Clove (
shenevermisses) wrote2012-12-29 09:31 am
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
13th Throw - [ action / written ]
Written:
I want a specific scenario in the Battle Dome. Can someone help me program it? I'll repay you. Terms can be discussed before the programming.
Action:
[Clove will be waiting outside a room in the Battle Dome. She hasn't been sleeping, and it shows. She's also been skipping meals.
She has her Journal with her, and she's dressed for a fight. Tribute from head to toe, knives in her vest.]
Written:
[The next short message appears a few hours later.]
It gets so quiet here. Between missions and drafts, there's just nothing. That's the one thing I hate about this place. It gets too quiet.
Action:
[For most of the evening, Clove will be at her camp. She's turned up a little game to cook, and she's ignoring the cold as best she can. She considers, as she starts to really feel the nipping of winter, knocking on Katniss's door. She could probably sleep there to escape the cold and not go back to the apartment.
She's not sure she's ready to go back and face Cato yet.]
I want a specific scenario in the Battle Dome. Can someone help me program it? I'll repay you. Terms can be discussed before the programming.
Action:
[Clove will be waiting outside a room in the Battle Dome. She hasn't been sleeping, and it shows. She's also been skipping meals.
She has her Journal with her, and she's dressed for a fight. Tribute from head to toe, knives in her vest.]
Written:
[The next short message appears a few hours later.]
It gets so quiet here. Between missions and drafts, there's just nothing. That's the one thing I hate about this place. It gets too quiet.
Action:
[For most of the evening, Clove will be at her camp. She's turned up a little game to cook, and she's ignoring the cold as best she can. She considers, as she starts to really feel the nipping of winter, knocking on Katniss's door. She could probably sleep there to escape the cold and not go back to the apartment.
She's not sure she's ready to go back and face Cato yet.]
action:
It occurs to him that they died pretty close together.
His nice Third Party sword spins in his hand once, twice and he shrugs.]
Yeah well, lucky them.
[We wouldn't have made it.]
action:
She actually smiles.
Because Clove understands this world. She knows how everything works here.
And all she does is cock her head. But it's a challenge, all the same.]
action:
Cato doesn't respond to her tilt, not really. His sword stops in it's arc and he smiles to match hers -- ]
Come on then.
[-- and walks backwards, always keeping his eyes on her - before turning and disappearing around the bulky mouth of the Cornucopia. Once he's done that he grips his sword tight and waits just behind the corner for her to round it and come at him. While he waits, Cato attempts to stratigize. He doesn't want to kill her but he doesn't want to have her turn and sink a knife into him either. If he swings his sword just over how tall she stands, that'll make him completely vulnerable. Loss.
If he goes any lower, the chance he has to actually take an arm or her head even increases. Unacceptable win.
He looses one hand from the hilt of his sword and curls it into a fist. He intends to hit her shoulder when she turns the corner, make her less able to use that knife if only for a moment. It's a risk but then again everything is.
Cato is a little disheartened at the amount of times he has to remind himself not to kill her. That he's not in the Games anymore.]
action:
Not that Cato's plans are bad ones, no. Clove's just got another idea in mind, once he's out of sight. She considers it for a moment. He'll be waiting for her to give chase. Maybe even to come around back.
So, instead, she lets go of the knife she had her hand on and begins silently scaling the Cornucopia.
Memories of being a Victor are fuzzy, so she can't remember exactly how she did this before. Or would have done this. Or whatever it is. But she manages. Fairly quietly, too. She pushes and pulls herself up the slick metal, and her hands ache. She's out of practice for this kind of activity, and climbing was never her main skill anyway.
Still. She manages, then ducks down to scurry across the Cornucopia and kneel above Cato's head. Clove barely dares to breathe, not wanting to make a sound. Armed, they're both deadly as hell. But that's half the fun, isn't it?
Fun. Is this fun? She doesn't even know anymore.
What she does know is she doesn't want to pull her blade. So she settles back onto one toe, leans forward, and thrusts herself forward, seeking to tackle him. Her weights not enough, no, but the momentum might be enough, especially if he doesn't know it's coming. He'll have the advantage of brute strength, but she'll have the closeness of her knives.
Just in case.]
action:
When Clove hits him, she doesn't do much throw him off balance. Her weight isn't substantial enough to do anything other than make him reel back and take a few steps to right himself.
He grunts and uses his free hand to shove her off and away from him. She could do some serious damage to him if she wanted to right then.]
action:
Trapped.
Not really. She can go to either side. But that sword could be waiting for her whichever way she chooses.
Still, she can't wait too long. She has to choose now or he'll come straight at her.
Clove digs her heel in, pivots, and makes a sharp movement to the right. Just to get her back free, give her room to run. If he cuts her off, though...]
action:
It's making him feel strange; fighting but not really fighting. He doesn't trust himself to go all out with trying. He's afraid of doing that. Maybe he won't be able to stop. He doesn't know. He hasn't had a real fight since the zombie draft.
