fed by the darkness | evan . day three

{"They are scared of you, Evan? Can't you see that? They both left you to 'wander.' You know what that means. They're trying to get away."}

Evan pulls open the door to one of the cabins and steps inside, hurrying into one of the rooms. His legs are heavy from all the walking and injuries from the mutts. Each step makes his limp grow larger, and the desperation to sit anywhere but the uneven and dirty ground of the outside. Sure, the beds may not be comfortable, but they're likely to be clean, reducing the risk of infection. His eyes wandered during most of his training, but learning how to care for his wounds was an area that he did not blink an eye against. In District Twelve, his old man would protect him from the risk of harm. The arena poses a daunting task of independence from the norm of his life as everyone is out for themselves. Thad and Half-Dozen are out wandering, but Evan doubts that either of them would tend to his wounds before their own if help him at all.

{"Look at all this dust, Evan. Clean these floors up. It's horrible for the air in a room. Blood and dust don't mix, either, and you don't want to make a mess."}

He still wants to kill them, his allies. They are afraid of him, that's why they ran away so quickly after the fight. Evan spent his time stabbing through the wolves, trying to grant them fifty times as much pain awaiting their death as they did him with a single bite of their fangs. Evan scrapes the dust off the floor with his feet, taking large clumps of the stuff and tossing them out of the room. He wouldn't spend the night in a room so dirty. They're numbered, and the life of squalor he experienced last night is one he wishes never to feel again. A legacy should not experience that much pain.

{"Fix yourself up. You look like a walking piece of garbage. You want those maggots seeing you all beaten and cut?}

He wraps bandages all around the scrapes and gashes on his legs. Somehow, other than his jaw on the first day, Evan's legs have borne the brunt of his injuries. He supposes the mutts are given the same instructions as tributes in training: go for the legs first, make them easier to chase down, to hunt, to kill. "You'll feel better in the morning, MacMillan. You always seem to." The pain of healing is only temporary, and while it makes him shudder more than a fight, Evan endures it for the sake of his well-being.

For a moment, he rests on the sturdy firm bed. He hasn't seen another tribute in the arena since the Bloodbath other than Thad and Half-Dozen. Surely that would have to change soon. Only three cannons, twenty-one remaining. That's not a satisfying number to hear for Game Maker or tribute. Game Maker because their success and stardom depend on the entertainment, and tribute because survival is only guaranteed when there is one. Thad and Sixteen are two of the easy ones to pick off, Evan bets, but as for the others, he's a bit unsure. Most of them are unknown names, unknown faces, yet their presence in the arena is a known obstacle for him, and he's ready to counter them. His spear has brought him luck so far. He scrapes the spear's tip against the wall above him, increasing its strength with every bit of cheap paint that chips off from the wall and falls beside him. Eventually, though, his arms fade back to his sides and his eyes shut, slowly drifting off into the comfort he's felt torn from for three days.

Sleep, his loyal friend sl-

{"Don't fall asleep, you fucking idiot."}

The voice startles him, forcing him upright and grabbing for his spear.

{"Those maggots could come in any time and slit your throat. Practice."}

He rises from the bed, digging through his bag for the mask. It's just where he left it, at the bottom. He puts it on, much more familiar with the thick material covering his face with near perfection. It's almost as if the accessory is made for him, tailored to his exact needs. The warmth from his grunting breaths returns to his cheeks, soothing him momentarily.

He focuses on the bed now, imaging little Six Sixteen O'Malley, sitting there and talking about how it reminds him of home. His free hand grips the mattress and the sheet, allowing him to just focus on the boy resting. He sends the spear through the mattress, once, twice, three times.. none of them hit the imaginary boy yet. On the fourth, Evan stabs through the boy's curly red hair. The fifth his stomach. The sixth his chest. And then he stands there, looking on at the fantasy below him. A dying Half-Dozen, with the last bits of his fading vision looking up at his killer, another boy, breathing heavily and excitedly through a mask.

Night approaches, and what little like there was shining through the windows fades as the dark clouds are joined by a dark sky. Neither of his allies, or victims as Evan might soon call them, are around still. Maybe they're gone for good, enticing Evan to track them down and chase them to death. Surely he would be willing, but not tonight. Impending rain is not a preferred murdering forecast. Instead, Evan wanders the cabin, looking for any hidden loot. Underneath one of the beds lies remnants of a first aid kit. All that remains is some thread, but he stuffs it in his bag anyway. He ran out today.

The entire building is pitch black now, except for the dim lanterns marking corridors. In the center is a large wooden table. He'd already made bloody handprints on it when he made his way in. Certainly, a Capitol citizen might buy this table as a piece of Hunger Games memorabilia. He takes his spear once again and uses it like a pencil to chip through the wood.

Evan MacMillan was here.
Your legacy depends on your brutality.

He's happy with that, and he's sure one of the Capitol idiots will too if they're ever able to get their hands on it.

Being alone allows him to grow, plan, and fantasize more than he ever could with his two allies breathing down his neck.

The excitement to kill one of them, any of them has become more important than his desire to win.

[all actions in trib maint]