escape [pre-milliways]
Days pass, and years:
Open.
Closed.
Open.
Closed. (The door, and her eyes.)
Open: she sees a blurred figure framed by fluorescent light, arms crossed. "Tsk," it says, with Capitol sibilance. "He's still nowhere to be found."
Annie strains against the tight ropes on either arm (why so tight? I’m hardly a warrior), trying to see the speaker's face, memorise it.
She must let out a gasp or a grunt of some kind, because the two faces in the doorway turn like inquisitive, sharp-beaked birds. She shuts her eyes quickly, falls limp on the gurney (no drugs please no drugs no drugs let me stay -)
"Investigations are ongoing," says the second bird.
"We've got some of the others in custody."
She can feel them looking at her, though she doesn’t dare open her eyes.
“They’ll sing,” says the first voice, satisfied. “Put this one in the box, for now.”
The sound of footsteps, fading away. There’s a sigh; the other feet shuffle towards her. She shudders, from her forehead down to her toes.
“Up you get.” The hands on her arms are surprisingly gentle (and soft, but that doesn’t surprise her anymore - what need do Capitol puppets have of calluses?). Her eyes flutter open to a face of swirling blue moons and silver stars.
Deft hands unstrap her from the bed; a machine rubs life back into her arms, where bruises are forming in rings. Soon, she is lifted and set on her feet and buckled into more metal around her wrists and ankles.
A Peacekeeper pushes her out into the quiet hallway. Her muscles tense - another corridor full of doors, and supplications.
Annie clasps her shaking hands.
This is it. I swore I’d try.
She swings around, driving her metal bracelets hard into the soldier’s knee. There is a snap - he reaches to grab her but she is fast, fast, faster than the flashing marlin, bare feet frantic dashing down the side passage looking for an open door, any door, dark hair flying madly in her eyes.
The Peacekeeper is close behind; his knee looks wrong, but he’s coming towards her just the same (just pick one pick one) so she yanks open the door at the end of the hall praying (escape escape they’ll hurt me so bad let me out) to whoever might listen to a mad girl’s plea, who -
- can tell as the door opens that it’s not the way out but she tumbles inside with sharp military voices like whips on her back and then she can’t take the pain anymore so she falls to the ground and puts her hands over her ears and weeps.
Open.
Closed.
Open.
Closed. (The door, and her eyes.)
Open: she sees a blurred figure framed by fluorescent light, arms crossed. "Tsk," it says, with Capitol sibilance. "He's still nowhere to be found."
Annie strains against the tight ropes on either arm (why so tight? I’m hardly a warrior), trying to see the speaker's face, memorise it.
She must let out a gasp or a grunt of some kind, because the two faces in the doorway turn like inquisitive, sharp-beaked birds. She shuts her eyes quickly, falls limp on the gurney (no drugs please no drugs no drugs let me stay -)
"Investigations are ongoing," says the second bird.
"We've got some of the others in custody."
She can feel them looking at her, though she doesn’t dare open her eyes.
“They’ll sing,” says the first voice, satisfied. “Put this one in the box, for now.”
The sound of footsteps, fading away. There’s a sigh; the other feet shuffle towards her. She shudders, from her forehead down to her toes.
“Up you get.” The hands on her arms are surprisingly gentle (and soft, but that doesn’t surprise her anymore - what need do Capitol puppets have of calluses?). Her eyes flutter open to a face of swirling blue moons and silver stars.
Deft hands unstrap her from the bed; a machine rubs life back into her arms, where bruises are forming in rings. Soon, she is lifted and set on her feet and buckled into more metal around her wrists and ankles.
A Peacekeeper pushes her out into the quiet hallway. Her muscles tense - another corridor full of doors, and supplications.
Annie clasps her shaking hands.
This is it. I swore I’d try.
She swings around, driving her metal bracelets hard into the soldier’s knee. There is a snap - he reaches to grab her but she is fast, fast, faster than the flashing marlin, bare feet frantic dashing down the side passage looking for an open door, any door, dark hair flying madly in her eyes.
The Peacekeeper is close behind; his knee looks wrong, but he’s coming towards her just the same (just pick one pick one) so she yanks open the door at the end of the hall praying (escape escape they’ll hurt me so bad let me out) to whoever might listen to a mad girl’s plea, who -
- can tell as the door opens that it’s not the way out but she tumbles inside with sharp military voices like whips on her back and then she can’t take the pain anymore so she falls to the ground and puts her hands over her ears and weeps.