When he'd gone up the pipes, he'd closed his eyes and had already been at bracing for death. Since Charlie, everything's been tricky. It's been different. The thought of the cull, what once was easy, is coated all in a new layer of something he want again to touch. He thought right off he'd be killed and he'd readied for it.

But when he opened his eyes, it was the perfect mix of everything he needed. Their enemies were not each other, they were daywalkers. Daywalkers weren't people. They weren't even animals. And they were the furthest motherfucking thing from being tributes.

And the arena they were in? Churchyard after human churchyard. It's enough of old faith to put hope in him. Enough of a shameful disrepair to spark a small fire of anger. Just enough of each that, as all everyone around braced for the arena with a new found dread, he grinned wide.

He's got a pulled off bit of pipe for a weapon, dead blood already coating it. He's laughing hysterically and can't all help himself. He ain't fucking defenceless this time. With a joyous cry, he leaps forward, swinging the pipe to take out a head. Another is slammed into the ground until is crushed under his fingers. Just like old times.

"YOU EVER FOUGHT A DAYWALKER BEFORE?" He calls.