The Bloodbath

[Knuckles]

Nocte Jay

Nobody is fighting, and Nocte finds himself feeling strangely at ease, but he knows deep in the back of his mind that things can quickly change. All it takes is one wrong move, or one wrong word and everything will come crashing down. He doesn't move. In fact he stands still only for a moment trying to take it all in. Everyone deserves a chance at staying alive, but why is it that people aren't attacking? The last few games people came out swinging. They fought from the very beginning. It's strange, but maybe it'll give him a better chance of making it out of this mess alive.

Every time someone moves, it makes him feel uneasy, yet he realizes that people are simply walking around not even trying to attack. They're finding a place to stand. Some are chatting while others are carefully moving away from the middle of the arena.

Maybe finding a wall is a smart idea. Maybe it'll give him a chance to keep his eye on everyone so nobody can blindside him.

He looks left and right before slowly letting his guard down. Maybe this game is different. Maybe that's why people were shouting at the peacekeepers in the holding cells. But why? Not doing what the capitol wants is disobedience, and yet Nocte doesn't care right now. He doesn't have to fight. Not when everyone else is simply standing around trying to protect one another. But he's alone without anyone to stand by his side. Friends don't matter here, and he understands that. He takes a deep breath before moving away from the archways just in case something happens.

He finds a single person next to a wall, and he knows that safety is in numbers, but maybe she's a friend. Maybe they can work together. His eyes lock on the ground because he's never been good at making friends, and seeing that's she's holding a sword freaks him out more than anything. But everyone has swords whys she so different?. She could end his life without a second thought. She could tear him to shreds, but maybe she'll give him a chance. Maybe everything will work out for the best.

There's only one way to find out.

Only he doesn't say a word. He stands a bit away from her trying to figure out what to say. Trying to figure out what to do. None of that matters. They're all the enemy here, but more importantly maybe this is where they can all unite together.

Taking a couple steps away, Nocte stands where he can see if she's willing to talk or if she'll tell him to go away. Regardless, right here seems safe for now, and that's where he wants to stay.

District 9 | 4th Hunger Games

[googlefont="Oswald:400"]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

CYPRIA SORANUS

"Cypria, grab your sword.”

His voice, a mere memory.

"They hurt you too, didn’t they?”

His face, like nothing she's ever seen before.

But she's certain she knows him from years ago. His baby fat has melted away, cheekbones lifted high, eyes sunken in. He's not even a shadow of the boy in her memory. Yet, Cypria is sure that they know one another, not just because of a nagging familiarity, but also because he seems to know her.

She slowly, painfully, releases her right wrist to let it hang at her side. "Is it that obvious?" She asks in low tones. "I don't like to be obvious." But she knows he's right. She can't afford to be seen as weak. Taking a deep breath, she bends a little to her left and lifts the sword in her non-dominant hand.

It looks exactly as awkward as it feels. And that's when an exceedingly blonde boy asks them, almost nonchalantly, “can we just, I don’t know, talk for a moment?”

It escapes her, blessedly as a whisper, before she can stop herself: "I don't know, can we?" But then Knox is already intervening. Cypria sighs. Shifts. Listens.

"It is quiet," she adds after a moment in her normal monotone.

[Python]

Sage braced themselves for chaos. Any moment now the first drop of blood would be shed - an inevitable catalyst for the incoming storm. They stared at the sword they refused to touch, waiting for the commotion to begin. Somebody would kickstart the chain of death, and Sage vowed to kill whoever that was, the little coward.

As they held their breath, nothing happened. Nobody made a movement toward their blade.

There was a tension Sage couldn't quite place. The arena was eerily quiet, save for the few voices in the distance that registered as mumbles. Nobody was yelling or screaming for their lives and it left Sage speechless. Their eyes scanned the audience surrounding the tributes - so many faces, so many judgmental stares crawling beneath Sage's skin. Being a spectacle was so violating; Sage would rather be executed quickly and be done with it. Now they were forced to sit here in an anticipation of - something.

While the stadium remained quiet, Sage took the opportunity to mock the audience. Two middle fingers to cheer them up, and remind them that they were worthless scum for watching this ordeal. That concept probably didn't register in their spoiled brains. Did they even grasp the concept of death anymore? The war was not that long ago, and they acted as a nonchalant audience of mass murder. Sage couldn't imagine being so complacent - they had seen the aftermath of the war, corpses of all ages burned beneath their nose.

They never once thought they might join the ashes.

