XXXVII: The Games - Day Two, Midday.
Maderia Elvario, 18
Tribute of District One
Milan is so fixated that she can hardly gain his attention.
She can't ignore that yes, it's lovely and all that they've found a way in that has apparently remained untouched. This bridge is smaller than some of the others, located a ways up a hill that she doesn't think so many of the others would be inclined to venture up. It hadn't looked like there was anything up here.
Maderia was more willing to take a chance than she used to be.
She's thrilled to find it, of course—not so thrilled that Milan is caught up in rigging the entrance as if it really matters. There's half a dozen more, at least. This could catch ten people, or more likely none at all. They don't have the time to waste dragging around chains and fiddling with the wheel mechanism that somehow connects to the door, not when they know nothing about it.
He's just so determined. It would be admirable, in any other case, but right now all she can do is wish, somehow, that he'd turn into Ceziah. If he were to act more like her adoring, cheerful little brother, he would be much easier to handle. Granted he can be a bit fanatical when it comes to Maderia's accomplishments, looking to her as if she's some sort of untouchable God, but that's better than stubbornness.
It's most certainly better than the sheer force that is Milan's refusal to move on. They've been here too long, and Maderia has played nice for nearly all of it.
That was one of the only critiques she ever got—her pleasantries. A few of the trainers wondered if she would go soft.
She won't on him.
"I'm leaving in five minutes," she informs him. The incredulous look on his face means little to her. "If you're not done by that time, you can stay here and finish on your own."
He wants to say something, she can tell. Wants to fire something back. She's not Aranza, though, and Milan isn't as sure of her temperaments. He already knows that he's navigating a tightrope, coming dangerously close to tipping off either side every time he so much as breathes. If he speaks up, says something wrong, that's it. Game over.
He does not nod. Milan gets back to work in silence, fingers working in a flurry.
He's gotten the message.
Maderia turns back to patrolling the hall, making way down the left all the way to the corner and back again. There are lovely patterned runners beneath her feet, making each footfall virtually silent. She eases past Milan at the entrance one again without him so much as turning to look at her. She's been eyeing the door at the end for some time now, but Maderia hasn't opened it. She thought there would come a time, sooner than this, that she could lure Milan away from his project and brave to open something together. Maderia doesn't need permission, though, nor any sort of back-up.
She's a Career, first and foremost, and she has already met her death once. What is there to be scared of now that she has greeted the darkness that is the other side?
Whatever lies on the other side of that door could not be any worse than what Maderia has already seen.
That does not, of course, lessen the embarrassment she feels working a hole through her stomach when she cracks open the door, almost immediately stopped by the miniscule size of the room beyond it. It's the shape of a broom closet, with mostly barren wooden shelves and a plain, unmarred floor. There isn't even a light for her to see. Maderia stretches in, hand skimming along each shelf; her fingers find sheafs of loose papers, the leatherbound spines of long-forgotten books.
On one stack, the gleam of a polished stone shines back at her—it sits heavy in her palm, blue-green in the torchlight. Nothing more than a paperweight, if she had to guess, but there's enough behind it that Maderia finds some comfort in keeping it in her grasp.
The rest looks empty, it appears, but that doesn't stop her from pushing every single book away from its resting place, leaving no paper unturned. Wedged between two tomes is something that pokes into her fingertips, the sharpness making her withdraw with a sudden breath.
It's nothing that could hurt her without some effort—the handle is of ornately carved silver, the slim blade not quite as sharp as anyone would really like it to be. The letter opener feels no heavier than a feather as she lets it slip through her fingers, twisting it round and round.
Weapons are weapons, though. Is she not living proof that you don't need to be the most likely, nor the biggest competitor? Maderia has never been the person you would expect to see.
She wonders if her mother is smiling now, to see her daughter playing with something that you could find in one of her office drawers, calling it a possible killer.
"Anything in there?" Milan asks behind her. Maderia keeps each of her movements calculated, gently lowering her hand until she can slip the letter opener into one of her front pockets. It disappears, unseen.
Something for later if she so happens to need it.
