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

[flyss]

Every breath I take is a tribute to my momma, her gentle touch restin’ idly on my shoulders and hair and head and face even after the blood of an innocent girl—a dead, innocent girl, may I add— marks the blade of my sword like a door on Passover. Ripred, my voice is but a whisper even in my head, its edges carved from granite, its core carved from ore. I am the forcebreaker. Suddenly, as if the word were foreign and I was speakin’ English for the first time, I sink to my knees with the plight of gravity in my chest. “You are the reason…” I mumble, hands held to heart and eyes shut tight. Prayer bubbles on the bow of my lips.

“Praise be.”

I stay like that for a long while, until my legs have gone numb and my head feels as light as the fog I fought through to get here, and it takes all the energy I’ve harvested from my 15-some-odd years on earth to stand. No force can hold me, I think with a chuckle, grippin’ my sword white-knuckled in one hand and brushin’ off the dirt with the other. With banana-peel eyes, I watch shadows fumble off into the distance; my heart hurts for Kristian.

“Kristian,” I say into the air as if he were right next to me, fingers crossed for conversation. My youthful, girlish voice travels to the end of the rock and back, but I get no response. I don’t really expect one. “You ought to be real proud. I avenged you, I did. Just as Ripred told me to. Just like Scotchie would’ve wanted me to…” My words trail off, backpack straps tyin’ a noose across my shoulders, but my heart continues to beam as bright as the sun.

It’s a gentle reminder that what rises in the East must also set in the West.

-

I wake up to the thrashin’ of waters down below, waves consumin’ whatever shreds of flesh them shark-lookin’ things dared to leave behind on the rock lined coast. I look tiredly between my sword-wieldin’ hand (who knew I could hold somethin’ for so long?) and the feast-wieldin’ table, the latter’s surface still covered with whatever masses of food that the other 12 hadn’t managed to stow with them. The smell of stale sausage draws me near, and as I shake out the last bits of sleep from the corners of my consciousness, I manage to stuff a few links into my needy, churnin’ mouth.

‘Tunia, dear, my momma chimes from somewhere in the void. Use the manners daddy and I taught ya. With a delicate smile, I trade my cow’s smack for the nibble of a doe. That’s my girl, she says fully, as if she had taken the seat to my left with an empty plate in tow. I wipe the grease from around my mouth with the back of my hand. It mixes with dried blood to make a dirty maroon, and I smile, thinkin’ of how pretty that color would look on a paintin’ of my roses back home.

Before departin’ from the table, I make sure to check all around me for any traps that might have been left in the night. When I find none, I move out; it takes me less time to get down the steep rocks as it did to get up ‘em.

-

I spend most of my day wanderin’ around the shore, and I imagine a typhoon on the coastline, its waves beelinin’ straight for my spot between the shells and the foam. You can try all you want, sir, but you won’t get me! I shout from inside my mind, careful not to speak it out loud for fear that the other folks might be listenin’. I realise then that this storm might be a girl, similar to the likes of Cassia, and I smile at the idea of such a power. I’m a forcebreaker, fearin’ neither man nor woman nor beast. That wouldn’t change nothin’.

My fingers pick at the pebbles absentmindedly, and I toss one into the water, eyes tracin’ the lines it makes like a kid would trace stuff in a puzzle book. Just as the ripples leave me, the peace leaves, too; I’m soon joined by the jumble of footsteps back in the direction I came from. Two more steps follow close behind.

Battle is inevitable (momma taught me that word!) and I know it. The taste of blood with never go away, just as the scars won’t, and I’ll have to learn to bare it with gritted teeth. For Ripred, I think. For momma.

For daddy, for Kristian, for Scotchie.

This is not the typhoon I expected, I realise. But it comes real close.

Credit to Tom for this table!

[Petunia attacks Akira with her sword.]

BMI57xo8sword

1168 -- Shallow Cut on Stomach -- 4.0 damage
(Sword)

sword

[lance]

Holy water cannot help you now
Thousand armies couldn't keep me out
I don't want your money
I don't want your crown
See I've come to burn
Your kingdom down

You wake in a crimson haze, sweat glistening on bare skin and a dull ache wracking your body.

Memories flash through your mind, some whole, others shattered as if they were a mirror that someone had smashed in with a wrecking ball. Flashes of severed limbs and a beast made of shadow, shards of a burning in your right arm and a sweet taste in your mouth. You can't make hide nor hair of it for several minutes, only of burning sun and the distinct stabbing of stones into bare skin.

You hurt all over, but it is not until you finally sit up, placing one hand and what used to be a second on the rocks that it hits you.

Yesterday wasn't a dream.

Two days overlap into one, a day where combat was limited to your group of three and another - your district partner had gathered a tough looking boy and a Career girl of her own to guard here, and a day of mayhem and shadow dragons, of severed limbs and blurry white boys, of Dove and a little girl and of Bella and pleas to do something. Both happened yesterday, but one did not - it did not make sense, though both were real.

Regardless, both had happened, and you had suffered. Wounds on your stomach and thigh from one, a missing hand from another. And memories of other events too - a severed leg, a severed arm, a slash across the chest that created a crimson waterfall and another that stopped short at steel. Parallels across might as well have been two worlds, but were simply two different days.

You groan as the events of the last few hours come into focus. A meal of pancakes and foods too sweet to remember, an amicable conversation with Dove and the little girl - Ollie - and then wandering. Andy had run off, Bella was nowhere to be seen so you'd just walked. Then swam. Then walked some more, until you'd been so exhausted that you'd deemed rocks the perfect pillow and had promptly collapsed in a dead sleep.

You should have died. No lookout, no shelter, no nothing. But you've gotten lucky, it seems, given your state of consciousness and the absence of a weapon through your back.

It's a mixed bless, perhaps, given the absence of Bella and Andy. But you'd heard the cannon go off at least twice the previous day, and you'd forgotten how many times the day before that. Roughly half still remained, you guessed, still a tad early to cut ties, but perhaps it was for the best.

Especially given the circumstances. You'd talked your way into the alliance consisting of the pair of Ones and the boy from Four under the assumption that they'd be the tough, brutal Career alliance that would serve as the perfect tool to getting you past the stage where the odds where anything but even. But the only one who had managed that from the first moment you had seen them to their last had been Volkner, and his soul had departed seventy two hours prior, one of the first to exit the arena the way they had came.

As for the other two, it was almost as if osmosis had existed in terms of courage and personality, for when it came time for death and blood, it was not the kids that had come from the districts where the Games were not an abomination of a punishment but a stepping stone for glory that had stepped up to take on the challenge unwavering, it had been the scrawny sixteen year old boy from the district of technology that had done so in their place. You'd had your doubts about Andy from the beginning, but having both him and Bella have their own separate breakdowns in the midst of battle had left you more than a little uneasy.

Between that and the loss of one of your hands, it was probably for the best that you had parted ways when you did. Much better to keep your fate in your own hands instead of two passable Careers whose mental health was questionable.

