lead the lambs to slaughter / KL v. S v. F v. L

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(https://imgur.com/BF2ZOoa.png); border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 266px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=style, background-color: b76b5c; border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 330px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;] He walks away with her knife. Rusty, maybe even useless — the perfect mirror for a boy like him. A thousand flaws to hide his own. He feels disgusting. Of course he does. Carrying another friend to their death, holding her hand and pretending like everything is going to be okay. Like taking Grim in his arms had been enough to save her. Like that final glance at Sutton's broken body had been an acceptable way to mourn a friend. Fuck. He takes off his gas mask when it starts acting up, breathes in the toxins in the air and starts sobbing. His companion squeaks and shines by his shoulder, and he tries to erase the image of Reagan's little buddy fading by her side. Ceasing to exist in that moment she took her final breath. And that's when he tips over the edge, spilling the contents of his stomach and crying that much harder. Fitz is dead. Sutton is dead. Grim is dead. Reagan is dead, and he only has one person left. Of course he calls her. He waits in silence through the static, puts on another mask with trembling hands, tries to scratch off the dried spots of blood on his suit. He wants a shower so fucking bad. He wants to go home, and to sleep for a week straight, and to wake up not remembering any of this. But then his chest tightens, and he gasps so hard that the shield over his face fogs up. Because forgetting means losing them. For real. Forever. "Please pick up," he croaks into the walkie talkie. "I fucked up. Please, Lore, I need you. I need someone right now." So lonely, and scared, and he can't stand it. He glances up at the sky, and there's nothing to be seen. For the last five nights, there has been nothing. And here's the part that we all knew was coming. The pretty boy can't find a joke to ease the tension. He loses his crowd to perform for. He breaks apart. He has been breaking. Like the way the static shifts, and Lore's voice finally calls out to him. And, fuck, it feels like the closest thing to having a god he's ever known. He clutches the sound of her to his chest, allows himself to keep crying, tries to explain all of the impossible things he can't make sense of. Because he doesn't know how to come to terms with it. They're gone. It's only the two of them left. How could either of them be okay? She comes for him not long after, and he shamelessly throws himself into her arms. And it doesn't stop the pain, and it doesn't rewind time like he hoped it would. They're not teleported back to the training center, dancing in the hallway with champagne on their tongues. Wearing a fur coat from Mackenzie's closet, sunglasses from Jacinta's vanity table. They just... stay in this horrible moment. Embracing in the darkness of the day. And it's enough. It has to be. Let his cries be the music. "Whoa, trouble on the horizon." Every step he has taken in this arena has lead him to fucking drama. He tries not to act surprised when it happens again, like clockwork. Waking up early, gathering their things, moving through the areas and then... danger. Just up ahead. A familiar career that makes his fists clench, a stranger whose name he can't place, and then Lenox. The last reminder of home he has left. Brought here for a reason, it seems. All of them. He only has one bullet left, so he opts for Reagan's knife. It feels foreign in his hand, and just staring at it makes him sad. Part of him wonders if that will help him, if feeling the tangible pain that radiates from this blade will make his attacks that much stronger. Honestly, it'll probably just make him puke again, but he has to try. He charged into battle yesterday, and he got his friend killed. He already can't forgive himself. What is there to lose now? "Well, we know the drill." The gamemakers want their show. Day in, and day out, they call for their puppets to take up their scissors and stab their friends to death. Oh, shit. And it'd be so easy for them to cut their own strings, if they were only brave enough. Wise enough. He clears his throat, looking down at his feet and then at the weapon in his hand, nodding to himself as he drops his backpack to the ground and digs for his jar of tar. In a matter of minutes, he lights a flame on the blade. It's a sickly, burning thing, and it feels like he's holding his own soul. And, fuck, ain't that a good metaphor. He looks at Lore, and then at Lenox, two of the last people he would be okay seeing leave this place instead of him. Because at his center he is selfish, and so terrified to die, and part of him wonders if this arena has taken that from him. Uprooted his awfulness and planted kindness there. Kind people don't survive the Hunger Games. It ruins them. He picks up all his broken shards, and he points at Silk with his fiery dagger. "I'm saving you for the end, Princess." And if he must sacrifice the innocent to prepare for that challenge, then so be it.

kyler attacks flynn ; rusty knife
+ flint / jar of tar
7nTduwz|Ptknife
Shallow Cut on Left Hip -- 3.5 damage

1-50
+2

knife·1-50

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

“You are not a monster Nan. Nobody here is, we are just trying to survive.” Just because she has been trained for this, probably even bred into her. Nan is no monster. I have seen no beast inside her, a shark is just misunderstood. Not that I have ever personally met a shark in my life. She has got me this far, kept me alive and sane. Only a soul with a heart would do that.

"But why- why did he look at me like I was the monster when his ally is the one who stabbed him in the heart." My mother never hugged me, my father never wiped away a tear. Now today is my turn to console Nan and like, what do I do? I just place a hand on the girl’s shoulder, hoping a little comfort will be enough to beat away the negative thoughts.

I am back to being Doctor Flynn as Nan asks to help tend to the bullet wound in her neck. I have hoarded so many medical supplies, many have hardly been touched but only Ripred knows how many days I have left in here. “Yes, do you have any more needles? They got you good today.” Nan hands over a needle and thread, probably the most dubious item I have ever used. Even the practice stitches back home were more realistic than this. "give me a distraction. Tell me something." I am on my knees besides her. My fingers as still as possible as I thread the string through the needle. “I will try and be steady, but dehydration is getting me. It’ll be the third day tomorrow, they better deliver us something ice cold fresh.” I make the first movement with the stitch, the wound is so clean despite what caused it. No more bullet left to cause a nice festering infection. It does feel rewarding performing something so lifesaving like this. “I think I don’t want to be a surgeon like my parents. They are both general surgeons. Still a doctor but stuff like this. An emergency doctor. What about you?”

Nan grunts as the wound begins to close in her neck, the flesh meeting like it should very closely. She says it is good practice. Practice I never thought I would have on real subjects, out in the field. "As a career you don't think much past the age of eighteen till you have too." Is being a career really a career? That thought really hurt my brain. A whole life ambition to be here, being crimpled everyday by radiation and not knowing when the next drink day will be. What kind of lifestyle desire is that?

A marine biologist she says. A bit like the human biology at home but on…fish. I guess fish are interesting, sharks and dolphins and all those swimming breathing underwater creatures. I try my best not to let my mind wander with every word of Nan’s as I take the needle on its next step to seal up the wound. "Like mum. Have you ever seen the ocean?"My face is expressionless right now as I try and perfect the stitching, taking a few seconds than normal to respond to Nan. “No I have never seen it. The biggest water I have seen was that stinky lake from a few days ago.” I take the needle on the last stretch, finishing off the perfectly preserved wound. I shimmy back on my knees, taking a wider look at the wound. It is textbook.

"If you win this, go. It's beautifully dangerous." Maybe like I promised, I could help heal her mother and then we can both go look at the ocean. I wish it just did not mean she had to be dead for that to ever happen. Why can’t we both experience the ocean together? "In the summer, the waters are crystal clear, and then when the sunsets the colours reflect off the surface, and it's truely something else." It sounds like an ideal world. Not like the dreariness of Six, the bright lights of the Capitol and the toxins of this arena. The only three places I have ever been.

