thearena | Wear a necklace of rope, Side by side with me.

Entry tags:

Wear a necklace of rope, Side by side with me.

Who| All those on the breakout mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 4.
Where| District 4.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

The ocean is a calm clear beauty only for a short while. Storm clouds loom on the horizon, dark and massive beasts prowl quickly forward and growing size. The waves grow higher and higher over time, crashing violent upon rock, dock, and shore alike. One wrong slip, and the ocean may very will claim you for its own, war be damned.

The once bright and friendly tourist city and pier is on total lockdown. The businesses (curios shops, restaurants, and even games and rides) have closed their doors and barred them with wood. One of the hotels has been turned into the Capitol-soldier boarding and war room, a refuge for Peacekeepers in the new uprising.

Said Peacekeepers are struggling here, quicker to react due to the nature of the District's people. There is an overwhelming amount of rebels here, perhaps even the entirety of the District. Many of them, as comes from being a former career District, know how to fight, make traps, and generally outlast their opponents. Capitol soldiers will be stretched thin trying to help the Peacekeepers settle this District's ire. The people of District four want vengeance.

Everywhere beyond the tourist's city is rebel territory. Propoganda is rampant here. It's greatest control is the weather washing it away. Yet still words can be seen such as in the face of adversity; stand together! and TO BRAVERY! and Time's up, Capitol.

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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

On the shore of District four, boats have been overturned onto their sides so as to give cover for fighters on either side. The mark of the tide and can be seen in watermarks and bits of seaweed, showing what gets washed over and what parts are safe. The fisherman don't have much in the way of guns, but cocktails, spears, and all the like can be easily thrown.

Wherever there's buildings close together in rebel territory, net traps are set to fall on the unsuspecting capitol-soldier, and rope traps snare passing ankles.

Injured soldiers on the Capitol's side are taken back to the hotel, but those of the rebellion have transformed one elderly woman's house into a medical bay, complete with currents made from sails. Both are busy, but managing, with only a slight supply shortage on the side of the Capitol.

Rebelling Districters welcome the rebel-soldiers into their homes when in need of place and time to rest, even at the cost of potentially coming under fire.

At some point, in attempt to overpower the Peacekeeper forces, some Districters set sail with harpoons and other weaponry. This naturally inspired some Peacekeepers familiar with boats and the sea to take to the waters, returning the retaliation and seeking to protect their troops. On occasion, the boats collide and the war becomes very suddenly one of close quarters and high casualties. A band of swimmers, calling themselves The Merfolk, are a key part both of rescue and of dragging down enemies with far lower lung capacities.

An apprehended Peacekeeper has been forced into giving up the details of a plan. The Capitol might need District four, but of the District wants to fight against them, they are more than willing to strike a blow back.

An unmarked fishing vessel, almost indistinguishable from other rebel boats, hosts several large canisters of a poison that will go into the waters of four and wipe out the food and water supply for months to come. Anyone who drinks or eats contaminated food from the spill will find themselves racked with horrible fever and thus incapable of fighting. Anyone left wanting to survive would need to give up the fight against the Capitol.

But the rebellion now knows the boat; marked with red, only the color is slightly faded, meant to seem like a simple mistake, but the color's paleness is with purpose.

In a vessel of matching size, the rebellion will pull up alongside the other boat and storm it. The goal is to retrieve the poison canisters and get them safely into rebel hands. Any threats along the way should be either avoided or dispatched. These threats are, of course, the Capitol-Soldiers.

It seems like a smooth enough task, but there's one catch; the storm has hit. You will now be fighting for both your life against the enemy, and your balance against the storm. Fall in now and your body may never be found.

By one of the many piers in rebellion territory is an old canning factory that's been abandoned and left so weather worn, it appears as thought it might topple without a moment's notice.

It's here that the rebels are stockpiling supplies. You all know because a spy has informed you so. Figuring no one would want to search the building and risk it collapsing atop them, the rebels have been storing food, weapons, and all sorts of supplies in multitude. The pier had been reinforced in secret to support the factory's weight. However, with the fierce storms and a little help from the Capitol the entire factory can be sent into the sea.

Getting there requires cover--which the rolling fog helpfully provides. In unmarked vessels and no uniform, Capitol-soldiers and Peacekeepers alike will need to try and pass as part of the rebellion. The main goal is for a few to go under the pier and take out the metal support pieces. They will be given all the proper tools, and even explosives, to make this happen.