[Noah Vau - D2 (Cato)]

Andromache Audacia

A frantic heart hammers inside my chest with every step I take. Part of me wonders if running away from the crowd will help me more than anything, but I will never know. I keep my ears open, expecting to hear the sounds of weapons clashing against one another, yet I'm met with nothing more than the roar of soft chattering echoing through my ears. This is okay for now. Getting as far away as I can and slowly making sure everything comes together is important. Right now I don't need anyone. Just having myself is the best thing ever. Many don't understand me. That I enjoy being alone, and all these people are making me nervous. Eventually the capitol will step in, and we'll all be punished somehow. They want blood, and we aren't giving it to them.

I can only imagine what the people back home are thinking. Why isn't anyone fighting? Why isn't anyone trying to start the games? What are we waiting for? I don't know the answer to any of these, but for me, I'm waiting for someone else to begin. I'm waiting for someone to start attacking me so I can defend myself. I refuse to swing the sword first. I refuse to throw myself at someone else. It doesn't benefit me in any way. Fighting alone is a death sentence, and despite all of us being sentenced to die, I want to stay alive for as long as I can. To protect myself. To make it back home and laugh at those who caused me pain.

That's when I see him. Some random kid slowly walking towards me. What does he want? What gives him the right to disturb me? But I don't say a word. I stand there taking him in, crossing my arms in front of my chest daring him to come any closer. I'm not afraid to attack someone if they step into my bubble, and he needs to know that. He needs to know that I'm not one he can just waltz up to and try to befriend. He doesn't matter to me. He doesn't know me. He doesn't belong here, and he needs to get away from me before I give him a reason to run.

But he doesn't get any closer. He steps away, and I don't let my guard down. I keep my eyes locked on him, and my focus stays with him. He's done crossed a line, and soon he'll have to pay for it. Now isn't the time. In this game timing is everything. One attack too soon is likely the end of me, but not attacking at all can be the end of me too. He comes any closer, and I'll raise my sword at him. I'll threaten him like he's threatened me. I don't know him, but if he knows what's best for him, he'll simply walk away and pretend that none of this even happened. He has to look out for himself because I will not help him.

District Two

[googlefont="Oswald:400"]

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Wind scattered sand across Mario’s sandals. He stared out at the red of the sky above him, and the faces of nameless keepers out in the seats.

Six from six.

Toad’s words drifted along the edges of his lips. The names of fallen children were somewhere along the edges of the walls, etched as reminders that they’d sacrificed to a world that would always have gotten the best of them. Whether they were rebels letting out their last rattle toward freedom or kids like Mario, boys who’d never had a chance in the first place, or choice, put down by the heavy hand of those in charge.

Jump twenty years forward and who’d still remember any of them? The ones that fell today were casualties. Pawns that paid for all the bitterness between those who’d fought for an ideal, and those who clung to this strange system – a world in which they would always be put into their place, even if they’d survived.

Did the survivors in the stands know what it meant to be sitting there with the keepers who’d bash their heads in if they’d ever gotten the chance? Or was this the way of the world, the submission and resignation of any person who ever lived, that time, strong as it was, wore down whatever resistance might’ve lived under their skin? Whatever had been born into their bones to fight like hell for survival festered with the arsenic laced fascism of the capitol.

Or else they’d have chosen to kill themselves outright and deny the capitol another body to parade around like some sort of twisted marionette.

Mario didn’t buy into nuance. Perhaps Samiyuq wanted to live a quiet life and do what good could be done. Adder would raise hell quietly, rattle chains of whatever remnants remained for the rebels. Babe could go back to create a family, set apart a life that would be remembered generations afterward.

But what good would they do, what power could hope ever have here? They’d just as soon blot out the sun and stabbed out their eyes, so that none would ever dare see it.

Back in six, he woke early to walk the tunnels and shovel shit. Made enough coin so that they could buy bread or lard, whatever could scrap together a meal that will fill his brother and mother’s stomachs so that they’d see the next morning. And so the days had run together, save the moments he and the mushroom crew would set fire in the junkyard and drink until morning, strutting around like no one else had mattered. Not because they ever came close to understanding what it would feel like, but for the wish that they could grasp what it must’ve been like for all the folks who’d ever meant something to someone.

Here he stood in all the quiet, as though the rest of them were holding their breath for what was about to happen. Holding out for the first swing of a blade, the first drop of blood, as though the sound would somehow shatter the peace. As though until that moment, their lives had mattered.

That peace had been taken from Mario long ago. What remained were the burning embers of a life confined to the lower rung. His was a future born and bred for the ash that lined the stadium.

So if it didn’t mean anything, if it truly never had, what did it fucking matter?

“Ayeeeeeooooooooh!” Mario screamed out toward the stands, spit spraying from his lips, even as he felt the twinge of pain at his sides. His sword held above his head, he paced through the sand and cast a glance at the rest of the field as it took shape. The older boy with the younger girl; the ones that set back toward the shadows out of fear or hope no one took any interest in them; the ones that dared to grasp a sword, calculating who would strike first; and, as he turned, the boy who’d sat with his back against his sword.

