never bring a gun to a fistfight {fast+bi vs roadkill day 4}
Mar 13, 2021 18:41:47 GMT -5
Post by rook on Mar 13, 2021 18:41:47 GMT -5
you die
and words don't do anything
it's permanently night
and i won't feel anything
we'll all be laughing with you when you die
and words don't do anything
it's permanently night
and i won't feel anything
we'll all be laughing with you when you die
Struggle, confusion, murder. I play it in my head again and again, the visions of Turner's cold grey corpse, streaks of scarlet painting the concrete and seeping into Saylor's clothes. I look over at him now, and his uniform is the same red. He'll never scrub it all out. It's with him now until the end.
My leg shakes, a constant bouncing as I sit on a rock and stare at absolutely nothing. It's quiet in camp. His absence is so strong that you can almost physically feel the void he has left. He was upbeat, energetic, even funny at times. He didn't deserve to die.
If I was at home I'd either be drinking neat glasses of scotch until I drifted into an amber dream. That, or meandering down to The Pitt to experience the indescribable sensation of being hit so hard that you see the stars - Constellations as I'm laid out sprawling on the mat.
You could have done more.
I don't argue it. It's true. Fear took me in a chokehold and suffocated the fight in me. I was frozen, afraid, and worst of all in denial. I turned away because it was the easy thing to do. I was a coward, and now Turner is dead.
F-fuck.
My fingers run over my ears and through my hair, balling into fists and gripping so hard that my eyes start to water. I close my eyes tightly, this is all a sick dream and I'll wake up in my one bedroom apartment with my abandoned case studies and journalist notes. I'll wake up now. I have to wake up now. I tense a muscle in my head. My ears roar. I open my eyes. I've not moved. It's no good. It's real. It's still real.
"Didn't know you felt that strongly about Turner" A girl's deep tone jolts me. It's just Silk, but I'm still tense.
It's now I realise that my cheeks are wet and I'm repeatedly sniffing. I aggressively rub my nose with the back of my sleeve and shrug.
"I barely knew him, that's the worst part. I didn't know if he had a brother or a sister or parents or what. And now he's dead." I mumble, and now I'll never get to know either.
All that time I spent with him and I barely asked him two things about his life - a whole person's life, gone with the sound of a cannon, and with it all that person's memories and experiences and emotions. A finger pressing against a light-switch, and off he goes into eternal darkness. Never again existing, except in the memories of the people who knew him.
"Yeah, that's the fucked up thing about this whole situation, isn't it? Fighting kids isn't the same as fighting mutts - it's a hell of a lot scarier because they've lived these full lives that we know nothing about." Silk starts to explain, with all her years of Career training and expertise on death and human emotion.
I shake my head, staring back at my feet. Like that gives me any comfort. My leg shakes faster than before, like there's an itch I can't scratch that screams when I sit still.
"I always was taught you can't focus on that. Treat the tributes like you do the mutts - not people, just nameless, faceless obstacles on your path to victory. Course, that's a lot easier to say when you've wasted your lives away teaching others how to kill than when you're actually thrown into the mix."
Something leaps in my chest and I bite my lower lip. How can she be so blasé about something like this? Turner just died. He just fucking died and she's trying to erase any accountability or sentiment about anyone else in here, calling their potential deaths necessary for glory.
"Do you actually hear yourself? These are people you're talking about. You're trying to justify taking away another person's life!" I yell, hot with fury.
She just stares, bewildered, almost amused.
"Yes? It's either kill or be killed out here, and I'd very much rather not get killed." Silk explains in binary terms.
There's a silence between us for a few seconds, wherein she looks down at me on the rock and I scowl up at her. Then, after letting the fire burn inside of me for a few moments more I go on the offensive.
"What if it was Turner, would you have killed him?" I ask.
No response.
"What about Saylor and I? Are we nameless, faceless obstacles too? Are you gonna kill us eventually, or are you just hoping someone else will do it for you?" I stand up.
"I-" She stammers, losing composure for the first time. Silk Le Roux, the brave Lioness following in the footsteps of her family chokes on her words as a small girl from Nine maybe makes her realise for the first fucking time that there's more to this than shutting off your emotions and painting the landscape red.
"Obviously, I'd rather it not come to that. I don't think anyone wants to kill their friends or see them die. But I didn't volunteer for this - I was chosen, against my will. And I'd very much like to live." She stares coldly at me now, and I feel vulnerable.
"If I could keep all of us alive through to the end of this and beyond, then I'd pick that in a heartbeat. But I can't, because that's not how the game is played. And if it does come down to just you and me, then I will pick me every time." She finishes.
I know it isn't a threat. It's a sad promise that she made long ago. She is driven by something that I'll never understand, lost more than I'll ever know, and will go on to do things that I never could.
