Kobe Bryant (![]() ![]() @ 2013-12-23 12:29:00 |
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Dory’s breath tore ragged through her chest as she ran, her pack banging against her back and the wind whipping her oh-so-carefully-fingercombed hair into tangles. She pushed it out of her eyes with the back of her hand, not daring to stop and do more -- with a hurricane behind her and nowhere to take shelter but, maybe, the Cornucopia if that was even still there, nothing was more important than running from the flooding sea. She spared a glance behind her for Marlin. He’d been there a moment ago, lagging a little behind. He wasn’t as quick as she was, and even with the fishing gear and tent lost in the crashing tidal wave that had nearly swallowed the two of them too, they were both burdened with weapons and supplies. Her grip on the trident was tight despite the freezing water they’d been drenched with. The green of the meadow was just ahead, untouched by the storm; Dory put on one more burst of speed and stumbled into the grass and the sunshine, gasping for breath. “Marlin!” she called between pants, turning again to look for him. She hadn’t heard a cannon, not that she’d been able to hear much of anything over the roaring winds and crashing waves. If there had been any deaths in the time it took them to escape the gale, she didn’t know about them. Marlin was gasping by the time he pulled out of the storm, just a few paces behind Dory. With trembling fingers, he pushed the sunglasses he'd received at the Cornucopia to his forehead. While they'd provided protection, however minimal, for his eyes during the storm, the condensed droplets on the lenses blocked his vision in the still meadow. Doubtless, other tributes would soon converge in this area, and he needed his full visual advantage. "Dory," he breathed, leaning on his spear to rest, momentarily. "I go out in the storms a lot in Four, but fuck, they're nothing like this." His duties as a rescue swimmer back in the district meant swimming in rough waters, and often, he would come out of the ocean soaked through, but he couldn't recall ever feeling so cold. His bones were frozen, his blood chilled, and the air frosted in his lungs. He exhaled and glanced about the meadow. Back in the Capitol, he'd boasted to his mentors about his endurance and stamina, and while perhaps he'd been making innuendos for Pere McGill's benefit, he hadn't lied. "Come on, let's get a move on," he said, jerking his head. "Maybe there's still some tongues left at the Cornucopia. Just what we need." A hundred feet deeper into the meadow, Jet stood and watched their approach, a broken, bloody spear in each hand. He was smiling. Even with a square of dirty gauze (red and brown with desert dust and blood) taped to his face to cover one eye, even with dried blood caked around a deep cut in his shoulder, even with fresh streaks of red melting into the old flaking mess on his hands, Jet seemed pleased to see them. "It's been a while," he called out when they were close enough for his voice to reach, clear and even and steady. "You're both still alive, right? For now, at least." Right now, even tongues didn’t sound so bad, Dory was so relieved to be back in the meadow with the warm sun shining down on them. She wiped the water out of her face, pushing her hair back as best she could, and was about to smile back at Marlin to show him and the rest of the world that she wasn’t beaten yet -- but all of that left her head in an instant when she spied Jet standing there looking half-dead with a grimy patch over one eye. Her blood ran cold (or colder, anyway -- the hurricane had done a pretty good job of chilling her through) at the sight of him. The boy who couldn’t feel pain, who wouldn’t be stopped by anything short of death, and even then, by the sight of him Dory was almost convinced that he’d just get up again even if they killed him. There were stories meant to frighten children back in Four about drowned men who crawled out of the sea again, dead and rotting, and at the moment she wouldn’t have been too surprised to find that Jet would keep coming back too. She tightened her grip on her trident, flexing her half-frozen fingers to try to get some life back into them. “Jet,” she greeted him, and glanced at Marlin once more, making sure of his position. She stepped away from him to circle around to Jet’s side; it wasn’t hard to see that he was half-blind, and that was probably going to be their greatest advantage. One of them had to get into his blind spot, and if they separated he couldn’t keep both of them in his sight. “Nice eye patch,” she told him, and gave him her most brilliant smile, doing