Thinking back on it makes him feel fond though. He likes being on the same side as Clove. They make a good team.]
action:
He won't chase if she runs. She knows it. He's smarter than that. But that's what she wants. She just wants to run. Everything in her is warring against itself. She wants to fight, but she doesn't want to hurt him. She wants to run, but she wants him to follow. She wants to remember, but she wants to forget.]
action:
If he thinks of it as training, it makes things less strained. But the setting is getting to him; slowly but surely.]
action:
However, she lunges forward, aiming a slash at his sword-arm she's pretty sure won't land.]
action:
He wonders how long this dancing out of each other's range will last until - finally she closes in.
The knife is pretty fucking huge compared to some of the thinner ones she uses and Cato barely makes jerking his arm away count when he hears that familiar slice through fabric - he can't feel anything, not right away, and he doesn't want to give himself the chance to inspect if it's a bad hit or not. As her lunge follows through he jerks his elbow up at her shoulder. He could very easily miss and hit her in the face or not at all but she's in between him and the rest of his blade now - he'll either have to get her back into his range or just deal with her here.]
action:
Like with Twelve.
That's when she stops. She throws the knife but to the side, not at him. Her eyes get very wide as she looks at him. She's not going to risk it. She's already killed once here. Pinned Twelve down and stabbed. Over and over and over. Because she let herself see a threat and think of the Games.
She put herself in this situation, and she knows it. But she can stop this. Or at least stop herself. She won't kill Cato.]
action:
Come on! [He yells and doesn't do anything. He looks positively furious but the red in his face isn't from as much anger as he'd like it to be. He just wants to keep doing this until they fall down. Maybe he wants her to finish him. Maybe he wants to finish her.
He knows for sure that he wants to want that. Very badly. But he can't bring himself to actually crave hurting her.
Nevertheless, if she's unarmed - he won't attack.]
action:
Would they have done this there? Stood on this edge? Or have they softened since coming here? Her for giving him an unarmed target, him for not going for the kill. Have they gotten weaker? Or iss this some sort of weird strength?]
Your call, Cato.
[She can feel it, equal parts Career and girl pulling in opposite directions. She's breathing hard, her eyes on fire. She's thirsty for blood, and she's terrified to kill. All at the same time.]
I pick up that knife, one of us dies.
[I've done it here already. I can do it again.
But he doesn't know about Twelve, about the blood in the forest.]
Come at me, I go for it.
[She doesn't know why she's giving him the power, the choice. Maybe because then, either way, it's not her fault.]
Your call, Cato.
[She doesn't dare to breathe.]
action:
And the sooner he accepts that the better.]
Fuck it. [He hisses and stabs his sword into the ground with a clang, the sound reverberating through the room - and it's like he suddenly remembers that this is a room. Not real.
As he releases his sword and looks down, he sees the ground glitching at the direct interference - and the broken pieces of the tip of his sword. It's not horribly damaged - salvageable, even. But the tip is now jagged and a good four inches off the top lies in sharp pieces on the ground.
Cato stares....clenches his fists and jaw so tight his teeth might start to crack before he lets out a wild, strangled cry and lunges at Clove. He bends at his waist, aiming to take her at her middle with his shoulder and to wrap his arms around her small frame.
Landing on top of her would only crush her and he doesn't want that - not with how she died, he thinks to himself. So he tucks his shoulder and rolls to his back with her on top of him.
He sure as shit isn't letting her go easily though.]
action:
But her body works faster than her mind. She braces her arms between them to try and give herself some leverage, to protect her heart and neck. So, one hand frees a throwing knife from her vest, and she stabs. Once, twice into the stomach. She doesn't know if she's hit anywhere near anything vital. She just knows she's gotten a piece of flesh each time.
Her hand finds his chest, braces right near his heart, framing the target with her thumb and forefinger. Kill or be killed. Before she can make the fatal blow, however, reason catches up to instinct. She's preparing to stab down, not up. She isn't pinned against the ground, he's not trying to strangle her or bash her head in.
Clove freezes. Her only movement is the shaky rise and fall of her chest as she gasps for air. She isn't angry. That's not what's shining in her eyes now. She's afraid. And realization is slowly sinking in. The red of the knife, the boy under her.]
action:
He's just laying there under a very vicious girl who looks terrifying and determined, and he thinks for the moment she pauses in that she will do it. She could too. She could do it easily and be rid of him for at least a week. But then she stops, shaky breaths punctuating the silence and he's staring up at her with a look more befitting a surprised child than a Career.
Being stabbed didn't surprise him as much as he thought it would. It's just that she was really beautiful just then. And maybe that's shock talking but Cato really thinks so as he releases his grip in her shirt quickly, propping himself up when she doesn't prepare make that final stab down to get a look at his stomach.
The wounds aren't terribly bad. They look pretty small in the grand scheme of things and if they're bleeding already then they must not have gotten very deep. But. You never know with abdominal wounds - that's what their teacher always said.]
