Terry Bombazine | D8 (atribute) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-04-06 03:50:00 |
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When his lungs were screaming for air and his legs felt leaden, Terry assumed they made it far enough from the Cornucopia to rest and take inventory. He let the small leather bag, the stupid vase, and the corkscrew fall to the ground next to him and knew before he even saw the unnatural bump on his hand that it was broken. His dad and his gramps used to always say that a man couldn't get good with his hands without breaking them a few times and Terry most certainly had his fair share of hand injuries over the years as he developed his skills. He knew the feeling of a break quite well. Still struggling to catch his breath, he cast Shift a resentful side eye. Was his ally worth a broken hand? Worth a stupid vase, whatever was in that little leather bag next to him? Would Woof think so? Maybe he would in light of the career girl's death. Terry ran right into a fight when he went back for Shift. He was worried he'd never find an ally in that mist if he left Shift behind, convinced as he was running that Shift's nearby presence could very well be the only stroke of luck he'd get in the arena, and he couldn't help but think of that same concern he had at the start about being outnumbered in an alliance. If the Sixes survived and Shift didn't, there was no telling what Terry's standing in that group would be. He didn't have time to weigh his options beyond realizing his fears and, before he knew it, he was back at the Cornucopia and getting his hand broken. He picked up the corkscrew, noticing for the first time that the murder weapon was encrusted with jewels. Lips tightening, his eye caught a few fine strands of red hair next. Swallowing the bile that threatened to rise in his throat, he carefully unwound the strands from the twisted metal screw. Terry remembered the way it felt to force it into the District Four tribute's head, the way her skull yielded under the pressure of his hand, the way he had to use the heel of his boot for the leverage needed to yank it back out. None of the remorse he'd been expecting hit him yet and he wasn't sure if that was because the girl was a career or what but its absence surprised him. Maybe he was just in shock, he thought. Terry wiped the blood from the corkscrew onto the leg of his gray pants before he dropped it back onto the ground and picked up the small leather bag he managed to grab when they fled. Maybe there'd be some water - he was fucking thirsty after fighting, killing, running. Hastily, he unzipped the back and peered inside, disappointed to note the absence of what he'd hoped for. Reaching in, he withdrew a pair of designer sunglasses instead. His displeasure was written on his face but he thought better of his initial plan to discard the sunglasses before he could voice a complaint to his ally. Instead, he carefully maneuvered the sunglasses onto his face with the hand that wasn't presently feeling like hell. The tint was dark but they didn't do much by way of lowering visibility. In this fog, visibility couldn't get much worse. Nobody would be able to see the fear he'd seen written in the eyes of tributes on TV his whole life. He took some consolation in that, at least. He cleared his throat and turned to look at Shift. Instinctively, he wanted to berate him for not running in the first place, ask him what the hell he stuck around like that for, but he bit it back. Shift Rhodes was a better asset than the ornate vase, jeweled corkscrew, and leather bag lying beside him, a better asset than the sunglasses on his face, and they had taken that Four down together. One hand down, Terry knew he couldn't afford to lose his ally, too. It wasn't like Shift asked him to come running back like that. Terry found himself wondering if Faline and Cannel made it out, remembered how he and Faline assumed they'd be able to see one another from their platforms, remembered how much he dreaded coming face to face with her after breaking his promise of an alliance. If a man was only as good as his word, like gramps and his dad always said, too, then Terry had proven he was no good at all. But he was alive. That was something. Adjusting the sunglasses on his face, he dropped his eyes back to his aching hand. "I'm gonna need to splint this. Shit's broken." |