brutality - [Kire]

He couldn't take the standing still any longer. For hours he had itched to kill, to spill blood, to do something. Now he eyed up a dummy, trying to plant the face of one of the other tributes over its blank one so that maybe he could feel like he was actually killing them. The face of the youngest girl rose to his mind and he sneered. She was so incompetent, surely she would die first. If she died on the end of his weapon, well.... He snatched a sword from a rack with a quick ease and brought the blade down on the point where shoulder met neck. A beautiful arc of blood - though fake - squirted from the wound. The sound of flesh - also fake - splitting and bone - still fake - cracking somewhat refreshed him. He pulled the sword from the cut with a sucking sound and watched as more blood flew into the air.

The cut would have killed someone within moments, but he wasn't satisfied yet. Arm swinging in a lazy curve, he sliced the outside of the dummy's right arm off. The fake skin parted to expose more fake blood and fake bone. Everything was so fake, and yet this was all he had for right now. He glowered at the dummy, envisioning a new face in place of the girl's.

Each time he dealt a killing blow - generally followed by a number of wounds that were not lethal but would be quite painful - he thought of a different person. The frustration at how fake everything was - the blood, the bone, the flesh, the sword - built in him until he looked like a tornado of bloodlust, bearing down on the dummy to shred every last inch of skin from its bones. He nearly did, too, stopping only when there was nothing left but a nearly bare skeleton and a head. The head, missing nose, one cheek, and both ears, was still attached. That was, until he painted the image of Beretta Corleon, the last tribute he had yet to kill, over the face and neatly sliced off her head. There was a thump and then silence. He was once more composed, at least outwardly, and he stood over the mangled body in tainted triumph.

"Don’t ya think that’s overdoin’ it just a little bit?" The drawl came from behind him and he turned slowly, deliberately. Looking down his nose as best as he could at the boy who had approached him, he took a moment to ponder whether this conversation was worth his time.

He was the one whose throat I slit. District ten, obvious enough from the speech, and clearly either thinks himself brave or, more likely, is stupid. I'm sneering at him in an offhand way, still not sure whether he is worth the moments of contemplation. Still, I can't pass up the opportunity to drive fear into someone who doesn't know they have any.

"No." His voice was crisp, but not loud. Anyone who knew him, or at least had observed him for a time, would know he wasn't exactly talkative. There was nothing shy about him, simply he didn't believe others were valuable enough to hear his thoughts. This boy was one of few, though whether he was lucky or not couldn't be determined.