“Look at the balls on this guy,” Mario called out. He squinted through his black eyes at Coal. Mario’s smile revealed his missing front tooth.

He marched toward the boy, all rage and fire and determination, shadow long over the boy before thrusting his sword down into the sand next to him.

“Make room, pipsqueak.” Mario sneered as he laid out across the sand. He leaned an arm across the handle of his sword and grinned back at their audience.

“IT’S ME, MARIO,” He yelled out, hand clenched in a fist over his head. “AND I AIN’T PERFORMING SHIT FOR YOU.”

“Think that got their attention?” He cast a glance at the boy, “Or are they as shit for brains as they look?”

[pogue]

A lifetime of trying to force yourself to forget all the faces you've seen unravels in an instant as you speak to her, your voice as broken and weak as the deals your father used to make behind closed doors. You recognize her face, that much is true, but it's the same as any other distant memory that floats in the back of your mind, cold and near-forgotten and already half-buried.

But it's still there, dancing on the edges of your brain like the shadows flicking through the forest. And right now, with the names of dead tributes carved into the walls and the shouts and jeers of citizens far more fortunate than you ever would have been, that is enough for you to cling to for comfort.

"Is it that obvious?" Cypria asks, and you let a light laugh escape from your lungs, stifled quickly by  the eery silence of the arena.

"Lucky guess. They got me too." You instinctively tap the tip of your finger to your nose, a shudder and a wince rocking through your body in response, you gasp in pain before it subsides, throbbing against your skull.

You wonder if Cypria had fought back, if she'd been one of the ghosts that screamed through the corridors. You'd just tried to make a deal like your Father had been so good at doing, too afraid of your own fate to fight back. You wonder if that makes you a coward, and you wonder if that will matter in the end.

"Hey, aren't you tired man?"

Yes.

You whip around to face the voice, foreign against the backdrop of shouting Capitolites, and on instinct point your sword at his throat. It's a clumsy motion, your arms shaking under the sudden weight of the metal laced between your fingertips, the blade nearly clattering to the ground with the constant shaking that rocks through your hands. It's nothing like the knife your Father used to have you hold in the forests. It's far heavier, both with blood and with sin.

“Can we just, I don’t know, talk for a moment?”

Cypria's voice answers for you, her question heavy against the back of your mind as you stare down the boy with the sun bleached hair, far too comfortable with his own fate than you could ever be. But looks could be deceiving, you'd learned that from your Father.

"It's quiet." You hear Cypria whisper behind you.

And she's right. The arena is cloaked in the sounds of emptiness and half-spoken whispers, of broken heartbeats going thump thump thump in their chests. But you know that silence has never been a faithful companion, quick to comfort yet quick to betray. You don't think this silence is any different.

"Why shouldn't I-" And you catch yourself.

"Why shouldn't we kill you?" Your voice betrays whatever you think you're accomplishing with false bravery, and with a shaking voice you take the leap of faith to assume the girl you never fully knew to be your ally. 

Trust, like a flower blossoming just before Fall. Faithful for the briefest of moments, yet quick to wither away into the frost. But she hasn't stabbed her sword through your neck yet, and you convince yourself that in this moment that means something.

The sunlight catches against the blade in your hands as you try your best to count your last breaths, steel pointed towards the boy in front of you.

[pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]]

Sept 12, 2020 20:02:16 GMT -5 pearl mcclain d4 [ryan] said:

Coal Stone | Post 1 | No Attack

Coal Stone | Post 2 | No Attack

You are endless and finite all in the same skin. How do you do it Coal? Act like this was not bothering you? This was the worst thing that you could ever experience, and yet, nothing felt dangerous about it. It was like there was some sort of force that was sucking the tension out of this place of death and murder.

Maybe it was because there was nothing more they could do to hurt you, or them, or anyone that had been roped into this mess. It was no dirtier than having to work in the coal mines, and soon enough, theyd all be ravaged until only one of them remained.

The question became who though? Who would be willing to take the first blow against the grain? Who would be willing to kill someone’s child?  Lover? Family? You did not know any of these people, but you felt like they had been old friends twice more after the events of last night. Sure you were tired, if you were being honest, but that did not stop you from trying to figure out just what the capitol was going to do next.

---

Because sitting there in the sand, looking at the walls of engraved writing of what you could only assume were past tributes should have been daunting. Like their life force would never leave this place, and that the capitol wanted to remember “the fallen” like it was some kind of sick joke. No one deserved to die for this cause, even the worst of the worst deserved better than this. 

The worst part always was that they still made everyone watch, and while you hoped and dreamed that one day this would end, the only way that would happen is another rebellion. 

And you could tell that the country was just not strong enough for that again.

