☢︎ Day Three: Eight Tributes, Four Mutts, One Exit ☢︎

filler because at very important comp till Monday but Hafen associates the rats noises with music and starts to run as fast as she can with flashbacks from her reaping. Her chains chiming loudly as she runs and trips over someone, not sure if they are dead or alive.

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It's bitter.

The way his heart beats as if he's innocent; there's the stagnant fear stuck to the backs of his eyes. Blood coating the knife in his hand and the words buried deep into his skin; bugs burrowing their way into his body forever. That's nice, Ben, Death laughs. Wish it meant something to me. A snap. A break. A fall. Metal to skin, the blood drips with all the pain in the world. Shoulders ache against the weight. The scream in his throat hidden by the sound of death; the laughter in his ears echoing along those whining halls of steam.

If he were stronger; he could've stayed. Stared Setta in her eyes and cut away the life that was left, but he wasn't strong. Too much too fast; the bitterness in his lungs as he almost coughs up more blood. Body on fire, the fluttering of adrenaline giving way. Feet stomping through water as he flees, the sound of ache setting into his skin. The taste of something horrid behind his tongue as if he can feel the guilt clawing its way out of his chest. Ripping up everything left of who he was; a character trying to hide the boy. "Pathetic." His own voice barrels out through the sewers long since having carved their scent to his nose.

Benson Sharpe runs. Runs as far as the tunnels take him; his vision lost in the darkness of it all. The tears along his cheeks, trickling down into a pinkish color mixing with the dry blood along his cheeks. Time seems to slow once he's alone; dropping to the small pool of putrid water. His voice going hoarse from the sobs in his chest; the regret of being too soft after all these years. Too much of a heart to carry himself through this. Blood on his own hands, he can't recognize what he's become. Those childish years of trying to make a point of never becoming his parents; never wanting to hide behind closed doors or fake smiles. Finding himself here, he's too much of his father's son.

Sleep never comes; instead he stays awake the whole night. Eyes bloodshot with the number of sounds that've made him jump. The tearstained cheeks having finally given way, but he's stuck curled up by the edge where the water doesn't quite reach. The silence leaving him with his thoughts, the memories of who he was before now. The proud and happy son of a famous filmmaker in Three. Future actor of Panem; hopefully a famous face meant for the screens. Too many dreams crumbling in front of him. What would be left for him? Could he make it to the end? There's a whisper in his mind; just seven more. Seven more to either kill or outlive.

A heart beats; he can see the scurrying of tiny feet. The sound of chittering rats as they run past. Eyes almost caught in shock as he looks towards the mass of them. Something's not right. His mind supplies. The unusual behavior is what sets him off. Benson feels himself stumble to his feet, the weight of the day before long since gone, but the heavy ache still residing in his body. The wounds still open for the world to see. In the dark, he can't quite see what's hiding in the tunnels. The sound sets him off.

Scratches unlike the rats; walls thick with grime, but none of that was natural. The sound of alarms start to blare. "Warning! Live muttation present. Warning!" His skin crawls with adrenaline. Monsters. Real ones. The ones he's never heard of in the distance, the blaring alarm is enough of a warning. "Warning! Please proceed calmly to your nearest exit. Warning!" Lights flash around him; the quick brightness in the tunnels making him almost flinch in reaction, but it's enough to see the creatures. Already spilling to his feet, he holds the knife tightly in his hand as he moves already. No remorse to be had, the feeling of pain in his chest sets in. All those years having to had run for his wrestling practices finally feel useful now.

"Warning! Doors close in: one hundred and twenty seconds. Warning!"

A race against the clock.

The sounds of other tributes seeming to pick up around him. The breath in his throat catching as if it were live wire; electrifying his body. The first person he notices is someone he doesn't recognize. The other is much faster as she passes him. Kasia. She's still alive. Part of him hates that information. Just another person he'll have to deal with in the end. Right now, he can't focus. Those monsters were behind him. Their claws scratching at the edges of the walls. Ravenous eyes that glowed almost in the dark setting his heart ablaze with fear. He didn't want to die. There was too much in his life, he couldn't lose all the things he wanted to do. All the things he wanted to experience.

Voice hoarse as he screeches out to whoever can hear.

It's better to die on your feet than not.

A warning.

From the boy who's heart seemed to bleed for everyone else, but himself.