"I hope that it doesn't come to that. But if it does, I hope you'll pick yourself as well."
Will I? Is it better to die as Fridae Drummond than live as a murderer? Do I want to lose myself in that madness? I'd be a red stain smeared across the history books of District Nine, just like my uncle.
"You'll forgive me for not being as desensitized to this as you." I blink, and to my surprise she laughs. I look up at her. She's almost pure in the moonlight, the dark brown flecks of dried blood hot on her skin.
"Blessings and benefits of having these sorts of beliefs instilled in me since the day I could hold a weapon." Her sarcasm drips, and I smile a sad smile.
"I hope it's worth it and you find whatever peace you're looking, be that out there or in here."
---
I'm awoken by an aggressive wailing that sends me leaping from my sleeping bag and crawling away hastily from the spot where a peculiar red light hovers menacingly. It hisses at me, bobbing closer.
I swing a fist at it.
"Fuck off!"
It darts out of the way, zipping around like an insect before it fizzes back and bops me harmlessly on the head.
What the hell? I reach out and touch it, the tiny ball feels like television static on my fingertips, and I withdraw a little at the sensation. It calms down and hovers near me with less aggression. I relax too and try to touch it again, almost giggling as it's buzzing tickles my hand.
I'm wary of everything in this arena, but the formless blob seems to be harmless enough, so I let it tag along with me for the rest of the morning as I gather my things and start stock checking my rucksack.
To my surprise, several of the globs have appeared and are following both Saylor and Silk, to their distain. I smile a little as we begin to hike away from the Overpass and to wherever Silk leads us next.
I can tell she is looking for trouble. She's a Career, and now she's tasted the sting of battle she'll probably be chasing more of it. The burden on her shoulders is heavy and with all cameras on her she'll be wanting to give District One something to cheer about.
It isn't long before we happen upon another group down in the glass recycling plant, another group of three wandering around and digging for supplies. I sigh as we approach a ridge and watch them cautiously, debating whether to strike. They have spears, swords, and guns like the last group, one wielding a huge shotgun. It will be another high stakes fight to the death, and I half expect to die here today, but I'm numb, and I'm tired, and I'm all out of options.
I unzip my rucksack and take out the knuckle dusters, once brass now tainted crimson. My hands are shaky, rippled with dark red, almost black scar tissue and dried blood, split open wounds and purple bruises. Slipping them over my knuckles hurts so much that I wince. Fighting with them will hurt more.
I hop the barricade and sprint over to the biggest guy, spinning him round and aiming for his jaw.
My leg shakes, a constant bouncing as I sit on a rock and stare at absolutely nothing. It's quiet in camp. His absence is so strong that you can almost physically feel the void he has left. He was upbeat, energetic, even funny at times. He didn't deserve to die.
If I was at home I'd either be drinking neat glasses of scotch until I drifted into an amber dream. That, or meandering down to The Pitt to experience the indescribable sensation of being hit so hard that you see the stars - Constellations as I'm laid out sprawling on the mat.
You could have done more.
I don't argue it. It's true. Fear took me in a chokehold and suffocated the fight in me. I was frozen, afraid, and worst of all in denial. I turned away because it was the easy thing to do. I was a coward, and now Turner is dead.
F-fuck.
My fingers run over my ears and through my hair, balling into fists and gripping so hard that my eyes start to water. I close my eyes tightly, this is all a sick dream and I'll wake up in my one bedroom apartment with my abandoned case studies and journalist notes. I'll wake up now. I have to wake up now. I tense a muscle in my head. My ears roar. I open my eyes. I've not moved. It's no good. It's real. It's still real.
"Didn't know you felt that strongly about Turner" A girl's deep tone jolts me. It's just Silk, but I'm still tense.
It's now I realise that my cheeks are wet and I'm repeatedly sniffing. I aggressively rub my nose with the back of my sleeve and shrug.
"I barely knew him, that's the worst part. I didn't know if he had a brother or a sister or parents or what. And now he's dead." I mumble, and now I'll never get to know either.
All that time I spent with him and I barely asked him two things about his life - a whole person's life, gone with the sound of a cannon, and with it all that person's memories and experiences and emotions. A finger pressing against a light-switch, and off he goes into eternal darkness. Never again existing, except in the memories of the people who knew him.
"Yeah, that's the fucked up thing about this whole situation, isn't it? Fighting kids isn't the same as fighting mutts - it's a hell of a lot scarier because they've lived these full lives that we know nothing about." Silk starts to explain, with all her years of Career training and expertise on death and human emotion.
I shake my head, staring back at my feet. Like that gives me any comfort. My leg shakes faster than before, like there's an itch I can't scratch that screams when I sit still.
