take all the courage you have left {bros v hoes}

[[nyte]]

and every heartbeat was a scream

The sweetness of bitter grapes has not so much as kissed my lips for three days now, but god do I fucking need it. Release from the constant aching in my chest- the memories of those before me turning my world on its head. When I close my eyes it is Stevie and it is Percy, it is Justice and Machaon with spears through their throats and sliced hearts strung up on skeletal hands. And I am a fool with a heart made of snowflake obsidian, melting under the strain of passion and pain.

It's astounding, how weak I have become without the needles and the pills, the bottles to which I lost myself within nightly. This all feels wrong, smiling at a fond memory and feeling my heart swell near three times its normal size. This all feels wrong, throat closing and eyes watering at the mere mention of a name which had no fucking meaning to me three weeks before. If you asked me then, I would have said this would be easy.

Last night I held a Machaon's sword, blade digging into my palm as blood crawled down my wrist and off of my elbow. Ruby rain sunk into the cracks of a stone foundation. The arena is hungry, begging for blood and for bodies. Only one of us makes it out of this alive. It's not going to be me. It could damn well be none of them. So I told myself it would be better to let them die. Without pain, without worry. To draw this old blade across their throats and listen to two hearts stop beating.

They were sleeping. It would be easy. Poetic, even, to end their lives with an ally's blade. I sat for a long time, thin streams of blood staining bare legs. I gathered every bit of courage I could manage, sucking in a breath of bitter air. My eyes were closed, I couldn't watch this.

And I cried because I didn't know what else to do.

I hope I die before them. I can't stand watching another friend fall to my feet, the smiles that I grew to love sewn to their lips before everything is still and they are gone. Percy was supposed to be okay. Stevie was supposed to be okay.

I can't lose Justice and Machaon too. I won't let that fucking happen.

I'll fucking kill them, if they go and die.

We leave the fires behind, stumbling along like lost lambs. We are pigs strung up by our heels, gutted and empty and waiting for slaughter. Even the sun weeps for the souls of the damned, the children locked away in this gruesome game of cat and mouse. His tears have found their way into shallow craters, filling every crack with radiance and warmth. It's nothing like the sweltering heat to which several layers of my skin had succumbed, leaving it raw and tender.

I stop for a moment, left in complete and utter awe of the beauty that found its way into a place overcome by ugly. I smile for a moment, grabbing Machaon and Justice's wrists to stop them with me. "Reminds me of a sun." They're fighting- over what I don't think I'll ever understand. I had spent most of the night trapped inside of my own head, mourning Stevie with sobs behind sealed lips. "It doesn't matter, y'know, where we were. Who we were before coming here. We were always under the same sun, no matter how different, always the same sun."

When figures emerge from the darkness below, my heart fucking sinks. I was hoping never to see those faces again. Hoping that Percy's allies would leave well enough alone. But I know now is not the time for mercy. Not if I want to survive. If I want them to survive.

I feel a fool for letting my heart be stolen so easily.

"I was really, really hoping it wouldn't come to this." And the words are genuine, like teeth pulled from a broken mouth. "May the best pawn win."

And I swing because I don't know what else to do.

[attacks petra -- warhammer]
OkZsDFJ7spiked blunt
[BROKEN RIGHT FEMUR -- 7.5 damage]

. . .


☠  a  t  l  a  s   w  h  i  t  e  ☠

spiked blunt

[pogue]

touch is important
in a world all burst apart
and full of people
trying to feel whole again

She closes her eyes and sees the ghosts of everyone she has ever killed. She sees rotting hearts and melting skin, shattered obsidian obsession and sliced through eyeballs. The shell of a man walks through her dreams, haunted by the shadows she has so long found comfort in. They wrap around his skin, stabbing fingertips into his veins, marking their territory on the bones that creak and crack beneath their pressure. Wordless, he wanders, shadows falling from his body like rain drops, like scattered flower petals.

Like blood. 

Her eyes shoot open and she gasps, feeling her lungs shrivel beneath her chest. She is silent, wordless, nameless, faceless, thrown into this realm with a scattered soul and a glass heart. She rolls to her side, feeling the contents of her stomach rumble and growl as she does so. Everything feels cold, her fingertips crack every time she tries to move them, frozen to the ground beneath her. Her heart slows, every thump an echo of the people she's left to rot. Her lips part, but no words can escape. Instead, they deep root themselves in the back of her throat, howling with fits of laughter as she struggles, shaking in the shadows that she was born in. 

And then, it happens. 

Everything turns to fire when the bile in her throat forces its way to the surface, her words laughing with every gag. 

It puddles to her left, a mixture of ice cold blues and obsidian heart, burning holes into the shadows around her. It burns her flesh when she gets too close, spitting venom and acid onto her skin. 

She forces herself to her hands and knees, listening to every snap and creak of her bones as she does so. Her blood burns beneath her skin, spreading like fire underneath her pores. She heaves again, waiting for fire to spew from her throat like before. But the clock counts down the time until she finally gives up, forcing herself to sit upright again, feeling the shadows claw and grapple against her skin. 

This is a dream. She thinks.

Her first mistake is looking at the puddle of blood and vomit that lays beneath her. 

Because as soon as she does it becomes a mirror, ice spreading over the surface and she sees herself, swaying hips and venom lips and blood crusting beneath her fingernails. She sees teardrops and the flashing images of fingertips brushing against cheek. She watches her whole life flash by as if it is that of a movie reel, effortlessly showing her every indecency that clings to her heart. 

Her second mistake is being unable to look away. 

Because all at once the mirror shatters and she feels a hand wrap around her throat, feels the air pop out from her throat. The world turns to obsidian and then to dust as she feels herself pulled into the darkness. 

Her eyes open up to the fog of the Dead Lake, wrapping around her skin, tracing itself into her veins. It's a new sensation, the angelic presence of fog amongst shadows. It feels godly in a way, as if she is awaking on clouds, angel wings made of dust and gold. 

It's a foolish mistake. She has felt like a god before. She learned the hard way that they do not exist. 

That's when she sees him, walking along the shoreline of the Lake, muffled footsteps tracing the lines of his broken kingdom into the sand. His face is obscured by the darkness, watching the lake with every step he takes. But she knows him, she has felt every inch of his body, every curve every bump every crevice with blood-stained fingertips. For three weeks she gave him the pleasure that he had never been able to find in life. For three weeks she had turned his heart to ice, frostbite kisses dotting his neck, lipstick stains smudged onto his collar.

And then, she'd shattered that heart of ice as if it was a novelty. 

Her third mistake is calling to him. 


This is a dream. She assures herself. 

"Hello?" She calls into the darkness, feeling her lungs sputter and heave beneath the simple word. She touches her chest and feels ice. And yet, her body feels as if it is being burned at the stake. 

He does not answer. Instead, he stops, letting the shadows crawl amongst his flesh, snapping and hissing at the fog that encompasses them. 

Her mistakes are effortless, infinite, etched in blood across the cave walls of her flesh. 

