A Daze of Wine & Roses [le open]

[Raeoki]

It was a smart idea to begin enticing sponsors during prep week. It was when the sponsors were at their most vulnerable state; they didn't know the tributes' personality; they only knew them from watching the chariot rides, which may or may not have been a successful introduction. It was up to escorts and mentors to assure them that the costumed pair were worth sponsoring, and as District 8 had a disturbingly low number of mentors, it was up to Hospes alone to cajole individual Capitolites into sponsorship. Hospes would accidentally cringe whenever he thought of this, as he found seeking sponsors one of the most difficult tasks of an escort. Potential sponsors tended to avoid him like a plague; whether it was because of their own problems, the fact that District 8 rarely produced successful tributes, or they just disliked him, Hospes didn't know; all he knew was that this was one of the more trying aspects of being an escort, and try he did.

On retrospect, every aspect of being an escort was difficult. Tributes refused to listen; "victor" was a glorified term for "smart-alecky alcoholic" and/or "emotional drug addict"; sponsors were usually egotistical, arrogant, giggly fools that enjoyed being pandered. Hospes swore that he spent most of his time talking about the sponsors themselves more than the tributes. You see, sponsors enjoyed being numbed by alcohol (as any good, respectable Capitolite would), and thus they tended to conjugate at bars.  Somehow, when in their drunken reverie, they became quite bored of things like "tributes" and "sponsor items", but the moment Hospes mentioned how wonderful they looked in their new silk suits or dresses, they'd start perking their ears up quite earnestly. It was a most hilarious thing to watch: their stupid grins growing wider and wider; their squeaks and giggles of pleasure becoming more shrill with each compliment. After a while, Hospes would either get bored of them or irritated, and try to focus their attention on the tributes. Immediately, the gleeful light in their eyes would fade; they'd slouch in their seats, fiddle lazily with their shot glasses; after a few moments, they'd begin to talk over him in their slurred speech, acting as if he wasn't there. Hospes would quake in outrage and indignation, but he'd force himself to regain control of their attention; after all, Hospes had a job to do, and he intended on doing it right.

Sober sponsors could be just as difficult. Hospes had to be careful with what he said, or else he could ruin a tribute's strategy or chances of survival with one mere word. 

More often than not, Hospes found himself lying. He could remember saying things like, "Oh, yes, I know she didn't look like much during the Opening Ceremony, but believe me: this one's a survivor," about a wide-eyed, terrified girl who had been far too racked with self-pity for Hospes to like her, and had refused to make a strategy for herself (she was also the first to die that year; stepped off the plate too early). In all truthfulness, Hospes didn't like lying; to tell a lie was like walking a tightrope: a single misplaced foot, and everything was over. All that hard work to get you at that point - for nothing.

It must have been around eleven o'clock at night when Hospes escaped the eighth floor in the training center for an evening of lies and drunkenly flamboyant sponsors. The kiddies had been tucked into bed a long time ago - after all, carcasses needed their sleep if they wished to rot properly - which meant that Hospes had nothing better to do but drink and sit on his hands so he wouldn't throttle a sponsor or two.

 It usually took twenty minutes to get from the training center to one of the bars that sponsors and other people who prided themselves in taking part in the Games flocked to when they got the chance. So it must have been around eleven-twenty (if Hospes happened to be right about the hour in the first place) when he stood before the large pair of glass doors that guarded the bar from the outside world. The neon sign above the entrances buzzed loudly as it radiated it's striking colors down on Hospes, turning his pale face into a vivid bright green. He stared at the doors, pondered whether he wanted to go in or not, whether his tributes (especially a certain, bratty little girl tribute) were worth a whole night spent with drunken fools. His narrow chest heaved as he let out a long, silent sigh, and he pushed open the doors.

Whoever owned the barroom had a strange fascination with white. Everywhere one turned, they were met with a clean, white thing, whether it be a piece of furniture, the bar itself, a section of the wall, or a section of floor. Not a stain or a speckle of some other color could be found. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling glowed a brilliant white light which Hospes always found to be a pointless, gaudy nuisance that would always sting his eyes upon entering. As always, such was the case this night: he flinched as the light hit his eyes, and he squeezed his eyelids together. Hospes staggered through the doorway, bringing the sleeve of his light gray coat to his eyes and wiped them angrily, trying to massage the slight, burning pain away. 

The sting had ebbed and his eyes had adapted to the light by the time Hospes reached the bar. He settled himself into one of the high, white seats, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands in his lap. Hospes didn't relax in his seat; he kept his back particularly straight, his head raised high the in the air, and his shoulders thrown back. In someways, Hospes when he was sitting down looked the same as Hospes when he was standing up: the same stiff, perfect posture; the enlaced fingers; the hands that hovered in front of (or, in the case of Hospes when he was seated, rested atop of) his thighs. If it weren't for his strange, forcefully pleasant grin and drooping eyelids that gave him a rather cynical countenance, one might have thought he was a priest of sorts. 

Hospes soon discovered that the chair he was seated in could twist in a full circle. He glanced at the bartender, who was currently busying herself with other customers, and turned the chair around so he could face the doorway. He wasn't exactly sure why he had done this; perhaps to give him something to do as he waited for the bartender to stop waddling back and forth from behind the bar, lazily reaching out for the ivory bottles the other customers kept jerking their fingers at and almost missing the glass as she sleepily poured the alcohol for them. It was a most tedious thing, waiting for someone so slow and unmotivated to serve him, but the escort felt that he ought to and did his best to ignore his heart seemingly jerking forward and backward with impatience. For Hospes found that the sponsors liked him more after he had had a glass of scotch. The alcohol numbed whatever vehement emotions he had against the sponsors, and it helped him to think up more colorful and elongated words of flattery that Hospes was proud to admit were borderline purple prose. 

He separated his fingers and removed his hands from his lap. Hospes rested them on the arm of his chair, and scooted back in his seat so his back was touching the back of the chair. His body grew still, but not perfectly, as it usually did; every now and again he'd jerk his head ever so slightly to right to glance at the bartender (who seemed to be content on wasting his time as she served the other customers), but he turned it in such a way that his gaze could easily dart in the direction of the doors, should something interesting burst through that could, to some degree, entertain him.

(ooc: Okay, so, Hospes walks into a bar... XD And this isn't really my best post ever, admittedly. Dx Sorry!! I was tired and doing homework and stuff...Dx )

[Deleted]

I got to get out of the house for once. It felt nice to have the sun against my skin and fresh air in my lungs. My master wanted me to go shopping. So that is what I have to do. If I don't then well I don't know what will happen. I already am an avox, so what more can you do to me. Nothing other than killing me. I look up and see a bunch of capitol people going about their normal business. Only they don't know that right in front of them is an avox that should be in her master's home.

I walk in front of a bar wishing I could go inside. I know if I do, people will try to talk to me. That would be bad, just bad. Not talking swallowing weird. yea that would not go over very well. So instead I just look into the bar and find myself looking at somebody.

((outfit: link))

[Hero]

Being a Victor and all was hard. It meant being a mentor to some of the most annoying people. And the District 8 escort didn't seem to be a favorite among many either. I made my way through the Capitol. I passed too many bars and too many places with bright lights to give me a headache. As a matter of fact, I already had one. Think Zak. You can do this. Just survive this.
I stood in front of a bar with bright lights and solid white, well, everything. I considered going in. I saw a girl stand in front of it then walk away. I didn't know her. And at the moment, I really didn't care. I eventually walked a little farther before realizing Eh. What the hell could one drink do?
I walked in to find the District 8 escort sitting at the bar as well. I saw him turn his chair before I darted indie and made my way far along the bar table, so he wouldn't see me. I ordered a simple bottle of tequila and began my drunken haze in a matter of minutes. I finally sat down and saw Hospy glance over at me. Thank god he didn't see me.
I thought over how I would help the Tributes train for this year. I was scared for them. All of them. Especially the younger ones. They didn't deserve this. They don't deserve to die. But I couldn't save them. I had to deal with keeping the ones I had alive and with sponsors. I thought it over and realized that this was probably why he was here too.
I moved from my place down the bar over to him. Swiveling my chair, that spun all the way around, I faced the one I could barely even stand to look at.

[Raeoki]

(ooc: Sorry for the epic wait. DDx)

Of the sudden, Hospes found that someone had laid eyes on him: a girl that couldn’t have been less than sixteen, peering through the glass doors at him. She was a pretty girl, admittedly; she had a soft, kindly face, with a pleasantly thin figure. He noticed that she didn’t look away when his eyes met hers; he decided against adverting his, as well, to see what would transpire.

He didn’t know how long they stared at each other; Hospes always had been quite horrid at guessing the time. It felt like more than a minute, however. As Hospes realized this, agitation slowly seeped into him, oily and sticky, and he began to fidget a little in his seat. What is it? What is she doing? Does she want to go in? Hospes wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. Capitolites naturally made the worst parents; if they weren’t inattentive, then they were spoiling their poor children, corrupting them and turning them into some violent brat that didn’t care about its well-being and the well-being of others. Their children didn’t care if strolling casually into a bar and drinking far more than their bodies could handle would hurt them. They had forgotten dignity; they had lost all sense of pride, and this fact disgusted Hospes – a man who would make it his honored duty to cherish and nurture his progeny, should he have them. Hospes certainly hoped this was the case; he loved children. They were the only things that walked along the evil, tainted soil and still bore goodness and innocence within them; the last remaining little candles to throw their beams in a naughty world. But, like candles, the purity of a child was easy to snuff out; eventually, the world would wriggle its dark, unruly claws into their tender hearts, and fill it with wretchedness and spite - then, and only then, could a child truly call himself an adult. And there one of the candles stood, her light flickering and waning, ready to be extinguished for the rite of womanhood.

Anger flared in Hospes, as hot as an open flame. His red eyes darkened as he gazed at the girl; he scowled terribly, and fidgeted in his chair. He wanted to go to her. He yearned to throw the door open and screech at her to go home where she belonged; not alone, completely unprotected, standing perfectly still in front of a bar filled with disgusting drunks. Hospes dug his fingernails into the armrest, closely considering the idea, but the fact that this was a public area and he was a representative of District 8 caused him to hesitate. What would the sponsors think if they walked out of their barroom to find that the escort of the very district they were intending to sponsor was shouting at some poor, random girl? District 8 would be avoided like the plague, and turned into more of a laughing-stock than it already was. Hospes couldn’t let that happen. He was too good at his job. Hospes’s shoulders sagged; he creased his brow, and wrinkled his nose, his mind fighting for a different tactic.

Be calm, yet assertive. Hospes’s body stiffened, and his frustrated countenance brightened. Ah, yes! That’s wise. Show the little snip that you’re not afraid of her; that you’re knowledgeable, but in charge. But of course! Stupid Compleo – why didn’t you think of it before?

He set his long, bony hands on the armrests, and was just about to push himself out of the chair when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement. Hospes turned his head to the right, and the look of resolve immediately left his countenance, replaced by weary exasperation. For sitting beside him was Zachariah Daniels, mentor of District Eight, victor of the 14th Hunger Games. He remembered that year, though he would have preferred it otherwise; for that year was filled with rather brooding memories for Hospes. He had been around eighteen or so – or, at the very least, barely a man – and was ever so slowly being dragged into the Hell that was cynicism. He was beginning to see the world around him, realizing that his parents weren’t the only ones who were willing to abandon; willing to be selfish, petty, divorcing little bastards. The whole world was either corrupt or corrupting. However, there were still questions that Hospes had found unanswered: Is it the whole world, or just the Capitol and its inhabitants who are evil? Am I as terrible as the others? Is there any reason as to why people are so cruel? Certainly there must…

In the year of the 14th Hunger Games, a twelve-year-old girl had been reaped. Obviously, Hospes immediately rooted for her; he always had a soft spot in his heart for younger tributes, and to this present point in time, that soft spot has not shrunk, but has done the very opposite, in fact: grown.

Hospes had watched the little girl intently whenever she was on the screen, and when any of the other tributes were shown (including Zachariah), Hospes would almost immediately lose complete attention of the television, and find a book to read, the noises and screams being emitted from the television merely background noise. However, one day, when the tributes were in the arena, one of the tributes – this tribute being Zachariah – had, at last, caught his attention; Zachariah had been hiding out in a cave, and with him was the little girl that Hospes had taken such interest in. He was surprised to find how well they treated one another; how kindly Zachariah was to the twelve-year-old. Listening to the way they conversed was like listening to a pair of old friends, describing their day to one another. This intrigued Hospes. The questions that had been plaguing his mind for so long slowly formed answers; not cynical ones, but ones that looked at the world in an almost positive light. Perhaps there are evil people scattered about the whole world, but also good ones. Perhaps I have a chance to be like the wretched people, but also like the good people. Perhaps the cruel people that roam the Earth do have reasons behind their cruelty; but if that is so, then they are not real, perfect reasons, unlike the reasons behind the acts of good the kindly people do.

