Master of My Fate: Captain of My Soul [91st Finale]

[Tom]

"Werner wonders in the dead of night, isn’t life a kind of corruption? A child is born, and the world sets in upon it."
― Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See

"That's how the madness of the world tries to colonize you: from the outside in, forcing you to live in its reality"
-Jeff Vandermeer, Annihilation

"Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."
-William Ernest Henley, Invictus

You have made it. The end is nigh. Your body worn down from days upon days of violence, bloodshed, and never-ending emotional turmoil. Everything's come down to this. One more stands between you and your home or glory or fame or riches. You only must shed blood once more to prove yourself once more as the victor of the Ninety First Hunger Games. You are almost there. And as your feet take you away from the place you've spent the night through; watching the morning sun rise over the horizon in a pinkish light, forgotten purple emptied away as the roar of a beast sounds from far far away.

Fortunately for you, a path has been marked. Decay fading away into rebirth; plants growing in a path towards a relentless sea of green and colored flowers. The purple crackling magic surrounding the path as the roar sounds once more over your head. The flapping of heavy wings as the dark dragon which had wretched the arena apart with it's breath leads you towards your destination. Step by step, you start to realize you're not alone. Creatures of all kinds follow towards the field of living plants. Kobolds, Kua Toa, Harpies, Sphinx, Yetis, and many others. Silently they march with you, along the decaying ground. You can hear snarls, grunts, growls. Their eyes never look towards you. Unnerving, but not threatening.

After what must feel like hours to you, you've arrived. A field of flowers, grass, and greenery resides. Open enough for you to notice the other tribute there. The last one you need to kill. To outlive. To break. You can feel the corruption in your veins burning. The blackened color coming back to your skin. The purple burn of the dragon's breath you've gotten used to. You realize as you step into the center. Their eyes follow you. Muttations of all kinds, waiting to see what'll come of you both. To one side of you resides Maelstrom, the dark dragon with glowing purple eyes, the heavy breath she breathes leaking with that decay, but never reaching the earth below. Her eyes watch you both with curiosity, but also anger, you can feel her air of expectancy.

To the other side, you find the wreckage of a broken memory. The haunting glow of a red eye staring back at you both. There's a satisfaction in you both knowing the mechanical beast is halfway buried into the earth, but it doesn't stop that red eye from following you any less. A brief pause as the air grows with tension. You can feel the way your veins burn for release. There's violence to be had, but you can't help but take in the rest of the surroundings, despite how hauntingly magic it is.

Twenty Two corpses reside in a circle, reaching out towards the middle. Familiar faces of those you've seen night after night in the sky. Pristine bodies in perfect conditions, except for the wounds they'd carried. Hands reaching out towards the center. You swear you can hear them whispering, but there's uncertainty in the dead. They do not speak. You know this to be true. On the outer edges of this perimeter you've found yourself in are old statues, worn away with the purplish decay. Eyes filled with an emptiness towards the center. You recognize some of their faces. Victors in different disarrays of dress, all of which wearing heavy crowns upon their head.

Following the flowers inwards, you can see leftovers of games past, but also the current games you've found yourself in littered along the ground. At the very center, you've found the one and only Innkeeper, who's eyes are bright with recognition. You notice a blade in the perfect center of the field; a silver crown hanging from it's hilt. You know this to be the end. A fate sealed by your own hands before you. Your soul pounding with the knowledge of the final battle. The Innkeeper's voice rings out to you both.

"This is the end, adventurers."

You know what must come next.

"Let your fates be sealed in blood."

You must win.

It's the only way.

"Good luck to you both."

The end is here.

---

Welcome to the finale, tributes! Many congratulations on making it thus far. This is it, the end of all things. You may have as long as you need within reason to wrap things up, but please be considerate of your fellow tributes and mindful of the site's schedule.

Tribute Information:

Storm Adroxis D9 - 4.5 Damage - 4 Initiative
Self Defense
Blades

Texas Lovell D12 - 0.5 Damage - 2 Initiative
Self Defense
Strength

[lance]

He awakens to the rays of the sun shining golden beams onto his face, bringing about his return to consciousness blinking and cursing.

It's a fitting way to begin his last day in the arena, all things considered.

But composure, slippery as it might be, is a tool easily recaptured. It takes seconds for the string of annoyance to slide down his back like water and minutes for him to gather up the last of his meager possessions, and it isn't long before he's as prepared as he's ever going to be for something like this.

It's a tournament, of sorts, not unlike the ones the Careers organize and broadcast every now and then. He's killed four people to get this far, three all on his own. His opponent, whomever it is (hey, it's hard to keep track of the lives of twenty three others when he only really recognizes or gives a damn about two of them, okay?) would likely have killed at least two to get this far themselves.

No matter. If there's one thing that the last four days have taught him, it's that he, Storm Adroxis, is capable of so much more than he'd ever thought possible.

(For better, and for worse, as the four souls who've taken up residence on his shoulders whisper in reminder.)

Yet for all of the hype, all of the hubbub, all of the anticipation, Storm finds himself oddly calm. Sure, there's the pricks of anxiety and fear stinging his skin, his heart, his stomach, but there's nothing new facing him that he hasn't already faced before.

He's killed a boy locked so deep in the throes of corruption that anger and hatred had his heart enveloped in a purple cage as he breathed his last. Killed a boy so zealous in his beliefs he'd sooner die than betray them. Killed a girl so desperate to feel powerful that in her attempts to tear him down she revealed her own weakness instead. Killed a boy who, conversely, had embraced his weakness to the point that it'd become a strength.

There's nothing left in the arena that can surprise him. Nothing left in the arena that can deter him.

Storm Adroxis will return home, either with his shield, or on top of it. That, at least, is inevitable.

So he sits, eyes closed, mind resolute, letting the sun kiss his skin one final time until the tromping of muttation feet becomes too great to ignore.

