Warring Minds :||: Day 3 (Heartbreakers and Bicurious)

[Arrows]

I think I've been in love before.

I know, fucking wild coming from me right?

How can someone who likes to watch others writhe in pain know what love is like? How can the boy who sits on his own with bruised knuckles and a sadistic smirk know what a heart can hold? I guess I'm just some goddamn anomaly who can't be quantified by the spectrum of others expectations. Yea, yea, big words you wouldn't expect me to know let alone use. Have you put it together yet? I'm unpredictable, that's what makes me so dangerous. That's what's underneath all the cold.

It wasn't the conventional romantic bullshit of hold my hand in public and hold me down in private. I don't know the meaning of private. It wasn't even with a person, no one can bare the arctic sea of my soul for long. Does that bother me? I don't think so, but I'm honestly too numb to tell anymore. It was with a feeling; something other than the normal.

I fell in love with pain. I fell in love with pain because it was the only thing that reminded me that beneath the ice there's still something. Because the hurting reminds me that I'm alive.

There you fucking go Nanette, that's why I'm here.

So that there's no question that Turner Grey in fact was alive.

Being shot at is new though, the feeling of my skin being split by a bullet. Not the biggest fan of it. The girl who shot it though, damn, if only she were gunning at me in a different way. Maybe that's why I don't see it. Maybe it's Le Roux taking control that catches my attention. Maybe it's just because I'm a fuck up. Ha, I bet a lot of people would like to believe that one. I'm not about that mindset though. Self pity is such a useless emotion. Aren't they all?

Her spear drives right between a set of my ribs and it isn't a scream or a gasp that breaks through my lips, but a laugh. Yea, that hurts. It probably hurts more than the ribs I've broken, than the noses I've cracked, probably even more than the hearts I've left like litter on the streets. Some might say this is karma, but I'm nobody's bitch. Unless its for a night after all.

Embracing the pain pulsing from my chest, I wrap one of my hands around the spear and actually wince as I pull it deeper. My eyes stare straight into those of the girl, this Grim, who holds the other end of the pole literally piercing my body. I talk to her like it's just us. Like there isn't a spear through my skin. Like there isn't another blonde behind me threatening her. Like there aren't rats tearing into the others around us. But like we are out at sea, adrift, alone.

"If you're looking for my heart, I hate to break it to you. I don't have one."

I rip myself away from the spear and stumble back to Silk's side. She's acting like she has even an ounce of control, and who knows, maybe she does. She is standing here unscathed as two of her biggest threats tear each other to shreds. But some how, I don't care. Let them stab me, shoot me, and rip me apart. In everyway it tells me I'm human. I'm not just some monster like they've said I am. I mean, I'm an absolute asshole who is entirely disconnected from his feelings. Without question a total dick. But I still exist too, and that's worth something.

My hand, covered in blood from my chest, grips Silk's wrist as I force her to look at me. I look in those lioness eyes for it and I wonder where it hides. My voice is only loud enough for her to hear as my other hand readies the hammer it holds.

"I wonder which is real, this Silk or the one that I saw last night."

My hand lets her wrist go as I laugh. So many masks, so many faces. 

"If you're gonna kill her, you're going to have to get dirtier than that. But I think you're used to being dirty."

I spare her a signature twink wink and look back to the girl bleeding along with me. Is she really focused on Lady Le Roux while we are the ones baring the brunt of this battle?

"Damn, what am I? Chopped liver?" -- To her, probably yes.

I say steadying the hammer in my hands. Maybe Beck should look away.

"If you're gonna kill me, at least buy me dinner first."

Turner attacks Grim Mercer ; Warhammer
NiUrbm|YaJspiked blunt
{Two Broken Ribs -- 7.5 damage +1 Strength}

spiked blunt

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

They were playing into Blondie's game. All of them were, friends and foe alike. A war that she had started and there wasn't a scratch on her. Reagan gritted her teeth in frustration. Some people didn't have to work for a single thing, did they?

