When the air first grew heavy and hot, he thought another storm was coming. Then he saw the smoke. Running wasn’t an option, not with his body so dehydrated it was growing stiffer by the minute, and his lungs aching with even shallow breaths. He had to move, though, as quickly as he could. It was a jog at most, and he had to press a hand to the wall to keep him upright as he leaned forward. He could hear the crackling, feel the heat, he knew what was behind him even without looking. In a burst of energy, he managed to take a few long strides toward a door that was already ajar. He pushed his way in, and slammed it shut behind him. He didn’t know if that would do much, but he had a vague memory of learning to close doors in school.
The air was still warm, but it wasn’t at a boiling point. It was more humid. He blinked as he took in the glowing red, thinking for a moment he must have stumbled onto another fire. But there was no heat emanating from the red. He placed a hand to the wall again, felt the familiar stone, and felt it growing hot as the roar in the hallway grew louder. There was only the pool and the hallways, those were his two ways out. One led right into the flames, and the other... it could get him out, or it could kill him. He’d already played with water twice and survived, should he take his chances again instead of playing with fire?
He sucked in a breath and cringed as he heard the way his exhale rattled. His lungs couldn’t take more deprivation, in the smoke or the water. His options were running out. Slowly, his fingers splayed out on the stone wall and then curled up into a fist. He was dripping in sweat as he stared at the pool. Maybe the cold would be welcome. Knuckles pressed to the wall, he could feel them growing warmer. The fire was getting closer. He rapped his knuckles once, twice on the wall. “Knock, knock,” he muttered. It came out dry, weak. This wasn’t how he pictured this. He thought his moment would be one of triumph, not pathetic and desperate. “Knock, knock,” he repeated, tilting his head to the side tiredly as he looked at the water. He could hear the response in his head, one he knew, by reflex, someone out there in Panem would ask. Who’s there? “Killer.” It was instinct, they had to know. Killer who? “No.” His tongue was so dry and felt so heavy, he wasn’t sure if he even could make the necessary distinction. “Kill her.” Anyone would figure it out eventually. Any rebel would know immediately.
Mackerel couldn’t see the smoke in the darkness, but he could smell it, could feel it as it started to burn his nostrils. He pushed off the wall and stumbled toward the red, sucking in a sharply painful breath before he hit the water. He was right, to think after all the heat and sweat, the cold water would be nice. Until the cold seeped down through his skin, right into his bones, and threatened to lock his body up again. He trashed until he felt his hand hit something, and desperately tried to crawl up the side of the pool and out. Something stopped him, and kept him under.
@medeaodair @gatlin-hazer