“Have you ever thought what must be beyond the ocean?” There must be something. Panem cannot be the only hell that the ocean surrounds. "Maybe there is some other sort of civilisation... One where you don't have to live life constantly looking over your shoulder. What do you think is out there?"

Maybe there is a land without a Hunger Games. A land where everyone lives free but why have we never heard of it? “If there is another civilisation, why haven’t they come and rescued us yet?” Maybe everywhere else is like this wasteland we are in right now. No life. Nothingness. "More wishful thinking on my behalf." Nan just shrugs. Maybe we will never know. Maybe they do not want us to know. "Get some sleep, I'll take the first watch."

I take up my space to sleep tonight. There is no glass to sweep away. Just a perfect spot to lay my head on my sack and finally catch a break. Soon it will be nearly a week. We must be nearly there now. Nearly home.

---

The smog is thick again. I am not even sure if its is morning of it is my turn to take the night’s watch. ”Nan?” All I can see for company is the fluorescent lime blob. ”Nan?” I say it a little louder as I scramble to my feet, flinging the sack over my shoulder and equipping myself with one of the revolvers. Where has she gone? It is not like her to just get up and go. Maybe she did not want to end up doing what Silk did yesterday or let it fall on me. Not that I would ever do that. Not to her.

What do I even do now but walk? It is so hard to breathe through the polluted air, my cough hurts my throat, and the dehydration is not helping. I am alone in the arena. Left to fend for myself. Just like Silk said. It is happening. The end is rolling by closer and closer. It is time I fought for myself.

A poignant smell of burning reaches my lungs, another irritant to attack my throat and my nostrils. The heat of whatever is burning hits my cheeks and it is not long before I can see the source through the haze. And it is not long before I have company. The worst imaginable company at that. It is Silk Le Roux with her lightening rod. Maybe she killed Nan and now she is after me. But there have been no canons today. Not yet.

"I'm saving you for the end, Princess." More company joins us, it is someone I have not met in the arena before. Kyler from Seven I think, a neighbour in the forest. Though he does not act neighbourly. His knife flickers with flames like the wildfire that surrounds us, and it nips at my hip. A yelp falls from my lips as I jump back from the boy’s attack. The princess must be Silk. The only career warrior here. Why must her life be spared for later in favour of mine? ”Why save Silk for later? You are not going to have a later.” I click the revolver, taking the safety mechanism thing off, aiming at the boy whose knife has maimed me. ”I am not your easy pickings. If she is your real enemy, why not kill her now?”

Flynn attacks Kyler | Revolver (throwing knives)

RRGu8GOr3sthrowing knife

[9155 -- Shallow Cut on Back -- 4.0 damage]

throwing knife

[Deleted]

[ filler night before intro ]

"Woah, danger on the horizon." 

"Who the fuck is that?" she squints with Syren's gun in her hand, hunched over trying to put names to the silhouettes. Maybe the acid rain got in her eyes, it's all just bodies - pretty much always has been. She doesn't feel safe just by Kyler's side, as much as she wishes she did, she just feels alive. That's enough for now, but tomorrow comes and another body drops, what's left for them here? 

Kyler Petralia picks up his knife, she can see it in the fog as he readies himself, and part of her is nervous it'll be her. 

That's just Syren's ghost talking to her, weighing her down as she always did, but it's hard to trust people when you wouldn't trust yourself. He should watch out, find better company, but then it comes along: one by one, Silk Le Roux, the boy from six, and Lenox LaChance. "That's a lot of bitches," she whispers through the fog, almost excited as she rests her bottom lip on the revolver's tip. 

What the fuck is going on here? It's almost as if she missed an anthem, she hasn't seen Nanette Carter without this boy all games, Silk has no army and Lenox has no Garrison; no shield. The five of them must have seen five shit ass days to wind up here together, and Kyler rushes in without hesitation. It's gotta be something admirable, something a little stupid; is he her responsibility now? 

That doesn't seem to end well nowadays. 

She rubs her mascara as Kyler knifes the boy from six, Syren's district partner, they always end up with the kids somehow. From Syd to Sin, Castor and Flynn, everybody who needed protecting is still alive; so when do they die? When does it gets too thin, because she's not dying for a boy who hasn't hit puberty yet -- fuck their whole life, Lorraine checks his nine. 

Silk watches, readies; Lenox hides behind Kyler's shadow. 

A fight with too many captains, it's like four people who all fucked their alliances. She cocks her gun, spinning the round before putting her hand over her eyes, they're all just tributes. Lorraine cocks her head as she counts, imagining Fridae Drummond's fried corpse as she nods her head to her count. Eenie, meenie-

"I'm not your easy pickings," it's followed by a gunshot. Like a reverb, she snaps to the end of Flynn's gun with a panic -- if Kyler dies to a preteen who hasn't even taken algebra yet, she's gonna be so pissed. "Hey, let's leave the fucking guns to the adults, yeah?" She shouts through a furred brow. 

Let's not get cocky, Flynn, that's my job. 

[ shoots Flynn ]
Ux6mXpzoVY200+9000
[ miss - 0.0 ]

A warning shot hits the air, echoing through the fog as she aimed to the sky, shooting nothing but god. It's nothing more to scare him off Kyler, he can take on Silk, sure, but a rat with a revolver's complicating things. Enough with the emotional exposee, "let's make it clear Flynn, you hit that guy again and I'm shooting your brain out your nose." I Kill Kids could make a good merch t-shirt. 

She keeps her gun posted, a dying expression and tense elbows. 

If every time she looks at him, she thinks of Syren, then she might be better off shooting still. "You hear me, bitch?" 

Nannette can't save you otherwise. 

Not from me. 

200+9000

[lance]

What is given and what is taken - what, really, is the difference at the end of the day, when what you once held dear to your chest is absent nonetheless?

You watch the sky unblinkingly as faces cross over it. Four, yet again. The girl from Three who'd whittled down at Turner's form from afar on the third day. The boy from Nine, a relative unknown.

And then Fridae, followed shortly by Saylor. You'd figured as much when Fridae hadn't returned to your makeshift camp before dusk, that she'd either died or willingly ditched in the face of steadily dwindling numbers.

Your soul, split into three, now lay universally dormant. The piece you'd shared with Turner, all of your Career swagger and ferocity, dead. The piece you'd shared with Fridae, all of your fierce determination and warrior's spirit, dead. The piece you'd shared with Saylor, all of your tenderness and humanity, dead.

By all accounts, you should be a husk, a mutt, a soulless being devoid of your very humanity. Then why does pain still resonate through your chest? Why does the heart forever pinned to your sleeve still leak red, almost as if in agony?

The faces fade, and you close your eyes.

Flash.

Turner's broken form on the end of Sutton Mae's gunshot.

Flash.

Fridae swallowed up by the void of mystery, face a war of fear and determination.

Flash.

Saylor, stuck on the end of your spear, eyes filled with pain before going dark forever.

Flash.

You open your eyes, once again look to the sky, wishing not for the first time that you could see the stars beyond the smog. They never were very bright in the industrialized urban One, but you had your places, your hideouts, where you could go and make out the brightest, where you could hold onto their light, ever persevering amongst the millions of light years and the void of space separating them from you.