You'd enjoyed your time with them. Perhaps even to the point where you would have spared them if given a choice. But in the end, only one can leave the arena with their lives.

And if you had your way, it would not be Belladonna Ruze or Anduril Harvard.

Time passes. A parachute drops, some optimistic sponsor gifting you with a substance you've seen before - tar. With tar comes fire. With fire comes death.

You'd expected the fight to come anyways, but it still felt satisfying to receive validation.

The process was slow going with only a single hand to work with this time around, but eventually you got your armored vest on over your bare torso, shin guards on each leg, combat boots on your feet, and tar on your blade.

It isn't long after that when the first soul appears on the horizon.

Eyes narrow as you recognize the girl from Nine - she'd killed the girl from Twelve the day before, of that you remember - and you think that, at the very least, the fight will be on even ground. The boy from Five or Ten or whatever had not been a killer, of that you were sure. Neither was the girl from Four, for all of her bluster, nor the boy from Two, for all of his imposing presence.

There was a certain look that one got once they had slain someone, a certain way they held themselves, a certain glint in their eyes. Andy had gotten it after he'd ended the girl in the bloodbath, and Bella had gotten it after saving Andy one - no, two - days prior. No doubt you had it, too, just like this girl.

Your remaining hand grabs the flint you'd received two days ago, and you scrape it across the ground next to your tar-coated blade. And then again. And again.

On the fourth try, sparks fly, and fire is born. Quickly, awkwardly, you drop the flint, and grab at the hilt of your weapon. You fumble, then find a grip, but the girl is already upon you, blade scraping against your chest plate, leaving a mark but not breaking through.

And then, you are ready. Resolute, even. Your first true fight alone, and yet you've never felt calmer.

You gaze into the face of the girl, into the face of a killer just like yourself. And you feel nothing.

So you swing, fire and steel delivering judgement that only you can deliver.

You will survive, at any cost. There is nothing else that you can do.

This girl will hardly be the first to find that out.

Holy water cannot help you now
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out
I'm gonna raise the stakes, I'm gonna smoke you out

song: Seven Devils - Florence and the Machine

akira receives one jar of tar from sponsorship and lights his glaive on fire

akira attacks petunia; flaming glaive

yp|G6MG6glaive

13194 -- Severed Head -- 40 damage

fire roll

1-50

0

glaive�1-50

[Sleepy Fluttershy]

F L O R E N C E
⚡
S P A R K

There were only two faces in the sky this time. But she didn't watch. She knew that Stitch wouldn't be among them, she knew that twelve more tributes wouldn't be there. They were alive and that mattered a lot while everything else did not.

In her dream she was with him again, snuggling against him to spend one more night together, whispering "I am sorry I left you, I was a terrible person."

I was just confused. And scared for us both. And I should have never let that fear to take over.

She wakes up under a bush, with marks of tears still on her cheeks. She made a choice and she has very little time to correct her mistake. But warriors don't give up. She is going to use all she has to get back to him. To say again that she is sorry.

I'm coming. Please wait for me.

They both have very little time at their disposal. But it has to be long enough for them to make things right. She grabs her backpack and her spear. A warrior doesn't waste time. The moment has come when she has to move forward. She will find him eventually.

Please.

Florence knows it is hard to walk in the arena all day and not come across a single soul. The people in charge of this would make sure she has company. But maybe it will be a friendly one.

The little girl catches a glimpse of three distant figures. It is too late to run. Only one way to find out whether they want to be friends. But she can smell a fight in the air. 

The gamemakers are probably angry with them for killing their monster so quickly. They craved their blood for sure and only got to witness two deaths. They want to get their revenge. And that revenge rains fire on the girl from nine from the hands of Florence's district partner. 

"Please, don't fight!"

He is a nice guy. It shouldn't be that way - why are they all doing this? Even after what the girl from one said to her, she still only sees one thing: everybody is trying to bring a quicker end to the agony of their bodies at a price of ripping their own souls apart. She doesn't want to be a part of that. And once again, she is launching herself into the middle of this unnecessary bloodshed. Shielding the fallen body from the boy's weapon. What if she is still alive?

"Don't hurt her!"

Florence doesn't hear a cannon - even if it was there, it drowns in her scream. The capitol probably hates her stubborn attempts to stop every fight that she comes across in these games. Everyone else might get annoyed by that.

But this is what being a warrior means. You never stop trying.

word count: xxx
quote credit: Dante Alighieri

table by: Kaplan

Florence Spark attacks Akira with spear

zYooFb27spear

3079 -- Shallow Cut on Right Bicep -- 3.5 damage
(Spear)spear

[L△LIA]

[attr="class","Zion1Container"]

[attr="class","Zion1Title"]

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

[attr="class","Zion1Content"]

“Eggs in the meadow, waves in the attic,” Zion sits cross-cross with his black diamond studded plate of gold and gluttony balanced on his knees, “food is for the good boys, no one else can have it.” One thought turns into another, whirling dizzy between his ears and he hums to distract himself. Off-key, the notes wander and the words are plucked from thoughts whose logic has dimmed, but that refuse to be forgotten. The ocean is placed in the attic because he remembers something about up and that’s good, so he must be good too and this is why he is so lucky. Food like this is a once in a lifetime experience and he grins sloppily into his egg crowned artichokes, hollandaise smeared shamelessly over his lips as he savors the flavor of the finest cured ham in existence. Truffle, saffron, paprika... tears begin to well up in his eyes and still he shovels in a bite of creamed spinach covered in bright orange yolk, holding back a hiccup in favor of swallowing. “Eggs in the meadow, waves in the attic. Wave, wave, wave hello!” Soon he’s outright sobbing, but he refuses to put the plate down. Tears sprinkle themselves like seasoning and his stomach aches from the sharpness of the excess salt and still he continues to dig his fork into the food and press it past his swollen lips. “Hello, my name is Zion. You must be...”

Cassia.

Staring at the wide open water, there is no one there and only silence replies. Another bite. His insides churn and he blinks over and over and over and over and over as if this will hold everything in. It has been hours and Cassia won’t talk to him, won’t thank him for the waffles he made her, won’t come set up camp anywhere near him. There has always been a knowing within him that he’s a terrible burden — here, home — but everyone always pretended otherwise and he liked the pretending more than he hated it. Although there was guilt within his own heart, there were much better feelings in the smiles he received in exchange for his forced ones. He is loved, even now, and so his smile fights to suppress another sob.

On any other day of his life, a boy who values politeness as much as Zion would never allow cream sauce to dribble down his chin or bits of food to kiss the tip of his dripping nose. He would be holding this fork with his right hand, well practiced and competent at simple tasks like eating, but today that hand has been misplaced and he doesn’t seem to know what has been done with it. What a terrible prank. Glancing at the missing spot where he’s certain he saw it last, his eyes fog with red and the last bite he took rises up to stick in his throat until he coughs so hard that the world goes weightless. Suddenly he is a skinsack pumped full of air and the solid gold plate on his lap clatters to the ground, dented upon the stone, as he tries to find something substantial to hold onto. This place has no grass to bunch up in his fists, no dirt to dig his fingers into. Everything flips upside down and he tries to scream because he does not want to float into the sky where the ocean lives, horrible with the depth of what it can hold, but the scream inverts back into his lungs as he gasps instead and blacks out.

