upside-down; no right way around [shrimp]
Feb 21, 2017 19:33:53 GMT -5
Post by sadniss everdeen on Feb 21, 2017 19:33:53 GMT -5
Gabrielle Bellamonte
don't let them hear the waves inside your chest.
this is no place for weakness.
Holy fuck.
It's about the only coherent thing you can sum up right now. There's a throbbing behind one eye that won't go away and your foot has swollen up to the point where it's difficult for it to fit into your (garishly pink) boat shoes, but you forget that all momentarily as you glance around at the mess of halls and ceilings and stairs. Other tributes around you are having the same reaction, their eyes cautious and wild as they take in their new arena. You aren't exactly sure where you've fallen into, but you know enough not to stick around when a lot of you have new weapons and itch to use them.
They know you're alone, whispers Q. Her hair falls loose over one of your shoulders, her breath cold in your ear. They'll come for you. Your heart thuds in your chest; a million needles prick the marrow under your sternum, pushing, desperate to get out. You take a deep breath but it just makes it worse, turns the itch into a hurt. No matter how you try to tell yourself your body is a liar, your skin prickles from the eyes you aren't sure exist against the length of your back. Those who have gathered their bearings murmur between one another - the shuffle of their feet against tile is a soft whisper of fabric. Some of them leave blood-smears in their wake.
Don't listen to her, hisses your brother. Now's the perfect time for revenge. Your eyes travel to the boy who killed Eden, his jaw oddly skewed and swollen on his face. Your hand throbs in equal time to his heartbeat, and you wonder if it would stop hurting once he dies. Maybe you barely knew her, but that's better than not knowing anyone at all. Now you're all alone again... and it's all his fault. You grit your teeth and buckle a little under the weight of yet another soul added to those you have to carry.
Maybe a year ago, you would've gone for him. Thrown yourself with little care to if you lived or died, if only for the satisfaction of watching his head bloom into a beautiful red flower just like Eden's. But there's a feeling in you that you can't shake - they aren't all dead. It's impossible to rationalize it, but... a mutt rolls past and nearly runs over your foot, and in the minute time where you can peer into its shell, you see a familiar pair of eyes looking back. They vanish before you can fully understand it, but that feeling in you just grows stronger.
Instead of turning back to sink your knife into his face, you take a deep breath and step off the mezzanine.
Your foot never touches the stair. Instead, you go careening upwards and land with a solid whump on the ceiling. It's an awfully long way down and your fingers scrabble for any sort of purchase that could stop you from falling to an unpleasant death, but your body stays firmly where it is. You swallow, working up enough courage to glance down, watching as another tribute goes flying onto the far wall below you.
"They really outdid themselves this time," you grunt, half-delirious from pain and disbelief. On your hands and knees, you inch down the steps, your internal equilibrium in riotous disharmony as you struggle to wrap your mind around crawling on the ceiling without a harness and some serious drugs. You're about to hit where the ceiling meets the wall when you reach for the next step with your hand - and feel nothing but air as the rest of your body detaches and plummets another five feet before landing halfway down the wall, in the middle of another set of stairs. You groan, spitting blood from a newly-split lip, and take only enough time to make sure you haven't lost anything before continuing down.
Below (above? you're having trouble orienting yourself) comes the clash of fists and metal. There's a whine by your ear, and your cheekbone stings with the lick of a razored playing-card that opens a thin line of red on your face. You curse, doing your best to roll out of the way, but instead tumble clear off the staircase and free-fall until you land somewhere flat with force that knocks the wind clear out of your lungs. Half-expecting to be somewhere else entirely, you crack open an eye and sigh as you find yourself on the real floor this time.
A vase shatters to your right. Someone goes down yelling, and you don't take time to have a more thorough look around - the door that leads out of the house is enticingly close, and you're too tired to take a glance outside and figure out where you need to go. Instead, you shove at the doors until they open and take one long stride outside...
... into open air.
Not again, you think as you start to fall, but this time there's no botched gravity to come help you. The world flips up and around and back again and you lash out desperately, the only sound in your ears the howling of the wind and your own manic heartbeat - you clamp around something that shreds your palm and sends blood flying into your eyes, but you slow yourself down until you're left dangling in an unfriendly sky, looking out across a garden filled with... roses?
