Dawn Chorus (Proxies x Reader)

Breathing is difficult. My throat and lungs are sore from the smoke. Stress and fear and all the running aches in my chest and my legs. Exhaustion is starting to reach around the adrenaline and grab hold. Dehydration, hunger, things I normally ignore for runs for the extra risk, silly risks to take now that I actually need it.

Sadie made it. Sadie has to have made it. The man with the goggles didn't chase her out. The other two could have gotten her...but he was targeting Sadie and the man with the white mask seemed to be waiting around Mason. They may have split up to target my friends. Which leaves the man in the orange hoodie after Camilla. A chill rushes up and down my spine. I curl into myself some, against the soreness from the continued physical activity. I was told I had two hours left. The man in the orange hoodie may wait for the end of that time, out of a sense of fairness or in a flare of dramatics, or he has Camilla and is waiting for me to show up to kill her, or he killed her already. Which is a lot of potential situations and not helpful to think about at all.

I need to focus. Walking in a straight line is hard enough with how tired as I am, staying properly oriented in the woods. I keep looking over my shoulders. Unease has swelled into paranoia, distrust in my senses. I shake my head, try to knock my brain back into use. Camilla. Just think about Camilla. I jog deeper into the forest, following the running trails that outline the limits of our running space. My breathing rattles lightly. I can't tell if the forest is just concerningly quiet or even the nocturnal animals have fallen asleep. I'm not sure I care anymore. I know the forest is dangerous already. I know why.

"(Y/n)," a voice whisper-hisses, itching my ears.

A shudder runs down my spine, locking each vertebrae one by one.

"(Y/n)," the voice whispers again. "Come here."

I spin around searching the scenery for the voice. My vision is hazy with sleep. I have to strain to see, but Camilla is gently waving from a tall bundle of underbrush to help. Slowly I start to approach. A small crack rings out behind me. It is hardly a sound, but in the silence of the forest it echoes deliberately. I spin around. The orange hoodie stands out boldly against the forest, as does the red stitched frown.

His hands are shoved in his pockets. He makes a show of slowly lifting his foot of the stick, tilting his head. He lifts one hand and gently gestures to Camilla in a 'go ahead fashion'. Instantly, I shuffle into the space between him and Camilla, shielding her with my body. I crouch a little, slowly backing towards her. Camilla has other plans.

She bursts from the brambles. Her long, soft fingers knit together with mine, and she starts to drag me in a run. I stumble after her, unable to look away from that blazing facial expression. He moves slow, deliberate. I can't tell if it is mocking, the way he pulls a handgun from his front pocket. He aims for us, for Camilla. I'm crashing into her back, sending us sprawling and sliding on the ground as the gun cracks.

The sound floods the forest, such stark contrast to the sleepy night noises or haunting silence. And they called me a disturbance. Camilla is already back up, dragging me along with her. I stumble and slip, struggling to get my feet beneath me. Her face is scrunched, teeth slightly bared, and she stares ahead with such intense determination that it holds me and keeps my legs going. We weave between the trees, keeping thick trunks between us and the gun. With Camilla guiding us forward, I dare a glance back and the man with the orange hoodie is just standing there, staring. He has even tucked his gun away.

Is he letting us go? Did I earn getting Camilla out? Hope warms me, pumps fresh energy in my veins. I can almost smile at the first flood of relief.

And then Camilla is stumbling. All her energy, her determination slips off her face as she grips her head and curls into herself starting to hack and cough violently. Her steps stumble. I have to heave her over my shoulder and cram myself against her side to take more of her weight. She doesn't try to pull out of my hold, leaning into me and readjusting her weight against my side. She still tries to orient herself in a way to limit how much I am carrying, or really dragging, her.