Showdown // [Zoya]

[Python]

The tension lost because of her sister’s death - ensuring the nation once again that district four would be without victory - had made a startling comeback due to recent events. Today was the day of the finale, when the remaining warriors of the Games would take their last stand and duel on death’s doorstep wielding only their weapons and their final wave of depleting strength. This year there would be only be two competitors, forcing upon the nation a less complicated finale in exchange for immense suspension: Opal Shore and Yaa Valarro, a honorable soldier versus a lower district contestant, who also happened to carry with her the betrayal of Locust Lovelace. Priscilla failed to see it through any other perspective; Yaa had stood by, completely conscious and fully aware of her own actions, and watched as a nobody savagely severed her sister’s leg and plunged his weapon into her throat. Only minutes before that moment had she convinced the nation that she cared about Locust with sugar-coated words of adoration. Her actions, however, had stated otherwise.

”You can’t care about someone unless you are willing to fight for their life,”

[/I] she had said to her interviewer. Whether her judgment was clouded by bias or not, she would never regret those words nor would she ever disagree with them in the future. In her eyes Yaa Valarro was a liar and a warrior unworthy of the crown due to her disgraceful actions. Mikhail’s death was not enough to quench her thirst for vengeance and bloodshed of the undeserving. She would not be satiated until Opal took matters into her own hands to slay the person who had aided in her sister’s death. It was her last hope, her final wish for justice and a desire so passionate it had drawn the blonde out of her home for the first time in two days, and led her to the district square where a dense crowd was forming eagerly with their eyes glued to the big screen. She faintly wondered if they, too, would seek justice for Locust’s death through the corpse of Yaa Valarro.

Priscilla waded through the outer shell of the mass and took position by the rear, hoping to attract as little attention as possible. Her friends had tried and failed to contact her by knocking on her doorstep and leaving bouquets of flowers as tokens of mournful apology, but she never answered them. She had also refused to speak to her parents about the loss, not until she was emotionally prepared to handle what excuses they might toss at her for not reacting properly to their daughter’s death. Her lack of connection to the outside world left her feeling even emptier than before. She had tried to fill the void with a distraction, like anger and a craving for Mikhail’s inevitable death, but now that she had seen his river of blood there was no containing her indoors. It was finale day, and finale day was always spent in the district square. It was one tradition Locust was always willing to follow, and she had no plans to break it. The issue was, however, that she might be spotted by a friend, or even a stranger wishing to offer condolences. She would accept their sympathy and their sorrow, but she wasn't quite sure if she was prepared to face the pitying expressions of those who would never understand the reality of the situation, and how sorry I am for everything that I’ve done.

When the girls onscreen appeared in the same frame, there was an obvious distinction between the two. Yaa’s hands had been reduced to stubs with weapons duct-taped to her arms in a last attempt at defending her own life. Had she not been so angry with the girl, Priscilla would admire her bravery like she once had, and cheer for her unwavering fighting spirit. Lower district or not, she was a hell of a warrior, like a flame that would roar in the face of danger rather than extinguishing. Opal was the only one capable of dousing that spirit with a few swipes of her blade, and Priscilla hoped she would succeed. Opal was practically everything she wanted to see in a career: strong, loyal, merciless. She had doubted her at first, but despite looking like a flower she had proved to be a terrifying opponent. After witnessing Akasha’s gruesome death by her flaming hand, she had understood why Locust had chosen her as a partner. She was unbelievably powerful. With three deaths in her name, there was no denying that truth.

She just hoped that Opal would stay true to the reputation she established for herself, and kill Yaa Valarro before she had the chance to steal what should never belong to her.

My sister’s crown.[/justify][/blockquote][/size]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

And you’ll never want to leave my side,
As long as I don’t break these...
Promises, and they still feel all so wasted on myself

There was beauty in death. Zoya just hadn't noticed it before.

A year ago, if you had asked her about the fanaticism surrounding the Games, she would have smirked and demurred, while internally judging even the person who asked, for posing such a ridiculous question. Now, at the end of the 64th, she found herself grieving, bereft. Somehow in the span of three weeks she had fallen in love with a girl she'd never met, and now alongside the rest of the district, would mourn her. The rational part of Zoya's brain chided her. How ridiculous to have feelings about a stranger. How stupid to care about someone whose odds of imminent death ran high. How disrespectful and distracted she'd been, since the reaping. And though Zoya always listened to her rational mind, she could not help the icy slush in her stomach, the way the world seemed more grey.

There was only one thing to do, then: ride it out. Embrace it. On the day of the finale, she sat in front of her dresser, and painted on the tragedy. Black lace and leather pants, coal black eyeliner, and white-out contacts rounded out the look. She pinned back her hair, the roots of which she had neglected. And when she explored her reflection, she found no Zoya Albatross at all. Just a living dead girl, an homage to Locust Lovelace.

