what i might do :: Daniel x Achilles {blitz-ish}

She has no relations. 

From the beginning, she was a blank slate. Dipped in the abyss, stripped to the bare bones, dried with shattered glass remains of broken memories. Styx made her mind a white canvas, scraped the canvas clean with knives composed of fingertips brushed against skin, against sin. The closest thing she has to a family is the dried blood on the steel of her sword, for it has dripped from the blade to hilt to fingers and embedded itself into the fingertips of a protege pawn. Maybe that's why she swings so blindly, feels so connected to the sword itself. 

Maybe it's because she's just as cold as the steel she fights with.

She never loved Styx. Styx never loved her. 

She fell in love with the purple hued flames in her eyes, ablaze amongst a white sea. She fell in love with the way she stared, intense, venomous, dangerous. She fell in love with

The way she used.

The way she manipulated.

The way she shaped her into

Her.

Because when Achilles looks in the mirror she sees the hottest fire in one eye and the coldest ice in the other. Never subsiding, always raging amidst the oceans they drown in. It was the fire when she took his life, dug glass fingernails deep into his eye, felt the blood ebb against the whites of her knuckles. They say blood makes someone related. 

Does that mean she's related to that man?

Either way, she is a murderer.

She does not regret it. 

Rhodes, Eckhart, Tate, the names roll off the tongue like poison in the mouth of a dying man, spilling into the sink before her. She's found fascination in the way Death plays bias to the families who have already shattered, taking its pickings amongst the already dying. 

These Games are no different. Except, it's like these families are jumping towards Death. 

Her footsteps echo against the hallways, bouncing off the portraits of past tributes, clinging to the fingerprints Death left on the shattered glass their cased in. She walks through the District Seven quarters as if it's her own, hands in her pockets, hips swaying in the sunlight.

She's too used to seducing the men of a nightclub. 

Her knocks shatter the silence of Daniel Tate's room.

"Daniel Tate. You look just like him." 

He's a bloody spit image of his brother, beard sprouting just the same. Tough build, nothing she can't handle. His eyes scream just like Sue Tate's did on the television, too encased in lies to recognize the truths he's facing. 

"Walk with me."