Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Sheep Led to Slaughter, Chapter #37: A Gaze Through the Trees, which will be Day 6, and we're down to the final eight tributes (Valencia, Peri, Linden, Milor, Carrion, Colt, Caiden, and Annabellina), and last arena chapter, at 35, we sadly lost our dear Persephone, a tribute I actually cried for writing her death sequence, burnt up to a crisp by our resident District 5 schizophrenic... and our final eight will turn into one, and any of them can become victor, they all contain inside somewhere the ability to become victor material... and it all depends on ya'll, my faithful and fellow readers and submitters. These arena chapters are gonna be a bit shorter, somewhere in the 8k-9k range, versus spiraling higher into the double digits like I've done before, as alas, we're losing people. Enjoy Chapter #37: A Gaze Through the Trees.
Milor Drusus: District 2 Male P.O.V (18)
The smell remains inside his skull. It is what lingers after the smoke has cleared, after the screams have dissipated from his head, and as the sight of his district partner, his faded flower, burns alive before his very eyes. He screams likewise, as Valencia is telling them to move, as he's unsure what exactly is causing Persephone to combust, as if her skin is paper mache. Does a dragon exist in the park now? Is that the Gamemakers plan, at the top nine? Top eight... and that thought sends a chill through his body. When his body seems to want to shutdown, Milor has to yell at himself to continue. Carrion is gimping a bit behind with his limp, but since he - Milor - is the one least battle-hardened, and still the most able mentally to wield his weapon, Valencia makes the District 4 Career bobble along on her shoulder.
They collapse somewhere in the arena, unknown, and Valencia doesn't know where the map is. She must've dropped it in their haste, but they've been running around with their heads cut off like chickens for the last hour, so it doesn't matter even if she tried to go back for it. Milor does eventually slam his knees down onto the concrete, digging his head into his chest and unleashing a scream. He thinks Valencia is crying in the corner, and Carrion tries unsuccessfully to smash a spear over his leg, instead injuring him even further. That snaps Milor out of whatever funk he is - the one that deals with seeing his best friend consumed in a death-bringing, amber liquid. That kind of funk. - and he rushes over to his boyfriend, screaming obscenities and insults.
It is late, now, around two or three in the morning, if the arena clock is to be believed, and here Milor Drusus is screaming at Carrion at the top of his lungs. You stupid idiot! Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you injure yourself? Milor is a pissed off ball of emotions, where he grabs the other male Career by the shoulders and shakes him. It is the horrific look in Carrion's eyes, the one of wild and reckless abandon, that makes Milor pause, that makes him come to a stop. He steps back, trembling, shaking his head. He buries his head into his sternum, hot tears leaking from his eyes, streaming down his cheeks in crystalline rivers. Carrion stumbles down to one knee, the leg already wounded in his fight with Marcus now damaged further from trying to break the spear over his leg. Valencia, who is starting to wipe at her eyes, unleashes a light shriek, as in the pallor corpse light of the moon, Carrion's bandages can be seen starting to darken even worse than before.
A whirlwind of who knows what goes through Milor's head as Carrion sways back, falling onto the concrete with a light groan, eyes glassy, gaze dazed and confused. The seeping feel of anger washes away like granules of sand at the beach; he rushes forward, grabbing onto his boyfriend's hand. You stupid idiot... you stupid, stupid idiot. However, the tone is much more gentle, while Valencia tears off her jacket, applying as much pressure without making Carrion scream as she can to his leg, the navy leather turning into a more bleak crimson-like tone. Milor holds Carrion's head up, wanting to keep the blood flow as balanced as possible, and luckily the Career from District 4 shows no further signs of passing out, or smiling with blood-stained teeth.
Now, hours later, with Carrion in stable condition - or rather, as stable as he can be, having almost re-opened the wound entirely due to his antics - Milor rubs the dredges of sleep away as best he can. Valencia stays up, on guard always, sword in hand, eyes scanning the vicinity outwards like a leopard stalking the savannah for a fresh doe. He goes into the dream world muttering Annabellina's name on his lips. No one else in the arena had the sort of crazed laughter that she has.
His Persephone... gone. Snuffed out like a cigarette, like the ones his father would jam into his elbow when he would make loving eyes at another guy for a second far too long. His mother, who simply looks the other way, turning the other cheek, as it is the men in District 2 that are respected, that are militant, that are the ones to be feared. Not his Persephone, not his Seph. Her gemstone eyes that glitter like fresh amethysts simply look at his father as if he is another person in her way to glory, and she steps over whatever games he wishes to play. And now she's dead, his father still alive, his father not trapped in a death arena to kill friends and now... loved ones.
Her screams still hang on the air, flesh swallowed whole by a dragon's scorching bite, and at the head of the beast, holding the trigger, the devil themselves, with a wicked grin. Milor, when he awakes, goes over to his sword, picking up the hilt. This very same blade, with the blood stains of Marissa still hinted at somewhere in the woven steel design no longer feels foreign. He knows that he had been prepared to kill, but as he had told Persephone in what seems like ages ago, that girl from Nine had been his first true kill, his first 'innocent' one. It felt odd, it felt alien... it felt unnatural.
Not this.
Carrion slowly becomes sentient again, his eyes opening, and Milor's heart is hit by a wave of relief. Waking up everyday, if it is somehow possible, with him, with Carrion... it'd be the one wish he would ask for if given the chance. Valencia has taken a short nap, only for an hour, and it is no longer the early hours of the afternoon anymore for them. It is the earliest they've ever awoken, Milor checking the arena time. It is 9:30, and that means business.
