Who| The Ψiioniic biiowiired and The Signless 69problems
What| Put the best friend back in the box!
Where| Safety Bunker
When| last day of the arena
Warnings/Notes| language, death prophecies

There was one place Psii hadn't combed over in search of either food or Signless: the deepest parts of the abandoned areas. Finding food was less important now. Psii knew his time was coming, and it wasn't just his labored breathing, parched throat, or dizzy spells interrupted by more headaches. He'd seen his own death in a vision.

Psii had always thought that when he finally knew, he'd be properly scared and spend his last nights in dread. But instead, he found he couldn't afford the luxury. Psii, like many lowbloods in rough situations, had accepted that he was more likely to die violently. He drew on that impassive store of cold practicality now. He had never died himself, but he'd lived with the voices of ghosts since he was hatched. He knew how it went.

What his vision really meant was that he was running out of time. He had to deliver one last precognition before his usefulness expired. He'd spent most of his life delivering bad news, so it was fitting that his last swan song would be the opposite: Everyone would die, everyone, except Signless. It might be too much to ask that he see his friend one more time before his demise. But if he could give Signless the assurance he wouldn't die in this arena, give him a bit of foresight so he could plan his next move when his allies were either dead or being resuscitated back at the Capitol.... Psii didn't dare presume he'd give him actual hope. Psii was a downer on a good night.

He delved into the dripping dilapidated halls, dark even for his nocturnal vision. He still had his guard up, mental fingers ready to release his psionics if needed. Xenomorphs were more concentrated here. He wouldn't allow himself to die until the proper time. When he heard a sound nearby, he steeled his breath and drew close, nerves coiled in tight wires.