TW: Drug abuse mentions, younger kids getting killed.

Day Twenty-Two: Exhaustion

Breaths are rattling in both chests. They're tired. But, in these caves, options are relatively slim at the best of times. These aren't the best of times. These are the times when two children are huddled together in a nook, hearing footfall and giggles. "They went that way!" And the footsteps rush off, down the cave. It can't be sure if closer or further, the echoes throw everything into stark confusion. Make sure there's not even a chance the pair know whether they're safe or not, whether they're being left or whether the next step will be behind them. The only light, glowing lichens, casts little cover.

Currie is crying. Softly, silently, crying. Her head is buried into his chest, as if that will save her. The footsteps echo closer, and Troy can't take charge. Doesn't want to take charge, knows that if he takes charge chances are high he fucks up. Gets them both killed. There used to be three of them, after all, and Mam had said he was unlucky. Troy could never believe it himself, always thought that was just Mam's superstition. Pa always said the same, said it was a load of rattling rails, and then they'd all three laugh.

But bad luck seemed awfully close on their run. They'd had Cayne, with them. Big enough to menace the Fours away to seek easier, neater prey. They'd made it through the tunnels, come to a fork. Run the right, because he'd pointed them that way and given Cayne was watching behind them and Currie was panting and near enough to crying about what was happening as was? His guess was as good as any. Footfall echoed, seven pairs of boots, three chased by four. They only stopped for a moment, for Troy to rip his sleeve from his shirt in lieu of a proper weapon. He has the knife in his pocket, but it's only good for surprises, short and weak.

They managed to escape. Troy and Currie. Came to a narrow gash in the rock, both of them clambered through the fissure and looked back. Cayne tried once, tried twice, failed. Spattered the inside of the fissure with blood when the sword sprang from his chest, managed a cough and then slumped to the ground. The Fours couldn't pass, thankfully. Neither could Two, though the girl gave it a valiant effort.

One's girl could, slipped through and drew her sword. Lunged straight for Currie, and Troy was almost annoyed, peeved if that feeble word had been adequate to describe roiling anger, but stepped between them. Took a stab to the arm, before he managed to get a solid punch in and send her flying back with a scream and blood spitting from her nose like a deer from the song Six sings in midwinter right before the Victory Tour. Stabbed the knife into her arm, clawed at her face as she scratched and bit, got her fair share of hits in. Got the upper hand, and used the sleeve to choke her. She struggled, tries to escape, but she's weak. Was weak.

The Pride, those children who prowled in the darkness, spat curses. Watched as their ally screamed, whimpered, choked. Died. Two's scream of more than hate, of something else burning towards them. Then it was time, time for Currie and Troy to run.

They'd survived, on cave water and those strange blind fish, for another week. Tired, starved. And now, they've had to run. Had to tire, leave behind fish cooking over moss ripped from the walls and the occasional small woody bush that seemed to grow. The light was dim, there, but enough they could see and work. Enough to light a fire, and keep watch over their pool and the entrances, one after the other. Here it's dark. Here, terror runs like a knife along throats and there's none who can stop it.

Here, Currie's begging him to think of something as footsteps echo. "Troy, think of something. Troy, please, I don't want to die. Troy. Troy." He could try and run. Try and draw them away from Currie, but that won't work. They'll find her, Currie will be alone. And besides, he's fifteen. Throwing his life away for a chance? No. He could try and hide, but they'd find him eventually? Suicide. Suicide, no. Sucide never, he doesn't have the strength at the best of times and if nothing else this is not the best of times.

Plus, there's more of them. There has to be. Except there isn't. Cannon have roared, and the truth is that even if it sounds like many there's only one set of boots running down the cave. As if Two, she has to be, is giggling to herself. All those curses, threats, one mad girl down in the dim. "Come on, Six. Three. Come out to play!"

Currie's dead. No matter what, Currie's dead. Either Two or him, but she won't be making it out. But he can't accept that. Him or her is getting home they promised, it doesn't have to be him to survive.

Or does it?

Exhaustion. He's exhausted his options, now, except one. There's that knife in his pocket. There's Currie. There's the sleeve in his hand, and within moments it's over. This is the only way. To stab Currie, hear her scream tear at his heart and stare at the blood on his hands in horror. To stab her again, in the back, watch her legs go limp mid-kick. Shove her out, let her scream and want nothing more than to run to help as Two comes back. Two doesn't question, doesn't listen to bubbles of red froth on lips pleading that he's just there. Kicks, kicks again, lets out anger that shouldn't be let out. Screams about dead One, about revenge on Six that will take hours. Finally stabs Currie, lets the cannon roar over a bruised and battered body. She doesn't hear soft tread of unbooted feet behind her.

"I'm sorry." Troy doesn't know who he's directed those words to. He stabs down. Stabs again, again through cannon fire and trumpets, until he's knocked unconscious and slips to the floor. Is sedated in what may be the most boring post-games, victory interview, beyond. Is cursed by bereft parents from Three to Two to Eleven.

The doctors take the supply away three months in, deem him fit to recover. Three months and twenty minutes into victory he's a nervous wreck, screaming and trying to apologize, to go back, to save Currie because she didn't deserve this. When Penny, three months and thirty minutes in, offers a syringe slipped from who knows where, a syringe that promises forgetting and warmth and relief? He snatches it with barely a heartbeat's hesitation, winces at the sting of the needle against his arm but accepts it. Lets it all slip into his veins. Lets warmth and hope and all that slip in, chase out the darkness for enough time.

When she offers it again the next morning, wordless, he doesn't even need that heartbeat to decide.