her best to draw his attention and hoping that Marlin understood what she was doing and would take advantage of it. “Did Ritz do that? She was really good with a throwing knife. I don’t know why you decided to kill her that day you left, but it doesn’t matter now, does it? We’re going to take you down now, Jet.” Cocking his head, Jet followed the sound of her voice, but kept his eye fixed on Marlin. As long as he knew where she was, roughly, he could manage the two of them. "Ritz?" He hadn't thought much about the girl from District 1 after he and Gypsum had split away from the Career pack. They hadn't meant to leave Ritz to her death. They should have murdered her, that day. That would have been the right move. No, he couldn't take any credit for that girl's death, but it suddenly dawned on him that the remaining Careers must have simply assumed the D2s were responsible. It made more sense than one of the outliers or some arena trap taking her down. They were the traitors, the deceptive ones, the ones who stabbed their allies in the back. It must have fit quite nicely with the persona that the other Careers had assigned to them since before the games had even begun. They didn't really need to know the truth, did they? "No," Jet replied at last, his tone disinterested, even bored. "Ritz wasn't responsible for this." He tilted one of the spears up a few inches to gesture towards his patch. "Well, this should be good -- the two of you against me. Much more exciting than Ritz's death. With my handicap, you may even have a chance." It hurt, lying through his teeth like that. He could feel the pressure in his chest building. He wasn't supposed to know what pain felt like, but this was a different kind of anguish. Marlin dropped his soaked pack to the ground, where it landed with a squelching thud. Jet looked worn, perhaps weaker than he realized, but that didn't mean Marlin could let his guard down. He needed full mobility. Following Dory's lead, he gripped his spear in a battle-ready stance and strafed to the side, glancing back and forth between Jet and his ally. A part of him noticed that Jet's eye followed him rather than Dory, and that part may even have realized that Jet was trying to goad him into attacking, but, with his enemy right there for the striking, Marlin didn't care. Jet had killed Ritz and how many others since the pack had split up? He thought he was so great, with his inability to feel pain and his 11. He thought he could take the two of them? "Well fuck that!" Marlin roared, and he charged, spear raised. As expected, Jet was satisfied to note, Marlin was as easy to provoke as any of the arrogant hot-heads back home. They all thought that they could overwhelm him with strength or sheer force, unable to imagine a world in which someone smaller, leaner, and younger than them could handle such a direct attack. He waited, his shortened half-spears tilted outward by his sides, watching Marlin's muscular legs pumping, still listening for Dory. It was difficult to hear through the thudding of his pulse racing in his eardrums, but he strained for the sounds regardless. If he dared, he would have closed his eye to better focus. In the heartbeat of a step before Marlin came into thrusting range (he thought, he hoped, he wasn't certain but he was forced to trust his instincts over his eyesight), Jet brought his spears up -- one low behind him, one raised above -- and pivoted out of the trajectory of Marlin's charge, lashing out to try to slash at his unprotected back. The blow was glancing, but at least it connected, and Jet felt the heated charge of adrenaline flood his body. "Pathetic," he shot back towards the other boy as he twisted around to face the tributes, his chin jerking back and forth to try to catch both of them in his field of vision. Marlin just barely felt his skin slice open as he stumbled off-course. He corrected quickly, staying more nimble on his feet than his size might suggest possible. The injury registered in his mind only faintly, more than it would for Jet certainly, but still imperceptible against his rage and thirst to kill. "At least I have two eyes," he sneered, echoing Dory's earlier taunt. "Not so invincible after all, huh?" Marlin gave the spear an unnecessary twirl, playing for the cameras more than anything. Despite his failure to draw first blood, he couldn't think of himself as anything less than a frontrunner. After all, he had volunteered to bring glory and honor to the district -- officially, anyway. Locking eyes with Dory over Jet's shoulder, he lunged, the weapon extending from his arm like an extension of his body. There was little time to think, even less to plan and