"I'm tired..." Carrion complains, as Valencia and Milor go sit by him for courtesy purposes.
"Get used to it," Valencia says smugly, trying to keep the morale up. It is fresh on their minds, what has just happened, and Milor will remember it until his last breath, as his district partner turns into smoke, ash, and blood. Fire and blood... fire and blood. "We, when we were larger," she grimaces as she says this, and their names flicker through Milor's head quickly. Victoria. Maisey. Hero. Marcus. Persephone. Five gone... three remaining, in a Career pack that had been so large. "Would always leave around midday," she shakes her head. "Not anymore. We've been starting our hunts too late in the day, when everyone else has had their own adventures. We've been on the defense, especially after being blindsided by Marcus."
"We've been lousy Careers," Milor admits, nodding his head. That is painful for him to admit, as Milor has always seen himself as being the cream of the crop, as being one of the best of the best in technical terms, and now his track record has been pretty terrible, especially since he doesn't even have the highest kill count of the Games... that went to Marcus, as shitty as that is, it's the truth.
"Three versus five out there."
"Perhaps they've all joined against us," Carrion says dryly, flashing a smile.
That sends a feeling of irritability through Milor, he frowning and crossing his arms over his chest. He's known Carrion to be, well, dry, but not to the point of negativity. He's the one laughing and cracking jokes, teasing and making fun of others, and then destroying the competition in the playful sparring matches. Carrion Bastion is not this shell of whatever Milor is staring at right now.
"It'd be three versus four if that's the case," Valencia acknowledges the possibility, rubbing her chin. "We know Annabellina acts alone. The others wouldn't be able to trust her, not with a broken and damaged mind."
"Who are our competition?"
Milor runs them through his head.
Nothing spectacular, when three-fifths of them really do not seem to have anything comparable in terms of fighting skills. Annabellina is different, having a flamethrower changes the game entirely, but if caught off guard like poor Persephone, she'll be mincemeat.
"Caiden, from District 11," he says.
"Sneaky, but not a fighter," Valencia comments.
"Colt, from District 12," Carrion adds.
"If Colt's a threat, then I'm straight," Milor chuckles to himself. He's seen how the gentle giant has held himself in the training center, stumbling over his own two feet as if he forgot how to walk, which is humorous in of itself. It may be one of the meanest things he's ever said out loud, but it's the truth, and Milor Drusus does not stumble away from the truth. He faces it head on.
Then what about your love interest? What about your boyfriend? The old president let Katniss and Peeta live. Look what it did to the country, what it did for those from your district? How many innocent lives died twenty-five years ago because two tributes were allowed to live? Would Calhoun Rodney grant you and Carrion the same amnesty? Milor blanches at the thought, looking away and disengaging from the conversation.
Where did that voice come from?
"Peri and Linden, from District 7," Valencia adds another two to the opposition list.
"I'm the most worried about them," Carrion says. "Even moreso now because I'm injured..."
"Why's that?" Milor looks at his boyfriend.
"They're actually pretty lethal. Marcus had said something about how Peri was all of a sudden super strong, and we know Linden isn't a slouch either. They were inseparable during training, and I'm sure they're still in an alliance in here. With me on my A-game, it wouldn't be a problem; we'd outnumber them. Now?" the Career winces to himself. "I am honestly not liking the chances."
"Colt, Caiden, Peri, and Linden," Valencia counts. "Leaving us with Annabellina."
Their corner of the arena darkens slightly, and Milor closes his eyes, trying to steady himself, overcome by rage. A burning rage that builds low in his gut, before igniting, erupting, and exploding all in one crevice in the deepest cave inside his soul. Annabellina Circuit, the bitch from District 5, the same person who roasted his district partner alive, ripped to shreds his best friend and laughed as she did it.
"Annabellina's mine," Milor hisses, tightening his grip on the sword. "She killed my district partner. She killed my best friend. She killed Persephone," and he looks at Valencia, he looks at Carrion, both of them slightly wide-eyed, mouths dropped open, as Milor is pretty sure he's never sounded this lethal. "She doesn't deserve mercy."
He turns away from them with a hiss, his wrist starting to hurt from how hard he clenches onto the sword.
If the arena thinks Milor Drusus is entirely innocent, think again.
If the arena and the Capitol and the districts think they've only seen a taste of his power, think again.
Milor Drusus is done being Mr. Nice Guy.
Time to become the man his father wanted him to be.
Colt Sheppard: District 12 Male P.O.V (18)
He's been saying one name to himself for the last two days over and over again, saying it so many times now that when he closes his eyes and goes to sleep, all he can hear is his voice repeating the name of Caiden Grove in his head, on a record, on repeat, a constant running that never seems to stop. His voice seems to multiply, growing in strength, growing in magnitude as more and more people add their own tone to the choir, until it is the entire nation chanting for the death of Caiden Grove of District 11, the real reason his entire alliance has fallen, the real reason everything he has ever tried to do, from the first day to now, has failed.
Colt lies awake, staring at the trees, listening to the leaves being blown in the wind, listening to the chipmunks that eat on acorns, or the squirrels running up and down the tree trunks. Butterflies play together in the wind, flowers bloom and grow, and the arena bleeds around him, tributes falling to flamethrower fire or having their own throats ripped out by derelict poisons. All the while, as this goes on, Colt stews in himself. Colt sits and passes the wooden stick back and forth. It is sharper now, after having moved Alexandra's body for the hovercraft to pick up her body. He kisses her on the cheek, Alexandra's skin cold and blue to the touch. Whatever she had eaten, whatever it had corrupted... it does more than simply erode her throat.
