.
ix. gumption
✦ ✧ ✦
shrewd or spirited initiative and resourcefulness
soran ditchlight
seventeen / / district six
—
He still remembers the first time his father took him to work.
Soran was maybe twelve at the time, though he was mature for his age, if he says so himself. No other twelve-year-old in Kettering wore a suit and tie and stood with the same pride and dignity that he did. Granted, the outfit didn't fit him at all since it was taken directly from his father's closet, but that's besides the point.
What matters is that Soran looked at the long hallway of clerical workers with a sense of awe and astonishment, a yearning feeling growing in his stomach that this was where he belonged.
Now that it's been five years, he can't help but think he belongs somewhere even greater.
He walks to his desk with a sense of honor — his suit is no longer his father's and it fits him perfectly, and his briefcase is made out of the fanciest pleather money can buy. All eyes are on him, but that's expected since he's worked so hard and is one of the youngest in his department.
Though he's tempted, Soran doesn't waste time engaging in small talk with his coworkers. There's little point when he'll someday be in charge of them. Instead, he finds his second home, a small gray cubicle directly under a bright strip of light, and gets settled with little commotion.
There's already a massive stack of papers on his desk and a sticky note that reads "E.O.D", which is corporate speak for "end of day," but Soran doesn't see it as burdensome. Any paper that he needs to file is one step closer to a promotion, one step closer to becoming wealthy. He sets his briefcase on the table, and unlocks it. There's only two things inside it — a calculator and a pen — but nobody needs to know that. They just know that a briefcase is something he can afford, and therefore he's wealthier and more important than everyone else.
Admittedly, work would be way easier today if he wasn't dealing with one of the most imbecilic things he's ever seen. For some reason, his boss expects him to cross-check the spelling of almost every reaping-aged person who lives in this region to ensure any name changes have been updated in the main system. Soran fails to see how any of that matters, but his opinion doesn't mean much.
Even if he's going to get to use the computer, cross-checking between it and paper records is going to be completely mindless. Soran came to work for the Kettering Clerical Building to flex his mathematical expertise, not do bitch work from nine to five.
At least it's better than last week when he had to sort through returned mail and update death records and address changes. The computer kept crashing with the amount of people named Honda Civic he had to look up.
This place is no longer doing him any good. He just wishes he could somehow move on to greater things — damn his age for holding him back.
Anyway, there's not a chance in hell that Soran's actually going to do this bitch work by himself, so he sets down his suit jacket and marches downstairs. There's a similar array of cubicles, but they're all occupied by younger teenagers. He was so eager when he was in their shoes — the light in his eyes hadn't quite been snuffed out by reality yet.
Soran doesn't have to look very hard to find his two favorite pipsqueaks, Fender and Zeta, both about to fall asleep at their shared desk. He pokes the former's shoulder until he shrieks, "Soran!"
"That's Mr. Ditchlight to you," he corrects.
"Oops. My bad!"
"What's up, Mr. D?" Zeta beams, light reflecting off her big green eyes. "Do you have an assignment for us?"
"Of course I do. Have either of you ever used a computer?"
"You can't be serious," Fender exclaims. "You trust us to use the computer."
Soran chuckles. "Only if you don't have your own work to do."
"We don't have any work left!" Zeta brushes a stack of papers off the desk. "We don't have any work left at all!"
"Well that's perfect. Let's go upstairs and I'll get you set up. You're going to crosscheck data-bases. Isn't that exciting?"
"Oh, I just can't wait!"
"Wait, are you going to pay us?" Fender buts in. "You said next time we help you, you'd pay us."
"Yes, and I meant it…" Soran's voice trails off. "I'll be paying you in experience. Yes, that — a currency far more valuable than money."
"Hooray!" The two younglings cheer in unison. "We're getting paid in experience!"
—
Gingerly, Soran knocks on his supervisor Nacelle's office door. The kids finished cross-checking in record time, and he hardly had to move a muscle.
