Okay, so SINCE I am so behind on everything Bellarke with my fanfictions, I decided to add more of this one. Because I have an idea for this one again, and I like going from fic to fic because then at least I always have something to post. Please review!
The suited man is pleased with me.
Since first leaving the confines of my cage and heading into the woods, my bounty of blood has doubled in volume, until I am returning with full-grown men whose strength is no match for my own. Though I don't care about the suited man or what he thinks beyond the syringe he holds, I've noticed how he has started calling me Reaper instead of Subject. Like I am worthy of the name.
He can have it. His names and his pride and whatever else lives in between. I breathe Red now. That's the only thing that exists, like the cares of the world have been liquefied and swept inside a syringe. The moment of it is fleeting, but during that small time, everything goes quiet. The hunger dies. The roaring calms. There's just a pocket of empty. Feeling the Red is to feel almost human again.
Whatever that was like.
The others have learned to fear me. When we're released into the tunnels, the other reapers-the subjects- stay away from me, as if one wrong look will earn them a fight. They are not wrong. I've gotten into more brawls than I can count, with bloody knuckles and aching ribs and burning cuts, but the suited man does not punish me. In fact, sometimes I think he likes to see what I can do. My power is a weapon he prides himself on unleashing.
I don't know how much time has passed. Enough to where my first outing starts to blur along the edges, until I can't recall anything before that. Hunting, as far as I'm concerned, is all I've ever done.
"Take the South tunnel this time," the suited man orders one day. It's the morning after I brought back two boys for him, wading in the stream with barbed tools in their hands. They were young, but they were strong and didn't give up as easily as some seniors.
The suited man flicks the syringe back and forth, the action issuing a growl from me. I bottle it in my chest, though. Let it simmer there.
His gaze lingers on mine, as if scrutinizing my self-control. He is waiting for me to snap, but the presence of the syringe keeps me from attacking, the presence of the device in his other hand, from moving. Neither is enough to keep me from glaring, though. I can feel the heat backed up behind my eyes, putting pressure on my temples.
He fingers the device, debating on whether or not to turn it on.
An image comes to mind, of me stepping forward and snatching the device from his grip. Of grabbing it so hard it breaks in my hand. I imagine doing the same to him.
But the suited man is just playing a game, and waves me off. He doesn't turn away from me though, and neither do any of the suits. They back up, never giving us an opening to pounce.
I don't hesitate to turn around. The only damage they can do is with the device, and it doesn't matter whether my back is on them or not. No, I just want to hurry with the hunt so I can get my dose of Red and let all this fade away. For a moment.
The tunnels don't seem as dark as they once did. My eyes have adjusted to the shadows, my boots accustomed to the packed earth. I haven't gone South yet and don't know where I'll end up. But I've gotten better at finding my way back, through heavy rain that allows even a mountain to hide behind.
I don't hear the patter of water above the tunnels today though, and keep my knife secured by my side as I go. I also have a club, but it's heavy and can throw me off balance. I prefer the smallness of a blade, its compacted lethality quick and easy. I know where to strike someone's neck that kills them. How I know that, I can't remember.
Dirt crushes under my rubber soles and I let myself be carried down, down, following the tunnel like I did that stream. The area behind my left shoulder blade aches at the memory of a barbed tool's blunt force. Children, I've discovered, can be stronger than you expected.
I start to get impatient and pick up my pace, the red paint of my vision a constant reminder. I don't know how many miles it is later until the shadows start to break apart, letting in a soft, muted light that burns my eyes. I blink before tearing away thick ropes of vine that have grown over a small, metal panel that sits in the dirt. I close my eyes as I yank it back, showering myself in bits of dirt and dull slices of daylight. They stab at me but it's not as bright as I recall. Evening must be coming; I nearly sigh in relief.
I emerge out of a rocky hillside, adorned in small trees and patches of grass that jut and stoop wearily over empty air. Tall woods stretch before me, their thick bodies padded down with red moss, like wounded soldiers with no place to go.
I skim the area once, listening for a stream or river. Keeping my eyes open for rising smoke. I don't see or hear anything that piques my interest and after a few minutes, my fingers bite into my palm, irritated.
Then I hear it.
It's almost nothing at first, just the sigh of the wind. But it carries on it the crunch of gravel and the smell of fire.
I whip around, so fast my shoulder protests. But I don't care. My eyes narrow as I start in the direction of the sound, moving deftly through the soldier trees. Red rises up in my memory, like my own personal dawn.