"Just this," she says, hefting the paper weight in her hand. Milan doesn't seem phased by it, but she hadn't expected him to be. She was clear in her insistence that any sort of weapon would remain in her possession, and of all the ones to gain this is the least threatening. He knows she has it, and as long as their half-cocked plan is still in action, she has no reason to use it on him.
Having a plan, no matter how sure it may be, is supposed to be a good thing. Maderia shuts the door, though, and only feels dread sitting heavy in her stomach. She knows that Aranza is a threat—anyone with two good eyes could see that. Of course Tova lies in that same category no matter how well Maderia would claim to know her now.
The truth is, she will never know either of them in a way that will end well. Milan was correct in his assumption that her allies have grown close, in a way that clearly worries them both. There's no telling if Maderia can trust whatever the two of them are getting up to while she's out here, searching endlessly. There's no telling if she should even be searching in the first place.
This is the thing she's locked herself into, though—Maderia can't just let go because of a bit of nerves. She's no coward. She's not going to run.
She has to face whatever's going to happen head-on.
Hawke Rabanus, 18
Tribute of District Ten
There is logic behind what he's doing.
At least, that's what Hawke keeps telling himself.
It's the easy thing to do. Though he's never been keen on forging down the path most traveled by others, he has to admit the sense behind the actions. Doing his usual will result in death.
He's certain it would have this time.
It had taken him some time to get away from the moat, even longer to properly stand, and by then Hawke had been more light-headed than ever before in his life. He doesn't remember much of what was most certainly his pathetic attempt at stumbling away, even less so of which direction he had chosen to travel in or where he had ended up. Hawke knew this—he had found a corner to collapse in, and he was still there.
There was nothing more to know than that.
During the twilight hours and beyond it had been near pointless to try and examine the injury—it was all he could do to wrap it up and hope for the best, at least until he had the light. Now Hawke was wondering why he still hadn't done anything. Or not wondering, exactly, but refusing to tread through the reality that was hitting him.
He had never been immobilized before, never been taken down or beaten or hurt in a way that was truly disadvantageous. Sure, he hadn't blacked out, but he had come damn near close enough for his liking. The idea of being so vulnerable whilst the night came alive around him did not sit comfortably in Hawke's stomach, even though it hadn't happened.
His pants are soaked through, still wet and cold to the touch. They're never going to dry unless he moves, and he's not going to be able to move until this is dealt with.
It's easy enough to peel his pant leg over his calf and up to his knee, shredded as the fabric is. It hurts just as much as it did the day before, and Hawke tastes blood in his mouth the moment his teeth close around his tongue, refusing to utter even the slightest noise of complaint. They won't get that reaction out of him.
The back of his calf is nothing more than a gory mess, muddled with clotted blood and torn strips of sinew and muscle. Even if he had a needle or a halfway idea of how to close it, Hawke doesn't think he could—his skin has been reduced to an uneven topography, valleys of bone shining through amidst the peaks of his muscle that still stubbornly clings on.
If he made it this far last night, he can keep going. The adrenaline had drained out of him by the time he had finally stood up, and yet Hawke made it here anyway. Through sheer will and hard-headedness, he'll get back up just to say he did.
First, though, he works away at the hem of his shirt—his hands are fucking shaking no matter how many times he tries to still them, working away at the fabric until he's torn off a few strips. It's not going to be enough, but it's better than nothing at all. At least this way Hawke can say he's tried to keep himself in one piece.
The worst part was, they didn't even do it intentionally. They meant to knock him down, of course, and they knew that he would be feeling the landing for days to come, but after that? How could they have known that something was going to tear at him the second he was able to breathe again?
He'd like to get his hands on one of those things, give it a taste of its own medicine.
That's a bigger task than one would think—the scraps of fabric are hardly enough to cover the wound, and he doesn't trust them to stay put. He either needs supplies, or he needs sponsors, and he's not about to start begging for either. Of course that means moving, fighting, proving that he was meant to win the first time instead of just stumbling into it like so many of the pathetic others.
