The Bloodbath

[pup]

May 13, 2020 10:28:50 GMT -5 pup said:

[arc dorado | attack #10 | 1194]

[arc dorado | post 11 | no attack]

When I had all but lost hope, my strength is renewed and the boy falls. His last breaths remind me why I'm still standing.

Even with one leg missing, I am a survivor.

I'm not just a survivor. I'm a victor.

---

He walks out the door, my eyes following him desperately, pleading with him not to go.

A month later, the war is over, and he hasn't come back. Like it was shot from the same gun that shot him, my heart shatters at the voice of his friend telling us he didn't make it. He had said that my father had died honorably, fighting for a noble cause. My mother had spat at his feet, dragging me away so I wouldn't need to hear anymore bullshit from the man who had watched my father die for false beliefs turned into false idols.

He had fought in a war that wasn't his own. He had forgotten what it means to be human, bewitched by promises of power from those who had betrayed him with the lies that he will live to come back home.

I will never forget his mistakes.

---

My blood-loss was polluting my thoughts, bring me back in time when I should be focused on who I'm going to kill next. The crowd around me cheers wildly as tribute after tribute falls.

They won't be cheering for my killer anytime soon.

I look down at the boy, disgusted. He hadn't wanted to fight. His mannerisms suggested that he just wanted peace, that he just wanted to be left alone. But at the slight sign of danger, he lashed out, almost killing me. He had tried to hide who he was from the world, just like everybody else, but he failed.

Every human likes to think that they're the only innocent one, the only one not rearing to gain control. They put up a mask with scared, wide eyes so that they can live in the face of those more powerful than them. But at the sign of a slight advantage, their facades fall apart.

I want to slice him up further, just like he had me. But no, I need to continue. I need to finish this quickly before I completely toppled over.

Hobbling over on one leg, using my sword as a crutch, I move over to the boy nearest me. He had just dispatched a different tribute, and I need a quick moment to rest before I try tearing him apart.

"You look like you're having fun," I say with a grin, showing off my blood-stained teeth that created a terrifying sight. He looked pretty beat up also, so all I have to hope is that he takes my false, temporary friendship as a moment to let down his guard, to let me strike at him after a second of catching my breath.

---

[vibes with one leg and talks to jasen, no attack]

[shrimp]

May 12, 2020 22:16:45 GMT -5 shrimp said:

[zephyr] kestell | post #5 | —

[zephyr] kestell | post #6 | 1039

[attr="class","w460"]

Decades from now, when what was once inhumane has turned into the invaluable, a doctoral candidate will spend hours in a sprawling library. It is pristine, a splendor, an ode to a decadence that you can only recognize through theory. As they walk past stories that you failed to protect, they will make their way to the video archives, and watch you stab at another, and then toss him your cape. They will wonder why you kill and then protect in the same span of time, why after eighty four years tributes reject their logic for a moment's platitude.

In their curiosity, they forget your humanity.

_\|/_

You find yourself skirting the outside edges of the arena, willing yourself to be as small as possible. Around you, skirmishes have broken up, life-and-death hangs in the air, and you wonder that if you hide long enough there will be enough tributes lying dead for you to sweep in and claim survival for your own. It is a terrible decision, it is an unwise decision, but it means you do not wield your own blade. It means you can breathe for a moment, feel your heart racing towards an end.

Bravery had come easy to you, you thought. When you read about treaties and collapses of government, you thought yourself a maverick: paving a new way for Panem's future, even as it crumbled before you. If there was someone who carried on the weight of history, who knew how the shift of a grain of sand could change the world for good, some day everything would be right. Because one grain of sand leads to another, leads to a mound and then an ant-hill, and then like quicksand the world follows suit.

It doesn't quite work that way. There is a pull to every push. There the slice of a blade and a bandage to stem the tides. There is a last stand, and an onslaught to overrun it. Balance lies heavy at the forefront of your mind: when to attack, when to hold back, how many was it acceptable to kill, how many it was acceptable to let die without lifting a finger. As if the number of sins made it any better. As if pity outweighed inaction.

If all of it evens out to zero, you might as well stay yourself to the very end

You lift a hand to the marble stone, feel the bevel against your thumb. What architect selected the material, shifting through shelves of samples to find the perfect match? Do they feel remorse for building a trench out of decorum and stone?

Perhaps, but there is no more time to waste. The wall's tremble as a blade hacks a shard away is the only thing that warns you of the oncoming attack; you leap backwards, making noise but not sounding a word. The figure is even smaller than you, asymmetric and tumbling forwards like a dandelion in the wind: difficult to gauge, impossible to escape. But you work to parry anyway, both hands gripped tight on the handle as you try to keep another moment in your grasp.

Mother said that you overthink a problem while undercutting your potential; you focus too much on the minutiae that you fail to plan for the long haul. But step by step, beat by beat—forget the inconsistencies, if you keep it up long enough you can complete even the most daunting of promises. Day-by-day, brute forcing your way through. You always did make it hard for yourself.