You see, girls like Blondie Le Roux tried to make girls like Grim Mercer feel inferior. Girls like Blondie Le Roux tried to break girls like Sutton Mae into pieces. Girls like Blondie Le Roux liked to think that, inherently, they were better than girls like Reagan Carbone. And maybe she was right. Reagan was little more than a bad attitude who was only still alive because she was too stubborn to hand over the win. Blondie's last name said plenty; if Reagan was being honest, she'd tuned out from the moment she'd heard it. Le Roux. It's all she'd ever be. A walking shadow. The second best. A sequel that never quite lived up to its predecessor.

Girls like Reagan Carbone made girls like Blondie Le Roux bleed.

If they'd been back in school together, Reagan could see it now: a single sideways comment and her answer was an elbow to the mouth. See, there was a certain kind of freedom in being a lost cause, and a comfort to setting up camp at rock bottom. No one expected anything, and no one knew what would come next from her. She did what she wanted. She didn't care if she was expelled from school. She didn't care if a rich bitch told Daddy on her. She didn't care. Because she was nothing and no one, and therefore had nothing for them to take from her.

We are not the same, she thought, eyes full of hatred as they locked onto the girl. They were opposites. Day and night. Mind and heart. Blondie was a high school bully who'd been handed something with a sharp edge because, let's face it, she would've been nothing without it. A pair of lips trying to control everything except the weather around her so that nothing and no one ever noticed the cold, hard truth: She. Was. Weak. And how do you destroy a girl like that?

Not just beat her- that part's obvious enough. No, destroy her? Undo her? You take her power away. Take away the smoke and mirrors and force her to perform without any help from her idiot band of followers. And the first one to go was the career boy from Four, because Reagan could tell already that he carried the bulk of their weight on his shoulders.

Reagan might not have lived long enough to see it, but Blondie Le Roux's fall was coming. And she decided just then, peaking over the median to watch her perform, all glistening golden and mediocre hits, that the world would be better for it.

Reagan smirked, listening to the girl's words toward Grim. She was trying so hard to belittle her, to get inside her head and do the damage her hands couldn't. Because it was obvious to Reagan then. It should've been all along.

Grim was the better career.

It made sense to her now, why Blondie had chosen the hardest to beat first. Why her boyfriend had followed suit. Grim was a threat to them because she could beat them later. Grim was a threat to them because she was stronger than them and even now, with both of them paired off against her, she was holding her own.

Grim was the thing Blondie was doing such a good job of pretending to be. And a poser always hates the real, authentic thing.

She hesitated from behind her vantage point at the median, target switching from One to Four and back again. She could do it. Right then, right there. She could end her game and that would be that. Her puppets would be free of their strings, free to fight their own battles, free to live for themselves instead of a stranger with someone else's last name. But that was easy. Too easy. Reagan did not want to beat Blondie. She wanted to destroy her.

And how does one go about destroying someone like that?

"Mercer!" Reagan called, ducking behind the median and cocking her gun.

"Fucking finish him!"

Take away him and the other one, and what was Blondie?  Take away her audience, and girls like her were nothing.

[reagan attacks turner, revolver]
44XAtZHVG2throwing knife
[miss]

accuracy!
throwing knife
[9020 -- Knife Deep in Bicep -- 8.5 damage +1 Target Practice]

throwing knife·throwing knife·

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

She calls you a martyr and you laugh out fucking loud.

You know that it's reckless, that you should do literally everything in your power to ignore her, take the years you spent training to dig your spear in a little bit further to Turner's chest and press that button and shoot electricity right into his heart, but goddamn this girl from One really thinks she's something and you just. You have to laugh. You're standing there, spear gouged into Turner Grey's chest, and he's telling you that he doesn't have a heart and he's laughing and you're right there laughing with him, get two broken ribs for it and gasp an inhale through parted lips from the pain and—you're laughing.

It's just absurd, really. You hate her.

You don't know her name, but you hate her.

"Don't you get it?" you say without looking at her at first, just keep looking at Turner and your blade in his chest. "Turner here," you go on, twisting your spear just a little. "Him I know. Your allies, too. I just don't give a fuck about you, One. Cute though, you thinking you're my biggest rival."

