{and} If this isn't all a dream || {T/N}

[aya]

Someday, you will get the best of me
Someday, probably when I'm old and grey
I'm lying in my bed
and I will soon be put to rest now

Nash Harvey —

In the pit of her stomach, Nash knew that there was something very, very different about the day following their fight with the mutant horses. It wasn't hunger, although that may have played a part — between the pangs signifying that starvation was imminent and the broken rib not too far off, there was a great deal of ache originating from the area. Yet somehow, this was a different kind of feeling, a pressing premonition that the day would be her absolute last. It was stronger than it had been the other days. And it was about time. Not that it really mattered to her that much if she actually did die, she'd decided. She was battered by the week of fighting, living on borrowed time as it was. Owed largely to her ally, she'd done much better than she'd expected of herself, much better than her parents must've expected of her, and that was something. All she'd come to do was exceed expectations and then die.

But it was no longer that simple. There were variables — one variable, really — that hadn't been accounted for in Nash's initial assessment of her stint in the Hunger Games. She'd only meant to come as she'd been called, raise hell for her parents back in District Two, and then die quietly. Back at the reaping — what was it, six? four? only two weeks ago? — there was no way she could have factored in Topaz Ross. She couldn't have foreseen falling in... well, it didn't really matter what. Just as Nash was hesitant to put a label of any kind on their relationship, she didn't wan't to put words exactly to how she felt about the District One tribute. It was easier that way, especially given their present circumstance. They were two tributes left out of four, and regardless of Nash's own damaged state, would not both be alive for more than another day or so.

Over the course of the previous day, she had been trying to work out if that actually bothered her or not. That she'd be dead soon, and that meant no more of the time spent with Topaz that she was desperately trying to hold on to. She'd finally come to a conclusion, and it was the one she'd meant to reach since the beginning of the Games: no. She didn't care. Yesterday, it was her broken jaw and the number of tributes left — seven — that had prevented Nash from begging the other girl to kill her right then and there. To put her out of her misery. To put an end to the waiting.

It's time. You know it's time. Time to get rid of her. You're so

close, I told you that you could win. You don't need her anymore.

That's not what it's time for. It's

[/i]your time, not hers. You wouldn't try to kill her. Not again.[/color] She won't see it coming a second time. Because it's not going to happen. That's what you think. It's time.[/blockquote][/i]

Today, there were two other tributes aside from the pair of girls. Nash had told herself that there would be a point where she was more of a hindrance than a help to her ally, and she'd known it was coming. It had probably long since passed, but the District Two tribute had been ignoring it for as much time as humanly possible. But the voices in her head were right — she'd far outlived her own expectations. She was damaged beyond her own ability to repair herself, ready to keel over from hunger, and thereby at least halfway into a slow and uncomfortable death.

She wasn't going to win the Hunger Games. She knew that. She'd known that. Nash Harvey was not victor material. Not built to last. Without the added stress of memories of the Arena piled on, she was already mentally unstable. She didn't look like a victor. She didn't act like a victor, and there was no way she'd ever be one. Not that she wanted to. That had never been her intention, and she did not want to take the title from someone that was actually deserving of it. Although, as she'd established, there was no way that she could.

They'd walked awhile, paced slowly for the sake of Nash more than anything, continuing on. There hadn't been a set goal in mind, but it had seemed smart to keep moving. The Games were nearing their end, and they'd be forced wherever the Gamemakers wanted them to go, anyhow. But as the sun had begun to drop and they reached an area near a thin and partially-frozen creek, Nash decided that she'd had enough. It was enough walking, enough running from the end. Without asking the other girl if she thought it was a good idea to do so, she set down her supplies, set down the harpoon she'd been carrying, and for once in her life took charge of something.

What do you think you're going to do without that spear? It's better that it's not within reach. No reason to have it, and you know that.

In what was a feat of either extraordinary courage or extreme cowardice, she carefully hobbled over to her ally. With what was a surprising lack of shy apprehension for Nash, she placed her hands on the shoulders of her redheaded ally. "Topaz," she began, voice softer than she'd intended it. "Do me a favor?" She just looked at the other girl for a brief moment, measured breaths made visible at the edge of her vision by the chilly air. Nash could feel the hollow look on her own face, an unintentional pleading sort of expression, so that Topaz would know that she was serious.

And then, she did something she'd never been assertive enough to do before — but considering what she was about to ask, it was easier for her to dismiss her reservations. She leaned in some, gently planted a kiss on the other girl's cheek, and, with a resolve that bordered on commanding, spoke into her ear. [/justify]

"Kill me."

[/color]
[/blockquote][/size]

[Lulu]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
cheer up, honey, i hope you can
there is something wrong with me
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

It was rather surprising that in the week plus they'd been in the arena they hadn't come across the churning waters of the small creek that snaked through the landscape not far from the cluster of colorful autumn trees they had just left. In the distance were the foreboding pillars, too, where the two had shared a perfect moment in the early hours of dawn that had continued on throughout that blissful day. The shimmering golden horn that was the Cornucopia wasn't far away, either; it gave Topaz a sense of finality to see it again, since she hadn't all Games. Somehow, in some way, her mind connected that image of the horn on the horizon to the looming culmination of her time in the arena. She'd be leaving soon, alive or dead. This wouldn't last much longer.

There were four tributes left. Just four. A day ago there had been seven tributes alive to fight, and now that number had nearly been cut in half. Topaz's eyes had widened when the face of Anani Petros had appeared in the sky the previous night. The first of her former allies was dead. And the one that she'd so hoped she'd be the one to kill, nonetheless. Takeba she didn't really care much about; she'd kill her if they came across one another again, sure, but she wasn't about to go searching around for the walking dictionary that was the District Four female tribute. Anani, however...well, if it hadn't been for her inability to stray far from Nash's side, Tope probably would have gone to hunt him down already. He had needed to die, that was a given. But the Gamemakers had obviously been going soft on him. Topaz had needed to add to her kill count, anyway--a sheep and two overlarge horses? What kind of Career was she, only having killed a couple of mutts this far into the Games? She couldn't lose her touch, and hunting down Anani would have been a great way to prove that she was in this thing for real. To win.

She was, wasn't she? She was in this to win. She had to be. She'd spent so much time dwelling on what her life would be like after she was crowned victor, how things would change for the better once she was back home basking in the glow of her fame and fortune. Had she been not sure of her imminent success, she would never have allowed herself to think about that so frequently. But she had--indeed, thoughts of winning the Hunger Games had been the second most frequent invaders of her mind as of late...topped only by thoughts revolving around Nash Harvey.

There were four tributes left, and yet she continued to avoid thinking about having to dispose of Nash. Sure, it had been an immense relief that they had both survived the fight with the stallions. The rushed yet passionate kiss Topaz had sprung on Nash just before the battle hadn't been a goodbye as she'd anticipated; rather it had just turned into another of their stolen moments of affection. But their umpteenth evasion of death was actually slightly disappointing, as well, even if it was so only because of the District One tribute's selfish preferences. Nash had to die if Tope was going to win, and she would rather it be by the hands--er, hooves--of some horse mutt sent by the Capitol than by her own. Well, she'd rather it be by anyone's hands than hers, really. If something else killed Nash before she had to, then she wouldn't have to display her one vulnerability to all of Panem; the fact that she didn't trust herself to be able to slice a blade across Nash's throat.

She had to admit, though, practicality decreed that she should sever ties with Nash sooner rather than later, even if she didn't think herself able to kill the other girl. Strategically it would be better to just walk away now, and leave her to fend for herself against the remaining two tributes or any other disaster this deadly arena could possibly throw at her. Tope didn't have to be involved anymore, shouldn't have to be involved anymore. And yet she was still involved, in the truest sense of the word. From her perspective, getting up and just blatantly walking away from the one person whose life she'd actually come to value in the past couple of weeks was even worse than killing her in cold blood. You're not worth my time and energy, so I'll just leave you to suffer longer and fend for yourself while I go off to do bigger and better things. I don't need to show you mercy. That was what doing that would imply. And was an astounding sensation of hurt the last feeling Topaz wanted Nash to connect to her before they parted? Certainly not.

