the tired sunsets and the tired
people-
it takes a lifetime to die and
no time at
all.
-Aviation Prototype-
She futilely fights back with all her might. Kicking and punching, scratching and biting. Doing anything she can in her current situation. Something, anything, please. Stop. Prim. No. Don't watch. But she never utters a please, begs or shows signs of weakness aside from that of her obvious distressed state. Her efforts are all in vain though, for strong calloused fingers slide through her skin reaching the slender neck connecting her body. The massive hand is warm and soothing almost reassuring before pressuring slowly, squeezing the life out of her, leaving her breathless, greedy for air. Craving for the oxygen her body is cruelly denied from. Her desperation is short lived though for in a blink of an eye the pressure on her neck tightens to a bruising grip making it feel like it will snap her frail, gentle neck like a twig. Black spots fill her vision before blurring to a monochromatic mess and finally residing to a silent, queer darkness. Far too still and calm, unnatural, uncommon and although she feels like submitting to the silent darkness that is most likely her death, she struggles against it like waves crashing against her body, fighting against a violent current that sweeps her off her feet and into swift state of unconsciousness.
There is no rest, no physical or mental refreshment when she awakens. The reassuring calmness after sleep is nonexistent and she is unable to hold back a flinch and hiss of pain when a bruise has fully bloomed against her slender neck. Curiously pressing her olive skinned, cautions finger on her neck emits a yelp of both pain and surprise and she immediately regrets it.
A shadow shifts amongst the surrounding darkness; the dim light from an unknown source to her only creates more shadows among the existing ones, turning them in to a possible enemy at any given moment. Her ears turns into her eyes -cool, calm, collected, a hunter- and she strains them when she hears the light taps of footsteps, soon turning into dull thuds against the ground. Her enemy clearly not caring to hide his presence as if no harm would come his way, too powerful to be defeated, too arrogant to care or simply stupid. And there is only one man in the area who could -in her opinion- be all of the above.
"Cato."
The name unknowingly slips from her parted lips and she scrambles to a standing position with difficulty while simultaneously searching for a weapon, something, anything would do. A false sense of protection overcomes her when she grabs a hold of long, thin object. Pointy on one end with jagged edged on the other.
A broken arrow. A false hope for survival.
Rising as quick as she can, nausea and dizziness take over her before heavily leaning against a moist wall she hides the broken arrow. The footsteps quicken loudly and she can barely see through the dim light a tall outline of broad, masculine and defined shoulders with long, strong -chocking- limbs, messy pale hair, those deep icy blue eyes and that trademark smirk tugged on his lips.
"Imbecile."
If possible, the smirk only widens turning into a crooked grin.
"Fire girl."
A scowl covers her features and enough fire burns in those stormy grey eyes to send a shiver of excitement on the District Two's spine.
"You just don't know when the hell to give up, do you?"
He takes a few steps closer, his long strides diminishing the distance between the two tributes but Katniss holds her ground, tensing, muscles clenched in tension, preparing for a sign of thread to attack.
"Especially to the likes of you."
A guttural bark of laughter emits from his chest while he throws his head back, knife shaking in hand. If she can just in some way -anyhow- wrench that knife away from him, dodge it long enough to stab the arrow through that monster... but close combat is suicidal and somehow unavoidable.
Katniss inhales deeply somehow finding it deep within her to hope for the best while expect for the worst. And as she darts her eyes around she sees, for the first time she sees and hears clearly in that dim lit, confined space that she guesses could be a cave. Why she's still alive and how she got here is beyond her but now is not time for questions.
Focus, think, hunt. Escape.
Beside Cato's right foot is a rock, the floor is slick enough and if she can manage to pretend to run on his right side, dodge quickly enough and kick him off his feet causing him to stumble with enough time for her to run for it and escape then maybe, just maybe, she might survive. There's a slim chance of survival but there's no other option.
Hope for the best, expect the worst.
"You're pretty stubborn Twelve, I'll give you that and fucking lucky. If it hadn't been for those fire-"
Before he can utter another word she makes a mad dash to his right, seen him tense, eyes widening in shock before an arrogant smirk plasters his equally arrogant and handsome face, knife poised at his side, eyes narrowed. Just as he's about to raise his knife and brutally stab it through her ribcage, she halts a step away from his murderous arch, in a blink sliding to the left and dropping low, away from his -life squeezing- arms and kicking out a leg. Unbalanced the blonde tribute slips on the sleek cave, tumbles on that nearly invisible rock on his right and that's all Katniss needs. That's everything she needs.
The brunette kicks out, madly sprinting for the exit she saw behind the brute while laughing his arse off, -let's see who's laughing now, prick- and into the scandalous river she heard. She's this close- oh God almost there, only a couple more steps. Please, please. - and that's when she feels it. A rough tug on her leg and she's crashing down. Crying out when she harshly slams to the rough ground, skinning her elbows, landing on her side. And she can, without hesitation, swear that the towering male before her is without doubt one of the most terrifying sights in her life.
Expect the worst.