[oneshot] Run - by ponk
>You don’t think you’ll be able to outrun them much longer. >Your legs burn with lactic acid, your calves are starting to cramp and your regular breathing is more and more regressing into panicked gasps for air. >Dreading the moment when your body will finally give out or one of your ridiculously high-heeled shoes decides to trip you up and send you face first into the dirt, you throw a quick look over your shoulder. >It’s dark, but even in the murky, inky twilight of your surroundings you can make out the ominous glow of red at the edge of your vision; two pairs of angry eyes informing you that your pursuers are still hot on your trail. >Tears start to sting in the corners of your eyes, the grim, stomach-turning realization of your imminent defeat worming its way into your mind with sharp claws. >They do not tire, nor will they lose your scent, their whole existence is reduced to the desire of burrowing their rows upon rows of razor-sharp, blood-pinked teeth into your soft, warm flesh, to taste your blood and leave your mangled and broken body for the scavengers. >And it’s only a poor consolation that the two furious beasts about to rip you to pieces are the two last people in the world you consider your friends. >Although you can’t remember their names anymore. >You don’t remember what happened. >You don’t even know how long you’ve been running for. >Hours? >Days? >Years? >You honestly couldn’t tell. >You only know that you have to keep running unless you want to find out what it feels to be on the wrong end of the food chain. >With your breath sawing in and out of your lungs, you allow yourself another cautious look over your shoulder. >The cold pit in your stomach warning you about losing your footing comes too late. >Futilely flailing your arms to somehow regain your balance, you crash to the floor, skidding over the rough ground and tearing up your stockings. >No. >Your knees and legs sport several ugly lacerations, but you don’t care about that. >You don’t care about the warm blood trickling down your thighs or the throbbing pain slowly working its way into your hindbrain. >All you care about is looking over your shoulder in terror and finding the shadows of your hunters again. >Come on, get up! >Pushing yourself up with ruined hands, you try to regain your footing while frantically searing for the glowering eyes. >There! >In the darkness, you can make out the two sets of red sparks announcing your immediate demise, their owners pushed into a murderous frenzy by the sight of your fallen-down form and the tang of your blood on the breeze. >They’ll catch up to you. >You almost manage to push yourself up when the heel of your right boot finally gives out, the stupid fucking thing breaking away with a sickly crack and a shower of ruined plastic. >You lose your footing again, falling back down, reduced to crawl and stumble forward as fast as you can in an attempt to get upright once more. >Then you feel it. >The cold sensation of long, slender and brutally clawed fingers closing around your ankle. >You jerk your head back, suppressing a scream at the image of one of your hunters lying on the ground, her arm stretched out to its limit, her hand firmly grabbing you in a vice-like demonstration of strength, her lips sporting a bloody, triumphant grin. >A butcher’s sneer. >You try to struggle and rip yourself free, but the cackling girl with the twintails pulls you back with a simple jerk, dragging you to the ground again. >You’re caught. >You’re dead. >Out of the corner of your eye you see the second girl standing over you, her bellowing laugh revealing her pointy, gore-flecked teeth. >Paralyzed by your shock and terror, you can see her bending down in what feels like slow motion, your vision fixed on her teeth, her claws, her unnaturally glowing eyes. >You can’t stop the tears running down your cheeks. >With a white-hot stab of pain, your reaper stretches out her fingers and lightly taps you on the shoulder. >”Tag! You’re it, Dagi!” >You blink, looking around in confusion to find Aria and Sonata standing over you, both grinning victoriously. “Fuck!” >Why do your games of tag always have get so out of hand?