The red-haired girl had been so lost in her own head that she hadn't even considered picking a place to camp yet; surely Nash was hurting from all the injuries she'd obtained the previous day. They would need to stop soon, without a doubt. But this thought hadn't even crossed Topaz's mind before she was jolted out of her contemplations by the muffled thud of Nash's bag of supplies hitting the ground. She swung around, expecting the worst--her ally was bound to be lying on the ground, an arrow sticking out of her chest. Or something along those lines, because after all, what other reason would Nash have for stopping so suddenly?

Surprisingly, though, her companion appeared to be in much the same condition as she had been the last time Tope had stolen a glance at her, just a few minutes previous. No arrows protruding from her chest, no spearheads embedded in her abdomen, nothing. So why had she come to such an abrupt halt? "Topaz, do me a favor?" At this, Tope raised an eyebrow. Nash didn't normally ask for favors, she'd come to realize after spending a week at the other girl's side at all times. She didn't normally ask for much of anything at all.

"Kill me."

The words reverberated throughout her brain over and over. Kill me. Nash wanted to die. Okay, well, Topaz would be lying if she claimed she hadn't seen that coming. Another thing she'd noticed about her ally during their time together was that she wasn't like normal Careers; she didn't pour every ounce of energy she had into plowing through the Games to emerge victorious like the rest of them did. Sometimes she seemed like she was just...there. To spite someone, maybe? To prove a point? Why exactly had Nash volunteered? Did it have something to do with her voices? Kill me. But...she wanted Topaz to kill her. Right there. Right then. Was Topaz capable of that? Kill me. Whether she was or not, Tope was still in a state of shock, and wasn't at all capable of doing anything besides stuttering.

"What...you want me to...how...why...I..."

[/color] Even if Nash's lips hadn't brushed against her cheek right then she would not have been able to form a coherent sentence. That did add add to the perplexity, though. "Fantastic. You go and kiss me and then...expect me to..."[/color] Her attempt at her usual sarcastic remark intended to lighten the situation fell short, though, and instead carried tones of utter desperation. "I can't..."[/color] Somewhere there were words that could be used to formulate a proper response to what was going on here. There was always words. Topaz knew this, and therefore she rarely found herself at a loss for something to say. But for the first time...she couldn't find those words. Couldn't think of a way to tell Nash that she didn't think herself entirely capable of fulfilling her companion's one wish.

The war being waged inside her head was fierce and ruthless. Killing her is better, anyway. She couldn't kill the one person she'd come to have true feelings for. Yes, you know you don't want to. You can't. So don't. Just walk away. She couldn't just walk away, she had already established that that would be worse than killing. Couldn't they just go on as they were? But there were only four tributes left...Kill me. It was what Nash wanted...

Her last thought stayed with her for a few long moments. It was what Nash wanted. The one thing she was asking of her ally, her companion, her...her...whatever the hell it was that they'd become over the past few days. And hadn't everything they'd done the entire time they'd been together in the arena been based on Topaz's whim? Really she'd made all the decisions, without putting much stock into what Nash wanted. Why did it never occur to her to bend to the District Two tribute's wishes? Wasn't it important for both parties to pay attention to each other in any sort of relationship? Why hadn't Topaz been holding up her end of the bargain they'd struck up when they became allies...and so much more than that? Because you're fucking selfish, that's why. She was selfish. She was commanding, she was controlling, and she didn't give a crap what other people wanted. Well, if she was going to change that for anyone, it had to be for the nearly broken girl right in front of her.

As soon as she thought this it was as if the battle inside her brain halted completely. It was silent. Dead silent. Almost in a trance, the District One tribute pulled her sword up from its limp position at her side. She couldn't hear anything, could barely see anything. She was even finding it hard to breathe. Her left hand, dangling free, instinctively reached out towards Nash, as if she were longing for the comfort of the other girl's hand one last time. "If it's really what you want..."[/color] She probably would have stayed like that for a long time, sword poised in some loose interpretation of an attacking stance. But then that single repetative thought echoed above the silence. Kill me. It was what she wanted.

Slowly, dreamily, perfectly, Topaz's sword sliced in the direction of her trusted ally, the one who had managed to work her way into the Career's hard heart. There were only four tributes left. And if Nash got what she wanted, there would be only three.

[attacks Nash, sword]
[dice=200+1000]
[deep gash on back of head, 9.0 (+1 Blades)]

[/blockquote]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
my mind is filled with silvery stuff
honey kisses, clouds of fluff
shoulders shrugging off
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

[/color]
[/size][/center] [rand=057387716369703414611415795516222776413814024999743687298367731273]

[aya]

and in the morning i'll be with you
but it'll be a different kind

Nash Harvey —

As soon as the words left Nash’s mouth, she started to regret them. It wasn’t that she was having any second thoughts about her request — no, she knew that she needed to die — but rather the fact that she’d requested it at all. It was too much to ask. Unfair, really. But no matter what approach was taken, the outcome would induce guilt and sorrow and betrayal and other similar, detestable feelings. In her head, Nash had gone through a list of every possible course of action, and ruled each of them out: simply running away to die alone was unfair to her ally, and would be a slow process for Nash herself; killing herself right there at the creek would prompt some sort of response from Topaz, considering how rude it would be for the District Two to not say goodbye; waiting for starvation to take hold was probably the most drawn-out and uncomfortable death Nash could envision. And, worst of all, procrastinating? Waiting until there were no other tributes left in the Arena, save for Topaz and herself? Letting the other girl decide to attack her without Nash prompting her? Without any sort of goodbye? That wasn’t right.

Even so, it wasn’t fair to ask that favor of the District One tribute, whether it was the best course of action or not. "I don't want to be the one to kill you." The memory resurfaced without any sort of prompting, bringing up heaps of guilt with it. It had been practically the only request that Topaz had made, and Nash had asked practically her only favor of the girl to contradict it. The request had been horribly selfish, Nash knew, and the other girl's delayed response did nothing to ease her conscience about the situation. It was a lot to ask of anyone at all, save for in the Hunger Games — but during the past week and a day, Nash never felt as though she'd actually been in them. She was more of a spectator to them, regardless of her injuries, regardless of her one human kill, regardless of the things that stemmed from the very nature of the Games. They had been a side attraction, a subplot; for Nash, her ally was more of the main event.

But the Hunger Games had invariably taken back control of the derailed plot. They had to. That was the way they worked. No matter what anyone worked towards in the Arena, no matter what they said or did or built or became, it always came back down to the Hunger Games. It always came down to the need for a victor. One. Singular. There could be no ‘we’ or ‘us’ or ‘together’ here. It saddened her to think about, but Nash had always known that. She’d brushed aside the danger of trying to live a little before she had to die, which made letting go under such circumstances even more difficult.

It was Topaz’s response that made the District Two tribute’s insides turn to ice, made her simultaneously feel warm and frozen. In the space where their timelines had overlapped, Nash had seldom seen her companion at a loss for words. Not even when she’d been spurred on by the Two to attack the other girl. Not when Nash had spat out a rushed sentence indicating feelings for her. So the fact that Topaz seemed to have difficulty formulating a response of any sort made her heart both sink and swell. As she’d discovered during their morning at the pillars, it was nice to know that someone cared, even when she herself did not. If fulfilling her request was hard for the District One girl, that was the awful best it could be. Better to die willingly by the hand of someone who cared then to be killed in cold blood by a stranger while struggling to keep living.

She didn’t worry too much about whether her ally would actually do as Nash requested, even after the pained ”I can’t...” Because she had always been able to tell that Topaz had been in the Hunger Games to win them. Most tributes were, really; Nash was an anomaly. They’d already established that her victory meant the District Two tribute would die, and that Topaz cared while Nash did not. Caring made nothing easier. Please, she tried to mutter, but no sound actually came out. It didn’t matter if anyone saw it, as the gesture was more for the sake of her own conviction that this was how it had to be, that this was how it had to end.

