The Bloodbath

He’s in love with the concept of who he can be in the Capitol, even if it was never a life that was meant for him. Dear boy, you were born to burst into flames. Dear boy, you were born to die. You trained to die. You - Berlin Batalanto - a walking corpse has days to live. Hours if Ripred seeks his soul faster than expected. A false god, you do not carry the world on your shoulders like Atlas. You are not wrought in anyone’s image. Vanity and arrogance hanging around your head like a halo.

And yet, he is in love with the Capitol - with this place and its people, as fucked up as they were. He doesn’t want to leave. Leaving meant leaving the opulence, the decadence, the delicate dance that borders on barbarism and savagery in the name of a few pieces of gold tossed your way in sponsorship. Selling your body and selling your name for a chance at infamy. He loved it all. He didn’t want to leave.

The morning of the Bloodbath, his eyes spring open, burning and blinking rapidly from the lights that were far too damn bright. Thank Ripred he wasn’t hungover. If he had been, his tombstone would no doubt read “Berlin Batalanto - District Four. Killed in the Bloodbath because his blood was 99% vodka.”

In his dreams, when he is able to grab a few precious hours of sleep after leaving the Training Center, knuckles bloody and bruised (the training center is his temple), he sees the ocean. The sun burning against the late afternoon sky - pinks, oranges, reds. The sky has yet to fall victim to ichor. The sky has yet to burn red, like blood. His dreams take him through landscapes but they always end at the ocean - stretching far past the horizon and out of his line of sight. A boy with his soul aflame wishing for water to quench his thirst in a place where to drink meant certain death. Never quenched. Never redeemed.

The days here had started to blur together for Berlin. The nights an endless parade of bodies, the days an endless march towards something. Death, obviously. But something more. Something not quite love and probably only lust with the boy from District One. It would be easy to kill him though. It would be easy to kill all of them. The lies Berlin tells himself fall into his stomach like ashes, the devil inside of him grasping around his vocal cords and leaving him short of breath.

Addicted to damage, he had destroyed his body and soul, tarnished and remade into the image of a false god. His little sister’s death - the fire - the reason why he was here remained buried deep in his soul but he knew. That was all that mattered. He knew his demons and his angels, compartmentalized and packaged and gift-wrapped for himself. Icarus, the boy who burned up, his veins filled with fire and the sacred breath of life swallowing him whole. He was willing to die for that redemption. To fly that close to the sun only to burn up. Destiny disrupted, but destiny all the same.

An alliance was forged - a death pact, if you will. The boy and girl from Seven and the boy from District Two. He could kill them all if he tried. It would be so easy. Did he desire the fate of the betrayer? The soldier of fortune? He wasn’t sure and knew that it would be a split second decision.

The walk to the tubes was silence, the halo of hesitation hanging around all of their head’s like crowns of broken glass. One wrong step and you’re killed. The melodies of their footsteps were slow and intoxicating. The uniform given to him was all black - a black trenchcoat (durable and made for all-weather), black pants, black cowboy boots, black belt, black button up, black suspenders and black hat. With a raised eyebrow, Berlin stripped before the stylist, eyeing the uniform with a bemused expression, his clothes in a heap around him. He turned in front of the mirror, not caring that his stylist and Finley’s were in the room - he was not ashamed of his body. And if he had minutes to live, well, at least he was a good looking corpse. This uniform - it was not meant for speed or dexterity, but he could perhaps dispense with the jacket if the weather permitted. Ripred knew what kind of shit the GMs pulled when it came to playing god and changing weather patterns.

“Is this some kind of butch cowboy fantasy the Gamemakers are having? Yeehaw, partner.”

His ear burned from the piercing given to him, but Berlin was no stranger to pain. (“What the fuck, man?! That fucking hurt!”)

The gun that administered the piercing loud and ringing in his ears. A look at Finley and he could see the number ‘4’ embossed on the worn golden earring. Never forget where you came from, kid. Straightening the hat on his head after the stylist had fussed with his hair for long enough, Berlin stepped up into the glass tube, the only sound his heartbeat echoing in his ears. Caine Winchester, eat your heart out. 

Ten

(You asked for this, asshole)

Nine

( You wanted this)

Eight

(You’re such a piece of shit)

Seven

(Kill them)

Six

(Kill them all or don’t bother coming home)

Five
Four
Three

(Become a weapon)

Two

One

His tube comes to stop in the desert - a wasteland with only twenty-three other souls for miles. The glass tube is gone and Berlin’s breath curls around him like smoke. His destination - a derelict sheriff's office, the only structure for miles. Faces smile back at him and he sees the faces of tributes from the years past. Ghosts, now. Ghosts haunting this ghost town. He half expected to see a tumbleweed blowing, but there was no wind.

The sun is a bright promise in the sky, a promise that burns all that it touches. A destitute wasteland with the hope of redemption for one soul. The world spins on its axis, a vicious cycle, and all assembled are idols, mortals, monsters, and gods. Berlin, he sees only himself.

The running is the easy part.

Finley’s always been good at running; she likes the feeling of wind in her hair and blood pumping furiously through her chest. She doesn’t mind the way her breath feels raspy, or the stitch she sometimes gets in her side. There’s something unequivocally pure about bursting from her plate that makes the whole process easy. Dodging tributes. Eyeing her competitors out of the corner of her eye. When Finley’s feet slam against the dirt, she feels confident and free.

As she bolts toward the, er, Cornucopia/Sheriff’s Office, she stumbles over another tribute’s feet, kicking them in the process.

”Ripred, fucking dammit, get out of my way!” she hollers, picking up an item from the dirt and dusting herself off.

Onward.