no need for prisoners. acid trap, post bb.

[🌱 kaitlin.]

Blood on your hands, you search for Pope first.

You don't care about the body of the girl that you've left behind. Orders are orders, and you had only been following what had been requested of you, playing the game that the odds saw fit to throw you into. You saw the look in Pope's eyes when you grabbed at Celeste and shoved her spine into that corrugated hull until it came out the other side of her abdomen, the shock at your intention, the simultaneous lack of surprise, the part of him that snapped when he realized that he would be doing the same if he had any chance at going home. You've seen similar looks on people you've known through the years, the look of someone giving up, the look of someone quitting on themself, and it makes you want to scream having seen it on Pope.

You don't know what it was, but you saw better in him.

That's your own fucking fault though.

That makes you grind your teeth, the self flagellation, makes you want to find him even more. You are not someone who doubts herself or her capabilities, are not a girl who has ever wanted to doubt her decisions. But you doubt Pope, doubt why you trusted him in the first place, and it's not that you want to prove yourself right so much as you want to fucking kill him for proving you wrong.

He ran. Like a pathetic little rat skittering away from stomping boots, he ran.

Unforgivable.

"Where the fuck did Pope go," you spit towards Wes, marching your way towards the decaying metal doors, the Scrapyard sign above them barely hanging on by a thread. The awful sound of enamel scraping together echoes in your ears, the tension giving you a headache.

You go to hell for the things that you don't do, too, not just the things that you do.

And you'll condemn this boy for not fighting. You'll condemn him for running. You'll condemn him for it all.

"Come out, come out wherever you are, Pope!" you shout at the array of bullet holes. As you go, you rummage around in the rubble, scour the yard for anything you can use. You'll kill him properly for this, blade to his throat. A part of you wants to let him rejoin the group, let him go to sleep thinking you have his back and then put a knife in it during the night, but you haven't decided yet. A bigger part of you wants to look in his eyes while you do it, let him see you. You look back at Wes, hold his eyes a long second. You adjust the goggles on top of your head, look away. "I just want to talk."

You wonder if either will believe you.

They shouldn't.

parker collects sponsorship bits & scrapyard bits.

[gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte]

He watches, with rapture, the muscles flexing in Parker's jaw. Wes can almost hear the grinding of blunt teeth, feel the ache of tension in her temples. There's so much restrained within that little gesture, most of which remains a mystery to Wes because Parker speaks in fine print and he has never bothered to read past the headlines.

Instead, greedy hands busy themselves fiddling with obvious truths - like raking fingernails across a fresh wound. Pope's departure has unsettled Parker, though what the ghoul from One did to worm his way under her skin he can't be sure. Nor does he find himself particularly inclined to find out. "Where the fuck did Pope go?" Wes dances around the jagged edges of their new playground, hopping up on a heap of scrap metal only to discover it's nowhere near as sturdy as it looked.

His startled shriek trends toward laughter.

"Well, he's sure as hell not with us." He speaks in his typical airy drawl, so devoid of the weight of recent tragedies that it takes him aback. He roots around his skull for whatever he's meant to be feeling. Exhaustion or horror or fear. Anything but the strange lightness lingering in his chest.

Like parchment paper next to open flame, his lips curl up on their edges. It's involuntary, but also pleasantly warm. "Poor choice on his part." He mutters under his breath, too soft to be audible as Parker leads them deeper into a maze of war-torn memories.

Because, if it came down to it, Wes had made his choice the moment he saw a rusty hull erupting from the mess shredded skin and shattered bone of what was once Celeste Brere. When given the opportunity to stand beside a devil or a coward it was obvious which offered the easier buzz.

Parker's eyes catch his and he returns the look with a gaze as open and honest as the grin he still struggles to suppress. He digs the pad of his thumb into his hunter's knife hard enough that blood beads upon his skin before seeping down the mirror's edge.

"I just want to talk."

Wes holds her gaze long after she's looked away, like it's the first time he's actually seen something in her worth knowing.

"Yeah Pope! We're all friends here!"

It's a shame he's not gotten better at lying.

[collects sponsorship & stuff]

[sidney]

I wake to the sound of a canon, not entirely sure where or even who I am for a few moments. My memory is hazy, clouded and dirtied by whatever blow I took to my head. I know that much, especially when I reach to my forehead, pull back my hand, and see blood. Pushing myself upright takes three tries, all of them more excruciating than the one prior. My side aches, but I can’t remember why. It isn’t until I’m on my feet and my eyes land on various figures in the thick of a fight that it all finally clicks.

It comes in flashes, like shards of glass slicing through my vision. The morning. The countdown. Getting pummeled and pounced on as soon as I joined my friends’ sides. Parker gouging out a girl’s eyes and crushing her skull. I wait for the fear to set in, for it to soak up all the adrenaline and consume me entirely. A few steps forward and it happens just as I suspected. It settles into the pit of my stomach and I take off in a sprint, into the unknown and as far away from certain death as possible.

