it's not a masterpiece // arc

[Stare]

it’s an experiment
it’s not a masterpiece
you will discover this
you will eventually

She blamed the whole thing on her bad mood.

She always got into her worst fights when she was in a bad mood. It wasn’t that she tried. Contrary to popular belief, she didn’t leave her house every night just to find a face to punch. And yet, it always ended up happening anyway. Wild child. That fighting girl. She’d earned a reputation, and while her mother would often scold her at the sight of new bruises - really, Cordula, what kind of a lesson do you think you’re teaching your brother by coming home like this every night? - she’d be lying if she said she didn’t smile a little when she heard them whisper. But then there were the other words, the ones spoken in shadows or by lips loosened by alcohol. Words about her kid brother, a scrawny little thing who thought he ruled the world, or about her mother, a woman trying to be a lady when she lived in the slums. Sometimes she was able to grit her teeth like she was biting a bullet and ignore the words. Most times, though, she wasn’t.

(And maybe, if she was being completely honest, she didn’t really mind. Each punch was a relief even as the bruises bloomed on her knuckles. When skin and bone met a deserving man’s teeth there was a kind of thrill that shot through her. There were people above her who owned her life - factory owners, landlords, the Capitol. But what she did at night, on her time, was something she could control. She’d be damned if she let anyone forget that.)

The night had started off well enough. She’d found a drunkard fast asleep at her first turn when she left the house that night and gladly relieved him of his wallet before continuing on through a labyrinth of alleyways and forgotten streets. Even the money wasn't enough to soothe her sore muscles or aching bones, though. She'd been working overtime at the factories and she swore she could still feel the smoke in her lungs. Eight tried to present itself to Panem as the proud textile district, but the hollow faces she passed knew the truth all too well. Their lovely little district had a rotten underbelly well hidden by the wealthy who turned a blind eye to it. Cord, personally, wasn’t so keen on being overlooked, but she’d been forced into place a long time ago by lashes that had left crisscrossing scars on her back. That was when she had learned. She'd pocketed the wallet and glanced at a street illuminated by streetlights just beyond the reaches of her shadow, eyes narrowing. Never again.

She’d always preferred the company of thieves, anyway.

Most nights she was able to find a group willing to share their bottle for a bit of cash, but the boy she’d found was alone. He reminded her of herself in a way - underfed with a fire in his eyes because of it. Normally she would have moved on. She wasn’t the type to make small talk with strangers, especially with ones who probably had a temper as bad as she did. But there was something about his posture, the distinctly stubborn tilt of his chin, that she couldn't ignore. She’d struck up a conversation with him without a second thought. That was how it worked in the slums. She didn’t need to search for something in common in order to start talking. Hollow stomachs bonded them well enough. For a while the words were something to distract her from the irritation that ebbed and flowed through her veins like she heard the tides did in Four. For a while, things had gone smoothly.

And then he’d said it - an offhand comment about the woman in the shack who still tried to wear dresses and fill the windows with flowers - and she'd felt the temper she'd been holding back all night snap. That was how it always went. She never looked for fights. They just came.

But Ripred, she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been itching for one for a while.

PPUEiP_Cunarmed
[bruised left arm, 2.0]

She missed his face the first time, or maybe he'd dodged her. Either way, it came as a surprise. It was worth the look on his face, though, and she grinned wickedly.

"Oops."

i want my spark back
i need my torch lit
i don’t approach the hill
i feel I’m over it

unarmed

[arctic]

B31714 -- thoughts
7A0604 -- does
758786 -- parenthesis
667276 -- says

Callahan's night had been going pretty smooth lately, that is until he had connected the wrong wire. It was approaching night and the district eight male decided that his accomplishments deserved a reward for what he's done recently. And that award was what you'd think, more food. Which meant either trading or stealing, and he preferred the later. The male had barely successfully stole a piece of food, not much, it was a loaf of bread. The loaf of bread probably didn't mean a lot to those who lived in district two or the capitol, but in district eight, it was gold for most of us as food is something pretty rare to find available at a snap of a finger. When Callahan had gotten to a alley that he himself knew he was going to be alone, he gave himself what felt like a feast. A loaf of bread, a feast? It may sound strange but that's pretty much all he'd be able to get, and this is a good day.