Meanwhile, as distraction, other Capitol-Soldiers will be instructed to try and rob the place, no doubt inciting a fight, but holding their attention long enough that no one notices the soldiers below taking the pier apart.

On the signal flare, Capitol soldiers will need to flee, for as the final piece is set, the Capitol will detonate it.

This war, the fighting, it's all gotten stranger for Nitou recently. Sure, being aware of what's going on now is a whole lot better than having unsettling gaps in his memory, but there's still the lingering fear that whatever they did to him before--whatever it was, he doesn't remember--they'd do again. And even without that much of a whammy, the Capitol's conditioning still has some hold on him. It's what drives him to go out there with his rifle and try to fight anyway. He's trying to be quiet, trying not to let on that something had cut through whatever the Capitol did to him, but he's nervous. He doesn't want to fight anyone who would be in the business of taking the Capitol down, but he also doesn't trust his body not to act on its own.

It is perhaps this nervousness that causes Nitou to fail to pay attention to his surroundings. He's lost the rest of his squad--not that he's all that upset over that--and finds himself out there in the middle of seemingly nowhere, carelessly tromping across the countryside, and--

--there is a loud, annoyed yell as Nitou is suddenly flung up into the air, swings around for a little bit, and comes to a rest dangling out of a tree suspended by his right ankle. His rifle goes flying away somewhere, discharging its round once it hits a tree stump. Nitou's arms are windmilling frantically, and he can't help himself. "HEY! SOMEONE COME LET ME DOWN! COME ON!" A hint of a whine creeps into the yelling. "ALRIGHT, JOKE'S OVER, YOU'VE HAD YOUR FUN!"

One of the finest the Capitol has to offer at this battle, ladies and gentlemen.

Ellis inhaled the beach air and it brought back memories of seeing Virgil's boat come out of the fog. This was the District he laid his life for twice, and goddamn, it felt good to finally meet the people he'd been fighting for. Some of the Districters recognized him from the Arenas, others from the propaganda, and those who sided with the rebellion knew he meant business.

With his borrowed powers returned to him and a drive to fight the Capitol tooth and nail, he's already got his weapons out, and maiming Peacekeepers. He kept a promise that he would not kill anyone as he did to Black Tom, but make sure they had no hands to use their weapons. Snow's revelation made Ellis both doubt how effective the Rebellion could be with an immortal president but he doesn't let it show.

"Up an' at 'em, people! We fight until they go home!" he rallied the rebels as best he could. To anyone who points a gun or raises their weapon, El gives them a look of "don't". He doesn't want to hurt people anymore, he's long had his fill of survival since before coming to Panem.

He hates himself more than a little and has to wonder if this is how Sigma started, slowly trodding the road of good intentions directly into Hell, but ordering Luna directly to board accompany him on this mission and knowing that she can't refuse him due to programming had been a necessity. It's for her own good, to spare her worse that the Capitol could do. He tells himself all these things as if it will soften the blow when really he should be telling her.

The rocking of the boat in choppy, foam-capped waters makes it difficult to keep his feet, but Albert makes his way to Luna regardless, certain he'll get a brush off or yelled at or worse. Silence and resignation.

"I need to speak with you." Not a command, more of a plea.

Luna's been quiet since Albert ordered her onboard, not sure what to make either of him or this mission to poison the rebels. Well, no, that second part is a lie. It's the biggest violation of the First Law that she'll have ever made, and for all Luna dreads the worst there isn't anything she can do in the face of a direct order.

In light of that she really doesn't know what Albert's thinking, because he's a former rebel himself and after their last conversation Luna wouldn't have thought he would have gone on to order her around for a mission like this. It's like a breach of trust she hadn't even realized she'd placed in him, and it stings her into silence and buried disappointment until Albert approaches her. She notes the change in his tone, but doesn't know what it means - just looks at him and tries to ignore her hurt feelings. "Yes, all right. Does it have to do with why you took me here?"

The rebels have removed the canisters! Getting every last one off the Capitol's ship, the rebels start turning back to shore. The Capitol, seeking to follow, turns all too late.

A toppling wave washes over. As the rebellion's ship is pushed onward and washed over, the Capitol's ship is tossed onto its side, spilling all those aboard. While some may be rescued by the rebellion and taken in, others may very well be doomed to drowning.

The pier's supports are dismantled. The explosives are set. The flare shoots upward, a bright red light screaming into the sky. You have exactly five to ten minutes to run, either off the dock or back onto the boats, all hostages collected and brought along too.

