miranda tern (fins) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-02-09 21:12:00 |
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Cypress couldn't have slept that night even if he'd wanted to. His head was buzzing with thoughts; distantly, he wondered if the cameras could see the fury building inside of him, if his mentors in the Capitol were wondering if he was going to truly do something stupid next, if his siblings back home knew exactly what was going through his mind. They understood him well enough. If it had been one of them instead of Amelia — he couldn't even imagine. His entire alliance wouldn't have been able to hold him back. It wasn't enough to simply sleep and plan his next move. Cypress needed to pace, to keep guard in the dark, creepy building where they'd chosen shelter for the night. The House of Wax didn't have a maze for them to get trapped in, at least, but it did have two floors and enough rooms to protect them from being discovered by any intrepid intruders. His shoulder still ached, but aside from the faint gnawing of hunger, he felt full of unsettled energy as he stalked through the rooms on the first floor. His eyes had half-adjusted to the gloom enough that he could see the empty pedestals, while the eerily accurate features of the other tributes in the first room were mostly obscured, thankfully. Looking at his own face replicated in wax had been too strange. Alex was somewhere nearby, but Cypress was lost in his own thoughts. All he could hear was that strange whistling breeze, which reminded him uncomfortably of the Castle of Illusions. Pausing in the entrance of the first room, Cypress took a deep breath to calm himself. He had to focus. He heard a footstep on the ground behind him and began to half-turn. "Alex?" The noises coming from outside the House of Wax museum had been enough to arouse Miranda's curiosity -- she was bored, and even with Ariel's splint, her arm was still a constant pain in the… arm, both of which were causing her to be more snappish and irritable than usual. And now, she was creeping through the wax museum, followed by Brock, and keeping up a string of muttered commentary about the tribute wax sculptures. "But my nose doesn't even look like th--" she had begun to tell Brock, when noise from around the corner caused them both to freeze. "Hang on. I'll check that out." Hefting the mace over her shoulder, she slipped past him around the corner, inhaling with delight upon seeing Cypress inches away. Outside of training, she reflected, he looked exceptionally alone and exponentially less swoon-worthy -- but then, Miranda had always been fond of her grudges, and a rejection of Career pack friendship could have made The Vellum Spry Himself less attractive. "Nope, not Alex," she replied cheerfully, running forward the few steps between as he turned, and using the few seconds of disorientation to slam the mace in the direction of his chest. It met its target with a resounding crack. The air in his lungs simply fled; it felt like a boulder had slammed into his torso, and the sound that left his mouth was halfway between a gasp and a forced grunt. His throwing knife fell from his senseless fingers with a clatter on the ground. A deep ache followed on the heels of his shock, but as his eyes focused on the smaller Career melting out of the darkness in front of him (and then unfocused, the edges of her body swimming unsteadily in his vision), that rage pounded his heart with an equally violent force, blood surging through him like a hungry fire. He wanted, suddenly, to get his hands around her throat and kill her. He had stumbled back a pace or two, but his jaw clenched as he lunged forward again, half-blindly ramming into Miranda despite the weapon in her grasp. All he needed right now was his two bare hands, one of them still strong enough to deal significant damage. Slamming her against the wall, Cypress locked a hand around her neck — pinning her down, but not tightening, not squeezing. It wasn't until he held her down and was looking at Miranda's heart-shaped face and messy dark hair that he realized, with a shameful jolt, that it wasn't Miranda he really wanted to kill: it was Aramis. She was allied with him, and he would have to take her out if he could, but even though she'd come at him first, he couldn't just choke her out in cold blood. "Where's the Career camp?" he snarled, still channeling his rage towards the District One boy as the only thing that was keeping him from wincing against the ache in his chest. "Where are the others? Tell me where the hell Aramis is, Miranda." And I might let you go was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. Both of them would know he was lying. "Off looking for his fucking shampoo and conditioner, probably," Miranda managed, mace clattering to the ground as she instinctively dug the nails of her good hand into the arm that was around her neck. The mace hadn't done its work, she realized grimly. His ribs were at most fractured, it hadn't punctured a lung, and she found herself wishing again for a real spear that could have just nicely skewered him and called it a day. But if she was going to die, she realized, pseudo-philosophically, calculating the best way to reach her daggers, it was going to be with the last fucking word. "Cute concern" -- she coughed -- "you should have just told us you were into that earlier" -- she rasped -- "because Zippy and I wouldn't have even bothered, then." Miranda's death was something Brock knew would come soon enough, but today wasn't going to be that day, not if he had anything to say about it. He'd hung back, willing to let Miranda get her kill if she could manage it and to stand guard. The first word that came out of the other muscular boy's mouth had been Alex. He knew that there were allies not too far away. But when it became clear that his ally, the girl talkative enough he'd probably only said a handful of words to all night, was having difficulty, he