"I have met you before-" On her final word his head snaps towards her and every shadow that was stuck to his skin melts off. She gasps, her chest collapsing and she falls to her knees, watching as his flesh contorts itself into the broken and lifeless face of the man she'd murdered. She feels the glass in her hands, feels every drop of blood falling from his eye to her fingers. Her stumbles towards her, split eyeball watching every breath she takes. 

And then, he charges. 

She doesn't even have time to scream before his body collides with her and the wind is knocked from her lungs. She gasps, clamoring for the air she has for so long taken for granted. It does not come. Instead, in its place are the shadows and the ice and the flames she fears. It encompasses her before all at once snapping to life, blurring the world before shattering again. 

She stands at the dead lake, watching her reflection blur and distort itself as the water settles. 

It's only when she feels the drop of blood hit her fingertips that she sees her eye, split from the center, glass shards sticking out of it, tear of blood dripping from the edges. 

This is-

a dream. She doesn't believe it anymore. 

"Achilles." Her words echo in the darkness, bouncing against her skull and shattering her obsidian heart. 

Slowly, carefully, she turns, expecting to see another Reflector, curling her fists in order to retaliate. 

No, it is Percy. 

No, it is not. 

"Percy." She stumbles forwards, reaching towards the girl, fingers outstretched, heart collapsing in her chest. 

"Is- is this a dream?" She spits the words as if they are poison to her, falling from her lips like blood. 

"No." She stops, finding her feet deep rooted in the mud and shadows. It crawls up her thighs, clawing at her skin and howling into the darkness. 

"Percy, wait-" 

"This is all too real." 

She shatters into a million pieces and Achilles Muto feels her chest explode at the seams, blood dripping from the gash just as it had for Percy Delacroix. She remembers the way it burns like fire as she falls. 

---

She is cautious when she wakes that morning, her first instinct being to run her fingertips against her eye, examining for the same glass shard that she saw in her dream. She traces lines across her chest, making sure it would not burst into glass as Percy's had. She had refused to watch the Anthem, burying her eyes into the dust beneath her. 

Even then, she had still felt their eyes drilling holes into her back, nameless as they may be.

And then, she's silent. She doesn't even lead the group, letting Lucrezia take the lead, tightening her grip on her war hammer with every skipped heartbeat, every howl in the distance. 

She was not raised to feel fear, not like this. 

Then again, she wasn't raised to be a human, either. 

Her body is that of shattered glass and pieced together obsidian, poisoned veins and yellowing skin. She was poisoned from the beginning, this is no different. 

It feels like her chest is being ripped open when she sees them coming in the distance, shaking the shadows from their figures, carving their indecencies into the rocks beside them. She had never wanted this, not since she had buried Justice Fray's face into the dirt, not since she had met the only male she had ever respected. 

Not since Lucrezia had told her about Stevie's face in the sky. 

She hardens into ice, drawing her face into the Career she was supposed to be, quickening her pace to take the lead in the darkness. 

When they stop to stare, Atlas speaks first. For the first time, she listens. 

"I was really, really hoping it wouldn't come to this." 

She drops her gaze, tightening her grip on her hammer. 

"May the best pawn win." No. 

She forces the words from her mouth, letting them hang in the air around them.

"The pawns never win." 

if the space we fill is infinitesimal
and time won’t wait for anyone
when i’m with you we are invincible
together as one our worries come undone

[Achilles attacks Justice with War Hammer]

FBqfK8jFspiked blunt
[miss]

re-roll for accuracy

spiked blunt

spiked blunt�spiked blunt

[Python]

i've forgotten how
to walk by myself
i could do with a little
more of your help

”What do we do?”

He coughed into his arm and the answer was in the writhing flames, colors dancing across the career’s insolent face. ”What the hell do you think Mac n Cheese?” And then with a scowl, he glanced at Stevie’s corpse a final time. The cannon echo had faded, his bag and weapon were consumed by flames, and there was no ceremony to be held. He would lay among cinders and shadows until the Gods of Death, clad in their bedazzled suits in camouflage hovercrafts, crept by to claim him for his district’s honor. The true ceremony would be held at home, but there was a part of him that ached at the idea of being unable to attend. Instead, they turned away from a former comrade and ventured further into the flames.

They would part with sullen faces, sunken hearts, and Stevie’s last words rooted deep into their skulls.

When the air grew too hot and too dense, they escaped through the staircase. His lungs were coated in ash and he felt relief in this crisp air, no matter how damp the cavern was. Without flames to douse him in sweat and smoke to coil around his throat like a snake, he felt free. But heat still seeped through every cavern wall and he was still exhausted. Lips chapped, legs sore, and throat parched, he crossed the rickety bridge again with one purpose in mind: hiding. He wanted to find their campsite from the day before and wedge himself between rocks again. Despite teeth dangling from the ceiling at him, he felt safer there. No flames, no bridges on the verge of collapse, and no damn mutations. The worst he saw was spiders, and he could handle that.

There was no sun to warn him of day and night. He listened to his body instead, waiting for his eyelids to flutter and droop, and for his muscles to give out. They camped before any of them could suffer heat exhaustion. Machaon rested his cheek against a cool stone and imagined a pastel sky, ombres of rose and orange settling behind shaded clouds. The Capitol had its restrictions but he remembered the night he spent on the roof. His hand touched glass but his eyes could see every color on the horizon behind skyscrapers. Now, when he opened his eyes to watch the anthem, there was nothing except darkness. The stars weren’t shy like they had been in the Capitol; they were smothered. He would never see a star again before he died, and that fleeting thought plagued him with a sunken frown.

When Stevie’s face flashed above the cave rocks, he sat in silent mourning. It was Justice who decided to ruin the moment. ”What a waste of a good weapon,” he said, and Machaon remembered how brilliant the golden sword had been. Suited for a career, he once thought. ”Should’ve let me have the golden sword, Eight.”

He was not one to argue at the first sign of insolence or hostility, but the blatant disrespect for Stevie’s death struck a nerve.

”If I remember correctly,” he started, flashes of claws, teeth, gore, and growls stunning his tired brain for a moment. ”Atlas killed both of the mutts and you could barely hit them. I wouldn’t waste it on a guy with a dick on his face.”

Smug grin plastered across his jaws, he watched Justice scramble to rub off the permanent marker. There were no mirrors in sight, so he couldn’t seem to catch the right spot. He didn’t understand the severity of it; in such a grim, barren place it was nice to find humor in something. Atlas had provided him with that light-hearted moment, yet somehow it was humiliating for him. Was his career pride wounded? Family name stained by a cartoon dick? He knew Justice was straight as a board, but dicks were nothing to fret about. One night with whiskey and the mysterious lone wolf Ross had shown him that.

He decided to help his ally out and pointed to his own cheek as a reflection. He snorted an instant later, and that seemed to set him off further.

”Shut the fuck up!” And that wiped the smirk off of his face.

”You’re being oversensitive,” he drawled.

”And you're lower district trash who I could cut down in two seconds flat.”

It was an obvious threat, paired with an insult that meant nothing to him. Lower district trash – perhaps he was right, since Eight’s “glory” only consisted of corpses and expanded graveyards. He wasn’t strong enough to fend him off if he followed through with the threat, so he silently prayed that the career was all talk and no betrayal. He would refer to the original subject instead, the one thought that truly bothered him. ”Do you even care that Stevie died?”

