we, the anarchists { The Red Scare Day 1 }

There's still adrenaline coursing through his veins when he runs from the Bloodbath, the sounds of clashing weapons and screams of pain a chorus to their own flees. Lenox clings to his side, her nails digging into the flesh of his shoulder as he supports her weight. He's breathing, heavy and desperate as if his own lungs are fighting against his body, heartbeat hammering loudly in his chest as the last bits of red drip from his vision.

It's then that he feels it: all at once and without hesitation, pain coursing through his veins and seeping into every muscle of his being. It reaches down and rips the air from his own lungs as he gasps, eyes wide as the shock drains from his system.

"Oh my fucking god - FUCK!" He says loudly, following it up with a string of expletives so precisely formed that he can only imagine some Capitol intern is scrambling at their desk trying to censor the words before they can make it to their captivated audience. "Lenox, we gotta stop, hang on." He mutters, throwing a glance her way before loosening his grip of support on her shoulder. After a moment she steadies herself and he does the same, swinging the warhammer down into a makeshift cane to support his weight.

Red seeps out from his calf, pale skin stained crimson as he feels the warm liquid still pouring gently out of the fresh wound. His own pant leg hides the true ghastliness of the wound itself, the cloth hanging limply from where that girl had dug her spear into his calf. He hadn't known her name, only saw the same bloodlust that coursed through his own veins dancing in her eyes when he'd yelped out in pain and stumbled away from her. He waits for it for a moment, for that empty rage to bubble up from his stomach and pierce his heart, so used to the way the world turned red at any moment that it pleased. But it never comes, and he's left only with the sound of his own heartbeat still hammering in his chest, as if counting down the seconds until it can finally stop. He mutters something inexplicable to himself, about love and what it does to you, before reaching down and tearing the bottom of his pant leg off, painfully lowering himself to the ground and sitting before tying the clothing around the wound to stop the bleeding.

His gaze lifts only when he feels the sharp pain of a covered wound retreat into a dull reminder of his own mortality, taking in the sight of an arena that looks more ravaged than any part of Three. The heat licks at his form, dragging sharpened claws against skin and leaving trailing beads of sweat in its wake. He swipes at his forehead as he takes in the scenery, obscured and blurry behind the waves of heat that rise up from the ground. He chuckles at it all, that after throwing his own life away and making it all the way to a place like this they'd thrown him into an arena even uglier than what he'd come from. "Couldn't even make my coffin pretty, huh?" He mutters to himself before glancing at Lenox, jabbing a finger haphazardly towards the blood that's now dried onto his calf.

“Haven’t bled this much since I told my boyfriend to ease up on the teeth and he broke my nose in response.” He laughs to himself, not stopping for a second to consider if the joke had landed before he spots a camera hanging from a rising piece of metal close, stares it down and throws a wink and a finger gun into the lens.

There's scattered shapes making their way away from the Cornucopia, some being too close to comfort but he can't bring himself to quite care at this point, adrenaline sapping his energy as it leaves his body. When he turns back towards Lenox he's met with the sight of Salty making his way towards them, followed by Kane in the distance. Fitz smirks, shit-eating grin of yellow teeth plastered on his teeth as he motions towards the Career. "Salty, you're a Career. Help a guy out?" He says, motioning towards the wound on his leg as he removes the cloth, wincing in the process.

"You're gunna let thousands see you bleed on live TV?" Garrison says as he bends down to help him. Fitz chuckles, staring down blankly at the river of red that coats his skin. "Better than seein' me die, yeah?" He says, letting the question hang in the air before registering Salty's next words.

"Well shit, thanks Salty." He says, shrugging at the compliment before pretending to swipe dirt off his shoulder. Wounded pride and faltered ego be damned, a compliment from a Career wasn't something he was going to pass up, even if it was true that the kid had hardly managed to land a hit on their enemies. "That's just the problem though, yeah? Clearly we've got people in here who will fuck with us eventually." His words are bleak, spilling out into the dead air as he glances at his three allies. They'd been lucky to make it out, battered and bruised and bleeding but alive. But if there's one thing he's learned about luck in his life is to never rely on it, he chews on the thought for a moment before speaking again.

"I mean, Hell probably." He responds to Salty, sarcasm laced in his words as he stands again, taking another glance at the vast and ragged landscape of the arena. "We should bandage up here first- then maybe move to-" He's interrupted by the soft beeps of a sponsor gift, red parachute like a drop of blood against the blue sky. As it falls the item it carries glistens in the light, metal reflecting and flashing as he stares at it.

"Is that.. a shotgun falling towards us?"