---

The cool metal against your back was surprisingly soothing. You had started to feel numb all over, if you were being honest with yourself. You knew it was best to stay near your sword, just in case this place turn blood red in a moments notice. You had learned to be observant, and the first thing that you noticed was the amount of people that refused to take their swords, partially or not at all. It was in your nature to just sit there and try to calculate as you went. It would not matter, because you all shared a similar goal right now yeah? 

Survive?

By any means necessary, and the fact that no one had even tried to slice into you just yet made it seem a little better. Like maybe you all had doubts about this from the moment you had been reaped. 

Leave it to children to be the most stubborn people alive right? 

The sky looked so beautiful, if you were being honest, a clear and crisp blue that had been covered by grey clouds. You wondered if it was going to rain. It would be a welcomed relief at this point, seeing as you have maybe been caught in a rainstorm a couple times in your life. You were always the one that preferred to stay indoors, but the times you deviated were some of your favorites.

Just like how you were deviating from fighting, because it did not feel right.

Physically of course. Instead you wanted to just sit and watch, and if you died all of the sudden because someone decided to wise up and just do what needed to be done, then so be it. You would not stop them, and if they missed, then you would attack. It was as simple as that to you. Only move forward if provoked, if not, wait and see.

At the end of the day, all you did was calculate.

---

But then you noticed that some had ran away from the scene, and others had stood there frozen statues, swords ready in their hand. No one was doing anything, and you wondered if the collective conscious had finally coagulated into something more than. Something that did equal the sums of its parts. 

This place did not deserve your blood, or anyone elses for that matter. It didn’t deserve severed hands and screams from children that only wanted to be just that. It didn’t deserve the time it took to actually go through with such demonic acts of barbarianess. 

Instead it deserved a quiet look from the tributes as they tried to figure out what exactly to do next. The girl* who had started all of this last night showed her face, and she seemed proud, but you did not dare approach her because she seemed like the type that wanted to fly free. You did not know what that was like, a boy that had been held down by chains and leashes and your hopes, dreams, and desperation for someone to love you. 

You wondered if you would ever find that. 

---

More tributes acted out in defiance, some turning to the crowd and flipping them off in an almost laughable fashion. You knew what this was because your older brothers had shown you how to stand up for yourself in the minds, and this was just one way to tell someone that they were doing the absolute most.

You laughed, because it was true. Everyone watching, and the capitol even, was doing way more than was necessary. Was punishing 24 children really the answer they were looking for? You didn’t need that question answered, because obviously, this wasn’t the first time. 95 other people had to be subjected to the most inhumane while the capitol just sat back and watched.

And cheered.

And encouraged.

And remained unharmed.

Boy did that make your blood boil as you sat there almost fuming at the seams. Just when you felt your vision go red, you watched some boy almost nose dive into you as he said something. The vulgarity was noted, but you did not falter. 

It brought you back down to whatever the fuck this place was. 

”Hmm?” you looked up at him for a moment, before he was quite literally laying right next to you. He smiled, you saw a missing tooth and simply showed your own. ”Did you spit yours at a peacekeeper too?” you couldn’t help but grin as you realized that your question came a little too late. 

You moved over just a bit before the boy had made it very apparent that he was not going to do anything, and you wondered if the rest of the tributes thought the same thing. At this point, there should have already been a death, or three. However, you knew it was not right to complain in this moment. The longer the prolonging of bloodshed made it easier to at least think that there was some humanity left in the world.

You snap your fingers in agreeance with his statement. ”I think they heard you loud and clear.” it hurt to talk, but you didn’t care that much. It was a numbed pain that you would work through no matter what. ”They probably are just sitting there wondering why we haven’t ripped each other to smithereens yet.” you smirked for a moment before looking at the other and noticing the black eye.

You turned your neck slightly and pulled down the scarf that was covering what they couldn’t do fully. ”If they only knew what happened last night.” you had been scared of what was going to happen in this moment, but right now, that was not important. You had learned to adapt at the most crucial points in your life, and this was no different was it? 

”I wonder just how long will this last.” your back was pressing a little bit into the sword, but the armor was giving you enough slack to keep the sword slicing through. ”Coal. Twelve.” you said to him as you placed the scarf back over your bruise and decided that maybe it was worth giving him your full attention. After all, he made it very clear that he was not going to participate in their games.

And you weren’t either.

[Coal still sits against his sword.  Talks to Mario
*the girl = Paloma]

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

n i e v e

Your district partner stands as a wall between you and the rest of the tributes. You poke your head out from behind him so you can see the rest of the Arena, adjusting your over-sized helmet once again so it doesn't obstruct your vision.

