It hadn't slipped her mind that this might be the last time she'd see Luke alive when she scooped up her helmet and got up off her knees. It settled more heavily than usual on her shoulders now that it was down to just them. First Clem, then Nick. Now Luke was at death's door right on their heels. She's never been one for lying to herself. Water would buy Luke time, ease his pain some, but it wouldn't make him live. It's just a matter of time, for both of them. All she can do is toss some minutes his way.
The hearing in her left ear never came back, even after she had done her best to clean out all the blood. It imbalances her some, and she knows her hands aren't half as steady as they could be. To say she's running on fumes would be generous; this is as hard as she's ever pushed herself. There's no room for thought, no room for more than flashes of who they've lost, of the man waiting for her to come back, looking worse than when Carver beat him. Luke is her anchor now, a steadying, purposeful weight that could pull her down if she doesn't keep afloat. So she floats.
It took searching three labs to find a shower that didn't pour blood or bleach. After lowering her head into the spray, scrubbing at her hair and face even as she gulped mouthfuls of water down, she fills her helmet and turns to go. No other tributes come her way then, no booby traps or aliens. The knot of apprehension in her stomach sits taut and unresolved, pulling tighter as she turns each corner.
That's when she sees the blood, painted out the doors to their lab in crooked, dragging sweeps. The knot in her stomach bursts and pulls apart in the middle. She doesn't remember dropping the helmet, or running in to find Luke gone, nothing but dark red where she had left him.
She follows the trail despite instinct screaming for her to go the other way. She has to know who did this, she has to know what happened, she has to do something besides wait for her turn to die.
He didn't get far. Though her hearing is blown half to hell, there's no mistaking the sounds of the dead, no forgetting the way they move. There's another man, caught by the ankle between teeth closing like a vise, and she's stuck rooted to where she stands. Her expression crumbles helplessly, a choked and hoarse keening escaping her lips before they clamp shut in a hardened line and the rest of her face follows suit. The shrapnel strapped to her thigh is now in her hand.
"Fuckin' sucks when they don't stay dead, doesn't it? By the way," she gestures to Luke's corpse with a cold jut of her chin, "it's contagious."
nothing like some good old unfashionably late tl;dr
It hadn't slipped her mind that this might be the last time she'd see Luke alive when she scooped up her helmet and got up off her knees. It settled more heavily than usual on her shoulders now that it was down to just them. First Clem, then Nick. Now Luke was at death's door right on their heels. She's never been one for lying to herself. Water would buy Luke time, ease his pain some, but it wouldn't make him live. It's just a matter of time, for both of them. All she can do is toss some minutes his way.
The hearing in her left ear never came back, even after she had done her best to clean out all the blood. It imbalances her some, and she knows her hands aren't half as steady as they could be. To say she's running on fumes would be generous; this is as hard as she's ever pushed herself. There's no room for thought, no room for more than flashes of who they've lost, of the man waiting for her to come back, looking worse than when Carver beat him. Luke is her anchor now, a steadying, purposeful weight that could pull her down if she doesn't keep afloat. So she floats.
It took searching three labs to find a shower that didn't pour blood or bleach. After lowering her head into the spray, scrubbing at her hair and face even as she gulped mouthfuls of water down, she fills her helmet and turns to go. No other tributes come her way then, no booby traps or aliens. The knot of apprehension in her stomach sits taut and unresolved, pulling tighter as she turns each corner.
That's when she sees the blood, painted out the doors to their lab in crooked, dragging sweeps. The knot in her stomach bursts and pulls apart in the middle. She doesn't remember dropping the helmet, or running in to find Luke gone, nothing but dark red where she had left him.
She follows the trail despite instinct screaming for her to go the other way. She has to know who did this, she has to know what happened, she has to do something besides wait for her turn to die.
He didn't get far. Though her hearing is blown half to hell, there's no mistaking the sounds of the dead, no forgetting the way they move. There's another man, caught by the ankle between teeth closing like a vise, and she's stuck rooted to where she stands. Her expression crumbles helplessly, a choked and hoarse keening escaping her lips before they clamp shut in a hardened line and the rest of her face follows suit. The shrapnel strapped to her thigh is now in her hand.
"Fuckin' sucks when they don't stay dead, doesn't it? By the way," she gestures to Luke's corpse with a cold jut of her chin, "it's contagious."