A girl had walked by the alley, and it seemed she found the boy interesting enough to strike up a conversation with him. (though, he had no signs of having food with him, which caused him to feel uneasy, though he didn't want to come off rude so fast.) Callahan was having an easy time with having the conversation fly and go along smooth with no real arguments. The male looked at her in the eyes and had stared at the girl. Almost staring too long into her eyes, but he could see a hint of rage and it was easy to tell she was irritated, and from her noticeable bruises dancing all over her arms and body, the boy from eight knew better than to try and start up a fight.

Though that didn't help the male when it came to asking the right questions or not. He was cautious, yes, but he knew that people can blow up like a bomb.

Callahan had been talking to the female almost like he was gaining a relationship with her, maybe even the occasional trading or sharing of food might happen between the two and he got excited. Though that excitement was short lived, it still existed in the boys head.

The two were just talking. Almost like friends catching up with each other but they weren't even close to friends. Or they weren't close in his book. He needs to know them longer to actually give them trust as a friend, it rarely happens that he'd gain a friend, but it didn't stop him from trying.

He truly must have said something wrong. The male knew it as soon as the look in her eyes had darkened, and her fist had met his arm in the sudden blink of an eye.

This had taken him by surprise, and his face was quite the evidence. Now, he wasn't the kind to fight back, but he found himself swinging back, with a scowl on his face.

"Right back at you, sweetheart."

v|ZxGamWunarmed
[ Broken Left Hand -- 6.0 ]unarmed

[Stare]

we need our luck changed
we need some blind faith
your have your upswings
i have my down days

She'd admit, even after so many years of getting into scraps, it still surprised her when they swung back the first time.

She should have known better than to underestimate him. She knew better than anyone that the starving people she met on the street were bound to be more resourceful, not less. She was careless, though, and the evidence showed in her scarred lips, her often swollen and bruised cheekbones. Reckless, wild, fighter girl. For a moment she understood what her mother always tried to drill into her head in the mornings. You gain nothing by being so damn impulsive. At that her eyes would always slide to her brother and she'd smile a little, a secret they shared that only they seemed to understand. What fun was there in practicality?

Her reaction was a split second late - too late to dodge, but not too late for her hand to fly up and grab at his punch. Almost immediately she realized her mistake. As soon as his knuckles made contact with her hand she felt it - the crack of something, and it certainly hadn't come from him. A moment later white hot pain shot through the inside of her palm and she cried out, stumbling back a step. Automatic tears flooded into her eyes and she blinked them away, grinding her teeth against the pain. She'd felt worse, after all. At least this one hadn't pulled a knife on her. She took a split second to try to wiggle her fingers, but already her entire hand was swelling and movement made the pain almost blinding. She let out a hiss of pain, narrowed eyes raising to meet his.

"Damn, kid." She grimaced, then raised her chin and forced herself to smirk. "You sure can pack a punch, can't you?"

She danced out of his reach for a moment, breathing hard as she held her damaged hand for a moment. Broken. She didn't doubt it, but she'd always been able to patch herself up in the past, hadn't she? You can't afford a healer. But you also can't afford to let it heal wrong. She swore colorfully, then eyed him. He looked like he could barely afford his next meal. Somehow, she doubted he had a spare wallet on him.

"All I see is skin and bones, so you sure ain't new to the slums," she said, squaring her shoulders and tucking her bad hand behind her back. It pulsed and the pain spiked in protest, but she forced herself to ignore it. "But it seems you still have a few things to learn."

There weren't many rules in Eight. Stay away from the Keepers. Don't look the wealthy in the eye. Don't try to pickpocket on the main streets. But Cord had developed her own set in her years wandering the alleyways. Being able to throw a punch did that for a girl. She remembered the first time she'd nailed someone for calling her a rather unpleasant name. She'd knocked out three of his teeth. "The first is that I go by Cord. Not sweetheart. Just Cord."

