The Mating Run

Chapter 39

Breakout

Victor, sprawled on his beanbag, looks at me with a hint of curiosity.

“Lost your sense of humor, Alina?” he quips, his voice cutting through the stillness.

glance at him, a bitter taste lingering in my mouth. “Do you even know what happened out there? What we had to do to survive?”

Victor shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that stirs a simmering anger within me. “Survival, adaptation — it’s all part of the game, Alina. You should learn to embrace

it”

I clench my fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Embrace it? You act like it’s some kind of thrilling adventure. We're out there fighting for our lives, and all you care about is your privilege.”

Victor leans forward, his smirk replaced by a cold glint in his eyes. “Privilege or not, it doesn’t change the fact that we're all playing the same game. Some just play it smarter.”

The tension in the shack thickens, a palpable force that hangs in the air. The moonlight casts long shadows, accentuating the divide between us. | take a deep breath, my anger simmering beneath the surface.

1.US. “You think it’s a game, Victor? A game with rules that only favor you?” Victor smiles, points at the corner of the shack where a camera is directed at “Why don’t we ask the audience?” I shake my head, a bitter smile playing on my lips. “Fuck you.” [e) 1/7 08:34 Sat, 9 Mar N Breakout

| can’t shake off the frustration that coils within me, a serpent ready to strike. The moonlight seeps through the windows, casting a cold glow on the scattered remnants of my earlier outburst.

| pace the limited space, the confined walls of the shack closing in on me. The what-ifs, the maybes — they echo in my mind like a haunting refrain. | glance at Victor, lounging on his bed with an air of indifference, and the anger resurfaces.

Without a word, | start tearing through the shack once more. Plates crash to the floor, and gadgets are thrown haphazardly. Victor grumbles, his irritation. evident, but he doesn’t move to stop me. The shack becomes a canvas for my rage, a chaotic display of frustration.

“Relax, Alina,” Victor mutters, his voice tinged with annoyance. “Someone’s going to find us soon, and this will all be over.” I

His words only fuel my anger. | turn to him, my eyes burning with intensity. “Find us? This isn’t a game, Victor. We're not waiting for rescue. We're fighting for survival, and your privilege blinds you to that!”

Victor rolls his eyes, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips. “Whatever, yada, yada. If you're going to act all crazy, can you at least be quiet about it?”

lignore his words, my frustration pushing me to continue my rampage. The shack, with its illusions and confines, bears the brunt of my rebellion. The moonlight outside watches over the chaos, a silent witness to the clash of perspectives.

Victor remains on his bed, flipping through his magazine with casual disinterest. The sound of pages turning becomes a backdrop to my destructive symphony. The shack, once a haven of illusions, now stands as a battleground for my defiance.

I grab a random object, hurling it against the wall.

Victor looks up from his magazine, annoyance etched on his face.

| pace the limited space, frustration coiling within me like a caged beast. The 1/7

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Breakout

magazine in Victor's hands becomes a target for my wrath. Without a word, | snatch it from him and start tearing through its pages. The sound of paper ripping echoes through the shack, a symphony of defiance.

Victor glances up from his bed, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Seriously, Alina? If you’re going to be this annoying, maybe you should just leave.”

l ignore his words, the adrenaline of rebellion coursing through me. The magazine becomes a casualty of my frustration, its pages torn and scattered like. confetti. The moonlight outside witnesses the clash, indifferent to the turmoilAll content © N/.ôvel/Dr/ama.Org.

within. “You think tearing my magazine will change anything?” Victor grumbles, his annoyance evident. | shoot him a defiant look, tearing another page with a satisfying rip. “Mayber not, but it feels damn good.”

Victor rolls his eyes, a gesture of dismissiveness. “Feelings or not, you're just making a mess for no reason. If you're that upset, go find your own corner of the

forest.”

The suggestion only fans the flames of my anger. | tear through the magazine with renewed vigor, the sound of paper tearing becoming a mantra of rebellion. The shack, with its confines and illusions, bears witness to my defiance.

Victor sighs, a mix of frustration and resignation in his voice. “You’re being ridiculous, Alina. What’s tearing my magazine going to achieve?”

| scoff, tossing a torn page into the air.

He leans back on his bed, unimpressed. “Reality or not, tearing my things won't change a thing. If you're that dissatisfied, just leave.”

The suggestion lingers in the air, a challenge hanging between us. | tear through the magazine with even more intensity, my actions fueled by a mix of frustration and a desperate need to reclaim a sense of control. The moonlight outside casts elongated shadows on the turmoil within.

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Victor watches with an air of detached amusement, as if my rebellion is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “You're really making a fuss over nothing, Alina.”

The shack envelops me in its narrow confines, a cage of resentment and frustration. The memories of the outside world, the unforgiving forest, linger like shadows in the corners of my mind. | find myself trapped in a mental labyrinth, revisiting the visceral experiences of the Mating Run.

