The Bloodbath

[tick 12a / calla]

d12m jett davies | post 9 | attack 7 | 1124

j e t t

Rebellion forever, she says, and it burns a hole into me. It upends everything I've known, everything I've seen in the past year and in the past hour, throws it back tenfold and tosses it into a box, shakes it around like a sandstorm.

Her sword is the morning star, a pivotal point of the constellations we used to point to from the little square of my window. There's a great whooshing sound, a shooting star falls, and something warm drips from my left side.

My head is heavy, almost lopsided now, and I raise my fingers to where I think my ear used to be, where there's only a river of red now. I can feel the warmth of it seep down my neck, can feel the way it soaks into my collar with a kind of numbness, all wide-eyed and fuzzy. It sounds like I'm half underwater and feels like I'm half drowning.

I think I'm supposed to be in more pain than this.

I wonder if it's just shock.

Because I left a part of me behind when I killed that rebel girl, some part of my soul left mingled in with her blood, and now this girl has taken another part of me, physically, to keep here in the dirt. I abandoned another part of myself with Axel and the way he tried to justify his war, the way he tried to make me understand and the way I tried to refuse.

Every time I blink the chaos changes. The rebels and the capitol and then the rebels and the capitol. Because the world isn't fair, nothing is fair.

Nothing is fair.

And so I take the words that aren't mine, I take the words that used to be mine, twist them all together until they're one and the same. I take the only thing that I can give her and tell it to her softly, futilely, in the middle of all of this.

Rebellion forever, she had said.

The canaries still sing.

"The rebellion is dead."

jett attacks aisha ; sword
pjLRQjE3lMsword

severed right leg at hip -- 10 damage

sword

[cameron]

grover d9m | no attack

his eyes turn dark
amidst your words
you think you must have struck a nerve
not with the sword that tears his skin
but something much deeper within

you see him blink,
his hesitation,
he looks at you teeming with questions
none you'll answer, none you can
before he raises sword again

instinct says flee
your heart says fight
neither choice is yours tonight
he lowers blade and lowers guard
he runs away to face new scars

there's something there
deep in your core
something alongside him that roars
you've fought against someone who sees
you as more than the boy with strings

and even then
the boy you trust
whose back pressed 'gainst yours only just
falters and turns, unsure of you
he's seen you here but feelings brew

pre-conceived hate
pre-conceived trust
they wear your shiny heart to rust
he runs away, after the first
the girl follows, no time dispersed

the violence here
that wrapped you up
is done in moments, leaving you snubbed
you drop your sword, eyes following
the footsteps toward the suffering

you can't keep on
you can't fight more
across the field you hear a roar
it's not your own but a small girl's
who's spiraling around in swirls

someone so tall
stabs into her
this whole shitshow is such a blur
another arm falls to the ground
the boy you trusted too is downed

you stay in place
feet still, unmoving
there's nothing here to keep on proving
you drop your sword, look to the crowd
you hope your stillness is too loud

the keepers sit
and watch the lot
with grins so big they make you hot
"this is hell," you stay so still
you think you'll just die on this hill.

grover does not attack

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

andy maddox | post nine | 1117

andy.

For a moment, fleeting as it was forever stained into him, Andy only heard silence. He stood at the head of a dead boy, grim reaper claiming yet another soul. Then he heard his breathing. Slow, deep exhales as he tried helplessly to calm the throbbing heart hammering within his chest.

And then, all at once, it came back to him: the audience's primal cheering, their chants of his name, their fists raised into the air. The other tributes and their anguish and their pain and their suffering and, perhaps most solemnly, their delight. He flinched away from it, as if he could outrun were he to try.

He wished he was back in the wilderness, where he had starved. He wished he was back in his cell, where he'd lost track of day and night. Anywhere that was not here.

He had the unmistakable urge to hurt, to cause pain. He looked for a reason, a chin raised in the air like this was some sort of game, a laugh like it was a joke. Whatever he needed, though he'd already accepted that excuses were not mandatory. Not now, not here. Not ever.

"The rebellion is dead."

It was unfairly calm amid the chaos: unfair because maybe it was true, and maybe this was the infinite proof. But maybe the fact that they fought on still, persisting forward, charging through the mud and the blood and the sweat and the tears, maybe that meant the rebellion was more alive than ever since the war. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He whipped around on his heels, catching sight of the boy who said it. His victim lied in front of him, proof of his handiwork; Andy was not afraid. He had a trophy of his own, and he kicked Three over so that he was face down on the ground for good measure.

"Look around you," Andy spat, his breathing still uneven. He cursed his hands for shaking- he was not scared- he balled his free one into a fist and tightened the grip on his sword with the other. He pointed it's bloodstained tip at the boy.

"Now look at me."

A pause, as he stepped forward.

"We will always fight back."

There was a voice in his head that told him to run, to give in. The same voice that he always regretted listening to, and maybe this time he would've been right to turn away.

"I've killed plenty of Capitol-loving scum before. You're all the same," he spat regardless, "So forgive me if I don't remember your face when this is all over."

Even with death tripping him upon each footfall, he burst forward. He would live, or he would die. But he wouldn't run away anymore.

( andy attacks jett )
H4oUCxYGDGsword
( 1117 -- Shallow Cut on Left Forearm -- 3.5 damage )

sword

[shrimp]

[8m era altyr | post 7 | 1196]

era altyr
he/him | d8 | rebel | traitor

"Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod —"
"I am so sorry…I am so sorry…I am so sorry…"

For a moment, with the blood still trickling down his arm, they blur: Era reasons that he can talk her down, wipe away tears. But Emmi Coulter is not like the kids he helped in the war. Emmi Coulter is not like Maeve Idlewild. Emmi Coulter makes a choice quicker, regrets it sooner, and spirals faster than he can manage.

