Still Sane {Laila vs. Fran, day 8}
Apr 6, 2014 12:34:20 GMT -5
Post by Python on Apr 6, 2014 12:34:20 GMT -5
Today is my birthday, and I'm riding high
Hair is dripping, hiding that I'm terrified
But this is summer, playing dumber than in fall
L A I L A S Y C A M O R E
DISTRICT5 | THIRTEEN
Hair is dripping, hiding that I'm terrified
But this is summer, playing dumber than in fall
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L A I L A S Y C A M O R E
DISTRICT5 | THIRTEEN
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The day of Anni Dorst’s death was excruciatingly long.
The gash on her chest was simple enough to mend with a needle and thread despite the whisper of a hiss uttered with every pierce of sensitive skin. The second gaping wound was not so easy. She was forced to bend her arms at awkward angles to reach the source of the bleeding on her back, and hours dragged by as her muscles cramped up several times attempting to weave the split skin shut with her supplies. It was sloppy, painful work that reduced her to a whining mess in the dirt, pounding her bloody fists into the ground as the finale of the sunset basked her in a purple shade of darkness. When she was finished it was half-assed and most likely prone to infection, but she applied bandages anyway and set up camp once she ventured far enough to relieve herself of the sight of Anni’s corpse being lifted by hovercraft. She didn’t need another reminder that this world was fabricated, that she was merely entertainment for an old world of sick-minded idiots.
Among those idiots were the Sycamores, her family. She wondered in the shadows of her tent if they all stayed up late to watch her sit with her knees pulled to her chest, blue gaze fixed on the stars. Did they watch her flinch at the sound of the anthem, dreading only one name? Ares Pine, district two. She didn’t know who that was, but he was definitely a career. Good riddance. Would they witness the flickers of relief that crossed her delicate features whenever she read a name that she did not like? Anni Dorst. Would they note how still she was when the name of her own kill was broadcast to the world, like a stone statue in a garden of tangled thorns and death? Claude Aeger. Were they disappointed to see her unresponsive to the face of a former friend only because she was angry with him?
Lyric Woulf.
Did they think she was a monster for leaping to her feet and screaming at the sky?
”You deserved it!”
Then the music ceased, and she was alone with her thoughts again. Thoughts of Willis, who was alive and kicking – who probably killed one of the faces in the sky. She hoped it was Lyric; an eye for an Eye. Screw anyone who didn’t think vengeance tasted sweet like sugar.
Pain and anticipation stole hours of sleep from her, but she was used to the cruel treatment. As she gathered her things beneath a dark, overcast sky she tried to remember how many souls were left standing. There was herself, there was Willis, and there was Soap, the last man standing in that monstrous alliance of four that had crashed and burned in a matter of only two days. Laila could sympathize with that pain, although she was surprised that she still had Willis and that Willis still had her, even if they were miles away. After Claire and Eye’s tragic deaths, it was a wonder at all how an alcoholic and a thirteen year old had managed by themselves.
Movement in the distance prompted reflexes immediately. Without thinking twice she doused her katana with tar (another gift from sponsors, how generous) and struck a small flame with her flint. Upon closer inspection it was not tall enough to be Soap, and it was not wide enough to be the male figure of Willis Keeni. No, this thing had curves and long hair. The name was lost on her, but she recalled one fact – this was a career, and she was in no condition to fight someone so out of her league.
Shit, what do I do?
It was too late to run. Laila was quick, but how quick compared to a career? And with all of these wounds biting her skin, how could she ever hope to escape?
Shit.
She had to fight to her death, there was no other option.
”Hey ugly!” she taunted, because she was a thirteen year old orphan with no filter and nothing to lose but her life, and that was what she had been waiting to surrender, right? With only four or five people remaining, she could win.
But she could also die.
Here goes nothing.
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template by chelsey
template by chelsey
[attacks Fran – katana]
zefyZQhysword
Shallow Cut on Back -- 4.0 damage
range 1-50
extinguished
zefyZQhysword
Shallow Cut on Back -- 4.0 damage
range 1-50
extinguished