#whiteknightcypress ramsey (d7). (choppingblock) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-02-15 14:04:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 56th games, - arena, tribute: 56th alexander treadle, tribute: 56th aramis rosegold, tribute: 56th cypress ramsey, tribute: 56th sephora kohl |
WHO: Alex Treadle (D8), Cypress Ramsey (D7), Aramis Rosegold (D1), Sephora Kohl (D1).
WHERE: The lockers on Main Street.
WHEN: Day #7.
WHAT: The chance to raid the Careers has finally come.
WARNINGS: Hunger Games realness.
STATUS: Complete.
The ultimate goal of the plan was simple, but with all of the variables one could encounter in the arena, the outcome was likely to be anything but. Amelia has been boosted up into a tree, the tree nearest to the rooftops behind the back of the city street, stuck in the middle of an unnatural park. Supplies had been passed up the branches and tossed to the rooftops. No matter what happened, Amelia should be safe and well stocked, hidden above the rest of the tributes. Alexander and Cypress circled around to the end of the street and waited, crouched in silence for what felt like half an hour, until they heard a soft cooing above them, the signal of a path free of Careers - for now at least. "Ready?" Alex asked, voice low. His stomach twisted with nerves, and he wiped his palms on the seat of his pants one more time before testing the grip of the newly-obtained weapon in his hand. It felt stupid to hope that the Careers would have moved all of their supplies down this way, and for whatever reason, left them utterly unguarded. He had to though; the alternatives meant likely injury or no supplies, no chances to take out any of the major competition. Each of them had a mace now. Cypress still ached from his fight the day before, and he had the bruises to show it, but it didn't matter. He was wound up. Ready for this. He and Alex had proven themselves as a team, and he had finally gotten the chance to prove himself as a fighter in the arena. His fingers flexed on the handle of the mace his mentors had sent to him. He breathed slowly, carefully, mindful of his ribs. They would have to do this quickly while still knowing full well that he couldn't make a swift escape if something went wrong. It was going to take every ounce of luck, innovation, and intelligence that the alliance had between them. Though his jaw was set with his usual stubborn determination, there was a glint of excitement in his eyes as he shot a quick glance in Alex's direction and nodded. "Ready." They moved forward quietly, hunched a little bit low. Empty packs on their backs to take anything they could find, maces held at the ready, the boys crossed the open Main Street and paused at the entrance to the locker rooms to see if they could hear anything inside — silence. Just the wind, and the trees sighing in the distance. Cypress gestured to Alex: he was pretty sure the coast was clear. His job was to search the lockers on the right while Alex took the left, so as soon as he had the okay, he ducked inside and began trying to carefully test the locker doors. Some of them weren't opening, but one of them did, and Cypress grinned in triumph. Looked like he'd found the jackpot. He whistled lightly to let Alex know that he'd been successful, and cocked his head to listen for a return signal as he swung the pack off of his back to try to load a few things inside. Unfortunately for Alex and Cypress, Aramis happened to be guarding the Career camp at this particular time while the rest of the pack was out hunting somewhere. He had been stomping around in a strop for the most part, annoyed at how it had been three days since his encounter with Amelia and he still hadn't run into Cypress or vice versa yet. Every time he heard the cannon go off, his immediate fear was that one of the others -- or, even worse, a trap or mutt -- had beaten him to the kill, which he knew wouldn't go over well with the Capitol audience that had been hoping for a confrontation. And without a second kill after a week since the blood-bath, he couldn't afford to let this particular plan go to waste. Which was why as he turned his attention back to the locker bays and noticed that something seemed to be moving towards them, he smiled and stood back at a distance for awhile before taking his time sauntering over to where the pack's supplies were. It was probably just one of the desperate weaker outliers hoping to sneak away with some food while they thought the Careers were gone -- and he didn't mind an easy kill as long as he could make it entertaining. What he did find, however, was far better than that. His smile widened and he winked at the cameras, arms folded behind his back where he kept a tight grip on his dagger. 