communicate with her ally, but Marlin must have had the same thought about keeping one of them out of Jet’s field of vision; he’d managed to turn him so that Dory had a shot at his back. Staying to his blind side as best she could, Dory caught Marlin’s eye as he lunged, and leapt at the same moment, trident tight in her grip. “Not invincible at all,” she said, and stabbed out at Jet’s back with the trident, aiming low below the ribs. Pain wouldn’t slow him down, but maybe holes in his kidneys would. Jet raised one spear to knock aside Marlin's advance -- but even as he heard Dory behind him, there was no way he could accurately block her attack. He twisted to try to minimize his exposure, yet even as the shock of his weapon connecting with Marlin's strong blow vibrated up his arm, he could feel the fabric and skin tearing at his back as Dory's trident dug deep runnels into his body. Lashing backward towards her face, he snarled over his shoulder at the redhead. "I never said I was invincible," he bit out, irritated by the basic and prevalent lack of understanding of what his disorder meant, "just better than you." And he twisted back again to force an attack on Marlin -- he had two hands, he had two weapons, he could do more than just hold off one advance at a time while they wore him down and pierced him full of holes, he wasn't going to fucking make it easy for them. The tip of Jet's broken spear caught the hole in Marlin's jacket and through to the cauterized wound on his shoulder. As the metal grazed him, the fabric ripped, and Marlin's scabbed skin sloughed off in scales. He felt this more readily than the last blow, and he cried out through his teeth, half furious gnarl and half agonized howl. "Yeah, and you'll be deader than me!" Than us, he amended silently. At least until the end. With only two tributes left outside of this fight, the odds were looking more and more favorable for a District 4 finale, like he and Dory had planned before the arena. The bastard presented the biggest challenge remaining. Marlin shifted his grip on the spear and swung the blunt side at Jet like a bat, aiming to throw him off balance so that Dory could make another strike with her trident. Dory gasped and twisted as quick as she could, turning her head so the spear Jet had thrust at her face whistled by her cheek, so close she would’ve sworn she could feel the air cutting around the sharp edge. She took a few sidesteps to recover her balance, doing her best to stay on Jet’s blind side while he had to keep his focus on Marlin’s attack. Jet was so good, so quick and strong and deadly, but he couldn’t dodge them both forever. She saw an opening as Marlin swung his spear, and jabbed down at Jet’s ankles with the trident, her grip so tight it felt like she wouldn’t be able to open her fingers again even if she’d wanted to. The spear caught Jet in the face full-on. His head whipped around with the force of the blow, and when he straightened, the skin had split over his sharp cheekbone, spilling blood down his face like warpaint. His eyes were full of barely contained rage and disdain. They could keep on hitting him, but they couldn't break him. "More --" He staggered forward as Dory struck him from behind, yet it didn't take him far: one foot was rooted to the ground and he couldn't understand why. He glanced down and saw the spears of the trident buried in his boot, deep, holding him, trapping him. "More dead," Jet finished half under his breath as he lashed out towards Marlin's torso again, and with great effort, tried to move his leg. He'd learned the hard way that stabbing something too deeply could mean losing your weapon; at the very least, he could control Dory's movements for a moment or she'd risk losing her trident. "Fucking moron." Marlin swayed back, avoiding the worst of the blow, and the sunglasses flew off his head as he whipped back into fighting stance. It didn't matter. He didn't need them anymore. With Dory's trident pinning Jet in place, Marlin knew, instinctively, that he would never have a better shot at killing the weirdo, and it was imperative that he take it. He had never wanted anything as much as he wanted, in that moment, to murder Jet Pearce. Even the final goal of winning the Hunger Games felt distant by comparison. The next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion. He lunged again, like before, but this time Jet couldn't dodge him or deflect the blow. The head of the spear bore into Jet's torso with a satisfying squish -- and then, with some effort, pierced through the other side. "Whatever," Marlin spat, vindicated. He gave the spear another shove. "You're dead." There was a spear in