The Bloodbath

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

{ 1m malachi le roux ; attack 1 ; -- }

are you, are you
coming to the tree
they strung up a man
they say who murdered three

The blood that circled the torn skin of his wrists was a testament of the Capitol’s cruelty, and was so the cage-like nature of the cells they were put behind, and so was the grief that had splintered through Malachi’s chest, as if a flower of barbed wire had ungraciously taken root in between the rib-bones and the gristle. He stared at the brick wall in front of him but saw only his father’s curled hand, the flames over his carcass, and the molten skin.

The Le Rouxes were taught to gulp hope in their mouths like a stone and never swallow or spit out, but Malachi’s stone had plummeted down the depths of his chest, now lost seemingly forever. There was only a ridge of heaviness and loss, a mountain upheaved from his grief.

He smelled of a scent that was a gruesome blend between

        the apple trees and ashes;
        bristling life, grey death.

Muscles ached and bones creaked; a blood-red cut in his thigh had begun to soak through the brown trousers in a grotesque stain. Every part of him was ravaged and torn apart, and sitting there, Malachi felt less a being, more a bruise, purple and angry. He tugged once more on the shiny handcuff around his one wrist and hissed as the metal bit into abraded skin. Malachi had glimpsed faces outside but trust had been a double-edged sword ever since the war.

The one person he trusted was now a heap of ashen bones and faint embers. No hand would help him crawl out of this ordeal, except his own calloused ones.

The Hunger Games, he’d heard, a punishment of blood paid in blood. If they made him kill, that was an easy task, even easier if it was peacekeepers; Malachi’s lion bones were attuned to it by now. But, the uncertainty attached to it unnerved Malachi. He’d seen families pried apart and get lost from each other amongst the fog of war — being the one to do so made his heart convulse and become heavier with dread and phantom guilt. The blood on his hands was washable, belonging to crooks and those who deserved a quick funeral bed, but the stains he’d get from this, he feared, could be permanent. Malachi ran his hands together, as if to exorcise the ghost of a stain from it.

After a few moments, filled with the faintest chatter from other cells and plotting out colorful strategies of escape, a man emerged ahead, cladded in white. The color was a sharp knife, twisting into his innards, pushing past sinew and bone. He gritted his teeth and snarled, as wild as winter, at the man but he strode onward nevertheless. His left fingers dug into Malachi’s arm, the right wound around a key. A click sounded; then a sting arose from his now-free wrist. The skin was a ravine of broken skin and flesh, the blood around it now dry. Before Malachi could coat it with a healing layer of spit, the man beckoned sternly, “Let’s go.”

       He didn’t move.

“Let’s go,” he repeated and, this time, undid his silvery gun from its alabaster sheath. Malachi contemplated death for a second’s worth, decided he was too young, too wild for a tomb, and stood up.

They fastened his wrists with another pair of stronger cuffs and led him down a winding hall, all cold fluorescents until they reached a bright mouth that opened to a stadium.

The first thing that entered Malachi’s nostrils was the scent of gunpowder, sharp and rustic and bringing with it a mosaic of broken memories. Dark figurines emerged from the other openings, wrists tied, as small as tea-cups.

His heart raced once he took notice of smaller children, no older than his brothers; the latter’s fate was unknown, the former’s was a gamble. The tension clenched in his bones refused to undo itself, only growing, like ivies. He felt it around his heart even. His eyes were a hawk’s, their scrutiny of the stadium desperate and hungry.

He took notice of white seats and lights and grass. 

He took notice of a knife laying on the green beside his left foot, like a scattered treasure, its gleam strangely beckoning.

Then, something tugged at his restraints and Malachi felt his heartbeat rise in a fearsome crescendo, blaring in his ears. Some wrists came free, pink in the cold sun. Some remained tied, like his. As a few seconds cascaded by, Malachi had begun to struggle against them.

        “Take them off!” he hissed.
        “Take them off, you fuckers!”

When they became undone, he trembled for a split second and then lunged for the knife the next. His palm greeted the hilt's coldness as one would an old friend. 

       Only one will be pardoned.
       The Le Roux lions need their king.

Desperately, he swung his blade at a boy, much smaller than him, heart in his throat, heart in his hands, heart a gold-maned lion, rampant and feral, clawing at the boy’s jugular.

But, before he could level the weapon, every thought, every feral instinct, every wilderness quieted down and became condensed to one single whisper in his head, ricocheting:

       They are all innocents here.
       He was a king, not a tyrant.

strange things did happen here
no stranger would it be
if we met at midnight
in the hanging tree





lyrics: hanging tree

{ is a king }

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

Lennon Greer | D12F | Attack #1 | 2151 -- Block -- 0.0 damage

She tasted blood on her tongue.

It was enough to wake her up, eyes dazed, vision blurred. Her left temple throbbed with ever thump of her pulse- thrum, thrum. thrum thrum. It hurt to stretch her lip, so she was sure it was busted and, in turn, the reason she could taste blood. It dribbled down in a small line across her chin, crimson reminder that she was foolish for trying to outrun them: foolish for thinking she could ever be safe.