This was not how this was supposed to go. Don’t get me wrong, I never liked our chances — my chances. Not with the constant cold sweats and shakes, the incessant cravings and lack of focus. I’d relied on the heat of the moment, truthfully, for my survival. And how wrong I’d been to do so. Stumbling through the arena, I resign myself to the ground and ignore the footsteps I know aren’t far behind me.

Come out, come out wherever you are, Pope!

My heart starts to race and I can feel another layer of sweat forming along my brow as Parker and Wes search for me. Can’t they just fuck off? Clearly things went to shit and we were not as successful as any of us thought we’d be. At least not me. I groan as silently as I can, a shooting pain searing my side from the inside out.

A broken rib.
A broken boy.
A broken treaty.

I just want to talk.

Yeah, but her tone says I just want to kill you.

you should let her

My eyes shut and I wince as I shift where I’m sitting. Audibly. Fuck, they’re going to find me.

you should let them

What is the most frustrating is that… this isn’t me. I’m not craven; I’m a Vanburen. I’m supposed to be strong and wise and cherish the blood of legacy that runs through my veins. But what do I even have to show for it? Bruises and broken bones. Defeat and desolation. That isn’t what careers are made of, just ask the ones who approach — the ones that are closing in on me. I promised to stand by their side, and what did I do? I ran. 

Yeah, Pope! We’re all friends here!

Wes is a terrible liar. I want to believe him, though. I wish Parker meant what she said, too. That she just wants to talk. Yeah, if talking means slitting my throat. But there’s nothing left to do but stand and face the music, so to speak. Or I guess in my case, the sound of a canon.

“Yeah,” I groan again as I push myself back up. If I’m going to die, it’ll be on my feet looking them in the eye. Not with my back turned and my head down like a coward being executed. “I’m here,” I come around the corner with my hands up, blood staining my palms, and a half-smirk tugging at the side of my mouth. “What’s up, friends?”

[🌱 kaitlin.]

Wes's grin really ought to be unsettling.

The pair of you are an unsettling duo, you suppose, girl with armor for skin and boy whose grin only grows with danger looming. It's building affection in your chest for him, a tremendous swelling that makes you shutter slightly as a smile spreads across your own cheeks. Infectious, intelligence. Even more so, using it against someone else.

Funny how humans can be like that.

He's a worse like than you are though, and you roll your eyes when he shouts out after you. Not that you really want Pope to think that you're going to do anything other than kill him.

Something less would be an insult.

The sound of Pope coming out of his hole echoes behind you, and you spin on your heel, pocketknife pressed against his throat before he's even finished taking a step. You scowl at him for this, mouth down turned.

"Fucking christ, Pope," you say through gritted teeth. "Would you fight?"

The disappointment richlochets through you, the aggravation with self only growing with every second. You're angry. You don't get angry very often, have had a hard time caring enough to find yourself there, but this is enough. You only grow quieter though, know the importance of words.

It's the best thing about you.

Zeke has told you the opposite for as long as you can remember, has always been very forthcoming and willing to tell you all the ways in which you freak everyone around you the fuck out. The way you speak, and the ways in which you refuse to—he hates you for it as much as he loves you in spite of it. You refuse to try and make friends, and the ones that you do you always scare away. You go on dates and explain disgusting, bizarre facts with exhilaration and gusto, excitement unveiled; and every single time at some point or another, they realize you don't care about what they have to say in the slightest and their hearts break.

But you cared what Pope did. What he said.

And he ran.

A heart is too fragile to use.

You don't want to speak, almost think you're terrified to reveal too much. You reveal just as much in saying nothing though. You are so desperate for control you cannot even let yourself feel this anger that burns through you like battery acid, veins turning caustic. You can feel yourself trying to turn off, shutting down, closing off.

You slam him backwards, from whence he came. His hands, one raised, get pinned by your forearm across his chest, the pocketknife gripped so tightly in your hand now pressed against his throat.

"You could've been more than this."

Your head shakes slightly as you speak; you'll hate him for this, boy who you think could have loved you if he had given himself the chance. Not that you wanted him to, or that you think it's something that would've gone well for him. If it came down to you or him, you'd have killed him even if he stood by your side until the end. But he could've made it, you think. He could've tried, could've been more.

Now he never will be.

You think he goes to say something, but you don't want to hear another thing out of his mouth.

Blink and you wouldn't miss it, you push the knife in parallel at first, cutting his vocal cords off before he can say anything. He doesn't have the right to talk anymore. Everyone who ever called you rare really meant raw, and you prove it today.

You hold there for a second, then flick the knife across his carotid.

He'll bleed out in minutes.

Above his head, in neon blue paint, you spray paint a crown. Inside, the number two. Let them all know it was you who killed him.

"Up for a quick backtrack?" you ask with an arched eyebrow, turning back towards Wes. You eyes are still a little too bright.

You have another body left to tag.

parker cuts pope's throat.

flees.