far from home.— [the breakfast club vs junkrats]

a comic

A sleep-over at the Loft. Mya has cocooned herself in thick blankets, and Oz has already scribbled a mustache over her wide, snoring mouth. Oz lies beside her, rubbing at his eyes. He tilts his head aside.

Snuff sits on the old wobbly chair by the empty windowsills, peering at the night awash in fading blue. The yellow dots that slope up the refinery and factory towers, reaching up into the sky –- they look like stars returning themselves to the night; the red beacons that flicker bright, the raging tongues of fire that crest towering pipes. The night shift goes on.

Groggily, Oz rises to join him. They speak in low voices.

SNUFF: Did I wake you?
OZ: [stretching] Nah, the floor did. What are you doing?
SNUFF: Couldn't sleep.
OZ: Figured.

Oz rests his elbows on the window-frame, face in his hands as droopy eyes look out.

SNUFF: Look at the factories...

Oz does.

OZ: You like those things?
SNUFF: Sure.
OZ: ...Why?
SNUFF: They're pretty to me.
OZ: They straight-up look like ass, not gonna lie...

Snuff stares out, placid, content. Then he turns back, cheeks ruddy, an excited grin sprawled across his eager face.
SNUFF: Sometimes, I wish I could fly over it all. Like an owl.
OZ: You'd breathe in noxious fumes and die.
SNUFF: It'd be worth it to see what it's like up there.

Oz's smirk has eased into a soft smile. He cradles his face in his hand as the other pecks at the peeling wood of the windowsill.
OZ: You'd get covered up in soot and choke and die and shit.
SNUFF: Hey--

Oz glances at him. Snuff stares at him with wide, intent eyes.
SNUFF: If you could be anything in the world, what would it be?
OZ: Like a super power?
SNUFF: Anything!

Oz considers the glowing night.
OZ: ...I wanna be those lizards that squirt blood out their freakin' eyes.

Snuff laughs, delighted.
OZ: Nah nah, I'm serious. Imagine it. Fucking Kevina waddles her fat ass up, and all you gotta do is--
[winking]
SQUIRT!

SNUFF: [winking back] SQUIRT!
OZ: SQUIRT!
SNUFF: SQUIRT!
OZ: SQUIRT!

Et cetera.

Mya is still snoring.

After a while, Oswald's too tired, so he and Snuff swap places and Oz falls asleep in the chair. Snuff wakes him up to watch the sunrise. As the golden light filters over the horizon, Oz doodles across the wall beneath the window an inspirational portrait of Snuff as a bird-man, lifting his mighty wings to the sunlight. The muscles look like spaghetti and the legs bulge at awkward angles. Beside him, a funky little lizard creature with Oz's hair-style squirts gunk out its eye (sound effect: SQUIRT!).

A drawing

The world is domed in electric blue streaks, some dangling down from the cave-ceiling in chandeliers of light. Others are specks, so much like blue stars, yet they feel closer than the stars in the night sky. Like he could reach out and touch them. He tries once, knowing he won't, but he wants to try, reaching out and out and out...

He sits atop the rim of Frog-legs' cockpit, feet swaying in the dark open space, face streaked blue as he raises it up to the light. Trusty ol' Fun Gun lies across his lap; it's become a comfort to him.

Frog-legs has gotten a make-over since Peter miraculously raised it from the mechanical dead. The little kitty-cat stickers (courtesy of the local Nakom) adorn the dash as a way to label the controls. Buttons and levers that operated machinery were given an angry or scared kitty; controls for routine purposes were given happy kitties. He likes to reach back and run his fingers across the stickers, tracing the lines of the cartoon cats. He wishes he could draw his cartoons like that.

Fun Gun came in handy for Frog-legs' back. A blast of bluish glitter really brought the mech together. In a fit of inspiration, Oz pressed his finger into the wet glitter, and etched a little stump of a frog lifting its nubby middle finger up into the air. An awkward, squiggly speech-bubble makes the frog say: “FUCK OFF!” It is his magnum opus, and he calls himself a genius whenever he considers it.

