[Day 1] Sabre Round 1: Gorgon vs. Halle

The fencing stadium is huge. There are stands that sprawl upwards towards the ceiling, with hundreds of spectators chattering in their seats. Cameras line the on-floor seating for press, frantic videographers calling out excitedly towards anyone who looks as if they’re relevant. A woman with highlighter-green hair waves towards me, flapping her hands in an attempt to draw me over for her an interview. I blink stoically in her direction, silently pleased when she pales at the lack of expression upon my face. My brow is even and my lips lay flat together, but there is an unpleasantness to the blankness of my face.

The event judge looks vaguely uncomfortable when I step towards him and another boy, someone I assume to be my competitor. Crona Grogon. He’s rather thin, with strong set to his shoulders and a pleasing gentleness to his face. He looks soft in the way that Harper does. There’s a beauty about him. No doubt he’ll be a favorite for the cameras. The Capitolites like to see beauty among their games. What other reason do they have for such lavish preparations for the tributes every year? These Olympics are no different. The Capitol likes to be entertained. We’ll give them their fun in full.

“Leandros Halle. Pleasure,” I say, extending a hand towards the blonde boy across from me. My eyes trail away, however, out towards the stands. The crowd is starting to get restless. I can feel the buzz of their excitement in my veins, each second letting the anticipation electrify the room. A few moments pass before we are finally told to take our places. I move away to my chair to pick up my sabre and helmet, slipping the guard on top of my head and climbing up onto the platform to get in place. With emotionless eyes, I stare forward at my competitor, giving a nod just before I lower the mask. Let it begin.

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The boy is strange. He doesn’t seem altogether there, almost absent from his head. It’s wrong to face an opponent so obviously unstable. This is but a taste, however. The Games are comprised of children dragged there without their own will. Most of them don’t know what they’re doing, or even how to live without someone telling them what to do. They don’t know how to fight. They are lambs for the slaughter, innocent and absent or not. There is no time for pity in war. I raise my sabre a little higher, preparing myself for the start.

At the beep, I quickly skirt forward, watching cautiously as we near each other. He is slower, more reserved. No time for pity, and no time to wait. I thrust my sabre out and miss, careful to guard myself as we draw even nearer. My feet stutter forwards and I crowd him a little backwards before I lash out again, swinging my sword towards the left and catching his sword arm on the inside. There’s another beep signaling the end of the point and I walk back to my starting place. I turn, squinting through the visor to watch as Crona gets back in place. He’s unbalanced in body and mind, it seems, as he stumbles somewhat back towards his place. I see his chest bounce a little. Is he laughing? I shake my head quickly, settling my mind and setting my left foot forwards again. The beep sounds again.

My feel are quicker this time, more sure as I advance on the boy before me. His steps are still slow, his movements sluggish compared to my own. I thrust out my sabre, the tip colliding with his chest. Another beep. I draw away, turning my head just slightly to look at him again. Yes, he’s laughing. What is there to laugh about here? This may be mere games, but this is how life and death is decided. Already, this boy would be dead in the arena, stabbed through his center, bleeding out. Just why is he laughing…?

I put it out of my mind for the third point, careful of my footwork as we come within proximity again. Twice, our sabres collide as we parry back and forth before finally, I am able to strike the side of his head with the edge of my blade. I back up slowly, breathing quickly as I find my place again. We’re playing at war here. There is nothing funny about death.

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He laughs from his stomach, the noise spilling from his lips and filtering through his mask. I don’t understand. This is a full hearted laugh, one of pure mirth, or madness. I watch suspiciously as he goes back to his place and wait for the beep again. We move again, more in tandem this time, though he bounces everywhere in uncoordinated looking bursts of energy whereas I slip forward with practiced lunges. He catches my right arm with a stroke and we start go back to the start. Just before I turn around, I hear him speak.

“Can I kill you now?”

I turn sharply, pulling up my visor for a moment to look at him more clearly. What a strange creature… I slip it over my face carefully, adjusting my guards and leveling the blade in my hand. A quick gesture with my hand signals that I’m ready to move again as I let myself drop into position. The next point passes with a swift blow to my middle and we begin again. The next goes almost the same, except it is I jabbing at his middle.

When I’m back in position, I call out to him in return. “You can try.” We bounce forward, our swords passing by one another and almost hitting. My feet shuffle backwards, careful to keep me in stance and in bounds, before I leap forward, hitting him in the right shoulder just before I’m hit in return and land. I back up slowly and turn again to prepare.

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There's something wrong with this boy. His mannerisms are so strange. I'm no expert on social interaction, seeing as the majority of my interactions happen with Harper, who is also inept at social interaction, but I can tell that there is something not normal going on with this boy. He's all over the place, but entirely focused upon one point, it seems: being able to kill me.

He gains a point, whispering almost in awe over my words. No, this is not normal at all. I draw back, preparing myself to face this strange competitor for the next point. Twice more he strikes me, the pressure of it against my body fleeting. No pain. Never any pain. I pass my blade to the other hand so I can stretch my left before gripping it tight again. There's a quiet determination running under my skin, urging me forward with the next beep. I must win. If I cannot win here, then how can I expect to finally take my place in the Games?

I strike out quickly, catching him in the neck this time with the edge of my blade. He would be dead by now. That's how you could take your place. Again, I strike him, this time on his left upper-arm. Another blow follows, an impact on the front of his mask. He would be dead by your hands by now and there would be nothing to stop you.

"She'd only approve if you could do it," I finally breathe, just after I've dropped my sabre away from his face. Without another word, I turn my back.

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"Sh-She- I have to please her! I don't want to be locked up again, I have to do it, she told me that I have to make her happy. I have to try, I am Crona the Demon sword, son of Medusa, I will kill you. Sorry." I tilt my head in confusion, eyes narrowing behind my mask. This boy has to be on something. He's can't possibly be sane.

I've lived a life of no pain, no suffering in a physical state. I can't feel the slice of a knife nor the burn of fire nor the shattering of bone. All I feel is pressure, the growing weight against my skin pushing me down farther and farther until I can't breathe, but there is no pain, no panic. Only peace. There is a serenity in the lack of pain, a calmness that comes with knowing I am stronger than those who would wish to harm me. I cannot be broken.

We dance forward again, sabres jabbing through the air in an attempt to finish the job. I hit twice more. "Demon sword?" I mutter to myself as I pace back to the start. I turn to face him, shaking my head. "You will try. Don't be sorry for doing what is required of you."

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It almost seems as if he is a man waking up the day after a drinking a sea's worth of moonshine. He sobers in an instant, body not shaking as much and his movements more slow, more cautious. I wish he would choose a way to act and stay there. This erratic back and forth puts me a little bit on edge, if only because this boy is clearly not well founded in his head. There is something very wrong with the way he thinks, and acts upon those thoughts. Two blows to my person, and we continue. It's a dance of the mind, now. He's clearly set to salsa when all that's playing is a waltz.

"How can I not be sorry? How? I don't understand, I don't know how to deal with this."

I thrust an arm outwards, hitting his lower torso just barely inside the zone. This boy, who wanted so badly to kill me, now can't seem to stomach it. His movements have slowed considerably by our next point, his footwork sluggish as I crowd into his space. I hit left arm with the blade of my sword, not moving away immediately, but speaking directly within him space.

"You push down your feelings, your emotions so far that you cannot feel sorry, that there is no choice but acceptance of your actions and no regret."

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"I am sorry! I didn't mean to- acceptance? I don't want to accept, I cant accept.... I... I"

"Stop being sorry. Sorry doesn't get you anywhere. If you don't accept, the only thing that will be getting killed is yourself."