Why We Fight // Solo WIP

[Anatra]

	Solo Piece
	District 2
	Multi Character

There are defeats that crush a man, but there are also defeats that teach him a lesson. Tyren, a young lad of the mere age of seventeen, was one of the few who partake in these 'pregames' to which sucumbed to fatal injuries. There are people in this world who are capable of doing such damage to another. People who, without control, are just mad dogs with no leash. The Capitol thinks such of all of the Districts. Even one. But does it really matter when your own brother is sitting in the comfort of Death's arms?
The answer is no. It does not. Because Death has no mercy or forgiveness.
Death grants no wishes, nor permits unrightful freedom.
Death is horrid. But Death is blind.
Blind to the doings of man. Blind to the hardships that all face.
Selfish, without pride. That is the cost of fatal loss. Losing all that you have, blood and bones, to only be comforted by poisonous arms. Not by heaven or hell, but worse. Darkness, pure nothingness. What you leave behind is all you will ever know, and all you will ever have gained to lose.
Tyren felt this pain dutifully.

The Pregames happened just before the reaping. Each round was relentless. One versus one, each time. A pit, not even a real arena. Blood stains on the walls, and the chanting of careers all around. How can one grow to enjoy such an environment? You don't. You live through it, knowing that glory may be resting on the other side. That wasn't Tyren's thought, though. He wanted to prove that he could go straight into The Hunger Games and triumph where nobody else could. A foolish notion. Strange, how the young think themselves so wise. Difficult to believe that the puppets have gone through the same thing time and time again. Their parents. They knew what Tyren and his brother were getting into. They were aware of the dangers, but not truly. They convinced themselves, mainly based on the pride of their sons, that their children would be alright. That they were doing what was right for the family.
Another foolish notion.
How could people be so bestranged? To believe that people can triumph in a world like this?

The morning of the first round, Alex and Tyren awoke from their slumbers with the birds chirping through the window unintentionally. The curtain blowing lightly in the warmth of the wind. One could only imagine how the weather was going to influence the first conflict. The first waging of the war of careers. One versus one. One winner, one bloodied loser. The twins, whose faces were different, walked together to that arena as though it was a blessing to be able to do so. The moment they left, however, one was bandaged and broken whilst the other had just dealt judgement over another career. One winner, one bloodied. Tyren wasn't bathing in the glory though. His emotions fluttered and fluctuated continuously. The one thing that he couldn't abide by was the bond between him and Alex. Twins do not fight each other, and thank god they didn't have to. Thank everything he isn't worse off. It was a light melee. No weapons, just fists. But they are deadly enough. They walked home, and talked endlessly that night. Tiresome as it was, talking was the only way to relieve the questions each of them pinned on their lives, now.

A second day came to pass and it was then that Tyren and Alex's parents sat them down. This was the part where they wanted to convince Tyren that he was going to be alright. Not that he was at all worried, but he was going to get the talk no matter what. They reassured him that the weapons are tools to be used, not to be feared. To fear more than your desire to succeed will only lead to failure. His father told him, the man with the rough jawbone and the deep Orca-brown eyes. His face was more akin to Tyren's, or to Tyren, his. Francis, Frank. The old peacekeeper. Wise, but firm. Nothing went past him without it being fact, cold hard and killed. His blood was cold outside of the family. If it isn't Orca, it isn't worth it. Not in his older age. Anything he does now, is to better his children's lives. The rest is labour. And work does not set you free here.

A third day, a fourth. Soon enough it was seven. And the roundabout comes creeping back. The whole week was spent with celebrations of one of the Orca's birthdays. An eighteen, no less. Something that they all celebrate with fruition. The old hall down the road, all decorated and lit. Each table filled and every glass equally as much. Every guest with a smile, fake or not, on their face. A toast. "To Max Orca!" reigns supreme over the room. "And may his life be full." Says his father, not at all serious-looking. "Because damn does he need to gain some weight." He says down the microphone, which gains a lot of laughs, even from Max because the joke was obviously planned. The whole event was carefully decorated with entertainment, dances and songs. Food and drink. Every pair came true. "So, Tyren, you're a hundred percent about this pregames business?" Max asks the Orca twin. "Absolutely. Two hundred percent, even." He says with the smile that runs in the family. Warm and polite. "Well as long as you know what you're getting into. It is a dangerous deal." Max has always been the reassuring one, but supporting nonetheless. He works as a medical officer, one who takes his job seriously. Without failure, so far. His timings and scores are among the higher rankings. "The real Games are dangerous, this is just child's play." Tyren says, thinking the wisdom inside is true. But Max is thinking otherwise. But you are still a child. I'm still a child, and I'm older than you. But to voice it would have knocked Tyren's confidence. And to do that would jeopardize the whole Pregames for him. And nobody wanted to risk that.