"I appreciate the gusto—" but he doesn't mean here: he means a place where they do not have to watch for her underfoot, won't swing a sword and hit her as she runs because she's just a kid, brave as she is, but she latches onto his words and condemns her actions as his own. "You should not have said anything, he is going to chase me until I am dead." Kid— "None of this is alright, this sword is my only key out of here and I get that. But there are so many locks to try it in and I just can’t think about it." The tears well up and there is nothing he can do, he's messed this up before it even began; there is no more air to breathe ("I am sorry that none of us have a choice…have you seen their faces up there? Have you heard the cheering when someone falls?").

She runs towards him now, and the crowd screams.

"Ugh." He grunts as the sword dives deep into his thigh, is forced down to one knee as the sky feels as it's dropped down to his stomach. It is in a nasty place: he cannot relax the muscle, and as the blade is removed the blood is hot, magma-like as it oozes. His control is focused on his breathing, on his lungs, trying to prevent a howl. His right hand hits the ground on instinct, and he coughs as Maeve's wound bites back. Two children kill him slowly.

"I take no joy in doing this, you know." The boys tone is arid, not wet. It leaves a bitterness, with no sign of a single tear. Era knows now how much he has miscalculated: this boy is a Crocodile. And yet, his blade remains far away. Panting, searching for a reprieve, Era's mind jumps five hurdles and down the wrong path. He'd left Idlewild sure of one thing: he would not attack the innocent, no matter the cost. Those rebels who struck first, aimed for the harmless, have fallen from their moral pedestal.

But this girl is a Wildcard, eloquent and rash, desperate to leave with no exit in sight, full of energy with no direction. He is a tree to befell, a lighthouse to sail towards, a door to kick down. And with danger in his path, he wobbles.

Back in Eight, the Rebels didn't dare visit Imberline's grave. It was too controversial, too many Keepers watching for visitors, waiting to shoot the most blatant of mourners. They grieved instead in living rooms with soft candlelight, at dinner tables and on factory floors. He was in the sag of their shoulders, their sunken eyes. And his killer: they knew Adder, respected Adder. Would march with Adder if she gathered an army. But forgive her?

To his district, Era Altyr is already a traitor. Does one more swipe of a sword matter all that much?

(What if she shouts for help, and he cannot wiggle his fingertips?)

"Kid," he whispers, as he grips his sword tight. His knuckles are white, tremble like bombs shaking the earth. The ground beneath him swims, has lost its nuance, turns to one shade. "If you know what's good for you," For Ripred's sake, let your aim go wide.

A mimicry drifts in his ear, a flash of steel catches his eye. "Duck—"

He speaks too late.

As Wildcard's arm begins to descend, he reverses, returns, not stable but driven. ("In places like this-") He pushes through, his leg screeching in protest as he barrels into Crocodile, Era's shoulder smacking into his ribs. They land unceremoniously, skidding as Era scrambles, rotates his wrist, slams the sword down without any more pretense.

"Fuck you."

[attacks 11m Ram]
1|u1SCxDgksword
1196 -- Block -- 0.0 damage
(Sword)

notes:
Crocodile: Ram
Wildcard: Emmi

appearance notes: 6'3", broad-shouldered and lanky, messy short dark hair, light brown eyes, tan skin and a light dusting of facial hair. The uniform is too small on him: it looks like he is wearing capris.

sword

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

axel moreau | no attack

A X E L      M O R E A U

Her screaming is more than I know what to do with.

It rings around in my head, almost as loudly as the sharp pain in my chest is demanding to be felt, demanding to be paid attention to. Pulling her sword out of my chest had been stupid, not one of my finer moments. I can feel the edges where blood is overflowing, can feel it seeping into the fabric of this god damned jumpsuit I don't remember being forced into. It's sticky and hot and I think that my stomach might be on the verge of rolling because I feel unsteady and uneasy and like maybe I might pass out or something equally embarrassing.

Or maybe it's my heart fluttering.

It's not a feeling I've felt in a long time, either way.

I think maybe that it's the sight of her combined with the shock of her weapon to my body, the strange combination of friend and foe clashing in a single moment. I spent so many nights with Tiny, counting the stars, hiding in trenches and sneaking into towns to steal what we could from those houses we knew were Capitol sympathizers, or even ones that belonged to the Keepers themselves. In my head, I have her face memorized almost as well as I memorized the correct way to take apart a gun and clean it. Seeing her almost-doppelganger here, coming at me screaming and digging her sword into my chest and then screaming again because I flung mine back at her it's—it's a lot.

This girl—Maeve, I remember through the fire in my chest—she even snaps at me the same way.

"I—" I start when she asks what's so great about being tall, but she does that thing that Tiny always did where she talks really really fast and says a lot without even really saying a lot and it's so disorienting and leaves no room for me anywhere. She's spewing information, and in a weird way I'm grateful for her. She just keeps going and going and going and between one breath and the next she's hissing tiny rules at me with such vehemence that it feels like a threat, so I take my sword and tap the bottom of her chin with it, blunt side up. "Shut up," I huff. It's not hard to tell when someone is trying to talk themselves out of the pain by talking and talking and talking but damn it—give me a turn.

It's not a real threat; I just needed a way in, don't really think anymore that I even want to remotely hurt her, want to hurt anyone except for the people that hurt me, and I drop my sword after not even a second, send it straight down into the earth at our feet and use it as a makeshift cane. I lean as much of my weight on it as I dare, bringing my other hand to my chest.

