Deep in the meadow, under the willow...

[etcircenses]

Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 12.
Where| District 12.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

It doesn't take long to get to District 12, the closest district to the rebel district. It's one of the smallest districts, and you only know you reach it when rolling hills grow and grow until they become large, fertile green mountains. The environment looks green and lush, beautiful, really--That is, until you reach the part of the District where people actually live. The weather is chillier than the Capitol, though the wind bares the worst of it. Anyone planning on spending any time outside should definitely get a coat.

The town is smaller than any of the others, and more worn down. Everything seems to have a thin layer of cole settled over it, no matter how much cleaning is done. The center of the town isn't too shabby, and there are a few things that stand new and shining--A metal whipping post and stocks. The latter occasionally has an unfortunate person in it, though most people have learned to buckle down and accept the new rules.

In the merchant part of town, there's some signs of wildlife, knobby trees and green enough yards. The merchants used to ply their trades here, though for now, everything's locked down. As you get farther, it gets shabbier, poorer. Into the Seam, where the poorest of the poor live. Here, the houses are barely more than shacks. Trees grow wild, and what animal life exists is quick to run from any humans, no doubt having survived at least one attempt by the people of the Seam to capture them for the supper pot.

One thing in common with all the sections of the District is a feeling of hopelessness. The mood is dour, as heavy and permanent as the cole dust that seeps into everything. The only sign of anything even resembling any rebellion is a few chalk scratchings on the sides of abandoned buildings, a few zodiac symbols--Anyone who knows the trolls can recognize the symbols of Karkat, Terezi, Psiioniic, and even the Initiate. That, and the grand pictures of Sam Wilson and Joan Watson, and the bold words stating NOT ALONE and WE ALL DESERVE BETTER.

The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.

Comments

For Derek, Clint, Albert, then Sam (and Albert returning with Jet) CW:Death, extreme violence + MORE

[carnagecarnival]

She don't breathe. Ticker in her chest bits ain't got its motherfucking tock. He knew this day would come, but not this early. Not this fucking soon. Eventuality as with the dawn but not an eye's blink. His whole life stretches out like empty horizon and he would give anything now for the scream just to fill it so there'd be something fucking there. His jaws open wide with the want of it but he ain't got nothing, just a building ache in his chest and clawing at back of his throat and the noise about him don't motherfucking stop.

There's blood on his hands. It's cool and sticky and it coats his fingers. The light shines open it to make it bright and make it dark, narrowing down the pretty day-sky color into one or the other and only one side is going at to win.

He hears the desperate cry of another fucker taken down, followed quick by more silencing noise.

He shakes her. He shakes her and begs wordless, he can't do this, he can't do this alone, he can't do this without her, he needs her, he can't, he can't. Please come back, come back, come back, come back, please. No, no, no. It's a whole bunch of noiseless howl from him. All howl and no fucking how for the making happenstance of. She's gone. She's... she's motherfucking gone.

The gun shots and shouts and clash of weaponry keeps raining on.

No. No, not gone, right here, right motherfucking here and his girl, his sweet and precious little Pyrope, bitty sister's all done and perished but that don't mean no overness. He lifts her little body up and he finds his shaking hand can steady some when they're holding onto her. He sets her up and cups her jaw, staring into them eyes so blind, so FULL with the knowings of things and the knowing of him. He pulls her close and he kisses her then, hard and desperate, claws poking for first and for once cause she owned his gentle and she gone to take it with her. It is such a brief sweet thing. Just as she. Just as his little teal.

Her fear-tinged words keep echoing in his head. She was so scared. His best girl, she didn't want to go.

He lets her down and lifts his blood soaked hands up into his hair, pulling and digging claws in, awaiting revelation. They'd been quiet, the Messiahs. So so so quiet as to leave him without paltry whispering though even that from them would have been worth a million treasures. They'd been quiet but he is never, not ever alone. So the scripture said. So the angels themselves spoke into his pan when they gave his paint, his duty, and then some. He stares down with trembling form and he prays again, please, please, please, please, fix this, he ain't want this no more, please. Bring it to end.

