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It was dry, that was the first thing Santana focused on. The way her skin felt rough, how she couldn't even stand the feeling of her fingers rubbing together. The heat came next, coupled with the brightness of the sun. She knew where she was, but there was no time to linger.
This was the Arena, and the only thing she could do was try to survive.
She circled around. Only desert greeted her eyes. In the distance she knew there would be an oasis, she had found it on the third day, close to collapsing from exhaustion, Brittany's face in her mind. That was the only reason she had kept going. Brittany was watching, and she wouldn't let that girl watch her die.
The oasis grew closer as Santana made her way across the sand. The broken spearhead that she'd pilfered from one of the first dead before running was warm against her breast. She had opted to tuck it down her shirt as opposed to in her pocket because feeling it made her feel safer, as safe as anyone participating in the Games could feel.
The trees at the oasis were odd, the likes of which Santana had never seen in her home district. They were harder to climb, and offered no coverage for anyone in their heights. It was one of the small things she was grateful for. There wasn't a place for her to hide, but that just meant that there wasn't any way for anyone else to hide and ambush her.
A caw echoed in the distance, and her head shot up. The sun caused her eyes to water, but in her peripheral vision she saw a large, colorful bird fly away. And then the completeness of the silence hit her. It wasn't right; there should have been wind, more animals.
And then suddenly something hit her in the back and she was falling to the ground, rocks tearing at her cheek and air being expelled from her chest. A choked off scream fell halfway from her lips as she struggled to face her attacker. Her chest burned and she vaguely registered the broken spearhead tearing into her flesh. Whoever was on top of her was trying to hold her down but she fought. She wasn't going to die here. She was going to get home, get home to Brittany.
"Santana!"
"Get off of me!" There was no time to think about why another tribute would have bothered to learn her name. She slammed her elbow back and felt the satisfying thunk as it met the flesh of her attacker.
"Santana, wake up!"
And she was still facing the ground with dry skin and a bleeding chest, but then there was a pressure on her mouth like a kiss and everything got cold. She squeezed her eyes shut; she wasn't going to let herself believe. Believing got you killed.
"Santana, it's okay," but she wanted to believe so bad.
The desert was gone. The attacker was gone, the wounds were gone, the heat. All that was left was the sweet voice calling her name.
"Brittany?" She didn't open her eyes, still not wanting to get her hopes up.
"You're home, San." She felt arms envelope her.
She was home. She was alive.