"Nothing is—" my tongue is so thick and my mind so clouded by the fog that I don't know what I'm even saying anymore. "Being tiny isn't a bad thing, you're right—Maeve? You said your name was Maeve, I think," I say through heavy breaths, hand pressed so hard against my fresh wound. I know it's pointless, that death is coming. "Es un honor," I say, thinking about Tiny and teaching her Spanish in the middle of the night, lamp between us in the tent. "I had a friend I used to call tiny," I explain, still huffing but I'm slowly getting used to the pain, though the memories of Tiny are another kind of horrible. "You— you look like her." I swallow. "She and I used to spend long treks singing. Whatever songs we could think of. Sometimes we would come up with our own. Do you like to sing? I like to sing." I nod my head, trying to think about anything but the pain, anything but the pain, anything but the god damned pain.

I think I'm starting to get delirious.

I wonder if Maeve is going to kill me.

Maybe it will feel like dying to a friend. I think I could be okay with that, maybe, as long as she does it quick.

CANARY IN THE MINES

[WT]

[Samiyuq Hernández Huapaya | post 6 | attack 4 | 1175]



Like with Kastilla, Samiyuq's new opponent goes down when ze slices open a leg—half propped on the remaining sword, half collapsed, pouring new blood. Unlike with Kastilla, the answering challenge comes in words, not metal: "Kill me then."

Samiyuq huffs something that sounds more like a laugh than it is and steps out of sword's length as the other person staggers upright, spitting blood. Ze holds that length, taking a step for every one that brings the doubled blades closer, arcing slowly the whole while to avoid the sounds of fighting behind hir—sounds quieter than they used to be, telling hir without having to show hir that more bodies are falling, but still frenzied. Here metal clashes and someone screams in agony surpassing words. There someone screeches coward, and someone answers in even louder denial. Ze thinks ze hears Maeve again; ze might only imagine that.

Through it all Samiyuq's opponent limps forward, and ze limps backward, and a litany of reasons to die hang between them.

(The war is neither of theirs—is no one person's—to end. It is theirs, all of theirs, to suffer through.)

"I-I don't hurt people. I-I haven't hurt anyone before Helena. S-She asked me to give her peace." Helena again—that must be the tribute in the sand, then, and that story of her request was the truth after all, however the two of them came to it. In any other circumstance, Samiyuq would apologize for hir doubt. "I-I am not a killer. I... I... I...." Tears spring to their eyes, visible even at a distance. Samiyuq pauses, faintly relieved for the reprieve to hir leg, as they look away from hir and toward the stands; ze doesn't follow the gaze, but keeps watching, torn between frustration—killing is killing, whatever your reasons, don't pretend you didn't make your choice—and the tug of sympathy—don't pretend it doesn't matter that she wanted you to know who she was.

Not that names themselves do matter, not really. In all the time ze spent on the program they never named the Nemesis-Cassiel bats, to make it easier, but the bats themselves never needed names to be curious and persnickety and sociable and beautiful and alive; they never needed names for killing them to feel like the betrayal it was. Not knowing the names of the humans Samiyuq killed never meant ze didn't know they had them, never meant ze didn't know they also had families and hopes and might well themselves be beautiful in the ways that matter, never meant ze didn't know or care what it meant to kill them. Maeve's name was not the reason ze reached back with words instead of a sword, and knowing or not knowing Kastilla's or Watcher's is not the reason Samiyuq hopes they don't have to cross swords again before this ends, and nobody's inspired a terrified crowd to action yesterday, and Helena's is not the reason it matters that the person in front of hir killed her—but that she used some of the last moments of her life to give it away? That's...

That's something. Ze would say so, if ze only knew exactly what.

"Just.... Just fucking kill me already," Helena's killer says, tears beginning to fall in earnest. "It's what they want."

Wanting again. They can want whatever they like. What matters is that they have the firepower to back it up. I want to go home without killing anyone, but I spent a war wanting that.

"I'm Jonas, Jonas De Lange and you need to kill me before I hurt anyone else."

And however little the name itself matters—

"Please, I'm begging you."

—that does.

One more swing falls Samiyuq's way, but a wild one, easy to dance back from so that it only grazes hir chest. If you want to die so much, hold fucking still, ze nearly snaps, but the words crumble in hir throat. Ze remembers wide-eyed Maeve Idlewild sobbing in front of hir, desperate to live but not ready to raise a sword, and watches dark-eyed Jonas De Lange sob in front of hir, desperate to die but not ready to stop fighting, and thinks of hirself, silent and immobile in empty air where wings once swirled, too hopeful to kill hirself and too hopeless to imagine a future ze belonged in—and ze understands, if not perfectly, still too well to respond to a dying wish in anger.

Samiyuq looks Jonas in the eyes, the last and only token of respect ze can offer in this place, the only one ze's ever been able to offer anyone ze's killed: not looking away. "Alright, Jonas De Lange," ze says, less softly than ze'd like under the effort of raising hir sword, but as softly as ze can. "As you did for Helena. Alright."



[D5M|N Samiyuq Hernández Huapaya attacks D4M Jonas De Lange, sword]

rYqSIroWGxsword

[Severed Left Ear -- 8.0 damage]

sword

[Python]

Jan 21, 2020 2:49:12 GMT -5 Python said:

[Persephone Vega, D11F, Attack 3, 1121

Persephone Vega, D11F, Attack 4, 1053

Guilt. When was the last time she felt such weight in her chest? The time she accidentally stepped on one of her mother's flowers, or broke her beautiful handcrafted vase? She could be clumsy at times, but not a complete duckling. Now she wasn't sure what she was supposed to be guilty of. Her hands weren't dity, she had no part in the creation of this cruel game. She was a simple botanist, a girl caught in unfortunate fate. How had she contributed to this?

Was it because she didn't fight?

