Hickory Dock, District 7 (adpatres) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-02-07 00:01:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 56th games, - arena, tribute: 56th ace packet, tribute: 56th aramis rosegold, tribute: 56th brock samson, tribute: 56th machine cord, tribute: 56th sephora kohl |
WHO: Ace Packet [D3] & Brock Samson [D2], with cameo appearances by Machine Cord [D3], Sephora Kohl [D1], & Aramis Rosegold [D1].
WHAT: #nope
WHEN: Night 2
WHERE: Shooting Stars, and then Main Street.
RATING: #NOPE
No one could claim that Machine was great company. Left to her own devices, she’d be lucky to identify the faint silhouette of a joke as it fled in terror of her indifference. Ace had so far tallied a half a smile from her rigid mouth— a generous estimation, since it was hard to discern a grin from a grimace in this low light. He didn’t mind, however. He had never been so grateful for companionship in his short life. Safety was an illusion, he knew, but it was a warm and comforting one. “Check it,” he declared, popping up from behind the air gun counter. He’d wrapped his satchel around his head, where it perched atop his crown like a very silly hat. “It’s all the rage in the Capitol. Ever get hungry on your ride from the cinema to the café? Hovercraft only stocked with champagne? Well, hunger no more!” He unzipped the bag, and a pack of jerky slid down his nose and hit the floor. Ace crouched to retrieve it — “Mr. Packet, you hot mess” — and became acutely aware of a suspicious rumble across the raw wooden floorboards. “Machine?” he murmured, panicked and pitchy even to his own ears. “Do you hear that?” Danger, screamed every icy nerve in his body, though he could not pinpoint how or why. 'Did you see that?' Aramis turned his head in the direction of the building of which the pack was roaming around the outside, squinting as he took a longer look at one of the windows in the dim moonlight and tightening the grips on his throwing knife and locker door shield. The place appeared to be abandoned, and maybe it was and he was just imagining things, but one could never be too sure about these things in the Games. 'I thought I heard something or someone too -- can't hurt to take a look when we've got the advantage if it's one of the outliers.' "Where?" The words were out of Brock's mouth automatically, not really needing a response as he followed Aramis' stare, squinting in the darkness for any sign of movement. No, he couldn't see anything, but — wait, what was that? He tilted his head, not to see better, but to hear better. There was definitely a noise, but it wasn't loud enough to identify. "Yeah, okay," he grunted, hand tightening on his mace. "Could also be mutts." Sephora’s eyes sharpened at Aramis’ direction and she tried to search into the darkness for a sign of movement. Since she’d put the creme on her head, some of the throbbing had ceased, making it easier to focus, but apparently not enough to catch the movement. Fuck. “We are being proactive,” she said in defense of them. It couldn’t be mutts, not this soon. They were still hunting and the Bloodbath had only been a day ago. 'I can't see them siccing mutts on us as early as the second day.' But the Gamemakers would if they stood out here any longer and didn't kill more tributes, and Aramis wasn't too keen on a death like that this early in the Games -- or at all, really. 'Why don't we go in and say hello? Just to be polite to our neighbours.' He hoped one or two of the biggest outliers were inside, and he grinned as he shifted the weight of his locker door and flipped the throwing knife in his hand with a flourish before gripping it again, as awkwardly weighted as it was. Flipping his mace over in his hand, Brock gave a nod that no one would probably see in the dark and started to make his way toward the building. "Let's get 'em." While Brock chased after the little boy from Three -- what was with him and targeting the small ones anyway? -- Aramis and Sephora were left to run after Machine. She wouldn't have been his first choice for a second kill -- that was still Cypress -- but she was still one of the tallest girls who had scored a 7 in training. She'd be a good, easy break between Eli and another large male outlier with a high score. The girl had gotten a substantial head-start, but he had training, speed, stamina, and longer legs on his side -- it wouldn't take long to catch up with her as he sprinted in a straight line towards her retreating back. If only he had a fucking bow instead of a throwing knife, he could kill her even from this distance while standing still and taking his time lining up one perfect shot. She was still a long distance away when she suddenly changed directions, but there was something off about the shift. It didn't seem as if she was doing it to avoid them so much as if she was trying to lead them back to where she had -- 'WAIT, STOP!' Aramis almost tripped over his own feet and landed on his face as he skidded to a halt, finally planting one foot firmly on the ground in front of him to halt his momentum and throwing an arm out to stop Sephora as well. Machine's mentor was Beetee. Back during the 33rd Games -- he'd only seen re-runs of that one -- Beetee had electrocuted all six members of the Career pack in an electrical trap. There was only one way a Three could have scored as high as she had. And then there was Ace, who had practically been played up as some sort of Beetee redux and had scored alarmingly high for a thirteen-year-old boy, whom Brock was now chasing through an arena that must been full of wires, circuits, and power sources. 'These nerds are probably trying to trick us into running right into some electrical trap they've rigged with all the industrial rubbish here,' he panted, keeping an eye on Machine in the distance. 