should I be worried? :joy: | matt vs portia [bloodbath]

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

This. This is not what she imagined her arena uniform to look like. A lot of leather, Portia squeaks whenever she moves her arms. The only part of her without cow’s hide is her legs, floral fishnet tights compliment a pair of black leather boots. Her hair is pulled back with a hell of a lot of hairspray and gel. It looks like she has just stepped out of the shower. The only color on her is the beige patches and gold oversized buttons on her dress. All the rest is black, a contrast to the royal purple she wore at the sponsorship gala.

”I look awful. I feel awful.” Portia tells the reflection in the glass pod.

There is some color in the room though, a neon ribbon thing with a card clipped to it. Something about a backstage pass. It is no medal, the one her little sister gave her in the Justice Building is tucked under her dress, around her neck. She wears the lanyard above it. ”I suppose this is something important…” The reflection in the pod’s glass doesn’t say anything back to her. Portia is so used to getting a pep talk from her trainers before every competition. Here she is alone. Left to figure this all out by herself.

It has been a successful week in the training center, so she thinks. The 9-training score put a dampener on things, she was aiming for double digits. But she found teammates, Sera and Circe. That’s her game plan, finding them again.

The elevator seals shut, all that is between her and fleeing death is a 10-inch-thick shatterproof pod of glass. Portia is committed now, no matter how old-fashioned she finds the games, she is going to play them. For her own sake only. There’s a family name to uphold too but she is not going to allow her body to be death’s trophy. She is going to get her own and it is going to fit perfectly on the top of her head.

”Time to go up then…” Portia exhales, her arms hang down with her fists clenched in the tightest fists ever. Her fingernails dig deep into the skin of her palms and her knuckles turn a sickly white. The pod jolts and Portia saves herself from falling by planting her now unclenched hands on the glass. ”Shit!” This doesn’t feel like she is going up. A twist? It is what she has been wanting the entire time.

Muffled music blasts from somewhere, its source is nowhere to be seen. It sounds like she is back at the sponsorship gala instead there is no glam here. It looks like some backroom she accidentally lost herself in while in the Training Centre. Clutter is stacked up all around, a spaghetti junction of wires and speakers that are either stood upright or laid on their side. There are rails filled with clothes better than what she is wearing. Nothing in here looks like a cornucopia, maybe the black crates are filled with wealth?

Others are here but not everyone. No Circe or Sera, not even Jupiter. ”Where is everyone else?” She asks, but all the faces look just as confused as she does. She sees knives in this boring twist of a room though, it can’t be no mistake.

Get your ass out of here. Fight if you must then go and find the Circe and Sera. You’ve got this! That’s the pep talk she gives herself.

Her hands resume their fist position, she will have to push some dude out of the way to reach the knife that is perched perfectly on a spotlight. ”Should I be worried about you or can I get out of here without having to punch you in the face?” She asks him but doesn’t give him the chance to answer. The only way out of here is by having the head start and Portia always the hare, the tortoise story doesn’t apply when her life is on the line.

Portia pulls back her right arm, aiming for their head. The leather dress squeaks just as she throws the punch. Perfect!

Portia attacks Matt Colekay | Fist
lQw6eN|7Dounarmed
[5113 -- Block -- 0.0 damage]
Accuracy
unarmed
[2 dmg]
[Picks Up Knife]

unarmed·unarmed

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

matt colekay

I was awake at 05:00AM before the Reaping. That's when it was the quietest—everyone bigger than me slept during the hours of 04:00 and 07:30, made for far less aches and bruises of red, purple, blue, green, yellow. No one could crack my ribs or my collarbones—(Well, collarbone. Twice. On the right side, but don't tell anyone.)—at the crack of dawn after cracking skulls and cold ones together all night. Too much many cracks and fissures and you'll break. No worse, shatter.

