The Bloodbath

[d9 kristof parks {ems}]

Tector D10m / 5th post / 1046

Tector

Every part of his being aches as his eyes widen. A trembling lip rattles on his face as his body fights to remain strong. It hurts more than imaginable, and yet he doesn't stop what he's trying to do. Watching others fall one by one realizing he's next slowly starts taking a toll. All his life Tector wanted to stay in the shadows, and this definitely isn't the place to do so. One breath after another he moves around trying to keep himself standing, but it hurts stretching apart the fibers that's been torn. Blood gushes from the gaping hole pooling on the ground beneath him. Spots flicker before his eyes, and all that's on his mind is the images of his family trying to will him on.

Making them happy is all he desires. Making them proud. Showing them he's not just a pushover someone can take advantage of no matter what, and right now the exact opposite is happening. This isn't the schoolboys poking fun at him in the bathroom because he's different. This is the matter of life and death, and the idea of fighting back and trying to kill someone doesn't sound fun.

What other options does he have?

Stomach acid sits in back of his throat trying to escape into the world around him, and his eyes wander back and forth only until he hears the words before feeling more pain.

Sigrun is one of those standing in his way playing the game he doesn't desire. Blood leaks from his arm, and his vision starts fading away. Pain like this is pain nobody ever deserves to feel. It's something he wouldn't wish on his worse enemy, and now all that matters is trying to keep himself alive.

A violent scream erupts past his lips filling the air around him quickly followed by the retching of whatever remains inside his stomach. It hurts so bad. Every second. Every hour. Every moment.

I just want to go home.

"No. No. Stop. Leave me alone. Please!" His voice is low and laced with fear. It doesn't matter if his voice falls on deaf ears because he's trying to save himself, however, it doesn't matter. This is a time to prove himself. A chance to show those boys back home that he's not someone people can mess with. "Leave me alone!" This time he's finding the confidence he deserves. "Please."

Begging won't get him nowhere, but it's all he can do even as he tries striking back with all that remains.

Tector attacks Sigrun
R5WWc7PYItsword
Stabbed in back 9 damage

sword

[Kingston Cesaire D3A [Tom]]

[Jonas De Lange D4M | Post #5 | Attack #2 | 1084]

Helena Crane lays in his arms, sword through her heart.

Tears falling down his cheeks as his heart races. The cliff he falls over into fills with water as he feels like he's dying inside. The pounding of his own worries in his head and now he's scared. Scared of his own hands and the blood that now coats them from Helena Crane. She asked for this. She asked for him to go against his will, but he choose to do this. He choose to kill her. He choose to listen to her words. The spark flickers, but his own heart burns. A chill runs through his body as he just clutches as tightly as he physically can to Helena Crane before he knows it's not normal.

Fingers push her off the blade as she softly hits the sand staring openly to the world above. Quietly, he closes her eyes for the peace she finds will be with Ripred in the next world. Peace. Helena Crane had found peace. If only he could find peace in this place, but he wasn't going to. The chaos of the arena surrounds him, but he's in the eye of the storm for a moment. A moment too long for himself, but he can already feel the way his hands burn from the blood he caused.

Jonas De Lange had broken his will.

And he was falling; falling hard.

Before he stands, there's a cut through the air as the tension is back and his heartbeat finally goes back to his chest. A cut across his cheek that spills blood as he can see someone very obviously stronger than him. His blood boils as the blood drips from his cheek to his chin, dripping into the sand where the paleness turns to a red. The life he carries in his skin, open to the world and all he can think is how much he wants to just not be here. How much he would give to not be bleeding from his cheek. The wince that breaks out is heavy as reaches a hand up to his cheek to wipe at the blood, just smearing it more.

"Fuck."

Swiftly, he moves to his feet, reaching for the sword in the sand, pulling his own sword up and out, pointing Helena's and his own at the new fighter. The air feels tense as the storm swirls around them. A silence fills him as he stares with fear in his stomach. He can't do this. He can't do this. He has to. This was the path to his own light. A path to his future that he wanted. A sigh from his lips as he points his swords threateningly at them. Voice heavy on his lips as he speaks.

"She asked me to do it."

It's heavy in the air as he circles this new person, processing the way they stand and trying to figure out who they are to avoid this. To avoid having to fight for his life. Big and scary had fallen earlier while he had sobbed over Helena's body. His arms shake for a moment before he toss his own sword into the sand as a distraction. Pushing forward, he grabs for the new person's hair, pulling with all of his might. Jonas wasn't a fighter, so he had to use whatever tactics that he could.

"I don't want to fight, but Helena told me to find my own solutions."

Tighter, he pulls on their hair, holding on to this boiling in his blood.

A spark.

A flame.

He was going to break through the old Jonas and breath life into the new one.

He was the light that beckoned a new path.

"And if I have to kill you to find my own peace,"

Helena's sword is stabbed forward as he pulls on their hair.

Jonas was no longer in the storm.

He had become the storm.

"Then I will."

Ripred, forgive him.

[Jonas De Lange attacks Samiyuq Huapaya D5N | Sword]
RzGJK1ZdaYsword
(Shallow Cut on Left Shoulder 3.5)

sword

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

axel moreau | no attack

A X E L      M O R E A U

He wipes his hand across his eyes, and I want to come undone.

I think that was the worst thing about the war, all those moments in between the battle when morale was low and soldier after soldier succumbed to their worst instincts. I think, in another life, that I could have turned out kinder, could have turned out softer. I remember one morning, Ma was having one of her episodes, couldn't bring herself to stop counting everything that she could get her hands on. She counted the bricks lining the side of our house, counted the tiles in the kitchen floor, the number of wood panels lining the walls of the basement—anything and everything linear, she counted. One, two, three, four, five, I can still hear echoing around in my head.

I can still feel her wrapped in my arms, pulling me tighter to her. I can still feel the warmth of her temple under my lips where I kissed her forehead.

I can still feel the unadulterated care.

In another life, maybe I would have stayed that way. Maybe a Keeper wouldn't put a bullet in Ma's skull when she has an episode int the street, starts counting the stones in the path, blocking everyone's way. Maybe in another life, I wouldn't take the knife I kept stashed in my backpack and jam it into the Keepers throat only a few second later. Maybe a rebel spy wouldn't be there to see it, wouldn't be there to draw me under their wing. Maybe in another life, the wild wouldn't call me, maybe my hands wouldn't be turned into weapons.

I was a kind-hearted boy lost to the wild hunt.

Maybe I didn't have to be.

No, the boy says, voice fierce. He reminds me, terribly, horribly, unfortunately, of me. He reminds me of the boy that I was that morning a Keeper took Ma's life, kind and savage, as capable of great horror as I was of great kindness.

"You're—" I start, but I don't even know what I want to say. You're wrong, I had been going to say, but I'm not entirely sure that's true. It's a reflex reaction, an unwillingness to believe that the rebels were all bad, an unwillingness to hear that the thing I had spent so many years of my life fighting for had so thoroughly ruined this boy's. "We tried," I try, the irony not lost on me. "We tried to be good. We tried to do what we thought was right," I swallow, close my eyes and shake my head, try and get the images to stop flashing in my brain. I don't even think about the fact that his sword it pointed right at my chest, that he could shove it right through my ribs and kill me.

