gatekeep, gaslight, girlboss {day 6 fight}

[Knuckles]

As the anthem plays, Maddox stares into the sky looking at the two faces of those who've fallen. Two more people have died, and with that they know they're halfway home. Halfway to seeing their family again, but what they can't lose sight of is the fact that eleven others are likely wanting the same thing, to make it home even if it isn't to see their families.

But then everything changes. It starts with a drop of rain, and it grows from there, and the winds pick up. At first it's a sigh of relief. It feels so nice after being so stinky and sweaty over the last several days. It washes the blood away, the dirt, and while it doesn't make the stench any better, being clean is better than nothing. It has been too long without a bath, and Maddox wants nothing more than to sit in a tub filled with hot water to scrub the grime away.

This will have to do.

Yet the rain doesn't stop. It grows stronger and stronger, and it's pouring, and it never seems like it will come to an end. Clearly the gamemakers are having some fun. Clearly they're wanting to keep them up all night.

Maddox pulls their things beneath the tarp and lays it on the ground counting the moments as the rain carries on, but it never comes to an end. The constant pitter patter draws them to a sleep though only to be woken as the wind tries pulling the tarp away. Sleeping in the arena is never easy in the first place, so why would it be now?

Eventually the wind does pull the tarp away, and Maddox is on their feet holding the spear close. It is hard to hear if anything is coming, and it's damn near impossible to see. Folding the tarp to the best of their ability, they stuff it away into their backpack again.

Each step is hard to keep standing, and all they want is a good night sleep, in a nice comfy bed, but to get that, they have to win. They have to make it home to their family again.

It doesn't take long for the clothes to plaster to their skin. This raincoat isn't any good. It is impossible to see which way they're going. Everything looks the same, and maybe that wind is trying to push them in a direction. They wouldn't put it past the gamemakers to be up to something anyway.

Even the greenery and shrubs look different.

Where am I?

Turing in every direction, trying to find something, anything, Maddox moves forward once more, and this is when they see him. Of course he's standing along others, and attacking him would be stupid, and doing stupid things may get them killed -

Or maybe they can make a kill in the process.

Maddox steps quietly, inching forward like a mouse only snapping a couple of twigs in the process, and then when they're close by, they jump out giving up the element of surprise, and they stop just a few feet in front of Abel.

"I see you're still here." They snarl as a smile spreads across their face. "Maybe I should kill you like I killed your friend." A sinister laugh follows, and Maddox taps the end of their spear on the ground. Taunting him won't do any good.

No.

But -

"Why don't you try, see what fucking happens!?"

Perfect.

Maddox raises the tip of their spear into the air -

"Have it your way then."

- and they don't look back.

[ made by kaitlin ]

Maddox attacks Abel with spear
zZ|aaYQ1Mnspear
{ 3155 -- Shallow Cut on Forehead -- 4.5 damage }

spear

[lance]

[presto][/presto]

z a n e .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

Bastian drives off and leaves me in the dirt, and I honestly can't tell if the cannon that fires seconds after is my doing or a coincidence entirely. But my head's spinning and my gut's on fire and I don't know what the fuck went wrong because once again I had a clear path to the end I so desired and once again I took the fucking coward's way out and the pain carving jagged bolts of lightning on my insides is an unwanted reminder that I am still very much fucking alive-

Against all odds, against my own fucking wishes and desires, I'm at the top fucking twelve. Me, having made it this far without any fucking help from the world, outside this bubble or within since the Sixes were cut down in our mad dash for victory or death. Me, who lost the will to live once the weight of the arena started fracturing my sanity into tiny bloody pieces. Me, who survived alone out in the wilderness for five fucking days with no assistance from within and no gifts from outside. Me, the fucked up orphaned street rat with nothing to lose except the fucked up life already guaranteed to not make it to thirty even without the Hunger Games.

I stand, and live, because Bastian Fray saw me jump onto his vehicle, nearly behead his boytoy of an ally with a single stroke of my blade, and still believed that I was deserving of a warning shot. That I was deserving of his mercy, when I'd done jack shit to earn it. Hell, I was the fucker that'd gotten lucky way back when there were still twenty four of us, the fucker that'd killed one ally, crippled another, and taken his hand off when our blades turned on each other, severing any chance of the tenuous bond we'd formed in the weeks leading up to then surviving, let alone thriving.

And he'd had the fucking audacity to give me a warning shot. A waste of a bullet, fired into thin air. And I should be grateful, should be fuckin' ecstatic that one of my deadliest rivals - a Career at fucking that - can't find it within his poor little indoctrinated heart to kill me right there in cold blood. And instead, I'm incensed. Like, to the point where if I was a mutt, there'd be flames dancing in my eyes and steam pouring out of my nostrils.

Look at me, fucking pissed off because I get to live instead of die. I'd ask what the fuck is wrong with me, but I'd long since given up on answering that years ago.

The vehicle does not return, and eventually the heat ebbs as the crushing feeling returns. Another fight survived, another pair of my rivals outlived. There's clearly nothing wrong with other tributes finding their deaths in this snowglobe of a prison, so what the fuck is wrong with mine? What makes me so special that I can survive going head to head with mutts and Careers with only a few wounds to my name? What makes me so unstable that when I'm threatened with death I want nothing more to live and once that extra life has been assured I want nothing more to die?

Once again, I find myself with too many questions and not enough answers. Good thing Death absolves you of all living concerns, eh?

A rumble of an engine pierces my conscious, sets my hackles on edge and buoys my heart out of my stomach - but it's not Fray, the fuckface, unless he slimmed down and dyed his hair black. The surge of excitement ebbs away like the tide - but then the jeep drives past and I catch the face of the driver and wait a fuckin' second-

"Oi, Cedric!," I call out to the driver as my body reacts before my conscious brain can catch up. "Wait up!"