That night, Alex and Tyren knew that tomorrow, they'd be on the edge of their seats for the next round. Tyren knew at that point that he would be facing somebody called Matthew Dunham. Somebody who was renowned only for his fierceness and lonesome nature in the gym. He'd only been seen practicing with a few different people. Something him and Tyren had in common, at least. They sat and talked and talked, and talked. Those late nights that you just know you won't sleep much because you're having a deep conversation with somebody about all kinds of things. But these two were talking about the glory of winning. Alex still has bandages on his hands from his fight, a couple of cuts on his face and arms. They lay in their opposite beds and wonder the world away.

"Do you think I can do it?" Was one of the questions raised. "I think you will do it. I don't doubt you, I trust in you." Alex said. It really was a deep conversation. "I appreciate it. I should get some rest." He finally declared. "Night." He said, and was copied.


The Pregames had begun. Banners flying and everyone seated. Quickly, silence reigned over the large pit-like arena. A mixture of dirt, sand and blood stains were on the floor of the fighting area. Somebody had just been out there, and it was Tyren's turn. He waited in the wings of the arena. Called out to the door. "Tyren Orca, versus, Matthew Dunham." A weapon of choice was required, and Tyren had his all planned out. Little did he know that his enemy would have done the exact same thing, too. Having the nickname 'Archer Boy' was never any use. Not even for reputation. It struck no fear in anybody's heart. No arrows flew from that name. He took the bow like a warrior. A hunter, a fighter. Gathering the heads of his enemies. But it was never to be that extreme. His nerves were racing, running marathons in his body. His blood had travelled to space and back in the limits of his own skin. He stepped into the sunlight to face his enemy.

And all he could remember was being on the floor, dead.

Cold, Death was. Cold and cruel. The chill doesn't creep up your spine. It just punches you in the face, the jaw and the teeth. It pulls your ears from your skull until your skin peels like an orange left for hours overdue. Death was relentless. Life is the warmth that occasionally pulses back through your veins. Somebody was trying to save him. Warm hands on his chest. The fingers were pressing in and compressions were sending the warmth through his body. It felt like Death was receding. It felt like nothing was going to stop this warmth. It was the sun, surely. Not a light brown haired man, but the sun beaming onto his face. Surely. It could not be a mortal, but some deity that was saving him. Breathing life into him as though he was a dark tunnel with only a flashlight to illuminate the blackness. The touch of this 'sun' was graceful, but the pain was coming back. The feeling of a light head was not at all close to the reality. It was throwing him side to side, mentally. But physically he was being taken into the wings once more. The wings of the arena, but they were warm like a bird, or an angel. Surely, it was not a blue eyed man that was saving him. Surely, it was the sun. But the sun is hiding now, yet the warmth still pours on.

But still, it wasn't enough. His eyes fluttered to a finishing close.


When you wake from this kind of thing, you cannot begin to describe the laziness that your eyes surprise you with. They feel like weights at their highest level, yet once they were so delicate and soft. The softest things are now the heaviest. The loudest things are now deafening. The quietest, shocking. There is a sleeping man in the chair next to the hospital bed. White blankets surrounding the one that was once sleeping within the bed itself. There are no colours in the room besides the red pulse of the heart monitor, that is politely staying quiet with a tick and beep that is steady. Blurry. Everything is so blurry. But focusing in takes up the energy that he needs to speak, but he doesn't speak. He can't, because nobody is around him but that man in the chair. That young man, who may not even be a man. A suddenly rush of recognition runs through Tyren as the man has light brown hair, and silver blue eyes. Max. He goes to speak, but no words escape. Max is sound asleep, too. Tyren's eyes fail him.
The door slides to an open, but every click and drag brings awareness into Tyren's body. The person that comes through is nobody but a nurse, who swaps the files at the end of the bed that would likely label all of the injuries that Tyren has sustained. That is when he thinks, and thinking is tiring. He wants to move his neck, but his neck has no life. The nurse has awoken Max incidentally, who sees that Tyren's hand moves gently. Max suddenly reaches out to grab it, not saying a word. Max Orca, Tyren's cousin. The eighteen year old who only last week celebrated his party.

"I'm here, mate." He says, gripping on Tyren's hand. Nobody could see it, but the emotions in Max's head were overwhelming. Change happens in these four walls. Change that nobody can really measure besides the people inside them. Not only change for the patient, but for those around them. Tyren can't speak, he has woken up too early. But he can grip his hand softly, not even hard at all. It isn't a grip, more of a brief movement. But Max knows what he wants to say. Stay. So Max does.