Her lips curled up unkindly as she stepped toward him again, eyes glinting even in the darkness. "And the second is that I'm right-handed."

1EgOoJCDunarmed
[tripped, 0.5]

Her mouth spread into a grin as her leg struck out instead of her fist. "Too bad I like to fight with my feet, too."

i will stake my flag
in the road where it bends
it was just the start
when it felt like the end

unarmed

[arctic]

B31714 -- thoughts
7A0604 -- does
758786 -- parenthesis + what the other person said
667276 -- says


A small smirk had appeared on his face as the girl had a look of surprise on her own, she probably wasn't expecting him to swing back and obviously she had thought wrong. The girl who had said she went by 'Cord' attempted to block Callahan's fist that had been thrown at her, and even he could hear the somewhat familiar crack of a bone as she placed her left palm of her hand onto his fist, creating a large impact.

"Damn, kid." A grin from him and what seemed a forced smirk from her as she raised her head. "You sure can pack a punch, can't you?" He grinned at her comment, raising an eyebrow. "I'd like to hope so, from the sound of that last one. The boy had replied back with a somewhat sarcastic tone.

She had started to eye him closely, almost felt like it would've been too close for his liking, but she was probably sizing him up for her next attack that'd be thrown at him.

She spoke again, seeming to recognize that he wasn't new to the slums. (though he personally thought that people could tell that at first glance, he didn't bother talking. The male had looked at her, with the broken hand tucked behind her back. Apparently to her, he still had some things to learn.

Sure, there were the basic rules of the district, or at least for people like these two, number one, never steal in front of a peacekeeper. And don't even attempt to speak to the wealthy. He has learned those rules pretty quickly while he was living in eight, trying to survive by stealth.

Apparently the first thing in what he thought to call 'Rules 101' was to not call her sweetheart, and call her Cord. Number two, she's right handed. Though that didn't surprise Callahan. He knew that calling her sweetheart would somewhat get on her nerves.

(The male knew this because calling him some kind of ignorant name made the exact same reaction as him, his brother did it all the time and didn't mind when he had done it, but when other people do it he doesn't like it because they aren't his brother.)

He felt almost alive at the moment, somewhat because he's winning the fight at the moment, but mainly because be was in a fight again. He felt alive when he was sending a punch or kick at someone. It almost was like a relaxation technique to the boy because he felt so calm doing it.

What about her? Did she feel alive at this moment? Callahan didn't know. And really, didn't want to bother knowing anyways.

Though, quickly after his face had oddly gotten closer and closer to the ground until he skinned his knee. Yeah, sure it hurt, but he had gotten up again.

Callahan wasn't the type to give up easily.

She spoke again. ""Too bad I like to fight with my feet, too."

ueGPwqJnunarmed
[blocked]

And she blocked him, unlike last time, she had gotten to it first.unarmed

[Stare]

i wish i had started younger
i wish that i didn’t feel so weak
i wish i had found my marker
i wish i had started younger

Cordula Denzel hadn't felt ambitious in a long, long time.

(The consequences of such thinking was burned into her brain permanently. She could still feel the rope digging rubbing up against her raw wrists, still see the image of the wooden pole blurring in front of her. She remembered lifting her head and being vaguely aware of the presence of a crowd, yet the square was dead silent. Voices had swam through her head as another crack echoed through the square, followed by another streak of pain ripping through the skin of her back. Not worth the trip to the Detention Center, they'd said. Little rat should be grateful, they'd sneered. And after a while the whip and the blood and the pain had convinced her that yes, they were right. Dirt beneath their shoes, she was. She'd never be anything more.)

Ripred, she hated remembering that day. Her mother had cried when someone - she didn't remember who - had been brave enough to collect her broken body from where it had slumped in front of the pole and carry her back home. That was the day she vowed, through a mind fogged by pain, that she was learn to patch herself up rather than let anyone else do it for her. That was also the day that she realized she was no one, never would be anyone, and she had better make the best of it because nothing was going to change. Ambition was for the wealthy, not for the slums.