The sounds get louder, until the telltale sign of life shows itself in the wisps of smoke I can make out, just above the canopy of trees. Where there's fire, there's people, and I hurry along, feeling my grip tighten on the handle of my blade. I don't know whether it's desperation or anticipation that prompts me to grip it so hard. Maybe there is no one without the other.
I'm on the uprising of a small hill, which offers a good vantage point of the scene ahead. It's a village, made of thatch huts and partially corroded by a pathetic fence line. I'm sure there are eyes in these woods, but night is falling. The day is being leached from the grounds and soon I will be nothing more to them than shadow. Shadow and hunger.
I wet my lips and look over the village, gaze snagging on any moving object. I zero in on a child with braided blonde hair. Too small. There's a woman carrying a basket on her hip, full of what looks to be furs. Too old. I get closer, until I'm only a handful of trees from walking out and into the village. Now I'm in full view of the scene. The voices. The smell of burning wood and cooking meat. It's almost enough to perk a different kind of hunger in me, the one that sits like a hollow tomb beneath my ribs. But it disappears almost as soon as it's recognized.
I linger on the outskirts, waiting and watching for someone to break from the lines of scurrying civilians. It is a flurry of activity and for a second, I can almost imagine myself living in a place like this, carrying a dead animal over my shoulder, sitting by a fire that doesn't burn me. Then that image shatters, when I spot a woman behind a hut, close enough to reach without being seen.
Evening is here and the hunger is growing, turning to a time bomb inside my head. She will have to do.
I move, launching myself across the ground, stepping only on stones and damp grass that won't snap. She doesn't even have time to scream as my hand clamps over her mouth, securing her head against my chest. But she tries to anyway, the sound like a mouthful of water bubbling through my fingers. I start to drag her back when her elbow snaps out, catching me in the stomach. I gasp.
It's enough that she starts to slip away and I barely regain my hold before she makes it from around the hut. This time, her scream pierces the air.
I fight against her, pulling her back as footsteps start, stamping like a drum through the dirt and mud. She pushes and tugs, punches and tries to wriggle her way from me, but I won't let her go. Losing her means losing the Red. And I will not lose the Red.
I Use the full length of my arm to pin her to me from under her jaw. Her hands claw at my skin but I barely feel them puncture. I need to go. To leave with her now. The hunger is loud in my ears, cracking my bones and shaking up my blood.
Other shouts rise up, as heady as the cloying smoke and I shift around, just in time to glimpse an able-bodied man rushing me.
I have no choice. I shove the woman out of my way and duck, missing the impact of his ax. It cuts the air above me into ribbons but before he can recover, my knife is out and slicing across his ankle. His cry is louder than the girl's.
I jump to my feet just as another man is there, beard braided and lined with beads that slap against his chin. I sidestep him and use the brute strength of my club this time. He, unlike the others, has no chance to scream.
But another pair of arms appears where the other has fallen, and through it all, I make out the sound of other cries, ringing through the village like an alarm. The word is clipped, and changes from one I don't know, to one I do.
"Reapers!"
More men are here now, encircling me, trapping me. In the light of the dying sun and livid fire, the tips of crude blades and spears grin at me. The faces blur but their weapons are clear. I turn around, trying to hold my own against them all. Hunger won't let me stop. If I don't fight, I die. If I don't take the Red, I die. Slowly and in agony. There is no other way.
The weapons gleam at me, inviting, full of their own hunger. They're already bathed in red. I raise both my weapons, imagining this barrier torn apart at my feet. I hear the strain of wood as an arrow is nocked.
"No!"
The voice cuts through the throng, slipping between my barrier of flesh and bone. At first I don't hear it. Then my gaze flickers up, only for a heartbeat, and they capture the sight of a young woman, blonde hair looking like red gold in the farewell traces of light.
I look back to the weapons. The hand holding my blade twitches. The arrow's tip is pointed directly at my chest.
"Wait, stop!" the girl says, louder, shouldering her way towards the weapons. Towards me, as if unafraid. My irritation surges until I take a step forward, craving another fight, this one to the death. Perhaps I should've gone for this girl instead.
The man holding the arrow nearly lets go. But suddenly the girl is there, her hand on his arm, a fierce expression on her face. Yet the moment her gaze meets mine, whatever bravado that was just there melts from her features. Her light eyes go wide in what I first think to be delayed fear. Then I realize it's something akin to horror.
I glare back, the hunger searing my temples and roaring like the crash of a wave. But if the girl has heard it, she makes no sign of acknowledgment. Instead those eyes bore into me, lips parted, brows knitted together in disbelief. Her voice drops to a whisper and this time it wavers, catching on a strange name I don't recognize.
"Bellamy?"