The Bloodbath

[aya]

Good morning and welcome to the 2nd Hunger Games bloodbath, Tributes! This is a very special games and I'm so excited to have all of you in it. First and foremost, I would like to encourage each and every one of you to read the rules, as it makes life a lot easier for everyone when all parties involved are aware of the rules and expectations.

For smooth operation of the bloodbath, please be aware of the following:

1. You must wait ONE HOUR between each of your posts. This counts for every post, regardless of whether it contains an attack or not.

2. In order to verify this, you must quote your previous post at the beginning of each new post (exception, intro)

2. a. It is possible to edit the timestamp of your quoted post to make it look like you posted earlier than you did. This is considered cheating. This will not be tolerated. Anyone tribute caught doing this will sustain +20 damage and will have their attack invalidated.

2. b. Please start each post (before any tables) with your tribute's district and name, what attack number this is, and, at the end, whatever the dice code you roll is. For example: [12M Arbor Halt, attack 3, 2069].

2. c. When you quote your previous post, please delete EVERYTHING besides the tribute's name, attack number, and dice code (as given above).

3. You must post at least once every TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. If you do not post at least once during each 24-hour period, starting at 12pm EST one day and ending at 12pm EST the next, you will be considered inactive and your tribute will be brought up to 39.5 damage. Please post more frequently as you are able. I will be understanding about needing to be gone for other obligations, but intentionally limiting your posting as a games strategy will not be tolerated and will be considered a violation of the rules if it becomes an issue.

4. You can only be attacked THREE times between each of your posts. One tribute may only attack another tribute ONCE between each of the targeted tribute's posts. This means that a tribute may only be attacked three times between their posts if the attacks are by three different tributes.

5. Other rules about bloodbath combat still stand:

- you must wait until at least three other people have posted before you can post again
- fillers are not allowed (and will result in death due to inactivity)
- all dice codes must be immediately obvious, even if you are using a table. Either put it beneath the table entirely, or make it easily accessible.
- you must specify who you're attacking
- weapons that are picked up by a tribute can be claimed by the tribute’s killer

6. Rule adjustments for this bloodbath are as follows:

- alliances are not allowed (IC or OOC)
- prewriting is highly discouraged
- start times will be staggered, please see the list at the bottom of this post
- your first post may contain an attack
- unarmed attacks are not required, they are optional
- attacking itself is not required, it is optional
- however, if you do not make an armed attack each day starting with the second OOC day, you will not be allowed to attack going forward
- any additional armed attacks that you make each day will earn you 1 hp back at the end of the 24hr period
- all tributes are given one gladius sword
- weapons may be claimed and used immediately
- there is no fleeing, but separate threads for death posts are allowed
- rebel tributes are given the following stations: blades, hand-to-hand, and self-defense

7. At the top six tributes, bloodbath rules will switch to standard turn order.

ANY violations of these rules may result in an additional 8 damage dealt to the offending tribute.

Each tribute's damage will be updated on the Retro Hunger Games Engine, so pay attention and don't forget to refresh the page!

Starting health has already been adjusted in the engine.

Today's Weather
The sky is bright blue, picturesque wisps of clouds carried along on a light breeze.
Humidity: low
Temperature: 73F / 23C

The start time brackets are as follows:

12:00pm EST
* Grover 98.19
* Samiyuq 85.15
* Axel 83.03
Ram 82.09
* Antigone 79.01
* Anderson 74.08

12:15pm EST
Catullus 73.18
Tector 73.11
Persephone 72.15
Emmi 63.03
* Aisha 61.04
* Tarquin 50.14

12:30pm EST
* Iris 47.14
Helena 45.18
Aurora 44.16
* Harley 38.08
Dahlia 26.17
* Era 14.17

12:45pm EST
Maeve 11.19
Ajax 9.15
* Avonlea 5.05
Jonas 4.07
* Sigrun 0
Jett 0



*denotes rebel

Good luck Tributes and may the odds be ever in your favor!

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

antigone boyé

[intro | post 1| ----]

act i. scene i.


(interior – cold, concrete cell. distant sound of water dripping. chains that rattle every now and then. haggard breathing.)

(antigone is prostrate across the ground, chin on the palm of her hands.)

choragus. what did you tell the world when they came to collect you? the peacekeepers had seen the earth covering the pieces of her brother, the soft ground that hid him from his justice. they took her hands and saw the dirt that had caked underneath your fingernails. she didn’t smile or shrink. she looked as though she had seen god; she smiled when they pulled her arms across her back and started to tie them together.

(a light comes up to reveal two men, one on each side. it flushes upward to obscure both of their faces, give them significant shadows)

soldier one. you have broken the law.

soldier two. you have betrayed your country.

soldier one. you will be punished.

soldier two. you will face the consequences.

soldier one. you will be hated.

soldier two. you will be an example.

soldier one. you will be nothing.

chorus. there were months where she is locked away from the world. the jail of district three was a squalid sort of home that let her think about her life. it wasn’t much to think about, short as it was. there were the years she spent on the lap of her mother when she would work the hours at the plant, checking and rechecking the robots on the line. you learned how to change a fuse at four, and how to rewire a circuit at six.

choragus. she remembers standing in front of a screen watching the process of it all. she asked her father how that worked and he scratched his head and gave a shrug. she wanted to know how it all came together, and that was always who she was – the girl that took note of all the pieces, how they ran, to make it all as one.

chorus. lazrus had a stuffed teddy bear he used to sleep with. antigone is surprised you remember that; he always seemed to be grown. she forgets about teoc, but then, so many do.

choragus. it’s too painful to think of fray, but she manages. she can still see what they’ve done to him. it burns like fire across a path of gasoline, hot and quick, igniting if a fury of a hiss. she thinks less of how they fought for a world for and by the districts and that they tore a boy all of eighteen limb from limb. that they desecrated a body as though he had meant nothing, to no one. and perhaps that had been the greatest thing that she had ever done, burying his body. she tells them:

(antigone stands, light on her as she repeats the words)

antigone. he deserved to be buried. just like the rest of them. they knew what they had done. they believed every word. and i know that it was foolish now, to think we’d ever be able to achieve something. but while i was with them, i can tell you, they were the greatest men i’d ever known. the way they cared for one another. their courage in the face of what had to be done – you can’t question that. and their tenderness… they loved, too. i know i’ve done wrong. i killed your men. i watched them die. i watched my own brothers die too, and, i ran away from them. i thought that if i came back to three that i could become someone else, as though i could shed my skin. but to be born again takes more than will; you must believe that you are someone else. and i’ve never been anyone but myself. and that will never change.

