we, the anarchists { The Red Scare Day 1 }
Feb 23, 2021 14:40:11 GMT -5
Post by grant on Feb 23, 2021 14:40:11 GMT -5
[attr="class","promise01"]
He didn't know what it was like to truly be targeted by others. He'd been in fights, sure. To truly be singled out and challenged to the death? That was entirely new. But it thrilled him, and allowed him to take his courage in his hands and throw it through the face of so many tributes.
They gather together, his new alliance, in a desolate stadium of ashes.
There's nobody nearby, for now. Garrison's eyes are taking in each detail around them, looking for things that many others wouldn't see. Paranoid. In his daze, the wounds on his wrist and forehead weep.
“Salty, you’re a Career. Help a guy out?” He's taken out of his hunter trance, setting his eyes on Fitz with a concerned look. "You're gunna let thousands see you bleed on live TV?" He smiles after, going to help him. "Here," he says, giving him a hand. "And I hardly acted like a career, I barely got a scratch on them. You did great though, I wouldn't fuck with you."
The very air itself seems toxic. It's as though every breathe is purging his cells, like cancer. Warmth fills Garrison, not necessarily adrenaline, but the constant feeling of defence from his own blood, right down to the molecular level. He can't help but crouch down with the crowbar he snagged from the bloodbath, looking out onto the Cornucopia with a chin rested on its bend. "Where we going from here?"
They gather together, his new alliance, in a desolate stadium of ashes.
There's nobody nearby, for now. Garrison's eyes are taking in each detail around them, looking for things that many others wouldn't see. Paranoid. In his daze, the wounds on his wrist and forehead weep.
“Salty, you’re a Career. Help a guy out?” He's taken out of his hunter trance, setting his eyes on Fitz with a concerned look. "You're gunna let thousands see you bleed on live TV?" He smiles after, going to help him. "Here," he says, giving him a hand. "And I hardly acted like a career, I barely got a scratch on them. You did great though, I wouldn't fuck with you."
The very air itself seems toxic. It's as though every breathe is purging his cells, like cancer. Warmth fills Garrison, not necessarily adrenaline, but the constant feeling of defence from his own blood, right down to the molecular level. He can't help but crouch down with the crowbar he snagged from the bloodbath, looking out onto the Cornucopia with a chin rested on its bend. "Where we going from here?"
[newclass=".promise01"]width:400px; height:415px; overflow:hidden; opacity:1.0; font-size:10px; text-align:justify; padding:0px 0px 0px 0px; margin-top:-34px; -webkit-transition-duration:2s; transition-duration:2s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]
[newclass=".promise01:hover "]height:1100px; -webkit-transition-duration:1s;transition-duration:2s; -moz-transition-duration:2s; [/newclass]