Breathe in.

You'd allied with those three for a reason, one to keep you in check, one to match in strength, one to hold onto your humanity. By the previous day, it was to help them as much as the rest - get Fridae's wavering spirit, Saylor's unshakeable moral compass, over the finish line in your place.

Breathe out.

But that was never meant to be, was it? The second one starts planning for their own failure, then the chances of victory waver. Perhaps Fate was giving you a second chance, correcting your one fatal flaw, reminding you of your true priorities.

Saylor Bell or Fridae Drummond or, hell, even Turner Grey winning while you fell dead to protect them wasn't the worst mental image. But you'd never entered the arena preparing to die. You'd win, whatever the cost.

You think back to your conversation with Ridley, smile wryly at the realization that your cousin had been right, that your hubris had been shattered.

Twelve left.

You're halfway there, with no one to rely on but your own self. No fellow Career to stoke your savagery. No warrior to push you ever forward. No soft boy to keep you grounded even as you fought and murdered.

Perhaps that was as it was meant to be. Five days to coalesce. Another four to fight to the bitter end with your own two hands.

Halfway there.

It's time, Silk Le Roux, to forge your own fate with your own two hands. You are up to the task - you must be.

There are no excuses left for failure. Not anymore.

---

It's a familiar landscape you're drawn to this time, another gift of water drawing you from solitude into the world of your rivals. You ponder the implications - why set up an arena devoid of water if it was only going to be gifted in abundance every third day? Was it a plan to maximize bloodshed, or did the Capitol simply find tributes dying of thirst a slow and boring method to proceed?

One cannon echoes over the landscape, then a second, and you decide that that question is better left unknown for the moment.

Nevertheless, you draw your spear, relishing its now comfortable weight in your own two hands. For the first time, you're diving into the unknown without anyone - no Turner, no Fridae, no Saylor - at your back.

And perhaps that's for the best, for two of them had died following you into battle and the third had died trying to escape that fate.

You draw closer. Shapes coalesce, take on familiarity. Kyler from Seven, the last remaining soul from the wealth alliance, waving a flaming knife in the air. A girl you haven't seen until now - also from Seven, Lenox LaChance, a tribute legacy just like yourself. Lore from Eight, someone you're surprised to see right here this moment but not at all surprised to see at this point in the Games - she had read like a survivor right from the very first time you'd ran into her in the hallway of the training center, someone with a nigh-invincible spirit just like yours burning so bright that, had you not been certain she would have stuck a knife into your back at the first opportunity, you might have brought into your motley alliance instead.

And a familiar kid, with the same cracking voice, oddly absent of his fearsome Career guardian.

"Well, isn't this quite the collection of misfits," you say drily as you saunter up to the group. Just like last time, there's water to be found, all grouped up in a bundle as if waiting for the desperate to arrive and drink it. Or fight over it.

You imagine it'll come down to a little of both.

Perhaps not surprisingly, it's Kyler that cracks the whip and starts the rodeo. No longer is the knife simply a beacon attracting moths to its flame, but suddenly a weapon of destruction as he lunges towards the kid from Six.

Where was Nanette? If the last two days were anything to go by, you imagined that nothing short of death would have separated the two. Was that what one of the cannons represented? Had something else transpired in the hours since you'd seen each other last? Had-

"I'm saving you for the end, Princess." You realize with a start that Kyler is referencing you, all bold declarations and haughty swagger that's honestly surprising to see coming from this boy. Though, to be fair, the last time you'd seen him, it'd been as one of the few voices of reason, the recipient of a failed ambush on his allies. Who knew if losing all three of his allies in the time since had changed him? You certainly didn't.

”Why save Silk for later? You are not going to have a later.” Flynn snarks back, and despite yourself you can't help but snort. Even without Nanette, even without you on the other side of the field of battle, the kid and his bravado haven't wavered. It's almost amusing, seeing it - and his gunshots - not aimed your way for once.

Almost.

Lore fires a shot of her own at the kid, though whether it misses by design or simply by chance isn't something you can discern. What you can are her words - a demand that if Six hits Kyler again, she won't hesitate to splatter his brains out all over the dirt.

And you cannot help it - this time, you don't simply snort, you laugh.

"Showing mercy to kids?" you ask incredulously at the girl from Eight. "Acting protective over a rival this close to the top eight?" You chuckle again, the first real bit of mirth you'd felt since Saylor's death.

This was someone you'd been worried about since the beginning? Someone you'd thought had the brutality and guile to make it all the way to the end, perhaps as your very last opponent? If you make it out of here, you vow to redouble your efforts when it comes to reading people - because not only has Lore from Eight made the very same mistake you did in getting attached, in hesitating, but unlike you, she hasn't seemed to learn the error of her ways yet.

Oh well. You're not complaining.

"That's not how you win the Hunger Games, Lorraine," you smirk, rolling the girl's name over your tongue with as much emphasis as you could give it.

You turn towards the boy. Perhaps this is what a life without anything to lose other than your own life leads to. Boldness disguised as recklessness, a desire to tempt fate as well as her servants, or maybe simply a desire to wipe the smirk off of that condescending boy's face.

You decide it doesn't matter what the reasoning is - your spear, crackling with a heat that rivals the flame on his own blade, flies towards his form regardless.

After all, why save what you know to be your biggest threat for last?

silk attacks kyler petralia; electric spear

5dQ8NQx0X6spear

miss

electricity roll, day 6 (1/2)

1-50

+2

accuracy, day six

spear

dg on left calf, +8

spear·1-50·spear

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

[attr="class","table"]

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"I can't see myself winning this game anymore," Garrison's words ring in my ear. "Killing isn't the same when it's a plastic dummy. Nobody teaches you how to unsee the blood, to deal with that inside while fixing the damage on the outside. I'm fucking tired, aren't you?"

"Yeah," I say, thinking about everything that has brought me to this moment. Growing up in the woods, singing folk songs and carving initials into the trees to losing brothers like grief was a charm to collect for a bracelet. I think about the pain in my chest after watching blood of my own get spilled time and time again, how helpless I was, how heavy it all felt. And then having a saviour in the form of Diana Sayers, grace was a blinding light indeed and, man, my eyes hurt. It never ends, the hurt. It begun when I was young and it just keeps on going. Relentless. Hungry. It just keeps on going. "Tired," I say, but tired isn't enough to sum it all up.

"There was a way out for that kid just now, and there's a way out for us. We just have to fight until we find it. At least we're in this together. I've got your back."

I let my guard down, my knees falling so that I'm sat in a cross-legged position. Garrison is right, and that escape is one that I've considered, as sad as it is. Because the world sometimes feels like a little too much, and this name is too much for me to handle. I don't want to be branded a legacy when legacy doesn't even run in my veins - all the blood has already been spilled. Someone like me can't come from a long line of losers and expect to win, and knowing that is a hard pill to swallow. And in this place, fumes and radiation and sickness and clouds and smoke - sometimes I think that choking would be easier.

Glass eyes look up to Garrison, because I'm moments away from breaking, again.

