you should know when you're conquered :: Corps Des Vers

[Deleted]

It was opening night.

He'd ripped a name from his chest and written it on the white washed wall that sat parallel to his bed with a fading permanent marker he'd found in the cafeteria.

Gem. 

He didn't know them, he didn't know their face or their body structure or their hair or eyes or anything about them. But he hoped they were happy, because they had kissed his skin with toxic lips of ink and affection, and they'd gotten what they wanted and he

and he

he finishes writing the name just as the guard bangs on his cell door with a metal pipe that'd been rolling on the ground and e c h o i n g throughout the night.

Gem. "You writing on the wall again, Mickey?" 

He talks like his mouth is stuffed with a cigarette, with an accent of District Ten plastered over it. "You know we just paint over it while you're gone every day. No point in writing on it." 

Mekhi smiles under the shadows of a room that housed darkness like the capitol brothels housed whores. It'd been a while since he'd seen a fresh white wall, maybe they'd just paint the whole wall white sooner or later.

Instead, the guard snatches the marker from his hand and kisses his leg with metal and speaks to him as he walks out.

"It's opening day, get ready already." 

There was something different about the tattoo he'd gotten this morning.

It held nothing of symbolic value in it's hands, and it did not inspire him or motivate or kill him like any of his true tattoos.

It was a name, Petunia, he could read it. But as the needle buzz buzzed sliced through skin and threaded another name under his pores he realized that after each letter she crossed it out.

P E T U N I A 

His eyes tried to find meaning in a tattoo that someone paid to not only have tattood on his body, but to have crossed out as well. Maybe, maybe it was to show that

they didn't support this.

Maybe it was a message that this whole society would be burnt to the ground by a rebellion of the utmost potential, maybe it was a sign. Maybe, for the first time since he'd been put in this leather chair, a tattoo from someone else had finally meant something.

The peacekeeper with skin as blank as a piece of paper scowls and rolls her eyes.

"This ladies daughter died. Apparently you're being made into an obituary now, too. I wouldn't waste my money on it." 

One two punch and his hopes fall fall fall.

Cheers and jeers and the final tears of an avox that has just been ripped limb from fucking limb and their blood spills spills spills out onto the ground, lapped up by dirt and debris as a mutt is tranquilized and a life is put to sleep.

He watches through a mask of metal bars and bloody nails as the avox falls and his weapon clatters clatters clink against the bars in front of him and although every ounce of him wants to reach down and grab it and slay every guard in this tiny vicinity he knows

he knows

he knows going out into the arena already being beaten would surely be a death sentence.

It was opening night, and it was bloodier than it'd been the whole last year.

Attendance had been dropping for the past few months, and it'd been the fiery rumor that sooner or later, if there were still empty seats piling up that eventually the whole place would just shut down.

Then what does that mean for us? He'd thought, rolling a love sleeve shirt over the sleeve of ink on his left arm. 

Maybe they'll kill us like the mutts after they get too old, too slow.

But then again, maybe he was already on the way there anyways.

They'd gotten their fans back by advertising the grouping of fights for the newer avoxes.

Not them, not him and others, they were too valuable, had been in the program for too long, had gained admirers and

The newer avoxes had two choices

Fight the mutt

Or fight each other

And he'd watched far too many go out there and panic and freeze up and just get mauled to death by claws or fangs or a combination of the two and he'd watched one boy's flesh burn off his face as a mutt sprayed it directly down into his eyes and

he'd watched a group turn on each other, too. And in the end, a girl had stood with three other dead mutts avoxes by her feet.

He'd puked on the ground as she'd walked by, feet shuffling and eyes dazed over and confused, as if she'd had no idea what she was doing.

He stood behind a gate made to shelter life.

He breathes in and out and as the once avox is cleared from the grounds a voice comes onto the loudspeakers and it's

"And now, for even more excitement, we'll be moving onto some of our more...veteran members..." 

They'd let the "veteran" members have seats away away away from the other Capitolites, enough to see Death but not enough to disrupt it. And as he stood, they never said who he was, and as the gate slides open as people get a good look and a bead of sweat drives itself down the spear in his hand

the cheers start.

But they mean nothing except for the fact that some of the tattoos on his back and arms and legs and everywhere came from these people. And they wondered who the monster would be.

Two mutts, with the bodies of a white leopard and a black panther, with rattlesnake tails and sabertooth fangs circle around him.

He breathes in and out.

Maybe, when he died, they'd tattoo his name onto his forehead, the only free space left on his body.

M E K H I

__________

Welcome, welcome, to the Corps Des Vers.

I'd like to seriously thank everyone for doing such a fab ass job of getting their bios done on time, you guys are awesome. I've been so excited for this, I told myself to wait until tomorrow but it was not happening.

So, i've set up a fight with Mekhi already, which I will complete after everyone posts. Please, please please try to post as soon as possible. I would like to get this moving. If one person does not post within say, two to three days, then they run the risk of being skipped. As stated in my posts, all of your avoxes were allowed to sit up in the stands for the night, to be marveled at and, a a result, to be able to watch the fights. However, just because they are in the stands doesn't mean they won't be able to interact with peacekeepers, get creative ^^. I encourage any and all interaction that one can manage in this hellhole, and i'm so excited to see it. Think of this as one giant group hug, with the chance of getting your shit wrecked by a mutt.

Speaking of mutt fights, I bet you've probably thought about how that's going to happen. It is opening night, after all. Well, shortly after I post this I will be posting a thread in the battlefield with all  the names listed of each avox. There, I will roll the dice after Mekhi finishes, and whoever's number gets rolled will be in the arena. Fights are, obviously, one hundred percent at the mercy of your creativity. Seriously, go fucking nuts. Just try not to die, maybe? ;D 

I will do my personal best to track you down when your number is rolled, and/or I will make a post in this thread. Either way, you'll know ^^.

So, without further ado, i'd like to open up the Arena of Worms to anyone who dares step foot inside it.

Just watch out, because Death lurks in every passageway.

__________

ooc: Dice rolls can be found {here}

[Python]

A j a x

Last night I strolled through a cloud of cigarette smoke on my way to my cell. It was thick in my lungs and smelled like poisonous fog, but I stopped anyway. I don’t know what compelled me. Maybe I had reached the end of my line and just needed something, anything, to distract me from life as a caged animal. That must be it, because I never talk to Peacekeepers. I try not to acknowledge them at all, even as they drag me out of my cell and pummel bruises into the backs of my legs because I can’t “hurry up.” Sorry that I’m groggy and exhausted from working as your gladiator slave. Sorry that I’m wounded and in constant pain after a fight.

I hate them, I swear.

But this one I signed to. We were alone in a dark corridor, past curfew because I was running late like a little shit. He noticed my pause and raised an eyebrow, so I took the opportunity to say something. ”What do I have to do to get one of those?” My hands moved in rapid fire, too eagerly. I’ve always hated cigarettes, but at that moment I was positively green with envy.

”Nothin’. I don’t share,” he said aloud, voice hoarse. Probably from inhaling pollution. I hope he dies from cancer.

I didn’t cave. Instead, I persisted. ”What about a blunt?”

I saw him consider my request. Up and down his eyes slid, pupils dilated and forehead wrinkled in concentration.

”Maybe. What do I get for it?”

That’s the part I fucked up on. I shrugged and asked, ”What do you want?” and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes, like it was exactly what he wanted me to say. I hate being predictable.

”Get on your knees first.”

My face fell, and I realized how stupid I was. I didn’t even respond. I just turned and paced down the corridor, listening for his footsteps (none, I was safe) until I retreated into my cell. A different guard shut the bars and locked them tight. If that sleazebag wanted me, I technically wasn’t safe, but all I could really think about as I tossed and turned was how easy it would’ve been. I could’ve had a blunt in my mouth. All I had to do was close my eyes and open my mouth.

I wake up, chest weighed down by defeat. I’m out of my league. If I get addicted to something like that, my life will be even more miserable. I don’t think the drugs are worth it.

