#barksback

[evilstalks]

sender spits out a mouthful of blood on receiver / he’s gross sorry

the shape knows that what he does is not fair to the survivors. hooking them up on the entity's meat hooks and just standing there, mere feet away. watching them struggle and eventually watching them die. it makes it impossible for the other survivors to come and grab them, lest they want michael's wrath focused on them instead. besides jake, there is only one other survivor in the trial. the "leader" of them, dwight. michael knows he's scurrying around, trying to find the perfect opportunity to get jake. he also knows neither one of them will leave the other behind. they are both stubborn and loyal, something michael has never experienced himself. something he doesn't care about experiencing. all he's had in this life is loneliness, anger, bloodlust and indifference. he doesn't need anything else. here in the realm, curiosity has wormed its way in there too. he is a cat and all the survivors are pesky mice. he toys with them, devours them whole when the time comes.

there is not a sound or any movement that comes from michael as he stands within arms reach of jake, watching him dangle on that hook. he takes in the sharp hook piercing through his shoulder, having torn skin and ripped clothing. he listens to the steady drops of blood, to jake's ragged breathing. to the shuffling of leaves nearby. he doesn't expect anything to happen, except maybe for the other survivor to pop up and try to take michael down. except, jake looks him dead in the eye, unflinching even through the black holes of michael's mask. and he spits on his face. it shocks him-- though he doesn't show it at all. he only tilts his head, touching the blood and spit on his mask. jake is bold, he will give him that and nothing else. the act is enough to anger him because it is a disrespect, so he grabs jake by the shoulder and pushes him down, forcing the hook to go deeper into his body, tearing more skin and muscle open. two can play this game, whatever it may be.

[frfld]

@barksback, the crow: not smart, coming here alone.

❝ and why is that? ❞ curiosity was always the one feeling that could win out against dwight's rabbit-like fear of the world. even as a little girl the sense of wanting to know and understand would make trembling limbs move into action, usually following david into the unknown, as his light led dwight to safety no matter what over and over again. even if i'm not physically there by your side, i'm always with you. it's been years now since older brother made his promise, yet words still carry the weight of a promise made only the day before. here dwight stands under a starless sky, green eyes looking up through inky branches for a specific shape, body shaking just slightly in anticipation.

❝ if you didn't want me to be here, you wouldn't have let me get this close to your home. ❞ is this bravery, or foolishness? even at this distance dwight knows where killer's cabin hides between thick facsimile of douglas firs, but he moves no closer — not without host's permission, at least, he offers the other that much dignity in such an undignified version of reality. ❝ i don't plan on leaving, if that's what you were hoping for. ❞

[infear]

@barksback, park: [ middle ] sender sticks their middle finger up at receiver

held-breath presence melts into her shadows like a warm embrace. empty, inky voids hungrily seek out his prey for this trial: a couple of newer faces, the biker, and park. a block of ice so cold it burns to the touch resides where, allegedly, a human heart used to be in killer's chest, it neither beats nor pulses, instead it waits for the perfect moment to explode.

slient stalker glides through the lower level of meat plant, a slight squint to left eye only evidence of daniel's acknowledgement of the horrid stench that marinated every entity-made surface. not his preferred hunting grounds if he was allowed to be picky (which, he normally was) but they were advantageous ones regardless, wide yawn easily hidden 'round doorways and stairwells, the threat of his knife waiting at every corner.

it's almost (almost) startling, then, as former journalist takes a sudden left — right when jake park in the flesh is destroying one of his hooks! excellent! wide stares are silently mirrored for what feels like minutes as echo finally begins to fade from ringing eardrums.

jake park, ever adamant to be the largest and most unruly thorn in danny johnson's side, breaks form first with a smile and rude gesture using his right hand, before turning tail and booking it in the opposite direction. well, now what?

do not take the bait. that doesn't quite sound like his voice, and grip on knife does not loosen, but feet remain rooted for the moment, mind working to figure out the best order of elimination. he's only here for you. probably true, but that might not be a bad thing, at least for right now. body instinctively gets low, molding back into the dark as slow (but calculated) pursuit begins slinking in the direction of soon-to-be victim, ears straining for any sign of saboteur's presence, determined not to let the other get the jump on him now, or ever again. playing hard to get will work, god knows he hates being ignored.

[mcmorare]

@barksback sent: you are handy and tough and smart.

If it was someone else saying this, maybe she would have a cockier answer. But it's Jake, and he means the words genuinely, she knows that, and that stops her completely for just a fraction of a second. Tough, she'll admit to, on the outside at least. She'd like to think she's the toughest fucker around, save for Johanna, and that's a high bar to meet. Handy, maybe. She can be handy. Smart... she's been called a lot of things, but smart was seldom one of them.

"That's debatable." There's a slight smile on her face, the kind where it's not really clear if she's being sheepish or self-deprecating. One hand brushes wood shavings off her shirt - she's leaned back where she sits, one foot up on the edge of the table, whittling at what at the moment is still simply a lump of wood. She does glance up at him, for a moment. "But thanks."

[mcmorare]

@barksback sent: i love nothing more than porch-step cigarettes in the twilight.

Sun is low in the trees, rosy-orange light splintered through, putting long shadows across that space behind the house. The few yards of open grass, the tree line. It's quiet. Not silent, she doesn't like silent, but quiet. Forest quiet, all rustling leaves and distant birds. It's a pretty picture.

The two of them sit on the steps of the back porch. When the pack is extended, she takes one without a word. It's been a while since she's smoked. There were a handful of times before her games, as a teen, sitting outside her bedroom window at night or sat in the woods, but they were always a bit of a pain to get. Strict parents. Not really any chances to get to the stake or some smaller trade house to sneak a pack for herself. Always steadied her a little, though, having one.

Now, she takes a long drag, watching the smoke curl out into the air on her slow exhale. Leans back against the wooden railing. This is nice. A nice moment.

"My grandpa used to have cigars." She remembers the box in his woodworking room, the faint smell of tobacco. "They were always hard to find, so he would save them for a special occasion."

[mcmorare]

@barksback sent: i just don't know if i'm ready.

When Katrina was 10, her grandfather died. He was the only member of the family who actually seemed to get her, who would indulge her, who ever pushed back against her mother. It wasn't until the day of the funeral that it really sunk in that he was never going to be there again. No one to tell her stories. No one to protect her.

She didn't want to leave the room where his coffin was, staring back the whole time while her mother pulled her away by a hand.

That same feeling is creeping in on her now. No mother to pull her away this time.

Blight's body is laying out there in a box. Under the ground. She wants to dig it out. She wants to throw up. She wants to hide under her blankets like a child.

Shoes sit by the door. Still not on yet. She's sat in a chair, arms crossed, staring at them. She needs to put them on and then they'll go outside and go to the funeral. She sits, staring at them.

"I don't know either."

[mcmorare]

@barksback sent: i don't cry.

Katrina probably would have said the same thing if it weren't for the fact that the entire nation has now seen her near-tears on television. She didn't actually start crying, which might still count as not crying, but she thinks the tears were visible enough that her no-crying facade is clearly not quite as strong as it would have seemed otherwise. Even if she's still trying her best to hold on to it, won't let the capitol see a single goddamn tear if she can help it.

"Alright." It's half-word, half-scoff. Out there, with capitolites, other victors, with the public, he can pretend all he wants. She can pretend all she wants. Here, they both know that's not true. "Just cause you don't cry often doesn't mean you don't cry." Katrina would know. From the age of 11 to partway through 15, she never cried at all. It's made her wonder before if there was something wrong with her, that she could feel so miserable, sad things could happen, she might even want to cry at times, and nothing. Like her heart turned into stone. Evidently, the games took a heavy hammer to whatever hard shell had grown around it. Cracked outside and inside, now.

The dry look she gives him is almost siblinglike, teasing. "Trying to be some fuckin' tough guy?"

[mcmorare]

@barksback sent: you think i'd let anything happen to you?

Jake and Blight wouldn't let anything happen to her - or to Johanna - if they could help it, she knows that. She does. They would go deal with the seemingly endless string of capitolite sponsors, attend events in their place on a bad night, she's sure they would take blows in their place if the time ever came. That's not what she's scared of. That can't take away what she's scared of.

There are people more powerful than both of them. Far more powerful than her. It's not a question of what they would let happen.

She's sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, hands fidgeting in front of her. The scars across her palms aren't visible anymore, but she can still feel them. Where they were. There's a part of her that wishes they weren't gone. They never even asked her, never told her that was what they were doing. "I think you can't stop it."