It sounds like he deserves some revenge.

Maybe we could call it justice.

I open my eyes, steady breathe in and out, in and out. One, two, three, four, five, I hear echoing again. I wish I was lying, I think, but it does something knee-jerk to my brain, like a snap behind my eyes, and I know that's something I could never say. Because maybe in another life I would have stayed kind. Maybe in another life, the wild hunt would have just been something in my mother's stories, not a battlefront with actual bodies. Because, for all that I know the rebellion wasn't perfect, for all that I know we failed our people beyond measure—that spark of life that we had, that need we had to remind the Capitol that we are human and not just pieces on their chessboard, it's a part of who I am now.

And I can't stamp it out.

"I wish I could say I wish I was lying, but I don't think I can." I take a step back. "Mi nombre es Axel," I say in the tongue my mother would want me to speak. "I'm sorry for what the war did to you; you didn't deserve it." I take another step back. "But the people deserved to have someone fight for them."

I bite my bottom lip.

"What's your name?"

I exhale at his reply.

CANARY IN THE MINES

no attack

[Noah Vau - D2 (Cato)]

Sigrun Vau District Two

Sigrun | Post Six | 1048 It's obvious this kid wants to live, and here I am trying to take his life away from him. I'm trying to take control of my own life, and my own fate in this game, but none of it matters right now. The only thing I need is to make sure that I am taken care of. I never thought I would see the day I didn't want to kill someone. Fighting on the front lines really gave me a different view of life, and maybe it's now that I am sitting here striking an innocent human being, but what difference does it make? This game right now is caused by the war. It's caused by the pain so many people went through. I take a step back when Tector screams, and the vomit that follows makes me wonder what I hit when I jabbed this sword deep into his stomach. He's screaming, and begging me to stop, and it only makes me want to attack him more. It brings me back to those moments were people are begging me to save them, and all I have is a single moment to pick and choose. He wants to live, and it's obvious, but I too want to live. Making it home is important, but I don't know if I can do it. I'm moving around trying to get some distance between myself and his own sword, but he's so much quicker than me. A jolt of electricity shoots through my body when the tip of his sword drives into my back, and it takes every ounce of strength not to scream. Attacking someone with their back turned is a cowardly move, and that's what this kid is. Tector wanted to escape. He wanted to find a way to get out of here, but the only way out is to die or stand alone with twenty-three dead bodies. A parched tongue slides across chapped lips as I look at Tector with an entirely different opinion. If this is the battle he wanted, this is what he gets. No more being sorry. I am doing this for me and me alone.

OOC notes go here

[googlefont="Rock Salt:400"]

Sigrun attacks Tector | Sword

DCjLj24sgjsword
1048 -- Shallow Cut on Left Shoulder -- 3.5 damagesword

[cameron]

grover d9m | 1139

thrums loud as bells ring in your head
and you remember the days in the woods when biff, with his booming bass and cherry tree arms
called for dinner, for rats roasted on the fire
and you miss your forest floor bed.

the short one curses you; your head rings more.
there's something to be said about facing death head-on and still craving the nothingness you'd clung to for years,
nothingness that filled you up inside like a hundred bells all at once.
nothingness from before

and that made it better, you knew for a fact
because even living in cold, hard squalor was better than ripping other kids apart
kids with families, and homes, and lives to return to, kids with more than you.
when he screams, your heart cracks

how can you expect to live
after taking innocent lives, after desecrating the earth with unjust blood
how can you expect to live without the world sewing your lips shut?
that's something you wouldn't forgive

something you couldn't let go of
not when you've hid away in the back of a bar for months on end
when all you've ever known is dead and rotting but someone here
might know hope, might have love

love that is present and kind
not love that was shot down by cappie scum while you fled
or love that didn't last a day past birth, that dumped you on orphanage steps.
you can't shake that from your mind.

back to back with this boy
who might have a world to go home to, fighting a girl just the same,
and your eyes locked with those of the small one, whose lip quivers;
you know you've no shot at joy.

how is it fair to take his away?
you start to lower your weapon, heavy in your hands, missing its strings
but he lunges blade-first; you throw yours up just in time
and you are back in the fray

"i killed for you to live,"
you say, wiping sweat from your brow and letting the blood flow from your head wound,
"i killed for all of you to live, to stop fighting, and here we still are,"
"ever combative."

you hate yourself, but that's not fair.
you never had the chance to know yourself under the weight of war
outside the confines of your chosen family; you always had a role
had a spot as featured player.

"what good was all the fighting..."
you steady yourself against your companion's back, eying the small one
like a hawk above eying a lone chick, like the keepers eyed you now.
...if it was never for uniting.

you break your gaze upward,
spot in the crowd the one person not cheering for slaughter,
stare into her eyes, frozen over but hot, and wonder,
how your heart couldn't be miscolored.

once more you ask your foggy head
what good was all the fighting, your eyes lowering to the boy
but you know it was never any good, know it was all for ruin,
know you should cut the thread

"if we're just to fight on, and on,"
your jaw locks, hardens, and you wish biff was yelling for dinner,
wish burnt rodent hair was lodged between your decaying teeth;
you swing your sword, "and on."

grover attacks andy maddox d7m
cQTgdKSgTWsword
deep gash right bicep

sword

[tick 12a / calla]

d12m jett davies | post 7 | no attack

j e t t

I had my first birthday cake when I was seven, a tiny little thing with one of the emergency tea candles set on top, all burnt around the edges because neither of my parents knew what they were doing when they made it.

I don't remember it being a big deal, it was just a frivalry, an indulgence, and I only cared because it meant that the four of us had to spend the day together. It was the wish I made when I blew out the candle. That meant it had to come true.

It had to come true.

I wish I could say I wish I was lying

The tip of my blade hits the earth and it feels a little like I’m falling with it.

Mi nombre es Axel, he says, and I feel my own frustration, my own pain bubble back from him. I don’t know what the words mean until he asks for my own name.

Axel - I turn it around, over and over in my mind, letting it fester and burrow and find a home. I try to line the letters up with Joah, try to match the sounds to every rebel name I’ve heard of.

I come up short both times.

Whatever spark that got me here was just an ember, a flash fire that warmed my blood until it was satiated.

After months of make-believe battles, of just making the rules up as we went, perhaps it’s fitting. All my life I’ve been nothing but stubborn, but if the coin had been flipped, if my parents had been killed by the keepers instead, if I was born on the other side of the war, if they had been rebels themselves.

Joah believed that everyone was born good, that it was just circumstance that got people where they ended up. I used to believe that fate was just cruel and the Capitol was just a place. I used to believe that life was better before all of this, before I had all this blood under my skin, I thought that life was good enough for the people outside our four walls.

"Maybe the people should have stood up and fought for themselves." I bite out, thinking about every innocent life crushed by something as trivial as rock. "Let them decide if they want to be a part of the war instead of being forced into it." But maybe even that isn't true now.

I don't know anymore.

Thinking about it makes me ache.

"We didn't want it."