'So, I see you got my love letter, Cypress,' Aramis said in a bright voice, his tone light and conversational. Perfect. At the sound of a less familiar voice, Alex's first instinct was to freeze where he stood. Once the words registered, Alex shifted to put his back against the bay of lockers left unopened so far, the mace still gripped tightly in one hand, and a packet of beef jerky clenched in the other. He had just been about to call out to announce his find, but now… did he stay where he was, or attempt to surprise the Career that could only be Aramis? No one else would be a big enough douchebag to talk about Cypress or Amelia that way, and Alex rolled his eyes, waiting to better assess the situation before taking any rash, ill-advised offensive action against someone who would actually know how to use the weapon he felt as competent with as he did a dowel when cornered into playing stickball back home - which was to say, utterly and completely out of his depth. Startled by the unexpected sound of a voice that he hadn't heard in a week cutting through the near-silence, Cypress pulled back from the locker with wide eyes — but as his mind registered the face that he recognized, his lip curled in distaste and his gaze narrowed. He lowered the pack as he turned, stepping into the middle of the row where he could sidle between the short, low benches. His mace came up. Part of him had been waiting for this moment for days, too. Aramis had earned it with more than his words: he'd hurt Amelia, and carved his own headstone with the same knife that he'd used to slice up Amelia's face, in Cypress's opinion. He hadn't hated Careers on principle. He knew their names, he'd put up with their teasing and their winks all through training week, and under different circumstances, he might have even allied with them. But he knew all too well that he would have hated himself if he'd tried to go through these games pretending like he could be as callous and capable as them. If he'd survived, he wouldn't have been able to live with that for long. At least this way, joining the other Outliers, forming a group that had done their best to keep each other alive time after time rather than setting out to hunt down other tributes, Cypress felt like he could be proud of his actions. His sisters and brother back home would be cheering. He didn't have to be the kind of person who cut up a little girl's face for the sake of a show. But he would, he realized with a strangely giddy flip of his stomach, absolutely break Aramis's face if he could. Let the Capitol get a good look at him then. Just stay where you are, Alex, he thought as hard as he could, praying that somehow Alex would be able to read his mind. If he could take this time to fill his pack with supplies and slip away, then no matter how this fight went, their raid on the Careers would be a success. "Love letter?" He sneered despite himself. "You have a funny way of showing love." You sick fuck, he added silently. "Could've just told her you wanted me to come kill you, I would've shown up. Or you could've told Amelia you had a deathwish. She would've finished you off. She's more than capable." Aramis had to resist the urge to roll his eyes -- it wasn't a good look for him -- at the other boy's words as he continued smiling at Cypress. The mace had surprised him, and while it made his stomach squirm, he tried to cover up any fear of being bludgeoned to death by simply raising an eyebrow at it, as if it shocked him that an outlier was able to earn enough sponsors for a proper weapon. Oh well -- at least this would actually be a challenging fight like he wanted, and he knew exactly what sort of weakness an inexperienced outlier would have with a slower, heavy weapon like that against him and his dagger. Though it still would have been nice to have a real sword instead. 'Well, you know I enjoy my theatrics, darling -- it's what sets us Ones apart from our stoic friends in Two.' Still keeping the dagger behind his back, he bowed slightly and reached up with his free right hand to tousle his hair and tuck several loose strands of blonde behind his ear -- if he was going to kill someone today, he had to look good doing it. 'And who said anything about you killing me? I thought my message was simple enough even for an illiterate barbarian from Seven like you.' His grin broadened as he used a finger from the same hand to draw the slash he had cut into Amelia's left cheek onto his own, but he still didn't make a move towards or away from Cypress. An illiterate barbarian from Seven. Obviously, Aramis was just trying to bait him, as he'd done in the training center and with Amelia. But he couldn't just roll over and take it, either, not in this scenario. Not ever, really, not from a pain in the ass like Aramis. "Illiterate?" He barked a laugh. "You're so full of shit. You don't know anything about me, Aramis." Dropping the pack down on the bench behind him, he hefted the mace a little in his grasp. "You really should go to the Castle of Illusions if you get the chance, next. There are enough mirrors there to keep you occupied for the rest of the Games." For a moment, Aramis' mind wandered over to how amazing it would be to be surrounded by that many mirrors -- he'd been looking for one for a whole week now -- but he quickly returned his focus to Cypress. Perhaps after he finally killed him, he'd reward himself with a trip to that attraction to lovingly admire himself for a job well-done. 'Oh, let me see -- I know you have ... what was it? Four siblings?' The interviews the night before the blood-bath were so long ago now, but there were several details he had carefully stored in his memory just for moments like this. 