tuRning thE tAbLes - A Hunger Games Fanfiction

A/N: Hey! SoI've been writing a HG fic, and I wanted to share it with you people. Oh, and the chapters will be much longer than this, because this is just a prologue. Tell me what you think! First chapter should be up sometime this week.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. That belongs to the respective creators, editors, publishers, etc. Special thanks to Jacob Snow for allowing me to use him!



The secretary sat at her desk, her long gloved fingers typing away on her computer incessantly, just like all of the others on the floor. The only sound that could be heard in the vicinity was the endless tapping of keys, coming from what could only be hundreds of keyboards. Other than that constant drumming, the white room was completely silent. Not even the rain made a noise as it struck the floor-to-ceiling windows on the right wall.

Smacking her big, cherry-red lips lightly, she fixed a lone strand of bright blue hair that fell out of its place in her loose bun atop her head before going back to her job. That is, until she heard the sound of her printer activating. By itself.

She swiveled her chair to look at the machine with wide amber eyes. The only way it would start on its own was if the President himself made an order. But… the coronation was only yesterday! Would the young President, Jacob Snow, really be giving orders already? Or even, writing laws?

The paper, now finished printing and still warm, sat in the tray. Taking off her left glove and exposing the light pink skin underneath, the secretary gingerly took the sheet in her hand and read the message quickly.

Slowly, as was procedure, she set the paper down and raised her ungloved hand into the air, calling the supervisor.

Not a moment later, said man came to her cubicle and swiped the paper from her immaculate desk. His face scrunched up and turned red in fury – had she not feared for her job, the secretary may have laughed at the sight. But, of course he would think that the notice was a joke, and she would get fired. She cringed at the thought, looked down, and closed her eyes; waiting for the inevitable scene that the supervisor was about to make.

(In fact, the supervisor most certainly did think that she had made it up, and was about to yell at the poor woman before he stopped.)

When nothing happened after a moment, the blue-haired woman looked up and immediately gasped. All around, in the other cubicles, ungloved hands were rising at different rates.

It was definitely not a drill.


I, President Jacob Snow, am hereby reestablishing the Hunger Games.


Cipher [sahy-fer*]
1. zero; nothingness. 2. written symbol or character; a coded message

That's so good! You're a really talented writer! I can't wait to read more!

A/N: Hallo, again! I've another chapter for mein liebling leser, and I've decided to do something special with this fic.

Everyone knows that a normal Hunger Games fanfic follows a certain pattern, right? Well, I'm not following that pattern. I want you to notice what I'm doing, so I won't spell it out to you. Go on! Guess what I'm going for! ^^

A shout-out to Alieya Stone:
Thanks~! This one goes out to you!

Oh, he rather disliked his job.

Having grown up in the Capitol, he really shouldn’t have; it was, after all, an honour to be in a uniform. In a position of power. To be able to legally hold a gun and enforce the laws approved by the president himself. And that in and of itself made him important – a commanding officer in the new president’s order. A Head Peacekeeper.

But it was against his morals. Sure, he had the sense of justice that was indeed needed for any good Peacekeeper. He couldn’t stand people who didn’t abide by the rules, and he was more than happy to punish those who didn’t. He had no hesitation in that department, really. But he always thought that he was fair. He would listen to both sides before condemning the accused. He was not one to kick puppies, after all. Innocents should not be punished for crimes they did not commit.

Which is exactly why he hated his job. Well, actually, he hated this part of his job.

Standing on the dirt street, lit only by the rare, rusted street lamp, the man straightened his white visor cap over his short blonde hair. Night had fallen on the wooded district, and the world was cast in shadows that moved with the lights that his troops held in their hands and shone from the metal accents on their uniforms. He kept his expression blank as he deployed his Peacekeepers, watching as they moved from house to deteriorating house, spreading the news. Gathering the people of District Seven to the marketplace at the center of the development to deliver the devastating message that was sure to shake the Districts of Panem to the core tonight.