But there's a sorrow so strong, something so broken in his voice, a familiar kind of grief that hurts worse. No one wanted in any part of this, not really. I wonder how he got himself here, how he got that look in his eye, if he's ever set off a bomb.

Maybe I just don't want to know. Maybe it's easier that way.

We didn't want it.

"Jett." I tell him instead, decide that even if he is one of them, even if we're both about to die, to give him at least this, “My name is Jett.”

And it's only when my voice doesn't shake, when he steps away that I realize where we are and what we're doing. It's only then that the ash clogging my throat settles, just barely, and I take a cleaner breath than I have in a long time.

no attack

[shrimp]

[8m era altyr | post 6 | 1068]

era altyr
he/him | d8 | rebel | traitor

"Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod —"

"Okay. Nice one."

"—I couldn't have—" "— I'm not —" "Ohmygod!" "— no way I could have —", It is one thing to tell someone to stab you. It is another thing entirely to be stabbed by said person. First, it burns. He can feel the weight of the blade, too sharp with its inaugural use, sticking through and almost every cell in his body squirms and screams: something is wrong. He already knows.

"Maeve," he says, with a voice like sand. "Can we —"

"— no way I could have —" "— Can we remove—sword—from arm—please?"

It is no use: the one plus is that in her panic, Maeve Idlewild still holds the blade like a statue. Firmly, Era takes her hand, and after counting to three pulls his arm back out. It hurts much worse this way—he remembers his commanders lecturing them about blades, how if there was one stuck in you you'd be better off keeping it there until the medics arrived. Here though, there is no help coming. His own handiwork will have to do.

"But—I am WEAK." Maeve exclaims, as he yanks his left sleeve off and pins it between his arm and his ribs. "I am SMALL. And you are NOT."

"Yeah. And you hit me." it takes a superhero's strength to unclamp his jaw. "So you can," he wraps the cloth, cheap and porous, around the wound. "Hit anyone else here." It's only when he motions for her to finish tying what he cannot reach that her breath calms, that her senses return. It is bad, he's lucky that she hasn't broken through a major artery. What had he been expecting, when he asked her to hit an unmoving target? He doesn't quite know. Doesn't know if he wants to know.

But she has done it once, she can do it a thousand more times. He cannot save her today, but he can give her this one gift, this one curse, that might give her ten more seconds—ten more minutes—ten more laughs. Time here fragments and crumbles, is cut short with a blade: a minute of respite is a treasure. A second to think is a blessing.

He knows she shouldn't follow him. He'll only go deeper, a straight line into a cataclysm, and if he spends half his time making sure she doesn't hit herself on accident then both of them will be dead in moments. It's unfair to ask this of her; she should be home with her cat, with her sister, with her dads. But the Capitol doesn't deal in equity, in trade-offs and justice. It deals in grandeur, in drama, in vengeance, in strife.

"Just the jazz hands?"

He concedes, if only to appease a child's wish. Performing it hurts. Nerves spike up his wounded arm and his molars latch onto the side of his mouth. When she laughs though, he does too.

"Please also shout." "Okay, dad."

And Eight breaths hitch: Four of them in District Six; Two of them in Thirteen; Two more from a girl, a soldier, bidding farewell.

He will only know Maeve Idlewild for a handful of minutes. He will remember them in his final breaths.

-/-

"Agh fuck—" he exclaims, scrambles back, feels a new sting along his calf.

When he leaves he does exactly what he planned: dives straight into the shifting tides. More kids have dropped, about a third of the pack, enough for him to slow his pace and look closer, analyze further. He doesn't have a plan, for what is there to plan for? There is death in every corner, unfair deliverance tied together with wrath. And there is District 8, watching as he passes Crane: the other from those city streets, someone he didn't protect. Not couldn't. It is to be expected from a scab, who only cares for themselves, who sells out a war for his own skin.

If he clears the field for innocents as much as he can, will that be enough? Or will they turn on him anyway, call him sick for bowing to rules that he did not make?

It is then that a boy locks eyes with him, mouths an apology, charges. His sword is already coated in red, and Era curses his distractions as he is thrown into a battle. He doesn't know where this other is from: only that a tear falls, slowly rolling down his cheek.

To their right, Era spots a wisp of a girl watching, too young, the one who called out. No one listened, him included.

"Kid," he says, heaviness in his voice. It is strained, guarded, more curt than he intends. He's already nearly adopted someone today. He doesn't think his heart could handle another. "There's still time to make choices. But you gotta choose them." Before someone chooses for you.

"And you," he says to his counterpart, sandpaper on wood, his left arm aching. "Stop crying. You're here now."

"So deal."

[attacks 11m Ram]
vYLmpKpa9csword
1068 -- Shallow Cut on Left Calf -- 3.5 damage
(Sword)

notes:
To-be-determined: Ram
Kid: 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

[✨ zozo.]

aisha aquino | post 6 | 1141

AISHA -

Blade met skin and bone and then air, and Aisha couldn't help but gasp as she sliced the boy's foot clean from his leg.

Clattering to the ground with her sword, she heaved in a long breath and snapped her head around to observe the damage. Blood pooled and spurted onto the wooden floor, boot-clad foot oozing in the sand. She'd seen some fucked up things as a rebel soldier - arms blown off, bullets in brains, tip-toeing over dead children's corpses and scorched bone. But never had she maimed someone so gruesomely, so easily. So willingly.

Never had she wanted to feel the cool metal of a gun in her hands so much than she did in that moment - bullets were easy. The weight of a sword was far more awful to bear.

One second, two, "Mierda!" someone swore - or perhaps they had cried murder. Angel could hold her own in her fight but amigo with no name and her tongue on hir's lips was nowhere to be seen.

"Fuck!" she cried, heart torn in two. For it was she that demanded they watch each-other's backs, it was she that promised together. Angel who had her back, Amigo who helped her see clearly. There was a dead body in front of her and a severed foot by her hand and with every swelter of the sun her heart beat grew slower, heavier in her veins.

Sweat and drying blood soaked the back of her head, raising a hand to comb fingers through her tangled hair. They returned sticky and streaked with blood, glistening in the light and her tears. A sigh, another "Shit, shit, shit" - she didn't know what to do. Blondie in the barracks streaked past her memories and told her to run, as she had all those years ago: "Save yourself!"

Aisha hadn't known what her words meant then but she did now, and so she took heed of her ghosts, her sword and her honour and swallowed all the pride she could heave into her lungs.

When she knew the boy she'd killed wasn't getting back up, Aisha turned her back on his corpse and ran.

One foot two feet three feet four, every pace was a dangerous dazzle of black spots against her vision. Her body slid to the left, then the right, pace slowed to a strange slumped dance - she was dying. Slowly. But she was dying.

"Angel di mi guarda-" a whisper from her lips, a voice of her Abuelo, a ghosts' last prayer. "-dulce compania."

There he was, little boy from before - and with every step, every slurred whisper and every squint of her eyes the beating in the back of Aisha's head grew louder and louder.

"No me desampares, ni de noche, ni de dia-"

She swung blindly, trusting her aim to the angels.

"No me dejes solo,"

Aisha closed her eyes and said a little prayer.