"Is there anyone else you’ve spoken to, who you can trust? Someone who can protect you if—"

You may be young, but you are not so naive that you don't understand how Izzy meant to end his sentence — "Someone who can protect you if I die." Against your will, lower lip quivers as you think of Izzy falling to the ground like your mother did, his blood spattering onto the ash.

Izzy doesn't deserve to die, but neither do you. You don't think any of these tributes — these other children — do. You don't want him to die for you, to throw away his chance of survival for you, a girl he barely knows.

The bleak reality of the Hunger Games finally sets in. You already knew you are probably going to die, but it seems more real now than ever before. Twenty-four tributes go in, and only one comes out. You and Izzy cannot survive this together. The best you can do for each other is to die so the other can live.

You lift a small hand, which is about half the size as Izzy's, to point at the girl from District Twelve. Her eyes meet yours, but she doesn't look hostile. She looks apprehensive, but smiles weakly at you regardless. You notice that her sword is lying on the ground, which you think is a good sign.

"Her, maybe?" you answer, looking back at Izzy and lowering your hand. "She got hurt trying to fight that Peacekeeper who hit me, remember?"

Your gaze reverts to the girl from Twelve, and your tiny, seashell-pink lips curve to return her smile, dimples dotting your cheeks. You raise your hand again, but this time to give the girl a small wave. If she wasn't so far away, you would thank her for what she did earlier. She defended you out of the goodness of her heart, and she didn't have to. You don't even know her name, and you know that if you want to live, she has to die — but maybe for a little while, you can help each other.

яose

[Kire]

Josephine Bartlett

The absence of yelling and screaming is almost more terrifying than had they all fallen to madness at once. There had been no bloodshed for what felt like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than ten minutes. Some jeers and booing floated down from the crowd, along with a few remarks about them all missing the point and demanding someone die. Whatever they had been expecting for this games, this had not been it.

To the left and right and across from her are pairs and groups of tributes interacting peacefully. No one has threatened anyone, at least not visibly, and no one has attacked anyone else. They all nurse the wounds the last night had wrought upon them and perhaps that is enough to waylay the determination to be the last survivor. No one here wanted to die, but no one seemed quite willing to kill to make that happen. Is there a way we can all survive?

Everything she had learned about the Capitol told her no. They were ruthless, caring only about themselves and what they had. This was their game, stated so plainly in the title, and their hunger for destruction would never be satiated. It was only a matter of time until the pressure caused someone to crack.

There was a girl by herself, surveying the scene before her as Joey was. She felt a connection with that wariness, for it was what she was feeling herself. "I won't kill anyone." There was a tentativeness that spoke of the expectation for things all to turn on their head in a moment. Neither of them trusted that this quiet peace would last. Uneasy and with the sense of foreboding sitting like a rock in her gut, she took two steps toward the girl.

The instant their eyes meet she freezes solid. It's not the look of a cornered animal in her eyes, or the gaze of a hunter focused on prey. This is the look of a horse trying to determine whether the stick on the ground is actually just a stick, or if it will rear up and bite.

She couldn't deny the same sense of apprehension growing in her stomach. This only grew as she saw the sword in the girl's hand. The weapon she had abandoned felt miles away, and may as well have been for there was no way she could return to it and wrestle it from the ground in time to defend herself against this girl. At this point, she could only hope that she might convince her not to attack.

"Would you really be the first to draw blood?" Holding her hands out in front of herself, she hopes to prove she is no threat. "At least the crowd would like you, I'm not sure about the others, though."

From somewhere, the yelling of a voice she recognized from last night rises above the other noise. She picks out a name. "IT’S ME, MARIO." He hadn't quite started the brawl last night, but she knew he had certainly driven it. She was also certain he had paid for his trouble.

So had this girl before her. In a brief flash of memory, she remembered the sounds of pain coming from beside her, the bitter words spoken with a quiet bravery that said she was even stronger than the boy who declared himself to the world. ("Go ahead, do your worst.")

"I'm not afraid of you." It wasn't a statement of how she felt - for if she was being honest, she was afraid - but the re-uttering of something she had heard last night. Something she had heard from the cell beside her. Something said by this girl before her. At least, she thought it was her.

[lance]

m o h a m e d .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

And when nothing goes to plan, when the scenario that had been playing on an endless loop in your head ever since your home - still burnt and blackened but filled with growth, pointing towards recovery - had disappeared into the horizon proves to be just that - a nightmare masquerading as reality - then what is one to do?

Nothing like this had ever happened before. Not the first time, not the last time, not the time in between. Someone had always started the fight, someone had always decided that they should be the first to shed blood.

So why not now? Where was the fire, the venom spit from bloodied teeth? Had the Peacekeepers really extinguished the fire of each and every one of them before the Games had even began?

“IT’S ME, MARIO.”

A voice causes you to reposition your wide-eyed gaze, the first conscious range of motion you'd made aside from the flitting of your eyes back and forth since the Games had began.