Hawke leans back against the wall with a barely concealed sigh. He has to move, whether or not it's a good idea; a trail of blood snakes all the way down the path and stops where he sits. He might as well have a fucking beacon over his head, asking to be hunted down and pinned in this corner. As if he can allow that to happen.
Moving is better than getting attacked, all because Hawke's not sure what he would be able to do if someone found him in this state. He would not sit still and let them murder him, but he severely doubts many others are in such a shape as this.
It wasn't meant to be like this—he was supposed to be inside by now, armed to the teeth, a kill or two under his belt. The Seven's wouldn't have been able to run fast enough, and he never would have given up chasing.
It appears they don't plan on following a second easy journey for Hawke. There will be no bullets this time, and certainly no guns. Fortune only favors the bold, and to say he has not been succeeding at that aim so far is a gross understatement.
He has to return to it eventually. Hawke gives himself an hour, noting down the time on his watch—at the end of those sixty minutes, he's going to get up. Where he goes from here, for the first time in a long time, Hawke isn't entirely sure.
But he's going to do something.
Zoya Ossof, 16
Tribute of District Five
Instead of wondering why the fuck he hasn't left, he should be doing just that.
So why hasn't he, beyond the obvious fact that he's stupid?
He's pretty sure that if he started running in the opposite direction without explanation neither Kai or Ravi would bother to chase after him, or even care for that matter. Ravi might care, but Kai would probably wave. There would be no love lost in their parting.
But he's still here, for some asinine reason that he can't exactly pinpoint, and running seems exhausting. He's not much of a runner—never has been, really. It's much easier to let them give him water, a bit of food even, and to sit there while Ravi bandages up to the point where, if not for the visible blood, it would look like nothing at all is wrong with them.
Zoya knows that taking advantage of people's generosity is not a good thing, but frankly he's not even certain Kai has a generous bone in his body. His District partner is tired himself, lagging today like he wasn't last night. Ravi keeps making comments, talking about how Kai overdid it, how he should rest and all of these other things that Kai keeps refusing. It's enough to know that Kai will not attempt to murder him if he looks the other way, but watching him drag his feet is sort of pathetic. Zoya almost wishes they were back to lunging at each other's throats, like old times.
If a short month ago can even be considered that.
He looks back over his shoulder at the two of them—Kai, eyes on the ground, skin veering towards a more deathly shade of white, and Ravi hovering just beyond his shoulder, watching his every move.
Must be nice to have someone that actually cares. Kai didn't intervene last night out of the goodness of his heart or because he actually cared about Zoya. The issue is he still hasn't figured out why Kai did it at all, and he's not about to ask. Getting into that is at the very bottom of his priority list, thank you very much. He'd rather do anything else.
"If you're going to keep telling him he should rest, maybe he actually should," Zoya says finally, without turning. He knows what it will mean if they do—he'll have to stop with them, sit down, participate in some god awful small-talk.
He'd rather die. Maybe that's why he keeps walking. If he doesn't stop, they'll feel obligated to keep up with him. Any mention of taking a break will be lost to the wind.
If only he was prepared for what was going to greet him when he stepped around the corner.
Zoya isn't sure why he jolts so hard—there's no danger in what he sees, no threat. Perhaps it's the sheer surprise of something being there when it obviously shouldn't. Five feet in front of him, collapsed to the cobblestone, lies a small form curled in on themselves, still and silent.
He's still standing there, frozen, when Kai and Ravi nearly bump into his back.
"Is that…?" he asks slowly.
"Eleven," Kai answers. He was getting there, even amongst his ugly stupor. She seems much smaller lying there on the ground in front of him, a mere scrap of a girl. He can hardly see her face beneath the bloodied tendrils of her curly hair, only enough of it to make out various gouges that mar her skin every which way.
He doesn't fucking move, not even when Ravi steps forward, shoes inching over the ground as if he's about to wake some sort of ancient beast. He crouches down beside her, fingers gentle against the side of her throat.
"She's alive," he murmurs. No matter how intently Zoya focuses, he can't make out the rise and fall of her chest. He can't say that's much of a surprise, given the state of her.