"Come in," he hears her voice, so he turns the handle and walks inside. Her office is far nicer than all the cubicles, with stark white cabinets and what appears to be a real leather chair. The walls are decorated with pictures of her family, signaling a respectable work-life balance. To be perfectly honest, Soran's unsure if he believes in such a thing, but whatever floats her boat.
"I've finished cross-checking and updating names," he says, perched at the side of her sleek black desk. "I'm ready for more work, if you'd care to give me some."
"Done already?" Nacelle goes to her personal computer and types a few words. Her eyes widen and she shakes her head. "Wow, Soran. You've done a great job with this."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"You're by far one of my most efficient employees, and I appreciate you a lot for it."
"I'm thankful for the kind words." Even if Soran knows they're founded on lies. Technically he did get the assignment completed, he just didn't do much of the competing. He'd never get anywhere in life if he didn't cut corners from time to time, and he actually did Fender and Zeta a huge favor just now. They wanted experience, and Soran so graciously gave it to them.
"Now, I have a trickier assignment for you," Nacelle says, taking a deep breath. She uses her chair to swivel toward one of the filing cabinets, then pulls out a large stack of paper. "I have some reports from all the factory operators in this zip code. Would you mind summarizing these reports, and perhaps even visiting some of these factories to collect testimony from workers?"
"I wouldn't mind at all." But already, the gears in Soran's head are starting to turn. Summarizing the papers is fine — he can probably even find somebody to do it for him. But he doesn't want to be near the working-class, much less speak to them. He has no idea what diseases they're carrying, nor does he want to find out. But, it'll probably give him a bonus, so he might just have to suck it up. "I look forward to providing you with more exemplary work."
"I wouldn't expect anything less from you."
—
Soran was right. The factory area is disgusting.
The stench of poverty in the air nearly makes him want to keel over and die, and he can hardly see through all the smog rising high into the gray sky. The steady buzz of machinery makes his ears start to ring and just one whiff of the smoke is enough to make him lean over and cough.
A few feet away from him, a clearly-unhoused woman sits on the ground, pressing what looks like a needle in her arm. No wonder she's working here. If only she could get her act together — then she could have a real job like Soran. One where she gets to wear a suit and deal with important people instead of wasting away.
Noticing her staring, the woman glares at him, her green eyes like daggers underneath all the dirt and grime on her face. "What 'ya want, kid?"
"Oh, I was just visiting this lovely factory." Soran puts on a jolly, friendly tone. "As a factory inspector, it is my duty, after all."
"You're full of shit."
"Pardon?" Of course, the working-class is so uncouth with their words. Soran never should've engaged with her, but it's too late for him to stop now.
"Sure you are, bougie scumbag." The woman rolls her eyes. "You have no business being in this part of town. The hell are you really trying to do?"
"Nothing bad," he assures her. "Like I said, I'm an inspector."
"What?"
"I wanted to talk with you about your experience working here!" As expected, summarizing the papers was incredibly easy to complete, but he can't get away with sending people here for the interviews.
"Why would I do that?"
"An excellent question!" Soran digs into his pocket, in search of money, but unfortunately somebody must've stolen it on his way here. "You should help because," He takes a deep breath, and leans in as if he's telling her a secret, trying not to gag because she smells even worse than the factory. "I am reporting to the government, and it is crucial you tell me this information. Otherwise, I'll have no choice but to report you, and then they'll lock you up in Twelve forever."
"Sure they will." The woman cackles, then returns her attention back to her syringes.
Shit. He's losing his grasp on her. Quickly, he realizes, there's only one thing he can do to savor this interaction. It's a bad thing, but Soran can't let himself feel any guilt about it. He's just trying to get to the top of Six's pyramid. Taking advantage of somebody who's given up doesn't make him a bad person..
"What if I said I could get you off these streets?"