She refused to blame herself for how this ended. Even if she had donned a uniform and wielded a weapon, she would've died for the sake of nothing. The rebellion would've ended in the same way, and her death would be meaningless. At least here, her death was a warning. A warning to never play with fire ever again, a punishment for those who dared take a breath in this awful political climate. She didn't want that to be the meaning of her demise, but she no longer had control.

Maybe that was the crucial difference here. In a war, she did have some amount of control.

Death is death, however, and it was natural to avoid it.

The girl was from district three. She had been taught that life was fair, but wasn't foolish enough to believe it. She had an air of violent wisdom about her that captured Persephone's attention. Suddenly she wanted to know everything about her, but there was no time for storytelling. They were too busy trying to kill each other.

Somehow, Persephone was succeeding with every thrust of her sword, and she felt no satisfaction from it. She wished the girl would simply stop and talk to her. They could not be friends in another life, but there was wisdom and experience to be shared. There were things about this world Persephone wanted to know about.

"If I'm guilty too, then what should I have done differently?"

[Persephone attacks Antigone d3f - sword]
oLpqBlG4ARsword
Stabbed in Forearm -- 8.5 damage

sword

[L△LIA]

[ D6F Maeve Idlewild | Post 6 | Attack 3 | 1133 ]

MAEVE. ONLY SILENCE CAN RESTORE the sense of place I had before The flat of his sword taps against the underside of her chin, its point a breath away from the softest part of her throat — the place where it meets her jaw and he could sever her babbling tongue and snuff her life out with one quick thrust into her skull. "Shut up," he huffs and Maeve squeaks in dumbstruck terror, the high pitched noise escaping through her nose, rather than the mouth she has obediently clamped shut. When the sword drops away, the blood drains from her face as if she has confused the weapon's fall for her own. After all, that would make more sense. "Nothing is —" he begins but never finishes, stabbing the blade into the sand and leaning his weight on it in order to hold himself up. A small voice in the back of Maeve's miraculously unpunctured head whispers that she was right, he must be weak, but it doesn't offer any further explanation as to why he didn't seize the opportunity to end her life in one quick and easy moment. "Being tiny isn't a bad thing, you're right — Maeve? You said your name was Maeve, I think." She can only nod to affirm, slow and apprehensive. There is blood smeared beneath her chin. It's sticky and somehow both warm and cold all at once. It's her blood, she knows that, but it's someone else's too. She shivers. "Ehs oon on or," he says and she can't tell if he's too injured to speak properly or if this is another thing that's supposed to make her afraid. The rest of his words have been coming out alright and she thinks it's obvious that she's plenty afraid already, but she doesn't know a third option. She tightens her grip on her sword, just in case. With her arm injured she can only really hold it with one hand and she's not sure that's enough to lift it back up again — but maybe if she turned her whole body with the swing or if she pulled her arm back first, like throwing a bowling ball. "I had a friend I used to call Tiny," he finally explains, replacing all of Maeve's whirling thoughts with a sudden flicker of surprise. "You —" When he looks at her face he doesn't really look her in the eyes so much as he looks at her eyes, "you look like her. She and I used to spend long treks singing. Whatever songs we could think of. Sometimes we would come up with our own. Do you like to sing?" It feels too stupid to tell him how she sang a birthday song earlier and ask him if that counts, so she doesn't. Besides, she's already in enough pain right now. "I like to sing." He probably is too. "I —" The word struggles, as if the fear has made her throat rough and sore. She tries again, timid. "I like music?" It's not really a question, but it comes out like one anyhow. She doesn't actually know if she was supposed to answer him or if she was supposed to shut up for good, but he doesn't lift his sword and so she continues. "I mean, everybody does. Right?" She thinks about his friend Tiny and their long treks. Part of her wants to know what the songs they made up sounded like — if they were filled with round after round of jokes, both clever and lame, or if they were the same kinds of nonsense that Roux makes up when someone is in a bad mood, trying to distract them from whatever they're upset about. Or maybe they were thoughtful and pretty, like nature poems with a melody, or hymns. "Would you sing me one?" She asks without thinking, without realizing that her own strategy is being used against her. Already she knows that somewhere out there he has a friend who surely cares about him too, who's probably watching and worrying about whether they'll ever get to see each other again. Her name is Tiny and she looks a little like Maeve, which means she looks a little like Roux too. A knot in Maeve's chest winds itself tighter, threatening to tangle into something that can never be undone. It would be better if she could unknow these things about him. It would be better if she had never heard him talk about going on long treks and singing. It would be easier. Stepping back with one foot, she tests his reaction to see if she could get away, but the only thing that shifts in response to her movement is the sword in her own hand. Instead of thinking more about Tiny, Maeve tries to focus on herself, on Roux, on her dads, on home. It doesn't really matter if this boy would stop her from leaving or not. The truth is that it's too late to run away — if she really wanted to do that then she should have run away from the peacekeepers before they ever had the chance to put her on the train that brought them here. His mouth opens a little, to sing or to speak, it's hard to tell. The only thing she knows is that neither of those options will make this easier. She doesn't want to know anything more about him, as hypocritical as that is; coping with the weight of her sword as she raises it is hard enough.

