what fate demands // tv v. bb v. to, day 6

[Python]

It was a scavenger hunt for despair.

Ulysses was nowhere to be found. After a well-deserved fixing of strawberry cobbler, Torian scouted from the bushes and waited for any signs of his friends. When the sun began to dip beneath the horizon, he cautiously walked out of his nest. He explored and explored until the sky was pitch black, and he could no longer bear the sounds of nature making him feel paranoid. Every shift of a leaf, every snap of a stick, and he thought he was being hunted. Though he did not hear voices, there was a chance that Lily could be following him - or even Larissa, having maybe been separated from her own group and betraying him because he was a threat, or something.

Threat. Hah. Good one. He was alone and scared, relying on Ulysses and Jayson to feel any semblance of safety. Boys were taught to be leaders, not followers - but if that happened everywhere, then who would follow the leaders? People like Lily and Larissa were born to lead. People like Torian, pacifists, they weren't meant for places like this. He needed Ulysses' words of guidance, even if they didn't make any sense. Torian wouldn't know what to do with himself if he didn't find them.

He didn't stop until the anthem played. It was Jayson's face that anchored him to the earth, pulling him until he was seated beneath a tree, head in his hands. God, what if it was his fault for letting those pixies into his head? Surely there was a way to resist their allure. Stupid!

Jayson was the toughest of them all, and yet he wasn't invincible.

I don't stand a chance.

Torian exposed himself to the elements. He forced himself to accept that if he died, he died. Ulysses was out there somewhere, but not close enough to protect him. If Torian was on his own, it was time to activate those survival instincts. Ulysses said he can do great things, but he had to do awful things to reach that point - and apparently enjoy it, according to Lilly. Was he capable of that?

He always hated philosophy class. This is why. Morals. He had to betray them if he wanted to see his mom and dad again.

He remembered his father's eyes; nothing but reservation, as if he already understood Torian's fate. He didn't expect his son to return, and Torian hadn't known what to do with that information. Instead, he had focused on his mother's tears. She begged him to use his wits to outsmart the others. She begged him to try. It would be a shame to disappoint her in his last moments. One should always listen to their mother - if they had sense - and for the most part, she did. She wanted what was best for him. It wasn't what he wanted, but she assumed it was.

Love you, ma.

--

The pixies returned like a swarm of bees. He swatted them during their rude awakening, covering his eyes to ensure their hypnotic gazes didn't meet his own. Unacceptable, apparently, as they started to pull his horns and scratch his skin. They yanked on the fabric of his shirt until he had no choice but to follow them. "Can you bring me to Ulysses? I want to say goodbye." Their high-pitched chirps did nothing to assure his interests. What if they led him to another trap?

He jogged for awhile, scanning his surroundings. They were back in the ooze-coated forest. Is this where Ulysses was hiding? At their old camp?

His heart jumped when he spotted another figure, and it sank immediately when he realized it wasn't Ulysses.

Crap. This again.

"They're not very subtle about this..."

He pulled out his glaive. This was the worst part- drawing blood when he didn't want to. He didn't have the heart for killing, and he didn't have the patience for pain. Somehow he had endured it thus far, but what was he supposed to do now? Fight these two people as a sacrifice once again? And then what?

"I would say sorry, but I know it's not going to feel genuine so - this is awful, and let's acknowledge that."

[attacks bellamy - glaive]
bDdb61LgMvglaive
sc thigh - 3.5

[attacks thomas - glaive]
glaive
miss, 0

accuracy
glaive
sc neck, 4.0

glaive·glaive·glaive

[d7f amber bosch 🌿 tris]

The soul can split itself like a rose wilting.

He imagines living like that; to be beautiful and to be brief, a flush of color and then nothing but grey. Petals on the kitchen floor meant to be discarded. He has learned by this point how to dull the melancholy in his heart quickly enough that his eyes don't flash indigo with recognition, with signal; sometimes he stares at his reflection in the edge of his dagger and hates himself for how visible all of his damage has become. All of his hidden fears dancing in color across his irises. His broken knee feels like static now, his scars have scabbed over, he still holds the airs of a boy who basks in the sun.

The champion charms, but Bellamy bewitches.

He had followed the pixies to the edge of the forest only hours ago, around a corner and into a dark spot he cannot remember; the only constants of the night prior are the weight of Tinker in his grasp and Perry standing across from him in the clearing, the sound of voices coming through a veil. The queen had sung his praises as quickly as he fell Jayson, arrow pierced through his body like a stag on the precipice of slaughter. But Bellamy had left the corpse to the earth like a sacrifice. His hands took one prize, an orange satchel labelled 'third,' and he reached greedily for another.