slid his hunting knife into his good hand and the mace into the one that was still stiff from Ace's stab. Raising the knife high, he crept closer to the boy in order to plunge it into his back. "The others are here," he growled, rushing in. It had all felt surreal; like he was watching someone else in another year of the Games on television. A scene was playing out, one tribute avenging his district mate's mutilation. There was a boy who looked vaguely like him, with shaggy dark hair, waiting on the other side of a doorway with a stick and a wrench in his hands, heart hammering like a wild thing trapped and sure of its impending death. Alex felt sorry for the poor bastard, only he was the poor bastard, and at the sound of a creaking floorboard and another unfamiliar, much lower voice, he lunged out from his hiding place. One outlier against a Career wasn't exactly a fair fight, but Cypress' size and anger had made it roughly even - another, and Alex had to take action. He was glad now that his mentors had suggested he be mysterious; it meant he could choose the element of surprise, and had no need to attempt to play for whatever cameras were taking in the scene. He could simply charge, stick held aloft before him as he ran at the Career boy and stomach twisting as he spotted the blade in his hand. The movement caught the corner of his eye and caused Brock to pause. It would have been so easy to finish Cypress off right then but he couldn't have done it and avoided this other boy. He had to choose. Dropping his knife onto the ground, he focused on Alex, training taking over. He crouched closer to the floor and pulled his arms in to lower his center of gravity, ready when the impact came to use the boy's momentum and knock him over. Lifting pulling ankle block he told himself. Make contact. Pull him off balance. Foot to his ankle, bring him down. Easy. He'd done it a million times. Then he could kill the boy, help Miranda finish off Cypress, and be two tributes closer to his goal. To victory. But when the blow came, he'd misjudged the stick, catching on his shirt and scraping roughly into his side as he toppled over after the outlier, mace still clenched in his other hand as the two of them wound up on the floor. This was the advantage to being a Career - Alexander didn't even know what had happened, what had caused him to trip, but suddenly he was falling and somehow Brock was going over the top of him, the two of them crashing against the floor one right after the other - and the mace right after them both, with Brock's arm swinging from the momentum of his fall. The steel smashed into the outside of Alex's thigh, tearing through his pants and burying its way into the muscle of his leg. It was this more than the falling that made him shout, the reverberation of the club traveling through his femur. Brock could feel the mace making impact with Alex, but it was quickly masked by a burning pain in his shoulder and Brock was finding it difficult to find his footing. He wanted to get up quickly, rip his mace out of the boy's leg and bash him over the head with it, but he soon realized he couldn't put weight on that arm. Pulling at the mace and pushing the boy away with his legs, Brock eventually managed to scoot away from him, shoulder still groaning. Dislocated. Fuck. "You're dead," he vowed. The sardonic banter was cut short; Cypress's annoyance and frustration vanished as his whole body was plunged into ice-cold alertness. He'd come so close to dying in that moment that he felt ashamed of himself. You goddamn idiot. He didn't dare risk a glance over his shoulder to see who or what had pulled the other Career away from delivering the deadly blow. Not until he dealt with Miranda. His eyes narrowed at her and his jaw tightening in determination as he forced himself to tighten his grip, squeezing on her throat as he pushed her higher up against the wall, lifting her off of her feet. It felt wrong, vibrating up his arm until he was clenching his teeth just to keep himself from releasing on instinct, but the there was a part of it that felt…good. All of those years of holding back, being careful, knowing his own limits — he was letting go. And in crept the anger again, building up at the edges and fueling his strength until he wasn't thinking about anything but squeezing this girl's throat until she stopped fighting. In District 4, people always said that drowning as a sensation that couldn't be replicated by anything else. When you were little, your grandmother would tell you that it was painless and soft, like falling asleep. When you were older, you would mention that to your brother, and he would shake his head gently and tell you that no, drowning was like fucking agony. At one point, you would almost drown, and you would understand. But the point was that the sensation of drowning could be replicated. The burning in her lungs, the spots behind her eyes, and the feeling of floundering was oddly familiar to Miranda as Cypress tightened his grip. With a final burst of strength, she slammed her knee into his ribs, aiming vaguely for where her mace had hit him moments ago. (Sometimes, it takes two cuts to gut a fish.) Agony tore through Cypress in a pure, white-hot blaze; the ache from the first blow felt like a faint ghost, incomparable. His hand spasmed around Miranda's throat. Sinking unwillingly to one knee, Cypress gritted his teeth. Hauled in a breath. It was all he could do not to scream out loud, not to succumb to blackness that rose up heavy and overwhelming inside of him. Shattered, he thought vaguely, unanchored by the pain. Fractured ribs that were now shattered. Miranda slid to the ground, gasping for breath, hands moving automatically to massage her now-free throat. Cypress was weaker than she was at the moment, she calculated dizzily, and a couple more blows -- another bludgeoning to the head -- could finish this. But each step was taking tremendous effort, and her vision was suddenly grainy. Cypress