scorn.
Then the glare of the spotlight floods my vision, and I don't have time to think. I just move.