As the countdown completes, there is a burst from under the pier and the factory creeks. The roof slopes and caves, the walls lean and pull apart. Wood bends and cracks and the whole building slips into the water, taking any stragglers with it.

Haruto does not like beaches, or water, or sand, or salt air... why did he volunteer to go to the mission here, again? Something something magical powers would be good for what needed doing, right? Presuming he and/or all of his friends don't die and/or get captured by the Capitol, he's going to ask someone to talk him out of aquatic missions in the future.

But then he hears it. The thing that makes him instantly forget his misery and misgivings. That familiar voice, outraged and indignant, echoing out over sandy shore. It's Nitou. It's Nitou yelling. Nitou is now capable of yelling again. Heedless of who might try to shoot at him or whatever other traps there might be lurking around, Haruto immediately starts scrambling right for that voice.

It's entirely possible that Nitou can see him coming. Even if he's not in big stupid shiny wizard armor, he's not being the least bit sneaky.

Nitou's windmilling stops. "Haruto? Haruto, is that you, or is all the blood rushing to my head?" Not that his head has been working all that well, but...Haruto?!

The air that streams in through the open doors carries familiar smells. Saltwater and fish layered over sand and wisteria. She can taste the ocean in the air and the wind throws her hair back in her face. The ocean is inaudible to her but it must roar. It's the first time in months that she's seen the outside world and it's home. She blinks in the stiff breeze and buries the urge to cry.

Her boot clad feet lift drifts in the sand until she makes it onto more solid surfaces. It's home but it's different. Logically, she knows she could slip away, go home, never return to District Thirteen. She doesn't know why the urge isn't more prominent. It should be all she thinks about, fighting her way back to the Capitol's side or at least her district's side. Does she want to stay in Thirteen? She's startled from her thoughts by a tap on her shoulder and a nudge to the right direction. The next hour is spent helping them map the district. It's only fair. It's only right. The Capitol knows this place inside and out, the fight...the fight should be fair.

Does fair matter? When Thirteen hurt Chuck and the Capitol might hurt someone else and so on. She pulls herself away from the conversation but not by much. She wants to go to the shore but there's fighting. She wants to go visit home but she doesn't have Taria by her side. They'll ask after her. They will. The citizens will recognize her from the propo and they'll stare. They'll wonder. This was a horrible idea.

She claims her lack of wandering is to be nearby to help but really she's just nervous. Her district was rebelling. Rebelling with every inch of its land and every person at its disposal. There was no place for her and her confusion. It still feels like she's a ghost. She walks through a place she once lived and with only the smallest sense of the self that loved it so much she would volunteer herself to spy for it. It's home yet she's detached.

So instead of walking to places well known, she points out the abandoned shacks, filled halfway with sand from the last hurricane. They aren't really a nice place to stay but they're practically deserted and near the outskirts of town. So she stays within their confines mostly, pretending the past doesn't leap at her from every corner. She even smiles and talks to those who come to speak to her.

Sometimes her thoughts catch a hold of her and she wanders too far. There's someone she knows--intimately, barely or just by face--and her legs simply refuse to move. Running hardly seems an option.

It was the sort of mission Harley Quinn would have loved.

Rob the supply depot, or at least pretend to while the other troops blew the joint up. Being a distraction was one of Harley's strongest skills.

Harleen on the other hand...was scared out of her mind.

Coming out of the fog like a faded memory of the woman she once was, the blond haired woman wielding a Capitol issue rifle opened fire loudly in the direction of the building, spraying bullets left and right indiscriminately and screaming. Not laughing like Harley Quinn but screaming out of fear for what she was doing.

Even the noise of gunshots made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

Once the alarm was raised she started running away from the path where she knew the bombers would be. Shooting off bursts of bullets to keep the noise while she gasped for breath. Screaming and running was too hard even for her athletic body.

But she couldn't just run away from the place, that would be too much of a give away. So while ever fiber of her frayed nerves were begging her to turn around she sprinted directly at the building, darting from side to side when the rebels inevitably fired back.

And she hoped, preyed to a number of gods that she wouldn't run into anyone she knew.

Chuck's first thought, when he steps on to stable land, comes like a spear to his gut. This is home -- except it isn't. Chuck hasn't considered District 4 home in years, a decade, maybe. It's only recently that he's longed for the relative simplicity of that life, for the sand beneath his toes and the salt on his lips, the tang of brine in his lungs. But home is, was, is -- Derek.

