(this means forgetting) | finale

[dars]

Does the wolf apologize
When it stands on top?
Should the lion say his grace
When he takes his mark?

"That we are, Seven,"

The words were like scripture; holy and so full of hope. God, he had forgotten what that felt like. He'd lost it sometime ago even before the reaping, sometime when the playground games weren't fun anymore, when anxiety took the place of wonder and he was supposed to worry about getting a steady job instead of dreaming of the wild things he could've accomplished.

Hope.

It felt good, even if it was something as fleeting as this. Even if it was going to be over in an instant as the evil march of time dragged him further and further along the dark road; he was grateful for the moment of light to remind him why he bothered with survival in the first place.

"We've done some horrible things, haven't we?" The laugh that followed was, perhaps, to keep a sob at bay. It was so powerful, enlightenment. It took root in the base of his spine and grew like wildflowers along his back. It was enough to straighten his posture, raise his chin into the air a bit as his eyes found their counterpart. Three held fear in him, just as the rest of them did. But damn, if he hadn't been good at hiding it. There were two bodies lying there to show for it: one with a hole in his head, one whose clothes were still smoldering from the fire.

The deaths Mackenzie had caused were cleaner, at least.

"Do you think it makes us bad?"

Another question the grounds of which were shaky at best. Was there really a correct answer to something like that? Saying no means you're comfortable with killing; saying yes means you're weak.

"Or does it just make us survivors?"

Living and the dead—

There was no such thing as right or wrong; it had taken Bella's life for Mackenzie to understand that much. And Dove's. And Neela's. And Ike's and Wynter's and Faline's and Stitch's and the boy from Six and everyone who had died so that Mackenzie was still able to stand there and look this boy in his fearful eyes.

Mackenzie wondered what he feared; dying or living.

The boy struck and it was easy enough for Mackenzie to bat his glaive away, sidestepping and huffing with effort. He wasn't built for fighting; this was not his nature. He was out of place, but he was adapting. He was trying.

Mackenzie unsheathed his sword in all of its terrifying glory. It was once white as bone, now stained red in places no matter how hard tried to scrub it clean. Scar and sin. Neither could be cleansed quite so easily.

So, he did what he could, and prayed for forgiveness.

I do what I need to
What I have to, to survive
Well, I can try
But I'm going to stay alive

song: stay alive

[mackenzie attacks akira; sword]
FnayIamvsword
[block]

sword

[lance]

I'm taking it slow
Feeding my flame
Shuffling the cards of your game

Your first blow is slow, unsteady, days of fatigue and blood loss catching up with you now that you were wielding the heavy polearm instead of tossing significantly lighter axes. Deadly as you might have been the previous days with your weapon of jade, it still was not the easiest thing to wield with just one hand. Instead of striking flesh, it was batted away as if it were no more than an annoyance to the boy from Seven.

And who knows? Perhaps it was. You'd already decided that no one amongst the top four had gotten this far without ending the life of at least one person or another, and Seven was no different from you in that regard. The last of his spears spent, he draws a sword - and like the blade of your polearm, it is not clean but stained with the sins of his past.

Someone had died upon that blade, just like those that had died upon yours. You would not join them without a fight.

"We've done some horrible things, haven't we?" A laugh follows Seven's question, and you can't help but wonder if it was rhetorical. Murder in the districts was one of the worst offenses that one could commit on this earth, yet in here it was not only encouraged but celebrated. The bloodiest tributes were the true heroes of the Games to old and young, rich and poor alike.

You wondered where that put you on that list then, a burden matched only by two before you. Shelby had emerged as a conqueror, Ansel had fallen before someone whose will had been greater than even his.

You wondered which one of those you would end up as.

"Do you think it makes us bad?"

Philosophy with a side of murder - not entirely how you'd expected your day to go, that was for sure.

"Or does it just make us survivors?"

You chuckle at that, for it is only the same question that you had been asking yourself ever since you murdered Cesare Crocetti. "I think it's whatever you want to believe, honestly," you respond, answer practiced, prepared. "Is it bad to want to survive? Is it bad to do whatever possible to hold onto that fickle little thing called life?"

You ready your blade, not content to let your guard down while you ponder life's greatest questions. "I don't regret the kills I've made, Seven," you say, honestly. "If that makes me a bad person, then I'm willing to carry that label until the day I die if it means I get to survive past sixteen."

Inhale, exhale, you swing.