"Mutts?" Zoya asks. If Ravi hears him, he gives no indication of it. He's examining her ever so carefully, only touching her enough to see evidence that Zoya doesn't think he would understand even if he tried. He's not made to understand human beings—machines were always easier.
There's something nerve-wracking, though, about the purple-red splotches that mar the skin of her stomach where her shirt has fluttered up. Ravi keeps staring at them. Kai keeps staring at him.
Zoya wants to snap.
"She's bleeding internally," Ravi explains. "Plenty of broken bones, too."
"Someone attacked her," Kai decides, and as much as Zoya wants to pummel him for any opinion he offers, this time he has to be right. Someone attacked her—bludgeoned her, beat her to a damn pulp, and couldn't even finish the job. A fucking fourteen year old girl, left to wander away and die all on her own because someone thought they had the right.
He has no reason to be irrationally angry over such a thing, but Zoya can't help it. He doesn't want this anymore than the next person.
Heavier still is the presence of the machete tucked in Kai's belt. They're all thinking it.
No one's saying it.
"Is she in pain?" Kai wonders.
"She's unconscious," Zoya fires back.
"As long as she's out, she should… she should be resting easy," Ravi interrupts, sounding more like a voice of reason than ever. "She won't make it much longer without intervention. A day, maybe two. No more than that."
He waits for the machete, watches for the flash of Kai's hand. It doesn't come. The ruthless, irritating bastard that he is, and he's not stepping forward to kill her. Zoya's certainly not about to do it, and he thinks Ravi would offer himself up to be stabbed first if anyone asked him to. That only leaves one option.
And he's not doing it.
"You're finally showing some mercy, huh?" Zoya asks him. "Funny timing. Couldn't have given me that same courtesy, could you?"
"You can't compare the two situations."
"Fuckin' watch me," Zoya spits. "Guess what, buddy, you saved my life and now you're going to have to deal with the consequences of me being around."
An action he appears to be regretting more and more by the second, if the look in his eyes is any indication. Kai looking any degree of murderous would be ten times more effective if he didn't look as if he was about to keel over himself. A day of overexertion for someone halfway to their death bed is a terrible thing—who could've known?
Things would all be so much easier if Kai would just let go of the world he was so desperately clinging to. There's nothing worth living for here, anyway. This is living proof.
"We don't need to kill her," Ravi says. "I don't…"
I don't want to kill her. Zoya hears it loud and clear, and despite his tendency to disagree with anything the two of them come up with, he's in firm agreement.
Kai, if he had a choice, would kill her—this Zoya knows without having to question it. If he were alone, Farasha would be dead already. He would finish the job that somebody else had started with a shaking hand and not think twice about it. Now, there are two important things in his way; a moral compass charading around as a human being, and Zoya fucking Ossof. Kai could never have seen this coming.
Frankly, neither could Zoya.
Vadric Gaerwyn, 17
Tribute of District Six
There's something far too easy about them sneaking into the castle.
Sneaking doesn't even seem to be the right word. Levi has no hesitancy in him when he marches right across the drawbridge and up into the entrance, glancing around as if challenging anyone to leap at him. Vadric lurks as far away as possible, all the way outside, until he waves them in.
They have no choice, after that—he's swallowed by the gloom despite the daylight streaming in, and it seems as if it would be easy to lose him all because she didn't move quick enough.
It would be pointless to lose him now.
Paranoia has them wondering just how many people are lingering around them, even though reason tells him that there are dozens of ways in, and not everyone here walked through this same one. For all Vadric knows, the two of them could be the first one to explore this way at all. With so many darkened corners, though, it's hard to keep their mind from wandering. It always has been.
Despite their differences, it's good to be around Levi. He's a healthy distraction from the torment that spins around in their head like a maelstrom—either they have to be paying enough attention to respond to whatever he says, or they have to be paying enough attention to keep up. Either one works, no matter how inconvenient.
She doesn't know what they're going to do if they find Weston and Jordyn—if they find them, as Levi seems to so confidently believe. What is Vadric supposed to do? Be happy? Worried? Anxious? All of the above?