'And your youngest sister is only seven. Olive? You think she's going to enjoy watching me kill you as much as mine will?' He smirked as he thought of Givry -- not his youngest sister, but also seven-years-old -- seeing all of this at home, knowing that as a future volunteer, she was going to love this almost as much as he would. And just for the audience and cameras again, he twirled the dagger that was still behind his back. No. That got Cypress. "Don't fucking talk about my family," he snarled, tensing up like he had the last time, every part of him vibrating and ready for this fight. "What the hell is wrong with you? If you were any kind of a decent older brother, you'd never want your sister to have anything to do with the Hunger Games for the rest of her life, if she's so lucky." He was done talking. His eyes flashed smartly with anger, but he gave no other warning as he swung the mace up to slash at Aramis's face. He would get out of here if he could, if he could get past Aramis blocking the exit, if he could make sure that Alex made a clean escape — but for now, he wanted to hurt the Career boy with his smug smirk and his sadistic habit of prying into the most vulnerable parts of Cypress's heart just to see if he could push the right buttons to make him explode. Fine: his buttons were pushed. He wasn't seeing red, blinded by hatred and rage, but he was being pumped full of adrenaline, every nerve and muscle ready to launch himself at Aramis. Finally. Aramis had been wondering how much longer they were going to talk before the Gamemakers set mutts on them to get them going, and his smile twisted into a predatory grin -- the same one he had flashed at Eli before killing him in the blood-bath -- as he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet so that he could move swiftly. When Cypress made the first move, just as he had hoped he would, he simply spun to the side out of the mace's arc, even doing a pirouette just to mock him and show off to the cameras. There wasn't a lot of room to maneuver in the locker bays though, so he tried to move back and draw the fight outside, still keeping his hands and dagger behind his back as he did so. 'If my sister is lucky, she'll volunteer herself in ten years -- and kill yours.' There wasn't any malice in Aramis' voice -- just the same conversational tone from earlier, as if he was discussing how pleasant the weather was in the arena today. Now Cypress was seeing red. The next swing had all of his strength in it. It was bad, it wasn't smart, he needed to hold back a little or he would tear open the half-healed wound in his shoulder, he'd risk messing up his bound ribs, but he couldn't. He stepped forward fast. Aramis was quick and light on his feet, but those little tricks and jokes would be the death of him. While Aramis was trying to look good, he would be slamming the butt of his mace's handle against Aramis's face, or crushing his skull with the flanged head — whichever blow connected first. He advanced on Aramis a step or two before he realized that he couldn't go any further. If he let Aramis draw him out into Main Street, Alex would have no escape, and the chances of him being attacked by returning Careers eager for a fight increased exponentially. So he pivoted, forcing Aramis back against the lockers, turning them away from the exit. "Go to hell, you goddamn waste of space," Cypress snarled lowly. Aramis tried to side-step the second swing as he smugly smirked at having dodged the first one with his usual theatrical flair, but found himself trapped against the lockers. His usually graceful footwork turned into clumsy stumbling as he tried to throw himself out of the mace's path -- but this time, he felt something edged and heavy slam into the side of his face as he jerked his head back on instinct. He had pulled away just in time not to get his skull smashed open, but he was still blinded by the explosion of pain, both sharp and blunt, against his cheek, and his head started spinning again like it always did when he could feel and smell blood. 'I don't think there's an attraction named that in the arena,' Aramis sneered, blinking back tears of pain as he tried to keep smiling as if this was nothing, but hissing at the way the side of his face burned. The more he talked, the more distracted he was from that, and the more confident he felt. 'And you're shit without your axes.' Now he finally drew out the dagger from behind his back, twirling it with a flourish of his hand as he always did before tightening his grip on it for close combat, and rushed forward, hoping to slam the blade somewhere in Cypress before he could swing the mace once more. And the closer he got, the less room the other boy would have to try and hit him with it again. Cypress almost didn't even care if he got hit: the blade cut into his forearm, splitting the jacket and opening up a crimson line up his skin instead of slamming into his shoulder, as Aramis had clearly been aiming for before Cypress shifted. The pain was bright and immediate but it was nothing compared to the pain he'd felt in the arena, the pain he suffered when he thought about his baby sister in his place one day. He wanted to bash Aramis's face in, and some shred of feral instinct had torn open in him with the cut to his arm. He saw blood and he wanted more. The next swing of his mace left a dent in the lockers deep enough to trace the shape of the flanged head. But Cypress kept advancing. He wasn't ready to chase Aramis around like some kind of a joke, but he just needed to get close enough to land one solid hit. That was all he needed. His arms still had enough strength to shatter any bone in Aramis's frail little body. It wasn't the same as actually killing someone, but Aramis still felt a rush of power and adrenaline when he felt his dagger sink into Cypress' arm -- and this time, he really smiled, rather than forcing one that didn't reach his eyes for the sake of the cameras. That small