The door sweeps open smoothly. No clicks wake the now sleeping Max, or the drug induced Tyren. The footsteps are slow, almost hesitant. But the smell of the outside that lingers on the jacket of those who enter, there are three, bring Tyren's nose to wake his body. His eyes open as though he'd been practicing those weights. Now, they are blinkable and he can see clear. A headache shoots through his frontal lobe, but neglect is all it is given. Tyren doesn't care for pain, because he sees Alex and his mother and father in front of him. His mother has tears in her eyes, and he sees that Max is seated in the chair still, but laying over the bed as though he had fell asleep without meaning to. Alex goes to the other seat, that is on the other side of Tyren. Only now does he Tyren feel the huge bandages that are on his neck. When he reaches out his fist for Alex to greet as they usually would, Alex is all too hesitant. Tyren's arm is bandaged up as though it was victim to everything that could cut it. No wounds are visible, just the whiteness of the wrappings. "How're you feeling?" Alex asks with haste. Eager to know. This brings Max to rise. Suddenly, a rush of guilt hits Max. He stands quickly and lets Cecilia, Tyren's mother, sit on the chair. His sleepiness is obvious, and he leaves the room without saying anything, leaving his jacket on the chair unintentionally.

"You're so brave." His mother says to him, tears in her eyes. Alex's question unanswered. Tyren just looks at his mother. "Say something..." Alex insists. He knows his brother more than most, but he didn't expect Tyren to show emotion like this. His eyes aren't watering, but you could easily see the pain in his face if only you looked. Nobody wants to hug him. Nobody wants to break the broken chess piece. Nobody wants to snap the toy soldier. Instead, Alex just holds his hand. The only thing that can be done right now. "I'm... Alright. Just... tired." He slowly says, his voice croaking.
Tyren's father opens the medical file.

Two lacerations to the neck. One major lacerations of the upper-lower arm / wrist area. Tissue damage to the back, a long laceration from the shoulder to the lower back, patient's left to right.

Patient Details:
Name: Tyren T ORCA
Age: Seventeen
Gender: Male
Admittance time: 15:56PM
Estimated release: N/a
Hand usage: Left

It contained much more information. Heart rates, regularity of wakings. It was all noted down. At the bottom there was a signature that Francis, Tyren's father, looked at with a keeni. 'Max M Orca'. He sighs a little, to himself of course. He understands why Max had to leave, somewhat. A medical officer shouldn't mix family and work.

A smile is on Alex's face, but concern litters his mother's. Nothing is worse than having to stay awake at this moment. Tyren wants the introductions to be over. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, he wants them to leave. He doesn't want to be seen like this. Like a broken piece. Alex grips tighter though, his nose running a little. "You haven't got long." The nurse says, with a bitter rasp to her voice. Francis takes it as it is, a comment. Cecilia feels offended, privately. She won't air her concern about the attitude of the nurse. She isn't like that, to make a scene in front of her broken child. "Tyren, we will visit tonight. When you are feeling better." She tells her son. Francis hasn't said anything.

"See you, bro." Alex says, standing.

They were there for a matter of minutes. That is all the time they have with him, because his consciousness is weak. He didn't even get more than a sentence in speech. Truly, broken.

Defeats may crush a man. Defeats may teach him a lesson. But in the end, a defeat is a defeat. There is no recollection of promises that you made. You broke them, unless you were counting on death to take you. Emptiness fills the promises of those around you. 'You will get better', and 'We believe in you'. When you see a broken shell, a lost child or hear the whining of a dog, you know it can't be helped. The damage is done. What remains is the climb to renewal. Nobody is ever the same after a break. No bone ever fully fixes itself. A break is a break. A heart can't mend itself, either. So neither can the brain.

It's the evening. Nobody has came to see him all night. So much for the visiting of his parents again. "Tyren?" He hears, the door slipping open again. He opens his eyes only to glare with a brace of fear at who stands in the doorway. Matthew Dunham. "I came to...." Tyren feels as though the killer's next words could be 'Finish you off', and he mentally grips his fists. But nothing comes of it. "I was wondering how you're doing." But Tyren's face is in disbelief, whether it shows with the morphling or not. How I'm doing? He thinks. How I'm doing? I... The last thing I remember was you on my body whilst I was out cold, a weapon still in your hand. Tyren's thoughts battle the truth, though. Forgiveness was the only thing that would make this easier. Tyren was never a forgiver. But now, something about these four walls are changing him. Defeats may teach him a lesson. "Alright... Considering." He says to Matthew. Tyren can't decide whether he wants to give into the calmness of the hospital, and simply relax. Let the moment pass and let Matthew remain. "Doctors say I'm recovering." He says, his speech is definitely recovering at least. It is slurred, slightly.
"I was worried I had....gone too far." Matthew says. Replying to Tyren's 'Alright' comment. He doesn't believe in 'alright'. His face shows it all clearly. Matthew's eyes are glued to his feet. He seems unable to compromise with the reality in the room. "I'm glad to hear your pulling through." He continues. "We're only enemies inside the arena as far as I'm considered." Tyren's face doesn't know what to show, and by that comment his mind doesn't know what to think. It is all a blur. "Never had a harder fight."

"You all set for your 'next big fight'?" He asks Matthew. Something about the way he speaks brings about a snideness. Matthew doesn't see it.

"Not really, man."

Good. Runs through Tyren's head.

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Work in progress Last updated 00:28 26/03/2014