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alansimpson · 3 years

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That red is not from cold.

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thebluenoteblog · 4 years

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Just Trust Me

Summary: Things have been going well in your relationship. You and Tyler are happy, it seems as though nothing could ruin it. That is until your best friend sends you a picture of him that changes everything.

Player: Tyler Seguin

Word Count: 1.7k

*This is the first time I've written anything for Tyler Seguin so I’m sorry if it isn’t very good.*

It was a typical warm Dallas night and you were laying on your couch with a good book and a glass of wine when your phone buzzed. You smiled, closing the book and hoping that it was Tyler. You’d been dating for six months now and things were going better than you could have hoped. He always found time to talk to you before bed when he was away, so it wasn’t a stretch. You set your book and half empty wine glass down on the end table and reached for your phone.

But it wasn’t Tyler’s name that showed up on your screen. It was a picture from your best friend.

You suppressed the disappointment and unlocked the screen, pulling up the message. It was a screenshot from twitter. Your blood ran cold. You thought your heart may have stopped beating for a second, but surely that couldn’t be true.

The picture was taken in a bar, you assumed in Vegas as that was where the Stars were at the moment, and Tyler was sitting in a chair with some girl perched in his lap with her arms around his neck. You saw red. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to yell every obscenity your mind could muster at him, or never speak to him again.

So, in that moment you typed back a quick message to your friend, a thank you for the information, and then turned your phone off. He could fuck right off if he thought you were going to talk to him before you were ready.

You changed into your pajamas and crawled into bed. You didn’t cry. You stared blankly at the ceiling until the sun came up and it was time to get up and get ready for work.

****

“Are you okay? You haven’t answered your phone since yesterday?”

You glanced at your best friend around the door, like you were making sure Tyler wasn’t hiding in the hallway of your apartment building. That was a ridiculous thought because he was playing a game in LA that night, but it never hurt to check. “I have my phone turned off.”

“Why don’t you just block him?” She asked as you stepped aside and let her into your apartment. Why didn’t you? Because you couldn’t convince yourself that it was over. Even knowing that he had probably cheated on you, it still hurt to think that he would never use his key to walk through the door to your apartment again.

“To final I guess,” You said quietly, closing the front door, flipping the lock and latching it for good measure.

****

You left your phone off for the rest of his road trip. For a whole week you ignored any form of contact with anyone who attempted to talk to you outside of work. Your best friend came over to check on you almost every night. You would eat crappy take out and avoid any mention of Tyler or hockey. After she left you would lay down in bed and pick something in your room to stare at until you finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.

It was 2:00 am a week after you’d seen the picture and you were staring blankly at streetlights shining through the curtains when the knocking started. You made the firm decision to ignore it, because there were only two options for who would be knocking on your door at two o’clock in the morning: someone planning to murder you, or Tyler. Neither of which you were in the mood to strike up a conversation with.

After a minute, the knocking turned into banging and being a small apartment, there was no way to tune it out. “(Y/N), open the door! I know you’re home!” So, it was Tyler. You didn’t know if you were relieved or not. The picture flashed through your mind again and you were tempted to keep ignoring him. He clearly wasn’t going to let that fly and if Tyler was one thing, it was determined. “I’m not going away until you let me in!”

He was yelling. You had neighbors. It was after 2:00 am. You were probably going to be getting a call from your landlord in the morning. So, you threw off the covers and made your way to the door, threw it open and said harshly without giving yourself a chance to fully take him in and lose your nerve, “What do you want?”

He looked like a mess. His hair was a mess as though he’d been running his hands through it. His beard was longer than usual. His whole body was tense. He relaxed a bit as soon as you opened the door but tensed up again at your harsh words. “To find out why you fell off the face of the planet?” He responded, attempting to push his way into your apartment.

You stepped into his way, blocking his path. He froze and focused his hurt eyes on you. “Tyler, I don’t want to do this right now. It’s late. I’m tired. Come back when it isn’t the middle of the night.” You attempted to close the door, but he shoved his hand in the way, catching it before it could latch and pushing it open again.

“Bullshit, (Y/N). You don’t get to do that.” He said, using his much larger body to push past you and into the apartment. You huffed in annoyance but closed the door behind him. “You don’t get to send my calls straight to voicemail for a whole week and then tell me to come back later when I come to find out why.”

You crossed your arms, because well, you did get to do that. He was in the wrong. He was the one with another girl sitting in his lap. But you didn’t say that, you just stared at him. He knew what he did and the innocent, hurt act was the worst part.

“Damn it, (Y/N), say something! If this is you breaking up with me, you at least have to tell me why!” He was pacing around your living room now, practically burning a hole in your floor.

Finally, you couldn’t bite your tongue anymore. “I think you know why, Tyler!” You snapped. Leaning forward into his face when he turned toward you.

He startled backward at the force of your anger. “What are you talking about?” He asked, “What did I do?”

To say he looked confused would be an understatement. He looked like a sailor lost at sea in the middle of a storm. You however, were not confused. You knew exactly where you were going with this argument. “I’m talking about the girl, Tyler.”

There was no look of recognition on his face, no hint whatsoever that he had any idea what you were talking about. He was looking at you like you were insane. “What girl?” He asked, his words coming out louder than he meant for them to in his frustration. “(Y/N), I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please feel free to clue me in!”

You huffed and uncrossed your arms as you spun on your heal and headed towards your bedroom. He followed closely like a lost, confused, somewhat angry puppy. You picked up your phone from the nightstand and he scoffed, “Oh, so you do still have a functioning phone.”

You narrowed your eyes at him before unlocking it and pulling up the picture from your text messages. You turned your phone to him and put it in his face, “This girl, Seguin.”

You didn’t know exactly what reaction you were expecting from him, but the one you got definitely wasn’t it.

The asshole laughed.

He fucking laughed.

You dropped your phone on the bed and pointed at the door, “Get out.”

He responded with a simple statement, “No.”

You took a deep breath and crossed your arms again. You were about two seconds away from breaking down into tears and you didn’t want him to see that. “I think we’re done here.”

He stopped smiling.

He took a step toward you, “Baby, let me explain, please. I can explain the picture. It’ll make sense, I swear.”

You wanted to kick his ass out and sit on the floor of your shower crying for a week. But more than that you wanted him to say something that made all of this go away. Something that fixed this mess, so you could go back to sitting on the couch with a glass of wine and a good book, getting excited every time your phone buzzed because just maybe it was Tyler.

So, you didn’t stop him when he started talking.

“The guy’s and I, we were out at this bar.” He started, taking another slow step toward you and you resisted the urge to back away. “These girls came up and they asked me for a picture. I said yes but before I could stand up she sat down in my lap and her friend took it. I asked them to delete it. I guess they didn’t.”

“Why should I believe you?” You asked him, and your voice cracked because he looked so genuine, so panicked at the thought that you might not believe him and there wasn’t anything that he could do about it. He knew just as well as you did that you had plenty of reasons not to believe him.

But you did. You did believe him. You believed him because he was so confused when you accused him of knowing what he’d done. You believed him because he looked so heartbroken staring back at you when those word had left your mouth, like he was already preparing himself for the worst. You believed him because there’s no way to fake the passion that he showed when he arrived at your apartment that night. But mostly, you believed him for his answer to your question.

“Because why would I ever do anything to ruin this?” He asked you, taking another step closer and now he could reach out a hand to touch you. He brushed a hand over the side of your face and you didn’t feel the desire to pull away. “Why would I ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to me?”

#tyler seguin #tyler seguin imagine #tyler seguin imagines #nhl imagines #hockey imagines

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pavotaulait · 7 years

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He waits for mamma at daycare.

Sometimes, like now she’s late. But the daycare is open until 11 tonight so he’s not worried. His mamma is an Exy star.

No, she’s more like a goddess in the mythology books she gave him for Christmas. She made the world of Exy and she makes the stars.

Kayleigh Day is beyond human in Kevin’s eyes.

So it's ok if she takes longer to get him. She’s very busy and she doesn’t need to worry about him while she makes mortal men into demigods.