ROUX. ONLY SILENCE CAN REPAIR my sense of self i lost somewhere Instead of Maeve raising her sword, Axel does. Quick and obviously practiced, the precision of his aim is even more terrifying than when his blade sunk into her arm. In that moment there was room for questions of error: Maybe that's the best he can do. Maybe he's not skilled enough to know the deadliest places to aim. Maybe there's a chance she could take advantage of his panic and get the best of him. There are no questions about the situation now. The flat of his sword taps against the underside of Maeve's chin, its point a breath away from the softest part of her throat — the place where it meets her jaw and he could sever her babbling tongue and snuff her life out with one quick thrust into her skull. "Shut up," he huffs and Maeve squeaks in dumbstruck terror, the high pitched noise escaping through her nose, rather than the mouth she has obediently clamped shut. Roux heaves, her sobbing ugly and jagged against the fragile statues of her fathers' matched silence. When the sword drops away, the blood drains from the Idlewild family's collective faces as if they had each confused the weapon's fall for their own. After all, that would make more sense. "Nothing is —" he begins but never finishes, stabbing the blade into the sand and leaning his weight on it in order to hold himself up. Even with the sword sheathed in sand instead of her sister's throat, Roux can't calm herself. Her brutalist keening paints the air with a wide brush, each gasp a heavy lament forged from the deepest and most sincere expression of grief. In that moment, Maeve died. Axel's blade against her throat, it had instantly slaughtered Roux's every hope. There was no pretending. No alternative. Exactly then, in her head and in her heart and in her purest sense of truth: Maeve died. "Being tiny isn't a bad thing, you're right — Maeve? You said your name was Maeve, I think," He says and even though the television shows Maeve nodding, Maeve does not nod. She cannot nod. She is dead. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead. She's d— "Es un honor," he continues conversationally with her sister's corpse as the wind pushes gently at Maeve's sword, nudging it as if it too is lighter now, as if it too lost the weight of its spirit when Maeve died. Poor sword. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead. She's d— There is horrible loneliness in knowledge. If only Roux had closed her eyes she could have pretended any number of lies. Looking away could have saved her from learning the undeniable, from seeing things that she knows — without a flicker of doubt — must lead from one thing to an inevitable other. There was no way for Maeve to escape from the sword held to her throat and there was only one way that horribly sharp blade could move from there: forward. "I had a friend I used to call Tiny." Roux doesn't know why he won't stop chattering to her sister's dead body and give her family a quiet moment to mourn. "You —" It's the only thing left for her to want in the aftermath of losing her sibling, best friend, and any chance of forgiveness for every stupid thing that went wrong between them. Maeve hated her so much in the days before she was taken away — (god, how has it been forever already; how was all of that only yesterday?) — and now Maeve will hate her for eternity. That's the way things are. This is all there is and will ever be. "You look like her. She and I used to spend long treks singing. Whatever songs we could think of. Sometimes we would come up with our own. Do you like to sing?" In the end there is only the end. "I like to sing," he says and Roux thinks she too might die from the way her sobbing sounds like a song. That's the last thing she wants to give him in exchange for murdering her sister. "Roux, honey —" Abiram speaks with a voice that sounds like he's been repeating himself over and over. She only hears him because he timed the words to her desperate, ragged inhalation so that he wouldn't get drowned out once again by the cacophony of her cries. She barely manages to raise her swollen eyes enough to look at him and he catches her face quickly in the comfort of his palms before she crumples into herself again. "Mae's okay, sweetie. She's okay, she's okay. Oh, Roux —" Fingers pushing her tear-sodden hair behind her ears, he pulls her into him, rocking her back and forth while murmuring, "shhh, shhhhh. I've got you, I've got you." A deep breath. "Shhh, shhhhh. We've got each other." "I —" Maeve's voice is a timid whisper from the television speakers, as if she's worried about scaring her sister even more. "I like music? I mean, everybody does. Right?" Roux's keening fades to a slow and steady whimper, as if one song has ended so that another may begin — this one a duet as her father's quiet reassurances sing along. It's okay, it's okay, they hum and they sway, don't worry, my girl, we're all still okay. "Would you sing me one?" Maeve finally asks, unable to hear that someone already is. This time Roux doesn't look up. She only knows something has happened by the sudden tightening of her father's arms.

now or never now metric



[ attacks axel moreau, sword ]

PCSXZQFO3ysword

[ 1133 — Deep Gash on Back — 8.5 damage ]

sword

[tick 12a / calla]

d12m jett davies | post 10 | attack 8 | 1073

j e t t

She hits the ground and now there are two scores under my name. Bold and red and underlined and the weight of them is like something physical, like lines cut into my throat.

A voice wanders through the fog, drifting in on my good side, in a kind of tone that cuts through the haze.

Look around you.

And I do. There are dead rebels at my feet, so many bodies lying in the sand, the cloying stench of death in the air. This feels more like a battlefield now, something from the stories the old men in Twelve would tell once you pressed a coin into their waiting palms. There’s a dull ache in the back of my skull and this can’t be what he means.

Now look at me.

And I do. And he can’t be much older than I am. But he has the same kind of anger I did, before this, before Axel. Before I tried to save one rebel by killing another. I wonder if my life had turned out differently, if I had been born at the right time in the right place, if I would’ve turned out like him.

We will always fight back, he says and I begin to wonder where they could have possibly found all these people, how the keepers were able to crack down and round up so many rebels with fight still left.

”Why?” I wave my sword haphazardly, swing it around towards the fighting and try not to focus on any of it for too long, because I still haven’t gotten an answer, ”How is all this worth it?”

His sword cuts into the gash on my forearm, where the blood is tacky and sticks to my skin. I barely notice it anymore.

“I don’t love the Capitol,” I tell him, because it’s true. There’s no glory in any of this, I don’t care about their wars and their soldiers and their killings. I just care about my parents, my family, and what the rebels did to them. “I just have no love for you.”

Forgive me if I don’t remember you face, he grits out, and I choke on some kind of laugh, even though it isn’t funny.

”Don’t worry,” There’s a flipbook of rebel faces tucked into my mind, of everyone I turned in and everyone I sabotaged. This day has already added three more to the mix, a mixture of sand and blood staining their portraits, “I’ll remember yours.”