”Prick probably drew the dick on my face, so no, I don’t.”

Machaon sighed. He knew Atlas had been the one scribbling on his face, judging by his attitude from this morning. ”I don’t think it was him.”

”Do you want me to split your skull, Eight?”

He clenched his jaw. Evidently, threats were his go-to comebacks. He tapped his finger against the rocks impatiently. ”Typical career, referring to me by a number instead of my name,” he snapped, because he was sick of this tough guy façade, ”You’re only in this alliance because you’re supposed to be good – “

He stepped an inch out of line, and tasted Justice’s fist as a result. Knuckles slammed against his jaw and whipped his head to the side, nearly toppling him over. He closed his eyes and accepted the ache in his jaw, grateful that he hadn’t drawn blood. ”Do you feel better?” He asked, returning to his passive self. There was no response; the career stormed off, and Machaon was left to either sleep in fear of getting killed, or stay awake forever to protect himself.

When he stirred, he opened his eyes to find Justice and Atlas both present. Nobody had decided to kill him in his sleep or abandon the group, and he found himself almost disappointed. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his time making awkward side-glances at Justice, wondering if he’d leave him to die at the worst time. He didn’t fully trust Atlas either; he seemed to have a civil shell and peace in mind, but he was also terrifying. One fight with him and Machaon was dead meat.

Another loose, swinging rope bridge led them above an ocean of gold. Beyond the staircase and up close, it seemed to glimmer instead of boil, but the air was still hot and he knew it was dangerous. One touch and his skin would melt off the bone. ”Reminds me of a sun,” Atlas said, but he couldn’t see a distorted reflection in the sun. This was metal, molten and sizzling, beautiful yet capable of consuming him whole. It was like the fire all over again, but prettier. He didn’t want to think of Stevie’s sword. Perhaps it had been forged here.

Scuffling footsteps drew his head up. Three girls maneuvered around the pool and his heart lurched, not only because of the idea of a fight but because these were the same girls who crowded around Percy’s body. He remembered how the career girl had pressed a knife to Justice’s neck; she was the realest threat, and he wanted to stay as far away from her as possible. The blonde girl he remembered pulling to her feet after the earthquake. His aching shoulder was a reminder of that, still threatening to leak blood every once in a while. The third girl – he didn’t know her, but she was from a lower district. Lower than his own.

They started discussing pawns, and Atlas’ war hammer cracked against the third girl’s leg. The sickening echo made him grimace, but he couldn’t back down. A broken leg was a broken leg.

”I really hate metaphors,” he grumbled.

He was not part of this chess board.

[attacks Petra - sword]
bWRYeuFDsword
Shallow Cut on Left Calf -- 3.5 damage

sword

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

L

E

I thought I was okay.

Nothing more, just okay. I would always manage to get back up. And I'd walk. I would think things would be okay. (Well as okay as they could get when you're facing you're imminent death.) But then every time I would try and be okay, something would pull be back down again.

And before I know what is happening I'm on my knees again.

I wonder if I should pray while I'm down here. But he does not answer. He does not help. No matter how loud I scream. So every time I have to use the little strength that I have left and force myself up. I thought I had used all of it when I had left Percy's body for the second time. Achilles tried telling me it was fake, that it was just my mind. But I've never felt anything more real in my entire life. I told myself that if I fell again, there is no way I would be able to get back up. I couldn't possibly imagine anything else hitting me just as hard, there was nothing left that I could not handle.

I have never been more wrong.

His face appears black and white in the sky and the pain crashes over my whole body. My knees grow weak and my eyes begin to water. But I told myself I would no longer cry. So I bite my lip until the tang of blood fills my mouth and I scream silently to myself as Petra sits there stunned and Achilles buries her face into the ground. His face finally fades and the last piece of home that I have left is ripped from my hands.

There is nothing left for me to lose.

They have nothing left to take from me.

My sleep is somehow undisturbed and only filled with darkness. It's different from the arena's darkness, more peaceful. It gives me a few hours of relief, a few hours before I have to bring myself back to reality, back to death. I somehow find the words to tell Achilles about Stevie, but they barely come out, I barely believe them myself.

I walk away before she can answer. Before she has a chance to see the tears that are forming in my eyes. My feet carry us to unknown places, trying to find somewhere safe, even though I know that does not exist. It feels as if we are safe, as if we can breathe.

But I should have known that it is impossible to breathe in here.

Three outlines appear not too far away and my breath catches in my throat. I was fearing the worst, and I did not know that it could be even worse than I possibly imagined. Familiar figures stand before and I had never wished that I would not see some one's face again more than I did now.

"Machaon. Atlas. Just...in? Right...?"

I address all of them as my heart sinks to my feet. This is not what I wanted. He is not here. And I wish that I could be anywhere else.

"He's really gone, isn't he?"

My words are barely more than a whisper as I remember that last piece of home. As I realize I have nothing left. They don't need to answer, it's a stupid question anyway. But for some reason I need confirmation.

Nothing feels real anymore.

Their hands play on their weapons and their words are no longer kind. They do not seem like the boys we had met a few days ago. The ones that had so generally given us supplies. Especially when he had helped me up, when we seemed to be some type of friends. Or the closest thing you can have to them here.

"Why...why are you guys here?"

My voice wavers and my hand reaches towards my weapon. I have never been more confused. But I know that must fight back. I know that I must forget everything. I know that I can no longer feel.

"I really don't want to do this,"

But I know I have no choice.





[attacks justice ; axe]

ff1ZNZ5vaxe

[sc on back - 4.0]

axe

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

P

V

i've been through the days
when bright love turns into hate
you bend and you bend till you break
till the lights all gone

There is blood on my hands and blood on my heart. I never thought I'd have in me to hurt or kill; but previous events have proved me wrong. Perhaps it's the desperation taking over and the will to survive; passion and need go hand in hand with one another to form a deadly combination—but I am not deadly.

I am all that Twelve has left now. Demons sung in the night time and Cedric Lane's face was painted across the sky. We had little interaction, but there was always the feeling of togetherness and familiarity in him. Twelve is a ruin, and the games will not stop to help change this.

I am Twelve; I am a ruin.

Endless pleas to a false God above remain unanswered. No one, no thing would be as cruel as to let a follower of their faith suffer such an injustice and be made to ache at the hands of a fellow teen. Religion is just a figment of my imagination; it's been set alight in an arson attack and it's crumbling and falling—

—another thing turning to dust.

I inhale; the bitterness of decaying hope and the sweet taste of a failing past.

Stevie Masinova's face takes to the skies and dances so miserably and despairingly. One glance to Lucy and I see her breaking. She's hurt and I wish I could be the comfort she needs but I'm too far gone in terms of friendliness and there's no point in helping when it'll only make the situation worse.

But I look at her and see weakness—we both suffer from the same illness but she is shattering. I am only cracked by the collapse of Cedric Lane and the tumble of Twelve.

District Six is slipping now, and when I look to Lucy, I am not reassured by her emotion.

A final, silent prayer is sent and I pray that Ripred proves me wrong.