The Games Square bulged with the populace of District Four, many of them in mourning clothes to match. They had given their fair share of talented tributes over the years, only to have victory snatched away time after time. Neither of the other Career districts had suffered such a fate. Zoya had heard the statistics spouted ad nauseum, and it had become mere conversational chatter. Now, she believed them. Now, she reiterated the statistics to her clients, to her classmates, to her sister. It was unfair, she said. It could be rigged, she whispered. Was River Destin not as equally deserving? Didn't Locust have the love of the crowd - the love of another tribute?

But that argument tasted like ash on her tongue. Yaa hadn't loved Locust, not the way Zoya did. Yaa loved herself more, and that wasn't truly love at all. Selfish, when she should have been selfless. Her face played over the screens across the Square, changing from time to time with Opal's. Zoya saw neither of them, just blank female bodies, empty vessels. When she tired of watching the dolls on the screens, Zoya began to thread her way through the crowd. She moved lightly, easily, striking frame twisting and slicing through. She only wanted to move, wanted to feel the weight of righteous sadness.

It was heavy in District Four, the way it was in the winter, with the howling storms. She could almost feel the rain on her cheeks, in her black-stained tears.

Zoya stopped near the center stage, her white eyes seeing and unseeing. She blinked, saw a golden twist of hair not unlike Locust's. She blinked again. Long legs, a sharp chin, slender fingers. It took her a moment to understand that it was not Locust's ghost, come back for vengeance, but the sister the televisions had discussed and dissected. Priscilla, she remembered. Zoya did not wipe her cheeks, though the rivers of black ran down. Instead she stood tall, held her breath in her core, and approached the remainder of Locust's soul. "Pardon me, but do you have someone to sit with? I'm sure it's going to be a long day, and I'd rather have company." Zoya's glass gaze flickered to the screens. It was starting already, the end of the end.

banner credit: idk
song: Nero - Promises

[Python]

The warriors raised their weapons, and the district held its breath for the first blow. Yaa’s scythe raked itself across Opal’s flesh inches away from her spine, leaving in its wake a thick trail of oozing blood. Priscilla visibly cringed at the sight, balling her dominant hand into a fist at the idea of Opal’s new disadvantage. The battle was off to a disappointing start, but there was always time for a recovery, especially now that Opal was wielding the promising power of the flames she had once used to vanquish Akasha. The murmuring crowds adorned in mourning attire were black inkblots in the district square, another stain on their everlasting reputation of fallen tributes who deserved better than what they always received. She knew most of them would be whispering her sister’s name, just like they had whispered River’s. And Learna’s. And Penelope’s. And Fitz’s.

We’re a cursed disgrace, she thought bitterly, because even with a career like Locust in the Games they could not deliver a victor. They were overdue for a chance in the Capitol’s spotlight, and Priscilla wondered if she could be that chance. Volunteering for next year’s Games had already crossed her mind more than once, because she had always thought of herself as the superior one: stronger, bolder, capable of mastering any weapon. Had she been in Locust shoes, Mikhail would’ve died in mere seconds, and she would never have succumbed to emotional investment in anyone. Locust’s behavior was what baffled her most; why had she fallen for a fellow tribute? Where was the logic she had been notorious for possessing? How did their relationship start? She sighed, realizing that the subject would only haunt her. She buried it beneath the stress, hoping to repress it once and for all.

The hum of incessant mumbling grew louder when Opal lashed in retaliation, sword bearing the heat of an angry flame. Priscilla’s lip twitched when she spotted the blistering patch of red it left behind. She was convinced that Yaa deserved every ounce of pain she suffered by the girl’s touch, and more. Their gazes were smoldering in the arena’s heavy silence, but soon their voices would break loose and hush the crowds who anticipated Opal’s fury and Yaa’s possible attempt at justification. She was aching to hear Opal speak and share the hurricane of rage that seemed to dominate her senses, just as they had shared the pangs of despair over Locust’s unexpected and tragic demise. She was leaned forward, eyes fixed only on the television with little attention to spare. She was so intently focused that she nearly missed the approaching figure and its voice. At the request, she tore her eyes away from the screen and blinked. It was a stranger, no doubt, decorated with black to match the inkblots of the district square. The stripes staining her cheeks were indicators of tears, but her eyes - purely white, thanks to colored contacts - didn’t appear moist.

She considered the girl for a moment, then shook her head. ”No, I don‘t.” If there was even a hint of a smile, it was microscopic. She would be polite to her guest, but she was in no mood to smile, not when the possibility of Yaa’s victory was dangling before her burning eyes. ”I’ll sit with you. I could use the company,” she continued, eyes flickering to the screen once more. More blood drawn, more burns sizzling deserving flesh, more suspense. The duel was painful to watch, but she didn’t plan to miss any of it. She would spare a few minutes for this girl, however, merely because she was dressed appropriately for lament. Anybody who expressed grief for her beloved sister was welcome to her attention. ”Where would you like to sit?”

[/blockquote][/justify]