Stand {Mav vs Pierce vs Karl Day 6}

〖    p i e r c e    l i t t l e t o n    〗

Sometime in the night, the fire burning low, Pierce had taken his shift. And the first thing he did, once he was sure everyone else had quieted, was modify the list he'd written the evening just before the anthem tore open the sky outside of their little cave cocoon.

1 - Moreno
4 - Marlow
5 - Usoa
5 - Ivanov
7 - Paragoni
8 - Theo
9 - Vigil
10 - Errington
11 - Jardens

He held the caligraphy pen aloft for a long, long time. Waiting for something to move him, to compel him, to write the missing names of the living: Littleton, Fitzgerald, Rose-Izar. But to commit them to the list was to admit that they had to be eliminated to go home.

Near dawn, he relinquished his watch and went to sleep with ink smeared across his lips from where he'd chewed the back of the pen to a nub. He sleeps, or maybe he doesn't, because he comes to waking in a purple haze. All he can sense is what he can touch. Which, in a way, made things awfully simple: gather his things close and take one step at a time.

More than once on the steep ascent he thinks about calling out for Haze. He thinks about rounding a corner and burying himself in a fluff of red hair, holding Brennan's tall frame close. He thinks about these phantoms, but he doesn't want them. It's easier this way.

He perfectly understands the Gamemakers have given him a gift.

So, Pierce Littleton, Career of District Two, makes no fuss at all as he takes one careful step after another all the way to the Peak. By then he's slung his bag over his shoulders and notched his Longbow. It costs him some energy to carry it charged but it's well worth it when the curtain of the fog peals back.

The first flash of Maverick Marlow's spear comes straight for him. But Pierce feels good - really good - for the first time in days. He twists on his good leg and dodges most of the emotionally driven attack. Marlow moves all the way through the attack and sinks his weapon into something squishy behind Pierce.

He pulls his smashed leg behind and foot over foot creates some distance between himself the others. Pierce has the bow so taut and so high it obscures most of his face. He keeps the pointy-end oscillating between Karl and Maverick, indecision coloring his movements.

But then. He doesn't know if the Longbow's latent charge or the fog or some combination but suddenly the weapon feels red hot and he can't afford to wait. "HEY!" He shouts. "Marlow! You find a way to talk to ghosts or what? Moreno finally owned up that he was gonna slit your throat?"

He fires.

Restrings. His fingertips inflammed. He doesn't have to attack again; he doesn't have to even acknowledge the other boy. But he knows too well if the manufactured fog has parted for them, the Gamemakers want this.

Either they die, or he does.

The hot hot sun at this back, Pierce fluidly notches and releases a second arrow. "We're on top of the world!" He crows.

"these bones never
rested while living,
how can they stand
to languish in repose?"

〖    p i e r c e    l i t t l e t o n    〗

When Karl speaks his voice is full of someone else. Like another soul has lodged in his throat. "It doesn't like that name."

Pierce blinks, like really fucking hard. "That name? What'd I say, Snow?"

Because for a moment he's forgotten. He's so focused on the smooth wave his sword makes, of keeping it moving slightly so that neither can get too much of an edge. It's working; they've both just barely scratched him. But it's also tiring. In training it always amazed him how quickly he would become fatigued on the days they fasted, to simulate life in the arena. And even though he'd devoured the bento box yesterday, he could feel his muscles starting to atrophy, his focus starting to wane. Because truly he didn't want to be here, swishing his katana, trying to puzzle out what had fucked up Karl so badly and find a way to apologize to Maverick because he seemed like a half decent fellow.

His blue gaze flickers over Maverick, defiant, ordering them to move. Pierce is all too happy to oblige. After all, he doesn't want to be here.

He wanted to be with --

Oh.

"Bren! Brennan Fitzgerald. You ever seen anyone look more gorgeous after almost a week roughing it? Whew. But who's this 'it'?" Pierce brings his sword back and back, the hilt almost under his armpit.

"Is it... you?" And drives it forward.

It's immediately clear he's overcorrected. He trips past Karl entirely and ends up merely slicing at Maverick. His lips twist in frustration. "Goddamnit," he mutters, rolling back his shoulders, trying to find some reserve of strength.

"these bones never
rested while living,
how can they stand
to languish in repose?"

〖    p i e r c e    l i t t l e t o n    〗

This is different from all of his training, even the days the other Careers beat him to pulp. He'd broken an arm, his nose, his clavicle before. He's waited days to have them reset. Another time he developed a kidney infection. All of those injuries hurt, especially when he had to do mundane shit like pee.

But this is different.

The creep of injury, of pain, is exhausting. And when the sword slips from his grasp, he knows his chances are dwindling. The only question is: is he dying faster or slower than Maverick and Karl?

"They're real."

Pierce hears the conviction behind those words and takes a deep, deep breath.

He releases it as Karl strikes, gaining the upperhand. It doesn't hurt much even as the blade spins his head around and wets his face. Blood pours over his shoulder. The only solace is that Maverick's no better off. He looks almost drunk - with pain? - as he tries to parry the attack. Pierce leans onto a walking stick which is the only thing keeping him upright.

"Sure," Pierce says, the s whistling through the seeping gap in his cheek. "As real as we are."

And lifts the stick, his glaive, and drives the word home.