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He was hardly what he'd call conscious, sprinting over snow into the swamps, weaving through the branches and snatching up mushrooms from the dirt as he ran, he ran, he ran.
Voices screamed around him in every direction. New players always rushed each other at the start, they didn't even go for basic tools before they clawed their hands bloody like dying wolves.
He was not a wolf, not ever. He was smart. He laid in wait, he prepared, and he struck harder.
But when he had to, he ran. He ran. He ran.
Down into a ravine was a quick start, scraping together basic tools and something heavy and sturdy to cover his back, keep claws or blades from sinking in and connecting with flesh. His stomach burned empty, so he stuffed some mushrooms in a bowl as he sat in wait for a better meal to charge down at him.
He heard the thump of feet near him before he saw anything. Swords met in a clash, chips of the stone he'd carved into a blade flying in other directions. Diamond already? How-
He didn't have time to think. He screamed, charging the clad competitor with all the might he could muster. Strike, slash, bite, claw. Anything he could.
He tore a chunk out of their exposed shoulder with his teeth, swallowing the flesh as he swung his blade again.
But he lost footing, and to the ground the champion fell.
They were on top of him before he could scream again.
-
Cell fell out of his cot, throat hoarse from screaming and breathing as heavily as the weight that hadn't been on him at all.
Night terrors.
He hated it when weakness took him in his sleep. Dreams of those horrible games turning his blood to fire or to ice depending on the night.
He probably would have woken other prisoners up if the guards hadn't gotten his cell slightly soundproofed after the first few nights of these fits.
He could taste blood. Did he bite his tongue again? Probably.
It was still dark, the echoing cold halls of Alcatraz offering him some peace.
At least he wasn't back there.
He was here.
He was home.