Pippin Crisp, District 11 (anotherone) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-04-14 11:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 57th games, - arena, tribute: 57th pippin crisp, tribute: 57th shad simmons |
WHO: Shad Simmons (D4) and Pippin Crisp (D11)
WHAT: Pippin didn't bring a knife to this fight. Luckily, Shad has two.
WHEN: Day 11, noonish.
WHERE: Back on Cloud 9, the foresty southerly part.
STATUS: Complete.
WARNINGS: The usual.
It was hard tracking anything in the mist. Shad had hoped it might burn off and reveal the true nature of the arena, but apparently the haze wasn't interrupting viewing enough to coax a change in that direction. Instead, it looked like rain.
Growing tired of sticking around a Cornucopia that had been emptied of everything useful, Shad had decided to explore their island again. He had the major landmarks memorized, though in case it did start to pour, he'd pocketed a couple handfuls of coins in case he needed to leave a trail. And if that wasn't necessary, coins made a decent lure. There was something satisfying about palming the silver and gold, even if there was no place to spend it.
Two hours into his exploration with no signs of tributes, he'd paused near a copse of trees to gather kindling. The stuffing in the plush chairs burned quickly and the mist was making it damp. Shad wasn't sure the wood would be any better, but if he could get back to the Cornucopia before the clouds let loose, the tinder could dry out there. There would be no distinguishing smoke from the general atmosphere, which worked in their favor.
It was boring work. He had a small pile of sticks by his feet and was stripping needles from them when he got the urge to pee. Sighing, he put down the knife, walked over to the trunk of the tree, and pulled down the front of his pants. How he could still have to pee with as little water as he'd been taking in was beyond him. It was one reason he was grateful it looked (and smelled) like rain.
Pippin was full for the first time since leaving the Capitol from the incredible gift of food that proved somebody still wanted him to win, and with a full stomach came energy and a manic sort of focus. He was alive and he had food and water and a firestarter, so he had everything he needed except one thing. He'd failed twice now at getting a knife from the Three boy, and he wasn't big enough to kill without a weapon; he couldn't win the Hunger Games without a knife.
Hugh had gone back to that other island, the one where he'd given Pippin the wound across his side, but Pippin hadn't followed after. He was too smart and too sneaky and even a monster wolf couldn't kill him; there were other kids out there he could get a weapon from, probably. He'd retraced his steps back to the Cornucopia island instead, and it turned out that was a good move, because he hadn't been there long before he heard something like metal hitting against metal, something that meant people.
He was nearly silent in the mist as he moved carefully toward the sound, weaving around trees and listening as hard as he could for any further sound. Just a moment later he stopped short as the fog parted and revealed another tribute not ten feet away -- a big boy with his back turned, peeing on a tree, and his knife lying unprotected on the ground a few steps away.
Pippin's heart surged with both fear and excitement at the sight of that knife, lying there like it was meant for him. He didn't even pause to consider the situation; he just ran forward on light feet, scooped up the knife, and launched himself blade first at the back of the big boy from Four's legs.
"AUGH!" Shad was in the process of shaking things off and rearranging his pants when he registered the unnatural sounds behind him. Pippin had been so quiet that Shad wasn't afforded time to react; pain flared across his hamstring in the wake of his own knife's blade. His knee buckled immediately and he staggered, trying not to land in his own piss and while reaching his second knife.
"You!" he cried out, like he'd been expecting Pippin. In actuality, he'd only really thought about the boy when they'd been eating cicadas, remembering how Pippin had pushed a beetle at him during training. Leaving his working knife abandoned had been monumentally stupid, and now he'd been cut with the damn thing, rough blade and all. If he hadn't been preoccupied with being stabbed by a wild little outlier kid, he'd have been embarrassed.
Knife in hand now, he balanced on his uninjured leg, glaring down at the younger tribute. He pointed the end of the knife at Pippin. "That was a bad move," he said through gritted teeth, and then he threw himself forward.
He'd rolled away fast after his initial dive and bounced back to his feet, and the shout from the other boy and the sheen of Shad's blood on his knife (his knife!) made Pippin smile, an expression that always looked strange on his serious face. His heart was beating even faster now, giving him more energy than he'd felt in days. He held his canteen in one hand, protecting his stomach with it, and his knife (his!) in the other, blade out and hungry for more blood.
He dodged when Shad came rushing at him, spinning away behind a tree, and darted a few steps to the side, his eyes fixed on the other boy's shiny knife. "No, it wasn't," he answered calmly. "I have a knife now. That means I can kill you and everyone else."