[zephyr] attacks alexei
tpFBqZNenwsword
1039 -- Shallow Cut on Right Shoulder -- 3.5 damage

It stings as you draw back, and shuffling to a halt you blink before taking in your new opponent. The first thing you see is the distinct lack of all four appendages, but from the look of it this has been the case for some time. It does not disturb you as much as a newly formed wound. You've seen worse the night the Capitol betrayed your home. But it does not soften the fury in your veins. You remind yourself that here, even as you decide to be kind, you cannot be gullible. After all, the strike made on the wall is solid, a thin scratch that cuts jagged through one name and lays in another's embossed frame.

"If we were anywhere else, I'd say to be careful with that sword."

"But all this grandeur screams 'fragile ego'. It deserves to be chipped down a bit."

You can't help but enjoy the thought of a permanent mark on the wall. It is a declaration. We were here.

[newclass=".w460"]width:460px;[/newclass]


sword

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

May 12, 2020 22:21:19 GMT -5 napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. said:

[ reed laghari | d7m | attack three ]

[ reed laghari | d7m | attack four ]

From how much Reed’s hands trembled, the blade missed its mark – diving elsewhere, a flash of silver under the coin-sized sun.

All of a sudden, he felt too weary, as if every hurt and pain and grief he’d ever felt were collapsing onto him all at once, as a fractured whole. The sword trembled more in Reed’s hands. The two boy looked blasé in their act, as if they were mere friends talking about what a fine, sunny day it was. In the meantime, Reed was bleeding to death, first from the wound on his chest and now from a second one that the other male tore across down his body. The blood that gushed out was a river, taking him to sea.

It took pains to do so but he managed to placate his racing heart, at least to a low cacophony of sound instead of a rising, chaotic crescendo. From somewhere, a wind carried itself over to his sweat-glistening skin, its sweet and longed-for coolness lapping at sore muscles. It had a faint melody to him and Reed thought about dancing to it, about laying down his sword and letting his feet move. It would be so much easier.

He could dance, until he had to fall.

War made soldiers out of able-bodied men, and paupers and whores out of the rest. Reed learnt that the hard way. Reed learnt that in ways he desperately wished he could unlearn, scrape away the memory from the confines of his skull until it no longer existed. But the tragedy here was that he could not.

What he could do, however, was fight –
for himself, for the first time ever. 

He made an indrawn breath, then readied his blade once more, as false hope flooded his veins, gave little strength to his heart. He mouthed one more whispered prayer to his golden saints. From somewhere, the wind rose and caressed Reed’s back once more, as if urging him onward.

To his death or to his future?

He would have to find out. 

[ Reed attacks Remus | Sword ]

6jjTYBVysPsword

1008 -- Shallow Cut on Back -- 4.0 damage (Sword)

sword

[cass]

May 13, 2020 5:17:12 GMT -5 cass said:

henry hughes | post 10 | attack 1075

henry hughes | post 11 | attack 1014

HENRY -

Sometimes I don't sleep at night
I hear the wind in the moaning trees
I wonder how my child will fare
With wars and bombs and thieves

Henry’s sword dug deep into the boy’s flesh, it was satisfying to see. His muscles protested, aching as he pulled back, readying himself for another attack. As he pulled away, eye patch guy spoke, thanking Henry for saving him from a possibly deadly wound, before admitting that he too was a killer. It ticks in his mind and he stares at the guy, looking him up and down, there’s something about him, he just can't quite put his finger on-

Huh.

Henry frowned, could it? The timeline matched up, it was in his last year when it happened before he was rounded up and tossed into a cell. Everyone had hurt about the infamous scout that had saved numerous squadrons from being slaughtered. When those rumours hadn’t been enough the story of how they had been attacked by a pack of mutated animals had spread like wildfire. Henry had never been one to really listen to the gossip, but when it had included killer animals that could potentially hunt them all down he lent an ear.

“You’re that kid, the scout, right? They called you eye patch in the camps after you were hunted down by a pack of mutated beasts.” Henry swung his sword onto his shoulder, placing a hand on his hip as he looked at Eye Patch. It made sense, he doubted there were many more kids his age roaming around with an eye patch prattling on about the killer they were.

The other boy seemed to take adventure of their moment of distractedness, and seconds later Eye Patch was sprouting a new wound on his back. The one that had taken Henry’s stab seemed to be faltering, that hit should have been a lot more deadly. It seemed that Henry wasn’t the only one who felt weaker, who felt tired.

“You look tired, mate, you should take a break,” Henry said, pulling his sword off his shoulder.

Hopefully it will be a permanent one.

- HUGHES.

[11m Henry attacks 7m Reed -- Sword]
MUgn7xDmQ1sword
[1014 -- Shallow Cut on Left Hip -- 3.5 damage]

sword

[aya]

[attr="class","w460"]

alexei daine

She blinks, trying to clear the sand from her eyes without making matters worse. The riposte tags her right shoulder, stinging but not screaming, and Alexei gets the sense that this may have been more reflex than malice. This was no botched beheading, and there's little use in finishing the job that Capitol bombers and a stack of pine trunks started years ago.