One way or another. And he'll be damned if he doesn't know exactly which one he'll choose.

---

If he didn't know the Gamemakers any better, he'd chalk it up to one great big coincidence.

As it was, to find himself in the very same place where the old Storm had began to fall apart and the new Storm had been born is oh so classic Gamemaker that, had he the capability, he might have laughed.

It's the same setup as it was before. Great piles of rust and junk. A beady, mechanical eye, no doubt some sort of hidden camera (and were he not so focused on what was to come, Storm might have stopped and waved a cheeky wave). And of course, bodies upon bodies.

Different bodies from the ones he'd found before. There's no half-decayed Nowles or pale imitation of his family to scare him shitless this time.

Instead, there's a circle. A circle that, once he sees the first vaguely familiar face, isn't difficult to discern. Twenty two bodies, recognizable and unknown all at the same time.

There's December, a snarl still etched on his face. Willem, eyes closed, looking so peaceful he might be sleeping if not for the angry red tear in his chest. Cordelia, wide eyes staring into nothing, locked in rage or maybe fear. Cachimorro, even in death still smirking in defiance of the heavens themselves.

And others. A boy whose features are mostly obscured by a shattered mask. A girl who'd been savaged almost beyond recognition by what could only be mutt teeth. A corpse of a boy sans his head. Carly, face down, back and legs as much blood and muscle as they were skin.

How fitting, that he'd be forced to fight amongst the remains of those who'd fallen before him.

How fitting, that upon gazing on each and every twisted face, he felt absolutely nothing.

"That's probably a bit concerning," he realized.

Something to worry about after I'm done here, he decided.

A rustling catches his attention. A boy appears, looking almost as bad as Storm himself feels. (Though, really, who is in any sort of shape to pose for the cameras after over a week's worth of Hunger Games?) A memory flashes, of a long polearm catching into his shoulder all the way back at the Bloodbath of all places. Boy from Twelve. But other than that? Nothing.

It's probably for the better that way. Striking down the faces he didn't know had been infinitely easier than striking down the one he did, every single time.

"This is the end, adventurers."

It's the same voice from back at the bloodbath, deep, strong, and a little wet, as if its vocal chords were yanked from a fish.

"Let your fates be sealed in blood."

Yet the message is unmistakable. He knows what he needs to do, and he doesn't need whatever that is to remind him.

"Good luck to you both."

Pride might have once coerced him to reject it. Experience has taught him that he'll need all of the luck he can get and more if he's to survive.

Thankfully, luck has never been something that Storm has had in short supply.

He looks around, takes it all in one last time (the junk, the bodies, the boy), refocuses on said boy (who upon second glance looks so wrung out it's a wonder he's even still standing) and shrugs.

"You heard the slime," he says simply, relaxed, nonchalant, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

Only the way he swings his sword mere seconds later betrays that the facade is anything but genuine, as the blade etched with his cousin's name flies towards the boy from Twelve filled with equal parts ferocity and desperation.

(And was it any wonder why?)

"Let's get this over with."

storm attacks texas; bone sword

v6jK9XD13Esword

1090 -- Shallow Cut on Back of Head -- 4.5 damage

sword

[pogue]

It is early morning when he brings his final vial to his lips, hands shaking and waves of pain still flowing out from rotting wounds. Cracked lips press as hard as they can to the edges of the vial, so desperate for the release of nothingness, the call to the void, the anger that he always thinks he deserves. It's sweet, if only for a moment, the way the liquid rests on his tongue and slips slowly down his throat, so quickly followed by the bitterness of what he knows is to come, the red and the purple and the escape.

It's the last smile he cracks in an arena like this, slipping desperately into an escape so sweet, feeling rage and fury overcome him once more in a deadly dance between pain and punishment, of taking what is his just so that it can wilt in his hands.

But, like all things bad, everything good, it ends too soon.

He is pulled back wordlessly from the edge of his own salvation as his body cycles through the liquid at break neck speed, tolerance built up of a hundred different gulps of purple rot over the past few days and form too wounded to be able to slip away from it. He feels something sinister, something so much worse slip back into his form as he curls up underneath the remnants of a once beautiful tree, shadows curling and dancing around his body, reminding him that he will be put to rest as the final part of his show.

Ghosts, demons, what he has ran from, he watches through bloodshot gaze and the shattered glass of the moonlight as the shadows close in once more, carrying with them the spirits that have so restlessly been kept at bay, red fading into purple into blue- into nothing.

Wordlessly, he feels them join him.

---

He carries ghosts and demons with him as he walks, stumbles, feels patches of rotting skin flake from half-healed wounds and joining the decay below. Eyes bloodshot and limbs shaking though his grip still remains white-knuckled against the spear that has guided, forced him forwards, Texas Lovell is a dead man walking towards his last stand, hopelessly diving into the void and letting it claim him.

Purple in his veins, in his bones and it doesn't let him see anything other than what lies ahead, blurry and ominous, red tinting the edges of his vision as he breaks free from the final resting place of what is left of him, path charted before him in wilting plants and dying souls. The arena breathes with anticipation, desperation, bloodlust, and piece by piece he watches the remnants of a Games he had no place in join him in his final quest.

He can't look anywhere but forwards, murmuring bitter nothings out into the air and feeling his body shake and clamor for the numbness he has been chasing for days now. It's in the edges of his vision that he sees the creatures join him in shadows, mindlessly looking ahead with him towards the coffin that waits. He hears their every breath, every cry, every snarl that slips from bared fangs and hears his body match it with a variant of his own: painful gasps, harsh whispers, dying promises.

It's only when he feels the ghosts of his past, present, what will haunt him endlessly press into tired shoulders that he finally starts to think of what he's become. Of his brother, then his sister, Alpha, Andrew, Carly, Brody- himself, of the atrocities he's committed while laced in purple and red, that it was unavoidable, that he was always this way.