Immediately, her eyes light up. Drug possession is illegal in Six, and if he reports anybody who is disobeying the rules, the government will give him a hefty reward. It'll also make for interesting content on his report — factory conditions are poor and it's leading to substance abuse amongst employees. .
"How would you do that?" There's a small glimpse of hope in her voice, but Soran can't let it influence his emotions. He's doing a good thing by reporting her, even if he has no idea what'll happen to her. He's keeping the streets clean, and he's putting more money in his pockets. These are both good things, right.
"My office is actually accepting new applicants, and we're looking for people from all sorts of different walks of life." Soran explains.
"They'd just let my broke ass inspect buildings?"
"Maybe not right away," Soran says. "But, with hard work and dedication, anything is possible in the world of corporations."
The lady sighs. "You sound like a cartoon character."
"Sorry…" He nervously twitches, but quickly snaps back into sanity. "It's just that inspecting buildings is my greatest passion in life, and sharing that love is all I want to do."
"That's pathetic." She lifts up the syringe and searches her arm for a thought. "But you really think they'd give me a chance?"
"For sure. If you want, I can write down your information and get you signed up for an interview."
"That'd be really kind of you."
Yes. Soran tries not to chuckle. It sure would be kind.
—
He's the office's hotshot for the day, his colleagues clapping him on the back and congratulating him.
Soran supposes he shouldn't be enjoying this as much as he should. Last he heard, the woman he reported was shipped to Twelve, never to return again. Apparently, he'd somehow captured someone connected to one of Kettering's biggest drug lords.
He relishes in the attention though. It's what he deserves for taking initiative. The fat bonus on his last paycheck was proof of that.
"I'm very proud of you." Nacelle approaches him toward the end of the day. "You know, you're on track to getting a promotion in January."
Her words are like music to Soran's ears. Soon, he'll be done with all the mindless sheep who work with him. He'll be king of District Six, and nobody will be able to stop him.
(Even if it means he'll have to walk over the corpses of people who fell in order to ensure his success.)
odette celestine
eighteen / / district one
—
The music is so loud it's giving her a headache, the lights could give a hamster a seizure, and there's a half-empty bottle of vodka in her hands. It's safe to say Odette's exactly where she belongs. The hottest pieces of ass in Valhalla are all dancing and having the best time ever, and it's all for her.
At risk of sounding too nostalgic, Odette's going to miss her swanky little homegrown ragers while she's in the Capitol. Sure, bumping it there is going to be its own experience, but if Odette has to lie and say she'll miss anything about One, it's for sure her dorm parties.
(To put things plain and simple, she's long outgrown this place. One was great while it still had things to give her, but now, Odette wants even more.)
"Who the fuck is on aux?" She asks aloud. The current song playing is a bit slow — it's definitely not passing the vibe check. Astoria, one of her lessers — and by that she means fellow chevaliers — dramatically waves her hand in the air. "This music is too mellow! I want to jam out to some club classics. I didn't buy these speakers for you to play trash out of them."
"Yes, Miss Celestine." She salutes – unnecessary, but appreciated. "I'll go revise the playlist immediately."
"Perfect!" Odette claps her hands. Tonight's on track to be one of the most iconic nights of all time, and nobody can ruin it for her. She pours some vodka into a small glass, then raises it in the air. "This is the nicest vodka in all of Panem — straight from a distillery next to the Capitol. Who wants to do some shots!"
A flock of screaming follows, perfect. She hands the bottle to the boy (ew!) beside her, Valentine, who pours his own drink, then passes it on to the next person. Odette nods her head to the beat of the much-better music as the bottle travels the circle and eventually finds itself on the floor besides her.
"I'd like to propose a toast," she announces, keeping track of the music still. "To me!"
"To you!" everyone shouts as the base drops, then downs their shot. A few people wince and go to find their chasers, but Odette isn't a pussy bitch like that. No, this room is her kingdom and she's the fucking queen. To hell with anybody who would dare to cross her and challenge her authority.