I wonder distantly, only now, if Joah will ever forgive me for this. ”I remember them all.”

jett attacks andy ; sword
jVi2u7DC9Dsword

miss -- 0.0 damage

sword

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

d12f emmi coulter | post 8 | 1150

Apologies don’t heal wounds, even if I say them to myself.

A boy randomly steps in, slicing at my leg and there is no time to react; not when so many blades point my way. Really, what have I done to deserve this?. All my life I have cared for others, sacrificed time for myself so that another can survive. Hours spent down the mines and evenings taken away from me by cleaning my brother’s bed sheets and filling everyone’s stomach. Not a single hour to myself. Not a single hour to be the little girl that everyone is so eager to call me.

Now the judges have decided to pay me back this way, blood washed legs and a cheek that still burns from a little scratch. I let the flood gates remain open, what is the point in hiding my emotions now? Let them see me cry. Let them see the pain they have caused. As soon as I take a swing at the tall boy I look up to their faces. Let them see the little girl die. Innocence swept away in a sea blood. It should not be like this.

I am still, the sword dropped by my side and my eyes fixated on each one of the audiences. All I see is cheering, glee whenever a brutal attack is performed. I really want to know what is going on in their heads…

”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

It is gone, so effortlessly clipped away like the wing of my short-lived angel. My arm drops with the sword and my butt follows it to the ground. I am dying. I am dying. I am dying. ”Why? Why? Why? Why? Wh…whh…why?” All I can do is stare at the mess, my eyes blurred by a sudden wave of heat and a mix of pain. My chest pounds, breathing has become the hardest battle I have ever fought and the pain…the pain does not hold back on making every organ and limb wince across my body.

All I can do is crawl away, dragging the sword along with me, what is left of the arm raised as I do not look back to see if he is following.

There is no escaping this.

It is happening.

It is over…

Sigrun’s face is all I can see and the body of Tector close by. Escapees quickly turned murderers. There is no loyalty in this game. No alliance is trying to survive. No care but to fight for one’s self.

It is nearly over but I am not ready to switch it off yet.

I push myself up with the point of the sword, balance barely catching my feet as I wobble over to the older girl, my weak arm barely able to lift the sword. ”We should have tried har…harder to scape…we..we...could have…survived…”

This is my last chance to escape with what is left of me.

Emmi hits Sigrun Vau | sword

QwgCz13E8ksword

[1150 -- Shallow Cut on Left Thigh -- 3.5 damage]

sword

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

andy maddox | post ten | 1027

andy.

The boy swings, and all it takes is a well-placed sidestep for Andy to dodge his sword, a river's current run by scarlet blood as it dripped from him. A sinking cold feeling when he realized that there was probably a reason his wounds were not hurting, and it wasn't that he was immune to pain.

He was dying; they all were.

"Don't worry. I'll remember yours. I remember them all."

He refused to say it out loud, but Andy remembered them, too. They haunted him in his dreams, always so much more theatrical than he remembered them actually being in reality. It was a lot more simple than it appeared to be. A person showed up in his crosshairs, he fired, they fell. He reloaded and looked for the next one. Or they walked into a room and took a seat in a chair, and Andy climbed out of the air conditioning vent and drew a knife across their throat before they knew he was there. They gurgled and twitched for a few moments, trying to breathe around the blood that blocked their airway, and then they slumped over. He wiped his knife off, and retreated once more into the shadows.

In his dreams, they screamed. They begged, they pleaded. They held their hands out to him, helpless and hopeful for mercy he was not allowed to show them. They loomed, ghosts, staring at him from the corner of his vision. You did this to us, they would whisper.

We will always fight back.

Being on the losing side of a war made it easier to say that they were the victims, but Andy often wondered how many people on the other side were like him: forced into it, a knife placed into one hand and a gun in the other, instructed to kill. If they are not with us, we must assume they are against us.

He'd once shot a mother down in the street. Watched as her nine-years-or-so old daughter crumbled to her knees next to her, begged her to get up.

He'd shot the daughter, too.

"Of course you will," he spat, forcing himself to keep eye contact with the boy. Was he forced into it? Was his mother shot down in the street? Was his father killed for his indifference? Was he himself tortured for information? Andy did not know, but it did not matter. It couldn't matter; if he sympathized with every soul in this place, he would be the next to die. Everyone had a story. Everyone had a reason to fight, or not to fight. Andy wanted to live, and his reason may have been selfish, and it may have been unfair, but no one else's reasons could outweigh his own. One person's dream was often what kept the other up at night.

Andy was tired of being restless.

"It's the last face you'll ever see," he said, calm in the storm.

He lunged forward.

( andy attacks jett )
ep1yVm|gwEsword
( 1027 -- Deep Gash on Left Bicep -- 8.0 damage )

sword

[Kingston Cesaire D3A [Tom]]

[Jonas De Lange D4M | Post #7 | No Attack]

"Alright, Jonas De Lange,"

Silence as he waits for the blade to pierce through him, a storm rising in his heart. Death would be a release of all the pain he's feeling. Blood coated lips breathing in one last breath. A breath of air to relax himself for the world beyond this one. Remembering the words of tall and scary guy who surely was still out there fighting. Remembering the girl who dances, but is embarrassed of the tap shoes she wears in front of her crush. Remembering the way that Helena Crane asked him to find his peace. Remembering the way this person in front of him is strong, stronger than he could ever be.

Words upon a tongue, almost swearing they'd be the last ones he'd hear.

"As you did for Helena. Alright."

An ear falls to the ground and the voices and chaos of the arena grows quieter on the left as if he were muffled by the blood that surely is coming from the side of his head. THere's no scream, just a pause as he touches his left side only to come back with dark blood coating his hands. A chuckle falls from his lips as he feels paler than before. Death is there in his vision, coated in red and a white skull just whispering for something more. The chuckle dies in his chest as he stumbles back up onto his feet. Both swords in hand as he stares at the bloody blade of Helena's sword. Eyes shift to his own with their blood on his blade.