He killed what was left of his innocence so many years ago. He has always been a murderer, he just never had to show it.

It feels like an eternity before he finally crests the final hill of a dying land, bloodshot eyes widening as he looks upon the suddenness of new life in front of him, of a graveyard marked and something sinister reaching out and grasping at what is left of his heart. There are beasts that reside here, waiting in stoic containment and purple haze still hanging in the air as he stumbles forwards once more towards the center. To his left is an end, mechanical bones and fading life carved into the earth in red, its final coffin. To his right sits the beginning in purple, angry eyes and the ragged breaths of a beast that awakened what he always was watching him move forwards.

Ghosts join demons join broken, dying boy as he feels himself bleed softly into the air. Faces of those he never knew, of those who he knew too well, they reach out towards the center of a ritual long since marked for death, surrounded by memories of what he will become in just moments, no matter what happens. Through tombstones and corpses he stumbles forwards towards the third of the beasts, its voice breaking out into the dead air surrounding them, hollow and menacing and everything in between. 

"This is the end, adventurers."

He clutches his spear and feels it grind into his palm, dried blood flaking off of the stalagmite and to the ground below. He knows this.

"Let your fates be sealed in blood."

It already has been, he thinks, feral thoughts and dried cakes of blood still coating his flesh in the harsh sunlight.

"Good luck to you both." 

And he knows that he will need it, that it has long since run out, that he has been a walking corpse roaming the land for the past four days straight. There is no luck left to be found in Texas Lovell's dying heart, severed heartstrings and nothing but a bloody spear left over, bloodshot eyes turning to look towards his final opponent, so hesitant to recognize that the last monster he will ever have to slay will be himself.

To Storm Adroxis he might look like nothing but a beast of a boy, scrounged from the bottom of a rotting coffin and injected with pure sin, clamoring for the purple liquid that has long since left his lips. "You heard the slime. Let's get this over with." Empty vials still cling to his waist as he instinctively feels his muscles tense, glass hitting softly against his hip and singing one final, soft funeral hymn into the soft wind. He chews his own words and, in turn, feels them chew him as well, clawing up his throat before he finally speaks. "Let's." He agrees, tries to muster up the same sense of rage he had felt just days ago, attempts to grasp it and inject it back into his veins once more. But there is too much sadness, grief, pain, emptiness, all he can do is sputter over his final words and feel nothingness drip to the ground in black liquid.

Take what is yours, a voice rings out in the back of his mind. 

Or, let the arena take back what it has already claimed.

[Tex attacks Storm ; Spear]

SGo3UBneUfspear

[4]

spear

[lance]

Like with many of his opponents, Storm knew little about the boy from Twelve before entering the arena. And aside from the fact that somewhere between the bloodbath and now he'd exchanged his polearm for a spear and that he looks seconds away from death in his own right, there's little more to be garnered from observation alone.

But looks are deceiving. Storm's first attempt to end the battle in one strike is thwarted, and much like his own attempt to pierce Cachimorro's brain the day before his blade merely scrapes alongside the back of Twelve's skull. The droplets of blood that are drawn are inadequate, the flesh wound delivered merely one of many that he'll need to repeat in order to escape this godforsaken arena with some semblance of life still beating in his chest.

And really, Storm shouldn't be underestimating him. Haggard as Twelve might be, the slice along his head is the only open wound that he can find on his opponent's form. Whomever the boy from Five had been, it clearly hadn't been someone who'd made it a close fight, not like his own duel with Cachimorro had been.

That, in and of itself, was concerning. If Twelve still possessed the ability to locate and eviscerate vital spots looking the way he did, well, then Storm would have to stay on his toes, literally as well as figuratively. It's not unlike fighting Cordelia, in a sense - Twelve by all intents and purposes is an opponent who's bigger and stronger and more skilled than lanky little Storm in his fourteen year old pubescent body, evened out only by Storm's own ability to take the purple and know exactly how to keep it at bay.

(Even if he can feel it lurking in the back of his mind, ever watchful. Ever prepared to take control and do what needed to be done, just in case.)

And he should focus on killing the other boy quickly and cleanly. On striking out, excising Twelve's life from his shell of a body, painting the vibrant green grass he stands on with a fresh coat of bright crimson from his blood. But Storm's always, always been too nosey for his own good. Been too much of a chatterbox at inappropriate moments.

And in a few moments, either he'll be dead or the boy from Twelve will be, so, really, is there any reason to conform to antiquated rules of decorum and politeness?

"Dude, you look fucked up," he can't help but blurt out, seconds after the other boy's own strike sliced into his back. Just like the wounds on Carly's back. "Like, seconds away from crumbling away into dust fucked up. Like what-"

And then he sees it. The purple flashing down the veins of exposed skin. The soft unnatural glow pulsing behind Twelve's dark gaze. And it all clicks into place.

"Dragon really got ya good, huh?" He grips his sword tightly, looking for an opening - he might have speed but Twelve has reach and one wrong move will see him skewered on the end of his weapon like a dinnertime roast.

But really, he can't afford to hesitate. Can't afford to show sympathy. The kids that won the Hunger Games weren't the ones who paused halfway through a fight to show mercy to their foes.

(Or if they were, they turned into people like Avriel - forever haunted by what they'd been forced to do.)

So again, he shrugs.

"Sucks to be you, I guess."

And again, he swings.

storm attacks texas; bone sword

3RuAhF2paPsword

1191 -- Block -- 0.0 damage

accuracy, day nine!

sword

1024 -- Severed Right Hand at Wrist -- 9.0 damage

sword·sword

[pogue]

They fight in shadows and dance in the light, hopelessly lashing out into the void and dotting little red lines across one another's flesh. His spear connects softly to Storm's flesh as the boy turns from him, looming within his shadow and wielding his weapon with the same gracelessness that Tex does, clutching it within his grasp like an extension of himself, as if the pain they share is rooted in the hilt.