If he was an extension of Perry, then that meant she was an extension of him. Touching her felt like that, finger in his wound, hand in the cookie jar, if anyone could truly claim to see the spectrum of him it would be both Larissa and herself; his two darlings, his twin daggers, the duo that captured his attention and distracted his ambition long enough for him to fantasize a world in which all three of them could step into the sunlight together. They have seen his rage, his sadness, his playfulness, his love.

And deep down, he has always known that both of them would have to die. He does not wish to stand in the place of that fate, boy dodging tragedies, so in the dark night he made his solace with that being the last beautiful moment he would ever have with the most beautiful creatures to grace his life thus far. Ever cruel, ever selfish, ever hungry; he knows that his survival means another adventure, another goal to seek, another flame to stoke. There will be other girls like Larissa and Perry. But there will only be this one crown.

He wishes them a death that is good and quick and not by his hand.

To them, his eyes would tell the truth. He hopes they do not survive to learn it.

The holograms flickering around him do not hold his attention, he is aware what this pivotal moment in the standing means for all the tributes left in the arena. If he is whole, then so are Larissa and Perry; if he hasn't faltered, he's damn sure they're both still standing on their feet. He has to concern himself with his own survival now, glaive in his grasp and a rising warmth of scarlet in his eyes, surely the both of them are facing their own mortality at this very moment, staring at a monster's visage that looks just like him.

He'll save the Capitol the funds to edit. He is already a terror.

A poisonous flower with thorns all along the stem, begging to be picked.

What reason is there to want if you do not want more than your fill? The pixies wake him at dawn, lead him back to this same wicked scenario, and he reminds himself that he volunteered to experience this. The means have to justify the end. For glory, he has been asked to kill some essence of himself twenty-three times over. Both boys are familiar, one who dared to strike him just hours ago, and the other connected to the ghost that does not haunt him. Jayson had divided Perry's attention, and now, neither of them mattered to her.

There is only this. The rawness of a breath, and the shift of a glaive preparing to be swung. "I don't see a lot to acknowledge," he says this calmly, but there is no warmth in his voice, the honey has gone stale. "Only two people standing in my way. And I'm very competitive." He lurches to the side, reduces what could have been a deep cut to a shallow scratch across his skin; and he considers repeating his most recent sin. Over and over. If his allies can die, then these strangers can suffer for all he cares.

"Thomas, my old pal, why don't you tell Torian about how I murdered his friend yesterday? That was only a warm up."

( bellamy attacks torian, glaive )
PAmAllvF_Sglaive
( block )

( bellamy attacks thomas, glaive )
glaive
( 4.0 )

accuracy | day 6

( bellamy attacks torian, glaive )
glaive
( 8.0 )

glaive·glaive·glaive

[pup]

“Get the fuck off me.”

I woke up feeling safer and more secure than I had been in a while. Her arms wrapped around me, not as a lover, but as a friend giving me shelter. But as soon as the throbbing my head eased to the point where I could remember who had her arms around me, I began to struggle my way out of her grip.

“I’m hungover don’t yell at me.” Xaa grumbles, one of her hands blissfully loosening from around my chest to rub her eye.

“I’m not yelling. Get up.”

Just as I pull myself from her arms, she wraps them around me again, and leans close to my ear. “But you’re so cute, I couldn’t help myself.” Her voice is dripping with sweetness and sends a familiar uncanny shiver down my spine. I freeze for a second, convinced she’s going to pull a knife out and slit my throat, but then she laughs.

At least she’s enjoying herself.

“Move it, snake.” I grumble, finally freeing and pushing myself off the ground before she can grab at me again.

Last night was just a blurry memory in my head. We talked and talked and talked some more. And then at the end of our talks when the pink alcohol began to drag our brains into sleepiness, Xaa crawled up next to me and put her arms around me. It was the first time she felt more like a friend than an ally.

Before we had much time to bask in the silence and our shared headache, a screeching noise began to rise from the bushes. Soon, they were all around us, tearing at my hair and dragging on my clothes. At this point I'm familiar with their purpose. "I'll find you after," I try to yell over the pixie's noises, but the sound might have been lost among their fluttering wings before it could get to Xaa.

