#v: missing

glowing-emerald-vixen

burningwhiteroses

The man was found in the middle of a field outside of District Thirteen, half his body submerged in water on the rocky edge of a little stream. Fortunately, it wasn't face first and his chest was still rising and falling though, to hear anyone tell it, by the looks of him they were surprised he was even able to do that much. He was filthy, first thing, from the knotted mass of his once blonde hair ( it was so caked in grime and dirt and knotted, it was a wonder anyone could tell he'd been blonde in the first place ) to the state of the rags that he wore ( hard to call them clothes really they were so worn through and moth eaten )

and his body. . . his body was an entirely different story.

His foot was bruised and bloody, swollen from the amount of time he'd spent on it. There was only one on the account of the other was some sort of prosthetic, ill fitted and chafing the residual stump as it was far too big a fit for him. There was socks and moss stuffed inside to make the bed a bit softer but his skin was looking worse for wear. The man had probably been submerging his one good foot in water to relieve some of the pain when he'd passed out. The rest of him wasn't in any better shape; they suspected maybe he'd gotten into a fight with a wild animal from the marks on his arms but his skin was translucent, paper thin, and it was hard to tell much given all the scars.

It had been years since the change in government, since the world had been taken back by the Districts and run in peace. Trials had been carried out and sentences levied against those who committed the worst of the crimes. Funerals had been held, and rebuilding was completed in many areas though underway still in the more devestated areas. The last time they'd found a pocket of rebels running in the woods had been years ago-- there wasn't any reason to flee from the districts.

No reason unless, of course, you had been faithful to the Capitol. Faithful to President Snow. Unless you had committed countless war crimes either through assassination, funding the effort, acting as a spy, or were a member of his secret cabinet. It was these things that drew the attention of District Thirteen when they brought the man into their medical wing and into their care. There were key members still missing, those who had not yet answered for their crimes, and while they were assumed dead, the new government knew for a fact there had been secret pockets and a safehold somewhere outside of the Districts. There were multiple known only by one individual here, another there. No one knew the location of all of them so no one captured could give them away. And perhaps. . . perhaps this man had survived longer than the rest because even those assumed escaped were eventually counted among the dead. What Capitol citizen was equipped to live beyond the meager supplies they might have had and try and make a living off the land? None. They hadn't the means.

annabellecresta

The rebellion had ended, oh it had been years since the dissolving of president snow’s cabinet, the rebuilding of the government, mourning of the dead and the rebuilding of society. As much as things could they went on— if there was one thing to be said for the districts, their understanding of picking up with what you have and getting back on with things was beyond admirable and verging on an art— and built. Bodies were accounted for, funerals were held, trials were carried out with life sentences or executions dependent upon the crime.

But not everyone returned. Not everyone was accounted for.

The rebels infiltrated the Capitol to save the victors but Some were missing, their cells empty… No account anywhere for their whereabouts everything pointed to the tribute centre and yet… And yet they were missing.

The man threw a glance over his shoulder, air freezing in his lungs that every breath was sharp a blade in his side, but he kept running. The bottom of his feet were bleeding flesh torn to rags from underbrush and brambles and rocks he couldn’t afford to avoid. Blood trickled from a cut in his forehead into his eye.

Keep going. Keep going.

Don’t stop.

Can’t stop.

The edge of his vision was blurring and each step jolted through the whole of his body. Sharp with pain but how could he even feel pain after all this time?? The world was pain. Waking and sleeping.

The trees thinned and eventually fell away (or the wobbling in his vision looked like falling). The last thing he saw was the sky. The bright blue sky with the last bits of orange, the sunrise fading today. He’d run all night— maybe for days-- without direction. Without knowing where he had come from or where he was going. Or where he would end up. And it would end here. Wherever here was. He would die here with the wind in his hair and sun on his cheek ( and the scent of salt in his nose? ) one last time and finally… 

Cyd almost walked into a counter while looking up at the figures, not only because they are on the ceiling, but because the oh so familiar truck had finally made an appearance.