You think in another life, maybe you'd have liked him.

Too bad he's just another one of the Capitol's puppets, a boy who let himself get brought up in a life built for the rich and powerful to get more rich and more powerful. He's got something that feels like a sense of humor and a way of making light, at least in a caustic kind of way, of dark situations.

You can tell that he's in pain, know what it's like to get stabbed between the ribs and have to continue breathing, but if he's not going to flinch in a real way then neither are you—If you're gonna kill me, at least buy me dinner first, he says before breaking your ribs.

You grab his wrist, hold it the way he held the girl from One's.

"I'd rather see you starve."

Then you push him away, twist on your heel and arc your blade towards him just as Reagan fires another bullet, the sound ricocheting in your skull. Fucking finish him, is there somewhere too, a desperate plea and a demand all at once.

You've never been the best at taking orders, but you've spent years trying to learn.

Now's the moment.

grim attacks turner, electric spear

P7ql3frsHcspear

3098 stabbed in forearm 8.5 + strength & rivalry
(Spear)

electricity roll

1-50

+2

spear·1-50

[ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ]

Two loud cracks are all it takes to halt us in our steps. The first buries itself deep into our leg, a non-minor wound, but we have fought with worse injuries. We snarl at the first girl, then turn to the boy.

His shot is shallow, but blood flows freely down our cheek, a feeling I hate. He will pay for this, that much we know. All we can hear are their squeaks and roars, but we will soon block them, end them, for good. We reach a paw up to swipe away the blood, before we lower our body and launch ourselves at them.

We have underestimated the invader as she retaliates with a well-placed throw, a loud screech as her stick slices through our cheek. We admire her tenacity and yet—

—we want to strike back. Which of the two should we pick? We snarl at them as we decide who we can best first. Take out one, weaken the other. The invader’s friend is quick though and with her strong arm and downward aim, she strikes at our leg again. We are slower with our leg, but we are still able to pivot so that she strikes our paw instead. The blow is still harsh as the stinging pain courses our leg, and we decide to take it out on the weaker one.

[Bob & Billy attacks Kyler Petralia ; teeth {knife}]
CLEJX7OjKnknife
[Block ; 0.0 dmg]

[Flearot & Fleasludge attacks Saylor Bell ; teeth {knife}]
knife
[Shallow Cut on Cheek ; 3.5 dmg]

knife·knife

[[nyte]]

I really thought it was going to be okay. The rat leaps at me, it's teeth meeting flesh but I can't feel a damn thing. There's a strange pressure splitting my skull in two. Sharp in all the wrong ways, an agony I don't deserve to feel. Here I am collapsing under old wounds and-

"Turner?" He's more blood than skin, almost ethereal as crimson ribbons cascade down his broken skin. "Oh, Turner," Over the roar of spite, of scared children screaming insults at the top of their lungs, I am little more than a whisper. Weak as I have always been, rallying against my own survival as I turn my back to the mutt whose strike had just missed my throat.

They cannot make me a warrior and so I must die. Of nothing was I more certain. I loft my allies upon crumbling pedestals, high enough to kiss the atmosphere. Turner Grey is a lot of things, reckless and feral and too rough for his own good. He can't feel anything and I've never been able to figure out if that's more convenient than it is true. Turner Grey is a lot of things but he's always been just a little bit of my hero.

Gentle when he adjusted my grip on my weapon, talking to me like he knew I could be better. I'm not stupid enough to believe one kiss meant anything but for god's sake that might have been the first time I ever felt seen.

And now he's falling. By my hand, by my words, by the way I'd come to believe in him. I'd made for one hell of a fall.

My steps are frantic, cutting through the fray so full of fear for him that I almost forget I'm in danger. "Please hold on!" Louder this time, picking up speed with my forearm pressed to my temple to shield myself from a warrior's wrath. My allies, my enemies - they've taken to fighting so well. They swing their weapons like its not tearing them apart too.