I break into a jog, the lightbulb burning bright over my head burning any lingering thoughts of Fray and disappointment out of my head. Maybe it's genius, or maybe it's the epitome of stupidity, but here, on the eve of the fifth day, I've decided that I've had enough of trekking out here on my lonesome. I've never been an introvert by nature, and there's only so many days I can spend on my lonesome with nothing but the homicidal muttations out there for company before it gets old.

'Sides, what's the worst that could happen? He'll kick me out of his jeep? Or he'll agree and try and kill me in my sleep? There's literally nothing that can happen that'll leave me in a worse spot than now.

"Slow your skinny ass down and let me in!"

All I know is that if I spend another night with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company, I'd go completely insane. And I can't do that to poor Avriel.

---

But maybe there's no point in worrying about whether my mental break will hurt Avriel or not. Cause turns out that while I was parkouring onto moving vehicles and breaking down because I didn't get a bullet in my brain, Aneesa was the one that took the fall.

It's funny that seeing her face in the sky is as significant as it was. Here was a girl from a different walk of life from me back home in Nine, someone I'd never have known if not for the most fucked up of coincidences, and someone who I never would have formed a connection with if it hadn't been for Avriel. One look at that sorry motherfucker and I knew that I had to do something - losing both of us so soon after he'd beaten his own ghosts back into the void would break him in a way I wasn't sure he'd make it back from.

And my chance of a heroic martyrdom of a volunteering were snatched away from me by the hands of fate, so maybe making things a little easier on this poor soul who tried to ignore his own fracturing pieces by keeping ours together was my way of making up for it.

Problem is, it was always supposed to be her to get out of here instead of me. Five days and five nights of breakdowns and butcherings and one heat-of-the-moment murder solidified it for me that there's nothing of me worth saving - any last vestige of a redeemable quality of Zane Holbrook was lost and broken somewhere out there in the forests, somewhere between the murder of Iden Averill and the death of Arthur Rollei. She was the one with an alliance who would protect her, a life she could return to, a soul that may yet avoid letting the weight of the world break her like it did Avriel and myself. I barely knew the girl, and yet it was glaringly obvious - there was much more potential lying in her future than there ever was in mine.

And now she's dead, and I'm Avriel's last hope.

Fucking hell.

[insert overnight musings with cedric once cloodaddy gets back from disney!]

---

We're driving through the foliage where I killed the bird the next morning when all hell breaks loose.

Cause see, this might have once been the hastily constructed imaginary territory of an artificial being once but in the days between when I'd slain the forest's defender and now there'd been a hell of a lot of upheaval. And I'm not sure if it was pure chance or subtle nudging on the Gamemaker's part (because lord knows I've seen terrain changes that have veered tributes off track in many of the old reruns) but when we break into a clearing, it's a fucking party of rivals.

I'm not sure just how many there are, really, and I find I don't really care. Cause there might be enough faces here to make up the rest of the arena's population, and some of them are even familiar - I see Arthur's murderer lash out at the kid whose nose I broke way back when - but there's only one I care about.

And sure enough, there he is, half-dead boytoy still in tow.

"There," I point out to Cedric, and had I not already experienced the entire emotional spectrum over the last week I'd almost be scared as to how serious I sounded with just that one word. Because, like, it's me. Seriousness isn't in my vocabulary. Wasn't. Whatever. "I owe Fray there for yesterday."

And dammit, I thought I'd had it all figured out - a night to sleep off, a day to let the news sink in that I'm Avriel's last champion sink in, and I'd foolishly believed that I'd reformed. My life had meaning all of a sudden, even if it meant devoting myself to a boy I wasn't even sure I could save. But one look, and turns out the wound is fresher than I'd given credit for, because all of that? Tossed out of the window.

The jeep doesn't even have a window. That's how serious this was.

There's no protest from Cedric, and for the second time in as many days, I find myself hurtling towards Bastian's jeep. Only this time, this is no spontaneous act pulled out of my ass - this is a plan.

A half assed plan, to be fair. Hell, this time, I'm not just reckless, I'm stupid too. Like, seriously fucking stupid.

But then our jeep pulls level with the others, and I don't think - not of my own safety, not of the burden of my home and my mentor who I couldn't help but not find a soft spot in my heart to reserve or - and I just jump. Again. Onto a moving vehicle. Cause yeah, if you haven't already figured it out about me, I'm a bit of a slow learner.

This time though, I land on all fours, right smack dab on the front of the jeep. A windshield separates me from Bastian Fray this time, but perhaps that's for the best - this time, there's no getting caught by surprise.

This time, he has no fucking excuse.

"Make sure you don't miss this time, darling," I yell into the wind, the honey dripping from my words laced with the venom of my shark's grin. "'Cause that's a fuckup I'm not gonna forgive twice."

Honestly, I hadn't even forgiven it once. But I've always had a soft spot for pretty boys. Sue me.

My first attack takes the form of a hilt smash, cracking the glass separating me and Fray. My second is a perfect copy that widens the fracture, and my third, powered with anger and adrenaline alike, breaks through the glass entirely.

And my fourth? Well, my fourth attack aims right for Fray's bleeding heart.

elegant

zane attacks bastian; machete

_9YbMmo8wNsword

1095 -- Deep Gash on Right Forearm -- 8.0 damage

sword

[Python]

People were all the same, always ruining Cedric's fun. Rather than watching the epic dinosaur fight, he was forced to sink his blade into the guts of some loser who couldn't keep their hands off of Ty. "I would rather be alive and boring than dead and not boring."

They didn't know what true boredom was.

Is it boredom, Cedric? Or are you just empty?

Like it mattered.

Blood was warm, thick, and reminded him of prison. It coated his hands like a glove, but nobody had died by his hands yet. It seemed like he was more of a bad luck charm, watching his allies fall like dominoes day after day. One boy hesitated, one boy did not, and suddenly Ty was eating Fray's bullet like it was a mint. There was an explosion of blood, an explosion of a cannon, and that was it. No last words, no time to breathe. Cedric blinked and it was over. He was alone amidst chaos.

