thearena | THE FINALE IS OUTSIDE

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THE FINALE IS OUTSIDE

WHO| The remaining Tributes
WHAT| The finale
WHEN| Week 7
WHERE| First floor, outside
WARNINGS| There will probably be death.

There's nothing more than a mechanized click when the front door on the first floor opens. Tributes who venture out will see that unlike the inside of the museum, the outside is perfectly curated and kept. Lush green grass spills out onto the lawns. A fountain with a copper statue of Cruentus spits fresh water.

A patio with outdoor seating fringes a fancy restaurant. Each table is set with something inside a doggie bag with 'Theodor Roosevelar Museum of Natural History' printed on its brown-paper side. Inside each bag is a long leather whip, matches and a stick of dynamite. The intended purpose is fairly clear.

And there are steeds. The prehistoric animal fossils from the fifth floor, primarily ancient species of horses, ground sloths and deer, stand at alert with little saddles on their backs and reins dangling from their muzzles. Their bones seem dry and dull in the bright sunlight. They all behave as horses would, nickering despite their missing lungs, startling at loud noises. Only very close inspection reveals that they're actually robotic. They make little hydraulic squeaks as they paw the ground, and one, a massive prehistoric deer with a twelve-foot antler-span, makes a tiny beeping sound whenever anyone approaches. They're testy, and when spooked have a tendency to run people down.

Most interesting, however, is what lies at the very far end of the lawn, a good half-mile from the door and nearly impossible to make out. It's a helicopter, piloted by a sole Avox, sitting on the grass. There is room for only one passenger, and the small crown sitting on the seat indicates exactly which Tribute that will have to be. No one else will be getting further than today.

In the background, modern Tributes will be able to make out a dilapidated skyline that once must have been Chicago.

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Wyatt had been ready for this, waiting for this, since the second explosion had rocked the arena, sending dust and grit down on him where he camped on the first floor. Even without the dry announcement that had followed, he felt the end fast approaching - knew the Capitol wouldn't let it slip past without a finale hurrah.

Under Roosevelt's watchful eye, he approached the front doors, moving through the silent stalls as the dull click of the lock coming undone faded in the quiet of the room. Pushing the door open - a slow crack at first then faster, a wide sweep as his gun came up, hammer cocking back under his thumb - he stood blinking in the sunlight, struggling to see after so long in the dim and dark.

His ears turned him toward the animals first, the soft sounds too familiar to be mistaken, and even after his eyes adjusted and he saw them for what they were, he had eyes for nothing else.

A gun, a horse - even a dead one.... There, in that moment, it felt like his arena to lose.

A moment later he was in the saddle, one of the strange beasts prancing beneath him as they both adjusted to the feel of the other. They twisted together, a tight spiral of man and beast, flesh and bone, and then they were heading across the yard at a gallop, hooves pounding against the earth.

Cuthbert was glad to see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. He had heard a lot of names in the past few weeks and he had outlived all of them. Now it was down to the toughest and luckiest ones. And Cuthbert intended to be both.

The skeletons were unsettling, some kind of strange message being sent to the tributes. This was a graveyard up and moving, and only one of them would get out of it alive.

He was careful not to reveal himself right away, but he did see someone riding one of the abominations. Part of him wasn't all that surprised, he hadn't heard Wyatt's name announced yet. He stepped out behind another skeleton where he would have a bit of cover and protection from being run down.

"Figures a shadow of a man would ride a shadow of a horse. Neither of you are fit enough to be whole. The only difference is that we can see clearly the horse has no prick, while you still cling to the notion that the right pants will hide your lack from the world."

The man-shape dislodged itself from the long, lean form of the animal, coming seemingly out of nowhere, and Wyatt's horse started. Hooves eating into the earth, it stopped short and reared back with a nervous whinnying cry.

Wyatt rocked back in the saddle, pulling on the reigns, trying to right and steady the beast.

"At least I ain't got'a wave mine around in fear I'll forget I got one." Spurring the horse forward with his heels, he pressed closer, reaching for his revolver. "Stand aside, Allgood."

That his horse would actually rear like that gave Bert a chuckle, it looked so strange and wrong. He was otherwise unmoved by the threat, however.

"Or what? You'll pop off at me with your overgrown pea shooter?" It didn't matter that he was carrying the same gun Cuthbert was, he wasn't as good a shot, he hadn't earned his gun. At least, not in Cuthbert's mind.