Eggs in the meadow, waves in the attic. Food is for the good boys, no one else can have it.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion from suppressing his emotions or maybe it’s because his waking hours have become too much of a nightmare for his subconscious to compete with, but for the first time he can remember, Zion does not dream. Everything is still and peaceful and the night terrors do not come. He wakes up exactly where his body laid itself down. More than the disorientation of being lost in unknown territory, it is horribly confusing to recognize his surroundings as his eyes blink into new daylight, realizing that his feet did not wander in search of the moon or the courage that his body has never contained. He was supposed to wake up falling off a cliff or drowning in the sea or lost in a forest too dense for sky. For always he has found comfort in the predictability of unpredictability and this is wrong to the point that every muscle in his body clenches with panic, pulling him upright before he can think about how he is tired to the point that he shouldn’t get up at all. Not ever again.

Awareness finds Zion shivering in a puddle of his own sticky, half-dried blood. His brain tells him it’s paint. His brain tells him it’s a bizarre reflection of the sunrise upon the stone. His brain tells him it’s rancid hollandaise sauce. Searching the ground, he cannot find any scraps of the food he spilled last night. Tiny paw prints are tracked through the blood that cannot be blood, as if an animal crept close enough to lick his festering wound, took a taste of the spoiled sweetness of him, and decided it would prefer the eggs. Perhaps he has not been such a good boy after all, because all of the food is gone. The golden plate has been sucked so clean that it shines brighter than the water, water everywhere...

The ocean has returned to its home in the ground. It laps at the shore and it’s only when Zion sees a patch of fluffy pink that he realizes he is still naked, covered in red paint and smears of cream sauce. He has long forgotten that there are cameras everywhere, but while his thoughts don’t take the audience of this game of slaughter into consideration, he still feels ashamed. It’s so open here. The bunny pajamas soothe his modesty and stepping into them feels like putting on armor because this will protect him from... something.

What are you afraid of, Zion?

Myself.

Pulling the hood up, pink ears flop with every heavy step he takes, searching the shoreline until he finds his rucksack. He gropes the side pocket to make sure his makeup kit is still inside, but can’t bring himself to look into the main compartment. Hopefully it’s full of useless rust. Drawing out the compact, he presses his fingertips into pink, silver, lavender and colors in the perfect white paper of his skin. He doesn’t remember being this pale, uncertain where the tan of his accidental wandering has gone. There are hollows in his cheekbones that do not belong any more than the cuts, the bruises, the unfocused look in his eyes that even he can see because everything has such soft edges now, as if the world wants to match him.

Putting velvet back onto the tip of his nose and glitter highlighting his cheekbones can only hide so much and so he heaves the pack onto his back, setting off through the shallows toward a nearby island that looks a little cheerier. A tiny voice in his belly, obviously still sick from eating too much, reminds him that he’s been to this glowing lagoon before and he can’t deny remembering the colorful sand or the scent of flowers larger than his face. Yet, what he did, what happened there —

Death has a horrible presence. Even without witnessing anything, the sound of this particular weapon cleaving through flesh and bone makes his arm throb as if it’s being brutally hacked away all over again. When the boy in the pink bunny pajamas stumbles into the fight, a head has already been decapitated from it’s body all he sees is red. There is blood and blood and blood and hair that is so familiar, he screams. Screeching high pitched and more panicked than when his own limb went missing, he trips and flings himself at the corpse of the red headed girl, curling up on the ground beside her with one of her lifeless hands held in his. “Denali,” he gasps, cheek pressed into the dreamscape sand, “no, no, no, it’s okay, you’re okay, we’re all okay, don’t worry, shhhhhhh.” He cannot see her face, but he knows it must be her because he remembers the smell of death and where there is death, there is Denali. His beloved sister is kin to him as much as she is the daughter of the reaper, but her hand is strangely empty of small animals seeking her out for their last breath. Burying his fingers into her own, he shuts his bunny boy eyes and begs death to accept him instead. Not her. Please, not her. Zion’s stomach aches from being too full, from being too empty. He aches, but not enough.

Paper Mache Iris Lune.

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[newclass=".Zion1Title"]font-size:10px; text-transform:uppercase; margin-right:65px; margin-bottom:1px; [/newclass]
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[lance]

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

You've done this before, this being both the literal and figurative definition of the word. Though you were surprised at your own strength two days ago when you separated a girl's leg from her torso, and then surprised again when you did the same to a boy's arm yesterday, there is something to be said for the third time around.

For when your blade cleaves through the neck of the girl from Nine with hardly any resistance, there is nothing that sparks your heart into overdrive. Sure, the prick of adrenaline is there, noticeable despite everything else, but you've grown accustomed to it in a very short period of time. When you flinch, it's only because of the spray of blood that splatters your face and chest plate as opposed to the now very detached head that topples to the ground seconds before the rest of the corpse follows suit.

One cannon sounds, then another. Somewhere out there, you've moved in tandem with that of another, though who exactly you will likely never know. Hundreds of possibilities flash across your mind - Bella and Andy recognizing some sort of primal Career instinct against all possible odds and tearing into each other or someone else with all of their might, the little girl from Ten finally landing a killing blow with the flail that's too big for the rest of her, or even an unknown, like the boy from Seven or the girl from Six. Any one of them could be the killer; any one of them the killed.

"Please, don't fight!"

What it is not is your own district partner. Florence appears from the shadows, brandishing a spear and placing herself between you and the decapitated corpse as if it would make any difference to the fate already consigned on you both. One the killer, the others the killed, that was always to be the destiny of whichever lucky one out of twenty four that was chosen before this competition of death and blood was going to conclude. Please, don't fight, she says, as if you would rather not do anything but - you're no bloodthirsty animal who bathes in the blood of their enemies for the joy of it, just a boy who knows what his duty must be if he is to live past the tender age of sixteen.

You stare into the eyes of the girl from your home, younger and more naive than even yourself, wondering just exactly what her purpose is in this confrontation.

"Don't hurt her!"

Ah, there it is. You remember something similar from days past, a plea to stop the violence before it really began. And perhaps she had a point - Andy had struck first, and had nearly lost his life as consequence. As had this unknown girl from the Ninth district, slain by her own initiative.

Don't hurt her, Florence pleaded. And while that had never been your desire, you had no other choice but to try. And the results spoke for themselves.

"I can't hurt her, Florence," you respond, and were it a different time, you might have been shocked by the lack of emotion in your voice. "Not anymore."

You break your gaze to focus on the severed head at your feet. "She's already dead."

It is around this moment that you recognize that the battleground does not consist of just you, your district partner, and a corpse, but of you, your district partner, a corpse, and a boy who may as well be a second corpse himself. He's crawled next to the decapitated body of the girl from Nine and clings to it in a fit of insanity, mumbling words that you cannot make out and have no desire to either. You take note of the lack of one of his arms, and something twists uneasily within your stomach. No one should have to suffer like that, you decide. Her death was a mercy.