There was a reason Vadric wanted to stay away, but now they can't just up and leave.
It wouldn't even be that difficult.
They glance across the hall—Levi has disappeared halfway under a massive four poster bed, poking around beneath it as they shut the door across the way. All Vadric would have to do is run and hide in one of the dozen rooms down the hall, and perhaps Levi would never find them. But the embarrassment if he did? Well that's just not worth it.
"Do you think something's under there?" Vadric asks. Levi lets out a muttered curse as he attempts to pop back up too early, cracking his head into the edge of the bed-frame.
"'Y'never know," he replies, jumping to his feet with a rub of his head. "There's gotta be something in here."
Vadric has felt sort of useless puttering around while he searches, but he moves so quickly there's not much for her to do, pulling open drawers and examining wardrobes as if he was born to do it. He disappears into the adjacent room with a skip in his step not meant for someone running on no sleep—they would know.
"There's a fuckin' toilet in here," he announces. "A medieval toilet, but still. We could practically live here."
That they could. What's not to like, with all of the amenities, besides a bed that Vadric wouldn't get any use out of? It's so tempting—the plush blankets, the mountains of pillows. Anyone else would practically die to crawl in and pretend to be dead to the world for a minimum of twelve hours.
They can imagine nothing worse.
Something goes sailing past their head without warning. Vadric resists the urge to yelp as a rounded shape hits the bed—a lumpy backpack, zippers practically bursting. Levi's still got his head stuck in a wardrobe as he rifles through it, but he doesn't seem concerned about searching through what he's just thrown their way. Vadric shuffles forward to pull open the zippers, unsurprised when packaged food practically tumbles into their hands. Enough to last days upon days.
"Sweet," Levi says. "Hey, V—think fast."
They turn to face him, jerking back when they catch sight of what's in his raised hands, pulled back and poised to throw. The gleam of a small dagger, just barely visible between his fingers.
And, of course, he laughs. "Wasn't going to actually throw it. Chill."
He flips it in his palm, blade against his skin, hilt offered forward. It's nowhere near as impressive as the blade in his own belt, but that's sort of the point. Just like Vadric, it's smaller. More unassuming. It feels better, too, than something more dangerous, even though it weighs hardly anything at all.
Vadric doesn't waste any time in examining it before they shove it away into their pocket. Levi's pride at arming the both of them is more than enough.
They can't deny that it feels somewhat good to have belongings to call their own. All she had managed to do last time was cower, especially after the unfortunate mess that was Avanti. Who knew that being proactive was actually worth something?
Levi shoulders the backpack, but not before offering them a full water bottle and two granola bars. Despite themselves, their stomach growls. She had gotten used to eating these past few months, to feeling semi-healthy again. Now that the meds have worn off, Vadric thought he would immediately regress back into the stasis of before.
It's nice to know that not everything has to go back to the way it was.
"Ready to go?" Levi asks. They surprise themselves with how quickly they nod.
There are places to go, stairs to ascend, a plethora of things hidden away.
People to find.
Sloane Laurier, 17
Tribute of District Three
She can't pretend to know him, but she knows what he's doing.
Much as she wishes he wouldn't be, she knows her freak of an ally is still somewhere outside.
Of course that's sort of ironic, given that she's chosen to keep the company of someone equally freakish—Casia Braddock seems to be exactly the type of person that would come slithering out of a golden field and expect no one to bat an eye at her emergence.
There's something off about her. Small stature. Eyes too big, too blue, so wholly innocent in the way she regards the world.
Sloane guesses people probably make their own assumptions about her, too.
She doesn't so much have the look of an addict anymore—the Capitol, her stylist, all of the prep members that have come and gone, they've put in work to scrub her clean and raw so that she would sparkle. Jokes on them if they ever believed she actually would. Merride's smile had been just as strained as last time when Sloane had stepped foot on that stage; a different ball-game, this time, but just as perplexing.
Sloane doesn't remember her first interview. There's footage of it. She's never watched it.
A part of her wonders what Robbie—Casia, too, of course, must think of her. Not that she cares. Did they anticipate that she would still be standing on her own two feet come this year? Did either of them imagine actually standing anywhere close to her?
