still feel [ hisidro vs ambrosia, day 7 ]

He wakes from a long dream. Ghosts beneath castles haunting the bodies of inmates for hundreds of years and generations of men drawn to the cells every generation, in search of something intangible alive behind his eyelids. Salt has collected at the corners of his eyes and crusted there. He lays still for a long while, letting tears trickle down his cheeks and pool inside of his ears. They are his tears after all, they belong to no one else.

He doesn't even know why he is crying but it happens sometimes. Ambrosia's learned to ignore it since he was a child. He learned pretty early on that no one was going to save him. The only person he had in the world was Cickle and for the most part, she was the only person that he'd ever learned to trust. When she'd died, he hadn't known what to do anymore. He had become twisted, confused.

Solitary.

He stands finally and stretches out in the early morning sun. To his left, stands the tattered tent. No matter how many times he walks away from it, no matter how many times he tries to burn it down, it still stands. Maybe he dreamed it, that first time. His axes rest in a criss-crossed bundle on the burned ground from where he piled them last night, playing at the idea of a heart to call home. He lifts one up and rests it against the side of the big top, watching intently as the fabric slowly smoulders and catches fire once again.

He wants to see it gone.

He steps back to stare at his handiwork and just inside the tent flaps, he sees that little girl, Leticia. She gazes at him and then backs up into the darkness of the tent. A giggle echoes. Ambrosia can't tell from where it could be hers or Cickle's or no one at all.

A small part of him realizes that he's absolutely mad, but that piece of him is so quiet that it's become hard to hear its desperate whispers.

Why hadn't anyone ever tried to help him?

The tent burns well now and Ambrosia stares into those dark flaps, wondering. He's been struck by lightning, burned and beaten, perhaps he can't die. If a tent can come back well rested every day then so can he. The heat of the tent calls to him. To be christened in a bath of hellfire seems like an interesting way to go.

He squints, eyes catching on movement inside. A waft of sunshine and honey floats out through the flames and a hand beckons.

"No," he says after a long moment of thought, "You're dead Francisco, I saw your face in the sky last night."

And that's one person he knows for certain is gone.

Ambrosia turns away from the tent flaps and gathers his stuff, the tent burning merrily now. It will be back again tomorrow but for now, it's dying and all of the ghosts inside along with it. He's not two steps away when a figure appears in the distance. He sighs, settling down for a wait. The armour that Ronan gave him before disappearing into the sunset weighs heavy on his skin. The protection feels kind of nice, safe almost.

He knows he's never going to see Ronan again.

The figure turns into a boy and Ambrosia stares at him blankly. "Were you in the arena this whole time?" he asks, actually uncertain, "Cause I swear I've never seen you before."

A certain acquired taste is required to converse with Ambrosia Sin and unfortunately, most don't stick around long enough to actually acquire it. He's excellent at rubbing others the wrong way.

"I'm Ambrosia," he says with a grin, "Been told I taste of pure sin."

Hisidro doesn't seem intent on making friends, but then again, ambrosia has never been. The sword comes for him before he registers it and it bites hard into his skin. He steps backwards, surprised for the briefest of moments. "Ouch, Hisidro, you bit me," he says.

Good thing he knows how to bite back.

He hefts one of the flaming axes and swings hard.

[ambrosia attacks hisidro with an axe]
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accuracy!
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[Severed Right Leg at Hip -- 10.0 damage + 1 strength]

The leg falls oddly. Ambrosia thought that felling a limb would be more like felling a tree branch. Instead, it's easy. Hisidro's limb falls to the ground with a soft thud, bounces once and then lays still. Blood oozes from it but there's no spray, just a pool, growing and growing. There are animals where the limb grows back after a while but from what Ambrosia knows about people, that doesn't happen. He's just killed Hisidro's leg.

He stares at the edge of the flaming axe curiously. It still drips, picking and choosing what it sets aflame and what it doesn't. Ambrosia doesn't understand it at all, how it works, why it sets some things in fire and why since the feast, the fire is useless in battle. He hefts the weapon in his hand, lets it jump and spark happily. Call him crazy, most people do, but Ambrosia swears he can feel the lightning scars in his hand connect with the handle. Maybe he's just a big, living battery.

"Try harder?" he asks curiously, "I just cut off your leg like it was a carrot stick, you psycho."

The other boy flails and blood flows faster. He's likely to bleed out faster than Ambrosia can kill him at this point. "I dunno, maybe we should take a breather," he says and sits down across from him on the ground, "You don't got a cigarette, do ya?"

The boy flails and cries, a beatle turned over on its backside. He did that once or twice as a child, flipped beatles over. Titus used to follow him around when they were really little and flip them back over.

"You can't leave him like that," Titus breathes. Air on his neck, a single touch on the shoulder to tell him that his older brother is there and then nothing. Ambrosia is a whole other person than the little boy who flipped bugs. He's a killer and has been for years. Nothing can take that away from him.

He feels a blade dig into his flesh and looks down at his lap to see the flailing boy's sword. "Well shit," he says, "Coulda just said no."

He stands shakily and dusts himself off, bleeding steadily from both legs. "That's the thing, kiddo," he says, a slight edge to his voice. He's good at working through his pain, always has been, but a human body can only take so much. "The only thing I got left to fight for is me."

[ambrosia attacks hisidro with an axe]
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[Deep Gash on Right Thigh -- 8.0 damage + 1 strength]

It's all pretty pitiful and Ambrosia does feel somewhat bad about it. The moment is surreal, caught in time and light to the touch. Blood melts into the ground, turning the earth burgundy and Ambrosia feels hot. Adreniline flicks through his brain like a librarian in a filing cabinet but it only catches sometimes.