"I doubt you could hit the broad side of a building with another man holding your sites straight. But I'll make you a deal. Why not get down off that ugly thing, and dismount your horse while you're at it. I will give you an opportunity to be shot like a man, by a man, instead of like a fool on the back of a toy."

It was hardly the first-time Wyatt had been catcalled. Wyatt had been gritting his teeth against drunkards long past respectability, standing steady in the face of blustering fools who thought a bit of metal and a fast tongue put them above the law while Cuthbert was still hiding behind his momma's skirts.

Instead of allowing himself to sink to the same level, to give Cuthbert what he wanted by entertaining him, Wyatt simply moved.

As fast as a striking rattler, the revolver came up - a fast of metal and a soft click, the hammer cocking - and the shot cracked across the yard. The bullet buried itself in the ground at the feet of the beast Cuthbert cowered behind, sending the animal into hysterics and exposing the other man.

"Don't make me kill you, boy."

Edited 2014-03-06 18:53 (UTC)

Bert laughed even as he rolled out of the way of his startled cover. The skeleton hadn't been much in the way of 'cover' anyway, more of a block to make sure he wasn't trampled before he could get a shot off. Which, speaking of, he took a dive to the side and in one swift motion raised his gun and fired. His aim was as on as it always had been, he put a bullet right into the skull of the horse Wyatt was riding.

"I shoot with my heart, sai. And the next one will be in your head so it can rattle around in the empty space where your brain should be."

He darted off again, thinking Wyatt would waste more ammunition trying to nail him while he moved.

The dusty bone exploded into yellowed shards. Sparks popped and metal screamed as the secret workings beneath came into view.

Not actually any sort of horse at all, Wyatt had a heartbeat to feel some disappointment in that, but not a beat longer. The machine was stumbling, toppling, and he had to dive from the saddle to avoid being trapped by the hulk.

Hitting the ground on his shoulder - the old injury protested, but he didn't let it slow him - he let himself roll up onto his haunches, gun coming up again over the beast as it collapsed. As dead then as it looked.

There was a breath, his eyes fixed down on the barrel on Cuthbert as he raced away - all the time in the world - and then he was firing again.

He wasn't a marshal anymore, it wasn't his duty to bring men in alive to face their charges, but some habits were still hard to break. Wyatt could have killed him - should've - but he sent that bullet screaming into one the man's knees instead.

The pain was immediate and hot but with all the other failings his body was going through for not having eaten in the past few days it was more distant than it could have been. He fell as soon as he knee failed him, and rolled away from the injured leg. He didn't have many bullets left, but he could spend one in Wyatt's head.

But his vision was starting to go blurry and his first shot wasn't quite high enough. He couldn't even tell if he hit anything at all with it, the sound of the shot was ringing in his ears.

The bullet cracked past Wyatt's head, a close shave that left a whistling in its wake. He fired back, more out of instinct, a ploy to cover himself, and darted to one side, seeking cover.

He turned in behind an elegantly carved stone bunch, digging with one hand into the pocket of the deerskin jacket, fingers brushing past his collection of notes to the loose bullets beneath. Fishing the rounds out as he leaned around the end of the bench, risking a look in the direction he'd left Cuthbert.

Other than the three rounds he'd already spent on the young man, Wyatt still had his whole box.

It was an awesome thing to watch. Mindy had, after all, resigned herself to seeing who was left and wound up stumbling into one of the best gun fights ever. Had she been dead, she'd be watching this on the monitors, cheering Wyatt on.

As she was here and not in the safety of her own room, a choice was made. Wyatt wasn't just good he was great: one of the best she'd ever seen, and she knew how to astound adults with how good she was. This of course, was the crux of the problem: she couldn't face Wyatt one on one. He would win. Mindy had risked and taken all the pains of this Arena: the cuts on her stomach, the scratches on her back, the arrow in her shoulder. She sacrificed and now, with that, there was no turning back.

No hesitation. She lifted the gun and steadied her hand, waiting.

"Have to reload already? Did they not teach you anything in the run down backroom they gave you your gun in? Or were you too busy with your fingers up your nose to pay attention to the basics of loading a gun."

Bert took a wild shot into the bench Wyatt was hiding behind. He wanted to get up and move but that wasn't going to happen now. His best case scenario was to go out in a blazing moment of shit talking glory. He wanted Wyatt to wake up wherever he ended up still angry with Cuthbert, he wanted his taunts to be the last thing Wyatt thought of before he died.