"You're right. I've got your back." I say to him, the words trying desperately to be enough to numb the pain, or even just push it aside for a moment, but it's almost like they add salt to the wounds. Holding on only means letting go is harder. I should know that by now.

---

The world spins in the morning. Not in the usual fashion, it's almost like there's a mist covering my eyes that has changed my perspective. I'm watching myself. I'm standing behind myself, yeah, that's it, and I'm watching the world tick by, second by second. Garrison disappears into the smoke and there's a scent in the air that makes my stomach queasy; burning rubber lingers in the air and if this is me having a stroke, then so be it.

It's hard to find my feet. I look down and see my hands and it's almost like I float back into my body. And it's only then that I experience all the negative things that come with being Lenox LaChance. The sadness, the expectation, the frustration, sadness again, oh, and guilt, of course.

And it makes me mad, at first, because for a second there, I was free. There was no sadness, no expectation, no frustration and no guilt. I can't even describe how the weightlessness of that out of body experience felt because I can't get over the damned nature of this state of mind. Burning rubber lingers in the air and it screams at the ghosts around me, the world is spinning, but the sun will always set on the same horizon.

And Garrison has my back.

But then the penny finally drops that Garrison really isn't here at all, that he's gone, somewhere, I don't know where, and loneliness starts to feel more like an impending doom than fate. The walls begin to close in and I have to take a moment to stop myself from hyperventilating, I can't feed whatever is turning me over and over, round and round. I close my eyes and squeeze my right hand into a tight fist, begging myself to stay present no matter how much it hurts, because staying present at least means that I'm still here, still breathing, still able to crack open an escape that doesn't require cowardice.

"Garrison?" I call out, but there's no response. So I do it again, "Garrison?!" Yet all I can hear is my pulse in my ear. It takes everything in me not to break after telling him that I'd have his back and that he'd have mine because, well, what if?

I kick up some muck from the ground and look at it with a frown. I hate this place. I hate it so much and I really would do anything just to go home and live an easy life where I feel fulfilled by a simple chair. I fall to my knees and scream into the ground in a desperate attempt to relieve some of the tension in my head and heart. But this earth is scorched and it's almost like I can see the heat of my scream sink into the mud before anybody can even be burned by it. Nobody hears me and that means nobody is going to save me.

I guess I really am alone, now. I've no saviour and no survivors.

My eyes narrow into the distance. Maybe if I just keep walking, I'll fall of this world. I'll end up somewhere prettier, softer, nicer. The smoke begins to billow around me, I accept the burning rubber as a welcome addition to the deadly concoction of poison my past has burdened me with, and I walk into the darkness. I don't care where it takes me, I just don't want to be alone.

I walk for a long time, my mind shutting down more and more with each step, until -

"You hear me, bitch?"

I look around and see no bodies. I hear it all, though, I hear the footsteps, the bang and reload of a gun, I hear the voices

"Showing mercy to kids? Acting protective over a rival this close to the top eight?" Another voice worms its way through the clouds. "That's not how you win the Hunger Games, Lorraine,"

I stumble out from the darkness, coughing slightly as I emerge to a group of tributes. There's more bodies than I heard voices, and when I look around, I make a mental note of them all. Silk Le Roux, Lorraine Gaultier, Flynn Garner and - and - and - Kyler Petralia. Her spear ends up through his leg, horror washing over my body.

There's no Kane beside me. No Fitz. I don't know where Garrison is. I know that I'm alone in this world full of murderers, but seeing Kyler makes me feel a little less lonely. His presence seems to push the four walls away from me a little bit, it gives me room to breathe, a moment to centre myself and clear my head. Home has never been so far away, but it has never felt so close.

It's killing me. But she's killing him all the same. Nothing I can say will stop her.

The world stops spinning. I hope Garrison still has my back because I think this time - this time, I think I've got his.

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[ d7f lenox lachance attacks d1f silk le roux ; spear ]

56ogy0qONuspear

[ miss ]

[ accuracy ]

spear

[ 3028 -- Stabbed in Stomach -- 9.5 damage ]

spear·spear

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(https://imgur.com/BF2ZOoa.png); border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 266px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=style, background-color: b76b5c; border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 330px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;] There's a moment when he's swinging his burning knife — a singular, critical moment — where he imagines stabbing the kid in the stomach. Deep. Fatal. It makes him falter at the very last minute, drawing a shallow cut across the boy's hip. It's not enough to make him any less disgusted in himself, but it's nothing time can't heal. He jerks away quickly, then just kind of stares for a moment. Unsure of what to do. Walking that fine line between his two vices, vanity and self-hatred, and diving so recklessly into the latter. His victim has a smart mouth and a sharp tongue — and that just makes it worse because he realizes this is someone whose company he'd honestly enjoy. A tribute who, in an alternate universe, might have been one of the allies Kyler would have given anything to protect. And then failed to save, of course, but there's still a tiny spark of hope in the young man that refuses to die out. It moves in him like static from his walkie talkie, waiting for Lore to say something that grounds him. Something that strikes him like the bullet that grazes his back. But he just floats in a mix of numbness and pain, staring in disbelief at his crime. He hears words directed at him, but they seem to blur and shift around him. "If she is your real enemy, why not kill her now?" bleeding into "you hit that guy again and I'm shooting your brain out your nose." He imagines the taste of steel between his lips, and then flinches. Gasps. Tries to scare the intrusive thought away. The sudden rush of air brings him back to life, but only just in time to throw himself to the side as Silk charges him. Her spear — that makes him think of Grim, and hurt that much worse — pierces his calf muscle, sending an electric shock up his body that sends him crashing to his knees. He catches himself on one hand, holding his still burning blade up with the other. So ashamed of what he did with it, but still clutching on to the protection it provides. Because of course he does. Spoiled children do not accept suffering easily. It's unnatural to him, the way discomfort stabs at him through every soft surface. The way his entire life just feels... dirty. And more real, and impactful, than ever before. "Fuck, I'm—" he shakes his head, uses all his athletic endurance to push himself to his feet, jogging through the throbbing pain that snakes through the nerves in his leg. He waits until there's a small distance between himself and his attacker, looking at the stranger he had used in such a terrible way. An intimidation tactic. Nothing more than a toy to distract himself from the real target. The one person he can't bring himself to find redeemable. Every story has that one villain. She should count herself special. "I'm sorry, dude. Shit." He runs a hand through his hair, clumsily catching his fingers on the straps of his gas mask. "I'm losing it. My ally, she—" the truth lodges itself in his throat, and he has to take a moment to swallow the rush of anxiety and remorse that builds there. "I'm losing everybody." He's hurting from the same dagger that has stabbed each of them. He's cashing in a tragedy that doesn't belong to one person. When he sighs, he feels like a river pouring itself into the unknown. "You're right." Voice quiet, and flickering with that familiar hope. Then his gaze is on the girl from One, all lean muscles and clever features. Quick as a snake, graceful as a bird, so terrifyingly human that he can't even bring himself to be amazed by her. It's hard to love a creature when you know sharing a space with them means killing them, or being killed. It's primal. "Little man has a point. What am I waiting for?" He spreads his arms dramatically, opening himself to the challenge he's presenting. It's already been determined. It's kill or be killed. That's the only way out of this. "I don't want to play the game like that. You shouldn't hurt someone just because they're—" he falters as he remembers shooting an innocent boy just a day ago, "—right there. Fuck." His stare holds hers, knuckles turning white as his grip on his knife tightens. "Eye for an eye, that's always been the trick. Hurt the people that hurt you, and nobody else." At the end of the day, they're all the bad guy in a different story. He's no better than her, and still. He calls himself the hero in this retelling. His monologue seems to give Lenox the opportunity for a surprise attack, driving her spear through the career's gut. He purses his lips, not quite strong enough to handle the sight of all the blood, but he forces himself to keep looking forward. Unblinking. He has lost so much, held the hands of two dying girls, one that he admired and one that he fell for so stupidly — and, fuck, if only she could see him now. Still standing, still surrounded by people worth protecting. Until the bitter end, and not a moment sooner. "Sorry for the delay, Princess. Let's get the real show started."

