and the storm spoke / sunborn, day 1

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

She runs into the horizon.

Until the grey gives way to shades of pastel, and the earth fades into a sea of petals at her feet. She stops for a moment, watches them float up to the sky and move through her hair — and then she moves a hand to her chest, and she rips the arrow out.

The sound that leaves her mouth is guttural, and raw, and she turns away from the boy beside her. She doesn't want him to see the way her features twist, the trail of tears down her cheeks. Her lips part, the words 'You can go now,' play on her tongue.

But she only inhales, and exhales.

It had been reckless, asking him to follow her, but that was how she always lived her life. In ruins, and ruination. "Do you have a name?" Her voice is gruff, cracking as it tries to rise above a whisper. She walks ahead, narrowing her eyes through the storm.

She lowers herself to a knee by a familiar bloom, pulling at the petals and pressing them to the wound beneath her shirt. The ache begins to calm, but the throbbing continues to pulse through her muscles. She takes her teeth to her sleeve, ripping off a strip of fabric.

Tying the herbs into place against her, she tilts her head to face the stranger. It takes her a moment to figure out his district, only recognizing him as a background character during her training. She thinks about how willingly he gave up his weapon to her.

That upsets her more than it should.

"I'm Perdita." She moves her gaze down to her hand as she says it, only just registering how badly it has swelled and how difficult it is to close into a fist. She bites the inside of her cheek, urging herself to focus on the more troubling of her injuries.

Bones will mend, and skin will heal, but she cannot afford to lose control here. So she forces herself to stand, and move closer to her companion. She is a lonely girl, surrounded by torn flowers and this gentle boy. But she is harsh, and afraid.

So when the silence is broken, and a shadow charges through the blur of colors, she wastes no time ripping the crossbow from Eight's hand and holding it up. She ignores the agony twisting through her hand as she loads an arrow, finger on the trigger.

"Give me a reason not to shoot."

Because she can't think of one for herself.

( more in maintenance )

[tick 12a / calla]

The whole world is a little fuzzy, and I think half of me is still stuck back in the chaos, darting between gravestones, and half of me is still back in the Capitol, on floor thirteen with Ky.

I think I'm a coward for running. From both situations.

Or maybe it would have been cowardly of me to stay - to freeze and cower and lay down my life. To lay down every single part of me. Because there had been a darkness that crept over my vision, a type of adrenaline that echoed whatever happened back in the training session. It's the same feeling I get sparring with my cousins, when I catch one of my parents watching out of the corner of my eye and when I turn to look, they're gone.

I twist and move and feel like an east wind, form pushed and pulled in half a dozen different directions. The barren ground bleeds colour, trees fading into view, and the hilt of the knife I'd grabbed bites into my hand.

It grounds me.

But even with it, I know I need to find cover. I know the sun will go down soon and that the darkness never brings good things, especially here. The sound of a canon makes me jump, stumbling over a stray rock, and I push myself through a kaleidoscope.

My leg aches.

I move blindly, so focused on just getting away that I don't notice the sudden break in foliage or the sudden clearing, I'm too in my head to notice the other two figures I almost crash into.

And I think I almost collide with them, until my body catches up to my vision and I'm digging my feet into the earth, skidding to a halt and breathing hard, mind working even harder. Everything narrows down to just them and me, panic rising a little higher through my throat when the girl points an arrow in my direction. The ringing in my ears gets a bit louder when I recognize her.

It's the girl from Four, Perdita, and the fact that I don't immediately recognize the boy she's with puts me on edge. It feels like ages ago that she had sat down with me, when I had drunk too much with Lysander and the morning after felt like my head was being split open.

I wonder if that's the real reason they let us interact in the center - for better entertainment, to watch us learn each other before we kill each other.

Give me a reason not to shoot, she bites out.

And I falter.

You probably should, comes a voice that sounds a lot like Harper.

I'll kill you first, Silk says in the back of my mind.

But I'm neither of them, and even though there's a crossbow pointed at my chest, my eyes catch the wound on hers. I can picture my mother watching this, reclined on a golden chaise back home, glaring at the screen with a glass of wine and urging me to attack.

I look at Perdita and get the feeling that I wouldn't have the chance to.

I bring my hands up slowly, gingerly, but I don't drop the knife. I'm not stupid.

"I can help you." I tell her, and a part of me really believes it. Because this is what I've been training for right? I'd stuffed plants into my bag as I ran, grabbed whatever I could get my hands on that I knew wouldn't kill me.

I follow the curve of her weapon to the boy beside her. They both look older than me, and I think if they really wanted to, they'd be able to kill me right here, right now. But I think of my name, and of the sponsorship that Tallu said would come with it. I think of all the years I spent training for this and try to make a deal, "We can help each other."