She missed her son so much that it hurt.

She had no way of knowing what had happened to him, no way of knowing if the peacekeepers had killed her parents and left him there to starve, or if he was sitting in his grandma's lap completely oblivious to everything that had happened. The thought of him forgetting about her made her want to cry, and she was so tired.

She blinked against the harshness of the lights, glancing up at the peacekeepers standing all around her. Her wrists stung from the binding and she winced, but she did not speak. She did not scream. She just sat, too afraid to move. Too afraid to seal her own fate. She did not speak, she did not move, she wouldn't have even dared to breathe if it was optional.

But by the time they pulled her to her feet and she saw the others, some broken like her, others cool under the pressure, her heart began to hammer and her head began to ache even more. Concussion, she guessed. That peacekeeper's elbow was deceptionally sharp for a man that looked so soft around the edges. She groaned in pain, breath hitching in her throat as she was escorted away.

Little ants, marching on to their death. One by one, a couple dozen total. She didn't fight because she knew she couldn't win. Not with her hands tied behind her back, not without a weapon. Even when she had the upper hand back at home, she'd failed. Fighting them would've just increased her chances of dying.

They forced her to a stop at the mouth of a large arena, bigger even than the District Square. Men stood far up in the rafters with cameras in their hands, watching. Waiting. A knife was thrown at her feet and she didn't understand, huff of uncertain breath and another sigh of pain.

They released her hands; the other prisoners were released as well, and she held her breath and counted. 1, 2 , 3. Everything would be okay. Everything would-

Chaos.

A girl with eyes made for war made the first move, snatching her knife and swinging away at a hulking boy. He swung back. Another girl moved for him. Then a boy. Swarms of them, so quick to attack. So quick to fight.

She stood there, shell-shocked and so, so afraid, eyes reflecting the horror that was unfolding around her.

Slowly, she reached for her knife; it was lighter than it looked.

She wanted to see her son. He would have been fine without her; he was still young enough to not know any better. And maybe it made her selfish, then. But she couldn't handle that. She needed to see her son.

"Ripred help me," she heard a boy's voice say. He looked younger than her. And there was a girl there who couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve. Tears welled up in her eyes; they wouldn't stand a chance. None of them would. Not the girl, not the boy, not Lennon herself if she didn't have to fight.

You can do this, she thought, grip tightening around the hilt of the knife, you can be a fighter for the first time in your life.

There was a girl with dark hair who was racing toward a girl gone manic; pack mentality. No one would blame her if she fought, right? Her breathing hitched; she thought she might vomit.

"For my son," she whispered.

Some of them were like her: afraid. Not wanting to fight. But maybe there was a difference. Maybe they had nothing to fight for. Maybe they had nothing to gain. Lennon had lost plenty, but she still had one thing.

Anything for him.

Her eyes catch on the little girl again, as she stands there frozen and wet with tears.

She couldn't remain still anymore.

She ran for her cupped her hands around the little one's cheeks.

"Hey! Open your eyes, Sweetie. It's alright. Shh, look at me- look at me! It's going to be okay. Here," she grabbed for the little girl's hand. "Take my hand. We can do this, okay? Don't let go."

She turned back toward the manic girl from before and she charged forward, little ant for slaughter.

[ lennon attacks gaia, d6f, knife ]
NGSkQVyk77knife
[2151 -- Block -- 0.0 damage]

knife

[aya]

Aug 31, 2019 11:00:04 GMT -5 aya said:

[ 2f adder ames // attack 1 // 2089]

[ 2f adder ames // attack 2 // 2178]

[attr="class","adderPostWidth"]

i have my gods
will you give me my ghost?
sons and daughters
may you kill where my blind heart could not

You've bled before. One lash, one lick, one laceration after another, you've been bleeding for years. Fat lip, bloody nose they've beat and battered you the whole way here. Swinging wild, the first swipe of your knife is sidestepped with ease. Somewhere in another life, Elijah laughs at you, tells you not to lose your head or you'll really lose your head, and you laugh along because you know she's right.

A blur tucks and rolls past you, grace of practice, flawless form, and pops up knife-bared out of nowhere to do what you did not. There are no comrades here, but a stuck pig is always a welcome sight, and few others seem eager to make a move. He slices your arm.

Surrounded by hesitation, you wonder if you should try charisma. Murmurs of protest at the steel on the ground bubble up from the children that surround you, and in this moment you wonder how many you could rally for rebellion. None are eager to dismantle unjust powers like those who stand the most to lose. At the end of the line, at the end of their lives, would these kids find their courage?

"We don't have to do this!" cuts through the clamor, and you know that it's true, but you don't like the tone. We don't have to do this to each other, but the stress is on the wrong syllables. The implication is missing. You know you shouldn't be doing this to each other — but it's true that you aren't because the boy from your district does not belong with you. Traitor, turncoat, he is one of them.

Someone forces themselves between you and the sellout scum that rode the train with you, and you shout in protest, shoving at the body to let you back through.

"Kill the pigs!" you holler, doubling down on what you started. Your bite has always been louder than your bark, but the amphitheater amplifies and your sentiment echoes from the empty seats. "Kill the traitors!"

