revelation . day 6 . ph&as&fs&zl

[L△LIA]

[attr="class","Zion5Container"]

[attr="class","Zion5Title"]

make me believe that I can change
make me believe that I'm not strange

[attr="class","Zion5Content"]

Zion sits crisscross applesauce, like he is back in his first year of school, giggling like mad because the girl next to him shoved a piece of popcorn up her nose to prove she could do anything that boys can do. And better. Back then he rocked with the momentum of his laughter, teetering until he fell backwards because this tiny thing was too much. After all, he has never been very big himself. He has always been skinny and weak, toppled over by the smallest of things.

When the spear is torn free from its burial within his stomach, it seems like such a small thing too. A hole that size could be plugged with nothing more than his thumb, but he looks down to contemplate whether or not he should and his vision is too blurry to find the wound. He tries to blink the fog away, but it is so bright here and the pink of his bunny pajamas fades into the red of his blood the same way the water and the colored sand blend together. It becomes more and more difficult to track anything besides the attacks being inflicted upon him. Only the cuts have sharp outlines.

“Do you have anyone... on the other side?” The question is not meant for Zion, but it whirls through his brain with a sudden spark of fear. No. He doesn’t have anyone waiting for him when he dies and this is not something he has ever contemplated before. Everyone who loves him is alive and well and watching with desperate hope. (“He’s going to be okay,” Tallulah outright lies to everyone with a voice convincing enough that more than one of her sisters turns to look at her in search of what she has glimpsed in this scene that the rest of them have overlooked. Only Peregrine sneers, back straightening because her half of their bones has been set on edge by her inability to storm out of the room in response. The voice of pure optimism is connected at the hip to the harsh scowl of pessimistic honesty and so despite their disagreements, one conjoined twin never goes anywhere without the other, not even out of the room.

“Stop it, Lulah! He’s dying. Look at him! Can we all just stop pretending that —“

“How could you say that? That’s our brother. That’s your brother, Ginny —“

“Don’t be such a bitch —“

“Me? I’m just trying to be supportive. You’re the one being a —“

“Ripred! I’m sorry I’m the only one here who has the guts to say what we’ve all been thinking this whole time. Don’t you try to tell me I don’t love Zi just because I don’t share your pure little angel heart. It’s just —“

“Don’t —“

“That asshole hacked his arm off and that bitch just gutted him —“

“La la la la! I can’t hear you —“

“And I’m sick, like I’m gonna puke I’m so sick, of watching him getting fucking killed —“

“La la la la —“

“And everyone trying to pretend this is going to be okay.” Peregrine’s face is furiously red as she sobs through her yelling, snot leaking out her nose and everyone around her flinching because there’s nowhere else to look. The only distraction is the television and that’s the last place any of them want to fixate their attention right now. “Zi is gonna die. He’s —“

Hands pressed over her ears so she doesn’t have to hear the truth, Tallulah screams at the top of her lungs.) This newfound fear is more than an ache. It binds itself around Zion’s heart and squeezes, but he doesn’t know what to do. There are no options. Everything that is happening is going to keep happening and the only way to stop it is to get it over with. Still, his hand hovers over two axes, reminding him that his own viewpoint can affect the way this feels. He could throw his next axe with all the hatred his heart has ever harbored or he could throw his next axe with misplaced hope that this fight will become unpredictable, events turning in his favor.

There is a gushing hole in his stomach, he’s missing one of his arms, smaller wounds burn and fester all over his body, and yet Zion’s biggest problem is that he doesn’t know what he wants or hopes for.

The axe named for Tallulah lays side-by-side in the sand with the axe named for Peregrine. They do not agree on the emotion that should motivate Zion to make his next attack, but the different blades still want the same thing. His heart flickers with contemplation, but when he grabs a handle he doesn’t bother looking to see which axe he’s picking up because it doesn’t matter. Aggression or defense; retribution or hope. There is no choice to be made. It doesn’t matter. (“He’s not coming back, Lulah,” Peregrine has pried one of her twins’ hands away from her ear and holds it with sympathy, her voice quiet with bitterness, but not unkind. Tallulah finally nods, holding her breath as if this will hold back her sorrow.)

Paper Mache Iris Lune.

