open.

[downbeat]

Who| Katurian and OPEN
What| Katurian is boozing the night before the arena.
Where| Tribute lounge.
When| Night before Arena 6.
Warnings/Notes| possible mentions of abuse, death.

Katurian had made several decisions before the next arena:

1. He was going to train. Before the last arena, he had poured over poisons and antidotes, hoping there was a way that he could gently taint the food supply when no one was looking. But there were no poisons, there were no antidotes, and Katurian had been stuck in a barren wasteland with a knife that was no longer than his index finger. He was too weak to throw spears, but he spent days learning how to throw the smaller knives, how to shoot a bow and arrow, how to blow darts without sucking the needle-thin points back into his cheeks. Distance was key.

2. He was going to run for the cornucopia. It was better, he figured, to die early and messily rather than embark without weapons and find yourself at a psychopath's mercy. Or two psychopaths' lack thereof.

3. He was not going to scream and he was not going to cry. He would take injuries with a grunt, if anything. He would pretend that his mouth is stitched shut.

4. He would not harm any children. There were limits.

5. He was going to play to win. He would not shy away from betrayal. He would not hesitate to slit an ally's throat in the dead of night. If he ever granted mercy, it would be with death. Which was fair.

He had also decided that he wasn't going to drink the night before (it only stirred up panic, it only made him groggy in the morning), but he couldn't stop himself. It was the eve of the arena, and Katurian, in all his pale and haggard glory, was kicking back drinks in the tribute lounge.

Comments

[downbeat]

“I know,” he says, forever soft. He cringes as Howard stands up, his shoulder muscles going rigid.

“If you kill me,” he says, that same tiny plea of mercy he asked of Wyatt before the last arena, “please try not to draw it out so much.”

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Okay." Howard's voice is small and meek, like the meaning of the promise is lost to the horror of actually pondering it. He doesn't want to kill anyone again. "I looked in the books, I looked up all the ways to murder without making it hurt too bad, to make it fast..."

He rubs his fingertips together on one hand. "Do the same for me, okay? If you do kill me." Because he doesn't believe Katurian won't.

[downbeat]

"I promise," he says, because he knows he can't convince Howard he won't kill him and he knows he can't convince himself. He feels unconsciously for the artery running along his neck. His neck is warm with the alcohol or his fingers are cold from the fear. It's hard to say which.

"Most of these people don't deserve anymore pain."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

He gives Katurian a skeptical look, like the more Katurian swears it the less convincing it is. Then his eyes start to follow the line of the jugular, that fragile little pulse of life.

"Even if they do, I don't want to be the one dealing it." He sets his water bottle down on the counter. It's empty now. He drinks fast.

[downbeat]

"I do," he says, and the words are easy. Natural. "Because like you said, there are too many psychopaths in this place. There are too many psychopaths."

He takes a heavy sip of his drink and then sets it down. He slides it back and forth across the ring of condensation.

"But not because I'd like it," he adds. "Because maybe it might protect me, later on. Maybe it's good to show you can hit back now and again."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard wraps his arms around himself, feeling his ribs under his fingertips. "Or it'll make you a target."

Howard's learned not to be violent because almost everyone can hit harder than him. Being benign unless you have stronger people to help you is a better survival scenario. The problem is, of course, that stronger people have no debt to you.