Wyatt had three shots left in the round, but he wanted the reload ready - wasn't about to be caught playing around with a box and loose shells when it mattered. Palming the bullets, he leaned-- and jerked back as stone cracked and splintered, biting shards breaking away from the corner of the bench. One jagged piece skipping across his cheek.

The dust was still floating as he popped back around the crumbling edge of the bench, squeezing the trigger of his gun -- even as something was slamming hard into his left shoulder, throwing him forward into the stone.

He'd been shot before, a brushing encounter with a scattergun while riding cover on a Wells Fargo coach so he knew what it was. Just as he instinctively knew that he couldn't stay as he was, couldn't fend off both attacks at once.

He didn't stop to think about it, didn't weigh the odds. He just moved.

Heat streaming from his shoulder and pain pounding in his throat, he sprinted from his cover, taking two fast shots at a Bert as he raced toward him. Saving the third until his shadow was falling over the man.

Until he could put it square in the man's chest.

Cuthbert took one last shot at Wyatt as he approached. Low, toward his knee so he could bring the other man down as low as he himself was. By the time he took he shot to the chest he was ready, he was ready to go, ready to be back in the Capitol. For the first time in several arenas, he felt he'd done himself justice in the end.

One shot fired. It got him, and now Mindy reflected nothing. She knew it was Wyatt, know how good he was from what dad used to tell her. Fiction, old people story, but there it was right in front of her. There was no time to reflect on hurting a good gun fighter, a friend of her friend. Cold logic now, that was what she needed right now. It hit and she didn't pause. Any more leeway, this would get into a real gun fight and that especially now, was bound not to go in her favor.

Next shot, more toward the middle of the back. End it soon, now, don't prolong it. End it on your terms.

Even before Mindy's next shot took him in the back, Cuthbert's was tearing through his thigh, snatching his leg out from under him, and he knew then that he was losing. Even as Cuthbert's canon cracked overhead, even as he tried to drag himself away.

The next shot brought him low, knocking him into the dirt as it stole the air from his lungs. The gun tumbled from his fingers, his grip failing. The grass was a distant tickle against his cheek.

He gasped, blood gurgling from between his lips as the puddle started under his chest. A red pool spreading out to meet Cuthbert's. With his last breaths, his shaking hand grabbed for the paper in the pocket, tightened there in a fervent clasp.

He didn't think of Cuthbert's insults, didn't dwell on the pain, let the irony of an ex-lawman dying in a hail of gunplay slip away. He regretted. Mourned. Tried to whisper his love one once time before everything went dark.

This sucked. After a fight like that, Wyatt deserved at least a few minutes to recuperate. Mindy unfortunately, did not have that long. The helicopter was there and honestly, the end was coming so fast she could taste it. No room for excuses now. If she let this go she would regret it.

She couldn't stay. She knew they were both gone, but she kept her gun steady just in case. It was over though for the two of them. Just a few more people left now. She'd have to make quick work of them soon or let them kill each other. Either way, this wasn't over yet.

She looked down at Wyatt's body, sighing. He was a good one: he deserved to get out of these soon, and hoped he had next one.

The outside. It would be a blessing, to finally be able to see but she had to do this cautiously, quiet even with an arrow still piercing into her shoulder. When she heard the first person go, she began her own approach, pushing the doors open and closing it quickly after. No more food or water left: just the gun and the knife and the shambles of the pajamas she had left.

Viewing what they presented, Mindy reacted with caution: she stays low to the ground, listening for anyone approaching, then makes a beeline for the bag. She rolls her eyes when she sees the dynamite and matches, swearing, but gratefully takes the whip and tucks it under her arm. Fine. They were going to make the final fight as painful as possible. If that was the case, she'd be sure she had a leg to stand on.

She opted out the sloth and big deer immediately: too big, she'd be taken out easily. She opted instead for a fast deer, mounting it awkwardly and nudging it to start moving. A city girl should NOT be introduced to riding this way especially not when every gallop just sent searing pain over her.

He just barely got out. Just barely. He was still, somehow, mostly uninjured. Hungry, yes. Bruised, cut and bleeding, yes. And a little sooty from all the smoke that had pervaded the Arena the past few days and made it hard to breath. But the moment he saw that helicopter - and what remained of the Tributes - he knew it was the end of the line for him.