I turn over away from the emptiness above and stare out at the arena. Such a devastating and hurtful place and there are only remnants of peacefulness now. I have stared death in the face and it wasn't a perfect harmony, it was brutal and traumatic.

And I hated it. Though I hate myself with an immense force, I do not want to die. Forgiveness can be given and amendments can be made to the stories I've written. It can't end, not now, because I carry the expectation and hope of a whole district on my shoulders.

I cannot fall, for them.

I wake up in a sweat. Heavy breathing just like before, my hand immediately creeps to the handle of my warhammer and some sense of security returns. It is dry with the blood of the succubus and is covered in a thick, deep red all over. I'd been taught the importance of a clean weapon, but there is no time now and water remains a treasure.

Hopping to my feet, I rise. A large sigh escapes from my lips and I'm aching all over.

Crap.

We walk for a few minutes before silhouettes appear and my eyes open wider, my breathing gets deeper. I recognise the figures that loom: three men who lost a brother. Once, I longed for the aid of their hands, but I have not wished for their presence since.

Because I know what it means, I'd figured it out long ago.

Lucy calls out towards them: two names right and one wrong. I do not dare to interrupt—perhaps this is her time to heal and receive the answers to questions which she hopes will build her up piece by piece.

To be stronger, and to be Six.

Just like I am Twelve.

"I really don't want to do this." Lucy cries.

And she attacks and everything bursts into a scene of chaos.

Atlas White, pretty and handsome, lunges at me with a warhammer of his own and before I can move to get out of the way, I hear a deafening sound which beats through the air like a supersonic boom.

I look down. It's my leg. My leg that he's just broken and oh my Ripred, I'm actually going to die.

Agony sweeps over me. My face crunches with the pain and I can barely stay up. There's still a shard of passion which cuts me from within, but it isn't enough to keep me stable for the entirety of this fight.

This is my fall, I can tell.

I blink and Machaon Amador of Eight wounds me with his sword.

"Fuck off, as if you've just broken my leg, Nine."

And I become a storm with a skin, curving into the violence and getting lost in the treachery.

I am, Twelve.

[ petra attacks machaon ; spiked blunt ]

mbmNab6Rspiked blunt

[ 14123 -- BROKEN LEFT FOOT -- 6.5 damage ]

i've been knocked down on my own
when the water's too deep and too cold
sleepless so many nights
with a broken heart running wild

spiked blunt

[arx!!]

 justice fray

►

When it hurts too much, make a snide comment.

The anthem starts, I see Stevie's face, and I realize it hurts too much. Like I'm on the verge of tears and if I don't say something now this whole thing will tear me apart. And I don't want it to. I don't dare let it. I can't.

"What a waste of a good weapon," I say, shaking my head and giving a heavy sigh. "Should've let me have the golden sword, Eight."

I throw a smirk in his direction over my shoulder. I can't let this dead Stevie kid ruin me. Good thing I'm such an insensitive asshole.

"If I remember correctly," And I'm stunned into turning around when I hear him begin to reply. I'm not used to Eight talking back to me, let alone saying anything at all. And from the look of he plans on trying to knock me down a few pegs. This punk ass bitch thinks he can get to me? Pissing people off? That's my job.

"Atlas killed both of the mutts and you could barely hit them."

He sounds so much like my father I think for a second that I must be dreaming. This whole 'getting Reaped' nonsense ha all been a dream and I'm really back home, tossing and turning in my bed and remembering what my father had said to me earlier in the day. ("Kellan hit both targets in the half the time you took to even hit one at all.") I clench my jaw and tighten my grip around the handle of my axe. I know I failed today, Stevie's absence is proof enough of that. Why does Eight feel the need to remind me?

"I wouldn’t waste it on a guy with a dick on his face."

Wait... what?

I feel my eyebrows squiggle into confusion before I realize that the dream I had had yesterday and the snorts of laughter and strange compliments this morning were all because of some child-ish prank. That fucker drew a dick on my face. I pull up the blade of my axe in an attempt to see my reflection, but it's no use. I can't see anything. The confusion turns to a scowl as I wipe frantically all over my face, trying to brush away the embarrassment someone etched all over it. What the fucking hell will my family think? What the actual fuck was the prick from Six thinking ruining my image?

Glancing at Eight he saw a smirk on his lips, heard him snort in amusement as he pointed to his own cheek to try and help me out. This motherfucker--

"Shut the fuck up!"

He wouldn't get it would he? Carrying a legacy on his shoulders? A family name everyone knows and fears being made a joke? I rub frantically at my cheek in an attempt to smudge it away, fearing that it's already too late. I've lost every bit of my family's reputation within a day. Even when I do come home with a crown, fame, and glory the entire district will snivel at me. And my family will likely kill me themselves.

"You're being oversensitive."

I point the blade of my axe at him, continuing to rub at my cheek with my free hand.

"And you're lower district trash who I could cut down in two seconds flat."

"Do you even care that Stevie died?"

And I'm almost too angry to answer the question correctly. The words—"Of course I fucking care!"—dance at the front of my mind and on the tip of my tongue. But that's not what I say.

"Prick probably drew the dick on my face, so no, I don’t."

My cheek hurts. I'm rubbing it raw. I claw at it so that I have an excuse to have tears in my eyes. I hate him. I hate them. All of them I hate them so fucking much.

"I don’t think it was him," Eight sighed and I've had enough. This is supposed to my game. Not anyone else's, and especially not scum like his.

"Do you want me to split your skull, Eight?"

I see his jaw set. As if he has the right to be angry at me. I didn't start this shit. I didn't ask for a bunch of immature imbeciles to be my allies.

"Typical career, referring to me by a number instead of my name," he says it all clipped and snappy. I can tell I've finally pissed the fucker off. And for a moment it feels like a small victory. I keep it in mind to call him Eight as many times as possible now.

"You’re only in this alliance because you’re supposed to be good – "

And I know I shouldn't let it get to me. But I stop him mid-sentence with my fist as soon as he questions my abilities as a Career. And it's not because I am a good career that I hit him. But because he has voiced my every fear: What if I'm not good enough?

My knuckles throb, but I don't bother shaking the pain from my hand. I just watch him stand up straight again, look me in the face, and say—"Do you feel better?" Back to the same old passive self he has always been.

Fuck this. Fuck him.

I grab my axe off the ground and walk away. And I don't stop walking until the tears have stopped rolling down my cheeks.

---

The heat keeps me up all night. I glare from time to time at Eight as we walk on. We've taken to walking towards the parts of the arena which are lit up in in the darkness. First it was the flames, now it is a lake of molten gold. Nine says something about the sun and all of us living under the same sun and of course I think it's some flowery, poetic bullshit. But I nod anyway.

It's hard not to get swept up in the beauty of the pool of gold. It shimmers and reflects and bounces off the gems in the wall of the cave. And for a few moments I'm so mesmerized that I don't recognize the fight coming toward us.

I put the smirk on my face like a mask. Achilles swings at me and I manage to step out of her way. Twice. "Distracted by my good looks, Miss Muto?"

I twist around when I feel a blade slice into my back. My eyes find Miss Lucy and I touch my hand to my back. My blood glistens on my fingers as I twirl my axe around and around.