him. Jet looked down, and all that he could see was the wooden shaft buried deep in his body. It wasn't very bloody. Maybe the warmth in his back was the blood, seeping down through his jacket, but what he could see was just the wood, like he'd fallen on a smooth branch. Like the icicle in his shoulder. If I just keep it there, I won't bleed out, Jet reminded himself and nearly laughed at the idea of winning the Hunger Games with a spear jutting out of him, fighting the last battles skewered like some kind of Capitol delicacy -- but he tasted blood sharp and metallic on his lips now, and he grimaced as he realized what it meant. It wasn't that funny anymore. You're dead. He had dropped one of his shattered spears without realizing it, his grip falling slack when he'd reflexively tried to grab Marlin's weapon as it went through him. Jet closed his eyes. Then -- Fast, he reached out and snatched a thick handful of Marlin's shirt, clutching the fabric with his dirty fingernails in a deathgrip. Anchoring himself. And then he pulled, steadily, one foot in front of the other, inch by bloody inch up the spear as he drove it deeper, deeper, deeper into his body. Nearer to Marlin. Holding him tight, bringing him close. He tilted his chin up to snarl, bloodily, in Marlin's face. "Come join us," he hissed as he set the point of his spear low in his rival's stomach and dragged it, every ounce of strength left in him pressing down, heavily across Marlin's gut. At least he'd done that. At least he'd managed that much. Exhaling with a shudder, Jet had to lean his forehead on Marlin's shoulder. He was too exhausted to stand on his own anymore. Close your eyes and rest, Jet. Too stunned to do more than gasp as the blade sliced open his flesh, Marlin's eyes widened in shock. This is what it's like to be a fish, he thought, as if watching himself from the outside. He was as his namesake, first cleaned, then gutted. The only difference was, the fish were dead first. For a frantic second, Marlin thought he could still win the Hunger Games. He'd make it out of the arena, and the Capitol would fix him, and he would return to District 4 a hero. Immediately, he realized what a stupid idea that was, and he choked out a burst of laughter. How pathetic would it be to win the Games while bleeding out? Red sprayed from his mouth, on Jet, on the spear, on the grass. Something unlaced in his core, and his muscles slackened in his legs. Marlin's control over his own body left him as his blood did. His fingers released the spear of their own accord, flying to the wound, where he could feel the slick, round shapes of his organs struggling for freedom. Though he'd thought the storm had chilled him through to the bone, his insides felt warm against the air. Both boys collapsed. Dory had already been reaching for her knife as Marlin stabbed out with the spear, and it was in Jet’s neck a breath later to make doubly sure he was dead. The cannon roared in resounding confirmation. She stepped on the body’s foot and wrenched her trident free with one savage twist now that he was definitely not going anywhere, and turned to grin at Marlin in relief that the monster wouldn’t be getting up again -- but as the body slumped away from him to reveal what the freak had done to her partner, relief turned to stomach-dropping horror. “Marlin!” she croaked through a suddenly dry throat. “Oh…. oh, Marlin.” She threw herself down onto the grass next to him, shoving Jet’s body away from him, and scrabbled at his jacket, trying to pull it closed over his wound. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” she babbled, breathless and panicked, and not expecting to feel this way at all -- had it just been last night that she was thinking about how she was going to kill Marlin? He had to die, and soon, but now that it came down to it the thought of him dying was intensely painful. She’d seen sailors gutted by harpoons or spars on the sea when their shipmates carried them back into harbor, wrapped tight in sailcloth, grey-faced and screaming if they hadn’t been fortunate enough to go unconscious. If nothing vital was pierced it took a long, long time to die and if they made it to a real doctor in time they might even live, and with that in mind she pressed hard on the gash, trying to keep Marlin’s guts back in. Their mentors had sent a healing cream once before, when Dory had been in bad shape -- it was Marlin’s turn now, if she could just keep him alive long enough. “I’m going to stay with you,” she vowed, her breath coming in gasps. “Just like we said. Remember? We’re not the last two yet. It has to be District Four.” Back home in the district, long before he