maskformask robinaspen

[Wonder]

robin keeni, district 6

The fireworks were no means for celebration. As the arena sparked with a cacophony of explosions across the evening sky, Robin took the opportunity to run. As fast and far as he could manage, Robin ran. He didn't stop moving until his body screamed in agony, strained and beaten, gashed and bruised, every muscle in his legs seized up at once halting him in his tracks. He'd done well. Straight for the treeline, he dove in behind the trunks to coddle up for the evening. No one in sight - no Love, no Areto, no Avriel, no Mauve. Mauve was dead, that much he knew, and he'd accomplished her final demand. For now, Robin was safe. If the anthem happened, he didn't hear it. He barely had the energy to look up at the night sky. It didn't take long from the moment he stopped to fall asleep. The world slipped away. He did not dream.

Robin woke with a startle, clawing at his mouth, desperate for breath. It felt as though he'd woken up with a pillow strapped to his face, suffocating him. Robin clutched at his throat, desperate for air, but found a callous rubber where his neck would be. Everything was thick, warm, and sticky. No one was choking him. That was a calming thought. No one was sitting on him, holding him down, he had full reign of all his limbs (sore as they may be.) His arms flailed desperately around his head, trying to grab some sort of bearing. Course rough strings strapped like a lion's mane, not at all similar to the texture of his own hair, which had grown oily in the week since washing it properly. He could see only through slivers that cupped his eyes. Patting his face, Robin's cheeks extended outwards almost comically. If his eyesight weren't so limited, Robin imagined he'd be able to see these new cheekbones.

Everything was dark. Even though the morning announcements had begun - they were playing with time now. Disorientation. Number one trick of torture. Robin could recognize the game and yet still he trembled as he pulled himself up to stand. A mask, the game makers called out through the arena. Typical. But at least it wasn't strangulation. Robin was weary. The night had been hard on his body, and the death of Mauve had left him not only traumatized but tentless. She'd had their tent. There may be no rest for the wicked, but it sure would have been nice to feel a little better than he did. His right bicep throbbed relentlessly having been dug into time and time again. The Games were rough. Robin was tired.

The end was near. There could only be a handful of them left so in reality, the finale had to be tomorrow or the day after. But Robin wondered if he could make it that long. He was pretty banged up. The gamemakers were calling for death today. That was part of their mask mandate. If they had to kill to get this shit off their face, there had to be someone for everyone. Ten? Eight? Six? He hated not knowing but had slept through two anthems at this point and lost count. Either way, the Games were always the same, kill or be killed. So, ready or not, Robin had to play.

Sweat glistened against his forehead as he trailed through the fields. Whether an intended consequence or not of the mask, he was having a hard time breathing. At least the mask was fixated to his face enough to not shift around, after a bit he'd started getting used to his narrow worldview. The trees opened up to a familiar clearing, the campfire circles the koalas had shifted them all to on the third day. Though Robin hadn't been entirely sure whether that whole stream of events was a hallucination from his earlier fight with the Floraspore, the familiar architecture made him positive he'd been there before.

A strong bonfire lit the way to whatever trial Robin would need to face. If this was the signal, the omen, he knew he was prepared. The fire made him reminiscent of the square off a couple of years ago in a burning tire put, a circle of flames around the dueling tributes. When Robin was sitting at home watching, detached from the goings-on, he remembered the excitement, the cinematography was alluring, the score was amazing. But looking at the fire beside him, imagining a circle of flame bursting around him, that sounded exhausting. And hot. With this mask? The battle would end in them just passing out from the heat right?

It seemed like seconds before his opponent approached. On the trailer side, clearly a woman, Robin couldn't help but flinch at the mask strewn to her face. It was gaunt, hollow, the eyes stretching low. She looked malnourished and ghastly, but the skin looks as though it laid on like an additional layer. Not like a mask, but as if extra faces had been sewn on top of her face. He shuddered and cussed. "Fuck." Probably the last thing that you should say to a girl as they approach, but Robin had a feeling he wasn't going to be going on a date any time soon. He couldn't help the slip out anyways, they looked awful. Blonde tips peaked out of the bottom of the mask that elongated to down her neck. "Uh -" He stammered, as he slowly prepped his stance and launched a warning knife.

