Saturday, June 14, 2014
Re-revised D8
Timothy takes the time to yell obscenities across the now-smoking river at Snow and Moore before grabbing my hand, dragging me inside the Cornucopia, and shoving a wet cloth at me. "Tie this around your mouth and nose, now," he orders. I do so, he already has his on and is tacking up one of the huge canvas sheets across the entrance to the Cornucopia - I believe it is a tent he cut up. I clamber up the boxes, helping him attach it to the lip at the top with the super-strong tape we found in one of the generic repair kits. "This won't work for long," I say fearfully through my mask, secretly agreeing with every word Timothy had called them. "The smoke will get through the canvas."
"No it won't," he says flatly, stepping down onto the golden floor. "That's wood vinegar they're burning, highly toxic smoke that is heavier than air. It'll sink down, and it tends to return to its source, i ee, the river. It's also highly explosive," he adds happily. "It'll flash burn those - girls. We're far enough away it shouldn't actually effect us."
"Pyroligneous acid," I correct absentmindedly, remembering the few chemistry lessons we'd been taught at school.
"Whatever," Timothy grumbles. I ignore his irritation, feeling distinctly heartened by his words. Wood vinegar was one of the few flammable acids, and with that dark muddy color...he was probably right.
"In which case," I say slowly, and he looks at me. "It'll burn pretty quickly, right? I mean, it's mostly water, so once all the chemicals are burned off, it'll just...go out."
"How do you expect me to know?" Timothy demands indignantly. "And it's 80% water."
"Because you're the one who plays with fire," I point out.
"Yes, it burns quickly," he says sullenly. I nod, and we sit down to wait it out, hoping the smoke clears as quickly as its source burns out. After a few minutes, Timothy bursts out again. "Dibs on Snow." He is still fuming, livid at having his favorite weapon used against us. I wasn't even aware he could be so angry, with his diabolically mischievous mind. I didn't know he could actually kill.
"She's just doing what we're supposed to do - kill each other and survive," I point out, a little startled by the fury in his tone. We are extremely lucky we spent the morning sluicing down the entire island, before Snow and her hellish ideas popped up.
"I'm serious, that little-" He goes into a string of words that I sincerely wish had never been invented. "She's determined to turn us into well-cured hams."
"Hams?" I give him a blank look. Besides smoking, I don't see the connection.
"Long pork?" he prods in disbelief, staring at me. I don't reply, simply gazing at him expressionlessly, unblinking. I swear that boy is a piece of work - even killing mad and inches from death, he will still cut wisecracks. He shakes his head, looking away again. "I mean it, you know. I'd like nothing more than to spit her on a sword." He has got cooking meat on the brain. Understandably.
"Technically it was Moore firing the arrows," I offer.
"I'll let you have her, then," he says moodily. Yay. I get to face the Career.
"On the plus side, the mutts might get them," I say with brutal cheeriness."So then we could just stay in here and whichever one smothers slowest is victor."
Timothy:
I'm pretty sure Charlene's bipolar. One day it's 'this will never work.' The next day she's all - ah, sarcasm. Sarcastic optimism. I decide to play along. "Idea, that," I say in an offhand manner. "Where's the pillows, we can mix things up a little." All bantering aside, it is definitely getting stuffy in our canvas filter. "Do you think a slow death asphyxiating or a faster, painful death having your lungs frazzled, is preferable?" I ask conversationally. Charlene gives me a look and we fall silent, waiting for the cannon shots that would announce our enemies have fallen victim to either the mutts or their own sadistic trap.
"No it won't," he says flatly, stepping down onto the golden floor. "That's wood vinegar they're burning, highly toxic smoke that is heavier than air. It'll sink down, and it tends to return to its source, i ee, the river. It's also highly explosive," he adds happily. "It'll flash burn those - girls. We're far enough away it shouldn't actually effect us."
"Pyroligneous acid," I correct absentmindedly, remembering the few chemistry lessons we'd been taught at school.
"Whatever," Timothy grumbles. I ignore his irritation, feeling distinctly heartened by his words. Wood vinegar was one of the few flammable acids, and with that dark muddy color...he was probably right.
"In which case," I say slowly, and he looks at me. "It'll burn pretty quickly, right? I mean, it's mostly water, so once all the chemicals are burned off, it'll just...go out."
"How do you expect me to know?" Timothy demands indignantly. "And it's 80% water."
"Because you're the one who plays with fire," I point out.
"Yes, it burns quickly," he says sullenly. I nod, and we sit down to wait it out, hoping the smoke clears as quickly as its source burns out. After a few minutes, Timothy bursts out again. "Dibs on Snow." He is still fuming, livid at having his favorite weapon used against us. I wasn't even aware he could be so angry, with his diabolically mischievous mind. I didn't know he could actually kill.