There wasn't much to say, so he skirted his way past the crowd and backtracked to his dented jeep. When he jerked the keys, the engine hummed to life. He didn't have a plan, but he had a motherfuckin' car, so all he had to do was keep away from Fray -

"Oi, Cedric!"

Interesting.

He slowed down long enough to welcome Zane into his bloody embrace.

"Who're you calling skinny, stick bug!"

They could have a blast together, even if it was one night. Cedric didn't like the idea of spending any time alone. Nobody to talk to, nobody to read, what was he supposed to do? Reminisce about his past? Fuck no, that was for boring people who cared.

Cedric didn't look behind him, only ahead. Always ahead.

So yes, he did let Zane climb into his busted ride. There was a risk of danger and betrayal, but those only further ignited his need to keep somebody around.

[insert dialogue and fun times with Zane when lance responds to me !!!]

---

Cedric rode the waves of spontaneity. He drove in no particular direction until the wheels were chugging through a lush green valley. He didn't stop until Zane pointed somebody out. Fray, huh? He had a bone to pick with Fray? Well, shit.

There was a moment of clarity, Cedric abruptly realizing he definitely made the right choice in claiming Zane. The boy leapt from one vehicle to the other like a frog, making himself known to the career and his lackey, and started breaking the glass like a madman. Cedric whooped from his side of the chaos and jumped out before allowing the vehicle to stop. As it rolled into a tree, Cedric joined his partner upon Fray's windshield.

"If he's got beef, I've got beef! Let's have a barbeque, yeah?"

He had pre-emptively lathered his machete in tar, and ignited his steel into a smoking pillar of danger. Challenging a career was ballsy, even for Cedric, but he already had the inevitable death conversation with Ty. Death wasn't scary, it was necessary and mysterious. Yes, Cedric had much to do, and plenty of reasons to live, but death wasn't the worst option. Plus, if Fray died, he could have defeat a career under his belt!

So he licked that bastard with the devil's tongue.

[uses tar on sword & lights it]

[attacks Bastian - hot machete]
s04R1Jz9nAsword
Severed Left Hand at Wrist -- 9.0 damage

fire
1-50
+4

sword·1-50

[pogue]

He dreams he's drowning in his own blood.

Crimson and obsidian, rotted and foul and it burns into his flesh until there is nothing but broken bones left. Every whisper, every rumor and every family story told in between the bump of the night drags him down into endless depths, over and over and over again in a cycle that feels like an eternity and a half. Lungs full of poison, heart gnawed from the inside out and he is forced to watch himself wither and rot from the inside out-

It's endless. It's fitting.

He dreams of his own blood spilling from his face before he jolts awake with a breath half-caught in his own throat, choking on toxic air as he rises from his seat. Sweat and rain coats his skin, melding into a disgusting mix that drips in between his lips and burns the tongue of a snake and a boy. He grabs at the steering wheel, nightmares leaving fear riddled in its wake as he waits for his own instincts to kick in, gaze gently shifting from his own blood coated skin and up to the makeshift roof they'd used to cover their vehicle.

When they finally kick in he quickly twists and turns towards Nixie and Sinead, biting down on his tongue until his eyes catch their chests rise and fall. Still alive, his mind reassures him as he sits in the front seat. For now, he thinks as he looks back towards Abel O'Malley, still clutching the steel of his javelins. 

He doesn't trust the boy, let alone respect him. He'd heard tales of religious fanatics running through the trees back in Seven, carrying enough danger to take down an entire District and claiming it was all done by the hand of a god no one had ever seen. He'd spat in its face back then and he would do it now. No respect given, no respect received. 

Fuck Abel's god, and fuck anyone who thinks a god like that deserves to enjoy deaths like these.

There's the sound of a zipper opening and a sigh of relief as the rest of his allies begin to stir back in the vehicle, a different type of rain eventually subsiding before Wiz zips his pants back up and makes his way towards the jeep, tearing off the tarp with reckless abandon and watching the sunlight shock Abel awake.

"Rise and shine." He says, tapping the back of the seat before jerking a thumb back towards where he'd just pissed. "I gave the spot where you prayed a holy shower." 

The silence between the two of them is still rife with disagreement when they finally come into sight of the endless expanse of trees, the tributes in between them quickly descending into chaos. Wiz eases up on the gas and presses slightly too hard on the brake, tires grinding into the dirt as his allies grab their weapons.

"Everyone out." He mutters, the Jeep slowing to a halt just outside of where the main fight has been brewing. It's a powdered keg attached to a lit fuse and they're all just waiting for it to blow, all just waiting for it to burn. He grits his teeth and tightens his grip on the steering wheel, feeling the hardened rubber press heavy into his palms before he glances over at his allies, watching them shuffle uncomfortably out of the vehicle.

"What are you doing?"

Wiz doesn't answer for a moment, too busy rumbling through his bag with absent mind and heavy heart. Because truthfully, he doesn't really fully know what he's doing, only managing to grasp at the shattered pieces of what he should have done and what he could have been.

It's somewhat fitting, for a Finch to never live up to their potential, to never live in general.

"How do ya break a curse?" He finally asks, to everyone and no one at once. He shifts his weight until he's resting on his back, before slamming the heel of his boot into the car windshield once, twice, until it finally shatters into a million pieces. Sunlight scatters and dances off the shards as they fall, bouncing against the hood of the vehicle and onto his lap. 

"Do everything all the past Finch's didn't, right?" He starts, resting his spear on the center console so that it juts out of the now exposed front windshield. 

"Fight where I'm just supposed to lay down." He stares at the fight in front of him, pulling the tar from his bag.

"Exist where I have no reason to." The tar spills onto the spear like blood, dripping slowly from the steel and the memory of nearly stepping off that Bloodbath pedestal runs through his mind again and again.

"Live where I'm supposed to die." He adds, trailing off into silence and grabbing the flint from his bag before looking back at his allies.

Care when I'm not supposed to. But he bites that one back.

They look at him like he's got three heads but none of the brains to match, and it's only then that Whiskey realizes he's rambling a monologue that no one cares to hear nor even attempt to understand. He shrugs, then smirks, poison dancing on his tongue.