This is maybe the shattered shell of childhood, instead. A shade of familiarity that he crushes beneath his boots. Chuck doesn't feel like he belongs here anymore, the Capitol an ichor in his veins, the Rebellion a lingering poison in his lungs, as if all that blood and neon water was still filling him up. His feet sink into the sand for a moment, before he shifts his weight. An instinctual shift of his body, his footsteps, striding over hurricane struck sand with an inborn ease. It's not easy, it's not.

But it's -- it is.

The sight of his District lingers in his gaze, boarded up and ramshackle, and if he lets himself pretend, it could simply be the aftermath of some storm. Chuck's never let himself pretend.

So, with the still newly familiar hatred burning alongside the ever present agony, he turns, follows gestures and half-bitten words. Information is the key to victory, an insider's knowledge prized no matter what they might have done to him mere weeks ago. The new scar-tissue at his lip twinges, blood on his tongue, and Chuck focuses. He hates, but this is his chance. He can fight, vengeance in the claw of his hands, the burn of his blood. Derek -- he focuses. Points and growls, offers his knowledge like it is more command than it holds. The hungerpain-and-bloodthirst frame of himself takes up more room than Meulin, across the way. The soldiers eye him warily, trigger fingers twitchy, orders keeping them coiled tight. Good, they should know, they should remember.

Eventually, he takes his leave, lip curling over his teeth in scorn, disdain, rage -- a thousand little agonies boiling through him. The district is gutted out like a whale, oil-slick and ocean-wet, homes like the arching white of ribs picked over. There was life here, once, and maybe after. Once the Peacekeepers have picked through like carrion birds. The rest of his once-District will flit like shoals of fish, nibbling away at what's left, devouring and dismantling, partaking in this death as they always have, as they always will.

Rotted flesh in the pits of their bellies, the ribs of houses becoming the ribs of boats, feeding the fleet of fishermen.

Someone hands him a spear, their eyes gleaming familiar, some dark thing like the depth of the ocean, like the luminous light of jellies in the pitch of night. Their teeth shine against sunworn skin, and Chuck feels his mouth curving in response, scar aching. Yes. He will be found, later, in the heat of battle. His steps sure and quick and nimble, spear moving as if it was a part of him, an extension of himself. Leaving blood and gore and the stink of fear in his shadow. Striker Eureka, born again anew. Yes.

He might not have been born in District 4, but it's his home just the same. Herc's been doing his fucking best to protect it since the day he met Angela, and today is no different. He's always known the war was going to come here, and he's done his best to be prepared. He's given his rebel contacts as much information as he can, sabotaged the Peacekeepers loyal to the Capitol in small and untraceable ways - and left the Souza house in the Victors Village well stocked and with an easy escape route, in case any rebels need a safe place.

Chrysanthemum wouldn't like it, but as far as Herc's concerned, Chrys can get the fuck over herself. He still can't shake the feeling that she'd known more about what the Capitol'd done to their boys than she's letting on.

For the most part, he stays with the Capitol troops, barking out orders to the Peacekeepers under his command and following the ones given to him. He's a flurry of activity, a presence as strong and stubborn as he's always been, enough that no one would notice that he seldom actually turns a weapon on any of the rebels.

When he can slip away, he gets in touch with the others District 4 who know his true leanings, few as they are. And he looks for those who'd represented District 4 in the Capitol, during the Games - the offworlder Tributes, the children who'd grown up faster than they ever should have had to, who became Victors and Escorts and Stylists and reporters.

He looks for his son.

It's almost sad, how quickly Anna has grown used to the throes of battle. To the sounds of gunfire ringing all around her, to the settle of her gear over her shoulders as she runs. To the sounds of people screaming, crying. Dying. All of this fades to the background, now. Her programming has been thorough and stealthy, to the point where she's never even realized that something in her has changed.

She follows orders without question, following the route her Captain had indicated, ducking behind rubble at advantageous spots to try and take out Rebels where she's able. Anna is small enough that, while not quite skilled enough to be a true long-range sniper, she's good for hiding and picking off enemies before they can spot her.

It's while she's ducked behind a boat trailer that her gun jams. The princess gasps, eyes wide as she tries desperately to figure out where the jam is, to figure out how much time she has before someone inevitably spots her and picks her off.

