nikitathorn​:
jeaninetwill​:​
Jeannie should’ve felt triumphant when the tip of the curved blade sank into his arm and ripped a good chunk out of it. Instead, something dropped into her stomach. Cocky, self assured Silver Fierro could bleed just like the rest of them. He could bleed just like Nikita on the ground, and he screamed with the same agony behind the sound. Each and every one of them might’ve been artificially created, but the blood and pain was only more proof that they were still human. Horribly so.Â
At least by the time Silver began to fight back, Jeannie realized she’d made a colossal mistake. He was a career, trained for this, and she was a little girl who’d learned how to dance in an orphanage and with a long lost brother and who’d been taught how to never stop running by her fears. She didn’t stumble back fast enough and his first knife nicked her cheek, a searing pain erupting just under her eye, while the other ripped her her arm in the same fashion she’d done to him. Jeannie cried out and her feet carried her a few steps back, out of reach of the glinting knives.Â
This didn’t seem to be a fight she could win. All she knew was that she had to. There was no other option other than standing her ground and making it matter, making it worth something. She wouldn’t die quietly again, sobbing into her own arms as she waited for the bombs to drop. She was the same Jeannie as she had been nine years ago, but different in every way that mattered.Â
She knew she could only get close to him again once, and either it would mean his end or hers. She had one chance, and that was it.Â
Barely side stepping the knife that sailed towards her face then, she jumped forward and raised the sickle over her head. Jeannie let it fly down towards a point on his chest, a point where she knew his heart was. I won’t kill you yet. Even he had a heart. It was a good thing, as much as it wasn’t in this moment.Â
@nikitathorn​
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The scene before her faded in and out. It became increasingly difficult to bring what was happening into focus, it was a blur of light and metal and awful screams of pain. The sounds bounced off of her insides like an echo, amplifying in her own chest and heightening the sharpness of the knife lodged between her ribs, the way her heart raced to try to keep her alive, her lungs exercised a lesson in futility. She wanted– needed– to stay awake long enough to know it was Jeannie, not Silver. Her fingers clawed into the dirt, she tried to keep herself tethered to this painful, awful earth. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to go. She wasn’t ready yet, there was that chasm of opportunity in front of her, that thing that called to her from the dark bottom. She wasn’t supposed to die, she was supposed to find it, find herself.
@silverfierro​
Jeanine’s sickle plunged into his chest and killed him instantly, though only in spirit. His flesh erupted in suffering. His muscles spurted the blood pouring from his exposed heart. He didn’t want to die again, not again when the end was within his clutches, but it seemed he had no say so in how the story would play out. Silver glanced into the other’s eyes and even without a reflective surface could see that the hostility and anguish born behind his own had dissipated. His knives hit the dirt with unsatisfying thuds, his knees hit it the same. Dying the first time had been so peaceful in Olive’s arms, the explosions dancing all around them and his injuries not nearly so severe. The feeling creeping over him was similar. Unique in its own right, but wholly the same.Â
“Didn’t think I had one, did you Twill?” he asked her with barely a whisper left in him. He would die more quickly this time. “It’s not the same as yours, which I’m sure is just...fucking perfect and shining and decorated with a bunch of thready bullshit from your district.” Silver laughed, genuinely, forever finding his own brand of humor superior. It hurt, but villains didn’t deserve to die without getting a taste of their own medicine. It dawned on him that with both his and Nikita’s death rapidly approaching, Jeanine could very well be the one to win the whole fucking thing. For the second time, he didn’t mind.Â
It was miraculous that he was still on his knees instead of collapsed on the dirt, but Silver never obeyed the rules given to him. His flickering eyes showed him a different girl with each blink. Jeanine, Olive, Golden. Jeanine, Olive, Golden. Jeanine. Olive, Golden. They were not the same, and that’s maybe why the boy from District One refused to go down just yet. He couldn’t without knowing why the wires of his brain synced them all together. Why their faces magically fit onto the mold that one of them provided.
Once it clicked, he could hear Games commentators going on about his “fatal mistakes” for generations to come. Discussions and debates about where Silver Fierro went wrong losing not only his original Games, but the Quarter Quell as well. They would say it was because he made the mistake of intertwining himself only with those he would not readily be able to defeat, physically or mentally.
He beat Golden in battle, but her memory plagued him from the moment she died to this very moment he lived in. The originator of his suffering would always live in his head.
He lost against Olive. In their romance he was the victor, able to win her over in ways she couldn’t possibly resist. In reality, he couldn’t beat her even if he had gotten a second chance to.
He was about to lose to Jeanine. The girl that from the moment he recognized her as one of the returned, he feared. Not because of her strength, not because of her name, not because she knew what he was capable of. Only because of a indescribable sensation that resided in his depths that told him she was better than him. It was the same sensation that told him he would fail in his endeavors to beat her.Â
He had lost to them all.Â
Allowing his gaze to move, the boy noticed a flicker from way above, near the highest point of the forcefield keeping them locked in the arena. He vividly recalled seeing the one surrounding District 13 come down. The color he saw both now and then were the same.Â
Silver didn’t have much time left to decide who he was going to be. If he didn’t decide now, others would choose for him. There was a bounty of events that made him the bad guy and he was well aware of that, proud of it even. As many mistakes as he’d made, he had no regrets for having made them.Â
“Like you said, this is a real place. Remember, Twill?” he asked of her quietly. Blood was barely seeping out of the hole of his chest anymore and the monster should’ve been dead minutes ago. Stubborn to the very end.Â
“Go,” he demanded of her, the third and final girl he wasn’t able to defeat. He found himself rooting for her now that he was no longer her competition. He smirked one last time at the ridiculousness of it all. Even he’d been won over by the heroine.Â
“Go.”
Silver Fierro fell into a drying puddle of his own blood with a satisfactory thud, at least satisfactory for those rooting against him. Everyone in Panem watched, expecting something heinous of the boy whose name and actions could never be forgotten. They waited for him to rise again, slash the girl’s throats, and be on his merry way. But no. His body slumped peacefully into the ground without a last second scare in him. The villain had been vanquished.Â
*BOOM*















