Epee Round 1: Poesy vs. Brightman

The mask feels unwieldy and unnecessarily bulky as it slides over Corinne's field of vision, the metallic lattice covering the world in a grid under the harsh buzzing of the overhead lights. The epee feels good in her hand, at least, well-balanced and solid in her experienced grip. While she's used to having a sword in her hand, she isn't used to there being rules to play by. In Corinne's world "fencing" is usually holding onto a practice sword for dear life and trying to fend off an onslaught of her sister's merciless attack, or maybe sometimes just frivolous sparring with Goss at the training center if she's lucky. She is accustomed to bruises and shouting, not protective gear and structure, but she supposes it's really not that different in essence.

Her opponent, Alice Poesy of District One, is already waiting on the floor. Corinne can't tell much about her looks through the wire mesh of her mask from a distance, only that her uniform clings to a skinny, lithe frame, more predisposed to a dancer than a fighter. Suddenly hyper-aware of her own sturdy build and lean musculature, Corinne rolls her shoulders in an effort to rid the tension there, raising her blade and focusing on the objective. She can do this. She's been trained for this. And maybe, maybe with a medal around her neck she won't get quite as many looks of disappointment from her family.

The lights are blindingly bright, and for a moment an odd haze lowers over her vision. Corinne's breath scrapes over her lips in ragged huffs, a fragmented prayer shooting through her mind that it's just nerves and not an oncoming seizure. Collapsing into an epileptic fit on national television would be the end of her, and the unpoken fear rises in her throat to the point that ahe fails to move when the buzzer sounds. A second later, another elecronic beep rings out, the tip of Alice's epee pressed into her shoulder. Shrieking at herself mentally for her own stupidity, Corinne glowers and corrects her stance, darting forward with her own blade.

[dice=20]
result: foot - point

Alice's blade snaps swiftly down on her hand and Corinne squawks indignantly in protest, the impact stinging even through the thick fabric of her glove as the buzzer sings through the air again. Her eyes narrow to tawny slits behind the protective mesh of her mask, grip tightening around her own epee's grip as she resets her stance.

The two survey each other for the briefest respite in the combat, the skinny District One girl with a fierce determination in her posture and the Victor's sister with the odds stacked against her and everything to prove. A dark sort of malice swirls off of Corinne's skin in the moments before the next buzzer, a cruel smile tugging upwards at the corners of her lips. "You've got no idea who you're messing with, sweetheart."

A harsh beep, and she lunges forward, the shining blade of her sword preceding her with a frantic hope of success.

[dice=20]
result: chest - point

Corinne snorts disdainfully, unable to block Alice's next attack but finding an open pocket in her defense and at least managing to turn the charge into a double point for her own benefit. She isn't quite sure if she finds it funny or sad at the inherent innocence in this girl's bearing, like her fragile words to match her fragile form could even make a dent in the frigid armor of a human blizzard that even the most hardened Careers in Two have come to call The Ice Queen. If Corinne allowed herself such weaknesses as sympathy she might feel sorry for her, so obviously naive to how harsh the world really is if she considers her own feeble attempt a real insult.

"Oh, you've gone and hurt my feelings," she coos in a mocking, babyish voice that is at odds with the expression on her face, teeth bared and the curvature of her lips feral and malicious as her deadpanned alto drops into something more serious and frightening. "Spare me the bullshit, princess. It's not going to stop me from mopping the floor with you."

The buzzer wails anew, and Corinne snaps forward with a sharp cry of tenacity, her blade singing through the air in harmony to a victory she can't afford to let slip through her fingers.

[dice=20]
result: hip - point

A vicious, sadistic peal of laughter bubbles over Corinne's lips and gets caught in the metal mesh of her mask as she watches her opponent's face flush red behind her mask, staining the pallor of her skin with the colour of indignation. Good. Anger that burns is something that clouds the mind and dulls the senses, whereas Corinne's own brand of icy wrath is something that could freeze the world down to its bones. But her moment of exultation is cut short as a blade darts forward and brushes her stomach, the buzzer shrieking its protest into the air.

Her face slips into a frigid deadpan as they shift back into starting positions, the ghost of a smirk flitting across her defined features beneath the grid of the mask. "Aw, did I strike a nerve? Am I picking on you? I'm so sorry."

The buzzer chimes and muscles tense and blades click together. The closer she darts to Alice's center of gravity, the more feral the look on Corinne's face becomes, a terrifying smile cracking over her features just before she dives. "But guess what? In this world, it's always the loser who get picked on. Guess you better get used to it, dollface."

[dice=20]
result: shoulder - point

Another hit to the stomach! Corinne chides herself internally to do better guarding her torso, her heart pounding a rapid one-two, one-two drumbeat against the seashell surface of her ribs. This is the closest she'll ever come to being truly happy, the thrill of a fight, the taste of victory, the idea of someone besides herself being forced into the agonizing realm of not being good enough.

"I've been shunned by everyone. I've been heckled by everyone. And you're nothing special," the District One says calmly, shifting her stance, and Corinne suddenly feels something explode within the confines of her mind, a blind rage at this little nobody's assumption that she is the victim here. You don't have a clue, she wants to scream, wants to shriek until her blood vessels burst and the pale, blank slate of her flesh can hold the color of what it means to truly live, a sensation she fears she'll never feel. You don't know what it's like, never being good enough, being the shame of your family, having your own sister tell you they'd be better off with you dead, don't you dare victimize yourself to me!

But instead she shifts into a deadly calm, all of her malice stored and silent in the darkness of her eyes as she readies for the next lunge. "You're right, I'm nothing special. Just the person who's going to beat you."

[dice=20]
result: hip - point

In an echo of her last attack, the tip of Alice's epee skirts around Corinne's defenses and pokes deftly into the padded fabric covering her hip. Despite herself, a grim smile tugs briefly at her lips. At least she's up against a worthy opponent. Victory is no fun without the risk. Stretching briefly in the moment's pause between bouts, she takes a beat to formulate a strategy and size up her adversary.

Alice is tiny. This presents two issues. One, she has less of a surface area to get at with a sword. Two, she's fast. Corinne has the slight disadvantage of being bigger, but the perks of a lifetime of training with a merciless Victor of a big sister to increase her speed and defense abilities. In all reality, Neva isn't that much bigger than this wisp of a girl, her seeming fragility part of the reason people assumed she wouldn't be a big player in her Games until she started ripping tributes' throats out with her bare hands. This could be just another back yard sparring match, another hot summer day under the dappled shade of an old oak outside her home in the Victor's Village. It helps to think of it as that, rather than a medal and her reputation on the line on national television.

Lips pursing in concentration, Corinne darts forward with a calculated thrust of her blade.

[dice=20]
result: stomach - point