If there are other bootlickers cowering in front of their knives, you will be known to them, but none could ever mistake you for anything but a soldier. "Free the districts!" Blood drips down your arm as you raise your knife in the air in chant. "Free Panem!"

Fight, you motherfuckers.

[attacks dmetri with knife]
t7vTzIU|Gzknife
[2178 -- Deep Gash on Right Calf -- 8.0 damage]

winter solstice — cold specks

[newclass=".adderPostWidth"]width:460px;[/newclass]knife

[tick 12a / calla]

d5f devon mercier | attack 1 | no dice

children cry and
laugh and play
in the places
we won't walk

It's a small comfort that the grey brick against your back isn't as cold as the cement floor.

You suppose that this is the cost of neutrality, of taking the hands that reach up to you no matter whose lives they've taken. Maybe, in another life, there would be some kind of acid bitterness on your tongue, the taste of regret and anger and betrayal.

But it's your father's words that have stuck, branded into the back of your skull, they're people too, he had said when the man thrashing on his table had tried to shoot him before falling unconscious, they're just scared, Devon, same as us.

You were scared then and you're scared now, ripped from everything you've ever known, sent away to die, and for what? Helping people?

You're too much of your father's daughter to do anything else.

The peacekeeper watching you hadn't looked very frightened when he tugged you up from the floor and led you away. In fact, he barely even looked at you. Because you're just cattle fodder, young and vulnerable with no chance of survival. You are everything the rebels are not.

It must be some kind of pity you think, a distant memory of kindness, when you see the blood dried around your neighbour's wrists, how the kid ahead of you struggles and is subsequently quieted as you're all led out, lined up in the stale air.

The light is harsh and unforgiving and almost blocks out the sight of the others. There's a knife at you feet and a pit in your stomach.

Giving into their violence would hurt your father more than anyone else, just like your unshed tears and hoarse screams would've haunted your sisters. But this, you realize, is a new kind of orchestrated chaos. This is the calm before the storm, the collective intake of breath, everyone waiting for someone else to make the first move. Everyone figuring out what this really is.

But the wrist ties come off and someone goes running. Animal behaviour; they all flock to a singular prey, a boy who is a stranger to you, but hurting all the same.

You kick away the knife at your feet, take off running to him, bleeding heart stuck in your throat. This isn't right, it tells you through the pounding of your feet, they're going to kill each other, their families are going to watch them die, you have to stop them.

You think of your own family watching from home, how your father won't cover the little one's eyes but how you would've. You can't help yourself.

The grass is green here, brighter than it ever was at home but the blood that drips down through it is still the same. The screaming is still the same. You aren't squeamish after being raised wrist deep in sick animals, but there is something so different, so vile, about children spilling the blood of other children.

"Stop!" You scream to them, "STOP!"

His arm is bleeding and you reach to stifle it, throwing yourself into the fray, the taste of adrenaline on the air and your family's faces in your mind's eye. "Can't you see that this is what they want, you're going to kill each other."

devon does not attack

[goat]

Aug 31, 2019 11:14:48 GMT -5 goat said:

[8f maryam volk, intro]

[8f maryam volk, attack 1, 2006]

maryam volk

There’s a girl who’s screaming, screaming at the Keepers and pushing at their gear. It’s useless, you want to tell her, but you know what fear can do to a person. There is no reassurance to give, no “everything is going to be okay”, because nothing is going to be okay, not here, not ever. Your mother had never given you such false platitudes.

If nothing else, you could respect you for that.

A few other kids don’t raise their knives. You look between all of them, chewing your lip. The metallic taste of blood fills your mouth and your glad it was of your own doing.

“Kill the pigs! Kill the traitors! Free the districts! Free Panem!”

“I’ll toast to that, sister,” you say, raising your knife in agreement.

From the corner of your eye, you see the screaming girl attacked. The first try a shallow wound, the second try a miss. People attacking the weak— how fucking cowardly. You swallow the blood in your mouth and run over, unconsciously reaching for your hip to steady your nonexistent gun.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You jab your knife in the direction of the two girls. “She’s fucking scared. Are you not?”

If you attack, you’ll be just as bad as they are.

You could live with that.

"If you aren't, I hope I can make you."


maryam attacks 12f lennon greer; knife
LvTJ0USJqqknife
2006 -- Deep Gash on Right Bicep -- 8.0 damage (+1 blades)

knife

[pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]]

[7M Donatello Birch | Intro | No Attack]

The train ride was long, but the silence was longer.

The train car only opened one more time, and that was to insert a small girl into the car with him. Before he could even try to break out, they slammed the door on his face. With a loud thud, Donnie slammed his hand against the door, trying to cause a scene that he had no business in doing so.

”Damnit…” he says quietly as he realizes that he is not alone in this. However, he wasn’t even sure what to ask at this point.

”Why were you taken?”

No, that would be too foreward.

”Whats your name?”

No. Maybe it was best to not know.

”Do you know the mayor as well?”

