Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 5 - The Enemy [HOLIDAY]

THE FOURTH ANNUAL WRITER GAMES: CANON - TASK FIVE

The world is full of the sounds of rapid footfalls and heavy breathing, and Moire comes to the clear and sudden realization that not only can he trust no one, it's very likely he'll die today.

As he runs from Pandora, the other girl giving chase, the fried needles that remain on branches strike him violently in the face. Already, his lungs heave with exhaustion and pain. He wants to stop. That's all he wants, is to stop, but this girl won't let him, and it's Mellory's fault. He trusted her. He wanted to, at least. And now he's here, a trade, nothing more than bone marrow for a beast to slurp free of its encasement when all's said and done. And he wants to stop.

Why do they want him dead? Him, of all people?

The wicked, wretched noises of Pandora behind him are audible, and for a moment, it sounds like she's gaining. Something like laughter crawls up from deep in her throat, and he hears it inside of him, and he can feel her breath on the back of his neck and he's just waiting for her to pounce with her knife and slide the blade-

A girlish squeak sounds from behind, and Moire picks up his pace. A few yards later, though, and the other light footsteps are gone from the air. So he glances back. She isn't there.

He slows to a stop, although he knows that's stupid. It's like she just...vanished. Not even the sounds of a runner recovering can be heard in the air, for all is still aside from a bare, brambly bush on the ground that quakes. Like someone's run through it, or bumped it, or something. Even that stops moving, eventually, and all is still. The environment, the atmosphere. If Pandora is anywhere near, she's holding her breath, and Moire deduces that she can only do so for three minutes, at the most, less from the running. So he stands there, listening and waiting, waiting and listening, for three minutes.

For three minutes, there's nothing. Nobody pops out at him, nobody screams off in the distance. He listens for tributes, animals skittering through the ash, mutts, even-

Moire's body tenses, and he digs teeth into his bottom lip, trying to hold the gasp in his throat until it drifts back down to his lungs. What, other than a Gamemaker's own creation, could pull a tribute out of the narrative of the games? No, he's thinking in terms of his own story; perhaps Pandora is running the narrative, and Moire has been removed, saved for later once she's finished putting on the show they want. Yes. This is how he'll rationalize her disappearance. This is how he'll explain what he can't explain otherwise. Mutts.

Ankles twist and calves flex, and then Moire is taking off in the direction he's been heading all the while, a sprint to get as far away from this spot as possible. If anything, he can only hope that Pandora will keep them busy long enough for him to get away. There hasn't been a cannon yet, and he's not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing - there's no winning whether she lives or dies regardless.

He has to run. So he does.

Time is fleeting and so is stamina, and though adrenaline is enough to keep him going for a while, it eventually runs out. Every wheezing breath, every tired and disoriented flutter of eyelids, every burning pulse that spreads through muscles each time they strike and press against the earth - it's enough to do him in. He keels over in the middle of nowhere, fatigued and legs shaking. Lungs fill in heaves. Saliva - or sweat? - drips from his lip to wet the soil. Even bending over isn't enough, though, and exhaustion forces his knees to the ground. His stomach tightens and he groans; hunger, nutrient deficiency, no energy, he can't keep doing this.

But he wants to. He wants to keep running, just in case the mutt is following, just in case Pandora herself is following - hell, maybe she's the mutt - but when he tries to force himself to a stand, he just falls back down. I need a minute. I just...I just need a minute.