"If we were anywhere else," the stranger muses, "I'd say to be careful with that sword." Alexei tries to roll her eyes, but instead gets more sand in them. Sword still trained forward in her left, she wipes at her face with her right, unsure quite what to make of the remark. "But all this grandeur screams 'fragile ego'. It deserves to be chipped down a bit."

"I do not have a fragile — !" The retort comes to her tongue on incensed instinct, Alexei ready to defend her own honor before she's grasped that it hadn't been called into question in the first place. It's a lie, of course, proven in her fast temper at the mere suggestion that any piece of her might be fragile. Proven in the misinterpretation that anything negative that's being said is about Alexei by default. She lashes out again —

[attacks zephyr - sword]
LES7bcmQUesword
[1067 -- Deep Gash on Back of Head -- 9.0 damage]

— a swing for the head that slams into the stone again on the follow through. Sparks fly. The marble blemishes beneath her blade, a hairline fracture on the temple of mortals playing god, and when she wonders if it will be buffed out for next year Alexei finally gets the point. All this grandeur.


"Who do you think built this?" Alexei asks softly in lieu of an apology, the fire in her voice doused so quickly the chill can be felt in the tones. No one here has any answers, but she asks anyway. She can't do anything with the answers. Spend the few short remaining minutes of her life wondering about them.

A scratch in the stone joins an i's tittle to the rest of the letter — Idlewlld — and Alexei wonders if that will be fixed up, too, or if they can expect their names erased from the stone year after year by careless, desperate hands.

If her nightmare daydream fantasy is reality after all, and her sisters — missing in action, prisoners of war, for better or worse not yet dead — did build this behemoth, at least next year their work will at last bear their name when it bears Alexei's. Her stomach craters. She asks the stranger another one, because she seems like she knows stuff and because she's right here and because Alexei thinks she'll implode if she keeps it all to herself, "Who do you think puts the names in the walls?"

Do you think it makes them sad? Is it just one more terrible thing in a forest of terrible things? Will they think about us? Or will the letters just be letters?

[newclass=".w460"]width:460px;[/newclass]
sword

[revel latimer, 11b 🔍 jay]

May 12, 2020 13:22:38 GMT -5 revel latimer, 11b 🔍 jay said:

d3m eros desrosier | post 4 | 1096

d3m eros desrosier | post 5 | no attack

EROS

Through the burning pain that sears across the back of my head, through the cherry-red blood that sticks to my skin — the sword trembles in my hand. The boy from four gazes at me, his voice coarse and raw, "Then go lives its ending."

His words were benign, but he was far from it. The boy from four was not tender-hearted — his heart was guided by anger and raw emotion, that's what made us different. In the stories my mother used to read to me, the kings who ruled with an iron fist and queens who could make even the toughest men tremble at the knees with a single arch of their lips, had to make the decisions that were the best for their people, for their family, no matter how hard it was.

The boy from four was not fit to be a king, he was too weak, too guided by his emotions. I could be merciful, I could feel empathy, but I know what it takes.

My fingers traced the names engraved into the stone — some part of me could feel them here, that their blood has somehow stained the sand too. The sun circled my head, its golden light painting the illusion of a halo atop my head, or a crown.

I had always wanted to be a king, and maybe, this was the beginning of the end.

eros wanders aimlessly

[D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler]]

May 13, 2020 18:56:17 GMT -5 D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler] said:

[D11F Daisy Holliday | Post #9 | No Attack]

[D11F Daisy Holliday | Post #10 | No Attack]

[googlefont="Great Vibes"][googlefont="Caveat"]

Daisy Holliday

10. Direct Sun

The boy was surprised at me asking if he was going to finish me. I was surprised that he was surprised! I guess I just figured if he was coming over to my husk of a being in these games it was because he wanted to finish the job. Instead I hear him say, "Oh. Well I wasn't exactly planning to. But that's up to you I guess." And then he gives me a shrug.

I'm thinking What in Panem is going on? I'm laying out here like a cow ready for the slaughterhouse, and he's not just skewering me right away? Shoot, maybe he ain't as much of a cold-blooded killer as I thought. Maybe not everyone could've killed Little Miss Cutie as readily as I did.

I guess killing is more of an "act now, think later" thing to do. If I had thought too much of it maybe it'd be me lying dead on the ground now instead of talking to the handsome devil. Think too much and you second guess. Maybe he's just caught up in his head. And maybe that's why he hasn't already turned me into sashimi.

But now he's given me a choice; I just gotta say the word and he'll either kill me or walk on. I've never liked choices much, often times I end up picking the wrong one. But in this situation I'm not sure which choice will be the wrong one to make.

Part of me is begging inside for death to come. Having dead tribute ashes in my wounds has helped staunch some of the blood loss, but I'm still fighting to keep my eyes open when everything hurts. I ain't got an arm anymore either, that kinda sucks. Maybe I should just let him finish me off and be done with it.