"If it's really what you want..." Nash wasn’t sure if she nodded or not; if she did, the motion was so slight that she herself barely felt it. Whether or not it was really what she wanted, it was for the best. In an ideal scenario, neither of them would have to die. Nobody would. Nobody would be trying to kill anyone. In Panem, that was a laughable prospect, however; in the Hunger Games especially preposterous. So for Nash to die now, when there were so few others left, when she was so close to death as it was? Yeah. That was for the best. So while she didn’t exactly want the end to come, she had reached the conclusion that she had to. But if the deed was easier for the District One tribute if she thought that it actually was something that Nash desired right then, she wasn’t going to do away with that.

You’re a damn fool! And how am I the one suddenly advocating for what’s right? This isn’t what’s right, that’s how; it’s what’s easy. The girl is a coward and a fool, you

must see that.

I see someone doing what they ought to, rather than feebly trying to save their sorry hide. It’s taking the easy way out, though! Go down fighting! Fight back! FIght back!

[/i]

For whatever reason, Nash hadn't quite acknowledged the repercussions of her request. She knew, of course, that "Kill me" meant that she'd be dead. But somehow it never clicked that the other girl’s blade would make contact — where? In the sick instant before Topaz obliged, the District Two tribute processed fifteen different thoughts of varying levels of atrocity, each wondering how exactly she would be killed. Why she spent the precious little seconds the other girl had given her mentally considering the specifics of her own demise was beyond Nash, but it was what it was.

She let her eyelids drift slowly closed, bracing herself as she waited for the sword stroke fall and the cannon blast to signify the start of the silence. The molasses-slow seconds left Nash on edge with anticipation, yet the District Two tribute was still next to completely unready for the explosion of pain that the blade wrought on her head. Blood — lots of it — quickly grew cold and sticky as it began streamed down her neck; the force of the blow sent forceful shockwaves resonating through the break in her jawbone; the deep wound screamed with additional splinters from the frigid air. This was dying? At least it was quicker.

You can’t just take this! Die with dignity, die with pride, fight back, fight back! There’s no shame in asking for death, in facing death, just like — There

is shame in it! There is a time-honored tradition of going down fighting, and you’re violating it! Fight back![/color][/blockquote][/i]

The words were more like whispers in her head, quiet, not prominent, and not actually responsible for the punch that Nash reflexively threw. She wanted to apologize, to make sure that Topaz knew that she still needed to be finished off. But she couldn't find the words. She doubted she'd be able to find her voice ever again. And it was probably better that way.[/justify]

[[attacks Topaz, unarmed]]
[dice=200+5000]
[Gash/Bruised Left Collar Bone; 3]


[/color]
[/blockquote][/size][rand=2728895521722734817630819743499279898149939253933961041937582195]

[Lulu]

Topaz had been forced into a number of difficult situations in her life. Or at least, she liked to think she had. She seemed to attract drama of all sorts, and though she attempted to avoid gossip and catfights and all the other pointless crap that tended to circulate around a typical Panem teenager's life it always found her in some way. Looking back, though, her idea of a difficult situation at those points in time was laughable. So what, if she'd faced countless nearsighted accusations from her peers throughout her life? Now she was in the process of killing the one she'd so hesitantly allowed herself to care for.

The red-haired teen didn't notice her eyes were closed until they slowly opened after she felt her sword successfully make its mark. Though still not entirely present and in tune with what was going on, Topaz surveyed the damage she'd managed to inflict. Across the back of Nash's head was a thick gash, one she would have been extremely proud of had her victim been anyone else. It was a perfect slice, and blood was already pouring out of it, staining Nash's wavy locks of chocolate...

Blood. There was so, so much blood, and it was the blood that triggered the the screaming inside Tope's brain. It started off as what sounded like no more than an irritating buzzing, but soon built up into a bigger, frenzied shriek that wouldn't go away no matter how hard she attempted to tune it out. Her head pounded as the sound echoed throughout it, distracting her for a long moment from everything around her. It was a tortured sound, a sound of perpetual horror, one that sent involuntary shivers down her spine. Blood...over the past week the sight of blood had pleased her, and for a good reason; every drop of blood spilled from an enemy brought her one step closer to where she wanted to be, to that goal that was so close yet so far away. But this time, the blood was different. This wasn't blood Topaz wanted to see spilled. This was the blood that ran in Nash's veins, pumped by Nash's heart. This was the blood that colored her cheeks when they flushed pink with cold, the blood that made her hand so warm and comforting to hold. And here she was, spilling it as if it didn't matter in the slightest.

Consumed by the sheer terror of having Nash's blood on her hands, Topaz hardly took the time to realize that she had been able to attack the other girl. She hadn't frozen up, hadn't broken down, hadn't been forced to turn around and walk in the other direction because she just wasn't capable. She hadn't even had to deny her companion's request; she'd just acknowledged that if it was what Nash wanted then hell, she would give it to her. And then...she'd swung. Hardly aware of what she was doing, yes, but she had done it all the same. It hadn't seemed like as big of a deal beforehand, but looking at the outcome...it was. Over the past week she'd come to loathe anything that hurt Nash in any way. She'd practically had a conniption when the massive horse mutt had broken her jaw yesterday, damaging the face that Topaz spent every possible moment gazing at. Now that she was the one doing the hurting, shouldn't she loathe herself? Did she loathe herself? No, she didn't.

How could she loathe herself, when some part of her mind still registered that this would mean she could win? She still wanted to get home, however much she had cherished her time with Nash while it had lasted. But there was still another world that belonged to Topaz, another world she knew far better than this arena which, though it had been her home for the duration of the Games, was still an dangerous, alien place. That was where she needed to be. Not here. The thing was, though, Nash didn't belong there, even if it were possible for both of them to escape the arena alive. Nash belonged someplace else, someplace Topaz didn't. They could only be Topaz and Nash in the confines of the Gamemakers' playground; anywhere else it would be just Topaz. Or just Nash. Not both together. So maybe it was better that Nash was dying now, because they couldn't exist as a pair anywhere other than here, anyway. What happened in the arena stayed in the arena. It was better to keep it that way.

Her left hand was still outstretched, as if expecting Nash to suddenly reach and entwine her own with it. It was a foolish hope; the other girl would never. But Topaz longed to touch Nash once more, to feel the warmth of her skin, to see if the rush of electricity that zipped through her every time they touched would still be present when she was out to kill her. That longing was the only thing strong enough to make itself known over the perpetual screaming in her mind. Deciding that she couldn't just leave her hand motionless in midair Tope glided forward, and without thinking very hard about what she was about to do reached out to caress the fair skin of Nash's face, or maybe to twirl a strand of her bloodied hair between her fingers. Just to do something. But no sooner had her fingertips brushed the very tip of a lock of her hair then the most stunning thing of all happened.

The District One tribute's collarbone stung as Nash's fist made impact. The actual injury inflicted didn't hurt as much as the shock did. Though she had just sliced up the back of Nash's head as if it were nothing more than a loaf of bread, it had never occurred to her that Nash would begin to fight back. What reason could she possibly have for doing that, even if Topaz most definitely deserved it? Wasn't she the one who wanted to die in the first place? Floundering around in utter disbelief, Tope's thoughts immediately turned to the two voices that inhabited Nash's head. Was it them? Were they the reason she was now being lashed at, even though she wasn't the one wishing death upon herself? Perhaps, although how could they be, when Nash claimed she was able to fight off their influence? Had it reached the point where she was too broken to ignore them anymore? Had those voices completely taken over? Regardless of whether it was true or not, Topaz forced herself to accept that the voices were responsible for the retaliation, because simple arrogance would just not allow her to believe that Nash truly wanted to hurt her in return.

Nevertheless, though, the Career was uncertain of how much more of this she would be able to handle. It was almost as if Nash had been pushing her away, as if she hadn't wanted Topaz to touch her affectionately one last time, although she probably hadn't even known what the other girl had been about to do. That hurt Tope more than anything could, and as she withdrew her hand from her ally's face she clenched it into a fist and squeezed her eyes shut, letting her sword dangle limply from the hand that was at her side. Tears would not come--they very rarely ever did for her. Instead the screeching in her head became so impossible to tune out that she actually wailed out loud, echoing its hopeless desperation with every last breath she had in her lungs. As she sobbed without tears she opened her eyes to look at her companion with a clearly pleading gaze. Don't, her eyes begged, because she couldn't find the words to voice it aloud. Don't make this harder. Look at me. I'm not strong enough. I'm not strong enough. But she permitted her sword to come slashing down once again.

