regrets collect . kareem / bowie
Mar 2, 2022 13:18:33 GMT -5
Post by pogue on Mar 2, 2022 13:18:33 GMT -5
There's still the sounds of a cannon ringing in his ears when he sprints from the Bloodbath, footsteps pounding into the dust and the dirt and only a spare few items to his name. He only stops when the adrenaline falters, slamming a palm against the hunk of scrap metal next to him and steadying himself. Pain sets in slowly and then all at once as he catches burning breaths, an ebb and flow turning to a tidal wave as he feels the impact of white-knuckled fists pressed into his flesh. He grinds his teeth into each other, surveys his own body for anything other than the bruises he already knows, eyes looking for lines of crimson and black seeping from his flesh.
He allows himself a heartbeat of relief when he finds none, then two.
It's quick to come and even quicker to go, gone as soon as he hears footsteps approaching from behind him. He spins on tired heels, feels his heart jump into his chest as he looks back towards the cornucopia, another cannon booming out across the arena above him.
There's a knife laced into his fingers that he holds up to the approaching figure, blurred and distorted by the rising heat and the cutting sun. Held in a loose grip with strong heart, hazel eyes so intently focused that to blink would feel like a betrayal.
When he sees that it is Kareem his grip on the weapon does nothing but tighten.
Their conversation in the training center runs through the back of his mind, then the front, burning itself into his memories and pulling a rotting concoction of fear and adrenaline up from his gut. His heart skips a beat, then two, until his grip is so tight that it feels as if his palm will split beneath the pressure, hand shaking ever so slightly.
They both look worse for wear and aren't wearing it well, desperately pointing their knives at one another with sweat and dust laced into their skin. He can feel the bruises underneath his own flesh, flowers doused in purple and blue blossoming under the harsh sunlight. He doesn't trust the boy in front of him, doesn't trust him not to do something drastic if he had the chance, doesn't trust himself to be able to fight off someone who had already taken a life.
"Drop the fuckin' knife, mate."
His own voice betrays him, words slipping from split lip as more a fearful whisper than a demand. He bites back the word please, instead opts to huff and puff and straighten his chest to look more like a man than this arena would ever let him be. His shadow stretches out on the ground below, arcing across the dust and the dirt and blurring into itself until it looks like some void of a grave, calling his name under the sunlight. Above, a drone whirs into existence, red eye of the camera flitting between him and Kareem as they stare one another down. He glances at it and watches it glance back, stares into the emptiness of entertainment like he'd done so many times before. Let the Games begin, it practically says to him.
He allows himself a heartbeat of relief when he finds none, then two.
It's quick to come and even quicker to go, gone as soon as he hears footsteps approaching from behind him. He spins on tired heels, feels his heart jump into his chest as he looks back towards the cornucopia, another cannon booming out across the arena above him.
There's a knife laced into his fingers that he holds up to the approaching figure, blurred and distorted by the rising heat and the cutting sun. Held in a loose grip with strong heart, hazel eyes so intently focused that to blink would feel like a betrayal.
When he sees that it is Kareem his grip on the weapon does nothing but tighten.
Their conversation in the training center runs through the back of his mind, then the front, burning itself into his memories and pulling a rotting concoction of fear and adrenaline up from his gut. His heart skips a beat, then two, until his grip is so tight that it feels as if his palm will split beneath the pressure, hand shaking ever so slightly.
They both look worse for wear and aren't wearing it well, desperately pointing their knives at one another with sweat and dust laced into their skin. He can feel the bruises underneath his own flesh, flowers doused in purple and blue blossoming under the harsh sunlight. He doesn't trust the boy in front of him, doesn't trust him not to do something drastic if he had the chance, doesn't trust himself to be able to fight off someone who had already taken a life.
"Drop the fuckin' knife, mate."
His own voice betrays him, words slipping from split lip as more a fearful whisper than a demand. He bites back the word please, instead opts to huff and puff and straighten his chest to look more like a man than this arena would ever let him be. His shadow stretches out on the ground below, arcing across the dust and the dirt and blurring into itself until it looks like some void of a grave, calling his name under the sunlight. Above, a drone whirs into existence, red eye of the camera flitting between him and Kareem as they stare one another down. He glances at it and watches it glance back, stares into the emptiness of entertainment like he'd done so many times before. Let the Games begin, it practically says to him.
[ Collects Cornucopia items ]
[ Performs f/a on self ]
[ Performs f/a on self ]