chorus. it was no surprise when her name was pulled at the reaping. she imagines that all the slips were her name, and it was just a show. the witch as they called her, the sniper supreme, the girl that’d killed so many outside of district five they worried of making her a martyr, had to be put to death. they could not keep her alive; people would not forget someone that had been named.

choragus. the train reminds her of how empty all of it is, that all of this is real. she doesn’t cry, for there’s nothing to weep about. she steels herself, her soul. she doesn’t regret all the choices she made. not when they toss her into the cell, when they lock her away. when she can hear the breathing of the boys and girls that surround her.

chorus. when they move to take them to the field, and she sees the expanse of the coliseum, she is breathless. her heart beats more quickly, and she knows that this is real.

choragus. but she has seen death before. she has felt its tendrils around her neck more than once before. and so she looks to see where the swords are, for the weaker ones, the younger ones, the ones that are over-bold, where could hide. where she could survive. she will make herself known when it is too late, like the sniper she is.

[antigone boyé enters the bloodbath, does nothing]

[cameron]

[intro | post 1 | xxxx]

there's nothing left to sing.
you've admitted it to yourself now that two whitecoats hold your arms and walk you up to stage,
admitted that you've no more songs but a chorus of defeat.

you didn't watch last year's 'games.'
you didn't want to risk being seen by someone who may recognize you as the boy who stole their bread,
as the boy who drove bullets into the keepers in the woods.

you'd heard the whispers around the district.
how couldn't you? even when you tried to stay in the shadows and only take what was necessary
they still knew of the thieves that tried to be rebels.

and that's all they thought of you.
of your decided family that cared for you and protected you and made you feel like you weren't alone,
they thought you'd all just tried and failed.

maybe that was all you'd done after all.
because what was there to show of your years camping out, eating the rodents of the forest floor
and slitting the throats of an unforgiving enemy?

you had no family, no horse, no love.
you had nothing at all and no way to quantify the shit you'd gone through, no way to remain attached
to anything, at all, in your entire wasted existence.

you think you'd accepted it long ago,
but now you know you'd fought to convince yourself otherwise, to believe you'd been more
when you'd never been anything. how stupid. how stupid.

how stupid.

all you've ever had is yourself,
and the music that came along with you, the strings you plucked and notes you played.
who were you now without any of that?

you were nothing. you had nothing.
you've admitted it to yourself now that two whitecoats hold your arms and walk you up to stage,
admitted you were destined for this emptiness.

you were born empty and alone.
still you were that, and nothing more, and you couldn't convince yourself otherwise.
to believe you'd been more would be stupid.

how stupid.

- - -



you lay on the cold ground and try to sleep.
it doesn't come, and you aren't surprised, because sleep never comes easy anymore
not since you lost the warmth of companions

not since you lost your reason for waking,
and without that what good was sleep anyway? why rest for more monotonous nothing,
you think, how stupid.

you're angry the whole damn train ride
and you're angry you're angry. you clench your fists and will yourself to die
before you ever step foot in those games.

there's a cacophony inside your head,
one that screams like you did at the sea, but louder, and louder, and louder,
and you laugh at the only music you have made in months.

you've never known yourself,
and you are so, so angry, and so, so stupid for letting yourself become a number
and not your own you, and now you'll never be.

all you've ever had is yourself,
and the music that came along with you, the strings you plucked and notes you played.
who were you now without any of that?

you roll to your side and feel something:
pressing into your thigh through your pants is a harmonica, one you'd long forgotten.
when you pull it out you almost start to cry.

a moment lingers before you bring it to your lips
and blow into its chambers as you had for nights on end, as you had around the fire
before they'd fallen and you'd fallen too,

and you cry, wet stains on your cheeks
warm notes floating through the car as shrill as your heart could manage.
you don't know who you are, but you know this.

you don't know who you are, but you want to.
you want to be more than just the boy who entertained, who kept your friends afloat
who wasn't nothing, and meant something,

but that's stupid, you realize,
when the keepers bust in and kick your wet face, when they rip the song from your mouth
and fill it instead with blood.

how stupid.

you'd thought you'd be more than that
but you aren't even that, and especially not now, not now that you'd be dead in hours.
there's nothing left to sing.

- - -



there is nothing in your head.
no song, no screams, no sound. it is as empty as you
and you stare forward, at the face of another

the face of someone as dead as you
and you wonder if they think there's something more, if they still can sing
when there's nothing to sing for.

you wonder until the gates rise
and the sand before you glistens in the sunlight, and you know it's the last time
you'll ever see the light.

you think you'd accepted it long ago,
but now you know you'd fought to convince yourself otherwise, to believe you'd been more,
you'd be more.

you can't be more when you've never been anything,
not nothing,
not at all.

grover oz enters the bloodbath

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

andy maddox | intro | no attack

andy.

The clothes hadn't been comfortable to sleep in, but they were plenty warm. As the shirt was too big, it was all too easy to pull the sleeves past the tips of his fingers, and he flipped his collar up to keep his neck warm, and he buried his face into the crook of his elbow so no one- not even he himself, could see the tears that had already began to form a steady leak down his face.

Though he couldn't remember when, at some point, he drifted into a slumber.

When he woke, there was an avox standing in his doorway, hands together, head bowed, eyes closed to protect Andy's oh-so important modesty.

"Is it almost time to start?" he asked. She nodded yes to him; he closed his eyes, wishing she'd said no.

She picked up a pair of gray overalls, the kind that mill workers and wood processors wore back in Seven. Nothing fancy, a loose fitting body suit with a zipper. They were heavy as he tried them on, seemingly insulated. The material was scratchy and unforgiving, even though they'd managed to find a suit that actually fit him. It added some bulk to his arms, made his torso and waist formless: a block of gray fabric to hide the trembling boy beneath. He gritted his teeth in annoyance.

Like a damn chihuahua, he shook every time his heartbeat was anything above its natural resting state. Even when it was something as simple as an exercise, even when it was a little cold outside, he started trembling, the last leaf left in a tree during late autumn desperate to hold on to the only life it had ever known.

Deep breath in.

It calmed him, somewhat. Not permanently, but enough for him to keep it hidden from the avox as he slid his boots on and followed her down the corridor.

He caught her by the arm and she winced, he flinched, realizing he wasn't the only one who was scared.

"Sorry," he muttered, and then after some time had passed, "Do you think..."

He tried to search for the words that got his question across while keeping his feigned confidence intact. Asking her if she thought he looked strong enough to win implied that he thought he wasn't.

