JASON
The dense fog of the swamp blurred my vision as my legs pounded against the uneven, boggy ground.
My chest burned with every breath, my heart hammering like a war drum. The shrieks of birds echoed in the distance, but my mind was elsewhere, flashing back to Rook Island in 2012, to the night everything began.
Grant's blood was still fresh on my hands. My older brother, my protector, was gone. The gunshot that tore through Grant's neck reverberated in my skull like a never-ending echo.
I had barely understood what had happened when Vaas' men gave chase. I remembered the wild panic in my chest as I ran through the jungle, the sharp sting of branches slicing across my arms, the suffocating weight of guilt already settling in.
And over it all, I could still hear Vaas' mocking voice echoing through the trees: "Run, Forrest, run!"
The words dug into me like knives, each taunt fueling my desperation. Grant was dead because I couldn't do anything. All I could do was run. Run and survive.
I snapped back to the present as a sharp branch tore through my sleeve, scraping my arm. My boots sank into the muck with each step, the weight of the swamp slowing me down. The cries of the flock grew louder behind me, their shadowy forms darting through the mist above.
I tightened my grip on my crimson-eyed weapon, the blade's cloth tether curling slightly around my tatau, almost like a pulse of awareness.
I adjusted my grip on the blade as a flicker of discomfort passed through me. The cloth wrapped around my arm had shifted slightly, revealing what lay beneath.
My breath hitched when I caught a glimpse of my tatau from Rook Island, its intricate patterns still vivid against my skin.
For a moment, I was transported back, remembering Dennis and the meaning behind each line. I felt a simmering anger bubble up inside me. Dennis had manipulated me, shaped me into something he needed, not something I wanted to be.
Yet, I couldn't entirely hate him. He taught me to survive, to fight, to see how messed up I really was. A warrior's mark, he'd called it, a promise of strength and transformation. But at what cost?
Wait… fuck that. I hate the guy.
I let out a hollow laugh, shaking my head. "Strength and transformation," I muttered under my breath. My eyes drifted over the tatau.
The shark for power, the heron for skill and cunning, and the spider for connection, strategy, and badass takedowns.
Each mark represented the promises Dennis made about becoming a warrior, a leader, someone who could reshape my destiny.
"Look where that got me," I whispered bitterly.
The blade's cloth tightened again, almost as if to pull me back to the present. I exhaled sharply and focused forward, the faint cries of the bird flock pulling me back into the moment.
Then I stopped. My legs locked beneath me, refusing to move as doubt surged through me like a rising tide.
My chest heaved, and my mind spun with questions I couldn't ignore. Was this worth it? Was I worth it? For a moment, I couldn't bring myself to take another step, my thoughts pulling me deeper into uncertainty.
'Why am I running? '
'Why am I running when I already wanted to end it all?'
The thought hit me like a jolt of electricity. The memory of my blade pressing against my own chest surged forward.
I wanted to die, didn't I? The thought lingered, sharp and bitter. But the answer came quickly, cutting through the haze of my mind.
'Not this way. This isn't how it's supposed to end.'
I clenched my jaw as realization struck deeper. If I was going to die, it wouldn't be as prey, and it wouldn't be because I ran.
I couldn't win against the odds chasing me, not without any weapons or strategy. But that didn't mean I had to fight them head-on.
No, I never fought on even terms unless I had no other choice.
What I did was hunt. That was how I survived, and that was how I'd make it now.
But a part of me hesitated, a whisper of doubt creeping again into the edges of my resolve.
Was this who I wanted to be? A hunter again? I had just woken up wherever this was, and now I was already fighting to survive.
The memories of the past and the weight of my present clashed violently in my mind. Should I even do this? Should I let myself fall into the same cycle of violence?
The cries of the bird flock pierced the air again, closer now. I pushed the thought aside. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the blade tighter.
I didn't have time for second-guessing, not here, not now.
"Enough," I muttered, my voice low but firm. My breaths slowed, my chest rising and falling in deliberate rhythm.
"I don't know where I am, but this is definitely not Rook Island. I'm done running."
The blade's crimson eye gleamed faintly in the mist, as if in agreement.
My lips twisted into a grimace. "Let's hunt."
---
The lone Starly perched on a crooked branch jutting out of the murky waters of the swamp. Its small, round body quivered slightly as it called out to its flock.