It's just him and Sarah now. They both sit at an empty rectangle table coloring while Miss. Ann makes tater tots and corn dogs and broccoli.

Kevin insisted because momma said athletes have to take care of their bodies by eating right and training. Kevin is gonna be like momma.

He’s going to be the best in Exy.

He draws himself with a gold medal standing next to his momma. Scrunches the paper up because it doesn’t look right and Sarah watches him watching the clock when he can’t draw anymore.

Miss. Ann picks up the phone.

***

Kevin does not want to go to uncle Tetsuji’s.

Kevin doesn’t wanna make his momma sad either.

He doesn’t want to sit in the car for ten hours but he does to be good. Kayleigh is in the stars looking down on him so he doesn’t tell the social worker no when she packs up his things but he picks at his lip until it bleeds.

They met once before. Uncle Tetsuji came to visit the hotel Kevin and mamma stayed in. They had coffee and Kevin had cocoa while mamma talked about the future. They had been in America for five months at the time. Kevin had been good then too.

He hadn’t told mamma he wanted to go back to Ireland.

Or that Uncle Tetsuji looked at him in a way that knotted up his stomach. He drank his cocoa.

Uncle Tetsuji had said he had a nephew around Kevin’s age.

Kevin can’t imagine the stern man taking Kevin outside and tossing a ball with him in the cool summer evenings. He can’t imagine him singing songs with Kevin because he’s afraid of storms or taking Kevin to his favorite restaurant when it’s the first day of school because he knows Kevin has a hard time making friends.

Uncle Tetsuji doesn’t look like a parent; he looks a coach.

But Riko.

Riko looks like a promise.

And then he opens his mouth once the social worker has left.

“He’s your responsibility Riko. See that he does not get in the way and understands the rules.”

“Yes, Master.” and Kevin thinks he will see uncle Tesuji’s retreating image most often than not living here. That may not be the worst thing.

The dorms though are not suited for a child his mother would say. They are blacks and reds that intimidate. Kevin had liked black before coming here, he liked the soothing black of night and fantastical black of the beaches his mother visited.

The black here feels like a dream he can’t remember upon waking but haunts him through the day.

Riko walks ahead without saying anything until they get to a room Kevin won’t ever be able to find again without help. Kevin puts his things where Riko indicates. The room is too much for two small boys let alone one, he doesn’t know how Riko could get to sleep.

“The master is training me to be the best in Exy. You're here now and you're my responsibility so you're going to be the best too.”

Kevin does want to be the best. The word responsibility though troubles him. He is the same age as Riko but they make him sound like a baby.

“You're going to be my brother and I'm going to be your best friend.” Kevin thinks he could really use that, those words make it easier to relax his tense shoulders.

Riko’s going to help him achieve his dreams and make mamma proud. It sounds tough but mamma didn’t raise him to be afraid of work so he gives Riko a small smile and says ok.

-------

***

And at first, there is so much new that he doesn’t have time to consider anything.

It feels like he is a prince in this castle. His castle.

Tetsuji orders him a personalized racquet.

He and Riko go to the court to for training with Tetsuji and the other coaches and the Ravens.

He and Riko stand before a man named Gerald who teaches them about the press before turning them to flashing cameras that gleam off his newly whitened teeth like it was fate.

He and Riko eat together, meals prepared by the housekeeper who used to be Riko’s nanny.

He and Riko draw on their faces the numbers ‘1’ and ‘2’ every morning like a prayer to the gods of Exy, to Mamma and Kevin is included in someone's life, interwoven in someone's future so he smiles thinking of it as a gift.

He and Riko are together so much that he can’t feel lonely or miss Kaleigh but he wants to sometimes.

Kevin tries not to cry because he doesn’t think it would do him any good but sometimes when he’s lying in bed thinking about his day he thinks, “I’m gonna tell momma about this.” and remembers he can’t.

There is no momma to talk to now that will talk back to him.

There is only Tetsuji who does not give praise or kindness. There is only Riko who looks like he is always starving for something no one will give him.

Riko pretends not to hear him he thinks, but one night he gets mad at Kevin.

“Stop crying like a baby.” He throws a pillow at Kevin. “You have no reason to cry.” Riko being mad at him makes him want to cry more.

“I’m sorry.” Riko includes him in everything. He’s always by his side so Kevin thinks Riko’s upset because Kevin’s being ungrateful. He doesn’t know how to say he appreciates what Riko has done for him so far but his momma hasn’t been dead even a month and he still feels like he’s not a whole person.

He needs a band-aid or a doctor to fix up his heart. It’s hard doing it on his own.

Riko tries to stick his finger in the cracked dam, plugging up the hole with his small finger but he doesn’t notice Kevin’s still bleeding.

“Stop crying or I will give you something to cry about.” Now Riko sounds mean. He sounds like the master and it makes Kevin mad. He would go if he could but he doesn’t have anywhere to go. The book he throws hits Riko’s cheek.

“Why are you so mean?! I wish momma had never sent me here!”

“Neither of us had a choice,” Riko says instead of yelling, his voice is very low and quiet ending the conversation there.

Riko is like a book the Master is writing and he stops and starts in the older man's presence. He barely has enough words outside of the court to be a real thing.

Kevin stares at the thin window near the ceiling covered with black curtains feeling like a tornado's stuck in his throat.

***

He had thought maybe it was like Hercules and his trials. Difficult but at the end, he would emerge a hero.

Kevin thought he knew what the difficult parts of living in the Nest were.

“What happened to your face.” Tetsuji is like the Beast from Beauty and the Beast. He leans over pinching Riko’s chin between his thumb and forefinger to survey the damage of Kevin’s fit.

The master only notices, Kevin thinks, because for once he did not put that bruise on Riko’s face himself. Kevin knows Tetsuji is a scary monster in people clothes but he hopes like all monsters he’s read about Tetsuji has a weakness or a hero meant to fight him.

“Kevin threw a book at me. He was upset.” Apparently, Riko is still as well telling on Kevin like that. He doesn’t know what punishment here is like for misbehaving but he’s more than a little afraid.

Tetsuji’s cane makes no sound striking Kevin's thigh or his back or his shoulder but Kevin does make sound.

He apologizes because he realizes he is not Hercules. No.

Kevin is somewhere between perpetually rolling a boulder up an unforgiving hill and having his liver eaten.

Not a hero or a god. Just a child out of his depth.

“You are property. A dog that bites his master is of no use and you, your only use to me is your ability to play. If you cannot understand your place there will be worse lessons to learn. Do you understand me.”

“Yes, master.”

It’s what Riko says and Riko knows this game so he repeats safe words.

Riko cradles Kevin's head when the master leaves them in the locker room. Kevin can’t move, doesn’t want to think about moving.

“You're my brother, my friend. You're mine. If you listen to me I will protect you from him but you have to be good Kevin. Please. We are destined for the stars and I want you by my side.”

The titles he is given come with a steep price. Kevin doesn’t think he can pay them. Promises were already made though, to momma and himself.

Riko gets a paper towel damp to wipe the tears and blood from the youthful curves of Kevin's face. He opens their lockers nudging the taller boy to get dressed.

Kevin can’t think past the pain but he knows that he loves Exy and that just has to be enough.

There is no time to think of anything else.

This castle might be a cage but at least he has Riko.

----

***

Puberty is a faint glimmer behind him and he is a star.

Riko and Kevin travel to photo shoots in places like Tokyo, New York, and Chicago.

Riko and Kevin appear on talk shows with grins to highlight the marks on their cheeks.

Riko and Kevin train hard and study hard and play hard.

Everything is hard but it’s worth the work.

He’s thirteen and he is second best in all of the youth training camps the Nest hosts.

The news calls him one of the best youth players in the nation, Riko is the best but Kevin doesn’t mind because as Tetsuji says they are miles above anyone else their age.

Once he lets himself settle into the Kevin shaped hole the Ravens have made for him he excelled.

Every time he is not given food it's just a chance to earn back his worth.

When he is forced to run laps until he’s heaving it’s because he cannot be stronger unless he breaks the weakness in his body to heal back stronger.