No. Donnie shook his head. None of this made sense to him, and trying to figure it out would have probably been the death of him. He had a feeling that things would be explained as they got to their destination, but he wanted answers now.

Donnie wasn’t a patient man. It was a trait that he got from his father.

---

The train kept going, and he kept replaying memories in his head about Aspen, and the time that they spent together.

The glass bottle was caressed with every thought of the boy he loved, but each minute passed, and he could feel that he was getting further and further from where he should have been. Donnie didn’t even know if Aspen knew that he was taken. He wasn’t sure, and it was clear that there was no way of him being able to get the message out.

This had to have ben coordinated though. Somehow, some way. Donnie was here, and Aspen was not? Right? He spent the whole train ride trying to figure out where the pieces had lied, and besides thinking that they were thrown out the window a long time ago, only a couple other options made sense.

Someone sold him out, or he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.

The glass jar looked small in his hands, but each time he looked at it, he thought of the night that he spent with Aspen when they realized that they wanted to be together forever. A quiet night of stargazing and whispering sweet nothings to each other. The love they shared was something that Donnie had never experienced, and the fact that they were embraced by his parents made everything fall into place for Donnie.

He felt like he belonged.

But maybe that blindness is what caused all of this. Maybe there was a motive that Donnie didn’t see.

Maybe he was just blinded by love.

His hand clasped over the jar and he looked up at the girl that he shared the car with and then looked back down.

He still didn’t know how to approach any of this.

So he stayed quiet for just a little while longer.

---

They rushed him as they opened the door. Cuffs were put on him before he could even react to the sensation of being bombarded. He had been never been shackled before, and he didn’t even know why he was here at this point.

No one would say anything to him.

”Hello?” he said to the keeper as they waited to be moved forward. ”Will someone tell me why the fuck we are here?” Donnie was crisp and clear in his words.

”Will you shut up?” The guard was quick to strong arm Donnie, a solid punch landing across his face. ”You will know soon enough.”

The pain was sudden, but Donnie took a deep breath as he realized that maybe he had been a bit too vocal. But he did have every right too. He had no clue why he was here. He wanted to know.

No.

He needed to know.

They moved him forward and brought him closer to a field that had almost nothing in it. Or at least, that is what it seemed like. Donnie though did not want to go silently, so he kept fidgeting, trying to find his way out of this situation.

Each time he got close to breaking free, a peace keeper slammed the butt of their guns into his sides. He could feel the pain through his body, but he couldn’t even dare to think about ceasing his escape.

He needed to get out of here. He just knew it.

---

However, there was no avail, and he was thrown into the pit that he saw earlier.

As they stood him up, they undid the shackles and pushed him back to the ground. There was a knife that was thrown on the ground before him, and then they were all told what they had to do in order to get out of here alive.

The funny thing was, that apparently only one of them would get out alive.

”You’ve got to be kidding me.” Donnie said before the peacekeepers laughed in his face. ”No. We aren’t. Have fun.”

And that’s when the chaos started.

23 other people standing around an open field, some of them, not sure what to even do in this situation. The others that knew what to do were quick to draw blood, and the funny thing was, Donnie wasn’t even sure if any of them actually knew who they were.

He guessed that some people didn’t need to know anything to kill.

In this situation, Donnie could agree, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to act on it. There was a time and place for this type of savagery, and Donnie had to realize something here.

This was the time.

This was the place.

And none of it would stop until one of them would be left alive.

”You going to let that knife sit there?” The peacekeeper shouted at him as they continued to make distance between them.

No.

No he wasn’t.

So he picked it up, holding it close to him as the metal clanged with the glass jar that was around his neck.

However, he didn’t know what to do first. People had already made it clear that they knew what they were doing, but Donnie was more of a wallflower then he wanted to admit.

Maybe it was time to break that mold.

He didn’t know, so he waited.

[waits to attack]

[✨ zozo.]

Aug 31, 2019 11:45:17 GMT -5 ✨ zozo. said:

audrey manning d7f ; intro

audrey manning d7f; post 2

More cries, more violence, more screams - and there's footsteps rushing toward her. Audrey knows she should keep her eyes closed, knows it'll be easier, but she can't help but open them ever so slightly. It's cheating, she knows that. But she wants to know who does it. She wants to see the face of the girl who sprints toward her, who'll end her life, and it takes all her strength to clutch her knife in her hand and count down from three, two, one, she exhales. Inhales.

Keeps breathing.

There's warm hands clutched around her face, brushing at her tears, the face of an angel with a look of concern saying something to her, holding her steady. Perhaps she's already dead - but the violence around her continues and it's a reminder that this is far from over.

Through shaky sobs, darting eyes to the kids picking up knives, to red hot blood trickling down foreheads, to the green grass, to exits blocked by Peacekeepers, she eventually obeys and looks at the girl.

"It's going to be okay. Here," and there's a warm hand in her free palm, kind eyes staring down at her, she's like her Mom. Like an angel. "Take my hand. We can do this, okay? Don't let go."

There's no time to respond, jerked away at the movements of battle - the girl is her shield and she slices toward another. Audrey feels the impact in her limbs and she jumps, teeth chattering, don't let go. Don't let go.