Upon closer inspection, you've grabbed onto a vine. They wind their way up over the house like a lattice of razor-wire, stretching from the ground fifteen feet below and up over what appears to be skinny avian legs that keep the house aloft. You blink once, slowly, wondering if that last binge-drinking session before you left for the arena was the last straw.
Climbing down is slow and treacherous and a few times you wish you'd just died in the Bloodbath. The legs wobble back and forth and make it difficult to descend, trying to shake off the roses and their tether, and by the time your feet touch solid ground, the gouges in your hands weep dark red rivulets down over your wrists and drip off your elbows.
(You remember something like this, blood that wasn't your own over and under and through, spurting through your fingers and getting coppery-hot in your mouth like-- no. No, you took her ghost with you, you shouldn't have to remember.)
It's still quiet here. A few others who have lost their teammates loiter like ghosts and you make sure to slip past them, cradling your shredded hands close to your chest and leaving a trail behind you in your wake - a droplet or two falls on the petals and stains them darker than the paint that had been applied. You need to find a quiet place to deal with this, but glancing around reveals very little cover, save for the towering bushy mutts that litter the landscape.
Hm.
Nestling yourself in the branches is no easy task. They get caught in your hair and you aren't exactly outfitted for camouflage - the mauve sweater clashes poorly with the green, and your pantyhose aren't going to last long against thorns. Still, you settle yourself the best you can, bracing your feet on the branches and tearing apart the dressing gown with your knife so you can wrap it around your weeping palms and stem the sting as little as you're able. It's not much consolation, but at least you can still hold your weapon.
You're about to pop a butterscotch candy in your mouth and settle down for a nap when there's a deafening crunch from above you, followed by the crashing of breaking branches and finally, something heavy being deposited in your lap. You screech, barely being able to steady yourself without being knocked out of the topiary, but through sheer force of will and the determination not to fall again today (you've done enough of that), you keep the both of you in the foliage.
Knife already in hand, you go to blindly stick the thing in your lap before realizing you recognize that shock of black hair. You blink, your arm drooping ever so slightly.
"Anise?"
don't let them hear the waves inside your chest.
this is no place for weakness.
Holy fuck.
It's about the only coherent thing you can sum up right now. There's a throbbing behind one eye that won't go away and your foot has swollen up to the point where it's difficult for it to fit into your (garishly pink) boat shoes, but you forget that all momentarily as you glance around at the mess of halls and ceilings and stairs. Other tributes around you are having the same reaction, their eyes cautious and wild as they take in their new arena. You aren't exactly sure where you've fallen into, but you know enough not to stick around when a lot of you have new weapons and itch to use them.
They know you're alone, whispers Q. Her hair falls loose over one of your shoulders, her breath cold in your ear. They'll come for you. Your heart thuds in your chest; a million needles prick the marrow under your sternum, pushing, desperate to get out. You take a deep breath but it just makes it worse, turns the itch into a hurt. No matter how you try to tell yourself your body is a liar, your skin prickles from the eyes you aren't sure exist against the length of your back. Those who have gathered their bearings murmur between one another - the shuffle of their feet against tile is a soft whisper of fabric. Some of them leave blood-smears in their wake.
Don't listen to her, hisses your brother. Now's the perfect time for revenge. Your eyes travel to the boy who killed Eden, his jaw oddly skewed and swollen on his face. Your hand throbs in equal time to his heartbeat, and you wonder if it would stop hurting once he dies. Maybe you barely knew her, but that's better than not knowing anyone at all. Now you're all alone again... and it's all his fault. You grit your teeth and buckle a little under the weight of yet another soul added to those you have to carry.
Maybe a year ago, you would've gone for him. Thrown yourself with little care to if you lived or died, if only for the satisfaction of watching his head bloom into a beautiful red flower just like Eden's. But there's a feeling in you that you can't shake - they aren't all dead. It's impossible to rationalize it, but... a mutt rolls past and nearly runs over your foot, and in the minute time where you can peer into its shell, you see a familiar pair of eyes looking back. They vanish before you can fully understand it, but that feeling in you just grows stronger.
