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

[jj jenkins d7. ✨ zoë.]

Every show needs a good finale. No matter how good the story so far, Angel Lí knows that this spectacle will be judged by its closing act. She hovers at the edge of the broadcasting room, bloodshot eyes turning square-shaped the longer she stares at the pixels on dozens of screens.

Her notes are few and far between: a fingernail tap on one perspective, a short command to adjust the lighting in the backrooms. Subtle differences, but ones only she knows will make all the difference.

"Play the names," a command. It's Day 3. She has not slept.

Ekta Ram, District Ten
Malachor Erso, District Two
October Rhapsody-Fray, District One
Napoleon La Lande, District Two

Napoleon's face disappears. A pause.

"Start the Finale."

---

It is quiet, then. Too quiet. Have you been listening, tributes? Have you been paying attention to the things that go bump in the walls? They have been here the whole time. Loitering through the pipes. Smelling blood that you've spilled. Tracking the scent that you have left buried beneath the rot and filth.

The rats are the first to flee. Strange how they rush past you in their hoards. Squeaking and scratching against the floors, the walls, desperate - but where are they going? Far from here. But why?

Do you remember the 4th Hunger Games? I do. And they do, too. It has been so long, tributes. Six long years. They waited, then, as all creatures did. Waiting to be unleashed upon the children that dared to defy us - rebel scum, typical. But it was not their time then. You've been good little children. You know you have to kill to get out of here. Well done. To make it this far deserves credit, I'll give you that. But you must understand how hungry they are. And the wait has been so terribly long.

The rats were right to run. Now it is your turn. From that dark, endless chasm mouth in the Processing Centre comes four great beasts - armoured, twisted, ravenous. There is no fighting them, these mutated versions of what once were amphibians that lived for hundreds of years. There is only the decision to run - but where?

You hear the door groaning as it opens, blaring alarms and flashing lights guiding you toward the outside world.

Warning! Live muttation present. Warning!

Warning! Please proceed calmly to your nearest exit. Warning! 

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

Run, little tributes. Before they catch you.

---

From the 10th Games IC Timeline: On Day Three, the GMs will release a horde of mutts on the tributes and tell them that an exit has been opened, but that it is a race and the doors will close for those who are not quick enough.

Each round, tributes will take 5 damage from the mutts, and roll a 1d100, with an increasingly difficult threshold as the rounds go on. (10 for Round 1, 20 for Round 2, 30 for Round 3, 40 for Round 4, 50 from Round 5 onward.)

In addition: each time a tribute rolls, they'll add that number to their total distance traveled. (ie if I roll a 12 round one and a 30 round two, my total would be 12 + 30 = 42 at that point.) After the round in which a tribute (or several tributes) reaches 200, the doors will close, sealing everyone else inside with the mutts to die.

☢︎ If only one tribute reaches 200 and escapes, they are the winner.


☢︎ If more than one tribute reaches 200 and escapes in the same round, they'll fight each other in combat to determine the winner.


☢︎ If no tributes reaches 200 and makes it to the threshold before they all fail their rolls, the last alive tribute in the round will be fished out and "saved" last second like last games' victor Blair Murdoch.

---

Day Three Initiative Order:

Hafen Dieu-Le-Vuet (73.20)
Kasia Karataeva (57.12)
Benson Sharpe (45.16)
Lain Mendoza (32.06)
Nolan Goode (22.13)
Dagger Thane (19.08)
Amber Bosch (19.04)
Setta Furey (17.07)

Teenage Muttation Ninja Turtles (4x Mutts) (0.0)

[circe murdock d4b 🌊 minie]

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.

7mnHcc8ScQ1-100

1-100

[Jorg]

I was too callous with the boy. He managed to weasel away as my spear dug into Ekta’s back, piercing something deep enough that caused her to go limp and fall as I jerked the spear out. That scene, and Djed falling as my spear went into his leg haunt my dreams. I think what scares me the most is how well I can justify my actions to myself. Djed was a knight who accosted me, claiming to be fighting for the glory of this district when he couldn’t do more than yell factitious facts. Ekta, well she said herself, was just Ekta. She wasn’t someone I knew, but someone who stood in my way.