(Thankfully, she no longer needs to deal with people like that. Anyone who crosses her, thankfully, gets put right where they belong, working away in their mommy and daddy's companies and obscuring themselves into anonymity.)
(It's better to be nobody than to be somebody out of favor with the Odette Celestine.)
Ladies flank to Odette's sides, draping themselves over her tall, muscular physique. She cradle's one of their faces, swinging her hips into her in tune with the music. Odette told herself she'd stay celibate for the night, an arduous task when everyone in this room either wants to fuck her, be her, or both.
"You look ravishing," The girl, Alchemy, tells her. "Green really is your color."
"You don't mean that, Emy." Odette winks. "I think every color is my color."
"She has a point," Lyric, another girl, insists, lightly shoving her closer to the dance floor.
"Thank you!" She moves away from Alchemy and starts dancing with Lyric. "You look quite lovely yourself — I won't lie." Odette brings the other girl's hand to her mouth and kisses it. "Tell me, where did you buy this jump suit."
"It's designer," Lyric says. "Rhapsody Fortuna's Spring 100 collection."
Odette's heart sinks, just slightly. It honestly astonishes her, the way people in One can afford to wear designer clothes to house parties. Odette wishes she could relate, but it seems the dress she thrifted still gives off an expensive aura.
She doesn't let her slight discomfort show, and instead bites her lip. "Obviously I've heard of them. I got their Summer 99 collection for my birthday. Screw the weather for making me have to wait until next summer to wear it — once I'm home from the Capitol, of course."
"A shame Lavish won't be there to match with you, they're his favorite designer."
"Really?" It takes everything inside Odette to not throw up. "That cunt has a favorite designer?"
"What, and you don't?" Lyric spins around. "I was wondering, actually, where is he?"
Please — as if Odette would invite him. She's already going to have to deal with his annoying ass for six months; she deserves one last night of freedom. Odette giggles innocently. "His invitation must've gotten lost in the mail."
"Let's go grab him!" Alchemy grabs onto one of Odette's wrists. "His room is just down the hall."
"Sure, yeah, whatever." She tries not to let her frustration show. "Let's see what he's up to!"
(Already, she can feel her control slipping. She's only worth as much as people deem she is, and them expressing interest in that twinkish Tarro twat is bad news. He has all the money he could ever need — Odette very much does not.)
(The world is so unfair sometimes.)
With Lyric on one arm and Alchemy on the other, Odette strolls down the hallway until she arrives at a door that has a bright pink sign on it, with purple lettering reading, "Do Not Disturb The King!"
Yeah, whatever. Odette knocks anyways.
Immediately, Lavish's irritatingly high voice chirps, "Gliss, you can take your apology and leave!"
She rolls her eyes — this bitch still isn't over his crush on Glissando Givenchy? Pathetic. "You think Gliss would come see your sorry ass? It's Odette, duh."
She hears footsteps, then watches with disgust as Lavish swings open the door, revealing the fact he's wearing matching silk pajamas with tiny rollerskates on them and a neon green nightcap. It may be the alcohol, but Odette swears she sees a blanket in his hands too.
"What's up, partner?" Lavish props himself against the doorframe, trying and failing to seem cool. "Aren't you busy with your party?"
"Well it wouldn't be a party without you, bitch," Odette deadpans. "Want to stop on by?"
"Unfortunately, I cannot." Immediately, his posture straightens. "I appreciate the invitation, but I am actually quite preoccupied with things that do not concern you."
She gasps — his nerve! This isn't a choice Lavish is supposed to make. When one is invited to Odette Celestine's party, they drop everything to attend. A part of her wants to slap his stupid smile off his tiny little face, but she knows better than that.
Instead, she simply says, "I appreciate the consideration, diva," grabs the girls, and struts back to her dorm.
—
Odette's been absolutely dreading this portion of her morning, and for good reason. As she makes her way out of the wealthy city of Denarius, and into the slums of Acrophis, she's careful not to let anybody see her.