It is.

Texas steps backwards into the newfound life of the arena, steadying himself on shaking legs and gritting his teeth as a wave of pain washes over him. His body claws at itself from the inside, lungs heaving poisoned breath and what feels like fractures echoing up and across his chest. It's all it takes left in him to not collapse to his knees right here and now, to take to the earth in one final memorial to a boy too far gone, to let the earth take him once and for all. It's adrenaline that pulls him back from the edge and back into the turmoil, mixes with the purple that comes through bulging veins underneath tissue paper skin, fangs bared, boy broken.

He swipes out into nothing but air as something of a warning, feral and graceless, blood splattering to the ground and staining fresh grass red, lining his coffin. White knuckles press into the stalagmite laced within his grasp, pointing it towards Storm's neck as if to make himself a promise that he knows he cannot keep. His opponents have all been deadly thus far, from Alpha to Carly to Brody Loomis, death clinging to their forms and blood left on their necks. Now he looks towards a boy half his height and feels his stomach sink, a by-product of the purple seeping from his wounds and falling to the grass below, a viewing of someone as human, of himself as anything but.

Storm Adroxis is a boy that he will never know, sitting in his own shadow and threatening to consume him. Tex is the same to him, they are mirrored images of broken glass, waiting to die no matter what happens.

"Dude, you look fucked up," And Tex feels his body try to laugh, gasps at the pain that shoots up his throat instead. He knows what he looks like now, had the gall to catch his face in the river water before killing Carly. Storm is right, he is. He nods, a confirmation, as if to do anything else would make sure he has nothing left. "Dragon really got ya good, huh?" 

His vision blurs, a heartbeat, an eternity, and before he knows it the boy is darting towards him again, silver stained red swung out in the air.

His first instinct is to raise his hand once more, just like he had done with Carly, to block the attack and feel his gloves take the brunt of the hit with a little sliver of red left over. And he does, catches his own shadow blocking his face as he raises his arm, feels red splatter against his cheeks 

"I've seen better days." He finally gasps out between clenched teeth. Just, he can't think of any right now. "But I've also seen worse." 

Faces flash through his mind in between pounding heartbeats, Cain Kiptyn Alpha Andrew Carly Brody his brother his sister his mother his father, of piercing their necks and carving a smile of crimson and black, watching them fall to the ground, catching his own image in the pools of blood. There are too many worse days to count. Selfish, he throws his pain to Storm Adroxis in the form of painful whisper, "You have too." A fact, "Tell me who you killed to get here." 

Empty vials of purple stained red clatter against his waist as he lunges forward.

[Tex attacks Storm ; Spear]

xxfnd92SIqspear

[0]

[Accuracy]

spear

[8.5]

spear·spear

[lance]

Blows are exchanged. His sword nearly severs something in the boy's forearm, but his spear catches Storm's own bicep in retaliation. A trade of blows that doesn't necessarily favor him - but not one that damns him just yet, either.

I've got this, comes the thought to himself, as if thinking about it hard enough will manifest it. I didn't kill Careers and vengeful boys just to fall here at the very end.

To this day, he'd never dared ask Night what, exactly, he had gone through that had shifted his demeanor so far into the realm of melancholy. But he knew it'd incorporated some sort of great suffering - that was the Adroxis way, after all, even if he'd been too young at the time of the reaping to understand it.

This was his own trial. This was his own path to being broken down and reforming himself into his greatest form. And the fight wasn't a sprint, it was a marathon.

One he still intended to win.

"You've seen worse than this?" he asks incredulously, giving the boy a once over to confirm that he was, in fact, not deluding himself with how terrible he looked. "Remind me to not explore too much when I visit Twelve."

Manifestation. Hold the confidence close to his heart. The results will follow, soon enough, as long as his commitment never wavers.

I've got this.

Twelve asks who he's killed, and there, perhaps, Storm sees his opening. Tributes don't ask each other who their opponents killed unless they're trying to confirm their own worst fears - he'd seen as much when Cachimorro's energy had briefly turned itself on its head after he'd mentioned killing Cordelia, seen as much when Cordelia herself had laughed in his face after he'd dared suggest that, maybe, he'd killed one of her fellow Careers.

He wonders how this half-dead boy from Twelve would react if he heard just who, exactly, was on his own kill-list.

"Oh, you know, just the usual." He stalks the circumference of the circle, never taking his eyes off of Twelve until he stops at December's body. "This guy here was much like you - driven mad by dragon spit, spitting venom until his heart gave out." Saunter, stop. "Then a couple of Careers, back to back, so overconfident they failed to see how much they'd deteriorated." A lie, to everyone who knew better (but how in the world would Twelve?) Saunter, stop, a poke with the sword into pale, fleshy bicep. "And then you know who I got yesterday."

Pause, observe, exploit. "I got worse. I learned that dependence on that purple shit only dragged me down. I got better." Flourish the sword, and unlike with Cachimorro, there's no almost-drop this time.

"Hope none of them were friends of yours, though." Another lie - he hopes, desperately, that one of them was. That the anger would unbalance him the same way it did Cachimorro. "Can't say I know what it's like to lose one in here."

A third lie, even if he'd ended Willem's life all on his own. But what is honor when his very life is on the line?

Honor isn't what wins the Hunger Games, most of the time.

Honor isn't what lets Storm see the decrepit state of his opponent and offer him mercy.

Honor isn't what makes the decision to strike before Twelve can respond, hoping that this time, the blade will strike somewhere true.

Honor is a comfortable bed for the dead.

And Storm?

