[oneshot] Run

>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?