He wasn't a fighter.

He didn't want to be a killer.

He didn't want to become a storm.

All he wanted was for this fighting to stop.

All he wanted was for there to be peace in the world.

How many more kids would end up with this fate?

Hundreds? Thousands? Millions?

A chill runs down his spine as he stares back at the swords which glitter with a undeniable electric shock that he lets cover his will. For a moment, he's staring at the blades and then the next, he's tossing them to his sides, watching as they land farther away standing up in the sand. No weapons. No blood. No fighting. He was going to go out the way he was born. Crying about stepping on bugs. Wishing for a war to never happen. Praying to ripred to spare the fish he caught from suffering. Healing others to the best of his capabilities. He was going to go out as a boy who wanted peace, but didn't believe in violence.

The shattered pieces of himself being held together with bandages and gauze, until he holds onto it tight, never letting go of himself. Eyes reach the other person, silently, he limps forward with a determination. Eyes glowing with a lightning strike, breaths heavy like the winds of a hurricane, feet as stable as the earthquakes across the ground, he's pushing himself forward.

Stopping right in front of this stranger, he blinks for a second before speaking once more.

"If you're the one who makes it out of here," Fire lights in his lungs. "make sure no other kids have to suffer through this like we did." Hand reaching for the blade, letting the metal cut gently into his palm. "There's kids who are already suffering, make sure they don't end up like me." Pulling the blade softly upwards until it pokes his chest as he gives a small smile, trying to keep the joy he used to believe in. Tears still prominent on his cheeks from the pain before.

He's sorry for all the time he whined about going to sea with his Pa. He's sorry for never doing enough for Four as a whole. He's sorry for being too weak to help his Ma from her sickness. He's sorry for not being able to find a solution to this whole thing. He's sorry there's no way for him to come home. He's sorry for not being a better fighter.

"If you make it out of here," Jonas pushes forward more to feel a slight cut form. "make sure they bury me next to Joaquin."

Joaquin.

The boy who fought for him.

Joaquin.

The boy who never got to say goodbye.

Joaquin.

The boy who holds his heart.

Joaquin.

The boy who is buried on the cliffside of four.

"Goodbye, Ma and Pa."

After every storm, there's always a rainbow.

Bright and hopeful.

There will always be another light in the dark,

Let him be the spark for others.

"Goodbye, world."

[Jonas De Lange accepts his fate]

[Noah Vau - D2 (Cato)]

Sigrun Vau District Two

Sigrun | Post Nine | 1015 He slumps over, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to stand again, but with the pool of blood drowning his body, I don’t think it’s going to happen. Tector is dead, and I am unsure how to feel. I lower the sword to my side looking at the mess I created. I swore I wouldn’t fight in this because I didn’t want to play into the Capitol’s game, but I did just that without thinking twice about it. I promised to make it quick, and I didn’t even do that. I simply toyed with him until his very last breath. So now I can’t just stop fighting. At the end of the day, I want to live. I want to make it home alive and not go home in a body bag. I partially think I can do this. I can fight my own battles later when I’m out of this place. I look around trying to figure out where to go next, and I see Emmi walking towards me. For a moment, my eyes are wide as blood drips from where her arm once was. She’s not looking good at all, and I feel bad. I feel like everything is crashing down, but I can’t let myself feel that way. I have one mission in mind, and it’s to make it out of here alive, and when she speaks, I can tell she’s nearing the end. She says we should’ve tried to escape harder. We should’ve maybe tried again instead of just going our separate ways. I take a breath trying to control the sorrow and anger that’s both boiling inside. She’s not a friend, and she makes it obvious when she tries to attack me. I’m not backing down from the fight now. I have to stand up for myself, and that’s what I’m going to do now. ”We wouldn’t have lived. Not all of us. I’m sorry but I going to kill you.” The words are true, and I just hope that I can do this faster this time. I hope that I don’t make her suffer like I made Tector suffer. I hope that I can make this as quickly as possible. I don’t understand this entire thing anymore. I don’t even know how many are left, but I know that she’s standing in my way. I want to apologize even more, but I know it means nothing in this place. I raise the sword allowing myself to look into her eyes before I do what I have to do.

OOC notes go here

[googlefont="Rock Salt:400"]

Sigrun attacks Emmi | Sword

YCbSzX8avLsword
1015 -- Deep Gash on Right Bicep -- 8.0 damagesword

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

[antigone boyé | attack #6| ----]
act ii. scene ii.

(exterior – two girls fighting for their lives, facing one another, scene melting together behind)

persephone. (curious) if i'm guilty too, then what should i have done differently?

(persephone drives her blade into antigone who can only let out a hiss in pain)

choragus. you don’t know if it’s the blood oozing out the wound on your back, or the new found wedge of skin missing from your forearm, but her question leaves you breathless.

chorus. do you have an answer, antigone? do you know what all broken bodied men and weary women should do to cast off the shackles and bring the world to justice? is there mercy that children could give that would ever stop this bloodbath?

choragus. you want to believe that there are more that desire a bounty of flesh than a feast of heart; was it not you, lazrus, and fray that raced off to the war, leaving only teoc behind to tend to your parents? antigone bet on freedom and faith, she believed in all the things a young girl would, not knowing the horrors of war. and even when these horrors became known, she numbed to the cold blooded killing. she felt an electric thrill in pulling a trigger and downing a man from three hundred yards; better still to see another run and follow him into the dirt.

chorus. but perhaps the greater secret, unknown to you, is all the years that will follow to bring death to boys and girls. see, you’d say, killing made no difference, huh?

choragus. except that isn’t what you want to say to her.

chorus. antigone wants to tell persephone to free her heart. that all those years she’d spent in eleven were as a fish in water, never knowing that world around her, never awake to the sea that surrounded them.

choragus. she could’ve lived her life for her mother and father, for her brothers, instead of carrying on, and wasting time. she would’ve cherished the moments by the radio in the kitchen with her mother while she fried green plantains. she would’ve still taken arms as a rebel, but she would’ve died in that bunker next to lazrus. she would’ve clung to him so that he didn’t have to die alone. so he could’ve known it wasn’t his fault that he was her hero.

antigone. you tellin’ me you did what you could to make folks live’s better, or did you just live like the world was pulling you along?