I wish I had managed to get the boy from One as well. Well at least I think he was from One. The flickering lights made it hard to see the color of his suit clearly: Well that, and all of the dried blood that stained all of our jumpsuits. The crimson and deep ruby red provides a sharp contrast to the unique shade of yellow that was given to Benson and myself. I hated this shade, but so far, it seems to be providing good luck. I can help but wonder how Benson is doing. It’s hard to know if he’s still alive, not being afforded the luxury of knowing who had died. Granted, from watching him fight, it was clear that he knew how to hold his own, even if he was the more reticent of us to fight.

Last year everyone got to see who sunk into the deep. In this inhumane “arena”, I can barely make out the walls around around me, let alone if the bodies of the other tributes have been evacuated. I wouldn’t be surprised if they decided to leave the bodies laying in the sewers until the very end. I’m not sure what happened with Ekta’s body, but I’m not sure if I want to know either. Part of me wouldn’t be surprised if the other tributes were just left there, rotting in the sewers as a reminder of the other’s fates. I’ve already killed two people, and I haven’t been killed yet. No one will be able to take me down here.

Only the occasional drip of the water or the squish of my shoes as I make way through the rank labyrinth echo off of these walls. Not even the scurrying of rats can be heard. The near deafening silence is enough the accentuate the blood pumping in my ears. They’re almost as loud as the canons were for Djed and Ekta. But with the silence that holds the sewers in bated breathe, I start to feel as if we’re no longer alone down here. That’s when I hear the following message as the lights start to flash and a door groaning open on rusty hinges.

“Warning! Live muttation present. Warning!

Warning! Please proceed calmly to your nearest exit. Warning! 

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

I book it as fast as I can trying to find the closest exit before I meet whatever that live muttation is.


kxPbqx2uzc1-100

1-100

[Benson Sharpe D3M [Tom]]

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."

MoQVF6MTQQ1-100

1-100

[[GM] EKRAM NOVARA | mattio]

These fucking stupid ass sewers. These fucking tributes. These fucking Hunger Games. I hate it here, and I want to leave more than I've wanted anything before. Even more than I wanted Charlie, I think, and even more than I still do want him. I lay between more stacks of furniture in the next room, where I pleaded with the girl to turn back. Part of me hoped there was truth to my words, that there'd be monsters to eat me alive and put me out of my misery. Cannon after cannon rocks the pipes and the walls, but none of them make me feel better about my chances.

You think I'm giving you victor prospect? Well, you've got me spinning in this eyesore red of an office chair. I catch myself before hitting the desk beside it where it seems the Capitol has dumped a petri dish of germs, mold, and other disgusts just to see what happens. I don't know much about mold, but it would feel agonizing if I allowed it to wrap around my open wounds and into my body. Gross. Disgusting, even.

I ignore the light rattles and hums coming from the walls. And the rats, well, why would I be chasing down rats. To eat? Again, I would rather die.

But the groaning and howling supernatural screams? Yes, I did rise up and out of my seat from that.

WARNING! Live mutation present!

I limp to the door.

WARNING! Please proceed calmly to your nearest exit.

I'm not calm. Mutts? The thought of getting eaten by the mold is sounding more appealing now.

WARNING! Doors close in one hundred and twenty seconds.

I start to run, the fumes from the pit of my stomach driving each shaking and bothered stride. From behind, a creature, squishing and scrunching and clanging and howling simultaneously, marches toward the flashing lights that guide us away.

"You've got… to be… kidding me."

I turn back to the lights and run. I can't look back. That's too much.

I round the corner and see the flaming red hair of Miss Royalty up ahead! "Hey, princess! Wait up!"

IU0WXPeCz41-100

1-100

[🌱 kaitlin.]

