lucetilogs | TERRACE Draft

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TERRACE Draft - Remaining Days

Who: All Draftees
What: All hell breaks loose
When: From the 27th to the 1st.
Where: TERRACE!
Summary: Information post here
Rating: Varies on thread, please mark explicit material.

This post covers the second to sixth day! Be sure to check the info post on the timeline to know what's up. At 2AM on the 27th, the attack will break out while most people are sleeping. Be sure to use the above info post for any plotting needs you might have. Enjoy!

Some random NPC quotes about the island itself.

Be sure to tag this post appropriately: [canon] character name

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...Is that why she'd done it? Sharpe desperately wanted to know why. How. Even though the answers were readily available to them should he only stop a moment and think the problem through. Nah, it was easier just to be angry.

"And you're lookin' to win now where you couldn't before, eh?"

Clove shrugs. She's endured worse questioning from other people, and she still held to the fact that he understood. Somewhat. He'd seen battle. They'd talked about that, that too few other people here understood what that was like.

"I want to survive, and the best way to do that," as far as she was able to function with, "is to kill what would kill me."

His rifle's nose raised by only inches. He still didn't dare bring it to his shoulder, but its temperamental twitching betrayed some unease in his very soul.

"Is that why you did it, eh? Was that all it was? Survival." He spat the word.

Clove sensed the danger. The movement of the rifle, the way he spoke. Predator and prey instincts alike chorused that she had to be careful. Yet, she couldn't fully understand, couldn't bring all the pieces together. Not yet.

"Why I did what?" He couldn't be talking about the cultists she'd killed today. But other than that... she wasn't sure. The Games? Possibly.

"...She tells me she once sang." Sharpe's voice grew -- in volume and in feeling. He didn't dare take a step forward, but simply stood in the moonlight. His soul was all a-tatters, for it wasn't only Katniss's plea that stayed his hand. He was never one to abide by murdering women and children; however, it was hard to think of Clove as anything but another soldier. Her duality troubled him. It kept him reserved and cautious.

And his tone turned so very sad. "Never even had the bloody chance to hear it. But I bet she sings like a pretty little bird. You took that from her."

She sang. Who? What did singing have to do with it? What was he talking about? She knew about death penalties, technically, but they'd never been something she thought about, and she and Katniss had never discussed that day in the forest. She'd never found out what the other girl lost.

So, she's genuinely lost. And all the more nervous for her ignorance. "From who? What are you talking about?"

Had it meant so little to her--? Sharpe growled. He thought of all the murderers he'd ever known, and all the murders he had himself committed. And he knew it was wrong to hold this girl above the absolution he'd given to others. But dammit...

"Katniss, lass. She used to sing before you killed her."

Katniss.

The change was immediate. Whatever color and humor had been in Clove's face vanished at once. Her eyes widened, and her breathing became shallow. Every muscle tensed, her eyes flicked to his gun, and her fingers touched the hilt of the hunting knife at her side.

She saw it again, somewhere past him. The arrow grazing her face, felt the blood run down it. Registered the threat and lunged, taking Twelve down with her. They'd fought, brutal and hard, in the dirt and the leaves. And then, for an impossible moment, they'd both gone still, and Twelve was under her. Then a stab. Two. Three. On and on even after the girl was dead. Because it was her or Twelve. Because if she stopped or hesitated or spoke, Thresh would be there to grab her, to kill her.

Clove took a slow step back. To break into a run now might make that gun fire, and she didn't trust her chances. But, oh, she was ready to run. There was nothing in those eyes but fear. Because someone knew. Someone who wasn't bound by their truce, who was a friend of Katniss. Someone who wouldn't care if she lived or died.

"Katniss."

It didn't manage to be empty. Mostly, she was afraid. But there was a bit of anger and even a bit of hurt. Had she trusted Katniss? She realized now, staring at this man who knew, that she had. That she'd trusted it to be their secret. Even Cato didn't know. But someone knew now.

Well. She tried to steel herself. If he was going to kill her... she'd meet it like a tribute. She wouldn't scream, she wouldn't cry, she wouldn't surrender. She'd fight.

"Katniss."

The name had no been said three times. And each one drove the belated grief deeper into his heart. It was difficult to mourn a person you met only after they had died. Even more difficult still to mourn two -- for Clove deserved some portion of his sadness. Didn't she? Sharpe watched the Career retreat by a step and he restrained himself from advancing. But -- dammit -- he wanted to claim that uncontested ground between the pair of them.

Violence bubbled in his veins, but it found itself without an outlet. For Clove sounded just a little frightened. Little enough to check his primal thirst for vengeance. Little enough to remind him of honour and of forgiveness. He dragged in a deep and ragged breath.

And then something clicked. Snapped. Broke and shuddered through his concentration. Without a second's loss, he hauled the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked familiarly back into his shoulder and the barrel cracked hot smoke and quick death. And although the bullet spun past Clove's head, he hadn't missed. For he hadn't been aiming for the girl. Instead, a Cultist footsoldier was thrown back from the shot's impact. Brains and blood sprayed a gruesome mess on the gymnasium wall.

The enemy had infiltrated his paltry shelter as he and she had stared each other down, not quite arguing. Sharpe amazed himself with how quick he'd responded to a threat he hadn't been watching for. Ganondorf's magic, he supposed.

"There could be others," he growled -- practically ordering the girl to his side. A girl he thought he might in fact now despise

The crack of the gun has Clove sink down and shift forward, an instinctive posture of prey and predator combined, ready to run or fight. But the target wasn't her, and that somehow frightens her more. Because something had been coming from behind. Because she's been distracted. Something that easily might have killed her. Something large, and--

Sharpe's voice brought her out of the Games, out of the lingering fear of Thresh, but it also doused her again with her very new, very real fear -- him.

There could be others. There could be a lot more. Coming this way. Drawn by the noise. One, two steps back, then a quick turn and she's bolted, moving as fast as she can and with as jagged a pattern as she can to put as much distance as she's able to between herself and that building. Between her and the man who might have decided to kill her.

He had a similar thought, aware that the rifle's report would bring chaos down on his head. He slung the longarm over his shoulder and instead rewarded his surroundings with the sound of metal dragging 'gainst his sword's scabbard's throat. Out came the blade like some great cleaver in the dark: a sword made for heavy cavalry and not for infantrymen, but someone so tall as Sharpe could wield it with aggressive ease. It did not exist for fine swordsmanship; it was a killer's instrument.

But he was not in a killing mindset when he gave chase to the retreating Clove. Rather, he had half a mind to keep an eye out for the girl. She must be spooked, now. And it didn't matter how bloody good a soldier was, Sharpe believed they all made mistakes when they were spooked.

And with any luck, he could cut down some enemies as he chased.

Clove heard the footsteps behind her, and she couldn't shake them. She wasn't able to climb like Twelve, to vanish like the girl from Eleven. She wasn't as clever as Five had been. She wasn't even as fast as some of them. She could sprint, yes, but of even the Careers... Glimmer had been the fast one. Long legs, longer than Clove's. Not that she was slow, no. She'd been taught speed and stamina, but it didn't feel like enough, especially in an environment that wasn't forest and land. She couldn't run here like she did in the forest.

So, at some point, the flight instinct... It didn't even die. It just stopped. Maybe it coincided with her deciding to be a tribute from a Career district. If he was going to kill her... Why die running?

That's when she stops, grabs a knife from her vest and turns to throw it. This one isn't supposed to hit. It's the same as she did for Katniss in the forest, when she fired her first arrow. A warning throw. Close enough to be noticed. Controlled enough to make it clear the next one won't miss.

The next one she already has in her hand, while her other touches the large knife at her hip. One throw, maybe two, she thinks. Then a charge. Or reaction if he keeps charging. Get the knife out, go for the chest and throat.

Just like Katniss.

She steels herself, watching, her fingers adjusting their grip to be ready to throw the second knife. The fear's still in her eyes, but it's been replaced by something else. Something more dangerous. In fear for her life, she'll fight to the death for it.

The knife whistled past him and he growled an oath. What the bloody hell was the girl doing? Now was not the time to fight amongst themselves, even if he could empathize with the position he'd now put her in. The confrontation had been abandoned prematurely in the face of enemy encroachment, and now he had to either chase her down or live with the guilt of letting her bugger off on her own.

Guilt? Would he feel guilt? He was surprised that his gut answered with a resounding yes. And that yes drove him forward in spite of the knife's controlled warning.

"Clove, for Christ's sake," he hissed into the darkness with his great sword flashing. "Strength in bloody numbers, girl!"

He kept advancing.

Kill. It was a base instinct, and Clove knew it. But it was the tribute in her. Her mouth started to open, but she clenched her teeth. No. Not again. She wouldn't scream for help, wouldn't make an idiot out of herself when no one came. Because no one would come. Not to help her, and especially not to help her against a friend of Katniss's. She'd been too honest with people here, hadn't kept with the Capitol strategy of playing nice. She'd let herself drop the act, show this place the Career mindset, and she'd pay for it.

"Take another step," she said, the growl somewhere between and mixing fear and anger, "and it's one or the other." A warning arrow for a warning knife. Another arrow to scratch her face. After that, what else could she do. And this is the same situation. Only this man won't keep quiet as long as Katniss did. Or else he'll kill her. But if he does? She'll leave her mark.

Neck. Throat. Hand with the sword. All good, viable targets. Clove clutches the knife tight. Kill or be killed. Strength in numbers -- he has the allies, she doesn't. No one will come if she screams. She's going to die here, but she's not going to make it as easy as she made it for Thresh.

At long last, he paused. "I'd much rather a third option, lass. Let us both negotiate, eh? Fly a bloody truce flag between the two of us."

"Yeah because those work." Her reply was cold, bitter... but maybe a little hurt. She stayed low, hand on the knife, ready to throw it. "Last just until one of us decides its inconvenient."

"They last longer'n you think. Some of us have shreds of honour left."

"Only last as long as it takes to get a stronger ally," Clove snapped, her eyes narrowed.

"Don't work like that, Clove. Not where I'm from." That statement was a lie. "Not...not for me. I don't work like that." Better.

He breathed in a deep, crisp lungful of air. "The stronger ally ain't the one who gallivants alone. The stronger ally is the one who bloody well learns to cooperate with others."

"I don't want allies." Clove's eyes narrowed, but she held tears at bay. Anger, hurt, fear. All of it was welling deep, and she didn't know what to do with it. She wanted to kill, but that would get her killed. "I don't trust anyone, and no one should trust me. Did that, didn't work, not doing it again." Her hand shifted on her knife, reminding herself it was there.

"So keep your distance. Or I'll kill you. Or die trying."

"...You won't be able to kill me, lass. And I'm choosing not to kill you."

He wasn't puffed up. He wasn't proud. Merely certain. "But I would like to kill the bastards who are soon to descend upon us."

"Then do it," Clove muttered as she took a step back, ready to run again. "I'm not sticking around."

She wasn't going to risk her life for someone who wasn't even an ally. Even for an ally, she wouldn't. And she didn't trust him at her back.

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TERRACE Draft - Remaining Days

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