"que me perderia"

- AQUINO.

aisha attacks jett, sword
5c8iP4Z6Mnsword
Block -- 0.0 damage

sword

[d9 kristof parks {ems}]

Tector D10m / 6th post / 1180

Tector

Going away, that's all he yearns for, but every step takes him from the direction he wants to run. Each breath catches in the back of his throat. Tears burn the corner of his eyes, but blinking them away is the only option because Tector is strong, and he wants the entire world to see it. Being thrown into this situation where nothing matters, where his life is nothing more than a pawn used for some silly game changed everything.

Even now as he pulls the sword out of Sigrun's back, Tector simply wants to run away and pretend that none of this is happening. It's all a nightmare, and he waits for ma to wake him up and tell him it's okay, but the pain is there, and it tells him it's real because ma said nothing ever hurt in a dream.

A shaky hand presses against the bloodstained overalls trying to control the crimson waterfall flowing from his stomach. It hurts so bad. Each breath brings a new pain, and yet he finds himself standing leaning against a column trying to hold himself upright. In this moment, all that matters is finding a way to live. A way to make it home to ma and pa and his brother and sister. Family means the world to him, and it's the only thing that's keeping him going when his mind tells him to lay down and sleep forever.

Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth leaving him wondering how much time he has left. Death is terrifying, and not knowing what happens once a heart stops beating petrifies him more than dying. Everyone has a purpose in life, and right now Tector realized his is to die a death because of a war he had no part in. Why? Why does it have to be this way?

A single tear slides down his face as he draws a shallow breath -

"Please, stop. Leave me alone!" He tries running away again, but it's hard to move, hard to think, hard to focus when thousands of stars dance before his eyes. "Just go away!" The pool of blood makes the ground slick, and standing upright is already hard, and all it takes is one slip, and his feet fly above his head, and his hands stretch out before him as he tries to break the fall.

I'm just a fool like they said.

The schoolboys were right, and it's a hard pill to swallow, but maybe there's still a chance to prove them wrong. It's the only thing he desires. Getting home so they can pick on him again and leave others alone is important, yet Tector knows his attempts are futile. Death is calling, knocking on the door begging for someone to come through. It's just a matter of who is willing to answer.

"Please." It's almost a whisper, but in the midst of the storm of the chaos, Tector isn't sure if anyone will ever hear because he's just a fifteen year old with a voice lost in the wind. Mustering what strength remains, he tries defending himself for what may be the last time.

Standing up for himself is important, and maybe that's the legacy he'll leave behind when he leaves this world forever.

tector attacks sigurn
HKK9rb6dRVsword

1180 -- Deep Gash on Right Thigh -- 8.0 damagesword

[WT]

[Samiyuq Hernández Huapaya | post 5 | attack 3 | 1123]



"She asked me to do it."

"Did she," Samiyuq says, flat and unimpressed. Hir new opponent begins circling, and ze answers in kind, an eye and a half on the double swords pointed hir way and one more half on the surroundings—the space around their spiral and the body in tripping distance. Maybe she did ask, maybe she didn't, maybe she did but only out of desperation after the person across from Samiyuq cut her apart; ze's not inclined to ask the one still standing, when the girl on the sand can't speak for herself.

They hold their pattern for long, tense seconds. Somewhere inside that space, a voice ze recognizes rises over the din—¡Vamos niño! ¡Vamos a jugar!^{1}—and despite everything, for a split second, ze has to smile. "Aún con vida, ¿ah?"^{2} ze calls out, hoping Kastilla hears but not daring to look away to find out as hir opponent shifts. One glinting sword flies out, not close enough to worry about; ze tilts hir weight and braces hir uninjured leg as the other tribute moves forward—

"Aka!"^[1]

—and catches the second sword with hir own but, caught in hir swing, moves too slowly to catch the hand that grabs the end of hir hair. Ze gasps sharply and turns on hir good leg to drive hir free elbow into hir opponent's stomach, but their grip holds, dragging the braid taught and the headache from yesterday's blow roaring back into focus. "Aka," Samiyuq spits again, and does the only thing ze can: lean forward.

"I don't want to fight—"

"Supiyta pushkay,"^[2] ze mutters. Wanting is nothing, not in war and not in this microcosm of it. Only deciding matters. Only doing.

"—but Helena told me to find my own solutions."

They pull, hard. At the same moment Samiyuq lunges, pulling the braid as tight as ze can, and twists hir arm; the angle wrenches hir shoulder and the length of the blade does hir no favors, but a little further, just a little further—

"And if I have to kill you to find my own peace—"

Hir blade catches, tugs, shears.

"—then I will."

Momentum saves hir. A skewer to the heart drags across hir shoulder blade instead, and sand sprays out in an arc as Samiyuq twists from the waist to face hir would-be killer, panting and bloodied but free.

Two years of hair in the braid Samiyuq plaited for comfort in an empty train car hit the ground, and a curtain of ragged curls falls across hir face, as ze catches hir fall with the tip of hir sword in the ground. For the first time since the Reaping—even with the train and the dread and the pain of concussion and then blades, even with the last glimpse of hir parent's panicked face lingering every time ze closed hir eyes in the holding cell, even with too-young, barely-standing Maeve Idlewild sobbing in front of hir—Samiyuq wants to cry. Wants to fall the rest of the way and gather the hair like it's more than hair, like it's the embodiment of every childhood hour ze spent learning to braid like hir parent—who helped, laughing, hands gentle; t'inkita ama simp'aychu, k'acha, qhinchata ama munankichu^[3]—and every painstaking month ze's spent trying to rebuild a life since ze was a soldier, the last time ze wore hair this short. The only time, since infancy. Leaving it on the ground with the corpse feels like an admission that part of hir, no matter what happens, might not come back from this—might already be gone.

Ze thinks ze already knew that.

"You're looking for peace here?" ze snarls, tossing the remnants of hir hair back as ze straightens and draws up hir sword. "No one walks away from war at peace, asshole." One step, and half of one, and the distance closes. "The only way you fight your way to peace is if you're the one who dies."



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

zjqCqIhmJ9sword

[Deep Gash on Right Thigh -- 8.0]

{1} Come on, boy! Let's play!
{2} Still alive, yeah?

[1] Shit!
[2] Fuck off (lit. spin my fart).
[3] don't braid a pair, beautiful, you don't want bad luck [typically, only married Quechua women wear double braids, while anyone else with braids wears either one or many]

sword

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

d12f emmi coulter | post 6 | 1094

A disaster on so many levels. I really am not cut out for being a survivor, I can’t even survive a piggy back...each of us tumbles, our swords flying and nicking at the skin of another. Thankfully my own does not leave a trace on either but a blade prances across my cheek, giving me a real taste on what pain is to come. A yelp escapes from my lips, clearly the only thing that will be making an escape today.

Does this mean I will have to fight my way out?

I push myself onto my feet, holding my hand out to whoever will take it. ”I don’t think we are going to get out of here. The only way...” My eyes lock on to the fallen, bodies forgotten on the floor as the blades seek their next victim...I am not immune to this...I am not numb to seeing death but my gut turns sour like it did when the arm fell from the angel. I just look beyond the bodies and to the creators of death.

”The only way is to join them. The only way is to fight...”

All my life the taunts that have pierced at my brain have been...
Little girl what are you doing...
...little girls should not be doing that...there is not place for a little girl here. I call that as close as I have gotten to conflict and now I am staring the unwelcoming sight of death right in the face.

Blood crawls down my cheek, a reminder of the only route I can take to get out of here. I leave behind my failed escapees, seeking out a volunteer to be barely bruised by my blade.

There is getting over wanting to fight but there really is no time on learning how to fight. I have only ever swung a pickaxe once.Probably the closest thing to a weapon I have held is the potato peeler. I really do not want to peeling anyone like a potato...

But who is it going to be? I have no reason to choose, my only mark accidental but I have turned my back on Tector and Sigrun to retaliate now.

I dare not venture to those who look blood thirsty, except a little skirmish looks as welcoming as what a fight can be. A welcoming fight? I wait, watching the journey of the swords. There is no limb losses like before, barely a drop of blood...

"There's still time to make choices. But you gotta choose them."

The taller one directs his words to me. Really my only choice is to surrender and never see them again or close my eyes and take a swing.

Today that boy’s victim is going to be my practice.

Don’t think, just do it.

I let my body take the lead, my sword as high as it can be for a little girl.

”I’m so sorry.”

Emmi hits D11m Ram [sword]
0xyRL9tdHesword

[1094 -- Shallow Cut on Left Hip -- 3.5 damage
(Sword)]

sword

[Python]

Jan 20, 2020 1:26:30 GMT -5 Python said:

Persephone Vega, D11F, Attack 2, 1169

Persephone Vega, D11F, Attack 3, 1121

A moment of clarity amidst the bloodstorm; you're hurting another human being. Days ago the thought would horrify her. Her family would gasp at the sight of it, Persephone's blade lashing across a stranger's chest. She was shocked at her own capability. Rotting in a cell, she had imagined herself dying almost instantly. A barrage of swords and knives plunging into her skin, making her scream. Defending herself had been more of a concept than an adaptation to reality, but faced with imminent death her body reacted otherwise. A natural instinct was kicking in, even while it disgusted her very core.

"We didn't get here because men are compassionate."

She wondered where the girl was from. Eleven was full of compassionate folks who were trying to go about their daily lives without trouble. Her own life had been rather tame up until now - hours spent in the greenhouse, surrounded by only plants and the serenity of silence. She considered herself a fairly compassionate person. If someone needed help, she could swallow her social anxiety and get the job done. It wasn't a difficult task to show kindness, but here she was surrounded by the opposite. How many of these kids, she wondered, were actually normal outside of this arena? Or were they all direct victims of past violence?

"I'm here because of something I was never part of. How is that fair?"

The rebellion; it had been everywhere, yet far enough away to ensure her own safety and normalcy. Nothing in her life had ever been majorly impacted by the event until the Hunger Games was created. It had sent a chill throughout the entire district, petrifying everyone to their core. The prospect had terrified Persephone, but when a different name was called the year before she figured she would never see the day. As usual, she would hide in her quiet corner of the district and wait everything out.

How wrong she was.

A family's promise meant nothing. "My mom taught me that life would be fair if I worked hard. Did they teach you that where you're from?"

She felt like she knew the answer already, but wanted to hear it in her own words. What district was she from? How different was it from her own quiet lifestyle? What morals had her family taught her, if any? This was a clash of swords and worlds. If Persephone was to meet her maker, she wanted to know their identity.

[Persephone attacks Antigone d3f - sword]
49cLShOjh8sword
Deep Gash on Back -- 8.5 damage

sword

[L△LIA]

[ D6F Maeve Idlewild | Post 4 | Attack 2 | 1019 ]