I crave it anyway.

On my way to breakfast, I see that sleazebag again. We make eye contact by accident and he grins. ”Did you reconsider my offer?”

Not in a million years.

It’s hard to keep my head held high in a place like this. I’m the lowest of the low. But I also hate to bow in front of anyone, so I keep my gaze trained forward. Screw him and his cigarettes, I don’t need that. I’ll just try my best to savor the shit breakfast we’re served every morning. Today, the few taste buds lingering near the back of my throat register the fruit as sour. At least the milk isn’t chunky. I’d rather starve myself.

The schedule for today is a mystery. I could be up next for all I know (I doubt it, nobody had heckled me about anything yet), yet there’s a lightness to my chest that doesn’t feel normal. I’m uplifted for no apparent reason. Why? I have nothing to look forward to. Death and gore, that’s about it. Maybe I’ll die today, who knows.

Then I see Will walk in and I remember. He sat with me at lunch after I gave him a fruit cup, and we chatted a bit. It was nice; a good break from my years of angry silence. I’m tempted to make eye contact and usher him over, but I freeze up. The interaction with that Peacekeeper was enough socializing for one morning. I’ll just eat the rest of my crap breakfast in chosen silence.

Turns out, I’m not first and neither is Will. It’s the champion, Mekhi the tattoo guy, so the guards lead us to the high stands and sit us wherever we’d like. I pick a vacant chair with two empty ones beside it, because I’m an antisocial piece of shit. Anyone who sits next to me is going to get an eyeful of Ajax glaring, I promise.

I change my mind when Will sits next to me. How dare he break the rules, but he has an angel face. I can forgive him.

I don’t say hi or anything. I just prop my elbow against the armrest and set my chin on my fist, watching the commencement of the fight with feigned interest. Giant cats with snake tails and long teeth. That sucks; the felines are always a bitch to kill, but I don’t doubt Mekhi. He always makes it. The day he dies is the day I die.

When the fight begins, I decide to look at Will instead.

[charade]

"Get up old man, its showtime! You sleeping or has that ticker finally given out?"

Giving a grunt of assent, Dorian rolled off of his cot and stood up. Forty was not old, though there was no point in trying to argue that point. In the arena of worms, he was old, especially considering the general age range of the other avoxes he lived with, and some of them were around the same ages as his kids. Dorian frowned, trying to push those thoughts away from his mind. His children were a world away in district ten, and he prayed that he would never see them again, because if he did, it would mean that one of them was reaped, and that would surely kill him faster than anything the society threw at him in the arena of worms.

Under the berating words of the peacekeeper outside his cell ( the one whose name he could never remember), Dorian strapped on his paltry excuses for armor and waited for the door to be unlocked.  It was more a costume than anything else, meant to make him look imposing and menacing; spikes bursting out of leather and a helmet with light ceramic horns longer than any normal bull out on the range. Quite frankly, he thought he looked ridiculous. But his attire was not his choice, and hadn't been for the last ten years. No matter how many times he had exchanged hands over the decade, he had yet to be assigned to someone who didn't insist on dressing him like an idiot.  

The door slid open and yakky (as he decided to call him), completed the dressing ritual by clapping a pair of manacles onto his wrists and leading him on a chain. The Butcher. That's what they called him, claiming that he had gone on a murder spree in his home district and that it had taken a dozen peacekeepers to take him down. Completely untrue, but the brainless purveyors in the Capitol ate it up. He was an oddity. An aminal.  Not a popular fighter, but one that everyone knew. They pitted him against younger, stronger avoxes all the time. Experience and endurance often won out against youth and speed. Sure, he walked away from the fights looking like he had been hit by a train more often than not, but the point was that he stayed on his feet.  

He wasn't past his prime just yet.  When they made it to the stands, as always, Dorian stalked impassively up to the highest row, sitting smack dab in the middle and staring down at the sand. The card had not been revealed to any of the fighters yet, so the opening act was a complete unknown. Mehki. The kid champion. Probably the most well known avox in the hellhole they called home. And the de facto leader of the pits. The other gate opened and out bounded a pair of mutts that looked like a cross between snakes and big cats. Dorian grimaced and rubbed at an old wound on his thigh. A couple months ago they had pitted him against a pair of starving dart jaguars. He had killed them, but the poison had put him in the infirmary for close to a month.

It probably would have taken less time to heal up if the people in charge actually gave two shits about the avoxes they forced to fight and kept some higher grade antivenom in stock, but he was thankful that they had let the poison run its course instead of putting him down like a lame horse. Oh, he heard the peacekeepers talk every now and then about how old he was, and how his clock was ticking, soon they'd have a younger, more impressive avox to occupy his cell; he knew they talked near his cell on purpose, their own personal way of screwing with him. They never tried to beat him unless he was already messed up from a fight. Dorian supposed that knowing he had served a decade on the force had a way of making people a little more wary of what he might do.

Of course, that could have just been because of the  murders they insisted on attributing to him.  It was doubtful that any of the handlers were old enough to have been in the know when he had been avoxed. The truth of what had happened, and the escape of an innocent man were most likely lost to the annals of history. Anyone that had been on the force ten years ago  had probably forgotten him by this point, and that was fine with him. The less people who knew who he actually was, the less grief he'd probably be subjected to. With a meaningful snort, Dorian leaned forward and watched the mutts circling Mekhi. The kid was good at what he did, hell, he wasn't the champion for nothing, but if those mutts really did have snake in them, if Mekhi couldn't handle the poison, it was going to suck for all of them.

[Loony]

L O R E N E

How do we continue?
How do our feet take one step after another?
How do we live with Death stalking our every move?

We are monsters. Physical manifestations of pain... greed... anguish... We are everything they hate in themselves  and everything they wish to be. We are their nightmares. We are their hopes. 

We are their humanity. And we s h a t t e r every fight.

I wake up to the harsh smack of one of the peacekeepers who controls this underground labyrinth. His evil eyes follow my creaking movements. I am his meal, a collection of meat that he will devour with sharpened teeth, then pick out with a toothpick and spit onto the filthy ground. From the moment I wake up to his stare I know that today would be nothing but a series of death and horror. 

The brief fear that I'm going to be fighting races through my beating heart. Beat. Beat. .... Beat. But his evil eyes are primed to pick up on every drop of fear. "Don't worry, bitch. You're not up yet."

I sigh into my empty mouth, and close my eyes. Today Death and I would not meet. We wouldn't be gripped in this never ending struggle for dominance. Today I was safe. But not everyone else was. I had a collection of names of people who I worried that Death would sneak up on and destroy.

"Get up. It's opening day." His evil voice hangs in the air like a cloud of smoke, enveloping me in his disillusioned view of the world. There may be a collection of mutts that were pacing, pacing, pacing, but it was this monster who was the real threat. His smile was red, red, red. His eyes were dark, dark, dark.  He was the manifestation of my nightmares.

This was no man, and I was no human. I will rip him apart. I will tear him limp, from fucking limp. And suddenly I'm on the ground, crimson dripping down my lips and into my mouth. His dark, dark, dark eyes are suddenly level with mine. "Come at me again you little bitch, and I will kill you. And no one would even give a shit."

As much as I want to scream and grip his red, red, red lips from his face and force feed them to him, I stay down. (Someday, Lory. Someday.)

I prepare myself for the barbarity to come. The new avoxes are fighting. And with an ever silent sigh, I watch them ripped apart. Why do I do this? Why do I attach myself to these silly little kids? Why do I ever dare hope they could last in this awful hell?

But a young girl still stands, standing all alone in a pool of the blood of death. I can see the deep b r e a t h she takes, amazed she lived. And all I want to do is run to give her a soft touch to let her know she'll be okay. We'll all be okay. She is the reason I do this shit. These people who come into this world alone, and are now forced to accept the terror of their new world. I want to vomit as the screams of glee of the audience vibrate within my head. Bang. Bang. Bang. Just kill us now.