[zion attacks with a throwing axe]

[1 is akira // 2 is florence]

16P7PbxV1-2

[1 // akira]

throwing axe

[10161 // axe in neck — 9.5 damage]

[newclass=".Zion5Container"]width:450px; height:450px; background-position:center; background-repeat: no-repeat; padding:20px;[/newclass]
[newclass=".Zion5Title"]font-size:10px; text-transform:uppercase; margin-right:65px; margin-bottom:1px; [/newclass]
[newclass=".Zion5Content"]width:300px; height:0px; overflow:hidden; opacity:0.9; font-size:10px; text-align:justify; padding:1px 10px 0px 10px; -webkit-transition-duration:1s; transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]
[newclass=".Zion5Container:hover .Zion5Content"]height:250px; overflow:auto; padding:10px; text-align:justify; -webkit-transition-duration:1s;transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]1-2�throwing axe

[lance]

They can keep me out
'Til I tear the walls
'Til I save your heart
And to take your soul

An axe hits the side of your neck, and you expect to die.

But when your scream does not fade and the pain remains sickeningly sharp, you realize that, in his desperation, the boy had flung the weapon without accuracy or design. And in doing so, he had failed to end you before you would end him in turn.

Gingerly, you remove the blade from your flesh, before tossing it down even as you fail to suppress your cries of pain. And then, blood flowing from a new gash in your skin, you turn to the boy.

There's nothing more to be said anymore. There's only the task ahead of you, and even as tears stain your face and blood stains your body, it is a task you intend to carry out or die trying.

It's not a task you relish so much as one you've accepted must be done, for you have not let the blood that's stained your blade and your hands reach your head like so many before you. You know, with a burgeoning certainty, that if you ever make it out of here alive, it would be forever haunted by the souls that you had personally ended on your path to freedom.

Cesare Crocetti from Two. The girl from Nine, whose name you will no doubt see in the sky tonight. The pale boy, the job you'd started nearly twenty four hours ago finally complete. And Florence.

You wonder if it's some sort of rite of passage for the victors of your district to fight and condemn their district partners to death before claiming the crown themselves. Klaus Goravich, the second most recent victor, had done that to his twelve year old district partner before claiming his crown from the boy who had landed the killing blow two years before you had even been born. And then Atticus Manor, the most recent, had butchered Danny Brooker in the final four, before eventually claiming the crown himself when you were merely nine years old.

If history was to repeat itself, you'd leave here with the soul of your own district partner on your shoulders too. And like Mahlah, she was too young to deserve such a fate. And like Danny, she would have deserved so much better than the end she was given.

But you would press forward with your duty, even if you left the arena crushed by the souls you had reaped. And that would start with the pale boy laying on the ground on the brink of death.

"Goodbye," you whisper, as you prime yourself for the attack. "You deserved better."

You all did, all twenty four of you, from Volkner Meinhardt to the little girl Ollie. But as cannons sound around you, signifying that death is happening in a startling amount this day, you still press forward with your duty.

With any luck, you'll be able to gift this near stranger at least some of the peace he deserves.

For what has been done
Cannot be undone
In the evil's heart
In the evil's soul

song: Seven Devils - Florence and the Machine

akira attacks zion; glaive

jKyGPm09glaive

13042 -- Stabbed in Eye -- 40 damage

glaive

[Sleepy Fluttershy]

F L O R E N C E
⚡
S P A R K

We're not just bodies you hide

Under the ground

We're not the flowers you cut,

So you look lovely 

Her question is left unanswered but she knows better than to nag him about it. Maybe silence is the best answer to anything she says. The fear grabs her heart again, shaking the surface beneath her legs.

Death can't come so quickly. It shouldn't.

The gamemakers are wrong. Wrong about tearing them apart, twisting the insides of their beat up bodies with the worst thoughts. They plant the horrors into their bodies, turning them into actors on their twisted stage.

If they wanna take your voice,

Must take your soul,

If they wanna take your soul,

Then not today...

 And the only way to prove them wrong is throwing your own life away. A sacrifice she must make to get everyone who is watching to see just how ridiculous the fighting is. If everybody stops fighting, the games will not be the same anymore.

This is how we safeguard our future...

A stray line from the capitol propaganda wanders in and out of her mind. How ridiculous. Nobody seems to fall for that when they are out there, watching murder after murder. And here they slowly become animals. She must not follow their example.