[robin keeni attacks aspen w/ throwing knife]

R2ZH2MZ_75throwing knife

[miss]

[accuracy day 7]

throwing knife

[miss]

The knife flew a few feet beside her head. Smooth. But the message was clear: stay back, stay away. Robin fought better from a distance anyways. "Who are you?" He called across the clearing to the girl. If they were fighting he deserved to know his opponent. Neither could die not knowing their killer. Plus it gave him time, the miss was a clear showcase of his dying dexterity. Yesterday's injuries might have been too much. Maybe Mauve was his lucky charm? But either way, Robin needed to square up fast or he would be screwed.

throwing knife·throwing knife

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

I will remember the night with fondness. The way the fireworks had illuminated everything around us, and the echo of Reece Jackson's song moving through the trees. His lips against mine, and every inch of the world at our fingertips. All of it for the taking. We were the kings of a kingdom we made for ourselves. I fell asleep in his arms, and I wanted for nothing.

Except the sunrise, and the warmth of him beside me. But morning comes wearing the same midnight mask it has grown so accustom to, throwing a black veil over all my surroundings. Somehow, it seems even thicker than before. More difficult to breathe. The first thing that terrifies me is when I reach up to rub my eyes, feeling the rubber material spread over my skin. It makes me gasp, bolting into a sitting position, clawing at whatever has attempted to cage me.

"Reece? What the fuck is happening?" I reach out a hand into the pitch black emptiness, curling my fingers around the absence of him. Swallowing hard, a spark of fire igniting in my chest. I wait for his voice, for the warm tone that is so capable of calming me. And I wait, and wait, and the second of my fears hits me like a gut punch. I force myself to my feet, holding my hands out in front of me, gathering my spears into my arms, using one of them as a walking stick for good measure.

My heart drums wildly, and even my limbs begin to shake in rhythm. My mind makes sense of it before I can — faces glare down from the sky, too many dead tributes to count on both hands. There are so many ghosts in this arena now, and so few enemies. Of course I know what this means. They're setting the scene how they see fit. That's how powerless I really am. If anything, it disturbs me. The way I could so easily vanish from his embrace. Without so much as a cry for help, forced into whatever mask now covers my head.

On the eighth day, we are spirited away from our shelters, and left to face the darkness alone. Every snap of a branch, every shape in the shadows, all of it is a danger I can't name. I stumble into the unknown. Struggling for air, unsure of where I'm going, feeling the rage build inside of me. Because I don't want them to win. The puppet strings dig into my wrists, and I hate myself for the way I can't pull them off. Not yet. I jerk back as an unfamiliar voice breaks the silence, explaining our situation.

Which only makes me hiss in frustration, trying to dig at the mask once more to no avail. I feel sick to my stomach, anxious for so many reasons. Because I want to watch the sun rise again, and I want this thing off my face, and I don't want to kill someone because they tell me I must. But there's blood on my hands already, and I'm nothing if not a hypocrite. There's a blur of light on the horizon, pulsing with enough life that I step towards it, drawn like a moth to the flame. Before I break into the clearing, I pause.

I glance down at myself; the strands of blonde hair peeking out from my rubber prison, and the way I am so armed for war. The bright shadows of a fire streak through the woods, flickering like the beating heart of a very real beast. I know what this moment means. I know what's waiting for me just past these trees. And, yes, I should turn and run. Faster than I ever have before. Until I have moved so far, even the darkness can't remain. That's what I'm chasing.

Moving into the space, bathed in the soft glow of embers, I am just in time to see a stranger make the same choice as me. It takes everything in me not to recoil, unsure of what to focus on between the grotesque mask and the scrawny figure beneath it. A monster, and a victim. I stare at my own reflection. "Fuck." That much, I can agree with. It's the blade that follows the small voice that really annoys me.

Quick as a bug buzzing around my cheek, whistling in the air as I shift my head to the side. I can hear it thud against bark behind me. A warning shot, I'll assume. "Who are you?" The question makes me grimace, wondering if what might seem fair to this boy is fair to me. Because I don't want to know him, and he shouldn't want to know me. He has to know what this means. I know he does. He knows exactly why we're here. Only us.

And maybe that's why he can't stop himself from asking. Knowing the name of your killer, or even your prey, is a very sacred thing. There's power in it. To stare up at a terror so keen on ending your life, and knowing it. Naming it. As desperate as I am to be free, I am grateful that the mask gives me the perfect excuse to extend the silence. The fire crackles between us, and I lift my spear from the ground, tilting it forward. I clutch the others so tightly that my knuckles turn white.

