Day 7 - Tar Pits

As Eve Renner’s rainbow shroud billows lightly in the breeze, the two begin. Their tools gripped tightly, they hack at their day-old creation - screwdrivers and hunting knives tearing the body apart. Sometimes it’s exacting: Temple carefully peels off the handle from its stem, pliers gripped in her hand. Bette hacks at the chairs with her blade, four becoming three, becoming two, becoming none. It’s not rushed, but there’s an urgency in their movements, an understanding that they need to work diligently, efficiently. The conversation is soft, their actions speaking for them as wood stacks up into a pile, as Temple digs out a rock from a bag, claimed in the wake of death.

The ocean, dark as night, acrid and smoky, gurgles as they approach.

They dip the pieces of their creation in the dark pools, and strike the stone from Hell herself against it. Flames dance, consuming the thick tar and hardwood. They remember hearing that fire cleanses, and hope to do the same with the Arena.

They toss the boards into the deep pits, the orange flickering tongues spreading across the glassy surface. Screams echo through the enclosed Arena, and microphones have to be turned down to compensate for the power of their yells. They scream for their friends and their enemies, their families and dreams lost. They rage about nothing, about everything, as the night grows darker - but the fire burns hotter. The wind blows the heat into their faces, flushing their cheeks. It isn’t until every inch of their wooden contraption has been flung into the depths that they pause, escaping to higher ground. The pair collapse, sitting quietly, sipping water from the same jug as they look upon their work.

The Games has changed for them, but they have changed it as well.