Stay true to yourself. Believe in others.

These words are her last chance to stand strong while all her instincts are driving her insane.

Think about dad. Think about music. Think about happiness.

_________________________________________________________

A cannon booms above their heads and a symphony of love mixes with the dissonance of another death, as if a stupid child invaded an orchestra rehearsal and started jumping on the drums.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The girl stares at the fallen tribute's body in front of her, fighting another river of tears that are starting to well up at the bottom of her throat.

"He's dead," - she whispers, staring at the wound in his stomach, - "Not me."

It was supposed to be me. But it is him. He could have lived. But he is dead. And I helped to do it. I asked him to run. But I shouldn't have hit him.

A moment of silence is followed by an off-key cry that covers the tender violin melodies.

"Are you gamemaker people serious?"

She is standing there with her eyes raised to the fake sky above - things like this could never happen under the real one.

"You all think you are so mighty and powerful? You think you own us? You think you can decide everything for us? Even our death? Whatever you think you are WRONG!"

The rest comes out in hysterical sobs:

"I am n-n-not your puppet! I d-d-don't want to be! I am human!!!"

The sobs become louder as she starts twirling around furiously, still clutching her spear in small hands, yelling into nowhere.

"Get away from me!"

Father, help me.

His little girl needs him now more than ever, just to hear that sound again, to remember who she is - not an asassin, not a murderer, not hopeless. But the sounds of the wind in her ears cover everything while she stomps on the ground and keeps twirling around - five turns to the right, five to the left. The carousel is the last attempt to shake off desperation but it is not helping.

Beware the mad child, - the stones beneath her feet scream, blocking out the world around her. Shutting out even the sound of her spear piercing human flesh.

word count: xxx
quote credit: Dante Alighieri
lyrics: Melovin "That's your role"

table by: Kaplan

OOC: crazy mode activated, Florence Spark has a mental breakdown and (accidentally!) attacks Akira with spear

smsWrNcEspear

3052 -- Shallow Cut on Chest -- 4.0 damage
(Spear)
spear

[lance]

They can keep me out
'Til I tear the walls
'Til I save your heart
And to take your soul

It's quick. It's easy. Third time around, and you don't think you should be surprised.

But you are. A thrust, putting the weight of your glaive on your handless arm and using your remaining hand to stab forward instead of swing outwards, you'd aimed directly for the pale boy's face, envisioning that maybe, you'd hit the neck or something and get enough of a gash to hasten his trip to the land of the dead.

But he hadn't moved, and your aim, for once, had been shockingly accurate, and your blade had sunk through his eye, pierced his skull, and cleaved through his brain.

The cannon sounded before he hit the ground, and your soul tally grew to three.

You withdraw the blade, ignoring the gore that comes with it, and collapse, planting hilt onto stone and leaning on it with as much weight as it will allow.

You're so, so tired of the bloodshed. And yet it must continue, until each and every one of your competition lies in caskets instead of beds, sleeps eternally instead of to rest, placed their collective burden on your shoulders to carry till the end of time.

But surely, you can have a break-

Florence has other ideas, screaming at the Gamemakers - and honestly, that does not sound like the worst idea right now - and swinging her spear around wildly, as if there are phantoms that she must impale. You could let this get on with until it burns out, but the sound of another cannon - neither of yours - spurs you into action.

You lost count as to exactly how many have sounded since the first one sounded moments before you separated the girl from Nine's head from the rest of her, and yet the fact that it has been many - too many - has somewhat registered itself within your tired cranium. Your body begs for a rest, your neck bleeds crimson gold, and you carry three times the weight that you did mere minutes ago, and even so, you push forward.

Regardless of the outcome, the next fights will determine your worthiness, place your own motives against others, and finally will spend an end to this hellhole of doom that you've been consigned to for the past six days. And the more time you have to rest up, the better.

You approach your district partner, your heart torn in two but your head set on what must be done. "Florence?" you ask, gently, cautiously. "Hey, Flo-"

You step too close, and her spear, wild and swung in fifty directions at once, scrapes across your now bare chest, leaving another mark of crimson on an increasingly criss-crossed canvas. You wince as a new flash of pain flows through you, but you've suffered worse - you must endure.