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?"

hpmH4tiA3n1-100

1-100

[4m dagger thane 🗡jay]

filler bc work :(


bL8nDaqK8P1-100

1-100

[d8a lucia ✃ valentine ✁ tris]

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.

{ amber bosch runs for her life }

guEI8Xi7l_1-100

distance traveled: 036/200

1-100

[d8 : vera jeon 🎀 sucy]

October falls; I got Benson on the leg, but she's the one who sinks to the floor. I spit, not on her, at him. But I miss. Sort of. He runs before my saliva has a chance to hit him. I watch him until he fades from view, though I can still hear his feet splashing in the sewer water. The pain in my hand sets in -- I look down at the thief who took it, and wait for something else to kick in too. But nothing comes, not even when I get down real close, push back her blonde hair for a good look. She's like one of them real pretty weasels I've got and skinned before. So valuable. 

"You surprised me, 'Tober," she's still real pretty, the palest person I've ever seen. Even in Eight, even now, people rouge the cheeks of the dead, close their eyes all soft, dress them up. Not here though, which makes it easier on me I think. All the pageantry messes with my head. Frank, cold death like this is my domain. "Benson was too good for you anyway." 

I look her over, leave her be, and hobble away back to the same pipe I slept in last night. I don't feel anything, but I can't get those blank eyes out of my head.

.

I hear the rats running before I see them. Feel most of them, climbing over my hunched up legs and feet, while I look back and try to see what they're running from. No joy. But rats are pretty smart. Weak, but smart. I climb out of my pipe and start following the hoard. I wind up back in the Processing Center. Everyone else is here too: Benson, looking worse for wear after our fight; pirate girl; the princess. I try and figure out who's gone, but even the faces in front of me are hazy. The shit, the chemicals, the missing finger -- they're starting to get to me. With a shake of my head, I pull out my knife. My vision's clear. My eye is sharp. More importantly, my knife is sharp. 

"Well, who's starting this party?" I say, but my voice is drowned out by stomps and splashes from the tunnel. Big, ugly, mean faces. Animals, sort of. Beasts. Muttations. "Fuck!"

I don't shake, or stumble. I freeze up. The other tributes run, they all take off ahead of me. One of the monsters locks eyes with me, and that's when I run. I've killed rats and rabbits and deer and birds of all sorts and weasels and I've killed myself time and time again. There's men I could've killed but didn't, whose breath smelled like booze and who thought I was Ma. I killed October Rhapsody-Fray, whose name I'll always remember. And all of them, I took things from. I stole their skins, their furs, their money -- I stole October's shot at glory. But these things. They're huge. One limb is as big as my whole body. 

If I could I'd strip them of all that knotted muscle, wrench the armour from their backs. I'd wrap it around myself, crawl into it. But all I have is this puny knife. I look down at it in my hand. I'm pointing it towards myself, like I know I shouldn't. 

"Ma," I yell, on the off chance there's a mic that'll pick it up. "Ma, I fucking hate you!"

When I trip on the legs of my overalls, and the knife sinks into my stomach wound from yesterday, it's close to bliss. My knees hit the ground first, then my knife and my belly, then my forehead cracks. 

I hear the beast's breath. Nothing new. Nothing unexpected. I always thought I'd die like this, after picking the wrong fight. I feel the muttation's maw clamp down. 

Don't scream, Setta. Be dignified, for once in your life.

Og5vhTohNW1-100

1-100

[jj jenkins d7. ✨ zoë.]

Those terrible beasts that snap and roar, scramble and scrap, hurl their own fists at each-other as they slam into brick walls and pant around corners. One blue-eyed, one red-eyed, one green-eyed, one purple.

They had names, once. Great painters their namesakes: art, named after artists long lost to war and ruin. Leonardo. Dontello. Raphael. Michaelangelo. When they were smaller. Simpler. Unpurturbed and fed. But now they're hungry. And they'll kill their own brothers just to taste raw flesh again.

"And play that running track," Angel nods at the audio engineer as the tributes sprint. "The one with the drums - for dramatic effect."