Tonight.

He disliked the Games. The idea of punishing an entire nation for the follies of one District. He disliked the fact that twenty-four children would be taken from their families, from their lives, and pitted against each other for the amusement of the spectators. The fact that the innocent would need to commit murder in order to survive. Kill or be killed. The makings of war.

But he was not allowed to show such compassion. Not in his position, anyway. No, he was to be the ruthless, pitiless Head Peacekeeper; with the pristine white uniform and the black visor that always seemed to cast his cold eyes in dark shadows and the condescending smirk of someone so supreme to you, someone with the power to take and take and take until there was nothing left.

He was a Peacekeeper. And he had a job to do.

Stepping up to the door of one of the houses in the District, he was slightly happy that District Seven’s main industry was lumber; the houses may have been falling apart, but at least the doors were solid enough to knock on.

The sound of his gloved hand against wood echoed through the inside of the building, loud enough for him to hear it. A metallic clicking soon followed, the sound of locks being undone, and the door swung open to reveal a small family.

The mother was relatively short, with long, thin brown hair and unreadable blue eyes. She was holding a blonde child against her chest–the girl only around two years of age – and was most obviously pregnant. Cowering behind her was another girl, about twelve years old with short brown hair and a thin frame. There was no father figure in sight.

Twelve.

This little girl, he realised, would be old enough to participate in these wretched games. This little girl, who couldn’t possibly kill a fly properly, might have to wield a knife against someone six years older than her. This little girl, with those chestnut coloured eyes that shown with fear and – admiration!? – could be ripped from whatever her life was here and thrust into a game that she couldn’t possibly win.

It was sickening.

Giving the broken family the order as he had many times before with other families, he couldn’t get the image of the child out of his mind.

And he was not looking forward to the Games.


Compunction [kuh m-puhngk-shuh n]:
1. A feeling of uneasiness or anxiety of the conscience caused by regret for doing wrong or causing pain; contrition; remorse. 2. Any uneasiness or hesitation about the rightness of an action.

This is basically what Alieya said, but this is really really good! I love reading it and can't wait for more! You're indeed a really good writer!

I agree, this is so good! I'm looking forward to reading more!

A/N: I’m back~! I’ve got another chapter, too. >:3 I think I’ll put this on FanFiction, so if you’re ever browsing and see this title under the username “0m3ga’s Z3r0”, that’s me. ^^ But I’ll still post the updates here too, of course!

Shout-Outs To~:

Jacob Snow:
Danke! I love hearing feedback. X3 Here it is!

Taryn Forrest:
Well, you don’t have to wait anymore, in case you were. ^.~

Now the story really begins…



“Malachite! Come on, wake up Malachite. You just missed the Peacekeeper – he said that we need to turn on our televisions for an important message from the new president. So GET UP!”

The call came from downstairs, the harsh tone receiving only a pitiful, though obviously masculine, whine from the bed in one of the many bedrooms in the large house. Or rather, the person under the covers on the bed.

His pale hands pulled the blanket woefully from his body before swiftly moving to massage his temples. God, he forgot. How he could forget was beyond him, because he’d lived with it with his entire life, but he forgot anyway. His eyes; they were light-sensitive. He shouldn’t have opened them so quickly…

Grumbling, the pale teen swung his long legs over the side of the bed and stood in one fluent motion. He tugged wordlessly at his short white locks before sighing. He would probably need to brush it when he went down to the main floor.

The albino walked to his door, absently pulling a pair of socks from his sweatpants’ pocket and putting them on before walking onto the cool hardwood floor. Treading lightly, so as to not let a stair creak, he made his way down the steps silently and took a hesitant step once he reached the bottom.

Only to freeze when the floor let out a loud 'scree...'

Cursing the floor mentally for betraying him, the albino all but threw himself behind a nearby wall. Peering around the corner, red eyes scanned the living room to make sure thatshe didn’t hear. She sat on the couch, her back turned from him, presumably watching the screen as she was ordered by the Peacekeepers.