What had surely been intended to be a battle royale of death and destruction has instead become a standoff between two emaciated kids and a pair suffering from varying stages of death itself. Florence does not move, and you have no wish to make her, but you know what the alternative is.

"Move, Florence." It's not so much asking as demanding, as you will not take no for an answer - not here, not now. Your first priority is to end the suffering you had inflicted the previous day, wrap up the loose ends that you had created with a single stroke of your blade. "Don't make me go through you."

Her response is not compliance but a thrust of her spear towards your arm, the one missing a hand. You're not quite sure what she intended to do with such a strike, and you decide you do not care.

She's made her choice, and I must respond.

A sigh escapes your lips, long and heavy. "So that's how this is going to be then," you murmur, resigned. A small part of you thanks her for taking the initiative, because of all of the souls out there that you knew must be torn from their hosts, hers was one of those that you were least looking forward to.

Now, at least, you have an excuse.

Again, your bloodstained blade flies out towards your opponent. Two souls coat its blade with their lifeblood, and yet it remains hungry for more. And it must, if you are to have your sole wish granted.

The odds may be against you, with first one girl then another striking at your form, and yet you have never felt more certain of your destiny.

This is how it must end.

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

JWFq6zMmglaive

13057 -- Deep Gash on Right Bicep -- 8.0 damage

glaive

[Sleepy Fluttershy]

F L O R E N C E
⚡
S P A R K

Ouch.

His weapon draws another bruise on her tiny frame in response to her desperate attack. He is saying that the girl is dead. And now he wants her dead too. There is another boy standing nearby - just watching. She wants to cry for help but she won't. He's better off not fighting, that is his lucky choice. Lucky. Because he isn't forced to defend himself or others, like she always is.

Stitch, where are you?

She knows he is not going to hear her. Not here, not now. The gamemakers would make sure of that. Maybe they want the annoying child to finally fall. Because her belief in peace and hope doesn't really match the grief which the capitol wants to plant in everyone's hearts here. She is too tough for them to break. And it means that she is disposable.

Florence knows that she doesn't want to kill that boy. He is a human. He is Volkner's friend. He is only a few years older than her. And she is not going to. She will just fight back for a while and then run. Run until she finds Stitch. Until she is safe again in his hands.

It is not much of a fair fight but she can be stronger than she looks. And she is not ready to go just yet. This boy hurt Lavina. He killed this other girl. And who knows who else he might harm in the future.

"It doesn't have to be like this."

This fight is meaningless. Why is she still standing here? Maybe because she wants to see Stitch. To make things right with him before the gamemakers' cruelty robs them of that chance. But besides that, there is no unfinished business.

I can't give up. I just can't.

She looks him in the eye, searching for the signs of sympathy, but his face is difficult to read. However, she knows that whatever is in there, he is not a mutt. Only a very confused person consumed by pain.

They could go their separate ways and survive on their own. Forget that this ever happened. If he gets out alive, he can hug Cordelia for her. But she wants to hug Stitch first. Just one hug. And for that hug she must get away from this place, once and for all. If she convinces this boy to step back from her, she can make it before it's too late.

Hold on. I'm coming. Just wait a little longer.

"If you stop, I'll stop too. I promise."

But he doesn't look like he wants to back off, so she swings her spear at him, just to protect herself.

I hope it is threatening enough.

word count: xxx
quote credit: Dante Alighieri

table by: Kaplan

Florence Spark attacks Akira with spear

Si74tOz1spear

3119 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage
(Spear)

Accuracy reroll

spear

3039 -- Shallow Cut on Back -- 4.0 damage
(Spear)spear�spear

[L△LIA]

[attr="class","Zion2Container"]

[attr="class","Zion2Title"]

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

[attr="class","Zion2Content"]

The skin of the hand he holds is strange — smooth and undamaged. Wrong. Memories flex into one another within Zion’s head, blending and separating and telling him that what is might not be and that what can’t be possible at all is right here beside him. There are details that feel too true to contest and then there are the obvious truths of contradiction, but what everything really comes down to is desperation and loneliness.

The boy in the pink bunny pajamas doesn’t remember when he realized that his favorite sister hurt herself. Denali never hid the bite marks on her hands and knees, the bright red crescents where her fingernails dug deep into her thighs, or the bruises on her hips where she would pound her fists against the sharpest parts of her bones until the pain distracted her from everything. Clothing only hid the evidence of her self-harm from people who wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening, like their parents and teachers who told her to be careful because she was obviously a clumsy girl. She still wore skirts and short sleeves as if there wasn’t anything to hide, unashamed in a way that always made Zion jealous. Hellfire hair and the countless war wounds of adolescence, she always had courage enough for both of them, but no idea what to do with it. He couldn’t help with that.

There are no pink quarter moons upon the palm of the hand he holds, no brutal bite marks upon the knuckles. The nails are not bitten down. The skin is not strikingly pale against his own or covered in a wreckage of freckles like exploding embers. Zion has always given the impression of being an honest boy, but he’s a little white liar of the worst kind and so he tells himself that what’s missing doesn’t mean anything — be it evidence or arms. A glaive is at battle with a spear and both surely want his head the same way they wanted hers. They are not alone in this moment.

He feels his death upon him like wearing a second skin. The knowing flashes in his brain until he sees spots scattered all across his vision and the spots are stars, the spots are celestial planets, the spots are pink crescent moons upon the palm of the hand he holds. The two children upon the ground float in an ocean of blood and the smell threatens to knock him out, teasing him about hellfire and how he should be wearing this carnage as courage, the way everyone else does. The glaive, the spear. There is certainty that Denali lays beside him because if he’s going to die, and of course he’s going to die, then he has a right to her. His skin will rot and his bones will crumble, but children are more than their bodies and so he will live on in scars that she will claw into her flesh in little stars of rage, little planets of frustration, little crescent moons of love.

Paper Mache Iris Lune.

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[newclass=".Zion2Title"]font-size:10px; text-transform:uppercase; margin-right:65px; margin-bottom:1px; [/newclass]
[newclass=".Zion2Content"]width:300px; height:0px; overflow:hidden; opacity:0.8; font-size:10px; text-align:justify; padding:1px 10px 0px 10px; -webkit-transition-duration:1s; transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]
[newclass=".Zion2Container:hover .Zion2Content"]height:250px; overflow:auto; padding:10px; text-align:justify; -webkit-transition-duration:1s;transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]

[lance]

And now all your love will be exorcised
And we will find you saints to be canonized

Your blade digs into flesh, a direct hit on the girl from your district, and you feel perhaps just a little bit sick.

It goes against your upbringing and your morals alike to strike at someone younger and smaller than you, one reason you were almost glad you were amongst those number as opposed to the several seventeen and eighteen year olds that permeated the arena. You'd been the smaller, younger kid right up until the day you had gotten reaped, and you knew what it was like to face an unfair competition based on that.