And maybe that was where the thrill in fighting came from. In the real world, she couldn't hope to win. In fighting, she stood a chance. Sure, she came home most nights with fresh bruises on her face - (but that was okay because no one had ever called her pretty anyway) - but she had fought and that made every ache and sting worth it. Even after being forced into line, she was still angry at the world, and she still wanted to fight. When her fist made contact with someone's jaw she forgot about the scars on her back and the emptiness in her stomach. She forgot about the unfairness of the world. Wealth and power were a dizzying tangle of words and weighted stares, but in fighting it was only one's ability and strength that won them the game. In scraps like the one she was in, the world made sense, at least for a little while.

"Not big on talking, are you, Rattlebones?" she grinned as he aimed another swing and she brought her forearm up, deflecting the blow up into the air above her shoulder and stepping swiftly in the other direction. She didn't make the same mistakes twice. (Pain was a strong teacher. She'd learned that the hard way.) Her lips drew back into a sneer. She liked talking when she fought - bladed words didn't usually cut deep, but they were always fun to play with. Loudmouth, her mother called her sometimes. But then her brother would always grin. Dead clever, he'd whisper. Her eyes lit up a little. "It ain't polite, being so quiet. And there's no Keepers around to shut you up for speaking out of turn."

She lashed out again, not missing a beat. "Or are you just afraid I'm going to knock a few of your teeth out if you say something stupid again? 'cause I'll admit, it's a valid concern."

iWujQViXunarmed
[bruised left arm, 3.0]

She aimed for the exact spot where she'd hit him the first time, not bothering to go for his face. It'd be a shame to bruise up such nice eyes.

when all is said
when all is done
you did your best
you gave your all

unarmed

[arctic]

"Not big on talking, are you, Rattlebones?" He had no problem with the name she had called him; it was quite the honest truth of a name but he didn't say anything. He let out a grin due to her comment, Callahan had to admit he was quiet most of the time because his voice was definitely not the most charming. Every time he'd talk (or most of the time), his voice would be awfully scratchy and sore, though he'd still talk every once in a while.

The male from eight had started to fix his posture; that was obviously why he kept missing. Or he hoped so.

His hair landed in front of his forehead (which today was an occasion he let it just hang down to the side.), making him puff it out of his view. Callahan needed all the possible view of his surroundings in case the girl had made another move.

He stood there, panting and waiting for another strike to be sent flying at the opponent, (it was silent for now, only the breaths of him and her to be heard.) but the world seemed still for just a moment. Callahan believed in being fair which was why he didn't take that chance to strike again, he wanted to wait until she had sent another attack flying at him. Which she had done.

The male's reflexes became short, and he had found himself suddenly with a bruised arm.

"Quite the fighter, are ya?" Callahan asked her with the raise of an eyebrow. The boy from eight let a small smile, recognizing that they both were oddly experienced with fighting (though this wasn't surprising to him- they were both from the slums) and he enjoyed that.

Fighting someone who was experienced made it fun and more of a challenge to him, in this case, challenging is good.

He started to search for somewhere to hit, and honestly he just relied on instinct.

M7pbJHECunarmed
Broken Left Foot -- 6.5 damage

And from the familiar crack of a bone, he knew he found his mark.unarmed

[Stare]

underneath our wounds
where our demons have their home
the truth can be exposed
there's a strength to letting go

As soon as she heard the second crack, Cord released a stream of very loud, very colorful curses that would have made even the filthiest of the slums cringe. Her hand was still screaming with pain and almost immediately her foot joined it, two screeching symphonies that had white flashing beneath her eyelids every time she blinked. She used her good hand to catch herself on the wall as her knee buckled beneath her, the rough stone digging cuts into her forearm.