Sometimes we get fighters. Sometimes we get survivors. Mostly we get corpses. 

Instead of my usual position in the labyrinth, I'm sitting up in the stands, with Death swirling around me, cheering and yelling, demanding gore and terror. With emerald eyes and scarlet lips he chants for the end of life. 

He steps into the lights of the arena. Alone. Alone. Alone. (No one should die alone) Mekhi. Oh Mekhi, you're alone. I wish I was down there, I want to leap from my perch upon Death's shoulder and help the boy who stands alone against two mutts. 

My mother once told me that everyone would live to be 100. What a ridiculous lie. What a silly thing to tell the little girl who looked up at her with hopeful eyes. To fill her heart with false dreams and wonders, especially when she lived in a small town in District 10.

But she lied. To protect me from the truth. The truth that every day upon this earth was a gift from above, and that we needed to cherish each moment we had. The truth that we have the right to a long life as long as we fight for what we have. The truth that nothing would be handed to us. The truth that Death hung above our heads threatening to whisk us away, and it was our job to fend him off.

Mekhi circles the beasts... I can see his inked chest heaving. It was opening day, and today would be a fresh reminder that this arena was Death's home. He sat in the stands, he fought in the arena, and he was imbedded into the very stones we fight upon.

It was time to appease him.

[Deleted]

E X R A M.

Tick. tick.

tick.

Breathe-

tick.

It's the sound of my heart beat. I can't help but to breathe, to bleed, for another day, another 24 hours and 1,440 minutes of techno sound. (Tick, tick. tick) I can't make it stop, huddled with my back at the wall -- just like it always has been there's a bite in my wrist. Four pristine red indentions dotting my skin, we all have our tattoos in a way. My soul seeps through them, like the dim light through the grates, the cage on my mind, the war waging in my throat -- tick, tick.

Tick.

Those marks, the braille on my skin screaming T - I - C - K, are a creation of my own; my teeth lined with red iron. My eyes daze in both holy water and in darkness, steaming at the spout, drawing my own blood is a last resort. (Then what was drawing Reiner's worth-) breathe. Inhale, the blotch of red takes my finger's embrace, exhale, the dot camouflages the tip. Inhale, tick, I squeeze the cardinals of my wrist, bleeding into more than four defined circles take place on my wrist. There isn't enough. 

Not enough, (ticktick tick) I exhale, there is no river, no stream. (We're all drowning as it is, where is the source?) Right index draws a line through it, pressing from skin to stained pale shirt -- it is no form of white. Sienna, topia, dirt, it's what we're made out of. Sand. The bounds of this universe that holds us higher than the world below; I draw a curve onto my shirt. (Inhale-) It gradients, dries into the grooves of my finger. 

(We're all sinking, diving, bombing into a world unbeknownst to innocence, chewing on the fragile ego of mankind, we are sand.)

Exha- tickticktick, I press again, until the blue of my veins mix with skin wrinkles and I clench teary eyes shut, there's not enough, no source, no palette - tickticktick - I throw my hand against the wall. Four dots banging, biting into the fading white, veins pounding against the thud thud thuds of my own beat, it's bitter, salt. The techno beat of my heart as the tides run; run together, the strikes into the wall and I'm venom. Reptilious, ever afloat.

"Hey! Settle the fuck down in there," I inhale, my left hand shaking under the aftermath of the thrashes, and I know purple will take the red's place. 

Because tomorrow, there will be enough red for everybody.

✞

There's desperation in the air -- each breath tastes like metal. Through the grid of a patriarch, there's a view of ticktickti- getting caught off guard, cut out early, a morning's heart chewed through by (Reiner, my Reiner, innocence stolen from the world like breathes out of lungs,) something less than worth it. Teeth grinding into organs and internals ropes spraying like screams, the screams, painting the air in iron like walls in blood and it's glorious fate.

It's art. Embodiment of frantic breathing, of watching through the thicket of unkempt hair and baggy eyes and- I bite my wrist, ripping into the four holes, grinding like Reiner, my blood it will get me somewhere. My eyes are strained, ticktickticktick tick, veins stinging in the light, he disapproves. The heavens. We're clay to be sculpted, and some, some do not mold, they break; I'm ever breaking, shaking, frantic laughter and strained noises and dried blood strains. 

They wipe the cage clean, bleach the evidence of a masterpiece -- royalties lost to an incinerator. There's so much blood, so much to do, the chipped fingernails twitching in the thought. We're all so hopeless after all, still so caged even when I want nothing more than red. Tick tick.

tick.

"Save the bleeding for the arena," they want me dead, the whispers and whims in the iron-filled winds, every single day I bleed in this sand, holy sanctuary for a twisted smile, but they don't want to watch people bleed. They want to watch champions fall, to listen to that tickticktick gradient into nothing more than just a tick. tick.

ti
c

k.

"And now, for even more excitement, we'll be moving onto some of our more...veteran members..." We are but falling, sinking into the sand we bleed into, the sand they bleed into, new souls in our winds, to sink in our iron until they fall -- we do not. He enters, Mekhi, with two of his own kind -- Chimeras. (Inhale)  I do not dare to exhale, I press the wrist into my eye, bleeding onto soft skin, trailing down my scarred face.

Tick, tick. tick.

At what point do we accept the suffocation. 

[ᴥ]

w  i  l  l  i  a  m   w  e  s  t
{that's a fine looking high horse

My back arches off've the stiff cot an' I can feel the whole of my spine shift and pop painfully. I'm bein' snapped in half. Slowly, oh, so, slowly. Artificial suns have just begun to light the row of cells, deafening booms pulling the more sensitive avox from their restless slumbers. I don't wanna open my eyes. 'Cause I know what's comin'. I don't wanna face it. I wanna lock the door and paint the trees I can see from my window, hidden behind a fence sizzling with electricity. But I ain't home no more. I don't got my brushes or my paint, I'm not hidin' from mommy and daddy's screams, I'm hidin' from hell. 

Because I haven't seen the sun for far too long now. 

Shiftin' very carefully, my legs're off the cot an' the whole of my body joins it soon after. My arms embrace my knees, pulling 'em straight to my chest an' I'm trying to look small 'cause maybe they won't see me an' I won't have to leave my cell. Maybe they'll think I went an faded into nothin' an' they'll replace me. 

Please. Please. Please. Please. Ple-

"I know you're there, Doe." 

A grimace presses my brows together an' purses my lips as I stand slowly, tryin' not to shake as I face the white coat. Yes'm? my lips form around the word but no sound leaves me. An' the white coat rolls her eyes. "John Doe, you know what day it is?" 

I give her a pleasant grin and the shake of a head. It's not like you haven't been reminding us hourly, ma'am. Oh how I wish she she could hear my tone, it'd leave 'er blood boilin' for sure. 

She shakes her head instead. "Anyway, we'd sure like an actual name for you, how about it?" Them white coats never learn, see? Only the avox know my name, my real name, an' that's how it's gonna stay. They've tried yellin', sweet talkin', threatening little ol' me with the biggest baddest mutts. It's not gonna happen.

No sir. I respond, lips wrappin' around the denial dramatically 'cause I ain't signing to no goody-goody white coat. They're gonna have to read my lips or kiss my ass. 

She wraps the cuffs around my wrists a bit too tight for that.

(A lot too tight.)

I sit with the newbies at breakfast. Makin' conversation an' forcing down food that I'd rather not taste. (You can still taste, without a tongue. Funny thing, that is.) They're all nervous an' shakin'. I know they want me to tell them it'll all be alright an' they got nothin' to worry about but I don't even acknowledge the fact that we're gonna be fighting today. I could be first up. They like to start of the show with a little excitement. 

Maybe they'll just make the newbies kill each other again. 

The thought purges any hunger from the depths of my stomach.



We get our own little viewin' area. We get to see them fight. We get to see them die. 'Cause we're the vets. The favorites. The ones that've been around long enough that they start rememberin' our faces an' routin' for us 'stead of against. I'd be flattered if I actually gave a shit. 