So I was up again just as early. I suppose I work like the sun. Or maybe the moon. Maybe even more distant like Mars or Venus. Watching and waiting and enjoying peace before there was none left to find. Or maybe I was just following a gravitational pull. Just some body floating in space.




But I wasn't going to tell her that. There were too many instances in which that didn't work out for me.

She was fast. No, not fast necessarily. Enduring?

Yes. Enduring.

"Should I be worried about you or can I get out of here without having to punch you in the face?"

Hard to forget the first two of us they show off everywhere, flash on the screens, announce. But I made a point to make sure I could forget all my peer's names. (So many of us need to quit breathing for this to end.) My hands are trembling, but that's to be expected; my hands always shake when I think I'm about to get beaten down.

And she does. The first blow is to one of my ribs and I'm certain she knows it with the way I cry out and crumble beneath the sheer force of being run through, tripping and falling backwards, purple roses blasting through my vision. I look up and see my reflection in medals of gold and unnaturally shiny leather. The Maybach name manages to twist me up in pair of knotted up shoestrings; I feel like my feet are tied together. She manages to clip my temple with her knuckles. My senses go soft and black for a moment and my reply comes out like I have a mouth full of raven's down fluttering out.

And, yeah, maybe I spittle them back out in her face just a bit—"Hit me all you like, but you aren't getting out of here."—if only to make my words sickly sticky. I grin. I can see where my words lilted off my tongue and splattered against her skin in red flecks. If I was lucky, they'd dry there.

I'd kill her and my blood would dry against her skin.

And it would be a fucking spectacle.

And so I wait, curled up and battered as I always have been. Just waiting. Shaking. Whimpering. But waiting all the same. "I've heard you like royalty."

(So kick me while I'm down, just like they do. I dare you.)

^{[matt colekay doesn't attack portia maybach]
[picks up knife]}

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

It is only one punch. Portia has gone ten rounds before, throwing fists – uppercuts, hooks all of the different types. Hundreds of them, constant and her opponent fought through, always standing to the last second. Her too (she is not unbeatable – it is clever to accept that early on).

But not here. She should be able to hear the winning sound of the bell, one fist, and it is a knockout but the loud muffled music that obscures all the conversations around them drowns it out. Pride is drowned out too. Don’t beat them while they’re down – it is a code in the career academy. A theoretical code when everyone is just practicing. This isn’t practice, this is her life or death. The next one may not crumble under a crunch of their ribs or a hit to their temple.

Portia’s prize this round is the knife, she waits for his comeback but nothing.

"I've heard you like royalty."

”Just like? Sure and I will be royalty myself, after all of this.”

All the Maybachs have is a business name, a motoring company. There’s a lot of family businesses in Panem, it doesn’t automatically mean royalty. And then there’s the dead tribute ancestor that everyone forgot about until this year. The Le Rouxs became royalty after a victor and a whole crop of dead tributes. Portia will be former; it’ll only take one with a crown for them to roll out a throne.

And she is not going to do it be running a one-man race. That is not how winners are made.

”Are you going to get up and fight?” Portia has never liked getting things easily. A reward only comes when it is earned, but she has trained with enough careers to know the tricks of the world. This guy is acting like roadkill already, but he could be so easily winding up the mechanism in his jack in the box, waiting until the right moment to spring out and slit Portia’s throat. She will keep her head start.

”Pick up that knife,” Her words tremble just like his do, she is desperate and kicks the blade on the floor with her leather boot that slides perfectly towards him. Portia doesn’t relax, she stands over the cowering guy, the blade firm in her hand as she waits for him to move. Blood splattered tainted skin already, the breakfast from this morning has barely digested. Chaos all around and not one of them are the two she wants to be with right now. They’re just silhouettes dancing to the beat of the horrific so-called music. She is sure Sera and Circe would’ve called her name by now. ”Don’t make this easy for me, I need to fight. I need to earn this!”