How frightening I must seem. How cruel that I cannot give him the one thing he asks for. At least not yet. Inhaling deeply, I confirm one thing with myself. The stranger across from me is not Reece. My mind plays with that longer than it should, thumb running across the steel surface of my weapon. He is not Reece Jackson, and he is standing in my way, and he has to die. This boy has always had to die for me to live. I am the same obstacle he is to me. I am a threat. I am vulnerable.

"Would that make it easier for you?" I ask before I can stop myself, not completely able to bring myself to completely ignore the other tribute. As much as I want to get it over with, there's a reckless part of me that wants to press further, tiptoeing across the thread that has been stretched between us. I want to know why he thinks knowing is better. Because if I kill him, and I make out, I don't think I'll ever be able to handle knowing him.

How could my name ever comfort him? What is Aspen Peake but a knife at his throat?

"Knowing who I am, I mean. We could just stay strangers." My voice is full of quiet rage, trying so hard to be bigger than itself. I want him to listen to me carefully, to recognize everything I am trying to say. I don't want to be cruel, but there's a stubborn part of me that refuses to dig my wounds any deeper than they have to be. I am so tired of the hurting. I just want to go home. I am so tired of being here. Escape blurs on the horizon, a fuzzy spot of color in a sea of nothingness. It calls out to me.

"I have to kill you, either way."

And I answer.

aspen attacks robin ; javelin 1/3
GfvRqsB9kmjavelin
SPEAR IN BICEP -- 8.5 damage | +1 strength [9.5]

javelin

[Wonder]

"Would that make it easier for you?" Her words pierced like daggers, a tone that Robin was frighteningly comforted by. After days of harsh interjections from his former ally, there was an ease that came from the dry sarcastic tone. If he hadn't seen her broken body, her eyes turn dull, he'd imagine it were Mauve standing in front of him. It wasn't a ludicrous idea. Hell, they'd reanimated corpses more than once in the past ten or so years. A smirk drew across his lips at the jest. He wished it was her, but the peaking blonde said otherwise. Robin went through the Rolodex in his mind of tributes, but the reapings were harder to remember the longer the days went on.

Maybe if he'd watched more anthems, ticked off in his mind who was left, he'd have a better idea of the girl in front of him. It just all seemed like such useless information when only one person made it out of here. Why make a tally? Why count down the moments until you could escape? Why build that hope? Making it to the end and losing, dying, was just.. more heartbreaking. Robin understood that. It was day eight in the arena, and he'd felt the ever-growing lust for freedom bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Winning fight after fight, the delusion started to fester in his mind. A fungus growing against his will - ideation.

"Knowing who I am, I mean. We could just stay strangers." They could, it's true. Why did Robin need to know? What good did it do either of the two tributes to have any sort of compassion? They'd be degraded seven times over at the gamemakers hands already. Even now, in the morning nighttime, they stood plastered with monster masks sewn to their faces being barked at to kill. The message was clear - we've transformed you into what you've become. Horrifying and grotesque, the masks were merely a representation of the creatures fabricated by this arena. In taking away their identity, they'd taken away the last bit of humanity the children had left.

He thought on her words, standing poised for battle across from her, taking in his opponent as she approached. "Anonymity only takes away responsibility." That's what was missing. Robin didn't care deeply who she was, they weren't going to like, have a slumber party later - one of them would die today. But the masks strapped to their faces, the tools of the Gamemakers, sought only to sew chaos. The actions they could take under the guise of not being seen, all it did was give an excuse. A spear lanced its way into his arm and he winced, falling slightly backward on his feet. It was staggering, the pain. This was the third time in two days his arms had been dug into so deeply. He ripped the javelin from his bicep, a poor idea given the gush of blood that pounded out. The large nature of the weapon was heavy and awkward though and keeping it in his arm would do him no good. "I have to kill you, either way." Her words cackle through his ears dangerously, barely registering as they alternated between pain and ringing from last night's fireworks.

It was true. Regardless of what happened, regardless of if she said her name, one of them would die. Given the odds, Robin was pretty certain it would be him. He'd spent the last few days safeguarded by people much more capable than him. Managed to survive on being a capable punching bag. Mauve had stitched his wounds together to the best of her ability, but even then he limped when he walked, and his arms barely functioned at the same time as his brain commanded it to. The stakes were grim. All Robin wanted was ownership but the blonde-tipped girl with the gaunt monster mask was playing the game. He couldn't blame her. If Mauve were alive, maybe he would be a little bit more nasty, like when they'd taken on Bubby. But this wasn't then, it was now, and he was all alone. "I'm Robin." Robin Keeni. She'd hear his name and have to take it in whether she wanted to or not. He refused to be a corpse without an identity, a boy without a story.