Lí Tiānshi.

They'll name works of art after her one day.

---

Kasia Karataeva is the first to act. A nimble little thing, she sprints through the sewers with such speed one might think she was a muttation herself. One foot, two feet, three feet, four - she runs for her life, and only her own. (Distance travelled: 100 feet)

Dagger Thane was built for this. Many kids from Four are - those childhood summers spent sprinting on white-hot sand and swimmers lungs to boot. Long limbs and decent stamina keeps him at the front of the pack, only outrun by spry little Kasia who was quickest to act when the alarms set off. (Distance travelled: 81 feet)

Hafen Dieu-Le-Veut follows suit. She tails her district partner only to trip up on a corpse half-gnawed through by rats. A gasp from those watching, tense for half a second - but Hafen steadies on the stumble and manages to stay upright. A sigh of relief. (Distance travelled: 63 feet)

Benson Sharpe only starts to run once his district partner streaks past him, a flurry of red hair and limbs. He yells ahead to warn the others - sweet boy. Did nobody tell you only one person makes it out of the sewers alive? (Distance travelled: 45 feet)

Amber Bosch is tired. Who wouldn't be? And it shows, cradling a wounded arm against her chest as she scrambles through puddles and over dead children. It's not the most aerodynamic position but the adrenaline keeps her moving - for now. (Distance travelled: 36 feet)

Nolan Goode - the last of the lower district kids left. By the skin of his teeth he has made it this far. By the skin of his teeth he keeps himself upright. By the skin of his teeth he takes only a scratch as the monsters snap and snarl at the heels of his feet. (Distance travelled: 11 feet).

---

But little Setta Furey cannot keep up.

The monsters pounce. Knife meets flesh. Flesh meets creature.

A canon fires.

One stays behind to feast, nightmare monster feasting on little girls in the dark.

Three continue onwards, in pursuit of seven.

---

All remaining tributes take 5 damage - it's up to you how you recieve this in-character!

Round 2 dice threshold: 20
Initiative order still applies. 

Good luck, tributes! 

[circe murdock d4b 🌊 minie]

I hit the ground, my body rolling as I splash in the murky water around me. Some of it goes up my nose, and when I am able to pull myself up, my curly hair had been damped reeking of sewer and other filth. Handcuffs digging into my skin, and the hard ground colliding with my body forming bruises and bleeding scraps. Still, there was no time to acknowledge the pain, heavy footsteps pounding against the floor inching closer. There was only one option, to keep on running for my life, whatever it was still worth.

With every step, I could feel myself inching closer to the ocean breeze. The taste of the salt air, a phantom sensation on my tongue. Drea’s arms were open wide, waiting for me to run back into the safety of her embrace. Then her face shifted, no longer could I see the warm smile that never faulted to make me feel better. My own fear taking over my safety net and it was fear on her face, the same fear that was recognizable on every corner of my face. The fear that I might not make it, a fear I could not afford to listen too.

I had to keep on running, keep on pushing my legs to go as fast as I possibly could. The last petal of the golden poppy still giving me hope I could catch up to Dagger.

The boy from my district might be older, but I was used to running for my life every single day. Running from peacekeepers as I navigated the busy piers unafraid to shove those who go in my way. Remorse was for those who did not take what it had to survive. From the day I was born, I was fighting for my life and now was no different.

Nolan’s voice called out from behind me, posing too many questions. Those who had time to ask, would not make it that far. I knew better than to look behind me. I had made that mistake at the reaping, allowing them to catch me and chain me up. This time I had to make it, there would be no third chance.

“Can’t you hear them?” I called out between heavy breaths. My chest rising and falling in the same quick pace of my feet. “Who cares what they are, they are here to kill us”.

An enemy was an enemy, it did not matter what they are. Human or monster all evil was the same.

JSgRlyoE1f1-100

1-100

[Jorg]

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.


oKkcxNlOM61-100

1-100

[Benson Sharpe D3M [Tom]]

The cannons fire; the irony of seeing Setta Furey fall after everything is unremarkably cold.