And maybe it never felt real until right now. Until I'm watching my ally stand on trembling legs, as I'm slipping in pools of his blood. This stench, acrid as it burns the inside of my skull, is his. It's Turner and it's death, it's as much of a stranger as it is a friend.

I'd like to say I don't understand why they fight, it'd be easier to hate them.

But maybe they understand why I'm trying to protect him, maybe they won't hate me either.

I don't know if Turner goes limp before or after I've collided with him, arms wrapped as tight as I can around his shoulders to shield his body with mine. A gunshot cracks across the horizon and we hit the ground, breath knocked from my lungs and his.

"Turner?" I grab his face, trying to force his eyes to focus on mine but I only see the way my tears cut through crimson grime, "It's okay." I whisper, breaths shaking, "I've got you."

[saylor attacks turner -- unarmed]
hlSb9Mszkhunarmed
[result]

unarmed

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

Eleven days.

She's not sure how Lysander did it.

Eleven long days filled with death and blood and tears. Eleven days of loneliness, even though she was surrounded with people. Eleven days of suffering, to die and then be born again. After only three days Sutton was exhausted. She would never admit it to her sister, but maybe, just maybe she had a little respect for her resiliency. But don't get it wrong, she still despised her sister.

And the shame she brought to their family's name.

Eleven days, one of them which she was meant to die on, but somehow she managed to survive. If Lysander could do it there was no reason Sutton couldn't too. Though deep down she knew she would be lucky to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Not with her mind so distracted, not when she was for once worried about somebody but herself.

Even though she was some few yards away and Reagan was by her side, Sutton couldn't help but worry. Every few seconds she would look over in Grim's direction to make sure the other girl was still standing. To make sure she was still alive. She couldn't focus only on herself when there was someone so much more worthy of living only a few feet away.

Her two allies were holding their own, but she could still barely tear her eyes away from Grim. The ground around her was soaked in blood, her own and the boy from Four. There was so much blood, too much for anyone to survive. She silently prayed that most of it was not her friend's.

"Okay Sutton. It's my time to fuckin' shine."

Kyler's voice brought her back to reality. Sutton turned her head back to the rats at the last second, just enough time to see Kyler's bullet barely scrape the one's cheek.

"You're just slightly glowing, but we'll get you there buddy," and gently patted him on the shoulder. She lifted her gun, ready to finish off the ugly rat when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. The boy fending off the other rat began to run towards the fray of tributes.

He started running right towards the only person she's ever cared about.

"Grim! NO!"

Everything began to move in slow motion. Each second that passed felt like an hour. Sutton turned on her heels, gun raised at in front of her. The sound of the firing gun sounded louder than it ever had before in the silence that surrounded her. The bullet spiraled through the air towards the two boys. She just needed to hit one. Just one to help her ally make it through.

Sutton didn't need eleven days

She only needs to survive until Grim makes it out alive.

( sutton attacks turner ; revolver )
kf7qCX5kATthrowing knife
( miss - 0.0 )

throwing knife

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

Or not.

His shine fizzles out into a dull glow — hardly enough to blind Sutton when she takes a step closer to him. "You're just slightly glowing, but we'll get you there, buddy." Her hand finds his shoulder, a short lapse of peace in the middle of all the chaos. It almost distracts him. Because for just a moment, he's smiling at her, and he's forgotten all about the rats with two heads, and the fact that Grim is locked in a battle for her life.

Like they all are.

One knife for eight hearts.

It's when Sutton cries out for her ally that he snaps back to reality, turning on his heels to watch as the battle between Grim and the boy from Four reaches an end. A stranger from his alliance is running for him, a mirror reflection of our own worst fears, and it's as they collide that Lysander Mae's sister pulls the trigger. Bang, boom — thud. There's a dead body on the ground, and there's blood on all our hands. "Shit. Uh."

He can't stop himself from turning away, not ready to comprehend the sight of watching someone be so alive and then just... lie there. Looking up at nothing, in the embrace of someone who was so willing to fight for them. His stomach ties itself into knots, and he blinks away the intrusive thoughts. Three faces flash in his mind, so many terrors that he can't bring himself to face. "I've got it, Sutton."

