cat or dog? // storm vs displacer, day 4

There's triumph, for a minute. A successful strike, a devastating blow - even if he didn't stab the creature's heart out, Storm had never seen a single living being, mutt or otherwise, that had ever had their chest carved open and not felt the consequences of such actions. If they'd been on even ground to begin with, well, he'd just claimed a commanding lead in the race for survival.

Perhaps that's where he slips up. For despite all his preparation, despite all of his suffering, despite all of his innate wisdom, Storm is still a fourteen year old boy. And fourteen year old boys are prone to many things, including arrogance, recklessness, and, of course, the devastating fallout that comes with such natural yet overall crippling traits.

Whatever the case, he grows cocky. One blow to the chest is great, and all he needs now is another of a similar stature. One more slice, one more dice, and he can survive the rest of the day home free.

So when he hears a rustle of leaves off to his right, he acts before he thinks. The mutt might have ways of making itself invisible, but it's clearly far from incorporeal - his sword would have just swung right through it if that was the case, right? - and surely, it'd follow the rules of logic and nature.

In the real world, outside of the arena, in the forests between districts, perhaps that would have been true. But this was the Hunger Games. And Storm? Well, Storm had forgotten, just for a brief moment, that logic had no place within this shielded dome.

That's why, instead of striking a killing blow, his sword cuts through air. That's why, when the mutt does appear, it catches him by surprise, melting out of the shadows, its padded feet leaving not a sound on the forest floor.

So when he'd heard the rustling at the very beginning-

"Ah, shit," is all he manages to say.

And then there's pain. Blinding, excruciating pain. Pain that erupts out of the side of his head like an erupting volcano, right where his right ear should be. Pain so great that it's truly a wonder he doesn't black out right then and there.

As it is, it's a wonder the mutt doesn't off him right then and there. Ripred knows it had the opportunity, what with him screaming his head off and wholly unaware of his surroundings. But when the pain does ebb, just enough for him to regather his wits, the beast is simply standing there. Smug, superior, utterly confident in its victory. A reminder, that just because Storm had all of the strength of man on his side, what was the strength of man in the face of those who played God? A gash on a chest meant nothing to a beast whose sole purpose was to live an die in this arena. But to him? Every bit mattered. Every smash, every slash, every wound and bruise and psychological assault, that mattered.

And in his hubris, Storm had just shot himself in the foot before he'd ever met another tribute.

Perhaps it's that that fills him with enough rage to temporarily block out the pain. Or perhaps it's fear, the ever present reminder that death is but one unlucky strike away charging his body into overdrive. Whatever the case, Storm doesn't just roll over and die.

No, he strikes back, like any cornered pray would. Desperately. Savagely. The pure, unaltered strength of a creature who'd come inches away from death, and was now fleeing from her skeletal clutches with every ounce of energy they could muster.

How ironic, then, that it was the remnants of his own cousin's failed escape that would bring Storm his own salvation, right here and right now.

Was this how so many tributes had met their end? Choosing fight over flight in the face of insurmountable odds? Suffering critical injuries and yet still opting to fight on by holding tight to some misshapen belief that killing the rival is worth facing certain imminent death over running to live and face them down another day?

Storm had never understood such sentiments, not until this very moment. His sword whiffed, cutting not through flesh and bone but hair and air, his prediction of the beast's location grossly overestimated.

By all accounts, he should run. He just suffered a devastating blow mere seconds after delivering one, making sure that mutt and tribute alike would feel the mark for the rest of their days (or minutes, depending). Any rational animal would take the hint and let bygones be bygones, retreat into the shadows to nurse their wounds and be grateful they had the spark of life still burning inside of them.

But what Storm does know, despite the wetness dripping down his jawline, despite the burning fire raging on the side of his head, that to give up and run here and now is akin to suicide. Because despite its appearance, despite its tendencies, his opponent is a mutt. And mutts and self-preservation instincts go together like oil and water - that is, to say, not at all.

The only way he's going to survive the next few minutes, let alone the rest of the day, is asserting dominance. And he can't do that by running.

So he calms, focuses as best as he can with the flares of pain erupting from his head, keeps his feet light and his gaze flitting in as many directions as he can manage. And it works, partially - when the beast emerges from the shadows to strike at him again, there's little to gain from its efforts except the nick of a single claw on his leg - a small price to pay for victory.

"Got ya," he mutters, before bringing his sword down in one fell swoop.