the ascent | cool kids vs three of wolves vs crawlers

l u c k y
nachtnebel

Lucky watched Gunner and Xylia's tents more than the outside for other tributes. He stalked them, really. Whenever they tossed or stretched an arm, his hopes that one of them might come out to chat rose. It sunk seconds later when it turned out to be nothing. How much could he trust them now? Lucky pushed them away yesterday, literally in Gunner's case, for a loose ally. Maybe he should have gone with Rita instead and put Harley in a tough spot to be nice to him. It would have been amusing, or better than the dread he felt guarding between his allies' tents.

He thought about walking in and talking with Gunner about what had happened. Their words had been heavily minced ever since Gunner kissed him and Lucky pulled away. One of them instructed and the other agreed to avoid causing a fuss. Lucky paced for the first couple of hours on his watch, muttering senseless whispers in the direction of his companion. He was stuck in his head, caught between cupid's arrow and grudge's bullet. He wore himself out in time, sitting between Xylia's tent and Gunner's.

The wind, thankfully was much less of an issue in the cavern than it was outside. It was easier to hear around him, and he felt better about relaxing on the watch. Every footstep in the cave echoed and every breath carried into a scream. Lucky laid himself flat on the ground, inching his body closer to Gunner's tent. His ear cupped against the nylon, patiently listening.

Lucky waited on him guiltily.

Was he still breathing?

Was that an I'm cold sniffle or an I'm sick one?

Within ten minutes, the tent jostled as Gunner shifted inside. The dim mine light showed his shadow on the ceiling turning inward. Lucky rolled too. They were facing each other now. He tapped the tent with the nail of his finger.

Was he awake? "Gun." A gentle whisper, careful not to startle the guy. "You awake?"

Nothing.

"I'm sorry."

Did he hear that?

He felt better about saying something when Gunner wasn't awake to rebut it. Lucky meant it, though, really. He was too surprised in the heat of the moment to have any other reaction. Lucky saw a brother in his left eye and a lover in his right. He rubbed the patch across his right eye as Gunner turned back around. That was the point. He didn't see it until Gunner's hands fit around Lucky's cheeks. And now, he could not unsee it.

Lucky wished for different circumstances. He wished for something that could never change. The Hunger Games were no time for an identity crisis, but here Lucky was, torn between wanting to kill someone and wanting to kiss them.

When Gunner rose halfway through the night, Lucky rose with him. He knocked on the metal edges of the tent, silent. Your turn. Lucky swapped places without a word. Gunner was staying in his tent after all. His was "broken." Lucky settled in, head resting where Gunner's had in the night.

He stayed half awake, watching Gunner outside between his spurts of drowsiness. A part of him wanted the boy to lie beside him outside and whisper.

Luck, you awake? –yes yes yes.

"Can you shoot a gun?" Lucky's eye shot open. Who was he talking to? He hoped Gunner took notice of his restlessness and decided to start a conversation. "Take it, and shoot his other eye out." He sank with an extended breath out, covering his eye with the inside of his elbow.

Lucky wished for them to talk things through. He would map Gunner's heart with his own given the chance to try again.

He wished for something that never came in the night even as he mouthed another promise in his direction: I will never hurt you again.

---

They woke and traveled aimlessly in a hazed darkness. This was what Gunner had mentioned the other day about the other side of the arena. Weird.

"Pack." Gunner commanded, and so he did it. Lucky thought it cute now, how bossy he was. Like Rita, sort of, but a boy. That was what he tried to tell Rita last night. When Gunner kissed him, it felt totally different but exactly the same as when she had.

He hated that Gunner ignored him while they walked. Small talk and chatter were nonexistent between them now. The only time they spoke was with Xylia in the middle, never addressing one another directly until Gunner stopped in his tracks behind them, signaling something was off.

"We're being follo-"

"Crap!" Crooked legs and milky pupils jumped through the haze, going straight for Lucky's head. He swung his body away, and the creature's claws tore into the base of his helmet. "Uhh.."

They ran away as a pack upward across the icy ground, making distance on the creatures. What were those things? Disgusting, nauseating, and certainly not tributes. Why, year after year, tributes fought mutts instead of running away from them boggled him. Flight until you must fight.

He stopped before a trio of figures ahead, certainly more humanlike than the ones moments ago. One of them, he knew well. Xov. Why was she looking so pissed, and looking in his direction?

"You here to torture us too? Kick us while we’re down and spit on us? Seriously, I thought your decency would have lasted at least a day, Lucky."

His spit smut got around, huh? Lucky raised his spear and shrugged. "Guilty as charged!"

Gunner warned them to back off, and Xov warned them to keep away from the other two: boys from Eleven and Twelve. But Xov, oh so brave, turned to Lucky first and turned her axe to swing at him. It curled directly toward the base of his thigh.