[ actions in maint ! ]

[L△LIA]

"Come with me," her words echo in your head as the two of you run, because of course you followed her. It's not how easily you complied that nags at you — despite the way she'd demanded the knife you found only moments before and, yes, you gave it to her because of course you did — but the way you'd been more prepared to leave yourself for dead than she was. It doesn't make any sense and you can't tell if it's because you're stupid or because she is. Well, you know you are. The only thing you know about her is that if you'd seen her back home at the library then you'd have followed her around without hesitation, offering her cute little smiles that crinkled the corners of your eyes as you attempted to pay your dues to her striking face with compliment after compliment. So you follow her now; you're easy like that. "It's not worth it to stay," she offered you a reason you didn't need, already looking at the best one you've ever known, "just run."

You've never been much of a runner. It's not that you're slow or weak — you have long legs that are more than capable of outpacing her and lifting cartloads of heavy books day after day has saved you from wasting away in your bouts of lethargy — it's that you're shamelessly lazy. You lack the willpower that so obviously fuels her with enough stamina to shame you. What started as an effortless sprint quickly becomes a punishing form of torture as your impulse to throw yourself onto the ground and refuse to go any further, throwing a tantrum so petty as to rival any child, does battle with your desire to be impressive and worthy of a girl pretty enough to distract you from reality. You miss being surrounded by shelves upon shelves of fairytales and scientific texts so strange as to seem more unbelievable than children's stories. Pretty girls are another kind of magic entirely.

The entire time the two of you run there is a bolt lodged in her chest. You saw it there as she asked you to run away with her, but you quickly forgot about it because it wasn't happening to you. In a flurry of flower petals and sunshine she wraps her hand around the wooden stake and rips it out. Something worse than a scream leaves her throat, twisted and brutal, her braided hair whipping in the wind as she turns her face to prevent you from seeing her cry. You are weak for women crying and the way it taunts you with exactly how useless you are, always —always — unable to help, and you adore her for saving you from that, as backwards and messed up as that is. Still, you feel her tears the same way you always felt your sister Charlie's each time she would slam her bedroom door in a fit of frustration. If ever there were a solution it certainly wasn't you and so you quickly learned to leave her be at those times of untouchable agony, so as not to make anything worse.

You don't speak up, you don't move. Not even when a cramp in your right leg screeches at you in misery. You do your best to swallow the pain down, knowing better than to let slip any implication that the hurt you're feeling right now might be anywhere on par with hers... as much as part of you yeLLS THAT IT IS ON PAR. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT FUCKING HURTS.

Owie, your inner voice whimpers as you shift your weight to your left leg, biting your lip as you raise your chin in defiance of your pathetic inner monologue of: Owieeeeeeeee. She inhales deeply, so much steadier than you have ever been even in your best moments, and exhales as if freeing herself of everything. "Do you have a name?" Her voice hardly seems to match the rest of her, rough in ways that are hard for you to fathom. You are used to meek bookworms or girls who think smoking in a back alley makes them dangerous. This girl is something else entirely.

"Niko," you respond, something like confidence surging through you as you take a step toward her, grinning and brightly feeling as if this is about to turn into something you're much better at than... than the other things you've been forced to do today. A grimace wracks your face as your hamstring complains at the sudden movement, your eagerness forgetting that complete concentration was required to mask the way that even minor muscle pain is more than you're used to coping with. Covering badly, you swallow back a yelp with an awkward grunt, limping slightly as you scramble to steady your balance. "Uhuwhuhmmgh," you bluster, feigning a cough but hiding nothing, "oh, weird wind here. Yeah, wow! What was that? What a gust! You must have an incredible center of balance." You don't know what you're saying any more than she does or in what way this storm could in any way be responsible for your poor footing and verbal nonsense.

You don't see her roll her eyes, but something about her feels like she is anyhow, as if that's her constant state of being: rolling her eyes at you. She has nice ey— No, she doesn't have nice anything. She has striking eyes, you correct yourself. It's not the first time you've thought that word. Striking. It's practically the only word that comes to mind. Hers is an aggressive beauty, to be sure, but it's more than that. Maybe it's the way it feels like she should be striking you dead for following her, regardless of how you were only following orders. "How about you?" You try to follow up your botched introduction by pretending your comments on the weather never happened. "What's your name?"