At the same time though, I ain't a quitter. Do I really want to just wave the ol' white flag now? I just beat a little girl to death to try and live, am I really going to do that and then let myself die anyways? What was the point? No way; I've been fighting for life, and I'm gonna keep on that fight until I can't no more. This ain't the way I wanna go.

I look back up at him and say, "I think I'd like to keep livin' if that's fine by you."

Daisy respectfully declines death from September (no attack)

[ali]

May 13, 2020 16:40:07 GMT -5 ali said:

Desdemona Shaw // Attack #8 // 1129

Desdemona Shaw // Attack #9 // No Attack

Desdemona Shaw

That I'd fallen for a lie
You were never on my side
Fool me once, fool me twice
Are you death or paradise?

It is simple- her death. Desdemona drives her blade into her chest and hold it there for a long moment, watching her face; she does not want to watch Petra's life fading from her storm grey eyes but it is hypnotic, as the blood bubbles between her lips and her eyes dullen. By the time Petra is so still on the end of her blade, growing heavy as her body no longer can keep itself on its feet, Desdemona's eyes sting from the sand that hangs in the air around her, a perpetual cloud stirred up from the chaos. When Desdemona knows that Petra is gone, she slides the blade out from between the girls ribs and lets her body fall to the floor.

As if in sync, the blondes knees give way, her knee caps crashing into hard wooden decking beneath the thin layer of sand. She feels the jolt rush through her but where there may have been pain before there was only a sense of numbness that took all the air out of her. Knelt on the floor of the collesium, all she could feel was each, pained breath as her lungs struggled to inflate and deflate against the heaviness that pressed against her chest. Her eye lids fluttered slightly, the numbness threatening to engulf her. It beckoned, sweetly, for her to keep her eyes closed but she resisted, unable to look away from Petra's body.

"...why won't you die..." her voice is small, so quiet that she doubts anyone would be able to hear her over the clamour of the crowd around her. Tears suddenly spill down her cheeks as she lets out a slow, heavy pained sob, deep from in her aching chest. Her hands find her face, clutching at her own cheeks and pulling back the large strands of the dirty blonde hair that have worked their way free of her braids. She cries, slowly at first, then as she can feel her heart thudding in her chest and the waves of agony and regret wash over her, her sobs quicken, becoming frantic as she burries her face in her hands.

"what have I do...what have I done...." she says silently to herself, her whole body shaking with the exhaustion of battle and the horrific realisation. Clasping her hands together the best she could, she began to whisper a prayer to her forgotten God. "Please forgive me father for I have committed the worst of crimes- please forgive me" she begged, allowing the world to fall away as she did so. Desperation laces her voice, hoarse and aching as she struggles to breath. 

"Please forgive me for my sin and forgive me for those who have sinned against me- please..." she sobs, droplets of blood spluttering from between her lips "...p..please....have mercy on my soul"

[Desdemona does not attack]
lyrics: no time to die by billie eilish

[/div]

[Arrows]

May 13, 2020 13:08:11 GMT -5 Arrows said:

[Remus / Attack #5 / 1177]

[Remus / No Attack / Post #7]

REMUS

That day, the sun was shining through the forest's branches as a soft swell echoed from the ocean. The day was designed as though something from a dream, painted with picturesque precision. The only issue was the barrage of bullets barreling through the sky after the shadows of sprinting scouts, terrified children. Levi had one last look at the into the blue pools of his best friend's eyes before a round of bullets buried themselves in his back. Remus kept running as Levi's body broke, tears the outline of his face. He didn't know that his fiend was given mercy. He kept running straight into a sky that went from light to darkness in only a few short seconds.

What's it like to be encased in a swarm of stingers? Remus knows the answer with clear cut certainty, his skin is the road map of their devastation. He knows that it is like shooting hundreds of hot nails into your skin. He knows that the venom makes you seize uncontrollably after a certain amount. He knows that as you try to crawl away a day after waking up from the attack that several of the inflamed stinger sockets erupt. He knows that they leave the victims forever scarred. He knows that a single stinger to the eye is irreparable. He learned all of this when he was only thirteen years old. 

“You’re that kid, the scout, right? They called you eye patch in the camps after you were hunted down by a pack of mutated beasts.”

Remus' eye freezes on the other boy's face. Eye Patch. Remus hasn't heard that name in years, it's not one that circulates around in the construction circles of conversation. Yet this boy knows it which means... he is a rebel. Remus had been speculating, but now he knows. Are they the only two inside of this Colosseum? It's doubtful, Remus knows that the Capitol has been making arrangements for many of the first tributes to be rebels. Much like this arena, they can only build their dictatorship on the fields of our ashes.

"Yeah, that's the name Wally gave me the day before they torched the Eastern Medical Facility in Four."