kyler attacks silk ; rusty knife
+ flint / jar of tar
1rZXGKkMyKknife
Shallow Cut on Left Hip -- 3.5 damage

1-50
+2

knife·1-50

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

A second thought does not follow when I squeeze the trigger. It is not like yesterday; the guy is nothing like Saylor. I see no heart. If he is, then well I hope lightening rod finishes him off for me.

My hip burns, the smouldering flesh smell a little poignant above the signature collection of aromas that the arena offers. I place my free palm on the wound, a stinging sensation vibrates up and down my torso and even down to my toes. Now that might catch an infection or two. Great, it is the time of the games where I will be playing doctor on myself; if these big kids let me walk away.

Another shot rings in the air but is not aimed anywhere but up to the gamemakers that are looking down at us. The big personality from Eight fires a warning at me. Me who was defending myself from an unsolicited attack. They really are picking on the little kids. Not the career or the girl that has been lurking in the smoke and I have only just noticed. I see a seven on her clothes. So, Seven is allowed to have both of its kids alive? Now I am left to carry Six, I wonder what or who killed Syren. She seemed capable to last a little longer…

"let's make it clear Flynn, you hit that guy again and I'm shooting your brain out your nose." Yesterday I was assured there were no monsters. Maybe they really do hang around in the shadows. What the hell, and she calls me a bitch! Lightening rod delivers though, striking with electricity at the boy’s leg but it is nothing like the lunge she threw at meathead or the one that finished off Saylor yesterday.

”Hey, he hit me first! Back off…b-bitch!” Now what do I do now? Agitate the girl who’s just threatened to spread my brains across this burning toxic land or aim my gun elsewhere. No way at Silk, she would be able to finish me off with one flick. Where is Nanette? There have been two canons. They cannot be for her. No, I need her here right now. Telling me what to do, telling me who to aim the barrel of my gun at. ”What do I do…Silk?” Shit.

Flynn attacks Lenox | Revolver (throwing knives)

NoRcO2lkqwthrowing knife

Accuracy

throwing knife

[]

throwing knife·throwing knife

[Deleted]

"That's not how you win the Hunger Games,

Lorraine."

Oh, what a bitch. There's too much white noise, her flare shot still ringing in her ear as annoyingly as Silk Le Roux's privileged, velvety voice. A girl so pretty; she'll make a beautiful corpse, empty promises and a cackling spear as distracting as her laugh. It's a bitter rage that sinks into Lorraine's stomach as she hears her own name through the insults - not because of fear, or jealousy.

Just disappointment. 

What happened to the original plot, Lorraine? It's a screaming in her brain that comes with realizing all her hardships and this blonde bitch still walks on her pretty long legs. She stabs Kyler in the thigh, the smell of Fridae Drummond's corpse almost familiar in the air and it swallows into her gut. "Tell me Silk, what's it like sleeping alone like the failed career you are?" 

"My guard dog bites bitch," she preaches over her shoulder as she cocks another bullet. Spins the round and brings her stature up in time to watch Kyler's partner pin her though the stomach, to watch Kyler's flames bite at Silk's beautiful hips. It's sickly, porcelain skin bleeding a new yellow undertone - Lorraine remembers her looking better. 

Maybe it was just the capitol lighting, "no make up, no wealth, can't wield that spear like Coach could- you know he killed Fridae, right?" 

"Fried her right up, babe!" 

Her only regret was not recording it to text to Silk. Lorraine tries not to think of what the body looked like, tries to forget the role she was given. There's two sets of final words that only exist in her ears and on television, and she's gonna be the only one to live to hear them post-edit, or god help her, she's haunt whoever gets in her fucking way.

Lorraine wastes her time elsewhere. The two from seven have it covered, Silk's only powerful in front of a crowd; she looks back to Flynn as he calls her a bitch. Defiant, for just a second, before raising his gun and shooting into the crowd. Her eyes trace his aim, there's no blood from either of his shots, no broken skin, no pain on Kyler or Silk or even Lenox. 

"Atta boy," she speaks in a whisper. 

It's enough just for Flynn to get the hell out of the way, sit back and add to the white noise. That overwhelming noise, her brain is calm and her hands are panicked; almost two of the same at this point. Two on One, Silk Le Roux dies today. 

Does the party end there? Not until we want it to, babes. 

Flynn is a non issue, Silk dies, and Kyler has two allies going into the top eight, even as he is impaled and shot at, the numbers don't lie. He's in a better spot, and it's such an easy mistake in the middle of the chaos -- if he has Lenox, why would he need Lorraine? 

My hand slipped, mister, "but let me show you how it's done."

[ lorraine shoots lenox ] 
su0k_sF58I200+9000
[ 9162 -- Deep Gash on Forearm -- 7.5 Damage + 1 Target Practice]

"Oops." Flatly, blunt, dripping emotionless, she doesn't hide it because there's no point to. Gaslight, manipulate, she sits in the backlines with Flynn pissing his pants, Kyler fighting her war- this is how you win the Hunger Games, Silk. A girl who doesn't lose three allies, but kills them herself; the morals need to end. Good people still die young, it doesn't matter how kind you are if you are the one who lives. 

They'll never know, I guess, all that matters is plausible deniability. She takes the second to reload, smirking to herself as she decides the next plan. There's a bit of her that feels greasy thinking of Kyler that way, that he's just an asset -- she loved him a week ago. She loved him last night, he pleads and she comes and if she doesn't win it'll be him. 

But if he can die for her, he will. 

"You know Flynn," she leans slightly, speaking only to the easiest target here, "Silk killed Syren, it's personal for me too." 

Is it for you?

I hope so.

200+9000

[lance]

It's funny, how it works. Each action has an equal and opposite reaction. Your spear tears into Kyler's thigh, and another spear finds its way into your gut.

Not Kyler's. Kyler only has a knife. You scream as the pole is withdrawn, as you stumble backwards, pain blossoming throughout your core. For a moment, shock and fear, cold, icy fear, take control.

Then you collect yourself, clench your teeth to swallow your pain. On the other end of the spear is Kyler's district partner, Lachance. Figures as much. Sevens and Ones have never really liked each other all that much, and even with the ever fluctuating alliances and rivalries that pop up between districts and tributes that has remained consistent. Opal Earnest versus Yaa Vallaro, Justice Fray versus Iris Flower-Oak, Cynthia Rose Delgado versus Jacinta Salazar, all storied examples taught in the academies of One and Seven and their fateful clashes in the most pivotal part of the Games.