Bring them to end.

His eyes start to shift, soft gold going deeper and deeper into the red what's wanted for. Oh Messiahs, he asks as he rocks and weeps and his breath pulls in fast and so he recieves. He is their voice. He is their hand. He is their blood descended. Even the best of angels exist for justice.

MAKE THEM PAY.

He rises up. His fingers trail over his paint, painting over top with a miracle color as almost as holy. His hands fall down and back, fingers spreading as he readies his claws. He's got voice, not tongue what to speak with, but he's got all the fang what tear with. He stalks forward, starting slow, letting his claws rake on the metal of the building's wall so it snarls for him. The wall ends. The war really motherfucking starts.

And it starts with the resounding scream as Peacekeeper is ripped out of a run and thrown back, leapt upon clawed. The limbs rip off easy as breathing, just like he remembers. Arm, head, guts. The flesh shreds so smooth and beautiful under his claws and the howls don't mean nothing to him except a call for what his name used to mean. He darts, leaps, and ploughs through the next just as quick. He stops only to make a club of that heavy gun, spinning it once in the air bringing it around with a violence at another. Like lightening, he moves until he reaches his... inquisition quest.

He doesn't see the people he shreds through for who or what they are. As far as he's concerned, anyone in the way of his mission is in the way of him. He deals accordingly.

[sociopathicwolf]

The job of a Capitol soldier on the battlefield is never done, and as soon as Derek takes out the rebel offworlder trying to disable the bomb, another rebel attacks nearby. Derek moves, leaving her for dead, going after the next one.

Until he hears the sound of screams and gunfire and tearing flesh. It's the tearing flesh that catches his attention the most; he knows that sound intimately, and he snaps the neck of the last rebel in the tiny group they'd run into before making his way towards the sounds of chaos. And spots another offworlder rebel, one similar to the one Derek'd just killed, ripping his way through Peacekeepers in a way that Derek can't help but find familiar. Only far more out of control than Derek ever lets himself be, not since his own arena.

Derek waits, standing his ground while the rebel - Initiate, he remembers him, the one who had Kurloz's name as though he had any right to it - charges at him. He'll wait until the last minute before dodging aside, hoping the rebel's momentum will carry him forward enough that Derek can snap his own heavy gun around and slam it into his back.

[carnagecarnival]

Derek has a lot going for him. He's clever and experienced, ruthless and powerful. He doesn't have a conscience unless he lets himself think about it. But for all this, he just hasn't been going so long as the Initiate has. He ain't got the sheer raw power.

In a sea of unrecognisable faces, Derek's is the only one what stands out. He ain't even know the man's name. He ain't care to. Whoever he'd been dealing with, Peacekeeper, Rebel, or otherwise, is left forgotten. He goes rushing into his enemy.

But he ain't so deterred by the swift shift as Derek maybe hoped. The moment he passes Derek, his body twists and he brings the gun around like a club. He moves fluid and fast, swinging down without no mercy.

Blood is spattered up the front of him, coating his arms, covering much of his chest, and adding yet more color to an already painted face. His red eyes glow so bright it's hard to see any indigo within them. With long fangs barred, he twists a familiar face into something monstrous. And those teeth snap at Derek with full intent to tear.

[sociopathicwolf]

Honestly, Derek is one of the best that the Capitol has to offer. He is a killer and he's spent his life becoming an extremely efficient one, pushing himself to the limits of what humanity can achieve.

But Derek is still only human, and a lot of these offworlders aren't. It's a hard realization that he's out of his depth, and it only makes him resent them even more.

Derek shifts, changing from offensive to defensive, bringing the gun up to block Initiate's swing instead of landing his own. He snarls back at him, an expression intimidating enough in its own right, but nothing compared to the fangs and the alien features of the thing in front of him. He drops down a little, sliding his gun into a position so he can fire it into Initiate's shoulder - but if that doesn't work to stop him, then he's putting himself at a disadvantage.