[attacks Nash, sword]
[dice=200+1000]
[shallow cut left forearm, 3.5]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
cheer up, honey, i hope you can
there is something wrong with me
my mind is filled with radio cure
electronic surgical words

.:.:.:.:.:.:.[/center]
[/blockquote][/size][/color][/justify][rand=16719741397537292453593045938762931650890968746693425287958235]

[aya]

the days get shorter,
and the nights get cold;
I like the autumn,
but this place is getting old.

Nash Harvey —

As her own fist made contact with the other girl's shoulder, the reflexive action fortunately about as weak as it could have been, Nash realized for the first time that she was more afraid of this than she'd thought. Since before she'd even been reaped, she conditioned herself to embrace death, to be grateful when it actually came. It was Noam, really, who'd done that to her — the neurotic teen who, back in District Two, had been both her closest friend and something of a mentor was unhealthily fixated on the subject of dying up until the point where he'd taken his own life. Trying to force away the sting of his suicide, Nash had sort of taken up his mantle, distancing herself from life in the manner that he had, albeit to a lesser degree, until the thought of dying was not only comfortable, but familiar as well.

It occurred to her that she was doing more or less of the same thing that Noam did — it was suicide, in a way, to be asking for death, even if she wasn't the one holding the blade or stringing up the rope. Dying like this was cowardly, she knew it. But it was also the solution, the best one that Nash had. There was no other possible outcomes, really, to her situation, to the Hunger Games — at least her death was inevitable, whether she asked for it to be taken or not. Did it make it better that she would have chosen life if she could have?

"If it's really what you want…" The last thing that Topaz had said to her — probably the last sentence of the other girl's voice that Nash would ever hear — echoed off whatever surface it could plant itself on in her head: memory of their morning spent by the stone pillars, trace amounts of electricity from the way Topaz had kissed her in the pumpkin patch, futile hopes that the whole world would simply fall away so they could just be, but most of all, guilt stemming from the selfishness of her request. It was too much to ask of the red-haired girl, yet Nash had done so anyway, and her ally was good enough to oblige, even though she'd explicitly stated that she did not want to. The District Two tribute had to admire that selflessness.

Directing her gaze back upwards just so she could do a bit more admiring of a different sort, Nash ended up taking the sight of the other girl as a much more painful blow than the nick on the arm that she received just then. She hardly even felt the bite of Topaz's falchion the second time it came, so desperate was the look on the other girl's face. She couldn't bear watching the face whose resolve and strength she'd always admired when it was pleading with her to let it stop, but looking away would be a much more difficult, much crueler task. As it was, she could hold back tears no longer, feeling the thin stream chilled in the icy air.

Oh, cheer up, would you? Don't you see how you're just like us? Making someone do something they don't really want to, and watching it destroy them while they try to fight it? Just like us. She's too weak to be just like us. She can't stand it, see? She can't do what needs to be done.

The words of the Two — or maybe it was from blood loss — sent the arena around Nash spinning. She recognized the validity of the assertion; the desperate way that Topaz stared at her, silently begging to not have to kill the District Two girl was vaguely reminiscent of what Nash remembered of when her voices had almost gotten her to attack her ally however many days (was it only days?) ago. The comparison only hurt worse, because now she knew. She knew the sort of pain that she was causing with her request, except the other girl had it worse, in a way — there was no one else for the District One to put the blame on.

Astoundingly, the rebuttal from the nagging voice, the one that had recently been advocating the death of her ally, actually did offer the smallest bit of consolation, even though it was intended as abuse. The relief, which was minor to the point of imperceptible, was short-lived, as feelings of remorse for asking — or was she forcing, as the Two said? — far too much of her companion were already overwhelming.

She wanted to say something, anything, to try and diminish the guilt — hers, or the other girl's, or just in general — but her vocal chords refuse to cooperate, her mouth refused to open, her tongue refused the shape the words that her brain refused to construct. From across her vast sea of incomprehensible thoughts that would not be translatable into words eventually emanated a single muddled line: I shouldn't have asked you to do this. Each syllable took such an effort to formulate and then decipher again that Nash didn't even realize they hadn't been said aloud. The sentence had an impact on the District Two tribute herself, and something in her throat made the next words shake: "I'm sorry." The apology was hardly audible, but getting the three syllables out at all was draining. It didn't even help Nash to feel a little better; she doubted anything would.

Even so, she tried once again to run her mind through the loop that it had tried to take comfort in, that this was the only way, that this was for the best. But that mantra had grown tired, and longer did anything to console her. That she was doing the right thing wasn't enough to cling to on her way out. She'd have liked to cling to her ally, but somehow it didn't seem like that was an option, considering that it was Nash who'd come up with the suggestion — the request — the command — that Topaz kill her. There was nothing left to hold on to, even if she'd changed her mind about being ready to let go.

[Lulu]

Topaz hadn't allowed her eyes to follow her sword as it sliced towards her ally; she didn't think she'd ever be able to swing it again if she watched it hit its target. This predictably resulted in a laceration that was not as deep as the one she'd inflicted the first time around. Although, hadn't she closed her eyes that time? She couldn't remember, but regardless, it was far too painful to think about. The shallow cut was across her forearm this time. That made two wounds she'd inflicted on Nash, bringing her trusted companion two steps closer towards death. Two.

Two. Topaz had come to love that word in reference to her and her companion. Just the two of them. They were two. It was so rare to be Two in the arena; you were almost always just One. Going into the Games, Topaz had had herself convinced that being only One was better; sure, alliances were definitely helpful, but the trick was to not let your allies become closer to you than...well, allies. And only temporary allies, at that, which was an incredibly important thing to keep in mind. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. All alliances were disbanded at some point or another; that was the nature of the Games. And if you got too attached to someone, that was when you became vulnerable. Because then, who knows what would happen? You might end up falling to pieces in front of the whole of Panem while you act on your adored ally's wishes and brutally murder them.

Tope had defied her own rules, and allowed herself to fall for Nash. Although she consistently avoided thinking about it, the knowledge that what they were doing would never end well had always been in the back of her mind. She'd predicted an awful outcome, although perhaps not as awful as this. Hell would freeze over before an arena relationship ended happily. But the District One tribute had chosen to be ignorant and lustful, as usual, and had gotten herself into this fix. But the real question was, now that she knew where they were going to end up, would she have walked away immediately the second the other girl approached her table in the Training Center? No way in hell.

The metaphorical ride she'd taken with Nash throughout their time in the arena had been far too thrilling to even consider erasing; every touch, every whispered word, every night in that sleeping bag, those few kisses they'd shared...she wouldn't dream of sacrificing them, even if it would mean that this dreadful moment would never have happened. Even though she was being pushed to limits she'd never before been pushed to, Topaz was still strong enough to realize that it wasn't all bad. The horror they were both going through prompted her to remember the past few days so vividly and clearly, as if she were living them over again. The electric shock that had shot through her as her hand had brushed Nash's that first time in the gym, which had truly alerted her that there was something more there. Nash tending to her injuries after the fight with the sheep-mutts, her expert hand stitching up her leg carefully. Running away together, splitting up from Anani and Takeba. That first night in the sleeping bag, when she had slept better than she ever had before. Pumpkin smashing, which had turned to attempted murder, which had turned to kissing...which had turned to Nash's revelation, which surprised Topaz because she hadn't known the District Two tribute had trusted her enough to explain. The break of dawn at the pillars; the intimacy of the moments shared there made it easy to forget that the entire nation had probably been watching. Reminiscing would allow them to feel again, to really feel for one last time, before Nash was gone forever and Topaz went on to, hopefully, win the Games and become a mere puppet of the Capitol, feeling hardly anything at all. Before they would no longer be Two, and instead Topaz would again be just One.

Nash didn't fight back this time, which led Topaz to believe that she hadn't entirely wanted to the first time, either. This was some consolidation; she was selfish enough to find relief in the fact that she'd been right, and Nash wasn't pleased by the prospect of hurting her in return. Even though at that moment Tope was basically a reaper, taking her scythe and chopping away at the other girl's life until there was nothing left but a deserted corpse. Even though it was completely implausible, that Nash would still feel affection for her on the brink of death. Even though Topaz didn't deserve an ounce of it.