Ow.
[His shoulders start to shake. It's very slight at first, the motion so negligible that it could just be tremors...but after a second his mouth splits into a wobbly grin and he's laughing. Actually laughing. It's a weak, wet sound. Quiet compared to how loud he can roar with glee but it's ... not dying and he likes that too much to not laugh.]
Ow.
action:
Same as Katniss in the forest.
Pin and stab. Keep stabbing until it stopped moving. Whatever it was under her. Whoever it was under her.
The viciousness that kept her alive so long in the Arena -- the fighting spirit she was taught from the time she joined the Academy... It terrifies her in that instant. Because it almost cost her the one thing that makes this place bearable. The one reason this is better than dying in the Games.
Clove sinks back, off her knees and onto the balls of her feet. The knife in her hand falls beside him, and she scurries back, wide-eyed. Her gasping has stopped. Now, the breaths barely come. She's shaking, staring at the wounds as her eyes water. Her mouth moves, but the words just barely sneak out.]
'm sorry. Cato... Cato, 'm sorry.
action:
Talk you idiot.]
Clove. [Now another word.] Clove. It's fine. Seriously, it's fine.
[He ignores how much it fucking hurts to bend forward but he hides it well, smiling still but leaning forward - trying to look her in the eye.]
Clove, I'm fine.
[He never thought that focusing on another person would be more... cathartic than focusing on himself.]
action:
The months spent here, the fact that this is all simulation... none of it sticks in Clove's mind. She's as good as in the Arena.
All of Panem is watching. Waiting.
A moment of glory for a tribute, striking the final blow. Proving to District Two that she's strong enough to stand on her own. That she's ruthless enough to be a Victor. It's in her grasp.
And it means nothing.
Clove finds a sudden burst of movement, stripping off her jacket. Part of the lining is already ripped, so she tears it more. It's warm, thick fabric. The insulation to keep them from freezing to death during the increasingly cold nights. She moves forward and quickly as she'd gone back and pushes his shirt up enough to see the wounds, to put the torn fabric over them and press.
Apply pressure to the wound. Stop the bleeding.
Skills taught to be performed on herself, to save her life in the Arena. But they promised. The Capitol promised. If two tributes came from the same District, they could both win. They could both go home. They're supposed to go home together.
Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she knows it's not real. There is no more home. Only the wound is real. But she keeps up the pressure even as the tears fall. All of Panem can see her crying as she tries to help undo what she's done.
What's worse?
Cato can see her crying.]
action:
He flinches only slightly at the pressure on his wounds, thoughts occupied by what he sees instead of what he feels.
It shouldn't make him happy to see them. But he is. Relieved, more like it. He thought she hated him. He doesn't try to dry her eyes or pull her into a hug, instead he places his hand over hers where it presses the jacket into his sticky shirt. In a way it's much more intimate than an embrace.]
Clove. Look at me?
action:
[The words are quiet, frightened. It's a seventeen-year-old girl speaking, not the Seventh-Fourth female tribute from District Two. Not the gold-armored Athena.
Her hand shakes under his, and the tears won't stop. Twelve provoked her. Shot an arrow at her, cut her face. Twelve picked the fight; she ended it. But this. This was her doing. She started this. If she loses Cato, it's her fault. No one else's.
If she loses him, she is alone.
The words almost aren't hers as she looks up at him, never letting up on the pressure. Whether she fears his dying or simply deciding that he's had enough, it's hard to say.]
Stay with me.
Please.
Don't make me do this alone.
action:
He doesn't know if this is going to trigger her into even more freaking out but he just...has to hold her right now. Cato scoots closer, cups the back of her head in his hand like it's something he does every day (he tries to) and mumbles as she cries.]
I'm not leaving. I won't, okay? I won't leave. Ever.
[It's fierce but quiet. It's meant for her ears only.]
action:
[It bothers her. More so because... she isn't sure if they're better off not. In the world where Twelve and Lover Boy won? There are no more Hunger Games. Kids don't have to worry about that anymore.
But she won't get married in that world. She won't have a little girl to protect from the horrors of the Arena.]
We were so close.
[Clove buries her head in the crook of his neck, not daring to release the pressure of the cloth against his stomach.]
'm sorry. We were so close.
action:
[Does he wish things could have been different? Of course; he'd have to be foolish not to. But he'd much rather be here and alive than dead. It isn't anyone's fault but his that they didn't win. They had a plan, a strategy and it all went to shit because he wasn't ready for Thresh or the mutts. He was (still is) an arrogant little shit and then he went crazy.
Happy Hunger Games.]
We wouldn't have made it. [They would have ripped one another apart and he's sure of it. Even if they had won the Games, they would have been taken from one another. Both of them would have been forced into things they didn't want. They would have wished for death every time they closed their eyes.
So what, he wondered, was better? Dying and saving yourself the pain of living? Or surviving and having a life?]
action:
action:
action:
action:
action:
action:
action: