a good space boy from a good space family (pethdorn) wrote in incompletedata, @ 2017-10-07 11:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | marvel: mcu: rocket, star wars: canon: poe dameron |
WHO: Poe Dameron & Rocket
WHAT: Scrabbling over scraps.
WHERE: The Cornucopia
WHEN: Day 14; the feast.
WARNINGS: Hunger Games.
He didn’t know what was inside it; he saw it was large enough to have some heft, he expected it was food, and so Poe ran, his face locked into a grimace as every impact of every footfall reverberated through his shoulder. He hadn’t eaten, not really, in a couple of days. The pain had put him off his appetite, and the fear that had finally turned to grief after a couple days of Senator Organa failing to return to camp hadn’t helped, either. The man wasn't coming back, and, try as he might to remind himself of the patently obvious truths he'd pushed so hard on everyone else at the beginning - nothing here is permanent, don't let them scare you, you'll be fine - it had become almost impossible to ignore what felt very much like the true reality around him. There was no reason to eat under one interpretation of events, and no drive to do so under the other. He had failed in his first attempts here, to bring everyone together, to keep them safe through communal action - and then he’d failed in his secondary goal, to keep Bail as safe as he could. He was no protector, in this place. Certainly not now. He was wounded, he was armed only with an unwieldy blade that he’d been using almost exclusively as a walking stick, and he - like everyone around him - was exhausted. If all he was capable of was hanging on, for himself … why was he even running? But he was. There was food, and he was running, and he was just hoping, with visceral, quite literally gut-deep feeling, that it would be all right. The sword beat awkwardly against the side of his leg, slicing through the surface of the water and striking against rocks on his mad dash toward the food where it was clustered. Last time, he’d made it out of here without any trouble, and so he hoped - he ducked, off-balance, to grab the package against his chest - he fumbled - he managed to fall on his good side, and scramble to his knees, and grip the miniature cornucopia with one slipping hand. |