in the wreckage, through the ruins —「the roadhogs.」
Feb 27, 2022 21:25:52 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 27, 2022 21:25:52 GMT -5
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The rest of the arena isn’t impressive.
Like, really? He gets the garbage arena?
It’s a disappointment, a setback, but it’s temporary and not one Rafael finds impossible to pivot around. Nowles is here, and he knows he has made the right choice in recruiting her: the arena must be a giant playground for a girl who makes guns from scratch. And then there’s Fatima, unscathed from the looks of it, her head held high as she walked with an even gait and a legacy on her sun-painted shoulders.
They were both good investments, unlike Sierra Bordeaux.
The thought of her manifests as a gruesome image: broken skull, blood-red eyes, and then a lion’s shadow blotting out her dead body. He'd seen Isaac Le Roux lunge for her and had a split second to intervene, but all he did was watch from the shadows as fist collided with bone and it just— shattered.
It puts a bitter taste in his mouth, not because he grieves Sierra, but because it means his numbers are dwindling.
But that is only a setback, too.
He’ll find a way around it.
The sounds of fighting fades eventually, replaced by the hiss of wind through rotten metal. That's when they come out of their hiding place from within the titan: a crawlspace had been hollowed out from where the metallic skin was peeled, and the insides smelt of metal and oil that cling onto his skin as he searches around for any remaining tributes.
None. Perfect.
He knows their odds if they were to be found, especially by the careers. An odd group this year, full of big names and mysterious nobodies, a smorgasbord of dark horses, but one thing’s for sure, though: Isaac Le Roux had gotten the first kill. Panem would be watching him. He absently wonders what the boy’s reaction to that would be. Will he be more bloodthirsty, or will he crumble under the pressure?
If it had been Rafael, he knows which one he’ll be.
But patience is a virtue for all the right reasons. He isn’t Isaac Le Roux; isn’t a proud lion with gold-inlaid hair and a kill under his belt. Instead Rafael fights dirty, in secret, not ashamed to retreat and cower, not ashamed to be the friend who smiles at the hero and then bury a dagger in his back.
To him, it’s all about survival. To him, everything is a means to a glorious end. But that perhaps isn’t too much of a surprise, not when one traces back his heritage and finds that …
That every bone in a Salazar’s body was born selfish.
Jacinta was selfish enough to save her lover’s life by volunteering. Violetta was selfish enough to let the careers do the killing for her.
It’s the same story, told countlessly times, and the thought that he isn’t a novelty, that he isn’t forged-new, nags Rafael a little.
Nowles makes the first sound, a tiny thread of noise that brings him out of his thoughts. In walking out and venturing a few feet ahead, they have stumbled upon Sierra, who hasn’t died yet.
Few minutes in, and it’s already time for a funeral?
He refrains from chuckling.
They quietly pick through the titan’s gaps and wounds. Nowles points out items that are useful and Fatima studies the land as he keeps his ears peeled for any footsteps. When Nowles shows him one item though, he can’t keep himself from scoffing and muttering: “That is, quite literally, junk.”
He then picks up a box of what looks to be boxing wraps, perfect for nursing wounds, and he ... well, forgets to tell the other two that there are more.
“It’ll be wise to get a place with better shelter soon, try to get a lay of the land,” he says lowly, holding up the dagger he had also found so he marvel at his own reflection in it for a moment. Then Rafael sheathes it, looking at the two. “I know we didn’t expect Sierra to …” be a bad choice, “to meet her end so swiftly, but she’s gone now. So we adapt, walk around the obstacle, and stay out of trouble.”
“Tell me what you else want,” he tells Nowles. “By the end of the day, I’m half-expecting you to make a bomb that’ll fit down Isaac Le Roux’s fancy trousers.”
Like, really? He gets the garbage arena?
It’s a disappointment, a setback, but it’s temporary and not one Rafael finds impossible to pivot around. Nowles is here, and he knows he has made the right choice in recruiting her: the arena must be a giant playground for a girl who makes guns from scratch. And then there’s Fatima, unscathed from the looks of it, her head held high as she walked with an even gait and a legacy on her sun-painted shoulders.
They were both good investments, unlike Sierra Bordeaux.
The thought of her manifests as a gruesome image: broken skull, blood-red eyes, and then a lion’s shadow blotting out her dead body. He'd seen Isaac Le Roux lunge for her and had a split second to intervene, but all he did was watch from the shadows as fist collided with bone and it just— shattered.
It puts a bitter taste in his mouth, not because he grieves Sierra, but because it means his numbers are dwindling.
But that is only a setback, too.
He’ll find a way around it.
The sounds of fighting fades eventually, replaced by the hiss of wind through rotten metal. That's when they come out of their hiding place from within the titan: a crawlspace had been hollowed out from where the metallic skin was peeled, and the insides smelt of metal and oil that cling onto his skin as he searches around for any remaining tributes.
None. Perfect.
He knows their odds if they were to be found, especially by the careers. An odd group this year, full of big names and mysterious nobodies, a smorgasbord of dark horses, but one thing’s for sure, though: Isaac Le Roux had gotten the first kill. Panem would be watching him. He absently wonders what the boy’s reaction to that would be. Will he be more bloodthirsty, or will he crumble under the pressure?
If it had been Rafael, he knows which one he’ll be.
But patience is a virtue for all the right reasons. He isn’t Isaac Le Roux; isn’t a proud lion with gold-inlaid hair and a kill under his belt. Instead Rafael fights dirty, in secret, not ashamed to retreat and cower, not ashamed to be the friend who smiles at the hero and then bury a dagger in his back.
To him, it’s all about survival. To him, everything is a means to a glorious end. But that perhaps isn’t too much of a surprise, not when one traces back his heritage and finds that …
That every bone in a Salazar’s body was born selfish.
Jacinta was selfish enough to save her lover’s life by volunteering. Violetta was selfish enough to let the careers do the killing for her.
It’s the same story, told countlessly times, and the thought that he isn’t a novelty, that he isn’t forged-new, nags Rafael a little.
Nowles makes the first sound, a tiny thread of noise that brings him out of his thoughts. In walking out and venturing a few feet ahead, they have stumbled upon Sierra, who hasn’t died yet.
Few minutes in, and it’s already time for a funeral?
He refrains from chuckling.
「To be continued in Sierra's death post.」
They quietly pick through the titan’s gaps and wounds. Nowles points out items that are useful and Fatima studies the land as he keeps his ears peeled for any footsteps. When Nowles shows him one item though, he can’t keep himself from scoffing and muttering: “That is, quite literally, junk.”
He then picks up a box of what looks to be boxing wraps, perfect for nursing wounds, and he ... well, forgets to tell the other two that there are more.
“It’ll be wise to get a place with better shelter soon, try to get a lay of the land,” he says lowly, holding up the dagger he had also found so he marvel at his own reflection in it for a moment. Then Rafael sheathes it, looking at the two. “I know we didn’t expect Sierra to …” be a bad choice, “to meet her end so swiftly, but she’s gone now. So we adapt, walk around the obstacle, and stay out of trouble.”
“Tell me what you else want,” he tells Nowles. “By the end of the day, I’m half-expecting you to make a bomb that’ll fit down Isaac Le Roux’s fancy trousers.”
「 rafael collects 15 ft. of bandages from the cornucopia. 」