"...Mindy!!"

Particularly as he was alive, somehow, and so was she. He quickly grabbed his own bag and tried to make his way towards his fellow Tribute. He'd mount an animal if he had to, but at this point, he knew he didn't truly want to.

"Wait!"

Mindy paused, stopped. Of all the people still in this she really REALLY didn't want Donatello to be. She liked him, they had chilled out together, and he even looked out for her (for some reason). If he were still here, that meant there were only two options now: she would have to kill him or someone else would do it. Both of them sucked pretty fucking bad.

That aside, she did turn and gallop toward him, slowly starting to get the hang of riding...bones. Christ, that must look so weir to everyone else.

"Yeah? I can't believe you're still in this! So they didn't get you in the explosions earlier?"

Edited 2014-03-07 16:41 (UTC)

"No," Don shook his head. "I got lucky, somehow. I might have burned my feet a little on liquid nitrogen, but otherwise..."

He knew he had to do this. Risky or no, his life or not. Through the Arenas he'd tried to do good, at first. He'd wanted to help those who didn't deserve to be in this out. It had destroyed him, when he'd failed to actually save those he'd gotten out. In particular, Ariadne. He could never forget that, even if Ariadne's actions weren't his fault.

"Look, Mindy..."

But just bottling it all and becoming a beast, killing whatever and whenever, that hadn't gotten him anywhere either. All he'd done was just go insane, and he even hurt people he'd never met, never had cause to hurt before. At the very least, even if he was never getting out of the Arenas, he could at least keep what little dignity - honor - could be afforded to him. And he could figure out the rest of it - the guilt, the anger - later, when he had the chance and need to confront it.

"...here." He took out one of his knives, and handed it to Mindy. "I can distract and lead away whoever tries to stop you. Put my dynamite to good use. You can just concentrate on getting to that helicopter."

Mindy looked at the items then Donatello, then quietly handed them back to him.

"Look at me Don. I have an arrow sticking out of my shoulder, but I have a gun and I have a knife. I have that dynamite too, just like you. You don't just get to leave the games by getting to the helicopter, right? People have to die. All of them do, until one is left. Don't you want that to be you?"

It was a choice. A shitty one, but one she knew she had to present. Don had been here too and lasted long. She wouldn't take that away from him if he earned it. Granted it meant she might die, but she wouldn't go down easy. When had she ever?

"That's the thing, about the Games."

It was tempting, he wouldn't lie. Getting out, and not having the play the game anymore. Two years of doing nothing but fighting, and knowing that was all he'd been created to do, as far as he knew. End the duplicating, the killing, end all of that.

"...You never really leave, when you win. No matter how your victory happened, or how long you live afterwards."

Don's next movement was quick, with the knife. The next thing Mindy might know, Don's free hand was on the shaft of the arrow. The hand with the knife was forcefully hacking at the wood, which might have pulled a bit on the parts of the projectile still in Mindy.

Edited 2014-03-08 17:21 (UTC)

Oh, they did that all right. Mindy was expecting a fight, she was primed for it and this point, but not this . She swore loud and hard.

"Don, for FUCKS sake, that's why I didn't pull it out! Fucking cunt balls, that hurt and now I'm bleeding more!"

She appreciated them not having to fight right at the minute. It just...happen to hurt even more, atop of everything else.

"I know you also been here a long time. You have the choice, take it. I won't blame you. I gotta get out too."

For different reasons.

"I know." Don quietly took out his last bit of bandage. "I have been here a long time. And that's why..."

He looked down, staring at the half-unrolled bandage in his hands.

"...I don't know if I could survive, out there. You have that advantage. You're not...you're not used to this."

He was wrong. Well, half wrong. She knew what it was like to kill people. She wasn't innocent there.

But after killing the kid in cold blood? Pruna, then Sandy? Mindy had started to feel what the games were: a way to keep you curved because oh no, you don't want to die. You want a way out of this hell, this life of killing for entertainment.

Only it was the joy of spectacle, of alliances dying and their anguish. Of, in the span of a few weeks, Mindy becoming something of theirs.

For a time.

"I'll take it Don. You know I will. I have to win. It would be for nothing if I let it go. So I won't."

"I know." Don was quiet for a moment, before completing his unrolling. "I can help clear the way. This is your game to win, and I'll help make sure of that."

Edited 2014-03-09 07:08 (UTC)

Mindy didn't know what to say, at first.