"I'm sorry." Tope wasn't expecting the words that Nash spoke; she had thought the remainder of the impromptu assassination would be spent in silence, seeing as there didn't seem to be any words that could be used to describe the situation. But the apology...that was the last thing the red-haired girl had been anticipating. What was Nash apologizing for? Putting her through hell? Well, that was laughable, this past week in the arena was hell already. What was a little bit more anguish to add to the mix? "You're sorry?"

Topaz found her voice at last and snickered, although the sound was hollow and rather forced. "You're sorry, when I'm the one with the blood on my hands? Ha."[/color] Her voice sounded distant, remote, detached, as if she had forgotten how to speak in her normal warm, lightly teasing tones anymore. She looked long and hard at Nash, at the light that was slowly fading away from the other girl's eyes as she drew closer and closer to her demise. Though her words were far away, she allowed herself to be near to her ally once more, walking in a daze over to where she was crouched. Instinctively she reached out and brushed a lock of Nash's bloodied hair behind her hear so that it no longer draped over her agonized features. "I need to see your face,"[/color] the Career said simply, backing up again once she did. It was true, though; she needed to be able to see on Nash's eyes that death was what she truly wanted. Because that was the reason she was doing this, right?

She eyed her sword again; the shining weapon was stained with crimson liquid that glistened in the sunlight. One last stroke could easily put Nash over her damage tolerance; she would get what she had asked for, if Topaz's aim was accurate. If she could land this hit it would all be over. If she couldn't, then it would only be a couple more tries until it was. Either way, the end was near. And wasn't it fitting, that it ended this way?

[attacks Nash, sword]
[dice=200+1000]
[shallow cut left hip, 3.5]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
picking apples for the
kings and queens of things i've never seen
oh, distance has no way
of making love understandable

[/color].:.:.:.:.:.:.[/center]
[/blockquote][/size][/color][/justify][rand=2865230918396264348829437722451985431160409469157465464363978244364]

[aya]

One gonna hold the memories, another gonna close the door
One gonna keep me restless, another wanting more
You're gonna keep my soul, it was yours to have
long ago

Nash Harvey —

Twisted logic told Nash to keep standing until the very end, no matter how appealing it would be to brace herself against a tree, or curl up in a little ball on the ground, or just plain collapse, lying spread-eagle on the arena's floor. She was a stroke away from death, though even if the other girl missed, as blood was still pouring from the first gash, the one on the back of her head. Everyone knew that even the smallest of head wounds bled profusely, while the larger ones poured; Nash could feel on the back of her neck and the back of her shirt that she was no exception to this. She couldn't actually see it, but even the dullest of nerves wouldn't be able to miss the characteristic viscidity of the life sustaining liquid as it began to dry or coagulate — although any clotting wouldn't be nearly enough to keep her from bleeding out any quicker.

Struck by the sudden pestering whim to look at the wound that would kill her, yet hindered by the obstacle posed by the anatomical impossibility of viewing something on the back of her head, Nash settled for the next best option. Slowly, gently, she pressed a hand to the back of her head, for the first time aware of how cold her hands were, as though they'd already been dead for hours (sans rigor mortis) and the rest of Nash was trying to catch up.

Although perhaps the blood — her own blood — should have frightened her, she was more intrigued with the scarlet coating on her hand than anything else. When it was placed in front of her, something tangible, imminent death no longer seemed quite so terrifying. She liked things that she could see so much better than things she couldn't; it was easier to verify their existence, easier to take at face value. Not having to second-guess the motives of something was something Nash took advantage of while she could, because when she couldn't — which was most of the time — it completely drained her, and this was the vast majority of the time. That was why Nash liked things she could see, things she could feel, anything she could validate in more than one way.

"You're sorry? You're sorry, when I'm the one with the blood on my hands? Ha." Even in spite of the tears that still lingered on her own face, Nash could not suppress the slight smile that formed in response to what resembled a battered version of Topaz's characteristic good-humored sarcasm. The sentence had managed to all but shed its lightheartedness, instead bearing a weight far more pressing than the District Two tribute had ever remembered, but it was still comforting, in a way, to have that particular constant make a final reappearance before the end. The words themselves were exactly what Nash had been sorry for, of course — sorry that she'd asked for that, sorry that the other girl would feel even the slightest bit responsible for the situation. Oh, hell, no use sugar coating it — sorry that the other girl would have to shoulder the responsibility of Nash's death.

"Yeah," she choked out, voice soft to the point of inaudible from having caught somewhere in her throat. She coughed once in an effort to muster a bit more conviction, or at the very least a bit more volume to her words. But even so, it was hard to speak, to say what she meant when her thoughts did not belong to any particular language, but instead a vast array of pure feeling that were completely impossible for her to interpret. She knew there was a reason to be sorry, but she couldn't process it quickly enough, and did not manage to get any semblance of an explanation thought up before Topaz had spoken again, closing the distance between the two of them with straightforward words: "I need to see your face."

The electric shiver that accompanied the light touch of her fingertips against her face as the other girl reached out to tuck a bloodied strand of hair behind Nash's ear somehow drew up memories of their shared moment in training, before they'd even entered the arena, when Topaz — the stronger tribute, the better Career — had been giving the District Two some knife-throwing pointers. It was a skill she hadn't used a single time — a skill that she wouldn't use a single time — and yet, this was the small piece of training that had made the biggest impact. Or, at least, from a retrospective point of view, it certainly seemed as if it had. For Nash, the shared space between the two tributes had brought about a conscious awareness of the District One, and with it a resolve to actually do something before she died. While the doing had been largely been in thanks to Topaz, the dying was not something she wanted the other girl to try and take the credit or blame for.

She gently caught the other girl's wrist with her bloodied hand, looking her in the eye, finally realizing what she'd wanted to say earlier, or something that would suffice. "Yeah, I'm sorry." The genuine albeit small smile that went with the words was tinged with sadness, but astonishingly, Nash's voice never faltered. "Because you shouldn't have to be. It can be on mine instead." As much as she wanted to stay put just like that, just keeping eye contact, just keeping physical contact, it had become increasingly and painfully apparent over the course of the week that staying simply didn't happen. Not in the Arena. Not in life at all. She could hold on and struggle against change as much as she wanted to, but the flow of time would always overpower. Always. So she let go.

Without even flinching — without even feeling it, really — Nash received her new wound. This one was on the hip, none too deep, none too debilitating. She was still alive, and she would still be standing, just like she'd somehow decided she ought to, even though she knew it would not be for much longer. Her legs were already on the edge of giving out, and no matter how much she willed them to cooperate, there was no conscious decisionmaking involved in the nerve impulses that controlled balance. It didn't matter that she wanted it, Nash knew she would not be standing in another minute. Death was finally coming, whether she was actually ready or not. And as much as she wanted to be ready, as much as she'd always wanted to be ready, somehow she didn't think that she was.

[Lulu]

Topaz was disgusted with herself for not finishing Nash off with her previous blow, but not for reasons that would be expected of her. It wasn't because she would be one step closer to winning; no, at this point she was far past longing to emerge victor. She knew she'd have her eye on the prize again later, but right now all that mattered was that Nash was suffering in front of her; utterly suffering, and Topaz wasn't even competent enough to end it with one swift, clean blow.

What disgusted her even more, though, was that a twisted part of her was happy that she hadn't killed Nash yet. Because while the other girl was still breathing she was still her, still the quiet, understanding tribute that Topaz had found herself with feelings for, regardless of how costly their relationship would prove to be. While she lived she still had that characteristic strength that was Nash; the strength to overcome the commands of the intruders in her mind, the strength to keep fighting and pushing on even when she knew full well it was futile, and that she was never going to win. If Topaz had been in her position, sure she had no chance in these Games, she was fairly certain she wouldn't be anywhere near as determined; that was what made Nash so unique, in Tope's eyes. Without that strength, without that warmth in her eyes and a beating heart, she wasn't...Nash. And the District One tribute was selfish enough to want Nash around for as long as possible, even if she was in agony seconds away from death.

