![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who: Aunamee and Wyatt
What: A showdown
Where: Outside the Temple, near the flooded shore
When: Week 7
Warnings: Violence, death.
On the empty steps of the Temple, Aunamee spins and shows himself off to the cameras like a bride on her wedding day. The blood that matted his scalp is gone. The cuts and scabs are gone. The wound that tore through his right shoulder is now a shadow, less than a shadow, and as he turns, he flexes the muscles on his perfectly non-paralyzed hand.
He bathed in the healing fountain.
Naked, of course, because even as he crawled half-dead towards the water, the thought of sinking in wet clothes made him feel ill. He did not come to the water to heal himself, but rather as an unconscious mortal urge to get somewhere safe and dark before he died, like a dying cat hiding itself under its favorite couch.
For Aunamee, clean and safe are synonymous.
It was pure luck that he opened his mouth to take in the water as he floated. His wounds were erased as abruptly as an etch-a-sketch. When he raised his head out of the water, gasping in the air that now came more easily, he inhaled microscopic particles that took away his pain. He cringed as he redressed in his muddy, bloody clothes, but it was an automatic response. It was nothing.
Halfway through one of his spins, night falls entirely and a single spotlight bathes him in the light from the heavens. And he doesn't care. He is whole again. This is how the world is supposed to feel. Agony is oil and he is water. Sweet water.
What: A showdown
Where: Outside the Temple, near the flooded shore
When: Week 7
Warnings: Violence, death.
On the empty steps of the Temple, Aunamee spins and shows himself off to the cameras like a bride on her wedding day. The blood that matted his scalp is gone. The cuts and scabs are gone. The wound that tore through his right shoulder is now a shadow, less than a shadow, and as he turns, he flexes the muscles on his perfectly non-paralyzed hand.
He bathed in the healing fountain.
Naked, of course, because even as he crawled half-dead towards the water, the thought of sinking in wet clothes made him feel ill. He did not come to the water to heal himself, but rather as an unconscious mortal urge to get somewhere safe and dark before he died, like a dying cat hiding itself under its favorite couch.
For Aunamee, clean and safe are synonymous.
It was pure luck that he opened his mouth to take in the water as he floated. His wounds were erased as abruptly as an etch-a-sketch. When he raised his head out of the water, gasping in the air that now came more easily, he inhaled microscopic particles that took away his pain. He cringed as he redressed in his muddy, bloody clothes, but it was an automatic response. It was nothing.
Halfway through one of his spins, night falls entirely and a single spotlight bathes him in the light from the heavens. And he doesn't care. He is whole again. This is how the world is supposed to feel. Agony is oil and he is water. Sweet water.
no subject
The arena was speeding to a close, he could feel it - see it, every night as more and more tributes found their way into the night sky - and he'd already lost so much time.
He had promises to keep.
Ellie stayed with him. A part of him was reluctant, knowing where he was headed and what he planned to do when he got there, but a bigger part was grateful. Grateful for the support, for the reason to keep going, to keep strong - and for the company. She talked a lot, when she was relaxed, and it was oddly comforting. To know someone else was there. That he wasn't alone.
It kept him outside of his own thoughts.
And it gave him a chance to repay her. To watch over her as she had done for him, and, when the parachute came baring food to share it with her.
With eased bellies for the first time in days, they camped up for the night. He took the first watch, settling a few feet away to watch the night while Ellie rested.
It was then, when the rest of the arena had gone quiet, but the soft, constant hum of the jungle (insects and water and night birds) that he heard the click. Deep and echoing, and entirely unnatural.
Searching for the source, he found the light. A glow from in between the trees.
Glancing at Ellie, trusting in the dark to keep her safe, he picked up his spear. His knife.
Crept slowly, silently closer.
no subject
"No stealth," he says under his breath, more to himself than to Wyatt. His eyes seek out the other spotlight, and-- and yes, this person is close, but with the way his own light floods his vision, he cannot make out who it is just yet. "No hiding."
