Finale: Amalthea v Marcus

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

w e l c o m e   t o   t h e   8 ^{t h}   h u n g e r   g a m e s   f i n a l e

The keys never mattered. Little rats, desperate to run away, convinced that anywhere is better than where they already are. The truth is that there was never anywhere they could've ran that Harlan and his toys would not have been able to find them, but he enjoyed letting them think they had some sort of control over it all. The script was already written, anyway- this movie's ending was already determined.

And this is how it goes: the final two find themselves right back where they started it all, at the center of the maze. The bodies of those fallen were always promptly removed, but the bloodstains remain- there, where Marrow stood over the little boy from her home and struck him down for good, or there, where Marcus promised to be caring and gentle while he cut a girl to pieces. Harlan knows they must both think him the monster, but the truth is that he only assigned the dancing partners. They both wrote their own choreography.

Who is the monster, really?

"You are the only ones left."

Harlan's voice is low, but the volume is raised high enough that it easily drowns out even the loudest cheers from the crowd.

"There were other tributes who were better fighters, others who were much more kind, and more wise. Some were more beloved, and others more feared. Yet, for some reason, the two of you have outlasted them all. That is something to hold fast to in these final moments, as you both must surely know what comes next."

Only one rat will make it out of the maze alive.

He smiles, letting the crowd's excitement at this statement die down before he continues.

"There can only be one victor. Who will it be?"

And these final seconds are held with such an electric charge that Harlan can practically feel it rattling his teeth. The moment a tribute becomes a victor- he wonders if the world is as ready for it as he is.

------

Participating (in order of initiative):
D10M: Marcus (86.13)
D8F: Amalthea (50.19)

Weapon: Sword

Retro Engine Link: Here

Tributes all healed half of their damage overnight. As always, 24 hour posting rules are in effect and will be enforced.

This fight will conclude once the mandated death requirement has been met, and you will all have until Friday, 19th of May at 8 pm pst to finish them yourselves, or extra measures will be taken to finish the fight on time.

Tagging for notice: pearl mcclain d4 [ryan] revel latimer, 11b 🔍 jay

[pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]]

there is hardly any sound that comes out of the girl from two when he slices right through her leg. she simply gasps and then falls to the side. there are words shared, but the sight of seeing yet another girl laying there without a limb attached to their body. first a hand from prisma crosses his mind, then an arm from the girl from five, and now a whole leg.

marcus was sure that he was making a name for himself.

one of the doors clicked open, then another, and another after that. marcus did not hesitate this time. there was nothing left for him in this room. there was no need for him to stay. he figured that neither of them needed him to mourn anyway.

he could mourn when he made it out of here alive.

---

it felt like time had passed, and for once, marcus could feel the silence and the tiredness catching up with him. his breathing had started to become slightly staggered as he realized that all of the bloodloss was starting to catch up with him. he didnt make it far before he felt like he was going to collapse.

he stopped at a wall and slid his way down it. blood smearing the rock behind him. he looked around for a moment, but all he could see was the same thing he had seen for the last couple days.

he was still alive though.

his vision had been slightly blurry, but he looked up and down and steady himself. he could feel his stomach already turning.

he looked down into where he had stashed the bread and when he reached his bloody hand inside the little pouch, he remembered that he had split it with luja.

he groaned.

---

more time passed and he ended up dazing off. his eyes had closed, and the first thing that he had seen was his father, and then his birth mother, and then the new mother that had entered into his life recently. they did not speak to him, they only got further away, and then a vision of marco had appeared in his stupor. he tried to throw a punch at him, but it did not connect. he laughed at marcus, and marcus screamed, "go fuck yourself." quite loudly.

thats when he had woke up from whatever coma he had been in. the sound of the crowd had erupted from all parts of the wall, but he could not pinpoint one place that had been coming from. he pursed his lips for a moment before realizing that his wounds had already started to dry up. he could at least move, and when he applied pressure to his legs, they did not feel like they were on fire.

thats when he realized that he was still in the arena.

he needed to find a way out of this maze, and back home. he began to frantically run through the warped passages, looking for some sort of escape. he didnt even bother to try the pad locks. he just kept searching for the end.

it had to be in sight.

---

when he walked saw a straight and narrow path, he figured that this might be his chance. however, when he followed it down, he had heard the crowd become louder for just a moment. once he had walked through the door leading to a new room, he saw nothing but another door open on the other side.

out came the girl from eight that he had the displeasure of meeting the day before last. then someones voice, gruff and brooding had come over a loudspeaker. they had been addressing both of them, telling them that out of everyone that had fallen, they did not think that they would be the last two standing.

marcus could only think about how no one should judge a book by its cover. he knows the sweet and innocent act all too well, but his final moments with luja and the girl from two had proven to himself that he knows full well what he is capable of.

so did the three bodies that he had put in the ground.