(If they did, they'd know the truth, and nobody is allowed to know the truth about her.)
She weaves her way between buildings, most of which are in shoddy condition with cracks in the paneling and tiles of the roofs missing. Being here feels gross, it makes Odette seem like a fraud. A woman of her social status shouldn't have these streets memorized like the back of her hand, yet here she is.
It has to have been at least half a year since Odette was last at her mother's apartment building, but she still has the door code memorized — 0, 8, 1, 2, 8, 1 — her birthday. A buzzer sounds, then she enters the room.
"Odette?" She hears the familiar overjoyed whistle of her mother. "You didn't tell me you were visiting!"
Odette shuts the door behind her, then runs into the arms of the woman who raised her. She wishes she could see her mother more, she really truly does, but it'd only cause her problems. If she was seen around Valhalla, everyone would see how impoverished she looks, while also obviously being Odette's mother. They'd start whispering to one another, throwing out accusations that Odette Celestine is nothing but a fraud.
(But isn't she? Her status in Valhalla is nothing but a lie, a carefully constructed fantasy world where she comes from old money. That's what her mother used to say before Odette got too old to believe her stories. Funny that she now expects everyone to believe her own.
Even funnier that they do.)
"Of course I'm visiting," Odette hugs her mother back. "You think I was going to leave for the Capitol without saying goodbye to you?"
"I just assumed I would get to speak to you at the Justice Building."
A touchy subject. "Actually, Mother…"
"You don't want me to visit, do you?"
"More accurately, I can't have you visit." Odette pulls away, then makes herself comfortable on a deep blue couch that she hasn't seen before — did her mother really have the money to buy something new? "I know what you're going to say, that you think I'm embarrassed of you, but I promise, that's not it."
Her mother sits beside her, her fingers finding her way into Odette's hair, the same way they did when she was a kid and she didn't know anything about class divides and luxury. For a split second, Odette thinks she sees a tear in the woman's eye. "You've grown up so fast, my darling."
"For better or for worse, yes." She rests her head on her mother's shoulder. "I promise though, the worst is over now."
"I'm not so sure about that. I'm going to be worried sick, while you're in there, you know that?"
"You really don't need to be. It's like I've always said — I'm going to win, and then you and I are going to live in Victors Village, and you'll never have to struggle ever again."
"But I don't struggle," Mother tells her. "I'm fine with my life here. I have enough money to feed myself, pay off what your scholarship doesn't cover, and even a treat every once in a while. Did you notice the new couch?"
"Of course I did. It's lovely."
"Thank you, darling." As her mother runs her hands down the seats with a sheepish expression, Odette notices there's crusted mold on the edges — ew. "I got it at a garage sale."
"Figures."
"There's nothing wrong with that, though."
"I know there isn't, but…" Odette sits up straight and takes a deep breath. "Don't you wish that you had more? You know, like the people in Denarius?"
"I have everything I need," her mother says, something clearly uncomfortable in her expression. "I'm safe and I'm healthy, and I have the most beautiful daughter to ever grace the planet."
Odette doesn't get why that's enough for her. Her mother's the one who taught her not to settle for anything, yet she's just totally fine being working class?
"And soon you'll have even more than that." Odette giggles. "Whether you like it or not."
She sighs with frustration, "I just want you to come back alive, and y'know, like yourself."
"I don't know, actually."
"The Games change people." There's something antsy about her now. "Valhalla changes people. I don't want you to change more than you already have."
"Well lucky for you, I think I've only changed for the better." Odette climbs off the couch and stretches her arms. "Anyway, I think I ought to head back to my dorm so I can get ready for the Reaping. Be sure to take pictures of me, if you get a good seat."
"Really?" Mother folds her arms, a frown on her face. "You only planned on spending five minutes here?"
"I'm a very busy person."
