Round One: Veala vs Reno (D5)

[mat]

A miss. The dead air after Reno swings leaves enough of a buffer to avoid Veala completely. Holding back a laugh after saying what was perhaps the most cringeworthy boys-think-girls-are-gross joke ever. He gives her a chance by standing still, right in front of her. Against his better judgment, of course. No one said that the Games have to be fair for both sides, but waiting for Veala to take a turn comes from a generous instinct. From what he's been able to gather, she hasn't been able to take a turn or a breath in Five or the Capitol without someone trying to ruin it. Whether it's her dad, stepmom, or siblings, they never offered her a chance in life.

Against death, Reno gives her one. He plays it off as catching his breath. His arm shakingly keeps ahold of the sword, holding on like it's the last root on the cliff's edge, unable to let go and unable to pull himself up. He's face-to-face with her, gallant in his frozen state. Take the shot, Veala. It's an abnormal compulsion not to swipe furiously through the air again and again. She keeps a strong face, but every beat of an overexposed vein tells Reno that she's thinking, too.

"The farmhands who thought my love of the cows was something we could bond over. And you know what I said to them?"

He thinks, having heard the joke on his farm from Silverfield's girls once before. 'Better something something than shit on your hands.'

"Better cow breath than manure hands!"

Reno chuckles. Exactly. One of the things that he'd learned quickly as a farmhand was to wear a bandana to keep the smell out of his nose. That, combined with a nice long shovel to stay as far away as possible. Silverfield wouldn't let him smell like crap, anyways, as it'd be bad for business and a nose sore.

She was smooth with her words, so much so that he hadn't noticed or even felt the sword cut across his stomach. All of him feels numb to the metal now, accustomed to the cuts, scrapes, and bleeding. He's a blue-collar kid; none of it's new. All of it together, though, is scary.

Only one back and forth and Reno grows tired of the feigned anger, even faster than he did the real one. When he was homeless in Five, Reno rarely spoke to anyone outside of a please and thank you to the kind folks who offered some sort of food and water. Truth is, his mind bottled up guilt, shame, anger, and rage. He let it all out in the arena against Veala because she was the first person he could justify hating other than himself.

He keeps the anger up, though, even though the real parts are all gone, to hold the crowd over. "I've heard better delivery on that one." Reno turns his cheek as if unimpressed. His blade clicks the grass and pops up to his side. "Three months in jail and you couldn't think of anything more clever?"

"I wore gloves, anyway, all the time." He raises his infected hand, quickly shooting it down when he feels it swell, and remembers that the Peacekeepers took his glove away. He plays it off with a swing of his sword. "That way, my shit don't never stink."

[ reno attacks veala ; sword ]
d2pJjEvfSusword
[1022 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage]

sword

[lance]

And on it goes. He's toying with me, of that I'm almost certain, or else the fight has gone out of him much like it's trying its best to drain out of me. Sure, aside from that one good hit on his chest I haven't been able to do any lasting damage, but cuts and scrapes are still better than one, two whiffed hits on me. I never was a good acrobat, nor a good dodger - better take it on the chin than try to evade what's coming.

And yet.

And yet.

And yet Reno's strike misses me once again. And yet the banter comes - and I chuckle, because it's true, comedy never was my strong suit (and why would it be when my entire life has been a joke to begin with?). And yet I still draw breath, and my sword still drips red, and oh, maybe I have a fighting chance after all. Early lead, late comeback, and didn't the Rebellion have the Capitol on the ropes before the implosion of District Thirteen changed it all?

Ew. Can't believe I just compared myself to the fuckin' Capitol of all places. Gross.

The point stands, regardless. Reno may have gotten an early lead on me, yet he's allowed me to catch up for one reason or another. Is he toying with me? Putting on a show? Or is he tiring, that one hit I got just shy of his heart slowing him down?

I can't allow myself to hope just yet. Hope is dangerous, deadly. Hope is what makes you foolish, reckless, easier to kill. Yet maybe, just maybe...

"Hey, you try thinkin' of good retorts on the fly while you're trynna not get killed," I joke back. "Not everyone can be a natural comedian."

