awakening — • mateo, d11 suite.
Oct 22, 2023 10:59:24 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Oct 22, 2023 10:59:24 GMT -5
Rooftop, night sky, stars and hair as red as embers.
Then a bead of light, passed from one hand to another, and a haze of smoke in his peripheries, signaling something like liberation but not quite.
We are not supposed to be up here.
He told Jackson Reeves that with the chuckle of a daredevil wannabe, wanting to make himself look a little like Roe: careless, sharp, middle-fingering the consequences. But pretense, that has never been his forte. Careless didn’t keep you alive in the alleys of Eleven, no – caution did. We are not supposed to be here, and that’ll be consequences for it because the Capitol’s main price was that. Consequence. He’d seen the consequences of many catch up to them, and it always ended brutally.
His head ached. The world swam in loopy shapes and colors as he slowly came to, his limbs drowsier than the rest of his body, paining to move and tug his body up. The last thing he remembered was that there had been people. Reeves and him, they were found. Figures, guns, a command to go the hell back inside, and then as they ran together back to their suites, a hiss.
The air had suddenly smelt sweeter.
Too sweet, cloying almost, and it pulled him to blackness in an instant to only find himself back in his room, the taste fermenting at the back of his throat.
Consequence.
Someone was speaking.
No, not speaking – (10, 9, 8) – counting.
His heart plummeted like a stone tossed into a dark well, and it didn’t stop falling. No splash, only a sensation that fell and fell and fell.
Until the voice said, “the 95th Hunger Games will begin now.”
He froze. Locked into place like a rat tumbling into a molasses trap, knowing it would only hurt if it struggled to be freed. Mateo breathed out in an achingly slow exhale.
Maia’s gonna gut me.
He looked down to her side of the room. Was it only his imagination or was the faux grass there taller, waving eerily even in the absence of a breeze? He rolled over slowly, softly, a feather drifting on silk sheets and then landing with his back to the wall, soundless. The hoodie he wore smelt faintly of smoke and Jackson Reeves, but most importantly, it was warm. The temperature in the room had dipped considerably, reminiscent of the winter chill in Eleven everyone dreaded. It meant death was near, for the orchards, for the crops, and for a large number of people who could not seek shelter.
He couldn’t let it get to him.
Another voice sounded then, nearly making him jumping out of his skin. He bit his lower lip shut. Bourgeois’, followed by Geiger’s.
A pause.
Then gunfire, loud enough to send him scrambling back. A cannon shook the walls. His chest heaved, rise and fall, rise and fall. The silence that followed after was equal parts grim and foreboding, that of a held breath, whatever hope for a stalemate shot to death.
Mateo sucked in a breath, looked left and right, and began tiptoeing across the room. Shadows seemed longer, sounds seemed more amplified, and his tribute was nowhere to be found. Good. But he needed his hands around something to protect himself in case her, or anyone, began making their rounds of the room.
Izar blood has stained the arena, maybe these rooms, too. He could only wish his wouldn’t.
Then a bead of light, passed from one hand to another, and a haze of smoke in his peripheries, signaling something like liberation but not quite.
We are not supposed to be up here.
He told Jackson Reeves that with the chuckle of a daredevil wannabe, wanting to make himself look a little like Roe: careless, sharp, middle-fingering the consequences. But pretense, that has never been his forte. Careless didn’t keep you alive in the alleys of Eleven, no – caution did. We are not supposed to be here, and that’ll be consequences for it because the Capitol’s main price was that. Consequence. He’d seen the consequences of many catch up to them, and it always ended brutally.
His head ached. The world swam in loopy shapes and colors as he slowly came to, his limbs drowsier than the rest of his body, paining to move and tug his body up. The last thing he remembered was that there had been people. Reeves and him, they were found. Figures, guns, a command to go the hell back inside, and then as they ran together back to their suites, a hiss.
The air had suddenly smelt sweeter.
Too sweet, cloying almost, and it pulled him to blackness in an instant to only find himself back in his room, the taste fermenting at the back of his throat.
Consequence.
Someone was speaking.
No, not speaking – (10, 9, 8) – counting.
His heart plummeted like a stone tossed into a dark well, and it didn’t stop falling. No splash, only a sensation that fell and fell and fell.
Until the voice said, “the 95th Hunger Games will begin now.”
He froze. Locked into place like a rat tumbling into a molasses trap, knowing it would only hurt if it struggled to be freed. Mateo breathed out in an achingly slow exhale.
Maia’s gonna gut me.
He looked down to her side of the room. Was it only his imagination or was the faux grass there taller, waving eerily even in the absence of a breeze? He rolled over slowly, softly, a feather drifting on silk sheets and then landing with his back to the wall, soundless. The hoodie he wore smelt faintly of smoke and Jackson Reeves, but most importantly, it was warm. The temperature in the room had dipped considerably, reminiscent of the winter chill in Eleven everyone dreaded. It meant death was near, for the orchards, for the crops, and for a large number of people who could not seek shelter.
He couldn’t let it get to him.
Another voice sounded then, nearly making him jumping out of his skin. He bit his lower lip shut. Bourgeois’, followed by Geiger’s.
A pause.
Then gunfire, loud enough to send him scrambling back. A cannon shook the walls. His chest heaved, rise and fall, rise and fall. The silence that followed after was equal parts grim and foreboding, that of a held breath, whatever hope for a stalemate shot to death.
Mateo sucked in a breath, looked left and right, and began tiptoeing across the room. Shadows seemed longer, sounds seemed more amplified, and his tribute was nowhere to be found. Good. But he needed his hands around something to protect himself in case her, or anyone, began making their rounds of the room.
Izar blood has stained the arena, maybe these rooms, too. He could only wish his wouldn’t.
