#jocktrials

’ fuck — shit. ’ he had startled her above all else, seeming to come out of no where when she had turned the corner. her grip on the large box of files she carried slips, crashing to the ground and spilling loose leaves of paper everywhere over the old, rotted flooring as she takes a staggered step back, her eyes widened like a cornered animal. though even with brick raised like he was prepared to bash her brains in with it, the boy seemed less offensive than some of the other... people... lurking these levels.

but looks can be deceiving, and she isn't sure how apt she is to trust another living thing, when the last one she watched behind closed bars shoved a person whole through a fucking shredder. she would far sooner feel safer talking to the goddamn mannequins.

before she can fully decide to take her chances to flee and hide, or grab the nearest blunt object, he's first to relent his upper hand advantage. wren watches him, wary, and afraid that he would still make a move, until the brick is relinquished, and she can feel herself breathe again.

it's a pitiful attempt to not seem as jumpy as she had been, the way she smooths out the tired, baggy grey t-shirt that a murkoff guard had so generously gave her to change into, after ripping her from the correctional facility and dumping her—well, wherever the fuck they were. ’ watch where you're going. ’ it's a muted effort for vitriol, but she can't find the heart in her to spit. she's too frustrated, too exhausted by the groggy feeling of eyes red from crying.

a downwards spiral wasn't entirely how she planned to spend her morning, but sleepless nights and swelled anxiety in her chest are all too familiar feelings. exhausted green eyes glare daggers into the white brick walls that surround her room as she lay there on her side, curled in on herself; she would be content to stay here forever, she thinks, would the scientists not take issue with it. but, of course, 'therapy' waits for no sulky moods.

he was more polite than the guards, anyway. knocking on her open door. asking to come in. and she would let him—even if he only made her feel worse. not that he did anything wrong, but remind her that he's another notch in her long list of mistakes.

’ i lied to you, you know. ’ she grimaces when she says it, and she's at least grateful that she doesn't have to look at him when she does so. for her lack of trust has waned—he's been nothing but kind to her since their first encounter, and a reliable, if not brash, teammate in trials. so, she figures, if she's going to lay here feeling sorry for herself, then there's no better—or worse—time to absolve herself of some guilt.

’ when we met. my name isn't jane. ’ she sighs, finally finds the energy, and the courage, to roll over to her other side, spare a fleeting, shamed look at her company. ’ it's wren, like the bird. ’