hard to find & lucky to have | nocturne

hard to find & lucky to have | nocturne Jun 25, 2014 23:49:22 GMT -5

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Post by L△LIA on Jun 25, 2014 23:49:22 GMT -5

One thing about limping is that it's easier if a guy doesn't have to run while he does it. "You best run, boy!" Unfortunately for the aformentioned boy from Nine, there aren't a lot of options when a certain hijacked shaggin waggin of doom topped with a Cowboy screaming — literal — bloody murder from the rooftop is a'coming for him. "Ol' Dan is coming for you!" He knows, he knows, Ripred almighty, he knows. If he weren't too busy hyperventilating from sudden, inexplicable terror and trying not to piss himself (when covered in this much sweat and blood, it's hard to tell if he's succeeding, to be honest), he might still be tempted to eke out some kind of sassy remark.

Option One: What does it look like I'm doing, you spectacular asshat?!

Option Two: My legs hurt and my lungs hurt and my tummy hurts. Everything hurts. What more could you possibly do to me?

Option Three: Fuck you!

As it is, all he can do is hobble for his life. He's pretty quick for a guy with a crooked leg, but the panic yanks at his steps until one foot is reaching out much further than the other and he winds up running in circles. Large, twisted circles. Realization that he's merely being herded like cattle for slaughter only hits him after all those footprints he's passing become too familiar and he connects the dots with how the massive scuffs in the sand over there look an awful lot like waggin wheel marks. Oh no, oh no, oh fucking no.

This, he assumes, is the part where he dies.

Not quite yet. Instead, this is about to become one of those moments where he wishes he were dead. Regardless of whether or not he has any clue as to what's in store for him, he knows enough to be terrified — his face contorted into a picturesque horror show of panic and ineloquent dread. That yappy little mouth of his stretches itself out, wide open and empty, as sand kicks itself up into his eyes until something like tears are welling up. (Really, it's the sand.) To his credit, he doesn't scream at all until that bastard leg of his gives out and he face-plants right into the ground.

It's a fumbling grand gesture of failure. After that, all bets are off and although he tries to shut himself up (as if, maybe, he were a Tribute who might actually be deserving of his Eight in training), the muffled squeals of his pansy-boy gasps sneak up from the sand loudly enough that anyone within a few feet of him might hear. It's certainly loud enough for the Capitol's cameras to pick up, but he can't catch enough breath to hold it all in until he rolls over... just in time to spy a glimpse of the face of the mad dog chasing after him.

The other thing about limping, you see, is that it's a real bitch.