"You know, when I first got here, I hadn't met you yet. I knew OF you, because in my world the stories of you and the other turtles are there. I had this one idea of what you were like: smart, intuitive, you know. So I hear you turn into this killer machine and you know, you're a ninja. You could fuck people up."

She cleared her throat. "But its this place that did it, isn't it? The games."

Mindy was quiet. "So I know what I have to do. I know why I want to win. Watch your back, Donny."

And you deserve to win. Fuck, I wish I could give it to you.

"You know...you're not the first person to mention that. That they knew me from stories..." He was quiet. "They must have been some pretty positive tales, to have that effect on people."

Unlike his real life situation. Not that it was, with one exception, this bad. But the truth was, Don had always been capable of killing. He'd killed before the Games. But being a "killer machine" - that was true. The Games made him, and made him that way. If he could have read Mindy's mind, at that moment, he would have said no. No, I don't deserve it, I never did.

He quickly took to bandaging the wound on Mindy's shoulder, making sure it was tight.

"I will. And I'll watch yours, as well."

"Yeah, you could say that," Mindy said. "In the comfort of your own home you can watch a bunch of interesting characters have an adventure, stop evil. Unlike the games, no one else has control to tell you how to do it. You can be your best."

Unlike here, where you were at your worst. What she could do about that now, of course was little to nothing. Except survive these games.

Agree to disagree though. She did let the bandaging happen, although now her shoulder was definitely hurting. She shifted it a little, wincing.

"There are a few more people left. Be careful."

"I will," At this, he nodded. He began to walk off, towards a robotic steed. "You too."

So he jumped onto the steed - a deer - and began to ride off.

The sunlight felt almost painful, it was so sweet and warm. Courfeyrac wanted to run, sprint out into the grass, search for some other means of escape. But the sickening reality collapsed upon him and he quickly understood that this taste of freedom was going to go sour very quickly.

He didn't yet approach the animals. There was something so monstrously horrible about the idea of riding them, even after having spent weeks in a barricade made of bones. It was too much to handle just yet.

So instead, he made for the patio where he grabbed one of the paper bags, then searched for somewhere against the side of the building where he could take a second to collect himself and make a failsome attempt at a strategy. He needed to think for a minute. That was all he wanted.

Justin is not going to win this arena. He's limping by now, splattered with burns from the fire extinguishers, his face torn up over and over again from the masks, limping from a sprained ankle. He's exhausted, starving, and the rational thing to do would be to beg someone for a mercy kill.

But right now, Justin is not any kind of rational. The first week of the Arena, he encountered the Initiate, and thanks to the troll's powers, Justin hasn't quite been himself.

The boy blinks against the sunlight, raises a blood-stained hand to cover his blood-splattered face. He's just generally drenched in blood, even though it's weeks old. The patio draws his attention, more than the skeletons. Bags, and a potential target.

So Justin goes over to the stranger, and waits. One brief moment, then another. Less than a minute between walking over to the patio and when he grabs Coufeyrac by the throat.

To say he hadn't seen it coming was an understatement. His eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the sun and he hadn't caught his breath and he was caught completely off guard by the other person. He let out a gasp which came out as more of a hiss than a cry and in his state of confusion, he found it difficult to determine precisely what had happened.

"N--!" He managed to get a single syllable out as he struggled haplessly to break free.

She was lurking, breathing shallowly, but making sure those breaths were small. No way she was going to let a little thing like bleeding and pain mess this up. There were only a few more people left, and Mindy was not about to make any stupid mistakes to cost her what she was in here for. In the distance she saw two people struggling and through hazy eyes, saw one of them was Justin, doing his best to take down one of the French guys (she didn't know all their names yet).

She assessed the situation. Let them play it out. One would die, and the other would obviously be off guard from the kill. She needed that moment, and then there's be one less person out there. Be quick but thorough.

Coufeyrac may have been confused by the hand around his throat, but things weren't going to become much more clear. Justin shoves the man back, with a movement intended to send him to the ground (a shove and a twist, one leg brought behind the Frenchman to trip him). Then, before there's time to really process what's going on, a flash of blue light. The hand on Coufeyrac's throat turns from flesh to wood, transformed in an instant to the lunette of a guillotine. In fact, Justin's entire body transforms, from a teenage boy in tattered blue pajamas, grinning behind the last of the salvaged masks, to the imposing wood and metal of a guillotine, massive and unyielding.