I wasn't surprised when they deposited me back in the crying woods, my feet sinking into the deep, dark slush pouring off the trees. And I'm alone once again. No more Will, no more Luna, and no more Xaa.

And there they are, pouring from behind the trees in clouds of pixies. Xaa, always the strategist, had run me through the names of the last ten tributes besides us. It's the golden boy from yesterday, Bellamy, and the guy from district seven I haven't really spoken with, Torian.

I try to dodge their swings, but each of their weapons draw blood.

"That was your warm up?" I taunt, my hands tightening around the hilt of my glaive. "All I saw was a vulture coming in after I had already gutted the guy."

Turning my weapon on Torian, I continue with a shrug, "But hey, when I kill both of you, I'll call it even."

[attacks torian with glaive]
AhjUlQEfRpglaive
[Stabbed in Bicep -- 8.5 damage + 1 blades]

[attacks bellamy with glaive]
glaive
[Shallow Cut on Right Forearm -- 3.5 damage]

[kaitlin]

glaive·glaive

[Python]

Torian wondered when his luck changed. As a concept, luck was something discussed when someone suffered one terrible event after another. The Reaping itself was the king of kings in that regard, but winning the wealth had felt like a turnaround - like that was the moment he could breathe a sigh of relief and feel some hope. Ever since Caspian died though, he felt like a magnet for trouble. Mostly, he was tired of meeting people who were comfortable acting so dismissive of empathy, like the idea of it never existed in their selfish worlds. What is it about this place that turned other people into monsters, while Torian was immune? Had they always been like this? Or did this awaken something that had been hiding in the shadows all this time?

It was not normal behavior.

He didn't know what to think about Bellamy's boasting. Learning how Jayson died didn't change how sad he felt about it, and learning who did it did not make him angrier. What he noticed most was that these two already had history, and he was unfortunately sandwiched in the middle. An awkward piece of cheese between two psycho wheat breads. Why were they debating on who killed Jayson? The kill count did not determine who won the crown. It didn't earn them more money if they won...

Conclusion: they were like Lillybird. Messed up in the head. Torian hadn't taken enough psychology to understand much beyond that.

What he did know was that he wanted to disappear, so he pulled his special cloak above his head. He had tested it last night - a cloak of camouflage, it allowed him to blend with his environment, and the moment he stepped out of Bellamy's path, he held his breath for pain that didn't come. Success!

Short-lived, because Thomas was hot on his heels with a glaive much like his own. The way it ripped into his arm made him hiss. Falling off one's bike and scraping a knee did not quite prepare him for this kind of pain.

"Forget I said anything." He groaned. His position was already compromised, but at least he had avoided Bellamy's teeth for now. "I can see what kind of people you are. Let's just get this over with, I guess."

He didn't have the energy for people like this. Maybe hurting them would be a little easier.

[Torian uses cloak to block the first attack against him]


[attacks bellamy - glaive]
kpq|MVaDIxglaive
sc shoulder, 3.5

[attacks thomas - glaive]
glaive
dg chest, 9.5 + 2 from pts crown

glaive·glaive

[d7f amber bosch 🌿 tris]

Weaver of stories and limbs, Bellamy is an athlete aspiring for a trophy. He dodges the sharpest edges of blades like he now dodges empathy. So long as his heart is beating in his chest, what does it matter what emotion it feels?

His eyes are still crimson, beautiful fey prince on the war path, grip white-knuckled and sure around the hilt of his shining glaive.

To him, all that glitters truly is gold, and he doesn't mind being cruel to two boys who have to die for him to get his way. Fake crying and pretending to regret his attacks would be more soul draining, and he refuses to second guess the choice he made of his own accord. If the people in charge expect him to slaughter in order to go home, then he will not question the lambs bleating in his way. His allies flash around him in holograms, false truths, a trick. He does not flinch.

He will not be shaken.

When Thomas tries to push against him, he laughs a half scoff in reply, leaning away from the lunging boy and parrying with a sweep of his weapon. Ever the most popular boy in school, he knows how to stand with the sun shining on his face, pushing those beneath him down into the dirt to wallow. He does it so delightfully. "The cannon followed my hit," he reminds the other tribute casually, unbothered, but still with that trace hint of innate smugness. "That's what counts."

He says hateful words and takes the moments afterward to glance at weak points, chinks in armor, sensitive nerves that he can cut into pieces. However he can destroy the both of them more easily, he will do it. Protective cloaks be damned, he draws a shallow line of blood and then feels his blade glide harmlessly across fabric. He longs to hear the tearing, the crack, the thud. Torian is right. He is not a senseless creature. To be a victor he must first prove this is something far worse.