“AND I AIN’T PERFORMING SHIT FOR YOU.”

Well, you supposed that answered that question, at least.

But it did little to ease your nerves. Something had to snap. Something had to break. There were twenty four of you - surely one amongst your number would crumble. It wasn't as if this was the first time, with no precedent to draw upon. Three years in a row had kids had murdered kids in cold blood. It was almost routine at this point.

Curiosity gives way to icy tendrils crawling up your veins as fear once again catches your heart in its clutches. Your breath hitches, as your gaze flits from girl to boy and back again.

Someone had to move. Someone had to attack. Someone had to find out that you were easy pickings, easy prey, so that you could swing your sword and hope that your death wasn't drawn out or painful.

Someone had to be the instigator.

Right?

elegant

[mohamed starts to have a crisis]

[k!ah]

D U S T I N .

The arena is still quiet, too quiet. From having been forced to witness previous games he knew what was supposed to happen next. Blades would collide, fresh blood would mingle with old and lives would be lost. It happened each year, kids eyes filled with defiance as they fought a war from within themselves, fighting between what was right and the desperate need to live...

But it always ended the same, blades of steel turned on one another as screams and cries fill the air interlacing with the cheering crowd. It always seemed to end in the same chaos, your inner instinct to survive always incinerating the beliefs of what is right and wrong.

Overtime, no matter how much we want to believe it, we always become a piece in their game, and as most games go, there is only ever one winner.

But unlike most games, with this one, you have to decide whether winning would be worth it in the end.

Would he be willing to live with demons as shadows, nightmares as dreams, and memories filled with heartbreak?

A sob breaks past Nan's lips and he pulls her in close once again, placing his cheek on the crown of her head, her body trembling against his own. Would he be able to live after having witness his best friend die? Watch as his home fell to the dirt, blood pooling, empty eyes staring up into the clear blue sky?

Dustin didn't want to find out, he didn't want to know what the world would be like without Nanette Emsworth. He didn't want to know what it would feel like, if he had to wake up each morning and know that he would not get to see her smile, or hear her laugh... Silently he hoped that he would never have to find out.

“What are we going to do? No one’s started the fight yet.” Her voice is small, quiet. He didn't know what to tell her, he didn't know what was about to happen next. The situation was unprecedented. Swords forgotten as tributes, exhausted and broken after last nights events, look around speaking quietly with one another. A few raise their voices at the crowd, or direct crude gestures.

"I don't know," he says honestly. His eyes search out a couple to their left. A girl supports a boy who looks frail and weak. To their right another stands in front of a child (so small that he felt his blood turn to ice at the thought of a blade buried in her heart), his body a shield. "Let's keep out heads low for now. Stay alert." Maybe he should have grabbed his sword. He hated the thought of using it against another kid... But if it came down between Nan and another, he would always choose her.

He nods his head towards the frail boy and the girl who supports him. "Lets head this way." He knew that talking to others, forming a connection- no matter how small- could potential be signing their death certificate, but maybe, just maybe, it could be the move that could potentially save them.

[ post 2 ]

[mat]

The terrible loneliness started to fade away as soon as Ander and the rest had made their way out of the cages, only to do, well, nothing. Some spoke to one another, others cried or yelled towards the growing orchestra of shouts and clapping from an encouraging audience. Ander remained still, though, not making a move one way or the other. Nobody raised their sword to attack a tribute, but that didn't mean they wouldn't. It didn't mean he wouldn't if given the opportunity.

His feet were planted firm on the grainy ground, held up solely by his sword chipping into the flooring like a cane. Even the never-ending scraps from life at the bottom of the food chain couldn't bring this level of exhaustion, this level of complete giving up. Because fear had a way of masking itself during the war and during the supply runs. Fear hid in the bushes and up on branches as he'd run through the woods with a spike of adrenaline and dash of whatever drugs they could find. Fear crept through the alleyways as he'd stuff his backpack with the day's loot. Fear disguised itself as a squirrel's shadow as he stood watch in the night for the Drifters. The fear of getting caught and finding himself as target practice for peacekeepers was always there, no doubt, but at least in all those instances there laid reward for his risk. There was excitement, fun, a better life, love. The colosseum personified the fear he always did his best to look the other way for for all those years. Fear was not hiding here, and Ander couldn't manage to mold it into some makeshift positive. Fear snickered in his ears. Fear was the steel ball chained up to his ankles, freezing him into place.

Names are scattered across the walls of the colosseum. Jack Imberline. Era Altyr. Alistair Ranger. He recognized the names to be District Eight's past male tributes, none of which succeeded to survive. The names of the fallen stacked themselves near each cell of the colosseum as if it's some sort of memorial for the fallen. His face perked up for a moment as his sword drew figure-eights on the ground. Memorial. In loving memory. Sure, in loving memory of those that the Capitol allowed to be beaten and slaughtered just to boost their fragile egos. And they'd do it again with his name and the rest of the names of those they let be killed. In loving memory, although the feeling certainly was not mutual.