[carnagecarnival]

Derek drops, out of range of his jaws, gun going up and there's a sudden burst of noise in his ears. The spark of the gun is processed a second later, and the pain is soon to follow with his flesh tearing apart to give way to a small flood of blood down his back.

He falter and lifts a little, his hand rising up to touch the wound. He looks at it curiously. He can feel it burn cold. He can see it blood upon his front. He can see the look in Derek's eyes as he tries on evaluating whether this troll has done motherfucking kicked it proper yet.

Wouldn't that be a mother fuckin miracle to behold?

He swings at the gun, looking to knock it loose from hands grasping tight. Looking to tear it out and quickly break the offensive piece of machinery under his foot. His lips pull back again from his teeth.

[sociopathicwolf]

He doesn't feel hope when the gunshot makes the troll falter, because hope doesn't have a place in a battle. It only wastes time, and Derek's already moving on to consider his next move if it doesn't.

He doesn't feel fear when it doesn't work, because fear has no place in a battle, either. You only have fear if you have something to lose, and when Derek fights - when he fights like this, alone - he doesn't.

As soon as it's clear that he's not going to be able to hang on to his gun, even if he fights for it, Derek lets it go. It'll put him at even more of a disadvantage if he fights for to hold onto it and loses. Instead, while the troll's distracted yanking it away and breaking it, he immediately grabs for the troll's throat, looking to dig his fingers in and pull, same as he'd done to the mutt in his own arena.

[carnagecarnival]

A lack of fear is foolish. He's seen fear destroy people in all ways and forms, being its personification, but a lack of fear? That only ever ends in devastation. He fully intends to schoolfeed this motherfucker on about.

He has to admit though, Derek's move surprises. Not a whole lot of trolls go for the throat first and the humans he's met haven't much either. That sort of shit had reservations by beasts, daywalkers, rainbowdrinkers...

And him.

As he's yanked close by his throat, pain pricking up there, he turns his teeth upon Derek, pulling them intimately close as he sinks in fangs with intent to tear.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

The screams don't necessarily draw Sam's attention. They might if he was acting as a medic, but as it is - there's a lot of screams on a battlefield. He notices them, absently, enough to get a handle on their location and track if they're moving, in case they're headed his way.

Unluckily for him, it sounds like the screaming and violence is getting closer. He curses under his breath, double checking his ammo as he circles around to try to get a better idea of what the hell is going on, only to freeze when he gets close enough to see the troll at the center of it.

There's a moment where he freezes, where all he can think is 'oh fuck', but then Sam's moving before he really thinks about it.

"Kurloz!"

Maybe he should be afraid here, striding up to put himself in between a troll with death in his eyes and the path he's set himself on - and it's not like he doesn't feel any fear, but it's not of Kurloz. It's for Kurloz, maybe, for whatever the hell happened to get Kurloz like this, for what might happen if Sam can't talk him down this time.

But Sam's far from a stranger to fear - his whole damn life has been about doing shit that should be terrifying, it seems like - and it sure as hell isn't going to stop him from doing whatever he needs to here.

He promised.

"Look at me, brother, you know who I am?"

[carnagecarnival]

The name goes through him. In registers with nothing, only that noise is being made, something intending of his attentions, and so he turns his head, pin-prick pupils lost in a bright sea of red that glows from the distance away, drowning any other color. There's someone making their approach. He drops a shredded corpse upon the crowd and goes to it.

His club (more like a bat, really, for what thirteen gave him) is back in his hand by now, and coated in enough blood to prove it too has seen near as much action as the ruby claws, color spread up to his arms and splattered over him. Including his teeth, bared to their full and showing so much more than should conceivably be.

His club starts to spin in his fingers, twirled like a children's baton. He picks up momentum, starts to run, and seems he's going to swing.

Only Sam speaks and he halts. Those wide red eyes stare, head tilting. For maybe half a motherfucking minute it is so damn quiet. His expression twists. His mouth opens as so to speak, then wider. His jaw pops, dislocating purposely to form a sudden horrible grimace. All that's missing is the scream.