The beautiful sunflower that Colt allies himself with, for only four days, is a corpse of pale flesh, dipped in a pool of moonlight, with sagging skin and fingers that bloat at the knuckle. Her singsong voice is abandoned to the wind, now only heard by the soil that bequeaths the ground, and his tears, from where they land, bloom their own grotesque formation, thorned roses with black tips, sorrow and pain radiating from the creation. Colt's throat is raw from screaming. It is not just for Alexandra, but for Gaia, and for Marissa, and for Rochelle, and even for his enemies, even for those he did not feel sympathy for long ago, even for the tributes that had been in his way.
It is a scream for the repressed in District 12, back home, watching their hero collapse at the joints until he is a Marionette doll hanging limply on his strings, a puppet who is dangling by a thread, lax in his swaying, face expressionless, until his maker finally gives way entirely, completely, dropping into a pool of acid. The first moment Colt gets, as far away from the cameras as he possibly can, vomit spews from his throat, the couple of breakfasts he's shared with his allies painting the sidewalk in sickly greens, and sour, almost tainted oranges, the smell like that of rotten fruit, which makes Colt gag and nearly puke more. It must be what the people in the Capitol wish to see, they must wish to see this strong form brought down so hard, brought to his knees and beheaded in front of gods and men.
Caiden's voice has been uttered from his lips so many times that Colt almost believes it to be his own name, simply distancing himself from the truth. At this point, it might be for the best, if he faces the facts. After all, it is Caiden Grove that has two kills under his belt, and Colt is incapable of even getting one no matter how hard he pushes himself. It is Caiden that destroys the alliance, removing the last piece of his sanity, as he watches his sand castle crumple underneath his hands, the granules glittering one last time before being swallowed up by the sea. It is Caiden that somehow is intelligent enough to create poison, let alone use it, and from what Alexandra has hinted at, this is not the first time.
What does Colt have to show for himself? What would his mother be saying right now, to their friends? What would Grandmother Sheppard think to herself before turning off her bedside light? Do they want a disappointment in the Sheppard family anymore? Has he always been a disappointment? Colt's heart sinks into his stomach at the thought. That must be it. He must have always been such a failure, given everyone's looks of pity and sympathy that are thrown his way. He lost his father years and years ago to a sickness called the flu, that had taken his father in the heat of a midsummer day, and there were grievers that had come close, but that had been temporary.
It is the look of disappointment that has followed him from the moment he could remember picking up something heavy and dropping it, as it had been too heavy for him. Chips of pottery go everywhere, from the broken vase, and his mother spanks him that night as punishment, before watching as tributes are disemboweled for the Hunger Games, and all Colt can think of, as he goes to bed that night, holding the sheets close to his chest, is that his mother will do that one day to him if he destroys something even more valuable?
Is his mother's heart more valuable than a vase?
Colt has no sheets to cling onto, here in the arena, so he rips apart a leaf instead, throwing the tattered remains onto the ground. It is what he deserves, for failing so. In his first moment to prove himself, in front of Head Gamemaker Lewlyn Davis and the president's wife Bonnie Rodney, Colt has the chance to rise to greatness, and instead, he settles for mediocrity. He settles for average, from his six. That is the middle of the road, but there are hardly enough tributes beneath him to even land at the halfway point, so Colt doesn't even achieve average.
Under performing, more likely.
He gets to his feet, having been laying down for the entire morning, simply stewing in his rage. Colt grabs the wooden spear next to him. It somehow feels heavier than the sword he had picked up earlier, if that is somehow even possible, but he doesn't want to question how that would even be the case. He bites on the inside of his lip, tearing away a bit of the flesh, copper rushing to fill the basin of his mouth, washed in a bitter liquid that he swallows down, grimacing at the taste.
Colt frowns, hefting the spear outwards some, as if he were to begin running with it to vault over an obstacle. Taking a fighting stance, as best as he can remember what one would look like, he imagines that there is someone standing in front of him, on their knees begging for mercy. Tears stream down the imaginary person's face, and they're pleading hard, but their words fall on deaf ears. He growls, lowering the spear, rushing forward, and drives the spear through the opponent's ribcage, lifting them up from the back of the spear, showering in their blood.
The tribute from District 12 shakes his head, relishing in the downpour, before the imaginary body falls to the ground, lifeless, crimson spilling out of them at a rate unlike what a human should bleed out at.
He turns again, brandishing the spear like a sword, as the tip is sharp enough now, being whittled and whittled and whittled away. Colt faces a tree this time, but instead of bark, Colt pictures a face. Caiden Grove's face. Everything Caiden Grove is, Colt Sheppard is not. Resourceful, unmerciful, challenging, frightening, and a killer. Colt isn't a killer, is he?
He may be the killer of dreams, perhaps, but he doesn't have any alcohol to start thinking deep like that; it is something he'll reserve for later.
Everything in Colt's veins screams at the hallucination of Caiden's force. Unleashing a roar of terror, Colt slices to the left, a quick cut then to the right, ripping the barked side of the tree to shreds, chips of wood flying everywhere as he continues to cut up the natural structure. The tribute is screaming, and he can hear these screams, laughing as he does it, snarling, foam spewing from his mouth. This is what the Capitol wants, right? They want to see killers come into their own, to see killers learn their true skills and then perform them on the enemies who deserve it the most.
That is what this Caiden is.
The person who deserves it the most.