And just in time
In the right place
Suddenly I will play my ace

song: Eyes on Fire - Blue Foundation

akira attacks mackenzie; glaive

GAlxdxvcglaive

13108 -- Deep Gash on Right Thigh -- 8.0 damage

glaive

[dars]

Does the wolf apologize
When it stands on top?
Should the lion say his grace
When he takes his mark?

The boy was lucky to not wear his regrets on his outer skin; he may have burned within from the lie of it or stood rigid with the brutal honesty. The fact was that he wasn't letting it beat him. Mackenzie envied him in a way. At the very least, the boy from Three was good at keeping his feelings locked deeply within himself where no one could see him.

That was something Mackenzie wouldn't have ever been able to do, no matter the circumstance. It was always his honest eyes that Mackenzie's mother looked into when she asked a question, not Max's. She could make a lie feel like the truth. Better, even.

"I regret taking life," Mackenzie admitted, groaning as his rival took a chunk out of his leg. It was blinding, white-hot and searing and enough to make him curse under his breath. It broke his focus, as if it hadn't already been broken enough. Teeth gritting together and eyes narrowing with fury for a moment, he forced himself to keep calm. He couldn't give himself over to the boy when he was on the edge of freedom; he couldn't lose himself when he was so close to winning.

He rebalanced himself, taking in a deep breath and clearing his thoughts. The pain in his leg still wasn't tolerable; it fucking hurt. He could feel the warmth of his blood dripping down his leg in some sick version of an unwanted embrace and he hated that even more than the gaping wound.

"But I don't—" he waited for the pain to peak, keeping his eyes on the other boy and hoping he didn't make a move. He would've been stupid not to and Mackenzie knew that; he tried to appear as unshaken as he could, despite the break that had occurred in his voice, until the pain began to subside into something slightly less potent.

"But I don't regret fighting for mine."

Two sides of the same coin. In the end, all that mattered was if any of it would prove worth while. If he died, it was in vain to everything he'd fought for. He recognized that and it terrified him enough to attack.

I do what I need to
What I have to, to survive
Well, I can try
But I'm going to stay alive

song: stay alive

[mackenzie attacks akira; sword]
piYSIMy2sword
[1135 -- Deep Gash on Right Bicep -- 8.0 damage]

sword

[lance]

I'm taking it slow
Feeding my flame
Shuffling the cards of your game

Your second blow strikes true, finding a home in Seven's leg. Yet it garners no satisfaction, indeed, the spray of blood stirs nothing deep within your psyche.

You suppose that after the sixth time, fighting to kill doesn't shock you as much as it did a mere four days ago, for some strange reason.

Yank, withdraw, rinse and repeat, an age old strategy that hasn't let you down yet, and shouldn't let you down now. Your blade runs red with fresh blood, and your heart still beats within your chest - you're so close you can practically taste it. Six souls may weigh you down, but only temporarily - you still have the drive to push on.

Seven pauses, lowering the tempo, and you're not sure if it's genuine from the strike to the thigh or a ruse to lure you in. More words come, and you find it refreshing, somewhat, to have a foe that talks back instead of silently going through the motions like a machine. Better yet, he takes the initiative, leaving that awkward start out of your remaining hand.

You had barely talked before yesterday, as much by choice as by design, but it certainly hadn't been because of a lack of ability.

"I regret taking life," Seven admits, and you don't blame him for that. You'd regretted Cesare, sure, and you definitely regretted Florence if no one else. No doubt you'd regret the rest, if you'd spent more time dwelling on them.

Murder was a necessary evil that you must commit to live. You'd told yourself that several times. After all, any chance of you living a normal life had gone out the window the second your name had been selected, one out of thousands, to die or live on someone else's terms.

All either of you could do now was make the best out of a truly shitty situation.

"But I don't—" Seven cuts off, his face twisting in pain, and you resist the urge to take advantage of his weakness. "But I don't regret fighting for mine."

Again, you grin, just for a second. "So we're on the same page then," you conclude. "I don't regret fighting for my life either."

If you win, you'll have done so carrying an unprecedented seven souls on your shoulders, dead directly at your blade. And you'll regret each and every one of those till the day you die, of that you were certain.

But you would not miss any sleep over doing so to further your own life. You'd been put into a situation that should have killed you many times over - to survive through all that would be worth all the sins that you could rack up over a lifetime.

