run boy, run // storm day 3

It's excruciating, really, waiting for the ball to drop.

Despite plenty of evidence that points to the contrary, Storm's no fool. He knows how the Games work, through months and months of watching different variations over and over until so many children had died on his television screen it's a wonder it wasn't haunted by proxy. He knows that each day that one lives within the roughly ten miles that make up the arena's diameter comes with a trial of some sort that must be conquered in order to continue living. Whether that takes the shape of a slobbering mutt or a bloodthirsty rival is left up to the Gamemakers, usually, but the point of the matter is that there's usually something that steps up to impede his path.

But morning melts into a somewhat chilly afternoon, and as the river gives way to a flowery field, nothing marks itself as today's challenge. The few mutts he sees are small and docile, more akin to Buddy's HONKing brethren than anything seriously threatening, and as he progresses further and further into the unknown, he remains mystifyingly unmolested.

(He did, at one point, hear a screech that sounded vaguely human in nature, but Storm's first instinct of nopenopenope set him on a path as far away from the sound in question as possible, a path that, thus far, has yet to be corrected).

It's not until a cannon sounds before any sort of threat, human or otherwise, appears that the thought crosses his mind that maybe, perhaps, someone up in the control center playing God has decided to take pity on him. Or maybe, between his brawl with the mushroom folk, getting wet, catching and playing with Buddy, or (Ripred forbid, the perverts) stripping down the previous day had given him a bit of leeway for today. Some sort of silent message, whispering continue proving your entertainment worth, and we'll gift you rewards in return.

It wouldn't be unprecedented, he knows that. There'd been a girl a few games ago, back when Storm was a little kid, who'd nearly died fighting some reptile mutt before ultimately prevailing, but she'd been so grievously wounded that there had been bets as to whether or not she'd live through the night. But clearly, she'd proven her worth to the Gamemakers one way or another, because the next day she not only was spared a challenge, but even got a giant chicken of some sort as a temporary guardian.

Maybe this was Storm's own reward, even if Buddy, in all his scaly HONKing glory, was a bit too small to act as a giant chicken bodyguard.

Still, he knew better than to lower his guard, even when all seemed well. And as the vibrant meadow rustled around him, Storm kept his eyes peeled for anything (or anyone) that could pose a problem.