Colt lets out a scream, throwing his wooden spear at the tree trunk. It embeds into the wood with a light twang, sticking out of place, before falling out of its wedge and onto the ground. The rage in his body vanishes into thin air like a puff of smoke, his chest rising and falling, blood roaring in his ears, as Colt stands in front of the tree, picturing a broken and dead Caiden Grove in front of him. This is beautiful.
Did he just do that?
Colt looks at the tree in a muted form of horror, and then down at his hands, which are in fact shaking, his fingers vibrating so much that he can see the oscillations. He likes it, Colt does, the way his soul ignites and erupts like a volcano, the way he can physically take someone else, some snapshot of someone in his life, and put them in front of him, on their knees, at his mercy... it makes his body go hot. His eyes dilate, and Colt stumbles forward, out of breath. More. He wants more... he wants more of this, more of whatever the demon on the other end of the sword has to offer, with their extended and beckoning hand.
He grabs the spear and balances it between his two hands. He may not be as adept enough at melee combat like Milor or Carrion, but he knows that against Caiden, the one he is really searching for, this'll be enough. A contest of brute strength between someone who believes is an equal, until Colt pulls the faster hand and takes the District 11 male by surprise, shoving a spear through the back of his skull, and out through one of his eyes.
As far as he can tell, with nothing indicating he wouldn't have it, Colt remembers Marissa telling everyone how Caiden kills Marina, with the knife to the back, sword to the heart, and how he brutally shows no remorse from the dead. As far as he can tell, Caiden still has the sword, and never proved himself to be a master at that, which can happen. If Caiden still has the sword, then that means it is game over if all Colt can use is the wooden spear. Nature finds a way to fight back, and fight back it will. He knows it will.
Disarm Caiden, use the sword to kill him, and Colt's genuinely smiling. He hasn't genuinely smiled since the reaping, from what he can recall.
The poisoning biologist will only taste, fleetingly, like the bitterness of a fresh apple with juices spilling down his mouth, getting caught in the hairs that rest right underneath the lips.
Colt smiles to himself again, brandishing the spear, gazing through the trees.
The emerald way will soon be stained with the blood of Colt's enemies, mark his words.
All shall fear and tremble before him.
Carrion Bastion: District 4 Male P.O.V (18)
For once, Milor's constant doting has not paid itself off in terms of being annoying, and he cannot believe - Carrion cannot, that is - that it took him six days to finally come to that conclusion. His prattling has come across as caring, and Carrion cannot believe how stupid he has been during the last six days. Trying to keep up with Valencia and Milor, as brisk as they are, in their relatively uninjured states, compared to his, is starting to become a problem. Tripping isn't an option, as it very well may drop him entirely out of commission, and Carrion is not about to do that.
"Maybe you should leave me here," he says, waving his hand in some nondescript fashion, struggling to even get to his feet, balancing on the blunt end of the spear as leverage.
"Are you crazy?" Milor makes a face, half distorted between a scowl and a smile. "We're not leaving you behind. It's become clear to us, with Annabellina running around that staying in camp won't work," he looks off to the side, a hand clenched into a fist, Milor locking his jaw. "She hunts at night, and that means we need to constantly be on the move."
"You think you'd be able to defend yourself if you were left alone?" Valencia asks, throwing her sword into a hilt that is strapped up against her back. Carrion goes to protest about how dare she presumptuously call him weak, but she raises a hand, her hair blowing in the breeze. "I didn't mean anything bad, Carrion. I'm just saying... if you're saying that you're having trouble standing and walking, leaving you behind in such a position is probably not the best, especially if you can't get to your feet and have us defend you."
Milor clamps one hand on Carrion's shoulder, leaning in and pressing his forehead up against the other Career's. Carrion inhales his boyfriend's scent, that of rosemary and idealism. "If you think there's a chance in hell I'm letting you stay anywhere in this arena by yourself, you're dead wrong," he presses a quick kiss to Carrion's temple, giving a slight smile, the returning form of Milor Drusus's gentler nature. "Come on, let's go hunt some tributes."
It has been about an hour now of this constant walking, and Carrion is exhausted, he needs a break. What he needs, realistically, but will never be given it, is a bed. A nice bed to lay in, with sheets that smell of ivory, and a velvet blanket to throw atop of him. He needs disinfectant, he needs magical healing ointment, and honestly... he needs Persephone alive.
Carrion isn't so sure he'll be entirely able to keep Milor whole and down to the ground, the way Persephone did, the way she managed to soothe and rub the stress circles out of his boyfriend's back. How she speaks to him in tongues, in a whole different language than what he can comprehend. He and Milor may share spit and lock tongues, and perhaps connect in a manner of romance, but his boyfriend, and his boyfriend's district partner... that is a love entirely otherworldly. The way Milor's voice snaps earlier in the morning, after running and running and getting nowhere... Carrion has never seen that sort of rage from anyone, perhaps not even himself.
He thinks back, just two days ago, when he slams Marcus's head down onto a jagged piece of glass, the shard going through the other tribute's head. That in itself is a brutal way to die, versus simply stabbing the traitor and having that be the end. Carrion looks over at Milor - rather, at the back of the District 2 male's head, since he's lagging behind, as Milor is conversation with Valencia - and a shiver runs through him. He remembers, two days ago, as he's being bandaged, of his fear, which may come from a place of irrationality, of what his rage and anger could do. Now, as that chill makes the hair on his arms stand on edge, a darker thought corrupts him mind.
