clashing blades blitz.— [six/emerson]

[Deleted]

Six definitely had the potential do well with blades. When it came to swords and knives alike, he had the right spirit. He had the proper techniques, stances, and even knew the right spots to hit. However, there was one major issue preventing him from succeeding. That issue was his hesitation. Right now, he was working with a sword. He was holding it properly and using it correctly. He started off his swing at full force and speed, exactly how you want it. But then, like every time he used a bladed weapon, he hesitated just before hitting the target. This resulted in it doing a lot less damage that it could have - it was as though he was scared of hurting the target.

And in a way, he was scared. He wasn't scared of hitting the target itself, he was scared of what it represented. It represented Bubby. It represented Thad and Evan. It represented himself. The target represented every other tribute in the room, human beings. He knew it wasn't a human and he wasn't actually hurting anyone, but it felt like a slippery slope. He knew he'd have to hurt people, but he didn't want to. His hesitation when it came to attacking the target mirrored his hesitation about this whole damn thing.

After another failed sword attack he closed his eyes for a second to just breathe. To try to tell himself that it wasn't a person, that he wasn't a monster. But he knew. He knew that doing this was teaching him to become a monster. That was the whole point of this, after all. The Capitol didn't want to increase their chances of survival, they wanted to decrease their humanity. And it was working. That was the worst part. It always worked because if you didn't play how the Capitol wanted it would just result in an early death for you. There was no protesting or trying to skirt around the rules. You play, or you die.

After trying to sort through his thoughts he gave the sword one more chance. He adjusted his stance, made sure his hands were where they needed to be. But this time, he closed his eyes. He thought maybe if he wasn't looking at the target, he could stop the hesitation. Then, he swung. He started his swing as always. He used all the strength he could muster and swung as fast as he could. But, he also ended the swing as always. With hesitation ruining his momentum and causing minimal damage to the target.

[alex 🐺]

There was comfort in the familiar and Emerson was nothing if not a creature of habit. It had to have come from the years training for this moment, now rote at this point.

Wake up, shower, go to school, leave school, sneak a cigarette in an alley, and then spend the rest of the afternoon at the District One gym—first weights and cardio, then sparring, and finally blades. Go home (or sneak out and go see a cute guy or gal to spend the night with or a group of Peacekeepers who looked like they wanted to lose their wages in a game of cards), rinse, repeat, and fall asleep dreaming of carefully choreographed dances involving falcatas, katanas, scimitars, and shashmirs.

Emie had made herself a common sight near the weapons rack and training dummies in the Training Center. It was where she had stared into Love’s (he’s Loathe now in her head and she wouldn’t hear anything to the contrary because didn’t Loathe Bellisario have such a fantastic ring to it?) soulless fucking eyes; it was where Areto firmly cemented herself as a looming presence in Emie’s mind, almost as firmly as she had dug her sword into the rubber mats on the floors. Emie could still see the gash that Areto had left as she walks towards where the boy from Eleven was swinging wildly at the dummies that towered over him.

You see, the thing about killing someone (and Emie hadn’t yet had the pleasure but she had been baptized in the art of war, of death, of murder since the day that she could crawl) was that you had to have conviction.

You had to mean it. You had to want to hurt someone the same way that dancing required learning steps, that singing required learning the words. Killing was just another skill to master. And there were those who were better at it than others, naturally. The right ingredients and motivations and a regular person from any district could survive in the Games. The lower districts had made that point crystal fucking clear recently and Emie had seen more than one vase thrown at the wall in the Le Roux mansion when District One failed to crown their victor after Ridley had come home. Being a Career only meant that you had the training to back you up in the arena. That was part of the battle.

But conviction was nearly ninety percent of it. Probably more.

And this kid from Eleven, well, he just didn’t have it in him.Yet.

“It’s not going to hurt you, you know. Or talk back if you miss the throat and accidentally nick a spleen,” Emie remarks behind him, her hand hovering over the kujangs and the kalis before selecting the golok.

"You might actually kill someone pretty quickly if you hit an internal organ with an errant swipe. Internal bleedings a fucking bitch. But that's a story for another day." The golok feels nice in her hand and it carries like a machete but required more time and attention to keep the blade sharp. She runs her finger along the edge, smiling as her right index finger burns just so from the sharpness.

Emie knew that she was probably terrifying the poor kid, had heard the whispers whenever she had walked by Eleven’s table in the Dining Hall. But her smile is all teeth and it actually reaches her eyes because—because there was something so familiar in the way that he was trying and failing to muster the gumption to actually do the damn thing. 

“My younger sister, Cathy, hates training with swords even though the edges are blunted back at home in our gym. But I don’t think that’s your problem. You don’t want to be here, do you?”