But this was no friendly contest back home, even if both you and Florence were the sole representatives from Three this year. And you'd accepted ever since the day that you had struck down Cesare Crocetti that if that was the worst you had to do to survive, then you would do it again and again even if it made your stomach turn in the process.

But Cesare Crocetti and Lavina Cheyne were one thing. Florence Spark was a different challenge entirely.

Her second strike matches that of the girl from Nine and blunts itself across your vest with enough force to leave another gash in the metal but not quite enough to dig through to the exposed flesh underneath. But it is her words that strike a truer target than her weapon, at least for the moment.

"If you stop, I'll stop too. I promise."

In truth, you have no idea where Florence got her naivety, nor how she managed to retain it given all of the things that she no doubt has seen throughout her stint in the arena. At best, it was a plethora of savage muttations hell bent on slaying her and her allies, capable of appearing in enough shapes and sizes as to severely traumatize a fully trained Career, let alone a girl of fourteen. At worst, her experience was on the opposite side of the spectrum, resulting in the deaths of tributes at the hands of allies and enemies alike - the more likely of the two different approaches, he gathered, given the fact that her alliance had numbered three instead of four when they had fought and the wounds across Lavina's form alike.

And it is in this naivety that you believe her when she says that. This is not a girl built for the realities of the Hunger Games, but a girl built with the necessities for the remainder of her life - a kind persona, a gentle spirit, and the ability to see a good solution within every conflict.

And you so, so desperately want to agree, to put down your blades and walk away. Perhaps in a different world, you would be granted the courage and compassion to agree, even.

Alas, you are not so brave as to challenge the will of the Gamemakers, and not so selfless that you'd put the life of anyone, even this little girl who did nothing to deserve to be here, above your own.

"I want to, Florence." In that, there is no doubt. "I really do."

God, where is Bella with her calm logic and even words when you need her?

"But don't you get it?" There is not so much accusation imbued in the words as there is a plead to simply understand. "This is not a Game where we can simply walk away when we're stuck with something we don't like. This is not something we can ignore, something we can simply forget about until it passes. That's how it's always been for seventy nine years - twenty four enter, one exits."

You choke up a bit, raw emotion flooding your voice and body with something other than anger and pain for the first time since you'd stepped foot in the arena. "Only one of us can leave, Florence. One. Not two. And-and the Gamemakers, they..." You pause. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. "The Gamemakers put us together for a reason. This is our greatest test."

A tear emerges from one eye, hot and sticky, and you wipe it away with the back of your handless arm stubbornly. Now is no time to break down on live television, Sokatoa. "And I know it's very selfish of me, but I want to live. Pause. Inhale. Exhale. "I need to live."

You tense, for you know the tirade of words won't continue much longer, nor will the tides of conflict be held back. "And-and it's very selfish of me. Trust me, I've been telling myself that for days." Pause. Inhale. "And it-it's very unfair for you, I know."

You take one step forward, back within striking distance. "But I can't stop now. Not when I've come so far."

You have a feeling that when your blade flies towards her form, whatever the result is, it will hurt you more than it will the poor fourteen year old girl from your home whose greatest sin was simply being unlucky.

And it's an even song
It's a melody
It's a battle cry
It's a symphony

song: Seven Devils - Florence and the Machine

akira attacks florence; glaive

76Nb8rUaglaive

13119 -- Block -- 0.0 damage

accuracy, day six

glaive

13133 -- Shallow Cut on Right Hip -- 3.5 damage

glaive�glaive

[Sleepy Fluttershy]

F L O R E N C E
⚡
S P A R K

'Cause they took your loved ones

But returned them in exchange for you

But would you have it any other way?

"I want to stop."

But he doesn't. Because they've both been thrown into a messed up place to play by the gamemakers' rules. The capitolites have control over their lives and there are about ten desperate teenagers left who want to break through this trap - back to their loved ones. And it is their goal to make them hurt each other to the point where they don't know who their friends and their enemies are.

_________________________________________________________

Would you have it any other way?

You couldn't have it any other way.

__________________________________________________________

Only one of us.

He is saying it is their greatest test - well, maybe it is. Divided they fall and the Capitol wants them both to fall. This path leads each of them to a dark place with no way out - a life of misery and guilt, the weight of their victims on their fragile shoulders. Those people have control over their bodies, their lives, every breath they take is at their mercy.

But whoever they think they are, they don't control her soul. It is a test. And it is time to make the choice that saves them both.

Stitch, I hope you'll know how much I love you. Even if I won't be there to say it.

"I need to live."

His weapon stings her skin just a little - she has gotten used to those small bruises in her short time in the arena.

"I can't stop now. Now when I've come so far."

The child takes a step forward. There are only a few inches between them now - she can hear the sound of his breathing mix with her hasty words.

"You think there is no other way because that is what they want you to think. But they have been wrong for seventy nine years and they are still wrong!"

And she knows exactly how to prove them wrong.

_______________________________________________________

'Cause she's a cruel mistress

And the bargain must be made.

_______________________________________________________

Her hand is held out with a small gear in it.

"Give this to Joule. And tell them it was my choice. Tell Cordelia not to cry and to keep drawing. Tell them I am all right. And tell my best friend Connor that I love him. And tell Atticus that I said thank you... for everything."

Her fingers release the weapon she's been clutching so tightly for the past five days. And a smile flashes through a salty waterfall which is running down her face.

"And if you see Stitch, say that I am sorry. I was wrong when I ran."

Daddy, Mommy, Bolts, Ping, Neela, Volkner, Wynter, Lavina.

Dad, I know that this is the right thing. Because this is what you always meant. I am afraid, but I won't let you down. You'll be waiting for me, won't you?

"Please, make it quick. If you can. And keep talking to me. Silence is scary."
__________________________________________________

But oh, my love, don't forget me

____________________________________

word count: xxx
quote credit: Dante Alighieri
lyrics: Florence&The Machine - "What the water gave me"

table by: Kaplan

OOC: I think it is pretty clear to everyone already at this point, but Florence doesn't attack

[L△LIA]

[attr="class","Zion3Container"]

[attr="class","Zion3Title"]

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

[attr="class","Zion3Content"]

Zion has had dreams like this. There have been oceans of blood glittering in the sunlight, cradling his body upon the surface as the thick liquid curls up into his ear and he can hear everything that lives below — always questioning: what the heck could live in this? He never peeked in search of the answers he didn’t actually want to know. Most often the oceans were oil, metallic black and terribly beautiful, casting auroras into the sky. Regardless of what he had been set adrift on, sooner or later it would sneak through the canals of his ears and into his nostrils, between the cracks of his teeth, out the tear ducts of his eyes. It would seep from his pores, confessing truths he could never say. This is what I am made of.

