#feuhrer

just binge it all

fullmetall replied:

ENTIRE REWATCH ENTIRE REWATCH-

HE'S BEGINNING TO FEEL LIKE A CORNERED ANIMAL, the fog of capitol's miracle drugs already beginning to lift as he smiles for photos with people who feel entitled to it because they put money towards trying to keep him alive. they ask him questions like how did you figure out the demolition pattern so quickly? and were you afraid you'd bleed out before ezra? they, lovers of eccentric extravagance, compliment the shine of metal grafted to skin, calling his choice of prosthetic a bold statement piece as if he hadn't needed to show a vicious disapproval towards more realistic models, a new sort of rage bubbling past his teeth as he yelled that he wouldn't take a prosthetic at all if he couldn't at least choose which one he'd be stuck with.

several people move to touch it, grabbing at his wrist and holding metal arm out, oohing and aahing as unmarred fingertips run over the plating. it's almost like armor! was that intentional? does this model require more maintenance than others? they pull and prod, treating shiny new appendage like a toy, unaware of the pain their curiosity brings him.

they talk at him rather than with him and he nods along. all he can think of is the recap, three long hours dedicated to the highlights of the sixty-ninth hunger games. ed almost hadn’t recognized himself on the screen, covered in blood and grime, vicious glare sharpening a still-round face.

that glare melted into pure panic as, on the final day, the muttation caught him off guard, teeth sinking into flesh and tearing away his right arm. panic is a misuse of oxygen, he’d repeated, over and over and over as he dragged himself into an alleyway, ripping up his jacket to try to create a makeshift dressing. you’re hyperventilating. panic is a misuse of oxygen. calm down or you’ll pass out. panic is a misuse of oxygen. panic is a

someone calls his prosthetic an upgrade, voice tinged with a bizarre sort of jealousy. it’s then that ed gently shakes himself away, desperately scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

golden eyes finally land on roy. the eerie faraway calmness from the recap and the interview are gone. what takes its place now is a familiar agitation, emptiness filling with newfound awareness as medicine cocktail wains- he shoots roy a look that screams i'm about to fucking lose it. his escort wastes no time crossing the room, making a lame excuse ( which ed can’t hear over the ringing in his ears ) before gently ushering newest victor away.

ed grips roy's forearm so tightly he’s sure it’ll bruise, almost afraid to lose him in the small crowd. panic is a misuse of oxygen. panic is a misuse of oxygen. panic is a misuse of

' i'm sorry, ' he manages. there's a weird sense of shame that washes over him. strong enough to survive the games, still too weak for the fucking afterparty. what a joke. ' i'm sorry. i can't- fuck, it hurts too much. i'm sorry. '

no one's mad. you're safe.

HE'D BEEN PACING, DISHEVELED AND RESTLESS, not even registering that roy had entered the dining car until he'd finally switched the lights on. now, ed sits across from roy, bouncing his leg and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, tired eyes fixed on the untouched glass of water before him. he wants to say that there were no nightmares, that he couldn't sleep because the train is too loud / the movement makes him nauseous / his stump is aching / he's stir-crazy. ed's learned the hard way that it's awfully hard to lie to roy, though; he isn't nearly as stupid as ed wishes he was.

' . . . i've been thinking about, uh. the end of the game. the mutts. ' voice is quiet, almost childlike as he sinks further into his seat. ' and ezra. ' the relief. and the rage. oh, the rage. it's the only reason ed's alive, he's realized; with an obvious advantage and a clear shot to victory, ezra had let his own taste for cruelty hinder him, choosing to play with his food instead of simply finishing him off. ' i tried not to think about it before, but ever since the tour started, i keep . . . i keep dreaming about killing him. '

