==================================== Tick. Tick. Tick. The hands of the clock moved at a snail's pace, each second seeming to stretch onto an eternity. The darkness of the waiting room only served to drag it on, each tribute entangled in the silence, not even a whisper floating in the air. It reminded Matthew of the cell he once stayed in. Damp. Dreary. Cold. Alone. Head hung low so as to not draw attention to himself, he barely noticed the sliver of light that peeked through the doorway, the soft footsteps of somebody else quick, as if they didn’t want to be stuck here. District 1’s own were up on the chopping block first, and as his name was called, the concealing shadows dissipated, and he rose, waiting for whatever fate the Gamemakers had in store. ———————————————————— Blinding. As if he was gazing into an artificial sun, its beams piercing through his closed eyes. He flinched, desperately trying to shield his eyes with whatever he could find, that being his arm. Slowly, cautiously, like approaching a wild animal, he lowered his limb and opened his eyes, unsure if the pain would return. First thoughts: boring. He could feel metal underneath his feet (felt like the grates of a vent), and a quick glance around the room let him see rows upon rows of tunnels carved into the walls. That was a strange choice; wouldn’t any able-bodied tribute be able to bust through and escape? The mesh that covered them seemed to be of the cheap variety as well, and Matthew turned towards the Gamemakers, expression not amused. "And here I was, thinking that you could've made better design choices, considering the budget you have. You've really disappointed me this time arou-" Seemingly fed up with his little rant, sudden gusts of air cut off his sentence, its sound overpowering any other noise that would've filled the empty space. He yelped in surprise, knocked off his feet and nearly faceplanting into the unforgiving metal beneath him. Trying to regain his bearings, he spotted a glimmer of gold nearby, slowly floating up, up, up, Up, Up, Up- A blur of golden-colored hair grabbed the string it hung by, dragging it back down to the earth as best as he could. The string was slippery, palms slick with sweat as the noises grew louder and louder, almost to a deafening roar. The balloon itself thrashed about in the harsh winds of the hurricane, like a caged animal desperate to break free. He had a feeling that if this were to happen, it would be game over. Seconds blurred into each other, unable to distinguish when one ended and the next began. Pushed to the floor, feeling like he was being dragged to one wall and being repelled by the next, the vents beneath him almost threatening to blow him up to god knows where along with his precious cargo. He could barely breathe, each one being stolen or forced into his lungs in a matter of milliseconds. A torture chamber of air. It had been very wrong of him to assume that these demons of the Capitol were stupid. The winds grew stronger, faster, bolder, and Matthew squeezed his eyes shut. For the first time in a while, he experienced true fear. He was afraid that he would die here, surrounded by something so natural, so necessary for life, all while being watched, mocked, by
(cont. because I think Scratch deleted the rest of the original :') ) those very same people he despised, the ones who he made his life's mission to eliminate. And then, just as sudden as it started, It stopped. He dropped down to his knees, gasping for breath, the balloon slipping through his grasp. He didn't care if he would get disqualified for letting go of it; he only cared that he was alive. Shaken, but alive. He looked back up at the Gamemakers, only being met with cold expressions, no emotion left on their faces. Not even a sliver of anger, of amusement, even of intrigue. At that point, Matthew didn't even care about their thoughts about him. He was alive. And he would live to see another day.
