the devil took my hand [ABNB day 1]

Every fiber of his being is screaming to fight longer. Push his muscles to the extremes for the thrill of death. A deep part in his gut tearing and ripping with the pain of bloodbath where he's certain his ribs have been demolished in a painful breath. Piercing bone stabbing into his lungs over and over. The thrill of a fight still pumping in his veins; an echo of a serum in his chest. Claws extending slightly more as his nose fills with the smell of blood and rot surrounding them. A shot of pain bursting through his skin as he catches his footing along some of the rubble, stumbling just slightly over it. Everything was real. The sky. The cathedral. The blood. The rot. The shards of glass littered across the area, glittering with colors unnatural.

Finn's annoyed at the proceedings of the games already. Tributes who's names he barely had even gotten to known swinging at him with no regard. Rasoio, the familiar name of someone long dead, bruising his left side of his chest. Surely, without a plan. Grimacing as he assesses the damage of his chest, Finn can see the bruise coming to life with reds, purples, and browns. Of course, Bellisario from Two. Trained to break the lower districts, as if he's going to just lie down and take it. The broken ribs are darker in color from the outside. Brightly colored and painful to even move around. Lastly, Elle Aye from Four. Daring to hit him back with a that silver axe, burning against his skin. Red streaking down the leg of his pants where a rip resides. A small cut, but enough to burn unnaturally so. Silver against flesh. No one gets away with striking him. An eye for eye as told by criminals who wanted him dead.

And once again, he's still alive. Risen above once more and escaped with a crossbow and some wooden ammunition for the weapon. A weapon he's only read about once or twice in fairytales, ages long past. When the world wasn't so threatening and the people so disobedient. Pathetic excuses for human beings who bite the hands that feed them. A grimace on his face as he starts to assess the area around him. Anika Khan chooses to appear then, looking better off than himself. Bruises littering her skin with purple and red. The words from her lips are plain and acknowledging. Annoying in a way, but he's already made his choice.

"Hey Finnagan," A grunt of acknowledgement is all he gives to her. Exhaling of acknowledgement as he looks to her carefully. Crossbow loaded in a way that if he had to shoot, he would hit dead on. Her eyes do a once over before she speaks once more. The words leave his ribs hurting just a smidge more as he groans in soft annoyance. Anika Khan wasn't going to be a threat anytime soon. No way would a girl who wanted to be on top try to take him out anytime soon. "You look rough," He's had worse than these wounds. Broken bones in Twelve were common, especially when he worked as an informant for the roses of Twelve. Pain was the life he lived. All of his body has ached in heavy amounts of pain before during difficult decisions leading to pain. Hell, he's been shot in the shoulder once before. A few bruises and some broken ribs meant nothing to him.

"Fuckers got me pretty good. A broken rib and some bruising." His eyes glance back to her black eye, watching the purple darken more and more. "Had much worse before. Can handle it myself for now." Only when the words fade does Anika start to rant about her eye. The strong man from Ten slipping from her lips as he reminds himself to look out for another person to be added to his list of retribution. The rant is enough to leave him feeling a bit winded both metaphorically and literately.

A jingling of sponsorship is all that catches his ears by the end of the rant. The package is large with supplies he's desperately needed. Surely, Nico Thorne was actually going to be a mentor to the both of them. Twelve only had the two of them, even if Finn didn't really want to represent a group of people who did nothing for him but bitch and complain about the capitol or the roses or whoever else. The supplies are enough for him to start bandaging up his leg and setting himself up to feel better in the moment. Stuffing gear into the bag, he takes a look at the other items there.

The jacket is by far the coolest thing, but most useless at the same time. His last name is embroidered to the back in big red bold letters. The letterman jacket is black with white sleeve, which fits him perfectly. Twelve is plastered to the sleeve, but he could care less about it as he slips it on comfortably. The style fits him better than the ancient look the capitol wants him to be remembered in. All he needed left was a baseball bat and it'd be like he was at home. The bandana is decently surprising, but he's sure he could use it as a makeshift bandage in the future. For now, he ties it around his bicep over the jacket.

A shifting of dust catches his nose as his head jerks to the sound and smell, almost reflexively. A very new reaction he's not really sure why he did that. Anika is the one who's falling. Stepped in the wrong direction as a pothole seemingly opened up underneath her. Eyes rising to the sky carefully with an amused look before he comes over carefully, letting his words slip out now. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Big ole fuckin' ten gave you a black eye." Rolling his eyes as he comes over to make sure she didn't fucking break her ankle, he continues. "Your poor pretty face. It's just a damn black eye. Get them all the damn fuckin' time. Now stop complaining and try not to fall into anymore holes." Waiting by the edge, he watches her carefully, making sure she gets up and walks around.

It's not like he had to look out for her, but he at least should make a fucking effort. God, Anika Khan was going to be the death of him. Not literately, he could easily break her neck if needed, but she was going to kill him if she complained all games. All he could do was check for supplies around the area and pray they made it somewhere different than everyone else. There wasn't any time for fighting anymore losers who thought they'd be easy targets. His voice is all that comes out as he continues forward.

"Let's keep moving."

A sigh falls from his throat.

"And please, don't trip over anymore potholes. We're from Twelve, fucking ripred."