Instead is a number of strangled little clicking sounds and the Initiate lunging forward, snapping those jaws at Sam and following quickly up with a sharp upswing of his club.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Thirty seconds is a really fucking long time to sit in silence, hoping. Staring at Kurloz's too red eyes and praying for some sign of recognition, for any sign of recognition. But he doesn't get it, and that hope settles back into a grim determination, even as he winces when Kurloz unhooks his jaw like that.

Those clicking sounds are absolutely nothing like the near purr that Kurloz'd done when he and Sam agreed to give this thing a try, and Sam's already moving as Kurloz lunges at him.

He dodges, rolling away and bouncing back up on his feet - and really fucking wishing he had his wings right about now, because god he doesn't want to go up against Kurloz like this on the ground. He doesn't want to go up against Kurloz at all, but it isn't like he has a choice in that right now.

"Kurloz, goddamn it, snap the hell out of this and talk to me!"

And it's probably a really terrible decision, but Sam doesn't want for Kurloz to lunge at him again. Instead he charges for him, looking to tackle Kurloz to the ground - or get tackled; he'd rather not be pinned under his brother when he's like this but it'd work in a pinch.

As long as he can get close enough to get his hand to Kurloz's face.

[carnagecarnival]

He could kill him in an eye's blink if he swung his club right then, taking advantage of the lunge. He could reel back, swing the club, and smash Sam's jaw to bitty pretty little pieces just like that. The shattered bits would sparkle like dust in the air, made to glimmer from the blood upon them. He almost swings just for all that. He almost end this.

But he sure as shit ain't going to be toppled over by some tiny little warmblood, not even near half the strength what's his own. It just ain't going to be of happenstance.

What happens instead is that he grins wide. His club drops as he roughly wraps his hands around Sam's wrists, one for each, spinning so Sam's momentum takes them into a dance. If Sam didn't know him better, he could almost guess those red eyes to be lit up entirely with delight.

He spins them round and round, forcing it to be lest Sam's arm's come tearing off or them bones snap like twigs in his hands. He lets go all at once, only to grasp the clothing of Sam's front and hall him up high by it. Let the bird fly. Let the songbeast motherfucking soar.

His breath comes out something between a laugh and a hiss. Clicks all within it turn it even more alien. Those fangs shine.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Sam's acutely aware that he's fighting stupid, here. He's not making the moves he might if he didn't give a shit about the guy he's fighting, he's holding things back and going for an outcome that doesn't involve either of them getting hurt and that sure as hell is no way to approach a fight.

When Kurloz lets his hands go, for a split second he thinks about grabbing his gun. He's a hell of a lot faster than most people seem to give him credit for - has to be, when you're the human equivalent of a fighter jet your reflexes can't be anything but top notch - he could have it in his hand and ready to put a bullet in Kurloz's brain by the time he grabs the front of his uniform and hauls him up. Maybe it's what he should do - he's not even sure it'll stop Kurloz at this point, but it'll at least slow him down, and Sam's already shot one friend in the head today, he might as well go for broke.

But he doesn't. Instead he wraps his legs around Kurloz's waist, locking his ankles together as he reaches out to set his hand on Kurloz's cheek. Less than two inches away from those bared fangs and jesus fucking christ Sam has to be absolutely insane right now that he's actually doing this instead of fighting, but Kurloz told him this helped soothe him and Sam believes him.

Goddamn maybe he trusts this jackass way too much, maybe what he's about to do is absolutely useless and he's two seconds away from getting murdered by his brother - by his moirail - and yet he does it anyway. He pats Kurloz's cheek, murmuring shhhh.

"Come back to me, brother."

[carnagecarnival]

He's hard to kill but not invincible. With enough persistence, enough force, he can be taken down. A bullet might not kill on it's own, but through his head, he'd be dead just as any. It would be that and it would be over, him along with Terezi, only not because timelines were a bitch and death ain't never just death. Truly, it would've been exactly what he'd asked of Sam to do. Everyone remaining would be safe. He'd be just another dead end, just like every other Makara in existence. It would be over.