"I'm gonna do something drastic." 

The sparks scream and fly as he strikes the flint, watching little orange embers dance and dissolve in the air before one finally catches and the spear takes on a new form, burning wildly in the morning sun and Whiskey slams his foot to the gas, the world around him fading into a blur as the vehicle flies forwards towards Bastian Fray's vehicle, now parked with some hood rat clinging to the top of it.

Courage instead of cowardice. His mind adds on, and he grinds his teeth into dust as the memory of his youngest ally burns itself into his vision.

The vehicle flies over a small hill and slams to the ground as it picks up too much speed to fall back, gears and metal grinding and groaning in protestas dust and dirt kicks up into the air around him, the vehicle in front of him rapidly approaching.

And there's a moment, fleeting and begging to be forgotten but still there nonetheless. Just before his car hits the side of Bastian Fray's and his ally, his hands glued to the steering wheel, snake eyes narrowed in on his targets, where he feels just as Tsara Fer must have felt in her last moments.

Brave.

[Wiz uses tar and flint to light his spear on fire]

[Wiz attacks Laurence ; flaming spear]

TlqDr057xgspear

[Shallow cut on chest -- 4.0]




1-50

[Result]

spear·fire

[Deleted]

a b e l .

"my heart is bending.
i keep rereading the
ending of your life,
expecting a next chapter."

The nightmares won't stop.

Spears and javelins, spears and javelins, spears and javelins. Those weapons haunted my dreams as did the ghosts of those who lives were taken from them. Six. It had been a year since my cousin died. But the images of Julian Le Roux's spear going through his neck were still fresh. There was so much blood.

Then Arthur, a spear in the eye courtesy of that bitch, whatever their name was. And finally, Aneesa. That one was my fault. I felt guilty, but I had to do what I had to do, right? My dreams didn't care. My dreams made me remember it all. All I watched all night long was those three dying over and over again on repeat. So, I was extra tired when Whiskey finally woke me up.

And when he did wake me up, I had no time or want for his bullshit. I had a rough night and that should have been obvious. I didn't have the energy to argue in circles with him. Plus I'm pretty sure even talking to him makes you drop a few IQ points. So, I decided to nip his need to argue in the bud, "Fuck off, Whiskey."

And then, we sped off from our little camp. This alliance was different, even the feel of it. With Arthur there was a level of trust. Because if one of us died the other would be alone. And neither of us wanted to be alone. Even when we were at each others throats, we knew we didn't want to hurt each other. And then, we began to understand each other.

Here? I don't really trust them - even Sinead - and I doubt they trusted me. The rain scared me, terrified me. The heavy downpour, almost like a flood. It was like that when Six died. Was this God giving me a warning? Foreshadowing what to come? Or was this God telling me to redeem Six? To finish this and do what he and Winger and couldn't.

I thought about the answer until I got out of the jeep and saw them. Maddox. The one who killed Arthur, who took him fucking away from me. I still couldn't believe he was dead. I wondered if he was even in the fucking ground yet back and Three. And here they were, mocking him. No remorse. And I knew this was a kill I wouldn't feel guilty about. After all, an eye for an eye, right? I slathered tar on a few of my javelins and lit my holy fire. Time for some redemption.

"Hey, fire. You'll be seeing a lot of that where you're going!"

[ abel o'malley attacks maddox rune with flaming javelins (10 javelins remaining) ]
[ javelin | 15177 | deep gash on right bicep | 8.0 + 1.0 target practice = +9 damage ]

fH4Y3mNRvvjavelin


[ fire roll 1/4 ]
[ fire | 10 | +0 ]

1-50

[ table by elegant ]
[ quote from "for instance" by shane koyczan ]

javelin·1-50

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

having your face hit
having your lip split
by the one who loves you

Her blood in my hair, her absence in my side—

it’s a surprise to miss someone I always marked off as dead or victor. Because Nylon had to be one or the other, that’s the nature of the game, but with her, it is strictly one or the other. She’d rather die than not be a victor. She’d rather win than be dead. There was never a middle ground for Nylon; there was only a crown that would bring out the blue of her eyes or a grave that would hide what she’d become. As I’m barreling through foliage and trees, I suddenly muse: I don’t believe Nylon would have wanted the world to see her as a broken corpse. I should have burnt the body right then and there. A parting gift from your love, Basty.

The trees become half-slashes of light and shadow soon enough. The world is fragments only, like stars you see when you get your jaw dislocated, and it’s a nice view. Who knows I’d enjoy driving so much? It makes sense though, the fact that I do. A car is easy and destructive and can run over anyone as desired. Nothing better than that.

Laurence is quiet. I am, too.

I have no more words to say. Everything I’ve needed to say, I’ve said and I’ve shouted and I’ve howled for the past ten years and I’m learning this late but now I know: actions speak louder than words. Sentences, begs, taunts: they are wind in contrast to the swing of a fist against a jaw. Father taught me that and other lessons. Like the fact you break a man’s punch by shielding with your body, not your wrists. Like the fact that when you drink vodka and champagne together, you cannot tell your son apart from your enemy, or a person you hate at the time. What an amazing father; golden award to him. If I ever get to hell, I hope I go with a trophy that has a plaque reading: “Congratulations! You screwed your son’s life over so much that he volunteered to die!”

He wouldn’t care, though. He never had.

And so I never learnt how to.

Legacy can be a blessing or a poison and for every Fray before me, it seemed the latter. Never has there been a Fray so ardent on burning everything, never has there been a Fray so brutal. Pillar was elegant in her cruelty, and Kasier knew how to put on a show. And then there’s Sophie, little bird, sweet cat, he still remembers attending her birthdays where she’d look like the youngest prom queen ever. Not too keen on how she went out.

Finally there’s me: daredevil, thoughtless, brutal, and a thousand other words that someone with a better vocabulary can conjure up. I am a dynamite constantly setting itself ablaze, I am a thing that has teeth all over him. I am the hound you set loose on houseguests you don’t like, and I am the boy you call for a gang fight. More blade than human, more gunpowder than blood, I have always been my father’s abuse-experiment-gone-wrong.