But they took the one thing that mattered from me. The one thing that was worthwhile about this little country boy who'd never really amount to anythin' but he didn't mind in the slightest.

They can give me the most special treatment 'round, but they can never give me my tongue back. 

I just want to be heard again. 

Ajax, ah yes, the grumpy boy who hadn't been asking me what a fruit cup was. He's sittin' all by himself lookin' rather lonely. I'd hate to be lonely surrounded by the screams o' mutts an' avox alike. An' I don't really wanna sit alone either. 

I settle into the chair next to 'im. Folding my legs atop one another on the  back of the seat in front've me. I don't say hello. I just sit an' I wait for the trails to begin. It's Mekhi first, the one whose body was a canvas I'd love to draw upon.

(I wonder if they'd let me.) 

He's better than all of us. An' a good one to watch to gauge how bad of a time I'm 'bout to have. 'Cause if Mekhi dies, we're all dead. No fuckin' doubt. 

I don't want to die. 

I don't know why, but I don't want to die. 

An' there's a sort of crawling down the back of my neck. Like a ghost's trailin' its long fingers along my body. It sends a shudder throughout it, snappin' my neck towards the kid next to me. The one who definitely knew what a fruit cup was. He's lookin' at me an' I wonder if I started this staring contest or he did. 

I smile so wide that my eyes break into crescents and I brush piece of hair behind my ear just to have something to do with my hands before they break into complicated symbols. Writing poetry upon the air. "Hey, Ajax."

what you got in the stable?}
x

[Will]

I feel myself jerk awake. Every part of me is awake, lively. Every part of me, but my eyes. I keep them closed. I've found that when you wake up before they want you to in this place, it comes with bad consequences. I keep my eyes closed. Shut tight, but not too tight. Shut just as if I was sleeping. It's an art. An art perfected over a long time. Faking sleep is not easy. You have to train yourself to not react. Not react to anything. If you do, then your charade is up. That's it and they know you've been faking. That's when you're in trouble. I find that ironic. Every morning I must force myself to not react, but every day I must force myself to react. Because if I don't react, then I'm dead. It's a very contradicting process. Survival. That's the game. If you don't play it perfectly, then you're out. Some people get it easier, they get advantages. But everything comes with a price. I've learned that. I've learned that lesson very well. Nothing I do comes without consequence. Nothing anybody does comes without a consequence. At least, not here. I strain my ears. Listening. Why did I wake up? Just random? That happens a lot. Nightmare? Dream? No, I don't remember them. I never remember my dreams. At least not now. I don't even know if I have them anymore. I don't even know if I can have them anymore. They seem to surreal. Like only the most blessed of people could possibly conjure up a dream. I used to be able to. A long time ago. But I was blessed. Blessed with the easy life. Now I'm not. A hard life becomes truly hard when you stop having dreams. That's when your brain is finished. Not even your subconscious wants to hope. To dream. It's just a lost cause. A lost cause that if pursued ends in pain and regret. Then you know there's no way back when those dreams are replaced with nightmares. That's when you can't help but be pessimistic. When you can't help but think of the worst. Or in my case, potential realities. My nightmares almost seem like prophecies. Because they usually come true. Or at least, have already happened. They're just playbacks. Playbacks of the worst moments. The most traumatizing moments. On repeat until my mind can pull out of it. Before my body can yank me from the horrors that lurk within. I can avoid them. Just for a while. Just when the light shines. I love the light. It's my savior. I keep listening. What woke me up was the Peacekeepers. They were waking everyone else up. Reminding them that it's opening day. Opening day. I open my eyes. White. That's what I see. The walls. The boring white walls. I'm forced to stay here. Each and every night this is my prison. This place is my prison. The Peacekeepers reach my cell. I rise before they enter. Before they hit me and beat me awake. That's how I avoid most of the bruises and rashes that the others have. I've perfected the art of waking up. The art of survival. They remind me that it's opening day. I know. I know that it's opening day. It's all that I've been thinking about. Opening day. The day where what we do becomes more popular. More people will watch me fight. Fight for my life. Fight for the crowds, for the applause, for the money. Of course I don't get anything out of it. Nothing except for the experience of battle. Of killing and killing and killing so that I can live and live and live. I don't know anything about opening day other than the fact that it is opening day. I don't know when I'm fighting. Or who will be fighting when. I could be up now. Or next. But I'm not. At least, not up now. Mekhi's up. He has to fight. I'm ushered to the veteran seating. The veteran seating. What is this? A joke? This is just to keep us separated. To keep us thinking and quiet, to keep the newbies scared and alone, and to keep the Capitolites happy and greedy. Anxious to watch blood fly and death. Death to conspire again and again and again as many times as they can today. That's their favorite part. Maybe even the only reason they come. Who am I kidding? It is the only reason they come. They come to watch the lowest of the low fight for their lives. Because at the end of the day, who really cares if an avox or a mutt dies? As long as it's not you. As long as your heart keeps beating. Your lungs keep breathing. Your eyes keep seeing. Those things in the arena, they're all the same. One just thinks more than the other. Now which one that is, you'll get lots of mixed answers. And I watch and formulate my own opinion as the chimeras enter the arena with Mekhi. I hope he wins. I hope he survives. He deserves it. Maybe though, survival is different than living. Maybe if he died, he'd be happier. But for now, while I can't do anything about it, I must take on the Capitol mindset. Who really cares who dies? Just as long as it's not me.

credit to will

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

He preferred this place, in the end to the mansion that he had spent nearly every night of the last two years in.

Although he no longer could greet the morning with the softness of the sun caressing his cheek from within his cell, it was still better. He was made to perform still, like a trained monkey but it was not the same. In the gladiator pit, he was doing as the face he had been modeled after had done; fighting for his life. Instead of fighting invisible enemies on the polished ballroom floor of the Society's mansion, he was bleeding out there, in the ring. He smiled. He liked it, to bleed again for real. It reminded him of his childhood in his first master's home. Days there had been spent only in training. There had been something good in that.

There was no thinking.

Working for his new mistress had allowed for far too much thought, too much anguish. His fingers had clawed at the bed sheets and he'd whimpered as they did with him what they wished. They had loved that, the sounds of his submission from a mouth that could not complain, could not protest what they did to him. They lived their fantasies with the body of a boy that they had idolized, forgetting that Feng was the one behind the face, not the dead tribute. They forgot that Feng was not the proud boy that had taken down a dragon, but the submissive slave, trained to perfection from a young age.

He was not wild and beautiful like the Saw boy from four had been. Feng had come from the seam at the age of seven. He did not burn with the fire that Eye Saw had. In fact, flame terrified Feng, the smell of his parent's burning flesh still haunted his dreams despite the fact that he could no longer recall their faces.

Feng had been made to be sweet once, but it had been trained out of him. Sometimes the scent of daisies filled his nose, and he'd dream that the flowers grew from his pillow once again but upon waking up, there was nothing there. Despite everything, Feng was not anything but the obedient and submissive avox he had been shaped into. Perhaps the numerous piercings along his ears and the unnatural haircut he sported announced him differently but his Mistress had finally realized that despite her efforts, he was not the boy she still held such vivid fantasies about despite his death coming on three years ago.

She had sold him to the gladiator pit nearly half a year ago.

He had not lived up to her standards and despite the fact that he was still marked with his first master's house insignia, he had not wished to purchase him back from his mistress. "Why would I want my own damaged goods back? You have ruined his perfection in search of your dead tribute. Sell him to the pits. He is garbage," his master had said. He referred to the desecration some of the more zealous patrons of The Society had done to his young body. Scars and burn marks pockmarked his skin from unconventional lovers. His first master had believed in keeping sex slaves separate from warriors. In his eyes, Feng could not be both, it demeaned him as a warrior.

However, Feng had not lost any of his skill. In fact, it was said that Feng fought just as well if not better than the dead tribute ever did. He was a tribute to the deceased tribute.

