The Bloodbath
Jan 21, 2020 1:40:29 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Jan 21, 2020 1:40:29 GMT -5
[8m era altyr | post 6 | 1068]
era altyr
he/him | d8 | rebel |traitor
"Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod —"
"Okay. Nice one."
"—I couldn't have—" "— I'm not —" "Ohmygod!" "— no way I could have —", It is one thing to tell someone to stab you. It is another thing entirely to be stabbed by said person. First, it burns. He can feel the weight of the blade, too sharp with its inaugural use, sticking through and almost every cell in his body squirms and screams: something is wrong. He already knows.
"Maeve," he says, with a voice like sand. "Can we —"
"— no way I could have —" "— Can we remove—sword—from arm—please?"
It is no use: the one plus is that in her panic, Maeve Idlewild still holds the blade like a statue. Firmly, Era takes her hand, and after counting to three pulls his arm back out. It hurts much worse this way—he remembers his commanders lecturing them about blades, how if there was one stuck in you you'd be better off keeping it there until the medics arrived. Here though, there is no help coming. His own handiwork will have to do.
"But—I am WEAK." Maeve exclaims, as he yanks his left sleeve off and pins it between his arm and his ribs. "I am SMALL. And you are NOT."
"Yeah. And you hit me." it takes a superhero's strength to unclamp his jaw. "So you can," he wraps the cloth, cheap and porous, around the wound. "Hit anyone else here." It's only when he motions for her to finish tying what he cannot reach that her breath calms, that her senses return. It is bad, he's lucky that she hasn't broken through a major artery. What had he been expecting, when he asked her to hit an unmoving target? He doesn't quite know. Doesn't know if he wants to know.
But she has done it once, she can do it a thousand more times. He cannot save her today, but he can give her this one gift, this one curse, that might give her ten more seconds—ten more minutes—ten more laughs. Time here fragments and crumbles, is cut short with a blade: a minute of respite is a treasure. A second to think is a blessing.
He knows she shouldn't follow him. He'll only go deeper, a straight line into a cataclysm, and if he spends half his time making sure she doesn't hit herself on accident then both of them will be dead in moments. It's unfair to ask this of her; she should be home with her cat, with her sister, with her dads. But the Capitol doesn't deal in equity, in trade-offs and justice. It deals in grandeur, in drama, in vengeance, in strife.
"Just the jazz hands?"
He concedes, if only to appease a child's wish. Performing it hurts. Nerves spike up his wounded arm and his molars latch onto the side of his mouth. When she laughs though, he does too.
"Please also shout." "Okay, dad."
And Eight breaths hitch: Four of them in District Six; Two of them in Thirteen; Two more from a girl, a soldier, bidding farewell.
He will only know Maeve Idlewild for a handful of minutes. He will remember them in his final breaths.
"Agh fuck—" he exclaims, scrambles back, feels a new sting along his calf.
When he leaves he does exactly what he planned: dives straight into the shifting tides. More kids have dropped, about a third of the pack, enough for him to slow his pace and look closer, analyze further. He doesn't have a plan, for what is there to plan for? There is death in every corner, unfair deliverance tied together with wrath. And there is District 8, watching as he passes Crane: the other from those city streets, someone he didn't protect. Not couldn't. It is to be expected from a scab, who only cares for themselves, who sells out a war for his own skin.
If he clears the field for innocents as much as he can, will that be enough? Or will they turn on him anyway, call him sick for bowing to rules that he did not make?
It is then that a boy locks eyes with him, mouths an apology, charges. His sword is already coated in red, and Era curses his distractions as he is thrown into a battle. He doesn't know where this other is from: only that a tear falls, slowly rolling down his cheek.
To their right, Era spots a wisp of a girl watching, too young, the one who called out. No one listened, him included.
"Kid," he says, heaviness in his voice. It is strained, guarded, more curt than he intends. He's already nearly adopted someone today. He doesn't think his heart could handle another. "There's still time to make choices. But you gotta choose them." Before someone chooses for you.
"And you," he says to his counterpart, sandpaper on wood, his left arm aching. "Stop crying. You're here now."
"So deal."
he/him | d8 | rebel |
"Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod —"
"Okay. Nice one."
"—I couldn't have—" "— I'm not —" "Ohmygod!" "— no way I could have —", It is one thing to tell someone to stab you. It is another thing entirely to be stabbed by said person. First, it burns. He can feel the weight of the blade, too sharp with its inaugural use, sticking through and almost every cell in his body squirms and screams: something is wrong. He already knows.