Remus feels his fingers furl around the handle of his blade at the memories of fuming flames engulfing hundreds of injured fighters. There was never any remorse from the Capitol during the war, but in those last days their brutality blossomed into absolute monstrosity. Remus is a living page from that chapter of their creative cruelty. Muttation attacks are often wiped from public record due to their inhumane nature. The Capitol much prefers to blur out their darkest of sins from the citizens.

"My actual name and rank is Remus Jørgensen of the Scout Corps Division 1.A. No one knows the name Eye Patch unless they're one of us. Permission to ask for identification Soldier?"

The rhetoric feels old, but warm. Remus hasn't spoken this way in years. All he's had is dry chatter over the bleeding hands of work. Simply speaking this way somehow makes Remus feel stronger. He can feel his Family's hands back on his shoulders again. That's when the boy who tried to ambush him falls.

The other rebel boy stands with his sword steady while his eyes carry the stare of soldier. Remus wonders what the world has been like for him since everything ended. Remus lowers his sword to his side to show he has no interest in continuing the fight, not yet at least.

"How's it been for you, the fallout? My whole family are ashes in my house and I'm some damn construction worker to them. Some shit about rebuilding what he broke."

Remus talks to Henry

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

May 13, 2020 23:16:41 GMT -5 thompson harvard - d2b - arc said:

[ d5m september yorgos | post #8 | no attack ]

[ d5m september yorgos | post #9 | no attack ]

{ september }

Air felt like it had stopped moving. It was stiff. Hard. My throat felt like it had closed up slightly and it felt like I was breathing a papercut. Every single kinetic particle had come to a complete freeze to watch the girl. Not that it was any hard choice - I figure one would choose life over death in most situations, but as she laid there, it felt like the only logical option was death. Did she think she would survive past all of us? I wouldn’t imagine it’d be easy with a broken arm. But hey, if Argos was able to think with the peabrain he had from all those years of smoking, she might be able to fight on her one arm.

The joke between Octavia and I was that Argos was basically the monster from Frankenstein and we were his Victors. He was ridiculously tall and didn’t know shit. Minus for the part where Frankenstein actually learned from his experiences. You could kick Argos five times for taking the last croissant on the table before Gramma could take one and he’d still take it. I understood why he wasn’t allowed to talk to the sheltered because we used our codenames and his dumbass could barely remember in the moment to keep his mouth shut. He was a walking, rotting piece of brain. But unlike Mary Shelley’s Victor, I did not crumble in fear in the sight of the tall, ugly monster. Argos was no looker, not a thinker. Octavia said often that he wasn’t even at the level of comprehension of Frankenstein. He was like the really old dog on the brink of death, you don’t put him down though, because you love him, and it doesn’t matter that he really cannot control himself. So yeah, if she wanted to, she could probably function a whole of a lot better than Argos did. I’d like to see it too. Tell Octavia about how a girl missing an arm and a half was braver than him.

The blonde had an obvious issue with trying to keep her eyes open. Her exhaustion could be felt from miles away. I could even see an audience member yawn in the corner of my eye. Though for all I know, they could just be tired of what’s happening. Maybe they wanted another head. Maybe I’ll throw one at them if I end up with a head from my sword. That could be fun. Laugh at the death of others, take a decapitated head to the face. Keep it as a token you filthy cockalorum.

Argos would probably be one of those audience members. Tired by the very thing he came to watch.

She brought her gaze up to me, an action I didn’t even think she could do at such poor health and let out a response in her country-esque accent. ”I’d like to keep livin’, if that’s fine by you.” Perfectly fine by me. She looked like the runt of any litter of animals. The one that, if the shepherd didn’t watch close enough, would be gone the moment they turn their back. A wolf’s meal. The Argos of my family, basically. I let out a small nod as if I understood, but I really didn’t. I would’ve before I saw the eyes of peace got killed.. I would’ve understood this desire to keep living in this arena as an abandoned, broken lamb before I stepped foot in. Before my head bled red. The sacrifice of blood was passed down to hell as our guilt was lifted to the heavens to hold. We would feel our guilt afterward and the blood would fill this ground like the roots of a tree filling the dirt.

I used to think the lamb should never be left alone, but now, with bodies fallen and limbs falling, I think that the lamb should’ve not gotten lost in the first place. Stay with the pace of the pack or get eaten. I guess this girl was one of the many many lost lambs. ”Alright, then.” I put my sword into my belt to try and show that I wasn’t going to hurt her. ”Need help getting up?” She stared at my hand like I had just placed a ticking time bomb in front of her. But then the gears turned. ”Heck, well I won’t say no to that!” The country girl took my hand and I pulled her up. ”Good luck, I guess.”

As I walked away, I was alone, yet again.