was probably going to die anyway, she figured -- and if Brock could manage both kills at this point, well, fine. She had been stupid and he fucking deserved the glory. With a gasp of breath, Miranda lunged forward to grab her fallen mace, and turned to find Brock. Upstairs, Ariadne had trouble falling asleep. This place was fucking creepy. Just as she was starting to drift off, she could hear the sounds of a scuffle downstairs. She was so sorely tempted to stay, or to maybe wake up Amelia and try to find a window and throw out the statues. Hopefully, the wax figures could softened the landing when they jumped. After a few seconds of sitting there in indecision, she screwed her face up and clambered to her feet, waking up Amelia and saying, "Shh." She hurried over to the nearest statues, and tried removing the spear from them, even using the part of her arm where she was uninjured as leverage. Ariadne couldn't even take on a wax sculpture. She reached into her sock to pull out her sharpened corn dog stick, to jab at one of the sculptures until she could free the hand still carrying the weapon. "UGGHHH." She gave up before she started and gritted her teeth as she hurried down the stairs, gripping onto the pathetic makeshift knife. She burst into the room the same time as a corner of the wall busted open for the charging swarm of dog-sized rat mutts. Hair standing on edge, Miranda let out a scream. She stumbled backwards, still managing to keep hold of her mace. "BROCK," she rasped, voice going in and out as she tried frantically to get the other tribute's attention as she prepared to run, "WE ARE NOT FUCKING DYING BY RATS." Fuck, mutts. Brock's eyes narrowed — somehow — and he finally got to his feet, glancing around him at the ugly looking rats. "OK," he shouted back. The mutts reminded him of someone, nearly, but he couldn't figure out who. Nor did he have time to dwell on it. PIcking his knife up and shoving it into his belt, he began to swing his good arm at anything coming too close to him (which happened to be Ariadne, who went toppling into a wax figure of himself) as he ran toward Miranda, the two of them dashing out of the House of Wax and, too pumped up on adrenaline to even notice their pain, off into the distance. Not everyone could run away, however. Cypress's head swung up, his vision hazy with pain, and he reached out to grab the wall. "Upstairs," he choked out through his clenched teeth and struggled to his feet. He fumbled for the throwing knife that he'd dropped and brandished it wildly at the monster rats, one hand protectively covering his side. The pain was still throbbing through him so much that he nearly fell again; there was no way in hell he was going to make it up the stairs on his own power. Brock's statue bounced Ariadne right off and onto the ground with a thud. Though she dropped her stick, she managed to pick herself up easily, and she wore the same pained expression -- the one she had from before she even set foot down the stairs -- as she tried to get close enough to Cypress. She kicked a nearby rat and was about to yell out Cypress's name when she saw the opportunity to grab his arm. In managing to pull it over her shoulder to support him, she swore loudly, either at taking on the sudden weight or the mutt trying to scramble up them. She struggled to navigate them towards the stairs. Upstairs felt like a halfway impossible feat when Rats of Unusual Size weren't bearing down on them, but it was that or get eaten, and as much as his leg hurt, he didn't want to make his mother watch the most ironic death possible for someone from District Eight, rat Mecca of Panem. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," he muttered with each hobbling step as he followed Cypress and Ariadne, knocking back the rodents with his wrench, ready to stake any that managed to get too close. If they managed to kill one, maybe it would be the first good, corn free meal they'd had in days. If it hadn't been for the Careers taking flight, they might not have made it up the stairs. As they stumbled and struggled up to the second floor, however, the rat mutts scrambled over each other, some of them rolling in a mass of patchy fur as they failed to take the steps. Collapsing next to Amelia, their battered alliance had to take stock. Cypress propped himself up against the First Victor's feet, his face pale from pain, but he could still draw shallow breaths. No punctured lung. The agony of the initial blow seemed to be fading as he adjusted to the shock, at least, and he glanced at his allies to see what damage they'd taken. An apology was on the tip of his tongue (how could he have been so stupid?), but there would be time for that later. Clenching his jaw, Alexander hoped that the door would hold once the rats did finally make it up the stairs. Stubby legs they might have, but he knew from experience that rats could get into almost anywhere. "We're going to have to find another way out before they get in," he insisted. But first, he had to see what damage had been done to his thigh, and so with nauseous anticipation, he undid the drawstring and pulled them down. There was a series of three puncture wounds and trailing gashes, trickling blood down his leg. It hurt to put his full weight on it, but nothing had snapped - it wasn't broken. There were at least, some small miracles amidst - Even though Cypress managed to make it a few extra steps, Ariadne collapsed into a sitting position where she had let go. She was visibly winded, and all the bruises that would form and the scratches that would grow visible started throbbing. Her head turned to look around the room, and that was when she saw the blood. Alex didn't register to her at all. Just blood. And she saw stars, and her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she fell the rest of the way to the floor. Alex looked up in alarm at the sound of a thump, not coming from the door. "Shit," he sighed, pulling his pants back up. |