Turbulence // [Day 2 BARFs vs. Sinking Gulper]
Jun 20, 2015 11:41:24 GMT -5
Post by admin kay on Jun 20, 2015 11:41:24 GMT -5
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CIRCE LYON | |
The moment the turbine net contraption swept her up, she knew it was the end. She didn’t even have the strength, the breath, to scream. She thrust her hand between the diamonds of the net and clung to it as life raft, instead of a trap. It spun round and round, cycling with the turbine. Up, down, all around again. After a few rotations, her stomach lifted in her throat. “I’m going to be sick,” she warned her remaining ally, and vomited in what she hoped was a downward direction. After a few minutes, the landscape became interchangeable with the sky. Her stomach empty, her head spinning, she carefully unhooked her bow. She pressed either end into knots in the net, affording herself a small bubble in the net, the bow pushing the fabric away. She crossed her legs to sit, clutching her messenger bag. “Nat? Tell me you aren’t going to leave. Lie to me, if you have to.” Something whizzed by the net as it turned on the wheel. “And if you shoot me, the last thing I’ll do is fall and squish you.” It took entirely too long for her mind to adjust to the constant movement, but finally, something clicked. She stopped seeing the circle of her trajectory and came to a sort of peace. As much peace as could be found in a solitary home full of holes. To distract herself, she reviewed the contents of her bag. Her stomach twisted as she turned aside the MRE. She counted ten arrows and briefly considered trying to free herself by shooting an arrow at the gathering point. But it was a long way down and her body was already so beaten. She gathered her healing supplies, intending to rebind the wounds on her leg and chest. Instead, she pulled out the red and gold velveteen blanket. It took her a few tries to properly thread the needle, but that was the worst of it. For a time, she worked in complete silence, stitching cloth to cloth. She outlined the length of her body first, a white thread outline of a bloody red crime scene. Next, she sewed in a heart-shaped piece from her own outfit, not unlike the piece she had kissed Jaime with in her training session. She saved Elya’s burnt jacket for last, snipping out a piece and laying it over the left eye of her two dimensional self. When she was done, she wrapped herself in the blanket. It was Gunner’s voice below that finally brought her some small bit of relief. Circe stretched, letting her body elongate against the net. She poked her arms through, extending graceful, unscathed fingers. “Missing these right now?” Eventually the silly taunts stuck in her throat, her fingers rubbed raw from her sewing work. From below, a bounty. Circe began clicking the cap of the Sharpie, keeping a beat just a hair faster than that of her heart. Anything to keep her mind focused, anything to keep from thinking about a burning pyre. It played deep in her eyes, a fiery shadow she could not unsee, could not ignore. No matter how many times she turned the image over in her mind, no matter how many different perspectives she tried, she could only ever see the same thing: Elya Johnwayne given to smoke and ash and sky. Alone in her net, in the dark of the night, Circe sobbed into her shroud. At some point, grief must have carried her into sleep, because she awakened with a jerk as the turbine shuddered. Eyelashes crusted, she looked up to see the gathering point weaken. Circe grabbed her bow at the last second, drawing it to her chest as she fell, flipping over mid-air to land face first in the dirt. “Fuck,” Circe hissed through a waterfall of blood. Distantly she was pleased to see it was bright red, clear of any infection from her multiple wounds. More pressingly, she was aware that this was not going to increase her chances of wooing sponsors. Circe came shakily to her feet, throwing her hair back. “La Torre, I think we’re going to have to forget about stopping to smell the roses.” Strips of duct tape joined from across her nose, down her cheeks, and over her chin. She was more metallic reflection than flesh now. After so many hours in the net, Circe didn’t bother to restrain her wandering hands. They slipped along Gunner’s curves while she worked, hooked around her hips so that Circe’s thumbs rested against familiar hip bones. The tape pressed against her tweaked cartilage, helped to coagulate the blood. “Is this the sexiest voice you’ve ever heard?” She asked, her voice dampened by the blocked passageway. She saw it in Gunner’s eyes, so close to her own. It wasn’t Orion approaching through the wind. It was someone – or something – else. “I’ll take the lead.” | |
district 2 female of the 70th Hunger Games |
[Circe just lights her arrows on fire but does not attack the Sinking Worm because it is beneath her, metaphorically and literally.]