What will happen when Milor's rage gets the best of him? What will happen when Milor unleashes the dark beast trapped behind the invisible, but very much there, iron bars? From the sound of the District 2 male's voice, Carrion believes that if Milor gets his hands on Annabellina, it'll be a fate, a death worse than being thrown onto a jagged piece of glass.
Carrion wonders, for a brief second, what is going on back home in District 4. Maisey's body must've already been cleaned out and sent back in that decrepit wooden box. He's seen one of the boxes, but not the corpse inside, years ago, starting out as a fledgling in the Career training program. The head trainer at the time does the honors of removing the lock that holds the cover in place, and the moment the cover is removed and the box's contents are exposed to the world, the man turns over and pukes, vomit spilling out onto a seventeen year-old's shoes, the smell of death ripe and filling the room.
That head trainer is later executed only a few weeks later for treason at the hands of the Head Peacekeeper on the steps of the Justice Building, every citizen in the district forced to attend the public beheading. Treason of that manner, especially in the districts, used to simply be being shot in the back of the head. Quick, painful, but over in seconds, while the beheading has the tried and guilty staring at the executioner's block, before some sharp and jagged object cuts off the appendage.
He also wonders why anyone would, especially in District 4, from a place of power, wish to rebel or cause any treasonous acts. When he looks at his hands, he sees capability, Carrion witnesses the personal strength deep inside of him that is his and only his, and there's no way anyone will ever take that away from him. A quick and sure way to die is to start performing rebellious acts against the Capitol, against the very system that lives and breathes and gives life to Panem, as without it, District 4 would be a former shell of itself, given a hand up from the creator and lifted high in front of all.
Whatever road Carrion's thoughts were leading him down silence themselves to pipsqueaks when he, Valencia, and Milor cross the threshold of their section of the arena. They are back at the obelisk, the diamond obelisk where they had camped for a few days, and this spot is where the beginning of the end started.
Valencia unsheathes her sword, but does not get into a fighting stance. Carrion hobbles up to Milor the best he can, his boyfriend giving him a quick look to the side.
"You doing alright?" Milor asks.
"Never better," Carrion hisses. He's lying, but what Milor doesn't know won't hurt him. The pain is starting to get there. He is starting to see bright blips of red on the corner of his vision, and the lifting of his feet into an actual, physical step, is starting to slow. "I'm doing alright."
Valencia looks back at the two guys, and then back at the obelisk. Carrion can read her face, he can read the confusion that is spread all over. Something is different about the area, and it in fact is not the obelisk.
"Guys, what is that thing?" and she points to it.
Sitting at the base of the obelisk, facing them, is from what Carrion surmises to be a gigantic trash can. It is taller than him by another foot or so, half the width of the base of the obelisk, which is large enough in itself. There's a button in the very center of the aluminum block, as when Valencia taps it with the hilt of her sword, it makes a dull noise that echoes rather loudly through the arena, causing Carrion to wince. It's hollow, and the metal slightly crumples at her touch.
Milor helps him hobble up to Valencia, and before their very eyes, the surface of the rusted tin can smooths itself out as if she never had even hit it.
"What do you think it is?" Milor frowns, keeping his sword down low in his hand, ready to attack if whenever possible.
"Well, I think it looks like a trash can," Carrion observes, ever the purveyor of the obvious.
"You think or you know?" Valencia rolls her eyes.
"Should we press the button?"
"When has that ever gone well for anyone who pushes anything red?" Milor takes a slight step back, grabbing at Carrion with him. The button is painted a rather luscious cardinal red, like a fresh cherry, and it makes Carrion's stomach rumble.
Valencia bites on the inside of her cheek, nodding her head. "Yeah, you're right," she takes a look behind her. "We've been walking for an hour, and we haven't found anything. Should we head back? I think every tribute is simply roving, no one's camping anymore."
"I don't think it'd hurt," Milor shrugs.
Carrion likes the sound of that, truthfully. He needs rest. He needs a bottle of vodka. He needs Milor's mouth attached to his. He goes to turn around, but trips over his feet some, stumbling to the ground. Milor manages to catch him in his fall, but it still downs him to one knee. In order to not have the sharp spear tip go through his or anyone else's eyes, he thrusts the spear backwards some in his grip. However, heard as clear as day, something behind him goes click.
Valencia freezes, looking back at the gigantic trash can. Milor helps Carrion to his feet, and when he pulls away the spear, registering the noise in his head, he turns too, his blood turning to ice.
The red button is pushed all the way in.
"Did- did you do that?" Milor's voice catches in his throat.
Carrion's throat is feeling pretty dry as well. "I- uh... I don't- I don't know."
Valencia, ever the bright and courageous commander, takes a step forward towards the can, perhaps to reverse the button push. She extends a hand out to touch it when the entire aluminum structure, as large as it is, begins to shake rapidly. She lets out a scream, Carrion and Milor both jumping back, the Career from Four stumbling once more, but this time he does not fall.
All three Careers line up together as well as they can, the trash can vibrating so fast, and so hard, that Carrion can feel the gentle tremors beneath his feet. The trash can makes a terrible, god awful grinding noise, and then awakes. Valencia lets out another whimper, and Milor a swear word that'd make grandmothers sneer, as the metallic structure has seven holes begin to appear through the mesh. Two at the sides, two underneath, one on the top, and two smaller ones near the top. Two halcyon eyes peer out of the darkness, extending from the holes on the side, arms made out of tube-lining, freshly coated in black paint as drops splatter onto the sidewalk.