Perhaps he did not decapitate dragons but he had proved himself already more than once in the gladiator ring, earning himself a place among the veterans.

It was where he was to go today in order to begin the new season on fights.

He waited inside his cell at the appointed time, feet shoulder width apart and arms crossed behind his back in the stance of a soldier. He waited patiently, listening for the sound of his escort's boots to begin at the far end of the hall. When she comes for him, clad all in white, he lowers his hands to his side in submission, as well as to show he is not hiding anything behind his back. This is meant to reassure her, but as he has often found, some people do not like the natural smirk his fabricated face holds.

She swings her hand back and smacks her palm across his cheek.

He does not dodge her unwarranted attack despite the fact that he easily could as it is not his place to do so. Her intent was to cause him pain so as an Avox it was his job to accept it gladly. His face is forced to the side with the contact of her hand and it leaves an angry red mark across his skin. He barely blinks.

It seems she is satisfied because with that small ritual complete, he was allowed to leave his cell and go to breakfast. He sat apart from the new Avoxes, not liking to dwell on the memories of what it was like to be one of them. The blood of the group he arrived with is still fresh in his mind. He did not kill all three of the Avox he ahd been put in the ring with, but in the end, when it was him or the other boy he had not hesitated. Just as he had been once before what seemed like eons ago, he was victorious.

He had oatmeal for breakfast because the Peackeeper who had taken him to the meal hall had told him, rather snidely, that he better keep his strength up because 'he was in for a doozy today'. He had taken this advice to heart.

Later, he made his way to the stands along with the other veterans, slipping silently down the long halls, as irrelevant as he could be with a face like his. Oftentimes, people did a double take when they looked at him. He was meant to be dead.

Mekhi was first in the ring. Feng respected the man, he was strong and also seemed to have the heart of a warrior that Feng had been beaten into having. It was interesting to watch his movements in the ring and assess him. Those around him looked worried for the man. Feng was not. He could recognize strength when he saw it.

He sat himself in the uppermost corner of the section that had been allotted to the Veterans, never really being one for much conversation. He hadn't really spoken much to anyone since his arrival a few months back and he was content with that. Like every time that he saw a crowd of people, Feng's eyes searched the audience of Capitolites and their slaves for any threats, and just in case, for the face of the girl that he had not seen for a very, very long time. A piece of him still believed that he would see his flower girl once again one day if fate was kind to him but more than anything he knew not to have hope. Hope was a dangerous, flawed thing to have. Hope could change the world.

Avox were not allowed to own anything, let alone something like that.

[cass]

Today was a semi pleasant morning. He was hardly able to argue with the lack of light shining between the cells of his bars. For all his knowledge it could have been dead in the middle of the night when the Peacekeeper's decided to shake them awake by smashing on the iron bars that locked them in. He assumed it was morning, though, he'd rather think for a moment that in all this time he had been sitting there, lying there and doing nothing there was a point behind it all. Get from one day to the next. To do that you needed a morning. Therefore it was morning.

Morning's made him happy. He was a morning person, he liked getting up and stretching and moving out to the front of whatever lodge he had used words to twist his way into. In all his life the only thing he had been able to consistently do was lie. He'd never been able to keep his job as a con-artist though, even with their slick tongues and large array of resources he'd still suffered in the job. He had charm and skill, and a big enough cupboard of words to fool people into thinking he was who he said he was, but when it came down to making the deal he'd fuck up. It wasn't in a good way either, he didn't suddenly grow a conscious and feel bad for what he was doing, he just stumbled at the last steps. Every. God. Damn. Fucking. Time.

People knew his name and his face. They saw the wanted posters. So when it came to getting what he wanted they became scared of associating with him. It was why he had fled the inner parts of district two and shifted to the outer edges. Upon his arrival he had found no pictures of his face. No one recognised him. It had been bliss and from there he had actually been able to complete a few scattered jobs as a con artist. He couldn't say that job had been a complete triumph, his selling of body parts had gone better, after all that job had been the one that had landed him here.

Sometimes he screwed up. There was always a way to fix things, though.

For once in this miserable about turn of the pleasant life he had led the Peacekeeper's did not hit him before dragging him to his feet. Instead he got up first, angling to squeeze past them before they could bring their baton down on his lean, thin body. He gave them a cheerful wave, offering them a small smile, his eyes twinkling. It was odd, that not even this situation could crush the small amount of happiness he had acquired in his life. He'd grown up in a pleasant household and his parents had done nothing to deserve his betrayal. Regardless, he had taken advantage of every situation he had been given. He'd find a way to do so in this one. No matter how long it took.

They lead him to the arena, where the seats lined the small area he usually fought in. Well they all fought in that arena. Others had gathered in the area, all had taken a sit, some sitting together, others sitting entirely by themselves. Joojoo didn't know anyone at all, to put it frankly. He hadn't spoken to nay of them, he had hardly even taken a moment to look at them. But that was about to change. He needed people, he needed fiends, and although he had the beginnings of not-as-brutal-treatment with the Peacekeeper's that visited him he had nothing with the fellow Avox's.

Looking around he quickly focused his attention on a pair sitting to the side. He avoided those that were sitting by themselves. It was handy to have a friend like that, but for now he needed to focus on getting himself into something. Dancing away from his captors he moved amongst the rows of chairs. Most of the people here never smiled, they all seemed to radiate some kind of gloom, that made them all look positively insane. Anyone who threw him off he avoided entirely, he didn't need a psycho for a friend. He didn't need a knife in his back, what he needed was sunlight on his back and cake in his hands. There were only so many ways to get that.

As he approached he watched as one of the two Avox's waved his hands in the air - Hello A? He couldn't make out the name. Whilst he was slick with a tongue, which he now lacked, he somewhat fumbled over the new speech he had to learn. It didn't allow for the poetic way in which he had usually spoken. You could still lie as easily as breathing, it just didn't pack the same punch. He moved to stand in front of them, back to the arena, hand upwards as he waved, his teeth flashing with his smile. Always the optimist.

[Sage]

Bump bump

Blood flowed through veins as the avox girl opened her pretty eyes, her cat ears twitching as she wrinkped her nose. Hearts beat all around her, surrounding her in a sound that should have offered comfort but did little to soothe her nerves. Her owner had finally gotten sick of her rebellious ways and delivered her here after drugging her to knock her out. Red hair clung to her face like tape stuck to a wall as she stretched, wishing she had more comforts.

How long will I survive?

The thought had plagued Miyuki, her tail lashing like a cats as she heard a voice bark, telling her to get her pretty little tail up to the stands to watch todays fight in this hellhole she was shoved into. She narrowed her eyes, not making a sound as she made her way up, looking around at the others. She hated it here, the smell making her want to gag.

Other avoxes sat in the stands along with the disgusting people who found this entertaining, it made her sick to think that this was supposed to be enjoyable for the spectators. Just like they do to tributes. To think I was once a supporter. she thought as she brushed dust from a seat and sat down, her eyes looking down upon the arena. She hadn't made it a point to learn any of the other avoxes names considering a lot of them were likely to die. Please let this end soon.

[Deleted]

daya

Cracked skin, brittle bones, chattering teeth—they said it was all we would need.

And sitting in a cell with walls that have seen the best of these, I cannot find the necessity, for the desire to pick away that which chaffs, breaks, and shivers is not compulsory, only the most plausible option.

Each one to their own.

To some, especially those whose time here lasts less than the hours which you can count, this seems to be pacing, and if I press my ear to the wall I can hear their whimpers and wordless pleas; I can count each step—one, two, three—they dig into the concrete floor.

But they never live long enough to tell how many steps they took across the lengths of that room.

I knew anyway, for my first week here had been spent the same way, bare feet trekking across stones until raw and bleeding, and steps began to be recorded for themselves as blood dried in their place. Each had been counted—marked upon the white sheets with trembling fingers, red falling from their tips with each stroke, and with each tally another voice could be heard passing from one life into the next.

