The Mating Run by Leeka

Rigged

The shack falls into an eerie silence.

I don’t say a word. I don’t need to. The shack, with all its excess and comfort, seems to shrink around us. The sound of the slap echoes in the silence, a sharp punctuation to the absurdity of the situation.

Victor, rubbing his cheek, looks at me with a mix of surprise and something else. -a realization, perhaps, that his carefully crafted illusion of control has cracks.

I set the cup of coffee down, the warmth turning cold. My gaze holds his, the unspoken words lingering in the air. The forest, the challenges – they may be real, but this shack, this oasis of comfort, is a mockery.

He breaks the silence, his tone subdued.

“I guess I deserve that.”

I turn away from him.

Victor, still rubbing his cheek, watches me with a newfound seriousness.

I I take a deep breath, mustering the words to convey the frustration that simmers within me.

“Did you know why I slapped you?” I ask, my voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of irritation.

Victor, reclining on a beanbag, looks at me, with a nonchalant shrug. “Couldn’t tell you, Alina. Maybe you didn’t like the kind of coffee I offered. People can be picky about their coffee, you know.”

I narrow my eyes at him, incredulous at the absurdity of his response. “Coffee? That’s what you think this is about?”

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He smirks, as if the entire situation is a joke. “Well, you did seem a bit displeased with the coffee. Maybe next time I’ll ask for your preferred roast before offering a cup.”

I let out a sarcastic laugh, my frustration reaching a boiling point. “Victor, this isn’t about the coffee. It’s about the fact that you’re treating everything like it’s some kind of game. Like the Mating Run is a joke.”

He looks at me, still smirking. “Isn’t it, though? A game, a challenge – call it what you want. It’s all part of the grand adventure we find ourselves in.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Adventure? This isn’t an adventure, Victor. It’s a struggle for survival. People are out there, fighting for their lives, and you’re sitting here, treating it like a game.”

He stretches out on the beanbag, his indifference infuriating. “Survival, adventure it’s all a matter of perspective, Alina. You see it as a struggle; I see it as an opportunity to discover who you truly are in the face of the unknown.”

I can’t take it anymore. The frustration, the anger – they spill over, and I shove

him, the force surprising both of us. He looks at me with raised eyebrows, the smirk fading.

“Okay, that’s a bit too much-”

I glare at him, the words rushing out in a torrent. “That was for treating everything like a joke. This isn’t a game, Victor. Lives are at stake, and you’re here, lounging in your shack, acting like it’s all a grand experiment.”

He sits up, his expression changing to one of mild surprise. “Experiment? That’s an interesting way to put it. But isn’t life itself an experiment, Alina? We navigate through the unknown, facing challenges, making choices – all part of the grand experiment of existence.”

I shake my head, the frustration reaching its peak. “This isn’t philosophy class, Victor. This is reality. People are scared, hungry, and you’re here, detached from it all!”

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scoff, the absurdity of it

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words amuse him. “Pawns, players – it’s all semantics. You have the power to shape your own narrative in this. Blaming me for your choices is just an excuse.”

with a mix of anger and frustration. The shack, with its excess and comfort, seems

say, my voice laced

cigarette. “Ruined everything? Well, that’s quite a dramatic way

of my words sinking in. “You turned this into a nightmare. I’m a murderer

the blame game. Always a favorite pastime. How is it

to the gut. I freeze, the reality of his statement sinking in.

hiding spot on the first day of this Mating Run! You set

failure, or testing your limits? It’s

closer, my frustration reaching a boiling point. “Don’t play games with words. You

him like a sinister halo. “Risks are part of life, Alina. Whether you face them head–on

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pressure is up to you.”

the

the ultimate

him, the frustration building into a tidal wave

think you’re so

blows a smoke ring, watching it dissipate in the

“Maybe.”

bubbling within me

comfort – it’s all too much.

retort, sweeping my arm across the shack. “Did your beloved father send you all this, or did you get it from some sponsor who finds. your little

chord that resonates deeper than I thought. He takes

shut up and drink some coffee, Alina. You’re giving me a headache,” he mutters, his tone

unabated. “Your father didn’t even send you a message through a sponsor, did he? Or were all these gifts just handed

flash of irritation crossing his features. “Mind your own business, Alina. It’s none of your

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in the middle of a life–and–death situation, and you act like it’s a vacation. I have every right to know where

as if trying to compose himself. The shack, with its illusion of comfort, becomes

must know,” he says, exhaling the words like an unwanted confession. “Some of it is from sponsors.

not satisfied with his

staring at the floor as if it holds the answers he refuses to give. “Some of it

in the air, a heavy truth that neither of us can escape. I take a step back, the anger replaced by a mix of frustration and pity. The shack, with its excess and secrets, feels like a cage.

Daddy bailed you out of this mess,” I say, my tone dripping

a defensive glint in them. “He didn’t bail me out. I can handle things

in my words. “Sure, you can handle things. That’s why we’re out here,

leans back, the tension between us palpable. “You wouldn’t understand, Alina. You’ve always been the struggling type, clawing