The Games continued. Zachariah had left the girl and the cave, but left one of his packs with her; Hospes had thought that was generous of him, though a part of him had wished that he had stayed with the girl. A sense of foreboding had seized Hospes the moment Zachariah had left her, pressing cruelly on his heart, and he paid close attention to the television, as a sentry does when he’s on the lookout for assassins who wish to harm his princess. That afternoon, however, Hospes’s fears were realized; the girl was found, and a blade was shoved into her repeatedly, tearing her limbs from her body and speckling the ground with her blood. Hospes had cringed with every sword-thrust; had winced with her every wail. The tribute that butchered her showed no mercy; he kept digging his crimson-stained weapon into her, until, at last, she fell. Hospes had squeezed his eyes tightly and bowed his head, awaiting the cannon-boom. The murderous tribute stood still, awaiting it as well. Unfortunately, the poor girl’s heart was still beating in her tiny chest, and the cannon held back its abrupt cry. Hospes had opened his eyes slowly, and then had glanced up at the television. The girl moaned; a small spark of hope that there was still a chance for her lit up in Hospes. The spark was swiftly killed, however; the blood-stained tribute lifted his sword up. Hospes’s body jerked back in his chair, his eyes wide and dismayed as he watched the evil tribute sever her head.

The scene was still very fresh and very vivid in Hospes’s mind. For that was the scene that altered him; that made him come to terms with cynicism. As Hospes watched Zachariah that midnight hour after the anthem, grieving for his lost, little friend, disgust for the future victor and humanity swelled within him. Disgust for Zachariah, for weeping as if he actually cared for the poor dear; though, if he had truly liked her, he would have used his brain and stayed with the poor little girl and protected her. Disgust for humanity, for being nothing but one great mass of stupid, evil individuals who loved nothing more than to hate and to hurt. Hospes had watched Zachariah with a condescending, hating, dark look on his countenance; his body sitting stiff and rigid on his couch; his mind answering its own questions.

All of the world and its inhabitants are a bunch of sleazy, cruel, murderous bastards.

I know what I’ve done; I know what I did to Abel; I know that I am human; of course, I am as terrible as the others. Why shouldn’t I be?

There isn’t any reason behind the way humans are, except, of course, for one obvious thing: they are man, and man is a stupid, vile, wretched creature.

Zachariah hadn’t said anything, as of late. Hospes narrowed his eyes at the victor; strangely enough, his frown twisted into a small, spiteful smirk; there was a dark chuckle from the back of his throat, and he inquired, “You’ve been hiding from me, haven’t you, Mister Daniels?” He dipped his head a little, his smirk growing. “I haven’t seen you since prep week started, you know.” Hospes leaned forward, shoving his face closer to Zacariah’s, and then went on in a pitying, almost mournful tone of voice, “Have you been hiding from your poor, poor tributes, too? My, Mister Daniels, some mentor you’re turning out to be!”

He jerked his head back, the chuckle resonating from his throat once more, his lips pulled back in a darkly amused smile. Admittedly, Hospes’s resentment for Zachariah Daniels had grown since prep week started; the victor hadn’t revealed himself to Hospes once since the reaping, and if he had, then Hospes might have been spared from some of the torments those stupid brats had inflicted on him. Jet swaggering around the dinner table like some moronic king, threatening Hospes’s life and career; Babydoll placing her wretchedly soft hands on his face and neck, their bodies so despicably close. Hospes visibly winced at that recollection, and shoved it from his mind as swiftly as he could.

Hospes’s countenance darkened with bitterness and weariness, and slowly, he turned his head to look at the glass door. “Admittedly, a part of me doesn’t blame you, Mister Daniels,” he mumbled. “The tributes this year are horrid little brats.”

He turned his attention away from Zachariah, and peered through the glass doors again. He found himself looking at the girl he had spotted earlier; annoyance shot through him, hot and boiling. Hospes jerked into a stiffer sitting position than before; his red eyes bulged, and gnashed his teeth. “My God! Is that little fool still standing out there?!” he hissed. Hospes let out a low, agitated growl, and flung himself from his seat.

Hospes marched away from Zachariah, swiftly crossing the white-filled barroom. Calm and assertive. Calm and assertive. Calm and assertive. Soon, the glass doors were standing before him. He reached out, set his hand against it, and swung it open. Hospes took a step forward, sliding his hand along the glass, but keeping it open so he could make a swift retreat inside once he had finally set the girl on her way. He scowled down at her, his face dark and disapproving, and grunted, “I do hope your parents know where you’re at.”

[Deleted]

I could see people talking and one keep looking at me. Not watching the games really does not help it when you are trying to figure out who you have seen and have not seen before. A man that was staring at me came out of the bar and yelled at me. Telling me that he hoped my parents knew where I was. They didn't not anymore all they knew is I was turned into an avox. I fidgeted as I keep looking at the older male. He had to have been like 40-ish not not even like 30. I shifted my weight onto my other foot and twirled my fingers. Swallowing ever chance I got that I thought he was not staring at me.

((Rae you write long posts and here I am giving you a small post >.<))

[Hero]

Before I even dared to say a word to Hospes, he kept staring at the door. I followed his gaze to the entrance of the bar to find a girl of what seemed to be a girl of about16 or 17. What was she doing at a bar, this late at night? She shouldn't be out here.

He began speaking towards me about how I hadn't been there for my tributes. The ones I was supposed to mentoring. I hadn't been down there because for one, I don't like doing it in front of everyone. I had taken the tributes down to the Training Center, always after-hours, to train privately.

He kept tempting me to do something. I wanted to. My temper wasn't always as good around thse snotty rich Capitol people. The parents of children here were always idiots. Being forgetful of the fact that they even had kids. And I was forced with them. Regardless of marriage and kids. They needed their parents to be with them, not with me back in District 8. However far away the 2 places were away from each other.

That stupid escort kept taunting me, asking me to do soemthing stupid, but those bratty tributes needed sponsors on their side. So I had to hold on for a few more days. Then I really needed to get home and punch another hole in my wall. Then get with those whores again. Then go to sleep only to wake up to the voices screaming at me again.

Hospses got up to go to the girl. I saw him pass through the door, then start screaming at the girl. I took another shot, deciding if I should go stop him or just watch. I decided against my instinct not to do anything stupid and go after him. I slid through the door,standing in front of the girl. " Hospes, is there a problem?" I arched my eyebrow, giving him a smirk. Then I plainly laughed at him. It felt good again to finally torment someone, while keeping my temper all at the same time. It actually felt good to be me again...

[Raeoki]

(ooc: Sorry for the wait. >_<

@kitty - D: Hey. Your posts are wonderful. :3 <3 )

Though Hospes rarely revealed it in public eye, there was a softer, gentler side to him, which perhaps would have turned him into a kind-hearted idealist by now, if he had not let the death of his brother corrupt his emotional state. This side could often be seen in the company of children, but, if he has determined that an older person has done enough heroic deeds to earn his respect, he may or may not consent to being kindly towards said adult as well. This was very rare, however, having only occurred once (quite recently, actually) in Hospes’s lifetime, and thus making children the major benefactors of Hospes’s gentleness: children such as the young lady who currently stood before him.

She didn’t make an answer to his query. She merely moved slightly, and Hospes noticed how she twiddled her fingers. This confused him, as he wasn’t sure whether to be infuriated by her silence or not. The quiet ought to have meant insolence; however, Hospes couldn’t help but wonder if he had frightened her somewhat, scaring her into a nervous silence. This deepened Hospes’s befuddlement, and slight frustration was added to his mix of emotions. Hospes had been trying not to frighten her; and there she stood, fidgeting in an almost helpless manner, quiet and unwilling to answer. Hospes scowled. Dammit all… Had he not been calm and assertive? He had thought he was being calm and assertive. Is it possible that I emphasized too much on the assertive part?

Hospes twisted his mouth around. He then dipped his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose. A part of him felt as if he ought to, in some way, repent to the girl, and give to her a metaphorical peace-offering. Another part of him detested the very thought of repentance, and wished to become furious with her, and scold her for not speaking up, on the basis that she was acting rude and insolent and quite childish. Hospes was quite tempted to go with the latter; perhaps, if it was true that he had frightened her, that a swift and purposeful bellow of impatience would send her flying away from the bar, never to return to it and other establishments like it ever again.

The escort released his nose, and lowered his hand away from his face. He looked up at the girl, considering her with grim, narrowed eyes. She really was a pretty, sweet-looking thing; and the white dress complimented her quite well, making her look younger than she actually was. Hospes’s face began to soften; his heart did as well. He pressed his lips together, and ran the thumb of his right hand against the knuckle of his index finger thoughtfully. Slowly, Hospes removed his hand from the glass door, letting it slam shut; he took a step towards her, and began in a soft voice, “Listen to me, please. I’m not going to hurt you, I only wish to-”

The door to the bar slammed again, sudden noise jolting Hospes into a moment of silence. He turned his head around, just in time to see Zachariah pass him by, and then side-stepped, blocking the girl from Hospes’s sight. Hospes flinched a little in surprise and confusion, for it was all quite sudden. He stared at Zachariah’s face, his red eyes now dilated. "Hospes, is there a problem?" he asked him.

Hospes didn’t process the inquiry as one that was merely asked for the sole purpose of mockery. His ability to associate and understand inflections and undertones had become too worn out for it to occur to him immediately. Admittedly, the only time Hospes truly bothered to pause and look for a nonliteral meaning behind someone’s words was when he was in a bout of paranoia, of which he only thrust himself into when he was around people he deeply despised; his feelings for Zachariah, however, were more of a passionate loathing nature, and Hospes saw no reason to be worried about Zachariah at all. So, Hospes merely stiffened, slightly indignant by Zachariah’s abruptness, and glared at him a little. “None that concerns-”

And then Zachariah laughed at him. It was completely uncalled for – the cruel laughter that pierced into Hospes, as spears do, and tore open his heart like a piece of meat being sliced by a butcher’s blade. He didn’t react immediately; he stood there, stiff and still, his eyes having widened again and his mouth slightly agape. Hospes stared at Zachariah; at the mean, terrible smirk his mouth was twisted into; at the raised eyebrows, whose mockery pricked Hospes like a needle.

For a moment, the hurt and indignation Hospes felt towards Zachariah’s disparagement of him shown quite plainly on his countenance. Then, suddenly, the pain and vulnerability seemed to have been sapped away from him, and his face became distorted in rage, his mouth now a terrible, twisted scowl. How dare he?! How dare he?! I was doing nothing to him! NOTHING! I wasn’t doing anything to the little girl, either! In fact, I think was making it up to her, quite nicely! He hasn’t any right! No right! No RIGHT!

It was then that Hospes truly despised Zachariah. He had hated him, and he had felt disgust for him; but now, hearing his terrible laughter and seeing his evil smirk brought thoughts of murder to Hospes’s mind. Zachariah was just as despicable and abusive as his tributes. Just like Babydoll and Jet, he dared to look down his vile little nose at him, and hurt him and mock him, for the sole purpose of sadism (for what other reason could be behind Zachariah’s actions?). For a moment, Hospes wondered if all District 8 residents were like the horrid trio that he had to contend with. Was it possible that District 8 brats were taught to be arrogant, evil bastards, just like Zachariah? Or were District 8 children actually quite kind, and it was just Hospes’s wretched luck that he would be stuck with three demon-like exceptions that year?

Kill him, Hospes then ordered himself. Take him by the neck; toss him head-first into those stupid glass doors. Get a bottle of wine from the bar; bash his head in with it. That, or break it and shove it into his gut. Pound his face into the sidewalk again and again and again and again – don’t stop till it’s broken and disfigured and you can barely recognize him. Whatever you do, make him pay, make him pay, make him pay!

As he was thinking these things, his face became very red and hot to the touch. His hands were now clenched tightly into the fists; his entire body trembled with the rage that bubbled and boiled within him. Hospes gnashed his teeth, and with a loud snarl, he brought a fist back, readying it to be rocketed into Zachariah’s face. Do it! Punch his face in! Punch his face in! Punch his face in!

Just when his fist was beginning to thrust forward, there was a small, quiet voice, whispering in his mind: But what of the little girl? Almost immediately, his fist unfurled, and redirected its course to Zachariah’s neck; he latched onto the collar of the victor’s shirt, so tightly that his knuckles paled. The girl! During his rage, he had completely forgotten about her. Hospes didn’t want to be violent in front of a young girl – especially one he might have already frightened earlier. After all, what if the experience scarred her mentally? What if that single punch escalated into a great, violent battle between himself and Zachariah, and the young lady was accidentally attacked by one of them? That would be absolutely, truly horrid! Hospes could never do that to child (except, perhaps, to Babydoll and Jet – but whether or not Hospes considered them to be “children” was debatable). Never!