"Alright, babe, I think we should establish a safe word before this gets out of hand."

I smirk at her as I ready myself to swing. I kiss the head of my axe. Flex my biceps. Take a step towards her.

"How about 'peach cobbler?'"

heaven if you sent us down
so we could build a playground
for the sinners to play as saints
you’d be so proud of what we’ve made

{ credit to: zoë }

[attacks Lucy]
aArAmvMjaxe
[Deep Gash on Left Forearm -- 8.0 damage]

axe

[[nyte]]

and every heartbeat was a scream

Guilt tears through my throat, it mingles with pain and confusion and terror and rage. There is so much to feel and so little time as words fly past my ears at a supersonic speed- tearing invisible gashes into my chest. Weapons fly, my friends hurt. All of them. The ones I stand beside and the ones I'm trying to kill. This is about the time I would have given up, dropped my weapon and ran because that is what I do when things dare to get too real. And this is all too real.

Friends are weakness. I think that's the moral of this sorry excuse for a fairy tale. I've tried sewing my heart to my sleeve, letting people in and it has only ended with their blood upon my hands. Their chests rattling with death and their leaving me to mourn an empty vessel. And it's not as though I can take back the bits and pieces of me they took, I cannot use needle and thread to sew myself back together. These bonds run so much deeper.

The girl from twelve, Petra. She was there when Percy said goodbye. She shatters 'neath my weapon and I think I shatter too. I don't want to kill her, I don't want to kill any of them. I'd rather any of them get out of this arena than the monsters who helped to kill Percy. But I'm not quite ready to lay down my weapon and allow them to ruin me. "Fuck off, as if you've just broken my leg, Nine."

It hits me square in the chest, the words are more painful than I imagined. We're trying to kill each other, after all. What did I expect? Blows to be shared over fond memories and inside jokes? They'll hate me, after this. And that's if I make it out alive.

That shouldn't bother me as much as it does.

The pawns never win, Achilles was right.

"I really hate metaphors." Machaon mutters, my far too literal friend following suit as his blade kisses Petra's skin.

"Oh come on, Mach, it's hardly a metaphor." I don't know how I'm managing to sew this smile to my cheeks when the world feels as though it's turning to ash around me. "What else would you call a buncha kids shoved in an arena to further a political agenda?"

I would have winked at the camera, had I any idea where it was. But I know damn well they're watching- they're always fucking watching. Every tear off the tip of my nose, every drop of blood off pale skin was never mine. I belong to the Capitol, from now until the day I die. Whether that be tonight or eighty years from now.

"Say, Achilles." I mumble as Justice's axe tears into Stevie's old friend and I cannot help but wince. Don't. I want to beg, but there is no point. Don't kill what's left of him. "If I die, you owe me that kiss."

But I don't think I want it anymore.

[attacks petra- warhammer]
O_MSz_ZSspiked blunt
[DEEP GASH ON BACK -- 8.5 damage]

. . .


☠  a  t  l  a  s   w  h  i  t  e  ☠

spiked blunt

[pogue]

touch is important
in a world all burst apart
and full of people
trying to feel whole again

Her war cry is that of bloodied innocence, shattered glass faces dancing against the fog in her mind. She charges, heart pumping poison into her blood stream, ice cracking at the ends of her fingertips. Day One and she had tackled him to the ground, marking her territory with a rock shard pressed into his neck. She can feel his hair between her fingertips, can still hear the gargles and sputters of his breaths as she forced him into the dirt. She can still feel his chest move beneath her, quickened and reeking of fear. 

And she can still see Percy's dead body nestled into the arms of a dead boy.

It's on the second heartbeat when the rage boils up like blood, seeping out from her wounds like wildfire, burning away every imprint a man's hands had ever left on her skin. It spreads and spreads, lighting the tattered satin sheet angel wings that hang from her back. Her vision goes red, images of the pool of blood hissing and screaming at them flashing through her mind. 

As soon as she lights herself in the fires of her sins she turns to ice, heartbeats counting down the seconds until she shatters. 

Her war cry is the catalyst. When she swings at him she puts everything she had never been given into it, feeling herself shatter underneath the golden glow of the pool that screams beside them. 

Styx had yelled at her, once, for letting her rage get the best of her. 

And when she'd done it a second time, she'd pressed a gun to the back of her head, threatened her life if it ever happened again. 

She realizes halfway through her swing that there is no substance to it, that she attacked blindly, boiling with rage and hatred at everything. Against a lower district it would have cracked their skull in two, sent brain matter flying into the boiling gold and to the dirts they fight on. 

Against a career, it is entirely predictable. 

He ducks and her swing goes completely over his head, colliding with air as she finishes her scream. 

Readjust, use the momentum. 

She halts her urge to stumble and stop her momentum and instead flows with it, as natural as drowning herself in the flashing lights of a nightclub, in the ocean of bedsheets that burn her skin like fire. She pivots on her heel and lets herself follow all the way through with the swing, nearly completing an entire turn circle before she uses her speed to raise the hammer above her head, aiming to bring it straight down onto the skull of the boy from One. 

Instead, the gem of her weapon collides with dirt, spraying debris in her face as Justice Fray rolls backwards away from her, quickly going from a crouching position to upright before swinging his fist at her jaw.

Hunched over and in the middle of pulling her hammer from the dirt she has no time to dodge. His fist collides with her jaw and she stumbles backwards, hitting the dirt and releasing her weapon. The handle falls to the ground with a small thud, embedding the gem into the rock. Her world spins and blurs for a moment, and it's in the clarity that she hears him. 

"Distracted by my good looks, Miss Muto?" 

She feels gunmetal press against the back of her head, ice gathering around the bruises her mother's clients would leave against her skin. She feels the glass in between her fingertips and she feels herself driving it into his eye like target practice. It'd felt like

a burning, almost.

this feels the same way. 

She grinds her teeth and stumbles backwards while he attacks Lucy, spitting venom at him in between iced over heartbeats. 

"Stop! Your fight is with me, One." She grins, grabbing her hammer and hoisting it onto her shoulder, narrowing her gaze at the career as he turns to her. Atlas's words ring out in the darkness, pawn to pawn. 

"Say, Achilles." 

She doesn't break her stare at Justice, wrapping her other hand around the hilt of her hammer and holding it in the air. 

"If I die, you owe me that kiss." 

She smirks.

"Maybe i'll give it to your friend here instead. I've never kissed a corpse before." 

if the space we fill is infinitesimal
and time won’t wait for anyone
when i’m with you we are invincible
together as one our worries come undone

[Achilles attacks Justice with War Hammer]

O_XLs1hDspiked blunt
[haha lol]

spiked blunt

[Python]

i've forgotten how
to walk by myself
i could do with a little
more of your help

Leaving a mere cat scratch on the girl’s leg did nothing to prevent the feeling of his morals crumbling to golden ash. His mother taught him that violence against women was never the answer. He could defend himself if necessary, especially against men, but there was never a justifiable reason for striking a woman. Now the circumstances had clearly changed; he could die at any moment to the hand of any of these girls, and he hoped his mother would forgive him. He brushed past his opponent and listened to Atlas’ light-hearted banter. Such behavior seemed odd to him. How could he remain so calm and confident in a situation like this? It was his hands that were shattering bones. Perhaps he knew he could survive anything.