No, he doesn't, but he's trying to hold himself together. "Keep them safe. I trust you." More than he trusts himself. And yet he never loosens his grip on his pistol, staring straight at the monster that only makes his gut feel that much heavier. "We don't fucking need this right now." None of them do. None of this is fair. They're all fighting for the same crown, running from the same fate.

Staring down at it.

Closing their eyes to the reality.

"Hold the fuck still. Please."

kyler attacks bob & billy ; revolver bullet 3/5
4U8le01a8wthrowing knife
Shallow Cut on Chest -- 4.0 damage

throwing knife

[lance]

How often does a normal person look in the aftermath of a situation and think "Hm. Perhaps I have, in fact, fucked up here."

You don't have that feeling often. Since the very first day you'd stepped into whatever path lay ahead of you - the role of a Career, the role of an heir, the role of something else entirely, you've always chosen a mindset that would leave you no regrets. And you rarely ever have - not when you'd dipped your toes into unsavory practices that fit a vigilante profile but were hardly becoming of a girl with your background, not when you'd joined the family business spanning generations, and not when you'd accepted your fate as one in the Hunger Games.

But standing here, listening to Grim's taunts wash over you, watching as Turner falls into Saylor's waiting arms half a second before a bullet from an external source - Sutton Mae, another victor sibling - whistles in their general direction, you contemplate that, in this instance, you'd bitten off more than you could chew.

And by some sheer twist of fate, it was not you that had paid the price of your hubris, but the boy from Four instead. Your mind flits back to your bag, to the dead fish locked within.

You'd always thought the X's over its eyes were metaphorical, to highlight some greater meaning. Was it to mean that Turner was dead inside, and it referred to him literally? Did it refer to his district partner, Nanette, one of two others who had broken into the double digit gap when it came to her score?

Right now, you're thinking it was much more literal in its meaning - Turner was simply dead weight.

But had he been? He'd handled the mutts decently. He'd dealt crippling blows on Grim Mercer. He was, admittedly, pleasant to be around - as far as psychotic twinks could be, anyway. There'd even been something cute building up between him and Saylor.

But did that really matter in the long run? He would have to die if you were to live. Everyone on this bridge would have to die. And by being the one who would land the first kill, you would increase your prestige and regain whatever credibility you had lost by losing the wealth.

But pride cometh before the fall. The throne you'd sat on as queen of the arena, already fractured in the aftermath of the bloodbath, was crumbling into fool's gold right before your very eyes. Your genius pick of a Career ally, cut down in minutes. Your score of Eleven, granting you a gift that was faulty at best and a cryptic message in the form of a dead fish at worst. Even your idea of a strategy, kill others while they come to water, blowing up in your face, as debris from your surroundings cuts into you in the absence of your rival's weapons.

And just like that, you can see the point of it all slipping away. Why keep up the mask? Why bother projecting confidence when all you've been subject to is failure after failure?

You might be a Career, a Le Roux, a fighter, warrior, and strategist born and bred for this very moment. But you're also just a girl. Just an eighteen year old with her life laid out ahead of her, stuck in a hellscape she never asked to be a part of.

Words echo in your head.

"I wonder which is real, this Silk or the one that I saw last night." Fucking good riddance, Turner. How dare you bring up a very real conundrum in the midst of a marathon fight for survival?

You breathe. Now is not the time to lose control. You can have your breakdown once the fight is over and you're far away from here, where no one but the cameras can see porcelain shatter and reveal the ugly half-forged iron beneath.

For now, appearances had to be kept.

"I just don't give a fuck about you, One. Cute though, you thinking you're my biggest rival," is what Grim had said.

You manage a smirk, waving your free hand at Turner.

"Well, it clearly wasn't him, as you've done an excellent job of displaying," you sneer through a façade ridden with hairline fractures. "And it wouldn't be the others like us - Coach is as useless as his training score would indicate, Nanette relies too much on the water to be effective, and Garrison knowingly surrounds himself with incompetents - so who else would you call a rival in this place?"