"You're a spoiled brat!" And just like that, Odette Celestine's world splits in two. Her stomach drops, and she feels her cheeks start getting warm. "Go ahead and risk your life in the Capitol, but I don't want to hear anything about how you're doing this to help me — you're doing it for yourself."
But Odette isn't actually like the rich girls at Valhalla, is she? That would — it would be shameful. That just — it can't be true. Right? She's obviously way more humble than they are, because so much of what she's built for herself came from nothing. That's the difference, yep! Compared to them, she has way more range.
(Though who's to say that everyone in One isn't faking something?)
"You just don't understand me and my people," Odette fires back at her mother, then swings open the door. "If you did, maybe you'd try a bit harder to make yourself and your situation look better."
"You don't mean that, Odette."
"You're right." She sighs. "But if you'll excuse me, I have the most important day of my life up ahead of me, and I don't plan on letting you ruin it."
Yet as soon as she shuts the door behind her, Odette starts to cry.
hudson pierce
fifteen / / district six
—
In the smallest room at Doug's Auto Parts' factory, one filled with dust and spiderwebs, five young teenagers work themselves to the bone doing the very serious business of… shipments.
If Hudson could be anywhere in Panem, she sure as hell would not be here. Seriously, there are a million things she would rather do than pick up boxes from the assembly line, and read off addresses from the invoices inside, even if one of the invoices says, "Arisa Hirohito?"
"Huh?" Her friend Shooter's eyes get so wide, it's like they're about to pop out of his skull. No, Hudson doesn't know why his parents decided to name him that, so don't ask. She made that mistake once and he had a panic attack.
"I said what I said. You got a shipping label for the President?"
"Are you being deadass right now?" Shooter asks.
"Nah." Hudson cackles. "Just playin' with you, buddy."
And really, who's to blame her? She has to do something to keep her days at Doug's interesting. Otherwise, she'd shrivel up and die of boredom. Some days, she gets real close to doing exactly that.
"You're annoying," Shooter says, but Hudson knows he doesn't mean it. "Who's the package really for?"
"For the record, it's on you for being so gullible, you thought the President wanted..." Hudson holds up the invoice. "Ten replacement steering wheels." She laughs again, then hands him the box. "It's for some Capitolite named Vladimir Bellwether."
"Why are you always picking on him?" Emma, the tape-girl in this operation, shouts from her corner. "He's just a little guy, Hudcap."
"That's what makes it fun to tease him," jokes Greaser, who's job is to get the finished packages down the mail shoot. His parents didn't actually name him that, for the record — they named him Hack, which is arguably worse. Hudson has no clue how he came up with the nickname, but honestly, good for him. "You don't take it personally, right Shoo?"
"Obviously not." He sticks a label onto the box. "Ready for the next package, by the way."
"Shoot— I mean, not your name, ummm— crap!" In the time she was talking, two packages have been backed up on the assembly line. She carries them both, reading off their names, "Crispina Karst on the left and Nivose Romell on the right."
"You look so silly when you're flustered," remarks July. "Do you need me to help you?"
"Absolutely not!" Hudson shakes her head furiously. "I wouldn't dare trouble my ladyfriend."
"Do you have to call me that?"
"I think it's cute!" And it's also a huge accomplishment that Hudson got a girlfriend before Shooter and Greaser did. She loves to rub it in whenever she can. Even though her and July have only been dating for three weeks and four days, Hudson's pretty sure they're going to get married. It'd just make a lot of sense.
"You're cute," July says.
"Ew!" Shooter hisses. "Do you have to rub it in that the rest of us are single and miserable."
"Don't worry, someday you'll find love." As an expert on the topic, Hudson would know.
"Right now, I think I just really love my friends."
"Aw, well your friends love you too." Emma grabs one of his boxes, then pats him on the back.
It's true — Hudson loves these guys with everything she has, even if that isn't much. They make the dullness of Six a bit more bearable, and that's worth a lot these days.