The three of them back up even further, as two more elongated, tube-lined pieces extend from the bottom, acting as legs, bringing the trash can up to a few extra feet, now physically, and quite literally towering over them. Carrion trembles, trying to keep himself upright, trying to back as far away as he can to get a clear shot with his spear. Lastly, another tube extends from the top of the trash can, and rises another cube, smaller in size, as the halcyon eyes rise up to take its place.
Oh god.
Carrion just awoke a mutt.
The halcyon eyes search, and the Careers hold their breath. It snaps its gaze downward, the eyes lock up on Valencia, on Carrion, on Milor, and then the structure roars. A guttural roar, and as it roars, the trash can extends its head back, jagged, sharp lined teeth snapping into place out of pockets of their own.
Valencia doesn't even need to utter a command any more.
The Careers all run for their lives.
Annabellina Circuit: District 5 Female P.O.V (16)
She's done it again.
Annabellina Circuit has crossed off of another tribute from the list, and her kill counter has risen from 1 to 2, and she is now more Abe than Annabellina, who is rejoicing. She laughs, she laughs harder than she ever has in her life, watching as the amber liquid streams out of the flamethrower, hearing the screams of the deceased and the soon to be deceased joining her laughter on the wind. She stands there for a few minutes, after the damage has been done, after the cannon has been fired, smelling the smoke, inhaling it into her lungs, and breathing it all in.
The corpse continues to burn, the flames slowly dying away, and Annabellina watches as the fire eats away flesh, turning poor, beautiful Persephone, someone Annabellina admired, into a charred, ruinous piece of charcoal. Abe wants to celebrate, to grab a bottle of beer and chug it down, and that gives her zero solace. When she wanders off, running in pursuit after the other Careers who ran tail away from her instead of fighting head on, Annabellina begins laughing again, occasionally triggering the flamethrower and watching as the cardinal wave consumes a tree here, or a sign hanging from an awning there, and all around her, the arena burns in fire and blood.
When she stops to rest, having exhausted herself, Annabellina's skull is pounding, the adrenaline coursing in her veins, and this is what Abe had been speaking about. He does not shut up inside her head, and she's unable to go to bed, with Abe stomping around the cranial lobes, chanting, hitting his chest, and feeling his heartbeat drum underneath his chest, as she places a hand up to hers.
"This is but a taste, my dear child..." he whispers, touching the side of her face gently, fingers cold to the touch.
She shudders underneath his grip. "A taste well deserved," she tells her counterpart, her darker side grinning evilly, before waving his hand away to dismiss her.
Slumber takes to Annabellina like a baby holding a pacifier, never dropping the object out of their grip, and soon she's off to dream about amber liquid coursing from cans, the screams of the unwanted filling her nightmares, and she dreams of home, of District 5, where ash falls in every corner that is without space, and where skeletons line the streets. When the first rays of sunlight fall upon her face, Abe shouting in her ear that it is game time, Annabellina shoots up straight like a rocket, nearly resuming her laughter.
There's only eight left now, including her. The final eight. She has reached it. She's survived past five Careers, her district partner, and countless others that no doubt counted her out, that never thought insane, schizophrenic Annabellina Circuit would make it this far, and the taste of victory, the first morsels to hit her lips... they are euphoric. Even everlasting paradise does not have the same sense of sweetness.
She grabs the flamethrower, and resumes her hunting, as the early bird gets the worm. No tribute left is up at 7:30 in the morning, but she is, and Abe's rage flows through her veins. As she walks, in which Abe is too caught up in the madness to care, the dread sinks in into Annabellina's skin. She's killed someone... and she killed a Career, at that, Persephone Castor. Occasionally, she stops, pressing a hand to her forehead, her skin slick with sweat, mingling more sweat elsewhere, her heartbeat constantly playing in her head to remind herself where she is. She's in the end of the world, her world, and if she thought District 5 would be disgusted by her back when the worst thing she did is shove a knife through Lowelle's stomach and nearly out her back, burning someone alive may make that ten times worse.
Annabellina does not crumple to her knees. That is a surefire way to catch Abe's attention, and that is the last thing she needs to have on her tail right now, lest she want it to be the end of her. She wanders from one sector to the other, trying to keep her finger pressing up against the trigger of the flamethrower as light as she can, enough to make Abe believe that carnage will be unleashed without a second thought.
Halfway through her trek to who knows where, Annabellina pauses, standing stock still.
"What is it?" Abe hisses to her, crouching low.
"I don't know..." Annabellina cranes her head further. There is the sound of someone shouting, a hardy, feminine voice burdened with strength, maybe even light agony. After that, the woman's voice is followed by something most definitely inhuman, the way the timbre of the voice shakes with a strength that makes all the hair on her arms stand on edge. "Something not human..."
"Let's look. I want to destroy something. You want to destroy something. Fire and blood, Annabellina. Fire and blood..."
Annabellina tightens her grip on the handle of the flamethrower, and runs in the direction of the noise. Breaking through the vicinity, past a few buildings, and ducking underneath a few trees, she skids to a stop in the plaza that houses the obelisk. She's seen the obelisk once or twice in her walking around the arena, but she's never physically come across it. However, she does not have even a second to glance at it before her attention is taken to elsewhere, as when she turns her head slightly to the left, she lets out a gasp of surprise.
Abe, inside her head, collapses to his knees, as well.