Because now the Capitol wants us to die, his mind fills in. He grips the hilt of his knife with white knuckles.
Aunamee has been itching to kill someone up close.
no subject
The Capitol would need a stage. A grand finale for the audience.
He gave up on stealth and came out of the trees, head up, shoulders square. He paused below the steps, staring up at the man he'd spent the entirety of the arena searching for.
His eyes flicked to the knife in Aunamee's hand, then back to his face.
He tossed his spear aside. Shifted his knife to the other side.
This, is how it would end.
no subject
"What a gentleman," he says, and although his wounds are healed, his voice is hoarse and his skin is grey with exhaustion. He smiles without joy.
"What if I refuse to fight?"
no subject
"Ya had yer chance, Aunamee." The knife flashes, shining under the high lights, a leering grin against Wyatt's grim face. "Now it ends."
They were beyond humanity at this point, Wyatt knowing all to well Aunamee had none.
no subject
Wyatt made him messy in death. Messy like maggots. Messy like soiled clothing.
(Messy like nothingness forever.)
"Did that make you feel like a hero?"
no subject
There on the desert floor. Bones and meat and little scraps between R's teeth. An ache in his knuckles and a sting in his arm.
Wyatt took the next step, matching Aunamee. Nothing gained, but nothing lost.
His index finger rubbed over the spine of the blade, but his gaze was steady.
no subject
Aunamee simply remains as he did before, except now he freezes his retreating foot midair and then sets it down again.
He no longer backs away. He waits.
"You let the boy die in your care, Wyatt," he says, stone-faced. "You let the girl die, too."
no subject
The knife shifted against his palm, but his climb didn't falter.
"I ain't afraid to meet my maker."
He was unflinching, prepared to pay for the things he'd done - all his many shortcomings - as the distance closed, the ground leveling between them. (No, he didn't want to die, had things - people - he wanted to live for, but if it was time for him to go, he would go content. Knowing he'd taken Aunamee with him.)
"I ain't like you."
no subject
He braces himself on the stairs, his knees bent, his arms steady. In his old world, he was trained with a blade not much larger than this one (because bullets are temporary, because bullets will run out when the world runs out) and a part of him is secretly pleased that this is what Wyatt has chosen.
But it's only a small part. The rest of him is occupied with rage, terror, that certain scream of adrenaline that comes before facing the unknown. His nostrils flare. His pupils swallow his irises.
His arms, his legs, and his expression remain steady.
"Now try to kill me."
no subject
(He deserved to know what was happening, and who had caused it. To know he wouldn't go unaccounted for. Unpunished.)
The words cleared Aunamee's lips and as if he'd been released by them, Wyatt moved, a snake-like snap of his arm - all those hours in the training room, his sharp-shooting aim transformed - and his knife was flying.
He didn't expect it to connect. He didn't expect Aunamee to go down that easily.
But that's why he followed it up with a lunge, clearing the last steps, shoulder dropped and aimed at the man's chest.
no subject
You should've given in to his shove, he thought. You should have used his weight against him.
And so that is what he does.
He dodges the knife, and then as Wyatt rams into his shoulder, he puts up no resistance, instead letting his feed stumble backwards up the steps, bringing Wyatt with him. Then, as they steady, he stomps his foot down, aiming for the other man's ankle.
no subject
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he threw up his elbow, ramming at Aunamee's ribs while his other hand was curling into a fist and jabbing in at his kidney.
no subject
Sanderson with his uneven stubble, taking a hand drill to the tips of Aunamee's fingers. Aunamee had watched impassively as the skin and blood whirred away, and when he snapped the man's neck with fingernailless hands, poor Sanderson still hadn't understood what had happened.
Annie running him through with a sword, how her cries of victory turned into cries of terror as Aunamee pulled the 9-inch blade out of his stomach with all the casualness of dusting dirt off his jacket.
