Scar's Sort Of A Freak Maybe

Scar's sort of a freak maybe

Try to keep a consistent artstyle for 4 frames challenge: impossible

once more, with feeling

876 words

it's not exactly the same every time. it's altered by what they went through, and why they’re asking, and how it all ended. but it's always close enough that it may as well be the same.

100% inspired by this incredible post by @thirdtimed! it had me by a chokehold i had to do something about it

it's not exactly the same every time. it's altered by what they went through, and why they’re asking, and how it all ended. but it's always close enough that it may as well be the same.

the first time, it was unprecedented.

blood on his hands, tears in his eyes, we expected it to be over—a failed experiment, one that only he would ever remember to save the others the pain. too much grief wracked his body for him to even choke out the words for a long while, but we waited. it isn't an unusual thing for us to do, to wait.

smearing sand on his sunburned face, he wiped away his tears and said,

"give me another chance."

the second time, we were curious.

shaken and silent, he stared into our face for a long while, as if trying to decipher what in void we were. the crown of crystals were still and a kind of grey that isn’t truly grey, but every colour at once, and his breathing was shallow. the bloodlust drained from his eyes, leaving them as grey as the crown.

we asked, because he would not have thought to answer otherwise. he flinched, and hesitated.

"i.. can i see them again?"

the third time, it was almost expected.

still smoking from the explosion, she sunk to her knees, sobbing and clutching herself as if she feared literally falling apart. it took a long while for her screams of grief subsided, and longer still for the weeping to fade into sniffing and hiccups. she hadn't looked at us once, as if she didn't know we were there, but we did not wish to interrupt—she was entitled to her unraveling in private.

wiping her eyes, she didn’t bother to compose herself much more. she lifted her face, littered with gashes and scars, and with agony in her voice-

"i want my friends."

the fourth time.. well, it was a little surprising.

a victor had not yet arrived so high on adrenaline and confidence, and the blood that stained even his mouth seemed to be a trophy. the sword had not left his hand, and still dripped with what remained of the last two, the drops vanishing into the abyss below. he was grinning, and this was the most surprising part.

not needing any persuasion or suggestion, he looked us right in the eye—as none had done before, crowing,

"come on, give us another go!"

the fifth time, it wasn't the request that was new.

alone in a field of sunflowers is where we eventually found him, after waiting fruitlessly for his arrival. he startled a little as he realised we were there, but soon calmed at the understanding of what we meant for him. after all, it had been almost a year since he became stranded—and stranded was the word for it. the shawl was still the red and purple of the flowers he had once given to his partner, and we suppose one could say they started this whole chain of events.

setting aside his gardening tools, he smiled almost sadly. perhaps he would miss what had become his prison, despite everything it signified. he sighed,

"i think i’d like a better try at companionship."

the sixth time.. it almost didn’t count.

surprised to have even been considered for a crown, they laughed in delight when the paper version settled on her head, clearly pleased with our creative flair. we were pleased as well—it isn’t often creative flair ends up being a positive part of our abilities. they looked around, as if deciding whether or not the place was real, and seemingly settled on an answer. we didn’t ask what the answer was.

adjusting the paper crown, she laughed, clearly finding the whole situation amusing. when we asked, they seemed to be even more surprised.

"i get to choose? well- let's do it again!"

the seventh time, it became amusing. they did know they could choose something else, did they not?

whooping and throwing his arms around in celebration, came the second victor to be genuinely pleased by his victory and subsequent death. he spent a considerable amount of time pretending he was at an awards show, thanking his family, his wife, his best friend and so on. it was refreshing, after all that misery we witnessed at the beginning of the games, to see the tides changing. especially with him; rage used to be his fuel. now it seemed to be love.

grinning up at us, he waited for something. perhaps one of the others had mentioned it, but he did not seem surprised when we asked.

"what do i want? of course i want more!"

the eighth time, we don’t have to even introduce ourselves.

considerably more pleased than he had been the first time, he seems to think that taking his own life was the ultimate show of power against us. of course, we have changed our ways since his game, but he is not to know that. like his predecessor, he too seems amused by the paper crown.

cracking his knuckles, and stretching his neck, we already know what he’s going to say, but we let him ask it.

"one more time."

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gutsgonaaburst

4 months ago