"Have you seen any of the other tributes?"

Gingerly, she nodded yes to him.

"Any of 'em I should watch out for?"

She looked around, as if to make sure no one was listening in, and held up the number 3.

"Boy?" he asked, she nodded yes.

————————————————————

The lights at the end of the hallway were disorienting: bright beacons that he couldn't look directly into. Even from here, he could hear the cheers of a crowd. Live audience?

Andy looked down at himself, shoved his hands into his pockets when he noticed that they were shaking.

You're fine. You're fine. You're fine.

Each step he took took an overwhelming amount of courage, each bringing a pang of sickness to his belly. Eventually, he stood in the mouth of the arena, a huge coliseum. If not for the everything smells new observation Andy made, it would've been easy to guess that this building had been around for centuries. Leave it to a Capitolite to build a building so that it looked old and dilapidated on purpose; to them, it was probably charming.

Twenty-three other entrances all around the arena. He watched as forms began to appear from them, standing still just as he was. Just as they had all been instructed to. Once all of them were there, the Keepers behind Andy shoved him forward and he was walking again, closer and closer to the center of the arena still, until he stood on a plate with his name and district number engraved upon it. They stood in a perfect circle now, the 24 of them. Andy tried not to make eye contact with them; seemed more interested in the sword laying in front of him.

A killing contest, the girl at the reaping had said. He pressed his lips together.

He'd killed before for someone else's cause. One more day of it wouldn't be the worst thing.

He counted the slots, found the boy from 3. Took a mental picture so he'd know where he was later. The avox had told him to watch out for that one; Andy assumed he was on the other side of the war. The winning side.

When the buzzer sounded, he burst forward and snagged the sword, swinging on his heels and keeping his eyes peeled.

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

axel moreau | intro | no attack

A X E L      M O R E A U

I dream that I’m back at the front.

It’s a disorienting dream. Blue is there, with his five mile wide smile, and Tiny with his mop of shaggy brown hair. He never was able to tame it, even if I somehow found a comb to throw at him. I dream about threatening to chop it all off, just like I did a million times, and in my dream I hear him with his favorite reply.

It looks like a birds nest, right Blade? he’d asked me. Call it camouflage.

In my dream, I laugh.

And when I wake, it’s with a cold sweat.

The ground is cold, my cell humid. It’s a strange combination, and I think that most of it is from my own doing. When did I get here? I can’t hardly remember. I can hear myself shouting, see them needing multiple Keepers to come and collect me. I can feel their hands all over me still, am sure that I’m littered with bruises in the shape of their palms.

The Capitol’s fingerprints are all over me.

I’m not your fucking toy, I shouted. I’m not going to be in your game! I had kicked and shouted, right? The memory is fuzzy in my head. I draw my hand to the back of my head and feel a nasty welt there and when I bring my hand in front of my face, I think that it’s red. It’s definitely wet, so here’s hoping that it’s blood and the Capitol hasn’t splashed slow working acid on me or something that’s going to slow burn a hole through my skull just to make sure another rebel doesn’t win.

Then again, they seem to have had Ripred-roaring success with the first one, so maybe they think having another rebel victor isn’t the worst thing in the world.

When my cell starts to shake and creak, I realize that I’m not lying on Earth, but on the floor of a cage. From behind me, light starts to leak into the space, reflecting off the walls. It’s startling and disorienting and I have to bring my hand to my face to cover my eyes. I realize too late that I used my bloody hand, and between one breath and another I’ve smeared the red across my right eye. I don’t need a mirror to know that I have a black eye made of blood, a halo of red around startling blue.

I will enter their war, unwilling, with blood on my hands, on my face, dripping down the back of my neck and staining the collar of a uniform I never asked for, but took up all the same. I wrap my hand around the hilt of a sword, and remember why my name is Blade.

I can’t breathe.

I do it anyway.

I have nothing to live for: no mother, no comrades, no rebellion. Everything I have ever loved is dead. It didn’t die; it was killed.

It’s blood I’m owed.

CANARY IN THE MINES

[✨ zozo.]

aisha aquino | intro | 1182

AISHA -

Aisha gets why they call it the Hunger Games now. She's really fucking hungry. It's that ravenous kind of hunger, the one that consumes you. Whittles you down to nothing. Carves a great big gap inside of you, drains you of energy, turns you manic and shaking and weak. Makes anything justifiable. Anything. Perhaps this was their plan after all, make the rebels so hungry they'll go crazy - she's seen it happen in battle before, seen the Keepers lob loaves of bread into no mans land and watched baited men and women and children fall like flies around it who'd never do so otherwise.

Temptation, exhaustion, she's all of it - and she knows this game is just bait, like how the swords in front of her glisten in the morning light and beg to be pulled up from the ground. She sways in the arms of Keepers pushing her out of her cage into the sandy center and as she stumbles they shove her forward. "¡Ojo!" she seethes, but no more than that. Talking is energy, and she needs as much strength as she can muster for what's about to come next.

With great honour. Aisha looks for the little ones first. It's the easy way out, a cowards way out, and for a split-second her memory reaches back to the little girl she smuggled out of prison and buried in the ground but it doesn't matter now, the wars over for everyone else. Abuelo's voice in her ears but she shakes him off - he's dead now. Like Papa. Like Al. Like everyone. She has to do what she has to do. Live honourably. Fight honourably.

Die honourably.

"Terminemos con esto" she mumbles through chattering teeth, hoisting the hilt of a sword upwards and swinging it once, twice, three times - desperately hoping the harsh movements hide the ravenous trembling in her hands.

- AQUINO.

aisha attacks jett; sword
6jpbwVB7bBsword
shallow cut 3.5

sword

[kap]

[D6M Tarquin Athenian | Attack 1 | 1012]

[googlefont="Girassol:400"]Tarquin Athenian

They never let me say goodbye.

When I was chosen at the reaping back home in District Six, I was ripped away from everything I knew, and I didn't even have a chance to say any parting words to my family. The last thing that I heard from my younger brother, Tyrus, was him yelling out at the Peacekeepers, telling them not to take me. Of course, the Peacekeepers didn't listen to him. Instead, he was restrained by them and struck with a Peacekeeper's baton as I was escorted away from the crowd that was gathered in front of the Justice Building.

---

As the day of the Games themselves arrived, I still felt the same fear I'd felt at the reaping, but I managed to hide it. No one would have known from looking at me that I was terrified of what was about to unfold. Sure, I was a rebel soldier. Believe it or not, however, there wasn't a whole lot of killing involved in what I did. I killed one Capitol soldier during my time fighting, but that didn't mean I wanted to kill again. I knew that I had to, though. If I wanted to get out of here alive, I would have to murder innocents, which had always been one of my biggest fears as a soldier.

