thearena | yippee-ki-yay

Entry tags:

yippee-ki-yay

Who| Sam Wilson and OPEN
What| Even soldiers take breaks on Christmas
When| Super late Christmas Eve through Christmas day
Where| The makeshift infirmary in the science labs and throughout the spaceport!
Warnings/Notes| Sam's got something for all his allies, but if you're not up for a log at the moment, feel free to handwave getting some kind of makeshift weapon, most likely a sharpened metal "knife" or pipe "spear." (I'm also up for fighting or any other run-ins here, too!)

For Bucky
Honestly, Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or be kind of pissed, that the first gift he's seen all arena is a bunch of tangled up Christmas lights. There is absolutely nothing about this that isn't completely fucked up, from having to watch one of his best friends die, to seeing the faces of his other friends up in the stars at night, to having to spend Christmas not only away from his family, but stuck in this space station fighting for his life, knowing more of his people are probably going to die today, if he doesn't bite it himself.

And they're enjoying this, they're sending Christmas decorations and snow like it's all a big fucking joke, like it's a goddamn Capitol holiday special. Shit, Christmas in the Arena, it probably is. He's swinging heavily towards pissed, right about now.

For a long moment, he debates the merit of punching the next thing he sees, even if he has to go out and seek something to punch. But he knows doing something like is just going to get himself killed faster. He's got to be smart, here, he can't do anything like that out of anger. So instead, he counts his breaths, forces himself not to squeeze the lights so hard he breaks them - or hurts himself.

When he finally looks up, letting out a slightly shaky exhale, he spots Barnes. Sam doesn't really try for a smile, not yet, but at least his voice sounds steady.

"Hey, Barnes, help me out with these?"

In the Infirmary
The Christmas tree is mostly just a pile of metal pieces and odds and ends, with lights strung around it and a few gold ornaments - all of which will be cannibalized later for more weapons, lights and ornaments included - but it's something. Most of the weapons that Sam's been putting together are piled under it.

Any friendly face who shows up at the infirmary today is going to get something shoved at them, along with a half-smile and a "Merry Christmas."

Spaceport
The Avengers and their allies are easily taken care of, because most of them have been using the infirmary as kind of a home base, and Sam can figure they'll be there at some point. But he's got other people that he's thinking about - and he's doing a pretty good job of not thinking about how that list should be longer, except for the fact that he's seen some of their faces up in the stars. He might not really know if any of them could use the makeshift weapons he's got as a result of scavenging around the spaceport, but they're going to get them, anyway.

So he's out prowling around, looking for the friends he's got left out there. He's on his guard, of course, just because it's Christmas doesn't mean the arena's taking a break. If anything, it might just mean things are more dangerous.

But that's one of the good things about deciding - deciding, like it'd been a decision more than pretty much a necessity - to give out makeshift weapons. He can still use them in a pinch; he's pretty sure the people they're for won't begrudge him if they come just a bit used.

At least they'll know they work.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There's little to keep Albert's attention in most of the station. With Jet dead, all he really wants to do is leave, but as the unspoken elephant between himself and Venus is that there's no guarantee Albert's husband is even alive out on the other side - the Capitol wanted a bloodbath, it could be they'd decided to cull their off world Tributes permanently for being far too much trouble - it leaves the German somewhat listless. He still eats enough to stay alive, goes through the motions, but sometimes he just finds himself wandering with little recollection of how he got from point A to point B.

One such time finds him in the spaceport, aimlessly meandering and kicking the broken remains of a little reindeer in front of him like a poor excuse for a football. It had landed next to him some morning (he thinks it was morning. There's no telling time in here,) and proceeded to screech 'Run Run Rudolf' in a tinny, off-key variation until he'd smashed it to bits with his metal foot. At least his cybernetics are good for relieving minor annoyances.

Sam's presence here doesn't surprise Albert, not really. Surprise implies a emotional investment into one's surroundings. Instead Albert just takes note and offers an indifferent nod. "Scavenging?"

His relief at seeing Albert is pretty short-lived. Sam's seen what it looks like when someone's given up before, and Albert looks dangerously similar to that. It's not exactly surprising, considering Sam'd spotted Jet's face up in the stars earlier, but honestly, Sam has no idea what to do with that. He's dealt with people he cares about dying and having to keep fighting, even with having to go on with the uncertainty of whether or not someone is actually dead out there, or if there's a chance they'll make it back.