However, the fury he felt for Zachariah was still there, nagging at Hospes to be released. And how direly he wished to take out every shred of angst and anger out on Zachariah at that moment! Hospes stared at Zachariah, his eyes wide and terrible with rage, as he debated with himself as to what he should do. Hospes didn’t wish to run the risk of frightening the girl again; but another part of him did not want to give Zachariah the idea that he could laugh at Hospes all he wanted, and Hospes wouldn’t do a thing about it. Hospes would hate himself if either of the two events occurred; so, was it possible that he could intimidate Zachariah, without making the girl fear him anymore than she possibly did now? Perhaps…perhaps if I just – SPEAK with him for a moment.

Resolution flashed in Hospes’s eyes for a moment. He gnashed his teeth, and pulled Zachariah’s face closer to his rather roughly. Hospes’s scowl twisted into a cruel smirk, and he said to him, in a politely pleasant tone of voice: “Tell me, my dear Mister Daniels, has it ever occurred to you that YOU are the problem?”

He dug his fingernails deeper into the fibers of Zachariah’s collar; his smirk dipped into a grizzly scowl again. “Here I am,” Hospes whispered to the victor, his voice urgent and rough with rage, “simply trying to set a nice-looking girl on a right path and you – you…”

Hospes paused for a moment; an angered spasm shuddered through his body, making his body quiver and his face contort. He jerked Zachariah closer, till their faces were only inches apart. “I swear to you, Misssssssssssster Daniels,” he spat, his voice low and gravelly, “if you laugh at me again, I swear to you, I shall rip you open and reduce every bone in that wretched skeleton of yours into splinters! Do you hear me?!”

[Deleted]

((im going to write in 3rd person sorry for the switch over))

Ally was watching the one guy when Zak came out. Her face lit up almost admittedly. Then the other guy closed the space in between the two of them and Ally got scared. The one guy's eyes were filled with anger Ally could see that. She slowly walked forward and pushed the one guy away. She then stood in front of Zak and did not clench her fists. She could not hit another Capitol person not again not after what she did before the games even started. She just could not do it. That meant less chance for her getting that one thing.

[Hero]

I could tell he wanted to hit me. He wanted to shred me to pieces. He wanted to wrap his bony little fingers around my neck and just snap my neck. But Ally wouldn't let him. And I wouldn't let him hurt her. I am a pretty big dude, and winning the Games really helped, so if it meant protecting Ally but dying, I'll take a hit. "Like you could do anything. You wouldn't hurt her. But how do I know that you won't touch her if I leave you two alone? And you won't touch her. Because she's my girl."

He grabbed me by my collar and shoved me up against the glass doors of the bar. Ally knocked him out of her way, standing in front of me. I know she wouldn't hit him. Not after what happened those few months before the Games. I spinned hr around from her wrist, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her in close, and kissing her forehead again. I leaned in down by her ear and spoke. "Are you still at the apartment? And I-I'm sorry I didn't come to see you since I got here. I 've just been busy." I kissed her forehead.. "I'm sorry."

Hospes had stumbled a bit because of Ally but he got back up. I side stepped her, putting me between her and the District 8 escort. "You know Hospes, it has occured to me that I sometimes am the problem when I am a drunken mess. But then there's you. Always nagging about how children shouldn't be on the streets. Does she look like a child to you? She's more mature thsn you have ever been or ever will be." I turned back to Ally. "Listen, I want you to go back to thr apartment and stay there until I get there okay?" I kissed her cheek lightly. "It'll be okay. I won't get myself killed baby. Don't worry about me. And Ally. I love you."

With that, I ran at Hospes again. Tackling him to the ground. "If you ever get her alone, and dare lay a hand on her, I swear I will kill you with my two bare hands. Understood?" I let him up and walked back into the bar, trying to notgo back out there and finish him. I will admit, I did want to hurt him. Not kill him. I wanted to hurt hm for thinking that he could protect Ally when she already had someone. And that someone happened to be the Victor of the 14th Annual Hunger Games. Hospes. Meet Zachariah Daniels.

[Raeoki]

It was a marvelous thing, when Hospes let out his anger in some way (any way, really). Immediately, most of the rage that he had stored up and allowed to press down on him was drained away. The relief he felt afterwards was equivalent to that of the relief one feels when one has taken a heavy load from their shoulders; they both felt a quaint, comfortable feeling that one was so much lighter than they actually were. That was why Hospes preferred to unleash his anger, rather than to contain it, for he had tried to hold it back before; the sensations he processed while he tried to swallow his fury were wretched. Though he tried not to recall it, his mind would always go back to that single moment that had infuriated Hospes so. His anger would merely increase; he’d become distracted and fidgety; a heaviness would come over Hospes, as if a large bag of rocks had been tossed at him, and he would become quite uncomfortable. Finally, after a while, Hospes would give into his rage, and free it in any reasonable way he could think of.

Once Hospes had stopped threatening Zachariah, most of the rage had fell from his countenance. What remained of it could be seen in his eyes; small and bright, like the last remaining sparks of a dying flame. His grasp on Zachariah’s collar was relaxing, and he was just about to release Zachariah, when the girl hurried up to him and pressed her palms against Hospes, shoving him away.

It was surprise, not the actual shove, which had made Hospes remove his hands from Zachariah and stagger backwards a pace or two. His eyes darted from Zachariah to the girl, his reddish eyes wide and revealing the slight prick his emotions felt at her actions. For it wasn’t fair; all he had been trying to do was help her. He didn’t deserve to be shoved around by the very person he was trying to be kindly to, nor did he deserve to be laughed at. None of this was right. None of this should be happening. The girl was supposed to go off on her merry, morally enlightened way, and Hospes would go back and deal with the sponsors, completely ignoring Zachariah as he did so. Then all would be right with the world.

Zachariah stepped in, babbling on about how Hospes wasn’t going to touch her – a stupid, useless statement, as Hospes didn’t desire to go anywhere near the girl. He paid very little attention to his foolishness; instead, Hospes kept his eyes directly on the topic of their discussion. He examined her face, his eyes still wide and pained. He noticed that there was an air of fright about her – but for whatever reason? He pondered on this for a moment; till it dawned on him that she was looking directly at him. Oh Lord – is she afraid of me?

The injustice of it all made Hospes stiffen; he knitted his brows, and the indignation in his eyes became more prominent. How is that fair? How is that fair? He had been trying to help her – and now she was afraid of him. Hospes had attempted to perform a good deed, and where had it led him? Now, he had frightened some poor little girl accidentally (a fact which pained him deeply), and – not to mention – had been laughed at and mocked.

A shudder rippled through Hospes; he sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled audibly through his mouth. I hate the world and everybody on it. I hate the world and everybody on it. I hate the world and everybody on it.

The only thing that brought him out of his cynical musings was when Zachariah kissed her on the forehead three times. Hospes flinched as he saw this, his eyes widening with horror. That – what – the Hell – is he- Zachariah Daniels must have been thirty – or, at the very least, getting near that age; the girl, Hospes had assumed to be seventeen. Being a man who loved children dearly, this disgusted and horrified him; for he had seen many older men in the Capitol who strutted about with teenaged girls, kissing them in the same way Zachariah did, professing their love to the young, ignorant girls with the most theatric relishes. It was an act, though; it always was. If there was an attraction to the girls, it was always sexual. You could see it in their eyes that it was. There was no real love or affection; just some cruel man leading a poor child’s emotions astray – a thought that always nauseated Hospes. And unfortunately, Hospes wouldn’t have been surprised if that was the truth behind whatever “relationship” Zachariah and the young girl had.

Zachariah stepped in front of her. Nausea gave way to fury; Hospes gnashed his teeth at him, and glared into the victor’s eyes, insolently and boldly. He crossed his thin arms over his chest, and tilted his head a little to the side challengingly. The victor began preaching to him; frequently, Hospes interrupted him, his voice surprisingly even and deadpan.

"You know Hospes, it has occured to me that I sometimes am the problem when I am a drunken mess.”

“You think, Mister Daniels?”

“But then there's you. Always nagging about how children shouldn't be on the streets.”

“And what’s your say on that, Mister Daniels? Do you think we should drag children from their homes and toss them into a nearby gutter?”

“Does she look like a child to you?”

“A blind man could vouch for me, Mister Daniels.”

“She's more mature thsn you have ever been or ever will be."

Hospes stiffened in indignation. “Screw you!” he barked, emotion finally slipping through.

Zachariah turned back to the girl, telling her to go back to the apartment. Overhearing this, Hospes’s angered face suddenly paled, and a shudder passed through him. A queasy feeling came over him, and for a moment, he was afraid that he was going to vomit in front of them. They can’t be living together. They can’t be. Zachariah pressed his lips against her cheek. Hospes cringed, and frustration started to mix with his distaste and loathing. As the victor went on, assuring her that he’d be alright (though he really had no reason to; though Hospes detested him, he wasn’t dumb enough to kill him, and admittedly the only thing Zachariah had to worry about that night was alcohol poisoning) and that he loved the girl, whom Hospes believed he had called “Ally” (That’s a pretty name – the poor dear…). All the while, Hospes wished desperately that he could just cry out and screech at him to leave her alone; but his tongue had become numb and his mouth dry, making speech improbable.

Once Zachariah was through speaking to Ally, he turned towards Hospes. The escort narrowed his eyes, anger seething into him once more and twisting his face around, though it remained in its blanched state. “Daniels,” he hissed, “you are the most nauseating-”

Before Hospes could finish, Zachariah threw himself at him. His lean, broad body rammed into Hospes’s frail, pole-like one, slamming him to the cement. Hospes grunted as the breath flew from his lungs; pain and soreness racked his body, especially in his back. He squeezed his eyes closed, and gnashed his teeth. He heard Zachariah speaking over him; slowly, Hospes opened his eyes to look at him. "If you ever get her alone, and dare lay a hand on her, I swear I will kill you with my two bare hands. Understood?"

Of all the torments that Hospes had to go through in the past few minutes, that was the most wretched – the declaration that Hospes would even dare to imagine bringing harm unto any child of any age. It was as if Zachariah had took a knife to his chest, and had twisted the blade while it was still in his heart. It was cruel; it was chilling; it was unprecedented. Hospes could never bring himself to do that. Children were the only things left to love that roamed the wretched planet. Why would he bring himself to harm such brilliant, innocent, rare beings? That was the equivalent to slaying the only person who could rescue him from the clutches of death.

Hospes refused to let Zachariah realize that he had gotten to him, however – especially now that he had threatened his life. “Not really,” he hissed, propping himself up on his elbows, whilst Zachariah strode into the bar. A part of him wished that he could follow Zachariah, to punish him for threatening to kill him; but just when the thought occurred to Hospes, fatigue fell on him, making his body ache and dragging his spirits to their lowest point. Weariness befell him, making him suddenly look older than it actually was; his shoulders slumped; he closed his eyes again, and he dipped his head.

At that moment, Hospes wished he could shut the world out. He despised the wretched place and it’s wretched inhabitants, and the way they all laughed at him and threatened to destroy him and claiming that he would bring harm to children. The latter was such a terrible lie – such a cruel, terrible lie. Why would I hurt her…? He’s the one who’s going to hurt her, with all those lies about how he loves her…He’s just like the rest…Goddamn him…

He sucked in a deep breath through his mouth; he shuddered as he exhaled it. Hospes looked up at Ally, who was still standing where Zachariah had left her. He remembered the look of fear she had glanced at him; pain immediately pierced him. To make it worse, Zachariah’s voice drifted into his mind, accusing of him being emotionally capable of bringing her harm. These muses taunted him, never leaving his mind, casting doubt and pain and despair into his heart. It made him pause to wonder if his children (should he be fortunate to have them) would not have the same reaction of fear when they saw him; or would they cringe away, as Ally had, or mock him, like Zachariah? Or would it be different? Would they listen and understand him? Would they take his teachings earnestly and kindly? Or would it all eventually be for nothing?

Probably so, Hospes realized. He abhorred the thought, though, and shoved it from his mind as swiftly as he could. It was a wretched, painful thought that simply made the wounds deeper, and Hospes had never thought much of masochism. However, he found that dread and doubt were still lingering within him, cutting and stabbing into and taunting him.