Machaon shook his head. He was not about to participate in any distracting, off-hand conversations, in fear of losing himself to the moment. His focus needed to narrow. Kill or be killed, that was the only rule. ”I really don’t want to do this,” he heard the blonde say, and that was when he remembered her name. Lucrezia, Stevie’s district partner. He didn’t want to touch her with a ten foot pole sword, if that was the case. Stevie deserved far more respect than he had received last night. She charged at Justice and he minded his own business once again, garnering no interest in saving a career’s life. He could handle himself, as he had boldly suggested last night. Lower district “trash” was no match for him.

He had his own dilemma on his hands. The girl from a lower district – probably ten, eleven, or twelve – barreled at him with a spiked weapon outstretched. He didn’t have a drop of confidence in his own measly sword, so instead of deflecting he attempted to dive out of the way, stepping carefully beside edges of golden magma. For an agonizing moment, he thought he had sunken his foot into the pool. Bright hot pain erupted in his bones and he collapsed harshly against the cavern floor, face inches away from third degree burns. He grunted and scooted away from the radiating heat, rolling onto his side to reach for his sword again.

His foot was broken, he knew that much. The type of sharp pain pulsating below his ankle warned him of that, and he remembered hearing a small crack as he went down. He had assumed it was Atlas once again, bashing his war hammer into someone’s sternum, but the persistent pain curled around his foot was an indication of inevitable doom. How could he fight with a broken foot? Escape with a broken foot? In terms of usefulness, he had been knocked down too many pegs to count. Using his sword as a crutch, he pushed himself upward and groaned from the fresh influx of pain. Endorphins would numb the worst of it down into dull aches, but it was still sharp and prominent. Surely the others would notice his weakness and cut him down.

”Fucking–" He growled in frustration, knowing he was not about to give up over one damn foot. ”He breaks your leg so you decide to break my foot?! Logic!” He huffed and tried to edge the smallest amount of weight onto said foot, resolve crumbling to dust as he realized it was not going to work. The bones would shift further, his foot would swell, and then infection would slowly devour him from the inside out. What a stupid way to die.

He watched Justice carve a scar into Lucrezia’s back, and realized it didn’t matter. If he didn’t die then, he was going to die now. Weeping about his foot would solve nothing. Justice was flaunting his obnoxious personality, and Atlas’ confidence was unsurpassable. His hammer demanded more blood from the broken girl’s body and Machaon was the only one stalling. Lower district trash, remember?

Except he wasn’t about to stand idle again. Been there, done that, and the suffering would never end unless he trudged forward.

[attacks Petra - sword]
4MDWN8rqsword
Severed Right Hand at Wrist -- 9.0 damage

sword

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

L

E

I am scratched and I am cracked.

I am like glass.

Every movement, every thrown rock breaks me a little more. Back in Six I was somehow able to keep myself to, but here I am nothing more than already broken.

The faces of those who I thought were friends are now my enemies as they swing aimlessly at me and my allies, fighting for something that is not guaranteed past the next hour. Fighting to survive.

But what is left to live for?

Weapons fly and blood stains the ground. My face drips in sweat from the ungodly heat and it feels as if the arena is growing smaller, consuming me on all sides. Their eyes are lit with a fire I have not yet seen before. It is nothing like I’ve seen in the arena, it is something that I hope I’ll never have to see again.

They say not to make friends in the arena and I now understand why. It hurts that much more to see what was once someone you thought you could trust trying to take your life. But for the first time in a long time I do not cry. Instead I stand there and grip my axe a little tighter, my lips forming into a straight line, determined to somehow make it out of here alive.

Even if I do, I know I won’t leave without any scars.

My axe barely scrapes Justice’s skin and I can’t help but roll my eyes. This is great. I’m so wonderful. A real asset to team. Achilles misses as well, and I can’t help but feel that one of us is going to lose our lives today.

There’s some small part deep inside that prays that it isn’t me.

The small banter makes no sense to me. If they’re going to kill us, why won’t they just do it already? But as long as I’m here and somehow still alive I might as well play along.

”Hmm, I’ve always preferred blueberry, but I guess it’s a personal preference,”

The smile that was playing on my lips is immediately wiped from my face as his axe digs deep into my back. I wince a little, but I somehow manage to not cry out.

”Oh I didn’t know you liked it rough. That’s really not my style though, sorry,”

My blood spills down my back and onto the ground. My head spins as the blood clings to my shirt. I don’t want to even picture the scar this is going to leave. Machaon and Atlas both go for Petra and her blood is added to the pools surrounding her. But I’m only focused on Justice, the one swinging for me.

The one who I knew would eventually take my life.

Achilles misses for a second time and I can only think of how she had reprimanded me for barely hitting the mutts the other day. My eyes flash toward her, filling with mock disappointment.

”You know that you’re supposed to hit him, right Achilles?”

But there’s no anger in my tone, how can I be angry at someone that’s fighting for her life just as hard as I am. I just always seem to pick the worst times to try and lighten the mood. My grip on my axe tightens and I turn back to Justice, looking him up and down, trying to savor the moment. I flash him a quick smile.

But on the inside I’m falling apart.





[attacks justice ; axe]
mrIb4BdYaxe
[dg on right bicep - 8.0]

axe

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

P

V

i've been through the days
when bright love turns into hate
you bend and you bend till you break
till the lights all gone

"It's called tactics. Kill the one with the most, because then— you get it all."

My face distorts with the pain that throbs inside me. It's cold and bitter, never sweet and always distracting me from the moment. I think that I'm too far gone now, too far gone and no one can save me.

And Eight's blow makes me realise it: completely and utterly.

He slashes at my wrist with his sword and then, it disappears. He is no magician, and I shriek in horror and look to the ground to see a pool of blood and my hand lying hopeless and broken. I am done for, and though a surge of rage and anger and everything beautifully brutal swirls within; I came to die.

Victim of my own curiosity, I knew the mistake I'd made long ago.

Achilles suffers under the pressure and doesn't even make a single hit on Justice Fray. Pathetic really, branded as a career yet she can't even land an attack when face to face. Maybe she was all talk and never do; talk the talk, Achilles Muto, but can you walk the walk?

No, she can't.

And Lucy tries. Admittedly, she wasn't much use yesterday, but today, she was showing improvements. I thought that I could trust these people to have my back no matter what, through good and bad and through thick and thin—but I stand here dying, and rotting and falling apart at the seams.

A broken thing; I am Twelve.

Perhaps it was supposed to be this way. Perhaps, I am supposed to fall so that someone more valued can live. I don't get that sense of entitlement from Justice, Atlas or Machaon, yet I see it in the eyes of the unholy: Achilles and Lucy.

Heat rises to my head from the bridges that burn within me. They were built within myself to try and mend myself, fix myself, help myself. In this hell, they turn to ash which encases me in a storm. No way in, no way out—no thing, no one can save me.

And I only have myself to blame.

But I am not dead, yet.

