Kobe Bryant (probablydead) wrote in colosseum, @ 2013-12-15 00:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 55th games, - arena, tribute: 55th marlin felucca |
WHO: Marlin Felucca
WHAT: "When they go fishing, it is not really fish they are after."
WHEN: Morning, day 11
WHERE: Frozen side somewhere, ok
WARNINGS: Fish
STATUS: Complete narrative
Marlin twirled the ice pick in his hand, feeling the weight of the tool in his hand. Though he'd wiped the blood off of the head, dark stains trickled down the wooden handle, and Marlin didn't care to remove them. It might not even have been possible, at this point, and perhaps the reminder would serve him well. But then, the blood didn't mean much when he planned on using the pick for its intended purpose. Ice didn't bleed, and Marlin had decided to take the morning to scout. He'd left Basil and Dory back at the camp, confident that neither of them would try anything in his absence. It was still too early for that, and someone had to go look for food. After Basil's discovery of the frozen goat, not quite so long ago as it felt, Marlin felt the need to put District 4's reputation to the test. He wasn't a fisherman, but hell yeah, he could fish. Reaching the bottom of the mountain, he shivered tucking one gloved hand under his armpit. The expanse of ice stretched out in front of him, flat, white, and unchanging except -- was that a hole? Marlin squinted at the spot on the ice. A tiny wave lapped above the surface, as if taunting him. He hooked the pick back into his belt loop. Too easy. How could he know if his show the day before had satisfied the Gamemakers enough to keep them from targeting District 4? Marlin shrugged off his pack and rummaged around inside for the length of rope he'd picked up at the Cornucopia. The rope had served no practical use thus far in the Games, and as he unraveled the coil, Marlin thought of crafting a noose. For whom, he couldn't say. Deftly, he tied the rope around his backpack, wrapping the other end around his hand several times. He felt silly, like he was walking his inanimate pack like a dog on a leash, but nevertheless, he gripped the rope and kicked. His backpack skittered across the ice, coming to a stop when the rope pulled taut in his hand. Marlin still outweighed his pack, even with the fishing gear and several bottles filled with boiled snow, but if the ice didn't break under his things, it was tentatively a good sign. He shuffled along after it, then repeated the whole ordeal until he reached the hole. Looking down into the dark water, surrounded by thick ice, Marlin felt a pang of loss. If he didn't win and return to District 4, this dingy little hole would become the window into the last body of water he would ever see. His own damn fault. A shiver passed over his body. Until this moment in the Games, Marlin hadn't allowed himself to think like that. He needed to be confident, sure he could win. Doubt could mean death. This was all he had ever wanted. He couldn't afford to live the rest of his life with the regret at never having tried, and he had never felt so alive as when he was killing. He let out a shivering breath and knelt down to remove the fishing gear from his pack. Something had better bite quickly, he thought. It wasn't good for him to be alone like this. |