Or is this just her way of justifying killing someone? He is already down; she could just hop over him and find the exit. But he could follow her. But he could trip her. But…But…But… Portia lunges with her knife, the waiting is excruciating and she offers this blade as her warning shot.

Portia attacks Matt Colekay | Knife
m6GALCowj5knife
[8.0 damage +1 blades]
Picks up Jar of Tar.

knife

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

matt colekay

"Pick up that knife." She kicks the blade toward me and I watch it skitter and spin and halt in a spotlight. I hesitate, try to make myself _smaller. Or, at least, seem it. I know better than to listen to her demands. Especially with words like, 'royalty' and 'need' and 'earn' and 'fight' rolling off her tongue with that sickening twinge of desperation. Cornered animals never played nice. Especially not the one's who thought they deserved crowns and to sit on thrones.

I cower in on myself, locking eyes with her as I shake my head.

"Don't make this easy for me, I need to fight. I need to earn this!"

(And maybe I don't want to die. Ever considered that?)

I lift my hands slowly above my head, empty palms open to her. My blood will surely fill in the creases soon. Surely she'd bury that blade into my eye, my throat, slip it between my ribs, clip my femoral artery. She was going to grow tired of waiting any sec-

I latch onto her wrist and then again at her elbow as she lunges for me. Tears spring to my eyes and a yelp tears itself from my throat. (But I promised a fucking show.) I can smell the leather of her outfit as the lanyards around our necks tangle together. Dancing silhouettes cast shadows across our skin from behind heavy curtains as music threatens to drown out my reply.

And then I force her knife into my leg, sink it in to the hilt. It takes every muscle I have to keep her from wrenching it free or twisting it. My hands are shaking, but my grip is strong as adrenaline begins to turn me into a whole different boy. Someone stronger. Someone braver. Someone who could walk around with a knife sticking out of his leg. Someone who could stab someone.

Someone who could kill.

"Fights are better when opponents are equal," I choke, swallowing hard and gasping through grit teeth. "Don't you think?"

My blood is warm where a few beads have begun to form.

"Besides, I'm no royal."

My blood is warm where a few beads have begun to form.

"Why kill a peasant when you could kill a king?"

And then I do my best to twist her arm from its socket or break her fingers until the blade in my leg is mine and I'm scrambling to stand. It juts out awkwardly—(I need to focus on her, shit.)—and all I can manage to do is push and squeeze and just- pressure, pressure, pressure. Apply pressure, don't pull the blade free. (This was worse than broken bones.) My fingers are getting slick, my breathing is coming in rapid bursts, my vision is swimming, my body won't stop swaying.

(No, no. I can do this.)

(I told myself I would.)

I kick the knife that was still at my feet back to her.

I wonder if she can see it in my eyes, the goading—(Go on. Make a spectacle of us.)—behind my gaze as I look her over. The lights make it look like she's wearing that crown she so desperately seeks already. And there I was, clutching at a knife in my thigh, bent over and bloodied.

Fucking bowing like I was waiting to be knighted.

Or beheaded.

(What did I do to deserve this?)

I try to twist my features into a smile, like the one I had worn on the stage at the Reaping, but I doubt it comes out right for the cameras. Maybe it'll be enough for her though.

^{[matt colekay attacks portia maybach]
rOWYgoD7Ylunarmed
[3.5 damage]
[picks up jar of tar]
[also knife trade? xoxo]}

unarmed

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

Get up. Fight me. Make it worth it killing you.

The reprisal she has been waiting for springs up. Scrambling arms entwine, the guy stops her lunging blade. This is the fight she wanted, the one she was so desperate to trigger. It all feels so distorted, it is just her arms and upper body weight pushing against him. His force dismisses her knife from cutting his jugular and making this quick.

Then the knife cuts skin, through muscles, its tip likely kissing bone. Not by Portia’s guidance, even if her hand is still tight on its hilt. Bewilderment plasters itself on Portia’s face, eyes wide and a gaping mouth that is open too much to spill any words. She holds on, her palms are wet from the struggling. Wet with sweat and his blood. Portia stands over him, just a second to breathe and untangle the confusion in her mind that fuzzes like a broken television set.