I tighten my hand around the warhammer, my remaining hand, and inhale a deep breath through gritted teeth. I exhale, shakier than ever, and my eyes dart between the two boys who wear my blood as their armour. The sight makes my skin crawl and makes me feel limp all over, but I can't let it get to me. I won't let it because I am still alive and not dead and that means I still have a chance.

Broken chance, though. I am not bothered because sometimes, it's the broken things that do the most harm.

Staggering backwards slightly, I wait for the perfect time to turn sour. Lucy moves into the centre of action, axe in her porcelain hand and she swings at Justice. Moments after her attack, I see blood oozing from the wound she's made on him, and part of me wants to smile.

I won't let it though, because though my mind is twisting and turning, and though I am Twelve, I still have my morals.

Fray stumbles backwards. I watch him from a distance and decide the moment is now and all the misfortune and tragedies add up to here. Power moving through my head and down to my toes—it's probably feigned—but I don't care.

I am terminal, I am Twelve and I have to pull my weight more so than ever because Achilles isn't pulling hers.

"I'm never going to leave you when I die, Eight." In heaven or hell, life or death; I refuse to let him get away with my murder.

"Can you live with that?"

[ petra attacks machaon ; spiked blunt ]

kQGJqYILspiked blunt

[ 14037 -- DEEP GASH ON LEFT FOREARM -- 8.0 damage ]

i've been knocked down on my own
when the water's too deep and too cold
sleepless so many nights
with a broken heart running wild

spiked blunt

[arx!!]

 justice fray

►

"Maybe I'll give it to your friend here instead. I've never kissed a corpse before."

Atlas and Machaon seem to have their efforts based in one direction, while I've got the privilege of dealing with two at once. But apparently Achilles is off her game because even with only about eighty percent of my attention focused on her I still manage to dodge yet another of her swings.

"I'll have to pass. I ain't no cockblocker," I smirk Achilles' direction as she swings again. Her hammer lands hard next to me. "And you're having a difficult time making me a corpse."

It's easy to taunt when it's all I've been taught. The head of my axe is dripping with blood and when I look at it, I feel like I could actually be sick. So I don't look at it. I pretend I don't know who it belongs to, and I pretend I don't care. I pretend this is just like home—the winner gets all the praise and bragging rights, the loser simply sulks in the corner with a black eye or a swollen lip.

All I gotta do is play pretend a little bit longer. Just a little longer until I win this thing. Then I can hide behind heavy doors and beneath silk sheets and cry until every memory I have of this place disappears.

"You know that you’re supposed to hit him, right Achilles?"

I laugh because it really is hilarious. Seeing an opponent who is supposed to be stronger than you struggle to land even a single hit is always good for the ego. I remember the day I finally managed to get the upper hand on my brother. Of course it was only for a moment and I ended up the loser anyway, but in that moment I finally felt what it was like to be better. And it feels exactly like--

"Ah, fuck!"

Once again a blade tears through the bandages and stitches on my right arm. The pain is enough that for a moment my vision goes completely black. How is it that the three big hits everyone seems to land on me are all in the same fucking spot? When my vision returns all I see is the remnants of a smile on Lucy Eckhart's lips.

"Stop! Your fight is with me, One."

I see Achilles picking up her hammer again, but her words are lost on me. Besides, I know how to play mind games. And beating her allies while she is useless to defend them is one of the best mind games a Career like me can play.

"Sorry, Two," I say through gritted teeth and a grimace so deep I'm sure everyone can see I'm in pain. "But you'll just have to wait your turn."

I throw a smirk in her direction before swinging again at her ally.

heaven if you sent us down
so we could build a playground
for the sinners to play as saints
you’d be so proud of what we’ve made

{ credit to: zoë }

[attacks Lucy]
b82|aa0daxe
[miss]

re-roll
axe
[Deep Gash on Neck -- 10.0 damage]

axe�axe

[[nyte]]

and every heartbeat was a scream

My head is spinning, my heart is pounding. Their blood is on my hands- so much of it. I cannot tell friend's from foe- it has all congealed upon the same stone beneath my feet. There is so much to feel and so little time as chaos collapses around me, giving way to screams and shouts. Words have melted into rapids and they all hold my head beneath the surface. They drown me in their sorrows, in their hopes and dreams and loves lost.

I know their names. Each and every one. Friend from one, foe from twelve. Some have trained their whole lives for this moment, others are simply lost within the flow of corruption and greed. And some - like myself - stuck their necks on this blood-caked chopping block. And I thought I knew what to expect, after all I had watched a victor crown themselves in blood and bone every year of my life. They skinned their enemies, tore apart their friends to create a cape which shimmered with lost children's tears.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Machaon. Justice. It'll be alright. The words become lost upon my tongue, swallowed by the memory of Stevie collapsing under that beast's blow. It'll be alright. I told the dead boy as I tore a beast to shreds. No, I won't lie this time. I don't fucking know if any of this will be okay, if we'll make it out of this alive and that doesn't even matter because they won't crown three victors. For any one of us to make it out alive, it will be without the others.

Maybe they don't care about that. How soft a heart must be to form a bond with souls that might just be waiting to shove a blade through his ribs? Because Machaon cut her hand off. The girl, from Twelve, it's fucking gone. "Holy fucking shit Mach." I manage through the shock. Her hand. Her whole fucking hand. It's gone. "Holy shit."

It's not enough to stop me in my tracks- to spare the poor girl because it is either us or it is them. And I really fucking want it to be them this time. I'm not losing Justice, I'm not losing Machaon, not so soon after Stevie. Really, I'm only delaying the inevitable. Pushing the pain further and further out of reach. Just like I did with needles placed in swollen veins, with smoke staining broken lungs and turning it to tar. Denial is my greatest weapon in these coming days.

We'll be okay. All of us. We'll be okay.

And it's too late for apologies so when I swing at Petra, it is in silence.

[attacks petra -- warhammer]
_ooCp4tlspiked blunt
[STABBED IN FOREARM -- 8.5 damage]

. . .


☠  a  t  l  a  s   w  h  i  t  e  ☠

spiked blunt

[pogue]

touch is important
in a world all burst apart
and full of people
trying to feel whole again

Her teeth pierce her tongue as she misses again, the gem of her weapon shattering the rocks and embedding dirt beneath her skin, smearing across her flesh like tar. Her mouth fills with the sins she's swallowed, iron and venom seeping into her tastebuds. She exhales, grinding her teeth together until the sound it makes blocks out the sound of Justice Fray's constant taunting. 

When she inhales, the fire in the air catches her off guard, seeps into her throat and turns her frostbitten lungs into a wildfire. It burns through her chest, snapping against her ribcage and torching the veins that bleed and pulse beneath her skin. She grips the handle of her hammer but her reaction is slow, icy, chilled to the very seconds she clings to in this arena. Her form was sloppy, made of half swings in the sunlight, half pledged prayers made in the bedroom underneath shattered, ice cold moonlight. And now, as she sits bare and broken, piecing together the shards of a broken reflection, watching Petra become a bloodied canvas, she stops to think. To focus, to gather, to-

realize.

They are all broken, in one way or another. 