We were all alive simply to fall, and each time we stepped from the arena with the iron gates slamming behind us we were only purchasing more minutes for our tally, another day—week, month—in exchange for our next breath of air.

And we craved it like substance shot into veins.

With dirty hands and tainted lips we pleaded and begged for that which what we could not have. Some wanted speech, release, the best of these, but some of us simply wanted splendor. Our kingdom of white-washed walls would cut it no longer, and with each fallen beast another stone was chipped from the fortifications of our mind, slowly crumbling, weathering, tumbling, like the walls of our sanity.

Minds guarded by moats of blood.

White washed red in time.

We were each an hour marked upon its glassy surface, the hand passing us by one by one, and at each chime of the former we stumbled, some of us regaining our footing and waiting for time to pass us again. Those who did not find the ground beneath their feet were lost to the seconds it took to toss them aside, and others took their place. Mekhi stood at noon high, and as the clock chimed I could see the light shimmering from beneath the cracks in his skin as he passes with a pace I’ve yet to conquer, as if the surety of the stench of blood does not bring up bile in his throat, and with each step he takes my eyes tail behind him, and I inhale, catching the slightest hint of terror in the air.

No serendipity, not yet.

Only the high peaks and steep declines of adrenaline, and as a guard approaches the bars that keep us contained like specimens he’s quick to spit at my feet before shoving key into lock, and as he turns the mechanism he smiles, “It’s not your show tonight lion tamer. This is a role we’re sure you’re not used to playing.”

His grip upon my arm tightens as he encourages a faster pace, but I’m stepping in time to the beat of Mekhi’s pounding veins, and as I concentrate (left, right, left—don’t fall now) I can hear the buzz of excitement from just beyond the gates at the edge of my consciousness, and it’s then that I realize we are not alone when we leave this realm for another, tossing morals at the roadside in exchange for that what made your skin crawl, and those that sat above were doing just the same.

And when the gong sounds I can do nothing but cover my ears, not daring to turn my eyes from the clean slate of a battlefield, waiting to be embellished by bones and carnage, all the same just a decoration to those who wished to watch.

Tainted.

Scarred.

The show of the century.

If I were not sitting with my hands pressed to my ears and fighting back the sickness that sat in the pit of my stomach I would find it quite the stage, for this was nothing more than a big-top circus, only instead of ring master or lion tamer I was mimicking beast of burden, trained to do a task without rhyme or reason, and as the mindless animals that sat behind bars I did the same, striving for a reward no other than life.

We’d all fall.

Which gong would be our last was the only unknown factor, and in a way for the sake of sanity this was for the best, so that we could not tangle ourselves in the thoughts of death when we were so set on life.

We were enamored with the concept of hate for temptations and circumstances, and as Mekhi takes up blade against these I inhale and uncover my ears, preparations intact for whatever time needed to pass before the chime of my final hour was struck into the air.

Always ready to tumble; never scared to break.

(“Ladies and gentlemen gather round, for I have a tale to tell. This is the story of shattered minds and how they fell.”)

[Deleted]

Their roars sound like the buzz of a tattoo needle.

Circles on circles, their paws scratch wavering lines into the dirt, tails ricketing rickets crack like the baton of a guard coming down the hallway, slamming against bars of metal as his footsteps patter against the walls.

He wonders if they can see that his skin carries the marks of at least a hundred people.

Nameless, voiceless, wordless people.

Breaths, in and out and in and 

They charge.

A breath lodges itself somewhere between his voice box and his mouth, and a blonde lock of hair swipes it's way across his eyesight as the clink of a shield against spear reaches his ears, overpowering the screams and the shouts and the cheers and

The white one charges from the front, drool dripping from saber fangs that stick out of it's mouth, it's tail flicking back and forth as oversized, triple clawed paws shredding up the ground beneath it's feet. And although he can't see it, he feels the dark shadow coming from behind, identical features except for the fact that it's pelt was darker than the blood it squeezed out from it's victims, it's shadow growing and growing and growing and

he sprints towards the one with fur as white as the square he'd painted on the wall inside his cell.

He'd always liked the blankness of white.

But this, he wasn't so sure.

Footsteps, footsteps, the spear tingles in his hand and he catches flashes of Capitolite camera flares bouncing off the metal of the spearhead. His shield is half rusted half caked with blood, metal that went from silver to red to somewhere in between the two, crusted washcloth doing little to wash out the stains of the red paint that flowed through the mutt's bodies.

Thump, thump He can't tell if it's his footsteps, if it's the paws of the mutt, or if it's his own heart beating in and out of his chest, skin vibrating with every quickening beat. Thump, thump-

It jumps and

He hits the ground and rolls, hand tightening around the spear and as the mutt flies over him, his back tingling ever so slightly as it's claw comes close, too close to his spine and as the mutt's ferocious, bloodthirsty roar goes into and out of his ears.

And it's a race to see if his muscles can all tighten and spring faster than that feline can twist and turn it's body back around, to see who could react to the cards that had been dealt to them faster. Thump His feet kick up dust and Thump dirt dust scatters itself onto his face and tighten relax his muscles sway and a signal runs from brain to arm to spear and

The cat's pelt is painted red with it's own life, metal spearhead digging tearing rip through leather skin, serrated tip clinging to every particle, every hair, every single pore as his muscles tighten and contract and rip the spear from it's body and 

it's not dead, but it was never alive in the first place, he guesses.

There's no success in small victories, because he watches it snarl and it's tail flick and as the red spreads and spreads and drips onto the ground it's shadowed comrade comes and charges and charges as he springs backwards and backwards before somersaulting backwards into a half crouched position, legs tense, muscles hand in hand ready to pop spring snap into place.

It's uglier than the other, with light bouncing into and through it's pelt, shimmering and shaking with each camera that flashed and each cheer that shook the building. No one ever bothered to follow the "No Cameras!" sign.

Snarls, snarls, he swear he feels it's muscles bend and snap and one by one it's claws outstretch as it takes into the air, soaring leaping flying towards the sack of flesh and bones in front of it.

His muscles, his reaction, his lifeline is too slow, and even though he doesn't duck, he doesn't he roll even though he slams his shield into the chest of the feline and even though the cat yelps and it's body flails

It's fang sinks into his left shoulder and he cries out as the cat is brought to the ground and the muscles in his left arm are snapping, he can feel them and 

One foot on the throat, the other clings to the dust of the arena as ink covered arm raises an obnoxiously long spear and the cat's paw swipes at him and the poison from an obnoxiously large fang forces it's way from gash to skin to bloodstream and it's s l o w i n g everything down, his muscles

contract, and 

The paw slashes through his right bicep, crossing through the tattoo of a women's name that had imprinted itself on his skin who knows when.

Aelia . His arm aches as blood drips down down down onto a pelt that covers it all up and even though it hurts, even though the pain is spreading all across his upper body just as the cat open's it's mouth and pushes against weakened leg

His spear splatters it's eyeball and drives down down through it's head until it reaches the other side of whatever minuscule, twisted brain sat in it's head. It pulls out brain matter and bloody trickles, his arm weakening and weakening and

one breath, two breath, thump thump 

Slam

His body is mauled by a ball of muscled white, splattered red with the actions of his arm and body and spear, and as it snarls and tackles him to the ground his spear flies out of his hand and clatters against the ground and 

A gasp runs through the arena as he's thrown into a situation that ends in bloody, messy conditions far too often.

And it's a battle that he's bound to lose, poison sprinting through his bloodstream and one by one relaxing every single muscle in his body until he can hardly hold up the shield against the cat's weight, it's paws ascending and descending and slashing onto his body and through names that carried meaning only to those that gave him no meaning.

Camelia 

Lyre

Evania 

He screams something that isn't human because with every slash he feels the letters of his name being crossed out too, and as the cat slash 

M It's paw drives itself onto his body.

E It snarls and it's spit drips down down down.

K Everything is slowing, slowing.