volunteered, Marlin had seen men die. Some of them had come back, drowning victims whose hearts had stopped and then been restarted with CPR. Their stories followed a shockingly consistent pattern: thrashing panic, followed by a wave of calm and acceptance before the end. Death didn't happen like that in the arena, where every tribute he'd killed had struggled and fought back until the very last, Jet from beyond. Marlin coughed, blood dribbling down his chin, and just barely managed to shake his head. Like every child in Panem, he had watched the Hunger Games every year, as long as he could remember, and he knew the structure of the Games well enough not to expect a silver parachute, not with three other tributes standing and whole. Jet had called him pathetic, and maybe he was, to be taken in by the tricks of a dying, painless boy. Nobody wanted a pathetic victor, and Marlin realized with sudden clarity -- or perhaps the lightheaded delusions of encroaching death -- that he didn't want to be a victor at all, not anymore. He didn't want a gift to float down and save him; he was past that. He could die here, having defeated his rival. "No," he sputtered. "I'm done." Every breath took more effort than a dozen steps through the blustering storm, but with each one Marlin became more sure that he couldn't be the one to return to District 4. His parents had never known what to do with a son more interested in taking lives than saving them, and the arena only widened the gap. He'd never recapture the rush he felt, how the deaths of others made him feel more alive, and it grew more difficult with each passing moment to imagine a life beyond the Hunger Games. Should a victor feel that way? "I can't -- can't go back like this." Slowly, Marlin pulled his fingers away from his bleeding stomach to peer at his wound, and he cried out as his organs shifted around the breach. He would rather have drowned than spend another moment in this agony. "Dory," he gasped, settling back against the grass. They couldn't possibly come any closer to completing their plan. "Just finish me off, and then you -- you win for Four." Dory’s hands felt like ice and every heartbeat sounded loud in her ears. What Marlin wanted her to do… it was no more than she’d planned on all along, taking out one more obstacle so that she could go home, but now that it came down to it the thought of killing him was so wrong. Marlin had been next to her every step of this arena; he’d helped her after the fish bite, after Basil’s knife had done for her shoulder, after the acid rain. She opened her mouth to tell him that of course she wasn’t going to do it, but the look on his face stopped her cold. Marlin had helped her, and what was he asking for now but her help? An easy, quiet death to save him from that long, slow, agonizing one he was facing right now. She could give him that, at least. That wasn’t murdering a friend -- it was giving him mercy. She reached back and wrenched her knife out of Jet’s throat, barely glancing at the dead thing he was now, and wiped his blood off on his jacket. “Marlin,” she said, her voice hoarse, “close your eyes. I can’t--” Dory looked away and took a deep breath, steadying her hands. “They’ll put you out to sea,” she told him. “Your parents will see you from their lighthouse. You’ll be home. Think about that.” Dory leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. It felt like the thing to do. And then, with all her strength, she slid the knife home into the soft spot under his ear, and felt his blood spill warm around her ice-cold hands. Marlin would never know if Dory would go on to win the Hunger Games. He closed his eyes and shuddered as her knife entered his brain, piercing through his last thoughts of floating, of an ocean burial. The cannon sounded, and it was done. Fourth place for the boy from Four. At Marlin’s cannon, Dory sank back onto her heels, staring down at his empty face. Her hands were shaking as she pulled the knife gently out and tilted his head to hide the damage she’d caused. After another moment she pulled at his blood-covered jacket enough to cover the great gash in his body, to keep his insides in and make him look more human At least his eyes were already closed. If it weren’t for all the blood, he could have been sleeping. She should say something, she thought, but the half-remembered words from funerals at home didn’t seem right, and her voice would have shaken anyway. So instead she just touched Marlin’s forehead once more, leaving behind a smear of his blood, and then used her trident to push herself to her feet, and walked away toward the Cornucopia, leaving the two bodies lying in the grass behind her. |