beast in the jungle — bastian. [day 1]

      ↳ BASTIAN FRAY

Bzzzz. Click. Bzzzz. Click.

The static of his talkie shrieks in random intervals over the textured sounds, over the chirps of distant birds in tight-knit canopies awning over him, over the rustling sea of grass that ripples against his thighs.

Bzzzz— “More trees. More grass. More plants,” —Click, he relays to Nylon, who he isn’t even sure if is still listening, but it has become too much of a comforting routine to stop now.

Bastian’s two-worded descriptions, however, couldn't capture the full of the verdant magnificence the place has, something even he can't help marvel at.

First it was the trees, stretched to impossible heights and woven together there, and second it was the sunlight, delicately sieved through a hundred gaps that it appeared as if it had traveled through stained glass, painting the ground an array of gold. Birds chirped from nests unseen, and the flowers grew in wild troves, trellised over everything and anything. The air is scented, rich with the smells of earth and bloom. The grass gently ripples as he moves again.

He's far from a nature person, but he still finds it all a combination of peaceful and beautiful. His caution, on the other hand, has not lowered itself, finding more comfort in the machete he held in a vise grip than his surroundings.

Bzzzz. “No people.” Click.

By now, he knows all of the tributes must have heard the four cannons.

He also knows, with grim satisfaction, that the last thing most of them saw was their career pack descending upon Zane’s alliance like a red mist: Anarchy’s gun outstretched, Iden’s weapon fearsome, his machete mid-swing. What a terrible sight, enough to scare any tribute that would dare attack them again. Anarchy and Iden sacrificed themselves so that him, Liza, and Nylon could appear as the ruthless, vicious things most would now believe them to be.

And when everyone sees you as a monster, you need not waste time doing monstrous things.

He whistles an off-key tune, slashes at a spot of tall grass in front of him.

That’s what Nylon hears as his fingers accidentally presses on the call button again: his peaceful whistle, joined in by birdsong and the rustling of grass.

Bzzzz.

Click.