"She's just doing what we're supposed to do - kill each other and survive," I point out, a little startled by the fury in his tone. We are extremely lucky we spent the morning sluicing down the entire island, before Snow and her hellish ideas popped up.
"I'm serious, that little-" He goes into a string of words that I sincerely wish had never been invented. "She's determined to turn us into well-cured hams."
"Hams?" I give him a blank look. Besides smoking, I don't see the connection.
"Long pork?" he prods in disbelief, staring at me. I don't reply, simply gazing at him expressionlessly, unblinking. I swear that boy is a piece of work - even killing mad and inches from death, he will still cut wisecracks. He shakes his head, looking away again. "I mean it, you know. I'd like nothing more than to spit her on a sword." He has got cooking meat on the brain. Understandably.
"Technically it was Moore firing the arrows," I offer.
"I'll let you have her, then," he says moodily. Yay. I get to face the Career.
"On the plus side, the mutts might get them," I say with brutal cheeriness."So then we could just stay in here and whichever one smothers slowest is victor."
Timothy:
I'm pretty sure Charlene's bipolar. One day it's 'this will never work.' The next day she's all - ah, sarcasm. Sarcastic optimism. I decide to play along. "Idea, that," I say in an offhand manner. "Where's the pillows, we can mix things up a little." All bantering aside, it is definitely getting stuffy in our canvas filter. "Do you think a slow death asphyxiating or a faster, painful death having your lungs frazzled, is preferable?" I ask conversationally. Charlene gives me a look and we fall silent, waiting for the cannon shots that would announce our enemies have fallen victim to either the mutts or their own sadistic trap.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Revised D8
"Dibs on Snow." Timothy is fuming, livid at having his favorite weapon used against us. I wasn't even aware he could be so angry, with his diabolically mischievous mind. I didn't know he could actually kill.
"She's just doing what we're supposed to do - kill each other and survive," I point out, a little startled by the fury in his tone. We are extremely lucky we spent the morning sluicing down the entire island, before Snow and her hellish ideas popped up. So now we're swathed in one of the huge thick protective canvas tents, hoping the smoke will kill 1 and 12 or the river will stop burning, before we smother.
"I'm serious, that little-" He goes into a string of words that I sincerely wish had never been invented. "She's determined to turn us into well-cured hams."
"Hams?" I give him a blank look. Besides smoking, I don't see the connection.
"Long pork?" he prods in disbelief, staring at me. I don't reply, simply gazing at him expressionlessly, unblinking. I swear that boy is a piece of work - even killing mad and inches from death, he will still cut wisecracks. He shakes his head, looking away again. "I mean it, you know. I'd like nothing more than to spit her on a sword." He has got cooking meat on the brain. Understandably.
"Technically it was Moore firing the arrows," I offer.
"I'll let you have her, then," he says moodily. Yay. I get to face the Career.
"On the plus side, the mutts might get them," I say with brutal cheeriness."So then we could just stay under here and whichever one smothers slowest is victor."
Timothy:
I'm pretty sure Charlene's bipolar. One day it's 'this will never work.' The next day she's all - ah, sarcasm. Sarcastic optimism. I decide to play along. "Idea, that," I say in an offhand manner. "Where's the pillows, we can mix things up a little." All bantering aside, it is definitely getting stuffy in our canvas filter. "Do you think a slow death asphyxiating or a faster, painful death having your lungs frazzled, is preferable?" I ask in painful gasps. Charlene doesn't answer, both of us trying to breathe more slowly and shallowly to prolong our oxygen for as much time as possible. It was a race of time, between the mutts and our air.
"She's just doing what we're supposed to do - kill each other and survive," I point out, a little startled by the fury in his tone. We are extremely lucky we spent the morning sluicing down the entire island, before Snow and her hellish ideas popped up. So now we're swathed in one of the huge thick protective canvas tents, hoping the smoke will kill 1 and 12 or the river will stop burning, before we smother.
"I'm serious, that little-" He goes into a string of words that I sincerely wish had never been invented. "She's determined to turn us into well-cured hams."
"Hams?" I give him a blank look. Besides smoking, I don't see the connection.
"Long pork?" he prods in disbelief, staring at me. I don't reply, simply gazing at him expressionlessly, unblinking. I swear that boy is a piece of work - even killing mad and inches from death, he will still cut wisecracks. He shakes his head, looking away again. "I mean it, you know. I'd like nothing more than to spit her on a sword." He has got cooking meat on the brain. Understandably.
"Technically it was Moore firing the arrows," I offer.
"I'll let you have her, then," he says moodily. Yay. I get to face the Career.
"On the plus side, the mutts might get them," I say with brutal cheeriness."So then we could just stay under here and whichever one smothers slowest is victor."
Timothy:
I'm pretty sure Charlene's bipolar. One day it's 'this will never work.' The next day she's all - ah, sarcasm. Sarcastic optimism. I decide to play along. "Idea, that," I say in an offhand manner. "Where's the pillows, we can mix things up a little." All bantering aside, it is definitely getting stuffy in our canvas filter. "Do you think a slow death asphyxiating or a faster, painful death having your lungs frazzled, is preferable?" I ask in painful gasps. Charlene doesn't answer, both of us trying to breathe more slowly and shallowly to prolong our oxygen for as much time as possible. It was a race of time, between the mutts and our air.
Day 2, D8
Fire arrows. Snow and what's-her-face are shooting fire arrows at us. I glance at Timothy, who looks indignant that they're using his preferred weapon against us. However, we've prepared for this eventuality, having sluiced down the meadow around the Cornucopia with river-water. I'm glad I made him take this precaution, and we sit at the mouth of the Cornucopia, watching their vain attempts to set fire to our camp. They grow better with practice, however, and soon Timothy suggests we retreat into the horn. I'm not thrilled about losing our view, but it is certainly the prudent course. We're hurried on our way by the fact that an arrow pinged off the gold right where I'd been sitting mere seconds ago.
Arming ourselves, we sit down to wait it out. The howling of mutts is clearly audible, and it's too much to hope that they won't somehow make it onto our protected little island. We can only hope that they'll get 1 and 12 first. "Timothy," I say quietly. "We can't both make it." The question trembles on the air - which of us will be killed off? Or will they make us fight each other?
He reaches over, taking my hand. "We'll burn that bridge when we come to it," he murmurs softly.
Timothy:
Charlene giggles slightly at my words, and I smile a little, glad she seems to have cheered up a bit. "Have I mentioned today how much I really, really hate Snow?"
"Which one?" she asks dryly, reaching for a bottle of our precious water.
I peer out at the treeline. "Does it matter? That poisonous apple didn't fall far from the warped tree. He wants us dead, she's trying to kill us. She's worse than a Career," I add in a grumble. "This is the sort of behavior one expects from them, but a Twelver should know better."
"We're in this to win this, too," she reminds me.
"Neither of us has killed a single person," I point out, a bit waspishly, and she doesn't reply.
Charlene:
I don't want to die. But Timothy is just so much more full of life, excited and enthusiastic and clever. I'd rather be the loser than he, I want him to live. But if it comes down to me and either of the others....he's right, Snow is worse than a Career. I feel even more revolted by the fact that we'd considered her as an ally before she allied herself with Careers. "Moore?" I mutter. "Is that her name?"
"Maybe," Timothy grunts. Conversation languishes as we wait.
Arming ourselves, we sit down to wait it out. The howling of mutts is clearly audible, and it's too much to hope that they won't somehow make it onto our protected little island. We can only hope that they'll get 1 and 12 first. "Timothy," I say quietly. "We can't both make it." The question trembles on the air - which of us will be killed off? Or will they make us fight each other?
He reaches over, taking my hand. "We'll burn that bridge when we come to it," he murmurs softly.
Timothy:
Charlene giggles slightly at my words, and I smile a little, glad she seems to have cheered up a bit. "Have I mentioned today how much I really, really hate Snow?"
"Which one?" she asks dryly, reaching for a bottle of our precious water.
I peer out at the treeline. "Does it matter? That poisonous apple didn't fall far from the warped tree. He wants us dead, she's trying to kill us. She's worse than a Career," I add in a grumble. "This is the sort of behavior one expects from them, but a Twelver should know better."
"We're in this to win this, too," she reminds me.
"Neither of us has killed a single person," I point out, a bit waspishly, and she doesn't reply.
Charlene:
I don't want to die. But Timothy is just so much more full of life, excited and enthusiastic and clever. I'd rather be the loser than he, I want him to live. But if it comes down to me and either of the others....he's right, Snow is worse than a Career. I feel even more revolted by the fact that we'd considered her as an ally before she allied herself with Careers. "Moore?" I mutter. "Is that her name?"
"Maybe," Timothy grunts. Conversation languishes as we wait.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Day 1 D8
Timothy:
"We're burning the bridges," I say determinedly, after all the cannon shots. "We're the closest, and if we can do it quickly, we're set."
Charlene:
"If," I say firmly. "That's a pretty big if. How do we burn them all at once?"
Timothy:
I squint across at the gleaming gold horn. "Medical fluid. Alcohol, etc. Flammable stuff."
Charlene:
When it comes to fire, Timothy is a genius. I stand, slinging on my backpack. "Let's go, before the others start to circle back around."
Timothy stands too, and suggests, "Let's run. The faster we get everything done, the better." I nod, and we sprint down, across the bridges, dropping the packs, pouring flammable liquids over all the bridges, striking matches and putting to torches, throwing mini-torches onto the bridges and watching them flame up. Timothy is dancing about happily, waving his torch and occasionally helping the bridges burn when he thinks the flames are too low. I shake my head, turning back towards the Cornucopia. We might be safe from the other tributes, but there are always fun new twists thought up by the Gamemakers...
Timothy:
The burning bridges are a glorious sight, but there is more to do yet. I watch Charlene starting to make a wall of spears, familiarizing herself with the weapons. I go over, helping her build a wall around the Cornucopia and fortify it. There is a magnificent hissing as the burning wood falls into the steaming river, and Charlene pulls a piece of cloth over her face. "Acid!" she calls and I nod, pulling a hood over my own face. We retreat into the Cornucopia, taking a good meal of the supplies in it before settling down for the night.
"Do you want early watch or midnight watch?" I ask, handing her a couple of blankets.
"Midnight," she replies, cocooning herself and lying down. "I do better in early morning."
"Perfect. Sleep well, I'll keep a competent guard." I go out, climbing the Cornucopia to the top, where I can see 345 degrees around me with no trouble, and wrap up in blankets, leaning against the raised tail.
The moon rises, the air growing colder on my face, but wrap snugly in the warm cloth, I remain at a comfortable temperature, keeping a sharp eye out. A little before the light of dawn should enter the sky, I slide down and enter the horn, waking Charlene. "Your turn, I need rest," I whisper to her.
Charlene:
I do not know whether it is because I trust Timothy or that I am so exhausted I have no choice, but I fall asleep almost immediately. My dreams are haunted by bloody figures wreathed by smoke, but they are separated from us by a river of fire - a tenuous but currently adequate defense. When Timothy wakes me up, I start to clobber him before I hear his voice - and he has wisely pinioned my arms before attempting to wake me. I am awake immediately, so the time between him entering the horn and me leaving it cannot be more than five minutes. I climb the tail, finding a warm spot where I assume he has been leaning. I settle back, looking about every few minutes, and watching the east for the first sign of the sun.
"We're burning the bridges," I say determinedly, after all the cannon shots. "We're the closest, and if we can do it quickly, we're set."
Charlene:
"If," I say firmly. "That's a pretty big if. How do we burn them all at once?"
Timothy:
I squint across at the gleaming gold horn. "Medical fluid. Alcohol, etc. Flammable stuff."
Charlene:
When it comes to fire, Timothy is a genius. I stand, slinging on my backpack. "Let's go, before the others start to circle back around."
Timothy stands too, and suggests, "Let's run. The faster we get everything done, the better." I nod, and we sprint down, across the bridges, dropping the packs, pouring flammable liquids over all the bridges, striking matches and putting to torches, throwing mini-torches onto the bridges and watching them flame up. Timothy is dancing about happily, waving his torch and occasionally helping the bridges burn when he thinks the flames are too low. I shake my head, turning back towards the Cornucopia. We might be safe from the other tributes, but there are always fun new twists thought up by the Gamemakers...
Timothy:
The burning bridges are a glorious sight, but there is more to do yet. I watch Charlene starting to make a wall of spears, familiarizing herself with the weapons. I go over, helping her build a wall around the Cornucopia and fortify it. There is a magnificent hissing as the burning wood falls into the steaming river, and Charlene pulls a piece of cloth over her face. "Acid!" she calls and I nod, pulling a hood over my own face. We retreat into the Cornucopia, taking a good meal of the supplies in it before settling down for the night.
"Do you want early watch or midnight watch?" I ask, handing her a couple of blankets.
"Midnight," she replies, cocooning herself and lying down. "I do better in early morning."
"Perfect. Sleep well, I'll keep a competent guard." I go out, climbing the Cornucopia to the top, where I can see 345 degrees around me with no trouble, and wrap up in blankets, leaning against the raised tail.
The moon rises, the air growing colder on my face, but wrap snugly in the warm cloth, I remain at a comfortable temperature, keeping a sharp eye out. A little before the light of dawn should enter the sky, I slide down and enter the horn, waking Charlene. "Your turn, I need rest," I whisper to her.
Charlene:
I do not know whether it is because I trust Timothy or that I am so exhausted I have no choice, but I fall asleep almost immediately. My dreams are haunted by bloody figures wreathed by smoke, but they are separated from us by a river of fire - a tenuous but currently adequate defense. When Timothy wakes me up, I start to clobber him before I hear his voice - and he has wisely pinioned my arms before attempting to wake me. I am awake immediately, so the time between him entering the horn and me leaving it cannot be more than five minutes. I climb the tail, finding a warm spot where I assume he has been leaning. I settle back, looking about every few minutes, and watching the east for the first sign of the sun.
Friday, April 25, 2014
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