MAEVE. IF I STUMBLE they're gonna eat me alive "Ow." "Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod —" Maeve is frozen in place, her sword embedded in Era's forearm as she stares in wide-eyed horror at this clearly impossible turn of events. It would be something of an understatement to say that she is freaking the fuck out. "— ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod —" "Okay," he says, making an interesting array of strangled sounds while somehow still being the calm one in this situation. Again. "Nice one." "— ohmygod ohmygod I couldn't have —" The incoherent babbling falls out of her mouth at a truly impressive pace considering her inability to so much as flinch otherwise. "— I'm not —" It's quantity over quality as she skips from one thought to the next without having finished the last. Except, perhaps, to occasionally revert to a tried and true: "OhmyGOD!" "Maeve. Can we —" "— no way I could have —" "— can we remove —" Era grits his teeth, pushing his words through the pain. "Sword." There's an art to prioritizing both the effort and the odds of any given word getting through to Maeve, but no time for it. "— from arm—" A gasp. "Please?" Nowhere near coherent enough to actively help, but still firmly holding onto the hilt, it's obvious that she doesn't have it together enough to comply with even such a simple request. Making the best of her rigid stance, Era takes advantage and uses his free hand to gently push her hands back as he pulls his arm free from the blade. "But —" Maeve gawks in utter disbelief at his wound even as his blood slithers down the steel of her sword to coat her knuckles. "— I am WEAK." The sword finally drops, gripped in one hand as she holds the other out to point and attempt to unhelpfully prod at the wound as if trying to prove that it can't possibly be real. What a trick, Era Altyr! You must think I'm a real moron if you think I'm falling for this prank! "I am SMALL," that much is plenty obvious, "and you are NOT." Also obvious. "Yeah," he replies, forcefully yanking on the sleeve of his poorly constructed coveralls to pull the fabric free and use it to wrap his wound, "and you hit me." This is yet one more thing that should also be obvious, but, somehow, her bug-eyed stare is desperately trying to argue otherwise. "So you can," he motions at the wider arena before pointing from Maeve to his wound to request her assistance tying it tight. Surely that's the least she can do after unhelpfully poking at the damage she caused. "— hit anyone else here." Abruptly dropping her sword, something finally clicks back into place and she swallows her babbling down long enough to tie his makeshift bandages together. It can't possibly be as tight as he'd like, but it holds and that's better than nothing. "It looks bad..." It does. He doesn't deny that. "I mean, that's the point isn't it?" While that may be true, she still has a hard time believing that he thought she'd actually manage to stab him so deeply. This is not a scratch; on a day like today it's a life-threatening handicap. "It's alright, Maeve." Her breath comes in jagged spurts as she unrolls one of her sleeves and pulls it all the way over her balled up hand, trying to wipe the worst of the blood off his arm. "It'd be more alright if you were." "Agreed." That concession of truth calms her better than any lie he could have told, helping to realign reality with facts instead of her feelings of denial because at least she has one thing right. "But it is what it is." As her bubble of panic pops, Maeve begins registering sights and sounds beyond the deepest wound she has ever experienced. The battlefield at large has not stopped for them — instead it feels closer and more threatening than ever. "Shouldn't stay here," Era notes sensibly, scrutinizing something in the distance. This is the safest Maeve has felt since being taken from her home and she's reluctant to leave her hiding place in his shadow. He hasn't promised her anything, but she still feels protected. "There's nowhere else to go." "I know," he replies, testing his arm out and wincing from a simple attempt to stretch. "In places like this —" It's a scary thought that this is not his first battlefield. Of course Maeve knew there was a war, but at the same time... she never really knew. It was never a thing that she saw or experienced. It was a cautionary tale. "— I always go straight through." She almost asks: straight through what? But then she thinks of how her sword looked when it was lodged in his arm and how in that moment she learned a new definition for a word she thought she knew so well. Through. She doesn't ask. She doesn't want to make him say it. "But I don't think that's right for you." Era must have been good at war — not only to have survived it, but to be able to look at someone as useless as her and find every trace of possibility, no matter how insignificant. "Is there something right for me?" More than anything it's a question of curiosity, just to hear how he might contradict every underestimation she's ever had of herself. "Maybe." In the arms of the peacekeepers, on the train, inside her holding cell this morning — again and again and again — her own answer would have been no. "You're small. You're fast. You're certainly loud," he chuckles. "I figure there's some way with that." That way is certainly not stealth. "But do you..." Curiosity indulged, she can't stop herself from asking again, this time for a vote of confidence. "Do you really think so?" "You'll need luck," he hedges, "but only one way to find out, right?" It's a better answer than her own. "Right." With a deep breath and a firm nod, she tries to go through the motions with enough gusto to trick herself into actually believing her own show of false confidence. "If you say so. I trust you." "I'll do what I can," he offers. It's more than she would have dared ask of him, but that seems to be a habit of his soft heart. "If you need anything, shout." "Oh no," she stops him immediately. That's just asking for trouble. "It should definitely be a signal. I shout a lot." "Okay." Her dispute of terms only makes his heart look softer in this sunlight. "Fair. Has to be obvious though." There's a prolonged moment of deep thought as Maeve seems to mentally sort through every possibility, one by one, before she shoots him a decisive look. If Era had met her before today, he'd have known to tell her to stop right there and could have refused her before she'd even begun. As it is, there's no warning for her nonsense and the next thing he knows she's kicking up sand everywhere and busting out what must simultaneously be her best and worst tap dancing moves. "Think you can do that?" She asks, finishing with a flourish of jazz hands and a shit-eating grin, knowing full well that she's being a pest. He snorts. "No," these are no uncertain terms, "try again." "Just the jazz hands?" She counters, batting her eyes and transforming her expression into that of pure innocence. "...alright." "Okay!" There's a triumphant squeal to celebrate her unexpected success and the lack of resistance on his part only dares her to push it one step further. "Show me so I know you've got it." "........." Slow blinking at her, he puts his compliance off just long enough that she starts to think he won't go through with it after all. Then, hesitantly and with his fingers spread wide, this colossus of a boy in his shrunken and blood stained coveralls begins waving his jazz hands around with enough gusto to send Maeve into a fit of laughter so all-consuming that she nearly falls over once again. She is so outrageously pleased that regardless of how tired he is, Era can't help but laugh a little too. "Please also shout," he insists. Through her tears of laughter Maeve is all light-hearted sarcasm and unguarded teasing. "Okay, dad," she quips without thinking. Both of their expressions falter. The laughter evaporates and for a long, long moment there is only silence. Reality comes rushing back and it is no longer made of jazz hands and unexpected kindness — instead it is a messy concoction of more important things, like hearts and their unanswered questions. (Do you want to go home?) Of course. They all do, she looks at Era and lies to herself. (What will you do about it?) That one is more difficult, it is not the kind of question that can be answered with words. Maeve turns her eyes to her bloodied sword. Somehow the stronger she feels, the heavier it looks. Era watches her, smiling warmly as he waits for her to pick her weapon back up. Finally she does. "Be quick," he tells her, reminding her of her strengths, "breathe, do what you want to do." Want is a scary thing today, but she takes in a deep breath and nods. It's good advice or it must be, considering the number of times she's been given it today. "Don't worry," she says, thinking back to Samiyuq and how much she's already changed in such a short time, "I've been breathing my whole life." There's a twist of something like confidence in her gut as she thinks of the way those words were said to her and how different it feels to recite them now. "You..." Trailing off, she can't help staring at the wound she gave Era and the way his makeshift bandages are already staining through with red, "don't be anyone else's practice dummy." He grins as if she made a joke, but she doesn't press him when he doesn't answer. Like his battle tactics, she thinks that she maybe doesn't want to know. Instead he simply salutes her as he goes, leaving her with some questions, but also leaving her a little stronger than he found her. The sun on her face once more, it's easy to miss his shadow. This time when she runs, she tells herself things are different. She tells herself that her fear has changed and she swears that she is in control now — of her feet, of her sword, of her heart. She breathes because this is what she has always done. She breathes and she tells herself that she is doing so faster and faster and faster because of the running and for a while she believes herself, but it's hard not to think about the weather and how badly she wishes she could find another moment of reprieve. When she sees him, she doesn't see his face. Instead she sees the back of his head, visibly gashed where the hair is matted with blood, and then his arm and how the sleeve of his uniform looks black from a wound below. There is enough red all over him that she wonders — maybe... maybe he's weak too. Despite nearly being as tall as Era, he doesn't look as intimidating. Probably that's because the fit of his uniform isn't so out of proportion with his body, the bottoms of his sleeves and pant legs being more or less in the right places, but she tries to tell herself it's actually due to how she's grown so much so quickly. If she straightens out her shoulders and holds her chin up nice and high then maybe she can skim the lower end of being five feet tall beside him or, at the very least, she could get there on her tip toes. "Yeah," she gives herself a pep talk, "motherheckin' tip toes." There is no stealth option for a girl who has spent her life trying to become as loud as humanly possible. Instead she takes a deep breath, sucking in what must even be two at once because maybe Samiyuq was right about some things even she still wants to believe ze was wrong about others. Nobody here who doesn't already give a shit about you is going to be convinced to, ze had told her, but Maeve thinks there was a reason it was easier to walk away than to attack her. She likes to think that even if she's wrong and Samiyuq had other reasons for letting her go... that at least maybe... maybe Era was convinced. Even if he was nice because that's who he is, maybe he was just a little bit nicer than usual to her. Fixing her sights on the boy up ahead, she holds her sword high and runs at him as fast as possible, screaming at the top of her lungs. "My name is Maeve Idlewild and I like porch swings and graffiti that says stuff like 'YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE!' and when my dad adds rose petals to my chamomile tea if I have a tummy ache!" The distance closes so quickly that she doesn't have time to second guess her choice or to turn away, there is only forward, even as her words begin to pile up on themselves from the rapid speed of her hollering. "I cannot stand soggy bathmats or stories with predictable endings! But I am neutral on green beans! They are not great! But I have never died from eating one and so I guess that means they have no real beef with meeaaAAHHHHH!" When she swings her sword forward, there is no hiding the undeniable fear in her shrieking, but she's not trying to hide. Not anymore.

