no saints exist here :: whiskey vs abel
Nov 29, 2021 15:38:20 GMT -5
Post by pogue on Nov 29, 2021 15:38:20 GMT -5
A hand grabs his shoulder and drags him backwards and it's his first instinct to swipe backwards at it, bloody knuckles colliding weak with Nixie's forearm as she pulls him away from the fight. He gasps in pain as the grass slides against exposed burns, ripping chunks of his own skin away from the surface before he uses the last pieces of adrenaline carved heavy into his system to stumble to his feet and practically fall into the back seat of the bent and broken Jeep. He's seeing stars and galaxies in his eyes, familiar black spots of lightheadedness pulsating and dancing from the outside of what vision he has left. What remains is galaxies of fuzzy spots that ebb and flow into nothingness, erupting in terrifying hues of green and pink and red and orange whenever he tries to blink. He grasps at the nothingness, fingertips too rough to do anything but scream in pain and bite his tongue until it threatens to fall off completely.
By the time Whiskey lays a piece of fabric over the exposed wound, damp with the scarce remains of their water supply, Wiz is fading in and out of consciousness. His last thoughts are of Boone, of Glass, of a curse that just keeps on giving and a boy that has been forced to do nothing but grin and bear it.
He mistakes the pulsating red light in the sky for a reminder of his own mortality, his eyes last desperate attempt at clinging to vision. It's only when Nixie whispers that it's a sponsorship gift that he rises from his slumped over position in the back seat, the wet cloth sliding against his skin and leaving searing pain in its wake as he stops his instincts from pressing his palm to the wound out of desperation, grinding his teeth together until the pain recedes into a hollow scream underneath his own flesh.
"It's for you, Wiz."
He tries to speak, but the burn that laces itself against his own lips pulls him back in torment. Instead, he snatches the box from Nixie's hands and pries it open with rotten fingertips, his one good eye staring down at the sponsorship gift as the fading sunlight bounces and scatters against the metallic surface.
B U R T ' S B E E S
F A S T A C T I N G B U R N C R E A M
F A S T A C T I N G B U R N C R E A M
He pulls the tub out with as little grace as he can muster, only stopping from tearing into it when the small sliver of Capitol paper flutters anxiously to the ground, landing in the wet grass. He pauses for a moment, vision blurry and fighting against the pulsating darkness that still dances in his torched eye as he sees the writing on the paper, hand snatching it from the grass and holding it up to his face.
Eyes up.
-M
Whiskey's tongue presses into the side of his cheek as he attempts to roll his eyes, met only with the familiar pain that cracks through the raised boils and bumps of burnt flesh. Bastard, he thinks to himself, the thought fighting against anything gracious that bubbles up from his heart. A Finch's hardest word is thank you, he's come to learn.
He settles for a glance to the sky and a salute. Cheers, Pryce.
There's a delicateness to the way he applies the cream and a fury with which it has no payoff whatsoever, bits of charred flesh and raw skin peeling away as he attempts to rub the burn cream into the fresh wound. Tears gather at the edge of his tear ducts and he blinks desperately in an attempt to stop them against the gasps of pain that slip between his lips, a futile attempt as they slip down his skin and sting as they chart a course through the seared patches of flesh on his cheek. The package lied, he deduces, because by the time he's done half the package is already gone and the pain is still crashing underneath his skin like raging waves.
He only stops his shaking fingertips from applying more when the sky suddenly opens up above him, trumpets blaring and the clouds parting as he looks up. His eye fights the movement, hopelessly trying to adjust to the black mass that pulses and ripples from the burnt half of his vision. By the time he can fully see the images in the sky above him he is staring into the eyes of his district partner, her name planted underneath her portrait as if to remind him that he never even spoke to her. Sasha Dupree was a girl he did not know, and he was a boy that Sasha hadn't known either.
But they shared Seven in common. His heart tries to convince him that means something, if only for a moment.
But he doesn't know that Seven was ever truly a home for him, doesn't know if it was ever a home for Sasha, doesn't know if it's ever been a home for anyone. There are memories of the two of them standing next to one another on their District's chariot, but they do nothing but falter and dissipate before he can even focus on them, slipping into nothing more than whispers against the rainfall that scatters itself across the arena. His stomach sinks, of only a little, at the thought of death and what awaits for him after, his name carried across poison-tipped lips until it is forgotten completely.
But he's known that, he thinks, he's seen it with every Finch family member that has walked so many of these same steps before him, punished to be remembered poorly when they live and destined to die forgotten.