Instead of turning back to sink your knife into his face, you take a deep breath and step off the mezzanine.
Your foot never touches the stair. Instead, you go careening upwards and land with a solid whump on the ceiling. It's an awfully long way down and your fingers scrabble for any sort of purchase that could stop you from falling to an unpleasant death, but your body stays firmly where it is. You swallow, working up enough courage to glance down, watching as another tribute goes flying onto the far wall below you.
"They really outdid themselves this time," you grunt, half-delirious from pain and disbelief. On your hands and knees, you inch down the steps, your internal equilibrium in riotous disharmony as you struggle to wrap your mind around crawling on the ceiling without a harness and some serious drugs. You're about to hit where the ceiling meets the wall when you reach for the next step with your hand - and feel nothing but air as the rest of your body detaches and plummets another five feet before landing halfway down the wall, in the middle of another set of stairs. You groan, spitting blood from a newly-split lip, and take only enough time to make sure you haven't lost anything before continuing down.
Below (above? you're having trouble orienting yourself) comes the clash of fists and metal. There's a whine by your ear, and your cheekbone stings with the lick of a razored playing-card that opens a thin line of red on your face. You curse, doing your best to roll out of the way, but instead tumble clear off the staircase and free-fall until you land somewhere flat with force that knocks the wind clear out of your lungs. Half-expecting to be somewhere else entirely, you crack open an eye and sigh as you find yourself on the real floor this time.
A vase shatters to your right. Someone goes down yelling, and you don't take time to have a more thorough look around - the door that leads out of the house is enticingly close, and you're too tired to take a glance outside and figure out where you need to go. Instead, you shove at the doors until they open and take one long stride outside...
... into open air.
Not again, you think as you start to fall, but this time there's no botched gravity to come help you. The world flips up and around and back again and you lash out desperately, the only sound in your ears the howling of the wind and your own manic heartbeat - you clamp around something that shreds your palm and sends blood flying into your eyes, but you slow yourself down until you're left dangling in an unfriendly sky, looking out across a garden filled with... roses?
Upon closer inspection, you've grabbed onto a vine. They wind their way up over the house like a lattice of razor-wire, stretching from the ground fifteen feet below and up over what appears to be skinny avian legs that keep the house aloft. You blink once, slowly, wondering if that last binge-drinking session before you left for the arena was the last straw.
Climbing down is slow and treacherous and a few times you wish you'd just died in the Bloodbath. The legs wobble back and forth and make it difficult to descend, trying to shake off the roses and their tether, and by the time your feet touch solid ground, the gouges in your hands weep dark red rivulets down over your wrists and drip off your elbows.
(You remember something like this, blood that wasn't your own over and under and through, spurting through your fingers and getting coppery-hot in your mouth like-- no. No, you took her ghost with you, you shouldn't have to remember.)
It's still quiet here. A few others who have lost their teammates loiter like ghosts and you make sure to slip past them, cradling your shredded hands close to your chest and leaving a trail behind you in your wake - a droplet or two falls on the petals and stains them darker than the paint that had been applied. You need to find a quiet place to deal with this, but glancing around reveals very little cover, save for the towering bushy mutts that litter the landscape.
Hm.
Nestling yourself in the branches is no easy task. They get caught in your hair and you aren't exactly outfitted for camouflage - the mauve sweater clashes poorly with the green, and your pantyhose aren't going to last long against thorns. Still, you settle yourself the best you can, bracing your feet on the branches and tearing apart the dressing gown with your knife so you can wrap it around your weeping palms and stem the sting as little as you're able. It's not much consolation, but at least you can still hold your weapon.
You're about to pop a butterscotch candy in your mouth and settle down for a nap when there's a deafening crunch from above you, followed by the crashing of breaking branches and finally, something heavy being deposited in your lap. You screech, barely being able to steady yourself without being knocked out of the topiary, but through sheer force of will and the determination not to fall again today (you've done enough of that), you keep the both of you in the foliage.
Knife already in hand, you go to blindly stick the thing in your lap before realizing you recognize that shock of black hair. You blink, your arm drooping ever so slightly.
"Anise?"