"Don't..." she stammers, head nodding dumbly in the wind. "Don't let go..."

She doesn't. Not of the girl with kind eyes, not of her knife. And as they dive into battle, together, Audrey thinks that perhaps dying won't be so bad if she has a hand to hold.

If only for a little while.

[Knuckles]

{Johannes Beaumont | attack 1 | 2155}

Johannes

Dried blood tears at his face, yet Johannes doesn't even care. The images of the bullet infiltrating the skull of the traitor is still fresh on his mind as his eyes dart back and forth from one peacekeeper to the other.

"Capitol scum."

They've pulled him along for hours watching as he fought back, but at the end of the day the last laugh belonged to them. They've kicked him, tripped him, done anything in their power to make him stop talking, and it finally worked, but it never stopped the young soldier from plotting against them.

The rebels fought for the right cause, and Johannes will rest easily knowing he placed many of the Capitol soldiers six feet under, and that's what he would do here. Anyone who stood in his way would become just like one of them. Fear of a good fight never once crosses his mind as he's stood on the battlefield many times shooting at the enemy, but here a gun isn't reasonable.

This place is a place where people from the Capitol and anyone who resisted the rebellion should rest, yet Johannes finds himself unable to escape. Peacekeepers are standing around. They're watching his every move, and all he wants is to take a knife and slit their throats to show an example. Watching all the Capitol scum bleed out before his eyes is a great desire, and maybe now it's up to him to make it happen.

A sinister grin slowly spreads from ear to ear as the ties are cut from his hands, and for a moment he's free. Dark eyes land on the knife resting before him, and it's not his go to weapon, but it'll definitely make someone bleed.

They want a fight. They want blood. They want death. They want people to pay the ultimate price for what they've done, and Johannes is happy to oblige, but at what cost?

Rebels do not deserve to die, but here they are trapped within a showcase for many to see.

Some are fighting. Some are begging others not to hurt them. Some are standing back doing nothing -

He wants blood.

He yearns to feel it run down the side of his face as someone bleeds out. He wants to taste the metallic in his mouth. He wants it to cover him like it's done many times before.

Reaching forward grabbing the knife, he feels the weight allowing it all to come towards him. It's not a gun, but it's sharp, and sometimes torture with a knife is slow and painful.

The sinister grin grows larger with each passing second.

Someone is yelling to kill the pigs, the traitors, and Johannes instantly feels a sense of relief washing over him. Someone else is here to fight for what is right.

"Kill all the pigs!" He snarls curling his lip while others are still shouting that fighting isn't an answer, but don't they realize, shouting won't save them now?

Eyes dart around from person to person. An executioner has to carefully plan his moves. Precise aim is important, but without a gun it's even more difficult.

One step forward after another after another, the soldier finds himself ready to fight. All it takes is one wrong mishap and the world can come crumbling down, but today is not that day.

His eyes lock onto a target. A girl begging people to stop. Fighting is the ultimate thing here, and Johannes wants to live to show the rebels will live on forever.

"Why should I stop? Killing is the purpose especially if we ever want a chance of being liberated from the traitors holding us captive."

Johannes Beaumont d6m attacks Devon Mercier d5f
QIDi1UlSqpknife

{2155 -- Deep Gash on Right Calf -- 8.0 damage}knife

[sbeeg]

Aug 31, 2019 11:31:08 GMT -5 sbeeg said:

[ d11m Union Lot | Attack 1 | no attack]

[d11m Union Lot | Attack 2 | no attack]

There's someone beside him. He sees a shoe step closer against the fake grass.

"You don't have to do anything. It's okay. It will be okay."

Union looks up. It's a boy, a stranger. He's taller, older, and bigger. He had a knife in his hand, but it was pointed away from Union.

You don't have to do anything.

Union sniffled. There's yelling around him. A girl, the one who attacked the Peacekeeper, is yelling. She stabs another child.

Union reaches out a hand, trembling fingers reaching for this stranger.

He said it'll be okay.

Back home he was oldest, the one who had to watch out for everyone else. Here he was impossibly young.

His fingers wrap around the older boy's hand.

"I want to go home." He sputters out like a baby. He's afraid of his own fear, how it consumes him from the inside out. Like a barn fire.

There's nothing this boy can do to help him. The Peacekeepers stand feet away doing nothing but holding shields to keep them contained.

Panic clutches his chest and Union can't seem to get enough air into his lungs to truly breathe. He's suffocating on clean air.

"P-p-please I-"

What is he trying to say? That his chest hurts? That it feels like he's going to throw up? That his knees are shaking so hard he might collapse? That his head is swimming and all he wants is to go back home and hung his baby siblings.

Someone is screaming for everyone to stop. Union wishes he could scream too, but everything comes out as a whisper. Being loud was dangerous, and yet despite his silent life he was still here.

He wants his father.

Dad always tried to protect him, but he wasn't here.

He's not here, Ripred, he's not here.

He said he'd always be there. The hand not tethered to the other doomed soul is clutched tighter in dark green flannel.