"Fights are better when opponents are equal – don’t you think?"

Did he just maim himself to make this equal?

”Are you calling me weak?” Perhaps the distractions around them are muddling her brain. Intelligence sometimes slips when so much is going. It is hard to balance full on brutality, desperation, sympathy and brains.

Defence too. Her guard is down, puzzlement quickly whirls out of her as he is on his feet. He twists her arm that his still clinging onto the knife in his leg. She can’t cry out; this is exactly what she has been asking for. A fight. It is just like how the guys play dirty on the sparring mat in One. If he keeps going, he will dislocate her shoulder. She lets go, leaving behind the knife in his skin. Portia steps back far enough so the next wind up of this strange guy doesn’t leap up too close to her.

”You’re not even a peasant, you’re not deserving of that title. Look what you’ve done to yourself…you’re a rodent! A limp one! Limp rat!”

Now her hands are bare, she is back to just her fists. And the balance of equality favours him, even with the wound, he is the one with two blades in his reach.

”I will be doing you a favour now…” And he delivers the favour on a plate to her. The knife is airborne, and its landing destination is against Portia’s fishnet tights, a left leg cut and now her own blood is in the mix. Even if it is just a drop. Portia winces, it just a nick and she swallows any signs of pain. She can’t use the knife that has her own DNA on it, this isn’t the one she earned. She picks it up and looks back at the smiling, irritating face that is bending her brain.

”There’s something wrong with you.” It is a rabid limp rat that she is looking at. There’s no smile on her, just baring teeth and heavy breaths. ”This is your knife. I want mine back!” The one that is stopping ounces of blood pouring from him. All she wants to do is pull it out, even kick it out. But this thing in her hand, it is not hers.

Portia throws the knife at him, and she follows its course, hoping the hurtling blade is enough of a distraction for her to retrieve her own. A sword from a stone. A rusty knife from a freaky guy’s leg.

Portia attacks Matt Colekay | Knife...a thrown one!
j5z_z2XzRTthrowing knife
[8.0 damage]
Picks up shin guards - awks given the cut on her leg

throwing knife

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

matt colekay

I've been called a lot of things in my life. Rat was one of them. Limp rat, though? That was new. Creative even, I suppose. A lot more fun than the normal bullshit back home. (You're becoming delirious.) I can only manage a nod, listening and trying not to let myself keel over.

(The show just fucking started, Matt. Get a grip.)

"There's something wrong with you."

(Clearly. There's knife jutting out of my thigh.)

I press down harder on my leg, fingers becoming slick and sticky the more I move. My instinct to

pull

the damn thing out was growing more and more difficult to fight. (Don't do it, you'll bleed out.) It makes my smile falter the more I try to keep my blood on the inside. (Bared teeth and clenched jaw )

"This is your knife. I want mine back!"

My hands are shaking even if my voice doesn't quaver.

"Come get it then."

My muscles falter where her blade has severed some connections—sinew sliced through, silver against my bone, kissing marrow and curdling blood—and I can't manage to move quickly enough to avoid the blade she throws at me. I try not to let the pain stagger me as it follows the line of my jaw, cutting deep as it whistles past my ear and clatters somewhere behind me. By the time I regain composure, I can see the whites of her eyes.

(Shit. Fuck. Shit.)

I scramble backwards, trying to regain the distance, dangerously—stupidly—turning my back to her in search of the knife that wasn't accounted for.

But she was faster, quicker. (Everyone always was.) And the knife is still just beyond my reach when she catches up. Her words ring in my ears—"Look what you’ve done to yourself."—as I try desperately to keep her from pulling the damn blade free of my flesh. But she's strong, far stronger than me. I stretch with my free hand, fingers desperately straining to grasp the blade just out of reach, as I keep my other hand over the knife in my leg.