Which is when she spots the big, red-haired Peacekeeper striding past. The fact that his face is vaguely familiar doesn't click with her at first. "Sir," she hisses, half-crouched behind the boat trailer as she is, her hair falling out of the braids pinned to the crown of her hair in sweaty tendrils. "I need an assist."

When Derek touches down onto the pier, looking out over the boarded business, he doesn't feel much of anything. He knows, distantly, that he'd once called this place home - but that'd been a long time ago, and the Capitol has been more of a home to him than District Four had ever been. Still, there's a sense of nostalgia, and if Derek wasn't already devoted to ensuring a Capitol victory here, that would be enough to make him fight harder.

The people of his Disctrict might not have ever been fond of him as a Victor, but he has fond memories here, and he owes it to his District to make sure it stays safe under the rule of the Capitol. And it's personal. His mom is safe in the Capitol - but Herc is a Peacekeeper here, and Kurloz and Anna are fighting beside him. Loyal Capitol soldiers to the end, the four of them - and it should be six, it should be, but the rebels had taken Meulin and Chuck from them.

There's something unsettling when he thinks about Chuck, something he can't quite grasp, but he ignores it. It's not important - Derek's here to fight. That's the only thing he's good for, the only thing he's ever been good for, and he knows how to let everything go but the battle. Violence is simple, uncomplicated and beautiful, and it doesn't come with the echoes of screams in his head or the heavy weight of pain in his chest when he tries to think too hard about why he can't get Chuck off his mind.

He doesn't have a weapon as he moves through the District, but anyone who gets close enough to see him - or stays far enough away to seem him fight - can probably figure out why. Derek fights more like a wolf than ever, with hands tipped in claws and a mouth full of fangs, a looming presence with reflective green eyes.

When she left, Meulin had been a rebel in disguise. Now she feels more like it's the other way around. The rebel's color of grey is an ill fitting costume. She wears it with the idea that it might someday stick to her. That it's ideals will someday sink back into her skin and she'll remember why she was so willing to put herself in danger for it.

The District does that more than the outfit. It helps to see people she knew fighting. It helps to remember what everyone was like. She doesn't skirt too close to the actual fighting but just knowing is good enough. Something eases, just a little.

This sense of ease lasts to when she sees the Peacekeeper white. Two sets of thoughts bash against each other. Run. Stay. They will hurt you. They're here to help. She sinks back into the shadow of the building, digging nails into the weathered wood beneath her fingertips. Did they see her?

And then she recognizes him. Her eyes focus on his and for a moment, she thinks he sees her. Her lips move. It feels too loud. Wasn't she always too loud?

"Mr. Hansen?"

Home is people. Home is places. Home is here and in the Capitol, in her family's ramshackle place, in the glittering condo decorated with fish. It's here with him. It's there with them.

She doesn't follow him from the table at first. They ask her a few things more, corrobrate it with the new information other locals bring in. She smiles without her eyes and repeats what they want. She's the nicer of the two for sure but they don't really seem to know how to treat her beyond that. She's nonthreatening but still a little Capitol. She's stuck between states in their eyes as much as her own. It's easier to excuse herself and trail after Chuck than to face those curious looks and wary stares.

"It looks so much worse than we left it, doesn't it?" She says, because what else do you say. She misses Kurloz. He misses Derek. Neither really wants to speak of it. So she turns her gaze to the district, to what is really the home of them all.

"Things will have to be cleaned up afterwards..."

The spear is new in his hands, a familiar weight, and some part of him feels oddly completed. As if the hollow cavity carved into his chest could be filled by this, this promise, heady and aching. Chuck strokes his thumb down gleaming metal, impossibly soothed by the littlest action, and tenses as she speaks. Delicate in the line of his shoulders, the tightening of fists. His jaw twitches, teeth clenched.

It's no fault her own, of course, of course. Still, Chuck has to fight to remember that, sometimes.

He turns hollowed eyes her way, green like the luminescent gleam of jellies, of light reflecting in gleaming abalone shells. There's something dark there, deeper than the depths of the ocean, where whale song warbles and echoes oddly. Dark, dark, blood in the the slash of his mouth, written in the coiled lines of his body. But she is -- she is all that remains. She is pack, and she is his, in his own way.

Chuck turns, slow, all predator, making room for this slip of a girl to settle at his side. He snorts, softly, ill humor written into him. What else do you say, indeed. The hollowed out shell of their home aches, counterpoint to the throb beneath his ribs.

A staggering heartbeat in the body of a dying creature.