Hugging Fun Gun close, he leans back against the rim, the back of his head sinking down onto the dash of the cockpit. It is quiet, so it is safe. All he can hear is the whispery sighs of his new alliance as they sleep. They are alive, and that is good. He is alive, and that is good.

Twenty-one tributes are still alive.--And that is good!...He is willing to die on this hill.

To be alive is good.

Doodlings

Feelings connect to thoughts connect to images connect to pencil connect to paper

If Oz could do anything – had any super-power – he would control time.

He would brace himself against it, like a superhero against a train, and he would stop it. He would turn it in on itself and make it bite its tail, so that it looped round and round and round.

So that, for the rest of his life, he would only live in this day. The day where he found happiness.

Or maybe he would be like the technician of time. Time could be his control panel. And all he had to was press a button, and he could go back to any time where he had been happy. Like those evenings at the Loft; those days when his mom could relax and they could play board-games; today, with Orville and Esther. He would overload himself on happiness then. Maybe he would explode with it. What a way to go out!

But no. To die means never feeling happiness again.

Which makes this whole ordeal so unfair. So unnecessary.

Almost a century has passed since the war, and they're still trapped in this bullshit. What's the point in it. It was obvious no one in the districts had the balls to fight back, so why bother with the Games?

Adults are monstrosities. They cower. They live in a perpetual state of suicide, their souls locked in the act, incapable of the conclusion. Trapped in sorrow. No hope in finding the happiness.

“In sorrow, find happiness.”

He thinks he found it today.
Somehow, he will keep it.
After all the trouble it put him through--
He doesn't want to lose it.
Despite the new day approaching.

An animation

The silence of their march connotes their farewell to the Oasis.

Bright sunlight flashes through the other end of the cavern that connects the Oasis to the arena surface Approaching that light feels like watching the Sun nearing the planet Earth, ready to swallow it whole with its heat. Sweat evaporates off the skin. The water bottle in the cup-holder at Oz's hand laps at white vapor smearing the inside of the glass.

As Oz pulls his shirt up to wipe at his forehead, Peter falls in step beside him. Oz peeks out at him over his shirt-collar. Peter's voice comes over a secure channel in the mechs' comm systems, his voice tinny and edged in static: “Don't listen to Ellis, alright?” Oz's eyes linger in their corners as he peers at Ellis. “Just...ignore him. Honestly kid he's a dick.”

His brow furrows. His first thought is: The hell he here then? His second is: I mean...is he really? Ellis had helped fight for Celeste in the Bloodbath. As far as Oz could tell, he wasn't -- Ellis isn't -- but Peter isn't --

Oz...gets Ellis. At least, he thinks he does. It's an understanding that isn't cognitive, unlike his understanding of Peter. It's intuitive. Can't be described in words. He doesn't think he knows how.

He doesn't know what to say. His lips part, and there's a hollow feeling between the jaws.

So, like mostly everything else in his life, he meets it with a nervous laugh: "So 'm I, so..."

But his large eyes flicker with worry. Peter's smart, that's the problem; anything he says could be right, for all Oz knows. Yet at the same time, the incident forces him to recall a certain someone from school...

a comic

KEVINA: [her face takes up the entire panel; suggestion that she's leaning forward] OH MY GAWD, ARE YOU SERIOUSLY FRIENDS WITH MYA LILSON?! OHMYGAWDOHMYGAWD, DO YOU SERIOUSLY NOT KNOW?!!!!!!! HER DAD, LIKE, TOTALLY BETS ON TRIBUTES TO FUCKIN' DIE, SO IF YOU GET REAPED, HER DAD'S GONNA BET ON YOU TO DIE OH MY GAWWWWWWDDD. SO, LIKE, IF YOU'RE FRIENDS WITH HER, THEN YOU BASICALLY WANT TO DIE OR SOMETHING. ARE YOU, LIKE, ONE OF THOSE WEIRD EDGY KIDS OR SOME SHIT?! YAH GONNA JUMP OFF A ROOF OR SOMETHINNNNNNNNNNG? OHMYGAWDOHMYGAWDOHMYGAWD FUCKIN DO IT LOSER HAHAHAHA!