"looks like that unfinished business is going to be settled right here huh?" marcus smirks for a moment before pulling up his sword and looking at the girl from eight. "think you have what it takes?" he is fully committed to the narrative that he knew someone had to be giving him. he was a murderer, a villain, a killer.

but most importantly, he was just trying to survive.

and the girl from eight was standing right there.

in his way.

so he runs up and strikes.

[D10M marcus emberstatt attacks D8F amalthea marrow with his sword | sword]
iKlwuQYJ|ssword
[1193 -- Severed Left Hand at Wrist -- 9.0 damage
(Sword)]

sword

[revel latimer, 11b 🔍 jay]

I dreamt of their faces.

I reveled in the memory—my sword an feral beast, swinging wildly yet smoothly gliding through the flesh of Three's neck, her head collapsing to the ground. And I remember in the same strike popping the dark-haired girl's eye like a balloon, spearing the blade through the back of her head with a vile squish. I push, and push with a sudden charge of energy coursing rapidly throughout my veins, until the hilt smacks against the orbital socket. Her blood was thick around the steel, slowly dripping like syrup. I wasn't sure exactly what it was, but there were chunks of something too.

Then, I remember collapsing into a pool of blood I didn't know was mine or theirs. A sharp pain was stuck in my chest, like a thorn, my breathing ragged and heavy, an out-of-tune melody. "Fuck," I whispered, my face turned on its side in the basin of blood. It bubbled as the air breathed from my words rippled over it. Death still lingered, I could feel him. He was in the breeze that tickled the hedge, in the thundering rumble of the crowd overhead. And I thought for a second as my vision began to blur and fade into a void, that maybe he got me too.

And I woke up here, in the familiar dark corridor, a gentle light leaking through the open gate. Harlan's voice breaks through the scratchiness of the intercom, his voice loud and booming like a cannon. It's hard not to cling ('only ones left') onto every word ('there can only be one victor') like it's gold. His voice cuts off and the gate opens wide with a palpable click.

The sun is hell in the sky, blazingly bright and beating down on my worn skin. My wounds have scabbed over but the crimson blood still stains my skin. It's a watercolor of cherry red and maroon, both mine and of the ones I killed. Three of them.

I'll make it four.

I can make out his silhouette from across the sandy area. It's all too familiar, I've ingrained it in my head ever since he cut down that girl in front of me. My deserved kill. But he'll do nicely as the fourth notch on my belt, the fourth person I wear as a scar on my skin. He opens his mouth wide and boastfully, a good boy with a sharp tongue, but his words fall on deaf ears.

"Aren't you so tough, puppy-eyes?"

He moves swiftly, simply a trick of the light. His sword falls down, tearing through the air and the flesh of my wrist like Three's head. I think I gasp, but I'm not sure. It's all a blur for a moment, my hand is there and then it's not. An emptiness sits at the edge of my wrist, like my mind believes it's just gone limp. And then the blood begins to spew, a fountain of deep red gushing and drenching the sand underneath.

"I'm glad it's you," I seethe, holding the wounded arm, "I've been dying for this moment. Dreaming of it. Your skin at the edge of my sword."

I lick my chapped lips, my canines poking out from my teeth. I can taste the salt and copper lingering on my skin. A smirk plays about my face, masking the grimace of pain hiding under the surface.

"And look, it's just us. I think it might be fate."

marrow attacks marcus | sword

lRJfW9eFNAsword

[ 0.0 ]

sword

[pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]]

the air tastes thick, and he didnt even think that he could taste the air.

it is gritty, it almost reminds him of the time that marco had put dirt in his food when he wasnt looking. all he can imagine is tasting earth.

but seeing her, her of all people made him really think about how funny fate was. how the world always had a funny way of tying things together like a bow. a bow colored crimson just like the blood that marcus had already spilled.

she says words to him that are definitely trying to size him up, but he does not believe she understands them. marcus is not tough, he is just a boy fueled by rage for what he has gone through in the last couple months.

he needs to remember.

she knows nothing of his life, just like he knows nothing of hers.

its too late to learn anything now, just as he watches her hand go flying through the air. he watches as blood sprays out, he can taste the copper on his lips, but he does not spew bile, he hasnt done that in days.

he is completely desensitized at this point.

"im not tough." he is calm in this situation, the first time since he had gotten into this place. "i am filled with rage."

he makes it clear, that she knows where he stands. "i know i have what it takes... i have too." he knows that being cocky is probably a weakness. if that made him weak, then so be it.

he didnt want to be strong enough.

she winds up and swings her own blade, but marcus is aware enough to take a step back. he can feel wind passing his chest as he locks eyes with her. "do you have what it takes?" he poses the question right back to her, because he is starting to be convinced that she is not fully sold on this.

she might want it.

but marcus wants it more.

she talks of fate, of how she was dreaming that this would happen. standing across from each other, warriors, even if the man on the loudspeaker says that they arent. maybe it is kismet, maybe its just a coincidence.