"I always was taught you can't focus on that. Treat the tributes like you do the mutts - not people, just nameless, faceless obstacles on your path to victory. Course, that's a lot easier to say when you've wasted your lives away teaching others how to kill than when you're actually thrown into the mix."
Something leaps in my chest and I bite my lower lip. How can she be so blasé about something like this? Turner just died. He just fucking died and she's trying to erase any accountability or sentiment about anyone else in here, calling their potential deaths necessary for glory.
"Do you actually hear yourself? These are people you're talking about. You're trying to justify taking away another person's life!" I yell, hot with fury.
She just stares, bewildered, almost amused.
"Yes? It's either kill or be killed out here, and I'd very much rather not get killed." Silk explains in binary terms.
There's a silence between us for a few seconds, wherein she looks down at me on the rock and I scowl up at her. Then, after letting the fire burn inside of me for a few moments more I go on the offensive.
"What if it was Turner, would you have killed him?" I ask.
No response.
"What about Saylor and I? Are we nameless, faceless obstacles too? Are you gonna kill us eventually, or are you just hoping someone else will do it for you?" I stand up.
"I-" She stammers, losing composure for the first time. Silk Le Roux, the brave Lioness following in the footsteps of her family chokes on her words as a small girl from Nine maybe makes her realise for the first fucking time that there's more to this than shutting off your emotions and painting the landscape red.
"Obviously, I'd rather it not come to that. I don't think anyone wants to kill their friends or see them die. But I didn't volunteer for this - I was chosen, against my will. And I'd very much like to live." She stares coldly at me now, and I feel vulnerable.
"If I could keep all of us alive through to the end of this and beyond, then I'd pick that in a heartbeat. But I can't, because that's not how the game is played. And if it does come down to just you and me, then I will pick me every time." She finishes.
I know it isn't a threat. It's a sad promise that she made long ago. She is driven by something that I'll never understand, lost more than I'll ever know, and will go on to do things that I never could.
"I hope that it doesn't come to that. But if it does, I hope you'll pick yourself as well."
Will I? Is it better to die as Fridae Drummond than live as a murderer? Do I want to lose myself in that madness? I'd be a red stain smeared across the history books of District Nine, just like my uncle.
"You'll forgive me for not being as desensitized to this as you." I blink, and to my surprise she laughs. I look up at her. She's almost pure in the moonlight, the dark brown flecks of dried blood hot on her skin.
"Blessings and benefits of having these sorts of beliefs instilled in me since the day I could hold a weapon." Her sarcasm drips, and I smile a sad smile.
"I hope it's worth it and you find whatever peace you're looking, be that out there or in here."
---
I'm awoken by an aggressive wailing that sends me leaping from my sleeping bag and crawling away hastily from the spot where a peculiar red light hovers menacingly. It hisses at me, bobbing closer.
I swing a fist at it.
"Fuck off!"
It darts out of the way, zipping around like an insect before it fizzes back and bops me harmlessly on the head.
What the hell? I reach out and touch it, the tiny ball feels like television static on my fingertips, and I withdraw a little at the sensation. It calms down and hovers near me with less aggression. I relax too and try to touch it again, almost giggling as it's buzzing tickles my hand.
I'm wary of everything in this arena, but the formless blob seems to be harmless enough, so I let it tag along with me for the rest of the morning as I gather my things and start stock checking my rucksack.
To my surprise, several of the globs have appeared and are following both Saylor and Silk, to their distain. I smile a little as we begin to hike away from the Overpass and to wherever Silk leads us next.
I can tell she is looking for trouble. She's a Career, and now she's tasted the sting of battle she'll probably be chasing more of it. The burden on her shoulders is heavy and with all cameras on her she'll be wanting to give District One something to cheer about.
It isn't long before we happen upon another group down in the glass recycling plant, another group of three wandering around and digging for supplies. I sigh as we approach a ridge and watch them cautiously, debating whether to strike. They have spears, swords, and guns like the last group, one wielding a huge shotgun. It will be another high stakes fight to the death, and I half expect to die here today, but I'm numb, and I'm tired, and I'm all out of options.
I unzip my rucksack and take out the knuckle dusters, once brass now tainted crimson. My hands are shaky, rippled with dark red, almost black scar tissue and dried blood, split open wounds and purple bruises. Slipping them over my knuckles hurts so much that I wince. Fighting with them will hurt more.
I hop the barricade and sprint over to the biggest guy, spinning him round and aiming for his jaw.
[Fridae Drummond attacks Revan Antilles with brass knuckles]
121_XmZ1Ddunarmed
[Bruised Head -- 3.5 damage + 3.0 brass knuckles]
go fuck yourself
i'm mean, not nice
you said it twice
you said it twice
don't you have somewhere to be at seven thirty?
i'm mean, not nice
you said it twice
you said it twice
don't you have somewhere to be at seven thirty?
unarmed
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