Well, Robbie wasn't. Funny how that worked. She was back to thinking about him, again, wondering where the ever-loving fuck he could possibly be. Instinct would tell her he preferred the open sky, but it felt like they had scoured every inch of this place—if they hadn't found him, where they just chasing each-other? Was there any point in looking?
Sloane felt as if she wanted to look, which was maybe the most alarming part of all. There were a number of things she could attribute it to. Being alone with Casia was enough to unnerve anyone, as if some sort of eldritch creature was about to slip out from between her ribs and unleash itself on the unsuspecting world. There was logic in having someone larger, stronger, more obvious. He had a goal. He wanted to kill Hawke.
What the fuck did Sloane have?
"Sloane?"
She blinks, swinging her legs off the edge of the bench—she has no idea how long they've been sat here, but judging by Casia's shifting feet, it's been some time.
And judging by her eyes, she's said Sloane's name half a dozen times.
Her response is a turn of the head, nothing more. The energy for anything else feels like more trouble than it's worth.
"The sun will start to set soon," Casia explains. "We should find somewhere to lay low."
Here she was hoping that if she ignored the mutts, they wouldn't come alive again. They've all returned to their cozy looking pedestals as if they'd never left, but Sloane isn't that delusional. Why would they allow a single tribute a good night's rest when they could make midnight onwards a living hell?
She's tired, hungry, thirsty. Feeling much too human for her liking. The longer she stares at the cloudless sky the more insane she grows.
"I have a different idea," she decides, jabbing a finger towards Casia's makeshift weapon. "Let's get another one of those."
"... why?"
"Because I don't know about you, kid, but I'm sick and tired of sitting here waiting for something to happen. Either we need supplies, or they need to tell us where the fuck our allies are. There's only one way we're getting either."
Casia is silent, as to be expected, but there's a change in her eyes. A shift. Her fingers flex around the bludgeon before she steps closer, passing it over to Sloane.
She sits back down with a heavy thump, weighing it in her hands. "You want help with another?"
"No," she murmurs. Already she's reaching back into the nearest patch of greenery, searching for a tangle of thorns to pull free.
"Watch your hands," she warns. It feels pointless. Casia's hands are already riddled with cuts, angry and red. They must sting every time she moves them, but Sloane hasn't heard a word of complaint. Any other kid, any other person, most certainly would have. Talos would have.
She keeps watch over the sky, much as she loathes it. Casia's hands look much better when she returns this time; only a few fresh dots of blood mark her palms, quickly wiped away on the hem of her shirt. In the bundle of her arms lies the new collection—everything she needs to make another weapon identical to the one she's given Sloane.
Much to her surprise, Casia sits down beside her. Enough space remains between them that another person could fit comfortably, but the proximity is more than she expected. "So now what?" she asks, fingers pulling the thorns apart.
"We wait."
"Until midnight."
"Until midnight," she echoes.
"And then what?"
For the first time in days, Sloane feels a smile coming on. It feels better than she could have anticipated. "We show these motherfuckers who's boss."
Sander Elek, 18
Tribute of District Two
It turns out he's not much of a climber.
Trying was all he had, because giving up meant failure. That was what any of his trainers would say, at least. Aurelius would be kinder, tell him that sometimes your greatest failures are your biggest lessons.
This was no great failure, though. This was pathetic. Sander was cutting his losses and moving on—there was an easier entrance somewhere out there. All he had to do was find it. That was easier said than done, of course. He had no business wandering around alone this close to the sun going down. Career or not, where he came from, they called that suicide.
He's tiring himself out at this pace, but Sander has been left with no other choice. Out in the open, exposed like this, is no place to be.
All he can do is follow the wall, watch the moat. He will find something, whether anyone wants him to or not.
By the time he does it feels as if his legs are made of lead, each step heavier than the last. He's been made to last longer than this, knows he can, and yet the sight of the bridge is so far away he could almost cry. The last thing Sander needs the audience to see is more fucking tears—he's cried enough, in their eyes, to last a lifetime.