Thinking about myself like that makes me feel less guilt about killing him. Not directly, no, no, no, he did that himself, but I did buy all the liquors he liked, even as the doctors said his liver couldn’t take another glass of scotch. Is it murder if the victim stabbed themselves? I don’t think, so. I know his death wasn’t my fault, but there’s a little kid in me who cries over it on certain nights and I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. I hate that a part of me will never outgrow him.

Because even with a gun in my hand and three deaths upon my conscience, I remain a ten-year who’s more afraid of how wasted his father will be for the night than anything. Than death. And that’s fucked up.

I can feel my wicker burning out and flicker on its last flame. I don’t sleep when night comes, and I don’t plan to sleep as I stop the car and look over at Laurence. My eyes glint in a taunt: do it.

Kill me.

The challenge sends a dangerous thrill through me, one I’ve known throughout my childhood. Kill me, or at least try. That’ll make me feel more alive than anything else.

But he doesn’t, and whether out of fear or bond, I don’t know. I don’t have anything to say to him, but I do sigh and offer to him some food I found. And, looking up at the moon with my neck against the headrest, I eat my own rations in wolfing bites and sit awake through the night like some form of vigil. For Nylon. For the three I murdered. For my sisters, and yes, even for my father.



And the sky breaks an hour or so later, a soft pitter-patter of rain on the windshield that picks up strength, rakes through my hair. Any sleepiness I’ve had is washed away. I tip my head back, to the sky, and then the downpour soak through and out of me when it finally comes. By the time I start the engine again, I feel a part of the rain, a part of this whorling mass of wind and water, a storm disguised as a boy. The water does the contrast of what it does to fire to me: I burn against it, I become ablaze. Because now I know what I am, and now I know what’ll satisfy me. The death of everything, the burning of everything. Kill me, or at least try. That goes both ways.

Sharp tire marks are left in our wake. The rain has draped everything in a delicate ivory haze that I would have saw as beautiful if it hadn’t reminded me of a funeral shroud. The engine roars, its beats in tandem with my heart, and I hear others like it. Like animals gathering for a feast or a slaughter, we cross paths, rippling shapes in the rain. I pull the goggles I’d found over my head and stomp on the accelerator, barreling towards where I’d heard a car, and then—bang.

The world becomes fragments as everything spins. I hit my head, or so thought, but when the stars are winked out of my eyes, I can feel that my head is bleeding. Whiskey, eyes narrowed towards me, is at the head of the jeep now ahead of us. I grin, and show him the finger. I don’t stop grinning when I twist the steering wheel back around as I spot other faces: Nixie, Sinead, and Abel,
cowering at the back.

“You a victor yet?!” a shout,
“that’s not how victors act!”

Because I know.

I have lived under the shadow of one my entire life.

But I am not Justice Fray, and that means I am not a victor. And I don’t want to be. I never wanted to be. I only wanted to get that crown so that I can break it into a thousand glittering pieces like faux teeth. Bastian Fray, the worst prom king to have ever lived. Sorry to those who betted on me. Sorry to those who saw me as the next golden boy. It would have been great, and I know I outshine all these fuckers that can never rival me, but that isn’t what I came here for.

I struck a match the instant I entered the arena, and have been ardent on burning everything in it down ever since, myself included.

And so the steering wheel is turned, and I am stepping on the accelerator again. I am past Whiskey’s jeep when thud, a shape drops on my broken windshield. “Holbrook,” I say with my grin that hasn’t died. Zane. A boy who is as unafraid of death as I am. It feels like fate if I believed in it—it all started with him and I at the cornucopia, guns out, machetes outstretched, our grins identical twins. I bat only an eye at the next boy that joins in – is he looking to join his ally? – before I turn on the steering wheel again, hard, wheeling around to face where I hope Whiskey’s jeep still is.

There’s when Zane speaks and then a burst of pain across my arm. I relish it. I grin as I reach my gun mid-driving the car, and another pain, this one more scalding, rakes along the hand I’m holding the wheel with. Fire. I stifle my surprised yelp of agony and I titter. It makes me want to laugh. Because if I’m to die here then, meeting my fate with a boy as broken as I am and a flaming sword is the way to go.

It’s destiny, baby doll.

“I’ve always liked my meat raw,” I say, flashing my gun out at Zane’s face. “And don’t worry,” my lips curl, blow a kiss, “it’s always fuck ups with me, babe.”

The gun recoils in my grasp.

real love, real love
real love makes your lungs black
real love is a heart attack


Lyrics: Big Thief, Real Love.


( Bastian shoots Zane | Pistol )

rJLg39O6Fithrowing knife

6.0 damage -- (Bullet)

throwing knife

[bailee]

It's surprisingly not the sound of her allies bickering that woke her up that morning, but the downpour soaking her skin, chilling her to the core. It's cold and unwanted, a sum of her experience in the arena. She shivered, wrapping her frail and skinny body in her own arms but it didn't seem to help. The chill didn't disappear, even as the whir of the engine of the jeep came to life and the bickering of Nixie and Whiskey was replaced with the unwanted words of Abel.

They were going to run out of gas soon, both in their jeep and in their bodies. They had been too lucky this far, and she knew it was about to run-up. Whiskey had claimed his family was cursed - by the Games, by luck not being on their side. That was probably the only thing she and Whiskey had in common. The Williams were cursed as well - and if she knew anything from watching the Games, she knew the rain only poured when something was about to happen.

And goddamnit, it did.

Whiskey was changing his fate.

So why couldn't she?

She was the underdog from District Twelve - falling on the heels which donned her ankles, the low training score, getting her ass kicked by Nylon Gingham before the game started, losing her spar to the guy from two. Sinead knew she was nothing special - yet she had made it this far, she had outlived all of the careers who underestimated her.

It was her time, and as two cannons echoed in the distance, she knew this war was going to be bloody and brutal.