You shift your spear to the other hand, pacing, preparing. "You may not give a fuck about me right now, Grim," you smirk. "But you will."

Your muscles tense, preparing for another strike - two versus one is more manageable than one would think when one is melee and one is ranged, for the ranged must always worry about hitting their ally or hitting nothing at all - but a shape appears out of the corner of your eye.

Something large, furry, and nasty, each of its twin heads as ugly they had been when they'd tried to rip out your throat.

And they were going right for Saylor.

And you decide - fuck it. Strategy would dictate letting him fight it off alone while you pursued Grim. But strategy had failed you twice already in these three days - so fuck that. You're going with your heart this time.

A hypocrite you might be, since you'd called out the very same behavior from Reagan from Three a few minutes ago. But you'd long since reinforced your armor against words; a label like that would hardly be the worst thing you'd ever had applied to you.

I wonder which is real, Turner had said.

Well, darling, if you're still coherent enough to decipher the information, here's a glaring hint.

"Saylor, down!" you scream as your spear moves to intercept the beast in mid-air.

This day had taken Turner. That was an acceptable loss.

But fuck if Saylor Bell has to die here today too. That you will not allow.

silk attacks flearot and fleasludge; electric spear

hkIIUwXmdpspear

3101 -- Block -- 0.0 damage

accuracy, day three

spear

3166 -- Shallow Cut on Forehead -- 4.5 damage

spear·spear

[rook]

and every book you take
and you dust off from the shelf
has lines between lines between lines
that you read about yourself

The intense cries of pain bounce off the concrete overpass, ringing in our heads before shrinking away to momentary silence. It's sour in my stomach, listening to the sudden gunshots pierce the air and then fleetingly fade away again.

I don't look over. I dare not. The guilt bleeds in my ears, the shame hot on my chest. Am I that much of a coward? Would I rather Turner die than face my fears? Am I happy to listen to his wails diminish, slimming into whimpers as they erase him, swipe by swipe, shot by shot?

He volunteered for this. It's not like he was forced into it. It's not like he didn't train his entire life for this fight. He put his name forwards.

So did you.

It's not the same. I did it out of cowardice, I did it because I was going to be fucking murdered if I didn't. I was in over my head, afraid, hunted like a dog by the most despicable man in Nine. It was volunteer or be chained to a rock and dropped into the depths of the ocean where no one would find me. Where no one would miss me.

It makes no odds. I'm drowning here anyway.

Every time I try to fix my mistakes all I ever do is fuck it up further.

Saylor erupts from my left, swinging his spear gallantly in an arching line that cuts red through one of the rat's heads, sprawling blood and teeth and tongue into the dirt. Crimson flesh blossoming in the decay.

"Turner?" He calls out, turning away from the rat and breaking into a run towards the group.

Fuck. He's dead. He's dead isn't he? Why can't I look? Why can't I confirm the stark reality of the situation? I'm in stone-cold denial and I refuse to leave it. I refuse to follow my ally over to where his body lies. If I don't look, he's not dead.

A narrow focus grips me, unblinking and self-serving. My eyes sting and my cheeks are pink, but I clench my fists so tight that the knuckle dusters wrapped around my fingers begin to hurt.

Red drips from the brass, stained in the suffering of this beast. It would be easy to let the frustration consume me, to let that primal side of me take over and hold nothing back, drop my protective guard, ignore my stance, and just unleash on the rat. Hit it again and again until it's rodent features were reduced to crushed bone and scarlet tissue.

Well? Go on then. Do it.

I bounce on my toes, the sun in my eyes like the floodlights down in the fighting pits. Let loose Drummond, you deserve it.

And fuck up again? If I lose this time then it's not just me that dies, it's Ken. I am not going to risk it all on my own ego, not again. I can't lose again. I can't.

You fucking coward.

I exhale raw and uneasy. I'm flat-footed and distracted, but I raise my hands again, and I strike.