It's dark, though. He moves fast. Sander doesn't dare check the time on his watch, because he knows that any true sign of what is to come will only make him panic more. He can see it already, how easy it would be to rush forward and trip over his own heavy, clumsy feet. They'd be on him in seconds.
The second his feet land against the wooden bridge, there's the scrape of rock behind him, the telltale thump of something landing in the grass. His feet scream at him not to, but Sander starts running anyway. The great entrance opens up before him like the foreboding maw of some mythological beast, so dark that he can't make out what lies beyond it, and yet he runs anyway.
Whatever is snapping at his heels doesn't matter; getting out of here is priority. Sander knows that he can lose them somewhere in these halls.
If there was a hall to find.
He can't see a fucking thing. It's so dark that no matter which way he spins, each square inch of the wall looks the same as the last. Sander knows there's a doorway somewhere, if not several of them. Why can't he find even one of them?
Perhaps he just needed an extra moment for his eyes to adjust, or maybe they didn't want him to. Regardless, Sander doesn't have the time to figure out which it is. If he waits, it's going to be on him, and that's no way to die. He darts to the left, the mutt lost to the shadows as it goes sailing past him. Evidently, climbing is on the agenda after all.
That's all Sander has to bet on.
He throws himself at the wall, fingers gripping at the stone and then the torch beyond it. Legs dangling ominously above the floor, he wrenches it from its holder and casts it back down to the ground. For a brief moment, the mutt's body is visible, as dark as their surroundings. Almost as soon as it hits the ground the flame putters out, rendering him blind once again.
In a way, it's a blessing. Sander doesn't see the mutt jump. He doesn't see its teeth coming.
He only feels it.
Something in his foot tears, blood soaking through his sock and shredding through his shoe as if the fabric means nothing to it at all. The pain is gradual, magnifying as he tries to free himself.
It's strong. Stronger than him, maybe.
If Sander was ever strong at all.
He's not sure how he knows it's going to happen—something about the delay, how the world seems to slow around him as his fingers lose their precious grip. It's barely five feet. No one watching is thinking anything of him falling. They've seen so much worse, and survival still in its aftermath. Why be concerned about five feet?
Sander has all the concern in the world; he feels resistance in his muscle as the mutt pulls at him, twisting his lower body
The angle at which he crashes into the ground snaps a bone in his lower leg as if it's a twig. Sander is not sure if he screams. He's not sure where the mutt is. All he knows is that his arm, instead of slamming into the wall as it splays to the ground, meets open air. A doorway. It was right there. He was so close, nearly made it, he could have made it.
He shouldn't make it.
Sander drags himself up onto his knees, or at least the one able to hold his weight. The other one feels oddly limp as he claws at the floor, pulling himself through the doorway. Somehow, without sight, he manages to send it crashing shut behind him. Only then does Sander allow himself to sag against the floor, heart stuttering in his chest. He cannot make himself look at the damage.
Blood leaks across the stone. His leg throbs if he even so much as inhales. He did everything they told him not to. He went alone, to places unexplored, with no preparations in place to defend himself. What sort of Career does that?
What sort of person does that?
The kind with a broken leg, at least, because that's what Sander has earned himself. It's not the first time something in his body has given way over the years, but it's the worst timing. He's no good with one leg. Even if he can walk, he certainly can't run. There will be no fight that Sander could put up that is worth anything.
What he needs is help. Some time ago, Sander knew exactly where he would get it from, who, but such a reliability is gone. Sander can't even rely on the idea that Amani would help him if they found one another—he's useless, now, nothing more than a burden to anyone.
They're words his sister would chastise him for, his parents and Beau. Aurelius would tell him all of the ways that wasn't true.
But they're not here now. For the first time in his life, Sander thinks he may be well and truly on his own.
Stockpile is officially almost gone #tragic. Pray I get my shit together soon and I'll do the same. Thank-you, though, to everyone who is trying to motivate me to do so even in such a way that it would be considered bullying. Apparently I need it. Thank-you also for all the comments, reviews, etc because I haven't said it in a while and y'all deserve the praise too.
Until next time.