He nearly loses himself in the thought, but it's pulled into a shallow grave when the arena's forcefield suddenly shifts and ripples, a million blue and white wisps clashing and colliding against one another before it finally brightens altogether, casting a soft tint of blue along with the moonlight. The arena slips into ethereal beauty in the night, peaceful if not for the occasional spark of electricity that cracks agains the skies above.
It's a warning, and it's a threat.
He knows what is coming next, as he scans what is left of their alliance and makes out their silhouettes against the midnight darkness. He'd had enough glances at the rusted screens in the Games Square to know that this was the top eight of the eighty-ninth games, had seen enough crimson and scarlet dropping from exposed flesh to know that if he didn't leave soon he'd do nothing but join them.
He swallows the poison on his tongue and feels it drip down into a half-dead heart as he looks first to Sinead, and then to Nixie, feeling his stomach drop and his heart wither inside of hollow chest.
Thanks for everything. He thinks, because he doesn't have enough bravery to say it.
Nixie and Sinead set up their camp feet away from where the jeep sits, giving him the entirety of the front seat of the vehicle for what he can only think is out of pity or ignorance. Abel O'Malley sits slumped over next to him, head lulled to the side and snoring softly with his bag wrapped in his arms, bloody steel shining under the blue moonlight. That's the thing about Abel O'Malley, he deduces, he hates the boy because of the spark of fear that ripples up from his heart when he looks at him, memories of his spear flying into that girl's chest carved into his brain.
It's why he softly reaches over and opens up the door of Abel's side, it's why he presses the keys into the ignition and hears hammering heartbeats slamming in his chest, gaze glancing at Nixie and Sinead's makeshift tent before he suddenly rips the car to life.
Abel jolts awake but he gives him no time to react. Kicking hard into the boy's side and watching him spill to the ground in a fumbling mess of sinner and steel.
The last thing he sees of his allies is their forms shifting into nothingness, watching as he drives into the early morning.
---
Two hours later and he's staring up at the sky of the arena, watching the clouds meld and blend together in the wake of his fucked up vision. His breaths rise and fall with a chaos that he should be used to by now and a pain that will never grow accustomed to, shaking and rattling in uneasy chest. The scream of the car alarm is melodic at this point, cutting into his hearing and causing this entire world to feel a little more like Seven, a little more like home.
He blinks and sees every scrapyard fight he'd thrown himself into, every blare of a Peacekeeper's siren, every crack of their gun and every blurry vision he'd fought through from a baton to the back of the head.
There's a grin that carves itself onto his face as he stares, savoring the moments before he prepares for his own death.
This one's for you, Boone.
His bones ache and creak as he sits completely still inside a disheveled jeep, the car alarm causing a pounding headache in the back of his head as he sits pressed underneath the front of the driver's seat, tarp covering his form and giving the illusion that he'd done nothing but crash the vehicle. After all, it'd be on brand.
And it'd be accurate, too, if he weren't clutching a piece of shattered glass from the rearview mirror in one hand and pressing his hand down onto the brake with the other, watching the area behind him for any figures that approach from the distance, drawn by the smell of burnt rubber and the screams of the car alarm.
Curiosity kills kids, he's learned.
His vision fights against itself when the silhouette of a tribute finally comes into the view of the shattered glass he holds, desperately trying to sharpen itself to make out anything that Whiskey might recognize from their form. And he sees the javelins first, stained red at the tip and catching the scarce sunlight that comes between the storms of the skies. Abel O'Malley, he thinks, and feels his stomach sink into the same pits of poison he'd used to defend himself way back in Seven.
No sharp words, no wit left on his tongue, all he can do is wait as Abel's figure approaches cautiously, axe clutched between his hands and sins pressed into his shoulders.
Wait for it. He thinks to himself, watching as Abel's figure slows and examines what looks like nothing but a car crash.
Wait for it.
He's feet away now, drenched in innocence and deadly worship and Whiskey's form shudders against the floor of the vehicle. Abel slips softly behind the jeep and out of his vision. Now.
He leaps up from his hiding spot, his foot slamming into the gas before he even throws himself into the back of the driver's seat and the vehicle roars to life, barbed wire scraping against the sheets of metal as Whiskey jerks the steering wheel, sending the death trap immediately back towards his former ally.
Snake eyes watch as the vehicle carves a destructive path towards the boy, spit dried on his tongue and heart dead in his chest.
Break the cycle or die tryin', he thinks to himself, waiting to see which way it will go.
[Whiskey tries to drive over Abel with the jeep ; spiked blunt]
Zk91sLUicUspiked blunt
[Stabbed in chest]
[Abel gets tangled in barbed wire from jeep -- 9.5, +1 strength]
Zk91sLUicUspiked blunt
[
[Abel gets tangled in barbed wire from jeep -- 9.5, +1 strength]
spiked blunt
