The Mating Run by Leeka

Breakout

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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. I 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.”

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I 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.

I 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. I glance at Victor, lounging on his bed with an air of indifference, and the anger resurfaces.

Without a word, I 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. I 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.

yada. If you’re going to act all crazy, can you

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

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

object, hurling it

up from his magazine, annoyance etched on his face.

pace the limited space, frustration coiling within

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my wrath. Without a word, I snatch it from him and start tearing through its pages. The sound

glances up from his bed, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Seriously, Alina?

adrenaline of rebellion coursing through me. The magazine becomes a casualty of my frustration, its pages

within.

think tearing my magazine will change anything?” Victor

him a defiant look, tearing another page with a satisfying rip. “Mayber not, but it feels damn good.”

mess for

forest.”

I tear through the magazine with renewed vigor, the sound of paper tearing becoming a mantra of rebellion. The shack, with its confines

in his voice. “You’re being

torn page

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

a mix of frustration and a desperate need to reclaim a sense of control. The moonlight outside casts

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is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “You’re really making

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. I find myself trapped in a mental labyrinth, revisiting the

the moonlit darkness, surfaces in my thoughts.

of my consciousness. I 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

of fear and

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

laden with the weight. of survival, the primal

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 I grappled with the

graveyard. The memory carries the weight of a life extinguished, a casualty in the name of survival. It’s

and the desperation that defines the Mating Run.

image of him indulging in the comforts of the shack. It’s a bitter realization that in this

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While I navigated the dangers of the forest,

sheltered existence.

safety, becomes a trigger for the resentment that festers. Ther contrast between the struggles outside and the comfort within intensifies

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