breaking point // speakers day four

[lance]

Salvation.

The unbreakable cloth wrapped around his head fell away, and if he had had any tears left within him he would have sobbed with relief.

He was still alive, somehow.

Shaking hands reached into his tote bag, and slowly, unsteadily, withdrew, holding a silver teapot.

He'd found the shining object the previous day, sometime after he had fallen through the puddle.

At the time, he had viewed the liquid-filled container with suspicion and later had barely refrained from cursing the Gamemakers out for their toying habits.

Of course, logic had once overrode a lack of common sense, for he had, rather begrudgingly,
remembered that toying with the lives of himself and every other soul that had resigned themselves to their inevitable fate was one of the primary occupations of such individuals in the first place.

But right now, he couldn't give two shits one way or the other, for his mind was focused on more pressing needs.

The teapot was brought to his mouth, and he took a tentative sip.

And his eyes widened in surprise as a familiar taste - green tea - washed over his tongue.

And then, he lost it.

Head tilted back and arms raised, he closed his eyes as liquid, actual, drinkable, thirst-quenching liquid, poured into his mouth and down his throat.

He choked, sending lukewarm tea spurting out of his mouth and onto the strikingly pale ground as the sudden influx of liquid proved to be too much for him to take in all at once.

Okay, slower this time.

Over the next hour, he would barely refrain from draining the teapot in one fell swoop no fewer than seventeen times.

---

At some point, another sponsorship parachute dropped at his feet, adding a striking pink crayon to his collection of black and white.

Much like last time, he instantly grabbed the latest addition to his collection and made use of it, though unlike last time, he had full use of his sight and a much larger canvas.

The drawing this time was relatively simple. The majority of the work was put into a simple pole, one that stretched nearly as long as he was tall. A quick, simple touch, and it looked like he had a satisfactory quarterstaff on his hands.

But he wasn't finished just yet.

With one smooth line, one end of the pole was designated as the top. Long, curved lines rose from the new line, connecting somewhere above and just off to the left of pole itself to create a deadly curved blade.

The word naginata flashed through his mind, and a mental image of a female Career from One stabbing a boy from Two through the neck with the pole weapon followed.

The Sixty Sixth Annual Hunger Games had aired when he was not quite ten years old, and yet that scene had been one of the first he remembered with any sort of clarity.

Now he, too, would wield the weapon used by Francesca Levroux and so many others in those games.

Maybe he too would get to stab through a neck, if he was lucky.

The weapon solidified, pink and deadly, and yet he still wasn't finished.

A purple, misshapen lump was the next to flash through his mind as he took out the black crayon next, a reminder equal parts annoying and hilarious in his mind as to what would happen if he tried even the simplest of loopholes within the arena.

Then, taking a deep breath, he pressed the crayon to his own skin.

Down, down, down it traveled, from a collarbone's edge where torso connected with leg. Then,
accross, above his groin but beneath his navel, to the other side. Then a shift from one hand to the other, and the first journey was enacted in reverse back up to the other collarbone.

The next part was trickier, but eventually, he managed to repeat the same process on his back,
from shoulder to just above the top of his gluteals and across to the other side, before once again switching hands and traveling almost literally from the bottom back up to the other shoulder.

Ambidextrousness, it turned out, had its perks.

Then came a part that was equally tricky yet just as important: shading in.

He did his back first this time, shading each and every inch of skin that he could get his crayon to. It was far from neat and orderly like the lines were, but by the time he was done,
he was reasonably certain that every bit of skin within the lines had been touched by the tip of the crayon at least once.

He shifted to his front, a process he found significantly simpler and neater, and before long his entire front had been shaded as well.

A quick shading of his sides, untouched by the initial line tracing, completed the job, as just below his armpit to his hip joined the rest of his torso in being shaded.

By the time he had finished, every inch of skin on his torso from the base of his neck to his waist had been covered in crayon.

---

Armed with a new weapon and a complete set of armor, he finally found them sometime later.

Or, at least, two of them.

As he drew nearer, he realized with growing horror that both Wylla and Riven were coated in what could only be blood. The former had clearly more steam than the latter, who was missing a leg from the waist down.

Approaching with a mixture of horror and awe flooding his system, the fact that Eva was nowhere to be seen also struck him.

"And here I thought I got the worst end of this deal," he spoke aloud as he drew within earshot. "What the hell happened to you guys?"

And where the hell is Eva?

lucas does some shit which i'll post in maint after class dab

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

 

We hurt like wolves.

We fly like butterflies, but we have lost our beauty. Covered in blood, bruises, wounds, gashes; we have been reduced to a collection of parts. Somewhat human, but we're losing ourselves. And that is scary, that is what turns people into the ruthless careers who tear down cathedrals and stop at nothing, nothing at all—in death, they find their life.

In death, I find voices of the fallen. I speak for them know, we all do. It is almost like we made a silent pledge to carry each other on after people died; that is what makes someone admirable, that is what makes someone honourable. With the weight of Anton and Lorenzo on my shoulders, I pray that this doesn't get any heavier.

Because I want Lucas to still be out there. Prayers have a habit of going unanswered, especially when you are a person that doesn't even believe in a higher power—but Ripred, keep him kicking.

All I have now, is Riven. And we're a state, that is for sure, but we are together. Kind of, at least. Riven is missing a leg and it's such a bloody sight, one to make your eyes sore and one to make you turn away out of agony but there is more to life than a body. There's a connection; she and I, me and her, we're friends.

I think.

Although, I don't know if that is a good or a bad thing in this situation. Mum would tell me that trust is a fragile thing. Trust is like walking a pirate's plank. It's treacherous, it's dangerous and if you fall off—there's no coming back.

