[Opener for @sniped-at-sundown ]
Hunger was a life sentence since coyote's evolved fangs and spiders developed poison; it can reduce the finest human into a mere instrument for instinct. The first humans didn't had knifes, they ripped apart deer carcasses with nothing but teeth, nails and sweat. Hunger, real hunger, hurts you. The acid in your stomach, where all of your rage is stored, starts to eat you from the inside. That rage crawls in your muscles, it seeps into your blood and infects your mind; conscience is for animals who don't have to worry about starving. Hunger will hurt you from deep inside, it will start by making itself into a deafening pain that will keep you clutching yourself for days, it will then start to creep into your thoughts, it will make you have the most violent, depraved and unspeakable dreams about everything that surrounds you. The birds that fly in the sky, how dare they waste all the energy you're not allowed to have. Hunger will poison you. And it will make you do whatever it takes to get it silent again. And the hunger always, always comes back. Sometimes, Journalist hunger is just his sins carving him out from the inside until he's hollow enough to be filled with all the beautiful things he was born to accomplish and was never able to. Maybe this hunger can reform him; maybe this is what forgiveness is. He remembers being told of men of God, who purposely starved to show their devotion. That's the problem with him; he's the coward who backs off from suffering before it can evolve into change. That's why he always ends up stealing again; that's why he always ends up hungry again. His sins make a pile taller than his ambitions.
It's been three days, or so he thinks. Maybe four, once the sun settles and his headache allows him to think again. He opens his eyes, propelling himself up with energy he doesn't have. You start to learn tricks to awaken yourself if you're in constant fear of starvation long enough; he shakes his head so nausea overpowers weakness and then presses his head against the cold piece of mirror he keeps in his bag. The cold usually helps. It's dark all around, did the sun settle already? The sunshine felt closer in his sleep.
He needs food. The pit that forms in his stomach ceases to be merely hunger; it's a half fear and half nausea. The rations are deep inside the base and the terrain seems eager to hurt him every night. There are sharp stones, coyotes and thorns everywhere and so if he falls he isn't sure he'll get up. He always does this, hope food will fall from the sky before he has to fetch it. It never does; no God would bother keeping him alive.
His hands shake as he turns his bag around, dumping all of his belongings on the ground to make more space for canned goods. Nobody would sacrifice space and speed to rob him; he has almost nothing of value.
The mountain seems to extend and extend and extend below his feet. The sounds that keep him company are less than soothing; the occasional howl and a rabbit's cautious step. There are no lights on the mountain, since fire is still free and happy in the wild, so he knows when he sees the base because even the precarious illumination feels like a lighthouse. He's being less than cautious, but the ringing on his ears doesn't let him register how much noise he makes as he forces open the recently repaired gap between two panels of the buildings.
He slides inside the provisions room, ignoring all for the fruit (he can't keep it fresh, it will leave a trail, why bother? It's been years since he had a banana). The cans start to clank against each other as the bag fills up; even though he usually makes an effort to take as little as possible, today common sense is out the window. He's become the reckless young fox who, upon his first hunt, chokes on the bones of his prey trying to drown the pain of an empty stomach.