The Careers - Milor, and Valencia, rather - are dancing around a ten foot tall metallic, sentient trash can. The mutt slashes a clawed hand out at Valencia, who races forward, ducking underneath the mutt's legs, stabbing upwards. It seems to do nothing, as the mutt simply takes a step forward, nearly crushing the Career underneath the right foot. Milor unleashes a scream, running at the mutt, sidestepping another grab, before chopping at the hand. His sword seems to only bounce off of the metal, and rather, a clanging noise reverberates around the plaza, wrenching Milor back and onto the ground.
The mutt turns, as if no damage had been done. It brings a hand into its chest, bringing out a sphere of trash, rather the size of the dresser back in Annabellina's room, and it looks for someone else not attacking it. Its gaze lines up directly with Carrion, who is hiding behind a building, trying to keep calm, trying to keep off of his bad leg. The mutt chucks the sphere of trash at Carrion, who yelps in terror, dashing as quick as he can to the right, the projectile missing him by a hair, hitting one of the walls on a different building, the wall crumbling underneath the impact of the force. Whatever bits of the brick are still standing seem to dissolve before Annabellina's eyes, eroded away by battery acid, goop splattering off in bright, puke green globules.
Milor runs over to Carrion's side, giving him his arm to hang onto. Valencia makes another run at the mutt, its gaze passing back and forth between her and the guys, all the while forgetting Annabellina over on the opposite side, now facing the mutt to its right. Her grip on the flamethrower tightens, and the canister in the backs builds up some. Valencia leaps at the monster, hitting it one of the legs, but like Milor's own slash, it simply reflects off, and instead, the sword flies out of Valencia's grip, it spiraling into the air, the hilt hitting her in the cheek. She fumbles for her weapon, now on her hands and knees.
"Weapons can't do anything to it..." Annabellina whispers, watching as the mutt turns to face Valencia, snarling its jagged teeth at her, its halcyon eyes staring into her. Milor and Carrion are screaming at their companion, begging for her to move, begging for Valencia to get up and run.
"We should kill them all," Abe comments, fire in his voice, his arms building strength.
Annabellina shakes her head. She can't watch them die. She can't. She doesn't think she can physically go through with watching anyone else die, not as she stands on the outskirts and watches, not when she can do something. "No..." she whispers again, setting her head back.
"No?" Abe repeats. He laughs, a hearty one, a choked one, one full of spittle and grimness. "No? What authority do you think you have? You belong to me, Annabellina. You will kill them all. Fire and blood!"
Inside her head, she stands, cloaked in ivory, in the white dress that her father picked out for her on reaping day. Annabellina stares down Abe, and for once, she gets a good look at him. Her counterpart, her personality that has always dominated the circles in the back of her mind where the other personalities hailed from. Anna, Lina, Belle, and Ellie never went to his corner of the world, never went there lest there be conflict.
Abe, always the source of their conflict. Always the source of her conflict. Something goes awry because of him, and he snaps, the other four cower in their own fear, until all that is left is Abe, and Abe believes he can rule them all, that he can bend anyone to his will, because violence is the answer. She stares at him, at the worst parts of her, the part that makes her father not want to talk to her after he tucks his darling into bed and kisses her on the head good night.
His face is scarred, white flesh now tainted as black as the mutt's arms, and his face is cut up, as if someone had taken a razor's edge and drew a map all over his face. His skin isn't scorched everywhere, but most places are not clean, nor are they beautiful to look at. It is the pale bits, such as tiny spot underneath the left nostril, that make his appearance more haggard, as if the rest is simply makeup. These cuts are constantly bleeding, droplets of blood spilling down cheeks and onto the imaginary linoleum floor, scorched, scorned, destroyed, and all of it villainous.
"You are mine, Annabellina. There is no more Annabellina Circuit in you any more," he snarls. "I've killed that side of you. There is only Abe!"
Annabellina takes a step forward, and Abe likewise, for he is her, and she is him, and coexistence happens in this sector of her brain. However, before Abe can even speak, she seizes him by the throat, pushing him away from her so where he cannot reach her. Annabellina's body seems to aglow in a harsh, white light, like that of an exploding star, a supernova of power, as she lifts Abe off of the ground, he kicking out pitifully with his legs, trying to hurt her. How the mighty fall, how those who are really unable to fight pale in the face of travesty.
She tightens her grip, the white glow overwhelming her body.
"I belong to no one's authority," she declares, through clenched teeth. "I am not yours, I am my own. I answer to myself, Abe!"
He dissolves in her grip into a pillar of salt, consumed by her halo of harsh light.
Something in Annabellina explodes. A freedom she's never known before, starting in the back of her head, almost like the beginning of a tumor, but it warms her entire skull, that warmth flowing through her body, and all the way down into the soles of her feet.
"I am Annabellina Circuit!" she screams, and then, she races towards the mutt.
Valencia squeezes her eyes shut, flinching inwardly, awaiting for the slash to consume her, as Annabellina runs, racing past Milor and Carrion, no doubt scaring them out of their wits. She dives in front of the Career, pressing her finger up and into the trigger of the flamethrower. A jet streams out towards the mutt, a bit of it catching on fire, and the mutt screeches in pain, stumbling back.
She turns towards Valencia, who had shielded her eyes away from the fire, and the Career looks at her as if she's seen a ghost. "Annabellina?"
"Go!" the girl from Five shouts, turning back to the mutt. "Run! Get out of here!"
She doesn't look to see if Valencia actually leaves, but she is certain that she does, taking off with Milor, running as best as they can alongside Carrion, away. Annabellina advances on the mutt, igniting another stream of fire, dousing one of the mutt's legs. It makes an inhumane howl, backing up some, slashing outwards, but weakened further by its body falling apart. The mutt stumbles back further, as Annabellina continues to advance.