ROUX. THERE'S NO WAY TO REHEARSE there's nothing to plan "Ow." "Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod —" Maeve is frozen in place, her sword embedded in Era's forearm as she stares in wide-eyed horror at this clearly impossible turn of events. "— ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod —" "She is frrrrreaking out," Roux blurts out the obvious, her voice tense as she stares at the television and prays that her sister doesn't shut down completely from this. There have been too many times in their lives when Maeve has decided to give up on something rather than accept the amount of effort required to be successful. It's usually understandable — and, honestly, it would be more understandable now than ever before — but it's not what Roux wants. She's selfish. Maeve just proved that she does have a chance at fighting for her life and Roux would make deals with any number of devils in order to convince her sister to recognize that too. Don't give up on yourself, Mae, not now. "Okay," Era says, making an interesting array of strangled sounds as one of Maeve's fathers turns to look at the other, trying to make sure they both just saw the same thing actually happen. "Nice one." "Did Mae just —" "Yeah." "...wow." "I know." Abiram exchanges a grim smile with his husband as they squeeze each other's hands and agonize, together. They just witnessed their daughter decide to change who she is as a person and they are equal parts proud, heartbroken, and terrified for what that means for her. There are too many other thoughts they can't say in front of Roux, so instead they settle for: I'm worried for her. "Me too, Cai." I'm so worried for her. A sigh. "Me too." There's no use in tormenting themselves over it, but that doesn't stop them from doing it anyway. "— ohmygod ohmygod I couldn't have —" Maeve's voice babbles in the background of their thoughts. "— I'm not —" It's obvious that she wants to prove she's still a child, both to herself and to them. "OhmyGOD!" They only wish they had a way to reassure her that she is and that nothing she does has to change that, but the time has come for her to have faith in the unfailing love of her parents, the same way they've chosen to have faith in her. "Maeve. Can we —" "— no way I could have —" "— can we remove —" Era grits his teeth, pushing his words through the pain. "Sword." Roux buries her face in her hands as the camera zooms in on the gash so that it looms, graphic and grotesque, in the foreground while Maeve gapes in shame in the background. "— from arm—" A gasp. "Please?" The wet sound of the blade being removed from the wound is enough to make both of the children watching retch. After the long montage of gruesome fighting that came before this scene, the moment becomes a tipping point and Roux jolts to her feet, stumbling past her dads' knees as she runs to the bathroom and begins vomiting bile into the toilet. With a quick whisper — "You stay with Mae, I'll go hold Roux's hair back." — Abiram follows close behind to make sure she's okay. "But —" Maeve gawks in utter disbelief at Era's wound even as his blood slithers down the steel of her sword to coat her knuckles. "— I am WEAK." In the intensified quiet of the living room, with only muffled sounds of gagging and splattering to distract them from the horrors being passed off as justified retribution on the television, Mordecai's attention wanders briefly to the pink haired girl trying to camouflage herself in the shadows of her armchair. "She's not," he tells her, quiet but firm. It takes Holland a minute to realize the comment is for her. "Huh?" "Mae isn't weak," he clarifies, looking back to his daughter's expression of complete and utter disbelief. "I never thought she was," she replies timidly, trying to make her voice sound comforting somehow. Mordecai gives her a small, but genuinely thankful smile in return. "I am SMALL," Maeve continues to rant and a single beat of laughter escapes Holland's mouth before she can stop it, "and you are NOT." It's not difficult to see that Holland is more embarrassed by her small outburst than perhaps any other thing ever in her young life and the combination of her mortification with Maeve's diatribe taking a sudden turn into comically obvious statements causes Mordecai to sputter a little laughter of his own. "She's so small!" He exclaims, seized with delirium. Holland's eyes go wide as she takes his reaction in — a sudden contest of who can be more inappropriate. Another snorting giggle sneaks loose. "So small," she concurs in the kind of rasping whisper of disbelief that comes out more like a quiet shout. The two of them dissolve into a cycle of echoed sniggering that soon disintegrates further into a distressed remembrance of the situation at hand until finally they're both just quietly crying. "Would you like to sit on the couch with us, Holland?" He offers kindly, knowing it can't be easy to be in this room today and that her self-segregation can't be making things any better. Trying to keep her face composed as she attempts to figure out how to respond appropriately only emphasizes the way her child-round cheeks tremble and the skin on her chin puckers with the effort. "I think we could all use another hand to hold today." She nods — slow, guilty, thankful. He pats the cushion beside him and she leaves the chair to join. "I don't think any of you are weak at all," she mumbles, awkward but sincere, and when Mordecai reaches out to give her hand a squeeze, she squeezes back. "In places like this —" Era's voice fills the quiet until Roux and Abiram return, neither of them giving Holland's change in seating a second glance as everyone sits back down, queasy but stable. Before changing seats Holland thought it would be a tight fit with four of them on the couch, but it isn't. She hadn't realized she might be sitting in Maeve's usual spot until just now. "— I always go straight through, but I don't think that's right for you." "Is there something right for me?" Mordecai swallows a lump in his throat, "oh, Mae. Of course there is. Always." "Maybe," Era offers her what reassurance he can while Mordecai enthuses his support. "You're small." ("The smallest there is.") "You're fast." ("Especially when you think you're about to be grounded.") "You're certainly loud," he chuckles. ("THE LOUDEST!" Roux screams, pumping her fist in the air as everyone claps their own encouragement.) "I figure there's some way with that." "Heck yes there is," Roux declares with complete and total confidence and one by one all four of them take each other's hands, fingers interlaced, and form a chain of strength. "But do you..." Maeve trails off, still uncertain. "Do you really think so?" "YES!" Everyone screams in unison at the television, as loudly as they can. It drowns out some of Era's words and they can only hope it was enough to drown out Maeve's self-doubt as well. "Only one way to find out, right?" "Right." With a deep breath and a firm nod, Maeve straightens out her shoulders and tries to play the part of confident, whether or not she actually feels it yet. "If you say so. I trust you." Her family is already grateful for his unexpected kindness, but when Era Altyr casually offers something even more, hearts could burst. "I'll do what I can," he promises. "If you need anything, shout." "Oh no," she stops him immediately. That's just asking for trouble. "It should definitely be a signal. I shout a lot." "Okay." Everyone is laughing, both on screen and off. It's funny. It's just a little bit defiant. It's Maeve. "Fair. Has to be obvious though." The slapstick spectacle of tap dancing and pure nonsense that follows only serves to raise everyone's moods to a higher level still. This is the girl they all know. This is Maeve at her best. Silly and fearless in a way that has nothing to do with swords, she kicks her feet and waves her hands around in a one woman show that isn't just entertaining, it's feel-good. That's not an accident. For all Era has done for her, it's obvious she's trying to return a favor. Take this smile, her expression dares, I made it just for you. Her family steals a little piece of it for themselves because it's big enough to share. "Think you can do that?" She asks, finishing with a flourish of jazz hands and a shit-eating grin. He snorts. "No. Try again." "Just the jazz hands?" She counters, batting her eyes and transforming her expression into that of pure innocence. "...alright." "Okay!" There's a triumphant squeal to celebrate her unexpected success and the lack of resistance on his part only dares her to push it one step further. "Show me so I know you've got it." "........." For as often as Maeve wallows in self-pity and unleashes petty revenge on anyone who risks crossing her when she's fallen into one of her moods, there's no denying that her joy can be just as infectious as her melodramatic teenage angst. Perhaps even more so. Despite how inappropriate smiling and laughing feels on a day like today, it's still nice to be reminded. It's nice to be able to see Maeve salvaging moments in what might otherwise be the last and the worst of her life. This is what she deserves, not the point of a sword. It's what Era deserves. It's what everyone deserves. The boy on screen follows her lead, his fingers dancing a little shimmy of tomfoolery that shakes away just a bit of his misery too. They laugh. They smile. There is as much warmth in the moment as there is aching. "Please also shout," he insists. Through her tears of laughter Maeve is all light-hearted sarcasm and unguarded teasing. "Okay, dad," she quips without thinking. "Shit." Holland gasps before she can stop herself as the room goes perfectly still and silent. Everyone holds their breath, trying not to move because suddenly everything is glass trying its best not to break. This, too, is Maeve. Her showy tantrums have never hurt anywhere as bad as some of the littlest words she lets slip without thinking. It's the unintended wounds that feel the most sincere. Dad, she says and two birds plummet from a sky full of stone. For a long while the world itself is so quiet that even when Maeve and Era's mouths begin to move again, there doesn't seem to be any sound. It's an awkward goodbye for everyone. There are promises left unmade and a salute to distract from the sorrow as everyone goes through the motions of some kind of denial. This time when she runs, her family tells themselves that things are different. They tell themselves that Maeve's fear has changed and swear that she is in control now — of her feet, of her sword, of her heart. They trust that she will continue to breathe because this is what she has always done. She breaths and they tell themselves that she is doing so faster and faster and faster because of the running and for a while they all believe it, but it's hard not to think of how small and alone she is and how badly they all wish she could find someone else like Era, who might offer another fleeting moment of protection. When the face of Axel Moreau appears on screen, smeared in blood and already familiar from other fights that have come before, there is a communal hope that the focus of the camera has fully changed and this particular footage has nothing to do with Maeve. Surely she is running again: away, away, forever away. Surely that is someone else in the background, charging forward with her head held so high, but still so far from being able to measure up to Axel's own. Surely. Surely. "My name is Maeve Idlewild!" She yells, attacking her family's fervent hopes at the same time she rushes forward to recklessly attack a dangerously experienced fighter head-on. No. She's not trying to hide. Not anymore.

