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the fire you founded | mackenzie wake-up reaction!
Nov 17, 2023 17:12:40 GMT -5
Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Nov 17, 2023 17:12:40 GMT -5
i'm sorry, i'm sorry, this may be me at my best
M A C K E N Z I E P R Y C E
The fog the gamemakers used the night the 95th Hunger Games started wasn't new. In fact, it had been used at least once before in the Games. Mackenzie and every tribute who was still alive on the fifth morning of the 79th Hunger Games woke to discover that their memories of the previous day were completely wiped: gone. And despite everything- time, therapy, even a stent of hypnosis when his depression was at its worst, that lost time stayed hidden from him as if locked away behind a door he didn't have the key to. They said it was some sort of anomaly: a reaction he wasn't supposed to suffer long-term effects from. Oops.
Now, waking up, he knew something was wrong from the moment his eyes opened. Not because of where he was. Not because of who was or was not with him. Because of a dream. A forest and friends and an increased heart-rate. No- not a dream. A nightmare. A sick and twisted thing, a haunted thing, fluttering wings and hungry mouths. No- not a nightmare.
A memory.
One that had been locked away from him for fifteen years now. A scream from a silent girl whose throat was almost torn out in the days earlier, icy blue eyes wide with fear, and anger, and something else Mackenzie hadn't ever seen in them before: acceptance.
Fifteen years, he'd quietly wondered what happened in the lost time of his arena. He refused to watch it back because the recordings of any Games would just be edited shells of the truth anyway, and the idea of watching himself do and say things he wouldn't be able to remember doing or saying was a strange concept he wasn't interested in seeking out. He got the gist of what happened from people who watched at home, and that's what he'd lived with ever since.
He'd carried Wynter for hours after their fight on the boat. She nearly died that day. Wynter had so little energy, and the wounds on her neck were so severe, that when she tried to speak it came out as a breathy whisper and it seemed to cause her pain. She'd taken to writing her thoughts with her finger in their palms, a letter at a time. That night, they laid around the fire and she took his hand, turned it so that his palm faced up, and wrote those three words into it that he'd heard in his head every day since.
Early the next morning, the nakom attacked, Wynter was killed, and the fog was released to make them all forget. But Mackenzie's subconscious must've been unwilling to fully let go. He must've carved the message into his hand while he slept as a way of remembering. He'd always quietly wondered if there would come a day that he'd finally remember why he woke up in the Games minus an ally and with a freshly carved scar in the palm of his hand. Now he knew. Wynter Rochelle stayed behind so Mackenzie and Faline could live.
The unlocked memory alone was enough to make his hands shake, but he couldn't even dwell on it for too long. He sat up with urgency, his scar aching enough to make him ball his hand into a fist. What was happening? The room was different. Lazier, somehow. Less personal. There were no trees on the walls or antler chandeliers, the trimming was all white and the filagree gold. The bed was too plush and too large for one person to need. Mackenzie wasn't in the training center.
He stood from the bed and made his way over to the window. He could tell by the skyline that he was still somewhere in the Capitol, but that did little to ease his concern. Where was he? And why was he there and not the District Seven floor next to- Romily.
Last night, he'd fallen asleep with Romily next to him for the first time. They were so careful to keep everything a secret. They promised themselves they'd only stay together one night before the Games started and people were really paying attention, and then they'd go back to pretending they had a normal professional relationship. She was nowhere to be found.
The dreadful thought that he might try the doorknob and find it locked crossed his mind. Clearly something was going on, some conspiracy or... mental lapse. It was for this reason that he didn't waste time changing out of his pajamas before bounding across the room hurriedly to see. He pressed the handle, the door opened. He didn't feel any better, carefully sidestepping to take a peak out into the hallway. All he saw were other doors like his on the other side, white walls, and a generic painting of some flowers in a vase. He knew this place. The carpet- he'd seen this carpet before, hadn't he? He grabbed the closest thing to a weapon he could find: a plastic trashcan empty of anything except a bag.
He stepped out into the hallway to find it empty. Easy-listening music played quietly from a speaker and the hall stretched on for practically the length of a football field. He could see signs for elevators in the distance, but no one else occupied the hall.
"Hello?"
He didn't know which would've been worse in that moment: if someone answered or if no one did. It ended up being the former of the two after a couple of seconds of waiting, so he slowly began to walk forward. He was grateful at least that the carpet quieted the sound of his footsteps. He finally made it to the elevator and the sign above the waiting metal doors confirmed it: He was in the hotel they usually put him up in when he was doing Capitol business in the off-season. He'd stayed before several times over the years in fact, though usually in a nicer room than this one and usually by some level of conscious decision made on his part.
He guessed he didn't know what he should be expecting- armed guards at every exit, maybe, or a doctor to explain the breakdown Mackenzie couldn't recall having. The fact that there was literally nothing made it somehow even more bizarre. He pressed the down button on the elevator and the doors instantly opened, as if they'd just been awaiting his request.