How could I live with myself if I did survive all of this? How could I live with the guilt of killing an innocent?

I couldn't let myself linger on those thoughts, though. If I kept thinking about how I didn't want to kill the other tributes, I'd never survive. I had to think about survival. That had to be my only focus. Letting emotions get in the way could be my downfall, so I knew I had to shut them out. If I was going to win- to live- to become the victor of the Second Hunger Games- I had to be without emotions and guilt.

---

As I rose into the arena in the box made of iron bars, I told myself that I wasn't allowed emotions right then. I took a deep breath, and when my eyes adjusted to the light on the surface, I quickly observed my surroundings. The twenty-four of us were underneath a circle of arches, facing one another. In front of each of our holding cells was a sword, stuck into the wooden floor beneath us. We were in a colosseum of some sort, and there were, to my surprise and disgust, a small amount of spectators in the stands.

Our metal cells opened simultaneously, releasing us into the arena to fight one another. Immediately, I mustered up the strength needed to rip my sword from the floor. Holding it tightly in my hands, I took a deep breath. I could do this. I had to do this.

I quickly observed what was going on, and saw tributes already striking one another. Now, I had to do the same. Swinging my sword at the closest target, I prepared to see blood.

[D6M Tarquin Athenian attacks D8F Helena Crane with sword]

d4IufStf4Rsword

[1012 -- Deep Gash on Back of Head -- 9.0 damage]

sword

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

[d12f emmi coulter | intro | no attack]

My brother always says to stand up for who you are.

Except the trouble is, I don’t know who the you are is…

…the nurse…the nanny…the trapper. Or am I just Emmi?

Just Emmi, the girl thrusted into a land of turmoil with no map but conflicting instructions.
Brother: ”Go this way…”
Mamma: ”No go that way.”

One who follows the true rules and the other who writes his own.

A rebel and a law-abiding citizen…

I hope to be a law-abiding citizen but two heavily armoured men are dragging along my weightless body to a mass grave pit that has been dug for all the kids my age. I want to be a rebel to this sickening society but the death count of neighbours who stood up for themselves…I will need at least eight more toes and fingers to count them all.

There really is no where to go. Punished for taking either option. The only way is to be at the top, but my birth right says I must be at the bottom…below everyone else…literally under the ground.

”Can you stop squeezing so hard please, you are hurting my wrists.” Pain is going to singe my soul soon and the peacekeeper is the first to leave the battle wounds. ”Please…” Their grip is tightened as I am thrown into my next destination.

All I have done while I have been in the Capitol is follow every rule, agree to every motion that has been explained and thrusted upon me. I have spoken to no one. One of those faces will be the last one I see. I do not want to know the name of my killer. I did not even think my killer would have a human name…I thought it would be: old age, pneumonia or even crushed under the roof of a mine shaft.

It is all so dark, there is more life underground than this mile walk to the end. A dull grey overall swallows my frame, a few inches too big, the trousers nearly swallow my feet and I will be constantly rolling up my sleeves.

They let me go. A quick release of the circulation cutting grip. ”Thank you.”

They are watching us.

All I see is the faces that surround my soon to be cemetery. A rainbow of death loving maniacs. I see all the glasses of poison in their hands, stronger than the bottles that momma and papa have hidden in the bathroom cabinet. The bathroom cabinet that should be full of my brother’s medicines.

It is quick, the flood of activity from the chosen others but I do not move far from the opening gate. I just stare up at them.

The spectators to a little girl’s death.

Tears float down my cheeks, my eyes melting with disgust as I capture every one of their faces.

”How dare you.” I try my best to project my voice through all of the screams and emotions that I have blocked from thought, it is only them I am focused on. ”How dare you sit up there and cheer. I am just a little girl…” I throw my hands up into the air, what am I even surrendering too? I have never fought for a cause in my life…”A little girl who fought no battles. A little girl who kept the power going in your expensive homes and machines ticking by during your expensive war!”

I pick up the sword that sits at my feet, it is lighter than the pickaxes back home. What am I even going to do with this? ”It should be you carrying this. Not a little girl who kept you all living…”

[Emmi does not attack]

[WT]

[D5M|N Samiyuq Hernández Huapaya | intro | post 1 | attack 1 | 1123]

On waking, Samiyuq opens hir eyes, rolls onto hir side, and vomits across a Peacekeeper's shoes.

Ze only realizes exactly what the blur of white in front of hir means when the owner of the shoes jerks back with a Capitol-accented swear. They lift one foot out of Samiyuq's line of vision, but before it can fall another voice behind hir snaps, "Don't. Don't start. I don't want to hear about it from up top if we have to replace him."

"Rebel shit is rebel shit," the first voice growls, but the foot lowers.

Samiyuq knows enough about head injury to worry about the haze around hir memories from the moments before ze was knocked out and the way the world is swimming around hir, but ze knows enough about the Hunger Games to know ze doesn't have time to let those things resolve. As the second voice, now sounding even more exasperated, snaps, "Optics, Christ," ze spits acid from hir mouth and eases hir torso upright. "Oh, now he's awake."

"He weighs about as much as your gun, quit whining."

Ze wipes hir mouth roughly with the side of one hand. It's worse than reckless to antagonize strangers with guns and batons right now, but after two years without so much as a sparring partner to vent with, it's all too easy to let the steam roiling in hir core speak for hir. "One of you cowards caught me from behind. Least you can do is misgender me to my face."

The first Peacekeeper kicks hir after all, but almost gently—a shove to the shoulder with one dirty white shoe, as if more to make a point than to actually hurt hir. Samiyuq braces hirself against the floor and refuses to let that point be made.

---

The rolling motion of the train they drag hir onto does nothing to help the nausea, but time does. Samiyuq reaches the Capitol--ze assumes--with clear senses and a persistent but managable headache. Under normal circumstances, hir headache should have healed within a matter of days.

Normal circumstances. The thought makes hir laugh harshly. Nothing--even by the standards of hir own childhood, and ze only knows secondhand what a normal childhood can look like--has been normal in Panem for years. Five was struggling when Samiyuq left it and destitute when ze came back, with gaping holes still left where it was bombed or neighbors went missing without notice or explanation. Ranchers who complain about their seized vehicles are lucky to be sent home to their exponentially increased work instead of arrested and charged for sedition. Years of desperate struggle, and life in Panem is worse, and the survivors are told to be grateful that they're alive at all instead of blasted out of existence like Thirteen.