victory, however, didn't last long before he had to keep stepping backwards to avoid being bludgeoned to death -- like how Miranda had killed Boy Six -- as he carefully placed one foot behind the other again and again as if doing a bizarre dance that his life (and good looks) depended on. But he kept grinning -- this was exactly the sort of challenging duel and kill he had volunteered to go into the arena for, and he knew the cameras and Capitol audience were going to love it. When he finally saw an opening that wouldn't end with his getting a faceful of Cypress' mace, he ducked and lunged, throwing one hand forward as hard as he could towards the other boy's chest so that he could shove him into the lockers and get a cleaner shot at stabbing him properly this time. A careless shove to corner him. That was all it took. Cypress's shoulders hit the lockers, and he would have kept swinging — but he felt something move inside of him. Agony tore through his body, and he felt the blood draining from his face as his shoulders hunched over himself. Ribs. It was his ribs. He knew it had to be his ribs. Fractured, floating free, and somehow Aramis had found exactly the right spot, through luck or foreknowledge from Brock or just the random alignment of the universe falling into place at that moment, and Cypress tried to draw in a breath that went nowhere. He felt like he was breathing water. Pressure in his chest. He felt like he was drowning, and his breath came in a thin gasps. Cypress tasted blood. He swung at Aramis with the mace anyway, but he was practically sliding down the lockers to his knees. He could hold Aramis off. Keep himself alive. Make it out of there somehow. All he had to do was keep breathing. Alex had managed to stuff the stupid packet of jerky into his pack while the boys taunted each other. He jumped at the crash of Cypress' mace as it ruined a locker instead of Aramis. In the brief moment it took for him to draw a breath filled with as much courage as he could muster and step out from around the row of metal separating them, throwing his weight behind a blind strike that missed the pair of them by at least four lockers (though he managed to wreck a second in the process), Cypress had slid halfway to the ground. No, Alex wanted to shout. It wasn't supposed to happen like this at all. His eyes flickered from his ally to his enemy and back again as Cypress coughed and blood spat out from his lips, now crimson. There wasn't time enough to think all of the rest of the things that had flooded all at once and caught themselves in a dam of emotion and adrenaline. He was going to have to do this alone now, he had to kill a Career and drag Cypress away, to get sponsors to see and send something, some magical Capitol-made something that could save his life. "Fuck you," he muttered, bringing both hands up with the mace held aloft like a bat. For the first time, Alexander knew what it was that had driven Cypress to murder dummies, to conspire to really murder the others. All week, he'd only been doing his best to support the stronger tribute, hopeful that in turn they could pool their strength together and manage something impossible; one of them, at least. Now he didn't see the boy who'd mocked him during training, the boy he'd antagonized over photographs of sickening wounds. It was everything that was bad and wrong and unjust, funneled into one being before him. Something in him had snapped, and now he wanted nothing more than for this already bloodied, mutilated person to die for what he'd done. The large wooden toolbox careened into the back of Alex's head and Sephora continued the motion through, shattering the frame against the locker bay and sending dust into the air. She stood silently atop the locker bay, her presence having gone blissfully unnoticed, and in watching the bleeding Aramis hover over a gasping Cypress, she felt a pang of something in her chest. She knew this would be good for Aramis - Eli and Cypress, both hearty, dashing tributes. Even if the cost was having his pretty face torn open, it was worth it to play out their dance. Whatever jealousy she might feel later, she didn’t feel now. Rather, it was pride and a little bit of optimism – she was still Aramis’ closest ally and now he matched Brock for kills, with his being more impressive. That boded well for the alliance. But she had liked Cypress a little. It would have been nice to have him as an ally – someone who wasn’t so intense as the 2’s and someone with a little more heart than 4. What's more, she had liked Amelia a lot, and now her cover in these games was drowning like a fish might on a shoreline. She looked down at what might be the little girl's remaining ally, curled from the blow she'd given him. Sephora would take this shield away from her too. She picked up the daggers she'd rested on the top of the lockers and jumped down, her knees absorbing the shock as she touched the ground to stabilize herself, her backpack clapping against her spine. Alex hadn’t dropped dead on impact; if he was smart, it was going to be time to chase. If he wasn’t, she thought, remembering the dizziness and the difficulty in just thinking a clear thought that had come with her concussion, this would be quick. The blow to the back of his skull had caught Alexander completely off guard, sending him forward to collapse on his knees as the room spun and tilted around him, spots of light filling his peripheral vision. The mace that had once been Brock's had