(antigone takes a step toward persephone, eyes wide, looking into her eyes, stone faced)

choragus. fifteen years and you feel as though it’s been forty; the world has stretched you out and left you to ruin.

antigone. i don’t know you and you’ll never know me. but least you could do is know that the only way any of us’ll make it is if we tear down the things that separate us, instead of using them to step on each other. you didn’t have to know you was doing it; just that you had it better, and some of us didn’t. and they built it to be that way.

chorus. the air is thick with death and the sand is coursing blood. antigone hasn’t forgotten her place, though she wishes she was as good with a sword as she was with a rifle.

choragus. she finds her mettle in seeing how few boys and girls are standing. she knows the little devil that sprang into action has gone limp. others like rag dolls in the sand. lazrus would tell her this is the time to double down and steady, to know that there was only ever one option for her.

(antigone closes her eyes to take a breath. she steps forward to stab hard into persephone)

[antigone boyé attacks d11f persephone vega with a sword]
SjyKInDTS_sword
[result: 1159 -- Shallow Cut on Left Thigh -- 3.5 damage (Sword)]

sword

[mat]

ram tapsol; attack seven; 1042

[googlefont="Srisakdi:400;"]

ram tapsol
-=+=-

Disgust rises up in his throat like a flood, and Ram does everything he can to keep the floodgates closed this time around. He's done it again. First, his assailant's hand. Then, up to her elbow. And now, his blade decides to take the whole fucking cake. Her screams rip through his ears as if inches away. She falls, and Ram tries his best to look away and drown out her grunts as she crawls away. He does not chase her. He can't. No person in their right mind would follow through after that. Not to a little girl, who, at that point, became one drop of blood away from another pesky weed on the sandy beach below.

His eyes direct themselves to the rows of people dressed in white, hollering and clapping, pointing at the girl as she helplessly tries to get away. The only one not doing so is Adder Ames, the Games' first, and so far only, survivor. She is stoic and dressed in dark garment, watching over the remaining players to see who will take half her burden. He's puzzled by the image the Capitol has created with her clothing, the message they're trying to send through her. Is she wearing those colors to symbolize a funeral, a tribute to each of the, well, tributes? Or is she the black queen surrounded by white bishops, pawns, knights, and kings on each flank, as if the monster they created and let grow is the one they fear the most? He finds his mind wandering, just for a moment, Ram sees a tall boy with thin black hair sitting beside her. It's him, caught in the crosshairs between his two biggest fears: death and watching others die like he's stuck in a loop.

Ram suppresses the flood in his throat with a heavy swallow and he's back to reality, with Adder Ames's gaze turning elsewhere.

{"Duck,"}

"Wh-" he can only manage to get out half a syllable before all the air is swept from his lungs. They collapse together on the ground like two lions, fighting to lead their pride and be announced alpha of the pack. Ram's sword bounces, clanging on the ground like pots and pans or loose change.

{"Fuck you,"} the boy says before repositioning the sword. He focuses only on the blade inches from his neck, a far cry from the distractions that clouded his attention earlier, like the girl's limb lying inches away or his stomach that felt like it was continuously rising. Only his sword because for now, it's the only mediator between life and whatever the hell comes after. He pats the ground, trying to find the handle of his own blade, and each part of the search leaves his arm sandier than before.

The boy is on all fours above Ram, his sword ready to cut deep. The blade begins to swing and Ram turns his body tight, rolling like a potato bug out from under him. He flinches as he hears the sword scrape at the flooring. Now, Ram panics, drawing snow angels through the thin layer of sand trying to identify his blade.

The tip pricks beneath his thumb. "Ow."

Both of them scramble, trying to get themselves firm up on their feet.

His sword is ready now, facing the boy's blood-tattered grey jumper. Strike him. Hurry.

A familiar banshee-like scream announces itself to the entire arena once more, and he looks over to see the little girl, downed for the final time. He winces as her offender's blade swipes into her and she fails to make any more movements than a couple little twitches.

Her sword wasn't the right key. All she wanted to do was escape. The weight of a hundred iron bars falls heavy on his shoulders. Her arm. Her good arm, at that. Ram Tapsol might just have been the leading factor behind another death.

"That. That's the result of trying to make up for our mistakes," he nods to the girl, wondering if this boy felt the same way. Grandpa, do you forgive me, forgive Mom? Dad? Is this enough? "We just create Armageddon."

He dusts his sword clean, smearing the sand off and creating a foggy red reflection in the process.

{"Maybe so. But the world's already ending,"} he says, his face settling down for the intense floor battle.

"Let's just hope we're on the right side of history, then." He's confident that they are. Although enemies now, there's no doubt in Ram's mind that both go against Panem's 'victors.'

He lunges forward, prayerful that fighting for whatever perks come along with being a survivor like Adder Ames is enough to get his family back.

[ram tapsol d11m attacks era altyr 8m; sword]
0KSJ4CUs5Ysword
[1042 -- Shallow Cut on Right Hip -- 3.5 damage]

sword