Fireheart | Raven Reyes [O.H.]

9 | game of life

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chapter nine!
GAME OF LIFE
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( warning: in this chapter, there is a brief consideration of self-harm. Nothing actually happens, but I wanted to place this warning here in case anyone is affected by it. The mention is in paragraph four. You can skip that one entirely and move onto the fifth one if the topic affects you in any way. )

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EMOTIONS ARE MESSY. Ares knows this. He's not afraid of expressing them in the comfort of his own tent, the firelight from a few lingering torches bleeding through the beige canvas. Usually he lets them bottle up until letting the tears burst provides an almost addicting rush of relief. He can feel the volcano starting to activate. Except, for some reason, he can't make himself feel anything right now.

The flickering shadows dance on the ground in time with the moving flames outside. His cocoon of personal space is lit a dim orange, barely bright enough to see through, but still enough to keep him awake. His shared cell used to be pitch black at night; the guards had timed the lights to turn off exactly at 10 pm every day, and then flicker on again at 7 am the next morning.

For the past few nights, this change in environment hadn't bothered him. Now his mind seems to be using every excuse to stay awake. Ares is distantly aware of the emotions swirling inside of him. Panic from the possibility of the flares not working. A sliver of hope that they will. Anger toward Blake. Regret from following the orders meant to cater to Blake's own personal agenda. But, for some reason, these feelings stay cemented behind a concrete wall that he can't open. It's like the key to open his floodgates is lost inside of him. He's feeling these things, but also not at the same time. His body won't give him the catharsis he so desperately needs.

Ares doesn't remember reaching into the pocket of his hoodie until his hand closes around the handle of his knife there. It's like his arm is an extension of himself as he pulls it out, staring in a half-dazed wonder as he considers the blade. He has a high pain tolerance from his fair share of fights in the Underground. He doesn't remember ever crying from an injury – not even when Conan Gallagher had nearly sliced through his eye and given him the scar across his eyebrow and cheek. But he briefly wonders if it's worth a shot to dig the knife into his skin and see how much he can handle. Maybe he'll be forced to let the tears flow and stop feeling so distant, like he's not even attached to his damn body–

Someone yanks the bottom of his tent up until they can see inside. Ares jumps, quickly flicking the blade out toward them, and keeps it there once he registers Blake crouched there with an unreadable expression on his face.

"What?" Ares demands with a bit more sharpness than necessary.

Blake doesn't look affected by his venom. He eyes the knife warily and raises his hands in surrender. "Octavia's missing. I need you to come with us to find her."