Ashley Ketchum (d10) (pocketmonsters) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-02-20 01:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 56th games, - arena, tribute: 56th aramis rosegold, tribute: 56th brock samson |
WHO: Aramis Rosegold [D1] and Brock Samson [D2].
WHAT: Not smut, sadly.
WHEN: Day 9; after this and this.
WHERE: The Career camp at the locker bays.
STATUS: Complete log.
Aramis was returning to the Career camp after his wanderings earlier in the morning that had finally earned him the sword he had coveted for so long -- and lost him two fingers and gotten his left forearm mangled, but he considered the price more than worth it in his current state where he was both delirious with pain and ecstatic that he now had his favoured weapon. It wasn't as if his left hand was his sword-hand anyway, even if the missing fingers would make it more difficult for him to wield a dagger along with the sword. And after falling into a deep rut since his last kill, he'd take the rare moment like this that made him feel a little less disappointed and jaded about everything and reminded him of why he was here for the Games in the first place. It would feel incredible to finally kill someone with a sword as he had always dreamed of since he was a little boy. But for now, he simply stumbled back to the locker bays, his jacket wrapped around his bleeding arm and the sword swinging freely from his other hand. He thought he saw Brock a short distance away, and despite the tension that was obviously brewing under the superficial trappings of the alliance, he grinned at him and waved as he limped closer to the other boy. The knife wound in his thigh wasn't quite as sharply painful as it had been before, but it was still sore and threw off his gait. 'Brock! Look at what I found!' Aramis twirled the sword around with his usual grace and theatrics, though given how light-headed he was from blood loss, it wasn't quite as impressive as it had been during his private training session, and he almost dropped it. 'Isn't it fascinating how the Gamemakers keep surprising us like this?' Brock had been nibbling on beef jerky when Aramis returned back to their camp in the locker bays; he'd slept in somewhat that morning after returning back late with Zipporah from their somewhat disappointing attempt to kill the boy from Eight and the girl from Seven. The only thing that had made their trip not entirely frustrating was the supplies they found: a first aid kit for Brock and a backpack for Zipporah which contained a flashlight, a knife and… a rubber chicken. That was the second time in the arena Brock had laughed. So Aramis had been gone by the time Brock woke, and hours later when he had returned, Brock was still at the camp, pacing around in erratic lines. Since Cypress and Alex had attacked, he'd become more serious with his guarding, keeping a more watchful eye out and making sure not to walk in any recognizable pattern. His eyebrow raised. "About time," Brock said. He held up a fist, as if giving him a bro-tap in the air, but the energy the two boys once shared was now gone. His words may have been encouraging, but his thoughts were calculating how long it would be before one of them was stuck with the pointy end in his or her sleep. Aramis raised his own fist -- of his good hand that still had all of its fingers, obviously -- after putting the sword down on the ground and bumped it against Brock's, though his aim was somewhat off at first as his head spun from both blood loss and his own squeamishness. Something about it felt so vastly different from when they had first done the same thing right after they had taken out District 12 together during the blood-bath that he almost wondered if it was a poor decision on his part to drop his weapon so easily; for a moment, he imagined Brock grabbing it and running him through the stomach while he was an easy target right there, making him the first Career to get three kills and finally getting one who wasn't a little kid. Ever since he had killed Cypress, he was paranoid about how that had changed the other Careers' opinions of him -- in more ways than one, possibly. 'Yeah, it's easy to lose track of time here when we've only got the anthem.' He pressed the mauled arm that was wrapped up in his jacket against his stomach as he doubled over, wondering if there was anything Miranda could do about it -- that wasn't tricking him into trusting her not to do something under-handed. Who knew at this point with all the unspoken tension in the alliance. 'You've been standing here all-day then?' It was easy to see that Aramis wasn't doing well, but given that he was attempting to carry on a conversation, Brock wasn't going to say anything about it. Not unless Aramis brought it up. Nor did he actually mind that the boy had one hand pressed into his side, clearly hurt. Days earlier he would have been worried about an ally being injured, but now it only meant better for him if the day ever came that he had to fight the boy from One. Especially now that Aramis had a sword; even injured he would still be one of Brock's most dangerous adversaries. It was funny how calculating he had become. "Not all day," Brock replied, though he didn't elaborate. Aramis hadn't been there, nor had he even been out with another tribute, so Brock felt like he didn't need to know. His eyes narrowed slightly, though it was indistinguishable to anyone. "So you went off and got that sword alone." It wasn't so much a question as a statement, though he kept his voice light. Sometimes, Aramis really hated how squinty Brock's eyes were -- it made reading him much more difficult than it was with anyone else. And right now, he wasn't sure what to make of his statement. It could just be paranoia and his reading the worst into everything these days just to be on the safe side, but he couldn't tell if he was being accusing despite his casual tone or just making an observation. He didn't think of it much when his wandering-off was often just a thoughtless thing he did when he wanted to be alone during one of his moods, but now that he tried to see it from another perspective, he saw how Brock could interpret it. His eyes kept glancing back at the sword on the ground, then at the other boy. Or maybe all the blood and pain was screwing up his thought processes. 'I just came across it by chance while on a walk to clear my head,' he muttered, still cradling his injured arm and bending over slightly as he tried to keep a strained smile on his face. 