I'll give you one warning // Ansgar vs Asha // Day 7

ASHA LUMIERE

Countless hours spent in at a memorial without a service, a shiver does not pass through my spine when the shrapnel of a false tranquility is spattered across the star studded night sky. The final flame of District Five sputters and dies under the weight of six days straining to survive within the fabrics of hell itself. The boy's name was Sacha, it is no surprise to me that he is less than a feather on a conscience untouched nor is he an addition to a pride desired. Arrogance lost to six days on death's doorstep - I've long since realized that I am not and never will be the perfect career son, crown or no crown.

In truth, it was inevitable that Samira could not evade the wishes of the world forever. She brought me a false sense of strange tranquility on the rooftop but the feelings of someone rotting in the deep pits of insanity can not change the inevitable. The world made its demand for her blood the day her name was drawn out of death's annual raffle. It was only a matter of when and how. Fucked by the odds, I would've gladly delivered the world's wishes if I had been given a third chance since the first and second day. One ear gone along with sword strokes too shallow against seething skin, I shouldn't have toyed with my food. The detonation of tranquility took place on the first day, it was only a matter of when the shrapnel would lose its terminal velocity.

When Jenoah's eyes bare down on me from above, a shiver does not even pass through my spine but my bones ache, but it is not from the morning star. This hollow chest only harbors a heart of ice but it does not thaw at the realization that everyone who I had shared my flag of truce with is dead. No time for a memorial, no thought for a final cremation of a simpler time, the only thing that leaves periods of sleep stuttered is the calling of fractured bones for attention.

It is a painful relief when the morning sheds light along the dark rift of insanity I'd subjected myself to. I do not care to try my best to forget it all (Hyacinth, lies, canon fire-) when I lurch myself to my steady feet, gripping my axe in five fingers and letting four fingers hand loosely at my side. I can count three tributes standing left to kill but this song of blood and steel feels no closer to its conclusion. I still possess nine digits instead of ten, I'm still no closer to painting this monochrome existence red, I'm still no closer to even seeing red-

(monochromia; chasing phantoms of colors until the end)

- and fatigue has left me weathered. And yet, in the face of three dead sharers of a truce flag, my hollow chest still harbors a heart of ice along with a pulse drifting steadily through the notion. The rubble of a system I had almost put my trust in, the reality of solitude, three heart beats that do not run cold along with a graveyard that beckons us all. In truth, this is what I was made to do and yet I find myself wondering when the final tune will dissipate and the black and white smokescreen will be lifted.

Not soon I hope.

Direction only available to the rational, I find myself tracing ever fading dotted pencil lines across the map of a fragmented mind. I do not even see an 'X' to mark to the spot. Colorblind to reality, blind to direction, but conscious to the violent tune growing ever louder. I find myself counting the footsteps I take through this ever deepening rift of insanity where both District Five's fought to defy the wishes of others. One was successful in defying the wishes of the world while the other was unsuccessful in defying the will of a career madman riddled with imperfections.

Ignorant of caution, my steel clad footsteps are easy to count because they are heavy. The possibility of the ground collapsing from underneath me or this whole narrow rift slowly closing in and crushing bone and brains is not entertained in my mind but neither is it lost. In truth, I am more concerned with the fact it took over two thousand footsteps to exist the familiar rift I could've called home. More than double the amount needed to enter.

Despite a fractured skeletal system screaming for rest, I allow a deep sigh of relief to escape dry lips when flatland become apparent. Areas unexplored, territory to be conquered, my lips tug upwards in a wide grin at the prospect.

Ignorant to my actions, the time and the situation, it should not come as a surprise when a burning attack I do not see black and white flame that hungrily licks flesh and I stumble forwards, not even bothering to stifle a scream. I do not even turn to the spot that's been kissed by fire, nor do I hold a hand to a hollow chest (pointless, for it is clad in gifts from the capitol) to test if a heart of ice can be thawed when the flesh that surrounds it is threatened by a flame.