And here you are on the wrong side of that district conflict, surrounded only by enemies and more enemies. Wonderful.

Kyler, for his part, seems to have struggled through some sort of internal conflict, giving you time to recover and prepare for the next round. "You done?" you reply through lidded eyes, gaze flitting back and forth from one Seven to the next. "Truly, I wonder how you survived if that's been your philosophy this entire time. If you only ever strike after you've already been hit-" you pause, flourishing your spear. "Well, then someone's going to get lucky, and you won't even be able to strike back."

The kid from Six moves, panic in his voice - guess Lore still maintains some of her intimidation even when she's hiding behind a shield made of bark - and the shot fired goes wide. And you pause - because sure, this kid has been on opposite sides of the battle from you for two days in a row. Sure, he'd started the conflict yesterday that had ended in Saylor's death.

But there's no denying the panic in his voice, the fear in his eyes. At the end of the day, he's still just a kid. And without Nanette, a scared one, at that.

Goddamn your fucking bleeding heart, fuck your weakness for those that don't deserve to be there.

"Kid, you have about two options here," you say, in a voice that's stern but not sharp. "You can either run and go find Nanette, or you swallow your fear and fight as if your life fucking depends on it." You chuckle without mirth at the irony. Because, yanno, it
kinda does."

And then Lore moves forward to take her shot. "Tell me Silk, what's it like sleeping alone like the failed career you are?" she spits, as if words will emulate the sticks and stones that have been thrown at you time and time again. As if being called a failed Career is anything worse than you've questioned yourself in the last few days.

You chuckle again, for there's the Lore you thought you knew. Some things perhaps don't change, after all. "Quiet," you reply drily, momentarily breaking your gaze from Seven to Eight. "Don't have to worry about Fridae's snoring keeping me up at night."

"My guard dog bites bitch," and Kyler's dragging his blade across your side, no doubt trying to take advantage of the wound that his district partner dealt, but you rarely fall for the same trick twice - and as you back away, you glance at him curiously.

"Guard dog, eh?" you chuckle. "Not how I'd describe my allies, that's for sure."

Another flourish, muscles tense, but Lore's not done, and listening to her yap on is fun in a different way. You'd expected many tests of martial skill within the arena; a test of the tongue was unexpected but not unwelcome.

"No make up, no wealth, can't wield that spear like Coach could- you know he killed Fridae, right?"

That catches your attention - and it takes you a second to realize two things - one, you now knew the fate of your third and final ally, and two, Coach had, at some point, succeeded where you had failed and killed Grim off.

Interesting. So interesting you almost miss the end of her train of thought.

"Fried her right up, babe!"

You pause, considering, then wave your hand. "Meh," you decided. "I've heard better, to be honest."

Your inner turmoil can wait. Whatever Lore's trying to do here - throw you off guard, cause you to have a breakdown on national television, the like, it's not like it's anything you're afraid of. But perhaps now when it's three, maybe four versus one isn't the best time to be distracted by such frivolous elements.

Then she fires her gun, and your eyes widen.

"Oops." And even though she just shot right at Kyler's district partner, she does not sound very sorry at all.

You grin - and what a shame that you had to meet here, because in another life, you and Lore would have gotten on like thunder and lightning.

Oh well. Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

"You know Flynn," and you cannot not pay attention to Lore's words even when you're no longer the intended target, "Silk killed Syren, it's personal for me too."

Oh, what a bitch.

You do the math in your head, suddenly thankful that you'd made sure to pay attention to the anthem each night. The math adds up, and a grin crosses your face.

Syren Steele, right? District Six, died day four, and so on?" You turn towards Flynn for just a moment. "Tell me, Flynn, would I have killed her before I electrocuted Revan to death, or after?"

You don't give anyone the chance to respond, because quite frankly there's been too much talking already.

A shame. You figure you could spend hours just standing here, verbally sparring with Lore until the sun went down. Fuck the spears and guns, that alone should be worth primetime television, eh, Capitol?

What a damn shame indeed.

silk attacks kyler petralia; electric spear

BDRdBX5IAUspear

3069 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage

electricity roll, day 6 (2/2)

1-50

+4

spear·1-50

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

[attr="class","table"]

[attr="class","scroll"]

Through her stomach - the spear ends up through her stomach, and once again, I go through the process of tracing the blood back to the pointy tip and the pointy tip back to my hands. There's been blood on my hands for days now, but it's not something I think I can get used to; holding the splatters of someone's spirit, someone's life in the wrinkles of my palm feels like the type of thing a god should be doing. Heck, I'm no god, I'm just a girl. Just Lenox, trying to make her way, trying to survive.

The other tributes seem to have connections. It's a war of words and I can't focus because so-and-so killed so-and-so and there's far too much concern about revenge for me to ever want to get involved. I'm not sure revenge is something I believe in, well, not yet anyway. I've been wrong enough times, sure, but maybe I just haven't been wronged in the worst kind of way to warrant that kind of feeling. I've never wanted to get revenge on the living relatives of Jenoah Rasoio for killing Reese. I've never wanted to hunt down every cat and make it pay for what that creature did to Tobias. I've never felt a thirst for blood towards Nico Thorne for murdering Diana. But maybe losing in that way isn't enough - or maybe I'm too sane for my own good.

Revenge, in these games, is death. I know that, they know that. And I know it would make me live just that ounce longer if there was a fire in my belly that was ignited by all the wrongs I've ever endured, but I can't waste my energy seeking a sick sense of satisfaction from collecting bodies in my wake when I have my own wake to fear. Solemn memoirs of the girl laying flowers at her brothers' graves, a funeral plagued by a feeling of impending doom because - if it can't stop with me, when does it stop? When does the LaChance name get a break?

Vengeful is everything I need to be but everything I am not. I look between them all, Lorraine to Silk - their constant back and forth is something of spite and desperate betterment. Nobody is better than anyone else here, so yeah, maybe I don't have anything to lose by being a reckless life collector, but I at least want to die respecting myself, even if it's the only thing I have to my name and even if it means nothing to the world.

"What do I do... Silk?" The boy from Six cries. Flynn's voice is laced with uncertainty and fear - something I know all too well about. And I can't help but feel sorry for him, because when I was his age, the fear was enough to make my bones brittle and turn me into a dead girl walking. I look at him and pray that the same doesn't happen to him, that maybe he's stronger somehow and can take it like a champ - Ripred knows I've always been too busy wallowing in self-pity and sadness to ever move on.

"Kid, you have about two options here," Silk chimes in, her tone frank. "You can either run and go find Nanette, or you swallow your fear and fight as if your life fucking depends on it. Because, yanno, it kinda does."

He aims his revolver at me and takes a shot. Innocent. I've never wronged him - and if he deems me a means to an end, I'll have to prove him wrong.

"Whatever you do, don't follow in her footsteps." I say, my voice husky from the thirst and the fear. Because he's showing the same sense of reliance that I've grown used to. The safety of the trigger quickly became the safety of those who pulled the trigger - and it's not right to get comfortable with people who you can fall back on, not in the Hunger Games, but heck, it can at least make a person forget about the ache for a second.