Sometimes he wonders if he is only prone to debilitating guilt in this lifetime of oil money and greed or if he would find something to destroy himself over in any life he lived. Maybe it would have been better if he were born into poverty or strict religion or abuse. His concerns could be focused purely on himself instead of ideas that his existence is quietly terrorizing everyone around him and as terrible as some of the alternate scenarios might be to wish for, he thinks they would feel easier than the weight of ideas too big to wrap his mind around. There was never any chance that he was going to come to terms with the realization that his family’s wealth comes at the price of a community riddled with cancer, flammable water, and rotting earth. The truth is that he would have killed himself over it eventually, once he finally stole a little bit of his sister’s self-destructive courage for himself. It’s not sad that he will die today, it just means that someone is beating him to the inevitable punch... or stab, as the case may be.

He’s lost track of the number of times he’s contemplated suicide in this place, outside of this place. This is what the dreams have always meant. Every beautiful vision that found him beneath the moon has made him want to tear away his skin, break his own bones, bite his tongue until roses bloomed from his mouth. He wouldn’t say it, not even to Denali, not until coming here and then he could only admit it to Cassia while she slept. (“Kill me, please.”) If only she would have, that would have been better. Kinder, undoubtedly. There is little hope that anyone else in the arena will untether his soul from his body as cleanly as she would have.

It was too difficult to ask for death in the daylight or even to admit to himself that that’s what he wants. Every child is raised to value their life and especially here they’re told that it’s something worth fighting for, at the cost of others. Zion’s stomach wretches at the thought until he begins coughing uncontrollably, because this has always been what he hates more than anything. Why is his life more important than the girl wielding a spear or the boy with the glaive? Why does he have his head when the girl whose hand he holds has been so gruesomely separated from hers? Why was ensuring that he grew up in a nice house with more food than he ever needed worth fracking the earth until less fortunate families felt they needed to wear gas masks just to breathe while walking down the street? He remembers seeing the Wickham boy reaped a few years back and knowing what the gas mask he wore was for, despite the confusion of the games commentators. The pollution in Five is killing everything and the Lyons family is to blame. The pathetic boy in the innocent lie of a bunny suit is to blame.

Zion doesn’t believe he’s worth it. What has been done because of him is worse than this game — only a handful of children will die here, but the damage back home will affect generations. It’s only fair to demand his head in exchange, but the young girl standing her ground above him disagrees. (“Move, Florence,” says the executioner. “Don’t make me go through you.”) She doesn’t know him; if she did there’s no way she would put herself in harms way like this. They’ve never spoken and Zion doesn’t even know her name. (Florence.) It’s not an accident. (Florence.) It has always been easier to hide himself away in his home instead of going out into the world and meeting the boys wearing gas masks or their mothers, nearly hacking up their lungs after every breath. Zion hates the way Jake Wickham is seared into his memory and he doesn’t want any other names beside it. (MOVE, FLORENCE —

MOVE, CASSIA —

MOVE, DENALI —)

The boy in pink bunny pajamas lays hand in hand in an ocean of blood with the corpse of a decapitated girl. They are both too dead to float, but they float anyhow because everything except their bodies has already sunk. This is called balance. A more impressive balancing act is the way the scattered contents of his rucksack also keep their heads above the sanguine waves — a small crocodile waiting patiently to snap up their bodies once the carnage has truly stilled and a barbarian army of throwing axes circling like sharks.

Rolling onto his back, Zion furrows his brow as he swallows down the sickness that tried to cough it’s way out of him. The movement takes enough effort in his current state that the pace of his breathing doubles, but he still claws at the ground until he manages to wrap his fingers around an axe. Touching it makes him want to die, but this feeling is nothing new. It takes several attempts to pull himself up onto his unsteady feet, slipping in the gore and solidly hitting his head at least once on the flat side of another blade. “Move, Florence.” Despite being an echo of the other boy’s words, Zion doesn’t sound threatening so much as pleading. He’s too light headed to stand without swaying and a groan underlies his voice as he swallows a sudden rush of bile.

The daylight is too bright to summon the courage to ask outright for what he wants. Maybe if it were dark. Maybe if they were sleeping. Maybe if it were twenty years from now balancing on a stool with a belt strung up through the rafters in the attic, maybe then he could say what he actually means. I’ve never been worth it. Thankfully, Zion has found himself in the only place in the world that doesn’t require him to be courageous to get what he wants. He doesn’t have to say the words or put a blade to his wrists. Instead, all he has to do is raise up the axe in his hand — (You could try holding it closer to the bottom, if you want. The trick is not to throw it too hard.) — and pitch it forward with the momentum of his inevitable fall back to the bloody ground. The little white lie of pretending to fight for his life will demand the one thing he can’t bring himself to ask for outright. Kill me, please.

Paper Mache Iris Lune.

[zion attacks with a throwing axe]

[1 is akira // 2 is florence]

VfuaS9FL1-2

[1 // akira]

throwing axe

[10090 // Miss — 0 damage]

[accuracy]

throwing axe

[10190 // Shallow Cut on Back — 4 damage]

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[lance]

Seven devils all around me
Seven devils in my house
See they were there when I woke up this morning
I'll be dead before the day is done

Grief clouds your judgement, your own conscience rebels and muddles your aim. Or perhaps your luck has simply run out, the exertion of striking with such an unwieldy blade with one hand and as much assistance with the other arm as you can muster finally taking its toll. Maybe it's both, or neither. You can no longer tell, not anymore.

What you can tell is that compared to your last few strikes, your attempts at ending life are pathetic. Your first attempt gets blocked, blocked, by your fourteen year old opponent, while the second leaves but a mark on her hip. The fact that your blade comes away red and not blunted is the only consolation, given the armor.

You brace yourself for the inevitable counterattack, but it never comes.

"You think there is no other way because that is what they want you to think. But they have been wrong for seventy nine years and they are still wrong!"

You blink, confused, body still braced to receive whatever strike was tossed your way. But instead of gifting you pain on the edge of a spear, Florence-

What is she doing?

-holds out her free hand, palm outstretched and facing the sky. Sitting in the middle is something you recognize from home - a little gear - and you wonder for exactly four seconds why she is holding out such a thing.

On the fifth second, you realize.

No. Oh god, please no.

"Give this to Joule." A sibling, or a friend back home, perhaps. "And tell them it was my choice." No, definitely family. "Tell Cordelia not to cry and to keep drawing. Tell them I am all right. And tell my best friend Connor that I love him. And tell Atticus that I said thank you... for everything."

She's brave. So much braver than you were at fourteen, are at sixteen, and probably will be for the remainder of her life. Brave enough to take her fate into her own hands, even if that means losing everything.

And she's trusting you with the job.

"And if you see Stitch, say that I am sorry. I was wrong when I ran." I will.

She drops her spear, and smiles. You're definitely crying right now, floodgates opened and all. "I will," you choke out, voice cracking from emotions you've cut off for weeks. "I will. I promise."

"Please, make it quick. If you can." Even with entrusting you with her fate, she's still courteous. Asking, not demanding. And you're not sure you deserve such trust. "And keep talking to me. Silence is scary."