Giving a quick glance at the flamethrower gauge to her left, Annabellina's heart falls. There isn't much left in the canister, and perhaps there hadn't even been that much in the flamethrower in the first place. Unless she does something drastic, the mutt is not going to be out of commission, and there's nothing Annabellina or any of the Careers can do to stop it if that happens, as steel weapons do nothing but bounce off of the mutt's exterior.
Annabellina is out of options.
A tear, a lone, solidary tear slides down her face. Abe may have kept her in shackles, and he may have tormented her for years while the other personalities did their best to stem the attacks, but there is nothing they can do now, and Abe is incapable of keeping her in chains any longer, and that means he is incapable of stopping her now. Her father will understand, for the smart man he is, for the intelligent daughter he helped give life to. Her district will understand. Her few friends, those that have stuck with her, they'll understand to.
The mutt, recovered now, the fire burning away a few bits of the exterior, but not damaging it near enough, roars at her again. Annabellina removes the flamethrower pack off of her back, holding it straight in her hands, eying the beast with a murderous glare. If she does not stop the mutt here and now, there won't be a victor to the Hunger Games should she fail. This monstrosity will simply destroy everyone, and Annabellina is not going to let that happen.
It is as if she is viewing the events from outside her body, from a different perspective than her own.
She digs her feet into the concrete, feeling the Earth underneath the soles of her shoes. Annabellina screams, charging at the mutt. She's got one shot, and she has to make it count. The mutt screams back at her too, taking a massive step forward. With all of her might, Annabellina chucks the flamethrower at the metallic trash can, caught up in the roar of her own blood in her body, adrenaline coursing through her veins.
"I love you, Dad..." she thinks to herself, and Annabellina gives herself credit that she isn't sobbing, that there's zero tears coming from her today.
Her trajectory is correct, Annabellina having calculated the equation and the throw as quick as she could while Valencia scrambles to safety. The canister holding the flammable liquid, which is spilling outwards of the nozzle as she throws it, collides straight into the mutt's own hands, which were extended towards Annabellina in a slashing motion.
The mutt's hands enclose around the canister, and for a split second, the world stands still, time stands still, and all the hair on her arms rises upwards. Her ears pop, Annabellina continues screaming, and she runs into the mutt as fast as she can.
The canister of flammable liquid explodes in the mutt's grasp, incinerating it, a fireball roaring from the depths.
Annabellina sees the tips of white, of her exploding star, of her supernova, racing towards her, the blizzard tips leeching out.
She sees the white, feels the white.
And after that, nothing.
8th: Annabellina Circuit, District 5 Female, 16. Killed by a Capitol Mutt. Created by goldie031. I am once again, crying, as I wrote this death, because I knew this is where her story would end up. How tragic she had become, with killing Lowelle, with ending Persephone, and how I think a majority of you loved in her a grotesque sort of way, because who knew what terror she would actually unleash. Beyond that, in the end of her arc, Annabellina managed to break free from the shackles that Abe had over her, somehow able to keep her at bay, and in the end, she, being the sweet and kind, and brave tribute she had been designed as from Goldie, she sacrificed herself to ensure others could live, and that is a death fitting of her. Thank you Annabellina, you've been wonderful.
Tribute List (Boy - Girl)
District 1: Valencia Shale [Submitted by Audmirable]
District 2: Milor Drusus [Submitted by Alecxias]
District 4: Carrion Bastion [Submitted by Santiago poncini20]
District 7: Linden Hazel [Submitted by Keadon] / Peri Florence [Submitted by LordShiro]
District 11: Caiden Grove [Submitted by LongingForRomeo]
District 12: Colt Sheppard [Submitted by Mellissa rose]
Final seven, ladies and gentlemen, we are at the final seven, can you believe it? That was Chapter #37: A Gaze Through the Trees, and with a heavy heart, we say goodbye to Annabellina Circuit, a tribute I believed I could have taken to the end, but writer destiny it had not be so. We didn't see any of Caiden, or District 7 this chapter, but do not worry, there'll be plenty more later on. Having the number get down to the wire like this really made me realize, that fifteen chapters ago, at #22, back in February, it now being June, all 24 of these tributes were alive, all of those beautiful characters, and here we are. District 7 is now, as with Persephone gone, the only tribute with both still remaining, but that can change, right? Who do you think, with the cast we have now, what our victor will look like?
The top five is soon to be upon us, and remember, that is Chapter #41. Please, even though we are not there yet, get your vote in to make this easy, or otherwise I will have RNG decide that vote. After this chapter, there are only four more arena chapters to be had, which means we're also extremely close to the wire for that one, which is at Chapter #45, so we are truly almost there, ladies and gents.
For a brief second, think back to Bonnie's conversation with Calhoun in two separate chapters of the Capitol storyline, and a conversation she has with Rennie early on, and then connect that to the mutt we saw that killed Edwin, and this mutt that had attacked Caiden, and in which attacked the Careers in this chapter. Any connections or anything you guys can think of?
Beyond that, next chapter, #38: Innocence of the Lambs, is the next step in our Capitol storyline, where we tighten the threads and bring everything closer together, and you most certainly do not want to miss it, as your mind will be unable to take it all in. Please review, you guys, it absolutely makes my day whenever I am able to wake up reviews from my submitters and from my readers. Thank you all so much for stopping by, I'll see you all soon again with Chapter #38: Innocence of the Lambs. You guys have an amazing day! Love you all! Bye!
~ Paradigm