'Is there a prob-- I mean, we could always do with more weapons, yes? Especially with Boy Eleven still out there.' Now that Cypress was dead, the large boy with the high training score from the agricultural district was the only thing that might keep the pack together for a little while longer. Perhaps it would be a good idea to remind Brock about that if he had any ideas. "Yeah, it's good," Brock replied automatically, his voice as casual as he could make it. "Great, even. Just... Weird you going out on your own. Not safe. Like you said, District Eleven's still out there." Not safe for the rest of them either, not if Aramis was planning anything. "Don't want to lose you." Not this early, at least. Pushing his quarterstaff away from him in a show of friendliness, he put his hand out. "Looks nice. Can I see it?" Alarm bells started blaring in Aramis' head -- that, or the blood loss and pain was really getting to him now. It was hard to tell. But even with Brock putting his own weapon away, he couldn't stop wondering if the moment he handed over his new sword, the other boy would impale him on the blade -- and just after he'd finally gotten the damn thing after over a week too. But he also thought of the tension from after he had killed Cypress and the other Careers had returned, and he had obviously been reluctant to return Brock's mace to its rightful owner, with the way he had gripped it too tightly despite his friendly demeanour. That was the first time his and Brock's relationship had really started showing cracks, and for all he knew, a repeat now could cost him his life -- or Brock's, but he didn't think his chances of killing him were good at the moment when he was bleeding out. 'Of course you can. I just lost a few fingers to a tiger to get it, but it's worth it, if it helps us take down Eleven and the other outliers.' He didn't see the need to hide how badly hurt he was -- Brock would surely notice soon enough anyway, eternally half-closed eyes or not. 'And don't worry about me -- I can take care of myself. I mean, I did spectacularly against Cypress on my own the other day, yes? No sword, even.' Of course Sephora had helped by chasing off Boy Eight and hitting him over the head with her toolbox, but those were just details. And he had no interest in letting on that the real reason he kept wandering off -- that was a weakness he wouldn't let on to anyone. It was a short one-handed sword, not ornate but was any weapon found in the arena ever ornate? He recalled once, a dagger gifted to a tribute from District Four with a mermaid inlaid. That tribute died the next day. Perhaps there had been more, but Brock had only seen seventeen Games or so, so the simple sword was all he'd imagined it would be. He weighed it in his hand, trying to quickly memorize the weight of it. In case it would matter. Perhaps it wouldn't; he and Aramis had always gotten along, and in another lifetime Brock knew they would continue to. He hoped that the boy was taken out by Rye, perhaps in an epic two-on-one battle where Brock remained the sole survivor. He could dedicate the sword and name it after Aramis, them both having saved his life. Or perhaps it wouldn't, which was why Brock was doing his best to keep track of everything going on, have the best chances. He held the sword back to Aramis, not yet deciding to kill the other boy. They had time still, time they could try to pretend things were like they once were, that they could still try to be friends. "Great find," he finally lied, though he knew part of it was fortunate. The injury. A few missing fingers and possibly more injuries he was hiding? That could be good for Brock further down the road. "Glad you're on my side." Aramis grinned when he finally got his sword back -- but it was a strained, sloppy one that didn't reach his eyes, and it wasn't just because he thought he was finally going to pass out from his injured arm. As Brock had looked over his sword, he'd found himself searching for any subtle signs that might telegraph an attack and shifting his weight to the balls of his feet so that he could spring away and back into a more stable fighting stance, his dagger drawn against his own sword. Or just readying himself to run for it, given that even he knew, despite his arrogance, that there was no way he'd win in a fight right now against someone as skilled and powerful as Brock -- not when he only had one arm, fewer fingers than he usually did, and was bleeding half to death. He looked up at the sky to see if any medical supplies would finally be sent to him now, and a frown flashed across his face when he saw nothing again. 'Yeah, I've got your back,' he finally said. Whether he meant as an ally or literally running the sword through Brock from behind, he wasn't sure anymore -- both, probably, depending on the circumstances. He had always liked Brock ever since they had discussed picking grapes and pounding rocks the first time they talked back during training, and there was a part of him that also hoped someone like Rye would take him out first while they were still allies -- friends, even, if that was possible in the arena -- so he didn't have to do it. Then again, he was a Career, not an outlier -- he wasn't sentimental about alliances and the bonds forged through hardship, and he couldn't deny that Brock would be an impressive kill and their duel to the death would be a high point of the Games. Hopefully it would be the finale, if it couldn't be him and Sephora as the final two to ensure a win for One no matter who survived. 'Until the end. But that won't be for a long time unless I pass out from losing all this blood right now. Terrible shame, if that were to happen, yes?' Nodding, Brock let out a small smile of his own, this time real. Not malicious, just amused. "Yeah, and what a fucking let down that would be." He picked up his quarterstaff again and hooked it on his backpack, the place he normally kept it strung across his back. "So let's go find the first aid stuff." It was what a friend would do, of course. And especially what a friend in the arena would do, getting a better look at his injuries, creating the twisted definition of the word friend that existed solely in the Hunger Games. They couldn't really exist, friends, but despite how much Brock had thought about killing before he volunteered, he hadn't quite expected there being people he hoped he wouldn't have to kill himself. Or that he'd think of fondly after they died. Or that he wouldn't mind too much dying by their hand if he were to die. But friend was the best word for that, so he took it, considering Zipporah and Aramis and Miranda especially friends. And he'd deal with the consequences of that when they came. |