The Initiate freezes suddenly as Sam's legs wrap around him. It's clear from the sudden faltering that this ain't he expected or prepared for. It throws him right the fuck off for what all he was planning-- so much as there even is any sort of plan in his nug.

But he tries to catch up. Faltering is death. Failure is doom. Even now he can't just stop. He moves in, going to do what he did that first time he thought of giving up, reaching forward and ripping out throatstem with his teeth, only now lacking the gill.

But he doesn't. There's a pap to his cheek he is still. His jaw just hangs open. His eyes snap to Sam's, still so far away, but holding there.

[silberfuchs]

The firing goes quiet.

It's not uncommon in a warzone for there to be lulls in suppressing fire or a moment where troops are moving here and there to get a better line of sight, but this is broken not by distant shots or shells but by blood curdling screams from a block over cut short by crunching or ripping, sickening noises that Albert's heard before only on missions with his team, not on a normal battlefield.

A moment later, he rounds the corner of an alley shortcut between two blocks and sees why.

It's not the Initiate Fraysong mauling his way through friend and foe alike but the hulking form of the Grand Highblood, painted in red and teal and indigo and grey, blood and sweat and tears mingling into a slurry of color and pain, cutting a chillingly silent swath through anything and anyone in his path.

It only takes another half a moment for Albert to realize why.

Terezi's body lays gently placed behind the chaos, unmoving and limp and Albert wishes for just a moment that he could join Kurloz in his rampage, sorrow turning to ashes in his mouth as the fury he feels towards the ones responsible burns it white and bitter. But he can't. Not like this. Not when allies are getting hurt too.

"Kurloz!" He knows he wasn't heard over the carnage. Eerily silent as the Troll is in his violent fugue, the bone-chilling screams and rattles of enemy fire are loud enough to drown him out even to a Troll's senses.

He tries another tact, retreating at top speed just for a moment to grab a stricken sergeant on the block he'd come from. He's at the mouth of the street, fingers numbly holding a com control for the small but powerful loudspeaker they'd been using to try and evacuate citizens en masse. It lets out a brief, high pitched squeal of feedback when he shouts into it, prompting the sergeant to find his wits and get the hell out of dodge.

"Kurloz!"

[carnagecarnival]

There's not a chance he could remain deaf to that. He stands straight, hands going down slow as the blood rains around him. His ears are high. He turns slow to face the source of the noise. His eyes ain't nothing but glowing red, burning bright even than the caught bits of coal ash floating in the air. Them eyes stare right into Albert's and maybe even through him.

The gore drips slow off his form as he picks up a bit of broken and twisted metal. The metal drags, screaming along the stone, earth, and rubble. He walks with his head bowed, horns near level to goring. A promise and a threat. His feet are bare, shoes lost somewhere along the way, so his claws click. He walks like a predator.

The closer he gets, the more his ears flick, like shaking out the sound. Shaking out the goddamn motherfucking offense to be called with such voice and indignity, interrupted from his most righteous work. He'd have a lot of words for this fucker here right now. A lot of choice words indeed what stumble soundless from muttering lips, among them half-done prayers.

He's half way to Albert when he starts to run. There's no two ways about the way he charges. He leaps over blocked parts in his path, spinning acrobatically off abandoned market stands. The closer he gets the more his teeth expose themselves, until their view is blocked by metal swinging across view and aiming to hurt. It's followed by another quick swing, then another, barely any breath between the swings. Finally a spin leads to a roundhouse holding back none of the highblood power that has bent bars and broken bodies for him before.

[silberfuchs]

A grim relief crosses Albert's features. This was his goal, despite the detriment is poses to his health and safety. That doesn't matter right now, even if Initiate does mean to kill him. It's not his fault. He's not thinking straight.

But he does need to be stopped.

