come away to the water [sissterhood vs card sharps]

Like the night before, it was actually somewhat of a pleasure to be stuck with three nutcases in an oversized sandbox, besides the patted down with blood scar drawing against her chest of course. That bitch of a cut stung the entire night - the pressure of her teeth wedging down onto her bottom lip was shit compared to it - even as the bruises resting on her skin camouflaging splotches of the used to be pale to the dying weeds around them. Charlotte wasn't even sure if weeds grew in the desert naturally, but hell it's the capitol, does anything grow naturally anymore. Plus there was the fact of her never actually being to a desert, so besides the boring fucking lectures of ecosystems she never bothered to listen to there wasn't a real telling. The only thing she bothered to pick up about ecosystems is that first off they can easily be messed up: tundras, deserts, giant fucking forests, they're all easily thrown off balance by adding another species. Secondly was just that of course, adding another species fucked up an ecosystem as bad as Darius's ax against the buffalo's leg she carried in her bag.

The four of them actually managed to fit together in their own little ecosystem though - Charlotte still saw herself as the top of the pyramid of course, her and Owen, how the hell could he even keep up so well. Aelia keep breaking at her, in each little word she chimed in with, with every drop of sweat and blood and tears, it bit at her, because she wasn't supposed to fucking be here. Unlike her district partner, who was ripred knows where, those little feet were a volunteer's, but they weren't meant to be crippled up against the odd form of broken bones. They were built to touch the water, not weapons.

A matching turquoise ring kissed against the palm of Charlotte's hand from Aelia, promising it was as pretty as she was before bouncing away. Despite being surrounded by the picture child of the capitol that was One, she never felt like she lived up to the looks of the district; mostly because she never gave too much of a fuck of what she looked like. People always judged by covers anyways, sizing her up as only some washed up face by the looks of the tattoo's printed onto her skin like bruises, but honestly who cared besides herself. Each ink constellation was a story in itself and she barely had enough time to remember what half of those would be if they weren't imprinted into her arms and chest.

Discomfort shifted through her skin with the grinding between the metal bands hugging at her middle and index finger, but it barely lived up to the faces in the sky. Honestly, she couldn't put a name to either, besides the second being the box who stuffed himself in a box, which didn't make Charlotte any more surprised he passed early. The only true surprise in all of this was the odd feeling of her tongue pressing to the roof of her mouth with no saliva taking place. Frequent clicking coating her like sand as she stretched against it with the strange sensation of actually being thirsty for once. As a child she always joked about dying of thirst to Luce, in which the little bitch told her to fuck off of course, but she never really imagined that it felt as bad as she would now, each sand-paper lick tasting as bad as the grit lodged in the back of her teeth.

Eventually she passed out same like the night before, eyes tucked under her left arm which was still glued to the bowie she refused to name; Darius's heavy snores and sand vibrating under her back like rolling marbles and all. And once again, she only spent the hours viewing were the back of her eye lids instead of dreams (Rene always tugged that dreams in the arena were supposed to be more vivid, which sounded like utter bullshit, but with this rate Charlotte'd never actually find out). A part of her wanted to feel anything other than this damned arena for the first time in what, fifty hours, there's only so many ways to think of the different grains of sand without becoming overly aware that's there is really no way to picture them with interest. Despite the overly flamboyant looks of the capitol, their arena ended up being a pit of fucking boredom.

Seconds of having to sit through - or rather on - trembling sand latched onto her skin like sweat with the escalating sun until the dryness of waking up wore off and she realized what the hell was going on. Scrambling to her feet and throwing the leather bag back over her neck with rope burn while the other three already beginning off away from the cacti they were beginning to make a kingdom out of; a fucking stampede, really? If she managed to crawl her ass out of this arena, whoever pulled this shit would replace Glamour at the top of her shit list (she'd probably never let that go even if she didn't rip out of here, fucking hell who gives a career a six). Between weaving through cacti and bulls and Owen and Aelia and Darius, somehow a horn or a thorn or a knife or fucking something sliced her against her right side before she pushed through to the open area.

Fucking hell, who the fuck throws a fucking stampede at somebody in the fucking morning. If she woke up two seconds later she'd be anthem bait before even getting a damn chance, were they fucking trying to kill her before a tribute got the chance. Besides, running with the bulls in fucking moccasins sure as fuck isn't happening again in her life time, she'd make sure of that. Gasps of recollecting breath and the sound of hoofs stuttering against the ground echoed through the air; as a child she always wanted to run alongside against a train on a horse like in one of those old western books her father read to her, but hell fucking no, not any more.

With the sight of the animals dashing against like a freight train and four other tributes snaking out like fleas, Owen jumped the gun and a knife lodged inside one of their legs pretty well in all honestly and Aelia's own wedged deeply into another's. Unlike the ones in the anthem, Charlotte actually recognized that one, the one with the gash in her arm, she was the bitch from four or five or something close, but she was the first one actually recognizable since the bloodbath and the girl from one felt a pang of pride for managing to notice somebody.

But it's Leon's face she recognizes again and she wished she didn't. She wished she didn't feel like jamming her bowie down into his throat and making she wasn't the first career dead. She wished she the appearance of his fucking face in this arena didn't piss her off as much as it did. But fuck, you win some, you lose some. The sound of his piss ass joke surfacing over the bulls like fog left her wanting to carve the knife lodged in her left hand far enough through his ear to where his thoughts weren't the only thing scratching his brain. Adding them into Charlotte's ecosystem wasn't safe, the digs onto Darius and Aelia made that obvious.

Fucking hell.

[charlotte attacks siren]
_juWwyCTknife
[Shallow Cut on Forehead-- 4.5