It's Not A Phase [ Bloodbath: Upper District Tributes ]

Okay, so I'm no stranger to explosions. Almost entirely on accident, if we're not counting artillery, which I don't because it's not like I learned anything when my school got shelled. But still, I know enough from battery fires to know that the shit that makes your smoke colorful is, like, super bad for you.

So between the boom and the ship rolling and whatever it is that's replacing the air with purple, I don't process that Wyatt's overboard and definitely dead until after I hit the deck.

I stay low, trying to keep my eyes and lungs as clear as I can without jumping in the water to join him. The deck is slick with seawater and blood, and I crawl on my hands and knees, no particular place in mind. I only made it onto the ship, like, five seconds ago, so I have basically no idea where anyone or anything is, and it's really not my fault that I don't know where I should be going. I have the feeling that there isn't really an anywhere. Out of the way.

Only, with the cloud of thick smoke making it hard to see more than a foot in front of me and my ears still ringing from the blast — tinnitus is a cruel mistress, children, so make sure you wear adequate ear protection when you're working with power tools or growing up in a war zone — I can't really tell where anyone is by sound, either. Their petty snarking sounds like it's underwater, and for a second I flop down onto the deck entirely like I'm worried we've all been tossed overboard.

Heart racing, I catch breath and catch myself muttering "I'm not an idiom, you're an idiom" before there's another piercing screech. Something hits me in the back and I steel myself, tightening my grip on my harpoon, both bracing for the end and not at all ready to go down without a fight.

I scramble forwards and the thing I mistook for a murder weapon tumbles to the ground. It turns out to be a severed arm, because sure, why not? I don't know how to process that, so I don't. All I know is:

* I don't want to die here,

* staying too low to be spotted isn't going to last forever, and

* I still haven't developed telekinetic powers — not from the seawater or the lilac smoke.

So, considering I haven't worked out how to maneuver the comically large harpoon from my hands and knees either, I'm going to have to get up and get into it if I don't want to be a sitting duck.

I spot a boot a few feet in front of me — leading with my harpoon, I spring from my crouch and lunge at its owner.

What's the worst that could happen?

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

"Swing and a miss!"

What a prick. Arianne Blackburn didn't let any dumb boy tease her. Especially not one who looked like a lost mutt lost in a dump; the trash boy could just die. Except, she's not exactly being quite as strong as the people in One made her out to be. Hell, she's lost an arm to someone as pathetic as the first victor's sister. Annoyance is all she can feel through the burning fire of her pain; a wave of how unfair this games truly was going through her head. If only she was a little older, a little taller, a littler more prepared, and not in front of these pathetic kids who didn't deserve to be standing on a ship with her.

Arianne Blackburn was the only girl who deserved to stand before the capitol as a winner.

"Shut up, dumpster boy."

Not exactly her strongest of insults, but she's missing an arm. It'll have to do for now. Purple smoke surrounds them all; her favorite color had always been purple, but right now, she preferred to actually see. God, the Capitol really needed to start giving her some more room to win. It's like they didn't actually want her to win. Her father would pay them off. He had to, but yet she's already lost an arm and the capitol hasn't done anything for her. They've stuck her in this ugly outfit that's now torn and she's bleeding from sharks the capitol put in the water and she's now alone against these assholes who think they can look down upon her. Didn't they know who she was? The only daughter of War Hero Godfrey Blackburn. The man who saved One from the clutches of the rebels and rebuilt the parts of it no one else could.

They should really show her some respect.

Especially if she was going to die here.

"You all should show some respect! My daddy will ruin your families' lives if you continue to try to kill me!"

Instead, there's a swishing of air as trash boy goes upside down in the air. A laugh bubbles up from her chest; soft and quiet amongst the chaos of the smoke, but it serves dickhead right. Her big brothers would have beaten him up if they were here. No one messes with the Blackburn family. No one, but themselves. Everyone else suffers the same fate. Destruction by their power. Blood still drips from her wound and the lightheadedness starts sinking in. A felling of the boat rocking sending her off balance onto the balls of her feet as the trident she once was barely able to carry stays heavily planted on the ground in front of her.

Her daddy would have to buy her a new arm after this.

The price of winning a crown surely wasn't worth all of this.

Arianne Blackburn was better than the four victors somewhere in the stand. Whether they knew who she was or not, she'd make sure to prove she was above them in every way. Ever since these games came to exist, the capitol's ignored her parents more and more because of those silly victors. Not anymore. The President would look at them once more soon. Arianne Blackburn had to make sure they saw them. During her own thoughts, it's when she sees the first victor's sister get cut apart and another cannon sounds with purple smoke.

Dumpster boy was becoming a nuisance.

Just another boy who thought he was everything.

Compensating; that's what her mother would say.

"You're all beneath me! Just jump off the ship already and feed the sharks."

