Retrace // WW Day 4

[charade]

No faces in the sky that night.

Probably the most unsettling thing to see.

Nothing.

When the Capitol wanted blood, nothing was terrible indeed. It meant forced situations herding tributes to their doom. Disturbed by the lack of death, Curtis had stood quietly for a moment before continuing onward on the path before him, weaving between the statues carefully, so as not to touch any of them for fear of seeing them move, concentrating only on the rhythmic pattern of his footsteps and that of the girl trailing behind him and the boy on his back. That is, until he realized it had grown even quieter in the area. Turning slightly, he asked a question hesitantly to the air."...Doll?" The only answer was silence. Total and final. He spun around in a cirlce, looking at the shadows and the statues as he searched for his district partner. "This isn't funny doll. Where are you?"If the statues had anything to say about Alaska's whereabouts, they didn't answer. The girl from seven had vanished; continuing the trend of girls that were either up to something diabolical, or uncomfortable around Curtis’s sardonic nature. Or perhaps they all merely thought that consorting with a paralyzed tribute was going to make for unwanted baggage; though he wasn't sure why they would think so. Its not like any of them had offered to help him carry the kid.


That was a burden he had willingly taken upon himself. Maybe his motives weren't the greatest, but at least he could say he wasn't trying to intentionally screw anyone over. Did he have a real stratagem? Not exactly. Not much more than keeping himself alive, and keeping Bran on his back. He felt cold that night, which was odd given the absence of wind where they were in the statue garden. But cold was the only thing that made sense. The world didn't not care for other people. Especially not when money or blood was involved. Curtis continued on mutely for sometime, trying to wrangle his head around everything that had happened so far; and trying to figure out where the deathly pungent smell that seemed to follow them was coming from. More landscape fell behind them as he eventually realized from whence the smell came. Reaching into the satchel he kept hanging from his right side, he pulled out the rotting hunk of flesh that used to be his right arm. It was strange that no flies had come to bother it, but then again, everything in the Arena was artificial.

Grumbling under his breath about the loss of his limb, he cast it away, hurling it as far as his arm would let him, letting it land with a squishy thump that made his stomach churn. The arena took what it wanted from him, and it had no sympathy. Nor did he have any say. After that, they journeyed until the statues were naught but blurry grey shapes in the distance."We should be safe enough here."Slinging Bran off of his back as carefully as he could, he threw himself to the ground and took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts and preparing to articulate.

Wrapping his arm around the smaller kid, he sighed deeply and stared up at the darkness before speaking his mind.”Forget her Bran. Women. Can't live with them, Can't live without them. You'll understand when you're my...Curtis cut off abruptly, not wanting to misspeak and make his little friend feel worse about the whole thing.Never mind that. I...I won’t leave you. Not like your sister, not like Legs, not like the doll. We just have to keep going ya know? We gotta keep going until we can’t walk anymore. Well. I mean I know you already can’t... But you know what you do when you can’t walk anymore? You crawl. And when you can’t do that... you find someone to carry you. That’s us buddy. Us against the world. Sleep tight. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tomorrow.” With that thought in mind, Curtis drifted off into an restless sleep plagued with dreams of evil chickens and moving statues that wept tears of blood,soaking the ground and churning it into a mud streaked with red. And standing behind it all, there was a group of female tributes laughing and pointing at the two crippled tributes that had no one at all.

No one but each other.

***

When Curtis finally woke up, he groaned, before looking around blearily and getting startled by the other tributes. The stone ones. Maybe it was just what had happened the previous day, but he was half-sure that they had all moved closer while they slept. Fear crept into his psyche again, and not for the first time, hw wondered what the other living tributes were up to; as well as which one would try to screw him over next. Trust was something he wasn't sure if he could see as something real anymore. Not after the doll ditched them. It was a harsh reminder of the everyone fro themselves mentality. Which meant that someday soon, he'd have to... cut his losses. But that wasn't a bridge he was prepared to cross just yet. Hefting Bran onto his back without checking to see if he was awake or not, he shook his head quickly to clear it and starting loping along, the pain in his leg having subsided during the night. Whatever was in the vial had certainly done its job in flushing his system.

“Time to get away from the deadish people.”The walk was one that gave Curtis some time to think as the statues receded back into the distance. Eventually, the ground gave way to plants and more foliage, the colors of which were rather familiar.“Hmph. Must have gotten turned around at some point. This is the meadow from before isn't it? Wouldn't be surprised if those statues herded us toward it or something.”Taking a moment to catch his bearings, he sighed again, something he had found himself doing more and more often as the hours wore on. Wonder if those chickens are around. Hope not. Not in the mood to dispute my place in the food chain right now. Wanting to get his mind off of such things, he dug the plants he had picked two days ago out of his bag. They were starting to wilt, but they tasted good all the same. Though they did little to fill the yawning cavern in his stomach.“Funny how life works out ain’t it Bud? You with the legs, me with the arm and the ear... The roar of trio of canons startled him into silence, and he raised an eyebrow as he stared."Well. That didn't sound good. What'dya think?"



OOC:
Curtis Ate Edible Plants
Curtis Gave Bran Edible Plants

[Rosetta]

i45.tinypic.com/v76udi.jpg

[/img][/center]

~Bran Wolfe

Bran didn’t feel anything when Alaska slipped away. It was like being paralyzed. No feeling whatsoever. He’d never felt anything for her at all. She’d snuck up on them and snuck away and it left no effect on him. It wasn’t like Aria who stabbed him, like Ellea who twisted. More unsettling than her drifting off, her disappearance, what occupied Bran’s mind more, was the starry night sky without any face-like constellations. No one had died that day.