It took a moment for her to collect herself. There was a roaring sound in her ears and her entire body seemed to be in protest against her, liquid fire shooting through her veins. For a moment, she thought she was going to vomit. And oddly enough, the first thought that entered her head wasn't about the solid month it was going to take for her to get back on her feet. It wasn't about the shame she was going to feel when she was forced to send her kid brother to work at the factory for her. It wasn't even about slaughtering the asshole in front of her for condemning her. No, her first thought was about dragging herself through the front door in the morning.

Mum's going to kill me.

She dragged herself up on the wall, feeling dizzy and more than a little lightheaded, but managed to spit right at his feet and wipe at her mouth with her good hand. "Don't get around much, d-do you, Rattlebones?" Her smile was crooked but it almost hurt more than it was worth. "A fighter's who I am. It's all this damn district knows me as. That fighter girl."

She never cared about the names they gave her to her face. They were probably much better than the ones that they whispered behind her back, the ones they didn't think she heard. Idiots. And yet, she couldn't blame them for seeing her as nothing, because she saw them the exact same way. It was how the government controlled them - first make thieves, then punish them. And of course she wanted to be more. Hell, who didn't? If fighter girl was the best she got, though, she certainly wasn't about to complain. It was better than beggar girl by a long shot.

"And who are y-you, then?" she sneered, forcing herself away from the wall and balancing precariously on one foot. She wasn't about to screech at him for breaking two bones - she'd starting the fight, and she wasn't too blind to see that - but it didn't mean she wasn't bitter. Ripred, she wanted him to hurt. But she was also curious. "Haven't heard of you before, so I guess that makes you a half-starved n-nobody, huh? Got plenty of those to go around."

She was stalling for time, for a few moments to collect herself and recover. Damn girl, her mother would say. Give it up while you're still conscious. The thing was, Cord didn't go into fights looking to win. She went into them looking to injure, to hurt, to punish. Rattlebones hadn't gotten his quite yet, and she wasn't about to let it go that easily. She tilted her head slightly. "Maybe I'm wrong, though. You fight a l-little too well to be nobody, so maybe you're just another asshole. Got plenty of them, too."

She sucked in a deep breath, ignoring the way the pain spiked and tears sprang into her eyes. "And I'm just the fighter girl who doesn't know when to give up, so I guess we're about even." And with that she stepped fast onto her bad foot, releasing a cry through gritted teeth, and aimed to punish.

wTjz50gEunarmed
[tripped, 0.5]

Her leg collapsed at the last minute and she tumbled, but not before she managed to loop one arm around his leg and take him down with her. She landed on her bad side and was unable to muffle the cry of pain even as she felt some small sense of satisfaction when she heard him hit the damp pavement not a half second after she did.

She doubted she'd be getting back up, though.

and the sins of time will ship
and the rivers heaven flow
when our hearts grow tired and cold
there's a strength to letting go

unarmed

[arctic]

The waterfall of curses had fell out of her mouth almost as sharp and painfully as I could hear the second bone crack. It was loud and almost painful, though that wasn't going to stop me from watching. The filthiest of all words that were only found in the slums escaped the girls lips in a frenzy, begging for freedom. Words that were ancient and that even I didn't know had been thrown around until the pain had what I assumed faded.

She used her other arm to balance herself on the wall, wiping her mouth and getting ready for another attack that'd be soon sent again. Though, she spoke.

"Don't get around much, d-do you, Rattlebones?" The girl said, with a small, crooked smile grew onto her face. "A fighter's who I am. It's all this damn district knows me as. That fighter girl." It was quite the speech, yes, I had to admit but it felt as if it had no purpose.

She stopped for a while as it seemed she was lost in thought, though she was speaking soon yet again.

"And who are y-you, then?" Fighter girl had spat, looking at him with eyes that seemed like they were ready to kill. Who was I? Who am I? I'm Callahan Reiss, resident of district eight, and I'm kicking your sorry little ass. "Haven't heard of you before, so I guess that makes you a half-starved n-nobody, huh? Got plenty of those to go around." She got that right, I am a starved nobody, and in my opinion she was probably the exact same.