He let out a quiet, relieved sigh before adopting an almost evil smirk on his face. Sneaking back from behind the wall and pointedly avoiding the creaky floorboard, the teen crept slowly toward her and started a narration. “The wild Malachite silently rounds upon his unsuspecting prey, eyes alert and claws poised, ready to pounce,” he said quietly.

The girl started slightly, but without missing a beat picked up the remote and held it like a microphone to her mouth. “And here we have the rare Malachite Beast. It survives on salad and ice cream, never touching a scrap of meat it has not hunted itself for fear of reanimation—” the albino almost scoffed at this, “—and is very seldom seen in sunlight; the species is known to burn like gasoline. You can find them in damp, dark places or revoltingly disorganised rooms, and if you’re lucky enough you can catch them speaking to thin air – what they call, ‘their friends’.”

Licking his lips and purring softly, Malachite moved forward a pace, a feral smirk creeping onto his pale face. “Observe as this magnificent, legendary creature prepares to attack, flexing his hind legs before—” he leapt over the back of the love seat, springing on the girl suddenly and sitting on her stomach, pinning her to the cushion. “He will dine like the president tonight!” he yelled, leaning in.

“Oh dear god,” she squeaked under his weight and immediately began squirming, with little to no success: Malachite was much heavier – and stronger – than her, having trained his body all of his life. “Do not worry, team; I know what to do in this situation,” she, too, shouted. “You must act as if you are bigger than them in order to break them!” Setting the makeshift microphone on the coffee table, she immediately began flailing her arms near-violently, causing her blonde hair to come partially loose from her ponytail.
“It has no effect on the Alpha,” he said loudly, before tickling her, “who has now started the painful process of peeling the flesh from his prey which often results in said animal’s vile screeching.”

The blonde, indeed, was screeching – with laughter, that is. Curse her and her sensitive skin. Gathering herself together through the light tremors wracking her body from the albino’s touch, she shouted through her giggles, “I know what, hehe, I am doing! Hee, I’ve encountered these, hehehe, before! They have a, haah, low enough IQ that they’re simple to put down!” She reached up behind his neck and tugged at his hairline while simultaneously flicking his forehead with her other hand, leaving him dazed for long enough to get out from under him and sitting upright again.

Malachite pouted for a second after snapping out of it and turned towards the TV in exasperation. “Really, Fez, you’re no fun,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “And did you have to do that? You know how easily I bruise!” He whined, looking at her with mock sadness.

“Shut up and watch the announcement, Malachite. And that’s your own fault, not mine; if you weren’t a vegetarian, maybe your skin would be a little thicker.” She turned the volume up on the remote before fixing her ponytail, flicking blue eyes towards the albino to emphasize her point.

“You know just as well as I do that I bleed easily because I have HPS, not because I’m a vegetarian,” Malachite grumbled. Finally deciding to give the announcement on the screen his attention, he glared at the figure of the president.

“...when the Districts of Panem first revolted a century ago, we of the Capitol had to use whatever means necessary to keep order and ensure the safety of our future generations...” Blah, blah, blah. Yes, they all knew the story: the rumoured Hunger Games that stopped some twenty-five years ago. The revolution. The exploration of the Wilds up north, District Four citizens setting sail to search the planet for other signs of life. Everybody was informed of everything now that the Districts were more respected; the citizens were given more freedom and a bit softer law enforcement. What was the point of this? To sugar-coat history with pretty, loaded words and fairy dust?

“...So, people of Panem and all of her beautiful Districts, it has been decided.” President Jacob Snow’s seemingly gentlemanly smile only became more unsettling as he spoke in the eyes of the albino from District One. “This year, the calendar will be reset. And twenty-five years from its original dissolution, the Hunger Games will start again.”


