run, boy, run | emerson { day 1 }

Post by d8a lucia ✃ valentine ✁ tris on Oct 29, 2023 13:24:41 GMT -5

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The first thing he does on his way out of the training room is stop behind a rack of weapons. The exit is only a few feet away, and the turrets he can see are no longer focused in his direction. His cuts are still dripping blood, his mind racing with adrenaline, hands shaking against the cold metal beneath them. His heartbeat drums inside his ears, no longer seeing any sign of Arcadia or Wolf. Even when he glances back at the group of tributes still going through the tournament, he doesn't catch a glimpse of Mac or Jack in the crowd.

He also doesn't see any puddles of blood or masses of brain matter, either, so he quiets his anxiety and allows himself to feel convinced that the both of them made it out safely. The same can't quite be said for him, wounded and without any way of protecting himself. The worst part is how he hesitates before reaching for one of the weapons, having to process the choice he is making. He needs to be armed, he has to be willing to defend himself, but now he realizes that maybe he shot himself in the foot by not training more in the sparring station. How do you go about attacking someone? How can you make yourself feel at peace before you make that first swing?

Maybe he'll never know peace again. He's in the middle of the war now, and first blood has already been drawn. What matters now, more than steeling himself to face the inevitable, is to find his people and group up. There is strength in numbers, which he lacks on his own. Reaching forward blindly, he waits to feel his palm closing around the hilt of something, and then he takes off in a sprint out of the room.

^{{ fox }}

{ emerson searches the weapon rack }
4_29blTiu_1-15
{ gunmetal brass knuckles }

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