Slowly, Hospes rose to his feet. He found that he wasn’t very stable, for he wobbled slightly; after a few moments’ pause, he regained his balance. He looked up. Ally was still there. The sight of her increased his doubt and fatigue. He fidgeted; he started to speak slowly, without thought, the words immediately coming to him and rolling off his tongue: “I hope you know, my dear, that I wasn’t going to hurt you. That man’s a fool. I’d never hurt a child (or a member of the feminine sex).” Hospes paused. In a rather graceful, stately manner, he rolled his shoulders back. He stood as straight as he could, in an attempt to regain whatever dignity he had lost. “I admire children. That’s why I came out here to talk to you. And – to be fair, my dear – I must say you would do me a great injustice if you thought otherwise.”

(ooc: Sorry that this took so long!! My Internet's been wonky lately, and even today it was screaming like a banshee when I tried to reply. DDDDx This really wasn't meant to take this long. Sorry!

Oh, and I didn't proofread this. Sorry. I just wasn't in a perfectionist mood today. x( )

[Deleted]

Ally was confused, Nothing made sense. Zak told her to go back to the apartment. Then he kissed her on the forehead and ran after the other male. He let him up then went into the bar. Ally looked around and saw people staring at what just happened. Ally turned around really quick and ran. She didn't know where she was going, until she got there. It was where the stylists were. The place where she almost killed three white suits and her old master. Ally tried to hide the tears as she ran to the apartment that she shared with Zak. Once inside the one girl who was always there but left once she saw Ally was there. Ally went over to the girl punched her in the face and pushed her out the door. Then she locked it and went over to the window. Her back in pain but she keep looking out the window so she could see when Zak would come back.

[Hero]

I stomped back into the bar after watching Ally run oof towards that little makeshift place we both called our home. She got away from here master and I got away from the District for w hile. It was like a home away from home.

Hospes had babbled on about how he would never hurt a child. But what? Since when do you see a man, older than me, saying he only wants to protect children. From what? The monsters in the Capitol and keep them all for himself? He was worse than all of them. He didn't deserve to even be rometoely be called a helper by the few who actually did call him that.

I took my tequila bottle and took a final swig before throwing it at the door in 'his' direction, breaking the solid glass doors of the bar, much to the bartenders dismay.

I stomped through the broken glass and back into the streets again, knocking Hospes over again. I opulled him up by his shirt collar and nearly spat in his face. "What do you plan to do do with them, huh? You sick, twisted, son of a bitch. You think you are helping them? What do yoou picture tham doing for you? The things that other women refuse to do because of the fact that you are some old, older than me actually, creep who hits on teenage girls? You deserve whatever comes to you from them.."

I dropped him from his collar, nearly tearing his thin shirt to mere threads. I wanted to go home but then again, I still wasn't calmed down. When I wasn't and was around people, I lost my temper more than I really have already. I didn't want to hurt Ally. To make her afraid of me. She had had enough of that already. And she had just started to trust again, and I couldn't break that. I couldn't send her back into the arms of her , even worse than me, master.

Not again.. I thought as I made my way to this little place I called my home..

[Raeoki]

(ooc: I’d like to apologize beforehand that this post is very slightly stream-of-consciousness/you might find it more confusing than usual. So, uh, it might be a little confusing. But I kinda like this style – it’s a really neat way to write/RP (when I actually bother with it, lol!), and I’m kinda testing it with Hospy (it just kinda fits him, I think). It’s easier to explore the characters this way, and more fun, I think. If I get better at it, I might just apply it to all my characters. :3333

EDIT: I'd also like to add that some parts of the post have not been proofread, as I just haven't had the time. I was going to do it tonight, but then I realized how late it was, and it's a school night and all, so... :/ Sorry!!!! DDDx)

Oh, Lord. How old had he been when he became an escort? Twenty-five? Only six years ago; when one thought about it, six years weren’t much. When the mere coupling of the words “six” and “years” were formed together in succession, one didn’t think of a long expanse of time and wretched age as one did when one thought of centuries; no, if one had Hospes’s mind and humors, the image of a little six-year-old sitting in the grass and giggling at some cute, silent joke passed between himself and his invisible comrade would come to mind. But – God damn it! God damn it, please! – why did six years feel so long?! Why did a man of thirty-one years – not too old; not boyish, but not that old – feel like a man of double that age? Why, as he watched that damn, idiotic little harlot flee from the truth and reality, did he feel not anger; not contempt; not indignation; but pain? But age? But achiness? But weariness? Why did he wish to rip his gaze from the death of innocence; from the murder of youth – and simply lie down, and let the weight of years crush him and turn him into dust? Was it merely weariness? That he wearied of all these lashes and scars that was dealt unto him by humanity, and to see the scourge of humanity beating other hapless beings? That he tired of flinching and cringing and wincing and dodging the aforementioned scourge, and trying to grab it with his hands and tear it from the mighty grasp of his abusers, and attempt to defend himself and – as punishment for their cruelty – to beat the beaters back? That he grew ill of waiting for it to land on his back and free the flesh from the tissue; the preparation to screech in agony and protest as the whip sliced him? That he wished for the constant fear that one of the millions of abusers out there would find him; would force him to his knees and beat him to, at last, forever depart from him and leave him be, so he could walk in the streets relaxed and calm – no longer stiff and paranoid?


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Six years pastward, a mother was speaking to her son. The scene was a plain, small apartment, littered with stacks of boxes of varying sizes, but otherwise empty. The son’s clothing was loose, ill-fitting, and with its holes and multicolored stains, very informal and plainly set aside for manual labor; the son kept rubbing his arm peevishly, his cheeks a slight pink, for he was the sort that became very embarrassed and flustered when seen out of formal wear (he was one of the few BAMFs who still wears suits from the 1920s). He was currently admonishing his mother waspishly for not telling him beforehand that she would be visiting.

The mother fidgeted anxiously beneath her son’s spiteful stare, for she was always the sort of person to worry for no apparent reason – one of many traits that the son despised about her, for when she worried, she often worried in the kindest, most compassionate, most despotic way possible. “If – if I had told you sooner,” she replied, “you would have run off and hid somewhere! Oh, you! You’ve always been hiding somewhere when I wanted you! You hid in your closet when you were young – and now…Now, I don’t know where you go when I want you. The world has become so big, and you’ve always been so small and quiet.”

Well, what was she, blind? Could she not see what that he was busy? Would it be so much to ask if she politely exited the apartment building and leave him alone?

“Oh, yes, yes – I’m sorry, Hoppy, I can see that you’re busy packing…but…well, I…”

If she wasn’t going to offer him a hand, then he didn’t want to hear it.

“Oh, please, Hoppy, don’t be like that! I’d let you be idol when I worked, back in the day. Don’t you remember when I would be practicing, and you would come and sit beside me? Don’t you remember that? We used to have so much fun together, when you were little…”

He was quite certain that he came for the music.

“Oh, Hoppy, don’t be like that!”

Then don’t call him “Hoppy”!

“What is wrong with ‘Hoppy’? Even you used to call yourself that!”

That was because he couldn’t pronounce his s’s when he was an infant.

“Well, I think it’s cute. And to be honest, I miss the Hoppy-days. I remember when I had to lead you around by the shoulders, so you wouldn’t walk up to a stranger and go: ‘I’m Hoppy!’ and try to shake hands with them.”

He didn’t.

“Well, of course you don’t. You were only-”

Was there actually a reason behind this stupid visit of hers, Eve?

“Oh! Oh, yes. Well, I…it’s about your new…employment.”

Go on.

“Yes, ah…don’t you think it is rather…big?”

Not exactly, no.

“R-really? But…Hoppy…it’s so…to work with the tributes…the victors…and – oh, Hoppy, the Reaping! You are literally the vital force of your district’s Reaping!”

He supposed he was. To be truthful, he hadn’t thought of it that way.

“‘To be truthful’?! Oh, Hoppy! You could never see the big picture…You – you must have been busy thinking about the travelling and meeting the people and…not exactly…the actual job…is that right?”

Ah – perhaps…?

“Oh, yes, yes…you were always such a romanticist…do you remember when you experimented with poetry back when you were six?”

Poetry? He was rather glad that he didn’t.

“Yes, yes…don’t you remember – there was one day when you came home talking about this poem about some rodent or other that your class read for English, and from that year onward you were hooked on it. You know – ah hah – I never thought you were going to be a musician, though your father and I desperately wanted you to, if you remember correctly…But when you showed us those sweet little iambs…of course, they weren’t very good, literary-wise, but you were only starting out, and you were still so young…”

She was going off-topic again.

“O-oh! I’m…I’m so sorry…you know how I am…”

Yes. Yes, he did.

“Well…you see…I’m worried, because…this is so big…and you…and you…”

What?

“You are so…so…”

Out with it; out with it. He had little time to spare.

“Well…you were never…Oh, Hoppy! Can you not see the pattern? You were always such a bright, bright child! In middle school…the bruises that I’d find on you…the black eyes…In high school…do you remember when I came to pick you up, when you were a freshmen…do you remember that sweet, nice girl who would always sit beside you beneath that tree? She always looked like a senior to me…Whatever happened to her? One day, I found you sitting there all alone…”

Her beau threatened to throttle him if he ever caught them sitting together again.

“And…and…in elementary school…your father and you…and you’re br-”

“Don’t say it! Don’t you DARE say it!”

And with those words, the conversation exploded into turmoil; a sense of urgency fell over parent and offspring, one of such direness that is more often seen in people who are trying to put an end to a blood-filled catastrophe that is only minutes from passing. Whether or not this earnestness was necessary, an outsider could not say for certain; for what the mother and son were confronting presently was not a thing of a despicable future, but a product of the despicable past: what they fought was not truly fightable, but only forgettable – but only the heartless and they without agendas could forget it, and as one of them held a throbbing, living heart, and the other with a thought out agenda, it was thus impossible for them to ignore and forget it. However, it was – in fact – coverable; and so they attempted to cover it, for it was too wretched and torturous for the weaker of the two to feel it and bear it for a long period of time (for they could not exactly see it, only sense it; what they covered – though, I assure you, it was coverable – was invisible).

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered, the softened words being uttered at a rapid rate; just as a small boy had done, in his fragile voice, as his little body quivered and the tears made his cheeks red and tingly, while looking down at his brother’s coffin before it was taken and interred, about eighteen years past.

He had grown agitated; he continuously pressed his palm to his forehead and ran it through his hair, his lips twisted into an animalistic snarl all the while. His body was bent double; the hand that wasn’t being pressed to his hair and brow was clenched into a trembling fist, and his fingernails were creating small, pinkish depressions in his thin palm; his breathing came in short, ragged pants, and his body trembled with each inhale and exhale; his eyes were larger than saucers.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

The son squeezed his eyes closed, and pressed his eyelids so tightly together that small, thin dimples were made in them. He whirled about sharply, and jerked his hand in a dismissive, infuriated gesture. “Get out,” he hissed, his voice heavy and worn. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, Hoppy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Hoppy, I’m sorry.”

Once again, his palm came into contact with the flesh of his forehead; this time, however, he curled it into an angered fist, and he pressed his sharp little knuckles into it, and rubbed furiously. His voice was querulous and fragile as he continued: “Get out. Just leave me alone. You’ve never been much help to me - ever. Leave me alone. Get out.”

A pause; absolute silence fell over them; the son would, someday, return to this scene via his memories and recall how much he had trembled, like a terrified little school boy, during that time of quiet. Then, finally, the mother dared to scratch into the silence with her soft voice. “Hoppy,” she murmured, and took a light step towards him. “Don’t you see, honey? I say this only because I love you…because I want to warn you…because – because I’ve always wanted you to be with me, so I could protect you, because I love you so much, you know…but…oh…because I’m afraid you’ll get yourself hurt: you…are…the – the unluckiest…man…in the world, I do believe.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That had always been the way with her. Always going out of her way to be earnest, to be kindly; but if one looked closely enough into her eyes, you could see the mania. Note how they dart about in their sockets so wildly, like an animal when it’s caged; how glazed over they are, as if she was a walking carcass. There’s a devil inside her – a devil and a despot. How long had they been in there? Since he was born? Had they always been there, the demon and the tyrant? He couldn’t remember a time he had noticed them before Abel’s death; but that was probably the woeful decline of childhood memories with each passing year – but Hospes doubted as well that he had been corrupted enough, at such a young age, to notice vileness in his own mother’s stare.

What had his father called her, in the time between Abel’s cruel demise and his parents’ divorce? “The subtlest sociopath he had ever met.” Hm. Yes. Wonderful work, Father. What a clever way to save a marriage. What a superb thing to tell a woman – I’ll be sure to remember that, so I can tell it to my wife someday. I’m certain she’ll be grateful for it. I can see that you tried so hard to keep the family from breaking apart more than it already had.

I still prefer her over you, Father.