Ander didn't expect the calm before the storm to last as long as it had. Nobody wanted to be the person to draw first blood, break the peace. Neither did Ander. In fact, he didn't want to draw any blood, or at the very least none of the twenty-three other tributes'. It's not what Mom, Dad or Luca, nor Drift or the others would have wanted. No Drifter submitted to the will and desires of authority, and Ander wouldn't be the first. Drifters wagged their middle fingers at people like the keepers and their captors, refusing to do their dirty work for them.

Still only a few wobbly-legged steps away from his cell, Ander picked up his sword and held the handle with his left and blade with his right. They wanted to have kids kill each other with these? Some wouldn't even be strong enough to pick them up. Guns would have certainly been his preference, but they were smart to withhold them from the tributes. Even with poor aim, they'd probably be tempted to shoot into the crowds instead.

Fear lurked in the crowds, egging him on. Kill. Kill. Kill. He did not move. Ander De la Cruz wouldn't give fear that satisfaction. Instead, he held the tip of the sword to the palm of his hand. He pressed down, cutting a straight line about an inch and a half on the palm of his hand. It stung, but not as badly as when Jeremiah Brute clawed at his scars and scabs. The cut was thin and delicate enough to just reveal blood, maybe even make it visible to the eye. Then, he dropped the sword and kicked it by the handle back towards his risen cell.

If these lunatics wanted Ander to draw blood, then he'd give them blood. But only his. He'd give himself a thousand cuts before he'd lay a hand on another one of the tributes.

[post 2]

[Tom]

There's no cowardice in wanting to live.

My Nana had taught this to so many kids that I could repeat the same words she had told them. Cowardice made us human. Wanting to not die, especially in a place where we're innocent was human. We breath and live in order to make our lives worth it, looking for answers that we know are out there, but no one wants to die before they find it. Birds flapping freely in the wind, extending their arms to glide across the sky searching for the place where they'll live happily. We're all just human, trying to breath and live and find our own happiness, but happiness was lost when the end of a war came and our names were pulled from glass bowls.

Luella Duval.

A name worth less than the piece of paper it had been written on it. My favorite jacket over my shoulders to pretend like I hadn't been afraid, enough of an eye catcher that no one could see the way I had searched for my Nana, begging in my heart for something to happen. Anything to take away what I knew had came. And now, I am here, among a sea of sand and battered from a night of abuse by the people who swore they were on our side. Protecting us from the dangerous rebels, but authority seemed to be the world's sickness. Someone to hold a power over you and breath down your neck begging you to show an ounce of fear in order to make them feel stronger. In order to make them feel like their power wasn't put to waste, and all we can do is suffer.

The other tributes haven't striked one another yet, no blood has been spilt for the Capitol's entertainment. Part of me wants to breath a sigh of relief, but I know not everything is meant to work out the way we want them to. My mother and father were examples of that. Bullet holes to the head, taken out with such a quiet precision in which made them seem peaceful in their final moments. Leaving behind a single daughter who cried herself to sleep every night until the numbing pain took over and she found her strength. I am that daughter, who stood up and stayed silent, cried in the middle of the night, but stood tall in the day.

It's in a girl's eyes who I don't know that I see the other side of things. Blade gripped in my palm, sizing up this other tribute who I was supposed to kill. Something akin to fear bleeds across her irises, but I could see there's a weariness to both of our stances. A single sword between us, knowing I had the upper hand if I were to be the one to strike, but no one else had. No one else had struck another tribute, bruises stinging along my side, burning with the fire of my anger from last night.

I couldn't be what the capitol wanted.

I would never be what the capitol wanted.

"Would you really be the first to draw blood?" Her hands raise up, reminding me of the way the orphans would follow when a Keeper was there and forcefully taking them. "At least the crowd would like you, I'm not sure about the others, though."

The crowd. My eyes reach up to them, noticing the way they sit watching with their deadly gazes. Malicious intents behind every single one of them, except maybe the victors, but isn't that what's even more upsetting to me. The victors who had fought for the capitol's entertainment. Rebels and Pro-Capitols killing in order to survive a deadly game. For what? To sit by and do absolutely nothing for their people.

I told myself I wouldn't kill anyone. Could I keep that promise? If others were to start swinging their blades at me, would I be able to stop myself from surviving? I really didn't know anymore. Egging on the Keeper had been a bad idea, but I still did it. Let the pain wash over me and told him to do his worst. Break my fingers and bruise my body because the world must have been punishing me for living when my parents died. A boy yells from the other side, where the name Mario is all I can pick out from the crowd. Loud, just like the boy from last night. Part of me wonders if the other kid who had yelled back was just as battered and bruised as she was.

