Petaline Tiller volunteers as tribute (nofortunateone) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-02-23 08:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 56th games, - arena, tribute: 56th brock samson, tribute: 56th sephora kohl |
WHO: Sephora Kohl [D1] and Brock Samson [D2]
WHAT: In the crackling embers of a once vibrant time, a phoenix emerges.
WHEN: Night 10, after the break up
WHERE: Locker Bays
STATUS: log complete
Brock was still bashing Aramis's face in when the cannon sounded. And after, because while he heard the noise, the unmistakable boom that signaled the end of the District One boy's life, he'd somehow forgotten what it meant. There had been too many noises in his ears, the screams and cries coming from his former ally and then the steady thudding as Brock lived — because that's what killing was in the arena, it was living. It was only ages later (seconds, really, but time was different in that moment) that the wires in his head began to snap back into place and he realized that there had been a cannon, that the cannon meant it was finished and he was meant to stop what he was doing. His arms stopped moving mid-air and suddenly the mace felt heavy. Standing up, he stared at the body in front of him for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face. He was starting to feel pain again, but the adrenaline in his system and the body lying before him still masked most of it. Shoulders tensed, he turned around, breathing heavily, and he looked around him, surveying the wreckage before him. "Anyone else think it's a good idea to attack me?" he shouted, seconds later realizing it was only Sephora standing there. There was another body on the ground, Ariel's, and he felt nothing toward it. Good, was his only thought, good that there was one less number in the arena. There was no sign of Miranda; she must have fled. Everything should hurt. Covered in blood and some viscera, she’d shoved the lifeless pale body of Ariel off of her and got to her feet without much aplomb. It was shock - Sephora could recognize the symptoms just like she could recognize the symptoms of concussion and dehydration. Shock that kept her from feeling the dead-end nerves of her wrist or the exposed flesh of her peeled-back hand or the broken wrist. Shock that kept her from feeling anything. The second cannon hadn’t been Brock, it had been Aramis. For all that he stood before her and dared her to attack, she almost couldn’t compute it. Aramis was dead. He was always going to be dead, but at this distance, he looked like he’d never lived - just a doll that had been broken. Two blond boy dolls, their strings cut, skewed on the ground amongst their food and their toys. She closed the gap between them, a dagger - her dagger, an extension of herself - in her useable hand but dangling in her fingertips. Caged by them. Her hackles didn’t raise, her body didn’t tense. Her eyes flicked up at Brock, precise but with a hollowness to them as she came over to rest some distance outside his immediate reach. “If there was any debate over whether you could kill someone over the age of 13… I think it’s over now,” she said, buttoning her mouth into a frown between her teeth. She looked down at Aramis, unrecognizable but for the strands of hair not matted and dark with blood. He was dead, but this was as good a death as you could get here. He fought valiantly. “I guess that makes us all even. One of each.” The mace tightened in Brock's hand, then loosened. He couldn't tell if she was going to attack, if this was simply going to be the day the entire Career threat was destroyed in the arena. Their alliance was over, there was no doubt to that, and he was ready to take her if that's what it would come to. He wished she had run off too, left him there with the remaining supplies and time to treat his wounds before he had to fight her. But it was already too lucky that Miranda had run off, even with what little supplies she had taken. It would be too much to ask for Brock to be able to lay claim to the entirety of the Career's horde, or what was left of it. Eyeing her carefully, Brock took note of her injuries, the blood dripping down from her hand, her wrist was held at an unnatural angle. It was likely she looked worse than she actually was (or so he hoped), as Brock himself was sure he did. His chest was wet and sticky, and he knew it wasn't only from sweat but from blood and he didn't even want to think what else. But was she itching for a fight? "Yeah, well," he finally replied, words coming out slowly. He wanted to remark that anyone who thought so was a fool, but those were too many words. (And later he'd realize he was fortunate, that they might have risked alienating potential sponsors. But sponsors weren't on his mind at that moment.) He was incredibly aware of the mace in his hand, watching her for the first sign of an attack, but he still couldn't tell if it was going to come. "So." “So,” she replied, also keenly aware of the mace in his hand. She was exhausted and from the look on Brock, so was he. They could fight. They could fight. She looked up at the sky for a moment, knowing there’d be 4 tributes in the stars tonight. “Top 8. They’ll know the alliance has collapsed. It will make them feel brave,” she mused aloud. She pursed her lips together and looked over at Brock. “Ours doesn’t have to,” she suggested. It didn’t occur to her earlier to ally with Brock - her thoughts had always been toward Aramis and towards the 2 other girls. But Aramis was dead and Zipporah was dead and Miranda was soon to be dead. Death made strange bedfellows. Eye narrowing further (just the one, since the other was swollen shut from Aramis's fist), Brock took a moment to think about it. She could be lying, but would it even matter? They would be allies until they weren't, same as before. She could be trying to keep him closer, but Sephora would be putting herself at the same risk. And her points had merit; there was at least one more alliance still out there that he knew of, as well as Alex (a formidable opponent, he knew) and Rye (a formidable opponent, he assumed). "Okay," he said. "Deal." Huh, okay. He still had an ally for the time being. He looked her over, the peeling flesh and bruises and broken wrist. He could take her when it came down to it, even as injured as he was. And if he started to think he couldn't… well, he still had sleep syrup in his bag. So that was it, then. "Here, I got a bandage for that hand." |