renegade // zane, day one

So I run, for all of a couple minutes before the adrenaline of the last few minutes breaks like a fever and my body is reminded of the fact that me and physical exertion don't exactly go together. Internally, I curse the chain smoking habit I'd had off and on over the last couple of years (Gunner had always hated the smell, one of the few things we'd found disagreement on, and the last months had been the longest I'd ever gone cold turkey, for all the good that did). Externally, I catch my breath, wipe the sweat and grime off of my forehead, and instantly regret it, cause guess what? Somewhere in there, one of those bitches had torn my forehead open as if they were trying to carve my brain out.

Jokes on them. I haven't used that fucker since Cara passed on. Heh, she always had been the physical embodiment of my non-existent conscious, back in the day.

The cornucopia is still within sight and I probably should be more worried about my immediate proximity towards that particular beacon of death, but honestly, I can't even really give a shit. It was just Bastian and that Two girl whose name I never bothered to learn left. Either they're hacking it out between themselves or they're making out for all I know. All I know is it's not my problem anymore.

Gradually, my breathing slows. Time passes. Four cannons sound, and I know three of them personally - the Sixes, standing by my side on a suicide run. Iden and Four, the causalities of that run. I wonder what would have happened if Two had popped up at the beginning instead of playing around doing fuck all. Would I be already dead? Would Bastian's hand be saved?

Heh. That's right. I look down to my bloodied blade, looking more like an oversized knife than anything practical, and yet with that the Careers found themselves forever crippled. Just little old me, mutilating both Ones like nothing. Just little me, dealing the finishing blow to Iden Averill, just like that.

It's a wonder that I'd avoided adding murder to my many transgressions back in Nine. Gunner and I had always decided that the only people we'd ever end would be ourselves, in some epic blaze of glory, lips locked and flames dancing vaguely in the background. A scene perfectly reminiscent of our first meeting.

But here I am, locked on a pathway to death without him or anyone else around me to support me. And sure, it's a conundrum of my own making - I had every chance to offer myself up to the pair of Careers still coveting around the Cornucopia, every chance to form a connection that extended beyond the bedroom, every chance to run away before so much as a single blade hit my skin.

So why didn't I? Was there still a part of me that wasn't resigned to the fate laid out before me on a red carpet? A small part of primal instinct holding the rest of me back from the blaze of glory already destined to be my end?

I'm interrupted from my thoughts by an insistent pinging sound coming from the sky, and I look up to find a parachute floating down towards me. For the first time, surprise crosses my face - did Avriel actually find me worth his time? Is this something designed to help me in the future?

Hah. I should have known. In my excitement, I practically tear open the gift, only to be faced with-

"An autograph," I mutter under my breath. "That's a first."

Cause right. I'm not just an anonymous face any more. I'm Zane Holbrook, inheritor of Avriel Baptiste's legacy, the kid who single handedly crippled half of the Careers.

Anger flares through me for a second. Sure, I wasn't perfect, but I had fuckin' standards back home, okay? Even if they were practically on the ground, even I had a line I wouldn't cross. And now that I have, it's getting celebrated?

But I am nothing if not quick on my feet, and I allow the anger to last just long enough for the cameras to capture it before my stage smile is stretched across my face, exposing each and every one of my pearly whites. "Message received, your Gamemakerliness!" followed by a mocking salute is aimed at nowhere in particular, and though I want to desperately rip that poster in half, I settle for roughly shoving it into my cramped bag. And it's seconds (okay, maybe minutes) later that I'm back on the warpath.

Fine, JS. If that's what you want, I'll grant it to you.

A neat trick, he says. What else did I expect from someone literally orchestrating the audience appeal of my death?

I'll give you more of what you want.

Time to wreak some fuckin' havoc.