Styx's lessons were composed of cyanide, dipped in poison and threaded into every ounce of flesh that covered her body. She remembers every single one of them, has burnt them all into the back of her mind with the fires she fights with. They flit through her head like a broken movie player, flashing and pulsing like the lights of the night clubs she'd mark her territory in, appearing and disappearing like the faces she's come to recognize, tracing jawlines and cracks in their armor with the ice on her fingertips. She'd learned that from Styx. 

She hoists the hammer up and catches her reflection dancing across the metal, blurred and distorted like the shadows of the night, cracking and breaking their limbs like some sort of twisted dance. Her reflection screams at her, blurring into the images of her last night's dream, her eye ripped open, stomach pouring out every prayer she's ever stomached, pooling against her skin like obsidian. 

That's when they come, the memories. 

They're bloody and corrupt, conceived beneath the glare of shadows and satin bedsheets, of harshly lit training centers and strobe lights bouncing against stripper poles. Her mind swirls in the shadows, frost blossoming along the surface, turning to blood and giving way to an array of ghastly blues and death soaked purples. When they bleed away she feels Styx's eyes staring through her, ghostly and lifeless. Fires swirl in her irises, cackling and spinning before falling into ice, shattering into a million pieces before melting away. 

"Achilles, do you know what the weakest part of a man is?" 

She remembers answering with unkempt youth, kindled flames spitting out answers about a foot to the crotch, sending testicles flying into their stomachs. And, she remembers, amongst the shadows, watching Styx grin before shaking her head, drumming her fingernails against the wood of her desk. 

"No. See, Achilles, the weakest part of a man is also his strongest ally- his mind." 

She had learned at eighteen that in order to mould someone into what you wanted, you first had to break them. 

"You break that, and they are like putty." 

Her hammer was her own body, laying them down on fresh linen and planting frostbite kisses against their necks, turning their hearts to ice and then to stone, laying them down to rest before shattering them into her palms, playing with their minds like clay. 

This is no different.

She's brought back to reality as Petra's hand hits the dirt, blood spewing from the stump of her wrist and she blinks, casting her gaze to her allies as Lucy takes a jab at her. 

"I'm sorry Lucy, and i'm...sorry Petra." Her gaze drops with the latter, watching the blood pool at her allies feet. 

"He's better than I thought he was." 

Bend and break, she turns towards Justice Fray but lets her war hammer drop to her side. 

"But was it ever good enough, Justice?" 

She begins her descent, letting the golden hue of the pool to her left dance against her skin, giving her a godly presence as she circles the career from one, aiming to wipe that grin off his face with words instead of a blade. 

"I've seen a lot of men like you. All talk, using words to cover up what they fear the most. Trust me, I know how it is." 

She wipes her fingers against her lips, smearing the blood of a split lip and the venom that seeps from the wounds across the back of her hands. Her hammer drags along the ground, tracing her kingdom around Justice Fray's mind.

"In fact, if I had to take a shot at it all, I think I could get it pretty spot on." 

She stops and stares him down.

"So let's do that." 

Her steps are made of shattered obsidian, the floor freezing as she begins circling him again. His eyes move with her, lips still curled into a slight grin. 

"So much pressure from a Career family, isn't it?" 

Her question becomes arsenic, spreading through the air and filling both of their lungs. It's a double edged sword, this wordplay, because with every shot to her enemy she feels it snap against herself, her broken pieces falling to the ground beside her. 

"And, in all of the pressure, the safest place becomes alone. But is it truly safe there, Justice?" 

She waves her fingers in the air, pondering a thought she'd had at the ready for days. Finally, she narrows her gaze, putting every bit of poisoned chill into her voice. 

"And trust me, you are alone in this. Your sister was all you had, wasn't she? With her slaughtered, where do you stand?"

She begins her approach towards him, staring blankly at his face.

"What's there left to do but give in, Fray? Haven't you already failed them all?"

It's in the process of his answer that she strikes.

if the space we fill is infinitesimal
and time won’t wait for anyone
when i’m with you we are invincible
together as one our worries come undone

[Achilles attacks Justice with War Hammer]

H6nOjZFhspiked blunt
[BROKEN LEFT ARM -- 6.5 damage]

spiked blunt

[Python]

i've forgotten how
to walk by myself
i could do with a little
more of your help

”Kill the one with the most, because then you get it all.”

But what did he have?

Supplies bounced within a bursting bag, and he was faintly aware of the water sloshing next to a pack of beef jerky. The majority of the bulk was medical kits, which he would cherish as a treasure more so than weapons or spider repellent. His allies shared identical treasures, so how could she possibly think he had the most? Supplies aside, there was nothing else in his possession worth stealing, and nothing about his personality that was worth killing him for. Self-defense was as the only valid reasoning, but he couldn’t stand here and dissect a stranger’s brain. Whether she was logical, illogical, it didn’t matter because she wielded a weapon capable of shattering bones, and he wielded a weapon capable of slicing through muscle. A fight was a fight, no matter what it was for.

”I don’t have much,” he lied. A crippling injury was among this lovely list of personal possessions, and it pinched him with a new wave of pain between each breath. Standing on it was impossible. Leaning on it reminded him of syringes piercing through bone, creating fissures that divided into more fissures until his bones consisted of unrepairable fragments. He didn’t plan on reducing his foot to bony ashes, but his movements were limited otherwise.

He tuned out the sounds of Justice and his opponents bickering. He seemed to be handling the situation well, and he supposed that was expected of a career. Meanwhile, Atlas and Machaon had their hands full with one lower district girl, and he was already tired. He had never been suited for fighting, especially with swords. He had broken bones and ridiculous dreams and unrealistic expectations. He knew he could die at any moment, and that was the inspiration he needed to suck in a harsh breath, swallow the pain, and lunge.

By default, he always aimed for the chest. It was easy to bleed, large enough to strike, and contained more than one vital organ. However, his movements were clumsy. His weight teetered to one side and his blade swept downward, guided by gravity, until he blinked and something thumped against the rocks in front of him. A severed hand. Gasps of mixed disgust and shock escaped his throat, and he hastily backed away from the disaster he caused. ”Holy fucking shit Mach,” Atlas said, and he was frozen in place because holy shit is right. He hadn’t meant to fucking amputate her hand.

The moment of disbelief left him vulnerable, and the girl’s sword took a mighty bite out of his arm. He clenched his teeth and refrained from crying out, mustering a mere growl instead. ”I'm never going to leave you when I die, Eight.” Again with the number instead of a name, but he couldn’t blame her for not remembering or caring. He didn’t know who she was either.

He did know that she was right.

”Can you live with that?”

His heart continued to beat after Lucia’s death. She had never left him after she died, and she never would. There were parts of him that perished with her, and others that had buried themselves deep inside the chambers of a shackled heart. Chains and locks kept these pieces barricaded, but they had never gone. Everywhere he went, he drowned in the earth that cushioned Lucia’s casket, and he drowned in the vacancy of her still blue eyes.

He didn’t want to live with it, but he wouldn’t accept death on a silver platter either.

”If I last long enough,” he said, raising his sword again as a river of blood dripped onto his shoes. Violence would follow him wherever he went, even in his footprints. ”I can try.”

[attacks Petra - sword]
737WjpP_sword
Deep Gash on Chest -- 9.5 damage

sword