Robin was a human with history and compassion, family and dreams. He could not, would not, be reduced to a mask (a game) that he had no hand in. "And you?"

[robin keeni attacks aspen w/ throwing knife]

5jmLIAVI3bthrowing knife

[Knife Deep in Neck -- 9.5 damage]




ty dars for table!! it's beautifulthrowing knife

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

"Anonymity only takes away responsibility."

Wisdom speaks into the nothingness, and I am forced to listen to it. For all the senses this mask has stolen from me, my hearing is not one of them. Lady Luck blows me a kiss, and it turns to ash on the wind. Enough to choke me up. Like the sound of his name coming from his own lips, hidden behind a rubber prison, giving shape to stranger in front of me. I see his arm twitch, can sense the moment where a warning shot must become retaliation.

I see where my javelin pierced his skin, and the terrible mess of scars there, haloed by the campfire light. My mind flashes back, watching the blood drip into the darkness where the sun has been completely dethroned. That first day, high off winning the wealth, finding this place with Reece on my heels. Joking about roasting marshmallows, thinking of home. Now it's shifted into this, standing across from a boy named Robin; a boy who I must kill.

A boy who asks for my name, even knowing this.

And a boy who does not bargain with his advantages — quicker than I can react, a small flash of silver streaks through the pitch black, and an explosion of pain moves through every nerve in my neck. I gasp for breath, fire igniting inside of my throat, fingers reaching to wrap around the hilt of the knife, wanting so desperately to pull it out and deal with the damage. But I'm still vulnerable, and I don't have the supplies needed to tackle this wound. The time.

Stabbed in the neck, and I am not even allowed the good grace to pull the dagger out. That's the line we're tiptoeing here, these are the rules of the game. I can't save myself because doing so means death. That's the sick joke of it all. I have to accept this pain, pack away the trauma of being unable to force anything but gasping breaths out of my throat. Even my agony is masked, reduced to a wailing sound, and the way I nearly collapse to my knees.

Because I am terrified of dying, and of what surviving truly means. I can see the girl I need to be to escape this arena, and I know what that requires. But I can think of five graves on the top of my head that would haunt my every waking minute. I can already feel the callouses forming on my hands, the way I'll trace every letter that writes out their names. Willa. Nora. Chad. Waverly. Reece, if I leave him here. The memories I'll have to lock away.

Dreams I'll never get the chance to achieve.

The worst part is knowing I'm hardly worthy of being the one to escape this place. What makes me deserve life more than anyone else? Am I not an awful person? A killer. Angry girl who never quite learned how to solve an argument without using her fists. And now that's all I'll ever be. Full of rage. Capable of the worst crimes. The Capitol does not want me, and even the world, fuck — I don't know where I'll belong in it. I don't know what I'm going to do.

I can't be Aspen Peake ever again. However this ends, I lose myself.

There's nothing I can say to Robin. To this sixth grave being dug in front of me.

Because there's a knife in my throat. I can taste my own blood. The thing I hate most is crying in front of people, and now my eyes are stinging with tears, and I'm still struggling to breathe. I can feel the sticky heat on my fingers. It's not new. That's the worst part. I am so familiar with dying. I have looked down at it so many times, and now it's looking back up at me. It's robbing everything from me.

From him, too.

But even bleeding out, I cannot yield. Fuck if I'm unworthy.

I shout as I throw another spear, and it says this; I promise to mourn you, even if that means closing the casket lid over your screaming face.

aspen attacks robin ; javelin 2/3
TMX_Sdramkjavelin
SHALLOW CUT ON RIGHT CALF -- 3.5 damage

javelin

[Wonder]

It was almost farcical. Somehow, at the moment that he was closest to packing it in and letting death overwhelm him, Robin's knife whistled through the air and lodged itself in his opponent's neck. Life was funny that way, especially his. At first, he isn't sure of its effect, the girl's mask stretching down to her neck, for all he knew he'd only struck rubber. But a desperate gasp reveals his impact - strike. Just like that, Robin was back in it. How tedious. The ebbs and flows of life were weary, Robin was tired. Especially now.