But Reno can, claiming that his 'shit doesn't stink' or whatever. As if. I bet the only people who've figured that out is the Capitol. Sparkly bitches have an answer for everything, I bet.

"Really? Your shit doesn't stink? I laugh incredulously. "What are you, a Capitolite or somethin'?" That's a joke I can get away with. I think. "Well golly, teach me your secrets, Reno boy."

It's only after I'm already swinging that I realize my mistake.

veala attacks reno; sword

5FrfjheIUTsword

1065 -- Deep Gash on Left Calf -- 8.0 damage

sword

[mat]

Reno sighs. "Oops, missed again." His pride resides in his honesty. Reno could say it to her face, I'm giving you another chance. But it's the third or fourth time now, and the second in a row. The chances are wearing him thin, even if the commentary between both of them perks the tip of his ear. Veala plays off her poor jokes in the heat of the moment and he nods, passing the blame on to whoever tightened the walls of the arena and forced everyone to fight, one on one.

She flatters him by implying that he's some sort of natural comedian, but remains to seem impressed by some of his jokes. Comparing him to a Capitolite. Humorous. Reno would take that opportunity up in a heartbeat if he could bring his family along for the journey. All those rich fucks in the interview room, putting on their monocles and bifocals to get a look at him up close. His parents might not love that concept, but the little ones would love it. Creativity dies in Five around the age of fifteen nowadays. School, work, and wallowing absorb most of the people's free time. On top of the creative freedom, he supposes Vegas might be able to get a prosthetic leg if she lived in the Capitol. The pity burns like an inferno around the colosseum for two people with cuts and scratches all over their skin. Reno can only imagine the sort of resolutions they'd come to for a girl missing a limb.

"Teach me your secrets, Reno boy."

Whether it's the sword burying itself into his leg or the shock of hearing his name come from her lips for the first time, Reno falls onto one knee. He uses his own weapon to keep his balance. He was beginning to think that she didn't care enough to know it, even after it was called during the Reaping or at the beginning of this fight. Veala's concern, up until about a minute ago, seemed to lie strictly with herself. But that wavers.

"Capitolite?" He coughs, a bit of blood stuck between the bottom row of teeth. "Me? That might be the funniest thing I've heard you say. I mean, I'm flattered, but you're too funny."

As far as his advice and his secrets go, Reno shrugs. "Family taught me to wash my ass. You'd be surprised by the number of men who think that makes 'em weak." Silverfield, Reno's thinking about you, you dirty fucker.

"I know you aren't good with your family, Veala," Reno calls her by name, too, in a plea that she might listen more carefully. "But mine're filled with loving folks." He's not sure who'll win this fight anymore. "I'm sure they'd find something good to say about you."

If she wins, Reno hopes she'll find them. He hopes they'll forgive her.

And if he wins, Reno hopes he'll find them back home. He hopes they'll still love him, despite the power of violence shaking in his wrist.

Again.

[ reno attacks veala ; sword ]
vQ2Vz93AIasword
[1147 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage]

sword

[lance]

I swing, and strike crimson gold.

He swings, and for the third time, hits naught but air.

I call him not farmboy, not sir, but Reno.

He calls me not Cow Breath, not revolutionary, but Veala.

This is more than a mistake now. This is an atrocity.

One moment, I thought myself doomed to die for my beliefs. The Capitol would believe I'd burn in whatever hell they believe in; I like to think that my acts of saving the innocent would redeem me from such a fate. I'd nearly gotten disemboweled, gotten slashed across my leg - and besides, Reno was bigger and stronger than me and had a righteous anger to kill me. My paltry claim of self defense and lack of knowledge with wielding anything other than my own fists seemed, well, pathetic in comparison.

And then he missed three times. And then I hit three times, and then some. And is this part of his plan? Was this a test, to see if the girl who quote unquote 'ruined his life' was worth killing or not? Did I pass? Or is this failure, to teach me that for all of the bovines I granted freedom to, I inevitably hurt those who didn't deserve it in the meantime.

Whatever the case...

How the hell am I going to move forward from this? I'm not an aggressor. Not an attacker in any way, shape, or form. Yet suddenly I have the upper hand, and I'm not sure I like it.

