night of rapture ☾ haizea v theo, day 8

[Deleted]

She lays down for the majority of the following day, the image of Mirage Vigil's death never quite fading. Even when she isn't thinking of it, her gaping jaw and wide eyes as she stares into death stares now at her, a vision she'll surely take to her grave, whenever that may be. Haizea stays at the mouth of the oh so familiar cave, letting the homesickness envelope her like armor. She'll find her way home, that much she knows for certain. Hope is a hard thing to come by, so she's tried to hold onto her's since the beginning. 

A ray of sunlight that follows her into the night, as long as she has hope, some hope, she's not truly alone. She still has the laughter of her mother in mind, of her cousins, Mateo and Yani, of her abuelita and the pages they'd read together of the bible at night. God may not be in the arena, but he's in her heart, that's something Svetlana couldn't deny her. She spends the night awake, sleep avoiding her still, so she replaces her bandages and tidies the stitches in her left hand. 

Itzal got her good, and Dyno tried his hardest, but it's still her that stands at the end of the day. 

The anthem plays, a harbinger of bad news wrapped in good music. She could hum along the anthem if it didn't disgust her so, sometimes she'd hear it in the middle of nowhere. Imagine those trumpets like a bad omen, but it only ever comes at night, at midnight. Right to start off the new day, and she didn't need the reminder of Mirage- she never forgot. Karl's was a surprise to her, she figured he and his strange soul would make his way to the very end, maybe even farther than her. She's the only one from home now, and she doesn't know if that makes it easier or harder. 

She'd probably never would be able to take him on her own, him or "Dyno..." It's almost a solace moment, if she weren't so relieved it meant she'd never see him again. No matter how she goes, it can't have been as bad as if Dyno Moreno got his hands on her - she clasps her hands together and pray for their lost souls. Hopefully they'll wind up somewhere better than here; it's not any of their faults for what this game has turned them into it. Mirage, Karl and Dyno, all three people she was worried to run into in here. 

Who does that even leave? 

Haizea finds herself striking out Pierce's list from days prior - ever since she lost him and Brennan, she's felt lonelier than she ever imagined she would. The thought of him makes her feel safer, as if his lingering traps wouldn't take her leg off just the same as anyone else. He's gone, and that should be the end of that, but she can't shake the pain of missing them. No matter how much Harbinger warned her, she was always going to let herself get too close to them. 

Still, she questions if she can kill Brennan if it comes down to it. 

He's still out there, along with Theo, of course. And a third boy, Ivanov, someone she refused to let herself underestimate. He must have killed Dyno, she thinks to herself, who else? She played with the question until she could eventually sleep well into the morning. 

Haizea doesn't leave the cave until the birds return. A flock of white doves, much like the ones that swarmed Pierce and herself days prior; sent by the gamemakers, no doubt. She hadn't thought twice before launching a knife into the flock, watching as the one she gouged squawks while the others do nothing until she gets up. Only then does the flock begin dispersing, inching closer and closer to the Ancient Ruins once again. 

"Of course," she hikes her bag higher up her shoulder as she wields the katana, waiting for the first sight of trouble. The Ancient Ruins was a bloodier sight than the cornucopia at this rate, it seemed she could never get too far from it without the Gamemakers pushing her right back towards it. For one more fight, one more kill, one death closer to ending it all. She knows where to wait, how to still her breathing enough to hide for at least a moment. 

Long enough for him to come wandering by - Theo, he must have been six inches taller than her at least. She waits for him to stumble closer to the center of the room, close enough to where she can lunge for one good strike, start things off with the right hand. 

She'll need it, this close to the end she can't afford any mistakes. 

[attacks theo with king katana]
4CyxuxhoTc200+1000
[1153 - miss]

"Couldn't get too far, huh?" Me neither, she tried not to be scared of him, but she's seen the damage his weapon can cause. How quick he can strike and end things, she felt worry settling in her locked knees as she pictured Mirage from just the day prior. "We don't have to talk," maybe that'll make things easier, in some way. The two have a strained relationship, she wouldn't blame him for not wanting to chit chat knowing what'll take place here.

"Your call."

[attacks theo with king katana]
200+1000
[1155 -- Shallow Cut on Cheek -- 3.5 damage]

200+1000·200+1000

[jackson thomas [d6m] arc]

Mirage’s death played on repeat in Theo’s head.The memory came to him like heat flashes. Slapping him in the face, taking him out of any momentary blankness, with the fact that he killed someone. It feels much more different than he thought it would. He thought he’d live for it. Turn into a bloodthirsty, power-hungry man of undeniable power. But he was no man. He was a child. Stuck in the world of gambling life away like it were some game. Maybe to a seven, eight, sixteen-year-old boy back at home, life was a game. It was a delicate little thing they held for granted. But as the anthem blows and three more faces are shown in the sky, he is reminded that life is nowhere near a children’s game.

Theodore was still a boy at heart, playing games and spittin’ the shit. He and the other greasy-faced boys would tell each other how they’d be ”winnin’ this shit” and that ”killin’ people should be easy. Ain’t you trying to get home? I don’t get why they all take it so hard.” They would say this from the comfort of their own couch. As an audience, boys and girls and fools watched and critiqued. Theo, like many other children who believe they were knights, were simply the commoner at a lynching. The ones watching with a hand over their mouth. They whisper to their neighbors, saying that they deserve it. Saying that the noose holding a hanging neck or basket carries the beheaded holds grief.

It wouldn’t be hard if it were me. They know what they’re supposed to do.