H It leans in close to his face and it's fang touches his skin and

It's instinctual, survivor's reactions kicking in and with every single ounce of strength he has left his hand wraps around the fang that's so close to his death and

tug, tug, thump snap 

One more scream and one more buzzsaw roar and it's driven through it's eye and then it's throat and as it rolls off his body, claws scraping lightly against ink kissed skin he stabs and stabs as many times as dwindling strength will allow.

It was one more time, and he hardly breaks it's skin before he falls next to the mutt, paralyzing poison numbing every muscle in his body, breaths labored and everyone is screaming, the crowd is on their feet even though he is on the ground, bloody ink dripping from his body.

His eyes are still open when they come and take him out of the arena, but the edges are blackening and he counts the heartbeats as they carry a bloody, but alive body back to the half-assed infirmary.

Thump thump

Thump thump

Thump.

__________

OOC : The next person to fight will be Miyuki, played by Ani. 

__________

ooc: Dice rolls can be found {here}

[rook]

{ a r i e s s t y c h e}
avox

i'll taste the devil's tears
drink from his soul
but i'll never give up you
i'll taste the devil's tears

Eenie meenie minie monie bonie bitty ritty rat. Squeak. Gnah! Phoar. Aha. Ahahaha. Got the rat. Grab the rat with my hand and it is not escaping my grasp. Squirm little rat, hahaha, I have you. I have you little rat and you will be my dinner because I am hungry. Hungry in the dark. Starving. Fucking starving hungry just going to open my mouth and bite into it's dirty fur to gnaw into the soft flesh and bones and mmmmmmm yes little rat. Biting you whilst you are alive and squirming and screaming in my hand. Oh and you like to bite too, try to bite my hand to get away but ahahahah I can barely feel you, I can barely feel anything. Another bite and rip away of your flesh and your tiny heartbeat stops and your annoying screaming stops and you are dead, but you are still a snack so I continue to eat you.

Clang bang shamarang brick brack. Mellancholic clanging. Melanconly, there's a word from days gone by, how mama used to say these big words and I would not and pretend to understand them hahahaha. But no. No, listen. Listen to me now. She would say to me that I had to learn a new word every day, because then slowly I would learn more words and have a larger range of words to use. I did what she said for years, learning thousands of words to use on people, and then hahahahaha, then, no listen, then they cut my tongue out.

My tongue. Cut out. Oh, when they caught the legendary chupacabra, weren't they best pleased. Look at me now boys, look at me now. I'm old. I'm not like the others, who are so young and fresh and green. Me and Dorian, we been doing this a while now. We old, man. Haha. We ooooooold. Like he's fourty seven or fifty seven I don't know he has a beard. I like him because he has a beard. I have a beard too. We are beard buddies, ahahahah. But seriously if a Mutt came at me, I'd throw him in the way because he's a fuckin' weirdo hahahaha. No but I like him. I just like me more because I have so much to do. So much to do, so much to DO. Eat rats. Kill mutts. Laugh. Haha. Get revenge.

Clanging, yeah. I scramble scramble to the corner and hiss as the the the heavy door is draaaaaaaged screeeeeeaching across the floor and ach my ears. Fucking noise. NOISE. And the light pours in (oh because they like to keep me in the pitch darkness and let me decay because they don't like me i'm insane, i'm mad, i'm not normal [but who is?]). And the man and the voice and he shouts so loud that I scramble to the corner and cower as he raises his baton. DOn't hit me don't hit me don't hit me please. He doesn't hit me.

"MOVE, GOAT!" He shouts, and I crawl, dropping the half-eaten rat. Save for snack for later when i'm hungrier than i am. When the fighting is done and i am left on my own again, I can finish off the rat. Mm. Yes. I'll do that, that is a plan. The man hits me, no, he hits me hard, no no no no please stop. He grabs a fistfull of my hair and drags me out of the cell as I scream a tongueless scream. A horrible, demonic cry. I scuttle away, forward to where they want me to go. Will I fight today. No, I will not fight today, they lead me to the stands.

What are the things on my hands, the metal things. Clamping my wrists together, so I cannot lash out. I whimper as they throw me down on a seat next to my fellow Avoxes, and make me wait. Wait for what. What is this. What are we doing. Help me.

he said "i am the devil, boy,
come with me and we'll break many laws"
he offered me eternal life
but inside my heart there's a picture of a girl

word count: 664, graphics: rook
theme: the devil's tears by angus and julia stone

[ᴥ]

william west

I don't watch the fights. My eyes are planted firmly 'pon my knees as Mekhi makes his way into the Arena. I play with my hands, thumbs chasin' each other in tight circles as the sound of death wraps its hands around my throat. A kid by the name of Joojoo has sat himself next to me an' Ajax, all I can manage is a kind of friendly smile before lookin' towards to floor once again. I'm visibly shaking, shoulders thrashing forwards and back so violently it might as well have been the first winter's snow. I'm not usually like this, hell most days I'm borderline cocky 'bout my abilities but there's somethin' wrong today. Somethin' I can't quite put my finger on. 

Death makes itself concrete nice an' quick. A collective gasp runs through the lot of us, a kind of silent shock falling across my comrades. (It's not often that avox collectively shout so loud that our silent scream can be heard.) I can't help it. As though there's a tether to my eyes, pulling my chin upwards, I look at the horror. I look at our best fighter gettin' mauled. There's a dead beast on the ground, paintin' the dirt crimson and Mekhi is held beneath paws stained a brighter red, teeth sinkin' into his flesh like a hand around a rotten apple. No. My lips wrap around the words although sound never escapes them. No. No. No. 

I 'fuse to believe that this is the end of us all. Refuse to believe that Mekhi could be struck down by such beasts because if he couldn't survive then none of us could. No. No. No! I'm screaming but no one can hear me. No one would care if they could. Of their own accord my fingers wrap 'round Ajax's arm, body jerking violently as the roars of a murderer fill the arena. I press my face into his shoulder, not much carin' whether he minds or not. I don't want to see another die.

Mekhi doesn't. I don't see how it happens an' I'm not too sure if I ever want to know 'cause the last I see of the painted boy he's ruined by gashes and bruises. Everythin' smells vaguely of metal and I might throw up I'm so nauseated. He's pulled away and I wonder how many names are in between mine and his on the list.

And a hand wraps around my arm, pulling me to my feet with little sympathy and shoving me towards the entrance to hell. It's answer enough to my question.

None.

An' I can hardly breathe, 's like my lungs are collapsing in on themselves. Tryna kill me before the mutts ever get the chance. I'm trapped in a sort of limbo, bars on either side a' me. One keepin' me safe from imminent death an' the other keepin' me from escaping it. Fuck. My silent shouts echo about the cavernous grave and I'm equipped with the only shit I know how to use and I don't think it's going to be much use to me and the bars keeping me safe are rising even though my fingers are so securely wrapped around the metal trying to keep it down and I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die-

The beasts remind him of the snow, just as pure and just as chilling. They have the same affect on his limbs, stiffening his joints and freezing his fingers. The avox boy can feel nothing as he avoids the first swipe of a heavy paw and the second and the third. Winter's storms pass quickly, he's unable to stick his blade into the beasts' hide, too busy keeping them from doing the same.

And the realization dawns like a white sun over naked trees. Heating the lake beneath his feet and stranding him on a single iceberg. He drifts aimlessly through freezing waters for a long while, managing the smallest of nicks on the spotted storm before a heavy paw takes him by surprise. The whole of it's claws raking across his cheek and it hurts so bad that he can't feel it at all. Because it is impossible, he concludes, rolling out of the way of another swipe and managing to fill his fresh wound with dirt, to kill the beasts without first killing himself. 

He's still upon the ground, eyes slitted so tightly that he can only see through the thick black lines of his lashes. He bleeds freely and quickly, breath slowing to a crawl as playful kittens approach. One rakes it's claw down his chest, leaving wounds so deep that bright white lipid is visible. The avox boy strikes then, catching the giant paw with his blade and splitting the tendon in half. The beast yowls, shaking the whole of the arena as the poet moves onto the next paw and the next and the next. In the span of a heartbeat he has crippled the kitten, leaving it's paws incapable of movements as muscles spill out of sawn open legs. 

