brave and stupid. [oz/open][day 1]

an animation.

BOOM.

He stops short. Raises his shoulders, cranes his neck -- looks like an animal perking its ears.

BOOM.

He waits.

No more.

Twenty-two left.

Despite it all, it occurred to him that he had survived the Bloodbath.

He used to think about this moment a lot in the training center. He used to imagine that he would be boasting into the camera by now. "Suck it, Nowles!" he used to practice this speech in that one shower he took. "I'm a bad-ass, I'm a dark-horse, I can do anything!"

Now that it finally happened, he wanted nothing more than to find a hole in the dirt and hide in it.

What was surviving this even worth.

He just wanted to lie down. So what if he never got up again.

a sketch

A girl, torn apart. Her pieces are the sky; the monster flows out of her, into the world beneath, as the world goes on, people with their umbrellas waiting for the monster to pour down on them, as they wait for the bus, wait for the sun to rise, wait to go to work and move on with their lives, as the street-lamps misty orbs of light in the hazing night.

The girl is surrounded by the monster, and entirely alone.

Her eyes are hollow of awareness. Unaware of love. Of joy. Even though you must have had at it in some point. But in that instant, it's torn out of you, as your veins are being torn out of you.

And then it's all...gone. On the mere principle that you were the wrong person, placed into the wrong time. All that's left is the pain as it rends your body, nullifies it.

Do you lose consciousness when you die? Does a part of you stick around? Does the pain linger? What if that's the last thing you ever feel -- white-hot pain ripping through you, and that's the sum of your entire life.

No. Not like that. Please.

Then keep going.

an animation

Every noise is a burst of sound, ricocheting off of anything, beating against the curve of the old battle-dome and bouncing back and splintering into Oswald and the scrap around him. The ragged staggering of Oz's breathing. Crunch of sand beneath his boots as he drags himself along, dogged by some sense that the farther away he was from the Cornucopia, the better. A sudden cry of fury, blaring out from all directions: "Come out, come out, wherever--"

It's like the fireworks that began the Games. Panic swallows him up immediately. He had no sense of proximity, nor direction, couldn't even recognize the voice or half the words -- but it was enough. He broke into a sprint, darting wildly down the serpentine path, eyes flickering, gawking around for some warren to bolt into. A glint of metal catches his eye, as its warped form leans away from the mass of scrap:a large sheet of metal, buttressed by a hillock of scrap and some rusting iron frames, parting a gap through the wave of junk. He skidded to a halt, almost falling over, catching himself with his hands, pausing only for a heartbeat to check if the gap was clear. Nothing, as far as he cam tell. The rabbit bolts into the den.

The blaring light became dusky in the gap, filtering in through bullet-holes punctured through the sheet of metal, speckling the sand in scattered clusters. The heat lies trapped beneath it, radiating off the metal, threatening to burn into Oz as he staggers by, edging his shoulders away from shoulders the metal sheet or its supports. It would have been easy to rub up against them and burn himself against them, even for his small size. If he was any larger, maybe he would have.

His panting echoes off the walls of the gap. His skin oozes sweat. Too hot for a proper hiding place. Beyond, sunlight blares through a gap on the opposite side -- an exit. His heart quavers as a stray fear passes through him, reminding him how easy it is to be tricked in an arena, how it was just as likely he was being manipulated into falling right into a tribute's hands. But that's true no matter what he does.

The encroaching sunlight stings his eyes as he draws closer and then pokes his head through the exit, glancing about, like some pedestrian keeping an eye out for traffic before crossing. Left -- right -- left again. The path is thinner here, windier -- a "back alley," of sorts -- closed in by hillocks of junk. Nothing else of import. Gingerly, he eases himself through the gap. Glances around again. Still nothing. He turns down the path, fiddling with the straps of the trunk he'd picked up in the Bloodbath as he continues on his way.

Snap. The light, breezy twang is a mere whisper, barely enough to be heard. He thinks nothing of it, but there's a sudden impulse to glance down at his shoes. At the thin, broken wire glinting white against the sun-scorched sand lying across them.

A warped laugh, jagged with warbled clicking, screeches into the air. Oz throws his head back, only enough time to register that it was above him--

BANG!

A flash of color bursts across the dull blue sky, expanding, covers everything, flinging itself towards him, at his face-- it smacks into him, his eyes, his mouth, he barely has time to scream and cringe back.

He becomes a statue. Bent arms frozen defensively in front of him, head down and face pinched shut -- knees wobbling against each other. Only a single sound to puncture the silence: the same screechy, nasally laugh, guffawing in a heartbeat rhythm. "Hah HAH! Hah HAH! Hah HAH!" Trembling, Oz lowers his arms, peeks up. Perched atop the crest of the scrap heap is a little robot, no bigger than the average baby doll, with a ball-shaped head and body, round face spray-painted white with a big red smile and a big red nose and big glaring black eyes. Its little arm whirs noisily as it holds a metallic middle finger aloft, the other arm draped listlessly across the rounded barrel of a large gun. "Hah HAH!"

Oz's mouth hangs open. He checks himself, hands patting across his body frantically. Some sort of greenish blue powder covers him from head to belt -- a poison?! acid?! both?! -- it -- it...glitters! that HAS to  be bad, right ??!-- if it's glittering, then...Then...It's...probably.......

"...motherfucker."

"Hah HAH! Hah HAH! Haaahaaaaaaaaaaa...." the clown's laughter drags on too long, warping, fading -- dies. It's upraised middle finger collapses into its lap and its slumps against its gun, lifeless.

Oz flings his fists down, grits his teeth. Growling like an affronted chihuahua, he throws himself at the heap, trying to stomp up it but slips as he struggles to find a foothold, so he grabs at the junk and yanks himself up, muscles of his glitter-splattered face clenched in grim determination, arms and legs akimbo so that he climbs like a lizard. He hauls himself up to the crest. Seizes the clown by the throat, swings it in a wide arch over his head -- "NYEH!" The clown goes flying.

Oz stands there for a moment, knuckles on his hips, oddly satisfied. Relishing the catharsis.

He glances down at the gun. Weird looking piece of trash. From the shape and mass of it, it ought to be a brutal piece of weaponry, yet it looked like some little kid went to town on it. Covered in crayon-markings and stickers, bright colors practically vomited all over it.

...He's kinda into it.

[picks up Fun Gun]