A blade sinks into your arm, and you cry out in pain. The fight is past the midway point, reaching apotheosis, and you can't afford to slip up even one bit.

So you swing towards the boy from Seven, your heart ablaze with each and every one of your convictions.

And just in time
In the right place
Suddenly I will play my ace

song: Eyes on Fire - Blue Foundation

akira attacks mackenzie; glaive

EeNtCNJdglaive

13187 -- Deep Gash on Back -- 8.5 damage

glaive

[dars]

Does the wolf apologize
When it stands on top?
Should the lion say his grace
When he takes his mark?

Mackenzie's sword cut into his foe's arm, slicing through cloth and skin alike and leaving a bloody trail in its wake. Razor sharp: this was designed to kill. It was not a blade built to decorate walls or for a rich man to brag about. It was angry and sharp, and it didn't mind taking life.

It belonged to someone stronger than he.

Three countered by pulling him in close and Mackenzie saw the attack before it landed. A glint of deadly silver amid the beautiful green of the forest and the stagnant air of what was once Stitch Gabel. There was no time to avoid it completely, so all Mackenzie could do was turn away as a blade ripped into his back. He felt it plummet deep into his flesh, right by his right shoulder blade, and it sliced him all the way down to his left hip.

He hissed in anguish: a broken body for a broken boy.

There was so much he wanted to say and so very little time to say them. He couldn't expect Three to stand idle while Mackenzie spoke; he certainly wouldn't have if the tables were turned. He wanted to ask the boy's name, remembering back to when it was all Dove wanted in her last moments.

("I don't want to die killed by unknown tributes or surrounded by strangers.")

There was beauty in her simplicity, he thought. In the bare exposure of her wants and of the purest form of innocence. Mackenzie didn't want to die to a stranger, either, and this boy wasn't done fighting him. He thought, perhaps, there was still time for that to come, but not yet.

He waited, side stepping attacks and sighing when his own were parried with disregard. Was he going to die?

He hoped his family thought to look away if that ever happened. He didn't want their last memory of him to be something so dark; he didn't want them to hate a boy for doing his best to survive. If he lived, he'd be forced to look them in the eye soon enough, and that would already be hard enough. Mackenzie imagined with a sickness in him, seeing Neela's mother, weeping, Bella's friends with their clenched jaws trying to remain strong for the cameras, Dove's siblings looking at him like he haunted their dreams.

There was, perhaps, no greater terror than facing a murder, and he dreaded it. But it still seemed better than dying, and Mackenzie did not want to give up hope.

Do what it takes, he heard Faline say.

Fight or die, Bella agreed.

He growled like something feral, and he attacked with intent to kill.

I do what I need to
What I have to, to survive
Well, I can try
But I'm going to stay alive

song: stay alive

[mackenzie attacks akira; sword]
PIZ|zbGOsword
[1114 -- Shallow Cut on Right Calf -- 3.5 damage]

sword

[lance]

I'm taking it slow
Feeding my flame
Shuffling the cards of your game

You strike, he turns, and your blade carves a nasty red line across his back. You feel the hiss he releases in pain as much as you hear it; a wounded response from someone not quite at their last ropes.

Apotheosis turns into endgame - you're slowing, tiring, after just a handful of strikes. Your opponent isn't faring much better, bleeding from thigh and back and stomach, victim of your blade and who knew how many others before. If it's anything like what you suffered, it must have been great - you, after all, had had your chest sliced open by a giant worm, your thigh and stomach gashed by Stitch from Eight, your hand severed by Charlie from Ten or Zion from Five - you never had been able to figure out which of them had done it, damn white boys - and your neck cut by the latter's throwing axe the day before. You'd lost track of which one had done it, but you were reasonably sure that you had used that very same axe to kill one of the boys before you. Coated in your own blood, then judgement dealt by your hand, it was poetic.

And now, aside from the boy from Seven, each and every person that had lain their blade across your skin had perished, unable to outlive the boy they had tried to kill. From the looks of things, this would be close - the other looked as bad as you felt.

You'd never been close to death's door proper thus far. No doubt you'd flirted with it nearly every day you'd fought, from when the worm had torn open your chest to when you'd lost your hand to when Stitch landed critical blows as you did your best to defend Andy. You're close now, you can feel it, the endless sleep oh so tempting for your battered, bleeding body.

But so is he. And you will fight, until your last breath if you must, to hold onto your iron grip on life.