"Kill the pigs!" They shout, but there are no hogs to slaughter only people.

The smell of home was smothered by the tinge of plastic grass and riot shields pulled from musty storage closets.

table by griffin

[ali]

Aug 31, 2019 11:35:17 GMT -5 ali said:

Gaia Dais // Intro

Gaia Dais // Attack #1 // 5188

Dreams are sweet until they're not
Men are kind until they aren't
Flowers bloom until they rot and fall apart

Your fists clench at the fake grass, and your skin expects to feel dirt beneath your fingernails but no matter how much you dig, your skin meets plastic. Around you everything is moving slowly, heart beat at a time, and your own is thudding so fast you are certain you are about to pass out. Voices echo around you, cries of fear and of war- all whitenoise in your mind as you are still playing catch up. Your own words have turned into wordless sobs, your whole body shaking so hard that you actually threaten to tear the grass from its plastic root.

Then suddenly someones hand is on your shoulder and turning you to face them. Your dark eyes meet hers, strangers gaze meets strangers gaze. She does not look much older than your eldest brother, who is a boy forced to be a man and you see it in her eyes too but in hers there is a fire that fuels it. It is an anger, but it is not foreign to you. You saw it all the time back home, in adults, in teenagers who just wanted to grow up, you saw it in their eyes glistening in the light of molotov cocktails being thrown.

“You have to save yourself”

The girls words resonate in her mind as the blade in her hands glitters. Without thinking, you duck and you feel steel kiss the top of your skull. A stringing line forms at the crown of your skull and without her hand to steady you, you stumble away, your fingers searching your black hair. The wound singes as you brush against it, your chest hiccups with a sob, a scream sews its way into each sob as another shadow lunges towards you. This time you manage to dodge the blade, stumbling to the ground again, hand lashing out blindly at your attacker.

Your hands catch you, and you see fresh red on your finger tips, glinting in the harsh sunlight.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? She’s fucking scared. Are you not?” A stranger is suddenly stood between you and the girls who attacked you, she is angry, annoyed? You can’t tell over the rushing in your ears as your heart pounds. Her knife glistens in the sunlight as she lunges, slicing, blood dripping from her blade and onto the life parched grass. You swallow hard, your hand grasping wround the hilt of a knife.

“Please…” you whisper, hoping

But hope died a long time ago. 

Gaia attacks Lennon Greer, unarmed
PPmrPnaQuYunarmed
5188 -- Gash/Bruised Left Femur -- 4.0 damage
credit

unarmed

[shrimp]

Aug 31, 2019 11:30:46 GMT -5 shrimp said:

[3f yejide jonquil - intro - no attack]

[3f yejide jonquil - post 1 - no attack]

The day before she died, Mom took me on a walk. We went down 14th, to where the barricades still stood. There weren't a thousand rebels - family, she called them - but enough. A hundred. A handful. Standing guard on the street.

Together we handed out bottled water and sandwiches made with homemade bread enveloping whatever we could find: slices of artificial cheese. Butter left cold in a cellar. She said rites over those dying in the languid heat. I handed her parcels and trinkets, letters to be delivered across town. My heart was beating like gunshots. Ma wouldn't like this.

"We might not win, but at least we tried," Mom said to me, when we had delivered the final parcels to the orphanage, the faces peering out the window chilled by time. "For a moment, even, we did what's right. For the future, for you all."

We sat down on a park bench, the trees overturned by the wind, by the war.

"I don't want you to die."

She was startled, I could tell by the way her breath hitched, caught like the fireflies we'd chase at night. She'd catch them in jars and poke pinprick holes in the top of a cheese cloth, tying it with spare twine. In the morning we'd let them go, fluttering back out into the streets.

"We all die." She sighed, leaned back. I never realized how old she'd gotten, how the war turned her cheekbones from hearts to spades. "But when I go, I'll be happy with the cards I played."

"Does everything have to be a poker reference."

Gaia Dais screams - Six. When I heard her name on the television, I had wondered if it was a nice place. A beautiful place - and I...

What do you do, when either choice leads to ruin? When Ade and I played chess I always liked the ladder checkmate; it was easy, it made sense, you could see it coming and do little to stop it. But that was when I held the pieces, the onyx heavy in my hand. It was not when I was a pawn.

I have Ma's realism: I'm not a queen or a knight or even a bishop with her palms placed down in prayer. I am not the girl who spoke last night to God, even if speaking forgotten phrases had earned her a kick in the ribs. I am not the girl who curses Pigs, even as she plays into their game.

I am myself, and I cannot be anyone else. Not in this moment.

But I pick up the knife once more, blade digging into my palm. And I turn and run, short steps, four-five people down to-

"Ambrose." I latch onto his arm and turn, looking around: at the girl from Five defending a boy in his last dying breaths; at another wielding a blade against an older girl, who holds the smallest's hand. At Gaia Dais ducking in fright.

I stare at the boy from One, his blade level in his hand - quieted by his own storm.

"There has to be another way."

[yejide does not attack]

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

^{d1f chastity nightmare | intro | no attack}

She wears the wedding ring of her father on her right hand, and her dead mother's on her left. She isn't soft enough to be sentimental, but looking at them reminds her that she means something to someone, and that makes her feel important.