"Maeve," he says, with a voice like sand. "Can we —"
"— no way I could have —" "— Can we remove—sword—from arm—please?"
It is no use: the one plus is that in her panic, Maeve Idlewild still holds the blade like a statue. Firmly, Era takes her hand, and after counting to three pulls his arm back out. It hurts much worse this way—he remembers his commanders lecturing them about blades, how if there was one stuck in you you'd be better off keeping it there until the medics arrived. Here though, there is no help coming. His own handiwork will have to do.
"But—I am WEAK." Maeve exclaims, as he yanks his left sleeve off and pins it between his arm and his ribs. "I am SMALL. And you are NOT."
"Yeah. And you hit me." it takes a superhero's strength to unclamp his jaw. "So you can," he wraps the cloth, cheap and porous, around the wound. "Hit anyone else here." It's only when he motions for her to finish tying what he cannot reach that her breath calms, that her senses return. It is bad, he's lucky that she hasn't broken through a major artery. What had he been expecting, when he asked her to hit an unmoving target? He doesn't quite know. Doesn't know if he wants to know.
But she has done it once, she can do it a thousand more times. He cannot save her today, but he can give her this one gift, this one curse, that might give her ten more seconds—ten more minutes—ten more laughs. Time here fragments and crumbles, is cut short with a blade: a minute of respite is a treasure. A second to think is a blessing.
He knows she shouldn't follow him. He'll only go deeper, a straight line into a cataclysm, and if he spends half his time making sure she doesn't hit herself on accident then both of them will be dead in moments. It's unfair to ask this of her; she should be home with her cat, with her sister, with her dads. But the Capitol doesn't deal in equity, in trade-offs and justice. It deals in grandeur, in drama, in vengeance, in strife.
"Just the jazz hands?"
He concedes, if only to appease a child's wish. Performing it hurts. Nerves spike up his wounded arm and his molars latch onto the side of his mouth. When she laughs though, he does too.
"Please also shout." "Okay, dad."
And Eight breaths hitch: Four of them in District Six; Two of them in Thirteen; Two more from a girl, a soldier, bidding farewell.
He will only know Maeve Idlewild for a handful of minutes. He will remember them in his final breaths.
-/-
"Agh fuck—" he exclaims, scrambles back, feels a new sting along his calf.
When he leaves he does exactly what he planned: dives straight into the shifting tides. More kids have dropped, about a third of the pack, enough for him to slow his pace and look closer, analyze further. He doesn't have a plan, for what is there to plan for? There is death in every corner, unfair deliverance tied together with wrath. And there is District 8, watching as he passes Crane: the other from those city streets, someone he didn't protect. Not couldn't. It is to be expected from a scab, who only cares for themselves, who sells out a war for his own skin.
If he clears the field for innocents as much as he can, will that be enough? Or will they turn on him anyway, call him sick for bowing to rules that he did not make?
It is then that a boy locks eyes with him, mouths an apology, charges. His sword is already coated in red, and Era curses his distractions as he is thrown into a battle. He doesn't know where this other is from: only that a tear falls, slowly rolling down his cheek.
To their right, Era spots a wisp of a girl watching, too young, the one who called out. No one listened, him included.
"Kid," he says, heaviness in his voice. It is strained, guarded, more curt than he intends. He's already nearly adopted someone today. He doesn't think his heart could handle another. "There's still time to make choices. But you gotta choose them." Before someone chooses for you.
"And you," he says to his counterpart, sandpaper on wood, his left arm aching. "Stop crying. You're here now."
"So deal."
[attacks 11m Ram]
vYLmpKpa9csword
1068 -- Shallow Cut on Left Calf -- 3.5 damage
(Sword)
notes:
To-be-determined: Ram
Kid: Emmi
appearance notes: 6'3", broad-shouldered and lanky, messy short dark hair, light brown eyes, tan skin and a light dusting of facial hair. The uniform is too small on him: it looks like he is wearing capris.
vYLmpKpa9csword
1068 -- Shallow Cut on Left Calf -- 3.5 damage
(Sword)
notes:
To-be-determined: Ram
Kid: Emmi
appearance notes: 6'3", broad-shouldered and lanky, messy short dark hair, light brown eyes, tan skin and a light dusting of facial hair. The uniform is too small on him: it looks like he is wearing capris.
sword