[Fridae Drummond attacks Flearot& Fleasludge with brass knuckles]

x6bJOhVr5Qunarmed

[Block -- 0.0 damage]

[accuracy reroll, day 3]

unarmed

[Tripped -- 0.5 damage (Unarmed) + 3.0 brass knuckles]

and when your friends are talking
you hardly hear a word
you were the first person herе
and the last man on the earth

lyrics - wolf alice the last man on earth

unarmed·unarmed

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

The boy fell without much more fight, Sutton's smoking gunfire echoed with a cannon so loud it shook the ground beneath their feet. One of Blondie's numbers down, arguably the most capable of them and only two left to go until she would be undone and exposed.

Reagan sank behind her vantage point and exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in. They could still do this. They could win against them again, but Reagan knew staying meant risking Grim. She was a fighter, and she'd done so well, and she was still the best of them, but she was not inhuman. She had a limit and Reagan feared seeing her reach it. Fight or flight? Pride or Logic?

The gun shook in her hands and she thought of her dreams and of the inevitable truth that she would eventually either live to see them die, or die herself. And despite all her protests to the contrary, despite her insistence that she was okay, Reagan feared dying. She feared a lot of things. And so maybe it was selfishness that pulled her out of her hiding place and had her training her sight on the girl who fought with her bare hands.

She fired, and it clipped the ground next to the girl's feet. She fired again and, again, her shot went wide.

Fuck.

She'd be out of bullets soon, forced to reload. The girl was too fast and Reagan wasn't a strong enough marksman to hit a moving target with such ease. She could run right then. It was still an option. Grab Grim and leave and force Kyler and Sutton to follow suit because they would no longer have the advantage. It would've been the smart thing to do, she thought, shoving her gun back into its holster and sliding on her own pair of brass knuckles.

But she was such a selfish creature. And she didn't want to be afraid anymore.

She counted to three in her head, told herself that she was taking the target from Grim's back and pretended she was okay with putting it on her own instead. And then she burst forward from her hiding place and tackled her to the ground.

[reagan attacks fridae, brass knuckles]
OJFRldZmYFunarmed
[5142 -- Thrown to Ground -- 0.5 damage +3 brass knuckles]

unarmed

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

sorry y’all i am sittin at work rn and got a bunch to do, so here’s some dialogue!

- to silk, “and if that happens, i’ll eat your spear laying down, but until then there’s no way i give you a second thought”

-“grim, no!” from sutton gets a “sutton, FOCUS!” but then turner is dead, and grim knows her attention is split, so she runs to sutton tbh and goes for the mutt!

- “this thing could kill you,” she says through gritted teeth, angry with sutton probably for diverting her attention. grim has it handled.

- i’m ngl i’m probably gonna add more dialogue when i actually write but :/ time

grim attacks bob & bully, electric spear

9smXXIYhqzspear

miss

accuracy

spear

block lmao what a jokespear·spear

[ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ]

Sorry, I'm in class for the next 5 hours and I want to make sure this fight moves along. Will fill in this post tonight.

[Bob & Billy attacks Grim Mercer ; teeth {knife}]
JVZcMoJHmtknife
[Shallow Cut on Right Forearm ; 3.5 dmg]

[Flearot & Fleasludge attacks Silk Le Roux ; teeth {knife}]
knife
[Shallow Cut on Back of Head ; 4.5 dmg]

knife·knife

[[nyte]]

"Turner?" He hasn't answered yet. That's funny. I'm more his blood than mine, my shaking fingers running across his skin too desperate to be gentle, "Come on you have to get up, we have to run."

I don't understand. He's not listening and I know he's tough and all but this isn't funny. He's always got a laughter on his lips when he messes with me, the ghost of a smile that's more comforting than he means it to be.

"Saylor down!" Silk's voice rings out amidst the gunfire. Fuck. FUCK. They're still here, an oppressive presence at my back. The promise I made to Silk wrapped around my throat like razor wire.

"Okay." I whisper, pushing Turner's hair back from his forehead to rest mine against it. A moment's rest, another oath to make. Desperately searching for strength and feeling more drained than I ever have. "I'll be back, don't worry. We'll be okay." And I think I believe that. I really do.