Or sent to kill one another on national television. Which is only the same tired, bloody battlefield, writ dramatic but small, that every part of Panem has become at one time or another--Peacekeepers at the edges with their weapons trained on children, people who could have fought with Samiyuq or across from hir shouting to or about each other in tones that choppy Capitol editing can only mostly edit, civilians caught in the crossfire. The Capitop is not always as creative as they fancy themselves.

Not that that makes it any easier.

The problem with deciding to stay alive, Samiyuq has learned—in war and at home, over the long last day in the colony room and every long night in the barn—is that all decisions are temporary. You have to choose life every time you stare someone down and make the choice to pull your trigger first, and every time you wake up. Ze made it at the Reaping, looking back at hir parent for what ze can't allow hirself to believe was the last time, but ze's all too keenly aware, as ze peers through the iron gate the last set of Peacekeepers put hir behind, that ze's making it again consciously. Not taking the only action that feels possible in a panicked moment, but scanning what shreds ze can see of the soon-to-be-battlefield and deciding: no Peacekeepers in reach as far as ze can see, so the lot of them will have to fight each other. And ze can hit the Capitol sympathizers first—to hell with them, let them reap (ha) what their support has sown—but those fights probably won't last forever.

Still. Nemesis-Cassiel took a delicate touch. Fucking up meant at best a wasted resource and at worst an blast in your face, and Samiyuq kept hir hands steady enough to handle explosives and fragile wings when the team had an hour's notice to arm a flight after half an hour's restless sleep. Ze kept hir hands steady through exhaustion and the haze of unshed tears as ze moved through vial after vial of pentobarbital. Next to that, it's nothing at all to yank the sword gracelessly from the ground and swing at the first target to come into reach, a long-haired stranger who looks like they've been through the wringer recently.

How ze feels about it can't matter.



[D5M Samiyuq Hernández Huapaya attacks D1F Aisha Aquino, sword]

xlWOyVFljwsword

[Deep Gash on Right Thigh -- 8.0]

sword

[pup]

[iris oak, entrance, attack #1, #1171]
[googlefont="Zhi Mang Xing:400"]

iris oak

all i can remember is my heart in my head as my eyes clung shut. the images still coursing through my veins. they showed me death. they showed me my father killing everyone i love. it's just trackerjacker venom i kept reminding myself, my teeth grinding against each other. but then again, was it? was it really? maybe he did kill everyone? he was trying to kill me?

no

then i was freed to a slightly cozier cell. he gave himself in.

i watched him die. they killed him.

it's not over i thought to myself everytime a peacekeeper would come check on carya and me, making sure we weren't trying to cause any more "trouble." i lived a sad life. living in district seven for a year with no one to watch out for us was rough. i watched the first hunger games pass, gritting my teeth as if the venom was still coursing through my veins. first, they had said.

then came the second.

iris oak.

i wanted to scream. the capitol had killed our parents. now they wanted little carya alone.

goodbye, carya

i thought we were at least somewhat safe. that the capitol would leave us alone now that war was over and they had peacekeepers watching my every movement. they found a way to kill me. they would find a way to kill her next.

i won't let them. i'll play their game. i'll win their game.

the train was rough. we went through the capitol. i ignored my past home. i tried to ignore the sense of longing and nostalgia building inside o me as we passed neighborhoods i once knew so well. would any of my friends from my past life recognize me when i died, or do they think i died during the rebellion.

i didn't get to say goodbye to any of them then, when my dad shook me awake and hurried me out of the capitol to district thirteen hidden by night and a blanket over my head.

then, im in an arena. the cage in front of my opening.

there's a sword in my hand. im not sure how it got there. they gave it to me, i picked it up

i'll play their game.

the gate rises, and my breath catches in my throat. fuck the capitol. there were kids as young as carya here. they were going to die just like i am. just like carya. they really want us, kids, to kill each other?

yes.

they really want me to kill another kid?

yes.

i need to make sure that carya's alive. that she's safe. i need to get out of here. i need to fight.

it looks as if some people are unsure of what to do, standing there with swords grasped awkwardly. i know i probably look that way also.

"Fuck the capitol." I mutter under my breath. Few people are attacking. Many are just standing.

i hear a small voice from besides me. How dare you.

she's so young. she looks just like her. like carya. i can't let her die. i can't. not now. i don't care if this is a trick from the capitol to force me into submission. she's just a fucking kid.

It should be you carrying this. Not a little girl who kept you all living…

i heard her words. she was just like everyone the capitol defrauded. she was like me. they promised me protection. they killed mom.

"You're fucking right." I say, coming up besides her, looking around to see if anyone else was nearby. "Now get behind me, I'm not going to let them fucking hurt you. They've done enough damage."

[attacks ajax w/ stabby sword]
9Vin0iqskOsword
[miss hehe]

sword

[Arrows]

[helena crane / introduction attack 1 / XXX]

helena crane

From the hollowed heart of a fallen frame they had taken her. That morning, the sun entranced by a veil of mist, set a scene of silence within the church. Those that came listened to the girl in the dress of snow colored fields while her words spoke of the boundlessness of the soul. By the great gift of mercy, she proclaimed how Ripred always works within the world even if it is overrun by the remnants of tragedy. She wonders whether they saw mercy that morning when the hands of heaven moved.

Helena spent her time alone afterwards, once they had boarded the train. Her eyes searched across the smoldering earth as it sped by for reminders as to why fear was not in her heart. She found it in the craters that crumbled inwardly as the train thundered by them. She found it in the broken buildings slowly starting to reach towards the skies again within the centers of the Districts. She found it in herself, a selected lamb for sacrificial slaughter.

Bombs. Bullets. Bodies. She watched the war without a word, bore witness to the true sin of humanity. It did not surprise her when from the freshly fallen the Capitol laid claim to new evil. Games of blood and battle not unlike the ones which had just torn through the world with its teeth glaring. It's so typical of humanity, violence begets violence. The eternal cyclical cycle of humanity's sin.

Helena had watched the Hunger Games debut last year, everyone had by demand of the Capitol. Stood silent again as child carved into child until nothing other than the fragment of a girl named Adder Ames remained. The scene was sewn with brutal barbarism, the relinquishment of youthful innocence to the surge of survival. This year will be no different, only this time it's not new. The other twenty three know the same as her, know what is waiting above them at this very moment.