He's tired.

When he looks down at his legs, there's far too much blood. He's losing too much, far too fast.

Metal clangs against his helmet and he looks back up, disoriented. It was as if the other boy wasn't even aiming for him, just trying to get his attention. "You gonna finish this job or what?"

"Or what?" Ambrosia echoes, "What if I don't?" He places the head of his axe on the ground and leans on it. "What'll happen if I don't? You gonna finish me then?"

He's fifteen years old and being egged on by his own victim. This was never how he planned to go out but then again, he'd never really put all that much thought into it. In the past year, he'd simply done everything, all of it, stepped into every spot of danger he could find without ever really thinking always just hoping that it would kill him.

But it never has. Some might say he's charmed but Ambrosia swears that he's cursed. How can he not think that when every single person he loved has been taken from him?

"You don't even know, huh?" he whispers.

He barely swings this time, casually dropping his axe down at his opponent, arms too weak to lift the flaming beast.

[ambrosia attacks hisidro with an axe]
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[Block -- 0.0 damage]

"Fuck," he says, somewhat annoyed, "Can you stop wiggling about, I'm trying to kill you." If he needs to, he'll possibly even throw in the word 'please'.

He's never been afraid of dying since he lost his twin sister. He always feels her calling him, sees her face everywhere he goes, begging him to join her but he knows that he will never go where she is. Heaven isn't a place meant for him and so Cickle is barred from him. Maybe even Titus is too. His brother threw himself into the games for someone else, the ultimate sacrifice.

Ambrosia has killed many before this, the only place he's suited for is somewhere bad. He's made peace with that though, he's fine with it. Each moment here is just a question of how soon he wants to get to that bad place. Each moment, everything he does here just pushes him further into the hole.

Somewhat gently for Ambrosia, he pulls Hisidro up, supporting him almost tenderly. "Sure kid," he says and brings his axe into the boy's back with a hard swing, "Just do me a favour then and die faster."

[ambrosia attacks hisidro with an axe]
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[Deep Gash on Back -- 8.5 damage + 1 Strength]

Hisidro's sword falls to the ground and Ambrosia steps on the blade and kicks it away without a second thought. This fight ended when he too the other boy's leg. The kid from district two can barely stand anymore let alone formulate words. "No no," he says, surprisingly gently as if speaking to a child, "You won't be needing that anymore." Ambrosia does feel something about it, some strange sense of playing god that after months of killing he's forgotten about but it no longer stays his hand. To leave Hisidro like this, weak and bleeding out, would be crueller than killing him.

Ambrosia isn't cruel, not really. He's never tortured anyone who didn't deserve it and most times back home he was acting in self-defence. He's just another kid in Nine's system that caught up in the overabundance of gang violence. The call for revenge had come for him just as it had for so many other children and he'd spent the last year or so of his life building renown until he was good enough to take on the person he hated most; Tate Seraphim.

If it weren't for Tate, Titus wouldn't have volunteered for a game he couldn't hope to win and they could have been a family. Tate Seraphim had taken Titus from him and then his stupid gang had taken Cickle too. Ambrosia had been alone then with a dead body and a handful of polaroids to remember his brother by. So maybe he'd gone a little bit mad.

He pulls his axe from the other boy's back and stumbles a bit, legs burning from the two hits he's taken there. Still, Ambrosia steadies himself to wrap his hand up in Hisidro's shirt and help him stand up. His movements are rough and bumbling but kind nonetheless. Despite his grungey appearance, he's a good enough kid. He doesn't believe in suffering. "My home is dead," he says, "It's been dead for years."

The both of them are covered in blood. Ambrosia pauses to catch his breath, sweat pouring down his brow. The moment is almost comical, the arena is quiet but for the two of them. For a moment it's like that, just the both of them standing there, Ambrosia supporting the other boy and then a cannon sounds, loud and tearing through the silence like an alarm.

"I can't go home, but I guess you can."

Ambrosia doesn't know what makes him able to keep going like this, what made him keep going at all after Cickle died but whatever it is has never let him stop moving forwards. He's always been tirelessly moving forward as if stopping might make him actually have to think about his sister and feel the pain that he's running from.

"I'll help you."

He places his axe slowly against the boy's neck and cuts.

[ambrosia attacks hisidro with an axe]
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[Shallow Cut on Neck -- 4.0 damage]

No one has ever called Ambrosia kind before. It makes him falter. This boy is odd, odder than him even. "I'll be kind," he says, "If she's kind to me."

But he isn't stupid and he knows that it's no longer the time to be nice if it ever was in this place. With the sound of that cannon, that left six of them alive. If Ambrosia wants to survive, he can't be kind. That's a big 'If' though. It's true, there's no one waiting for him at home. Ambrosia is truly alone.

He knows his death won't be like this, that when he dies it will be because he's struck down, hacked at over and over again by someone else. It's not the nicest way to go but it's probably the way that he deserves to. Ambrosia is not a good person despite what Hisidro seems to think of him. This fact doesn't bother him, it never has. Good people don't exist.

"Why does she deserve the best?" he asks, "She's a murderer isn't she?"

Ambrosia doesn't ask to be rude, he's simply curious. "We all deserve to burn, Hisidro," he says, gaze falling on the burning big top, "Some more than others but we all will in the end."

The tent burns merrily now, fabric crackling and popping in the intense heat. He has a strange sense of déjà vu. Maybe it really did burn to the ground the other night or maybe Ambrosia is just insane. Both answers seem likely to him.

[ambrosia attacks hisidro with an axe]
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[Shallow Cut on Stomach -- 4.0 damage]