[Deleted]

When Emerson came over to Six, at first he didn't even notice until she spoke - he was too focused on trying to get himself to actually hit the damn dummy. But once she started talking to him? Every muscle in his body tensed at the same time as he froze in place. There was something about the way that she spoke that made him to spooked. The way she spoke of death and chaos with such calm, like some angelic harbinger of death. Sure, she was pretty. Six can definitely agree on that. But she was beautiful in the way that hurricanes are beautiful, a beauty that you dare not touch.

He took a deep breath and slowly, one-by-one, relaxed and untensed his muscles. He reminded himself that she wasn't supposed to do anything here. Plus, the peacekeepers were probably keeping an extra close eye on him ever since he stabbed Mauve with a fork and started a small fight. That was a one time thing though, something that he did on instinct that he didn't even realise he had done until after he saw the blood start pouring out of her hand. Part of him wished he could summon up those instincts now from wherever they were lurking. He hoped at least that when it came down to it, those instincts would come back to save his life.

Though in a way, he wished those instincts stayed hidden. When he stabbed Mauve with a fork, he watched it happen. But, it didn't feel like it was himself doing it - as though some outside force was simply controlling him. The way he did it without hesitation or remorse, it scared him. He slowly felt like he was losing himself - his identity and his humanity. It seems simple, like no big deal. Just a stab with a fork. But to Six? To Six it meant so much more than that. It meant that whatever the Capitol was trying to do, whatever they were trying to mold the tributes into - it was working.

In the Hunger Games, that would be a good thing. But they weren't in the Hunger Games yet. They were just in the dining room chatting. To be fair, she also scared the shit out of Six. But normally? He'd react to fear with screaming or flinching. When it came to fight-or-flight, he was always a flight person. That day it changed. He was scared that if he made it home, he'd be so changed that even his family wouldn't recognise him anymore. Already he was starting to feel like someone else just wearing Six O'Malley's skin.

Emerson mentioned death by internal bleeding. He knew that, he knew the points to hit. Really, bladed weapons fascinated him. He had been doing research on his own by combining the knowledge from the blades and first aid stations with some research in an anatomy textbook to find some of the best ways to take down tributes. The idea of using any made him feel sick to his stomach, but it was good to have in the back pocket. He wasn't responding yet though. The last thing he wanted to do was interrupt her and end up with a pissed off Le Roux.

She seemed like she was trying to be nice, and he wanted to think the best intentions from her. He was struggling to trust her at all until she mentioned having a younger sister. Deep down part of him knew he shouldn't automatically trust someone just because they can pretend to care about their family. But he ignored that part of himself. He really started listening once Cathy was mentioned. And of course, she pointed out the obvious.

When she said he didn't want to be here, he let out a bit of a scoff. He was tired at this point. He was tired of being meek and shy and timid. He was tired of being seen as a free kill rather than a competitor. At this point, for once, he felt ready to stand up for himself in a way. He knew after he spoke his mind he'd probably going back to being quiet Six O'Malley. But it was getting to the point where he could no longer contain himself. His voice was desperate to be heard. He was going to make himself heard, even if it was only Emie who listened.

"Is it that obvious? I don't want to be here. And I can't understand people like you. People like Love. People like Evan and Thad. The people who want to here. How can you so badly want to die? Or do you just want to hurt others? You mentioned you have a sister, what about her? Do you think she wants you here? I know none of my siblings do. I know the only reason I haven't called it quits is them. So instead of asking me if I want to be here, you should ask yourself why you want to be here."

[alex 🐺]

She sees the way his shoulders tense and his movements become slow, measured, the same way a gazelle would move when spotted by a lion. She licks her lips, cracking her neck from one side to the next. His eyes move from her to the Trainers all around them, as if counting the bodies and heartbeats and wondering if one of them could stop her in time.

They couldn’t.

The trainers stand too far apart, scattered around the edges like sentinels bored at their posts, and Emerson, well, she knew how to move like the wind. She’d been doing it for years in the gym and then when she would sneak out at night, avoiding the tried and true routes that the Peacekeepers took on their rounds, keeping to the dark, like smoke. All you could ever see from her was a flash of blonde hair and the glowing embers of a cigarette burning in the night. She’d be gone before you knew it.

Emerson’s eyes move back to the boy from Eleven, bored of her observation of the Trainers that she knew were no better trained than she, and she hopes that she shows mercy in her gaze. She hopes that her words speak of a truce, a white flag raised on a field of battle.

She shouldn’t have been so fucking foolish.

