"The lion's outside of your door, the wolf's in your bed

The lion's claws are sharpened for war, the wolf's teeth are red

And what a monstrous sight he makes, mocking man's best friend

Both the wolf and lion crave the same thing in the end…"

~The Lion and the Wolf (Thrice)

Chase Sparks (35) Former Citizen of District Three

Chase Sparks is no stranger to imprisonment. He's been thrown in a holding cell more times than he cares to count, been kept under lock and key for more than half his life. But the thing about being kept in the stockades of District Three, is that the security was shit. Chase has been locked up before. It's something he's used to, by now. He's intimately familiar with the click of a key inserting into a lock, or the slam of an iron door, caging him inside a call. But there, he could escape. There, the locks were rusty, or were easy to pick. There, he had connections- he had people he could rely on, people who could get him out of a sticky situation. Here in the Capitol, he's not been so lucky- the only connection he has is the air of camaraderie with the people in the adjacent cells- they're very familiar with each other's screams.

He counted their screams, for a while. Counted them up until he couldn't distinguish one anguished howl from another, and then he'd taken to counting days.

As far as he can reckon, he's been locked up in this cell for six months. 183 days. 3,912 hours, 234,720 minutes. He counts the seconds as they tick by, constant as the steady drip, drip, drip of water in the corner of his cell. His world, formerly neon lights and flickering screens, has become stone walls and iron bars. Chase Sparks hasn't seen the sun in over a year, and at this point, he's given up any hope of ever seeing it again.

President Seren is as cruel as he is calculating, and Chase has long come to terms with the fact that he has no chance of ever making it back to his District and family with all vital organs intact. A bitter laugh creeps out of his throat and spills onto the stones beneath him. To think that he even had a chance.

He's already broken. Battered, bruised, and broken, broken enough that he wonders why they even keep him alive and locked up like some caged animal. His defiance has already cost him everything- why has he not been forced to pay the ultimate price as well? He doesn't know. He can't remember. Some days, he can't remember his own name. Some days, he can't even remember why he exists.

And sometimes, he doesn't remember what it's like to feel. His body and his mind go numb, and all that's left is fear and anger, madness and cold, cold that works its way through his veins and in his heart, and he's plunged into the endless abyss of pain-filled memories. A limp body, crumpled on a marble-tiled floor that's cold beneath his hands as he falls to his knees, a scream working its way up through his throat.

Then he takes a shaky breath, comes back to himself, and tries to forget Rowan. To get rid of the pain, but that's so selfish, and without that memory he'd be so lonely. And how could he forget Rowan? Bright, loyal, passionate Rowan, his only true friend in a world of monsters and lies.

Those days are the worst, when the black eats at his head, at his heart, and all he sees is red, red red. Those days are the worst, when there's a voice in the back of his head and begs him to let the darkness take over. On days like that, Chase will find himself curled on the floor, much like he is now, hands over his ears and eyes clenched shut.

On better days, though, his mind is clear and as sharp as ever. He's painfully aware of his surroundings: the desperate scratches heś left in the wall, counting the days of his imprisonment. A fool's method, perhaps, of counting the days until he's rescued.

(He's more of a fool than he thought he ever would be if he still holds out any hope of being saved, though.)

But it's on those better days that Chase Sparks finds himself longing for death, the sharp ache of longing almost as piercing as the white of the bones by the far wall, the skeletal hand and the human skull- staring and staring and staring, into nothingness, into an abyss. But perhaps he's too aware of the carved words on the wall, scratched out in desperate shaky letters. A warning and a plea for forgiveness all at the same time: Cut off the wolf's head, but it still has the power to bite.

A/N: Hello, everyone, and welcome back to the Runic Timeline. This is the very first installment I've ever written for my Hunger Games world, and it's very special to me because of that. I discontinued this story due to mental health / personal issues after posting the finale on Halloween of 2020, but I've picked it back up now. Completing this story has given me a little bit of closure, and admittedly, it was a blast from the past that was sorely needed. Reading past cringeworthy writing really makes one realize how much they've improved on their journey.

As I've mentioned, this is a revamped version of my very first SYOT, and this story is very near and dear to my heart. These are the first tributes I've ever gotten, and I adore each and every one of them. The cast list can be found on my bio, and will be posted in the author's note of the third prologue, before we move onto the introduction stages of this SYOT.

Whether you're a new reader of mine who recognizes the title and decided to come to the place where all this began, or whether you're an old reader who was previously involved in the story, hello, and welcome to Locked and Loaded.

Over, out, and may the odds be ever in your favor,

-Rune Whisperer