But goddamnit, she was determined to survive it.

"Get all your cool catch phrases in now," she shouted at her opponents, her voice cracking with exhaustion and awkwardness, "it's going to be funny once you all die!"

She laughed, her voice sounding almost maniacal as she brought her sword down on Cedric's ally.

It's time.


Sinead attacks Zane Holbrook, machete (Sword)
NAxUaQYN2psword
1033 -- Shallow Cut on Left Forearm -- 3.5 damage
(Sword)

sword

[kap]

My mother, she told me
"Don't get in trouble"
My father, he told me
He knew I would

-----

"We can't leave it without a parent," I insisted to Abel, looking at the tiny dinosaur that looked lost, wandering around after he had killed Aneesa. It must've been hers.

"You be its mom, then," Abel suggested. I wasn't sure if he was joking, but I took it seriously, scooping the little dinosaur into my hands and holding it up near my face to look at it. I smiled at it and carried it with me.

-----

Watching the anthem that night, I held the dinosaur close to me. I called it Emmy, not really knowing if it was a boy or a girl, but also not really caring. The two faces that showed in the sky that night were Aneesa of District Nine and Ty of District Eight. Our numbers were dwindling. Twelve of us remained in the arena, and I could taste home getting closer.

-----

I woke up the next morning to pouring rain. Despite my raincoat, I was still getting soaked. My shoes were starting to get filled with water, and I put Emmy in my pocket to protect it.

"Stay there, Emmy," I whispered to it. "You'll be safe there."

As we get moving in the jeep after a brief bickering between Wiz and Abel with Wiz behind the wheel, we splash through puddles that cause the water to lick at my legs. Spotting tributes in the distance, Whiskey tells us to get out of the jeep, and we comply. I don't usually listen to what he wants, but I had a feeling that I should this time. Tributes start attacking each other, including one taking a swing at Abel, and Whiskey rams our jeep into Bastian's.

I have the desire to attack Bastian: to avenge Tsara, but now was not the time. Weapons are swinging around, some flaming and all drawing blood. I slather my own blade in tar and strike my flint to light it ablaze as I scope out my target. The bloodlust is there. The urge to kill is ever-present.

One tribute stands out as particularly injured: the perfect one to make my strike against.

I speak to him before my strike.

"You're basically dead, dude— need a push?"

-----

lyrics: "Twisted" by Missio

[Nixie lights her machete on fire with her tar and flint]

[4f Nixie attacks 10m Laurence with flaming machete]
jUBVlBFmSWsword
[1128 -- Shallow Cut on Forehead -- 4.5 damage]

[Fire roll]
1-50
[Minor burn, +2]

sword·1-50

[Knuckles]

It is almost impossible to see, and even squinting their eyes offers little assistance. It has been a while since they've seen a rainstorm like this one, and of course it would come in a time where being able to have optimal eyesight is important. None of that matters here.

Listening is just as important, and maybe if Maddox stands still long enough, they'll understand where exactly everyone is coming from.

They barely made contact, and it offered enough to give them a chance to search for a place to keep an advantage because the element of surprise is gone. The fight has begun, and there is fighting going on all around -

None of that matters.

The only thing that matters is fighting the kid they saw before. They didn't expect anything different. Of course in the arena making friends can only push you so far, but what happens when they die?

What does it do to a person?

They has no friends, so this is a question they'll never be able to answer.

But I don't even know his name.

Cannons echo through the arena, and Maddox stops long enough trying to see if it is safe to run away, but they don't get a chance.

"Hey, fire. You'll be seeing a lot of that where you're going!"

Maddox pauses just for a moment, and turns towards the boy once more. All it takes is one movement in the wrong direction. They see the fire lighting the weapons he's holding in his hands, and they watch one come hurling towards them, and they dive out of the way.

But the pain follows.

Gritting their teeth, Maddox climbs back to their feet, and they stare at the boy. How dare he say they're going to hell. He didn't say those words, but Maddox is no fool. They know exactly what is going on.

How dare he threaten me.

Does he know who he's talking to?

Of course it doesn't matter. Maddox could've ran way without fighting, but they started the fight without a second thought, and now they're stuck in it, and nobody knows how long it may last.

"If I'm going to burn in hell, I am taking you with me." They snarl through gritted teeth as they raise the spear again. Death doesn't scare them. Burning in torment forever doesn't scare them. It's only a figment of everyone's imagination anyway.

Redemption for their family, it's what they desire, and there is only one way to get it.

[ made by kaitlin ]

Maddox attacks Abel with spear
Orhs95s8zxspear
{ 3139 -- Shallow Cut on Left Bicep -- 3.5 damage }

spear

[lance]

[presto][/presto]

z a n e .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

Go figure, it takes more than a witty quip and a single slash to cut down One's golden boy. You think I'd have learned by now, with how I'd crippled one of his allies and ended another, with how I myself had survived everything from a beak in my arm to a blade across my forehead to a bullet in my gut and still lived and breathed to struggle endlessly against the void.

But then I think back to Arthur from Three, and how he fell with one single strike to the brain, his puppet strings cut just like that. And that's not such a bad way to go, really - hell, I doubt he even felt anything. Here one second, gone the next, quick and fast. It's how I'd like to go, when the time comes. Lord knows it's what I've been striving for. Death might be inevitable, but there's plenty of space to fill in the details.

And I don't know why I'm trying to replicate the process with Fray here, not when that's far from what he deserves. Perhaps I have my own sense of mercy, twisted and fucked up as the rest of me.

Heh. I always got the vibe that the boy with Victor's blood running through his veins and my nobody ass had more in common than one might see on the surface.

Whether there's intent or not in his retaliation I cannot tell, only that my mirrored image blows a kiss through my heart instead of a bullet through my brain, and when my leg erupts in pain I'm not sure whether to laugh in relief or scream in frustration.

Karma at its finest. I play with my food, and I get played with in return. It might be fun beneath the sheets, yes, but not so much in the throes of mortal combat.