"Florence, please, listen to me," you say, hoping against hope that your words get through to her. "It's okay. I can help, Florence."

You step inside the reach of her spear. "Let me help you."

Let me help you - you don't think you've ever been more disgusted with yourself, tying the word help in with murder.

But you've already committed too many sins to atone for already, so what was one more to add to the pile as you fought for your life?

For what has been done
Cannot be undone
In the evil's heart
In the evil's soul

song: Seven Devils - Florence and the Machine

akira attacks florence; glaive

inpR4XOBglaive

result

glaive

[Sleepy Fluttershy]

Florence's father says Florence says Florence thinks Florence sings

---

It started out as a feeling

Which then grew into a hope

Which then turned into a quiet thought

Which then turned into a quiet word

---

The world is spinning in her eyes and she knows this can't last any longer. She needs to slow down and throw the weapon. Stop the tantrum.

Help me. Please.

And help comes right away with a quick bump in the chest. Florence's spear flies over Akira's head and to the ground, her eyes full of surprise.

"Thank you."

His eyes seem so close to hers, like two giant salty... lakes. She could swim in them like she used to swim in the kitchen sink when she was little.

Her dad took her in his hands and put her in the water. And she splashed the water in his face with chubby toddler hands. A memory of a memory. A story told by her mother when she was a big girl already - five years old. It was long before the bloodbath, before the reaping when her name was called, before she walked onto the stage, with her father's voice inside her.

Believe in people and remember who you are.

The voice is back now, she can remember every soft tone of it. Her eyes travel down to a growing red spot on her chest.

I didn't fail you, did I?

She made it until the end.

Screaming doesn't count. Please, say I am still your little girl. Don't go away.

---

And then that word grew louder and louder

'Til it was a battle cry

I'll come back when you call me

No need to say goodbye

---

She sinks down on her knees slowly, lies down on the ground.

"Hold my hand... Please..."

She knows it will be over soon. All she needs is another couple of minutes to look up and take in everything around for the last time before a journey into eternity. The flame of her curls warms the rocky surface as she tries to turn her head around with a quiet "Ow."

Water. Sky. Bright flowers.

And something many believe to be gone from this place.

Peace.

There was so much of it at home. And here, when there's so little left, it is precious.

"The flowers... just like home..."

---

Just because everything's changing

Doesn't mean it's never been this way before

All you can do is try to know who your friends are

As you head off to the war

---

Home is different and yet not that far away. They were waiting for her but Cordelia will be there to help them cope with what happens next. Nineteen people are gone and she will be twentieth.

"I'll see... Mom and dad... and Bolts... No one should cry... Tell them please..."

Her fingers are going numb and cold but she makes a huge effort and puts the gear next to her friend. She has gone a long way since the training center. No regrets. No more tears. The last drops flow down and leave wet traces on her cheeks. A soft smile spreads across her face.

"And Ping... Neela... Wynter... Volkner... Lavina..."

The warm touch of his hand on hers is soothing. There is blood on his chest too - a red line that wasn't there before. It must have been her spear. And her craziness. The child's free hand rises to trace the mark of her weapon with her fingers and falls back down weakly. The wound is really there, not a hallucination.

"I'm sorry."

---

Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light

You'll come back when it's over

No need to say goodbye

---

Images from the last few weeks dance around in her mind - some things a red blur and some of them crystal clear.

"Volkner said... I have to shut... up... but... talking is fun... We should... hang out... few seconds... while... alive..."

Her tongue spits out random phrases, sounding like a drunk speech of a man she once saw. 

Florence smiles again, humming a song, her lungs taking in the last gulps of the evening breeze.

"Mom... used to sing... Do you know it?"

Maybe someone sang to him too in the past - or maybe someone will in the future. At home.

"Please... live..."

---

Now we're back to the beginning

It's just a feeling and no one knows yet

But just because they can't feel it too

Doesn't mean that you have to forget

---

Suddenly everything becomes even quieter than it was before. 

You know what your first word was, baby? You should never forget.

All of a sudden it comes into her head and then out of her mouth.

And if you can, let your first words also be your last.

"I... love."

---

Let your memories grow stronger and stronger

'Til they're before your eyes

You'll come back when they call you

No need to say goodbye

---

Cannon.