Dr. Grey in the ice caverns, crushing his neck like a soda can, tearing his arm out of his socket, dying when Aunamee stabbed him with all his strength despite it all.
It occurs to him, with more clarity than usual, that he will win this fight. If the Capitol lets him.
(They should've left you there, said Wyatt, and in this case, 'should've' also meant the same thing as 'could've.')
There is a new fire, a new rage behind his next attack, a wide and wild swing at Wyatt's face with his palm, a smack meant to knock him backwards with his weakened ankle.
no subject
He knew he could do it again.
He was determined to do it again.
He saw the swing coming, caught it in time out of the corner of his eye, but he let it connect. Giving, so that he could take while Aunamee was pre-occupied.
His fists caught in the man's shirt, yanked as heat was washing across his face. Twisted, and used all his weight to try and throw Aunamee down the stairs.
no subject
His ankle snaps first, and then his wrist, his elbow, his shoulder as he tries to brace himself against the harsh stone and fails, skidding and tumbling down the remainder of the stairs. It takes too long for him to reach the bottom -- or, at least, it feels like it takes too long -- and when he does, he opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and his eyelashes brush against a bloody streak his forehead left on the final step.
He tries to get up. Even without the pain, reality shifts in and out of his vision, and it is difficult, genuinely difficult. He cannot feel pain, but his body is still a human body, still mortal. He makes it to his knees, wobbling, and he coughs blood out of his lungs.
He learned one thing, though. He didn't drop the knife. He holds it in his mangled right hand, his muscles trembling with the agony the gas won't let him feel.
no subject
He spat, a thick glob of blood splattering wetly, as Aunamee struggled to his knees. He turned away, found his knife and leaned over the top two steps to drag it back to him.
Wearily, he made his way down the stairs, his ankle painful, but not enough to stop him. Mindful of the blade still in Aunamee's grip, he kicked out to knock it away.
no subject
He realizes that he's hyperventilating.
Aunamee has never had to face his own death before. Not really. In his first arena, it was instantaneous. In the third arena, he was unconscious so quickly that he barely knew it was happening. In the second arena, he was drunk on blood loss and someone was there for him, holding him, keeping him safe. Now he's wide awake. Now he isn't safe.
He quickly gets his good leg underneath him and attempts to stand, his breath harsh in his throat.
no subject
...Or trying to.
Steel feathered against the underside of Aunamee's chin, pressed into skin.
Their eyes met. Aunamee's dark and wild. Wyatt's cold and distant.
"You ever, come near me er mine again... an' yer gonna wish they had left ya there."
no subject
He smiles.
It's an odd smile because the terror is still in his eyes, but it's a smile nonetheless, the edges of his lips twitching like dying insects. He wills his breathing to calm down, and it does, bit by bit, the sounds no longer so desperate, no longer so mortal. Wyatt is talking about the future, and he will be here for that, yes. He can feel it.
(He imagines he can feel it.)
"Killing me now," he says, "will only guarantee that I'll be back for them. Ask Maximus."
He gives a wink.
"I even out messes."
no subject
"An' I'll be there."
A threat, and a promise.
Something for Aunamee to take with him as Wyatt slashed the blade across his throat.
no subject
(Why didn't you just beg?!)
But it's too late. Death without pain feels like sinking, and so Aunamee grabs Wyatt's shirt with his good hand to keep himself afloat as the water fills his cargo hold (as the blood fills his sinuses), dragging him down bit by bit, short-circuiting his controls (the strength in his legs), dimming his lights (his vision), taking him like something greedy that has been waiting all this time just. to. have. him.
His hand goes slack. It curls, drops from Wyatt's shirt like a withered leaf.
It doesn't take more than ten seconds.
no subject
The cannon crashed through the night, and he stepped back, leaving Aunamee's corpse to flop over into the dirt unsupported. Unlike the others, unlike Max and Howard and the lady victor, he didn't wait for the machines to come. Instead he left Aunamee there, swimming in a pool of red and white.
Alone and forgotten.