Trxnsmission {Mohs xshot}

His voice echoes loudest, his fist the whitest upon the counter top. Nine days, and nearly two weeks since the boy departed the District's safe arms and now, his usually deserted except on Thursdays bar now houses hundreds, packed shoulder to shoulder with exploding, screaming men and women- and he was one of them. His frame loomed over those shorter, and though the cold outside caused his leg to ache and creak, he paid it no mind.

The capitol logo plays, loud, with foreign instruments they've never heard before, and it all goes silent and dark, the logo shimmering down on the citizens of one. Ceaser Flickerman with his magnificent jaws of white waves excitedly, and begins a swooning tale of revenge; it's tailored specifically for district One. Seven, Eleven, and Four are all receiving the same transmissions of their own tributes, and their own tribulations.

Mohs doesn't give two shits- while heavy breathing fills the room, his heart drops to his heart. With the way Flickerman's excited voice rises and falls- he's talking like- no, they wouldn't- the last one was when Mohs was eleven. No, no no no, the Gamemaker's couldn't, surely they would see the legalities-

This fight is going to be a rough one.

It's One, Four, Seven, and Eleven- two careers, two outliers. He's seen Seven in action and is thoroughly impressed. Even without her vision, she consistently lands hard, painful attacks on all of her victims while eleven has a very distinctive height difference, well over a head and a half from the kid from One.

His fingers run through trimmed down hair, his clothes fresh, pressed. The training center today, remains closed, its doors jammed shut, and the gathered audience holds its collective breath. A bright white logo flashes across the screen, and it's Ceaser Flickerman, recapping to the collective groans of all the gathered citizens who glare and glower at the man on screen- "Just show us already!" someone screams from the back, while Mohs carefully eases himself into a bar stool.

He feels the tension in the air, as does the bartender who is all hands and arms, flailing shots and flinging mugs this way and that, careful to keep tabs on anyone and everyone. No IDs today, as long as they have the cash, they can taste the liquor. A simulated sunrise casts golden rays across glittering beaches, and Mohs' breath catches in his throat. Septys's forehead, a patchwork of stitches looks fine and unswollen, though his matte black blade shimmers and reflects the ever-prominent rays.

Who the fuck gave him tar? Mohs missed it last night.

Four bars, statuses and heartbeats rest in the four corners of the screen while his fingers busy themselves with tearing a napkin between clasped joints. If it weren't for the warmth pressing against his shoulders, he would have trembled and shook with fear for the child on screen, but as it were, he sits incredibly tall, vision fixated on the pixels flashing overhead.

Someone else yells, pointing their stubby fingers upwards. It's Four, and his terrible, biting blade. Septys seems to hold his ground, his head turned towards the sun god damn that's a fantastic camera angle, like he was steeling himself for death himself. Or herself, if the rumors about Beretta are to be believed, but she was only human. They all are.

Four raises his blade as does Seven, and Mohs feels the tension in his throat shatter with the crowd. Screams and cries of 'NO' reverberate through the tiny bar, and Mohs glances sidelong at his companion, before his dark gaze flickers back onto the screen. One of the heartbeat bars flashes, and slithers down, about three-quarters green. Septys is the target, and already his flesh comes undone, rent below sharp points and vicious cries.

"Fuck they're going to rip him apart." he whispers, though his voice is lost among the screaching as Septys lifts his glaive and brings it down firmly across Four's arm, the tar sticking and firing across nerves and flesh. Someone in the back cheers for the kid, and Mohs once again turns his head away as the camera angle changes to focus on the ferocity of Harbinger's face and he struggles against the male to no avail.

"COME ON!" his deep voice booms across the room as four slips his halberd into Septys' arm, just shy of Tyler's protective armor. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, SEPTYS WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!? IT'S NOT A FUCKING GAME!" His hands quiver, absolutely shredding the ivory paper in his palms. He doesn't notice the grip on his shoulders, easing him back into the bar stool. Back home, his mother and father comfort three trembling youth, while his father stands in a door frame questioning their very presence in his home, and the speech about keeping them already begins to form on the edges of his mind.

Then just like that- that fast, it's over. Four crumbles to the ground, and Septys stand firm against the onslaught. Screams of delight fill the air and then-

BAM.

It's just enough to knock the male down, and Mohs knows he won't get back up again.

The crowd gets quiet, or maybe that's just the silence of shock reverberating through the male's skull. He can't feel anything, even the gripping arms around his chest. The man stands, and forces his way between the crowd, none of them sparing a glance his way, each and every one of them focusing on the finale. It should have been me, it should have been me. It should have been-

Sweaty palms stumble and trip over the threshold, forcing the door open with his shoulder, and for the first time in five years,

Mohs Aurum r u n s.