Nash caught her wrist as she drew away from her, successfully managing to send shivers down the red haired girl's spine once again. Tope was attempting to figure out why she still had this much of an effect on her, while she was in the process of ending her life. Why did her heart still flutter like a little girl's? Why did she still feel the burning flame in her chest? Why did her eyes widen with pleasure, and the corners of her mouth turn up? Nash's grip was gentle, even somewhat feeble, suggesting that it was using up her last remaining ounces of strength, but Topaz could not evade the fresh waves of longing that accompanied it. Couldn't they have one more day? Even one more hour. Ten more minutes. Anything, anything, so she wouldn't have to relinquish the drug that had brought on both insanity and a sense of stability while in the arena--the drug by the name of Nash Harvey.

It was pointless to wish, though. Useless to keep expecting some random occurrence that would change the direction of the Games, allowing them both to continue on in happiness. Nash was dying in mere minutes, regardless of whether Topaz was able to manage another attack; that head wound was bleeding far too excessively, and death from blood loss was imminent. That first attack had really been the killing blow; the rest were just follow ups, shortening the time she had left to live by a bit each time. Topaz had inflicted that fatal injury, and yet Nash still found it necessary to apologize for making her do so. "Yeah, I'm sorry. Because you shouldn't have to be. It can be on mine instead." If the circumstances hadn't been what they were, the idea that Tope's conscience would be free of guilt for murdering Nash would have been laughable. If her sword had been slicing at anyone else, then sure. But this was the person who meant more to her than anyone had in a long while, and seeing as they'd only known each other for two weeks, that was saying something. She was bound to feel guilty; it was inhumane not to feel guilty. "Yes, well. It's already on mine. So that's wishful thinking."

Her words were little more than a whisper, and entirely hollow.

Nash was still standing, and that astonished Topaz more than anything. She'd known the other girl was strong, stronger than most gave her credit for, but this was something else; still on her feet, placing her hand over the gash on the back of her head and staring at the blood at if it were some kind of mildly interesting work of art? This show of unexpected strength reiterated the fact that Tope hardly even knew Nash at all. Who was she, this girl she'd come to trust? What made her her, besides the contradictory voices barking out demands and arguments inside her brain? At this point in time Tope had no way of knowing; it was too late. But oh, how badly she wanted to. What she would give to have forever with Nash, so they could get to truly know one another and figure out exactly what it was they had had going on throughout their time in the arena. But that time was nearly over, and forever clearly didn't exist. Not for a tribute.

The Career could hear the ticking in her mind; it was like a clock keeping a steady beat as the second hand trudged around in a circle repeatedly, reminding Tope that she only had so much time left to attack Nash, to finish her off before the blood loss would be too drastic to allow her body to keep functioning as it should. Tick, tick, tick, tick. How much time left? Surely not more than five minutes. Topaz had to get her bearings quickly. Tick, tick, tick, tick. She felt like she needed to say something, one last thing to Nash before she died. But what did you say, when there was no word to describe exactly what the dying person meant to you? Tick, tick, tick, tick. It was a time bomb, counting down until the inevitable explosion. Tick, tick, tick, tick. How would it feel, when Nash was dead? Who would Topaz be, once there was no more Nash there to keep her sane? In all reality, Topaz had never lost something particularly dear to her before. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The fact that there had to be a first time for everything was ridiculously irritating.

The sword was still in her hand, but it was dangling limply at her side once again. She tried weakly to lift it up to where it should be, but it was no use. She didn't have it in her any longer; truthfully, she was surprised she'd had it in her at all. It was kinder to put her companion out of her misery right now, as soon as possible. Shouldn't watching Nash suffer be harder than seeing her dead? But no, in Topaz's self-centered, sick mind, it wasn't. Because Nash was still here, and Nash needed to be here for as long as she could. Tope couldn't attack again. She wouldn't attack again. How could she? She would never be able to make herself.

Once she had come to that conclusion, it wasn't hard for her to decide what to do next. There was only one thing to do, really; perhaps the only thing that would soothe her aching heart in the seconds prior to Nash's death. Allowing her sword to clatter on the ground and lie completely forgotten in the dirt, Topaz Ross rushed over to her companion whose legs were beginning to give out, fully ready to hold her hand while she died.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
your body may be gone
i'm gonna carry you in
in my head, in my heart, in my soul

[/color].:.:.:.:.:.:.[/center]
[/blockquote][/size][/color][/justify]

[aya]

I wish that I had known in
That first minute we met
The unpayable debt
That I owed you

Nash Harvey —

The timer officially started when Nash hit the ground. Sand had been dropping from the top of her hourglass since she'd been placed in the Arena, and it seemed that each new milestone had involved gravity tugging at the time left in her life quicker and quicker, until it was just simply not possible for her do die any faster. She had three minutes at most before the world faded to black and her heart stopped feebly trying to pump the blood she no longer had. Nash knew. She had seen what dying of blood loss looked like. And where the Arena was concerned, she knew it wasn't even close to the worst way to go. She was lucky, more than lucky, and she knew it.

She didn't even have to be alone. How many tributes had she, in eighteen years of life, seen bleed out on the ground, whimpering for their parents, their friends, the allies they'd made, their mentor, their stylist, for any sort of human companionship? She'd seen dozens reaching out for human flesh that wasn't there, their hands clamping shut instead around twigs and roots, or fistfuls of dirt; the cold steel of their weapon if they were lucky, nothing but tragically empty air if they were not. Nobody wanted to be by themselves when their cannon knelled in mourning; and though the percussive blast was given no pitch, it carried a solemn single note as it echoed across the Arena, anyhow. Just for the departed.

When she'd thought of her luck to be dying in company, Nash had been thinking of her ally, whom she certainly would not be going anywhere before the request had actually been fulfilled at this point, rather than the company that had actually reached her first. And there she was, foolishly thinking she would get to die in peace. But with the smallest inkling of good fortune, they had taken to to abusing one another rather than ganging up on Nash, as they had done on rare occasions; they weren't even really taking individual stabs at the fallen tribute.

Now you've done it. Gone and gotten yourself killed, that was pleasant. And isn't it better this way? No more stress. I'd say

dying is pretty stressful, don't you think? You should've listened; I was right. When you had the chance, you should've —

Oh, quit your incessant babble. You can't change what's already happened, and there's no use fighting for anything anymore. Where was that pacifism that was so annoying the first few days out here, hmm? You didn't agree then when I said kill off an ally, did you? The timing wasn't right! The timing was plenty right; it would've been so

[/i]easy. And besides, he was more useless than not; this was different.[/color] Why? Why was this different? A life is a life, is it not? Some lives are worth more than others. How could you even [/i]say that!?[/color] Oh, you're a high-and-mighty hypocrite, aren't you? If you didn't believe that some lives were worth more, why have her try and kill the other? Why let her live this long at all? I'm the hypocrite and you're not? What happened to [/i]'You can't change what's already happened, hmm?[/color] No, you're right. See you on the other side, kid.[/blockquote][/i]

This time, it was easy to ignore them, easy as it had never been before. Even the last comment, the 'see you on the other side,' which was something that would have troubled Nash under normal circumstances, was dismissed without a second thought. There wasn't enough time for it. Whether there was a heaven or hell or great giant void or nothing at all waiting for Nash, it didn't really matter. She could deal with that as it came, but at this point, it was far too late to worry, especially when nothing was to come of it. The Two were gone until the end. Gone. It added such a grim finality to the already growing Nash Harvey List of Lasts. The last time she'd ever hear from them.

You've been living a while in the front of my skull, making orders
You've been writing me rules, shrinking maps and redrawing borders
I've been repeating your speeches, but the audience just doesn't follow
Because I'm leaving out words, punctuations, and it sounds pretty hollow

In a way, it was almost sad that they would be leaving her alone for good. While they hadn't been a consistantly positive influence on Nash since they'd shown up — in fact, they'd raised more hell than she'd've liked, especially in the Arena — they still had their moments. Or, one of them would, at any given time, anyhow, usually compensating for the very horrible suggestion the other advocated; by their conflicting nature, they couldn't be all bad, all the time. One had even encouraged her relationship with Topaz, even if the other had spent some time advocating against to the extreme of almost getting the District Two tribute to knife her. That had all worked out, anyhow.