Well, Storm refuses to fucking die.

storm attacks texas; bone sword

NZ88xHP45Gsword

1049 -- Shallow Cut on Stomach -- 4.0 damage

sword

[pogue]

They trade blow for blow once more, steel meeting flesh and pulling roses up to the surface in freshly made wounds, muscle and sinew pulling apart in painful thread, the whites of weakened bones showing in the sunlight. Tex shouts in pain from the last hit, feels the adrenaline in his body hopelessly attempt to overcome it, stumbling backwards away from the boy and towards the corpses that line the outside of their arena.

Spirits catch him, ghosts clawing at his heels and demons pressed to tired shoulders. He's felt this before, the hopelessness of a swung blade catching nothing but flesh, the retaliation of it on his own body. Carly Volkov carves a memory into his mind of determination and grit, graceless fighting and a river running red in their wake. He grits his teeth, steels his gaze and feels something akin to rage bubble up from the pit of his stomach, biting back the ghosts that so adamantly approach him.

"Oh, you know, juust the usual."

Storm Adroxis makes a show out of the living and the dead, sauntering around on shaking heel and bleeding limb with a sword clasped in his hand. Tex listens with half-intention, swaying softly on cut up legs, white-knuckling his spear in preparation for what he knows is to come. A part of him almost respects the bravery, or perhaps the stupidity, of Storm Adroxis poking the corpses of those he's claimed to kill, looking them in the eyes only to laugh in their faces. Another part of him hates it, gaze dropping whenever bloodshot eyes come to rest on the form of one of his victims or, worse, on the eyes of one of his former allies.

"I got worse. I learned that dependance on that purple shit only dragged me down. I got better." 

Now it's Tex's turn to feel something of a chuckle carve up his throat, coming out as a painful breath of air. "This is better?" His eyes take note of wounds both new and old, of steel stained red, of a dying boy both himself and Storm. Tex knows what he is, what he looks like, that it's easier to relate him to the bogeyman than view him as a human. But Storm Adroxis is wrong, there is no better in a place like this, purple or not.

"Hope none of them were friends of yours, though." 

Tex moves his spear in response, as if pointing to the answer. He is, the tip of weapon mindlessly floating along the paths of the corpses he's put in this coffin. "None of us were ever friends here." 

He stomachs the lie and feels its acid burn his tongue, lips. Bites into purple and feels it bite back, raises his spear and watches Storm Adroxis dart forwards once more, steel connecting with his own stomach. It's shallow, a little line of red in the daylight, but it's enough for Tex to step backwards and kick up dust amongst the newly grown flowers, for the dragon that watches them to breathe deep and offer one last bit of purple hue, for Tex to grab at Storm's form just to keep him close, for his own spear to raise in retaliation.

"I've killed a lot worse than you in this arena." 

[Tex attacks Storm ; Spear]

sSqeO9Ffauspear

[3.5]

spear

[lance]

What's it like, trying to pry open secrets from a living, breathing, corpse?

Damn near impossible, from the sound of things. Twelve is notoriously tight-lipped, listening as Storm goes on about his kill count and offering little in return. So too does he react less than ideally when Storm's attempt at disembowelment goes awry - a shout here, an oozing of blood there, yet Twelve still stands and lives and breathes.

And laughs, mockingly. Yet Storm's never been put off by someone not being taken seriously. "I mean, yeah?" he replies to Twelve's scoffing that Storm's current state was better than his own. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not look and feel like a living corpse when I get out of here to live the rest of my life."

Twelve strikes, but Storm is ready for him this time - a stab that would have otherwise gone through his face had he not moved is caught by the very same strip of armor that he'd looted off of Cordelia's forearm. The impact is shocking, pushing his arm almost back into his face, and the movement itself reckless - Storm can tell that that's not a trick that's gonna work twice even before Twelve withdraws - but it works, all the same.

"No friends for you either, huh?" The smile that crosses his face isn't quite warm and fuzzy, isn't quite cold and mocking, but somewhere in between in the form of the smile haunted by the pain of familiarity. "Maybe that's the secret formula for getting this far, or somethin'"

He tears his arm free, watching for a brief second as the vambrace cracks off his body and onto the floor below. Twelve declares that he's killed far worse than Storm in this arena, and he can't help but chuckle - what was that supposed to do to a boy who'd slain a Career where she'd stood? Intimidate him?

"Oh, really now?" And now he's tapping into the side of him he'd used against Cordelia, the side used to mischief and practical jokes and riling up his siblings or, really, anyone in a position of authority. "Please, tell me all about how your past conquests stack up against mine."

Speaking of, there's still one more to add to that list.

storm attacks texas; bone sword

5R3i6P5fmCsword

1141 -- Block -- 0.0 damage

sword

[pogue]

His spear is held in a strong arm with shaking wrist, bleeding out at the seams and stumbling in its movements. He aims for the boy's bicep, exposed flesh in the harsh sunlight and bloodied spear stabbed downwards. But Storm Adroxis is nothing if not slippery, utilizing everything at his advantage to break free from his grasp. In the end the tip of his spear stabs downward directly into Storm's armor, and no matter how much bruised muscle Tex puts into it he knows the hit is nothing if not futile, confirmed by the way Storm steps backwards virtually unharmed.

"No friends for you either, huh?"

There's a piece of him that cracks, shatters, rotting flesh and purple veins and a the quick hint of sadness that dances across his face as he stands across from Storm Adroxis, his only remaining friend the blood-stained spear in his hands. The memories are fuzzy now, purple and red and black and fading, but he can see images of Kiptyn and Cain and his sister and brother and childhood rituals outside of their home, holding their hands and feeling their warmth collect and swirl in his palm, feeling it leave them.

It's almost instinct now, the way his hand moves towards the vials that collect at his waist, the way his stomach sinks when he realizes all that was once there is gone. He grimaces, bloodshot eyes glaze over as if he's looking through his opponent, as if he can see what the end looks like. "Had some." He admits, or maybe it's more of a convincing, or maybe it's a lie, a broken promise. He has killed everything he cared for in life and in this arena, left it to rot at his fingertips only to slowly join it.  They're gone now, a voice in the back of his head reminds him.