The girl was stalling it seemed from the fact she kept talking and waiting for an attack to be opened up, that, or she was trying to still be able to stay conscious. Words came from her mouth and quite honestly I was about to make sure she can't even speak. "Maybe I'm wrong, though. You fight a l-little too well to be nobody, so maybe you're just another asshole. Got plenty of them, too."

Yes, I am an asshole, nice of you to notice sweetheart. I took the fighting comment as a compliment. And before I could register what she had said, she was collapsing, and pulling me with her.

It seems she can only trip me, but who cares anymore? All I can do is swing.

"Oh, and by the way, I'm Callahan Reiss, resident of district eight and currently kicking your god damn ass."

ZaAGQ0bkunarmed
Tripped -- 0.5 damage

"And it seems I've spoken too soon."

unarmed

[Stare]

they all need something to hold on to
they all mean well
pay your respects to society
giving me hell

Her good hand flattened against the ground, damp grit pushing up into the creases of her palm. She grimaced as she shoved herself up roughly with the one arm, drawing her knee up. She felt a hole tear in her pants but found herself unable to care less, instead focusing on the keeping the world from blurring away into darkness. The oblivion was tempting - there would be no pain until she awoke - yet she highly doubted Callahan would be willing to carry her home like that man had last time. Her eyes flickered shut again, her muscles seizing up against the memory. No. No. Don't think about it. Don't remember.

His arm swung out, knocking her arm out from under her, and as her chest hit the ground again she remembered.

"Again." She groaned and it barely felt human, but she was far from caring. Blood plastered her shirt to her skin, and as her own sweat rubbed salt into her ruined flesh tears slid down her cheeks.

"She won't last much longer."

"Again."

Crack. She didn't try to muffle her screams anymore - it echoed through the square, and though her vision was blurred and darkening she could still make out the way every single person in the crowd cringed. None of them spoke, though. Cowards.

"Enough."

Someone untied her hands. She didn't even glance up at them, instead wrapping her arms around the pole to hold herself steady. It didn't work. Her legs failed her and she slid to the ground, hitting it with a thud and curling into herself. There was too much pain. Ripred, she just wanted it to go away. She heard the sound of a hundred footsteps walking away, a hundred people who couldn't care less.

And then there were arms gathering her up, and the resulting agony was enough to push her over the edge and into darkness.

Cord glared at him, shoving herself up once again and dragging herself up bit by bit, ignoring the pain, ignoring the way that she swayed on her one foot. She was glad there wasn't a crowd this time - if there had been, they'd have been calling for her blood at that point. And her would have given it to them. Not that would have blamed him. This fight was hers, and it was her fault that she was losing it. But even knowing she would probably drag herself home in humiliation, she managed to smile at him. It probably looked more like a grimace. "Callahan, huh?" She nearly toppled over, grabbing the wall at the last second. "I think I like Rattlebones better. Suits you more."

Her heart was roaring in her ears, adrenaline desperately trying to compensate for the brokenness of her body. It worked, sometimes. The pain would ebb away just enough for her to throw in that last punch, to throw her opponent to the ground and knock the wind out of them. Then she got home and bit her pillow to keep from crying out against the way her muscles would spasm enough to make tears flood down her cheeks.

The whipping was the only time she'd cried in public, and she'd promised herself that it was something she would never repeat.

She gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes at him. There would be no stalling this time. "And for the record," she said, lurching forward, "I don't fight to win. I fight to punish."

G9ES|RJ8unarmed
[gash/bruised right knee, 4.5]

Ducking down, she rammed her elbow into his knee. Her foot failed her not a split second later and she collapsed down, balancing on her hand and knees. She made a point of spitting onto one of his shoes before raising her face up toward him. Her hair had gone wild and half blocked her vision, but she still managed a glare. "You can beat me to a pulp tonight," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, "but when you go home, you'll still have your own bruises. For me, that's what matters."

may your dreams come to reality
if all else fails
give up, we needed the company
let's drink to your health

unarmed