Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 7/Q.F. | Familia Supra Omnia (FR)

ROOTS - 7

There was almost a pep in Follin's step, as his mom would put it on her good days, as he traversed the wild forestry of the arena in search of one particular tribute. He knew full well that some deformed creature could come lumbering out to salivate after the dust he would kick up as he ran. He knew full well that some other desperate human being could hop out in front of him and toss a spear in his chest. He knew full well that storm clouds could knit above him again, all dark and ominous like most storm clouds were, and that they could drop acid on his already marked up skin just to finish him off in a way far more interesting than getting his leg chewed off. He knew full well that he could die at any second of any day, and still, he had a pep in his step.

There must be some sort of invisible happy-gas in this air. No other explanation, nope, nada. Just gas and breathing and-

-Humph.

He fiddled with the new vial round his neck, pretending it was the same charm he'd just lost. Still in the shape of an hourglass, just not flat and made up of glass instead of bronze. What was he to do with the liquid inside? Was it a sort of sick poison or a remedy? One mistake and he could either help or hinder himself. It had come to him with a note that told him nothing. He kept it anyhow. In due time. Okay, girl, but when?

He thought of Katherine sending a lethal remedy only to get at him for some silly mishap. In that case, I'll drink the poison gladly. Might even set up a tea party, gather up all the tributes and ask them if they'd like some sweet syrup in their little chipped cups. Oh, we'll wear party hats, too!

Follin snorted at his sarcasm. The imagery of such an event brought out something even bigger, miraculous, even: a laugh. It didn't last long, but it was a foreign sound. It wasn't like he'd never laughed before, he had clear memories of lifting his little brother to the sky and bouncing him, listening in on that contagious laugh of his which spread to his own throat. He could remember making funny faces at Finny, tackling Ferris when he'd chuck a ball at his head, splashing mom with water when she was still lacking a bump on her stomach which Follin knew held human life but could only scorn.

He could remember those good times, but those hadn't happened for a long time, he felt.

With this realization, he paused in his tracks and bit his lip, stroking the little pendant laying over his chest. He wanted laughter. Real, genuine laughter. He wanted it to come bubbling right through his lips, to pull them up, stretch them out, to part for soft hands to reach in and rip the sounds right out of him. The arena wasn't a fun place, and definitely not one for jokes, unless you were one of the laidback sickos which, more likely than not, managed to get home.

Follin knew that the odds weren't in his favor for getting back home, so he abandoned the desire for genuine laughter and kept walking. The pep in his step had vanished. And all because of this depressing atmosphere giving me depressing vibes and the depressing vibes give me depressing thoughts and all of this is just sad, sad, sad.

He wondered if someone could ship down a little "Capitol Magic", as he and those in his district tended to call the medicines and drinks concocted by the finest in yours truly, the Capitol. They had all sorts of sticky syrups and little pill-shaped pellets to swallow down to take away just about anything, or so he'd heard. Maybe they'd gone above the call of medical duty and figured out a way to alter emotions, too.

Follin scoffed at himself and shook his head. Those are drugs. Let's not do drugs.

So he walked on, as he had been doing, his pace slowing to a level he called: steady wander. Looking for Jackie wouldn't be easy unless she came crashing through the forest and literally ran into him, so he took his time and hoped she would do exactly that. In due time they would meet.