I need to make a decision.

(What did I do to deserve this?)

And I need to make the right one.

(What. did. I. do. to. deserve. this?)

So I let her have the hilt; I let her    yank   it free.

I screech in agony, kicking and rolling and scrambling desperately in the same instant so that my bloodied palm can reach the blade full of our collective coagulating gore just out of reach.

And I can't see her when I lash out with all the red and black clouding my vision. I can feel blood dripping down my neck, over my throat, pooling in my collarbone. I press what is now a white-knuckled grip into the gash across my jaw.

"We're all carrion in the end."

I've seen the way hawks puncture rat lungs with their talons, pull their guts from their ribcages and skin from their tiny bones. And I've watched the way those rats descendants devour the flesh of the rotting corpses of hawks.

Some call that cruelty. (The world we live in is so fucking cruel.) But I've only ever known humans to embody that word. (That's what I fucking need to be.)

"It's just a matter of whose corpse gets eaten first."

"Tell me," My voice strains, my breathing finds a broken rhythm to follow. "Do you enjoy rotting flesh stuck between your teeth?" (Are you willing?) "Fucking up that royal smile?" (Are you?!) "Because this limp rat became a stiff a long time ago."

('Look what you’ve done to yourself.')

(What did I do to deserve this?)

^{[matt colekay attacks portia maybach]
GExHr0TrkUknife
[4.5 damage]
[welcome to the bloody knife exchange!]}

knife

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

Delirium is a sign of a weakness. It sits an athlete on the bench for weeks when it is not treated. Nobody wants to put their money on a horse that can’t run straight or doesn’t know how to turn left. Miss Time Waster Portia should have no bets against her name, a blade is a blade, no matter if it is in his leg or in her hand. But there is no knife in her hand anymore and the nearest one is sticking right out of his thigh, just an arm’s length away, even while he is scrambling.

She is so quick. It even amazes her how fast she manages to wrap her fingers around the hilt, swiping away his protest. A massive gold star plants itself in her mind. It is self-praise because nobody here will give it to her.

Portia has it in her grip, but it still submerged in his flesh. His hands beg for it to remain, but something slips, and Portia pulls. She is so close to him, to the wound erupts with blood as soon as it loses the pressure from the knife. It bursts all over her, blood splatters across her face and the leather dress, even up her forearms. But I have MY knife now.

The knife is held like a trophy, she admires it with a wide beaming smile. ”I have got it, it is mine!” Portia admires it for too long, the guy claims his own knife and mutters words of flesh eating beasts. Then acts like one, striking with the knife that pecks at flesh on her cheek. It is not a wound like the one from the knife she threw. She makes sure of it by dragging herself back into the living and stepping back far enough so she is doesn’t become the one with a knife stuck in her.

”Your stiff body is just going to be the first step to my throne.” Conquering comes with hard work, some royalty had it gifted to them through blood. Others must earn it, like the Maybachs. Just an honest family who has built up a reputation with business, a trade in motorcars and motorsports. It all started with someone getting their hands dirty with engine oil in a dusty garage. It all must start with blood, sweat and tears. Portia is covered in her own tears, sweat and blood that she shares with the guy.

She smiles at him, the blood that bursts from his leg is mixing with the sweat that drips from her temple. There is even splatters of red on her teeth, so she is already having a taste of his flesh…”At least I will have a smile to walk out with.” Portia wipes the sweat from her face with the back of her hand, the leather of her dress is starting to chafe against her skin. The outfit was not a well thought out one from the stylists.

”It is a shame you had to face me first, maybe you would’ve put up a better fight with one of the weaklings. But! I think even the twelve year old could so easily walk over you.” Saliva builds up inside of her mouth, rinsed with sickening tasting blood. She spits it out, making sure it lands on the ground in front of him. ”We can talk shit all we want, it is just drawing out the inevitable.”