"I will." A third time, for you have no idea what to say. "I-I-" and you can't, for you're cut off by a sob. You don't want to do this. She's a fourteen year old girl with no other connection to you than the place of your birth, and yet you never wanted to be her end. She didn't deserve it, not now, no more than you or any other kid that was plucked from their homes and their families and forced to fight for their very lives on national television. She deserved to grow old and find love, have a family of her own perhaps if that was what she wished. And then when her time came, it should have been-

You swallow, realization providing a spark amongst a sea of grief. She was choosing to go out on her own terms, surrounded by someone she trusted. And trust too easily she perhaps did, but you would not betray that trust if it meant your death.

"Okay," you manage after a few seconds. Keep talking, Sokatoa. Take this burden on your shoulders and make it easy for her.

Your blade raises, and then something hits you square in the back. Surprised, you lurch forward as the breath is expelled from your lungs, and pain blossoms at the impact as the tattered remains of your armored vest crumble beneath the impact.

In your zealotry, locked in your emotions and your conflict, you had completely forgotten about the one-armed pale boy lurking by the decapitated corpse. And right as you had been ready to grant one wish, another had pushed it aside, drawing your attention as a little kid might. No, me! No, me first!

You turn, from broken boy to resigned girl and back. One wants the death that only you can provide, a death you're not even sure you can grant her. The other, you have no idea, but he hardly seems fit for survival himself.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, pulled apart by two different forces, you feel the stress and weight of the decisions laid out before you building up.

I'm so sorry. Because you're not some magical angel of death, here to deliver salvation to each and every individual that seeks it out. You're not some higher power deserving of such a choice, even if you try and convince yourself that you are worth it day after bloody day.

You're just a sixteen year old kid with two counts of murder lying on your shoulders, pulled in half by forces other than your own that want to double that count in a matter of minutes.

You can't handle that pressure, so you act on your instincts.

It is with an ungodly scream that you announce your decision, weeks worth of repressed emotions and guilt and stress coming out in one guttural cry. Even as you swing your blade towards the boy that demanded your attention, you're not sure he's deserving of your particular brand of justice.

He deserves better, just like Florence, just like you, just like every other tortured soul doomed to lose their life in this godforsaken paradise.

But you're all he's got, and all she's got, so you'll do what you can to make that count.

However much that might be worth.

Seven devils all around you
Seven devils in your house
See I was dead when I woke up this morning
I'll be dead before the day is done
Before the day is done

song: Seven Devils - Florence and the Machine

akira attacks zion; glaive

KtKPdxcsglaive

13049 -- Shallow Cut on Neck -- 4.0 damage

glaive

[Sleepy Fluttershy]

F L O R E N C E
⚡
S P A R K

On and on
The rain will fall
Like tears from a star

Florence stands in front of the boy from her district with her eyes wide open. Defenceless. Ready to go. And just then the other guy who has been silent all this time, launches himself at Akira with a weapon in his healthy hand. He demands that she moves. Why? Does he feel worse about killing a smaller child? Why do they all want to spare her? In any case, it's still ending a life.

Really? We were in the middle of something here!

She is not mad at him and she would want to feel anger. But he is hurting her district partner. And he must not die if she can help it. He needs to go home. Go home for them both. She can't let anyone harm him.

The child picks up her spear again as quick as she can. Well, if that boy wants to prolong her agony, she'll survive it. But he must not hit her friend.

I am afraid.

I am afraid that...

She takes her aim. With her shaky hands it is difficult. Realising that Akira's next hit doesn't land in her chest or anywhere close to her at all feels like coming back from the dead.

"I am afraid I'll change my mind".

The words come out in a raspy whisper.

Did I just say it out loud?

Now that she is out of harm's way for a second, she understands how much effort it's going to take her to make the right decision again after they convince Zion to step back - one way or another. Her breath rattles in her lungs. The air is circling through her body. She is feeling even more alive than before and all of a sudden life becomes a precious thing that she doesn't want to give away so badly...

But she must not think about it right now. Akira is in danger and she has to protect him. They can figure everything else after he is safe. They'll do it together. They have to.

"Get away from my friend!"

And she strikes with all her might.

On and on

The rain will say

How fragile we are

word count: xxx
quote credit: Dante Alighieri
lyrics: Sting - "Fragile"

table by: Kaplan

Florence Spark attacks Zion with a spear

KM2PMH47spear

3045 -- Stabbed in Stomach -- 9.5 damage
(Spear)spear

[L△LIA]

[attr="class","Zion4Container"]

[attr="class","Zion4Title"]

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

[attr="class","Zion4Content"]

The axes name themselves after Zion’s sisters, hoping this will make him love them. Denali. Seville. Peregrine. Tallulah. Rio. Cassia. Neglected since the bloodbath, weapons are not used to feeling unloved here. Other children clutch them to their hearts, declaring their blade their most prized and beloved possession. Ever. There are few things more precious in this place and Zion should have spent these past five nights holding the axes close as he slept, tracing their curves with admiration and whispering sweet nothings about how thankful he is to have their protection. Instead they were shoved into the bottom of his rucksack, buried beneath stuffed crocodiles and scavenged food, as he pretended they didn’t exist. He would not touch them, would not look at them, would not name them the way others do and so they have named themselves, fed up with being neglected.

Maybe this is why he finally reached out for the axes, flinging one at the other boy like he should have been doing since the beginning. Back in Five, Denali yells ("Yes, Zion! Please, please, please —" kill Akira, please...) and catches herself clapping with feverish hope before she realizes what she’s cheering for, biting her lip in forced silence, but leaning into the television as if trying to push her will through it and into her brother. The attack is small, but when Zion originally dropped to the ground with the decapitated girl his sisters had fallen quiet with defeat. Everyone was secretly surprised that he had come this far, but... maybe if he tried. Just a little more. This unexpected attack renews the hope of the entire Lyons family that Zion hasn’t given up just yet.

Akira’s armor cracks against Denali’s determination, the redhead and the axe smirking triumphantly in perfect time with each other. Both are fierce and worthy opponents, but there is something more fearsome still about the axe that Zion lands on when he falls onto hand and knees. ("He's scared," Seville notes bluntly to everyone, not realizing how obvious or awkward it is for her to call this out. There is a part of her that is proud of herself for being able to correctly identify an emotion and so she doesn’t flinch when Denali pulls a face that declares Seville an idiot, because of course he’s scared. Wouldn’t you be afraid? She would not, but that’s her own secret to bear. She wouldn’t feel anything because she never has and she doesn’t know what to do with that, but it’s the one thing she knows wouldn’t be forgiven if she spoke the thought aloud.)

Much like her namesake, the axe that calls herself Seville also wonders what it would be like to feel something. When Zion collapses onto the end of her handle, she sighs with frustration because that’s not what she meant. More than a sense of touch she wonders what something like regret would feel like and whether or not she might experience it if she hacked one of these children to bits or became so deeply lodged in one of their brains that she could feel other things vicariously through them.