There's no more words coming from the mouth of the other boy as he strikes, and you perhaps see why; his strike, aimed for your leg, cuts where the others have gashed, and though it sends a new wave of pain through your tortured system, you hang on.

Not yet, you grimace. Not fucking yet.

You move to strike, but you hesitate for just a moment. A whim floods your mind, and before you can really think on through, you act on it.

"What's your name?" you ask, hypocrisy thrown to the wind as you told yourself that you wouldn't do so for any of the people you struck down. Nameless faces were easier to kill than those you humanized - that had been proven as much when it hurt to cut down Florence Spark and yet you'd cut down Petunia Hudson without so much as a second glance - and yet a nagging part of you wants to know.

For the first time, you're pushed to the brink. And you must be selfish, because you don't want the same fate that befell most of those you killed to fall on you. You want to know the name of the boy who might be your killer, confirm that there was a bit of human left inside their shattered soul.

"I want to know, regardless-" You stop yourself, for you cannot speak the words out loud. Not when you're so close. Not when he's just as close himself.

"I want to know," comes the repetition, and even with your words, you ready yourself for the strike.

"I'm Akira."

And just in time
In the right place
Suddenly I will play my ace

song: Eyes on Fire - Blue Foundation

akira attacks mackenzie; glaive

CNZeUYeBglaive

13121 -- Deep Gash on Left Calf -- 8.0 damage

glaive

[dars]

Does the wolf apologize
When it stands on top?
Should the lion say his grace
When he takes his mark?

"What's your name?"

He dared to ask the question Mackenzie was too afraid to ask. So close to the end, maybe it was best to look back. He'd always heard not to: always look forward, never backward. Maybe a name was just one less demon to haunt him in the grand scheme of things. Maybe he was asking for himself, just as Mackenzie meant to ask before for his own peace of mind.

"I want to know, regardless-" There was more to that sentence, but he wasn't going to say it. Regardless of who dies, Mackenzie thought. Tears stung his eyes. The dead and the living; no right, no wrong.

"I want to know."

Why did names hold so much fucking power? Fearing a name, loving one, it was just a word, and it should've been left at that but Mackenzie knew it was so much more. That one word: Wynter, Ike, Faline— it was everything that had ever mattered. A story of a childhood, of scars and trials and tribulations and every decision that had led to them standing in front of you, telling you who they were, who they wanted to become.

Mackenzie understood now why Dove wanted to know who he was even when he was poised to kill her.

"I'm Akira."

Akira, from District Three, who wanted to survive.

"Mackenzie."

He felt lighter on his feet, happy to know the nameless face that might've taken his life. Happy to see him as a person, as Akira. Not as the monster who wanted him dead, who burned Stitch right in front of him and planted his axe in an oblivious foe's head. He'd easily killed more than those around him to get here, just as Mackenie had. But that was different, now.

He was just Akira, Mackenzie was just afraid.

Mackenzie just wanted to end it, one way or the other, though the lightness in his feet could have had more than one explanation. He was close to death, and he recognized it. Now is the time, he thought.

He looked up at the sky, unaware of the tears falling down his cheeks.

"Mom, Max, please look away now."

I do what I need to
What I have to, to survive
Well, I can try
But I'm going to stay alive

song: stay alive

[mackenzie attacks akira; sword]
xQgPF3_Dsword
[1087 -- Shallow Cut on Right Thigh -- 3.5 damage]

sword

[lance]

Somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
Somebody make me feel alive
And shatter me

<><><><><>

Endgame.

From the rising action through to apotheosis, the climax, it has all come down to this. You stand, bleeding from half a dozen different wounds, your opponent facing equal circumstances, both on death's door, yet only one will reach it first.

Blade to the calf, your opponent nevertheless endures. Cut on the leg, and you do the same. You're fading, in and out of reality, seven days' worth of blood loss catching up to you all at once. You don't even feel pain anymore; you just feel cold.

And yet you've dragged the boy from Seven down with you, this far at least. You asked his name, and he deigns you with a response. "Mackenzie," is his name, the label to a face older, wiser, tougher, and yet equally as pained as yours.

Mackenzie, the boy from Seven. The name of your end or your final stepping stone, of which, exactly, you have not yet determined. He's so much different and yet just like you at the same time - just a kid all out of luck, forced into a fight that he might not survive.

And just like you, he's made it so very far. But there are not two victors to the Hunger Games - there never was, and never will be. And today will not change that.

