my road leads into the depths of hell // zane, day three

[lance]

[presto][/presto]

z a n e .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

The rodent falls dead so easily it's a wonder I wasn't able to get my shit together and kill it sooner. I'd say it was reactionary, that my primary strength in combat is matching my opponents blow for blow (how else do you explain how I was able to go from crippling half of the Careers to killing a bird relatively quickly in single combat to taking ages to kill a single rodent?) but truthfully, it's probably exhaustion. And I'm no stranger to going days without food and sometimes even water, but there's a difference between conserving your strength in the dank light of a hidden alleyway and expending your energy on a day-long trek underneath the hot sun.

Yeah. Don't think I'm going to do that one again. Not without getting some sustenance into me. Luckily, the landmark that I'd spent the morning trekking towards has a place to cool down in the shade, and I'd had the forethought to iodine-ize my drinking water before I'd set out on the journey, knowing full well I'd need it once I was done.

Look, I may be stupid, but I ain't dumb. One doesn't survive the worst Nine has to offer by bein' dumb. And that water? Warm as fuck, but the tastiest shit I think I've ever had the pleasure of drinking. Something about abstinence making the heart grow fonder or whatnot, except it's my throat, and it's absolute torture making sure I pace myself so I don't accidentally vomit it back up and waste it. One thing I learned the hard way back in Nine - you don't go from zero to one hundred ever when it comes to food after starvation, or else it's gonna come back down from one hundred to zero really fucking fast.

Gradually, my breathing slows, my temperature cools, and the water does its rejuvenating magic. And not for the first time, I chuckle at the irony of it all. Wonder what the others are thinking - Gunner, back home, who I promised to go out in a blaze of glory with, watching me struggle to even build up a head of steam. Avriel, in our apartment in the Capitol, watching one half of his prize pupils take minutes instead of seconds to kill a blind muttation. There are others, sure - hell, the entire world is watching me make a fool of myself on live television, unless there's something else even more ridiculous going on in this endless expanse that's drawing all their attention - but they're the only two that matter. Anyone else that might give a shit is dead. Or hoping for my death, to be honest. So I don't give them much thought.

Elsewhere, a cannon goes off in the distance, its telltale boom reminding me of my own mortality as if it isn't the only thing I've thought about in the last seventy two hours. Here I am, Zane motherfucking Holbrook, certified useless nobody from District Nine, officially not part of the first quarter of deaths of the motherfucking Hunger Games. What a damn concept.

I chuckle again at the thought, louder this time, until it becomes a full blown laugh. So focused was I on death, so focused was I on the end, that I forgot that the journey itself is unpredictable. Go up against Careers, at times being outnumbered by them? I survive. Set upon by a giant bird? I survive. Set upon by a moderately annoying squeaker of a rodent? I survive, despite my best efforts otherwise.

To think I came in here accepting my death, yet it rejects me at every turn. What a fucking concept.

Abruptly, I sober, the mirth bubbling within frozen over in seconds as I return to my usual lethargy. "Heh," I try, one last time, to little success. Maybe I am going mad.

Just as abruptly, I stand. I must look quite a sight, shirt tied around my head in a bandana, sword still dripping in drying rodent blood, bag bulging with a dozen different items, fresh bruises across my legs blossoming into purples and greens. Hardly the warrior or genius that was wanted.

And yet I live. I motherfucking live.

"Let's see how much longer luck takes me, eh?" I murmur, loud enough for any nearby cameras to pick up, before throwing a cheeky wink towards nobody in particular.

With my luck, maybe that'll get all the old ladies and portly middle-aged Capitol men falling for me enough to bet on my survival instead of my death.

One murder, two executions, three days. Incompetent I may be, I still draw breath and I'm still moving forward. And that's a lot more than six other folks can say.

And well, I'm not sure if the light at the end of my tunnel is that of salvation or eternal damnation, but shit, either way is progress forwards, right?

I always was an adept at sticking my nose where it didn't belong, anyways.

elegant