Pulling the trident as hard as she could, catching the weight of herself and using the momentum to try and swing the trident at someone, she can feel her heart hammering in her ears. The ringing of the cannons still there. Arianne Blackburn wouldn't die to the likes of these commoners. Her father would buy her a new arm, a new ship, a new closet, and all of Panem after this. Arianne would be a victor sitting up there looking down at the rest of the tributes to come.

One was superior.

The Blackburns were superior.

None of them deserved to be in her way.

Gross.

She hated people.

"Die! Die! Die! Die! Die!"

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

"Now," he said, trying his best to ignore the stinging sensation in his ankle- it had definitely broken skin and there was a blunt numbness and a warming sensation that could only be blood filling up the sole of his boot.

There were only two others now, one of them the errand boy Ramsey had lain claim to upon climbing onto the ship. Ramsey had eyes on him the whole time, and errand boys didn't tie ropes around his fucking feet. So that left-

"You." He accentuated his accusation by pointing his axe at her. She'd been a little shadow from the start, had an affinity for going for the throat, same as Ramsey. He tried to decide if their similarities went deeper than that, if she also went for the head because she just wanted to see how far it would roll, or if she thought it was the smartest part to aim for. It wasn't, to be clear. The back by nature was unprotected, there were countless things to stab in a mid-section, and the brain was hardwired to protect itself first and everything else second. Still, no coming back from a knife through the brain or a slit throat.

Maybe he'd chosen the wrong errand person. Mmm, bother.

"Think you're hot shit, crawlin' around like a ROACH?"

Okay, so he'd come uncaged a bit, unbridled rage slipping through the cracks and he laughed humorlessly to swallow it back down. He tutted his tongue against his teeth, hefted the axe upon his shoulder and swung his sword by his side. Taking a note from his pet sharks, he sidestepped and circled them like prey, eyes flitting between the two of them.

He was big enough to admit it: "You got me good, I'll give you that." This time the laughter was a bark and it was, at the very least, genuine: a bellyful with his chin tipped into the air to keep his hair out of his eyes.

He faked a lunge at her, "Woo!" he clamored, toying with her. Keeping the boy in his peripheral just in case he got clever. He reeked of arrogance and mockery, and lacked the empathy or reflection to feel bad for it. He had not ever, not once in his life, craved being the favorite. He did not need to be liked. He needed to be the best.

Infamy came with its prices, he supposed. And he was a lot of things, but Ramsey Robichaux wasn't fucking cheap.

"Now, sit the fuck down."

^{[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]}

The demonic screeches of "Die! Die! Die!" fall silent on the point of my comically large harpoon, and this time I know I've done it. There's the instinct to say "Oh yeah? Who's your daddy now?" — and don't get me wrong, I absolutely do — but it doesn't change the fact that I just speared a tween through the neck, killing her.

In the moment, it doesn't feel like much of anything. We can chalk it up to adrenaline. It didn't feel like much of anything watching my school get turned to pebbles and pipes from down the street, either.

It would be a little easier, I think, if I were still just some tweenage urchin with a knife — I wouldn't be glancing between the two bodies dyeing the deck red, wondering if remorse is going to come for me or if it's bad that it doesn't. I'd stab anyone who threatened me and wouldn't think twice about it. Yes, that guy who was selling ice cream beads at exorbitant prices out of a cryocooler — which I know for fact was reappropriated from the quantum datacenter not one week prior — was absolutely threatening me with heat stroke and starvation, and price gougers are enemies of the people. What I'm saying is that even if I was your average amount of remorseless when I was eleven at the time, it's never been hard for me to choose myself. I like living. I want to live. What I'm also saying is that ice cream beads are delicious.

The breeze carries the smoke away and the ship stabilizes enough — or else I've found my sea legs at last — and with no more cover, there's no point in ducking.

I don't even notice that the guy I'd snared cut himself down until he makes an effort to get my attention. "You," he menaces, pointing his axe at me like it's an equal threat to gesturing with a loaded gun.

I point at myself — Who? Me? Aw shucks, I'm flattered! — and maybe he's sizing me up cause I've done a bad job of keeping my numerous talents to myself, or maybe cause we're the last ones left, but there's something about him that's a little too ridiculous to be intimidating. Could be the anger management issues. Could be the way I can hear the creak of rusty gears turning in his head to produce each thought. But all in all I'm pretty sure it's the mullet.

"Think you're hot shit—" (yes.) "— crawlin' around like a ROACH?" He laughs and it's a bit unhinged; I laugh because I think people losing their composure is actually pretty funny. And also because I don't need to think I'm hot shit. I just am. It's the Paradox of Coolness: you can only be hot shit when you aren't worried about if you are hot shit or not. That's my whole deal. I'm not bothered by what people think of me. I'm not afraid to look stupid.