At that moment, a terrible noise of a thousand wine glasses being rendered simultaneously broke into his consciousness, and filled his mind and ears. Hospes had once heard something very similar to the cacophony that now ruptured his memories: once, what felt like centuries ago, just when he had stepped into the void that separates boyhood and manhood, he had heard a melodious song (at an age when melodies were steadily becoming extinct) that consisted of a sweet, soprano voice and the shattering of glass – a very different combination, to be certain, but still he loved it. The destruction of the glass was made sweet and precise as the clamor harmonized with the soprano (such a quaint thing, to make destruction beautiful), and the notes seemed to tingle; and the tingling became a shudder every time the glass splintered. He could still remember peering up at the dinky little radio that had played the song (for the first and only time since its composition), and staring at it with wide eyes that still bore a love for humanity, that – though there was very little happiness – still glimmered with a hope for the future: and this glimmer became brighter as he listened onward; as his head and index finger swayed a little with the flow of the sound; as his scowling lips became a soft, almost infantile smile.


His head turned sharply, the movement being a quick and effortless jerk. The face was the next to move, to reveal reaction: the lips stretched across the face, and the teeth clacked against each other, and turned his mouth into an ugly, primitive snarl; his nose became wrinkled. A fierceness came into his eyes, in the way they narrowed, that had not been seen in a native Capitolite in years, or perhaps ever: for his eyes held a glint in them that was not meant for a race of people with such soft hearts and tender, vulnerable bodies as the Capitolites: there was a murderous glint in them that bore no fear, no willingness to be compelled and quelled, but instead a brave and bloody scream for violence, with him at the center of it all, preferably - truly, a glance a Spartan would have commended. With the glint came a daringly logical intelligence that some might have found incongruent with the roar for destruction that the glint had silently bellowed; it was in the way that the eyes moved: a quick, short flicker of the eyes, as they peered through the opening betwixt their lids that saw and analyzed and strategized over everything in their line of sight. But, perhaps, the logic and the reasoning that went with the blood-lusting glint was not as incongruent as one might have expected; in fact, if one continued to watch Hospes, one might have thought that they went perfectly together: after all, there is a plan with every feint; a mind and a reaction behind every dodge; a swiftly made and decisive decision with every blow. And, surely, if a soldier of Athens had been able to witness the going-ons of the present, he might have yearned to have a man such as Hospes amongst his ranks.

It is a rather pitiful thing, how often men are born in the wrong eras and places. Hospes is an example of this misfortune: a man of his madness (or is it mettle?) might have done well in the very archaic lands of Rome or Greece. If only if he was quite a few years older, the Dark Days might have made him famous, for either the armies of nationalism or revolution could have seen ways of using him – if only if he was just a little broader; just a little stronger; just born a while earlier.

The reactions of Hospes were all done in less than moments; shards and splinters of glass were still flying through the air, their see-through bodies catching the light of the neon sign, causing their tiny forms to twinkle in various colors as they zipped through the air. Some of them had instantaneously made a landing on the sidewalk, and had shattered to create smaller fragments of themselves, which reflected the light just as perfectly as the ones in the air did, and seemed to make the sidewalk glisten and twinkle with an almost fairy-like quality – as if a pixie had swept over and sprinkled some of her dust onto it, and some larger grains were still flying through the air, causing the night to shimmer.

His head then ducked; the next to move were the arms, which became poised before the cheek that was turned to the flying glass, the thin appendages acting as shields. Fortunately, none of the shards managed to graze him, though many of them did clatter and shatter at his feet, making sharp, quick, squeal-like noises as they did. Hospes refused to lift his head up till the glass’s squealing of protest and pain ceased; then, once he was certain that relative silence had fallen over the area, he gradually untucked his head from its defensive position, and turned his body towards the bar. Hospes tilted his head downward, to survey the destruction, to gaze upon the remnants of the hapless glass doors that had heroically protected him. Hospes looked up, his eyebrows knitting together and his mouth dropping open a little with the movement; he examined the threshold, which still had some sheets of glass clinging to it, as if in defiance of whatever force had made the doors to break in the first place. Hospes narrowed his eyes at one of these daring fragments, and tilted his head to the side.

A very reasonable, individual query came into his mind, at that moment: How in the Hell did the doors explode?

His eyes flickered from the individual piece that he had momentarily been fixated upon, and peered through the threshold; then, there came an effect in which Hospes felt as if he was looking into the photograph, the threshold being the frames, one individual being currently seen – or, at the very least, noticed – and thus becoming the centerpiece of the photograph. Obviously, the fellow in the photo was Daniels – what other silly, stupid little ass could it be? – his body still held in the poise which is taken when one throws something overhand. Immediately, Hospes processed the position of the victor’s body; the moment this was done, an enraged indignation lashed the escort; instantaneously, he undertook an expression and body position that made it clear that he understood well what had happened very clearly, and that he despised the man who had committed the aforementioned happenings. For his teeth gnashed; his eyes became wide, but not with shock, but with a murderous and feverish passion; his body became taut, and bent forth a little, like a weighted spring about to have its burden relieved.

Daniels proceeded to march towards him; Hospes, not to be intimidated, promptly surged towards the victor, ignoring the protests of the glass beneath his small feet. “Dan-IELS!” was his battle-cry; for they came together with the same likeness and purpose and air of armies, raging towards one another to engage in bloodied combat. He continued, his words spouting from his mouth very quickly and loudly, and became emphasized as he jabbed the air furiously with a slender finger: “Daniels, you half-witted, God-forsaken oaf! You stupid, stupid little bully! What in God’s name were you thinking?! Hah, bet you you’re not even going to bother to take responsibility and pay for these damages, are you! Bah, and you called me immature…Can’t even handle yourself in a public area! Bah! Goddammit, Daniels! You arrogant, nauseating piece of demon-scum! You – you…” Hospes found it immediately: the most terrible, cruelest thing that could come into his mind as an idea for an insult; the perfect, most correct accusation Hospes could make against his present foe; and he was neither daunted nor afraid enough to use it. In actuality, never had the word popped into his mind as eagerly as it did now; and Hospes was more than willing, more than ready, to use it in this situation, as Daniels and Hospes became an arms-length away from one another. Hospes held his index finger poised before Zachariah’s nose, and he growled, his voice venomous: “Yooooooooooooooooooooooou PED-”

A large and heavy palm slammed into his narrow torso, its texture similar to that of a boulder’s. The force and the suddenness of the attack threw Hospes into the air; however, though his body sensed – not necessarily processed – that he was no longer situated happily atop his feet, by the order of instinct, his hands were thrust behind him. The attempt to cushion the landing would have been a tad more appreciated or successful if, perhaps, Hospes had been knocked outside of the area where glass was scattered; however, the blow was not nearly as powerful enough to do so. Onto the bed of glass Hospes was cruelly sat down upon; one of his palms, in particular, was hapless enough to have been stabbed (instead of pricked or ignored, as was the case for most of Hospes’s lower body) by a lone shard of glass that was quite larger than its comrades. It might have been a part of the bottle that Daniels had tossed at the door, or, perhaps, a piece that had been bent upon impact; for its tip was curved, and easily went into Hospes’s hand like a knife. It penetrated the skin; made blood ooze from the rupture; dug itself into a thin layer of meat, and went no further. The pain made itself very clear and wretched immediately, especially for a Capitolite, who – thanks to a lifestyle of undeserved pamper and constant protection – was not accustomed to pain; but Hospes did not cry out, as some would have: agony was expressed in the way Hospes’s body jerked upward; how he sucked in air once through his mouth, and then shoved his upper teeth into his bottom lip, as if to seal the scream that was surely climbing up his throat (after all, he was a Capitolite); and how wide his pale red eyes had become, and too glazed over with shock they were to express anger and vehemence.

The sensation of being torn from the ground awakened Hospes from his daze of pain; a strong force snatched him up by his shirt-collar and (by consequence) his black necktie, and proceeded to heave him up to his feet. A new pain found Hospes, far more intense and more torturous than the one that still racked his stabbed hand; an agony that one might feel if they are being hanged by the neck with a rope, for the tie that had tightly wound about his thin neck in the first place now became tighter by the cruel hand that yanked at it, and with nothing to support his bottom, the pain of having one’s oxygen intake decreased was doubled by the sudden pressure on the vertebrae in Hospes’s neck. Fortunately, Hospes was wise enough to adapt and fix the problem, though there would be an ache in his neck that would last through that night and the next: his feet, originally listless as Daniels had begun to pull him up, now became animated, his feet skidding and skittering across the glass-speckled sidewalk, managing to support their master as he was being hauled skyward.

Once Hospes was eye-level with the victor, he was immediately yanked closer to Daniels’s face, so that one’s breath warmed the other’s face. By instinct, Hospes arched his back and dug his heels into the ground, trying to pull himself free of Daniels’s grasp; his body formed an almost c-shape as he did so, for his head and lower body did not follow with the torso; and his shirt and tie became strained between the fist that clenched them and the body that fought against it. Hospes’s reached and snatched Zachariah’s wrist with his unwounded hand, and dug his fingernails into the victor’s flesh as deeply as he could.

Zachariah spoke, but Hospes processed almost none of his initial words; freedom was a far more important effort to be undertaken then listening carefully to some bullying idiot. However, his mind did bother to take the time to acknowledge that Zachariah’s voice was, in fact, audible and that there were words that had the opportunity to be cared about. "What do you plan to do do with them, huh?”

“Release me!” Hospes demanded, his voice a harsh, gravelly bark. He lurched to the right; a very faint tearing noise could be heard, if one perked his ears high enough.

Gradually, Zachariah’s words reached Hospes’s mind; but it was a very faint, reluctant acknowledgement, much like how a fellow hears an echo from sounding from the other side of a long field. “You sick, twisted, son of a bitch.”

To that, Hospes took no insult; he had never cared much for his mother either. Ignoring the remark, Hospes removed his nails from Zachariah’s wrist, where a set of reddish, half-moon shaped dimples had now formed, and thrust his arm outward; he swung it, and his knuckles made contact with the victor’s chest.

His grasp remained firm. “ You think you are helping them?” he demanded. “ What do yoou picture tham doing for you?”

At that point, Zachariah’s words had managed to worm their way fully into Hospes’s brain. However, his mind met it with confusion; Zachariah’s accusation was not but a series of jumbled words to Hospes – a newly bought thousand-piece puzzle that had just been taken out from the box as a complete and utter mess. “What?” Hospes’s reply came out quick, short, and breathy.

“The things that other women refuse to do-”

“I don’t really talk to women in general,” Hospes hissed, his confusion becoming a violent irritation. (At least he’s willing to admit it.) His body began to jerk back and forth, and the ripping noise returned, short and quick and a tad louder now.

“-because of the fact that you are some old, older than me actually-”

That made Hospes pause. His body suddenly ceased moving, and his head tilted up sharply so he could glare into Zachariah’s eyes. “I’m thirty-one!” he snapped pointedly, and promptly returned to his struggle.

“-creep who hits on teenage girls?”

That was the only real, possible thing that could have truly cut into Hospes and made a wound far deeper and more painful than the gash that the piece of glass had made into his palm. It sliced and tore into the heart – a heart that only dared to soften when in the presence of younger hearts; a heart which still beat because of it had sworn to add to the younger hearts’ populace; a heart which sometimes bled for – and would only bleed for – its younger compatriots. No heart that had been beating for as long as that heart had would be able to enter this individual and remain there, warm and safe within it; but for the hearts that had beaten for a shorter length of time, they would fine a very loving and happy home within this man’s chest. And – to be accused of the very vices that Hospes found eviler than murder – the heart that beat within him stopped for a split second; a feeling that it wasn’t there – that it never existed – went within him, and seemingly, the heart was replaced with any icy mist that didn’t melt when the heart finally returned; and, as it continued thumping, it did so with a greatly lacking vigor, as if it found no point in the effort.

Though the heart was sloth-like, the body became animated: Hospes thrashed in Zachariah’s grasp, the ripping noise now very hearable; his arm flapped up and down like a wing, and he duck his knuckles repeatedly into Zachariah’s chest and shoulder. “LET GO OF ME!” he screeched, his voice high and shrill, like a banshee’s. “LET GO OF ME, YOU FOOL! YOU KNOW NOTHING! RELEASE ME! NOW!”

Whatever Zachariah said next, Hospes didn’t hear it. He was only aware of the fact that the cruel hand was gone; he was free: he staggered backwards, barely managing to situate himself securely upon his feet before he could tumble onto his posterior. His body trembled, as if the earth was shaking beneath his feet: but not from fear, but from the stinging pain and indignation that the victor had inflicted upon him. A weakness oozed into Hospes’s body and soul, making his muscles and heart feel numb; a lust to sink onto his knees came over him, but he refused himself the desire to rest – after all, the enemy was still there. No weakness – no matter how painful, how great – could be shown when in the presence of an enemy.