She doesn't answer, crouching down to devote her attention to a flower. Inspecting it, she picks petal after petal to press to her wound while you stare, dumbfounded and uncertain of what to do with yourself. A handsome face like yours isn't used to being ignored, even when your mouth has run itself stupid. You're used to being quickly forgiven for your faults, never needing even to ask. "Okay, okay. Lemme guess then. I know! Aphrodite," you idiot-grin, proud of yourself even though its cheesy, because cheesy always wins you bonus points. Girls who roll their eyes can't help smiling back despite themselves at your puppy dog charm, catching themselves thinking: oh, he's dumb as a rock, but he sure does have nice hair. "No? You're right, she's not strong enough for you. How about Enyo? Artemis? Erinnyes? Wait! No! I've got it," and you're so certain this time that you can't help giving a clap of enthusiasm, "Athena, goddess of wisdom and warfare! Tell me, is it true? Were you really born wearing battle armor?"

Tearing a sleeve off with her teeth, she ties the herbs in place and finally tilts her head to look at you. There's a stretch of silence as she studies your face, methodical and unswayed by your antics. "I'm Perdita," she finally relents, as if giving something up despite knowing better. Your smile only grows. Perdita. A name like that fits right in with the goddesses you used to read stories about to Charlie, when she was laying in a hospital bed and you thought you could lend her the strength of all those mythical women just by reciting the ways in which they overcame their own trials and tribulations.

Hooking a thumb under the strap attached to the crossbow slung across your back, you pull the weapon over your head along with your pack and set it on the ground so you can more easily crouch down beside Perdita. Despite the black clothing, it's easy enough to see just how saturated the front of her shirt is with blood and the way it has become something darker still. Her hand is so swollen you can't help reaching out, but she stands before you can find the words to offer help, despite not knowing what that help could be. Flinching quietly at the obvious rejection of your good intentions, you take three seconds to pity yourself while her back is turned before grabbing your things and jumping up to follow after her once more. You don't have anywhere else to go now. "Hey, I wasn't trying to... I mean, I just wanted t—"

The crossbow is ripped out of your hands before you realize what's even happening.

( C H O O S E Y O U R O W N A D V E N T U R E )



(You do not see the truth...)

"Give me a reason not to shoot," she hisses and your hands are up, your heart in your throat and eyes squeezed shut in panic.

"I— I— I—" You're practically in tears, unable bear opening your eyes to face the reality of having your own crossbow aimed at your head or heart. A reason not to shoot, a reason not to shoot, oh geez, what's a good reason not to shoot? Your mind is emptier than usual, unable to talk yourself out of this the way you do your usual problems. As impossible as it sometimes feels to get yourself out of trouble, that 'trouble' is usually a girl calling you out for flirting with one or her friends and you swearing up and down that you were just being friendly, you didn't mean it. How could you? That would mean some other girl could possibly compare to the obviously INCOMPARABLE beauty before you. No, no, no. Mistakes were made, but surely not by you!

Yes, mistakes were made...

Mistakes like handing over your knife to this girl and then being shocked when she snatches your crossbow as well. That really shouldn't have come as a surprise, now that you think of it, and yet —

"I can help you," someone else says with such sincerity that you believe him instantly, but also because you're desperate and you're not about to turn down help in this: your hour of need, "we can help each other."

"Yes! Please help me, I'll do anything," you babble messily. Whoever this other guy is, he must be a safer bet than this merciless daughter of warfare who has so easily taken you for a fool once again. "Don't shoot! Not with my crossbow, I mean! I mean your crossbow, obviously. Obviously your crossbow. If you don't shoot then you can keep it and you'll have it and I'll not have it and that will be fine! Hahaha, yup, totally fine! Everything is fine —"

(You do not wish the truth to be seen...)

"Give me a reason not to shoot," she challenges and you blink slowly at the kid standing entirely too close to the two of you, holding a knife while you hold nothing. Inching quietly so that you're standing slightly behind Perdita's reassuring protection, you square your shoulders and attempt to look as if you are something like her bodyguard.

"Yeah! Give her a reason not to shoot!" You echo in your best Tough Guy voice, feeling a little smug even as you continue to eye that blade with a pit in your stomach. It looks... very sharp. Yes, entirely too sharp. You don't like it one bit. "He's got a knife," you lean forward, unhelpfully whispering this information in her ear as if she isn't fully aware. "I'm sure you know that already," you backtrack awkwardly, trying to cover what you've just realized is probably an insulting comment to a proudly self-sufficient woman, "but I just wanted to make sure because it looks sharp... because it's... it's a knife and... never mind, ignore me if you saw already... and if you didn't see it then —"

"I can help you," the blonde boy states with all of the composure you so obviously lack. He sounds like he means it, but for some reason his sincerity just makes you frown. You want to be the helpful one. Just because you don't know how to be helpful doesn't mean that you want somebody else to show up and do what you were gonna do. That's rude. He should get his own thing. "We can help each other."

"Or you could shoot him," you whisper, turning your eyes up to the sky to hide your ulterior motives, "just to, you know, be safe about it. It's good to be safe about things, mhm."

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

filler.

( path B will be chosen )

[tick 12a / calla]

Filler.