The usual cheerful tone of its cries was gone, replaced with frantic urgency. The rest of its flock had disappeared into the mist moments before, their flight caused by a loud, piercing cry for help. In their panic, they had left the Starly behind. Alone.
The Starly had tried to follow, flapping its small wings in a desperate attempt to catch up, but the noise had disoriented it.
Then, in its frantic search, it spotted a glint of blue. It was an Oran Berry half-buried in the mud. Hunger and instinct had drawn it to the berry, and by the time it realized its mistake, the mist had thickened, and the flock was gone.
Its beady eyes scanned the dense fog, wings fluttering nervously. It hopped from one end of the branch to the other, disoriented.
The swamp was silent save for the faint rustle of the wind and the occasional plop of something falling into the water.
It ruffled its feathers, trying to shake off the cold that clung to its small frame.
The Starly had just reached the muddy banks when its head tilted as it caught movement in the distance.
A shadow, low to the ground, weaving through the fog. Its heart quickened, tiny talons gripping the branch tighter. Another shadow appeared, this one larger and moving with an unsettling stillness.
The Starly flapped its wings, letting out a panicked chirp, but its cry was swallowed by the oppressive fog. It froze, unsure whether to take flight or remain hidden.
The shadows drew closer.
"WOOSH~~"
"PLUNK!"
The Starly's head jerked toward the sound of a rock whistling in the air and then splashing into the water just behind it.
Its small body stiffened, wings fluttering as its gaze darted back and forth, searching for the source of the disturbance. For a moment, it was distracted, its focus fractured by the unnatural stillness of the swamp.
---
JASON
I used the opportunity and stepped out from the mist, my eyes locked on the bird. Mud caked my boots and splattered my pants, but I moved with calculated purpose.
My body was low, each step deliberate to avoid making unnecessary noise.The blade I held fixed its crimson eye on the trembling bird.
I crouched, my gaze narrowing. The bird was small, weak, separated from its flock. An easy target.
My hands tightened around the blade's hilt as it emitted a faint hum vibrating through my grip.
I felt a strange energy from it. Was that anticipation or hunger? Maybe it was both? It was almost as if it was waiting for me to act.
The bird's instincts screamed at it to fly, but its confusion and fear rooted it to the spot. I crept closer, my breath steady, my movements precise and silent.
This wasn't a game. This was survival. And survival meant taking the shot when it was offered.
With a swift motion, I lunged forward, blade slicing through the air. The bird let out a shrill cry as it flapped its wings desperately, trying to escape, but it was too slow.
I struck true, the blade grazing its side and sending it tumbling from the branch into the muddy bank below.
The bird thrashed weakly in the mud, its cries fading to pained whimpers. I stood over it, my chest heaving.
I didn't feel triumph or satisfaction. Only a grim sense of necessity.
"It's just a bird," I muttered, as if trying to convince myself. I glanced down at my weapon, its crimson eye glowing brighter now.
The blade's cloth unfurled slightly, twitching with a life of its own.
I knelt beside the dying bird, my brow furrowing. My hand hovered over it when, without warning, the cloth wrapped around my wrist seemed to loosen on its own, slithering forward toward the animal. I froze, startled.
"What the…?" I muttered, watching as the blade acted entirely on its own.
My eyes widened as the blade's cloth coiled around the bird's fragile body, the faint glow of its eye intensifying.
The movement caught me off guard, so deliberate, like it had been waiting for this moment. My breath caught in my throat.
"What the hell are you doing?" I whispered, startled. I stared, frozen, at the unsettling display.
It was as if the blade had taken control completely, acting on its own purpose, and I could do nothing but watch in uneasy silence.
The bird's thrashing slowed, its cries reduced to faint chirps. My stomach twisted, not at the act of taking life.
No, I had long since grown numb to that necessity. Watching the bird's small body grow limp as its life ebbed away felt different, unsettling in a way I hadn't expected.
The blade's hum deepened, a sound that resonated in my chest like a low, haunting moan. The crimson glow flickered, then dimmed, as the cloth retracted back to wrap around my tatau, leaving me staring at the lifeless form in uneasy silence.
I stared at the husk of the dead bird, my jaw clenched. I wiped a hand across my face, smearing mud and sweat.
"You… don't just drain from me," I muttered, staring straight at the crimson eye. "You take from anything and anyone, don't you?"
The blade's eye flickered, unblinking.
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. "Then why me? Why attach yourself to me?" My voice cracked slightly, frustration seeping through.