clattered out of his hands across the concrete, landing between Aramis and Alex. Cypress was blurry in front of him, as though someone had slipped an ill-prescribed pair of glasses onto Alexander's face when he wasn't looking, but he could still make out the look of anguish and pain on his friend's face, the trickle of brilliant red that had dripped onto his jacket. He reached out to touch the other boy's leg, hoping that somehow it would wake him up in the bathrooms with a start, and enough time to dissuade Cypress from putting this plan into action come the morning. Cypress's gaze met Alex's, both of them on the same level, half on the ground. He could barely make a sound, but the apology and fear in his eyes was unmistakable; he shook his head slightly and gasped his warning: run. Then he looked back up at Aramis, cutting himself off. If he kept looking at Alex, it would overwhelm him. He didn't know if the tears stinging his eyes were merely a side effect of the pain that made his pulse throb in his head, or if it was instinctively knowing what had to come next. Alexander had failed, and Cypress was dying. The only thing he could still do for his ally was obey his garbled askance, and so Alex's hand fumbled clumsily to take the mace from Cypress' before lurching to his feet and turning to find his attacker. It was the small scary girl from One, Aramis' partner, standing between him and the street, the only way out. He saw the glint of a knife but all the same he charged, mace held in front of him in an attempt to deflect any attempted stabbings. With what strength he had, off-balance though he was, Alex shoved her smaller frame backward over a bench and into the open lockers with a loud crash, staggering away without looking back. If they came after him instead… He ran, disoriented and veering side to side down the street, away from the nightmare behind him. It was a weak push and Sephora was back to her feet with little more than a nick on her wrist from where it’d clipped the door. At least, she thought to herself, it wasn’t a swipe with the mace, which at the moment looked too heavy for Alex to carry. If he swung too hard, it would tip him over. She gave another look to the two boys dying and bleeding, and then took off, backpack tight against her back, for Alex’s swerving form. Everything had happened so fast that even after Cypress had fallen to the floor and Alex and Sephora had appeared from nowhere and disappeared against just as quickly, Aramis still had no idea what the hell was going on -- but at the end of it all, he was in the locker bays all alone with Cypress again, and that was just the way he wanted it. No one to assist or take his kill, and all the time in the world to make the one he had been leading up to since he had run into Amelia three days ago as entertaining as possible to make up for how it had been an entire week since his first and only kill. As he looked over the other boy, however, a glimmer of confusion crossed his mind, though he continued smiling as if everything was going according to some grand plan of his. He hadn't expected Cypress to go down so quickly just from being shoved with an open hand or to start coughing up blood -- but he thought he could put everything together now, and he smirked as he sprung forward and drove his dagger into his shoulder as he had intended with the first stab and before whatever had happened broke out. Just for the audience and his own amusement, he made sure to give the blade a sharp twist as he pulled it out again. 'Well, this isn't exactly the proper duel the Capitol and I were expecting,' Aramis said, once again putting on a conversational tone and trying to ignore how half of his mangled face still stung and burned with pain, blood streaking down his neck that made his stomach turn. 'What's wrong? Not even going to put up a fight so your siblings can at least watch you die with honour?' He got down on one knee so that his bright green eyes now met Cypress' dark ones, and smirked again as he wiped away the blood from the other boy's mouth with the sleeve of his jacket as he twirled and flipped the dagger in his other hand. Through every fight so far, Cypress had managed to hold back his pain behind locked teeth. Nothing more than a winded gasp, a grunt of effort, and then he gritted his jaw and kept it all inside. No Career was going to make him give them the satisfaction of hearing his agony. He was in so much pain, his vision black at the edges, that he almost didn't feel the knife going into him, just a strange sensation like his body was giving up something else as he was pushed forcibly against the lockers — but the twist of the blade made him scream. His voice was little more than a shredded wreck of what it should have been, always full and low and strong; he sounded hoarse and breathless. Half-gone. He tilted his head back, eyes lidded as he struggled for air, his one working hand rising slowly to cover the wound as blood began soaking steadily into his shirt. Pressing on it wasn't going to help him. Trying to staunch the wound wasn't going to save him. His heart was racing, stuttering, chasing him closer to the precipe despite how desperately he wanted to pull back. A sob or a shaky laugh tore at his throat, impossible to tell which; he felt hysterical. Fuck you, he wanted to say to Aramis. He'd fought so hard to survive. He wasn't resigned to death, even now — even now, he wanted to fight, he wanted to live, he wanted to see his