Recieving End [Day 1]

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There's a little bird
Somebody sent down to Earth
To live on the wind
Blowing on the wind
And he sleeps on the wind
This little bird, somebody sent
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And there in the setting sun—could he be sure of what time it was?—there came the huffing and puffing of one Cyrus Malloc, the district six tribute. There was no fear in his heart now, only the roughness of the day that had shaken him to his foundations. No, the anxiety that welled up inside the boy who could not contain it, the one who had promised Fawn his trust and left her to burn in the pit of the bloodbath, the boy who fell into a pack of wild animals and tried to take the life of a boy who was already dead, the boy who felt nothing at all now. Nothing but a numbness that left him shaken. He could only hope his search for firewood and freshwater would pacify Fawn, whom he’d left to rest and tend her wounds.

How he had wished that it all came as easily as it did for the other tributes. There seemed to be whole packs of them ready to attack and kill, and here was Cyrus Malloc, the boy who could only say please, excuse me, pardon me as he thrust his harpoon toward his target. He could still see the blood he’d splattered just hours ago, and couldn’t shake the faces of the boys and girls that had fallen. They sunk into him like an anchor into the ocean. There it went, deep down, further below the surface, until clanging against the solid earth. There he could see their faces, their life flowing from their eyes and out into the air.

Could no one else see them now? What of their families? What of the ones that had wanted them to win? Does no one here feel something for the dead?

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Light and fragile
And feathered sky blue
Thin and graceful
The sun shining through
he flies so high up in the sky
Way out of reach of human eyes
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This boy could see logic and reason clearer than most, though he could not speak to the emotions flowing through him. No, his aspergers drowned out the melody of emotion that some thought was easy to figure out—to Cyrus it was a confusing jumble, a code unable to be deciphered. Instead he was left with a bitter cold inside of him. He tried to understand even Fawn, graceful and pretty Fawn, attacking and trying to kill the boy whose face he’d seen fall to his feet. And the blood, the horrible, no good, awful stench of death that hung in the air. If only I could keep running, keep myself here until I could gather the courage… the strength to stand up to them. To those… He couldn’t quite figure out the word. What could he call those who were trying to survive, but had chosen death over life?
There were times when Cyrus had wanted to abandon the urge to be good. To not think of what his blade would do to those in front of him. It would be so easy for him to just give it all away, to just let the arena take him over and to kill. He could rip their lives from them just as mercilessly as the District One Tribute—Stark, was that her name—and move on until they were all a bloody pile. He could put away all feeling, all thought, and just do as he had been told. He had done it enough back in district six where no one minded him and people discarded him as useless and just another cog in the machine. The shadows were best for Cyrus, where he did not think or bother or disrupt anyone. Instead, he had whittled down to nothingness. Nothing but a shell[/i].

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When he heard a sound in the distance, he knew it had to be another tribute. It had to be someone that would try to take his life just as the others had. And he tried to push away all thoughts of running—no, let whoever it was come, let them face me, let me be the one to snap a neck[/color]—but the desire of such things was not in him. His harpoon was readied in his hands to lay a blow, and yet… he packed it away into his bag and stood. He waited. Waited for the face of the boy he would have to kill. You are not like the rest of them. You never have been like the rest of them. You are always going to be this way. But you can be free—oh, how you can rise above and be free and even if, even if it’s you, even if it’s you… you have to live free, live fighting those who choose death over life. That they are living to kill and not to save life.

(Cyrus Malloc attacks Pandora using unarmed)
[dice=200+5000]

(bruised right arm, 2.0 damage)

Even in his haste, he knew he had to give some kind of attempt at a shove, and came face to face with what could be his killer. Pandora, the boy that had so valiantly fought in the bloodbath now was in front of him. He looked banged up, and Cyrus knew he was in far better shape than this boy. There was the flash of his fist hitting his skin. Of his harpoon scraping the boy’s arm. Of fleeing before seeing what had become of him. I did it to stay alive. I did it like the rest of them. And what of him? What will he decide of me? Will he come with me? Will he kill me?

Cyrus stood and extended a hand to Pandora. “Please…” He said as he looked at the boy, who must have thought him crazy. He was ready to get his harpoon if this failed. He was ready to fight for life—for his life—if he so needed to. “Please Pandora, please…[/i]” Cyrus could feel his voice break looking at the boy. He didn’t want to have to kill anyone, not now, not today. He just wanted to rest, he just wanted to be free of all of it. Just for a little while. “D-don’t do anything. Please. I c-can get you food. I can help you, please, just say you won’t do anything. Please… let’s just run, let’s just go?[/b]”

He knew that this was unorthodox—would the gamemakers not take out their vengeance on him for not killing a tribute? And yet, I am free here, to offer my hand to the one that I tried to kill.[/i] He could not help but look at Pandora’s face and smile. Was he a fool? Of course Cyrus Malloc was a fool. He believed in goodness and love, not malice and evil. He believed in a world where this would all make sense someday if he stood on the victor’s stage and wore a crown. And so he stood, offering his hand to Pandora, come what may.

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