For a moment, Hospes took the time to inspect himself over for damages. The only visible signs of a struggle were his shirt and tie, both of which had been the products of the mentioned ripping noises: all that was left of the tie was the knot; most of the damage the shirt had taken was hidden by the vest and coat Hospes wore over it, but – much to the relatively modest escort’s chagrin – his clavicles and the upper portion of his sternum were quite seeable. The moment Hospes saw this, his hands involuntarily pounced upon his jacket, and he wrapped it tightly about himself, and buttoned it up, silently rebuking himself for not keeping it buttoned in the first place.

The invisible signs? One might have as well considered them visible. Though Hospes did his best to hide his inward pain and sudden fatigue, his efforts were in vain: the way his neck was held betrayed him of his weariness; the way the luster in his eyes had now dimmed told of the pain, and how it deepened as a new onslaught of questions and comments now racked him. I would never. How dare he? Bastard! Bastard! Son of some rotten bitch! Manipulator! Cruel, cruel manipulator! How dare he? I would never. Was – was the reason as to why that stupid hussy ran from me? Why she pushed me? I…I would never…was she stupid enough truly to believe…? How terribly has that man twisted her brain? How dare he…how dare…I would never…I am…why? Why won’t…

Can never be left alone. No one leaves me alone. Leave me alone. I’m just one man. I can’t…I can’t…I can’t…Forty lashes; a man dies. Men have limits. Men have limits. Men have limits, dammit! As do I! As do I! As do I! So why…so why…so why…so why…They are to kill me…kill…Can’t die yet…not useless enough…too strong, still. Not weak. Not useless. Yet. Not yet.

Why? Why? Why? Why?

He pressed his slender fingers against his eyelids; massaged them as he groaned. Slowly, he lowered them, and looked up; to his surprise, Satan had gone. Hospes’s eyes darted about in his socket; he caught a glimpse of Satan’s back, gradually disappearing into the night. Somehow, through the turmoil, through the confusion, anger found its way, for anger and Hospes were sworn allies. It bubbled and boiled within him, spurring him on to make one last thrust – one last attack, as the enemy left him.

Hospes’s voice rang high and loud, a guttural scream of agony and frustration: “YOU DAMNABLE, SATANIC PEDOPHILE!”

And with that, he sank to his knees.

Though only the young one named Ally had noticed them, others had come to watch the scene unfold before their eyes. They watched with curiosity, some malignant, others benign and fascinated by their horror: some found whatever devices they had in their pockets, and – in the knowledge that this was a falling-out of an escort and his victor – thought the drama was perfectly splendid entertainment, and took their time to record it. To look at it, and remember the carnival of the world’s unluckiest, most wretchedly ironic figure to have ever graced the Capitol.

(ooc: Blargh, this post is kinda…really…dramatic. Sorry, y’all. Anywayzle, I am SO, SO sorry that this was so late!!!!! I’ve been so busy and so stressed out lately…I’m so sorry! I love you guys! DDDD:

EDIT EDIT: Oh, and if y'all want to consider Hospy out of the thread, y'all may. I mean, unless y'all have any ideas on what to do with him... o.o

EDIT EDIT EDIT: And in case I made it sound like that...Hospy didn't stab himself in the face when he rubbed his eyes. xD I just kinda remembered about that part today, and thought that I made it kinda sound like that, cause the hand that got all stabbied (that's a word now) still got the stabby-glass in it. :3 He's using his unstabbied hand for that part. :333)

[Deleted]

(((((I don't know what to do for ally you wrote so much and im just sitting her like not reading it all)))

[Hero]

(( I think they are at his apartment...))

[Raeoki]

(ooc: Perhaps y'all should rearrange the posting order? I mean, Hero posts now, and then Kitty?)

[Hero]

(( oh, i didn't realize that. My bad if I screwed it up.))

[Raeoki]

(ooc: Oh! Oh, no no no no no! You're fine, Hero. I was just suggesting. :3 It's really my fault, for starting this mess up. Dx Sorry, y'all. I didn't think ahead. Sorry. DDDDDx)

[Deleted]

((yea lets do that))

[Hero]

(( OOC: sorry you guys for the very late post. In all homesty, I just kinfda forgot about all about this. So for now, here you go. Not sure how good it's going to be but it's whatever.))

(( also, I'm writing in third person. I find it much simpler. But sorry for the switch.))

He paced around his apartment. Ally stood in the doorway to the bedroom. His rage poured from him like lava from a volcano. Maybe that damn escort had pushed his buttons but Hospy knew exactly which ones to push. Still, an hour later, he was fuming. He had laid another deep hole within his walls. That made it about the third that week. He and Ally had searched desperately to find a painting or picture or really anything to cover it up. Because when that landlord came knocking, that man got on Zachariah's last nerve.

After the fight, he happened to have a sobriety test himself. He made a line and had himself walk it. A breathalyzer which had shown the few drinks he had earlier that night.

Nothing but a drunken fight. That's all it actually was.

He tried telling himself that at least 100 times. Much to his disappointment, he still didn't believe his own lie. How? He didn't know and wasn't even sure he wanted to. But with Ally standing there, his thoughts racing, his blood still boiling, everything just became one giant blur. He needed to figure things out. Especially with this thing called his love life. Maybe Hospy had a reason to believe that his relationship with Ally was a bit disgusting. He thought about it. A little less than 2 years and he turns 30. And Ally will be what? 18? 19? Tops.

Like awakening from a dream, Zak grabbed his jacket and power walked out of his apartment and back to the bar, hoping to find Hospy still there. Zachariah needed to apologize. And hey, even thigh he was a Victor, didn't mean he was totally heartless.

But it was more like something he just needed to get off his chest.

[Raeoki]

(ooc: Welp, looks like we're sticking with the original posting order. ^_^)

A strangely solemn, yet repeatedly broken hush had fallen over the bar of pure ivory, now that the victor was gone. Outside, a young, gangly fellow with heavily tattooed appendages swept the shards of glass from the doormat of the bar. Occasionally, the high and metallic laughter of a gang of pals would abruptly resound throughout the street, tearing the silence asunder as the group strutted by; or, it was the bumbling and grumbling of a lone drunk as he staggered through into the garbage cans of the nearby alleys, causing them to tip over and make a harsh, clanging noise suddenly burst throughout the bar’s vicinity. Within, the bar was occupied mostly by its attendants, with only one patron still remaining. The patron had the back of his hand rested atop a bar that radiated a white glow; blood had oozed onto the bar, the bodily fluid vividly crimson on the white countertop – and beside the petite puddles laid a shard of glass speckled with blood, especially about the tip.

An hour ago, the patron had shuffled into the bar and reclaimed the seat he had initially sat in, and then proceeded to stare at his bloodied hand with a pair of wide, glassy eyes, as the fingers of his unwounded hand began to wiggle free the shard that had entered his palm. The call for a doctor had been suggested to him by the manager of the establishment, who – having been in his office during the time – did not fully understand what had happened to him. The patron promptly refused, on the account that doctors were “invasive, incompetent loons”; however, when a clean rag had been offered to him to help quell the bleeding on the glass shard was free, the patron silently – yet politely – accepted it. The manager also ordered that one of the his barmaids bring for him a first aid kit; unfortunately, the barmaid happened to be a very passionate and currently very spiteful mother of a teenaged female, and did not plan to return from her excursion of the cellar (where the first aid kit was unwisely kept) in quite a while. The manager was too busy collecting the varying accounts from his other workers of the event that had transpired to notice her nonexistence.

Hospes Fae Compleo the Patron’s body was hunched over; his face was downcast. His eyes were still wide and glassy; however, his mouth was now contorted into a twisted, almost maniacal smile that was crooked at around the edges – and this smile was completely still, and Hospes never wiped it from his face during the hour of nothingness. Periodically, a hum-like series of giggles would rise from him that was hardly audible; and, presently, the same giggle was currently droning from him, and his hunched form was swaying slowly and mindlessly from side to side. And, with this new change, another soon followed suit: his mouth proceeded to form words; silent, inaudible words that he whispered to himself, for his ears only. “They’re – hmm hmm hmmmmm – all – ah hmm – against me…hmm hmm hmmmmm!” A new sort of laugh crackled from him, hoarse and rusty like the cackle of a witch, before suddenly diving off into a small decrescendo of a moan. At this, the attendants and manager of the business glanced at him, before continuing their business.

“Never trust…not…never…I…hmm EEE hm…,” he mouthed to himself. “Eee hee…eeeeeh…I…they…he…how…why not just…kill…why did…I…no one ever…I…why…I…just wanted…to…he…he did this…help…I…always been a good person…no…wrong…never…he…why would he…How much can one man hate?...So much…I know…I hate…all…how…I want…to end him…” His glassy eyes bulged, and his head jerked a little forward, as if someone had randomly smacked him across the back of his skull; and in the movement, he roughly rested his forehead against the edge of the bar.

“They…eeeeeee heee…think he’s a god…I know better…I’m not…he shall pay…and he thinks…he can…” For a strange moment, an occurrence transpired upon his eyes, in which it almost looked as if the red irises and pupils were actually throbbing within them. “He hates me…good…good…good…good…good…I hate…the world…and he’s…” Here, his voice cracked, and became sluggish in its mania: “Hee heee heeeeeeeeeeee…hmm…I know better…All it takes…is a twissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst! Ee hee…hmm…hee hmm…What did I e’er do to him…I oughta…rip his lips out…ee hee hee…and then…eviscerate him…and then force his little tramp to eat his organs…Eeee hmm…Make her bathe in his blood…eeeeeeee heee…Her fault too…how dare she…I only wanted…to help…how did I…how could she…make her eat his organs…Eee heee…Who’ll stop me? Who thinks they’re…brave enough…to stop…me?! Eeeeee heeee…heee…heee hmm…” His shoulders trembled as he laughed quietly to himself.

Pictures began to ooze into his brain; pictures of blood, of death, of evil. He saw Zachariah’s face in his mind; saw the flesh from it be torn off, revealing a bloody mesh of muscle. His laughter increased slightly in volume, so that if one strained their ears hard enough, they might have heard him. “He thinks he’s perfect…ee heee hee…he thinks he’s…God…I know better…they think…they think they’re all…so…damn…PERFECT.” As he finished his saying, his voice became a crescendo, and as it reached a very high, very piercing pitch at his final word, his body suddenly lurched up, and he hopped in his seat as he squealed in hollow joy. Hospes then fell into a bout of equally squeaky, almost childlike giggles as his body lurched back and forth, his glassy eyeballs now having a distant quality to them, as if he was looking at something a thousand yards off. He held his wounded hand (its fingertips still faithfully pressing the rag into his palm) almost protectively to his chest as he did this.

At this time, all the others that were in the barroom stood looking at him; and the worker that the manager was then speaking to leaned forward to his boss, and whispered in his superior’s ear: “I think Pedobear over there needs to see what the inside of an asylum looks like.”

Then, as suddenly as he had leapt up, his body swung downward, and his forehead became pressed to the edge of the countertop again. Every now and again, a low, hollow chuckle reverberated from the back of his throat, his shoulders shuddering with each chortle. I’ll make him pay…I’ll twist his arms…out of their sockets…and…I’ll yank out his eyeballs…with my fingers…and…and…and… “Hee hee hee!” I’LL EAT THEM! AND I’LL CRUCIFY HIM! AND I’LL MAKE HIM SCREAM AND SCREAM AND SCREAM AND SCREAM UNTIL HE HASN’T A VOICE! AND THEN I’LL BITE HIS THROAT OUT AND…AND…AND…MAKE HIM…PAY! “Eee hee hee heee!”

Suddenly, the twisted, maniacal grin disappeared, and the mouth became a solemn, mournful “o” shape; and a new look came over the glassy red eyes: the eyelids proceeded to lower themselves partially over them, thus giving them a forlorn, lonely change to their initially unemotional appearance. The mouth proceeded to move, forming hushed words: “Cause it’s not fair…I…love…children…I would never…and he…did that…in front of everyone…and…I don’t…understand…why can I never…never…never…never…”

He didn’t notice the victor walk in.

(ooc: Well, it fizzles out in the end, but...I've been looking forward to writing a post like this for awhile...so... :3 Very pleased. <3

I'd like to thank Ren Hoek from The Ren & Stimpy Show for giving me muse.)

[Hero]

Zachariah Daniels -- District 8

Zak pulled his leather jacket closer around him as he made his way through the bar. He braced himself against the cold air whistling in between alleys and down streets, rustling leaves and blowing paper everywhere. He pulled his hood up, scrunching his hair a bit. He mumbled to himself, getting strange looks from anyone who dared to look his way. He looked around the glowing lights of the bar.