All Zion can do is struggle to breathe, certain that his lungs are collapsing after the exertion of standing, and his sisters and axes collectively yell for him to pull himself together. It’s impossible for him to hear them. Near or far, vocal chords or not, the blood rushes to his head as he manages to pull himself into a sitting position and the only sound that reaches him is the hollow echo of his own scream as he instinctively flinches away from the glaive swinging for his neck, only to put himself directly in the path of the spear. It sinks into his belly with sickening fluidity, sending a wave of tremors across the soft expanse of surrounding skin. A childhood memory sparks in his head of seeing gelatin for the first time and how he was terribly afraid of it because it looked deceptively like candy, but moved like a monster. His stomach shivers outward from the wound in a way that shouldn’t be possible, muscles fighting the force of the weapon by seizing around it, and he can feel it lodged within him, feel it move with him. It is a deep violation. When his eyes water, it is not simply from the pain. Confusion floods him because this is what he wanted, but it isn’t what he wanted at all. Zion is used to everything being made easy for him, automatically, as even this was supposed to be.

Desperately reaching out in retaliation, Seville is there for him — eager, although she can’t admit it aloud. Neither this sister or this axe believe he will see the end of the fight, but both are selfishly anticipating what will happen next. At any moment they might feel something for the first time in their lives. Maybe Zion will die and Seville will cry genuine tears instead of having to pinch herself so no one suspects that she is only a pretty mimicry of the kind of humanity that has just been lost. Maybe seeing the inside of Florence’s neck or Akira’s own stomach if Zion flung the axe deep into their flesh would fill her with inexplicable horror over what her sweet, sweet brother has been made to do. In this moment she will be tested as much as him, maybe more. Everyone has an unspeakable truth and the suicidal boy takes up the axe of his sociopathic sister so they can both discover if they really are what they’ve always feared. ("You can do this, Zi," Seville whispers breathlessly as he picks up her axe and she is hurled toward an answer neither Lyons child is certain they’re prepared for.)

Paper Mache Iris Lune.

[zion attacks with a throwing axe]

[1 is akira // 2 is florence]

CfWp5|xg1-2

[1 // akira]

throwing axe

[10200 // bruised back — 2.5 damage]

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[lance]

Seven devils all around me
Seven devils in my house
See they were there when I woke up this morning
I'll be dead before the day is done

Your blade finds gold at the other boy's neck, but it is not enough. A simple cut is no slit throat, nothing that would make his torment end any quicker, just a little more painful. You had failed him, just as you had predicted you might.

Gazes lock, you look into the eyes of a boy that truly has lost it all - the eyes of someone so far gone down the rabbit hole of insanity that life is more torturous than natural deep in their bones. You recognize it because you've seen it before - in the final gasps of Cesare Crocetti, in the pained laugh of Lavina Cheyne, in the eyes of beggars back home and random children on the television.

Fighting to survive is one thing. Fighting to murder, fighting to end one's torment, is something else entirely.

The boy pulls out another throwing axe, and you realize with a start that he didn't just strike you to play games and get your attention, he means to fight.

Of course. Wait till your back was turned and you had forgotten about him, wait till you were locked in emotions and an impossible choice, and then strike. An axe that, had you not had the remains of your armor and a fair bit of luck, could have very well sunk itself into your back, causing critical damage.

You did cut off this boy's arm, after all. It only makes sense that he'd want to strike back at you in retribution.

He winds for the throw, and you pivot. But your evasive maneuver ends up to be in vain, for a heavy force hits you square in the back nonetheless. But instead of sharp you feel only blunt, instead of another scream you let out only an oof of exertion as the air is once again forced out of your lungs.

Then comes the squelch, and you turn to see that Florence has dug her spear into the boy's stomach, not so far to end him but far enough that you're certain that it must hurt like a bitch.

"Get away from my friend!"

You're not quite sure where Florence got the idea that you two were friends - you'd never set eyes upon one another until you both had been consigned to the same fate, and now she has entrusted you with something you don't think you would personally ever be able to hand to anyone else, and that was her fate. But right now, you don't care.

You're grateful, even.

You'll do what you can to make her end a quick one, even as tears stream down and dry up on your cheeks and your throat rubs itself raw with every shout.

You'll do what you can for this boy, too, even if he is trying to kill you. Because deep down, all he is is just another scared, tortured soul who had no business being in an arena of death and destruction.

His fate, for better or for worse, is in your hands as well. So you move to follow up with Florence's strike, sending your own blade his way as well.

Let me finish what I started, and quickly.

Please.

Seven devils all around you
Seven devils in your house
See I was dead when I woke up this morning
I'll be dead before the day is done
Before the day is done

song: Seven Devils - Florence and the Machine

akira attacks zion; glaive

QkEuR30Jglaive

13004 -- Shallow Cut on Back of Head -- 4.5 damage

glaive

[Sleepy Fluttershy]

F L O R E N C E
⚡
S P A R K

You've got a big heart

The way you see the world

It got you this far

The boy from five doesn't stop and for Florence Spark it means that her end has been delayed. She must help her friend one last time and then she is sure there will be no mercy - not that she's hoping for it. Her job here will be done and the only thing left to do would be letting Akira go so that he could live for them both. He has to survive. But even if he doesn't, there will be someone else who will.

Does he even consider her his friend? This doesn't matter to her though. He is a human and they talked - that makes him a friend, right? Anyone's life is worth just as much as hers and her life is worth exactly as much as his, but she has someone waiting for her... there. This makes it easier for her to make this decision. And he must live. If he dies, it won't be from her hands.

He strikes at the other boy another time. She is supposed to protect him, so she raises her weapon and aims but then hesitates a little.

"Do you have anyone... on the other side?"

The question is adressed at her friend from three and she is not sure if he is going to answer. It is a tough one. But she wants to know if they have this one thing in common. For no particular reason - she just needs to hear the answer.

Mommy, Daddy, Bolts, Ping, Neela, Volkner, Wynter, Lavina

Maybe she forgot someone. Some people also died the day before, two days before... And she doesn't even know their names. But at least her friends are always in her heart and nothing can cut them out. And she will also remain with everyone she loves. They just won't get a chance to talk face to face for a really long time.

The clock is ticking. And the blood is running from the district five boy's stomach. She didn't mean that. Sometimes this weapon just does more damage than she intended to do. But the boy will probably never know that. And even if she tells him, he might not believe it.

The wound in his stomach is just like the one Stitch had after the bloodbath. Was it really Stitch's stomach or someone else's? The details are so fuzzy in her head and so clear at the same time. Every little thing was there, but she couldn't understand how it was possible for all those events to pass.

People shouldn't be sent to die. That is clear enough. But even more important is the rule that they shouldn't be sent to kill.

"I'm sorry. I don't want you to get hurt, just get away from him and I'll leave you alone."

She can't just stand there when her friend is being attacked. But she is also hoping to miss the boy's body.

Sorry.

She won't stop feeling sorry while she is in this place.

You might have some bruises

And a few scars

But you know you're gonna be okay

...

And even though you're scared,

You're stronger than you know.

word count: xxx
quote credit: Dante Alighieri
lyrics: "Something wild"

table by: Kaplan

Florence Spark attacks Zion with a spear

07fbDKoCspear

3085 -- Shallow Cut on Chest -- 4.0 damage
(Spear)spear