The incident in the pumpkin patch hadn't even been a total negative; after all, it had resulted in the first kiss between the two tributes (even if it had been somewhat one-sided as a result of surprise and the Two-induced trauma) and a deeper connection formed for the pair. Nash couldn't say definitively whether any of their shared moments would have actually existed if they had not been spurred on by that pivotal moment, but did not want to waste the remaining two minutes and some seconds of her life considering hypotheticals. On their way out, the Two had gotten one thing right, after all: she couldn't change the past; no one could. There was no use worrying or thinking in what-ifs at all, let alone from where she lay on the cold ground some dozen yards from the creek.

We're terrified of one another
And terrified of what that means
But we'll make only quick decisions
And you'll just keep me in the waiting room

Although she had been aware of the lack of new attack after she'd given up on trying to stand, Nash didn't notice her ally — the company she'd wanted — approaching until the red-haired girl was already at her side. Of course she was. Nash had taken to never actually being fully convinced that some people did actually like her — or more — and that she wasn't just a burden to be dealt with, a presence to be tolerated, unworthy of anyone else's time. It hadn't been proven true at any given moment in her life prior to the Arena, and she'd scarcely believed that anyone would be with her without obligation for much of the Games, but she'd finally come to see that Topaz, at least, did care.

She'd said so, hadn't she? The other morning, the other lifetime at the pillars, she'd said those words exactly: "I care. I care a lot, actually." The District One tribute wasn't staying out of some debt to Nash, she was staying because she cared. Had it been anyone else, she might have tried to dismiss them from being there until her cannon sounded, not wanting to be an onerous task to anyone who would resent any need they felt to stay. It was the Hunger Games; people were cold. It happened. But she didn't try to dismiss the obligation in the same manner that she'd tried to dismiss the guilt — even though she had hardly gotten to know Topaz at all, she knew her well enough to know that protest against the District One's stubborn resolve would be completely futile.

She didn't want to, anyhow. It had been foolish and reckless beyond comparison to try to have any sort of relationship in the Arena, because the Arena ended in death. Happy endings did not exist, and especially not for the victor. That was how it worked. Nash had known this from the get-go. Yet she'd ignored the protests of the one voice who'd insisted that it was a horrible idea, ignored logic and went with instinct. She'd known the whole time how the Arena ended, even from the reaping, when the name Topaz Ross had elicited no thrill from the District Two. The whole premise of the Games mandated that it ended badly for everyone, but when shared between two people, the sheer awfulness of it increased exponentially. Because, in a way, every ounce of pain was felt twice, every misery, every death happened twice.

And all the while I'll know we're fucked
And not getting unfucked soon

There was no way to resent their bitterly short relationship, no way to even think of it badly. It didn't matter that its denouement had been unkind to both of them; awful endings were a given for all tributes. She wouldn't have done anything differently, given the choice. She wouldn't have stepped down from the Games, wouldn't have forsaken the alliance that had failed after a mere two-and-some days, would still have followed Topaz away from that battle with the hellhounds, everything. If something ended badly either way, what reason was there to not? Even if this had been five, ten, fifty thousand times harder than living and dying like the typical, individual tribute, Nash would not make the trade.

For a brief moment, she wondered if she ought to have some sort of formal last words. Tributes of all sorts often apologized to family back home, left last instructions or last wishes, or at the very least gave parting words of encouragement to whatever allies they had. Some asked to be avenged; some asked whoever was in the vicinity to win. But Nash knew that there was no way for her to express what she'd have liked to tell Topaz had she been given an hour to draft a letter or a month to draft a novel. She didn't think there were even words for it, but if there were, there would be nowhere near enough time for her to share. Even if there were, she didn't think that she would. She wouldn't be around to see any vengeance realized — not that she would like to, considering that it was her ally that had dealt the killing stroke as per Nash's own request — nor any final advice heeded or ignored. She wouldn't be alive to see Topaz win like she knew the District One would, because that was precisely the point. What sense was there in asking such things? All it did was add additional pressure, an actual burden, and one that could cause fatal mistakes or lingering psychological damage or any other number of side effects caused by misconstructed or misconstrued words.

When your helicopter came and tried to lift me out
I put its rope around my neck
And after that you didn't bother with the airlift or the rescue
You knew just what to expect

Her hand had long since found the other girl's, fingers entwining without a second thought, as easily as they had during their morning at the pillars. In a way, the present situation echoed the former; for Nash, at least, it was a welcomed revisit to the sort of togetherness they'd shared however many days ago. It was peaceful. But at the same time, she could not help but feel that there was a vast and expanding distance between the two, something that prevented them from achieving the level of closeness they'd had as they discussed this very situation: Nash's death. And that was the problem, she figured, the thing that kept them apart in her mind: she was meant to stay here — always had been, really. District Two was not home anymore, and hadn't been for a long while. The arena was. She lived her, she died here. There had never been any 'greater' things in store for her on the outside, because she had never been a contender in the Games, really; Nash was always just a participant.

A willing participant, at that. She'd come without protest, knowing full well she was going to die. Why? Nash no longer really knew. Initially, she'd thought it had been to spite the mother that pretended she didn't exist, the venomous woman who had from time to time offered up verbal abuses worse than even the Two could construct, who had little love for the black sheep daughter with no skills or traits to remark upon, unless paranoid schizophrenia counted for something. Wouldn't that be grand? If the doctor hadn't died of shock from the social ostracism that Nash had doubtlessly induced without trying, the stress of it must have taken a good chunk out of her lifespan. Fine if it had, fine if it hadn't. It no longer came close to mattering, and Nash hated to be wasting part of her last minute or so on the subject in her own mind. The Harveys weren't worth it.

Don't ever let anyone
Tell you you deserve that

In fact, she'd found herself with a change in focus before the Hunger Games had even started. On the train ride from home, she fixated on the many ways which being in the Games could and would destroy her parents' reputations, yet the sick obsession with taking this form of revenge had been both out of character and short-lived. By the time the bloodbath had rolled around, Nash had all but forgotten about her initial motivation for stopping herself from stepping off the plate before the gong. She'd found a new anchor, one that kept her more or less stable for the duration of the Games, held her to earth, held her in general. And she held her hand while she died.


[/justify][/color]

Well no one's going to fix it for us, no one can
You say that, "No one's going to listen, and no one understands"
So there's no open doors and there's no way to get through
There's no other witnesses,
just us
two...

[/blockquote][/size]

[Lulu]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
maybe we'll get lucky and we'll
both live again
well i don't know. i don't know. i don't know. don't think so
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

With grace and confidence the water in the stream beside the pair of tributes rushed on, flowing continuously without halt, undisturbed by the heartbreaking scene occurring mere feet away. The wind whisked around the colorful trees, blowing the leaves every which way as it did every day, regardless of how the tributes were feeling. The sun continued to shine brightly and steadily in the sky. The birds still whistled. The clouds still floated on by. Life in the massive wildlife stadium that was the Fifty-Sixth Hunger Games' arena continued on as usual, even though Nash Harvey was dead.

Or dying, really. Because she wasn't dead--not yet. It was clear she was on her way, though. Soon her heart would stop beating, her chest would no longer rise and fall as she breathed, her eyes would glaze over, her voices would be silenced for the final time. At that moment, Topaz felt as if her own world was ending; sure, she'd get over it and move on to finish the task at hand, but that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was that Tope felt completely and utterly shattered, and it astonished her that no one else in existence felt the same way. Even after only two weeks, life without Nash was still relatively impossible to imagine, and yet the rest of the world would continue on as if nothing had changed. How did that work out? It seemed unreal that the District One tribute could feel so affected, and yet after that night, her trusted ally would be nothing more than another face in the sky to everyone else.