[helps her up and then walks away because she declined his rose]

[D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler]]

May 14, 2020 12:24:06 GMT -5 D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler] said:

[D11F Daisy Holliday | Post #10 | No Attack]

[D11F Daisy Holliday | Post #11 | No Attack ]

[googlefont="Great Vibes"][googlefont="Caveat"]

Daisy Holliday

11. New Blossom

After I asked him not to kill me, the boy seemed to take a minute to look me over and think about it. I swear I thought I was dead meat; We're in the Hunger Games and I'm knocking on death's door, he could easily decide to just finish me off here and move on. So when I hear him say "Alright then.", I'm floored. I mean, I was already on the floor, but I was flabbergasted. I couldn't believe it! And when he put his sword away and said "Need help getting up?" I didn't know WHAT to think. I ain't the quickest thinker and being on death's door sure ain't helping, but even then I took a good couple of seconds to process that this boy was trying to help me out.

Once it clicked I happily told him, "Heck, well I won't say no to that!" and then I extended out my broken arm for him to yank me up! Hurt like a bitch but he was such a sweetheart for not killing me I don't care if he yanked my arm right out of it's socket.

What a good soul! Bless his heart, he didn't have to help me at all but here he is, giving me a fighting chance. I hear him say "Good luck, I guess." and turn to walk away. What a peach! How did he of all people end up in these games? I mean I'm damn sure glad he is or I'd be toast, but it also breaks my little heart to know he's got to outlive everyone else in this place to keep on trucking in this world. And that includes me.

And that means if I do end up living through this mess, it means he'll be dead too. And I ain't so sure I would've done the same thing if I'd been in his shoes.

I decided right there and then that if I died in here I'd want him to win. Simply for being better than I would've been. I call out a "Thanks a million!" to him before I turn and head in the opposite direction. Don't want things to come down between he and I. Heck, I don't think it will given the state of me. But I wasn't taking any chances.

I see a girl catch my eye; she's another one of the younger ones but doesn't look like she's in nearly as rough of a shape as me. She's standing over another girl's body; another killer. Just like me.

I reckon a fight with her could be the death of me, but I also know I ain't winning the Hunger Games by sitting on the sidelines. That boy gave me a chance to live, and I need to make it worth it. No matter the risk.

I call out to her to get her attention, "Hey Sweetcakes, you lookin' for a fight?" and then I wait for her to notice me in all my broken glory.

Daisy approaches Juno, but does not attack yet.

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

May 12, 2020 17:08:39 GMT -5 D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] said:

juno del air / post four / attack 1067

juno del air / post five / no attack

And just like that, the world takes her as quickly as it takes me. The reflection of myself in the blood of my sword seems only to get clearer in these trying times, and in it, I see my wide eyes—vision sharper than ever but the colour inside them seems only to fade into whatever lurks behind them. It sinks into my mind and I get lost for a moment thinking about what I've become.

I suppose this is to be expected. Life is cyclic, and cyclic things do not seem to end. All that I have known is a form of destruction that has been weighing down on my chest, and though I have felt the continual pressure, my ribs have never cracked. They have caged my heart perfectly, protected it like a prisoner. The cycle goes on and now I realise that I am no better than my parents who tortured a man to death whilst trying to seek justice. They have been flowing through my veins since the dawn of my time and I feel them now more than ever, and I cannot escape the moment I saw the pain inflicted onto that man because it is what I have reenacted today.

I may be just Juno, but I am so much more now. So much worse, but still, powerless.

My only saving grace comes through knowing that justice is a broken thing, and Lark isn't, and somehow, that seems to make it a little bit okay.

But there's a body on the ground—and that is my doing. I have killed in the name of life and now it is time to face the consequences. Sticky blood on my hands, my prized possession, my gateway to Lark, the key to his heart and the things that hold his future. I try to wipe them onto the white robe I have been dressed in but it only creates stark red handprints on the fabric, a permanent reminder of the crime I have commit. And that is what makes me realise that this is one of those moments that I'll never forget, just like the torture and my sister's death.

This is forever, and even if my forever is only a day, it will be his forever, and that's something even worse. I track down the nearest camera and repeat the act of staring into it and signing for Lark—this time, a simple apology which may look like nothing to everyone, but damn, I pray that it means something to just one person.

And maybe there's a chance that whoever is watching their daughter die to another is accepting of the remorse in my face. The apology that I'll never get to say to them because that weighs heavier on my mind than anything right now. Because they just lost someone who did not want to get lost, someone who knew better than the war around her and tried to fix it, someone who saw the world as something un-impossible.

I sit beside her body for a few moments. The world may be un-impossible, but somehow, it isn't possible. And though she may be my victim because I am Juno, Juno who is a killer now, she is also a victim to whatever cycle she was caught in. Most likely undeservingly taken from her home, paying an eternal price for speaking of change.

Everyone does not change for someone.

Everything is different, though, because I'm a killer now. And the thought is like a stain on who I am, and it's horrible, It's so horrible and I wish I could change again. But I cannot fear my own fire when the ground still burns around me: sparks fly in the ugliest way possible and if I have any chance of seeing Lark again, any chance of telling him that I love him and that I'm sorry and giving him an explanation he will never really understand—I have to accept this.

This violence is a nightmare but it is what I live, and it is what I need to keep on living to dream again.