Blood mixing with water; they scurry like the rats before. Afraid, running, and unable to stop. No matter who falters, they move with a lack of a remorse. An aching feeling in his feet as the walls seem to almost close in around his vision; Benson Sharpe could feel the humanity all of them had left fade away. Hidden away was the person behind the voices; the one who played with their souls, tormenting them like rats in a maze. Always an actor with a poetic mind; he could see the ways this'll sell to Panem. An exciting horror film to be written into the history books. What goes bump underneath the sewers? Were the monsters the humans or the strange creatures chasing them?

Someone shouts; asking what they are. His eyes can't look back, instead he feels their predatory hunger as flesh is ripped behind him. The sound of drums begins to filter from somewhere; almost like his dreaded heartbeat in his chest. What more could go wrong? The countdown continuing as he can't lift his feet fast enough. Kaisa was ahead; superior in this sprint. How? He didn't want to die like this. Too many years he's spent focusing on what his future would look like. Too many times had he always been disappointed at the outcome. Frustration bubbles in his chest as he keeps pushing. There's no time to think. Only his feet pound against concrete and water; sending the sound of splashing water everywhere.

Claw rips into his flesh; a grimace of pain as he gasps out audibly in pain. No time to think about the way that claw ripped into him with ease. Blood dripping from his back; he can't focus on the blistering pain. His eyes seeming to swirl across the passageways as he continues to move. "Keep going!" It's a desperate cry; almost one to himself. "They're already as good as dead." The cannons firing aren't enough to slow down his pace. He doesn't want to die here. Not after everything he went through.

Dropping one by one, he doesn't want to hear the way their bodies are torn.

It'll haunt his nightmares.

Benson Sharpe didn't want to die as a character in someone else's game.

Always meant to be a star;
shining and at center stage.

It's bitter.

There was still so much life to be lived.

AYQLzHJMom1-100

[Distance: 74/200]

1-100

[[GM] EKRAM NOVARA | mattio]

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 ]
|eYrQ3cWso1-100
[ 39 + 61 = 100/200 ]

1-100

[🌱 kaitlin.]

Hafen never spares you a glance. Flickering light looks in on you both every so often as you run like hounds through the tunnel, your shadow chasing hers across the mold-covered walls

“Who cares what they are," she says into the expanding darkness of the main chamber as you reach the mouth of the tunnel. "They are here to kill us.”

A scuttling in your heartbeat, you feel the fear before you feel the pain. There's only enough time to see the extended limb of some sort, with leathery green skin and a claw the length of Hafen's forearm.

Your pulse ebbs and flows, slowed but spiking as you turn your back on her and run. You find you cannot fully part from her, cannot untangle the image of those massive claws reaching out for her with the memory of her voice whistling down the hallway less than a day ago. Malachor's body still lays on the floor across the way, a heap of blood and bone on the stone. Behind you, Death severs Hafen from her body, but some bead of responsibility settles in. A memory. A song. No other limits. You live, and so on does she. You already promised yourself you'd see the sea one day. Now you'll carry her there again.

The boundary between memory and present spins, blurring until you can't find the line anymore. One foot in front of the other, your boots feel heavier with every step, like you're pushing up against some invisible wall.

You let each step polish your anger, under it sharpens into a knife in your palm.

This is the first time the chamber everyone fell into has been lit, red emergency light flashing across the way, illuminating every sin that stains its floor. You shiver looking at all the bodies, blanch when you feel something snap under your boot and don't have the guts to look back and figure out if it was some kid's tibia. Someone shouts Keep going! and some part of you that's fighting to stay alive scoffs. The only one that needs the reminder is Amber, hobbling along with that sword as if its a walking cane. Somehow, she's more pathetic that she was two days ago, but she's alive. Begrudgingly, dignity in that.

"He's talking to you, Teeth," you shoulder check her from behind anyway. You won't win playing fair. "Try and keep up."

Yx4vaxs5XA1-100


100/200.

1-100