Idiosyncrasy [id-ee-uh-sing-kruh-see]:
1. A characteristic, habit, mannerism, or the like, that is peculiar to an individual. 2. The physical constitution peculiar to an individual. 3. A peculiarity of the physical or the mental constitution, especially susceptibility toward drugs, food, etc.

I love this chapter and love the way you're doing things! I like it how so far, there isn't yet a main character and the three main ones portrayed aren't the common 'regualr person about to be reaped' kind of thing like with Katniss. ^.^ I'm really enjoying reading this! You're very good, catch human interaction quite wonderfully, and make it seem real!!

Bitte!!

I must say, that chapter was fantabulous!

A/N: …Yea, I was listening to Sabaton while writing this, so this may or may not end up really odd. ^^; So I posted the prologue on FanFiction like I said I would, though this website will always be two chapters ahead.

I should probably censor this chapter, though. I’m writing for the T rating, so PG-13, but I don’t remember if you’re allowed to curse and I don’t particularly feel like checking. So anywhere you see a word that could be replaced with a curse, like “dang”, “darn”, “crap”, etc., it was probably indeed supposed to be a swear.

Anyway, enjoy this really-super-late update! And thanks for all of your reviews! They make me smile~ XD



“What!?” She shouted, her hammer clanging loudly against the metal floor from being dropped.

Sighing in annoyance, she bent down and grabbed the tool with her tanned hand. Twirling it between her fingers effortlessly, she set it down on her worktable next to the remote and ran her hand through her red hair, irritated. Why would the President suddenly decide to start up the Games again? What gave him the right?

The fact that he’s the President gives him the right, a little voice in the back of her head whispered.

Dang betraying conscience, she cursed to herself. She knew that that part of her was correct, that the President of Panem could do whatever he pleased whenever he pleased, but it didn’t mean she had to accept it. (The “Presidency” was more like a “Dictatorship” in that sense, in her opinion. Pah, it might as well have been; the citizens of Panem didn’t elect or vote for their “President”, after all.)

The redhead picked up the remote and flipped the television off before returning to her work. She was crafting a gun, and it was a pretty dang sexy one, if she did say so herself. Which she did.

She lifted her bulky creation, chocolate brown eyes going over every detail, finding every flaw in the gleaming gun. Making a gun by hand was difficult, but that was of no concern to the metal caster. She’d made plenty of weapons before, and a gun was a little challenge. Besides, she was training to be a Peacekeeper. She had a gun license, and she’d be darned if she had to buy a crappy gun from some amateur smith in the Capitol.

Just as she sat down at her table to continue her work, the door was unceremoniously kicked open and in dashed someone exceedingly tall.

“Atlas! Oh, my Atlas! My cute little sister, what happened? I heard a loud sound come from your room, and I thought that you might have hurt yourself! It’s alright now, little Atlas! Big brother Coelus is here! I’ll make everything better!” The white-clad figure said, smothering the olive-skinned girl in a tight hug and nuzzling her.

“Coelus,” Atlas said, trying to cover the impatience in her voice with calm. “Will you kindly...” She lifted the gun to his head and removed the safety. “REMOVE YOURSELF FROM MY PERSON!?”

Coelus jumped back, and crocodile tears sprang to his eyes. “I was only trying to protect you! What if one of those big, naughty boys came in here again and—” He was cut off by the sound of the angry redhead cocking her gun.

“You have three seconds to leave my room,” she said slowly, her voice low and quiet. Levelling the gun with her brother’s head, she started counting. “One...”

“But Atlas! Big brother just wants to—”

“Two...”

“Fine!” He huffed, whipping his faux tears from his face. “Be that way. But it’s time for dinner, so whenever you’re done we can eat~!” With that, he slammed the broken door back on its hinges enthusiastically and all but ran down the stairs.

Sighing and sitting back in her chair, Atlas considered what she’d just witnessed on the television.