"Maybe that's the secret formula for getting this far, or somethin'." Tex itches to find naivety in the boy's words, looks at his age and his stature and has to remind himself that Storm Adroxis has died just as much as he has in this arena, has stolen lives just as Tex has too. "Maybe it is." He's a boy of few words and fewer emotions, a dying corpse begging to be reconstructed, Storm and him find middle ground in the void itself, in the loneliness.

They separate almost as soon as they find common ground, Storm launching backwards and Tex's shaking grip impossible to hold him long enough for another strike. There is sarcasm that laces his way into the words, adolescent, dripping with it like it's something sweet. "Oh, really now?" 

Tex's spear meets Storm's blade as he swings, blood to blood and life to life. "Please, tell me all about how your past conquests stack up against mine." Tex grimaces, feels purple rage bubble up from his stomach and into his veins once more at the thought of the bodies that have piled up in his wake, a raging bull begging to be put down. Emotions push and pull at withered heartstrings, tear into him from the inside out. "Career from Two. Alpha." Alpha, the name rings familiar on his mind, a smile carved red. His spear shakes as if in response to the start of his own demise, the reminders of what he's done.

"Andrew Priest." He continues, rage and purple filling his veins once more, "I split both their necks open." He steps forwards into the dead space between the two of them, reminds himself of how far he's come, how he is too far gone to step back now. "I killed Carly Volkov in the river." There are wounds that still litter his body, threatening to open up once more. "She fought to the bitter end." Fangs bared, a grimace rolls across his face. "And Brody Loomis." He rattles off the names like their an achievement, like their deaths were anything but ghosts to pil up on his back. "He wouldn't take his mask off." 

And finally, he points his spear towards Storm once more, readies his muscles to fire off. You. 

"I don't feel bad for what I did to them." But that part is a lie, written in purple and spoken in red. "Do you?" 

He doesn't wait for the answer.

[Tex attacks Storm ; Spear]

2g8YH90oxfspear

[3.5]

spear

[lance]

Things rarely go according to plan for Storm. It's always been that way - he'd lost count of the number of times one of his antics had resulted in him crying crocodile tears to Eve to solve his problems or how one of his pranks had resulted in a stern talking to by his parents instead of the laughs he'd tried to create. And really, it was no surprise that they'd continued in the Games, as well - no one had wanted to ally with the hyperactive Nine kid who'd made a mess of the pool way back in the beginning and then had clearly proven to be more trouble than he was worth in the end.

But when he'd finally struck gold with the boy from Twelve in getting him to admit a spot of weakness, he hadn't expected to feel empathy. Friends in the arena, friends that had since passed on and left him behind. And suddenly Storm feels ashamed for all of the times he'd called Twelve a walking corpse - fourteen years old he might be, he was still from Nine, and not so sheltered that he was blind to the way his home worked.

Everyone coped with the pain in different ways.

"Yeah. Me too. Just one, though," he admits, the fact that he'd all but lied mere minutes ago lost to the wind in the face of a true, genuine connection. Perhaps that was his greatest weakness, here in the arena, the reason he hadn't snapped off the deep end and become a psychopath fully. Perhaps his ability to empathize, to relate, thrown with all the carelessness of a fourteen year old who doesn't know any better to the wind, was what would do him in.

Or maybe it was his strength, instead. Maybe it was what allowed him to hold himself together through nine torturous days, what allowed him to look deep into the abyss of the purple and pull himself back out of it when it was no longer necessary. Maybe it'd be what saved him when he should have died twice over and not rendered him mad from the experience.

There's no denying that he's far from the kid he used to be back before all of this ever started. But looking at Twelve, watching as the purple surges in intensity for a minute as his spear smashes Storm's other vambrace to pieces, things could always be worse.

But for once, he sees it not as something to gloat about, but as a warning.

The purple only recedes when Twelve lists off his own kill list, starting with a Career girl (and between the two of them they had a full set, One, Two, and Four, Storm realized), moving on to an unknown name, before stopping briefly at Carly. He'd suspected as much after the very first strike to his back, seeing its echoes on his district partner's corpse, but to have it confirmed outright still sent a shock through his heart.

Perhaps now, in some twisted sort of way, he could settle things between the two of them, hopefully for the better.

Twelve finishes his recital with the boy from Five, the one with the shattered mask, and then states his lack of empathy. His lack of regrets. And for the first time, Storm well and truly sees himself echoed in the boy from Twelve. But himself, if he didn't have that very same spark of empathy that was allowing them to connect here and now.

And when he asks Storm if he shares those regrets, it's all too easy to answer.

"Course not," he says, venom absent from his tone once again. (Cause Twelve wasn't Cordelia, and fighting fire with fire was pointless when only smoldering ashes remained.) "Didn't know any of them, except-except Willem. Kid from Four." He blinks, making a very good point of not looking to where the aforementioned boy's corpse lays behind him. "And when I killed him, I was like how you are now, only worse. So that...that wasn't me."

It was, technically. But not truly. Even if he'd came out the other side stronger for it.

He breathed, recentering himself. He could break out into all the tears he wanted to when he got out of this place. Right now, that'd only sign his death warrant for good.

"None of them would pity me," he said, and there's some of the fire from within, lacing over a deadly serious tone. "So why should I pity them?"

He lunges, surely, methodically.

"And don't ya worry, Twelve-"

Nowles' sword flashes bright with crimson, yet ever hungry for more, towards the other boy.

"-I won't pity you, either."

storm attacks texas; bone sword

8_tbGrzEMGsword

1077 -- Deep Gash on Left Forearm -- 8.0 damage

sword

[pogue]

His hit is nothing but futility once more, carving into Storm's armor on the other arm and watching it fall to the ground in pieces. Tex chokes back the gaps of pain that threatens to rip from his throat as he regains his balance, even as Storm's blade returns the blow with a familiar, deeper one of his own.

