The Bloodbath

She conjures an idea because it seems to be what everyone else is doing — one girl had thrown herself at a peacekeeper and hurt herself in the process. She is sure she has just seen another person fall to the ground lifeless and though it strikes a chord in her gut, it misses her heart, and her creativity and intelligence put one and two together to make perfection.

Or, so she thought. For it would require straying away from being the baby and embodying the power she loved the taste of but never fully swallowed; the heavens were not open yet, hell wasn't either, so she would have to force them to do so. Her thumbs slip through the holes in her shirt, knife twirling between her fingers as she rises from the cross-legged position to finally have her gaze level with the other boys and girls.

And that is when she sees how many there still are — countless, there aren't enough fingers on her hands to count them all which does not look good for a girl who is pretty sure she just wants to survive. Her eyes widen a little in defeat, but she does not falter and fall. She turns slowly and walks towards a crowd, silent as anything, but the voice in her head louder than life itself. And life, at the moment in a situation like this, was pretty damn loud.

She places the knife in the waistband of her trousers and pull her shirt over it — she'd look a weak threat to anyone else, but oh my, it can be far too easy to underestimate a person's power just by looking at them. So she scouts out a target on the grass: there's the young boy but she is positive it can't be him because she did have a brother, once, and that would certainly make her feel her heart. There's one of the already bleeding, some of them must be an easier target than she already is, but something about that does not feed her power hungry ways.

She wants blood. A wound to call her own.

Because she has realised justice is an ocean away, perhaps a world because she has no idea where they are in the grand scheme of geography. She thinks she is good, still, though a little tarnished by circumstance but she wasn't throwing herself into the fire and expecting not to get hurt. She was burning already, hot with desire, scarlet with a passionate obsession. Pressure would only turn her from a fire to a blaze, so she hoped she would ignite.

Alone, she sparks. Walking rather slowly to an unsuspecting victim who she would give into, who she would let them feel their crazy. Execution was vital, for poorly done it could be fatal. She moved, certain in her creativity, and her uncertainty still sat on the ground she had walked away from. Bloodstains on his glasses: the windows to his soul already blocked by his beautiful destruction.

"Nice smile, spectacles." She says, staring at the smile on his face that is laced with a poisonous pearly mischief. "Do you bite?"

She thinks that he holds lives in his hands. She was used to holding home truths, but she liked the feel of lies.

Lies were big and heavy — something that her small self could get behind.

[ chastity attacks johannes 6m ; unarmed ]

_gwYrXN30Funarmed

[ 5188 -- Gash/Bruised Left Femur -- 4.0 damage ]

She winks, and you resist the urge to punch her in the face. Her logic makes little sense. Yes, the technician was going for the girl that is now dead. She says she does not believe in unfair fights. You want to shake your head. You’ve been fighting an unfair fight every day for the last six years. If she was a true rebel she would have understood that.

She is wrong about the dead girl as well. It is not about fairness or unfairness. It is about triage. Those who do not wish to fight are dead already, their bodies just haven’t caught up with their minds yet. Did she truly think that a girl who tried to get the fight to stop, one who refused to fight back, even as glasses chopped off her thumb was going to make it out of the arena alive?

Delusional. There are cowards here, but it is not the people willing to do what needs to be done. Nor is it the ones that refuse to face their fate. The cowards hold shields and refuse to let them leave. It is not about strength. It is about action.

Either way, if you’re going to kill me, could you hurry the fuck up and do it already?

She goes low, and sinks her knife deep into your leg. The knife comes free with a wet, sucking noise. You wince, and stare down at the wound, impassive and insulted. You chide yourself for not sidestepping it in time. Your parents subjected you to far worse in order to prepare you for potential capture. Simulated torture. Your eyes grow hard as the offensive liquid starts to run down your leg.

“If you insist.” You reply, dashing forward to remove another piece from the board.


[attacks Maryam Volk d8f]

8VfrCVlAhBknife
-- Stabbed in Back -- 9.0 damage


You wrench your knife free from her back and watch her go down. Out of habit, you check her pockets for ammunition, before remembering where you are. You hastily cut a strip from your shirt and tie it around your leg, then glance at the praying girl beyond her. She is watching.  However, she is not a threat. There will be time enough to deal with her. You rise, gripping your victims knife in your free hand. You turn over the dying girl's words in your head, then toss the blade at praying girls feet. “Fight or die,” you tell her.

It is the only advice you know how to give.  On a battlefield with no backup, the only protection a person can have is themselves.

You walk away. There is work to be done.