[Fuckin middle school, man.]

sequential art

The world is not so much sun-scorched as it is an extension of the sun. The rolling ochre dunes, the hazy pale yellow horizon that expands into a smudgy urine sky, the great white disc itself conquering everything as it lingers too close to the planet's atmosphere.

Sweat drips off the tip of Oz's nose. His head is ducked. Despair edges the concern creasing his face.

Then his eyes lift.

He points, eyes bulging.

A land-ship rises from the sand, its sails cutting across the sky, creaking as the residual winds sways them. They stand in the shade of its encompassing shadow.

The smile on his face is laughing, gaping.

The smile on his face is pleased, closed-lipped, and content as he stands at its bow, the wind billowing against him as the land-ship sails over the dunes. The vinyl jacket tied about his waist whips behind in the wind. His hands are on his hips, confident for a moment, assured for a moment.

Peter crying out--

He turns.

Barrels of guns flashing--

Snarling mouths widening into screams--

He stands, he's staring, he can only stare--

At Esther as the impact of the bullets recoil against her body--

Esther, with her quiet low laugh, with little cat stickers between her fingers, who's sad and empty all the time--

He sprints across the deck.

Frog-legs stands with its cockpit open. He lunges into it.

The gun points.

His eyes reflect the little human figure on the sands. They're not cruel eyes, though the eyebrows are curved into something resembling a glare. They're mostly large. Takes up half his face.

By his hand is a button; by the button is an angry-looking cat.

The hand shakes as the fingers hang over the button.

The eyes squeeze tightly shut as the beads of sweat rolls down the creases of his brow.

He doesn't make the decision to press the button, yet his thumb goes down on it.

attacks talon with cannon ammo (6/6)
0nnomnrB3qthrowing axe

Silence.

One would think it should be easier to fall asleep in the quiet, but not Lottie.

All night she tossed and turned because every time she dared to close her eyes her mind was filled with the screams of the dying and the taunting of her Mother.

And only those who were insane would be able to fall asleep to the sounds of torture.

Instead she stared up at the star filled sky counting them one by one. The gentle breeze blowing through her hair and tickling her nose, while she wondered what horrors tomorrow might bring.

It wasn't long until the others aroused, hopefully much more well rested then she was. Charlotte stifled a yawn as she tried to rub the sleep out of her eyes. It has been eerily silent in the Arena. No canons, no final screams.

And she knew it would not remain this way for long.

Even though every part of her being hoped otherwise.

Some time passed before the four of them were able to find their way out of the Oasis. As much as it was beautiful, Lottie was sure there were surprises of equal horror hiding somewhere deep within. It was mostly quiet as they traveled through the tunnel. Maybe they were still waking up, or maybe they all feared whatever might come next.

Charlotte was immediately greeted with a cloud of dust. Almost as thick as fog and highly hindering their ability to see more than a few feet in front of them.

"Stay close..." she muttered, but she doubted anyone heard.

An hour or so passed and she finally got the courage to turn to the girl on her right.

"So Maze, is there anything you can teach me about these things?" she said as she waved the arms of the mech in the air. "I was useless the other day and it's...well it's not something I'm used to," the words finally managed to fumble from her mouth.

Maze was smart, smarter than her that's for sure. There was something about her. Something about her that told Charlotte she somehow might survive this thing, and she made a secret vow to herself to make sure she would do her best to see it happen.

Charlotte knew her own time was near.

But was not sure exactly when the clock would strike midnight.

There was a loud gunshot that rand through the air and the sound of metal colliding with metal. She jumped a little in her suit, trying to discern where it came from. Moments later and Maze's voice.

