broken { h o p e } day 3; speakers

They lay like that for minutes, hours, maybe even days, he doesn't know.

But eventually, time passed them by, and the inevitable came to pass. Helios and himself had committed their allegiances to different sets of people, and after one final hug and wish of luck, the two parted ways.

That, of course, created its own new problem, for he had no idea where the three girls he had chosen to ally with had disappeared off to.

He'd set out into the luminous orchard shortly thereafter, the taste of Helios still fresh on his tongue and his spirits noticeably lifted.

Not that the latter was saying much, with him.

He wasn't sure how long he had walked when he finally heard the first traces of familiar voices, really, only that the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon and the orchard was eerily silent.

Too silent.

Then, suddenly, one voice - Riven's, he realized with a start - cried out above the rest, screaming "Jason!" in a high pitched tone. He froze, for even though he didn't recall meeting a tribute named Jason, that didn't mean that there wasn't one.

His hand dropped down instinctively, to where his sword lay.

Or, at least, would have lain, had he not dropped it running.

"Shit," he muttered. He had one crayon left, and not enough time-

-and then the familiar beep, beep, beep of a sponsor parachute sounded, loud and clear from above. He glanced upwards, just in time to raise his arms above his head and catch the small box before it smacked him in the head.

The hint of a grin perked up chapped lips, and he wasted no time in opening his latest goody box, which - rather predictably - contained crayons.

Two of them, to be exact.

"Well sheeee-yat." The exclamation was loud and drawn out around the second vowel, and for a moment, the fact that his allies might have been getting stabbed to death by a tribute named Jason completely eluded his mind.

He reached out and grabbed one of them - a lighter gray than the first gray he had received - and dumped the second one - a pure black crayon in sharp contrast to the white one he still had stored away - in his bag to join it.

For a moment, it seemed like everything was going to be okay. With crayon in hand, he turned towards the nearest tree, free hand laying against the smooth bark.

Then, everything went black.

Not in the literal sense, anyway, at least not from what he could tell.

Instead, the source was some kind of fabricy substance, thin yet dense enough to completely obstruct any kind of light from passing through. Instinctively, his free hand reached up to claw the fabric, grab it, anything that would remove its smothering embrace from his face-

-and then he breathed, and he realized that it was, in fact, not a smothering embrace.

What the absolute fuck.

He blinked, then tried again, clawing just above his eyes. Nothing.

"When I said sheet earlier, this was not what I meant, you know!" he called out to no one and everyone at once, the words somewhat muffled by the fabric.

Pause. A deep breath.

Okay, now what was I going to do?

Ah yes, that's right.

Slowly, awkwardly, he placed his free hand back up against the bark of the tree.

Then, he began to draw.

Years of practice as an artist had led to him drawing countless variations of knives, whether they were airborne, stuck in the grip of a violent tribute, or sitting on the kitchen table after lunch. They were quick, simple, and easy to draw, even with one of his key senses blocked out.

A straight, almost triangular shape. Two long, straight lines meeting at a sharp point. A third, shorter line connecting the longer lines at the opposite end. A thin rectangular shape jutting out of this third short line, long and thick enough for a perfect grip.

He repeated this nine times, each shape nearly identical to the last. Then, he stepped back, listening as they fell off of the tree one by one onto the ground below. Then, he got down on his hands and knees, and with careful precision grabbed each and every last one of the knives which he had drawn, depositing them into his bag along with the two crayons and two pictures still rattling within.

He stood up, still very much without his sight, and stretched.

The voices were back, but calmer. The distinct voice of Wylla penetrated his new cage with ease, and he turned his head towards the source.

They're okay. Thank god.

Slowly, carefully, he took one step forward.

Then, another. Then, another.

His fourth step landed in a puddle, or at least something that felt like it, at first.

Only, this puddle had no bottom, and suddenly he was falling-

-and his face hit the water and broke through to air almost immediately, and he let out a startled cry before landing face first onto the ground.

For a moment, all he could do was lay there. Then, he spoke, his words echoing his though process for the last few moments.

"What the absolute fuck just happened?"