![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
WHO| Katurian and OPEN.
WHAT| Katurian is tiptoeing around the arena late at night. With a garrote.
WHEN| Second week.
WHERE| South-East (Parts of Fantasyland, Tomorrowland, and Main Street)
WARNINGS/NOTES| Attempted murder.
Katurian is a night owl. In his old world (in his old life), Katurian would sleep-walk through his days at the slaughterhouse and only revive once he left for home and the sun went down. He'd write until his body collapsed in exhaustion underneath him, and even when it did, words would still tickle the roof of his mouth and the tips of his fingertips like tiny beings clamoring for attention.
It's no different in the arena. Sleep is a near impossibility, and while he knows he has a relatively secure camp with Draco, it isn't enough. His mind twists and thrives and writhes, the words less like gentle beings and more like angry spirits living underneath his skin. Maggots. In the last arena, he solved this by pacing back and forth on the ice, a folding knife clutched tightly in his hand.
This time, he wanders the darkened arena with a thin patch of fabric tucked in his pocket. This time, he listens to the words.
This time, he fights.
WHAT| Katurian is tiptoeing around the arena late at night. With a garrote.
WHEN| Second week.
WHERE| South-East (Parts of Fantasyland, Tomorrowland, and Main Street)
WARNINGS/NOTES| Attempted murder.
Katurian is a night owl. In his old world (in his old life), Katurian would sleep-walk through his days at the slaughterhouse and only revive once he left for home and the sun went down. He'd write until his body collapsed in exhaustion underneath him, and even when it did, words would still tickle the roof of his mouth and the tips of his fingertips like tiny beings clamoring for attention.
It's no different in the arena. Sleep is a near impossibility, and while he knows he has a relatively secure camp with Draco, it isn't enough. His mind twists and thrives and writhes, the words less like gentle beings and more like angry spirits living underneath his skin. Maggots. In the last arena, he solved this by pacing back and forth on the ice, a folding knife clutched tightly in his hand.
This time, he wanders the darkened arena with a thin patch of fabric tucked in his pocket. This time, he listens to the words.
This time, he fights.
no subject
It began to pull tight. Daniel tried to suck in as much air as he could.
Everything Jack had said about hand-to-hand went out of the window in that one second. It had to be a warrior-military thing; it was hard to think rationally about how to take someone down when they were doing their best to try and kill you. The sharp piece of metal lay in the shadow near his leg, forgotten then, as Daniel's hands flew up to claw at his throat, trying to pull it off before it could sink in deeper. He jerked underneath the Tribute, trying to unsettle him, leg kicking out.
no subject
It was his third.
The first was his father, whose arms and legs thrashed so hard that he nearly kicked the skinny, small fourteen-year-old Katurian off the bed and down onto the carpet. (Scratchy and blue and filled with abstract designs that reminded him of fish or frowning faces.) Then there was his mother who somehow managed to sleep through that entire first part but nonetheless provoked the same sort of fight when she woke up. But it was different, killing someone with a garotte instead of a pillow, and it was very different doing this to someone who was innocent, who probably hadn't done very many bad things at all, who was tired and just wanted to get some rest in a place that he had thought was safe.
On top of the struggling Daniel, Katurian held steady for one, two, three seconds before something inside him cracked and gave in unconsciously. He loosened his grip, his hands unwinding just slightly from the killing cloth.
no subject
Three seconds seemed to pass agonizingly slow, each one a lifetime. Then, inexplicably, the cord slacked, just enough for Daniel to draw in another breath. Daniel's chest heaved. The fresh air he drew in was only a little, but enough to but him time. None of Jack's training came back, none of the specific hand-to-hand, but Daniel remembered the shard of metal lying next to his thigh. It was all he could think about.
In the darkness, he let one of his hands slip down, and began to slap around on the floor, desperately searching. The other hand remained at the garrote, trying to take advantage of the lull and pull at it. Anything to gain a few more centimeters. His fingers brushed against debris. They skidded through decades of grime. Where was it? It had to be around here somewhere, before the Tribute resumed.
no subject
He needed to tighten the cloth. He needed to tighten the cloth.
Why couldn't he tighten the cloth?
With his body on top of Daniel's and his hands all wrapped up in the fabric, Katurian gasped and wheezed as though he were the one that needed the air. (It wasn't fair. He could see the dying man's face.) He heard the wet smack of a hand batting against concrete, and then he saw the shard. It was seeing that shard, it was experiencing his own fear, that snapped him out of his stupor. He frantically tried to knock it away with his own hand, grabbed his knife, and rolled off of Daniel.
no subject
Daniel rolled immediately to the side, his throat already starting to burn, and he pulled at the cord around his neck. He had to get it, before the other Tribute got a second wind back, then either defend himself, show the other Tribute he wasn't about to let himself get killed, or run the moment he had space. He didn't waste time. The archaeologist lunged for where he'd seen the shard go skittering off a foot or two. He had to get it, before the other Tribute got a second wind back, then either defend himself, show the other Tribute he wasn't about to let himself get killed, or run the moment he had space.