Tetsuji believes in the training and Riko believes in Tetsuji and they are his gods and executioners now, not momma.

Tetsuji makes the stars now.

Kevin is acclimated to the bruising from strict discipline. He says thank you for every strike, every reprimand.

They gave him a purpose to live for. They are helping him be good so he can keep his promises.

***

At fifteen with Testuji’s blessing, Riko has himself and Kevin inked for Kevin’s fifteenth birthday.

Kevin had forgotten it was his birthday. Sometimes he forgets things about himself or who he was before Kayleigh Day’s car crash.

Riko remembers for him.

Riko does a lot for him. Kevin’s started having panic attacks this year, Riko is always there or sends Jean to be with him during these times.

Riko punishes Kevin but only when he needs it and only to make him better.

Riko’s giving him a gift tattooing him like this.

“We will always be brothers now.” He kisses Kevin that night leaning over the small divide between their beds pushed together since they were ten years old.

“You are the only one I need Kevin. The only one I trust by my side.” Riko’s lips are cold but Kevin does feel blessed in the same way as when he is allowed to treat Riko’s wounds from the Master.

With his eyes set on Riko in the horizon, he doesn't feel like a follower, he feels chosen.

He knows the tattoo on his face is a collar but he kisses back like he is thankful because he has no choice but to be.

Kevin doesn’t trust himself to know much or anything anymore.

***

When you take away Exy from Kevin, what he has can be counted on one hand.

A love of history from his mother, a love of classical music from his anxiety, alove of boys and girls from his numerous crushes on the older Ravens and a fearful love of Riko from a need to not only survive but shine.

He knows he can love Exy but it will never love him back. Not the way he needs it.

A nosy but quiet investigation into the youngest Ravens mental health says that Kevin has an anxiety disorder with dependency issues. The psychiatrist says Riko has borderline personality disorder. In his professional opinion, they both should be medicated and encouraged to foster hobbies outside of Exy. While Tetsuji does respectfully close the door on the man's face he does not prohibit Kevin or Riko from exploring other interests. He has beat into them that Exy comes first so he does not worry about infidelity.

But Riko does at a constant rate.

Kevin thinks this is why Riko has them both sleep with Lydia. He says it is because she will do what he says and they are old enough but Kevin wonders if it's because of the way he’s been looking at Riko and Jean instead.

Like he wants to kiss Riko again, to hush all the mean words his mouth is capable of.

Like he wants to lean into Jean to take comfort as well as security from someone needing equally as bad.

It’s the only explanation he can think of when Riko has Jean assaulted.

That Kevin was selfish and wanted too much so Riko has to remind him that Kevin only wants what Riko wants.

It feels like a warning, using Jean's body like that. Riko says nothing but he looks at Kevin like, see what you’ve done? He’s crying for someone to save him because of you? His pain is on you.

And Kevin does feel like the guilty party with all his lingering glances, gentle touches, and stolen kisses.

He had forgotten himself. His place as both toy and pet.

He had started to want freely. Riko has helped him again to find his place because now Jean will never want for Kevin. No, now Jean will be afraid of love and starving himself of it. Kevin cannot imagine he is temptation enough for another try, not with what he costs.

They are brothers so he knows Jean is better saving for someone else.

There is no room to be grateful or anything but far from his body at the moment. Jean’s screams pierce the veil drawing him back time and time again but Kevin is good at being detached. Imagining that he was not the one to tape Jean’s hands together or open the door for the seniors bent on destroying his dear friend.

He can barely feel his fingers so he doesn’t feel to blame yet but he will. He knows Riko will leave Jean for him to clean up afterward.

And Jean with his not all the way dead yet eyes will try to be ok. Like there won’t be a next time he is in the wrong place at the right time for Riko.

The shadow in Riko has been building like a Tsunami. Waves cresting in chaos with height. For years Riko has grown harder. [K1] He has taken more discipline into his hands like he would rather cause pain than fall to it at his uncle’s cane.

Riko has been transforming into a Raven while Kevin, still a bird but not a Raven has to learn to toughen his skin.

He sees the breaking in Riko, the unhinging shuttering mess as the years go by. This proves that he’s been right to be afraid of Riko.

Riko the boy king who no one will stop or stand against.

Riko who loves Kevin with the ferocity of a favorite toy but just as easily may break him in the future when threatened.

“It will be easier to be a star if you’re heterosexual Kevin.” Riko is not wrong, he never is. He stands over Jean who flinches in the bed no longer smothered by bigger bodies. The tallest boy’s body shuddering like the magnitude of what has been done him with open chasms in the earth . Muscle dimpling with goosebumps in the cool room. There is blood in the corner of his mouth and Kevin thinks Jean may have bitten his cheek in the rape. He’s glad it’s a minor wound.

“Do not touch what is mine,” he says in warning to Jean, Jean will not look at Riko so Kevin knows that he understands. It doesn’t matter that Kevin had kissed Jean first or that Riko had never said he couldn’t, arbitrarily changing the rules in a fit of childish anger.

For the first time, really, Kevin understands exactly what the cost of fame for him will be.

Ever hopeful he had thought that once they made court, once they went pro, Kevin would have his brother at his side. Opportunities falling at his feet. If he just endured a little longer. held his tongue a little more.

Now he knows there is no guarantee for his future, only as long as he pleases Riko.

To do that he cannot love anyone more than Riko, He cannot let anyone besides Riko work harder than him or ever think that he is something beyond Exy.

The cost is steep.

And he should be worried about Jean. He should soothe his hurt teammate. Bust he cant and he’s selfish in the fear he hold onto facing the looming prospect of living and dying by the Nest. Preserved perhaps even after death in this gilded cage, he was bought to be displayed in threatens the function of his lungs. His knees go weak.

“Kevin. Kevin.” Jean is holding out his hand in front of Kevin's eyes, tone begging Kevin to help him. Like a child who has been abandoned. Like he has been. Kevin vomits on the floor with Jean’s shaking fingers resting on his head.

He can never leave because of Riko but he will never leave because of Jean.

***

Once he is the best, that’s his downfall.

You fly too close to the sun you burn. Kevin is a blistered thing.

He had been caught between two swords.

Do his best to beat Riko and Do well enough but not better than Riko.

With Tetsuji’s watchful gaze there was no more holding himself back.

The truth once again harming him the most in those hours after the ERC told Tetsuji they felt Riko was holding Kevin back.

“You’ve taken everything from me! You say you love me but you try to take my position, my purpose-“ Rapid breathing shakes Kevins “You,” is emphasized with the heel of Riko’s shoes digging into his hand, “Are not better than me. A pet is not nor ever will be better than their vision master.” Kevin isn’t sure he’s heard a snap but the pain intensifies. It's hard to be coherent with the concussion he’s sure he has.

“But now that they have put that idea in your head, in Uncle’s I must put you down. Look what you’ve made me done brother.” He does look at his mangled hand while Riko brings his racquet down on it with a tone of finality.

The finality of Exy career ending.

The last thirteen years of his life expiring with the climactic grace of a nuclear bomb.

He had been right to think he would live and die by Riko’s hand.

“Don’t cry Kevin, You're going to become our assistant coach. You’re family, I will always make a place for you at my side.” Riko looks calmer than he has for years and Kevin realizes it's finally because his crown is secure. “I will send Jean for you.”

Jean does come. He looks how Kevin assumes he would feel if his brain and emotions would come back online but all he can think of is surviving at the moment.

His tired body is telling him to fly away from this nest of snakes.

“You should go,” Jean says choking on the words in French as he bandages Kevin’s hand that is still bleeding onto the court. “You should leave and never come back.”

“He’ll kill you.” Jean has been broken enough.

“No, but he will kill you if he continues to see you as a threat. He will tear you to pieces because I know you, Kevin, and you are a star. It is in your nature to shine. He has already spent most of his life trying to snuff you out. Riko will never kill me though, he would be out of toys that have no consequences to harming them.”

“I can’t.” The face Jean puts on is brave as he helps Kevin out of the gym, through the common area to the outside parking lot. Despite the consequences that will no doubt be severe he doesn’t hesitate in giving Kevin the keys to his car.

“I will say you took them. The last I saw of you I left you outside your door, you must have taken my keys while I was helping you. "

Riko has made convincing liars of them, he had learned from the best.

“Don’t-Don’t let any of the others know.” That it was Riko who had maimed him, ”“If they ask tell them I do not want to speak with them.”

Of the two , Jean’s survival instinct had always been better than Kevin’s. “Go to your father, no one will deny you his room number. Keep your hood up.”

Years before when they had stolen the note from Tetsuji’s office, Kevin would never have thought one day the information would become his solace.

That he would have a parent to once more turn to in his time of need.

The French backliner knows that only a Martyr such a David Wymack could save him now. Despite everything being ruined, that is enough to keep him moving.

“Promise me you will call if things get worse, Jean. You cannot let him take any more from you, please."

The older man agrees though they both know he won’t call Kevin. Kevin can’t even promise he won’t come crawling back to Riko as soon as he calls Kevin to come.

Kevin Day knows abuse. He knows that he has been abused. That Riko and Tetsuji are abusive. He knows most of all that abuse victims hardly ever can break the cycle by themselves. Leaning on Jean for stability is foolish, he will back inside the month with the lack of resolve they both have. [K3]

But there is the hope that David Wymack is enough.

There is the hope that Kevin will die someday far in the future with his pride intact knowing he went to seek better for himself.

***

For so long he had been fighting. Standing outside of the Foxes coach’s door feels like the first good thing he’s done since his mother died. He doesn’t know what he will do or the future. The world now is pain and consequence.

Everything else starts with a knock.

“Hello?” Wymack opens the door, he has had enough injured foxes he knows before he see’s the blood something is wrong.

“I need your help.” He needs Wymack’s protection. He needs his dad to tell him things will be alright.

“Kevin D-” he knows who Kevin is.

He wants to say, I'm your son. But settles for another truth “Riko. He broke my hand.” For once the truth does set him free.

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taytayize123 · 7 years

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Lost Country Heart

Lost Country Heart “Another vice, another call, another bed I shouldn't have crawled out of” Living in a small town has it’s perks, but it can also be very lonely. In my case, I don’t blend in with what's normal, meaning that people think there’s got to be something wrong with me when I’ve always been a little lost in life. My name’s Taylor, and I live in Owensboro, Kentucky. I’m a southern girl through and through, it runs deep in my blood. I don't have blonde hair, tanned legs, or a cute, little, petite frame, meaning I don't look like the girl country singers describe in their songs. When I look in the mirror, I see long, chocolate brown hair that develops natural blonde highlights in the summer, ever changing blue eyes that range from an icy clear blue, or a darker midnight blue, and pale pink lips that somehow always end up in a pout that curves into a smile. Growing up hasn’t always been easy for me. I have gone through a lot of emotional heartache that a child, or young adult, shouldn’t have to go through. For the longest time, I wondered if anyone cared about how their actions affected me. In my family, I have a wonderful mother who is one of my idols because she always taught me that no matter what, I need to use my voice and follow my dreams whatever they may entail. My dad is a very hardworking man: a real “keep working hard and you will receive great things in life” type of guy. He lives for his family and wife, which is something I have always admired since I was a little girl. I also have an older sister named Keala that’s eight years older than me. She’s strong willed, yet has a very caring heart. I have a backbone and I'm not scared of standing up to anyone because of that woman. I thank her for that every single day. When I was eleven, I really began to doubt I was good enough. I found out my sister was pregnant by her college boyfriend. It shocked me, because I knew the dreams she had of going to fashion design school. Sadly, these dreams were put on hold. Having to adjust to not being the “baby” in the family and everyone fawning over the new “bundle of joy” made me feel so insignificant, lonely, and uncared for. Six months after Keala had my nephew, my grandfather died from colon cancer. It ended up throwing me into this overwhelming sadness that felt like I was being swallowed up by a dark force that I couldn’t escape from. My saving grace was music; all different kinds ranging from R&B soul stuff to Rock n Roll and Country. I began singing at the age of fourteen in my school’s choir. For my audition,I choose to sing At Last by Etta James. I planted my feet like a tree trunk, gripped the microphone with my left hand so tight my knuckles turned white, and began singing with my eyes shut tightly. Once I finished, I opened my eyes to see my whole choir class cheering and clapping for me. Ever since, I just couldn’t stop. I remember when my teacher told me that I needed to sing and let my voice be heard. I decided that it wasn’t a choice: I had to let it out. When I started High School, I was so uncool and I had an awkward phase. I was sure no guy would ever notice me, and I was right up until my Sophomore year. I came back from summer vacation a totally different person. I had lost a little weight, learned how to dress properly, and actually did my hair and makeup. I finally had developed some major confidence, which is how I met my first boyfriend. His name was Sawyer and he was the quarterback of the football team. He was an all-American boy: he loved football, going muddin (driving big trucks through the mud), and sipping on a ice cold Bud Light. Seven months of dating floats by, when I found out he had been “hooking up” with another girl. I was beyond pissed. I jogged to my car so I didn’t cry at school. On my way to the car, I passed a sign that read; “End Of The Year Talent Show May 25th!”. Instead of crying about Sawyer, I decided to have a little fun. In turn, I entered the show. The night of the show came and everyone in school showed up, including my family, my friends, and, of course, Sawyer. I peeked behind the curtain, feeling someone tap on my shoulder, telling me it’s time for me to go on. I walked on stage, grabbed the mic stand as the music starts. “Right now, he’s probably slow dancing with a bleach blonde tramp, Right now he’s ordering her some fruity little drink because she can’t shoot a whiskey, standing up behind her showing her how to shoot a combo.” Oh yes, I sang Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood to a full auditorium of people, including that cheating asshole of a boy. He then he proceeded to fast walk out of the place by the time I sang the last note. I showed him not to mess with me every again! After graduating, I choose to move out to Nashville to try my luck at becoming a professional singer. I used all the money I saved up working at this little diner in town. I got in my car and started the drive to my new home state, hoping that I could actually make a name for myself. When I got there, I got myself a nice little apartment right next to the bars and clubs were where I had gigs around town almost every night. I got a job at a place called Honky Tonk Central. It was a huge, loud, and boisterous club that’s known for great live music. I worked as a bartender, until, one night, a nice looking gentleman walked over to the bar where I was pouring drinks. He noticed I happened to be singing along to She Talks To Angels by The Black Crowes ,which spilled through the big speakers above the bar. The man approached me, saying, “Hey, I heard you singing. I like your voice a lot, would you be interested in an opening slot on Friday night at the Bluebird Cafe?” I couldn’t believe what this man was saying. I was shocked, but beyond excited for this opportunity. The whole rest of the week, I was beyond nervous, trying to figure out what my set list was gonna look like, what outfit I’d wear, and praying to every musical god I have ever looked up to in life that this showcase was going to be a hit. Friday night came before I knew it. I showed up to the Bluebird, wearing a light-wash pair of skinny jeans, a white cotton 70’s inspired blouse, and a pair of cowboy boots. I also had my lucky diamond studs that were given to me by my grandmother just before she passed away. I knew she was there with me in spirit. I got up on stage, beginning my set for the night. I had chosen songs I personally like to listen to. They included Vice by Miranda Lambert, I’d Rather Go Blind by Etta James, Hard To Handle by The Black Crowes, and, to end my set, Piece Of My Heart by Janis Joplin. The last few lines of Piece Of My Heart flowed out of my mouth and the place enraptured into fits of cheering. I even received a standing ovation. I felt like I had won the lottery because all different kinds of greats in music have played at the Bluebird Cafe, and I had just played there too. I decided to go get a drink afterwards. While I sat down on the stool, the guitar player of the house band sat next to me, striking up a conversation. His name was Mason, he had chestnut brown hair and it wasn’t short or long but just enough to run your fingers through. He also had fluorescent green eyes, paired with a sweet smile. I ordered us two Bourbons on the rocks as we chatted about our musical influences, where we grew up, and how important the art of songwriting really is in this decade. One two many bourbons and whiskey shots later, we stumbled out of the club, arms latched onto each other. Mason was leading us to his place, which happened to be just down the street and around the corner. Once, we got there, he pushed me up against the wall as our lips interlocked together, my hands running through his soft hair as his hands ran down my waist to my butt, giving it a squeeze. I giggled, involuntarily breaking our kiss. I suggest we go to the bedroom. He takes my hand, walking me to his room, telling me to lay on the bed. I sit, kicking off my boots as he does the same. I lay down on the bed as I watched him begin to light candles and walk over to the record player. He picks out a record, placing the needle down. I smile when I hear the words of the song Miss You, by The Rolling Stones. This man was sure making the mood perfect. Crawling into bed, he quickly met my lips, beginning to make out. I pulled away, letting him remove my blouse as I took his white button down off, revealing his toned abs. Smiling, I watched his eyes widen as he noticed my ample cleavage displayed before him, earning a sexy smirk from him. He then takes off his jeans showing off a nicely sized package, causing my mouth to curve into an ‘o’ shape, persuading me to wiggle out of my jeans. I remove my bra, freeing my breasts. Mason removes his boxer briefs, hooking his thumbs into my panties to slowly pull them down. We each spend some time pleasuring each other in many different ways, but the moment that he pushed himself inside me had me gasping for air. Moans slipped through both of our mouths, some of which were his name as well as profanities. I couldn’t believe that this man was making me feel this good. We fell asleep after making love for a few hours, listening to each others heartbeats becoming one cohesive beat. I wake up from sunlight that’s twinkling through his curtains, turning to my right to see this beautiful man sleeping next to me. His tanned skin lying upon my pale skin was a sight I never wanted to forget. I leaned off my side of the bed to reach into my bag for my phone, noticing I have a missed call from the guy who gave me the opening slot at the Bluebird Cafe. While I quietly tip toed into the bathroom, I called him back. He explains that the country musician, Frankie Ballard, needs an opening artist for his tour and he thinks I’d be perfect match for the gig. I accepted, learning that I leave tonight at 6pm. I walk back into the bedroom, picking up my things and writing a note on the pillow explaining everything, hoping he understood that I had to take this job. I left to go home to pack for the tour, and as 6pm rolls around, I board Frankie’s bus, wishing that I get a call from Mason. What a night!

#original content

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zippdementia · 6 years

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Part 40 Alignment May Vary: Vraath Keep

This is the ongoing adventure in the 5e conversion of classic 3.5 adventure The Red Hand of Doom! Not only does this detail the adventures of my three players but it also give detailed suggestions on how to run a 5e conversion of this campaign.

Tools I reference a lot: The 3.5 Red Handbook of Doom, The beastiary Revenge of the Horde, secondary beastiary Tome of Beasts.

Hunger. The sensation never left him. The best he could do to counter it was to hunt and kill and gorge until his belly sagged with food and he could not deny the truth, that he could not physically eat any more. It wasn’t quite what someone else might describe as being full, but there was satisfaction in knowing he had eaten to the point where physically he could no longer do so. But then he got bored. When the smell of blood and fear wasn’t filling his nostrils he would become restless, and anger always followed restlessness.

He was feeling restless now. He had just killed, a female deer that he had spotted while flying over the forest, but it had been an easy target. She had frozen in fear with the smell of him and he had flicked his tail and shot two spines from his tail directly through her neck. It had been a good shot, better than he intended, and she had died quickly. That had disappointed him. He had wanted a good chase, a mad dash through undergrowth, the adrenaline coursing through him like the finest potion. Maybe she would run back to her den and he could eat the little ones, too, if she had them. It was the right time of the year for little ones.

But instead he was here, already home and the dawn not even broken yet. Ahead of him, the Keep that Should Be His loomed. The Hobgoblins were scuttling away from the dawn, returning to their bunks in the old broken down keep. His own entrance, a hole in the roof of the old armory, was not far. He would crawl into his hole and eat his disappointing, if filling, dinner.

Briefly, as he flew past, a crow caught his eye. It was perched on the broken tower, bathed in the sickly green light that emanated from the Bugbear sorceror’s magics (the Bugbear was fond of his little trick, making people think the Keep was haunted). For a brief moment, Clydus thought of giving chase to the little black speck, but the crow would make a paltry meal and most likely a poor chase. He ignored it, and settled instead on his roof, dragging the corpse inside the hole with him.

“Manticore,” Jorr said in his warble of a voice and spat to one side. The picture the crow had drawn for them was poor, but surprisingly good considering Nysyries was using only a beak and talon to produce it. “Vicious creatures, nasty tail spines that they can shoot at you. They become embedded, infected, bad way to go.”

“So we sneak in and kill it,” Tyrion said. “It doesn’t know we are here, we have the advantage.”

“There is another way,” Nysyries said this as she transformed, the black feathers becoming black scales, the legs and wings elongating into limbs, the simple clothing and leather armor she wore emerging on her body. “When I flew over I saw a breach in the wall Southern. Looks like giants broke through there. We could sneak in that way. There were no guards.”

“Then we go,” Xaviee insisted. “This is what I’ve waited for, I won’t wait any longer. It is dawn, we have the advantage. We strike now.”

Beelzebub was exhausted. All night he’d been patrolling the woods around the old ruined castle. Koth--no, he was Wyrmlord Koth, he’d have to remember that--had ordered regular patrols ever since the hunchback had come back with reports of the three warriors hanging around the Ferry town. They had gone south this night, along the Dawn’s road and had even thought that they had seen campfires burning off in the woods, but when they chased them the lights kept moving and eventually the Sergeant had called off the trek, growling about fey magic. These woods were strange, it were true.

Now he undid his chainmail and climbed in his bunk, grateful to catch a few hours sleep before his shift for watch was up. However, he had barely closed his eyes it felt like before the ruined hall that served as their barracks exploded into noise and chaos. His eyelids snapped open and he saw a tall elf standing before him, a bandanna wrapped around his eyes. Beelzebub rolled instinctively but the elf seemed to track his movements, his hands darting out like clubs, cracking into his ribs and head. Blood poured from Beelzebub’s mouth and breathing was suddenly difficult as he completed his roll out of bed and desperately fought to regain his footing and his senses.

There were five of them, he saw. A huge black-scaled Dragonborn wearing dirty leathers used a heavy mace to bash in the face of the hobgoblin next to Beelzebub. A tiny man was screaming in rhyme as he darted swiftly about the room, magic blasts flying from one hand while the other idly held a gigantic black axe at the ready. Near him moved someone who was obviously a soldier: he wore a soldier’s hard monotone features as he moved about the room, sparring with the hobgoblins who rose to meet him. A bow twang announced the presence of the fourth fighter, an old man in dark green clothing, shooting arrows into the fray, taking careful aim before each shot. And then there was this elf fighting blindly, whose hands were like cudgels when they struck.

The Sergeant was calling for someone to raise the alarm. Beelzebub stood, dodged a kick from the elf and began to run. He felt pain in his back as he moved past the little one (that must have been the ax cutting me, he thought) but kept moving, kicking open the door to the courtyard and bellowing out the alarm as he ran outside, making his way for the stables. Behind him, he could hear the clash of steel continue and then it was drowned out by a sudden roar.

That would be Karkilan, he thought. The Wyrmlord’s bodyguard had joined the fight.

Karkilan was awake before the intruders had taken two steps inside the large hall. He came forward like a walking fortress from behind the dividers he had set up (for some privacy during his meditations) and charged directly at the elf, head down, clawed fists swinging around to crush the elf’s body into his horns, then throwing his head up to chuck the elf forward, the crash of the elf’s body hitting the sprawled out corpses of the Hobgoblins he had killed a wonderful music to Karkilan’s ears.

Behind him, he heard a mad cackle as Zharr, the Hobgoblin cleric, moved his deformed hunchbacked body into the hall. “Protect the Wyrmlord!” He shouted to Karkilan. “We shall take care of these.”

Karkilan wanted blood and battle: he did not wish to retreat. But years of battle training had taught him to obey and he did so now, retreating towards the entrance to the tower.

But something was wrong: the floor was coming alive beneath his hooves. He bellowed in rage as vines erupted from beneath the stone floor, pushing their way up and around his body, locking him in place. Nearby the hunchback was also struggling feebly, his misshapen body held fast by the vines. The summoner of the vines had to be the Dragonborn: she was staring intently at them and mumbling under her breath, as if calling the very earth to help her. And as Karkilan stood there, fixed in place, the elf and the halfling moved forward and drove their weapons, fist and axe, into the hunchback’s unprotected body. Two strokes was all it took: Zharr fell.

“Very entertaining,” the voice growled from the hole in the wall where they had climbed in. Traki could not see the voice’s owner, but he could smell him. The stench was like that of a great beast that wallowed in the corspses it ate. It stank of death and blood and fecal matter, with a pungent rancid smell over the top of it all that was quite unique. It had to be the Manticore. Though he had never seen one, and never would, he knew how dangerous the beast could be. And yet there was a playfullness in its voice that reminded him of a cat.

“If you would hold on for a moment,” Traki responded, “I’d be happy to come play with you next.”

The answer he got was a deep thrumm that passed, he assumed, as a chuckle. Then there was a sudden swishing sound and a change in the air. Instinctively, Traki raised his left hand and gripped the spine that had erupted from the manticore’s tail, bare inches from impaling itself in his neck. Disdainfully, Traki tossed it away.

“Listen, I said give me a moment! I’ve got others to fight first.”

This time, he got no response. Traki had no chocie but to assume the manticore had decided to wait. If he had had the eyes to see, he would have seen the manticore sitting with its monstrous, grotesque head resting on its lions paws, eyes watching Traki dart back and forth between his opponents, like a cat watches a mouse.

Fire spread from his fingertips as the vines crept under the oaken door and made their way across the chamber. The sight of them enraged him. How dare they. To make an attempt on his keep, when it was his time to rise, when the world should be bowing to him. Wyrmlord Koth, Bugbear Sorceror in service to the Great Red, was having none of it.

He strode foward, seven foot tall, flames erupting from his naked arms and twining around his hands. The vines wilted and died as he approached, his heat singing the color and life from them. At the door he paused only to announce himself: “I am the Wyrmlord Koth, son of the Dragon, weilder of the Flame! You will burn here with the force of my power!”

Then he launched the fire from his body in a massive blast that exploded above the hall, raining tiny meteors of flame down upon the intruders and their petty vines. The halfling was caught badly, falling to his knees under the onslaught. The Dragonborn ran for cover, beating off fires from her leather clothes. The Elf moved almost like the wind, dodging every speck of fire, slapping some of them from the air as they approached, turning them into sparking embers. And he looks blind.

Then aid arrived: the doors to the back of the hall burst open and his Hobgoblin warrior Beelzebub rushed in, followed by two worgs, one of them bearing a full armored Goblin warrior, Kelshab, the Prince of the Forest Tribe. Beelzebub fell quickly to a sneak attack by the monk, the elf slamming a palm into his face, crushing his jaw and killing him. But the worgs were close behind, and they leapt upon the monk and began tearing into him. Koth saw blood and sniggered at the sight. He reached inside his robes and pulled free a wand of Magic Missile, then held it forward and launched the magical bolts into the battle where they slammed into the interlopers one after the other. Koth cackled and readied another volley, but something stopped him. The Dragonborn was changing, morphing, her skin shifting into something wet looking, and rubbery. Soon, where she had stood, now instead coiled a gigantic serpent, its maw large enough to swallow a small dog whole, and to give a pony serious concern. Koth was no dog or pony, but even he took a step back as the beast lunged forward and Karkilan stepped in front of him to block him from its attack. It wrapped around the minotaur, serpent and bull locked in a sudden gruesome battle to the death.

Perhaps it is time for me to leave. Koth took two steps backwards into the tower room and disappeared from view.

Encounter: Vraath Keep

The above description doesn’t cover the whole battle, but enough of it to give the general idea. After Koth flees, the party regroups and focuses on the minotaur. Karkilan fends off the group long enough for Koth to fully escape the fortress and the battle ends in a quite epic fashion, as Trakki rides the giant snake form of Nysyries up the tower stairs to where Karkilan is about to drink a healing potion, leaps off the snake’s back, and delivers the final punch to Karkilan, taking him down.

Battle difficulty meant to be: Vraath Keep can be easy or hard, depending on how many enemies are alerted at one time. I would say my players end up approaching it in a medium to hard difficulty. Had the Manticore joined in, it would have been very difficult, possibly a TPK. But that’s appropriate, since they took most of the keep’s defendents on at one time.

Players are supposed to walk away feeling: Accomplished (or dead). They just took on a fortress, and whether they bluffed their way in via the manticore, snuck in and got what they needed, or took on the enemies in a straight fight, victory here should feel like that plan is a success. The great thing about the keep is it has so many approaches that it allows the players the opportunity to formulate any plan they like and really sandbox the approach.

Rebuild: I use hobgoblin veterans and a captain for the bunker group and a hillgoblin warrior and Alpha worgs to spice up the goblin riders. You can find these in the Revenge of the Horde. If you don’t want to use those, then I still suggest using some sort of buffed creature here. They won’t last long enough otherwise, unless your players are lower level.

For the Manticore, I only buff him a little by giving him higher than average life and I give him one use of a legendary free successfull saving throw. He likes to attack from afar, so I wanted to give him at least a chance to get there and not be immediately charmed or petrified or made afraid at the opening of combat.

For Karkilan, I Barbarian him up a little bit, giving him a STR and CON save and making him resistant to all damage except psychic once the battle starts. I have him use reckless attack, as well, for most attacks (giving him advantage to hit and players advantage to hit him).

For Koth, I do a from-scratch build, focused aroud the idea of a Fire Dragon-Gifted Sorceror. I don’t get to do too much with him yet, but it will be fun to have him come into the later battles.

Tactics: WIth all the different kinds of fighters, there are a lot of options for the DM to throw at the players and get to play around with: heavy hitters, mages, and quick-on-their-feet monsters.

The Manticore is very interesting and I enjoy that the book set him up as an aloof observer who only gets involved if directly ordered to do so or if attacked by the players. You have to decide how much of this you want to play into. I play into it heavily, because I like the world building and because it feels like it brings the challenge down to an appropriate level for my three-person party.

For a tougher fight, Koth could decide to lay his life on the line here and tackle the players with everything he’s got, throwing fireballs, using the wand of magic missile, and using his meta magic to make saves hard for the players—maybe even charming one of them. He won’t last too many rounds against a concentrated assault, but he can do some serious damage before going down, and if assisted by the Manticore, could spell a TPK for a smaller or unorganized party. Just keep that in mind when playing this encounter and remember that Koth can decide to flee whenever he feels outnumbered or like the battle is going against him. Same with the Manticore. They are your “pressure valves” in this fight.

Special Loot: The real point of this battle is to give players potential access to Koth’s maps, which really sets the pace for the rest of the adventure. There is a chance that Koth gets it and runs, which is fine if it happens, but then you will need something else to push the players onto the Skull Bridge (see next post for ideas on this). Other than this, there is the secret vault which has the game’s first big treasures. Most can be converted fairly straight (+1 Frost Bastard Sword, Gauntlets of Ogre Power, +1 Mithril Chain Shirt) and there is A LOT of gold here, which is fine—just remember to use DnD 5e magic item costs and this should actually be appropriate. The Staff of Life is an interesting item. DnD 5e is much more generous with how classes heal and which can heal, so you don’t really need the staff to stand in as the party’s healer, which is its original intent. Instead, I simplify it quite a bit. Our druid takes it.

Overall, I think this converts fine into Fifth Edition with very little adjustment. The DM has a lot of options at their disposal to make the fight easier or harder by reducing the involvedness of either Koth or the Manticore and my players definitely walk away feeling encouraged, though they are aware that the escape of Koth means their presence is probably reported to the rest of the horde. At the same time, they find the map and their next big decision will be centered around that.

#staff of life #DND 5e #Dungeons and Dragons #Pathfinder #Journey Log #Red Hand of Doom

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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5 Another force to contend with. Another power player who has decided to use me as a piece in her games, although things never seem to go according to plan. First there were the Gamemakers, making me their star and then scrambling to recover from that handful of poisonous berries. Then President Snow, trying to use me to put out the flames of rebellion, only to have my every move become inflammatory. Next, the rebels ensnaring me in the metal claw that lifted me from the arena, designating me to be their Mockingjay, and then having to recover from the shock that I might not want the wings. And now Coin, with her fistful of precious nukes and her well-oiled machine of a district, finding it's even harder to groom a Mockingjay than to catch one. But she has been the quickest to determine that I have an agenda of my own and am therefore not to be trusted. She has been the first to publicly brand me as a threat. I run my fingers through the thick layer of bubbles in my tub. Cleaning me up is just a preliminary step to determining my new look. With my acid-damaged hair, sunburned skin, and ugly scars, the prep team has to make me pretty andthen damage, burn, and scar me in a more attractive way. "Remake her to Beauty Base Zero," Fulvia ordered first thing this morning. "We'll work from there." Beauty Base Zero turns out to be what a person would look like if they stepped out of bed looking flawless but natural. It means my nails are perfectly shaped but not polished. My hair soft and shiny but not styled. My skin smooth and clear but not painted. Wax the body hair and erase the dark circles, but don't make any noticeable enhancements. I suppose Cinna gave the same instructions the first day I arrived as a tribute in the Capitol. Only that was different, since I was a contestant. As a rebel, I thought I'd get to look more like myself. But it seems a televised rebel has her own standards to live up to. After I rinse the lather from my body, I turn to find Octavia waiting with a towel. She is so altered from the woman I knew in the Capitol, stripped of the gaudy clothing, the heavy makeup, the dyes and jewelry and knickknacks she adorned her hair with. I remember how one day she showed up with bright pink tresses studded with blinking colored lights shaped like mice. She told me she had several mice at home as pets. The thought repulsed me at the time, since we consider mice vermin, unless cooked. But perhaps Octavia liked them because they were small, soft, and squeaky. Like her. As she pats me dry, I try to become acquainted with the District 13 Octavia. Her real hair turns out to be a nice auburn. Her face is ordinary but has an undeniable sweetness. She's younger than I thought. Maybe early twenties. Devoid of the three-inch decorative nails, her fingers appear almost stubby, and they can't stop trembling. I want to tell her it's okay, that I'll see that Coin never hurts her again. But the multicolored bruises flowering under her green skin only remind me how impotent I am. Flavius, too, appears washed out without his purple lipstick and bright clothes. He's managed to get his orange ringlets back in some sort of order, though. It's Venia who's the least changed. Her aqua hair lies flat instead of in spikes and you can see the roots growing in gray. However, the tattoos were always her most striking characteristic, and they're as golden and shocking as ever. She comes and takes the towel from Octavia's hands. "Katniss is not going to hurt us," she says quietly but firmly to Octavia. "Katniss did not even know we were here. Things will be better now." Octavia gives a slight nod but doesn't dare look me in the eye. It's no simple job getting me back to Beauty Base Zero, even with the elaborate arsenal of products, tools, and gadgets Plutarch had the foresight to bring from the Capitol. My preps do pretty well until they try to address the spot on my arm where Johanna dug out the tracker. None of the medical team was focusing on looks when they patched up the gaping hole. Now I have a lumpy, jagged scar that ripples out over a space the size of an apple. Usually, my sleeve covers it, but the way Cinna's Mockingjay costume is designed, the sleeves stop just above the elbow. It's such a concern that Fulvia and Plutarch are called in to discuss it. I swear, the sight of it triggers Fulvia's gag reflex. For someone who works with a Gamemaker, she's awfully sensitive. But I guess she's used to seeing unpleasant things only on a screen. "Everyone knows I have a scar here," I say sullenly. "Knowing it and seeing it are two different things," says Fulvia. "It's positively repulsive. Plutarch and I will think of something during lunch." "It'll be fine," says Plutarch with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Maybe an armband or something." Disgusted, I get dressed so I can head to the dining hall. My prep team huddles in a little group by the door. "Are they bringing your food here?" I ask. "No," says Venia. "We're supposed to go to a dining hall." I sigh inwardly as I imagine walking into the dining hall, trailed by these three. But people always stare at me anyway. This will be more of the same. "I'll show you where it is," I say. "Come on." The covert glances and quiet murmurs I usually evoke are nothing compared to the reaction brought on by the sight of my bizarre-looking prep team. The gaping mouths, the finger pointing, the exclamations. "Just ignore them," I tell my prep team. Eyes downcast, with mechanical movements, they follow me through the line, accepting bowls of grayish fish and okra stew and cups of water. We take seats at my table, beside a group from the Seam. They show a little more restraint than the people from 13 do, although it may just be from embarrassment. Leevy, who was my neighbor back in 12, gives a cautious hello to the preps, and Gale's mother, Hazelle, who must know about their imprisonment, holds up a spoonful of the stew. "Don't worry," she says. "Tastes better than it looks." But it's Posy, Gale's five-year-old sister, who helps the most. She scoots along the bench to Octavia and touches her skin with a tentative finger. "You're green. Are you sick?" "It's a fashion thing, Posy. Like wearing lipstick," I say. "It's meant to be pretty," whispers Octavia, and I can see the tears threatening to spill over her lashes. Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, "I think you'd be pretty in any color." The tiniest of smiles forms on Octavia's lips. "Thank you." "If you really want to impress Posy, you'll have to dye yourself bright pink," says Gale, thumping his tray down beside me. "That's her favorite color." Posy giggles and slides back down to her mother. Gale nods at Flavius's bowl. "I wouldn't let that get cold. It doesn't improve the consistency." Everyone gets down to eating. The stew doesn't taste bad, but there's a certain sliminess that's hard to get around. Like you have to swallow every bite three times before it really goes down. Gale, who's not usually much of a talker during meals, makes an effort to keep the conversation going, asking about the makeover. I know it's his attempt at smoothing things over. We argued last night after he suggested I'd left Coin no choice but to counter my demand for the victors' safety with one of her own. "Katniss, she's running this district. She can't do it if it seems like she's caving in to your will." "You mean she can't stand any dissent, even if it's fair," I'd countered. "I mean you put her in a bad position. Making her give Peeta and the others immunity when we don't even know what sort of damage they might cause," Gale had said. "So I should've just gone with the program and let the other tributes take their chances? Not that it matters, because that's what we're all doing anyway!" That was when I'd slammed the door in his face. I hadn't sat with him at breakfast, and when Plutarch had sent him down to training this morning, I'd let him go without a word. I know he only spoke out of concern for me, but I really need him to be on my side, not Coin's. How can he not know that? After lunch, Gale and I are scheduled to go down to Special Defense to meet Beetee. As we ride the elevator, Gale finally says, "You're still angry." "And you're still not sorry," I reply. "I still stand by what I said. Do you want me to lie about it?" he asks. "No, I want you to rethink it and come up with the right opinion," I tell him. But this just makes him laugh. I have to let it go. There's no point in trying to dictate what Gale thinks. Which, if I'm honest, is one reason I trust him. The Special Defense level is situated almost as far down as the dungeons where we found the prep team. It's a beehive of rooms full of computers, labs, research equipment, and testing ranges. When we ask for Beetee, we're directed through the maze until we reach an enormous plate-glass window. Inside is the first beautiful thing I've seen in the District 13 compound: a replication of a meadow, filled with real trees and flowering plants, and alive with hummingbirds. Beetee sits motionless in a wheelchair at the center of the meadow, watching a spring-green bird hover in midair as it sips nectar from a large orange blossom. His eyes follow the bird as it darts away, and he catches sight of us. He gives a friendly wave for us to join him inside. The air's cool and breathable, not humid and muggy as I'd expected. From all sides comes the whir of tiny wings, which I used to confuse with the sound of insects in our woods at home. I have to wonder what sort of fluke allowed such a pleasing place to be built here. Beetee still has the pallor of someone in convalescence, but behind those ill-fitting glasses, his eyes are alight with excitement. "Aren't they magnificent? Thirteen has been studying their aerodynamics here for years. Forward and backward flight, and speeds up to sixty miles per hour. If only I could build you wings like these, Katniss!" "Doubt I could manage them, Beetee," I laugh. "Here one second, gone the next. Can you bring a hummingbird down with an arrow?" he asks. "I've never tried. Not much meat on them," I answer. "No. And you're not one to kill for sport," he says. "I bet they'd be hard to shoot, though." "You could snare them maybe," Gale says. His face takes on that distant look it wears when he's working something out. "Take a net with a very fine mesh. Enclose an area and leave a mouth of a couple square feet. Bait the inside with nectar flowers. While they're feeding, snap the mouth shut. They'd fly away from the noise but only encounter the far side of the net." "Would that work?" asks Beetee. "I don't know. Just an idea," says Gale. "They might outsmart it." "They might. But you're playing on their natural instincts to flee danger. Thinking like your prey...that's where you find their vulnerabilities," says Beetee. I remember something I don't like to think about. In preparation for the Quell, I saw a tape where Beetee, who was still a boy, connected two wires that electrocuted a pack of kids who were hunting him. The convulsing bodies, the grotesque expressions. Beetee, in the moments that led up to his victory in those long-ago Hunger Games, watched the others die. Not his fault. Only self-defense. We were all acting only in self-defense.... Suddenly, I want to leave the hummingbird room before somebody starts setting up a snare. "Beetee, Plutarch said you had something for me." "Right. I do. Your new bow." He presses a hand control on the arm of the chair and wheels out of the room. As we follow him through the twists and turns of Special Defense, he explains about the chair. "I can walk a little now. It's just that I tire so quickly. It's easier for me to get around this way. How's Finnick doing?" "He's...he's having concentration problems," I answer. I don't want to say he had a complete mental meltdown. "Concentration problems, eh?" Beetee smiles grimly. "If you knew what Finnick's been through the last few years, you'd know how remarkable it is he's still with us at all. Tell him I've been working on a new trident for him, though, will you? Something to distract him a little." Distraction seems to be the last thing Finnick needs, but I promise to pass on the message. Four soldiers guard the entrance to the hall marked Special Weaponry. Checking the schedules printed on our forearms is just a preliminary step. We also have fingerprint, retinal, and DNA scans, and have to step through special metal detectors. Beetee has to leave his wheelchair outside, although they provide him with another once we're through security. I find the whole thing bizarre because I can't imagine anyone raised in District 13 being a threat the government would have to guard against. Have these precautions been put in place because of the recent influx of immigrants? At the door of the armory, we encounter a second round of identification checks - as if my DNA might have changed in the time it took to walk twenty yards down the hallway - and are finally allowed to enter the weapons collection. I have to admit the arsenal takes my breath away. Row upon row of firearms, launchers, explosives, armored vehicles. "Of course, the Airborne Division is housed separately," Beetee tells us. "Of course," I say, as if this would be self-evident. I don't know where a simple bow and arrow could possibly find a place in all this high-tech equipment, but then we come upon a wall of deadly archery weapons. I've played with a lot of the Capitol's weapons in training, but none designed for military combat. I focus my attention on a lethal-looking bow so loaded down with scopes and gadgetry, I'm certain I can't even lift it, let alone shoot it. "Gale, maybe you'd like to try out a few of these," says Beetee. "Seriously?" Gale asks. "You'll be issued a gun eventually for battle, of course. But if you appear as part of Katniss's team in the propos, one of these would look a little showier. I thought you might like to find one that suits you," says Beetee. "Yeah, I would." Gale's hands close around the very bow that caught my attention a moment ago, and he hefts it onto his shoulder. He points it around the room, peering through the scope. "That doesn't seem very fair to the deer," I say. "Wouldn't be using it on deer, would I?" he answers. "I'll be right back," says Beetee. He presses a code into a panel, and a small doorway opens. I watch until he's disappeared and the door's shut. "So, it'd be easy for you? Using that on people?" I ask. "I didn't say that." Gale drops the bow to his side. "But if I'd had a weapon that could've stopped what I saw happen in Twelve...if I'd had a weapon that could have kept you out of the arena...I'd have used it." "Me, too," I admit. But I don't know what to tell him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they never leave you. Beetee wheels back in with a tall, black rectangular case awkwardly positioned between his footrest and his shoulder. He comes to a halt and tilts it toward me. "For you." I set the case flat on the floor and undo the latches along one side. The top opens on silent hinges. Inside the case, on a bed of crushed maroon velvet, lies a stunning black bow. "Oh," I whisper in admiration. I lift it carefully into the air to admire the exquisite balance, the elegant design, and the curve of the limbs that somehow suggests the wings of a bird extended in flight. There's something else. I have to hold very still to make sure I'm not imagining it. No, the bow is alive in my hands. I press it against my cheek and feel the slight hum travel through the bones of my face. "What's it doing?" I ask. "Saying hello," explains Beetee with a grin. "It heard your voice." "It recognizes my voice?" I ask. "Onlyyour voice," he tells me. "You see, they wanted me to design a bow based purely on looks. As part of your costume, you know? But I kept thinking,What a waste. I mean, what if you do need it sometime? As more than a fashion accessory? So I left the outside simple, and left the inside to my imagination. Best explained in practice, though. Want to try those out?" We do. A target range has already been prepared for us. The arrows that Beetee designed are no less remarkable than the bow. Between the two, I can shoot with accuracy over one hundred yards. The variety of arrows - razor sharp, incendiary, explosive - turn the bow into a multipurpose weapon. Each one is recognizable by a distinctive colored shaft. I have the option of voice override at any time, but have no idea why I would use it. To deactivate the bow's special properties, I need only tell it "Good night." Then it goes to sleep until the sound of my voice wakes it again. I'm in good spirits by the time I get back to the prep team, leaving Beetee and Gale behind. I sit patiently through the rest of the paint job and don my costume, which now includes a bloody bandage over the scar on my arm to indicate I've been in recent combat. Venia affixes my mockingjay pin over my heart. I take up my bow and the sheath of normal arrows that Beetee made, knowing they would never let me walk around with the loaded ones. Then we're out on the soundstage, where I seem to stand for hours while they adjust makeup and lighting and smoke levels. Eventually, the commands coming via intercom from the invisible people in the mysterious glassed-in booth become fewer and fewer. Fulvia and Plutarch spend more time studying and less time adjusting me. Finally, there's quiet on the set. For a full five minutes I am simply considered. Then Plutarch says, "I think that does it." I'm beckoned over to a monitor. They play back the last few minutes of taping and I watch the woman on the screen. Her body seems larger in stature, more imposing than mine. Her face smudged but sexy. Her brows black and drawn in an angle of defiance. Wisps of smoke - suggesting she has either just been extinguished or is about to burst into flames - rise from her clothes. I do not know who this person is. Finnick, who's been wandering around the set for a few hours, comes up behind me and says with a hint of his old humor, "They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you." Everyone's so excited, so pleased with their work. It's nearly time to break for dinner, but they insist we continue. Tomorrow we'll focus on speeches and interviews and have me pretend to be in rebel battles. Today they want just one slogan, just one line that they can work into a short propo to show to Coin. "People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!" That's the line. I can tell by the way they present it that they've spent months, maybe years, working it out and are really proud of it. It seems like a mouthful to me, though. And stiff. I can't imagine actually saying it in real life - unless I was using a Capitol accent and making fun of it. Like when Gale and I used to imitate Effie Trinket's "May the odds beever in your favor!" But Fulvia's right in my face, describing a battle I've just been in, and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying dead around me, and how, to rally the living, I must turn to the camera and shout out the line! I'm hustled back to my place, and the smoke machine kicks in. Someone calls for quiet, the cameras start rolling, and I hear "Action!" So I hold my bow over my head and yell with all the anger I can muster, "People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!" There's dead silence on the set. It goes on. And on. Finally, the intercom crackles and Haymitch's acerbic laugh fills the studio. He contains himself just long enough to say, "And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies."

#Mockingjay

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