Metal cries as clanks crack and bodies of white arrive at the door to Helena's holding room of grey nothingness. To further the appeal a suit is throw at her feet, grey like everything else. A pair of boots is thrown free from the peacekeepers as well. The message is clear: change. The metal door screams once more on its hinges before slamming shut and its gears grind it back into its locked status. Helena's hands run over the rough threads, a laughter lifts from her lips. Undoubtedly made in District Eight, ugly but from the same shattered streets as her. She wraps herself in the memory of home.

A roll of bread and a bottle of water are delivered next, the final form of decency she'll receive. She thanks Ripred even for getting them at all before tearing into the warm crust of the bread. As her teeth crunch across the sweet surface of the baked bread, she lets her eyes close. She doesn't try to project herself anywhere else, somewhere away from reality. Instead, she asks for strength. By the eyes of humankind she is some small barely fed mouse from District Eight. But in eyes of Ripred, she knows she is a falcon with talons capable of clearing entire rivers.

The wild calls.

Hands throw Helena forward through the maze and she doesn't resist them. All the energy she has now she's going to put towards what will happen when she stands in a field of twenty four children all in the same outfit. These aren't going to be like the ones she freed before, they aren't injured yet. At least, not like how those in the war were. She has to hurt them before she can sever their souls' connections to their prisons of flesh. But by the might of Ripred, she will break them of their bonds to monstrosity.

The cage is surprising, along with the fear it sends streaking down Helena's spine like a single drop of cold water cascading down her back. Her fingers wrap around the iron bars just as they shift and send her slamming into the side of the cell. The room she's in falls away into there is nothing but her own fear. She prays and light welcomes her to humanity's hell.

The structure is far more archaic than the first stadium's, it's something Helena briefly recalls being mentioned as a Coliseum. Several other things have changed this year as well. Mainly, the peacekeepers don't stand in riot gear at the ready, but in seats as the true spectators they are. However, they aren't alone. Several officials share the stands along with Panem's first Victor Adder Ames in the flesh. Alas, now isn't the time for them.

The arches open and swords stuck in the sand find the first hands of tributes, and Helena follows their lead. Her eyes stare at her reflection in the blade, squint at the glare of the sun's own eye. Her hands hesitate, will she become complacent again? Her blade slightly shakes in her palms, no. His blade flashes, her skin singes. She’ll never be complacent again.

Helena attacks Tarquin / sword
IK2fTwTnAzsword
{Miss}

“sword”

[Kire]

[3M Catullus Brown, attack 1, 1083]

Catullus Brown
district 3 male

The sound of a door opening startles me out of a doze. I hadn't been able to sleep in any real capacity, despite feeling completely expended. Letting my heart settle for a moment, I try to reconcile the noise that woke me in my addled brain. I don't get long, though, as I am once again flanked by two Peacekeepers. They haul me up by the arms and drag me to the far wall from the door - which is shut once again.

Only now that wall isn't a wall anymore, it's an open doorway.

Surprised and awed by how flawless the seam had been, I didn't fight as they tossed me through this new entryway. This time I was awake to hear the oddness in the sound as the door shut again. The sound was more of a sliding rather than a swinging. Before this had been masked by my sleep and the other door opening at the same time. Now, though, it was all I could hear while all of my light disappeared.

I sit in the dark for some time, feeling as though I have spent more of my time waiting than anything else. "It loses the dramatics if I have to sit here for another day." No one could hear me, but I spoke aloud anyway. My own voice was a bit of comfort in the dark.

Then the world is filled with light and noise again.

Somehow another trap door is opened, letting outside spill into the crevice they had crammed me into. I stagger forward, blinded by the sudden change in light. As my eyes adapt I get glimpses of rows upon rows of stands. Everything is a sea of white and once I can make out shapes I see why. The seats are filled with endless Peacekeepers in dress-whites. They are not here on duty, they're here to watch. My stomach feels like it fell right out of my gut to lay on the ground. I can barely swallow as I take in everything.

I am in a great ring. The walls are too high to jump and climb, too slick to hope for footholds. For a few moments there are openings where other bodies stumble out, with other people already taking a survey like I am. There are no theatrics, no announcements or signals. We are simply abandoned in the middle of this open ring with nowhere to go. Last one standing. Who would it be, of us? I could try, but I wasn't confident it would be me.

Still, this was a chance to show the Capitol that I had value. Maybe if they saw I was willing to fight for them, to prove myself better than the rebels, they would reward me. The foolishness of the thought was not lost to me but I had to hold onto something. I supposed if I was really the last one left then I truly would see the Capitol, just as Adder Ames had. I could see her in the stands, a lone ink stain on the sheet of white that wrapped around us.

Twenty-four people seems like a lot, but in a space this size we are pretty spread out. There is every opportunity to charge across the arena to attack others, but there's some good distance to cover too. There is a moment where we all simply look at each other. As one we hold a collective breath before the first person takes a swing at another. Rebels. The thought makes my fists clench and I wonder about how successfully I might be able to retaliate if they were to come after me.

That's when I catch sight of the planted sword that stood directly in front of me. Surely it had been there these whole last moments, but I had been blissfully unaware of it. Tentatively reaching out a hand, I touch the handle of the thing. My father had never let us use any sort of weapon, so I was out of my league in training with anything like this. Even so, desperate times as they say. Wrapping my fingers around the hilt, I give it a short jerk. The sword slides immediately out of the ground and out of my hand. "Shit." Heavier than it looks. Would I even be able to hold it, let alone swing it at someone?

I suppose I might have to find out, even if this moment wasn't quite the time. I bide my time, switching between looking around and trying to figure out how to hold the sword in a way that doesn't hurt my wrist and strain my arm. Even badly using a sword is better than not having a weapon at all, right?

Sorry, dad, I guess I have to fight.

He had always been so adamant that we would never have to step off the sidelines, that the Capitol would protect us. He had been wrong about them protecting him, and now they had gone and thrown me directly in the line of fire. Still, this was my one chance to really show them I would support them - that I could support them - in a way that actually benefited them. If I could just survive longer than the rebels... Can I really kill someone?

Around me people leap forward to fight. A girl rushes a boy, slices a cut on his arm. On the other side, a different boy swings and catches a girl in the back of her head. The blow is hard, but the girl doesn't drop dead so she must still be breathing. The terrible knowledge that any one swing from these trained killers could end me hits me all at once in a way it hadn't until now.

I nearly drop the sword again, but tighten my fist around it. I have to do something. I can't just stand here. Desperately looking around, I try to pick someone who looks like a rebel, someone who also might not immediately kill me after I swing at them. I don't have a death wish, stupid as that is to say in a place like this. None of this was my choice, but I have to choose now.