He strikes, yet the attack is weak. Like you, he is fading. Like you, he still fights on.

Mackenzie, you think. A name to a face at the bitter end. For that, I thank you.

You ignore the stinging in your leg, ignore the cold feeling building up within, ignore the fuzziness filling your vision, your consciousness. Leaning on the polearm for support, you catch words from the other boy.

"Mom, Max, please look away now."

A plea. To a mother, and someone else - a sibling? Stepparent? Significant other?

The end is near. You both recognize that, and in what could be his last moments, he thinks of others. Opposite to yourself, where you focus on selfishness, he focuses on selflessness.

Mackenzie from Seven is not a bad person, you think, whether he dies or wins, no matter his fears. Of that, you are certain.

The thought reassures you, somewhat.

"I'm sorry," you say, and you mean it. You really do, which surprises you. "It shouldn't have to be like this."

You pause, gasping for air. For all of your bravado, you aren't far behind Mackenzie when it comes to the race to death's door. "If there was another way-" Again, you pause. There is no need to fill the air; you both are smart enough to figure that out.

"But I don't regret doing this to survive," you admit. "I don't regret a damn thing at all." Cough. "And if you make it out of here, I don't want you to regret it, either."

Platitudes to the enemy that may end up worthless in seconds - and yet, you think Mackenzie from Seven deserves that much peace of mind, at least.

I don't regret anything, you think.

I can't regret anything.

I won't.

<><><><><>

So cut me from the line
Dizzy, spinning endlessly
Somebody make me feel alive
And shatter me!

Lyrics from Shatter Me by Lindsey Stirling

akira attacks mackenzie; glaive

HhN86PdVglaive

13009 -- Block -- 0.0 damage

glaive

[dars]

Does the wolf apologize
When it stands on top?
Should the lion say his grace
When he takes his mark?

For a moment, he accepted his death. Just like that, a snap of the finger, and he would have been gone and it would have been so easy. Like sleeping; peace, at last.

"Don't look—" he whispered, and Akira surged toward him.

"Mom!"

It was so bright at first. Then, born from the light, a plain field of barley, golden in the late autumn. Crisp air, dry enough to make him lick his lips. He blinked, confused by what his eyes were seeing. Wasn't he supposed to be—

A child ran past him, long legged and dark haired; spindly. He recognized the striped pattern of the shirt well enough to know it was him, or a younger version of himself. Even without seeing his face, there was no denying that slightly clumsy yet athletically inclined sprint. Just behind him, a girl who wore no shoes followed his every footstep.

Maxine always hated shoes when she was younger.

Across the field, a woman stood in wait for the children. She looked tired and worn, but happy. Warm in the kind of way only mothers could be.

Is this a memory? he thought. He looked down at himself, at the sudden cleanness of his clothes, the absence of pain in his limbs. To be sure, he looked at his palm, fully expecting to see those terrifying words that had haunted him ever since they'd first appeared: Thank you, Friend.

His hands were bare, free of scar and dirt and every sin he'd managed to bring down upon himself.

He was instilled with a sort of fear, an urgency that he couldn't explain, nor identify. There was something about time, something in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite reach. It felt vaguely familiar, this amnesia of things he should have known. Almost like the fog, how it had taken his thoughts and vanished them. Some of them still hadn't returned no matter how hard he tried, and maybe that was a good thing.

The more he forgot, the better, right?

The children reached their mother and she grabbed each of them with an open arm. They both giggled with joy, and it was such an inviting sight that when the younger version of himself turned and looked Mackenzie dead in the eye, he only smiled. When the boy reached his hand out, an invitation to something better, it was Mackenzie's instinct to run over and take it. Walk on to some place where he could be happy again.

He took a single step, then another, and another, and eventually he was running. He laughed, excitement on his lips as he grew closer and closer to them.

And then, all at once, the sky turned gray.

"I don't regret doing this to survive. I don't regret doing a damn thing at all." He knew that voice.

It was the voice of Akira, from Three, who wanted to survive.

He looked up at the sky, at the rolling clouds as they appeared and stretched to take over the entire horizon in a matter of seconds. When he looked back down, his mother stood directly in front of him.

"Not yet."

In what must have been less than a second, he saw Akira's weapon soaring directly for his face, and he moved. Instinctive, a swat of slick silver away from him, he stood with pride.

"And if you make it out of here, I don't want you to regret it, either."