"I'm not afraid of you."

The words are tense, but staring her down, I could tell. This was the quiet girl who's cell had been next to mine. The night was filled with pain, but someone had heard me bleed. Someone had heard me stand up to a Keeper, toe to toe without fear in my voice. Conviction built from years of harassment in Eight and now a girl from some unknown place was telling me the same thing. A blade between us, sharp edges that were meant to cut through flesh. Silver glitters against the blue sky, for a moment, I can feel a smile forming on my lips, but I can't put down my defenses. All of this could be a ploy, a trick in order to weaken me.

Except I knew it wasn't.

"Good."

Stabbing the sword downwards into the sand below, resting my hands along the hilt, I breath for a moment.

"You shouldn't be."

Eyes glancing back to the walls that rise high above, where the crowd rests. Names put into the stone, bricks meant to be a reminder of the dead kids before us. Maryam Volk. Helena Crane. Iphigenia Damask. Names that I will remember if I somehow survive this, but I won't. I already know I won't. There's kids here who are innocent, much more innocent than I am. Kids who have families and parents and siblings who love them. Kids who have more pain than I'll ever be able to heal. Eyes glancing to the sand and back to the girl in front of me, letting my body relax a little bit more.

"Who needs blood and fame, when we've already been broken?"

Broken boys and broken girls playing a game where no one wins.

Names that'll be forgotten like the sand beneath us.

[Luella vibes with Joey]

[kap]

"This is a revolution.
We are rising up."

Vanya slowly willed her tears to stop falling. Now wasn't the time to cry, no matter how scared or nervous she was- no matter how much she was truly panicking. As she looked around, those feelings started to fade, though, at least a little bit. They'd been standing there for who knew how long at this point, and no one was fighting.

Some people were talking with one another, a guy who declared himself to be Mario yelled something out, and a couple of tributes seemed to be trying to console one another. All of this was reassuring, and allowed Vanya to stop her tears, but she was still paying attention to the every move of the tributes she could see in her range of vision.

Her fists clenched, she still refused to pick up the sword that was in front of her. Even if these tributes did come after her, she'd never turn a weapon on them, and she doubted she'd even ever hit one of them with her fists. She'd be the type to just end up dying if she were attacked because she wouldn't feel right doing anything about it.

Then she thought about what the boy had yelled out. The boy who called himself Mario.

“IT’S ME, MARIO,” The boy had exclaimed, fist clenched over his head. “AND I AIN’T PERFORMING SHIT FOR YOU.”

Vanya thought, what if they all did something like that? What if they all just declared to the Capitol that they refused to fight? That's when she decided to speak up.

"My name is Vanya McAslister, and I'm not making a show of myself for you, either!" she shouted in the direction of the crowd.

Her fists were clenched at her sides, arms straightened downward. She was not going to make a show of herself for the Capitol. She'd rather die than fight for their entertainment.

elegant & UNSECRET
graphic by mahouho

[ghosty]

Tension rose faster than the sparks spat into the sky, like it did back in Three. Raised voices, arms held tense on sword hilts. He never should have dropped that sword, never let his guard down. But he'd seen fights before, the games last year, the fights picked by groups of workers following one too many. None of them held still like this. None of them had groups slowly forming like this. For the first time since his name filled the air back in Three, he felt his heart slowing, the pumping in his ears fading. 

Instead, he felt the crowd calling, beconing for blood, to hear the crashing of metal. They wanted to be entertained. Mom always told him stories of the circus, crowds of people watching animals perform. Watching people dressed up for laughs. He glanced down at himself, blood marked clothes and cheap armor. He was performing for his life, death marked for what felt like a lifetime. Auden would die here, no matter what. 

He felt the shaking in his legs, his arms following suit -- he was not scared. He was petrified, frozen solid. 

And yet, the sound of war did not start, the crowd grew louder. And above that, it was the sound of talking. A response to the crowd, a conversation. Faint, but they carried well, echoed louder through the speakers of the arena. He hoped that the crowd would focus on the voice, not to see his legs struggling to hold his weight, hands clasped together to not betray the shaking. hero of the capitol. He was no hero in this place, just a clown with no disguise. No sly grin painted on to hide the expression on his face.

All it showed was the confusion bare and obvious. He hoped it wouldn't change to fear when everything changed. This peace wouldn't last forever, right? 

He slowly made his way to the edge of the arena, eyes checking for movement near him. Auden let himself slide down the wall, legs making it hard to stay standing. Arms held away from him, hands opened wide to show he was holding nothing. 

Auden prayed it was enough to keep himself safe.