Her hand tightly interlocked with the other girl's, Topaz closed her eyes and fooled herself into believing they were in another time, another place, a different moment. Anywhere but here. By the mist covered lake in the dim twilight, settling into their sleeping bag, pressed comfortably tight up against each other. Kissing amongst the pumpkins on a breezy afternoon, although for longer than a couple of seconds this time. Nestled up against each other, backs against the pillars, hand in hand as they were now. Just not here. Not here, with death drawing so near.

well that is that and this is this
will you tell me what you saw and i'll tell you what you missed
when the ocean met the sky

[/color]

Though it would have been far more humane to attack one last time so Nash would not have to be in utmost anguish for longer than needed, Topaz was infinitely glad she hadn't. If she had, then this one last moment of tranquility would never have occurred. They wouldn't be sprawled on the ground, side by side as they had been so many times before, holding hands as Nash slowly slipped into oblivion. As awfully depressing as it was, it seemed to be a fitting end. Wasn't it always going to end this way, anyway? Ultimately, love--or any form of it--in the arena killed. Love in general killed. So why had Topaz searched so hard for it?

These thoughts begged the question; did she love Nash? Surely it hadn't been long enough for something like that. But the things they'd been through, what they'd seen throughout that week of hell...it had all brought them closer than close. They had run away together, from the allies they were supposed to depend upon. And it couldn't be simply shrugged off as lust, because Topaz enjoyed just being with Nash--the kisses and caresses were not all she wanted, although admittedly they were a rather perfect addition. No, there was definitely something more there...they just hadn't had enough time together to be able to determine what it was. She wanted a word, though. She desperately needed a word, she couldn't let this end without giving it a word, because hadn't it been special enough to deserve one? So she would go with love. Because even though she knew it wasn't exactly right, she wanted to have loved Nash. She had wished for that kind of bond all her life, and her relationship with Nash felt more like it than anything in the past ever had. What did it matter if it was real by anyone else's standards? It was real by hers, goddammit. After all, she was here, holding her hand, watching her die.

Common sense indicated that she should be avoiding her feelings for the other girl right now, seeing as she was on the brink of death and growing more attached in the last seconds of her life would only make it harder to let go. But Topaz had never been the type to ignore her emotions, and she wasn't planning on doing that now. She wanted to be able to say, clearly and simply, I loved Nash Harvey. Even if she wasn't completely positive she had. Even just thinking the words calmed the turmoil in her mind. They explained why she was sitting here, falling to pieces figuratively, while Nash was the one who was actually doing so.

She didn't know how much time passed. All she knew was that the ticking of her mental clock gradually slowed, until it only sounded every few seconds. Tick...tick...tick...tick... Nash was drifting away completely. Topaz jolted out of her thoughts and squeezed her companion's hand tighter, allowing herself to turn and look at the light slowly fading out from her eyes and the color from her skin. Gently she began to stroke her dark hair, matted with her own blood, the life sustaining liquid still continuing to trickle out of her massive head wound. How desperately she wanted to hear her voice again, to close her eyes and listen as its soft tones lulled her into a sense of security that was impossible to find anywhere else in the arena. But clearly Nash was too far gone to talk. Too far gone to do anything, which was why Tope didn't say something to her before she departed forever. She doubted the former District Two tribute would hear.

you missed when time and life shook hands and said goodbye
when the earth folded in on itself
and said "good luck, for your sake i hope heaven and hell
are really there, but I wouldn't hold my breath"

[/i][/color]
The cannon sounding was the explosion that her ticking time-bomb clock had been working up to. Topaz should have deduced this, and yet it still was a shock when it came. The thunderous boom echoed throughout the entire area, pounded in the redhead's ears, prompted her to squeeze her eyes shut for the split second before it was over. A brief moment of hysteria followed. "...Nash?"[/color] Tope muttered hesitantly, snapping her eyes open once more to look at her ally's limp body lying beside her. "Nash?"[/color] Panicking, she bent down to lay her ear against the other girl's chest. No heartbeat. "Nash? Nash?![/color] No breathing, either. Her lips were drained of color, and her hands were cold as ice. "Nash! Nash!"[/color] It hit her like a ton of bricks, and yanking her hand away from the dead girl's she let out another tearless sob. Nash was dead. Dead. Gone. I killed her.

I should die. I should die. Somehow her hands undid the clasp on one of the backpacks lying a few feet away and withdrew one of their hunting knives. At first she didn't realize what she was planning on doing with it, but as soon as it occured to her she came to her senses and tossed it away in utter disgust. Who was she, contemplating suicide? Suicide was quitting. Sure, she felt like quitting now, but she'd give herself hell for it later. Nash had asked to be killed. She shouldn't feel so guilty about fulfilling the other girl's wishes. She'd done what Nash wanted. Now, continue doing what Nash wanted. This command from the back of her mind startled her--what more had Nash wanted? She had never voiced any other demand aloud. She wanted you to win, idiot. Well, that was good. Topaz wanted herself to win, too.

This realization roused her like nothing else at the time could. She still wanted to win, despite the circumstances. And even better, Nash had wanted her to win as well. Nash had been so sure she was going to win. "You're going to win, you know." So she would win. Great. So to do that, Nash would have wanted to you tend to your injuries. Topaz scowled. No, Nash would have tended to her injuries for her. But her throbbing shoulder and numerous other injuries from battles previous told her she had to do it, anyway. Slightly in a daze, she reached in and grabbed a medical kit from Nash's pack, and ignoring the lump in her throat, proceeded to stitch up a couple of old wounds that seemed to have reopened in the chaos and bandage her shoulder as best as she could. It was poor work; Nash would have been able to do far better. But it was all she could do.

Great. Now, you're thirsty. Have some water. She was vaguely aware of getting up and filling up a water jug from the creek, dropping an iodine tablet in it and waiting what she believed to be a sufficient amount of time for it to purify, and then taking a couple of swigs. Though her thirst was quenched, as a whole she didn't feel remotely better after doing so.

the more we moved ahead the more we're
stuck in rewind
well i don't mind. i don't mind. how the hell could i mind?

There. She'd done what Nash had wanted. Why did she still not feel satisfied, though? She was supposed to feel a bit better, wasn't she? But the sight of Nash's body lying stiff and cold as a block of ice just beside her feet would not allow her to feel better in any way. The District One tribute let herself sink down to her knees and clasp her hand once more in hers, just before bringing it up to her face and pressing her lips against it gently. A goodbye, almost. Although it didn't feel like a fitting one.

A sound startled her. She didn't know what it was; it could have been anything. She would have welcomed another tribute at this point--let them come, so they could finish this game for real. What frightened her, though, was that the sound could have been an approaching hovercraft, coming to take Nash away forever. It couldn't come yet, she wasn't finished here! At the noise, the Career swung around so fast that she had to put her hand on the ground to steady her balance. Upon lifting it up again, it was red--covered in a layer of Nash's blood, which had been spreading out into a pool around the scene of the assassination.

She didn't know what made her do it, nor would she ever know. All she knew was that the sight of the scarlet liquid triggered something in her; she stared at it for a long while, with a mildly bemused expression etched across her face. Her golden eyes widened, taking on a slightly feral look, and completely on a whim she turned back to Nash's body and brushed all the hair off of her forehead. Following this, she dipped her finger in the puddle of blood beside the girl's head and wildly painted a single word across her former companion's forehead. Mine. It was a punishment. A warning. A claim to the one she had come to love. She's mine, and don't forget it. It was morbid, awful, sick, twisted, far from sane. It was perfect.

She didn't linger after completing her work; instead she jumped to a standing position and stalked briskly over to the packs that belonged to the two of them, slinging them over her shoulder and snatching up her sword from its forgotten place in the dirt after doing so. There. She'd done what she needed to do; she was done here. The hovercraft would come and take the body up with it as soon as Tope moved away from the area. So that was what she would do, much as she'd love to drag Nash's mangled corpse around with her for the remainder of the games, showing it off for all to see. Look! Look who I killed. She's rather beautiful, isn't she? But she'd let the Gamemakers have her, and go on living, winning, because that was what Topaz Ross knew how to do. There were two tributes left for her to deal with. Screw them. Screw the both of them. She didn't care an ounce about them. There was only one person in these entire fucking Games that she had cared for. And she continued to care. She cared a lot, actually.

[/blockquote]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
and maybe we'll get lucky and we'll
both grow old
well i don't know. i don't know. i don't know. i hope so
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

In this post- Topaz drinks water, uses needle and thread twice [from Nash's supplies], uses 5ft of bandages, takes all of Nash's items. (total damage healed- 5.5)

[/color]
[/size][/center]