parthenon | {elegant/dars}
Jun 7, 2018 10:32:21 GMT -5
Post by gamemaker 💀 hades lochlan on Jun 7, 2018 10:32:21 GMT -5
[presto]
[/presto]
[/presto]"lover, hunter,
friend and enemy
you will always be
every one of these"
Strands of web stretched across the outer boarders of the bruise on Mackenzie's left thigh. Little calculated lines yawning across his flesh, accustomed to its temporary home, daring him to try and wipe it away. He tried, and it only made him wince.
What was meant to be a harmless spar between himself and one of the other tributes had taken a turn rather quickly, and ended with a harshly rigid boot being slammed right into Mackenzie's thigh. It wasn't broken— he could at least be thankful for that. He could hardly see himself running away at the bloodbath if he only had one properly functioning leg, let alone standing to fight.
The medic applied some salve which tingled against the surface, wrapped it in cloth bandages.
"Leave it on for the rest of the day; the discoloration should be gone in hours, and the soreness should dissipate by tomorrow morning."
That simple. As much as it amazed him, it infuriated him. Everything here was so easy, so perfect. Stable electricity, state of the art facilities, an endless amount of food, ground-breaking medicines. The Capitol was a statue, forged from gold and sold for a pretty penny to stand in the middle of Panem just a bit taller than anything else around it.
This is what matters, the Capitol explained, looking down on those of them who were not born within it, Us. We are what is important.
"Thank you," he said, never one to confront someone without his sister by his side. Of the limitless traits and abilities Mackenzie Pryce had been born with, conviction and tact were not in the mix. He already recognized that it could be an issue once the games began, not knowing what to do, or not daring to do it out of fear.
Could he kill a person?Could he?
From the infirmary, Mackenzie found himself walking back to the training floor, trying his best to hide the slight limp which accompanied him. He took a seat in front of the camouflage station, elevating his foot on a cement step as he began to decorate his hand to look like a magnolia. There were several trees just around his house, filling the air with a sweet, floral aroma in the summer time. When he was little, he would pick one for his mother on the days when she worked long shifts, just so she would smile when she got home.
The white petals curved around his knuckles, leaves wrapping themselves around his palm. With the help of his paint brush, the flower grew just as the bruise did: slowly, but all at once, until it was completed and proud of what it was. Like the bruise, the flower dared Mackenzie to wipe it away.
This time, when he tried, it really went away.
He stared at the smudged picture before him, yearning for something simple again, hoping that he would get it some day, when he noticed a shadow creeping into his light from behind.
"Sorry," he said, standing, "Was I in your way?"