"that might be true."

he pulls back his hand, the blade an extension of himself. he is so close he can feel the warmth of the outside.

"but im going to need you to keep dreaming."

he brings his blade down.

[D10M marcus emberstatt attacks D8F amalthea marrow with his sword | sword]
_7ojGSNjL0sword
[1024 -- Severed Right Hand at Wrist -- 9.0 damage
(Sword)]

sword

[revel latimer, 11b 🔍 jay]

I tear through the air, the cavern of wind rifted by the steel caressing the side of his face. My teeth clench and grind against one another, anxiousness creeping into my bones. It's too close, I can feel the end grazing my fingertips, and yet, it's slipping away.

He spews more words, but my eyes roll to the back of my head. I'm fed with his spiel. "I am filled with rage," I mock in a high-pitched, condescending tone. I shake my head and bare my teeth, I wear my vexation clear on my skin. "Is that rage? It just looked like you were being a little bitch to me."

My lips curl into a vile grin, a cackle escaping from the depths of my throat. It's pained but zealous, I mean every octave it reaches. He's pathetic, a broken-spined boy still atop his shining horse. Acting like he's fallen, an angel on the ground, pure rage but his blood doesn't boil from the heat. He's pathetic, and yet, I'm dying by his hand.

He moves towards me, the sand kicking up around his feet, and I think I've lost too much blood because my mind starts to spin. A vision breaks into a kaleidoscope—the emerald green of the hedge, the rolling sands, two hands, and a sword. Wait—

Two hands.

Two?

Oh.

I think I try to scream, but my lungs just inflate in my chest just for a gasp of air to come up. And it's strange, it's painful but not. Searing and excruciating but dull. There's a vacuum in the air, an emptiness hanging around where my hands once were. I hate it. I'd rather not feel it at all than to move it, feel like it's moving just for it to not be there. My own mind has turned against me.

My body collapses to the ground, the sand scratching against my beat knees. I hunch over, desperately grabbing at the hilt of my fallen sword with my teeth. Like a dog searching for its bone. I wonder when he looks at me, face in the sand, pieces of my body scattered across the courtyard, does he should put me down? That it'd be an act of mercy? Would he coddle me and make false promises like the true knight he is?

It's a savage sight. A handless, bloodstained girl struggling to rise to her feet, a sword in her mouth. Her own blood smeared around her lips, dripping down her chin, grains of sand sticking to the crimson. How pathetic.

But, I'm not done. I scream around the hilt, a muffled cry passing through my teeth. It's a feral and beastly call, my heart drums to the animal rhythm. I'm falling before I spill his blood too, it's only fair.

marrow attacks marcus | sword

qdpd0Ww5Xzsword

[ 1015 -- Deep Gash on Right Bicep -- 8.0 damage ]

sword

[pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]]

he is convinced that all of this could just be over in an instant. the people that had put this show on could stop this right now, let them both go home, and they could just never speak of this again. sure, death did happen, but they would be absolved of it. marcus had to believe that. he only did what he needed to do.

but the girl makes it very clear that she does not care about what marcus feels. in fact, she is quick to mock him, right to his face. even in death, she still has so much grace and power.

marcus mustve just had luck on his side.

he smirks for a moment, then shakes his head, realizing that this all might have been just a reaction to losing her hand. the sword did still look strong in her other. she seemed so hellbent on making sure that marcus would bleed. when his own blade came down, he watched as the other hand, the one that held the sword elegantly, flew into the air.

marcus did not even blink this time, blood splatters over the ground and on the swords and even on him, but he does not react. he cant react in this moment.

he is on the verge of feeling nothing. "you can call it whatever you want." marcus takes a deep breath as he watches her react to the loss of her hands. one by one they fell. she is panic personified, and marcus is simply there to siphon that panic away.

and secure his route to freedom.

he knew not to underestimate her though, the fight was still alive, much to his own dismay. she is crafty this one, her mouth unhinging right in front of him as she bends down, using her handless arms to cradle the sword into her mouth. the sounds she is making now are muffled, and he can only make the gasps and grunts.

he wondered what she really wanted to say.

the sword spoke for her, blood being drawn this time from his skin as she lashes against his arm. the blow made sense, but how she was able to defy the practicality is something that marcus can only be impressed with.

"deaths knocking you know that?" marcus is choosing very well, to be intentional with his words. he does not care if he is mocked for it, because there was no changing her mind about him.

she had him figured out in her own way, and marcus was not going to try to change that.

"here..." his arm is searing, but he needs to continue on.

"let me give you a hand."

and he strikes.

[D10M marcus emberstatt attacks D8F amalthea marrow with his sword | sword]
1J|Iih1JO1sword
[1099 -- Severed Left Ear -- 8.0 damage
(Sword)]

sword