𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 ❦ The Hunger Games Sequel

fourteen

☆ CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE! ☆
039. duty of focus

|| CHASING CARS ||
❝forget what we're
told, before we get
too old, show me
a garden that's
bursting to life ❞

➳➳

TR730 HAD TO do something.

It wasn't just the crippling strength of guilt on his subconscience that made it increadibly important for him to figure out how to stop Lorna Titan from losing all of the important moments in her life, even if that seemed to weigh him down as he walked without so much as a pause to ensure he didn't step on one of the floor's many cracks. That wasn't even on his mind as he turned each corner without checking to see if his superior would catch him walking in a different zone of the compound; he didn't even glance at the shiney lights on the walls like he always would when he wore his helmet just to see how close he had to get before the light made the dull visor over his eyes see every colour under the sun.

He didn't take time to hear his breath become robotic instead of human as he went through another set of double doors, and he couldn't even imagine stopping to talk to the other Peacekeepers to avoid suspicion as he went down yet another set of white marble stairs in panic. That's what he felt instead of the guilt that made his heart want to beat so fast it gave up completely- panic had taken control as the walls became grey instead of white and the floor turned to concrete instead of tiles.

He knew he had to flick the right switch soon before Lorna destroyed herself and any hope of returning to the rebellion she'd come from; it should've been simple for him to help her when he was surrounded by important memorabilia of her life, but he hadn't found the thing he was looking for. Not that he knew what that even was- TR had a single scar of hope left that when he looked at the right thing he would just know it could make her better.

He had to- otherwise his ticket away from tyranny had expired.

He'd gone all the way to the bottom floor to the cell she'd been kept in. Nobody was around to question him as his white gloves curled around the polished handle that would most likely be rust on the other side, or as he ran his suit along every single hole in the wall to make sure he hadn't missed a thing. The only thing that the president left was week-old bloodied sheets that used to barely cover up her legs; he didn't feel a sudden jolt when he looked at it like he thought he would when he made his final plan, but it was enough for him to scoop up the fabric before he left the cell.

As he left, he didn't bother to let the door close without it screaming in agony, and he didn't walk back to the stairs to Lorna's room on the top floor like he had nothing to hide. Instead, he sprinted with every morsel of guilt powering him on further, and made it back to Lorna before she'd even stopped convulsing from the invisible fire beneath her white nightgown.