"Run!" A breath caught in his throat. "They're right behind me."

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Time begins to slide out from beneath you. Or rather, it feels as though it skitters, tugged apart by the warbling squeaks echoing down every tunnel and pipe. Slipping between some drowsy half-awake half-dead state, you aren't sure how much you are dreaming and how much you are remembering. Like a photograph with the person ripped out, only their silhouette left behind, except there's a second version beneath where your hands are clean.

It starts to ache in one of your ribs, a hollow throbbing that never yields. Maybe you'll even let yourself call it grief. Madeline told you once there's five stages. You don't have much use for denial, but anger you can make use of. You curl up in an alcove along a hallway and listen to the sound of boots slapping against shallow waste water until the only thing that remains are the echoes of the creatures scurrying in pipes unseen.

Hours creep up on you, light footed rats slipping over and around you, sniffing at your pockets where the empty can of meat sat.

You wake for good when there Hafen is again, a shadow across the stone, her dark hair obscuring her face from view. You feel a heavy impact on your thigh as she stumbles over your extended legs. She looks like a water-logged wraith, the long tendrils of damp hair like strands of seaweed clung to her. Wretched, running, she shows you her back and you slip until you're standing still again, watching her run, leaving a dripping trail of Malachor's blood in her wake.

Blinking, a voice brings you back—"Warning! Doors close in: one hundred and twenty seconds. Warning!"

The voice blares from down the hall, echoing from some speaker you search for among the dark. It does little to cover the scarping sound coming from the direction Hafen disappeared the day before. This time you don't turn and walk away from her trail.

She proved herself a survivor once. Maybe she will again.

"What are they!" you bellow, unafraid in the dark. Survive, survive, survive, you chant, over and over again after scrambling to your feet and hauling after Hafen's long shadow. "Did you see them? Are they close?"

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Amber travels through the labyrinth using a dead boy's polearm as a walking stick.

No sense of clarity came to her when she listened to the sound of Napoleon's nose shattering beneath her knuckles — no pity followed the crack of Dagger's ribcage as she sent her fist flying into his vulnerable torso. Even now, all of her instincts are hardwired for survival, and only the smallest space inside her shrinking heart is reserved for the hope that she will find October and Fraser somewhere in the twisting dark.

It is true that she has made her peace with the fact that the other tributes must die. Her fingers uncurled around her innocence the minute the boy from Two let go of his lifeline. She pulled it out from his grip. strangled him to death with his own mortality. But as lethal as Amber will allow herself to become, the love that she feels does not become separate from her. When she finishes scavenging the corpse, robbing medical supplies and the impressive glaive, her attention does not turn to the retreating figure of Dagger.

Truly, she does not want to break her promise a second time — because she knows seeing him again will surely end in one of their deaths. They can only escape the impossible so many times before the hands of fate intervene. She focuses her attention on the direction she originally travelled from, hoping to reunite with her friend and find her district partner along the way. Faintly, she remembers the echo of cannons as she engaged in her own peril battle. It had been like a muffled lightning crack all around her.

And she hopes against hope that these losses do not belong to her.

❈

The shelter where she left October is vacant of her bright light. The whole world has seemed to go dull from the absence of the girl, and Amber is quick to set up camp in the hopes that maybe waiting will solve the issue. Maybe October went looking for her, or maybe Fraser is walking down the hallway at this very moment — maybe. Just the slight possibility is enough to send Amber tumbling into her dreams, forehead pressed against her knees.

When she wakes, she is still alone, her body filthy and her joints aching. She spends the majority of the morning, or perhaps nighttime, moping as she rips what remains of the top of her boiler suit into frayed bandages. The tiniest strips are used to try and wipe the caked on blood from her bruised skin, and the stronger straps of fabric are applied around her stomach and fresher cuts. She's grateful for her mother's sewing lessons as she seals an open gash with a stitch. For the most part, Amber feels whole and comfortable despite the limb that had nearly been severed from her.

Her damaged arm is cradled against her, knife looped securely in her belt, and the glaive acts as her leverage as she makes her way through the tunnels. She keeps waiting for a sign of some sort — another dangerous stranger to confront, a lost ally to wrap her arms around. There is so much energy coursing through her veins, and she has no idea what to do with it. Is this what a star collapsing feels like? Or is this just how it feels to be a girl on her last legs?