But unfortunately, it is him now. He knows the feeling of watching a body with life crumble to the ground within one stroke. On his spear is a caked layer of fluids, blood, and the last remains of Mirage.

He wants to grit his teeth, he wants to gnarl at the thought like some dog who’s ready for another meal. But he’s no wolf. He’s just a kid in the middle of his stubborn inability to accept weaker emotions. To bow to the power that rules this arena. It’s harder not to bow, though. At home, he can sit on the roadside couch they found. Return to the BASE that he was so welcomed into due to Woods’ influence and complain about his issues. Like how the the coach was fuckin’ stupid. Or his dad. Or how this one kid down the street was lookin at him funny, and Theo had to hold his temptation to knock a tooth out.

Here, he has to bottle it. That part came to him naturally. It took him back, once again, to being a boy. A boy that had lost his father who would talk him through his problems. Give him options other than fight. Without that voice, all he wanted to do was fight. That’s what his momma wanted, at least. And momma knows best. She became buckets of lowly-heated soup and bandages wrapped around curses. Mariah left the stove on at a low heat whenever she made soup. She’d let Theo come get a spoonful or two as desired until it was empty. Rinse, broth run, bandages with a ”you know better than this, you fuck” (but did he?) and repeat.

That evening, his body felt so full yet empty, as if someone had taken a scalpel to his chest and stomach. Cutting it open to reveal his liquored liver and smokey lungs, the Gamemakers had taken every piece of him that lived, and replaced it with those bottles of emotion he capped. Some of those bottles were boulders, and some of them were pebbles. Theo sewed it back up to let those emotions sit in the cauldron of bodily acids.

Within the tower of his body and mind, no nerve could be struck to open up those potions of affection, abhorrence, and anguish. They were sheltered behind a ribcage, wrapped by a pumping little thing that only served to keep him alive. As such, the red wrapping paper of organ and tissue crafts him into a winner, and he starts to doubt if the crown is even worth it. The princess always gets the happily ever after—glamour, family, and maybe even a dog. Or someone who appears to fulfill the love she was always yearning for.

What does the prince get?

He gets to become king. Dorned by a crown that most should be grateful to receive. Theo was more used to a mouthguard and a helmet than gold and robes. He was the joker, with the three wildly colorful, split pieces sewn to cloth. Bells are attached to the thin layers, and he dances and jingles to please; all he knows is to dance and joke. That joker may have been a king at one point, in one world, but a witch could have come by. Placing a curse and resorting him to a mere peasant's role that he must fulfill to survive.

Theo never knew much about kings and queens, but his father did. His father read him tales of fantasy when he was a boy. And his father is gone and he’s still just a kid. He can’t trust that being crowned is as rejoiceful as Isaiah once said.

His body felt so heavy. With all of the various weights of potions making it hard to move and breathe, Theo did not sleep. As the fool, he just laid there. Seeing the night sky and feeling the winds threatening a plummet similar to what Francine had taken days before. Yet it felt calm, like he belonged in this world that didn’t exist anywhere close to District Eight. He couldn’t close his eyes. If he did, the stench of fluid fulfilled the blank slate the darkness of closed eyes provides. He wants the light as much as it can be there. Theo watches as the darkness of purples, dark blues, and black night shifts into the yellows and oranges that remind him of his father. The sun rises to the rustles of distant trees and the diversion of wind by a rotting pillar. It keeps moving, though. Vanilla rays quickly turn to purple hazes, bringing night back to life faster than the day.

Petals swirl above the boy, as he lay and stares up at the sky. Light, purple lights in the form of mechanical whirring whispers start to float into his sight. The world sounds dark. As if a hush had been placed over the commons, with the stage being prepared for the next innocent fool to be executed. A bottle of pride, the poisonous potion that he has addicted himself to, is opened and poured over his head. It causes him to stand and find his feet. His head jingles with the bells of life the Citizens have injected into his veins, and the pink and purple swirls of light and purity guide him very shortly to the next fight.

Theo didn’t leave the temple last night, providing it with the active life of a body, as myths suggest to do to keep good faith. It takes the steps of a fool, encapsulated by his internal wishes for saving grace, to barely notice the knightess’ sword in the corner of his eye. Her blade misses, but they have begun the next dance to please the queens of this land.

"Couldn't get too far, huh?" Haze quivers to him, and it seems neither could have. He wonders where the other two stand, where they have begun their dance. "We don't have to talk," she continues, and there’s a moment that he considers silence. But too many innocent fools died without a word, only a scream as their bones and flesh get boiled alive to the commoners. He would like to say he’s no ordinary fool, but he may be the pinpoint of the class, volunteering to be chained to the wheel that leaves him to die.

"Your call."

Her sword swings again, and she grazes the cheek just enough to remind his face does not hold the weight his chest of potions does. ”I-” he stops, dangerously; the Joker should never pause his show. Their life resides on this performance. But he doesn’t know what tale to jingle.

”I mean, I wish I knew what I could say man.”

The pride that resides in him is like a smokescreen rather than a snake ready to latch onto the skin. That pride isn’t as venomous as before, as dedicated to the smoke in his lungs to match his speech. ”But what is there to say?” He can’t apologize, not after the venom his voice held the past seven days.

His pride dances for him, and his pride resides in a spear that holds fluid, blood, and skin from the past seven days. He was a fool to think life was a game, but his pride was the addiction that kept him playing it.

[attacks haze, spear]
8JeCp1LTS2spear
[x]

[kaitlin]

spear