Albert will at least be able to stand as a distraction, allowing soldiers of both sides to flee the field to safety. He's not sorry to see the Peacekeepers escape just as well as the rebels. None of them signed up for the kind of fight Albert has experience with. Granted, it's experience with his original cybernetics. Missiles and machine guns and being bulletproof, but something tells him that wouldn't help him much here regardless.

He's not aiming to kill, just slow him down long enough to get him calm and away from this mess.

A stalwart figure at the end of the row of gutted houses, Albert doesn't move as Initiate comes at him, instead watching his adversary for movement. He's graceful, athletic, using his gangley limbs to the benefit of reach and grace. There's power in them too, as any obstacle he can't clear he bowls through in pieces. And then Initiate is upon him and he can't study movements any longer, just try and stay ahead of them.

It turns out to be exceedingly difficult. Punch leads to kick leads to swing after swing with no openings and no slowdown, the Troll using his entire body in a macabre dance of swirling muscle and claw, other people's blood spraying off of him in a mist as he moves fast enough to dislodge the liquid. It's all Albert can do to barely stay out of reach, dodge after stumbling dodge, until finally he can't even do that and he's sent rolling back by the force of a blow, and just a glancing one at that.

He skids across the empty center of the street and into a downed pillar, luckily landing with his metal arm against the stone and preventing anything serious or even too much recovery time. And it put some distance between them at least.

"Kurloz, it's me. It's Albert. Brother, please."

Stop. Listen. Think.

[carnagecarnival]

Motherfucker flies and the Initiate slows his assault just to watch. Just to behold like a shooting star all ripe for the wishing on. Some distant thing says he's making comparison all wrong by this particular one but he ain't proper care enough to find correction, except for how satisfying it is to make a statue cave.

Ain't much for blood though, no, ain't much for color and that's some what really disappoints. Brother holding out on him. Ain't no fun when it's being like that. He examines Albert, then the pillar, and quickly decides what he'd like to do.

He closes the distance as Albert speaks, those words going over but he can process them as begging. Terezi begged didn't she? With her eyes, she made pleading not to go. He's seen those eyes. He's ended so many of them. Why should this fucker be of any exception?

There's a growl on his breath and the only reason it ain't growing is that he can't make the noise to back it. But he can swing that metal bit, right up fast, not so strong as to take off the header, but absolutely enough to hurt. He gives no reprieve, immediately reaching out to grab Albert by his front and haul him up for another go. The weapon is dropped so the side swipe is all the force of his back hand and the drag of his claws. Then he's hauling back, rearing to slam Albert's back against that pillar.

His red eyes are round with anticipating the injury.

[metalicarus]

The mission in the mines had failed. Soot covered, tired and weary, Jet turned his focus to the battlefield. He hoped to find a familiar face, someone he could stand by and help, but what took his attention was the clear and amplified call of Kurloz's name. That would have had him running anyway, but the fact it had been Albert who'd called just made him go faster. It hadn't been a call of worry, concern for their friend being injured, he knew Albert's inflections well enough to know something was wrong.

People running away was his way of finding the fight and just in time to see Kurloz grab Albert and pin him to a pillar. His partner was bloodied and bright red marks that were sure to turn pale skin dark stood out in Jet's split-second analysis. He couldn't fly, he wasn't reinforced, he couldn't possibly tackle the troll and cause any sort of impact. He had no time to think or consider, desperation made his thoughts rush and his adrenaline kick in as he raised his gun and leveled it at his brother.

No, not his brother. Not right now.

"Initiate!" Jet had always been a sharpshooter, only possibly passed by Pyunma's skill and he used it now to aim his next three shots. One in Initiate's leg, one in his shoulder and one across his target's face, aimed to graze and not dig.

He didn't want to kill, just distract.

[carnagecarnival]

If he were more in his head, he might notice the coming of another enemy. He might've known better than to be so stupid as to look up instead of simply moving out of range and finding other vantage point. He's got all the training and experience what could be needed to know these things.

But if he were more in his head things would be all sorts different anyway.

