Chapter Text
Cricket had never felt what it was like to have his life given away. He had only ever been on the receiving side of the exchange. From the very first day he had found himself in this strange world—with only two lives to spare—he had been gifted a life.
He always found it difficult to describe the feeling. It was as if his entire soul was as light as a cloud. His heart felt full and was racing at speeds he could never keep up with. It was a gift—a promise. Something that filled his heart with hope to live another day. That's what being given a life meant to him.
Giving a life, on the other hand, was a different story. Of course, he had died before. He had lost a life, but he had never *given* one.
Cricket has never been the type with malice in his heart. He has been told since the day he could feel that his empathy would be his downfall—maybe they were right. His hands were not built for fighting. His talons were not grown for scratching. He was not created for killing. A terrible way to be in a game like this.
To this day, he remembers the look on Spine's face so clearly. How her eyes were wide and hazy—how he barely looked present. The distant shade of purple that shone in their eyes. Then, Cricket didn't care to pay attention. He wished he did.
He wished he had taken a moment to talk to Spine. To question, to ask why they would do such a thing. Talking was something he had always done best.
But yet, he couldn't find it in himself to speak. He couldn't utter a single word as his sights were set on Spine, not a sound as he raised his axe high, and not a moment of hesitation as he brought it back down. The disgusting, vulgar sound forever replays in Cricket's head. The sound of skin tearing, a mask cracking, the distant screams of bystanders that he couldn't even bother to pay any mind to. The moment it was over, the avian wanted to vomit. The sight, the smell— it had all been too much. He didn't stick around the scene much longer after it was over.
He remembered the restless night that followed. He remembered laying in bed and staring up at the blank ceiling—replaying the event over and over again. Cricket wasn't a killer, but he had killed.
Cricket will never forget the churning feeling he had in his gut when he saw Spine's eyes go red. It had been an accident; she was caught in the crossfire. It was no one's fault. Yet, looking at those blood-red eyes left a bad taste in Cricket's mouth. Knowing that maybe if he had stayed back that day—had less rage in his heart—this could have been prevented. That maybe instead of those bright bloody eyes, Cricket would be looking into those soft yellow ones he had gotten so used to seeing. That Spine could have had one more life to spare.
It was a stupid decision. He knew that even at the time, but the thought of any of his Overseers with that burning red tainting their name—he couldn't do it. He couldn't. Spine's hands had felt so cold against his own when the avian grabbed them. Cricket entwined his fingers with hers—remembering the confused expression they held. His words were messy and jumbled, he probably didn't even make any sense, but all he did know was the immediate relief he felt when he saw the red drain from Spine's eyes.
But that relief was quickly torn.
Cricket didn't know what it felt like to give a life away. He thought it was draining, an exhausting feeling that would leave him beat. He did not expect the burning feeling in his gut—how it felt as if his heart was being grabbed and torn through the muscle and skin of his chest. The avian wanted to cry, to scream, but he was left speechless as he could feel his life being drained from him.
There had been questioning. Frantic voices around him, but he had been too dazed to give any solid answers. It hit him like a brick immediately. How quickly he found himself growing irritated and overwhelmed with all the noises, all the questions—the twitching of his fingers and the way his wings closed in on his face. It felt like there were ants under his skin and no matter how much he picked and clawed; he couldn't get them out. A desire waiting to be fulfilled, an itch waiting to be scratched. It was exhilarating, a sickening thrill that made his stomach twist and churn.
Cricket wasn't a killer, but red really was a good color on him.