'Like when their mentor killed the entire pack in one shot. Why did they stay so close to the Cornucopia where they knew we were otherwise? Come on -- let's go back and find Brock, if the little boy didn't already shock him to death.' Sephora looked around the trees, unable to believe that they’d have set one up that fast. Had she escaped with a bag? She couldn’t remember anything but the cleaver Machine had hit her with and her bleeding hand, but maybe she had. A spool of wire. A battery. “Would certainly make things easy on us if he did,” she remarked warily, her eyes still searching out the sheen of metal. She lead the way back, her small legs carrying her quickly. The boy's movements were erratic, but Brock was quick on his feet and each time Ace veered left, Brock followed. When Ace went right, Brock went right. Ace jumped, Brock jumped. It was hard to see him in the dark, but the moon was high and Brock had training. The lucky thing for Brock, however, was that despite Ace's size — lighter kids could often be swifter — Brock had stamina. And practice. It nearly looked like Ace was headed toward the Cornucopia (oh, what irony that would be) but then he turned, heading east. Fear possessed Ace, a rawer, more electric feeling than he’d ever known. If he could think — he couldn’t think — he might’ve thought of how disappointed Faraday and Beetee must’ve been, watching him scamper like a hunted animal. How he’d let all their clever advice come to nothing. How he was supposed to play the game with his brain, but all that mattered now was a pair of tired legs, ragged lungs, and a burning windpipe. He careened onto a quaint-looking street, desperate for someplace to hide and catch his breath. SOUVENIRS, declared a storefront, and he dashed for it, yanking and rattling at the door. It was locked. His thoughts boiled with obscenities — he’d just wasted precious getaway time, and the big Career boy was almost on him. He turned to run again, but this time only made it as far as the ice cream parlor before he was pummeled to the ground by a heavy blow. “Wait!” he gasped, as soon as he could speak. He levered himself up on his elbows, bloodied face peering up at his tormenter. “Please don’t hurt me, I-I-I can — I can help you —” In the dim moonlight, shadows from the abandoned shops casting strange shadows over everything, the boy almost looked like one of Brock's brothers, but the moment he spoke, high-pitched and tainted with his District Three accent, the resemblance disappeared. No, now the boy looked more like a ghoul, something out of one of Brock's bedtime stories he used to love, pictures of bizarre creatures that were only ever real in the Games: orangutans, hippopotamuses, giraffes. Strange creatures he'd never see with the mountain goats or bobcats of District Two. "Nope," he grunted, nearly on top of the boy. He thrust his mace up to the boy's neck, hands sweaty, and was about to finish him then when he had a thought — fucking Aramis. Should he play to the cameras too? This wasn't going to be a difficult kill, not any more than Ruth had been, but what would sponsors think of two easy and fast kills? A kill was a kill, of course, and he would take any kill if it presented itself to him like this one did, but he didn't want to be mocked for having two easy and boring kills. So he needed to make this one more interesting. And then later he'd have to prove to the cameras that he was completely willing to go after the bigger guys. So, thinking of the cameras, Brock pulled his mace away from the boy's throat. "Yeah, you're right. You can help me." He smirked, hoping the darkness in the arena didn't mask it too much. "Know how?" Ace’s brown eyes, erstwhile screwed shut in blind terror, now blinked at the hulking tribute, uncomprehending. He’d just pleaded for his life, the lowliest, most desperate gambit that had ever been played, and it had...worked? Brock hadn’t swung, hadn’t bashed Ace’s brains in as he so easily could have done. He’d given him an opportunity. One last play. “The arena, it’s — we rigged it. Machine and me. One false step and you and your bloodthirsty buddies will be blown to kingdom come. I could tell you where and how and when, but if you kill me now…” The lies spilled from his mouth like gumballs, bouncing every which way, out of control, but he didn’t care. “Well, I guess you’ll take your chances.” A flash of worry crossed Brock's face, then was hidden away. He was probably making it up, the boy was surely looking for some way to stay alive, but… everyone knew what Beetee had done once upon a Games. What if Ace was telling the truth? Ace stared at Brock, nostrils flared, his mouth a hard, resolute line. His hand crept into his pocket and closed around his pocket knife — comforting, cool metal. It made him brave. He let out a cry as he hurtled himself at Brock, knocking the mace out of the Career’s hand and kicking it down the cobblestone path. He charged after it, but Brock’s strong arms seized him, constricting Ace’s frail body in their titan grip. Ace thrashed, kicking, stabbing at whatever flesh he could reach. The metal plunging into Brock's arm made him yelp, nearly dropping the boy, but Brock, crouched over the ground, managed to hang on even as he began to feel a hot pain and his jacket grow slick with blood. This was what he got for hesitating, for not simply smashing the little champ's brain in with his mace. In a quick second he vowed never to do shit for the camera again, damn Aramis to hell, and resolved to end this boy's life as quickly as possible. Regaining his grasp, he held Ace tight and began to knock him quickly against the cement curb of the abandoned ice cream parlor on Main Street. The first blow winded him; the second, he could feel (and more grotesquely, hear) his skull cracking and splintering like wood. By the fifth he was in so much pain he was delirious, his senses in disarray. He knew he must be screaming — it was an instinctual thing, after all: a call of distress. Blood seeped into his eye, billowing like the clouds of Machine’s hair as if she was standing over him. He knew that was an illusion. No matter how he howled and sobbed, no one was coming to save him. It was just a game, like Beetee had said. You won it alone, or you lost it — alone. Minutes later, canon blast ringing in his ears, Brock trudged back to meet up with his allies, trying to avoid suspicious looking cobblestones in the street. One false step and you and your bloodthirsty buddies will be blown to kingdom come… |