The first shot tears into his shoulder, knocking him back. Another shot to the leg-- always that mother fucking leg-- causing him to stumble, teeth grit. Albert is dropped, left well alone. The final shot tears along his paint, undoing his work there both grey and teal. It catches on the edge between his ear and that bit of fin, a rocket what catches his mind up in ringing.

His eyes lift, that ruby glow catching onto Jet. His jaws open like if he could just make the noise to roar, he'd be deafening the lot of them. He reaches blindly for that dropped weapon and drags himself up, growls rolling off his breath.

He forgets about Albert entirely.

[cognitived]

Clint is no stranger to war. It is in his blood, chaos gilding his bones, an easy response for one who has spent a lifetime causing and reacting to it. But he has nothing on the Initiate. Clint's still nothing more than a regular guy, no matter how intent his vision is, no matter how impossible his aim. He's still one guy in the middle of a firestorm, and Clint doesn't know if they'll let them come back.

So he doesn't focus on it.

He has a bow -- not his, not his girl. But one balanced well enough anyway, arrows gleaming metal and plastic fletching. They fit well enough in his hand, and that's all he can ask for. So he draws, he aims, he shoots. Knocks guns out of hands, kills rebel soldiers pinning down his fellow Tributes, guns aimed high. It makes him sick to fight for the very same people who put him in Arenas, to fight against the people his friends are among. But he has his self ordained role, and that means fighting.

Luckily, Clint's good at it. Only, only, the building he's perched upon crumbles, and he's forced to dodge, to move. He jumps and runs and swings down, hitting the ground hard. Throws himself back into the fray because no where is safe. No where.

Which really just means Clint's in prime position to watch a Peacekeeper get ripped to shreds, discarded easy, easy. Then the next, claws and teeth and club, all painted red. And he recognizes the guy, remembers sparing with him, remembers the way Sam's face had crumbled, the way Clint had curled around him tight to prevent him from going after Steve, after Initiate.

In the Arena, Clint would have slipped away, secret, quiet, hiding from sight. But maybe the Arena's also made him a bit more reckless, a bit more unafraid of the ache of death.

He draws, quiet as can be, and aims, statue still and steady. Looses. The arrow sings sweet as any crooning war song can be, cutting through the air, ready for blood. But Clint already knows it was a mistake.

[carnagecarnival]

A crumbling building is sure to get his attention, but only so long as he can watch it fall and see someone disappear in its smoke. Some might call it carelessness, but it would most certainly be more so just to leave this Peacekeeper alive and writhing. So he tends to it. And the next one. He keeps going and he can forget a building fell just a moment ago, he can forget about potential threats, because he doesn't care.

He doesn't care. When the arrow whistles through the air and sinks into his back, it only gives him pause. He reaches up with bloody claws to touch at the window, pulling back to view the new color added to the canvas. Indigo. A successful shot. He reaches again for the air, curling his fingers around the end. He tears it free.

The arrow still in hand, he turns to face his new enemy. There's no recognition on his end, none whatsoever. The arrow is snapped betwixt his fingers, clear so his shooter can see.

The Initiate runs. Clint ain't the only acrobat up in this bitch and the Initiate takes no strides to hide it as he move through the battlefield, over obstacles and under them, Club ready to swing at any straggling foes who are then dragged back and ripped into the air screaming.

He slips in under a bit of the crumbled building, disappearing from sight, but for only a moment. That great block of cement shifts and is hauled up, lifted into the air with two hands. The initiate braces for spring and throws it at Clint. Immediately, he scoops up his club and rushes in after, ready to take advantage of the distraction or potential injury it may cause.

He goes in swinging.

[cognitived]

His aim rings true. As it always does, as it always should. Clint's fingers twitch, setting arrow to bow, even as the Initiate's fingers come up gleaming indigo, ripping metal from his back, snapping the arrow like a toothpick between his fingers. Yeah, there's no way Clint doesn't see that, what with his vision. No way he doesn't get what it means. Some might say its best not to feel fear -- they're wrong. An edge of fear keeps you sharp, keeps you running for your life, and Clint is right there with it.