"Is it that obvious? I don't want to be here. And I can't understand people like you. People like Love. People like Evan and Thad. The people who want to be here. How can you so badly want to die? Or do you just want to hurt others? You mentioned you have a sister, what about her? Do you think she wants you here? I know none of my siblings do. I know the only reason I haven't called it quits is them. So instead of asking me if I want to be here, you should ask yourself why you want to be here."

The words escape his lips so fast that even he looks surprised by himself. Well, there was some fight in him, apparently, even if he couldn’t wield a sword to save his life. And maybe it wouldn’t save his life. But there were days yet until the Bloodbath. Plenty of time to learn. Yes, there was fight in Eleven, even if it was poorly misguided, his words hitting and falling off of Emerson’s skin like raindrops.

She sighs, this is what I get for being nice, she thinks. Love would be having a field day with this one. Julian would be lounging lazily in the corner, licking his chops like he was waiting for his first bite. Areto would—she would do the right thing and offer to help him. But Emerson Le Roux was no saint. She never professed to be and it certainly wasn’t expected from the girl from One.

So, she raises the golok, pointing the tip of the blade directly at the boy, maintaining her distance. Letting him know that she was a threat, yes, but she wasn’t a threat to him. Yet.

“My name came out of a glass fucking bowl just like yours did. And a year before that, my sister’s came out of the same bowl. And two years before that, my twin brother’s. My family has shed blood in the name of the Games and it is an honor to fight and die for my family, but don’t you ever, ever accuse me of wanting to be here, you pathetic excuse for a tribute.”

Emie feels the words fly out of her mouth, unmerciless, filled with anger and vitriol. She feels the rage building, savage and vicious, fuming red hot. She would devour him whole, if she could. 

“We are all surviving, every single fucking day that we are in this place. So, learn how to swallow all of your fear and your excuses, and if you’re really fighting for your siblings, learn how to swing a fucking sword. Because from where I’m standing, Eleven, when the cannon goes off and the Bloodbath begins, you won’t last long.”

She turns with a shrug, pursing her lips before she places the golok back on the weapons rack. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

[Deleted]

Under normal circumstances her words would have motivated Six. Under normal circumstances he would have apologized for his words and asked for her help. But these weren't normal circumstances, Six didn't feel normal. In fact, he didn't even feel like himself. All her words did was add fuel to the fire inside of him that made him explode on her in the first place - perhaps the same fire that roared when he had that fight with Mauve. The fire was not extinguished by him letting his emotions out - not by a long shot.

He was tired of hearing that. He was tired of hearing he wouldn't make it past the Bloodbath. It made him feel sick. But, a different kind of sick. Not the sickness he felt on the train where he wanted to vomit because his life was ending. No, the kind of sickness where you have nothing left to lose so you decide to risk everything. It was the same sick feeling he had been trying to suppress since he got here. The same sick feeling that Kassandra had said he would have to learn to deal with if he wanted to make it out of that arena alive.

He decided to listen to Kassandra while also trying to prove Emerson wrong. Six didn't want to be the underdog anymore. He didn't want to be more fodder for people like her. He wanted to prove he was just as serious as a competitor as Emie or Julian or Love or any other damn career that was there that year. And he wanted to learn to control that burning passion inside of him, learn how to work with it instead of against it. Then he realised he could kill multiple birds with a single stone.

"Emerson, I used to think I was somehow worth less than people like you. That people from the upper districts were somehow deserving of more than me. That because you grew up with a full stomach and new clothes that you were somehow inherently better. But you're not. You're really fucking not. I'm not any weaker than you. And I'm so fucking sick of hearing that I am. I'm really sick of it!"

That was the first time in Six's life that he ever swore, and damn did he feel good saying it. It was just something that wasn't done in his family, especially with how strict and religious his parents were. For example, his brother Lock had said 'fuck' one time and ended up with a black eye. But his parents weren't here right now. He probably would watch his mouth in the arena, but here it didn't matter. None of it mattered. What mattered was him finally feeling respected for once in his life. And maybe Emerson didn't respect him. Maybe she found what he said more laughable than anything. But for the first time in his life, he respected himself.

And with that new respect for himself, he was able to channel that fiery passion he felt burning up inside of him. He got into his stance with his sword again, facing the dummy. He took a deep breath. Then in one swing he channeled all of his anger, strength, and speed into one blow. And in an instant, he chopped the dummy's head straight off. And just like with Mauve in the Dining Hall, there was no hesitation, no remorse. There was no stopping Six O'Malley. And in that moment, he felt powerful.

[alex 🐺]

His anger’s misguided, Emerson knows this instinctively, his flames lashing out and licking at her exposed skin. She was the only available target for his maelstrom of ire and Emie would bet all of the money that she had hidden in her mattress back at home that he had never truly spoken to someone the way that he was speaking to her. A weaker person would have met his fury with fury and while Emerson had burned bright moments ago, she was bored. Terribly bored of this conversation. Lions do not trouble themselves with the whims of lambs.