"This is it, I guess." I'm whispering again, this time surrounded by strangers instead of walls. It feels just as cold here. "Here we go."

Nothing about this feels right, but I can't expect it too. Untrained and trying to wield a sword in an arena of people who must all be ready to kill me, I am on the losing end of this. Still, for the Capitol, for myself, for my dad, I must try.

As yet some other girl swings at a different boy, I take my chances and swing at her.

[Catullus attacks Iris Oak with Sword]
YytaXs2oVasword
Shallow Cut on Neck -- 4.0 damage

sword

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

( harley d4f | intro | 1122 )

Boom.

Boom.

I could no longer tell if it was the echo of our footsteps or the pounding of my heart that was so loud. The guards that walked me through the empty corridor must be able to hear it, whatever it was.

They know as well as I do that I am about to die. About to face a gruesome death for all of Panem to see.
My body shuddered in their grasp.

It was coming closer. I could feel it.

With each step we took I felt doom approaching, and soon it would be standing on my doorstep, waiting to take me down for the last time.

Waiting to get His last laugh.

The tunnels seemed to be deserted, but finally after what seemed like miles we passed two other dressed in the same uniform that I was in. A jumpsuit made of a gray so dull that if you weren’t watching us closely I’m sure we could all disappear. They were jumpsuits, that must be similar to the ones they forced them to wear in cells. Cells were they would rot to death and were nothing more than scum. Cells that I fought to avoid my whole life.

But now here I am.

I tried to look up to see their faces, to see who else would come face to face with Death, but my ribs were still aching from where they kicked me again and again and again. I resisted when they called my name, but I didn’t deserve that, not something so brutal. The Peacekeepers must have known, they must have known about me and Kol.

Just another reason to hate him even more.

They shoved me through my own personal entrance and I stumbled over my own feet. Before I even had a chance to regain my balance I heard the gate latching closed behind me. I spun around and grabbed onto the bars, but it was too late.

My fate is sealed.

There’s a sword next to me, propped into the sand begging me to take it. I had trained with swords before, I was average at best with them. Knives were where my skills are, but I have no other option.

Absentmindedly I pull it from the ground, but my eyes and heart are searching the crowd. There are a few Peacekeepers here, mostly the higher ups, so I know that he must be in the crowd somewhere. I look for him but he is lost, just like our love. Even though I can’t see him I know he is watching. I can feel his eyes on me, watching my every move.

Waiting for me to fall.

My body fills with rage.

He will not be the reason for my death. One mistake, most certainly not one as dumb as him, will not cost me my life. I will find a way out of here. I will find a way to ruin him.

Just as her ruined me.

If I am to die I will not leave here without a fight, I will not just roll over and die. Sinclair’s do not simply accept their fate, especially if it is a poor one. So who am I to do every different. In my brief moment of weakness the others had already begun to fight. Swords were swinging and blood was already staining the pale sand.

Soon we would be standing in a river of red.

A boy not to far off swung his sword to another girl’s neck. He hit his mark with precision and accuracy. Someone who has been trained in weapons, maybe not a sword, but at least someone who knows how to fight. Someone who I can trust.

For now.

I run by his side and pull my sword into the air, praying that my training comes back to me. Praying that I somehow make it out alive.

”I’m sorry, this really isn’t anything personal. I promise.”

He thinks he sent me to certain death.

But I finally began to realize this is something much worse.

This is hell.

( harley attacks ; helena crane d8f with sword )
K4sxU0kmNysword
( dg on right calf - 8.0 )

sword

[mat]

ram tapsol; intro; no attack

[googlefont="Srisakdi:400;"]

ram tapsol
-=+=-

He hasn't stopped crying since they dragged himself away. Who knows how many hours, days, or months ago that was? Certainly not Ram, to whom it felt like an eternity. Not a single goodbye found its way to him. District Eleven only felt a relief from terror that it wasn't them, or their children, or their children's children. The only ones capable of feeling that type of pain were his father, grandfather, and mother.

Perhaps his mother would be able to gain confidence again to go out and look for love again. Maybe this time, there wouldn't be a bastard son weighing her freedom down like a ball and chain. It might even be possible that she could reunite with his father, her former lover, and they could live the life they were meant to, without him. Their boy erased. As for his grandfather, Ram doubts he'll know he's gone. If a man that detached from society could tell the difference between Ram's knuckles banging on the door and his mother's, well, maybe he wasn't as incompetent as he wanted others to perceive him to be.

Ram twists the collar of his undershirt tight around his index finger and pulls on it.

Get those thoughts out of your head. You spend seventeen years weeping, from your birth to your imminent death, for them, and not one of them cared to shed a single drop for you.

He owes them nothing, not even his ultimate wish for their happiness.

He pulls his shirt up to his eyes and wipes them quickly. Ram can't let anyone see him suffer. It was fine, back then, when boys and girls would toss pebbles at his outer-shell, but not now, when a hammer readies above him, prepared to smash twenty-three lives into little bits and bobs.

The near silence in the holding center challenges his temperament. He finds vague sounds in every direction. Poor infrastructure in the corner leads to drip, drop, drip, a Peacekeeper's footsteps at the entryway are disorganized, and the fuzzy commotion of people talking and gossiping on the outside. They're ready. He, however, is not. Far from it. Sweat is clustering on the top rim of his forehead and at his underarms. His teeth begin to chatter, despite the relatively nice weather. He's at the first stage of reaction but it's found itself in a loop, unable to go to the next step. Alarm. Every new sound that accompanies the usual ones seems to startle him, even the sound of the Peacekeeper's breath as he impatiently waits to release Ram to the hounds.

"You bored, too?"

{"Shut the fuck up."}

"Okay."

He gives Ram a mean stare when he says it, implying that 'shut the fuck up' doesn't need any sort of response. Ram rolls his eyes and returns to toying with his costume. Grey was a color that suited the occasion well. Any other color might send the wrong message: purple for royalty, white for innocence, red for the rebellion. Yet they choose grey, a sign to every person in this Game that they're nothing but a pawn on the game board. Ram is a pawn, on the front line, while the spectators, peacekeepers, and Capitol leaders are the rooks, knights, bishops, queens, and kings, always allowing the expendable ones to take the first hit.

Eternity manages to end and start itself all over again before the Peacekeeper, upon orders from someone in a much fancier uniform, finally grabs Ram by the arm and hoists him up. His grip is tight, as if he thinks Ram might fight back and try to escape. No. If he was planning an escape, he would have done it and lit the Colosseum on fire by now. These guys must know that all the tributes know that if they try anything, their death will end up more premature than they thought.

