The Fifth Annual Writer Games: The Fall

The Fall of Lucifer - Tucker Steppe

It's been too many days since the end of the world.

Tucker has moved around more since the feast--he's wary of staying in one place for too long, now that he knows there aren't many of them left. 'The finale' is what the Gamemaker had called it. The final show, wherein Tucker was to play the smallest contestant, slaughtered and pitied and mourned for a few days before he, too, faded from the sky.

Thinking of his mother's cries and Aunt Twyla's too-stoic promises and Lacie's screams of denial is all too much at the moment. Instead, he takes inventory of what's going right in his little world. His arm is healing well, and it doesn't hurt to move it anymore. His new jacket is much warmer than the last one. The fresh water had been worth the price he'd paid for it. And this small clearing, between three towering evergreens, reminds him of more pleasant dreams.

Tucker sits with his bag between his back and one of the trunks, whittling at a small sliver of bark. This knife has never tasted human blood. He's not sure if it ever will. If--when--it comes down to it, Tucker thinks he'd rather die than kill someone. Even if they were pointing a dagger at his throat, or a spear-tip to the small of his back, he's not sure he could do it.

In theory, it's simple. Slice, scratch, shape. Just like with this wood. A nice, clean, motion. Just like with the mountain lions. Scarlet staining his gloves, dots of blood more frequent than his freckles, an inhuman scream, go, Tucker, save yourself--

Ares. Calico. His father.

Tucker Steppe.

He doesn't think he could steal a friend, or a sister, or a father. Even if it meant seeing his mother and Aunt Twyla and Lacie again. Even if it meant never going hungry again and his family wanting for nothing but an end to this infinite war. Even if it meant survival.

He swallows thickly, blinks away melted snow. The rhythmic blade misses the bark and nicks the tip of his finger instead. Tucker cries out instinctively, dropping the bark and shoving his mostly-gloved finger into the snow. It shouldn't be bleeding this much, he thinks. Nothing should bleed this much.

There's a snap from the woods.

Tucker rockets to his feet, fingertip forgotten, brandishing a weapon he doesn't know how to use. His things are all packed already, of course. He rarely unpacks them these days--he's so used to running.

He should run now, most likely--away from the noise, away from harm, away from here.

He steps forward.

There hasn't been any other sound from the woods, save for the breeze shivering through pine needles. He squints, trying to discern movement or sunlight or shadow. The world is too quiet, too pale. He takes another step forward, and then he hears it--a sort of squeaking sound that can't belong to any predator, human or otherwise.

He's still careful, always careful, but suspicions begin to crawl away as he pushes a branch aside, swatting at it absently with his knife. The squeaking grows louder and Tucker turns ever-so-slightly to see the target of his concern.

A snow white rabbit, caught in a net, kicks its legs in an attempt to break free. Another trap. Tucker is becoming quite familiar with those.

His breaths are heavy, dispelling grey, as he creeps forward. The knife is burning in his hand, and he remembers being trapped between flames and his pyre. Sympathy sweeps through him, and he tries to push it down. There can't be room for that here--the Arena feels so small already.

Tucker saws through the rope, and the net--rabbit still inside--crashes to the ground. The creature bucks desperately, hind legs still tangled, terror flashing in innocent eyes. Tucker knows terror well. It's a father in flames, a girl against steel, a friend beneath claws and fangs and snow.