The Hider, a specter in the moonlit darkness, surfaces in my thoughts. The memory is like a dark

canvas of my consciousness. | remember the stealth, the quiet breaths, the desperate attempts to remain unseen. Survival, in those moments, boiled down to a primal instinct — hide or be found.

conscious Strokes of fear and tension splashed across the

As | sit in the shack, the memory unfolds like a play in my mind. The Hider, elusive and cunning, was a fleeting ally in the dance of survival. Yet, alliances are ephemeral in the harsh reality of the Mating Run. Trust, a fragile commodity, shattered like glass when the stakes became a matter of life and death.

The Hunter enters the stage, a relentless force in pursuit. The forest, once a sanctuary, transforms into a maze of uncertainty. Each step is laden with the weight. of survival, the primal fear of becoming prey. | recall the heartbeat, the rush of adrenaline, and the cruel necessity that compelled me to wield a rock as a weapon.

The memory of the Hunter’s demise is etched in stark contrast to the privilege of this shack. It’s a juxtaposition of struggle and indulgence, a tale of survival versus comfort. While | grappled with the fear of being hunted, Victor reclined in his haven, shielded from the brutal truths of the forest floor.

Ettie’s encounter with another Hunter weaves into the narrative. The forest, witness to a silent clash, becomes a silent graveyard. The memory carries the weight of a life extinguished, a casualty in the name of survival. It’s a somber

reflection on the choices made, the lives lost, and the desperation that defines the Mating Run.

And then there’s Victor, perched above it all in his sanctuary. The memories of struggle and death clash with the image of him indulging in the comforts of the shack. It’s a bitter realization that in this cruel game, not all players face the same.

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Breakout

trials. While | navigated the dangers of the forest, he feasted on the spoils of al sheltered existence.

The anger simmers within me, a slow burn that threatens to erupt. The shack, with its illusions of safety, becomes a trigger for the resentment that festers. Ther contrast between the struggles outside and the comfort within intensifies the storm of emotions within me.

| remember the corpses, the silent witnesses to the brutality of survival. Each life lost is a scar on the landscape of my memory, a testament to the choices made in desperation. The forest, with its secrets and shadows, becomes a graveyard of hopes and fears.

The disparity between the struggles | faced and Victor’s oblivious indulgence. grates on my nerves. It's a bitter pill to swallow, a realization that while | fought. tooth and nail for survival, he basked in the luxury of his shack. The Mating Run, intended as a test of resilience, becomes a glaring showcase of inequality.

It's funny how life can throw these unexpected curveballs, like a game where the rules change when you least expect it. | used to think unfairness was something confined to the schoolyard, where kids would squabble over the swings or who got the bigger piece of cake. | never thought it would be a looming shadow in my own

story.

You know, it’s strange. Growing up, they tell you about fairness, sharing, and playing nice. It’s like a mantra repeated so often that it becomes part of the background noise of your childhood. You nod along, thinking you understand the concept, but it’s one of those things you never truly grasp until life decides to teach you a lesson.

| remember watching those schoolyard squabbles, thinking they were just a part of being a kid. Someone gets the shiny new toy, and the others pout because they want it too. It’s simple, almost innocent. Little did | know that the echoes of those playground disputes would find their way into the tangled mess of the Mating Run.

Life has a way of surprising you. It’s like being handed a puzzle with missing pieces, and you’re expected to make sense of the incomplete picture. The Mating

Ill

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Run, with its twisted rules and unpredictable challenges, feels like that puzzle. 88%%

| guess | always assumed fairness was a basic principle, a universal constant that applied to everyone. The golden rule, right? Treat others as you want to be treated. It sounds so simple, so straightforward.

It's a haven for one, a refuge from the struggles outside. Victor sits there, untouched by the trials | faced in the forest. It’s like he’s living in a different world, where the rules are different, and the game is rigged in his favor.

| never thought unfairness could be this blatant. It’s not just about who got the better toy; it’s about life and death. The forest doesn’t care about fairness. It’s a wild, unpredictable force, indifferent to the concept of right or wrong.

In a burst of rage, I’m on my feet. The narrow space of the shack feels constricting as the walls seem to close in. The air is thick with tension, and the decision to confront Victor takes root like a stubborn weed in my mind.

| don’t even think; the anger propels me forward. Victor looks up, surprise etching his face, but it’s quickly replaced by defiance. | grab his arm, my fingers. digging into the fabric of his shirt. The shack, witness to this sudden burst of aggression, stands silent.

“Enough!” Victor protests, his voice sharp and cutting through the air. He tries to pull away, but my grip tightens. The anger, once a simmering undercurrent, now roars to the surface like a tempest. The forest outside, oblivious to our struggle, stands sentinel to the unfolding drama.

| can feel Victor resisting, his body tensing against my grasp. He yells, tells me to let go, but the anger has a grip of its own. | shove him, and for a moment, there’s a strange dance of chaos within the confines of the shack. It’s a clash of wills, a collision of opposing forces.

| grab him again, my fingers biting into his arm. The forest outside, oblivious to the dynamics within, stands still like a silent audience. Victor’s protests turn into shouts, but I’m resolute.

His voice echoes in the narrow space, a cacophony of protest. “Stop this, Alina! Ill

[e)

Breakout

What are you doing?”

But I don’t answer.

With determination, | push forward.

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