The flashing of red lights and a droning message over the intercom are enough to capture her attention — the adrenaline inside her turns to pure panic, then desperate hope, as she tries to navigate the excitement of learning an exit has been opened and the horror of realizing that there are more than tributes to fear down here. She can feel the steady rumbling, the telltale signs of something large stirring and approaching fast. She instantly inhales a deep breath, lifting her newest weapon from off the ground and tilting it forward, body positioned to bolt.

If they're all running towards the same salvation, the odds have never been higher to find her missing companions.

And if all she has to face in this moment is herself and her own limits, then this will prove to be her toughest battle yet.

Footsteps, frantic voices, and god only knows what else echos throughout the tunnels as I continue to run, not even bothering to check my surroundings for anything that might cut me. I don’t care about the various knicks I get as I keep moving forward, because that promising light at the end is growing closer with each footstep. I don’t turn around when the boy from yesterday calls for me to wait up. I don’t turn around when Benson calls out for everyone to run, even as the tiniest twinge of remorse pinches at me as I pass him. I don’t turn around when two canons reverberate throughout the tunnel, accompanied but sounds that I don’t bother dissecting.

None of those sounds will matter when I make my way out of here. I’ve been passing anyone who could even think about taking me out, and they’ll stay behind me as they forfeit their lives for my crown. Everything I’ve done, the lives I’ve taken, the blood I’ve spilt, has been leading me to this moment. My crowning glory.

This is where I earn my reign. These next few moments are where I take what is rightfully mine back from the Capitol. They taken my childhood, my innocence, my own fucking mother away from me. The least they can do is give me my crown. I’ve weathered every blow they’ve dealt me, what’s a little more running. I think of my father, who used to read me fairytales about princesses growing into their own. Sometimes they found someone to rule by their sides, but as I grew older, I always loved the stories where the princess stood on her own, with her friends and family standing by her side, realizing that these stories are what I am currently live now. I think of the spirits of Ekta and Djed, hoping that they would be seeing their princess run and encouraging me to keep moving forward. I will my legs to continue to push me forward, to the point where I feel like I’m almost jumping forward with every step.

The light is growing bigger and brighter, and I hope that my mother’s spirit is cheering me on on the other side, willing for her only daughter to win, knowing that she’s paid the price for her life and crown with the blood of others.


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Princess doesn't respond. I don't even think she hears me with the way she's maneuvering through the sewage. I keep a close eye ahead, hugging the walls and only looking back to catch my breath in between. The glowing eyes chasing from behind taunt, their massive one-eyed neon stares growing bigger and bigger with each stride.

Charlie was a runner. He could do a two-hundred-meter dash in the blink of an eye. What feels like ages pass, even if the announcement only allowed us two minutes to escape. My feet stick to whatever odorous liquids and questionable substances lie beneath them, and my arm tears across a jagged edge in the sewer walls, tearing skin from my arm and my rolled-up sleeves. Charlie would never be so slow, and he would never hug the outside lane as much as I am. I detour, pulling myself to the opposite side where most of the others.

I'm catching up to one of the girls… is that? Navy blue? I don't know her name. In fact, I didn't even bother to ask before running off that first fight. A small piece of me is still grateful as I catch up to her. A pair of wet hands grip my ankle as I move forward. I stop myself moments before tripping and look back. Navy Blue is struggling, eyes looking up demanding assistance.

"Don't do that!" I try and tug my leg away, but she's persistent. "You're gonna get us both killed."

"If you don't get me out of here, I will smash your skull in." The spike chain rests near her feet.

I turn back, the eyes charging only growing bigger and bigger, closer and closer.

Did Charlie ever help another if they took a fall during the race? I ponder it, wondering just how far some good karma could take me in this race. "Fine." I grab Navy Blue's arms and pull her up, hand wrapped around her back, but before we can even take a step, she falls again. Another one-eyed creature has caught up, and echoed screams bouncing off the sewer walls are now angered breaths mere inches away from him skin.

They take her completely. With a glance back, I can't even see her amid the creature's massive stature.

"Oh god, oh goddd!"

All I can do is scream on the top of my lungs as I sprint again.

Does the mere thought of doing something good for someone else breathe positive karma?

I pray that's how karma works...

[ runs ]
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[ 39 + 61 = 100/200 ]