the dead have no remorse [pd v dd v g / day 5 / big top]

Remorse is the only feeling he can grasp in these moments.

A guilt that burns all the same with his fire; an ocean of remorse he chooses to drown in over and over again. The sun bleeds with it's yellow, orange, and red rays with the same fervor in his chest. The thrum against his flesh as the heart of his body seems to unattach itself from the confines of his body. Silver meets flesh. Blood drips all the same. Flashes of death linger through his intense gaze. The memories of fighting fill his body; the memory settling into motion as he swipes over and over with a sword made specifically to kill. Marceline's gripping her leg; her eyes breath all the hell that everyone believes he deserves. Some days, he can see why everyone thinks that.

World's greatest piece of shit, as Will would say. Even as he holds the sword out in front of him, blood trickling from his neck and leg, Marceline Jeon has the look of every killer he's met. That retribution just hiding underneath the surface; almost like a curse gently hanging above her head. Cyro can't help the feeling of watching the fire spread through her body with the pain he'd caused. The adrenaline, the competitiveness, and his hope to get home to his son changes him every time. Even as he stands before Marceline from Eight, he can almost read her thoughts before they're spat out. "Cyro," All he can see is the countless of people he'd spat vitriol at before. Is this how Katelyn Persimmon felt all those years ago? "Fuck you."

Almost instinctively, he raises his shoulders to look bigger, to look tougher. His body tenses with that feeling of anger. His eyes narrow with the trained ease that he's never forgotten. For a moment, he can see Marceline with her fire. The next, he's back in that dreaded apartment. Amira's body growing cold as she clutches a tiny bundle of a baby. His father staring at him with blood still coating his hands. Just like his father, he watches Marceline spit at him. He flinches almost in response as if his body reacted before his mind could catch up. Isn't this what he always did? Create division. Burn down every bridge there ever was. Anger everyone around him until he's alone. Even now, there was only him and Cynthia.

No words escape his lips. Trapped underneath the feelings bubbling up to the surface, his eyes trail down to where their blood lies. Marceline Jeon becomes a faded memory as Cyro looks up. It's what he's always deserved. Hatred. Anger. Vitriol. Even now, he could remember the way he acted as if he were invincible and could scream to the heavens for his son. Desperate to save the only love he had left in a world so cold and cruel. It's a bitter feeling that he swallows as Marceline's strike shifts his heart once more.

There's no time left to fall back into his trauma.

Instead, he freezes for a moment. Sweat dripping down his brow, exertion in his limbs, and the silver still gleams from the cutlass. The dusty ground beneath his boot holds him steady. Careful eyes looking up from where they'd been trapped in Marceline's grasp. All he ever wanted to be was someone who was strong. Someone to protect those around him. A father with the perfect solution to protect his son. A friend who people could lean on and grow. All he ever wanted was to be strong. Strong enough to survive life. Strong enough to lift any weight the world might drop.

In an instance, Cyro Krane learns he was never strong.

A sickening crunch breaks through the dust; a cannon firing almost as quickly as his eyes flutter to Cynthia out of fear. In a flash of a second, he learned the harshest truth of the hunger games that he never had to learn the first time around. Nothing hurts worse than watching someone you've gotten to know leave this world. Love, friendship, and light do that to a person. Grief comes in heavy flashes of pain. Tears through hearts that'll scar as wounds which'll never heal. Sound doesn't escape his lips, but he almost scrambles forward only to fall in the dust. Marceline Jeon left behind.

The games were never kind to Eleven.

He should've know he would lose everyone around him.

Cyro wants to scream. He wants to burn his lungs dry over and over again until that sorrow finally escapes. The blood on his blade drips and all he can think about is how he wished it were Gino Setire's blood. Stumbling forward, through dust and dirt; a cloud forms behind him as he moves ever so slow, but also with the same fervor as a feral animal. The pain spreads. Etches between the bones of his skeleton, leaving artwork of each conversation with Cynthia Delgado and the finality of her life.

If it's too easy, then what's the point?

A challenge is what she'd gotten, but all he ended up with were the wounds of death's cold and uncomfortable hands. The ones who rest against his shoulders as if they knew he would be the center of their culling. The words left unsaid fill his head; the desire to have spoken more, to have shared more, to have learned more. All of them are left to the dust, a body left to chill as Cyro feels his body betray him for longer than a moment.

A scattering of people starts. Footsteps elsewhere as they escape from this game. Blood had been shed. What more of a reason did they need to leave? All he can do is stare. Let the fire burn through his flesh as he stays focused on Cynthia and Gino. The exertion and the anger burning hot. Only, rationally, he knew this was the game all of them were to play. The one he had volunteered for all those years ago. The same fight he's carried like the ribbon along his belt. Not a coward. How stupid of a ribbon to carry now.

"Gino!" The word breaks through his lips like the tremor of an earthquake. The maniacal look in his eyes flashing to place as Cyro stands, cutlass in hand. There's not an ounce of fear within his body. Only that maniacal fire of a man who's seen far too much death in his life. The same crazy that his father always claimed Cyro Krane was. How right he might've been. "You may have won today." A heavy, painful laugh leaves his lips as holds the sword up. Level with his shoulders, his heart thrums, and almost with a calmness that is far too unnatural for Cyro Krane, he continues. "You won't fucking win again. You've not met me before. I will find you. I will be the one to rip your second life from this world."

A promise is what he always keeps.

Xander had made sure to keep good on them.

Even now, he could feel his own skin crawling with the need for vengeance, but that aching loneliness settles in his chest.

"Back the fuck away from her!"

His voice breaks with the shout as he clutches the cutlass tighter. The fight could continue. The fire was still in his heart. Memories of his own death lingering in his mind. Only, he can see that smile of a toddler who would brighten up the entire room. An angel still stuck in his mind. The hope that still manages to worm its way through all the hatred. The same ease to fall into all of his anger. Only his angel gives him enough hope to break free from it.

"This isn't over! I'll rip your head from your body next time I see you!"

It's a bitter feeling to look at Cytnhia's crumbled form.

Once filled with the cool confidence that reminded him of Meredith, he can only see her and wonder if Meredith had crumbled the same.

"I'll find you again, Gino."

Dust drifts from where he had stood.

The gentle sound of drifting canvas of where Cyro Krane had cut open a hole is all that remains.

A shifting new goal writing itself within the confines of his own plans.

Death smiles where he once stood.