Her interest in her own world was not replicated when it came to the world around her. She felt indifferent. She did whatever they told her to do without thinking twice — she was comfortable living in sepia and did not want to be turned purple and violet. They cuffed her and she stayed comfortable, they locked her up and she stayed comfortable. Nothing would change if she didn't let it.

But there was something about this situation made her want to lash out at someone, though there was a peace in her mind that travelled with her from One. The lack of feeling — it isn't heartlessness, not at all because she's too in love, too obsessed with the power she thinks she possesses to be completely stone. The lack of feeling was saint in these moments because everyone else would surely care that they had just been robbed of the future they had been dreaming of since childhood, everyone else must feel like they have something to fight for — a cause.

She felt nothing of the sort. Justice was perhaps the only thing she really believed in, justice and hope, but she was starting to feel like this place did not have room for either.

So it becomes a dangerous world for a girl like her — too good to lash out but too bad to not feel like she should scold. The fallen stars that became her friends taught her to embrace emotion of all kinds, even the red hot. Her conflict was key, and although she knew it would one day orchestrate the architecture of her inevitable fall, she also knew that it was the part of her that was most true.

Only certain of her uncertainty.

She was not like the rest. She still felt she had nothing to fight for, but everything to lose at the same time. In the balance, she hangs softly and sweetly, but sharply too. For her eyes are like those of a predator waiting for its prey; she stares plainly but intently and behind the glaze of her eyes is an interest that is rooted solely at the centre of her core. Watching all the people from different places, the different faces and different motives and she knows nothing about them — not about the small boys, the small men, the baby girls and the borderline women.

But their screams and shouts at least provide some sense of familiarity and remind her of the whispers she was used to on the streets. All the lullaby lies of great things should a rebellion be successful and the stern instructions about the potential repercussions should authority intercept at the wrong, right moment. I suppose deep down, she knows what some of these folk are fighting for — but she doesn't know if she can sympathise with either side.

Perhaps only a crimson kiss to the person would be delusional enough to die protecting a stranger, but most certainly not sympathy.

The scrambling only makes it more confusing for her to figure out where she wants to stand. But then comes the question of whether she wants to stand at all — because she's not sure if keeping secrets means she's deserving of a good life even if she were to make it out alive. Whispers in the wind would work their way back to her and even if none of the knives touched her skin today, punishment always came to someone who could do something, but decided not to.

She sighed. Being alive was more difficult now that her fame extended beyond faces on the sidewalk. Her hometown glory was faded in favour of national attention, but as a shotgun sounds — it triggers a realisation.

None of what she has done or known matters anymore and neither does the histories and causes of anyone else. This is not One, not anything right the way through to Twelve. It is a place where all are forced to be equal whether they like it or not, and there is something serene about that which she enjoys. This ground gave the peacefulness and war, two things that once ran parallel, a meeting point. Barely, but it was still a meeting point. And she isn't sure if anyone else realises it; she figures they are all trying to fight for something bigger, throwing sticks and stones at a castle when they are already behind bars.

If they really wanted to fight, that would come after victory. They would have to care about the little battles that came before the war, because that would give them the might to carry on. Strength in solitude — because after all, only one voice can be the loudest.

All of a sudden, she doesn't feel like she hangs in the in between anymore. She hangs alone, all alone, but that is okay. She has fallen stars for company anyway. They taught her to burn which she liked. It turned her into coal, and soon enough, she figured, she would be a diamond.

She sits awkwardly on the ground. She uses the knife to cut thumb holes in her white shirt.

She may have been taken but she took herself with her.

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Aug 31, 2019 11:29:19 GMT -5 marguerite harvard d2a (zori) said:

Uxue Izar, D11f | Intro

Uxue Izar, D11f | Post one | attack N/A

One girl shouts about killing the pigs, and you wonder who she’s talking about. Was she just to be fodder then, livestock for a cause you couldn’t have a fight in? What did any of them know about her farm, her family?

She couldn’t fight without giving up on her family - a choice to heavy to make - and here she’d be killed for them.

Somehow, that helped to stifle the fear in Uxue’s heart.

A girl grabs a little ones hand and as she opens her eyes. For a second Uxue wonders if she’ll take the girl’s life, but she instead implores her to do something. Neutrality is a choice, Taylor would have said. His words fill Uxue and she follows behind the two, because she wants to - she’s brave, and maybe she can stay with her.

But then the girl with the knife, the older one that should know better, strikes.

“Qué haces?” Your voice is hoarse from not speaking. Uxue stops in her tracks, a good ten feet back, and shakes her head, mouth open. She stares at the knife she’s left behind, and back to the carnage before her. She says it aloud to herself, the only one she imagines listening. “No lo puedo… Por favor…”

Another blade finds the girl as two fight, and she flinches, blood scattering across the turf. The other girl has cut into her as though this is nothing. Uxue feels her heart beat in her ears.

Would she be a hero for fighting, or a martyr for refusing?