I've got to remember how to stand, reluctant to leave Turner where he lays. Turning my back on him feels more final than it should, like the ghost of a goodbye. I'm almost glad this this has all happened so fast, I don't have to understand.

Never have I felt smaller than as I stare into the eyes of Sutton Mae. She's got a gun pointed in my direction, at where Turner is. "He's hurt." I croak, eyes darting to where the rat sits, licking its chops clean of Silk's blood. "You won. You've won, please just let us take care of him."

I take a shaking step toward her, crumbling before I can manage the second step.

I'm suspended by only that thin wire now.

"Please, I've got to protect them I-" The mutt moves to attack Silk and I pivot, a flailed strike that is all my exhausted muscles can manage. My blade glances off it's pelt, no force behind my motion.

I'm tired. "I promised."

There's no conviction left in the words.

[saylor attacks f&f -- spear]
m2h7I1eyDOspear
result

spear

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

There was no sound.

Just silence and the permanent ringing in her ears from the constant gunfire on all sides.

It's just Sutton, the ringing, and the bullet moving in slow motion towards the dying boy. It was right on target, flying precisely through the air towards the boy from Four. He was just about to meet his fate when Saylor jumped on top of him and the bullet missed them both. She cursed under her breath.

Not only did she fail herself, she failed bringing the boy some peace.

The silence remained and she couldn't stop herself from looking at the two boys on the ground. One dead, the other desperate to believe anything else. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Kyler's lips move, but his words had no sound. She just stared and stared, unable to look away. The only thing that brought her back to reality was Grim's voice.

"Sutton, FOCUS!"

Her head snapped to her right and Grim was running towards her, weapon in hand, ready to strike. Time returned back to normal, but now Sutton's eyes were glued to her ally. The way her hair bounced as she hurdled towards her and the blood, all the blood. A lot of it hers, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to know how much. Finally, she looked up and into her eyes.

And time froze once more.

"This thing could kill you."

Sutton stares at her for another moment. Taking the time to get lost in her eyes and for a moment she was able to forget where she was and find herself in some sort of peace. She smiled slightly, it was a little sad, but it was all she could muster.

"It's not me I'm worried about."

She raised her gun, turned back to the rat and she fired.

Bringing back the silence once more.

( sutton attacks bob & billy ; revolver )
S4FY3|gXL7throwing knife
( knife deep in forearm - 8.0 )

throwing knife

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

One (uh, two out of four?) of the rats hits the ground, and he allows hope to swell in his chest.

It's easy when he's looking in this direction. Away from the body twitching in the dirt, still struggling for that last breath before the canon boom — away from the tributes with their bloodied weapons and sharp words, turning this game of pretend war into something real. Monsters are less frightening when they look like this. An unfamiliar foe is easily beaten.

There's no price to pay.

No mirror to show you the hidden truths.

He hones his focus on the surviving creature, currently distracted by the members of the rival alliance. It's a nightmare that they're sharing, the abyss that sinks deeper and deeper below the bridge. And he doesn't for one second mistake these people as his friends, but he knows that he can't just stand there and watch this keep happening. It has to end.

"We'll fuck off," he calls out to their enemies, holding up his gun threateningly — aiming it at the beast, not them. "I finish this, and we all walk away. Be there for your ally while you can." He knows this is the moment that he should glance down and come to terms with watching someone die right in front of him. It has to happen eventually.

But he keeps his gaze forward, grip tight on the pistol and his finger just a squeeze away from the killing blow. "He deserves that much." This isn't him trying to be a hero — or threatening, or charming, or any of that other shit he's realizing doesn't matter. It's all bravado. Little puzzle pieces that form the outline of a man. Someone he doesn't know.

Kyler has nothing witty left to say.

It's all gunfire now.

kyler attacks flearot & fleasludge ; revolver bullet 4/5
tgbkg1VvLrthrowing knife
miss

accuracy | day three

throwing knife
Bullet in Chest -- 7.0 damage

throwing knife·throwing knife