family one more time and the only way he could do that was by winning the Hunger Games. But if he couldn't do that, he could do one more thing. Without warning, his hand flew out to catch at the collar of Aramis's jacket: his grip was deathly tight, pouring the last of his strength into hauling Aramis close, their faces only inches apart. His other hand found the Career's thin elegant wrist and clamped down like a vise, twisting, turning, and he drove the blade as hard as he could into Aramis's body, wherever he could reach — it didn't matter to him as long as he could leave the boy hurting. He was going to leave his mark. "Fuhh," he managed to snarl breathlessly, and spat a spray of blood across the blonde's already marred face. Aramis should have known that his theatrics were going to cost him one day, and today was apparently that day. Cypress' sudden movement was such a surprise to him that he didn't even have time to play for the cameras, the smug smirk in his face giving way to shock and even fear as the other boy pulled him so close that their faces were nearly touching -- closer than he ever would have liked in a situation like this where they were trying to kill each other. And there was only a split-second where he forced a cat-like, predatory smile again as if he was pleased and amused with the turn of events when he felt his wrist being twisted hard enough that Cypress was somehow using his own hand and dagger to slam the blade deep into his own thigh. He tried to swallow down the inhuman sound of rage and pain that wanted to tear itself out of his throat, but as he bit down on his scarred lower lip and ground his teeth together, a ragged cross between a hiss and groan escaped. However, it was the blood and spit that splattered across his face that really drove him into a murderous rage -- or more of one, rather. 'I didn't expect good manners or proper duelling etiquette from a Seven like you,' Aramis snarled, keeping his bloody mess of a face as close to Cypress' own as ever and leaving the dagger where it was still stuck deep in his own leg with both of their hands tangled together. 'And I was going to give you an honourable death as part of my white knight angle, but ...' His free hand crept up to where he remembered hitting Cypress on the chest earlier that had brought him down so easily -- it had to be broken ribs -- and his snarl twisted into a triumphant grin as he shoved his hand forward again, this time with more force and a slower, steady pace. Cypress's vision blurred; his breath shuddered in his chest, and weakness was seeping into his muscles from lack of oxygen, each wet inhalation keeping him him alive less and less. All he felt was agony. Tears were springing uncontrollably to his eyes, not that it mattered anymore, and he closed them as he slid lower against the lockers, his whole body still trying in vain to protect itself against the pain that Aramis was inflicting on him, pure torture. He could feel his bones shifting inside of himself. The small part of his mind that could still function despite the overwhelming suffering desperately wanted his parents. I can't do it, he thought, and the defeat was so crushing that he whimpered low in his throat, almost enough all on its own to make him wish he were dead. I'm sorry. I tried but I wasn't good enough. Faces were flooding his head: Alex staring back at him in shock, Ariadne's little frown of regret, Amelia's cheeky grin, and a messy collage of tributes, and Juniper's stern face and Laurel's warm smile and Ash's closed-off shyness, and the determined strength in Magnolia's jaw and Larch's worried squint and little Juniper's red eyes and Olive's round cheeks and he was home with them. He opened his eyes and didn't see Aramis's face, he saw the green canopy and the rough, red-brown trunks of trees and the prickly carpet of pine needles and he smiled faintly. Transported by his agony, he looked through the Career like he wasn't even there. The weaker Cypress grew, the more smugly satisfied Aramis became -- though there was a small flicker of disappointment in the back of his mind as well. This wasn't exactly how he had imagined their fight would go down back during training, with neither of them wielding their preferred weapons and both of them bleeding next to each other on the floor against the lockers, and it was nothing like a proper duel between a knight and a worthy challenger like he had dreamed of as a little boy training to be a Career. He was sure this wasn't how Cypress had thought the Games would end for him either, despite the confusing smile on the other boy's face. But a kill was a kill, and the only thing that mattered in the end was that he was one dead body closer to winning and going home as a victor. He finally wrenched the dagger out of his own thigh after Cypress' grip on his wrist grew slack, hissing in pain as he brought the weapon up to the dying boy's cheek and his free hand swept under his chin, tilting his head upwards so that Aramis could look him straight in the face. He couldn't be sure if Cypress was conscious enough so that the smug, bloody face of his killer would be the last thing he saw before dying, but Aramis smiled anyway -- for the cameras, and in anticipation of the deathblow and cannon. 'I'll make it quick -- not for you, but your family.' And he twirled the dagger with a flourish for the final time, driving the blade into the side of Cypress' head just as the boom of the cannon thundered. |