help i'm alive metric | now or never now metric



[ attacks axel moreau, sword ]

07uiY0yibmsword

[ 1019 — stabbed in chest — 9.5 damage ]



[ Maeve stabs Era OMGOMGOMG; cons herself into sorta-believing she's brave; anti-stealths; overshares at Axel ]

sword

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

axel moreau | attacks maeve | 1179

A X E L      M O R E A U

I'm almost already gone when he replies.

We didn't want it.

Me neither.

I remember the first time that I wanted to cry at the front, remember what it was like to watch someone else do it when I never did. I can still hear Bullet Catcher and his wailing, two tents down on the nights when we still had tents to camp under. A few stars away on the bad days, the last days, surrounded by the other soldiers thirsting for a fight because if they weren't fighting then they were thinking and that? That was infinitely worse. We had been promised glory, had been promised revolution, told that we were going to set the Capitol on fire, burn their high rises to the ground and start a new world in their ashes.

War was a god and his kingdom was littered with a thousand bodies.

"Thank you, Jett," I say and I walk away from him backwards. "Win," I say. "Fight the fight you need to."

A girl goes at him before I can step in to help him, and it makes me smile to watch him fight her off. He blocks her attack, takes the war and makes it his own.

For a long moment, I am alone here, and I look around, see more bodies on the ground than maybe I expect, and that does something to my stomach, makes it turn over. I am used to death, used to blood, but most of the time those were people who chose the fight, men who felt the blazing warmth of being part of a regiment of soldiers fighting for a cause they believed in, no matter what side they were on. They were taught that there was virtue in slaughter, that there was a way to make death matter.

I can't say the same for the bodies here.

And then, from nowhere—YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE, and I hear my mother's voice every time she wanted to sing me to sleep. I look to my left and right, but there's no one screaming things like that at me and—I am neutral on green beans and I think that maybe the voice is coming from behind me but they're talking so fucking fast and saying so many things that I think my brain is being over loaded with new information because I am sluggish, slow to turn around.

And my chest eats a sword.

"Ay coño," I curse.

axel attacks maeve, sword

4aAYK28dVVsword

1179 - dg right forearm - 8.0

I fling my sword out as an instinct, not in the least expecting it to do any real damage. "Fuuuuuck," I groan. The sword there is stuck in good, a deep fucking cut that's definitely going to kill me if I wasn't already bleeding out from the gash in my arm. Which, I'm pretty sure I was. This girl just sped up the process. My eyes are closed tightly for a moment, my mouth a flat line while I clench my jaw and try to make my thoughts make sense. "I've never been big on green beans either," I say, and I think that I might be going crazy. I tip my head back to the sky, open my eyes and take in the shape of the clouds. "But they were one of the only vegetables I could ever get Ma to eat." I inhale sharply, grit my jaw and wrap my hand around the edges of the sword and pull it out slowly.

That'll make me bleed out faster.

When I look up, I'm just about knocked on my fucking ass.

"Tiny?" I ask, sure I'm hallucinating. I shake my head, close my eyes again and try to shake the image from my head. When I open them again, the girl is still standing there, fucking tiny, but not Tiny. "No, no no," I swallow. "Not Tiny."

I'm fucking losing it.

CANARY IN THE MINES

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[tick 12a / calla]

d12m jett davies | post 8 | attack 6 | 1168

j e t t

Fight the fight you need to.

I don't know if this is my fight anymore.

But Axel steps away, a growing absence that hollows out my bones, and not for the first time in my life, I feel so terribly, so utterly, excruciatingly alone. There is the sound of death in the air, the taste of it, and the stench is so thick I don't know how I've made it this long.

But then first girl who dug her blade into my shoulder wanders back, swinging through the corner of my eye and I barely have enough time to raise my sword to stop her, using both hands and straining from the effort.

Maybe we're all just fighting for the same thing - all the people who are rebels and all the people who aren't. My head starts to ache, filled to the brim with conflict, with traitorous thing, thoughts I never thought would make it past the gates.

I think I just want to go home. I think I just want my brother.

I can still see Axel behind her, beside us, I can't tell. Everything's a bit more blurry than it used to be. But I can still see the flash of a sword sinking into his chest, a wet crunching sound, and I have to swallow down whatever scream tries to escape my throat.

Because he's still a rebel. I shouldn’t feel anything.

And the girl standing between us, beside us, the first to attack, I thought she had to be a rebel too, because violence was the only thing I associated with them. Yet here I am, with death on my palms, tattooed on the back of my eyelids, and I don't think I know much of anything anymore.

I don’t know if she understands me, but it’s worth a shot.

“Are you,” I grimace over the cross of our swords, at the way she towers over me and try not to hold my breath, “a rebel?”

I look at the girl on the ground, the one I stabbed, her blood and body already cooled, "Like them?"

Destiny is a fickle thing. Because I’ve killed one of them already, tried to save another. Maybe fate just thinks it’s funny.

Maybe I don’t want to know.

jett attacks aisha ; sword
5hToQWCjwDsword

shallow cut on stomach -- 4.0 damage

sword