Yet as relief that I haven't disappointed Avriel fights with my frustration that Bastian at a point blank range still finds himself unable to kill me, Cedric steps up to the plate, his sword on fire - dangerous and thrilling at the same time - as it drags itself along Bastian's arm. And someone else might find themselves annoyed that their sacred one on one was interrupted, but pride was never one of the deadly sins I ever had the pleasure of knowing, thanks to my childhood.

(And really, my philosophy with just about anything is the more the merrier anyway so, you get my gist).

But it's not until I really look into Bastian's eyes for the first time that day that I see it. The fire, the fury, the swagger, the determination, all of the traits I had admired in this muscly golden boy back in the training center were gone. His bravado remained, yeah, but you know how they say that when you've experienced what someone else has been through, you can see it?

Yeah. Sometimes I forget that I'm not the only kid who's been broken down into a hollow shell of themselves in these bubbles of doom. I almost want to put my sword down and give him a hug.

"That's a rather pessimistic way of viewin' yourself, isn't it?," I ask instead, because comfort was never my strong suit but being an ass came as naturally as breathing and this is probably the first time in my life where that's been a good thing instead of a death sentence. My leg burns from where it was just struck by the hammer of Fray's vengeance, my body trembles as the constant war my balance is fighting ebbs and flows with the tide, yet my sword arm remains strong and my shark's grin never wavers even as one eye winks in response. "You should really learn how to cut yourself some slack, golden boy."

Fighting or flirting or comfort aside, it's with a single minded focus and reckless abandon alike that I swing - and hasn't it always been fun to break pretty things, Zane?

"'Cause fuck knows I won't."

elegant

zane attacks bastian; machete

pf_R4OV8Jzsword

1177 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage

accuracy, day six

sword

1011 -- Shallow Cut on Right Bicep -- 3.5 damage

sword·sword

[Python]

There was a lot happening, Cedric realized. He would never admit it, but it was almost too much, meaning he could not keep up with it. Get it together, idiot. He was the king of chaos, he thrived off of this stupid, chaotic, violent bullshit. One car slammed into their car, forcing Cedric to starfish himself across the hood and hold onto dear life. It's the way they all mirrored how desperate he as for excitement and vitality. Fuck. It was so impressive.

When he picked himself back up again, he noticed how much blood had stained the broken edges of Fray's windshield. Cedric had carved a large chunk out of him and singed the edges of the wound all at once. Zane was still with him, connected by a rib of sheer determination. Whatever the plan was - probably to kill Fray - he was dead set on it.

His vision finally tunneled. Bastian Fray became his focal point for the few moments it took for him to fire his gun at point blank range. He expected Zane's head to combust. His next words would die on his lips and he would be reduced to blood an brains, but instead Cedric found himself looking at a simple bullet wound. A wound that wouldn't kill him.

"You like it raw? Respect." Cedric laughed in spite of the danger. He always did. Somebody else would probably die before him -

Boom.

And there it was.

Fray's little passenger lay defeated, and that was the end of that.

This time, the tributes didn't scatter like lizards. Sinead came in like a fire-breathing dragon with a wild machete and a laugh that made Cedric wonder what the fuck happened yesterday. "Was that your cool catchphrase, Sinead? You might wanna work on that." He raised his eyebrow, paying little heed to how she raked her weapon across Zane's skin. Man, he really was a bad luck charm.

Oh well.

[attacks Bastian - hot machete]
3ZorF9hRg0sword
Deep Gash -- 8.0 damage

fire
1-50
+4

sword·1-50

[pogue]

He's seen enough death to know how crashing head first into the side of Bastian's jeep should have gone.

One moment he's flying forwards towards the vehicle in front of him, fire rearing an ugly head on the tip of his spear and the next he's thrown into a chorus of grinding metal and cracking bones, split skin and severed heartstrings and the world goes black for what feels like an eternity. He lurches forwards, seatbelt digging into his chest in a desperate bid to keep him alive, a job half done as he feels something snap inside his stomach and gasps as pain flood his system. He slams back into the seat as the world fades into view once again, blue sky flashing red with grief and rage before adrenaline floods his veins just like so many times before.

He snaps his gaze forwards, just in time to watch Bastian's boy toy lurch away from his spear as it slides forwards, the tip barely grazing him and leaving nothing more than a paper cut and a small patch of burning flesh. Wiz fights against the pain that riddles his form, hand clasping against the steel of his spear and pulling it back into the spot it once rested next to him. The metal still burns heavy with orange and red flames, dancing in the soft wind of the damp arena as Bastian looks towards him.

"You a victor yet?" Bastian says through gritted teeth and, for a moment, Whiskey sees nothing but his own reflection. It's humanizing,

almost.

"That's not how victors act!"

"Not a victor." He confirms between rasping breaths, pain echoing up through his chest from what he assumes is a broken rib. He smirks, all blood and grit as he pulls the handle of the vehicle into reverse, white-tipped knuckles contrasting against the blood that coats his hands. "Just some shit head from Seven."

His foot slams on the gas and the vehicle responds with a wave of protest, wheels taking one too many heartbeats to start turning and bent metal cracking and pulling as he puts the half-totaled jeep back into motion. The two vehicles are locked together, fused with sin and sorrow and everything in between as steel intertwines with steel for a brief moment, the jeep desperately trying to pull itself free from the door of a now dead boy before it finally pulls itself apart with fire and fury. 

Whiskey lurches forward with the sudden backwards momentum, a ripple of pain shooting up through his chest as the vehicle carves a bloody path away from the carnage in front of him, the sounds of screams and the echo of a cannon left in its wake. Whiskey continues backwards for what feels like only a second, twisting and turning the steering wheel and arcing the path of the vehicle until he finally slams on the brake, sliding through the muddy ground and his back slamming against the seat. Grit teeth and bloody rage, it's the only two things that have been constant in his life, and as he watches Cedric starfish himself against the hood of Bastian's half-wrecked jeep, his partner doing the same and swinging desperately at Bastian.

