ka mahara te ngahere / zane vs rua

My dreams that night are awful quiet for a guy who literally committed cold-blooded murder the morning before. It's my morning dilemma as I make my way away from the center and towards a direction I've seen chosen at random in hopes that by ignoring landmarks and any sense of rhyme or reason that I'll avoid the greater threats who chose to think strategically when it came to their travels. Is it because of my upbringing as a member of the lowest of the low that resulted in me seeing shit that should scar a kid before I ever hit eighteen? It's not like the street rat life is one that's all that lucrative - you see gang warfare and drug addictions and just a whole lot of nasty people before you reach your teenage years, let alone any semblance of adulthood, so maybe that's it. Or maybe it's because the last string of rationality that kept me tethered to something regarding normal just snapped right alongside Iden Averill's lifeline and I've officially lost it (not that I never really had it in the first place - self awareness isn't one of my weak spots!)

Whatever the fucking case, the fact remains that I've seen an awful lot of awful things in my eighteen years. Dead bodies in varying states of gore and decay, drug addicts high off of all the bullshit that the Capitol provides us for medical care corrupted into something sinister, lecherous old fucks who just wanted a fuck of their own outside of the realm of morals and were willing to provide to have it - the point is that I've seen a lot that would make this arena, with its vibrant greens and almost jungle-like vibes look like child's play in comparison. But I'd never killed. Never seen the act committed, though I'd come close a couple of times. And that was the one thing I'd held close to my heart this entire godforsaken time - I'm fucked up, I've seen and done some fucked up shit, but I'd never killed anyone before, in self defense or otherwise.

That was my lifeline to moral ambiguity. Without that, is there even anything worth salvaging of me left?

I know that Gunner and I's discussions bordered on dark, even for Nine, more often than not. Sacrificing ourselves to the will of the fates, going out in a blaze of glory because there was not a single thing in our future worth living for, yada yada. But the Games were always his idea, not mine, volunteering and taking on that martyr complex so that at least he could die knowing he'd done some good in the world. That was never mine, and the choice was plucked out of my hands before I could even come to a consensus as to whether it was fucking worth it.

Whatever the case, Zane Holbrook isn't a name that gets to add any accolades of heroism to his name. Just another stain on a bloodied, muddied legacy, drowning out the final ray of light attached to it.

Heh. Two days in and I've already become a nihilist. No wonder I always thought that it was that one strand connecting me to rationality - without it, I'll go mad in days.

Sorry, Avriel. Hopefully Aneesa, wherever she is, is doing better. She'd be someone he could focus on. Hope for. Bring back home with some of her humanity intact, perhaps. Cause even if I prove the unthinkable and return the crown right back to Nine's doorstep, I don't think there'll be much of me worth saving.

I must not be subtle or quiet even as I'm locking myself up in my own head, because I notice that there's another figure far too late, something that lashes out and through ineptitude on its part or sheer dumb luck on mine it's a miracle I don't get my eye plucked out right then and there. The storm cloud parts, if only for a second, and I look up, up, up, at a truly gigantic bird-like thing.

Now, size is relative for me. At five foot six inches tall and not a centimeter more (and whether that's due to me stunting my own growth with my hedonism and questionable activities or simply genetics I'll never be able to tell) there's a lot of things taller than me. I'm used to it. But this thing is tall tall, to the point where even the tallest person I've ever met would look tiny next to this thing. Granted, it's like fifty percent neck, too, but even with that in mind it doesn't change the fact that I barely match the creature's legs in height, let alone anything else.

Yet I'm strangely calm as I take my bloodied blade out, stare up at the thing. Mutts are commonplace in arenas, and if there weren't any other tributes to give me a fair and entertaining fight than these beasts were all that's left.

Fine then. The Capitol can bring it. If killing Iden Averill felt like nothing, then killing this beast should be less than nothing.

I briefly wonder if that ends up being a net positive in the end, where this beast's death actually makes me feel better, right before I swing my blade.

For something that's about as far away from human as you can get, this beast certainly reacts like one. Cries of pain when my blade pierces its flesh, a veil of intimidation to try and make me scared, a reactionary slash towards my shoulder that, in another world, slices clean through my neck and ends me right then and there.

But while I'm not the brightest bulb in the attic, I'm also not completely stupid. I've seen enough games, studied them ever since Gunner announced his intentions, know that to this day there is not a single mutt genetically engineered for the arenas that attacks first and remains innocent at the same time. Maybe those sleepy bear things, or the fat honking birds, but something like this? Something that could tear me limb from limb the second I let my guard down? Nah, that's not something I'm giving the benefit of the doubt.

"C'mon, you should know better than that," I quip out loud, as if the bird's cries will suddenly morph into spoken language and I'll be able to banter with it. It's a twofold meaning - the bird should know better than to toy with me when I've already committed murder on something far fiercer than it, whilst the Gamemakers should know better than to assume I'll feel emotions such as fear or pity on a bird when the blood of humans already drenches my soul.

I don't need to voice that part out loud, though. Let them figure out which one I meant. Right now? All I have to do is swing.

There's a rhythm to this madness, a pattern to this dance. Living in the midst of a heavily polluted industrial hellhole meant the only animals I ever saw living in Nine were the stray cats and dogs that were as much competitors for scraps as they were cuddly little house pets. Those things were worthy foes (god, I sound like a Career now) in that you had to really match wits with them - they were smart and wily and would almost always be faster and more successful at digging through the barrel than you were, so you'd always have to match em with your wits.

This bird, this mutt, this thing, whatever the case, is not natural born. No matter how authentic it thinks its life is, no matter what falsehood memories the Capitol shoved into that little nob it calls a head might exist, at the end of the day it is artificial, as much computer program as wild animal. And it only takes me until the third try to figure out this particular facet of its algorithm, for when it next tries to bite my head off, I'm ready.

My blade smacks into its beak, dealing little damage but successfully diverting the blow away from anywhere near my flesh, and I can't help but grin. "Nice try," I taunt, circling the beast, "but I've got you all figured out."

Every part of my body tingles. Was this the manic energy that led to me crippling half of the Careers almost all by myself? Damn, I sure hope it is and not, well, whatever the alternative might be.

I've already had one mental crisis over my own morality, or lack thereof. The second can wait until I'm no longer one wrong move away from death.