Every second that passed felt like life was draining from his wounds. Not blood, though there was plenty of that, his hands laced with his own. But.. energy? Whatever life force sustained his body, kept him upwards and moving, was pouring out of his open wounds in droves. Before it seemed as though there was a barrier, whatever healing factor that had kept him standing, hid it and kept it locked away. Today, those walls all came tumbling down. What had changed? Dealing with what victory meant here? What was a victory in this arena? The more Robin thought about it the more he wondered why he wanted to live longer. If he was meant to be fodder, a shadow of his mentor, why was Robin still here? Surely Mauve should have lasted longer.

It was hard to reckon with his position in this game. It's not like Robin had come into this with confidence. It was clear from the moment Flynn pulled the trigger in the finale last year that whoever was the male representative from Six this year was not coming home. It didn't help that Robin and Flynn looked vaguely alike. Robin thought he'd come to terms with these feelings before coming in, reckoned with his anger towards his mentor. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was weary. Mostly, he just wanted to sleep.

Robin watched the girl, unblinking, focused. He listened to her struggling breaths against the symphony of crackling sounds from the campfire circle. The heat from the flame made the masks even more unbearable, sweat glistening across every bit of his face. His upper lip dripping, Robin watched his opponent twitch and resonate. He awaited a reply. 'And you?' He'd asked. She'd wanted to speak in riddles, play with his emotions, but Robin was not on board with her games. There were enough at play here. He knew how to be patient. After all, he'd spent many days dealing with a hard personality in Mauve. There was a subtlety and nuance in how to interact with those who thought they were above humanity. No one was above that. Robin would never let anyone think they were better than him again.

Robin's name and fighting ability seemed to cause an outrage, as the masked girl let out a battle cry. Not her name, not even close. The javelin left her hands but Robin was ready, bouncing off his left foot as the javelin grazes past the back of the knee. Right across the stitching line, Mauve had placed a couple of days prior at their lake fight. Robin grunted as he landed on his left foot, the javelin falling haplessly on the ground behind him. Inhuman. Whatever character they'd placed atop her head was clearly typecasting. At least she kept her distance, for now. Something that served ideally to Robin's benefit. He imaged if the battle got up close, she'd tear him limb by limb. "Do you need me to ask politely?" Robin jested, hoping that his sudden shift in battle luck had thrown his opponent off her game. "I asked your name." He threw a knife. "Please."

[/div]

[robin keeni attacks aspen w/ throwing knife]

DiPJ8nvHi4throwing knife

[ Shallow Cut on Bicep -- 3.5 damage]




ty dars for table!!

throwing knife

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

"I asked your name. Please."

The worst part is that all I can share is my own agony. Even then, it is a warped, quiet sound. All I want to do is scream, but that would be a nuisance. A knife lodged in my throat, and I need to swallow my pain. Choke down every ragged gasp for breath, so that it's not obvious that I'm losing my advantage here. That, and I should speak up. Say my name. It all makes perfect sense, huh?

We're dying on television, for the fun of it all, and we don't even have a say in the script. I am fighting a boy named Robin, a boy whose name and face don't exist in my memory, and I have to listen to him ask for my identity. As if the cards have already been played, like there's no possibility that he could be the killer here. I still taste the blood. I can still feel the way my skin meets steel.

And it burns, and makes me cry, and he can't see any of it.

He must think me cruel. Savage thing howling in rage, stubborn enough to try and beat him at his own game. It's obvious that he's faster than me. Reflexes like a cat, reducing what could have been a fatal wound to a scratch, all the while still asking for my name. Like that's gonna make any of this easier for us. I can see him standing over me in my mind, staring down at this horrible mask, and the pool of blood under me. Staining my hair.

Selfishly, desperately, I do not want that person to be Aspen Peake. As much as I'm terrified of the opposite — crouching beside him, removing my mask, watching him die in front of me with nothing to hide behind. I can only imagine how terrifying that must be. Either way, it's traumatic, and I can't quite figure out how to tackle it. I can only turn to the side, narrowly catching the side of a blade with my bicep. It stings.

Still. What's a candle to a forest fire?

I stab one of my two remaining spears into the earth by my feet, finally able to remove my free hand from the knife's hilt. My fingers are shaking, knuckles white, and everything in me feels like it's unraveling. I don't know how to give him what he wants — as much as I'm sure he has no interest laying down his life for me. There has to be a fight. We have to hurt. And it fucks me, it really does, but I'm too prideful. Too afraid of hearing what I'll sound like.

