#being cold as fuck makes sense to me sure but how would being radioactive tie into the void lmfao

[unholyxvoid]

im so fucking tired . how would the void incorporate being radioactive . no matter how much it wouldnt make sense , how would i go about becoming radioactive . i wanna be radioactive so bad man .

[huntedhunter]

forgive me for my sins, i have just begun / self para

A growing hunger threatens to eat him alive, and it feels as if time ran past him with a truck, although no more than a couple of hours ended of the arena. He watched the dawn settle in and provide with light, but there isn’t much to see even now, sans the darkness. The only thing worth watching is the movie of his life spinning before his eyes. It is a shame it was a show made only for his entertainment. The skies appear, like drawn, and he follows the invisible pen that does their colors, pleased with the outcome and sitting somewhere where he deems to be safe. There is no such thing as safe and he knows it, but he can pretend for now. 

He wants water, so he looks up and asks for it boldly, eyes meanly imitating a dreamy expression. He doesn’t know what sort of mentors and trainers are watching him, since he doesn’t remember much of back home, especially regarding victors, but he knows someone has to be there for him by law. In a sickeningly sweet manner, he blinks repeatedly, making no effort to be convincing in his act, rather than funny. ‘’Sweethearts, would you be so kind as in to rain on me?’’ he inquires, both directing his question at the supposed mentors and the Gamemakers. He knows he can’t survive without at least water and he isn’t shy enough to keep the thought bottled when he can just ask. Sometimes, boldness wins. ‘’I can’t win if you keep me dry,’’ he continues, teasingly. The words don’t seem so different from what Hunter nowadays would say, but the entitled voice is less owned and more excited to be the center of attention. There is something boyish in his overall act. More than ten years of his behavior, erased momentarily.

Then, instead of a silver parachute, he sees a large amount of colored but fluid substance dripping from the sky. It’s half orange, half blue, so he realizes the skies are overflowing. The paint splashes against the ground, not far from where he is seated, and drops reach for his skin too, burning it almost instantly. He stands up, for the first time panicked, because he can realize the dangers that come from tributes are nothing compared to the ones that come from Gamemakers, God-like more than he is. He can’t fight them, so he needs to find somewhere to hide, except the arena seems empty. ‘’What the hell is with this arena? How am I supposed to find a radioactive umbrella to hide under?’’ he comments sarcastically, dissatisfied with what is happening, but, suddenly, he’s not there anymore.

He’s in the Capitol, almost deducing what would come next. For a second, he wonders if this is how he got into the Games, but the theory is quickly built down by the mirror he sees of an eighteen year old himself opening his mouth to see the void. They had cut off his tongue. Hunter experiences that sort of pain, ghostly lingering, and tears instantly pop up in his eyes. Too self-centered to care about anything else but the fact that they’ve cut from him, he forgets that he has been able to talk and opens his mouth, suddenly panicked for a whole different reason. His mouth searches for a tongue, clueless, and it finds it, which make things even more confusing. The tongue feels too cold at touch, so he tries to stick it out as far as possible, to look at it. 

The blood in his veins freezes. The tongue he is using isn’t his own. Its color is a metallic silver that he can’t recognize. Did they add a tongue to him when he got into the arena? How did he end up here anyway? A hysterical laughter overwhelms him. ‘’I’m an avox,’’ he mutters between chuckles, looking up at alleged cameras. ‘’I’m a fucking talking avox. In the Hunger Games. This is a joke.’’ Months pass by, in his mind. Although they’ve made him an avox, he doesn’t follow any rules for weeks, making life a living hell for all those still in the Tower at the moment. Hunter is proud of himself until the one moment where they tie him up and put something over his eyes so he wouldn’t see. 

Again, he guesses this is where the arena starts for him, but it’s incorrect. He sees District Eight again. New theories cross his mind, but they’re quickly swallowed by flames. He recognizes the burning house better than anything else. He recognizes the voices of the people screaming and, for the first time in the arena, his smile fades completely, not even a ghost of it passing on his face. He remains there, completely shocked, like it was the biggest plot twist in the world. A large-sized drop of paint threatens to burn him whole and he almost doesn’t fight it, stepping out of its way last moment. His chest and left arm are reddened where the acid ate away his skin, but he doesn’t care. He cares about the flames in his mind.

His head starts burning quite literally, the way he feels it. Nothing is flamed in reality, but he can’t stand it anymore, dropping to the ground and hugging his head, closing his eyes tightly. This is impossible. This couldn’t have happened. He watches everything come crumbling down and nothing makes sense anymore. Are his parents dead? His brothers and sisters too? What is happening? He cannot believe it, until he sees Addison holding little Jeannie’s hand from across the street. Even though the rest of his family truly seems to be in the flames, he sighs out of relief. At least not everybody is gone. Hopeful, he wants the person he is in the memories to run to them, but he cannot. Addison’s eyes look so hateful. He feels everything all over again.

His mother is no longer screaming, but he’s crying. He is crying, but the one in the memories isn’t, simply staring numbly at the wall of an avox dormitory. The memories begin to look all the same. Every day, a new shade of grey threatens to kill him alive and it looks nothing like his silver tongue. At least he knows that his youngest sisters are safe, even though it doesn’t make his heart much easier. Because of him, his mother, his father, Eleanor, Fred and Taylor were all ashes. The thought is unbearable. Suddenly, Hunter doesn’t feel like making jokes anymore. There are so many questions. How is he talking? How did he end up in the arena? What the hell did he do? In a way, he refuses to believe this all is real, although deep down, he recognizes every memory as his own. Cupping his cheeks and feeling them soaked in tears, Hunter shakes his head, not sure if he can take any more of this sort of torture.

A new spot of paint forms close to his feet and he just scoffs. ‘’Stop this nonsense. I got to the acid in my mind already,’’ Hunter mutters, suddenly finding it much more dangerous than anything the Gamemakers could do to him. ‘’Addison... Jeannie...’’ he sighs, but there is no follow-up. What can he say? Suddenly, he feels inadequate, small, terrible and he probably deserves to be an avox. Suddenly, he makes sense of every one of the thousands of days in the six years being the emptiest scream of them all. No avox acted less human, no avox felt less, no avox blocked everything the way he is doing in his memories. He nods approvingly, though nothing seems to matter anymore. Where has all his anger gone?