He directed himself in from of it and watched as everyone cleaned up the mess he made. He leaned down and picked up some glass that cut his hand. He began bleeding and silently cursed himself. He walked in the bar and asked the current bartender if they had something that he could wrap it with. To his luck, they did. It took him a minute to notice but Hoapy was hysterically laughing and rambling on the floor. Zak grabbed him by his shoulders, lifted him, and set him in a chair.

Zak sat himself next to him and rested his arms on the bar. He looked over at Hospy. "Are you same enough to talk to me yet?"

[Raeoki]

The next thing Hospes knew, the ground was sinking, leaving him to dangle limply in the air, the only thing saving from him from merciless gravity being something warm, something firm wrapped about his shoulders. He looked down at his small feet, which swayed a little to the right and left, listless without something to support him; and then it occurred to him, a sudden idea that merely sprang from his mind, with no precursors or any other thoughts that led Hospes to such a conclusion: Now, am I truly certain that the floor left me, or was it I who left the floor? Was I even on the floor originally? Hell. I can’t remember. Hell.

It was then that Hospes noticed another pair of feet, much longer and wider than his own, firmly rooted onto the white, glossy flooring. Hospes blinked at this realization; and, soon enough, his gaze flicked from the feet, and onto a face – one that was not looking up at him, but around him, but Hospes could recognize it from any angle: Satan; or, he who would surely die tonight by Hospes’s hands.

All the witnesses that looked over might have thought Hospes looked almost like a kitten being lifted into the air by a silly child. His lanky form was limp and dangling with his arms held out in front of him and bent at the elbows, partially lying atop of Zachariah’s forearm, much like a kitten not really knowing what was going on as it was heaved into the air but didn’t really give a hoot either; if only if his countenance was open and innocent, it would have fit the picture perfectly. Rather, Hospes’s face bore not only the mania that had been racking him prior to Zachariah’s entrance, but a very dark, very ugly shadow had cast itself across Hospes’s face, adding to the insanity and causing it to become dangerous, to become frightening, to become murderous. The eyes had widened, and now glinted with intelligence, but lacking all of the consciousness and relative humanity, and the redness of the eyes had become vivid, new-dying into a deeper shade of scarlet; and the mouth was open and twisted about, becoming an ugly snarl that made the face wrinkled and almost deformed in its truculence.

It was a fortunate thing for Zachariah that he had set Hospes down upon a chair as swiftly as he had, for if he had not, then Hospes would have stiffened, and would have happily reached down and tear at the victor’s face with his fingernails. In the seat, Hospes became hunched over, his shoulders huddled forward; not, however, in a position of defeat: but instead, it was a position of preparation for violence, as an animal lowers itself closer to the ground and prepares to slink forward and destroy a prey animal. He held his hands particularly close to his chest, the fingers’ of his unharmed hand bent and spread apart, like bent claws; the other hand, however, he obviously kept closed, so the rag could continue to staunch the bleeding. Hospes kept his sanguinary eyes on Zachariah, watching his every moment, noting it all down mentally. In one instance, Zachariah turned away from him, in order to set himself down in a chair beside him; in that split instance, Hospes noticed the glass shard that had caused him so much ill an hour ago, and immediately, his unwounded hand darted out and snatched it, and Hospes held it close to his own person, grasping it gingerly in fear the edges would slice the skin of the good palm also.

Zachariah was now fully set in his chair now, and he had his arms stretched out comfortably upon the countertop. He turned his face towards Hospes, and snarked: "Are you same enough to talk to me yet?"

Hospes’s body jerked a little upward; and the diabolical and homicidal shadow that had fallen over his face darkened, and his face compounded in its contortedness. He gnashed his teeth, a vein pulsed within his throat; and he tried not to squeeze the objects in his respective hands, in fear that he would accidentally do more damage to his person, though it was his instinctive habit to squeeze something whenever he underwent stress. For it was all very clear that Zachariah was not here to apologize; in fact, by coldness of his comment, Hospes would not have been surprised if Zachariah expected the escort to take the blame for all that had transpired outside – which was wrong! So wretchedly wrong and unfair and cruel and harassing! None of what had happened was Hospes’s fault; it had been Zachariah who had to go forth kissing (and probably eventually impregnating) every teenaged girl he saw; it was Zachariah who threw him onto a bed of glass and left him there to bleed; it had been Zachariah who had laughed at him. Hospes had done nothing but tried to bring aid to a misled girl; and there that little bastard was! There to vex him! To tease him! Make him throw himself prostrate at his ugly feet and beg for mercy!

Suddenly, the bloodied shard in his hand bore a new sensation; it then became very real, very tangible somehow, as if Hospes could have only felt its cold, bumpy texture only to a small degree, and now the sensation of it being in his hand abruptly exploded to an abnormal one. And he didn’t know why, but this sensation made his body quiver; not in terror – but, rather, in glee, for he could see the possibilities. I won’t have it, he whispered to himself. I’d rather die then…do…what he wants…I’ll do it. I’ll do it. I’ll shove it into his forehead. I’ll stick it into his heart. I’ll pry open his stomach with it and fiddle with his guts as they flop out. I’ll make him die. I’ll do it. I’ll do it. He can’t have me! I’m not his plaything! I’ll do it!

Hospes sucked in a long inhale, and his body shuddered violently as he exhaled it, his small flanks concaving with the breath. He stared at Zachariah with wide eyes; and the anger and evilness had somehow been sapped from the irises, becoming glassy with psychosis; and his mouth twisted into a slightly wider version of the thin, crooked, strangely still grin that split across the bottom portion of his face and across his cheeks – the one he had worn before Zachariah had scooped him up from the floor. He leaned slightly inward, his face inching closer to Zachariah’s. Without Hospes’s conscious knowing of it, his fingers had uncurled about the rag that he had been pressing into his wound with his fingertips, and now the red-stained cloth flopped uselessly into his lap, the crimson very red on his gray pants. He set his wounded palm atop of Zachariah’s hand; and a few new drops of blood began to ooze from the wound, and transmit onto the victor’s jacket. But Hospes did not realize this; and he dug his fingernails angrily into Zachariah’s shoulders, as deeply as he could, the nails proceeding to work through the fabric of the jacket. A very slow, rusty laugh came from the escort, making his shoulders bounce upward once with each mad chortle; and he murmured: “You want me to talk to you, my dearest dear? Oh! Oh ho ho ho…whatever about, my dear?”

Suddenly, the throbbing effect occurred upon his irises and pupils, and he suddenly jerked his head closer to Zachariah’s till their noses were but a hairsbreadth apart. Hospes pressed the shard of glass closer to his own body, his palm spreading over one flat edge, whilst his coat brushed against the other. The escort continued, now speaking through gnashed teeth: “About tonight? About how you manipulate pretty little girls and drag them down to bed with you and then blame the innocent escort in front of dozens and make it sound as if heeeeeeeeeee’s the raping rake?! Eh?! I’d love to discuss that! Or shall we have a rather thoughtful, philosophical discussion about how it rather hurts to get shoved about and thrown onto cement or onto a thousand little, prickly, sharp, goddamn painful needles of glass and how people usually don’t like it when they get their hands stabbed open when they don’t deserve it? Or maybe - maybe we should explain the rising probability of one randomly leaping out in front of another and laughing right in their face for no bloody damn reason? Eh, my dear?” He giggled; a squeaky, chirp-like little chortle that did not last long, and then he finished with a low hiss: “What shall we talk about it? Eh hee hee hmm…”

[Hero]

He was finished. Hospy had pushed every button possible. When he mentioned rape, he took the small escort easily by the shoulders as threw him, legit threw him, against the nearest wall. Glasses shattered and pictures fell from their frames. "Screw you. I would never." He walked over, lifted Hospy, and pinned him against the wall. "You complain about me doing that? What if you had to! What if the Capitol made you every place you went, to have a teenage whore throwing herself at you! If they don't get me, I'm out if money and I might as well be dead. You think about that dear Escort. Discuss that with yourself for a moment why don't you." He released him and let the man fall to the floor.

Zak sat back down at the bar, just now noticing the blood on his hand. Zak ordered a glass if whatever could numb that feeling he hand. Then, he order the whole bottle. In a rage, Zak threw it next to where Hospes head was bobbing over his body. Alcohol leaked down the wall, gathering into a puddle in the ground.

He leaned down over the limp man's body. "Have you discussed it enough with yourself?" He stood straight up now. "Now you will ne'er understand. Don't patronize me. You don't know. But that's how it always is for me. Now you know."

[Raeoki]

(ooc: Hero…I’m just warning you…there’s only so much Hospy can take in a night…o.o I mean, seriously…this would become extremely PTSD-ish even for people who are of sound mind, cause this is kind of reminiscent of spousal abuse, in just the way that Zak’s taking his anger out on him. D: And it’s kind of officially gotten to the point (especially if the beatings continue) where Hospes is probably gonna ask if he could escort another district, just to avoid Zak – that, or just quit the job all together (better to be on welfare than to get practically beaten to death twice, you know). And file a restraining order on him…and an assault charge, while he’s at it... :X I’m sorry, but…Hospy doesn’t make a very good punching bag…Dx Sorry. I just thought I should mention this, for future reference.)

BIC: Of course, Hospes wouldn’t have been so lucky as to suddenly slip into a lapse of tender sentimentality in which the seed of close friendship could have finally been sown and commence to bud betwixt victor and escort. No; Hospes’s mother had been painfully correct when she had called him one of drastic misfortune. Instead, once again, Hospes found himself literally tossed into a jarring torrent that wounded him physically and emotionally. And, still, Hospes could not help but wonder: was it truly deserved? Was it fair? Did he initiate it? How? Just because he wanted to nudge the thorn that had imbedded itself deeply into his side; that made him bleed? But that made no sense. How was it possibly right for a man to take his frustration out upon another, but the other can’t take the stress that had accumulated because of the first man’s torture and unleash it upon the first? That was wrong. Hospes had been wronged. How many times had he been wronged tonight? Too many to count; but certainly more than necessary.

Hospes had honestly not expected what was to come next. He did not brace himself; or, rather, he could not: he was still in the murderous, maniacal daze that had clouded his brain and pushed him to consider homicide as an escape from his troubles. Thus, Hospes was caught off guard when a sudden weight was upon his shoulders, and he was torn from his chair. There was no real time to react; in the same movement, Zachariah thrust him forward, and there was nothing to support him. No ground, no earth, nothing carrying him; just the air, the gravity, and the might with which he had been thrown. This absence of firmness, of support sent his already scattered mind into a frenzied state of panic that made his blood frost over and his organs feel sloshy within his body, and his hand immediately released the shard it was holding, and it fell to the floor. He released strangled cry of alarm; a wordless plea for assistance, before it was abruptly cut off as his body slammed into the wall, creating a loud and short THUMP that reverberated throughout the barroom, causing all within who knew nothing of what was transpiring swing their heads about, and gaze on with wide eyes.

A sharp, ceaseless pain was within Hospes’s pain, stabbing him all throughout, especially to his back and skull. The air within his lungs was forced out in a loud gasp, leaving his lungs empty sacs, racked by their sudden deflation. His body slumped limply onto the floor; Hospes did not attempt to stand up – that would only cause him more pain. Judging by the pain, and the fact that it spread all throughout him, it was very easy for Hospes to assume that every bone in his body had, in fact, been snapped in some way; and it was spine who took the most damage: it had to be shattered into a million pieces, the shards of having disintegrated from the main whole and now was nothing but a fine powder within his back. Of course, Hospes knew that this diagnosis was solely based upon the pain; but he was quite certain it was factual – for how could it not? Not once in Hospes’s life had he experienced such numbing agony; something had to be broken, and broken horribly, for one to experience such torment. And there was no possibility that Hospes was going to dare try to compound his vexation and agony; rather, he took to breathing: replenishing his smarting lungs their lost air. That was an easy thing to do; hurt a little, but it was a far kinder pain than the one in his back – or, really, all the other pangs that pricked his long form.

Gingerly, Hospes wheezed in a new breath, each one gradually inflating his greedy lungs. Several gasps of oxygen were taken before the lungs were finally comfortable and complacent, and did not ask for more – though, certainly, if more was offered to them, they would happily receive it. However, just as Hospes was proceeding to bring to his lungs more offerings, he noticed that a pair of long, heavy legs now stood before him, rising from the ground like a pair of black trees. Hospes paused for a moment, his eyes fixated onto them, whilst his chest heaved with each heavy pant; gradually, he lifted his eyes skyward – and, immediately, upon an instinct that had followed mankind to the present day to the era where they were prey, his body became rigid, and his thin hands became fists, and he gnashed his teeth and the muscles in his face felt tight to him. For before him loomed Satan himself – and Hospes was going to fight tooth and nail before Old Scratch even thought of dragging him down to Hell, no matter how saccharine-like his spine was or how many bones that Satan had broken by tossing Hospes around as if he was a rag.