So the Prez was starting the Games back up? The thought almost made her shudder. Sure, she wasn’t alive when the Hunger Games officially ended – she only just turned eighteen – but she’d heard stories from her brother and the other Peacekeepers. Apparently, they would take two minors – a boy and a girl – from each district and pit them all against each other until only one was left. It was horrendous, and immediately Atlas was glad that she’d trained herself since she was young. If she was picked, she would have a better chance of survival.

Putting that thought aside, Atlas set to work on making the bullets for her gun. (Heh, the gun wasn’t even loaded when I pointed it at that idiot Coelus’ head, she thought. He should have been paying more attention.) “Should I use regular aluminium bullets, or something nuclear?” She mused, resting her head on her palm and tapping her lower lip in concentration.

Finally deciding to use nuclear bullets, Atlas went down the stairs and grabbed her white Peacekeeper Trainee jacket and hat before leaving, disregarding her brother’s desperate call of, “Come back, it’s dinner time!”

Pushing her arms through the sleeves, she fastened the coat below her chest and at her waist where it ended. It kind of bothered her that the jacket was tight around her... ahem, rather pronounced breasts, but she was not about to break protocol because it was a little small. She put on her white cap, fingering the black plastic rim for a moment before continuing on her way.

Entering the building for the Peacekeepers and flashing her ID at the guard, she made her way to the room where she knew the Peacekeepers kept imports.

“Hey, Atlas,” a male Peacekeeper said, looking up from his place leaning over the imports. “What’cha doin’ here?”

Atlas walked in from the doorway, smirking at the older Peacekeeper as she rested her left hand on a tank of Uranium. “I’m experimenting with my bullets,” she replied, winking.

“Oh, that sounds fun!” He exclaimed, glancing at the tank with a knowing grin. “When you’re finished, ya’ should send me some samples.”

“I will, Mars.” She hefted the tank up on one arm. “You mind if I use this? There’s plenty in the Capitol, and I’m sure it’ll be easy to get more.”

Mars Florence waved his hand dismissively. “Go right ahead, Atlas. You’re a Peacekeeper now, you don’t have to ask.”

“Technically, I’m still a trainee.”

“Feh,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Details, details. You know just as well as I do that the people here, the Peacekeepers on this compound, consider you one of us. Don’t forget it!”

“Thanks, Mars,” she said. “And don’t even consider calling me cute – I might have to kill you,” she added quickly, chocolate eyes narrowed. Opening the door, she turned to glance back at the Peacekeeper again. “Later, Mars.”

“Yea, yea. Whatever,” Mars replied, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. When the door was completely closed and he was sure that she was out of earshot, he sighed. “Dang, that girl is scary. But she really is cute,” he chuckled before going back to looking for... what was he doing again? “Crap.”




“Atlas! Oh, my Atlas! My cute little **, what happened? I heard a loud ** come from your room, and I thought that you might have ** yourself! It’s alright now, little Atlas! Big ** Coelus is here! I’ll make everything better!” The white-clad figure said, smothering the olive-skinned girl in a tight hug and nuzzling her.

“Coelus,” Atlas said, trying to cover the impatience in her voice with calm. “Will you kindly...” She lifted the gun to his head and removed the safety. “REMOVE YOURSELF FROM MY **!?”

Coelus jumped back, and crocodile tears sprang to his eyes. “I was only trying to protect you! What if one of those big, ** boys came in here again and—” He was cut off by the sound of the angry redhead cocking her gun.

“You have three seconds to leave my room,” she said slowly, her voice low and quiet. Levelling the gun with her brother’s head, she started counting. “One...”

“But Atlas! Big brother just wants **—”

“Two...”

“Fine!” He huffed, whipping his faux tears from his face. “Be that way. But it’s time for **, so whenever you’re done we can **~!” With that, he slammed the broken door back on its hinges enthusiastically and all but ran down the stairs.




Irascibility [ih-ras-uh-bil-it-ee]:
1. easily provoked to anger; very irritable. 2. Characterised or produced by anger.

A/N: DON’T SHOOT ME!