A pause, just a second or two, enough for the man to realize his position, enough for Justin to watch his expression change. Then the blade drops.

Nothing made sense. If he hadn't felt the tangible presence of hand turning to wood, he would not have believed what was happening. As it was, he couldn't even scream for help, transfixed in awe and forced into the most humbling of positions before he could even muster the strength to push back. But even if he could mount a fight, he could see the writing on the wall. Courfeyrac was a goner. All he could do now was pray.

"God, dear God. I am sorry. I am--" He choked on his words, muffled and barely audible. He didn't close his eyes when the blade came down, metal silencing him all the way through.

Fuck. That was pretty gruesome. She didn't even know that you could DO anything like that. It was good to see, at any rate: because there was no fucking way that she was going to let Justin do anything close to that near her. Nope. Fuck that noise.

You know what was going to happen though? Mindy was already loading her gun, and now was rummaging into her paper bag of fun killer objects. All she was going to do now was wait for him to change back from...however the fuck he changed into that to begin with. Holy shit that was creepy.

If Mindy thinks this was gruesome, she should watch the replays of Justin later. This is nothing.

The boy transforms back, hits the ground on his knees in the growing puddle of Courfeyrac's blood and pauses to breathe. He tends to avoid full transformations, and with how exhausted he was beforehand, he has to rest for a moment before he can stand.

Mindy was likely going to be watching the replays later. In the meantime, this was what was happening now. Just like she thought, he needed to pause to take a breath. Mindy was not about to let that time go to waste.

She went for the back of the knee, hitting one each. They were perfect shots, of course: a gun was Mindy's best friend in a tight situation, and her accuracy was never shit once she was in the zone. The thing with the guillotine, however, was enough to give her food for thought. She went for the bag, lit a match...and tossed the stick of dynamite inches away from him.

Better to be thorough, and quick.

The bullets hit, and Justin doesn't have the time, energy, or presence of mind to do anything more than roll away from the stick of dynamite before it explodes. Certainly not enough distance, and when it explodes, there's one less competitor in the fray.

Blinking in the sunlight, Courfeyrac, kept close to the side of the building, slinking around the side with his gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. In the daylight, the bruises on his face from where Kankri attacked him were visible and if he could have seen his reflection, he'd have been horrified. Regardless of that, he was skittish and semi-blind from the glaring sun. Any sudden noise or movement and he was liable to draw his pistol and shoot first. There would be no time for questions.

Joe stumbled out of the building, his ears ringing a bit, dirt and grime clinging to him from the days he's managed to sneak around and by some miracle not die yet. It's not hard to tell what's meant to happen in these next moments and still Joe's trying not to give into it. He's not heading towards what weapons there are, nor is he daft enough to try and make use of the horses to get away or anything else for that matter.

He's stumbling around the side of the building trying to get out of the fray and find Pyunma, the only one of his friends who hasn't been killed yet. Too bad his luck's ran out as in the next moment he's heading towards Courfeyrac barely noticing in his hunger induced daze.

The Frenchman was on edge already, and being easily startled, he was already reaching for his pistol when he heard Joe's footsteps approaching from behind. There was no thought to his actions, only instinct which told him to draw and fire, and he did so, quickly and with his back pressed to the side of the building. He didn't even see what he was shooting at. He only knew that his gun had gone off.

Heart pounding, he tried to calm himself down once his hand dropped to his side. Unfortunately, that's when the real panic set in. "Mon dieu!"

Over. It was all over.

She took a breath. She hurt all over and she was aching, but that was it, wasn't it? No more noises, no more scuttling. She won.

No one else was left.

She didn't want to have any more profound thoughts, or think about life. Fuck that. She mounted the twelve foot deer, looked back at the place, then, for shits, set off another stick of dynamite and lobbed it at the museum, giving it the finger as she hurried to the helicopter, an echoing boom shattering the silence.

Help Mindy get into the chopper.

That was all he needed to focus on. All he needed to think about. He had his dynamite and he wasn't scared to use it. But he needed to make it count. So he rode on his steed, towards the first Tributes he could find, that weren't in a fight of any sort.

The fewer people who could interfere with Mindy winning, the better, after all.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

THE FINALE IS OUTSIDE

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Knights of Cydonia should be playing right now

Aw man

Re: Aw man

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for justin!

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for joe!

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Don's death (open to anyone who needs to die)