it starts with a solid kick to the ribs, with you curling in on yourself, wheezing while laughs. man, with how long you'd lasted, i was really looking forward to finally taking you down, but this? he nudges you with the toe of his boot. it's pathetic. you're pathetic- i might as well leave you for the mutts at this point. another nudge that you flinch away from. the other district nine brat cried for you, by the way. your blood runs cold as he grins at you. you can barely focus on him. the whooooole time. at this point, he starts to walk away, and you start to see red. and i bet your brother's back home right now, doing the same. it's a damn shame, huh? you find yourself with a newfound sense of clarity. left hand reaches for discarded spear, bloody fingers curling around the shaft. everything seems so obvious now. you grit your teeth, and you do the impossible: you get back up. you get back up, and you nestle the blade of your spear between his ribs. he sputters and coughs, hands flying to the wound as you yank the blade from his body. when he stumbles and falls to his knees, you kick the middle of his back, sending him face-first into the asphalt. standing over him like this, you are no different; a sick satisfaction briefly moving through you as your vision begins to blur. should'a kept your mouth shut. the canon fire always wakes you.

' is it bad that i don't feel sorry for him? ' the question is blurted suddenly, bringing with it a new wave of shame. newest victor can't look roy in the eye. ' the other two, thinking about them makes me feel sick, seeing their families was even worse, but ezra - ' a shaky inhale, trembling fingers curling into the fabric of his pajamas. ' i saw his family. i gave my condolences. i felt nothing. it's like i don't even fucking care that i killed him. '

Maybe she shouldn't. She's not entirely sure why she is. He's found the victor walking somewhat aimlessly through the corridors of this place, studying the halls, the concrete grain that covers floor to ceiling. It all looks so industrial. Unfeeling.

What is she doing up? What is she doing? What is she going to do? The sense of meaning and purpose she once had feels like it's shrank to a pinprick of light. So much dark. So much is gone. So much is broken.

The brown eyes of Nine's now-oldest victor meet him at first with a blank expression. Almost as if she doesn't recognize him at all. There's a little spark of something, after a moment, something far off. A whisper. An echo. "I'm fine." Her voice sounds hollow.

loud clapping and cheering

fullmetall replied:

BIG… BROTHER…….

as god intended

"Oh, sure." She's never really met the man standing in front of her, never in more than the most superficial of conversations, anyways, but she's seen him around, seen him on the screen, an escort for... well, as long as she can remember. A capitolite, born and bred, one of those that want the job of leading the children to the slaughter. Forgive her for not immediately being the paragon of trust and forgiveness just because he's somehow found himself here.

GROWLING, SNARLING; THE SHINE OF GNASHING TEETH, a stench so foul and coppery upon beast’s tongue. something beyond animal instinct shines in wild eyes, a strange and scary sort of intelligence. you’ve seen these eyes before, deep blue and widened in terror, brimming with tears but still trusting you completely, believing you’d be the one to save her from this.

p—lease . . .

you freeze. the voice crawling from creature’s throat sounds wrong, wrong, wrong.

big . . . br—other . . ?

the mutts can talk and you know this. you’ve known this for weeks, now; a bizarre take on city strays, ravenous and bloodthirsty things, with the uncanny ability to mimic the human voice. you’d called them uninspired at first, attempting to calm nina when she’d first heard them- surely no one would falter at such an obvious trick, right?

h—elp! ed—ward! big brrrrrr—oth—er!

you realize your mistake only as the beast lunges. right arm comes to cover your face as left hand fumbles for the knife on your belt. too slow. the weight of the mutt knocks you onto your back. eager teeth tear into your arm, iron jaws clamped tight, gnawing and shaking until white

hot pain seers through your body and the

limb is pulled

clean of f

a light tapping on the table. a cup of coffee sat in front of him. the steady whir as capitol train speeds on.

i can tell you’re not fully here with me.

‘ mmh. ‘ ed sinks into his seat a bit, left hand instinctively going to right arm, fingers tracing the plating through his shirt. he avoids roy’s steady gaze, instead choosing to rest his head against the window, staring out at the pinks and oranges of sunset. he sighs, sounding more bored than anything, ‘ just thinkin’ about excited i am for the rest of the tour, that’s all. ‘ he shoots roy a tight-lipped little smile as he finally starts to come back to himself. ‘ god, i’ll be glad when this is over. ‘

it’s never truly over, though, you have to keep reminding yourself of that. this is your life now, your little part to play; the little worm from district nine going against all odds by pulling himself to his feet and driving a blade between ezra’s ribs. you are district nine’s fullmetal victor, and that’s all you ever will be.