So, she finds a bench off to the side and tosses herself on it, crossing her legs at her ankles and pulling her arms above her head as she lounges. She looks around for Areto, but doesn’t spot the Amazon. She must be in the pool again, Emie thinks absently.

"Emerson, I used to think I was somehow worth less than people like you. That people from the upper districts were somehow deserving of more than me. That because you grew up with a full stomach and new clothes that you were somehow inherently better. But you're not. You're really fucking not.”

The boy was still monologuing, and Emie tunes him out, glancing at the nails on her left hand, wondering if she needed to cut them before they went into the Arena. Maybe Sampson could paint them black and give her a quick dye— “I'm not any weaker than you. And I'm so fucking sick of hearing that I am. I'm really sick of it!"

“You should know that I really couldn't give a shit what you think of me. You're from Eleven and I'm from One and I certainly can't and won't apologize for fate. But for Ripred's sake, fucking do something with all of that anger you have inside of you. Imagine that the dummy is me or something, Eleven, for fuck's sake,” she remarks, almost to herself, exhaling the words to the ceiling as she picks some dirt out from under her ring finger.

He turns back to the dummies in front of him, his stance barely passable, and Emie turns her gaze to him because maybe, just maybe, her words had found their mark even though his outrage had barely failed to filter in one of her ears and out the other. Such was the way of prey animals, after all. All bark and no bite. But the kid raises his sword, swinging with conviction, all of that self-righteous fury giving him the very motivation that he was lacking just minutes before.

“A decent start,” Emerson says, slow-clapping with a smirk, sitting up.

“Now, can you do that again and again and again until your arm grows heavy and your form turns to shit from fatigue? Because that’s when it really matters.”

[Deleted]

Six thought about her question and answered it silently in his head. Yes. He had realized something about himself. With the training dummy or with Mauve, he was able to act without hesitation when he felt a strong emotional response. With Mauve he was terrified and with Emie he felt desperate. He knew in the arena most of his emotions would be one of those two, and all of his emotions would be strong. He could work with that. Six would turn his desperation, fear, and sadness into determination - into what he would need to survive. Of course, though, he didn't want to tell Emerson that. He didn't want to give too much away.

Maybe he'd discuss it with Thad or Evan later, but those were actually his allies. Now that he managed to let all of those emotions out, he felt a lot calmer. But, the fire inside of him wasn't extinguished - not by a long shot. And in the arena the sense of calm wouldn't come. Here, the stressor was quickly eliminated, but in a situation like the arena he would be under constant pressure and in his case that was a good thing. He finally understood what Vasco meant in the justice building. This wasn't some new side of Six that the Capitol had forced out of him, it was always part of Six. They just wanted him to believe he was different so they could amputate who he used to be. They didn't change him, rather they helped him find a missing part of himself. They lost.

But, now that he was calm and could rationally think, he realized his conversation with Emerson wasn't over, not yet at least. There was still more that had to said, at least from his end. The impact of his words towards her had finally hit him. He had been doing to her what people had been doing to him and his family his entire life. He had made assumptions based off of appearances, then he ignored the harm rather than admit that he was wrong. That wasn't something Six O'Malley would do. So, he decided to man up and admit that.

He put away his sword then went over to the bench where the blonde sat and sat next to her. His voice was quieter than when he had been monologuing, but it had more confidence than when the conversation had first began. He was still meek and perhaps a bit shy, but he wasn't scared right now. This was one of the first times he hadn't felt fear since the moment his name got called out. He felt the same way that he did when he talked to Vasco just before going on the train. He felt the calm before the storm.

"Look, Emerson, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed you wanted to be here or that you didn't care about your family. I've seen you and Julian, you two obviously care about each other. And you really do seem to care about Cathy."

He wanted to ask her about her family more and actually try to get to know her rather than going off of assumptions. But right now the wounds that they had caused with their words were too fresh - whether the wounds be paper cuts or stabs. At least they were too fresh for him, maybe she was just stronger than he was, he wouldn't doubt it. Right now? Right now he needed to think out a strategy, either on his own or with Thad and Evan. Maybe even just bounce some ideas off of Kassandra. He finally for once since arriving felt like he had something that would help him survive past the first day.

"If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me. I have shi- stuff to do."

And with that, Six got up and walked away from Emerson. He had a few more things to prepare for. And now he finally had a strategy, he had a tool that no one could take away from him. Something he could bring into the arena without the Gamemakers knowing. Though, it was useless if he couldn't figure out how to control it - that killing instinct within him.