I don't want Flynn to end up like me: sixteen, barely any fight left, barely any live to give. Reliance on someone else is just lack of self-trust and -

- I really need to take my own advice. I hope Garrison is okay.

Lorraine points her gun at me, next, and I feel set up. Why me? Why me when they all so clearly hate Silk? I know that I'm no good, I'm guilt-ridden, I'm plagued by my past and I'm not worth the air I breathe, but these people - I've never hurt them. I've never known them, and surely that counts for something when you're up against someone with previous. The bullet lodges itself in my arm, I let out a scream and stare back at her.

It's confusing. Everyone here seems to want each other dead - everyone except me. I don't know how I fit in here, sure, Kyler is my district partner, the only thing left that reminds me of home, but that doesn't feel like enough to justify my body ending up a trophy for one of these people. I just want to live, dammit, I want to build a chair, be happy with the simple things. I want to open a window and let the cold in, unafraid, and stare out at the world knowing that I can do whatever I want. No fear, no guilt - easy living. But somehow, everyone and everything stands in my way.

I'm on no one's side here. I'm alone, lonelier than ever, and yeah, silly me for thinking that finding people would make me feel an ounce better because all of this has just made me feel worse. I want Kane and Fitz back. I want Garrison by my side. I don't want this and I don't want that - I don't care who did what.

I just care about life. And I want to live it, I really do, I want to live it before it gets too late. I'm not a reckless life collector, I'm just desperate. I'm sad, I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm heavy, my heart hurts and my head aches. I know no peace.

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[ d7f lenox lachance attacks d8f lorraine gaultier ; spear ]

ipzvafUxOispear

[ 3108 -- Shallow Cut on Left Bicep -- 3.5 damage ]

spear

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(https://imgur.com/BF2ZOoa.png); border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 266px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=style, background-color: b76b5c; border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 330px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;] "You done?" Fatigue spreads through him like the fire still burning on his blade. But then there's a cold rush of adrenaline that builds just beneath the surface, like the chemicals inside a bomb. He feels like shit, to be completely honest, but there's something about the way his calf muscle throbs and his back stings that reminds him he's alive. In pain, and stressing the fuck out, but still in the fight. He's far from finished. "In your dreams," he says in an even voice, taking this opportunity to center himself. He breathes in and out, digging his heels into the burnt earth beneath them. If he goes into this battle falling apart, well... it'll only make it that much easier for the career to break him down into nothing. And he doesn't want that. Obviously. As much as he doesn't want to be weighed down by the loss of his friends forever. But iron chains are not so easily torn apart. And the memory of holding them as they died never quite leaves his mind. "Yeah, I know. I'm a fuckin' idiot." Her words are harsh, but terribly true. What happens when that lucky strike cuts clean across his throat? When there's no vengeance left to be had? "But, hey, I'll play the clown. Doesn't bother me." There's a lot of things he could say to her. A passionate monologue about honor and courage — but all the same, the words would only be hypocritical. He understands this. As much as he wants to be the good guy, he knows he's little more than the shadow of a better man. There's so many colors that he could use to paint this picture. To make it prettier, and easier to look at — but it doesn't change the fact that there must always be that stroke of red. Dark as crimson, bleeding through the canvas. A beautiful memory perfect for the haunting. Like the way he looks around himself, watching a stranger and the two people he has left in this arena lock themselves in combat. Gunfire so loud, and quick, that he can't help but to flinch with each shot. Because Lenox is bleeding, and so is Lore. "Wait, fuck— please stop," whispered to the wind. And he stares at the ground, and remembers the most beautiful thing — looking down at Reagan in his arms, brushing a thumb across the bridge of her nose. Wiping the blood away from her cheeks, hand wrapped so tightly around hers as it slowly became limp and cold. And that's when he found the stars that had been evading him every night in the arena. Right there. Always in front of him. Written across her lovely, tragic face. "Just look at me," he said at the end, holding her gaze as the blue dulled into grey. "We're okay." He said the lie as if it wasn't a dagger sliding between his ribs. Like he didn't start sobbing as soon as she closed her eyes. There's movement beside him, and he uses his moment of recollection to his advantage. He dodges to the side, watching as the point of Silk's spear soars past him. But the shaft still slides across his skin, whirring with life and sending a shock through his body. It reminds him of that first day in the arena, the way the sudden burst of electricity brought him to his knees. But now he just shakes, shouting in agony and rage, knees buckling and almost giving out — but he refuses to fall. He's felt this hurt before. He's watched his loved ones slip so gracelessly out of his hands. And if he's learned that he cannot change fate, he has also learned this. He is not a boy easily destroyed. Fragile, and gentle, but still here. In pieces, and with fear swelling in his heart, but it cannot be denied that he is standing in this place. Watching these terrible things, feeling so much, and still lifting his knife as his fingers tremble against the hot, bloody steel. He refuses to be an easy target. If he's the last of his alliance, then he'll make it fucking count. He has to. For the warriors that fell before him. Until the end.

kyler attacks silk ; rusty knife
+ flint / jar of tar
eJhr7QbkSxknife
Deep Gash on Left Bicep -- 8.0 damage

1-50
+2

knife·1-50

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

A bullet wasted. It just floats in the air, rather a distraction for everyone here than something to maim. A bang to grab everyone’s attention for just a second as they look around to see who it was delivered too. Well, nobody because I am clearly fucking useless here, without Nan. Now I am turning to the enemy of an enemy, it does not make her a friend. And of course, she is another blonde-haired career. Nan really better show up right now, amongst all the smoke. Maybe she is watching, waiting for the right opportunity to grab my hand and drag me out of here.

I wonder who or how many of us must die today before I can sneak away. Will a bullet ring in my ear or plant in my back if I just run right now? "You can either run and go find Nanette, or you swallow your fear and fight as if your life fucking depends on it." The words of advice that I asked for but really did not think I would get, not from her. Not from my main antagonist for the past two days. I can run and face my enemies tomorrow or I can face them today while I still have all limbs, and barely scratch on me. Or I could find Nan and just hide behind her and the shotgun. Fuck. It is not really a dilemma but life and death.

Bullets and lunging spears stop for a moment as Lorraine and Lightening Rod battle it out with their tongues. Not literally. Lightening Rod must really carry bad blood with everyone. My gun is still raised at shoulder level, my eyes stalking the four of them that are here, keeping an eye on anyone else that may be camouflaged amongst the smoke. ”Nan.” A faint whisper of her name drops from my mouth. She is not here.

Another gun shot breaks the chatter, an unexpected target for Lorraine, the girl from Seven has been silent all this time. Something that has not even protected her. Eight then turns her attention back to me, "Silk killed Syren, it's personal for me too," maybe it is a taunt, maybe it is the truth. Two days with Lightening Rod and two deaths I have witnessed at the end of that spear. I would not doubt it. But Syren, personal to me? We shared a home. A train journey. A floor in the Capitol. But we could never share a crown. Only a graveyard back home. Fuck.

"Tell me, Flynn, would I have killed her before I electrocuted Revan to death, or after?" Lightening Rod is quick to defend herself before lunging at Lorraine’s ally. What is this. Why me? They are both pulling me apart. Are they trying to get me to aim my gun at the other? Fuck. Where is Nan?