"You got me good, I'll give you that." I absolutely did, and I don't need it handed to me. He feints, hooting, like it's supposed to rattle me. It probably should. My ears are still ringing from the cannon booms. I jump back, a moment too late to be genuine nerves, and step to the side, my eyes still trained on him to see if I can lead him towards the mast — maybe the boom will swing around again and send him overboard this time — 

He lunges again, for real this time, and I realize that I don't have nearly enough situational awareness to try to lead anyone anywhere. In my hasty retreat, I back into the steps up to the upper deck and, okay, yes I do fall up the stairs. His axe digs into my right leg, tearing a new gash to match the one on my right.

I hiss — shit hurts — and do a backwards crabwalk scramble up the steps, kicking in his direction as I go. I don't make contact with anything, which is for the best since I lost my boots in the sea, but hopefully he catches a whiff of my athlete's foot.

On the upper deck I get a moment to take a breather. It's enough time to remember that, oh right, I have a harpoon, and maybe I should've tried to stab him in the face with it three seconds ago instead of not doing that, and it's also enough time to remember that I never actually saw the boy who's throat I cut die. He staggers forward, cutlass first, and becomes a decent distraction.

From the relative safety of the high ground, I add insult to injury: "Hey, dickhead! Quick entomology lesson: You know what roaches do? Survive." I gesture at the mainsail and all its loose ropes. "That's a pretty bold diss coming from a piñata."

After taking a second or two to chortle at my own dig, I start executing a battle maneuver that I'm calling The Upper Decker — and no, I didn't come up with the name first, although yes, it is stupid enough to match.

I plant myself on the banister, hefting my comically large harpoon with both hands like I'm getting ready for a joust, and propel myself down towards the poop deck and into the fray.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

When the third severed arm hits the deck, I lose my lunch — which, in case you'd forgotten, was just a bunch of nasty seawater, and probably some shark poop, and whatever the hell bilge is. There's no mermaid treasure, no doubloons or barnacles, no mutant fish babies secretly sapping my energy or secretly giving me super strength or anything like that. Brine and bile mix together with the blood on the deck, and being barefoot in this mess seems secondary to having open wounds in this mess, which is also not as bad as it could be, considering I've still got all of my limbs attached to my body. For now.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Sometimes, when you just got done spilling your guts cause you have the flu or you ate some highly questionable canned goods, you feel a little bit better. I just feel dizzy. The sun is so hot and bright, I've lost my fair share of blood too, I've been swimming and climbing and punching sharks in the face and crawling and jumping and overall just running around like a maniac trying not to die, and I'm sure rocketing down the banister didn't do me any favors either.

What I wouldn't give for another distraction so I could snare this axe murderer in the rigging again. There's not much between us — I definitely should've stayed on the upper deck instead of closing the distance, but I wouldn't be Crime Steven if I thought about the consequences before doing something reckless and stupid — but there is a life ring tucked off to the side of the ship, under the railing.

It can't be there on purpose — or if it is, it's got to be some sort of cruel joke, like it's actually lead or it's full of spiders or it's paper-mache and will dissolve the second it hits the water. Whatever it is, I'm not trying to preserve this asshole's life, so I can definitely use it.

It's not like I'd stand a chance against him in regular one-on-one combat. The dude literally just hacked someone's arm off immediately after losing a hand, and, sure, having one more hand than him (and only one more, since that seawater was just regular-gross instead of mutagenic-gross) is a point in my favor, but that's clearly not going to be enough with how stacked against me this match-up is to begin with. He's easily got half a foot on me, and from what I can tell his previous hobbies were something like digging up graves or smashing squirrels with a hammer or arson, whereas practically every time I've set something on fire it was an accident, and I kept busy by pulling the wings off of drones rather than dragonflies.

That isn't to say that he'd be the clear favorite to win because I'm not emotionally capable of murder — I've slit throats and I'd do it again in a heartbeat to save my own — but mostly that if I'm going to stand any kind of chance in single combat here, I need to be fighting Crime-style. Not "fighting crime" like vigilantism or like writing law enforcement policies, but, you know, fighting like Crime of the House of Steven. You know. Clever and reckless and a little bit stupid. My brand.

My other advantage here is that it really seems like he put all his skill points in strength and left none for smarts. My comically large harpoon should give me the reach to stay at arm's length, but he's proven he has the speed and agility to get around me, so that's not enough. My best bet is try to trick him or trap him again, incapacitate him, keep him far enough away from me while he bleeds out. Distracting him enough to deliver the killing blow might be enough.

So my next move is pretty clear: I hook the butt of my harpoon through the center of the life ring, and sweep it upwards and towards him, flinging it at his face. Immediately, I follow up with a decisive jab — it's do or die. Or maybe it's both.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]