Must have dominance problems, then, he thought as he was escorted to the gates. The pitch of the outsiders grows louder with each step they took. Ram turns his head just an inch or two to catch a glimpse of the Peacekeeper's face but the man forces him back straight. He's testing him, of course. One only avoids eye contact when they think there's a fight that they're going to lose. Not as dominant as you think you are, huh?

It's what might be Ram's final diagnosis of a plagued society, and he's glad that it reveals the problems of those on top.

The cheers evolve from a muffly and dull song to a hyper concert as each one of the tributes, wrapped in their uncomfortable grey suits, make their way out in unison.

On the ground in front of him lies a sword. He pulls it from out of the ground and holds it in his hands.

Cheers force the tributes to begin, but Ram hesitates.

There's some interest in going in early. The first games featured an initial fight between two or three of the pawns. One ended up dying first. And the other, well, she ended up as the winner of it all.

To the victor belong the spoils.

Hedge your bets, Ram. Hedge them quickly.

He waits with hopes that history will not repeat itself.

Ram covers his mouth with his hands, using his index finger and thumb to wipe his eyes.

Don't let them see you weep.

These people are sentient, and they'll surely do more than just mock him with ineffective words. They might just take his life.

[ram enters, and does nothing yet]

[Kingston Cesaire D3A [Tom]]

[Jonas De Lange D4M | Intro | No Attack]

Punishment is what they called it.

Suffering from the rebellion forced upon the districts. A chill runs down his spine with the tense air he's come accustomed to for the duration of the train ride. Silent, unlike the waves of four. Deafening in a way that doesn't ease his mind. He swore he heard someone say he was a dead man, maybe one of the peacekeepers, he can't exactly remember. Everything feels like a blur to him since his name had been called in front of the old justice building with the dastardly smile of the head peacekeeper. All he wanted was his Ma's comforting words or Pa's confidence again, but they never got a goodbye.

Instead, he was shoved onto a train where Jonas cried to the sky, begging and pleading. He did nothing wrong. Pa had said so, but yet he's still here. Silently, putting his arms through the grey coveralls, ignoring the way his heart was beating to the worry in his heart. Would his Ma and Pa want him to fight? There's no words of encouragement for a boy who cried at eight for crushing a bug with his shoe. This game was not for him. This was a punishment and he was getting caught in the crossfire again.

A storm was coming, with electric shocks and a downpour unlike any other.

He could feel it in his veins, the shock and the pouring of rain through his emotions.

Jonas wasn't a fighter. He's never been a fighter.

After he ties up the boots, he silently stands in this cell with his eyes closed whispering a prayer to himself. Something that Ma had done long ago. A way to calm the nerves from the panic in his heart, a way to communicate his emotions to someone else, even if it's soft and not as helpful as he thought.

"Uh please don't let me die, god. I'm scared. I-I don't want to die. Ma needs me and my Pa can't do everything. Just please god."

The cage rises as he feels the earth shake below him as if the earth were the sea, churning as the sand begins to fall from above, eyes closed as he's terrified. Peeking through one eye, he's met with light that blows him away. Brightness unlike the rest of where he's been waiting to be sent into a game of live or die. The archways and the sand melt into his vision as he stares around the area, noticing people from all over, no one he recognizes and part of him is terrified. Strangers aren't really his strength. A deep breath as he lets his hands shake again before clenching them and relieving whatever anxiety he can.

The girl near him is who he lands on, she's got darker hair and looks not deadly, but he's just furrowing his eyebrows for a second before he realizes everyone else is going. A deep breath and a shaky hand as he ruffles the side of his coveralls. Eyes glance to the sword in the sand standing at attention, waiting for someone to grab it. Someone to hold it and cherish it and use it to cut people apart. Blood. He can already see the blood. Something catches in his throat as the breaths get more shallow as he looks back to the girl.

Jonas takes a step closer, but instead she puts up a hand to tell him to stop.

Stop is what he does, afraid of what is going to happen next.

"My name is Maeve Idlewild! I have a twin sister! And a cat! It —"

Fear is what clasps at his chest. Despite everything, he's afraid. He's afraid of everyone here. He's not a fire. The storm was above them. He was at the center of it all. Hasn't he suffered enough?

"It peed on my shoes and so I had to wear tap shoes yesterday! In front of, like —"

Maeve moves in a way that is clearly not understood to him as he almost dares to speak, but she beats him to the punch.

"— everyone. Have you ever had a crush? Do you know what it's like —"

Yes. He's had a crush, but he'd never tell a soul. After all, he's just himself and no one wants someone who's afraid of their own shadow at times. A chill runs down his back as he takes a nervous side step which she clearly notices. Words seem to fly from her lips as he holds himself down, knowing how human she is. How human all of them were.

"— for your crush to see you in tap shoes?"

A shake of his head because he doesn't know what it's like to wear tap shoes. A swallow rings out in his ears as the anxiety starts to make him freeze in his place, but she continues with her information, spilling her guts to him. Was this how people made friends? Is this how people get when they're about to die? He didn't know. He didn't know if he really wanted to know.

"I've been tap dancing for pretty much always, but I'm not very good at it! I don't even... I mean, honestly, I don't even like it! But my dads — Abiram! and Mordecai! — they always wanted me to be a dancer! So even though I didn't like it, they liked it! And I liked that they liked it so I kept doing it because... because you know, family. Family and... and..."

A dancer. A healer. What else were these people like? None of them could be monsters, but all of them were in a way. They were going to have to be. Violence is the only way to live in this game, but he doesn't think he could do it. No, he knew he couldn't do it. A shaky breath as he almost tumbles in his own fear. As soon as he's recovered, he can see her move swiftly, pulling the blade free and she screams a wail that only makes him freak out more than he had before.

"UuuurraaahhhrrraaaAAAAWWWRRRRR!"

Feet take him back as he cowers in fear from Maeve who is a dancer and has a crush on someone and she wore tap shoes and it's the worst thing ever. Instead of her attack, something seems different and he glance up and notices that she's not there, or she could be, but he's gonna pretend she's gone now as he lets his heart pound in fear. The tears on his cheeks that he wipes away. Death stared him in the eye and he didn't know what to do. Finally after that, he stands up with fear in his eyes as he approaches the sword, touching the hilt with a fear in his chest.

A weapon.

Violence lingers in it's hilt and he pulls his hand back as if it were on fire.

Silently, he pulls it from the ground and just stops.

He can't. He can't. He can't. He can't.

He's not a fighter.

"Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god."

A pathetic boy who doesn't deserve to be in this storm.

[Jonas enters bloodbath]