He should have been running, he really should, but he'd already hurt the big boy from Four. He could see the blood flowing from his leg and see it wet on his own knife, and his stomach ached with anticipation for more of that. The injury over his ribs, which must have torn open once more, was burning with every breath and his blood-stiff shirt was getting wet with his blood again, but the only thing Pippin could think about was killing. He wanted to so badly that it hurt, and he smiled at Shad, his eyes huge in his thin face and a little wild. "Come on," he urged. "Don't be scared. Everyone dies."
Shad wouldn't have been able to give chase very far, but Pippin made it easier on him by staying put, even if he was dancing around with a crazed look on his face. Normally, Shad would have laughed, relieved by the simplicity of the task, but the words coming out of Pippin's mouth sounded so out of place that he couldn't help but tilt his head. Was he hearing things right?
"Not everyone," replied Shad, eyes flicking from his lost knife to the canteen, and then to the crusted blood across Pippin's shirt. "But you can try."
He charged at Pippin again, ready to clout him on the side of his head with one hand and use his good knife with the other. Even if he was cut again, he felt confident Pippin wouldn't be killing anyone in the arena.
Pippin was ready to step to the side once more. Everything seemed clear and sharp despite the mist swirling around them, and it felt like Shad was moving in slow motion and he could easily dodge him and hit him and stab him again and again with his knife until all his blood came out--
Then a sharp pain in his side buckled his knees and a simultaneous blow to his head from Shad's swinging fist sent bright white explosions in front of his eyes, and Pippin went down underneath Shad, pinned to the rocky ground by the much bigger boy. He landed hard and gasped for air, swinging out blindly with his knife as he kicked and struggled to get Shad off of him. He still wasn't scared. Somehow there was still a way he could win this, Pippin was sure.
The knife ripped into Shad's clothing and slashed against the outside of his tricep. He growled and reached for Pippin's arm, grabbing it by the wrist and slamming it into the ground to force the release of the working knife. He did it several times in a row, not caring if he broke every bone in Pippin's small arm and hand.
Shad didn't know how the hell the kid had enough energy to squirm the way he was. He imagined the round-eyed fish flopping down the line at the cannery, gills gaping for water they couldn't have. He wasn't sure if Pippin really thought he could be a victor. He didn't know if Pippin was scared. He was determined to put the kid out of his misery before he started to panic. If he even would.
He adjusted the knife in his hand, rotating it around with familiarity. A second later, he aligned the blade to Pippin's neck.
Pippin had never made a sound like the one he made when the thin bones of his wrist shattered against the rocky ground -- something between a groan and a shriek as his entire arm exploded into hot pain and the knife dropped from his hand to clatter away somewhere out of reach.
His face was wet with tears from the pain, suddenly, and he could feel the cold knife blade against his neck. It should have left him frozen in fear, but he was like an animal in a trap, kicking and bucking and snarling like he wasn't human. He even reared his head up to snap his teeth at Shad's face, too wild to realize that every move was making the knife cut into his skin, making his neck slippery with blood.
The sound of Pippin's shriek cut deeper than the knife had. It was feral, just like the look in Pippin's eye. The boy was tameless and raging. Shad might have been disturbed by it was he not worried about the nose on his own face. Pippin might not have been scared to die, but he was fighting it. Shad's tunnel vision - focused on the knife and the incision he needed to make - was getting interrupted by snatches of white teeth and the whites of Pippin's eyes.
Without hesitation, Shad drew the knife across Pippin's neck, against the small boy's straining muscles and pulsing vein.
The snarls turned into wet gurgles, and Pippin couldn't take a breath, but he never stopped fighting back. He writhed ineffectually under Shad, every movement slower and weaker as the blood pumped out of him and his vision dimmed. He had no thoughts in his head, no room for fear or surprise or regret or anything but the need to fight on.
Then his body shuddered slowly to a stop, and what was left of Pippin's breath deserted him in a bubbling sigh, and he was finally still.
Shad felt Pippin grow limp and slowly got to his feet, leg burning. A cannon sounded, quickly followed by a clap of thunder. He was covered in blood, but he was used to that. He took the canteen that Pippin had dropped, a paltry "prize" for the deed. He grabbed his knife back and vowed not to be so stupid again.
Pippin's fleece and shirt were soaked in blood, but Shad unzipped one pant leg and struggled to work it over the boy's boot so he could bandage his leg and arm. It seemed wrong, not to let the boy lie there in the clothing in which he'd arrived to the arena, but with no first aid in the Cornucopia (other than some spritzes of cologne), Shad had to work with what was there. The pant leg would work in a pinch, and it was better than using his own.
He could have been like the kids from District One, paying respect to the dead by placing gold or silver coins over Pippin's eyes. Shad didn't think like that, though. What was the point of a gesture like that when you were the one responsible for the death? If he became Victor, he'd say something then.
For now, he needed to get out of the rain and patch himself up. He limped off, coins jingling.