Regret was a sourness on the soul, weighing a person down, making each footstep feel somehow heavier. It was waking up in the morning already pissed off, looking down at your hands only to find them clenched into fists. Regret was heartbreaking, and cruel, and evil. And the worst part of it was that there wasn't anything anyone could do about it unless they were forgiven for whatever it was they had regrets about doing. And even then, it usually wasn't enough.

Mackenzie didn't want to walk around for the rest of his life with Akira's death on his shoulders. He didn't want to do that with anyone he'd killed. He just wanted to fucking live and it wasn't fair that he was suddenly okay with giving up. Wasn't that what they wanted? To see them crumble, to use them as plot points? To romanticize their deaths and glorify their murders? It was so stupid and Mackenzie had made one promise to himself going into this, one:

Don't let them take who you are, Mackenzie.

Looking at a sky could be seen under two perspectives: on one hand, there were once no stars, and now there were many. Perhaps the light was winning. But, on the other hand, the darkness was still so much greater, so much deeper than the light. It was so easy to choose what was easiest, even when it went against everything Mackenzie stood for.

He braved the shadows as they swept over him.

"I won't, Akira."

I do what I need to
What I have to, to survive
Well, I can try
But I'm going to stay alive

song: stay alive

[mackenzie attacks akira; sword]
DFFbn4XGsword
[1112 -- Shallow Cut on Right Hip -- 3.5 damage]

sword

[lance]

Somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
Somebody make me feel alive
And shatter me

<><><><><>

Pride comes before the fall, but the fall comes regardless.

Your blow, heavy, desperate, is blocked. Your regrets, heavy on your shoulders, transferred to your blade - Mackenzie from Seven still lives on.

And you're so, so tired. Pain doesn't register anymore - you attribute it to the blood loss, or maybe you've just reached the end of your rope. You aren't quite sure anymore.

"I won't, Akira."

I-

You vaguely register the blade hitting your hip, and yet there's no pain left to feel. Leaning against the polearm for support, hilt digging into soil, you gaze upon the other boy. You're so close, he's so close, yet only one can advance.

And yet, you're not sure you have any strength left in your body.

I...

You've come this far, and there's been far harder obstacles that you have overcome. Obstacles such as the worm that tore your chest open way back on the first day. Obstacles such as Cesare Crocetti, your first kill. Obstacles such as the endurance test against Stitch from Eight, enduring gash after gash on your body as you'd done your part to ensure Andy's survival and kill the girl from Four. Obstacles such as the shadow dragon, and the boy who sliced your arm off, and obstacles such as Ollie and Dove, and the indecision to save a girl who had forgiven you despite all your sins and contradicting Bella. Obstacles such as a virtual three on one, or what would have been had you not evened the odds with the severing of Petunia Hudson's head, nor the indecision of Zion until his death throes or Florence after the first couple of rounds.

And obstacles such as round two versus Stitch from Eight, ended in blood and fire, and the unknown boy from Six, ended with an axe to the head.

And yet, now, so close to the end, a sliver of Mackenzie from Seven's lifeline standing between you and your victory.

And yet-

I....

Can't...

Your vision swims. Remaining hand grips onto the hilt of your glaive with as much grip as you can muster, and yet even that is failing. Knees buckle beneath you, and you pitch forward.

You barely register when your knees come into contact with the damp soil, only that Mackenzie from Seven is suddenly standing much taller than he was seconds before.

I'm....

You cough, and taste iron. You feel so, so very cold.

Exhale, slow, shuttering exhale. Gasp, and your grip fails. Your blade falls to the ground with a wet squelch, and it takes all you have left not to fall flat on your face.

You don't have to finish the sentence to know what's happening.

There's a dull ache in your right arm where your hand used to be. There's a heavy pounding in your head, and you feel like you might vomit. But when you spit, it is not clear, nor bile, but crimson rain, spilling from your mouth.

You're dying, Akira Sokatoa of District Three. And you know it. Kill, or be killed, your life is but moments away from ending.

And you're so, so, so tired. You barely have any strength left to stand, let alone kill.

You know when a life is over. You've only dealt it out with your own hand six times prior.

With a superhuman effort, you raise your head to catch one last glimpse at the other boy. Mackenzie from Seven. And even then, you can only hold it for one, two seconds, vision blurring in and out of focus.

But you catch dark eyes, a pale face, feeling every ounce of pain that you know you should be feeling right now. And maybe it's just your heartbeat slowing, but you don't feel scared.