They're all half-dead already, he realizes, his gaze drifting from Bastian to Cedric and towards his own allies.

Half-dead souls are the most dangerous, and he's no different. "Out of the way Nixie!" He yells, not waiting to see if she jumps out of the way before he slams on the gas again, driving straight towards the hood of Bastian's jeep.

Gasping breaths and a family curse that has cracked veins on the surface, the memories of every Finch that quit before they started burn themselves into the front of his mind as he drives straight into the hood of Bastian's jeep.

[Wiz attacks Zane ; flaming spear]

OwYXnG61kdspear

[Deep gash on right bicep -- 8.0, +1 strength]




1-50

[And just like that...poof! Lola's gone]

spear·1-50

[Deleted]

a b e l .

"my heart is bending.
i keep rereading the
ending of your life,
expecting a next chapter."

Revenge.

"If I am going to burn in Hell, I am taking you with me."

The words made me smirk. Don't they know God is on my side? Why else would I still be here if not? But then, my confidence shattered at the familiar boom of the cannon. Just like last night. A spear through the throat. A spear in the eye. A javelin leaving my hand and killing someone I had never met before. And I needed to make sure they were all alright.

"Nixie, Whiskey, Sinead! Tell me that wasn't you!"

I waited for a response. I thought I heard their voices, but the rain and the arena both play tricks on you. After all, in all of the chaos and the bloodshed I swore I saw Six and Arthur at one point. But they weren’t here. They were both gone. And I’d never see them again, at least not today. I was determined not to.

“I’m not going to Hell, God helps those who deserve it. You deserve fucking nothing for what you did! You fucking killed him!”

The more I thought about Arthur, the more the blood boiled. Despite the rain, my anger and bloodlust kept me warm. After all, those two were all I had left. Avriel told me not to lose my humanity. And maybe wanting to murder someone wasn't human. But anger and grief, which my chest was flooded with, was as human as it got.

And maybe my humanity was diminishing. But it wasn’t killed yet. It was just on the back burner. Being human wouldn’t let me live this massacre right now. I needed to be strong, I needed to be ready to do whatever it took. And after this bitch killed Arthur? I was ready for it.

I got my second javelin ready, despite the first javelin going out it was still burning. I imagined Maddox going up in flames in an instant. Watching their lives end in a single, painful moment. After all, that’s what they deserved right? They didn’t deserve to die quickly or in a blaze of glory. At least in my mind they didn't.

I wasn’t thinking about their family or friends. I didn’t consider that I’d make them feel the same way I felt watching Arthur die, watching Six die. But really did it matter? I was going to win regardless. 23 tributes were going to die whether they were by my hand or not. I just had to keep believing that I was going to win, that God would continue to guide me.

Please keep guiding me, I’m scared.

[ abel o'malley attacks maddox rune with flaming javelins (10 javelins remaining) ]
[ javelin | #### | attack | +# damage ]

OJyKhmb|zDjavelin


[ fire roll 2/4 ]
[ fire | # | attack | +# ]

1-50

[ table by elegant ]
[ quote from "for instance" by shane koyczan ]
[ not me writing this on my phone ]

“javelin”·1-50

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

having your face hit
having your lip split
by the one who loves you

Everyone wants a piece of me, and not in a pleasant way.

There’s more chaos erupting behind the car as I wrest control of the steering wheel again, twisting it – hard – to shake off Zane and his companion.

But that doesn’t happen. They latch onto the hood and doesn’t falter. This is a tale about three boys who shows the finger to death, boys who are more dynamite than flesh, and he knows how those stories end. Nylon is an example. All of this will be prelude to a crash, a shattering of glass, bones, and everything that holds us together.

I don’t know if Zane and Cedric truly wants that in a way I do. I don’t know if they simply fancy the light of the flame. And they … they don’t know that I want everything a flame offers: the light, the burn, the destruction. The thought is cleansing. For all my life, I have been under the shadow of everything my father did that … to burn? To drown in lighter fluid and then become aflame?

It will be a blessing.

For a boy so full of death, I have never felt so alive.

“Born into pessimism,” I chuckle as my head tip up towards Zane. Our eyes catch. I lean in. Towards him, towards the sharp of his blade that I suddenly feel against my throat, right there under my racing pulse.

My lips fall ajar. “But you understand that, don’t you? Only when you’ve leveled up from being a pessimist, you become something like me. Something that doesn’t care if they burn.” We are each other’s reflections in a house of mirrors, bouncing ad infinitum, two boys who led a massacre. I laugh at his next word. Golden boy. “That’s funny, Holbrook,” my lips draw back in a grin, “because we both know I’m the farthest thing from me.”

Nothing about me is gold. Nothing about me shines. I am the forest and I am the fire and I am the boy watching it all burn, burn, burn.* Liza’s face pushes through my thoughts then, framed by the shine of a pyre behind her. She understood. I saw her eyes when she looked at that burning pile.

Zane, on the other hand … well, even reflections can be warped. He wants to win. Let him. My head tips up and our lips brush in a kiss of death, mine and not his, before I push him off the car.

( Bastian pushes Zane off | Unarmed )

KwFSw5Xs4Aunarmed

5078 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage (Unarmed)

And then my gun is out, held taut between fingers that do not shake. I look up, skyward, as I aim at where the gas tank is. Bang. Smoke cuts through my senses. The engine lets out a cry of mechanical pain. “Get off,” I tell Cedric. “Before my next bullet,” that’ll make everything burn.

real love, real love
real love makes your lungs black
real love is a heart attack


Lyrics: Big Thief, Real Love.

* inspired by Mitski's A Burning Hill.

unarmed

[bailee]

"I'm here," she says to Abel and hops in to help him, says something about God being there with them despite not believing in it herself because she wanted to get through the fight

Scoffs and ignores Cedric but feels a little embarrassed by his comment

Filler because school is kicking me in the ass tonight

Sinead attacks Maddox, machete
DWl8SigUa0sword
miss

accuracy reroll
swordsword·sword