WHO: Ariel O'Connell [D4] WHEN: Night 5 (Feb. 12th) WHERE: The Orbitron STATUS: complete
The urge to create was consuming him and Ariel was certain that if he wasn’t able to do something, something truly him, and soon, he would be destroyed. By himself, by the Gamemakers—certainly something would happen.
He was ranging further afield without Miranda tonight, driven by this sense inside him, by this compulsion. He was in search of: rope, twine, hair, cloth, other tributes, and in that order. To kill was something else and he would do it gladly, but what he needed was even a modicum of creative outlet, even a moment of expression. Too long he had he been cooped up with supplies and patrols and sleep watches, the other Careers. Training week had at least allowed him to be alone in his dark room and to make his knots at the station. Here, he had nothing, Everything was bolted down, and he resented Sephora’s guarded rope more with each day; he may soon be moved to kill her and so destroy himself and Miranda, just for that rope. He needed it, desperately.
Others had found supplies throughout the arena, and he felt in a place such as this he might be able to sate his hunger. One of the big rides to the east had so far as he knew gone unexplored by any of his allies; it was a good place to look, and he had once at night seen it flash with brilliant lights that reminded him of the eyes of deep sea creatures.
It was a towering structure of white that would be blinding to be near in full daylight. It wasn’t yet deep into the night, but his absence would be noticed, and he wondered if his allies would assume he had finally cracked and deserted. Ariel wasn’t so sure they would be wrong.
The initial train and boarding station were disappointing, not a scrap of fabric or rope in sight, and the darkness went on and on. Good darkness. Reassuring. There would be something in there, he knew, he wanted to know; something to reward the bold. Gamemakers loved a rogue, loved to see the tributes in danger, and surely they would reward himself.
His lips moved as if in a feverish chant, and his eyes were wild as he stepped on to the tracks and into the pitch black. His mace was loose in his hand, and his other hand was hidden in a jacket pocket. His token was like a rosary, but his prayer was wordless, an underground, undersea animal’s hunting chatter.
Of course he could see nothing except the glint of the tracks in the fading light of the entrance. Ariel felt his way carefully, testing each step. He didn’t know anymore how he would find rope in this place, but he still clung to the idea. He had to. Ruth had been deaf; now she was blind. He needed to make eyes, for both himself and her.
Then the ground gave out beneath him.
As a boy on the sea, Ariel knew rolling decks, boats almost upturned, the slick of an ocean-soaked floor. He knew how to lash out with his hands, and he also knew to hang on to anything he touched with an iron grip. He was above an endless pit with his mace in one hand, the other clinging to a splintered board.There could be no losing his weapon; at the same time, he felt himself slipping, and with a strangled cry of unfairness he swung his mace hand up and left the weapon barely on the track but his other hand free, and he pulled himself up in inches.
His left palm was torn and bleeding, and his shirt was ribbons down his front, where various cuts and splinters showed in the skin below. By degrees he became alright again, kneeling, breathing hard. Soon he would stand and retake his mace. Soon he would walk out of the Orbitron, his life almost lost, no better off. No rope, no fabric. No way to weave.
A single bead of white had fallen from his jacket pocket, when the ground vanished, and though Ariel would walk out and away, it was still falling through the darkness.