The Initiate runs, eats up ground between them like nothing else. Clint can't out run him, not like that, but fuck he'll try. He moves, readying again even as he goes, gone coldcoldcold and not letting his aim waver.

Clint's never been one to give up, not even when he still had Loki curling in his mind.

Initiate levers up a piece of broken building, and Clint takes his chance. His arrow flies, but he's already moving, dodging out of the way of that flying debris. The ground is uneven, unsteady, and though Clint has long legs, he's not built to handle running blinding and shooting through this terrain. To turn his back on Initiate is a to sign his death warrant, but not doing it offers the exact same fate.

He goes with his gut.

Behind him, the Initiate swings, club screaming through the air far too silent for him hear. But Clint runs, scrambling to higher ground, quick, teeth grit and eyes narrow with determination. If he could take out an arm, a leg, put an arrow through gut or throat or eye. Then maybe, maybe. But they're too close, and the Initiate doesn't let up. Still, he tries.

[carnagecarnival]

Clint could be considered a wise man for that fear. Real unfortunate he didn't have enough to get gone and stay gone the first moment he got being seen. The Initiate, made all up of fear, has had his realised and for that, he feels invincible. No harm come could truly destroy him. He sees the arrows Clint readies and he dares for them.

He is greeted with one, coming to meet him when he don't have the full proper expectancy of it. Following the launch of stone, all open was he, and he's lead to curl around wound in its wake growling and hissing with what little sound he can make and only through breath. But he don't wait. Not in his opening.

He rushes in anyway, arrow protruding from his chest and all, ignoring all pain with the movement and then some. Brother scrambles like a squeakbeast. His claws is going to catch that traitorous tail.

He reaches just as so and digs said claws deep into the flesh of the leg. He yanks up, going high so that Clint is forced into falling forward, leaving no chance for an arrow's loosing. He swings his club, aiming absolute to injure this time and take out that arm. Let it crack magnificent within his hear cartilage.

And if a brother don't howl, he'll lean in close, teeth bared, so his snarl might caught instead.

[cognitived]

He should have, he knew that near immediately. But Clint can't do shit about that now, and he can't waste time dithering as he thinks about regrets. Fuck that, Clint's got better things to do -- like try stubbornly to keep on living.

His arrow rings true, but Clint doesn't waste time watching, can't hear the way Initiate growls and hisses. But he can hear the way he runs after, and Clint most certainly can feel the claws digging deep into his leg. He wasn't out of breath, but it whooshes out of him as soon as Initiate yanks. Clint goes down hard, losing grip on his bow, slamming into the uneven ground even as he tries to twist and cushion his fall. Futile, he knows, but Clint never was one to give up. Instead, he has one arm braced, and one hand scrambling for the spilled contents of his quiver.

Just in time for Initiate's club to land, shattering the bones in his arm with one fell swoop.

Clint screams -- primal, aching, a note he can't stop. But there's metal in his hand, and desperately, he swipes up, arrow primed to gore. Initiate bares his teeth, and Clint bares his right on back, wide eyed and snarling.

[carnagecarnival]

It all goes so well, from fall to scream. It's a beautiful symphony. It turns what noise is in his own pan to motherfucking cheer as the wanting audience. The cries of battle. The songs of the fray. Noises of the dying doomed.

But the teeth he bares are soon slashed across, tearing through his face from chin, through his pulled back lips, and up over his cheek. Oh so close to his eye does his face split in new motherfucking grin, the indigo already quick to spill on over. He snatches at Clints hand, grasping it tight so there's the barest moment in which it's known what's coming. He crushes clint's hand and the arrow held within it.

He's dropped then, only for a quick swing to follow, striking at the head hard enough to disorientate. That broken arrow is snatched up and stabbed into a leg. But he ain't done, oh no.

He reaches over for that bow and snaps it right about the middle. A quick movement takes the string around his throat and he can pull tight from either end. Oh he does love death by one's own weapons. There's a poetry, something made perfect within laws of the universe. His grin pulls up only on the one side as ain't shredded so damn much.