…

Here’s the story. If you need a disclaimer, read one from the first instalment.
Oh, and by the way, I only just decided to read Mockingjay. Literally, I started it yesterday and finished it today. There really isn’t a reason as to why I put it off for so long; I guess it was because of all of the mixed reviews on it that I got from my friends and sister. But whatever, the point is that I decided to take it into my own hands and finish the damned thing. And I must say I wasn’t the least bit moved by any of the deaths (though, I had to wonder why I didn’t get upset over Finnick, seeing as he was one of my favourite characters). However, the action scenes made me more than happy. So, there you go; my own little review of the last book.

So, who else is wondering when Collins will write the Capitol Games?

Long A/N is long. On with the story.



The factories in District Three closed early.

This didn’t happen often; the demand for electronics was exceedingly high in the Capitol this time of the year, when Capitol youths were just starting to get out of school for summer break. They would have nothing to do over said break if not for the electronics district; therefore, the workers were doing overtime this month.

But not today, apparently. No; today the day was cut short. The cause was the announcement that had been made just over an hour ago, no doubt. The owner of the factory had children, so he felt – just as well as anyone – the impact of the new law. Obviously, workers – adults, parents, grandparents – were expected to go home and hug their kids. Tightly.

But only one worker wouldn’t be doing this, this hugging thing. This clinging thing. As if holding your children will keep them from being reaped and slaughtered. Pah, as if.

Because, you see, just holding isn’t going to do anything. Holding his father’s leg as a toddler, begging him through the garbled, mispronounced words of a three-year-old not to leave their screwed up little family; none of it worked. He still left. Then, years later, holding his mother’s hand in a vice-like grip, as if it would keep her from drawing her last breaths and leaving him and his younger brother alone. That didn’t work, either.

However, Cabel Heidrich did indeed decide to go home – for that exact reason. His little brother: the now-fourteen-years-old little brother who just happened to be taller than him, darn it. His little brother, whom he dropped out of school for three years ago – when their mother passed – so that Cabel himself could make enough money to pay for not-so-little Fuze’s education at the ripe old age of thirteen. His little brother, his little Fuze, was probably sitting all alone in his cramped room in their small apartment, freaking out over the announcement which would allow Cabel to get home to him early in the first place. (Though, if Cabel were to think rationally about it, he would realise that Fuze probably wouldn’t be scared about the situation, considering the fact that he was the more rational of the two siblings.)

Yes, he would definitely need to rush home and clasp onto somebody: but it was his brother, not his children, and that’s what separated him from his co-workers.

The sixteen-year-old’s stature actually came in quite handy when navigating the wide halls of the facility, allowing the blonde to duck under and around his fellow workers with the ease of a cat. Hah! Take that, tall people!

And he would have to ignore the fact that he just, albeit indirectly, called himself short.

Well, whatever. The exit to the factory lay just ahead, and Cabel all but threw himself at the doors (which easily opened on impact). Pushing through the other workers and into the dying sunlight, Cabel took in a deep breath of fresh air – cool oxygen that he hadn’t felt in his lungs since last Saturday; after all, his shift practically ran from sunrise to sunset, with the only break he was willing to take being the one for lunch. Therefore, it’s not surprising that the lungful of oxygen almost stung. He hadn’t tasted air that pure in a while, due to his job.

Not that he was complaining: he loved the mechanical whirr of technology that surrounded him at his workplace, the feel of the smooth copper and iron and steel in his agile fingers whenever he was designing a new product to go on to the Capitol. He loved his job, and he was very, very good at it. Exceedingly good, in fact. Well, hey; he’s not called a “mechanical prodigy” for nothing. And if he hadn’t been a prodigy when he dropped out of school, he surely wouldn’t have gotten this job.