"Mac....kenzie," you gasp. Your handless arm buckles, and for a moment, all your weight is on your left arm before you steady yourself.

"Make it.....fast." This close to the end, you're no longer afraid of what lies beyond. Death herself has come to claim you, and oh, her presence is oh so calming.

"Please...." You have no more energy left. It is the end of the line for you. "Mac-"

You cough, and again, you taste iron rain, and there are no more words to be said.

But your message has been made, and you hope the other boy, Mackenzie from Seven, gets the hint.

And there you lay, hands and knees touching Mother Earth, your end but seconds away.

And yet you, Akira Sokatoa of District Three, do not flinch. No, you welcome your fate with open arms.

Forgive me.

<><><><><>

So cut me from the line
Dizzy, spinning endlessly
Somebody make me feel alive
And shatter me!

Lyrics from Shatter Me by Lindsey Stirling

akira does not attack

ooc: yes, i know what i'm doing, and i'm certain it's what i want to do <3 feel free to message me with questions if u want

[dars]

Does the wolf apologize
When it stands on top?
Should the lion say his grace
When he takes his mark?

Had he ever seen someone break? Not just die; he'd seen enough of that in the last week to last him the rest of his life and then some. But to die was not to be broken; to be broken was so, so much worse.

"Mac....kenzie," The word was agony on his lips, each syllable drawn out and full of a sort of defeat that was unwarranted. Akira, from District Three, who just wanted to survive was on his knees and it was more frightening than when he stood. To kill was one thing— to destroy?

He sputtered up blood, thick and hot with the broken promises he must've made himself; Mackenzie did not envy Akira of District Three; He was only horrified by the other boy's anguish. And he opened his mouth to say something clever or witty, something like I won, or You're too late, but he couldn't force the words out of himself.

He had seen someone break, and it was the most powerful, most precious, and most horrifying moment of his existence. He was petrified and frozen, unable to move as the boy began to slowly unravel.

"I—"

At first, he forced away the obvious thought: help him. He was supposed to be glad it was happening this way, right? He was supposed to raise his fist into the air and wait for them to come and take him home. But, much like with his fight with Bella, his feet remained glued to the tiny, minuscule piece of earth on which he was standing. The only difference between now and then, in fact, was that Mackenzie was afraid of moving on his own merit, not because the Capitol wasn't allowing him to.

"Make it.....fast."

The tears that answered Akira's request were of unknown origin. Fear? Disgust? Mourning? Relief? It was all just a big cluster of misery rolled into a big, unsightly ball and shoved down his throat. He was practically gagging when the sob came out.

He copied the other boy's movement, falling to his knees so that they were eye to sobbing eye. Fading and fast, and so full of fear. Days like these were the ones people talked about, and Mackenzie was present for it. He would go on to see it in his dreams, these last moments, when he had fought against death and death had lost. When he'd been so ready to go, and so ready for an end, and then so quickly changed his mind.

There was a word for dreams as cruel and unforgiving as those; he thought it rather unfair that this boy, in his fleeting moments of clung-to life could've possibly just been reduced to a nightmare in someone else's head.

He deserved more than that, Akira, from District Three, who wanted to live.

"Please...."

"I can't!"

I can't, I can't, I can't!

His whimper was pathetic and he resented it. He had to be strong; for his mother, for Maxine, for everyone else and especially for Akira. He knew this; He panicked anyway.

His chest rose and fell and the heart within it beat at a never-before felt speed. The tips of his fingers went numb and he couldn't meet Akira's gaze.

Fight, he pleaded, Just fight. He wanted Akira to fight, too, but he was so tired. He had fought so much; they both had. And Mackenzie couldn't give this to Akira as much as his heart bled for the boy, as much as his saliva turned to vinegar and his jaw to glass and his skin to paper. Had he ever seen someone break?

He wondered which of them would fade away first if he chose to do nothing for a moment. Just a moment, come and gone, and he saw himself lying there, succumbing to his wounds as Akira was. It would've been a race for time: whomever kept their blood within them the longest, he supposed. A sick ending to a sick game, it would've made the Capitol happy, at least.

"Mac-"

He knew what would've happened; the other boy couldn't muster the energy to finish Mackenzie's name. He would die first if Mackenzie were to wait, and he would at least take away his suffering. Quicken the game a bit, end it before Akira hurt any more than he had to.