"They'll make do." Softly, almost, though there's an edge he can't be rid of. Blood in his throat, flesh in his teeth, agony, agony, a howl caught in his throat -- Derek, please. "Always have."

Dark lingers in his eyes, in hands that clutch the weapon like a treasure. Slow she eases up beside him. It'd be easy to be afraid of him, if she let herself be. He reminds her of the Chuck in the arenas, only one thing to live for, only one thing to fight. And that thing, that person, isn't here. But he's never turned something on her. Nothing more than his anger. How often had that been justified? So much.

Ages ago, only months ago, she might have leaned her head on his shoulder and made some silly remark. He might have teased her and laughed. Instead, she stands close but not too close. She watches his lips move, nods. Everything has changed. But they'll make it through. The District. Him. Her. She hopes. All she has is hope.

"That's District Four. Surviving."

There's an intense focus that blocks out almost anything else when Derek's fighting for his life. He's always had that, as long as he can remember, and he doesn't know if it was something he was born with or something that training as a Career instilled in him, but it doesn't matter. All that matters like this is threat or non threat, and if it's not a threat or something he can use to his advantage, he can ignore it.

The modifications that he'd volunteer to undergo for the Capitol, to make himself stronger, a better weapon, they didn't give that to him. But they enhanced it, gave him better senses to take in his surroundings. Gave him better weapons than blunt nails and not sharp enough teeth.

He tears through those who stand in his way even easier than he had in his own arena - and he isn't always that discriminatory about who they are. It doesn't matter. It's not his job to control himself out here, it never has been. He's the Capitol's wolf, he goes where they direct and slaughters until they tell him stop, until he can go back home to his pack. He's never known any different, never wanted any different than the benediction of the Capitol.

There's blood on his lips, down his chin, and it drips from his claws as his ears pick up the sounds of screams and growls, of flesh rendering and blood spilling. It's the growling that gets his attention more than anything else, and he stops whatever he'd been doing to move towards it, to assess this new threat.

He stops when he sees the flash of a spear, the shock of red hair. He's wearing the grey of the rebel's clothing, and that flips a switch inside Derek, makes him want to attack, to serve the Capitol, to do the Capitol proud.

But this isn't a faceless rebel, and Derek stays rooted where he is.

"Chuck."

She's wary, cautious, little lamb come to slaughter, come to the side of the wolf. Delicate and trembling with her own loss, aching, aching, and once he might have held her, helped her. Once, he mightn't have been the creature she's scared off, deep down in the dark she doesn't let surface.

But he has one thing left. The Arena settles about his shoulders like a well worn cloak, Kaiju blue poisoning from the inside out. He knows what he must do.

"Surviving." He echoes, echoes, hollow pointed, something like laughter curling around the edges. Yes, yes. Surviving, that is what makes up the bones of District Four, the flesh and blood and gristle.

Surviving, as he is. Surviving, as they will.

Yes. Here, now, these past weeks, he's been more Striker than Chuck. More Wolf than Striker. Teeth and fury and sharp bitten off words. Once he might have teased her, once he might have laughed. Now, he bares his teeth in what might have been a grin, vengeance reborn within the mortal coil. She holds hope tight between her fists, the gleaming light of it slipping between her desperate fingers. But Chuck -- he has no hope left to him. They slaughtered it.

Surviving isn't living. Don't they both know that. She doesn't speak the ugly truth aloud. Surviving is just clinging on, just staying despite it all. Hope clenched in her fingertips is all that keeps her going, hope for a future and her family, her pack by her side. He's motivated by revenge, by something she can't quite see. By Derek. The question of how he ended up in District Thirteen had never been asked. She'd never allowed herself all those questions burning up her throat. The answer, the revelations he might bring, might be more than she could bear.

Dipping into a crouch, she takes up a handful of sand. Sifts it through her fingertips to find a piece of shell curled in the palm. It's worn soft at the edges but it would take only a single crack to bring sharpness all anew. Like Chuck. Or Derek. She drops the shell. Stands. Wipes the sand from her hands.

"Are you going to come back to Thirteen?"

Edited 2016-04-05 03:59 (UTC)

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 5

Wear a necklace of rope, Side by side with me.

The Battlefield

A Perfect Storm

The Tipping Point

no subject

open!

for Luna

no subject

(frozen comment) Results

(frozen comment) A Perfect Storm

(frozen comment) The Tipping Point

no subject

no subject

open

no subject

open

Open!

no subject

open

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject