[memory 4]
Quote:
[Your character only knows about the Arena. They exist in the Arena, they fight in the Arena, they are slaves in the Arena. Every single day, they live, caged, watching countless faces also get roll in, and countless faces die. Every single day they wait for their 99th kill. They are on kill 98. Tomorrow will be kill 99. Tomorrow, they will face -
It is up to you how your character looks, and (optionally) what weapons they use as well as who they face. You are only writing your character's POV but you can borrow NPCs and any players characters you got permission from.
"You were
dead," she choked out, eyes full of disbelief and rage and annoyance all at once.
The stories circulated as they always had, the gruesome and satisfying tales of death and destruction, and a day came that Clerise had been among them. She remembered how pleased she felt, and how envious she was of the man who had been the one to dispatch her in the end. She remembered how she didn't feel jealous any more when she stood over his body, and it was almost like she'd killed both of them at once, like she'd taken the blood from his hands to carry on hers.
The stories varied, as they always did, but she had no reason to doubt them. She heard how she was cut in half, beheaded, how her limbs were torn from her body, that he kept her alive to bear all of that pain with the strength that they all knew she had. She never heard the story from his mouth, because she never asked before she crushed his neck beneath her boot.
But the stories were untrue, because she was very clearly
here.
Nintety-nine was Clerise Wilson, the woman that Mimsy had very vividly dreamed of killing. It was in her mind for so long that she could no longer recall when it began - it just always
was, her desire to feel her blood on her hands.
She hated her.
She hated her now. She hated her as far as she could remember. She hated her for every instant in between. And she might have owed her life to her, because sometimes that hatred was the only driving force that kept her pushing onward, that promise that
one day she might slice her open and watch the life leave her eyes.
And here she was, as strong as she'd ever been (and she had
always been the stronger one,
always), smiling because
no, she was not dead at all.
The signal had not yet been illuminated, but Mimsy couldn't stand it for a second longer, couldn't bear looking at those red eyes that she hated, that red hair that she hated, those strong arms that she hated, and she leapt at her, dropping her sword against the metal floor of the Arena. She stretched towards her - ninetey-nine, the last, the
worst - and her fingertips almost touched her skin--
It didn't hurt all at once, but the pressure was there, the obvious intrusion of a curved blade that entered her stomach and caught itself beneath her ribcage. She coughed blood onto her face, and she hated how it matched her eyes, because knowing that she'd lost didn't make her hate her any less.
"
I hate you," she spat, but the words didn't make it through, and she spat thick blood that dribbled down her chin instead.
The metal was cold against her knees. Or maybe it was all cold. Maybe dying was full of pain and a chill that started from hateful fingertips and ended at a hateful heart.
And Mimsy Kercher, ninety-nine, freed Clerise Wilson with the last breath that would ever leave her lungs.