Could I even say my name? What would it sound like from a torn throat?

It scares me. More than the way the sun has gone missing, and this mask I can't remove from my face, and the fact that I can no longer feel Reece beside me. Only the absence of him. I whimper, and inhale another rasping breath, and that's all I can give to Robin. Pull the blade out, and I have to deal with the bleeding. Croak out my name, and where's the dignity? Fuck. And where is my honor? Readying my weapon, ignoring what could be his final request.

'Please,' his voice echoes in my mind. 'Please, please, please.'

After this, I'll be down to my last spear. I'll have to close the distance between us, and it won't be as easy as hoping that I might knock him into the shadows — falling to the ground in a swell of cannon fire. I don't get to walk away from this. Part of me is always going to be trapped here, robbed of my voice and my kindness, forced to relive my death. Or the way I had refused a dying boy even the smallest mercy. I can only imagine how heavy the crown might be.

But I'll carry the burden. All of it. Whatever it takes for me to go home.

I throw the javelin in silence, and share nothing but my own pain, and fears. Even nameless, Robin will know me. Like a reflection across broken glass. I am sharp, and I am familiar.

Even in the darkness.

aspen attacks robin ; javelin 3/3
QNQxREtF5Vjavelin
DEEP GASH ON LEFT FOREARM -- 8.0 damage | +1 strength

javelin

[Wonder]

He waits for something, anything. Any response from the beast in front of him. It crossed Robin's mind once or twice that maybe he was facing some sort of mutt. Maybe he was going head-to-head against the corpse of a tribute? Surely this was information that everyone at home was privy to. Was he somehow the laughing stock of the Capitol unknowingly embarrassing himself by speaking to a mindless creature? Would this be playing on some ridiculous loop on a recap show? The thought of being on some clip show, his death played on repeat to make people laugh, all came rushing to him. He'd seen the shows, the tributes whose deaths were relentlessly mocked. It couldn't be him, he wouldn't let it be. Could it be Willa, his District partner? She was blonde, but the body didn't seem to match. He toyed with the possibilities as he watched her stand threateningly across from him.

They hadn't shifted from their duelist stance, two rangers firing their projectiles at each other. This, of course, was something that Robin was grateful for. He knew in a melee situation he was sure to die. But the longer Robin went unanswered, the more he grew wary. Agitated, even. Whatever the answer was, mutt or tribute, the silence was frightening. If it were another tribute their silence showed a reluctance to give him any sort of upper hand. Robin thought maybe if he were cunning enough he could throw his opponent off balance, get them to open up, and - ha, surprise they're open to attack. He knew his game had to come down to silly tricks but whoever was there only gargled in response.

Suctioning in, and puffing out, Robin could see his opponent's mask move as she breathed heavily. Because of this, the neck seemed almost bulbous in its bubbling. He wondered what effect his mask had, he hadn't found any sort of reflective surface to know. It was scary to think that he could die looking like someone he'd never seen. If Robin died here, no one would remember him. In archival materials, dead tributes were showcased by their final moments, and his, wearing a mask, would hide him away from the future forever. What little recognition and faith he'd have from people back home would be lost to a mask he'd never attached to his head in the first place. The whole thought of it was earth-shattering.

So much so he doesn't see the javelin toss until after he's registered his opponent's screams. With little time to spare he whips up his arm to defend his face, successfully blocking the javelin by implanting it straight into his forearm. Robin shrieked in pain, doubling over his knees wincing and clutching the spear. Once again, his arms had taken a beating. They were his only survival mechanisms and time and time again he'd relentlessly used them to shield in battle. The effect was harrowing as he hardly found the energy to lift his arms, let alone clench his fists. How was he meant to fight without the use of his arms? Was he meant to kick this beast into the fire kung fu style? A series of roundhouse kicks until he launched her into the fire? Surely not with the torn ligament in his right foot. It wouldn't be able to take the jumping or the pressure.

Still, amidst it all, she wouldn't say a word. Only scream and rattle. What the fuck was wrong with this girl? Robin couldn't bear it. His arms grew fiery was rage and hurt, the world was spinning. His vision was already obscured by the smaller eyeholes of the stupid mask latched to his face, and the blood loss wasn't helping. All he'd asked was a simple question and she couldn't even give him the decency to give it to him. It wasn't like she couldn't speak. He'd heard her just moments before. It sent a rage firing through Robin, Javelin still latched to his bicep. "Just answer me." He exclaimed through gritted teeth.