Red spills out to the ground and Tex's teeth grind into each other, hopeless, halfway gone and crawling slowly towards his inevitable end. Storm's blade drips red with his own mortality, Tex's blade runs dry with his own failures. It's only when the boy speaks once more that Tex is able to refocus his stare, feels purple and red creep back into his gaze for what feels like the infinite time, only this time it can't swallow back the pain that echoes across his entire body, the way he sways in the wind and threatens to fall at any moment.

"Course not-" Storm starts, his voice distant, hollow. Tex looks into his own shadow and sees the emptiness that both of them share, the broken feelings, picking up what was left of shattered pieces and shoving them into the bodies of their opponents. "Didn't know any of them, except- except Willem. Kid from Four." Tex notes the distinct hiccup in his voice, the way he breaks and pulls it back together.

"So that... that wasn't me."

"It was you." Tex cuts through Storm's delusion with the harshest weapon they both own: their own realities. He has seen what people in this arena have claimed to be, have watched them become what they always were, has killed them both the same. "I promise.. it was you." Voice hollow, stoic, and for once it is truthful. 

"None of them would pity me, so why should I pity them?" They breathe the same purple, if only for a moment, and Tex feels his knuckles go white on the spear in his hand. "And don't you worry, Twelve." 

Their dance is over, blades in one hand and bloody hearts in the other. "I won't pity you, either." Tex swallows the words, feels them cut deep into his heart. No one will.

"Wouldn't fucking dream it." He replies coldly, empty, before charging.

[Tex attacks Storm ; Spear]

7l9A9xQWSGspear

[3.5]

spear

[lance]

Something shifts, in that moment. Like Twelve with his last two strikes, Storm's blow hits steel before it hits flesh and bone, the outer armor that the two of them had buried themselves under taking the fall. Unlike Twelve, his blade doesn't simply crack the armor, it pierces it, tearing straight through steel like stale toast and tearing into the purple-tinged flesh and veins below.

A decisive blow, he'd like to think. But Storm's been there before, been on the edge of death with corruption keeping him aloft, and if Twelve truly felt that blow, it was far from the way Storm himself had intended it.

At least, if the retort that falls from his mouth is anything to go by.

"It was you," he says, and okay, the living corpse still has a blade on his tongue as well as on the end of his stick. But perhaps that's what Storm needed, right then and there. Falsities won't get him anywhere, not here, not now, not when he's so close that one wrong choice will make or break an entire lifetime's worth of them.

It was you, Twelve had said

It was you, he silently repeated.

"Maybe so," he acquiesces, any trace of emotion that had come up on mentioning Willem's name reburied under steel and brimstone. "I know how this game works. I knew he would be the one person that I wasn't sure I'd be able to strike down here." He taps the uninjured side of his head with a single finger. "And if I made the choice to use...whatever that is to make that step easier, then so be it."

Inhale, exhale. If he were the great dragon that'd flown overhead days ago, Storm'd swear he'd be breathing purple fire all on his own.

(But his head, mercifully, stays clear.)

"That aside, I don't need it. Not anymore." Not like you, the implication weighs, heavy on his own sneer. No, this isn't like fighting Cordelia - this is deeper than surface level schoolyard taunts. This is the kind of fight that only two people who truly, achingly understand each other can engage in.

Fitting, really, that the final demon Storm has to slay to win is, well, a twisted version of himself.

He can feel guilty about tearing Twelve down later, when he has the luxury to give such emotions his attention.

"When I win, or when I die, that will be all me, too." No regrets. No lying. No falsehoods. Just the truth. Storm Adroxis is a boy from Nine, hailing from a large, loving family. A prankster, a sweetheart, and a little spoiled, too.

Storm Adroxis is also a killer. A murderer, even. Not once, not twice, not even thrice, but four times over - and that will stick with him, too. He'll feel bad about it someday, when he's not stuffing his emotions into an increasingly overloaded jar hidden deep in his chest. He'll cry and rage and scream and even feel hopeless, empty, numb, all over again.

But at least he'll be alive to feel them. At least he'll be himself to feel them.

Who amongst all of the Victors could truly say the same.

"Can you, Twelve, really say the same?"

He swings.

With any luck, that question will go unanswered.

storm attacks texas; bone sword

SVUv0ecxTcsword

1087 -- Shallow Cut on Right Thigh -- 3.5 damage

sword

[pogue]

He feels his own blood stripped from his skin as he swings, muscles aching and body protesting the movement. A sliver of red is all that is left in the wake of his weapon, dragged softly against Storm's arm and pulling crimson up to the surface. Tex knows it isn't enough, has seen the others that he has killed and knows what it took to get them there. 

He hears spirits laugh behind him, Alpha and Andrew and Carly and Brody, pieces of the whole, bloodied flesh and broken hearts. He bites back the expletives that dance on the edge of his lips, feels purple and red fade into blue and back again, his emotions ripping into him and pulling him apart piece by piece.

Storm chews on his own thoughts, mindlessly confesses to the strategy of murder and Tex feels his own weapon rattle in response, grip tightening hopelessly against stalagmite, fighting an uphill battle and bleeding the entire way. There's a sense of hopelessness that exists between them, spilling out from the corpses and hanging dead in the air, a recognition and a responsibility all in one. 

Broken pieces, Tex feels himself fall apart with every word Storm says, more than he ever had in his fight with Carly, too blind and too numb to feel anything for the girl he'd killed. "Easier.." Tex repeats, murmurs, feels his heart ache in response to Storm's voice. There are threats that linger in the words, Tex can feel them hit his ears filled with malice and precision and he recoils, pulls back his spear and listens to Storm drone on once more. 

"When I win, or when I die, that will be all me, too."  