—
Going to work with her pops is Hudson's favorite thing in the world. Unlike her friends, whose dads do boring things like working in factories or sitting behind desks answering phone calls, Hudson's dad has the coolest job in the world.
He gets to crash cars for a living — isn't that awesome?
Eugh, phrased like that makes it sound like he's a criminal, but he's actually the opposite. Pops tests vehicles for the Peacekeeper and makes sure they don't go splat when driven into walls. Hudson wishes she could have a job where she could risk her personal safety to charge into plates of metal — it looks like so much fun!
"Hey, Pops," Hudson asks as they stroll into the testing facility. "What do you say you let me drive?"
"You know that isn't allowed Huddy," he responds. "And even if it was—"
"I wouldn't want to risk the best thing in my life," she imitates him, her voice low and gruff. "I love you, Hud. I don't want anything bad to happen to you."
Pops squints. "Is that really what I sound like…?"
"Sure is!" Hudson jumps, reaching for the keys Pops is holding up. "Now c'mon! Let me drive!"
"You don't have your license."
"Really?" She rolls her eyes. "That's your best excuse. I can think of a better one. Driving licenses are for roads, and this place is all about unsafe driving and getting into crashes."
"Well, you already used my best excuse for me." He strengthens his grip on the keys. "Dude, do you really think that someday I'm going to say yes to this."
"Only if I try my hardest." Hudson smirks.
But that doesn't actually matter, because today Hudson is going to test drive a car, whether Pops likes it or not! She's not even going to just crash it — she's going to go on her own drive through Kettering's streets, then come back here with the biggest smile on her face. She doesn't even need the key — Shooter made a small remote that can unlock any vehicle, because he's just a nerd like that.
It's going to be so fun! Maybe, she'll even pick up July and they'll go on a date to celebrate their four week anniversary. She's gonna see Hudson in the car and think she's soooooo cool.
"Sure." Pops chuckles. "I'm going to go put on my helmet and uniform, but if you want, you can look at the car up close."
"Really? That'd be so great!" And absolutely perfect for Hudson's master plan. She slyly digs into her pocket — yep, the remote is still there. Oh, this is just so perfect!
She travels downstairs and into a bright white room with ceiling lamps that reflect off the shiny floors. The vibes are almost clinical, but what really matters is the silver sedan in the center. It's bigger than most of the cars Pops tests, but still decked out with the same official Peacekeeper signage. Hudson would never tell Pops this, but she kind of hates Peacekeepers — they're such buzzkills. But hey, at least they let him do a super cool job! So much more fun than the factory.
Gingerly, Hudson clicks a button on her remote, then watches in shock as the car door clicks open. No way did that mad lad Shooter actually did it. Quickly, she looks around to make sure Pops, or any other adult isn't here, then she opens the front door, steps inside, and promptly realizes she has no idea what the hell she's doing. Hudson hasn't even been driven in a car before — Pops has to leave them here, and the train is the only real way people can reliably get around Kettering.
This bodes… um well… it certainly bodes.
Eh, she'll figure it out, the same way she always does. First though, she buckles her seatbelt — safety is very important. Not important enough that Hudson is considering not doing what she's doing, but still fairly important.
There's a big red button that says "ENGINE START," so Hudson figures that'd be the best place to begin and slams on it hard. Much to her disappointment, instead of the car turning on, yellow lettering flashes on the LED screen thing, "TURN OFF EMERGENCY BRAKE."
Hudson would but well… she doesn't even know what that means. Hurriedly, she scans the whole interface for the emergency break, but only finds things like "REAR DEFROSTER" and "RECLINE SEAT." Ugh… this is so so annoying!
Just as she's about to give up though, her foot hits something that isn't the gas or brake pedal. She looks down and can hardly believe her luck — it's the emergency brake! She uses her foot to wack it, then looks back at the screen which now says, "EMERGENCY BRAKE OFF." Perfect! She's already a pro at this driving thing.