And if the both of them wish for silence and a quick end, well. So be it.

Quietly, hungrily, Bellamy strikes with the intention of hearing two more cannon blasts. He doesn't need this opportunity to gloat so long as their severed heads end up at his feet.

( bellamy attacks torian, glaive )
ojhXF1AjOXglaive
( 4.0 )

( bellamy attacks thomas, glaive )
glaive
( 9.0 )

glaive·glaive

[pup]

Torian's blade digs into my stomach and I crumple. As he drags it out and I feel my body begin to shake from pain, another blow pierces my back. I drop and roll to the side, my torn clothes soaking in the blood before they can hit me with another attack.

My vision's unsteady as I rise, propping myself up with my glaive and squaring my legs. Once I regain balance, I hold my weapon up with one hand, my other pushing against the bleeding hole running through me, inches from a killing blow. My breath is ragged, and I stare down Bellamy as he continues boasting about the kill that should have been mine.

Anger rushes into me, pounding through my veins and rushing with my adrenaline right to my brain. I stand up a little straighter, steadying my weapon. Through gritted teeth, I spit blood onto the ground. I know nothing about the boy from five besides his looks, and I was told never to judge a book by its cover, but he looks like someone I can hate. Hating him is better than the apathy I've felt since Quentin's death, and it's definitely better than forcing myself to hate Will.

I wish Xaa were here. I hate needing to fight alone, especially if it means I'm going to die alone and angry. My parents trained me to be a doctor, and I came in here thinking I'd patch up Xaa and she'd do all the fighting for me. She pulled me apart instead and stitched me back together into a new person not meant for medicine.

"If being proud of having my leftovers makes you happy, then to each their own."

I turn to Torian, my glaive raised in the air defensively in front of me. "And I'm more than happy to get this done quickly. Do you prefer being stabbed in the eye or just decapitated?"

[attacks torian with glaive]
VmQeDTK8|2glaive
[4]

[attacks bellamy with glaive]
glaive
[9 + 1 blades]

[kaitlin]

glaive·glaive

[Python]

Torian had dissected animals in laboratories before. They were always far deceased and smelled of formaldehyde. That way, it was easier to detach oneself from the sorrow and cruelty associated with death. Ripping into a living, breathing creature - a human being at that - was so far beyond Torian's world. It surprised him how little force he had to administer to gut Thomas like he a fish out of water. He understood physics and angles, he just hadn't realized he was using it all to his advantage. He wasn't consciously doing it - it was just happening.

None of this felt good, but the two boys were making it difficult for Torian to feel guilty. Bellamy continued to argue in favor of his kill and his cannon. The egos here smelled of blood, sweat, and soil. There was no talking sense into them - they probably wanted to fight him. If he turned his back on them, he was as good as slaughtered, and even if he did succeed, the gamemakers would send another swarm of pixies his way. Choice was fantasy here. He realized that now.

So if he killed them, was that a choice he had to weighh on his conscience?

Sounded like a convenient way to escape blame. He wouldn't mind that. After all, if Bellamy or Thomas died, that would be good for him. Even if he didn't enjoy killing. Both of those could exist in harmony, right? Murder and favor?

"And I'm more than happy to get this done quickly. Do you prefer being stabbed in the eye or just decapitated?"

If he expected that to be a rhetorical question, he was mistaken. Torian had been trained to analyze questions like this - of course he had to answer. Both options were quick and relatively painless, if Thomas had the strength to sever his spine in one swing, but Torian didn't like the idea of looking mauled. His body would return home ruined. A missing eye or a missing head? The answer was clear-

" "Leave him alone or I'll find you and fuck you up myself, dude!"

He gasped. Ulysses' voice made his heart spring forth, and his eyes darted around for the source. Past Bellamy there was something fading in and out of existence - it looked like a hologram from the Capitol. Ulysses! And he was fighting someone. Lillybird?

Was this real?

He tightened his grip on his weapon. "Neither. I'd rather be stabbed through the heart, if you can manage."

It wasn't a challenge, but Torian wasn't about to give his heart up for free.

[attacks bellamy - glaive]
2DBUlIAfIqglaive
dg calf, 8.5

[attacks thomas - glaive]
glaive
dg neck, 10

glaive·glaive

[d7f amber bosch 🌿 tris]

Part of him has learned to enjoy the way his words bite. Honey and ants dripping from an open wound.