And it's obvious what he is getting at, that he can trace the purple veins that linger underneath Tex's skin, split apart and shattering like broken prayers in the daylight, a constant reminder of what he did to get here. What he did, what he-

"Can you, Twelve, really say the same?"

Does he need to? Texas Lovell sways in the winds of his final resting place, but he is still here nonetheless. Standing, hopeless, hurting, dying so slowly and so helplessly. "Yeah, Storm." He lingers on the words, feels them burn. "I think I can." There are sheets of blood that sit on top of his skin, some his own and the majority of others, unwashed and left to rot as a reminder of who he is. "Hopped up or not-" He hears himself say, feels his body move on instinct instead of heart. 

"I still killed them."

[Tex attacks Storm ; Spear]

0FmSc6WXb9spear

[0]

spear

[lance]

Their dance isn't like the one shared between him and Cachimorro or him and December, full of hard hits and harder counters. No, Twelve is like Willem, like Cordelia - fast on his feet, striking like a snake and recoiling like a spring, and Storm has yet to land a single decisive blow on his body that wasn't partially blocked by some sort of armor or another.

But can he really say the same? What Twelve has in speed, so does Storm. And maybe he's starting to wear out, or maybe Storm's starting to get a read on his movements, or maybe he's just tapping into the very same luck that he's been doused his entire damn journey in the arena from surviving the shadowbeast's claws to being patched up by Willem instead of struck down to taking down December and Cachimorro and a fucking Career from One all at once, because when Twelve strikes again, it goes wide.

His spirit, however, remains whole. And when Storm's name falls from his lips like acid, a tremor jolts its way up his spine, surprise almost causing him to miss the rest of Twelve's declaration; like Storm, it was, in fact, him who had done the killing.

And like the ocean of Willem's home, Storm's disdain ebbs as quickly as it had flowed.

"No wonder so many of the Victors are fucked up," he muses, half to Twelve, half to himself, the fire present on his last verbal barrage once again held in reserve due to his damn bleeding heart. "Drowning your memories seems like a shit way to cope."

Was that how Night handled it? How Eve handled it? How their parents handled it? Drowning their pain in vices in an effort to get rid of the memories that hurt too much to bear?

His mind flashes to Avriel, and the inconsistencies in his public appearances - sometimes looking almost like the boy at the reapings, sometimes merely a pale imitation of a caricature of himself. Was this what awaited him at the end of all of this?

No, he decided, right then and there, as if saying it for the tenth time was any more certain than the first.

(But now, at least, he proved that there was still capacity in his young mind to learn. Even if it came at the most inopportune of times.)

Showing mercy to Twelve before he struck a killing blow would only get him killed in turn.

Luckily, Storm was plenty adept at redirection.

"Y'know, it's weird," he says, scanning Twelve's form, watching his movements, keeping his grip locked around Nowles' sword. "I thought myself invisible after entering here. Everyone I killed seemed surprised to see me still alive, and even more surprised when I beat them." He chuckles, half genuine amusement, half hollow imitation. "Yet here we are, one step away from victory, and you call me by my name. You call me Storm."

Intensity, curiosity, confusion - all take their place behind his gaze as he stares into the purple tint of his opponent's eyes.

"And yet I don't even know what the fuck yours is."

Perhaps that's for the better. Perhaps that's for the worse.

Storm still swings, regardless.

storm attacks texas; bone sword

j0T82oqMgQsword

1048 -- Shallow Cut on Left Shoulder -- 3.5 damage

sword

[pogue]

He lacks the energy or the fury to feel himself react when his swing goes wide, feels nothing but the pain of protesting muscles lace itself deep into his form once more and the laughter of the ghosts on the outskirts. They are neck and neck and both stained red, striking out hopelessly with all the force they can muster, only leaving little lines of red on each other's bodies. It adds up, slowly and ever so surely, but it is so unlike the crashing waves he took to Carly or the decisive movement he made against Brody. There are no necks split wide here, no strength left to choke out a life, no fury left to pretend he won't remember them.

"Drowning your memories seems like a shit way to cope." 

"But it's coping nonetheless." There's a bit of the old him slipped into the words, the sarcasm that once curled on his lips like when he'd sat next to Lux in the confessional booth, humanity. He knows Storm is right, knows that purple has taken him this far only to fail him at the finish line, knows that he is digging his own grave- but he isn't fucking ready to lie in it. Not yet. 

His opponent claims to be cloaked in shadows, invisible, empty, as if Tex hadn't thought the same thing before he had stepped in this arena, as if it hadn't been proven wrong to him in purple and red. He almost feels a laugh escape from his lips, but all he can manage is a cough and a dribble of blood in the back of his own throat.

"That's the thing." He muses, feels blood crawl up from his throat and dribble down his lips. Storm holds true to his namesake and moves like lightning even in all his hurt, blade slicing softly into his shoulder and Tex recoils back, swiping mindlessly with his spear and feeling nothing but air catch against the sharpened rock. He slams it down into the soft earth, feels it give way underneath what is left of his strength, uses it to steady himself. "Never as invisible as you think you are."

He can taste its truth in venom and bitter, dribbling from his lips in a sickening mix of purple and red, arcing down his chin and following along the veins that sprout up from his neck. His body pieces itself back together just as fast as it falls apart, stumbling and shaking as the beasts and spirits around them look on in silence, anticipation. "I think-" He coughs on the words, pain scattered over his form, rage so desperately trying to cover it all up. "I think the name is all we'll have at the end." He manages, even if you win. Crown of thorns and ghost on shoulders, he uproots himself and raises his spear in anticipation of what will come. "So let's break this, boy to boy." He doesn't dare call either of them men, he doesn't give the audience the satisfaction of thinking of them as anything other than children. "Call me Tex." 

His weapon weighs heavy in his grasp, kills heavy on his soul as he swings.

[Tex attacks Storm ; Spear]

sgexb2qprispear

[8.5]

spear