@rocky-chiffon
It was dark. He was tired. He was hungry. He was certain his leg was becoming infected. And he was certain his parents were glued to the screen, eager to see if the glory his volunteering promised would come to fruition. Maybe they were optimistic, or maybe they were realists. Maybe they knew that it appeared the only way he could win was by avoiding conflict. Even with some dried blood that wasn’t his on his hands, he was no image of a self-trained Career that he’d wished to be.
Despite the quiet, his senses were dulled by the stress on his body. His ears were not more alert, he was certain his periphery was starting to fade. Or else maybe he’d have heard the other tribute sooner. Maybe he could’ve tried to run, or looked around for a useful resource to defend himself. But he had nothing. He didn’t even have the gloves anymore.
He heard the footsteps only when he knew it was too late. He turned, wincing as his leg shot through with pain at the sudden movement. He was going to die. He was too tired to believe anything else would happen. There was no getting out of this one.