Lucky leaped backward, praying he bided enough time to evade her attack. Within an instant, Gunner fired not one but two shots across the field. Juno tried to call him off but began to fight himself. His first post-bloodbath brawl!

"Hurt him again and I shoot off your friend's fucking face next." Lucky turned to Gunner, eye in awe. He nodded to show his appreciation. I'll always fight for you.

His foot slid back on the thin sheet of ice. The arena reeked of freshwater and fish. They were on unsteady ice, with a body of water beneath them. Lucky raised a brow and a smirk, addressing Xov. "Would now be a bad time to tell everyone how scared of water you are?" Lucky stomped recklessly on the ice, chipping it with the heel of his leather boots. "Don't slip, or you'll have more than my spit to worry about, Xov."

He offered her another reason: the iron head of his spear.

A white cloud spirals into the air, lingering the immediate threat of peril. Like a cat’s tail, the smoke curls with an affectionate hunger. If the black cloud of fog doesn’t indicate that the Gamemakers are bored, it’s the way the smell of the gunfire pierces the air. It’s the cannon that echoes the bullets. I feel my breath catch, wondering, did I hear my own end?

That concern is resisted by my stumble, where my body wants to collapse already, but my legs catch any fall. The bullets tear my skin into ridges.

His gun purrs, happy to have made (what many could assume) its first mark of the Games. It continues to flare it’s warning into the air, almost twirling toward the ridges to pollute them. The poison isn’t known, but maybe it’s best to be unaware of that. The Games were bound to poison bodies, dead or alive, physically or mentally. There’s a peace with what’s to come today. If we were here one day later, it’s safe to assume that the ice would succumb to my weight. It’s fate that I can stand here.

At least, fate if fate is supposed to be a decision made by a control room of adults. Adults who know what the Games look like but have never felt a single flake of what they do emotionally. Adults who send pasture to slaughter. They take the lambs that live out to be quarry for the families back home.

Does a lamb have teeth? Now that I think about it, it’s hard to compare myself to a lamb. Not in the consideration of a victor, but in the reflection of a fight. A lamb runs. But I’m not running - I can’t leave Xov or Juno alone, especially if my only goal was to protect them. I have to die in a fight. "Hurt him again and I shoot off your friend's fucking face next." Gunner decides to threat my life as if I’m scared for it. I don’t expect to live. Who would want to live the life of a victor? There’s never been envy for Harbinger - the glamour couldn’t mask the tremors at night, even if I never saw them. I know they’re there.

I also don’t like my face. It’s shaped like one of those glass jars we use to preserve food at the shelter.

”Keep at it.” I look down the metal chamber at the gun, looking at the eye of my demise. Like I’m talking to the weapon, not the hand on the trigger. ”It’s better me than her.” The world deserves more people that are nice. People like Xov, who bring clothes to her friends. It’s hard to remember the last time I’ve offered anything meaningful to the group. It must look real phony to talk about working to volunteer.

Blood begins to gallop out of the ridges torn into my body, but they could hurt me more. Hurt me worse.

”You might need the bigger target, anyway.”

[attacks xylia, hunter’s spear]
cqFB9DQx5Aspear
[8.5]

[SD on the crawlers' attack (2062, 8.0)]
3-8

j u n o
b r i m s t o n e.

Juno had never been in a real fight before. He was never one to scrap with the other boys at his school, and instead watched from the sidelines or walked away before someone dragged him it. With his burly arms, people knew he probably could take them down, so nobody really messed with him. A lot of folks in Twelve didn't eat every day. Juno wasn't that kid - he was fed, and his body showed it. But size didn't mean experience, nor was it any indicator of violent tendencies. Juno always chose the passive route, but now he was in a situation where walking away was a betrayal, and trying to 'talk it out' would only hurt himself and the people around him.

He didn't like violence as the only answer. It didn't feel natural, it didn't feel right, and swinging a sword felt as foreign as riding a bicycle for the first time. He was off-balance, barely able to scratch the boy who wielded a shotgun. He seemed intent on killing Marcellus. Maybe focusing on one person was the easiest way to win; otherwise, he couldn't watch five people at once.

Juno had only said what he said to cause chaos and confusion, but he was fixed on Gunner's response. "Why do you care what careers think? They don't win every time." He couldn't help but think of Marik, who had literally killed five people to come home. Yes, it was a lower district, but did that make his people more impressive, or careers less impressive? Juno didn't see this through either lense; people were people, and they all had a shot to win. Any trained career could've been buried in the mines yesterday. They were not immune, and Juno didn't find them all that spectacular.

He shook those thoughts away. The more they crossed his mind, the more he was assigning them status. Better not to think of them as anything but enemies in his path, because all they would do is try to kill Marcellus. He didn't really react to the ice-cold cut on his cheek, no matter how close of a call it was.

Alive is alive.