"Don't come any closer!"

Another loud gunshot.

The other tributes came forward quickly, not daring to hide in the haziness of the sky. Probably knowing it would decrease their accuracy too.

Three more bangs.

An impact on her suit that rattled her slightly, but out of the corner of her high she could see Kiibo taking the full force of the attack.

"Hey! Leave him alone!"

Finally the silence had been broken.

Maybe now she would be able to sleep tonight.

an animation

It's the Bloodbath all over again. How movement and people and sound seems to jump and flash through space, like lightning strikes. The bangbangbangbangbang of guns, everywhere, exploding constantly, the thunder of them echoing across the ground – strange doppler effect – as one gun's echoes fades, another shoots, and it's as though the echo has returned beside them as a full noise again. And the scattering of bodies. One girl on this side, then the other, Esther suddenly there, Peter over there, Ellis there, that boy over here – they don't seem to actually travel, just appear. It seems inhuman. Nothing about this is.

Lizards tearing each other apart with their quick jolting bodies--

But the voices buzzing through the comm system confirm the others' humanity. At the start of the Bloodbath, it had just been a storm of limbs and faces and teeth, mashed together, writhing as a collective mass of pulsating tissue – no people. Not until Celeste died. Then suddenly there had been three people and a monster.

Do monsters scream “Stay back!” too? Do they ask their victims to “Wait”? Do they cry out, “Don't come any closer!”

Does Peter start murmuring some weird random shit about angels to them? (“Is that like in a gay way?” Oz mumbles to himself, squinting in genuine confusion, as though that clarifies anything. Ayo?)

No. They don't.

Smoke wafts from the muzzle of his gun.

Falteringly, the mech's gun cringes down. The weight of a terrible mistake crushes him.

No one wants to be here. And these people – they were human. They feared for their lives as much as he did.

Out the corner of his eye, the land-ship's helm creaks to one side, piloted solely by some hidden mechanics of the ship – that is most likely being piloted by some Gamemaker, running their filthy gloved claws over some buttons millions of miles away.

Maybe not for long.

He flings himself at it, tries to have Frog-legs grasp at it but the controls are too awkward, Frog-legs just nudges at the wheel with its awkward webbed hands.

Fine.

He slams his hand down against a button. The cockpit rolls backward – a gust of wind slams into him, whipping his hair back, teases his clothes.

The thunder of guns boom into his ears. Now that the cockpit couldn't muffle the gunfire, it is so loud it has a tactile quality; he feels the sounds as blows as he hears them, and cringes back into his chair. The guns keep blasting. Again and again. Unceasing. Gritting his teeth, he glares down at the helm. How it turns on its own. More and more towards the enemy ship. Maybe they could even crash into each other--

He has to.

He flings himself out the mech.

He snatches at the helm, grapples with it – it pulls against him, so hard it nearly carries him with it as it swings the ship to follow the other group's. But he digs his heels in. His teeth are set in a wolfish snarl, contorting his face into something older than it is. It pushes, he pulls – a shudder courses down his arm – grunting, he makes it yield to him.

The ship curves around. He glances up at and sees the desert shift around. Sees a gap forming between the two ships – feels how easy it is to keep the wheel down now, in his control. He sputters and laughs, relieved, though knuckles remain pale as he clenches the wheel.

Once the other group sees that they're fleeing, they'll have to give up too. After all, they don't want to be here either! Live to fight another day, surely!--

The gap closes.

The others' ship follows after them, tracking the line of their ship as it tries to peel away. Oz gapes. Blinks at the helm as though it's at fault. He wiggles it around, and it doesn't fight back, moves very easily actually. His eyes turn back to the enemy ship.

What are they--

Vaguely, he hears a voice crackle out from Frog-legs' comm system: “Cockroaches. Squash 'em”

BAM.

Esther totters first.