I simply spin on my heels, spotting the familiar face of Ansgar, clad in the glory of his false god but any smokescreen he may have conjured up has been cleared by flames. Arrogance severed with a ring finger not even twenty four hours into this slowly ticking time bomb - I do not underestimate him because he has to be still alive for one reason or another. "Your false god has made you brave, Ten. So brave that you have presumed to push the boundaries almost every time we seem to meet." Bitter words devoid of arrogance, it's an unfamiliar sound to me.

I instinctively raise a finger to scratch the itch on my ring finger, but empty space followed by a stump tells me there is no longer any commitment to be found in these veins. Hatchet clasped tightly in five fingers and a functioning arm, I do not check my hollow chest for a heart of ice before my axe makes its journey towards him in a motion all too familiar to me.

In truth, with the nerves of arrogance severed, I can no longer presume to draw boundaries that were made to be pushed. I can only add to this never ending song of steel and blood and wonder when the final harmonic will die.

DISTRICT ONE MALE

ASHA LUMIERE

The shadow of the reaper's scythe looms between the both of us, but, I am not unfamiliar with the sight. Not even seventy-two hours struck against the broken clock since the beginning of the end ticked down and I could see my death in flames and blood spatter staining a monochrome reality. Day four and the reaper's scythe made its first swing over the four of us, Mitchell's lifeline snapped in an instant. Complaints die on the tip of my tongue, I willingly placed my neck along the chopping block with two words spoken in correlation to sign a death sentence. "I volunteer." And there can be no method to a madness that flowed through my veins and drove me to sign a death sentence in my own blood.

“That's what Jenoah said to.”

Time stops ticking at terminal velocity when eye contact is made. My skin simply numbs at the mention of his name; I did not even see his body, just his face in the sky. I cannot distinguish his canon from the next, nor can I close my eyes and visualize his wounds - every violation of flesh remains a morbid mystery. When I shut my eyes and time rewinds to reveal rebirth, I can clearly see the black grin around Mitchell Laws' throat, I can see spears and gashes paired with dead eyes behind locks of ginger hair.

I will never see what's in store for Jenoah's gravestone, in truth, it's a secret I do not care to unveil.

I cringe, any scream conjured by pain dies in the back of my throat. I look down, the knife's hilt protruding from my chest armor and metal sizzling, melting under the hunger of fire. I swear, I see death in the flames but I do not scream at the thought of smoke wrapping claws around my throat. However, I recoil at raw skin and the ever looming danger becomes clear because the flames will not die.

Nails digging into the chinks in my armor, with a deep yell I pull the chest piece from my torso and leave it in the dirt. His words play over in a constant loop, merging with the tune of steel and blood and forming a melody which purpose deviates far from honoring the dead or comforting the dying. I cannot pinpoint the purpose, nor can I pinpoint the end of faded dotted pencil lines for Ansgar stands in the way of the black and white 'X' that marks the spot.

Arrogance severed with a ring finer, when the phantom itch hits I do not go scratch the empty space with the same message played countless times. A sure sign of madness without a method is the same action repeated in hopes of different results. Moving to satisfy an itch on my ring finger would mean death to the religious fanatic that ended Jenoah's life from the sounds of it. One lapse of focus is all it takes, resilience will not spare me when someone finally decides to pick up the scythe and let it fall.

Seven days with my neck along the chopping block, my own worst nightmare would come in the form of my enemy being gifted the honorary swing.

Heavy feet shifting to circle the boy with the fire. My eyes dart from point to point in an attempt to figure out the points of weakness, chinks in the glory of his false god. He wears devotion on his sleeve and carries zeal in his hands, he would burn me as a preview for what awaits me in the pits of hell. Cast from white purgatory, a reality consisting purely of shades of grey is torture enough as it is. The problem with resilience comes in the form of opportunity cost, I reject his god as false without examining the pros and the cons; a sure sign of madness, but belief in anything but myself always seemed... pointless.