I get up from the ground, my footsteps bloody and trailing behind me as I walk away from the girl. I wish I could honour her somehow, but I don't even know her name, and the erasure of her humanity is what threatens to break me the most.

"Hey sweetcakes, you lookin' for a fight?" A voice calls from the distance, and I trace it back to its owner to see a mangled girl, a sorry sight for the sorriest eyes. And she wanders so proudly towards me, an act of defiance against her own broken body, as if to prove that she's still here just as much as I am.

"I'm sorry—" I wipe my face with the bloodstained fabric. "I'm Juno," I say, introducing myself. It is neither the time nor the place but that is exactly why I do it—to bring back some normalcy, to bring the boil down to a simmer. I do it so that she'll do the same too, and maybe that will mean my conscience won't choke on guilt. And maybe it's selfish to think like that, but just maybe it also restores an ounce of humanity too. "I'm looking for the best way out in the worst places." Looking for home in the bodies of strangers would never suffice, but the aftermath might give the world a reason to bring home to me. "What are you looking for?"

[ juno interacts with daisy! ]

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

May 13, 2020 9:45:07 GMT -5 gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin. said:

[ 9f ximena wright  | post 7 | 1107 ]

[ 9f ximena wright  | post 8 | no attack ]

You— you actually laugh.

The boy says eat me and uses your leg like a weapon and he spits at the heartless one to kill him and then the heartless one does and you. You actually have the audacity to fucking laugh.

You don't have to wonder about the kind of person that makes you.

"Okay, Heartless," you say, voice thick with laugher and maybe something a little bit too close to jealousy for you to be able to admit that that's actually what it is. "Some knight in shining armor you make." And surely you must be delirious or something because you don't always remember being this cruel, but your face is cut in half by your grin and you make no attempt to hide it as a girl stumbles towards the pair of you from one direction and a hobbling boy comes from the other.

"Maybe I'll see you later," you quip, edging away from him, uncoordinated still, but trying your very best. "Promise not to come at you from behind next time."

And you turn your back, focusing all your attention that you can on this bloodied girl as she nearly crumbles into herself, somehow knowing that he won't swing at you again. Not yet.

Soon.

But not yet.

[ 9f xime talks to 2f des, no attack ]

When you turn around, your eyes don't miss the boy with the raven-dark curls, but he's far enough away still that you don't worry about him at first, let him trace the names of the dead and the gone and listen best you can to this broken girl.

For half a moment, you look at her there, with tears streaming down her face, and half-heartedly, you wonder if you could be different. If you could be different.

You tilt your head to the side, take in the image of a girl on her knees, praying to a god that you've never been able to believe in, and wonder if this is the kind of devotion that your mother exhibited when she was alive. Angel had always said that she was religious, but you've never really been able to remember her. Maybe if you hadn't grown up in the war. Maybe if your father had left you behind in Nine when he went to battle an undefeatable enemy. Maybe if he hadn't joined the ranks of the rebellion at all. Maybe if your brother had been able to teach you how to braid hair and maybe if your father had taught you how to build a home instead of a campfire and maybe if your mother had been able to teach you how to speak her language—maybe maybe maybe.

Maybe you could have been kinder. Maybe you could have been softer.

Maybe you could have looked at this girl and offered her a different kind of salvation, forgiven her for her sins and convinced her to stand her ground, to fight for her life, pay penance later. Maybe you would have told her that it wasn't yet time to meet her maker.

But you don't exist in that maybe.

Still, you can try.

Even if it's just for a bit of fun.

"The crime wasn't something you chose," you start, trying to imagine what it is that your brother might say if you were someone who felt things like this girl does. You take one of your swords, place the flat edge under her chin and tried to tip her face towards you. You want her to look you in the eye. "You only took the path they gave you."

You purse your lips.

"But if it's mercy you want, all you have to do is ask."

Happy to oblige, you add in your head, but you don't think she'd respond all that well to the quip so you bite your tongue.

Well, you tried.

[cass]

May 14, 2020 6:33:54 GMT -5 cass said:

henry hughes | post 11 | attack 1014

henry hughes | post 12 | no attack

HENRY -

Sometimes I don't sleep at night
I hear the wind in the moaning trees
I wonder how my child will fare
With wars and bombs and thieves

So he was correct, it was the kid from the stories. That meant there were other rebels in this arena. Henry hadn’t been one of an honour code and all, but when you were fighting in a war and in a trench the only way you stayed alive was through the people around you. He couldn’t remember the amount of times his life had been saved, shoved just as hellfire rained down, or someone else firing before a Capitolite soldier could kill him. There was grudging respect, and Henry found himself short of any desire to attack Eye Patch. He’d learned long ago that it was one of the few small groupings he didn’t want to kill.

He liked to think of it as a respect for a trade practiced and a mutual agreement that the rebels were on his side. The people in the war had never called him a monster for cheering when he killed someone. They had roared for him when he had participated in the dirty ring fights. It was a code, Henry didn’t have many beliefs, but this was one of them.