And then the rest of the ship wobbles, tilts, becomes a juggernaut sliding in crazy serpentine across the uncertain sand. His guts sink to one side of his body – his arms go rigid, he presses his feet into the deck but his shoes can't find a proper grip, they squeak as they slide slowly down. The wheel springs to one side, whirling round and round, its rim biting in his palms, his fingers. No time to tighten his grasp, try to stop it – the wheel rips itself free, knocking him backwards--

He's falling.

A familiar sensation. How it all comes to him in moments. How somethingness rips itself apart into nothingness, and the heaviness sinks the body down--

sequential art

He gave into it, the first time at the training center.

The net below, the climbing bar above. His hands above, his feet below. His little hands as they seemed to wilt beneath the weight of his own body. How they furled like dying flowers.

He let go of the bar, that first time. It hurt too much to hold on.

Animation

“NO!”

It's a variation on a child's scream and the roar of a vengeful animal.

All he sees are his hands reaching up for the sky. Ellis' hand, for one flashing second--

His back hits the deck, he bounces, rolls onto his side onto his stomach-- his hands there, sprawling out far from him, fingers bent like claws as the nail bear into the deck, carving shrieking lines into soft metal as his feet swing out and the weight of his own body betrays him to force and momentum.

The edge of the deck gives way. His feet dangle off of it, his stomach sinks down, it drags his chest with it and he screams – his hands shoot out, scrabble, find the lip of the deck, clings to it by the fingernails as his fingers shiver. Yet they hold. He expects them to wither, disintegrate. Expects the nothingness at his feet to swallow them.

“No,” the gasp strangles itself around his clenched teeth.

Another hand – palm up, looming over his own, fingers outstretched. Oz doesn't even see the face before he snatches at it, gripping it by the wrist. And suddenly that hand is the only something keeping him from becoming nothing. He dangles between it and a void. The arm tautens, he's coming up – feels almost like floating – he tumbles onto the deck. There's a warm body panting beside him.

The ship sways to and fro, creaking, jolting. Oz's head jerks up. The wheel's still spinning. There's no time to recover. He flings himself at it, seizes it desperately – he jerks in his hands, fighting to spin round and round, it even bucks a little in its mount as though to fight him.

He does not let go. He is solid, this time. A guttural scream explodes from him as he pulls it back, roots it, clings to it. It jerks from side to side – but he makes it yield.

“Are you okay?”

Quietly, Oswald lifts his eyes up to Ellis. The dick Peter told him not to listen to.

Oz's face stings with a mixture of tears and sweat. His entire body vibrates as he catches every ragged pant. His eyes say everything.

“Go get 'em, Oz.”

With the ferocity of an attack, Oz swings the wheel around. The ship careens sideways – metal booms as ship whams into ship.

Ellis darts off, the knife ready.

One hand clutching the wheel, Oz whips around, throws the other hand into Frog-legs' cockpit, fumbles blindly for a second until he finds the detachable radio. He brings it to his lips. “You dumb motherfuckers!” he spits, voice cracking, uncertain if it's a man's or a boy's. “I was trying to LEAVE YOU ALONE, we were trying to GO AWAY, and WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU FUCKING DO?!”

Takes a moment to try to breathe. To still the shaking of his hands. He can't. He brings the radio to his lips again, so close he could bite into it: “Get butt-f****d.”

He slams the radio back down. Props Frog-legs' hand into the wheel, just to hold it steady as he flings himself into the cockpit.

Frog-legs' gun turns round. It aims. Its sight displays itself on the HUD – he can see Ellis go after the girl from Two.

Two. Careers. No wonder these people wouldn't let them run. They're monstrosities, just like that bitch who killed Celeste.

Fuck them.

And Oz owes Ellis one, anyway.

“Ellis,” he mutters into the comm, hand edging towards the firing mechanism. “Watch out.”

[attacks lottie, cannon ammo (5/6)

Hw9dWBMSNUthrowing axe


[axe in neck -- 9.5]