He stands.

The blood drains from him, like a cup filled with holes. It's rapid, the life taking it's leave eagerly as he rolls the thing over, murmuring a quick apology before facing the next demon. One with eyes tinged red and terrifying teeth that take great joy in tearing off a chunk of his forearm. The avox screams, falling to his knees and hanging his head as pain overcomes him. Winter's protection defrosting as every injury hits him full force. He is surrounded by nothing but pain and it's killing him.

He has never been so sure of his death.

The beast is poised to strike. almost playful in the way it sinks to the ground, shakes it's tail. And the avox is a mouse, trapped between it's claws. One it will bring back to his master with pride and drop it upon his feet, soiling perfect leather shoes with scum and blood.

It leaps at him, it's first mistake since the three animals had been pinned against each other. It leaps at him maw open and the boy's eyes are closed, bad arm stuck to his side as he forces the blade through the roof of the thing's mouth. 

Death is instant.

The other mutt is still alive. It shivers so pathetically that I cannot help but pity it. I can barely see, the world slowly losing color around me as I walk toward the cripple, running a hand along its matted pelt and staining it a redder hue. I'm sorry. Please don't cry. It's whines and whimpers are as painful as it's claw down my chest. I face it, hand travelling down its forehead as though petting a beloved friend and not a feral creature. I will end it please don't cry.

But I guess I said somethin' to upset it 'cause it snaps. There's a blade stained with it's brother's brains slowly inching towards its throat but it wasn't as complacent as I thought. It wasn't as helpless. 

The teeth sink into my flesh before I can properly think. Before I can register what has happened I stab the thing panickedly. I stick the sword through it's throat and leave it there, sobs trapping themselves in my mouth until I stumble back holding one hand within the other as red continues to paint me various shades of dead. I'm in the tunnel, I think 'fore I realize what has happened. Before I look at my hand an' see that it's gone.

A single finger disappeared down the kitten's throat.

oh. 

I fall.

you can see my heart
b e a t i n g
you can see it through my chest

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

“I’m warning you just in case (listen carefully)
It’s dangerous now (so dangerous)
Stop provoking me (there’s going to be trouble)
I don’t even know myself”

It's wrong to be excited.

I sit on my hands to stop anyone from seeing them shake.

I don't think that it's actually excitement, maybe it's just nerves. It's difficult to put into words, this feeling. Inside of myself, there has been anger brewing for what seems like years with no way to release it. All my life, I have been told what to do and pushed into submission until there was nothing left of me to even consider rebelling. Even now, as I sit here quietly watching people fight for their lives, there is only a sense that everything is as it should be. Of course I am going to be fighting for my life for the entertainment of others. Of course there is a possibility that I might die today. That is correct. I am an Avox. I should expect to die at any moment.

I clench my jaw, trying to ignore the feeling of discomfort there. I think there might be a piece of oatmeal caught in my teeth from this morning but it's hard to tell with no tongue. Of course I am used to the absence, having spent more of my life without a tongue than with one. Sometimes I just think one might come in handy.

I stick the pointer finger of my left hand in my mouth and root around in there, searching for that missing oat, eyes intent on the cage in front of me. Will is doing alright, but on the not great side of alright. From a tactical point of view, I don't think he's undergone the same kind of training as myself. Come to think of it, I don't think many people have at all. I haven't spoken to many Avox yet in my months here, but I have noticed that most people have come from the districts rather recently. Althout I haven't been here as long as them, I might be the oldest veteran when it comes to being tongueless.

Just as the tip of my finger finds the oat, Will loses his finger to a beasty.

I try not to let the shock register on my face but I do pull my finger hastily from my mouth, the lost oat forgotten for a brief moment. That was such a rookie mistake tht for a good few seconds I can't come to register it.

Confusion laces itself tight around my throat and tightens its grip. Why would that silly boy show compassion for a dying beast that was out for his life only seconds before? It's as senseless as leaving flowers on the bed of a murderer.

I don't have time to think much on it. Even as they're dragging the poor kid from the cage, Someone is already grabbing my arm and taking me down to have my turn.

All thoughts of William West disperse.

As I stand, waiting, the large cats are removed from the cage. I am to have less dead opponents. I flex my hands and they hand me a simple wooden staff. This has been their joke with me since I have arrived. I do not mind. They tell me that I have the face of a dragon killer so killing a beasty with a wooden staff should be child's play.

Well.

In the words of my previous face-bearer, 'Fuck them very much'.

My door slides open and I enter the cage with a steady tread, eyes roaming the area to make certain that there is no beasty already waiting for me. My door slides shut and the crowd roars. I blink in annoyance. I can't hear something sneaking up on me like this.

A door slides open and Two lizards scuttle through.

Two three meter long lizards with shark jaws for mouths.

I don't know which almighty god I made happy today but I grin, feet sliding slowly as I arrange my body in a more suitable position, eyes fixed on the two mutts as they move toward me at a very fast speed. I don't know who thought that putting shark jaws on lizards and then making them very fast was a good idea but they were probably right.

This is awesome.

I grin as the beasts charge me, jumping backwards as they reach me. They rear onto hind legs, long claws grabbing for my bare skin and I turn wildly, adrenaline rushing through me. My feet find the metal wiring of the cage and begin to climb, on hand wrapped tight around the staff. I need a moment to think and a vantage point.

I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't scared right now but I'd also be lying if I said that I didn't know what to do. I've been training since I was seven to have self discipline, to retain my sense of clam in any situation and better yet, to win.

When I reach the curve of the cage's top, I look down to see what the mutts are doing. I spot one on the ground directly below me, staring up at me, drool pooling inbetween its rows of sharp teeth. The other one is-

oh it's nearly reached me.

I should've understood that they could climb. Lizards can climb, better than humans in fact. Duh.

With a soft chuckle of embarrassment, I shake my head and remove my feet from the thick wire walls of the cage. I now hang from one hand, the other hand wrapped around the middle of the wooden staff. I only allow myself a moment's hesitation before I let go.

I plummet to the ground and the mutt below me rears up once again on its hind legs, jaws opening wide to welcome my slim build. If I could utter a warrior cry in this moment then I would but all I can offer the beast is a strangled sort of yell. It will have to do. My first foot find the beast's nose, the second its lower jaw. I shove hard, eyes swimming from the pain in my legs from the landing.

I've done a good job though, the mutt is beneath me, I've managed to completely crush its brain.

That means that only one remains.

I fall to the side in a desperate roll, instincts telling me that the mutt is likely to fall on my head if I don't. I was correct in this assumption. The beast lands on it's squished partner and I wince slightly at the squelching sound, scrambling to my feet as it launches itself at me.

I raise the wooden staff just in time for its jaws to snap it in two. I am left holding two broken sticks. I can make it work. Its claws rake across the skin of my torso and my shirt is torn. I ignore it, despite the sudden stinging there, like I've nearly been torn open. If the claws hold poison then I have seconds before I lose the ability to fight.

So I decide to end things quickly.

I rush the mutt, which is possibly a stupid decision but when it comes to battle I have never let that stop me. My gut has good ideas. Mostly.

I flip the two wooden sticks in my hands so that the sharp ends face the mutt, wasting no time. Neither does the mutt. It rears up, ready to perform a killing strike I suppose. I shove one of the broken pieces of wood into the belly of the beast, Kicking it into the thick hide with one foot. It sends us both reeling back but I won't take any chances after what happened to Will.

As the thing stumbles back, I take the other piece of wood and shove it into the eye of the thing. It tumbles in front of me.

The crowd erupts in a loud roar and I stand over the thing, panting but proud. This. This is why I was made like this, with these features. I was created to triumph, not be a feature at kinky parties.

It's then that I lose all feeling in my legs and fall flat on my butt.

Dang.