88th Bloodbath
Jun 19, 2021 11:00:31 GMT -5
Post by Benson Sharpe D3M [Tom] on Jun 19, 2021 11:00:31 GMT -5
[Bellamy Scott D3M | Intro]
Beggin' on my knees
Screamin', "Someone come and help me"
But by the time they're there
I've already hid the body
A dream of a pretty boy and bullet wounds is what he's left with.
Worry coated to his skin in a display of crinkled eyes and dry lips. An echo of the dreams he's had over the last night of being in a safe place. A morning filled with rushing around breakfast and preparing for the supposed bloodiest fight of the games. Bellamy Scott didn't know why they called it bloodbath anymore. No one dies in them. There's barely any blood. It's strange, but the Captiol does what they want. Surely, he's worried about this one being different, but there's a deep emptiness in his chest that's accepted what's going to happen to him. Death for answers he never ended up getting. Only a record of a report which seemed to fit the parameters of his case, but every piece of information was redacted out with black lines and confusion.
His eyes follow Mauve for most of the morning. He wants to see what she's feeling about bloodbath, but he's too morning bleary eyed and stressed to focus hard enough. Breakfast is quiet. Atticus seeming to have been out of it ever since the train, but Bellamy understood the guy. Mauve was clearly the one to push here. Bellamy Scott would just be another grave in a sea of them. Gray stone above the green earth he'll drop down into. A bitter silence fills him as he pokes at his food, eating what he can before they tear them away and to the stylists.
Orland and his extra hands surrounding him with the outfit, setting it up in a presentable way. A uniform of sorts that makes him feel too formal or too much like he's wearing a costume, but he stands still, taking in what he can of it. A sash with two badges already attached to it. A uniform pressed to himself as he stares at the tan colored shirt. Orland looks to him with a smile, offering an assortment of hats and socks to him. Bellamy picks a pair of colorful wool socks and a hat that matches his own personality. Silently, he stands, ignoring Orland's hands pulling and pushing pieces into place.
The smell of gunpowder heavy on his nose as he falls back into that night. The tears of a little boy in the closet crying for his dead father. Bullet wounds and the end of a family all in one night. The smell lives forever with him. A reminder of the failure he's already had. His dream had been to solve crimes like the kids in his books; wide eyed and happy. The world worked in strange ways. Out of everyone, he decided to die here to solve his case. Answers lost to the wind as he shifts from foot to foot.
The tube to the arena is fascinating from the amount of technology used for it. To most, it would be forgotten, but Bellamy had seem phenomenal designs of mechanical technology. His own father having made inventions for the capitol. Ones that could be the reason he ends up dying in the arena, but he pushes the thought down as he rubs a hand against the sleek metallic wall. Steel if he had to guess, but he's never been much of an inventor. Alone, the platform rises him up. His mind racing with thoughts of what more he could do, what more he could have been, and what more he had to do. The trip is much shorter than he expects, but as soon as the surface comes to his vision. Concrete appears in it's gray color to his eyes. The sun blinding him as he raises a hand to block it.
An expanse of emerald green grass fills his vision. Precise cuts to make it all the same length except for the flower buds blooming out at them. His eyes follow the grass around as far as he can see. The field they're in feels abandoned and well taken care of at the same time. A feeling of worry bubbles in his chest as he looks around to meet eyes of tributes who want to fight and want to survive. A chill runs down his spine as he looks up to the sky to see an expanse of blue, but the shadow of a single wooden sign hanging over them. Supplies scattered in a way to push them to fight for it.
Welcome Home.
The words burnt into the wood with an ease, but a sinister vibe pulling at the edges of his head to run. Run as far as he can from the arena, but he can't. He's picked his poison and has to swallow it completely. His eyes follow the supplies before he feels the air heavy with tension. Other tributes are gonna want to run towards the supplies and fight for it. Bellamy Scott didn't trust the bloodbath. Who needed that many supplies? Why fight for it? Surely, there's stuff scattered around the rest of the arena, so why would he need to go for it. Cracking his fingers, letting the sound try to soothe him, he pretends to get ready to run towards the supplies.
The countdown goes down slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Everyone rushes towards the middle, but Bellamy Scott stays on the outskirts of the bloodbath, not wanting to get in others' way.
Home wasn't here.
There wasn't any plan to stay there.
lyrics: "Comfort Crowd" by Conan Gray
(Bellamy Scott D3M enters Bloodbath!)