good boy gone bad // storm, day seven
Aug 14, 2022 18:20:39 GMT -5
Post by lance on Aug 14, 2022 18:20:39 GMT -5
Hours later, and Storm finds himself right back where he'd started - sitting on the edge of a tumultuous riverbank, soaked to the bone due to the ongoing tempest from which he draws his name, numb to the distant cracks of lightning and claps of thunder. It's a particularly bizarre case of deja vu (or at least it would be, if he had the capacity to focus on anything but the half-dozen wounds occupying his attention), contemplating his path to victory and how, exactly, he'd gotten this far - usually before a new flare of plain elicits a groan out of him, or maybe a curse on the girl from One's as of yet unknown name. And between gritted teeth, he comes to the conclusion that there really isn't anything to explain. Despite all of his bold claims before entering the arena, there really isn't anything that separates him from any of the other hundreds upon hundreds of tributes who've found their way into the arena in one way, shape, or form.
The only explanation is luck. Luck, and a fallen boy's final gift, thrust into his hands as Storm's blade stuck fatally into his chest.
(The fact that he is only alive because Willem Vanas saved him twice over is not lost on him.
And truthfully, he's not sure if he's relieved or devastated that debts to the dead can never be repaid.)
And okay, maybe it wasn't luck that got him this far, not entirely. It took more than luck to strike down mutt after mutt, strike down boy after boy after girl. That was all Storm and his blades as much as it was luck. But without luck, the shroom folk wouldn't have waited for him to strike first before pouncing on him. The shadow beast's claws would have done more than gouge out his ear, either piercing his brain just like that or tearing his face apart with a single shredding motion. Carly's burst of fire would have incinerated him, December's strikes would come with two working arms instead of one, Willem would have fought back with all of his might instead of half-assing it, the plastic bitch from One would have...
...well, Storm's reckless, but he's not stupid. He knows that it was insanity to go up against a Career with nothing but a sword and his own bravado and expect to come out alive. Because sure, he had the advantage of attrition and scrappiness and two kills laid over his shoulders like a pair of too-heavy cloaks, but even a week in the elements had only dulled the girl from One's spirit instead of blunting it entirely. It'd been a brawl more than a refined duel, blood and mud and insults and screams accentuating the fight instead of a clash of blades and impeccable manners. Both had wanted the other dead - and, well, Storm'd be lying if he said he hadn't hollered and hooted and celebrated the plastic girl's demise with what little energy he had remaining before promptly passing out.
It'd felt different, at the time. Maybe because there was so much antagonism in that fight in a way that Willem or even Carly and December hadn't had, maybe it was the purple taking hold of him in a way it hadn't before, maybe it was just the first time since the shadow beast that he'd actually felt Death's cold slimy tendrils slithering across his back and to escape them yet again had felt so euphoric that, well...
A faint memory nagging at the back of his skull reminded him that his ancestor had never liked a certain girl from District One, either, way back when the Games were still brand new as opposed to a nearly century-long tradition. How ironic that even now, so many years later, history could repeat.
A cannon boomed, sharp and distinct against the distant rumbling of the thunder, and only then did Storm look up. He'd been the first to finish, ironically enough - but somewhere, out there, another one of his rivals had just fallen.
Another one of his rivals had just killed and secured their spot in the top four, alongside himself.
(And if that was further than Fleur or Nowles had ever gotten, well, the thought doesn't give him the same thrill that it might have a few weeks ago.)
"Three to go," he whispered under his breath.
Three more deaths. Two more kills.
And like his siblings, Storm could count himself amongst the Adroxis family members who'd taken a trial of death and lived to tell the tale.
(But at what cost?)
The only explanation is luck. Luck, and a fallen boy's final gift, thrust into his hands as Storm's blade stuck fatally into his chest.
(The fact that he is only alive because Willem Vanas saved him twice over is not lost on him.
And truthfully, he's not sure if he's relieved or devastated that debts to the dead can never be repaid.)
And okay, maybe it wasn't luck that got him this far, not entirely. It took more than luck to strike down mutt after mutt, strike down boy after boy after girl. That was all Storm and his blades as much as it was luck. But without luck, the shroom folk wouldn't have waited for him to strike first before pouncing on him. The shadow beast's claws would have done more than gouge out his ear, either piercing his brain just like that or tearing his face apart with a single shredding motion. Carly's burst of fire would have incinerated him, December's strikes would come with two working arms instead of one, Willem would have fought back with all of his might instead of half-assing it, the plastic bitch from One would have...
...well, Storm's reckless, but he's not stupid. He knows that it was insanity to go up against a Career with nothing but a sword and his own bravado and expect to come out alive. Because sure, he had the advantage of attrition and scrappiness and two kills laid over his shoulders like a pair of too-heavy cloaks, but even a week in the elements had only dulled the girl from One's spirit instead of blunting it entirely. It'd been a brawl more than a refined duel, blood and mud and insults and screams accentuating the fight instead of a clash of blades and impeccable manners. Both had wanted the other dead - and, well, Storm'd be lying if he said he hadn't hollered and hooted and celebrated the plastic girl's demise with what little energy he had remaining before promptly passing out.
It'd felt different, at the time. Maybe because there was so much antagonism in that fight in a way that Willem or even Carly and December hadn't had, maybe it was the purple taking hold of him in a way it hadn't before, maybe it was just the first time since the shadow beast that he'd actually felt Death's cold slimy tendrils slithering across his back and to escape them yet again had felt so euphoric that, well...
A faint memory nagging at the back of his skull reminded him that his ancestor had never liked a certain girl from District One, either, way back when the Games were still brand new as opposed to a nearly century-long tradition. How ironic that even now, so many years later, history could repeat.
A cannon boomed, sharp and distinct against the distant rumbling of the thunder, and only then did Storm look up. He'd been the first to finish, ironically enough - but somewhere, out there, another one of his rivals had just fallen.
Another one of his rivals had just killed and secured their spot in the top four, alongside himself.
(And if that was further than Fleur or Nowles had ever gotten, well, the thought doesn't give him the same thrill that it might have a few weeks ago.)
"Three to go," he whispered under his breath.
Three more deaths. Two more kills.
And like his siblings, Storm could count himself amongst the Adroxis family members who'd taken a trial of death and lived to tell the tale.
(But at what cost?)