Eye Patch introduced himself as Remus Jørgensen of the Scout Corps Division 1.A, and Henry stared. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard such formalities. It was a stark contrast against the hushed whispers and please to the Gods he had heard in the last three years. None of the ones locked up with him had been rebel soldiers, maybe sympathizers for sure, but not fighters. The rest of his squad had been moved to a different spot. They had been older than him, and he could still remember the rapid sounds of gunfire that had echoed behind him as he’d been shoved into a truck. He knew they’d all be killed, probably right in front of the mass grave he’d been forced to dig. It hadn’t been hard to picture their bodies toppling into the freshly moved dirt, riddled with bullets.

Henry looked at Remus, fingers loosening around the sword's hilt. The edge of the building was only a few meters away and Henry walked over to it, feet dragging in the sand. He pressed his back against the brick, eyes lingering on the guy he had just killed before he slid down and planted himself in the dirt.

“Henry Hughes,” he said, pointing to the space beside him, asking Remus to join, “special Forces, squad 6.” He sighed, feeling the ache in his muscles brighten, his body hurt. The sun was starting to burn his skin, skin that hadn’t felt its warmth in three years. He felt weak, incredibly weak, exhausted. It had been a dream of his to do something like this, to fight and kill and come out as the victor. He hated that it had all happened to him after his body had been destroyed by malnourishment.

“Prison, rounded up three years ago. I was the only one under eighteen in my squad, so they were all killed, but I was tossed into a cell.” They had been good guys, shared his love for mess, death, and destruction. It was why they had just begun delving into torture methods on Capitolite soldiers as the war was ending. “Three years I’ve been rotting, and then last week was my eighteenth birthday, I was expecting to have a bullet for breakfast, but instead there was nothing. A few days later here I am, wishing I’d had the bullet instead.”

He looked at Remus, “what about you?”

- HUGHES.

[Arrows]

May 14, 2020 13:38:58 GMT -5 Arrows said:

[Remus / No Attack / Post #7]

[Remus / No Attack / Post #8]

REMUS

Henry slides down the side of the Colosseum slowly as though an anchor drifting towards the ocean's floor. Special Forces, even hearing it out loud makes Remus tense. It all makes sense now, the composure Henry holds when he kills. Even the excitement he expresses with success seems to find clarity. Remus has heard the horror stories of the Special Forces. The best of the best, but the ones who arguably fought the hardest war of those within the Rebellion. Secret Assignments, High Profile Assassinations, Rescue Missions, and those are only a few of their common tasks to mention. They had smaller number for greater effectiveness, but equally greater mortality. Those that didn't die on the battlefield often became the subjects of intense torture. Remus can hardly believe he is in the same space as one.

Henry beckons for Remus to join him and he does. The sand is warm as the blonde boy sits for the first time in what feels like centuries. Up until now, Remus hasn't realized how tired he's become. Each of his muscles seems to share in soreness, aching agonizingly. The places where his skin has been split by swords pulse with pain and Remus' fingers follow the canyon carved into his leg. It wasn't that long ago that he was given the gash, but it's already starting to scab slowly. That's when he sees them, the others. Nearly half of the tributes are dead and here he is up against a wall with another Rebel. It feels like he's back out on the fronts, staring at the strings of corpses sewn across the sands.

"This feels familiar doesn't it?"

Remus asks just as he hears Henry mention prison. The boy from District Four sits silently listening to Henry's history. As the other boy confesses how he expected a bullet in his brain for breakfast on his birthday, Remus' arms wrap around his knees. He's spent the last years in the isolation of his home while being made a mule, but this boy has had it worse. He was taken away from everything, clinging to life only to expect death. At least Remus knows what's happened, where his family and friends are. Henry has no idea, he's been kept alive solely to kill children as torture.

"If there's anything you want to know, about anyone, I'll tell you whatever I've heard  or seen."

Remus says before pausing briefly.

"And Henry," Remus turns his one good eye towards the other boy, "Fuck them."

Sorry isn't good enough.

Remus' fingers begin to fiddle with the sand as he turns his eye back out to the current of casualty. His voice is hollow as though an old recording, but it's the only way he can talk about it without breaking down.

"I spent the first year moving from sanctuary to sanctuary, house to house. I couldn't move normally. I couldn't take care of myself. I felt... useless." Remus' fingers furls into fists around the ashen sand. "I watched every member of my family get executed from a wheelchair in the crowds. I'd never hidden from anything a day in my life, but because of those fucking insects I... I forced myself to get better. And now I'm their mule, building up the same damn things I cheered about when they burnt down."

The sound of two swords slamming against each other quiets Remus and pulls his focus outward again. They can't keep sitting like this, it's not enough entertainment. If someone is going to get out of this hell then Remus wants it to be one of them. One of them should get to go back and build something they want out of what the Capitol has broken. So Remus stands and holds out a hand to his fellow rebel.

"Come on Henry, the fight is almost over. Let's say our goodbyes."

Remus offers a hand to Henry