Besides, rejected by the heavens and cast down to rot with whitewashed rooms and the pits of insanity; I've always been confined to trying and failing to paint the walls red. No churches in devotion, no shrines to honor the insane, I've been building my own place of worship through seven days of drawing wounds along countless canvasses of flesh. Through only black and white bricks, the only decoration for stained glass windows could be the blood and tears of those who fell victim to a madness left to fester for four years and counting.

Sacha and District Four already form the perfect decorations, one more couldn't hurt.

No statues for the centerpiece, the grief of those left behind quickly form the altar.

District four, Dupont, Todd - I can see no end in sight, at least not while the final harmonic seems so distant.

There is no doubt in my mind as to why I must kill Ansgar, just as there is no doubt in my mind why I suspect he killed Jenoah. "Let me guess, Jenoah finally saw past the smoke and mirrors of your beloved ripred so you decided to gut him, right?” Cold words devoid of bitterness, the sound is no longer new to my ears.

One hand against the burn on my stomach, feet still circling to find the chinks in his false god's armor. I edge closer with every step, axe at the ready to close the distance.

"Your god must be as evil as I am if he wants his trusted followers to kill in his name.”

I did not sign my own death sentence and place my neck on the chopping block just to have the final swing of the scythe swung by a boy from ten who devotes the final pages of his story to a piece of divinity we cannot see.

DISTRICT ONE MALE

ASHA LUMIERE

Fear that should come with the edge of a flaming knife feels frozen.

Seconds slowly ticking, melting through this monochrome reality - escape to white purgatory is not possible while it hangs in the balance. When Ansgar speaks, I quickly come to the conclusion that he is an idiot, as blind to the reality of the situation as I am to color. He speaks like he harbors a truth unknown to the rest of us, shrugging off chains of thought slowly strung together from fragmented logic with a simple “you will never understand.” No mercy for the wicked, no salvation to be found at the point of his knife, I wince and cringe at the knife buried deep into my arm. The only upside to be found is the fact that the flame was snuffed out before the knife could completes its journey - somehow that doesn't numb the pain.

A heart encased by ice, threatened by hungry flames, it doesn't seem to thaw at the sight of blood. At the sight of my blood. Despite the fact I burned through outbursts motivated by nothing but blind rage, I could have tallied the number of times I came to the end of it all and felt nothing when I pressed a hand stained with black and blue against my heaving chest. No rest for the wicked, no salvation to be found in the partial destruction of a system I gnashed my teeth at - it took the reaper's scythe for me to finally feel the pulse.

Caught between the indecision of whether I should leave the knife in, or pull the knife out, I decide it's better to leave the knife in for now.

Countless times I tasted the tip of Ansgar's knives since the beginning of the end slowly ticked down to completion; a digit severed along with my arrogance, armor damaged along with my rage, muscles broken along with my sense of calm. Trickles of blood quickly run from the wound to the tips of my fingers; despite my heart pounding in this hollow chest, the sense of rising fear I should be feeling can't seem to stick. Breathing, fading, dying, death's scythe hangs high in the air but I do not even flinch.

I suppose I was always meant to be undefined on this spectrum of absolutes; how can someone mad enough to feel no fear possibly be possess a sense of bravery? After all, while surrounded by whitewashed walls and left to rot in the corner in futile attempts to paint white walls red. Slowly rotting for four years, yellowed pages telling the varying stages of decay were never meant to form the syllables to describe bravery.

According to Ansgar yellowed page they describe sins that only death can set right.

Agony pulsating up and down my arm, I suppress a grin and look up at him.

"I doubt that even death can set me straight,” I pause, hefting my axe and balancing it along my palm. "You've been trying to cut my lifeline in the name of Ripred since the first day. If he's so great at fixing things, why hasn't he guided your blade across my throat yet?” I muse aloud before stepping forwards, movement automatic.

Join the altar and become my sin, Ten.

No mask to hide who I am, no smokescreen of status to protect me from unbeatable opponents. Samira Hart defied the wishes of the world for six days. I've defied the wishes of a god for a week and counting.

DISTRICT ONE MALE