On contrary to assumed reactions, Bran felt his stomach fluttering. If no one died today, tomorrow would be hell. In the immediate aftermath of his fall, Bran wished to be dead. Nothing was worse than being crippled from the waist down when he needed his legs to climb to the top of the tower, the hero, to save the princess. It was hell. The worst part was when he forgot. When he was sitting and he shifted his weight forward and pushed down on the armrests, preparing to stand, but just falling back, growling in anger. He tossed in bed every single night, asking why the fall hadn’t just killed him. Why was he cursed? It was a terrible thing, but now he realized that he never the true meaning of Hell until he was Reaped and he feared saved lives. Tomorrow would be a terrible Hell.

Maybe he should have died in that fall before he was Reaped. Before he had to be carried to the stage, his sister at his side.

As he lay amongst the statues, Bran clung close to Curtis, his stomach churning uncomfortably. Moments early, Curtis had gone off. We don’t need them, he’d said, just you and me, he’d said and the feeling felt warm on Bran’s face. Aria was slowly fading from his memories and though he feared it resurfacing in the sky, he found no fear in it coming to be in real life. He wasn’t afraid of her, but rather angry. His hands tightened at the thought of her and he wanted to scream at her and cry and shout and wave his arms. How dare you, how dare you leave?

[/i] But at the same time, he wanted to just cling to Curtis’s back and forget her. He had another sibling in the Games.

Sometimes, he wondered if he would sigh or cry or even cheer if she appeared in those stars and for a long time, Bran counted them and when he lost count, he tried again until he found he had no answer and his hands tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find her voice, trying to catch it and being reminded of the butterfly nets he used to run across the lawn holding, but always coming up fruitless. The only voice he found was Heron’s, cracking out from an old, static-ridden television set and she wasn’t even speaking to him.

But, she’d extended her arms to him when he needed them while Aria ran away.

“The hero never runs away. He always stays to fight.”

Bran had no choice on that fact, but Aria did. She had a choice and she chose others over her little brother. Her crippled, little brother and it was the heavy weight on his legs, restricting him. In the darkness, Bran picked out Curtis’s outline, ignoring the statues towering over them. They didn’t spook him. They were his guardians. For a long time, Bran watched his ally sleep, his breathing gentle, chest rising and falling slowly and Bran liked it that way. He liked his back. It was broad and warm like Rajas had always been. The thought of Rajas brought hot tears to his eyes, the fact that he’d never quite feel his brother’s back, his brother’s hands, but he knew gifts could be sent into the Arena. Gifts, replacements for things lost.

Curtis didn’t come in a parachute, but in the darkness, in a barely audible whisper that touched the sky, Bran thanked him anyway.

***

Morning brought Curtis’s back and Bran slumped against it, imagining Rajas. He’d woken up here and it reminded him of the days when he’d wake up and Rajas would be waiting on the end of his bed. “We’re going out today.” Jon would be waiting right outside the door and though Rajas carried him the whole way when they walked through town, through the forest, alongside brooks and sometimes, they passed the Justice Building and Bran buried his face in Rajas’s back, but if Curtis carried him to the place of his greatest demise to date, Bran would stare it straight in the face for he fell and there was no point denying it now as he shook hands with death.

Jon’s presence was always there and he was the force that shielded Bran from the bullies and he never realized it until it was Jon who carried up his wheelchair and sat Bran right down into it. There was no shame in Bran and suddenly, with a deep pang in his heart, he wished he’d gotten to known his half-brother better. For Father hadn’t been ashamed of him and Jon hadn’t been ashamed of Bran and now Bran was sorry for shying away from what was the midway between shame and pride.

Quiet in this realization, Bran hardly noticed the familiar ground they were recovering until Curtis helped him down amongst the greenery and it was soft and kind, the same place where a beautiful girl’s blood had watered it. For a moment, Bran shifted uncomfortably.

“I should’ve killed you.”

Munching slowly on the plants Curtis had just handed him, Bran swirled his fingers in the date, hoping the bury the blood he’d shed, but never finished the job with. He was just about to mention her, to alleviate just pressure from his legs, as he listened to Curtis reason the little bit of life they both had left, but that’s when the cannons fired. They both froze and Bran’s blood turned to ice.

“Well. That didn't sound good. What'dya think?"

Was it his sister? Bran shuddered. Was it her? Or?

That’s when he realized the answer. Father had always told him to do the job himself. The accused, the dying, the suffering, they all deserved it. And Bran’s heart began to beat rapidly and his forehead was hot and sweaty.

“I-I hope it’s not her,” he found himself stuttering out, unable to wrap his tongue around the truth. He truly hoped it wasn’t her. Aria Wolfe didn’t deserve to die at the hands of some tribute, crazed with the visions of glittering victory. No, she deserved to die at the hands at someone who cared, who knew her, who had feelings, either positive or negative, for her.

She deserved to die at Bran’s hands. [/color]

[Bran eats plants and collects a bundle of firewood][/size][/blockquote]

[charade]

WIP
WIP
WIP

I have been so busy ogmmm

So like yeah Bran lets hope it wasnt her
actually we should hope it was cause we might have to fight her angst angst,
Angst? aint nobody got time for that


OOC: Curtis collects 2 edible plants & 1 medicinal.