My eyes flick between the two girls, the barrel of my gun switching between the two as well. Both of my hands grip onto the revolver and damn they shake like hell. ”Clearly one of you is lying. Leave the games to kids… like me.” Lightening’s Rod information checks out, I stayed awake for that anthem. To see Revan’s face and then unexpectedly Syren but she could have always killed her after. ”You could have killed her after, b-but…Lorraine could be lying.” Who am I meant to aim at this time? Fuck.

Flynn attacks Lorraine | Revolver (throwing knives)

DJukLbOw7Rthrowing knife

[]

throwing knife

[Deleted]

"Kid did you just warning shot me?"

"Are you two fucking stupid?!" 

It feels like losing ground, she tries to dodge Lenox's jab and it catches the loose of her hip. Flynn takes his shot as she recovers, and Lore's left to realize things aren't going so smoothly after all. Fickle bitches, if she didn't know better, she'd assume the Capital didn't block everyone's hormones. There's a bit of clarity that never comes, the skip of her heart beat catching in her throat as Kyler is cut off by Silk. 

Lorraine is caught up with Flynn and Lenox. 

Two on One is so out of style, what else is a girl to do? It's hard to straighten herself between the anger in her hands, there's a bullet for one of these two to eat and she can't even make her mind up. Fuck Silk, fuck that old drama, a bit of Lorraine is unravelling at the seams with the very first threat that this could all fall apart. Dying isn't a possibility, losing isn't a possibility, not halfway through her character redemption arc. 

The Capitol hasn't even fallen in obsession with her yet. 

She points her barrel at Lenox to start, "move your fat head if you don't wanna get shot, goddamn," honest mistake, an eye for an eye. Deal with Silk or get out of my way, this whole fight is falling to shit and this rat is pissing her off. 

It's like whiplash, how she snaps aim at Flynn Garner's chest. 

"Who-"

[ shoots Flynn ]
6LHdBcO7|G200+9000
[ bullet in back -- 6.5 + 1 target ]

"The fuck do you think you're messing with, Flynn?" Liar, liar, pants on fire, she commits the crime and buries the evidence, her heart thumps in her chest as the smoke of her revolver clears. Flynn's back in a web of blood, sticky in his little camo, she'll donate a coffin to match. "You think I'm lying to you? You want me to prove it? Then fine," her eyes are manic almost, widening as she learns to hate teenagers. 

She reloads her gun, I kill kids, "I guess I gotta shoot your fucking brains out!"

200+9000

[lance]

Fire and metal tear through your skin like nothing, and again you scream - you're not a shy person, you know that when your blood boils literally as well as figuratively it's going to fucking hurt, and fuck it, the Capitol has already seen you in tears the day prior - what's a little self expression of pain to add to that?

You back away, put some distance between yourself and the boy. A quick sweep of the battle reveals the shifting tides - Six (Flynn?) and Lachance now teaming up against Lore. You snort - how does that karma feel, bitch?

Flynn panics. Lore screams. Lachance, oddly, remains irrelevant - her attempt to join in your and Lore's banter lost to the wind. Forgettable, yet dangerous - a wild card nonetheless.

"Looks like your house of cards is caving in, Kyler," you speak to the boy. "District partner, innocent kid, ally, all fighting amongst each other. Quite tragic, really." You flip your hair back, shift your spear to one hand - alert yet relaxed, poised yet loose. "What does fighting me accomplish while those you care about tear each other apart?"

Your arm bleeds. Your stomach flares. Alone and without friends, it is only the masterful that can take advantage of the chaos now. "You may act the clown, yet if you truly were one you would have fallen long before Grim or Sutton or even Reagan did. I know that firsthand - they were no pushovers when I fought them."

You smirk wryly. "Trust me, Kyler. Too many connections in the Hunger Games will lead only
to your downfall. And right now, all I see is a boy wrapped up in those very chains." You tense, shift the spear back to both hands.

"So, Kyler, what sort are you? Are you the sort that breaks the chains that weigh you down-"

You surge, strike, spear flying forward at lightning speed.

"-or will you be dragged down to the depths of hell by them instead?"

silk attacks kyler petralia; electric spear

vXiHHTqOpDspear

result

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[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

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"So, Kyler, what sort are you? Are you the sort that breaks the chains that weigh you down, or will you be dragged down to the depths of hell by them instead?"

Silk's words are nothing but bark alone, but the bite comes moments later. It should be expected, you know, a career, a Le Roux, I mean, this story was written for her, but man, she drives her spear right through Kyler's eye socket. There's no hesitation about it, it's a second nature to her, she's been trained to kill and cope with the consequences.

And I just can't freeze anymore. Because that's another body on the ground, and that makes it more than I can count on one hand. Everyone who's meant something to me is gone. And I didn't know Kyler that much, not at all, really, but he was from Seven too. Home. That meant we had more in common than anyone else here - we had the same struggle.

So now that's - Reese, Tobias, Diana, Kane, Fitz, Kyler. I'm not sure safety exists anymore. Reliance is a facade and I think it's about time I take my own advice; I can't fall back on anyone because there's no one left. Garrison is nowhere to be seen and I'm all alone. And maybe being alone doesn't have to be a bad thing, I'm not afraid of the monsters under my bed at home, nightmares were the only escape I ever had - so this should be no different. I've thrived in the hells my mind created because they could never be worse than my reality.

I'm alone, and yeah, that's not a bad thing. Me, myself and I - and I guess that means I'm my own ride or die. Tied my heartstrings together to strengthen the connections so that I can't hear my heartbeat in my ear anymore.

Watching Kyler bleed roses from all sides on the ground feels like a threat. The life I've always wanted is back in Seven. The simple life that seems so easy to picture but so hard to place. And I could keep on chasing the dream of that life, the simple chair, the cold through the open window, that sort of stuff - or I could make it my reality. Six bodies is surely enough for one girl to draw the line.

I need to get over everything. Move on. Take my own advice and grow up. Because by my own logic, this sadness killed me a long time ago and that means I should be really good at haunting. Lenox LaChance doesn't have to be the sum of everything or everyone that came before her. Fate doesn't have to be feared when it can be changed if a person is brave enough to bite the bullet.

I really don't want to die, and that's enough to keep me alive. All the uncertainties don't matter to me anymore; what lurks around the corner can stomp out and spit in my face for all I care. Life has never been my favourite thing, I mean, the duality of it is what has made me lose everyone I've ever loved. It's a concept I don't think I'll ever understand.

But I don't have to live in fear of tomorrow when tomorrow is never promised. Today is all that matters, and man, I'd kill to see tomorrow. That's how much I don't want to die. Reese, Tobias, Diana, Kane, Fitz, Kyler - they've all paid the price.

Silk Le Roux, Lorraine Gaulter and Flynn Garner stand around the body. Bullets flying overhead aren't loud enough to drown out their words, but the bang still feeds adrenaline.

"District partner," I look at the ground and stifle a laugh. "Yeah, that's me. I'm quite tragic, really, but I've got everything to kill for and nothing to die for."

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[ d7f lenox lachance attacks d1f silk le roux ; spear ]

aNilYurXh4spear

[ 3068 -- Shallow Cut on Left Calf -- 3.5 damage ]

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