Drawing another knife from its holder, he stepped back gearing to throw. He didn't expect much, he didn't want to win, but there were victories for little guys like him in these Games. Those victories meant being remembered. Robin would be remembered.

[robin keeni attacks aspen w/ throwing knife]

GJvVV2OvlEthrowing knife

[miss]




ty dars for table!!

throwing knife

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

"Just answer me."

He speaks the words, and something inside of me ignites. Even though he's just taken a javelin through his arm, he still insists on knowing my identity. I listen to his screams fade into a guilt trip. My cheeks flush behind my mask, and I reach for the only spear I have left. My fingers shake. More than anything, I'm pissed. Because he's the entire fucking reason I can't answer him.

I stomp forward before I can reconsider it, carrying my weapon into battle like a warrior out of one of Areto's stories. Which hurts to think about, considering I've made myself the villain now. She must be going through this same situation, maybe even against Reece, and now I'm left alone with a knife through my throat, wanting to murder a boy who only wants to know my name.

The blood gets thicker inside of my mouth.

As I approach, he throws another blade in my direction, but I'm close enough now that we're both in range of the campfire light. I see the flash of silver just in time to duck to the side. I wait for a new explosion of pain to erupt somewhere on my body, but everything remains static. Like there's an electric rope around my throat, distracting me from any other discomforts. They all pale to this.

When I'm close enough, I reach up to the bottom of my mask with my free hand, grunting in agony as I dig my fingers into the sensitive skin trying to find a way underneath the rubber. I lift up as much of it as I can, craning my head to the side to try and show him that I can't fucking answer. I scream for good measure, howling with pain and frustration because I have every right to break down.

He stole my voice from me. My suffering doesn't have to be graceful.

Using the pause after my outburst to my advantage, I take a few steps back. Just enough that when I stab my spear point into the earth, it's just bright enough that he can make out the number I'm tracing in the dirt. 7. Spelling out my name to a kid trying to murder me doesn't seem like the wisest choice, so I settle for giving him the smallest piece of myself that I can share. The part of myself that I hate the most.

I'm the district seven female. Just an interchangeable pawn in a game.

But my rage keeps burning, like all of my bones have become matchsticks, and all I feel on the inside is the way my body is so close to giving out. I want to cry, and run away, and find all the people I have lost; in so many different ways. I think of my ghosts, and the girl I lied to, and the boy I kissed. When I do these terrible things, I reflect on the good. All my reasons to keep living.

Enough of them to guide my hand as I strike.

His name is Robin, and he must die.

aspen attacks robin ; spear
TcQSdUJ2iPspear
Shallow Cut on Forehead -- 4.5 damage

spear

[Wonder]

Run.

Mauve's silver rasp rung through his mind, her dying words hissing her final warning once more. Robin, run. The command seemed simple yesterday, but today seemed much muddier. Fight or die, were the options presented. With this mask clung to his face, making it harder and harder to breathe, it hardly seemed like an option. Nothing seemed viable anymore. Options were running slim at this point. The time for hiding in the cabins and waiting it out was long gone. Days ago the Gamemakers had decided to flush everyone out in the open, and the consequences of that were here and clear - no one would make the end by playing it safe.

Whatever Robin had said set his opponent off, sending her skulking slowly towards him. Inch by inch she approached, not hurried, but dangerously and with intent. A predator finally done toying with its prey, she grabs one final spear. Run, his mind begged and pleaded with him. No, it wasn't possible. She'd catch up before he got very far with his bum ankle anyways. The closer she got, the more worried he became. Robin wasn't good in hand-to-hand combat. Overall he was entirely defenseless, his meek frame already ravaged from days of battle wounds. There was no way that if this battle took a turn into a melee that he would win. Still, he didn't move.

Robin stood statuesque as her blonde tendrils finish approaching, stopping a spears-swipe away. For just a split second, they stand like mirrors, reflections of each other - a duo of monsters, masks and all. Robin can only think in small fractures, everything seems quick now. She tugs at her mask, he doesn't understand, if she'd killed already why didn't she take it off? She tugs at her mask, it's not coming off. His blade, still lodged in her throat. It didn't even register to him that maybe she couldn't talk anymore. Perhaps he'd forgotten that he too could be the predator. Robin too wore a monster's mask.

