part i
"What's your name?" The man demanded, the aesthetic irises in his eyes piercing the boy's own. The boy, Phox, closed his eyes and tilted his head down. Why didn't the pain stop? Why did it always have to be alive... never dead like he was about to be soon...
Another slap to the face. He could feel his interrogator's grimy hands all over his cheeks, making him speak. But Phox had already made up his mind early on, and there was no way he was willing to comply with this man; a monster even worse than himself. He could feel the man's frustration radiate throughout the room, the sick aura of him making Phox sick to his stomach. Hours of torture and hours of pain he had to endure, and for what cause? So the rebels or the Capitolites could get what they want? They knew of the forces Phox held at his very fingertips, and there was no way he was willing to let that go. And neither were the rebels. So, as a result, Phox did the only thing a sane, frustrated boy would do at that point. He spit on the man's shoes.
A boot in the face. He could feel the blood and dirt on his dry, cracked lips, the humid room hot with moisture, with beads of salty sweat dribbling down Phox's face, along his angled jawline and onto the slightest traces of his stubble, before dripping onto the fabric of his pants. He smiles hysterically, starting his downward motion as he let out a crooked, malicious grin at the man. The interrogator prepared the whip, only Phox's words made his halt in his movements, wanting to hear what this mere teenager, barely an adult, had to say.
"You really think I'd be open for talking, do you?" His eyes now open, Phox's ice blue irises have diminished into nothing more than a sea of hallow pits, where color has gone and never returned. Red lines crawled over the white parts of his eyes, digging into the colored part, creating a bloody spiderweb of veins. Even his interrogator cringed internally.
"I'll tell you this and this only." The binds over Phox's wrists were starting to tear. From behind the chair there was a different story, a story that was beginning even though his interrogator could not hear the words or the tune to this vibrant tale. The ropes were starting to break, and his fingers were desperately clawing at the fine rope, starting to tear the strands of thin string apart, allowing his nails to dig into the flesh of his palms, blood running over his hands and wrists, dripping onto the cold, hard ground. Yes! He could feel the freedom as he finally tore at the ropes, desperately holding onto them now, that the ropes would think him to be fickle. Phox could not let the interrogator see them drop, for if he did, his body would drop dead in a heartbeat; his very last.
"What will you tell me...?" The interrogator questions skeptically. Phox internally smirked, the wicked smile showing in his body movements. The tensing of his muscles and the relaxed nature of his face. Although, he kept passive on the outside, he was smiling maliciously on the inside part of himself.
"Boom."
One word. One showdown. And one simple maneuver that ended in a bang. He leaped out of the wooden chair, his foot connecting with his interrogator's jaw. He could hear the vibrant crack, the satisfying noise of a job well done. His hands grappled for the whip that his opponent, his enemy, held into so tightly, clawing at the meaty fingers before feeling the blood spring forth upon contact. And finally! The man was free of his weapon, which deserved a nice, quick lash to the face. The ropes, now forgotten, were on the floor, the binds broken and the interrogator humiliated. Now on the ground, the man, the opponent of Phox, could now see what he had meant. Four letters; one word. Boom. Fire started to spring, and the bricks on the wall started to crumble down, one by one. He was making his grand exit, his escape that would leave his mark on the Capitol.
"My name is Phox Calestro, son of Grendal and Tatiana of District Two. And you... you're nothing."
One jump. One leap. Boom. Fire engulfs the base, and Phox makes his grand escape. He regrets his thoughts before: he was a worse monster than that pathetic excuse for a man. Because even a monster has to have some class.