The taste of rust in his mouth has become familiar by this point. If there is no blade in his hand, then he is not living up to his purpose. His ambition haloes him, makes him glow. The golden boy can be a force of nature, too. He wants nothing more than to conquer the Games, this nightmare that keeps unfolding, and to live to tell the tale. History fascinates him more when he imagines himself within its scope.

More than that, he wishes to write the book on this experience and sign his name at the bottom. Proof that he did something impossible. He stares at the scar left behind by a girl who was erased from the world — and he thinks about the sadness in his brother’s dark brown eyes that lives there still to this day. It doesn't come and go like Bellamy's does, it stays. A tragedy that lingers.

Terribly, he has never wanted anything more than the things that Beau can never have. The shiniest toys aren’t always the best ones.

And walking out of this place with his heart unscathed, his smile still present on his face, a crown atop his curls? That makes his excitement rise, a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. It’s hard to convince himself that this is not exactly what he should wish for. The way he sees it, if his future is going to be laced with self hatred and regret, he might as well be done with the trauma on his own turns. He killed a boy yesterday. And days before that, he cheated on his girlfriend on national television for everyone to see.

A detonation is not always fast. Sometimes it ticks.

He has always known that he would have to kill, just like he always knew that his high school sweetheart would never be able to satisfy him forever. And it's no fault of hers, or anyone else, but boys like Bellamy only reach for the highest shelf so they can have a vantage point on where to leap next. The climb does not end until his heart stops beating, and he can hear it drumming. As long as he wants, he is alive. It's that innate.

If he chooses to be boastful and brilliant, then the latter justifies the former.

There's talk of heads rolling and spines snapping; all Bellamy cares to see is the edge of his blade ripping through skin, severing an artery, bringing forth an end. As much as he may be hurting, blood seeping through his clothes and agony coming in flashes, followed by dizziness, followed by overwhelming hunger, he refuses for this to be his curtain call. As far as he's concerned, he's the starring role in all this. To get what he wants, he has to be. He will not fathom a version of himself that is not worthy of his own endless ambition.

And unfortunately enough for the other boys, quiet and deadly like a spider, this scene calls for someone to die.

( bellamy attacks torian, glaive )
P_WHJMqta|glaive
( 3.5 )

( bellamy attacks thomas, glaive )
glaive
( 3.5 )

glaive·glaive

[Python]

Torian painted an ugly picture. His blade carved a ribbon of red into Bellamy's skin, and when Thomas got to close, he buried it deep into his neck. It was alarming how much blood could spurt from the human body without outright killing someone. If he wasn't afraid of these two, he would be disgusted by his own actions. Violence was necessary, but that didn't mean he had to pretend it was okay.

He backed away in fear of Thomas' retaliation and willingness to follow through with his earlier question. In an instant, Bellamy was there again, a blur of red and brute force. He struck out and Thomas fell to the ground, a signaling cannon firing moments after. There was no doubt in his mind that Thomas was dead or dying. While Bellamy was distracted, he had a chance to run away and find Ulysses. He was here somewhere with Lillybird. If he could find them, maybe he could help...

He turned and sprinted, speaking only when he was at a safe distance. "Your kill, your credit!"

In case there was any confusion.

[torian flees]

[d7f amber bosch 🌿 tris]

"Your kill, your credit!"

The red is fading from his eyes when he realizes how much of the color has stained his skin. It is a streak of scarlet across his cheek, a wet heat dripping down his back, the kind of hurt that makes its home in your bones. Following the kill, his wounds do not reek of honey, but of rust.

Something about death has a way of humanizing him. The fox jumps into the air and catches the bird in its teeth. In their time, all people must learn whether they are predator or prey. There are those who eat, and there are those who are eaten.

He feels melancholy again. Staring down at a corpse will do that to a person.

Waving from across the distance at Torian, he does not give chase, nor does he reply. He will not forgot that this boy requested silence in the face of a hard truth. If they meet again, Bellamy will try his hardest to break the tribute's neck without a single utterance. Don't let anyone ever say he is not a merciful king. He imagines the crown and how it might feel atop his head; he thinks of glory and grandeur with his hands digging in a dead boy's pockets.

Where there are treasures, there are things to be stolen. And he will reach for the gold. He will take the entire horde.

Time and time again.

( bellamy flees the fight )