Amber-gold eyes scanned the already-crowded streets of D3, slowly filling with annoyance and an emotion that he wouldn’t describe. (No, it was not paranoia. He just – didn’t trust people, alright? Shut up.) Apparently, all of the other employers in the technological district had the same idea as his own: to let out the underpaid workers a few hours early. And now he would have to fight his way through the masses to get to the little flat that he barely considered home. Of course.

Cursing agitatedly under his breath, the short teen pushed his way through the crowd with the strength and control of a Career. Yes, he was physically fit. No, he did not look it. And frankly, he really couldn’t care less about all of the dirty looks people were shooting him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought that he must have been a pretty odd sight: a small, male teenager with long-ish blonde hair, oddly-coloured eyes, and a stony expression, pushing people almost two heads taller than him aside like rag-dolls. He almost chuckled at the thought.

This almost joking mood of his was shattered soon enough, however, when a shrill scream pierced the air. It wasn’t Fuze, of course; Fuze doesn't scream like that. No; it wasn’t who it was screaming, but rather what they were in hysterics about that chilled him to the core.

“My baby! Dysk, WHY!?”

Dysk. Dysk Guatalierre, one of Fuze’s closest friends, had just committed suicide.

Instantly, it was as if a floodgate had opened in Cabel’s mind: images of Fuze’s lifeless body hung from a sloppily tied noose. Fuze lying in a puddle of his own blood; his pale hand clutching a shard of mirror – splattered carmine – against his mangled, ribbon-slit wrist. Fuze with blank, silvery hazel eyes and short, darkly-stained beige blonde hair, a steady stream of blood trailing from the back of his head where he hit himself with something heavy and blunt.

And Cabel ran.

He forced his way through the D3 residents now, desperation sinking deeper through his mind with each step. What if Fuze panicked? He knew where all of the potential weapons – knives, scissors, the occasional frying pan – in the house were; Cabel himself made sure of that early on, so that Fuze could defend himself should someone try to break in while Cabel was out. What if, in his solitude, Fuze decided that he didn’t want to risk being chosen to die – so he got one of those things and…?

Though it took what seemed like forever to get there, Cabel finally burst through the door to the house. “Fuze! Fuze, where are you? Answer me!” The call echoed through the one-story home, but there was no response.

“Shit,” the blonde muttered, charging into the flat. Checking every room: the kitchen, the two bedrooms, the family room, the bathroom. Again, for good measure.

Fuze was nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, another image hit him, almost causing the blonde to stagger. Fuze lying in the dirt outside of the house, bloody and broken and unmoving: having jumped from the roof.

Cabel was flying to the entrance to the attic in an instant, nearly ripping it from its hinges in the ceiling as he pulled it down. He pounded up the ladder, not even bothering to keep quiet as pure, unmasked terror settled in his gut. And, in the dusty gloom of the storage area, the view that met his eyes made his heart stop.

The only window, one that faced the backyard, was open.

He hesitantly made his way to the windowsill, tracing his fingers through the already-disturbed layers of dust and grime. It was obvious that someone had been there recently; part of the surface was less disgusting than the rest, as if it had been wiped.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, the sixteen-year-old leaned out of the window and looked below.

“Cabel! You’re home early!”

The older teen immediately whipped around, looking instead to the flat centre of the roof, where – sitting in a folding chair with a telescope positioned in front of him – was Fuze.

“I came up here to see the stars – remember? There’s suppose’ta be a meteor shower tonight, and… Cabel?” Oh.

And Cabel was hugging him, his taller-by-two-centimetres younger brother, scowling up into his childish face. “You IDIOT! You scared me, you little–!”


Impetuous [im-pech oo-us]:
1. Of, pertaining to, or characterised by sudden or rash action/emotion. 2. [Being in] a state of panic.

((Crap, I missed a few words when I censored this chapter... Sorry! It won't happen again, I promise. Atlas and Cabel are the only characters who swear like sailors in this fic, so it shouln't happen again - not for a long time, at least. ><))

Wow, wow wow wow. You are SUCH a talented writer! Please keep this up! I will be reading as normal <3