There comes that teethy smile again, it is villainous. The delirium is really pulling the strings, she is not even been in the arena an hour. It is the knife that leads her towards him, with a taste of his flesh. It wants another bite. It wants to feast. This is the old-fashioned career that she didn’t want to become.

”Lets not draw out me escaping here, flesh intact!”

Portia attacks Matt Colekay | Knife
THJSi6Pe6Kknife
[bruh]

Accuracy
knife
[8.0 damage + 1 blades]

knife·knife

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

matt colekay

I try to keep myself from needing to sink to the floor and to return to the only position I had ever known—curled into a tight ball, knees to chest, forearms protecting my face, hands covering an ear. Bruises would bloom across my back and create color portraits up my shins, but most of my bones would be intact instead of puncturing my lungs. Sure, beneath the surface, hidden deep and buried deeper within my heart, my pride was scarred. But what did that matter?

Pride doesn't fucking matter in Panem. The strong would always crush the weak, the cruel would always Nothing would ever fucking change. It was always just going to be like this for me. Fetal positions and blood stained monsters grinning down at him.

Always beneath a boot.

(What did I do to deserve this?)

I outstretch my arm and drop the knife in my hand. I try to fall to a knee first, but I only fall backwards, panting and shivering and sweating and bleeding and- well, I'm-

Dying.

Flames are roaring around us in the distance, electricity sizzling in the rafters. Her silhouette stands tall over me, leering as my own blood makes the floor beneath me slick. I curl in tighter on myself and peer at her with one eye through my fingers.

"Go on then," I choke out, throat swelling tears pricking the corner of my eyes as I return to the only thing I've ever been good at—being stepped on and being stepped over.

"But I'm taking your honor with me."

And then I close them. I curl into a tight ball, I pull my knees to my chest, protect my face with my forearms, and cover my exposed ear with hands.

Guess everyone with a steel-toed boot and leering gaze had been right all along; I—the weaker, the limp rat—deserved this.

^{[matt colekay drops his knife]}

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

A fireball prances in the distance of this mysterious backroom, the flames dance in the reflection of Portia’s eyes. There’s more going in here and Portia needs to stop wasting her breaths on this guy. A white flag is being waved in her face; he is back on the floor again. She is stood over him, her own and his blood seeping from the pores of her saturated skin.

It has only taken a decade in the training centre for her to become the one thing she refused to idolise. Just one taste of blood – quite literally and Portia has entered the realms of bloodthirsty careers. She is ready to not even spare the poor guy who is curled up in a ball. If leaving him now and hoping he lives meant she could walk out of here with oxygen in her own lungs, she would just step over him. But that’s not how the rules are written for this tournament. There’s only one way onto the high step of the podium and that’s by climbing up bodies.

”Don’t worry, they will see that you fought. That you tried in the end but strength always prevails…” Portia admires him for admitting defeat, that is not something she will ever do. If anyone is going to overpower Portia Maybach in here, they’re going to have to bleed every last drop of blood out of her. There is no forfeiting the Hunger Games.

”Well done on playing your part on my path to royalty.” She says, fiddling with the knife in her hand as her eyes are distracted by the blaze and strong flesh burning stench that suddenly drowns her nostril hairs. ”You weren’t so worthless after all.” He says he will take her honour, it sounds an empty threat. Ghosts don’t exist, there is no fear of him ever haunting her. Not even in her nightmares. Only Heather Holloway, keeps her up at night, her number one rival in the sprint races.

Portia kneels next to him; death has already been drawn out for this one, but she can make the end quick. Swift and pain ending. If her honour is being taken, she can hold onto it by taking the weight of his misery. Portia is delicate with the blade; she lets it feed on his neck. ”Sleep tight.”

Portia attacks Matt Colekay | Knife
A2OC2HElZcknife
[Portia!]

knife


*Portia actually rolled 2102 - slit throat. RIP Matt Colekay, you will forever be in our hearts xxx*

knife·knife