chew, chew, chew 'cause they hope I choke[Day3 Bill V. Mutt]

He cries himself to sleep, and when he wakes and the sun’s still out he knows he has to move.

Little Bill has never watched the games much. He spent most of his time in eight outside with the flock, picking bugs and twigs from their wool and singing them off-key tunes he made up on the spot, while the screens displayed the bloodshed and the violence inside the house. Big Bill dragged his rocking chair from the porch into the living room during the week of the games, squeaking back and forth while wide-eyed watching the premiere event of the year; a shiver runs down his spine as he thinks of Big Bill watching him now.

He knows Ma isn’t.

Once his bag’s around his shoulder, he ducks under the doorway of the village hut and heads to maneuver through the bridges once more — but the monkey’s body is still there, drained of life and color, flowers and leaves from her coat beginning to wilt, and Little Bill’s lip quivers. His eye trains on her, on the dried splotches of blood around her; he turns around and walks right back into the hut.

ooo

That night he doesn’t step outside to watch the anthem in the sky. He knows whose face is there, which tribute makes the first celestial appearance of the 84th, and doesn’t have any desire to see that and start to cry again. Two days in the arena and he’s felt more than in eighteen years, and it’s exhausting in too many ways.

Instead, steam billows up from his cat-decorated teapot, the boiling water screaming for dry, bitter leaves. He sits a mug on top of a sturdy stump, places a mint berry bag inside, and pours in the water.

He hates every second of it, but he finishes the cup and pours another. It’s too hot and too minty, the fresh herb burying the flavors of the berries; he blows cool air in his mug and sips. There’s a small window carved into the walls and he looks out at the low-hanging branches and tangles of vines, at the glow of moonlight on the leaves, and he leans against the wall and lets his eyelids droop till he’s snoring.

ooo 

When he steps outside the next morning he’s met with the hefty leg of some elephantine beast pressing down on his neon boot, and he strikes out with a javelin before he has time to fully analyze its form, before he can see how long and tall and gorgeous it is, before he sees the limp remains of Rosa not far behind and realizes the gamemakers are torturing him on purpose; there are hundreds of vicious and vile muttations roaming these treetops, but for the second day in a row they’ve thrown him something fruitful and colorful, something inviting, something he’d rather bask in the sunlight with than murder.

He knows there’s only one option.






little bill attacks babysitter with javelin [8]
NCnlSNf|Wrspear
deep gash right bicep, 8

Beams of sunlight pour through the canopy. Branches overhead rustle with the wind. Heat weighs him down, heavy, stuffy air much different than what he’s used to in eight. The familiar wide-open fields and smell of damp grass after a rainstorm tickles the back of his nose, but it’s gone as soon as it’s there, replaced by the scent of hot, muggy air and thick wafts of humidity. He’s only just stepped out of his hut and he’s already sweating. Tangles of hair stick to his forehead.

He pulls back his spear, fresh blood splattering on top his dried stains from two days before, when Absalom crouched over him and held his hand and kept him comfortable. Without thinking his empty hand flies to the spots, and the warmth drains from his cheeks despite the radiance of the sunbeams; his hand closes into a fist as the muttation steps off his boot and brays.

Little Bill is all alone, and the one person who made him feel otherwise is gone.

He wonders if this long-necked fruit-bearing beast feels alone, too, wonders if it understands what’s going on or if it’s just as frightened as he is. It knocks into him and he doesn’t have time to dwell. Gripping the javelin tighter, pink and white twine tied around its shaft, he strikes.




little bill attacks babysitter with javelin [8]
uK4_gcEnKjspear
shallow cut left forearm 3.5

When he strikes the mutt, it sings.

The note is long, drawn out, and eerily melodic in its sorrow - there’s something increasingly human about the green thing, its purples and oranges blooming along its back, and Little Bill watches with a discerning eye as it careens its neck around to look back into his face. Years of pain reflect in their respective eyes, and he almost forgets where he is before its hard head swings into his knee. He stumbles back, arms swinging in time with his faltering footsteps; his javelin swings too, and he’s left wondering who he’s become as he falls flat on his ass.







little bill attacks babysitter with javelin [8]
teDMRYYin4spear
Shallow Cut on Back of Head -- 4.5 damage

For the second day in a row, he’s knocked to the ground by a capitol creation. His butt cheeks sting, and he reaches his empty hand back, rubbing them. Not ten feet away lays the monkey’s body, rotting in the heat, flies swarming her opened innards where the sun’s beams fall; he tries not to look but his eye slides over, and over again, until he turns his head fully and takes in the mess he made.

When he turns back the new enemy is in his face and instinct lures him to his feet, arm knocking its head as he rises. It looks at him expectantly. He cocks his head.

Little Bill hates whatever gamemaker sent him the thing. They knew he’d want to drop his weapon and hug it, wrap his tired arms around its miles of neck. He knows that’s just when he’d get struck, the second his guard was down and his weapon wasn’t at the ready.

It’s a trap.

It’s nothing but a trap.

He tells himself that two more times before swinging at close range.




little bill attacks babysitter with javelin [8]
ml6D0dbg9lspear
Deep Gash on Stomach -- 9.0 damage

Little Bill swears he sees the mutt’s eyes fill with emotions: sadness, regret, and discomfort, all topped with a heaping spoonful of understanding.

Back in eight, he’d had this debate with Ma time and time again, inside his head between a version of her that acknowledged him in discussion and a much more confident him: animals felt things the same way people did. He knew this beyond a shadow of a doubt, had rolled with enough lambs down the hills and buried his face in the wool of enough sheep’s bellies; she was steadfast in her dismissal, but Inner Bill fought back against that until she caved, and he’d celebrate by racing to the pins and hugging all the fuzzy bastards he could.

Now he takes Ma’s place inside, shoves his hands in Inner Bill’s mouth and pushes forward. The thing hits his hand, and for a moment he can’t help but see its beauty, the vines hanging from its back and the petals and blooms swirling with colors, the bundles of fruit hanging from its neck, ready for harvest.

He cuts them loose.




little bill attacks babysitter with javelin [8]
6RkqOPueyPspear
Shallow Cut on Right Forearm -- 3.5 damage