Seven. Her spear traces out the number in the ground, spelling out to him what she couldn't say aloud. Robin had taken her voice. Like a siren's spell, he'd ripped her voice with just one lashing. Robin had stood there accusing her of lacking humanity when it was his hands that took it from her. All actions have consequences. So caught up in trying to imbue his own story into her life, he'd forgotten that he was not the only protagonist. They all were.

"Aspen." Robin croaks, just in time for the back end of her spear to lance across his forehead. The cut sending him back on his heels, reeling backward a couple of steps before being able to find his balance again. He'd deserved that. Of course. They all did. No one made it to day eight without blood on their hands. Though Robin had only seen Aspen once before cutting away at the beast in the lake while Mauve and himself fended off attackers, he knew for a fact she wasn't defenseless. Robin had heard all about her as Willa had geared up to align with her, she was no joke. The growing prospect of the battle turning hands-on worried Robin even more knowing his opponent. Though her swipe had knocked him backward, it was only a matter of time.

"I'm sorry." Famously apologizing once again, he geared for an attack. It was stupid but he meant it every time. Was he just polite? Was it his atonement for whatever came next? Maybe it was just a reflex from years of being in the way. But he didn't regret the words he spoke, especially as he threw his knife once more, intending to kill.

[robin keeni attacks aspen w/ throwing knife]

ydcX4La8J1throwing knife

[miss]




ty dars for table!!

throwing knife

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

It's bad enough when he speaks my name. Looks at me with shadows over his eyes, and sees through the blood and the rubber, and knows me. Some idea of me. Aspen Peake, girl who cannot voice her pain. Or grief, or rage. It makes my skin crawl. My stomach flips when he insists, "I'm sorry."

I don't want him to be sorry.

I don't want to be anything to him.

Because I have to be his killer; that's the role I'm playing here. That, or he's going to kill me in a matter of minutes. And both options terrify me.

There's a shift of gravity; and I strike at the abyss.

[ filler ]

aspen attacks robin ; spear
6wnVIWJAxBspear
Shallow Cut on Right Calf -- 3.5 damage

spear

[Wonder]

He knows she's sorry too, even if she can't say it. Even the darkest of souls he'd met had shown empathy here. After all, they were just children. A hunter is only a hunter here because they must be, whatever rationalization is needed to abide by that ruleset is fair game. It was a hard switch, to separate a tribute from their story. They were all in it to go home, and no one deserved it more than the other. They weren't comparative, but unilateral. All moving towards the same direction, hoping to not get stricken down.

Robin felt a warmth, like an aura slowly fizzling across his limbs. Not warm in a sense of comfort, nor in a sense of heat, but in a way that encapsulated his body and let him know he's losing a lot of blood, and fast. As Aspen steps in and slices at his calf, Robin can feel the end coming. What he feared was coming to fruition, a trained fighter had him up against a wall. When push came to shove, Robin could hide all he wanted, but he'd have to win a fight to get out of here alive. The difference in weight class was clear, Aspen knew the points to go for as Robin found himself almost taking a knee as the spear drew across his tendon but just tumbling forward a bit instead.

He'd missed nearly every shot he'd thrown but as he reached for a knife he realized he was on his last one, a feat he'd yet to experience. Every other day so far, he'd had knives to spare. Not that it mattered now, as his opponent stood too close to throw anyways. Robin slid the final knife from its clasp and tried his luck, thrusting forward towards Aspen in a desperate attempt.

[robin keeni attacks aspen w/ knife not thrown but jabbed]

1mAys3Wpq0knife

[miss]




ty dars for table!!

knife

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

He keeps missing. The worst part is that my first reaction isn't to cheer; I can't really find the thread between his struggle and my success. It wraps around my wrists, and constricts, and everything starts to feel a little fuzzy. Like my heart's drumming in my ears, and I'm running to the beat. I see home. Even in the dark, it beacons to me. My north star.

It's a little cruel, the way I have such an unfair advantage over him at close range. I can hear his unsteady breathing, the way the parts of his body that are still him are trembling, but still fighting. Never once yielding to that urge to quit. That hateful whisper that must sound so much like the voice he robbed of me; sad, and afraid, and so desperate for him to die.

It must end. And it should be quick.

Dawn will not wait for them.

aspen attacks robin ; spear
urgku0xkXhspear
block

accuracy | day 7

spear
Stabbed in Forearm -- 8.5 damage | +1 strength [9.5]

spear·spear