"You would've been great, you know," Mackenzie said, standing at last when his breathing had returned to normal. Well, not normal. As normal as it would get, at least. "They would've loved you."

He blinked away the last of his tears and hoped that the disdainful way he said they made it clear enough he was referring to the Capitol.

"You deserve better, though."

He raised his sword into the air, and he struck.

"So much better."

A cannon called him home and somewhere within its thunderous roar, was the scream that escaped from Mackenzie's lips.

I do what I need to
What I have to, to survive
Well, I can try
But I'm going to stay alive

song: stay alive

[mackenzie attacks akira; sword]
Yb0szU3rsword
[1149 -- Shallow Cut on Cheek -- 3.5 damage]

sword

[dars]

You should see me in a crown
I'm gonna run this nothing town
Watch me make 'em bow
One by one by one

He was the sum of a violent means; he crumbled. Even the cannon wasn't enough to convince him; he shattered. He laid next to the boy, afraid to move, afraid to look, afraid to even breathe. What came next? He hadn't heard a single bird chirp in what felt like an eternity and perhaps they were mourning all the death one last time. Perhaps they were saying their goodbyes one last time.

Perhaps they mourned him as well.

His body was so beaten down, his mind so fried and tired and he just wanted to sleep but he couldn't. He was still so terrified and so alert that he only laid there, next to the forever sleeping bodies next to him. Lucky, he thought, still as the damp air that settled upon his skin and stuck to his sweat. It made him itchy, but it was familiar. Close enough to a memory that he allowed himself a single glance at the supposed paradise he was in.

He expected to see some terrifying creature standing over him, fangs bared, claws sharpened for the occasion. Or another tribute who'd gone unnoticed, ready to finish him while he was down, end this once and for all. There was nothing.

There was everything.

The theme of this arena must have been meant as some kind of paradise, like the one the boy from Six won a few games ago. Tall trees and beautiful, lush flowers. Everything here had tried to kill him once, though, and now that it was over, he was left with what remained. It really was beautiful, in a way. Unforgiving, a sense of self that would never be deterred or told to change. Stubborn like that, but it was the kind of place he would've thought up in his wildest dreams before. It was a place he would've tried to describe to others. He would've explained how vast and clear the oceans were to his sister, and his mother would've loved to hear about how open and full of stars the sky had.

Now, those things were forever changed to them. He wondered if those stars were in his mother's nightmares as she watched her only son be beaten. He wondered if Max had been swallowed by the oceans of this arena the second she saw how close to death her brother was. It was not fair that these things could not be beautiful to them anymore, but in those final few moments, he swore he still saw the life in this place so filled with death.

He thought of Ike first, and the mystery that was her mind. She had done an excellent job of garnering trust from Mackenzie without ever giving him an actual reason to trust her. He'd always thought it was because she was from home. She was a stranger, an absolute shadow to him, but at least she was familiar enough. Now, he understood. She was protecting herself; caring about others in a place like this was not the point. Or maybe it was the point and that's what made them so painful. The only way to live or to die by one's own rules was to play by them. She closed her heart down the moment she climbed up on that stage with Mackenzie and even though he could often see how close she was to pulling her defenses down, she never did.

He made a vow to find out more about her, if he lived.

And Wynter. God, he was so lucky they'd had time to understand each other. One day in, he would've killed her at the first given opportunity, easy. But she was so much more than the girl he'd feared in the beginning. His palm itched so much now that it seemed normal.

Thank you,
Friend

He wondered if she would have been proud to know he made it to the end. He wondered if she ever thought he could.

And Faline— he didn't have the sort of energy needed to deal with her loss properly. And he wouldn't ever get the satisfaction of avenging her. She was gone; he hadn't saved her. She would have lived; he would've only ever survived, at most.

Bella, and Stitch, and Akira, and Neela, and Dove, and the boy from Six— the list of debts he owed was insurmountable and he knew that.

He closed his eyes again, terrified as he realized he did not have the energy to open them again. He would see Max again. He would be able to hug his mother. He did not have the energy to open his eyes, but he smiled. Even if he didn't deserve to be happy anymore, he was.

He waited for death to take him, and it didn't. Somehow. But the darkness did overtake him in the end. All he could do was hope that he dreamed of some place better.

Wait 'til the world is mine
Visions I vandalize
Cold in my kingdom size
Fell for these ocean eyes

song: you should see me in a crown

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