But that is a risk I am willing to take; it's a risk I have to take. Going it alone is for those on a high horse. Eva may have done it, but I don't know when she will come back, or even if she will come back. It takes nerves of steel, a calm head and hands that don't shake—I could do it, I think, but I have people who have my back.

I can't let it go, not anymore, not after all we have been through.

Times are changing, people are leaving, going, coming, the skies stay as the constant, as illusions, but the melting of my knives signals the dawn of a new day. I sigh, wax dripping through my fingers onto the ground. I respond in the only way I know how, hands scrambling for another crayon in my bag.

I have never been good at drawing, but I like to think that I've got better with time. It's not a fuzzy collection of bendy lines anymore; I've got a steadier hand, a sharper touch and one that has become more lethal, more deadly. I think that it is because that is all I've seen the past few days: brutality.

We know it all too well.

Blades turn to edges, serrated and dangerous; the gold crayon quickly turns into a dark sketch which is brought to life with a breath. One, two seconds and it flashes into reality, my hand wrapped around the long handle as I look forwards towards the golden point at the end. All the others have been perfect—they've kept me alive—here's hoping this one can do the same.

And then we go on, further and further, flying and soaring between the tension which swells thick in the air. The peacefulness after the boy's death has gone now. The air is denser, almost like the world is closing in, slowly but surely, crushing us. Forcing us.

Making us.

Bravery continues with survival and a figure comes from the distance. But I know it, I know him and there is a great sense of warmth that plumes in my stomach, billowing between my bones and blood and making me feel whole again. Just another reject; the only real one I've got left.

I hide a smile by taking my lips between my teeth.

"And here I thought I got the worst end of this deal," his deep voice booms like a cannon, "what the hell happened to you guys?"

There is so much to explain, time ticks down but I am a little girl with strong words; I can make it happen.

"We had a bit of a mare." Mum used to say that she was having a mare when the electricity would blow and all the lights would go out. I think this is a mare that is much worse, though.

I shove my stuff to the ground—that's all it is, really, it is all it will ever be—stuff. A blue-green crayon slides between my fingertips and I colour a long roll of bandages to help me patch myself up. The shading brings it to life and I wrap my wounds up tight to stop wolves from licking at them. It's the little things that do the most because the littlest things can mean the most.

The littlest things can be the best. No, I think, they are the best.

"You don't look too bad, though. Find your boyfriend again?" I rock back and forth on hardened heels; I've heard about what people get up to when their days are numbered and some of it sounds like it bloody hurts. My two front teeth bite down into my bottom lip.

I perch on the ground with crossed legs, leaning against the clutter I've collected. The image of Cricket Antoinette has been scuffed up and bent by time, but I can still hear, feel the message loud and clear. Her picture reminds me that it is possible, it's all possible.

She's living proof, I think. I nod my head slowly because it's the truth.

The portrait of Hera Levelwright tells me that there is a lot more to come, but it assures me that I'm ready. I have to be. We all have to be—that is if, we want to win.

Hera and Cricket threw me to the wolves today, but I came out fighting, I came out alive.

Hera and Cricket threw me to the wolves today, and I think that I came out as one of them.

W Y L L A • L Y S A N D E R

{ wylla does stuff which will be in maint }

[solo]

Riven Fowley

The farther we walk, the more frightened I become. My leg still hasn't started to hurt. Well, I suppose it's not really my leg anymore, since it's literally not there. I don't think that fact has registered in my mind quite yet. The only fact I know, the only solid truth that's been running constantly through my head, over and over again, is that

I did it again.

My own hands tore away another soul from the surface of the earth. These hands, fingers that were meant to create, to build, were used for destruction today. They were used to break down the thing they were meant to form. To pull things away from reality and create margins that were never meant to be there. I am responsible. I did it. I did it because of my own selfishness.

I've calmed down since the fight. My repeated apologies slowly dulled to a soft hum, and eventually faded out to nothing. I became silent. I stared at the ground, held up only by the hands of a small child who I think was once a butterfly. I can't quite remember anymore, it seems so long ago.

"And here I thought I got the worst of this deal."

Something inside me sparks. A tiny flame, something that's so, so close to blowing out forever, grows ever so slightly and restores enough life to my body for me to look up. It takes me a moment to recognize the boy as Lucas. A friend, not a foe. My muscles relax.

"What the hell happened to you guys?"

Slowly, my eyes drift down to the bloody stump where my leg once was. I've wrapped bandages around it, sewn it up with gray thread and shaking hands. The bandages have been stained red, but the bleeding has stopped. At least, the literal bleeding.

"We had a bit of a mare."

My brows knit together. Does she mean nightmare? If she does, I'd have to say I agree with her.

"You don't look too bad, though. Find your boyfriend again?"

The gears in my head aren't spinning fast enough for me to comprehend what she's saying. I don't know who she's talking about. I can't remember Lucas being particularly close with anyone in the Training Center. Then again, I didn't talk to him much until I was reunited with Wylla.

A half-hearted smile flickers across my lips, and I could almost laugh.

Almost.

"I lost a bit of myself." I state simply. I give the stump where my leg once was a bit of a wave, and then the laugh comes forth. Small, fragile.

Insane.

I am losing myself. Bits and pieces, figurative and literal, chunks of who I am falling off and disappearing to God knows where.

The smile fades, and slowly, I collapse into a sitting position, propped up by weak hands and tired arms. My eyes drift to my non-existent leg, staring, captivated, unbelieving.

"Eva left." I say, my words now flat, unfeeling. I can't quite tell if I'm talking to myself or to Lucas. "I killed Gentian and she left. And then...and then I...I killed Atlas, and Salome left." My gaze flickers back up to Lucas, my head tilts to the side like a curious dog, and I smile again. "Seems nobody likes me these days. That's understandable though, nobody likes a killer."