There was a voice in his head that warned him stepping inside might be dangerous, but what other choice did he have? He had tributes who were going to be in the Games this time tomorrow and a little girl waiting for him back in Seven and he still had no idea whatsoever where Romily could be. Whether he wanted to or not didn't matter. Whether he was a pawn or a king didn't matter: he was still a piece for a game he had no control over.
He stepped inside and pressed the button for the first floor.
Now, waking up, he knew something was wrong from the moment his eyes opened. Not because of where he was. Not because of who was or was not with him. Because of a dream. A forest and friends and an increased heart-rate. No- not a dream. A nightmare. A sick and twisted thing, a haunted thing, fluttering wings and hungry mouths. No- not a nightmare.
A memory.
One that had been locked away from him for fifteen years now. A scream from a silent girl whose throat was almost torn out in the days earlier, icy blue eyes wide with fear, and anger, and something else Mackenzie hadn't ever seen in them before: acceptance.
Fifteen years, he'd quietly wondered what happened in the lost time of his arena. He refused to watch it back because the recordings of any Games would just be edited shells of the truth anyway, and the idea of watching himself do and say things he wouldn't be able to remember doing or saying was a strange concept he wasn't interested in seeking out. He got the gist of what happened from people who watched at home, and that's what he'd lived with ever since.
He'd carried Wynter for hours after their fight on the boat. She nearly died that day. Wynter had so little energy, and the wounds on her neck were so severe, that when she tried to speak it came out as a breathy whisper and it seemed to cause her pain. She'd taken to writing her thoughts with her finger in their palms, a letter at a time. That night, they laid around the fire and she took his hand, turned it so that his palm faced up, and wrote those three words into it that he'd heard in his head every day since.
Early the next morning, the nakom attacked, Wynter was killed, and the fog was released to make them all forget. But Mackenzie's subconscious must've been unwilling to fully let go. He must've carved the message into his hand while he slept as a way of remembering. He'd always quietly wondered if there would come a day that he'd finally remember why he woke up in the Games minus an ally and with a freshly carved scar in the palm of his hand. Now he knew. Wynter Rochelle stayed behind so Mackenzie and Faline could live.
Thank you,
friend
friend
The unlocked memory alone was enough to make his hands shake, but he couldn't even dwell on it for too long. He sat up with urgency, his scar aching enough to make him ball his hand into a fist. What was happening? The room was different. Lazier, somehow. Less personal. There were no trees on the walls or antler chandeliers, the trimming was all white and the filagree gold. The bed was too plush and too large for one person to need. Mackenzie wasn't in the training center.
He stood from the bed and made his way over to the window. He could tell by the skyline that he was still somewhere in the Capitol, but that did little to ease his concern. Where was he? And why was he there and not the District Seven floor next to- Romily.
Last night, he'd fallen asleep with Romily next to him for the first time. They were so careful to keep everything a secret. They promised themselves they'd only stay together one night before the Games started and people were really paying attention, and then they'd go back to pretending they had a normal professional relationship. She was nowhere to be found.
The dreadful thought that he might try the doorknob and find it locked crossed his mind. Clearly something was going on, some conspiracy or... mental lapse. It was for this reason that he didn't waste time changing out of his pajamas before bounding across the room hurriedly to see. He pressed the handle, the door opened. He didn't feel any better, carefully sidestepping to take a peak out into the hallway. All he saw were other doors like his on the other side, white walls, and a generic painting of some flowers in a vase. He knew this place. The carpet- he'd seen this carpet before, hadn't he? He grabbed the closest thing to a weapon he could find: a plastic trashcan empty of anything except a bag.
He stepped out into the hallway to find it empty. Easy-listening music played quietly from a speaker and the hall stretched on for practically the length of a football field. He could see signs for elevators in the distance, but no one else occupied the hall.
"Hello?"
He didn't know which would've been worse in that moment: if someone answered or if no one did. It ended up being the former of the two after a couple of seconds of waiting, so he slowly began to walk forward. He was grateful at least that the carpet quieted the sound of his footsteps. He finally made it to the elevator and the sign above the waiting metal doors confirmed it: He was in the hotel they usually put him up in when he was doing Capitol business in the off-season. He'd stayed before several times over the years in fact, though usually in a nicer room than this one and usually by some level of conscious decision made on his part.
He guessed he didn't know what he should be expecting- armed guards at every exit, maybe, or a doctor to explain the breakdown Mackenzie couldn't recall having. The fact that there was literally nothing made it somehow even more bizarre. He pressed the down button on the elevator and the doors instantly opened, as if they'd just been awaiting his request.
There was a voice in his head that warned him stepping inside might be dangerous, but what other choice did he have? He had tributes who were going to be in the Games this time tomorrow and a little girl waiting for him back in Seven and he still had no idea whatsoever where Romily could be. Whether he wanted to or not didn't matter. Whether he was a pawn or a king didn't matter: he was still a piece for a game he had no control over.
He stepped inside and pressed the button for the first floor.
