The forest was eerie in the darkness, leaving him trudging about without a clue. As soon as the sunlight faded into obscurity, which was only a few minutes into his forest escape, Chrys was forced to slow down. His eyes were simply too weak to discern anything significant without the luminescence of the sun and he feared that if he sprinted any further, he would end up collapsing. Not just from unseen obstacles, but from blood loss. The cuts on his stomach were still bleeding, leaving his nerves screaming in every passing second.<i>Stupid, </i>Chrys thought.<i>The blanket. I should've... placed it over the glass instead. No, that's not true. I only barely got out and I still would've scratched myself this badly. Or would I have?  </i>Maybe he could've spent a little more time picking the glass out from where he had planned to crawl.<i>Enough. </i>He couldn't panic any more than he already did. The more he let hysteria get the best of him, the more likely it would be that Niegel would drag him back to the trailer.<br/><br/>Damp, sticky warmth that coated his fingers told him that he would soon have more problems to worry about than simply running away. The cuts were neither deep nor shallow, but bled more than he thought they would. They would continue to bleed, and he could only hope that he wouldn't die to exsanguination. Though if the bleeding proved to be non-lethal, sooner or later he would have another problem on his hands: anemia. With the draining of precious hemoglobin from his body, he would be left with growing lethargy, his strength faltering as his body failed to receive its essential oxygen. Niegel would give chase soon, and when he did he would be trailing what might as well have been a slow, injured buck. Even if Niegel failed to trail him — a slim possibility at best — he would still be left to the mercy of the elements. Without his blood forming a closed circuit to keep his body temperature up, it was likely that he would eventually succumb to hypothermia. The only route of action was to patch himself up to the best of his ability, but he didn't chance stopping, not even for a moment. Not until he found shelter, safely hidden away from his hunter, where he could tend to himself without any disturbance.<br/><br/>The earthy forest scent of the forest gave rise to familiar memories with family. Every summer that they could, he and his father took a trip to a forest park hours away from home for a camping trip. Just the two of them; his mother stayed home to have an inverse 'trip' with just her and Elizabeth. They would park their car at their favourite spot and set up a tent to sleep in. For a while he and his father would wander around, traversing the forest and becoming familiar with the landscape. Ronald Collins would educate him on the the edible plants in the forests, showing him the differences between the ones that would leave you dead in a pile of shit and piss, and the ones that were delectable to eat. His father would teach him survival skills that he himself had been taught by his father who had been taught by his own father, so that Chrys might one day share it with his own son, if he ever had one. Then, after those hours of guidance and bonding, they would begin their game.<br/><br/>They called the game<i>Gauntlet. </i>It was a game that had been played and passed down through generations of his father's family. The rules of the game were simple; subdue the other through a battle using weapons. The forest was to be their arena. Each time they would begin in the same place; his father near the creek, and him inside the hollowed tree trunk of a dead cedar tree. The weapons they used varied between summers. Typically they played using paintball guns, but occasionally his father went the traditional way — using a piece of smooth oak shaped into a knife as a stand-in for an actual blade, which meant that they would have to wrestle until the blade rested against somewhere fatal. More often than not he would lose, but he did win twice, all times with paintball guns; but he knew that it was in part due to his father's hearing loss from having fired guns without using ear protection. He couldn't hear it when Chrys employed a stealthy crawl.<br/><br/>This was nothing like the game he played with his father. The worst he had been left was bruised and mildly scratched. Nothing that ice and bandaids couldn't fix. When they played he was full of energy and hydrated, prepped for a game that could take more than an hour to finish. They would always end before daybreak. Now he was sluggishly crawling through the dim forest, chilled, starved, his lips dry as desert, leaking his lifeblood all over his hand. Chrys was already beginning to falter for his efforts, and his footing was growing sloppy.<i>Stop. Just stop. You need to stop. But... no. I have to keep going. <br/>
</i><br/>His pace slowed down and he walked in baby steps, as he pulled off Niegel's shirt with his hands, whilst trying to hold onto the lightbulb he took from the trailer. He rotated the shirt and pulled it back on, so that the untarnished back of the shirt was now on his front. Then he returned to placing pressure on his wound again, beginning to walk faster. It was only a temporary solution, but it would suffice for now.<br/><br/>Chrys froze when he heard the first of Niegel's calls.<i>"It's going to get cold, Chrys."  </i>He stopped breathing, as he turned back to look in the direction where the calls were coming from. It was directly behind him. He changed direction, sauntering as quietly as he could away. There was a jittery shake to his limbs with the adrenaline coursing through his body, dulling him to his pain and urging him to action. But if he ran, then he would give away his position immediately.<br/><br/>But the soldier was far more experienced than him, and Chrys could hear him approaching quickly. The crunch of old leaves, of twigs snapping under the weight of a human step, of shoes scuffing themselves against rogue stones in their way. Niegel's voice, drifting closer and closer, taunting him. Warning him of beasts that might be worse than he was, and of how his body had needed those calories that he didn't have. Questioning if he had any plans for how he'd survive outside in the forest alone. Telling him that he would die an early death if he got himself lost.<br/><br/>His trepidation of discovery caused his composure snapped, and Chrys bolted as quick as his body would allow him. Panicked breath came out of him, and he made a moan of terror.<i>Fuck. </i>Niegel had heard him, and he was in pursuit.<i>Fuck. </i>There was no way Chrys would be beating him in the chase, the way he was. If he were in better condition,  then yes — but he was far from conditioned, and there was only so much the adrenaline in him could compensate for. The lightbulb in his hand, he rammed against the trunk of a nearby tree. It shattered into pieces, leaving him with a impromptu shank, with edgy bulb glass as blades and a sparkplug for a hand.<i>Last resort...</i><br/><br/>The end of the chase came when his legs failed him, and he tripped over a rock, losing his balance before he could catch himself. He collapsed to the ground, yelping in surprise. "<i>Fuck!</i>" He rolled to regain his footing, but by then it was too late. He pushed himself backwards, coming to rest his back against a strong tree. His lifeline, the shank, was pointed towards Niegel. The intensity of which he held onto it pained his cold fingers. Chrys rest his free hand against his stomach, compressing the cuts again. Unsteadily panting, he spoke. "<i>N—Not a step... closer.  I'll... stab you. I swear," </i>Chrys forewarned, mustering as threatening as a tone that he could. His shank arm was trembling ever so slightly from the strain being placed on his body.<i>"I'll kill... you."</i>