She presses the engine button once more, and the car makes a roaring sound as it turns on. Hudson hopes it doesn't alert her pops! When she was looking for the emergency brake, she saw a lever that has four options "P, R, N, and D," and is currently stopped on "P." It would make the most sense if the P meant park, which would then mean that D means drive.
So, Hudson presses the button that says "GARAGE DOOR OPEN," watches as one of the walls unfolds into an alleyway, moves the lever to "D," and slams down on the gas.
Suddenly, she's flying, the car roaring as she heads into the alleyway. This is freedom, huh? Dang, Hudson sure could get used to this. She turns the wheel to the left, careful to avoid bumping into a wall when—
"BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"
Something inside the car starts to blare, but Hudson can't check where it's coming from because thomp — she wasn't as far from the wall as she thought she was.
Her head bumps against the headrest, but it doesn't hurt too much, so Hudson turns the wheel even more dramatically, hoping it'll let her get unstuck. She put in so much hard work to get this far. She can't give up now.
But, it turns out that she can, because when she looks back over her shoulder, she sees Pops charging after her. Shit.
—
"I swear Hudson, one day you're going to give me a heart attack." As soon as they get home, Pops collapses onto his beat-up leather chair and sighs.
Thankfully, the car wasn't scratched up too bad, and Pops was able to pull it back in the garage. Now, she mainly hopes that nobody checks the security cameras.
"I already told you, I'm sorry." Hudson stands beside him. "I didn't think it was going to get scratched up and—"
"You could've died," he shouts. "If you slammed into that wall harder, your brains would've exploded everywhere and you'd be like that Raptor guy, at best."
"He was in a coma—"
"Exactly. And we don't have the money for that, so again, you'd be dead."
"I didn't mean to—"
"Didn't mean to what?" Pops face is bright red, and Hudson doesn't think she's ever seen him look so angry. Tears start to form in her eyes, and she doesn't even have a tissue to wipe them up. "We both know you meant to drive that car, Hud."
"I didn't think it'd—"
"You thought you'd magically know how to drive and then not crash?"
"Pretty much, yeah." Now that Hudson says it out loud, it sounds pretty stupid. She feels her cheeks start to turn red from embarrassment. "It was dumb, I know!"
Pops sighs. "I'm glad you're okay, honey, but seriously, what were you thinking?"
"I don't know, Pops. I just thought it'd be fun to drive my friends around, and then July and I — by the way, I like girls. and the two of us are dating — could go romantically watch a sunset or something."
"You're allowed to like girls," he tells her. "But you're not allowed to just…" Pops takes a deep breath. "I don't want to continuously yell at you, but just please… don't even consider doing that again. And also, you're grounded until after the reapings."
She pouts. "That's fair." Unfortunately, it is. "Can my friends still come over here?"
"Only if you keep the door open if July is around. I don't want you—"
"Don't finish that sentence!" Hudson hisses. "I'm so sorry, Pops. I just wanted to explore and— nothing I say is going to sound right, huh?"
"I forgive you, Hud." He solemnly shakes his head. "That doesn't mean I'm not terribly disappointed in you."
"I'm disappointed in me, too."
"Good," he says, then gets up from his chair and stretches his arms behind his back. "Let's get you something to eat."
Inspired by the 8 year old girl who drove her mom's car to target last month. Google it.
Yay! Intros are happy again! Surely there won't be another miserable chapter coming out in like two weeks… that would be crazy. Thank you to Nemris for Soran, Jade for Odette, and Para for Hudson – three babygirls!
Thank you Erik for beta-ing. I know there must've been a lot of speculation on the state of Erik and I's friendship when he didn't beta for me last week, but he just had a headache.
Halfway done with intros which is pog. Let me know how you feel about that, and what you think of Soran, Odette, and Hudson. Next week's is called Perjury. I bet you wanna know who it is. Sorry! Too bad!
Q. What do you think of the all new Chicken Big Mac from McDonald's?
Linds. Laugh. Love.