i. realization || lucien day one

Lucien's blood pumps against his body, imprisoned and waiting to be released. He jogged away from the last few tributes at the Cornucopia quickly, holding his breath just in case they found a knife or javelin to send in his direction. He's in their vicinity, watching them circle about from a little bit further away. The ground kicks up sandy grain as his pace disintegrates into a steadier jog. They aren't coming for him. Okay.

The floodgates release as he crouches down, the carbon dioxide waiting in the wings of his throat finally taking their opportunity to release. Lucien does not like that version of himself, the person that punched, kicked and threw himself up against the tributes through the havoc. What possessed him to do that, instead of just running away? His heart throbs in a million different places as if every organ in his person ignored their initial instructions to keep the blood pumping. He remembers a few months ago, when his body dared Lucien to do whatever he could in order to survive, but his stunning nature left him unable to protect himself.

Never again. His fingers curl in the shape of a fist, and his thumb scratches at the ends of his fingernails to keep them sharp. When one is aware of the risk of not surviving, that is when they will be at their stronger. The aches in his bones will go away, but the other tributes must die in order for his means of survival to be met. They die, or Lucien dies. His eyes shut with forcible desperation in hopes that the pain might go away if he directs it somewhere else. But it doesn't.

The outer rings of the bloodbath and its Cornucopia promise other items, much more valuable, it seems, than the stock of inventory that the monstrous suit at the center offered him. A roll of bandages is perhaps the most valuable thing one can have in the arena, other than whatever the hell these goggles are, of course.

He treks on, wary of the footsteps marking the sand. Survival is not a guarantee yet.

[lucien picks up 15ft of bandages]