She thinks of her fiancée and wonders if not coming home at all meant more than what she could do.

She does not take the knife, but she does not stand idle.

“Stop! Stop hurting each other!” You call out then, “You’re going to kill her!”

Maybe this was always the fate of the districters. To live life true as she could, only to stand between sides that never cared whether she lived or died.

“Why?” She says, eyes wide and breathless.

The question hangs and she knows there is nothing to satisfy it.

But she feels better knowing that when the bodies are stacked and they are rolled away to unmarked graves, one will have asked it at all.

[Uxue Izar stands still]

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

Aug 31, 2019 11:52:23 GMT -5 eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris said:

( 9f dakota lambert | attack 1 | 2136 )

( 9f dakota lambert | attack 2 | 2188 )

and it's my whole heart
weighed and measured inside
and it's an old scar
trying to bleach it out

She's quicker than I would have given her credit for — and when she ducks, my blade slices across the back of her head. And I have the audacity to stand there, like an executioner, staring down at her where she lies on the ground. Like I have any right to hold myself so highly, with such pride. I should feel ashamed, but I cut out that emotion long ago. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

It's still there, curling up inside of me — but it is quiet, and it is dying, and I do not allow myself to cry for this girl. I don't reach out a hand to help her up. To survive, I have to stand on my own; I have always known that I would be alone at the end of the world. And now the sky is dark, and all the sounds are broken and hurting and lost. But I know where I am. I know what I have to do.

I step back when another young woman joins me, aiming a bit too recklessly with her knife and deflected by her target — but I admire her spirit, that overwhelming will to live. She has a child by her side, hands clasped together. And for a moment I wonder if there is a way to fight without giving up your heart, but I only look away. They are both going to die. Holding someone as they bleed out doesn't stop the blood from flowing.

Someone else approaches, and all my instincts tell me to run — when I see her weapon, when I hear her enraged words. Every part of myself is wired to escape, to make it out alive; but I find myself laughing. A cruel sound, hopeless. I watch as my victim's protector lunges for the girl that followed me, whose dagger is not stained red. Everything that is said has been meant for me, but none of the punishment.

Part of me considers running, leaving this stranger to her own devices — but there is another part, one that I have tried to bury away, that tells me to stay. Not to defend, but not wholly to destroy; sometimes the safest place is in the eye of the storm. "I know she's scared. That's why I attacked her." It's foolish to speak so boldly, but my soul catches flame and I can feel the heat coursing through my veins.

"And why did you stab this girl? Why not me?" I invite death to come closer, an old friend I have missed so dearly — and then I turn away from him, circling around this furious intruder and her broken morals. "Don't let me stop you. Kill her." That's one less person in my way. Even the tribute I sliced open lunges for the stranger, leaving me untouched and in the clear. I'm standing at the back of someone I do not know.

And my dagger is heavy in my hands.

I calculate the situation;

I listen to my hunger.

"I think you're the one that's scared."

and it's my whole heart
deemed and delivered a crime
i'm on trial, waiting 'til the beat comes out
i'm on trial, waiting 'til the beat comes out



lyrics : florence + the machine
— which witch

^{[ DARS ]}

( 9f dakota attacks 8f maryam ; knife )
z_VJUUJZ98knife
( Severed Finger on Right Hand -- 8.5 damage (+1) )

knife

[Lyn𝛿is]

Jack Imberline | Intro | No attack

He understands the rebel girl's birdcall before he manages to process the meaning of the knives laid at their feet.

Codes and secret signals were not the sole domain of the rebels, of course, but it came close: after all, what did the Capitol need of secrecy, when they could march up and down the cobbled streets in the open, with only pretty words of peace and harmony as their disguise?

Jack had spent the past two years listening, and observing. Little details in spaces the bolder and louder were used to overlooking - the shape of a sun graffitied between two broken windowpanes, whistled notes where you could overlay and guide us through to the future across them, if you knew to. He remembers building the radio with Julio, hammering at supplies scrounged from scrap weaving looms till it crackled to life with voices in a drawling accent neither of them had heard before.

All of that seems like a distant dream to him now. He sticks his thumb in his pocket and traces the ridges of a screw with his nail; he'd loosened the screw from his cot a few nights ago, as he lay sleepless in the cold cell, with only the groans and snores of the prisoner across from him as company. It wasn't much - barely the size of his thumb and tucked away neatly in the folds of his jeans - but after the Peacekeepers had turned out his pockets and confiscated everything inside when they'd arrested him, it was the only thing he had that still felt like home.

He stares at the knife at his feet - simple and sleek, sunlight glinting off its steel blade and piercing his eyes - and forgets how to move. His knees lock up and his bottom lip trembles and his vision clouds with tears that seem to have forgotten how to shake loose from his eyelids to trickle down his cheeks. The screw digs into his thumb and he thinks about how he'd never seen a firefight, only the result, when his thin fingers worked needle and thread across where Commander Edwyle's ear had been, or shoved seemingly endless wads of cotton gauze into a jagged bullet wound punching through Frankie's leg.

It had always been easier for him to fix things than to tear them apart.

[Jack does not attack]