"Hey, no talkin' like that now, farmboy." And why, exactly, am I hoping that my opponent gets up and finishes the job? I should be beating him down where he stands, like I had so many times before.

(But is this what it's like to beat something already broken? Is this why the stepwhore lost interest when I stopped fighting back?

I hate it.)

"Your family'll get to see you again, I'm sure." Because damn it all, maybe dyin' really is better than livin' if this is what you have to live with. No wonder half of the victors look like they've looked death in the eye and lost part of themselves in the process. "And, heh, I'm sorry to say but mine won't return the hospitality."

For the first time when I tense to swing, my hands tremble.

"So go rip my traitor papa back home a new one when you see him, okay? It's the least he deserves."

Far, far worse than what I'm giving you.

veala attacks reno; sword

Hy9PV310UOsword

1178 -- Shallow Cut on Right Calf -- 3.5 damage

sword

[mat]

Something is keeping him from getting close enough to Veala to hit her. Is it purposeful now? Subconsciously, at least, the answer is maybe. He started off strong, but it's now that he's choking up with second thoughts that warn him to think again about putting a sword through her.

He waits on one knee, too, giving her the ultimate chance at his neck. Giving in and letting go of his stubbornness feels good. Veala knows where she wants her life to go, the person she wants to become, and the legacy she wants to leave behind. Is Reno's anything role in life anything more than provider? Provide the money necessary for his family to eat, have a roof over their heads, and live a positive life. Ma n' Daddy shouldn't work until they're eighty-five years old. Support, provide, help. Excuses to avoid coming to terms with the fact that his life is dedicated to furthering someone else's. Everyone else's but his own. At his miserable expense.

Veala encourages him to keep his head up. His chin rises to see a complicated expression across her face. "Your family'll get to see you again, I'm sure."

Where? Here? Heaven?

Reno expected the response he got from Veala about her own family. She asks him to give a piece of his mind to her father if he gets the chance. Reno nods, punching through the air as if a promise of what he'll do if he gets the chance. She slashes at his calf, Reno winces for just a moment before swallowing the pain.

She won't kill him in such an unhonorable state. Reno pulls himself up with the help of the nearby foliage, tearing a line of branches apart to trade the weight. Reno groans as his bones crack and ache from the pressure, just like his father's at age forty-something. At eighteen, his bones aren't what they used to be when he was younger.

He gives up on the facade. "Of course. If he's anything like what you've been sayin', he probably deserves it."

Reno places his sword ahead, still playing the game. "They should put him in the arena with us. You think he'd shit himself?" And he assumes that like Silverfield, Mister Jones's shit stinks.

He swings again. Whether he's aiming to kill or pretending… it's up for the audience to decide. Because Reno isn't too sure himself anymore.

[ reno attacks veala ; sword ]
8JODaD10MLsword
[1116 -- Shallow Cut on Right Thigh -- 3.5 damage]

sword

[lance]

Breathe, Veala. Breathe.

Life and death lie on the flip of a coin. Reno finally hits me again, yet the fear, the adrenaline, they reign supreme for but a moment.

It's in my hands now. Boy and girl meet in battle, and it all comes down to this.

How the hell can I kill him and live?

How the hell can I just roll over and die for this boy I barely know?

Two questions. One answer. I can't. One destroys me physically. One destroys everything I've ever stood for.

And yet.

And yet.

The things we must do for survival. Living on the streets. Scavenging in the alleys. Relying on the goodwill of people who'd rather see you dead. Literally, in this case. If Reno had been even a bit more aggressive, a bit more sure of himself with his strikes, there's no doubt that I'd be bleeding out on the dirt as we speak.

And yet. I cannot repay that generosity, not in kind. Not if I want to live.

And I can't think about it either, not if I don't want to lose my nerve.

"Yeah, definitely," I gasp out, because fuck I'm tired, fuck I'm in pain, fuck I don't know if I can do this. "He'd shit himself three times by the time we'd even enter the arena. And he's not like you. It'd stink."

Death on the line, and I'm talking about shit. Seems fitting.

There's an apology on my lips, yet I can't bring myself to say it as I swing.

Perhaps, a tiny little voice speaks - in hope? In dread? Who fuckin' knows - for the final time.

veala attacks reno; sword

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result

sword