Satan reached down, and Hospes felt his thick fingers twist about his collar, proceed to lift him from the floor. And it was then that Hospes knew panic – cold, sudden, numbing panic that distracted from his many pains; for he knew not how to defend himself, with all his bones broken, and mind raced to decide on a tactic, on a bodily weapon. And that was when it occurred to Hospes, a decision that pleased him greatly, and his panic proceeded to fade away: for when in doubt – spit in the bastard’s eye!

Unfortunately, Hospes’s plan was never put to action; for the moment he and Satan were at eyelevel, and before Hospes could swivel his tongue about to form a sizable ball of saliva, Satan jerked him forward, and Hospes was slammed into the wall again. All of the pangs that had caused him agony when he had been initially tossed into it compounded, almost becoming into one blinding pain whose sting touched all of his body – his muscles; his organs; his bones. He didn’t cry out; the exertion of a wail would have doubled the ache: instead, he let out a low, wheezing moan, and his face twisted as his mouth stretched and curved into a grimace. However, one fortunate thing was discovered by that cruel moment: his spine was not – as he had initially diagnosed – broken; felt as if it had crawled through the ravages and torments of Hell, but aside from that, it was completely workable. And Hospes knew this, for he saw his own hands instinctively spring upward, and his fingers wrapped around Satan’s wrists, and then bent to dig his nails into the soft flesh – acts that would have been impossible if his spinal column was snapped. However, Hospes found no comfort in this fact; and he squeezed his eyes tight, so that diminutive ridges wrinkled the lids, and tried to block out from his mind what was transpiring; what the world was; how his body felt.

Satan was speaking; Hospes didn’t do the devil the honor of opening his eyes and showing he was paying attention – he refused to submit to Satan in that way. However, he did listen; did not understand, but he did, in fact, listen. All he processed was that Satan was basically admitting that he was, in fact, a male prostitute (I KNEW IT!) and that he did, in fact, go around screwing teenaged girls; the only thing that truly differed between Satan and the average manipulative gigolo was that – apparently – the government forced him to sell his body. ( Whiny little rake, isn’t he?) Satan then ordered him to have a discussion to himself about how he’d feel about it if he was in Satan’s shoes – which, for a very split second, Hospes did. He thought about his past with women; how with every attempt he made to be an extrovert, to be charismatic, to be appealing to them, they shunned him; how with every proposal – not only dates or anything of the romantic inclinations, but merely proposals to bring them gentlemanly aide, or anything of the kindly sort they merely smiled at him and shook their heads, or snorted and treated him as if he was a ghost; of the slightly aggravating fact that, at the age of thirty-one, he was still very much a virgin, and had never had a romantic relationship that had ever gone beyond an innocent, one-sided crush. And, in a perfect example of the grass always being greener on someone else’s lawn, he thought to himself: I…actually wouldn’t mind that…for a few weeks…If the girls were much older, of course. (Hospes had always preferred older women to younger women, you see.) And I’d get paid doing it, too!

After Hospes had mused on this, Satan released him, and left him. Hospes let his body lean against the wall; for his legs were too much in an ache to hold himself up without some support. For a moment, permitted his head to droop, and his face turned downward; and for a moment, a look of subjugation did come over the escort, in the way his shoulders and arms sagged, and how his body hunched over. However, it was not thoughts of repentance or submission that filled his mind; but rather, of the exact opposite: what he pondered of were thoughts that spurred him on towards rebellion, to defy rather than comply. What had Satan been getting at when he had told him about how awful it was be a man-whore and that the government was essentially one giant, all-powerful, autocratic pimp? What had he been trying to say, when he ordered Hospes to discuss it over with himself how he would feel about that? Why did he tell him, for that matter? When Hospes had called him a “raping rake”, he had been referring to that Ally harlot, and how he kissed her on the head and ordered her to go to his apartment. Clearly, Satan wasn’t clever enough to understand the methods of Hospes’s madness. Then again, it occurred to Hospes that Satan wasn’t exactly the smartest human-being ever born – and how could he? He was merely a brute; an evil, abusive brute that had almost demolished Hospes’s spine. And he had thought that Hospes would be so foolish as to bow down and beg for forgiveness; that was why he had returned, wasn’t it? For the escort to apologize? Why else? The bastard hadn’t any conscience; when he saw suffering, his heart did not soften – it iced over, and he went out of his way to deepen the wounds, physically and metaphysically. He was a sadistic, cruel, evil fool – and, now that Hospes thought of it, he pitied the Ally girl. Perhaps it was not manipulated love that had moved her to shove him an hour ago; perhaps it wasn’t even the reason why she had fled to their disgusting love-nest: perhaps it was fear. Was it possible that Satan hit her, just as he had hit Hospes? Did he slam her into walls, and when he did this, did she wonder if her spine was shattered as he had earlier? Did he spit at her confessions that she didn’t understand either, and then force her to consider them? Did he throw her down onto the sidewalk, and laugh at her and mock her as if she hadn’t a human soul as she floundered about on a thousand glass needles? If the answers were all in the positive, Hospes would not have been surprised.

Hospes reached up and set his wounded palm against the back of his neck, for the achiness and stiffness in it had proceeded to double, and was now very uncomfortable. However, the moment that flesh felt blood, he jerked his hand down, and lifted his head up gingerly to look at it, for movement made it hurt even worse. His eyebrows tilted as he looked down upon the shallow, yet still sanguinary rip in his hand with surprise; for he had not noticed it when he dropped his rag, and was only now realizing that he had. Hospes lifted his hand down and raised his eyes, to scan the ground for it; however, his eyes immediately found themselves on Satan Daniels – who had his arm lifted in the air, a bottle of a golden liquid clenched tightly within his fault. Promptly, Hospes’s eyes bulged, and his face paled, becoming so ashen that it looked as if the veins within had been bled completely. He threw his arms before his face, and he crossed them so that they become an “x”-shaped shield before him; and he screeched a husky, rusty “OH HELL NO!” as he flung himself down upon his bottom.

He heard the bottle’s glass body erupt above him; felt the small shards sprinkle atop his scalp and shoulders, tangling in his orange hair and making a couple diminutive divots in his coat. However, despite the fact that the first threat was gone, he did not lower his arms from his face; rather, he pressed them against it, and they quivered in both anger and panic – for this was the second time that night that a battle had been thrown at him, and by some grace of God he had avoided it, and after the first time, it becomes rather hard for one to heal immediately. He remained in his sitting position, his bony knees set tightly against his chest, with one foot pointed upward whilst its heel rested against the ivory floor, as if he was preparing to kick someone. He did not dare budge; for this was a very jarring event for a Capitolite, a race of people who knew not what it was like to truly know pain or assault or aggravation or abuse, and now that Hospes – a born and bred native of Panem’s capital city – had experienced a cruel and torturous cocktail of all of those things, he knew not what to do; how to react – all he could know was agony, and fear, and stress, and for a moment, he permitted himself to wallow in it – to panic, and become useless. (The reason why he did not respond in this manner to Satan’s initial abuse is this: Hospes, though he was ill in sanity when compared to the others of his birthplace, was of tougher stuff than most Capitolites, and thus could respond to these vexations initially upon fighting instinct; however, now that the events were transpiring all over again, they were proceeding to take its toll on Hospes’s grit, and thus it was very hard for the escort not to succumb to stationary panic.) And the other Capitolites in the room – the manager, and his workers – looked over and glanced at each other with wide and frightened eyes, and their bodies became tense, as if they were about to rush forward; however, they did not, for they had never seen things like this transpire in their humble barroom before, and thus they knew not what to do exactly.

There was one pause, in which Hospes heard Satan’s footsteps become slightly louder as the victor moved towards him. In that moment, it occurred to Hospes that Satan had not returned to demand an apology; rather, something else, in which Hospes was more certain of than he had been with the “apology demand” theory he had concocted: He’s come to murder me; he’s come to beat me to death with his fists and laugh as I scream. Damn bastard of a rat-whore! And the trembling of his arms became more noticeable.

The footsteps ceased; Hospes did not need to lower his arms to see that Satan was looming over him, preparing to dig his long, onyx-colored claws into his skull and drag him down to Hell. He heard Satan hiss; and as he listened, he could imagine Satan’s foot-long, forked tongue slither out of his mouth, and caress his thin lips that were the color of beefcakes. "Have you discussed it enough with yourself?" Gradually, Hospes’s muscles moving stiffly in clear reluctance, he lowered his arms slightly and peeked up at him. "Now you will ne'er understand. Don't patronize me. You don't know. But that's how it always is for me. Now you know."

Another pause was flung onto the barroom, like a blanket; Hospes said nothing, only stared up at Satan’s face, his eyes wide and mouth formed into a small frown. Then, slowly, Hospes broke the silence, his voice thin, hoarse, and fragile, more like a child’s: “Don’t tell me what I know – because you don’t know me at all.” Then – though his muscles screamed violently in protest, and his bones moaned as he did – he slowly lifted himself up; and his legs felt as solid as pudding beneath him, and his arms were still quivering. “My dear,” he continued, in the same voice, “why should I care if the government prostitutes you? That’s your business, not mine. Not what I was getting at, either. And to be quite honest, I only knew of – or really care about – one of your young lady callers: she’s a little, quiet girl with such pretty auburn hair who was here not a minute ago – I’m rather surprised you’ve forgotten her; you kissed her on the forehead and everything.” Again, his pupils and irises throbbed as he said this.

The trembling in Hospes’s arms had proceeded to spread; it moved all throughout his body, making him shudder violently and very visibly; and a glassy, yet somehow manically panicking look came into his eyes, only seen on animals as they flee predators. He then continued, his voice a hushed whisper: “Was that really necessary?” He paused for only a heartbeat, to suck in a quick breath through his mouth. “Why – did you – throw a bottle at me? Do you know how easily that could have killed someone? But you don’t care, do you?” His small frown contorted into a twist, pained smile; short, light, nervous little laughs popped from him one by one: “Ah…hah hah…hah…You’re only concerned about yourself…you think the world revolves around you…so you accuse other people for hurting little teenaged girls, when they’re completely innocent…so you throw them around as if they haven’t any souls in them…as if they’ll just pick themselves up and walk off without giving a damn…You laugh at them, treat them like nothing, and then you toss bottles at their heads and punch them and demean them and make them feel as if every damn bone in their body’s shattered like glass till – till – they’re nothing.” He spread his palms out, as if presenting something to him. “They’re not but bloody, sad, lonely little pulps pulsing on the floor. And you don’t care. You only care about yourself. You know that you’re suffering – cause apparently you are – so you take it out on somebody else. That’s just the way you are. You’re a sadistic, abusive brute. And I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how it’s always been for you, too.”

Here, Hospes paused in his rant. His hands curled into fists that shook in both anxiety (for he knew what he was saying – and what he was about to say – could very well stir Satan back into another spasm of whirling fists and bottles) and rage; and he thought that he’d either like to run away from him and never look back or scratch Satan’s eyeballs out with his fingernails. Hospes went on, the anger in his voice making it go from that of a thirsty child’s to a hissing whisper: “What is it that I ‘don’t know’, my dear? How you’re a harlot for the president? Or is it pain? Because obviously this little fact hurts you, apparently. And so what? I don’t know pain?” Suddenly, his voice rose in a haughty, loud laugh, and he continued in a louder, stronger, defiant voice that bore a tremble within it that was hardly noticeable: “Just proves you don’t know me, Daniels! You think you’re the only one with scars?! You’re a fool! You think you have the right to take your pain and torture others with it?! You’re a fool! A righteous, egotistical fool! And don’t you e’er DARE look me in the eye and tell me that you have a right to hurt me like that, to almost kill me like that, because you suffer! Because you squirm because of what the government’s doing to you! That is no excuse, you fool! You deserve no sympathy! You deserve no right to take it out on me, or to even bother telling me about it, because if you think that you’ve a right to chuck bottles at an innocent’s heads, or throw them onto glass, or to kiss a girl’s who’s several years your younger, then – then you’re a fool! And you know nothing about me! That I hurt just as much as you, maybe even more!”

As he had been speaking, he had been moving in swift, jerking gestures, and with each sentence his voice doubled in volume, till he found himself shouting. His face had gone from pale to red; and he thrust it close to Satan’s in challenge, and barked hoarsely: “Now leave me alone, you abusive, violent cur!”