He doesn't know what to do with this. With someone who's dead, but they might be out there waiting for you, and the only way to find out for sure is to die yourself - except there's no solid guarantee that you'll be back, either. So he doesn't say anything about Albert's state, or about Jet, just eyes the pieces of the toy reindeer briefly, considering seeing if he can take it back to the infirmary, find out if Banner can do anything with them.

Then he quirks a slight smile at Albert's question.

"Delivering," he replies, gesturing at the items in the makeshift cord belt he has - a sharpened piece of metal with a wire handle, a lead pipe, the laser gun he'd managed to pilfer from a damaged robotic turret, all stuff he'd scavenged before. "I don't know if any of it'll actually be useful to you, but I wouldn't be a very good ally, or a friend, if I didn't bring you something on Christmas."

"Don't waste gifts on me, I've got mine built in." He extents the long knife from his left hand to illustrate, then lets it fold back into his arm, dropping the limb to his side. His posture is benign and nonthreatening. "Those without special powers and skills will find them more useful. Though I appreciate the sentiment."

He looks down at the crushed remains of the toy reindeer, the little red LED that was once its nose blinking feebly. He hadn't associated the damn thing with the holiday, though it's so very obvious. He imagines Jet still alive - he has to imagine Jet is still alive, lest he slip into that foreboding darkness that continually threatens him - spending Christmas alone in the Capitol. They'd already missed so many Christmases and here he's to miss another. He almost wonders if he could ask Sam to kill him to escape, but he'd been on the receiving end of that request before and he won't wish it on anyone.

"I hadn't realized it was Christmas." He sounds dull and drained despite his desire to put on a straight face.

His eyebrows raise a little. “Impressive.” He should probably be more on edge, here, considering he’s wandering around in the middle of a death arena and has been looking at cats like they might secretly be out to get him, but Albert pulling a knife barely even makes him tense. Even if they didn’t have an alliance, Sam trusts him.

And he’s too busy feeling a mix of concern and resignation to be worried about a surprise betrayal.

“Not hard to lose track, in here.” Sam’d only known because he’d been keeping track of the days, especially after Steve’d gone. He’s got habits, to keep him focused, when the days start blurring together. “Wish I could wish you a merry one, man. Maybe we can have a do-over, when we get back to the Capitol.”

Assuming they do get back, anyway, since as far as Sam knows, the only way to be mostly certain about that is to win.

"Maybe." He shrugs, but there's the certainty behind his voice that since the Capitol finds ways to corrupt everything else, why not Christmas too? He's not sure he wants whatever passes for the holiday in Panem.

But that doesn't mean he can't share gifts of his own.

"Are you hungry? I got lucky and found a potato." Something he probably should have eaten a day or two ago when he found it. He may be a cyborgs, but he does still get hungry. Usually. He hasn't been mostly, since Jet died, and only makes a point of drinking water and eating little bits of the freeze-dried whatever. He's heard rumblings about alien eggs infecting the packs, gestating inside a person and bursting out like some terrible piece of science fiction, but any alien would be hard pressed to make their way out of Albert's alloy chassis. He'll give Sam the food he's pretty sure is more or less safe.

That surprises a huff out of him, a sound that could almost be amused if it wasn't tinged with a little bit of grief. He'd almost thought it was funny, back when he first realized potatoes were one of the only sources of food in this arena, after he'd spent a decent amount of time trying to teach Jet to cook them every way he knew how. But now it's just a reminder, that his friend is gone.

For a brief moment, he thinks about telling Albert, what Jet'd been trying to do. But if they're going to see Jet again at the Capitol, Sam doesn't want to ruin the surprise, and if they aren't - it's too soon for anything like reminiscing.

“Yeah, potato sounds great, if you’re willing to share.”

"I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't willing." A shrug and Albert's moving a bit off to the side, somewhere closer to a wall and more defensible. He has paper they'd found - or rather that Venus had found on one of her scouting trips - that makes for good kindling. A bit of wadded up fabric from the German's discarded outer space suit underneath and they could get an okay fire going enough to cook the spud.

Albert sets about laying down the fabric and some paper on it once he's lead them to a cozy little corner with a wall at their backs and the room easily visible. "The best I can do in these conditions is baked, not that we can expect gourmet meals under these conditions."

A little more of the same fabric he put under the pile of paper Albert wads up into the hollow index finger of his right hand. Once he's certain he has an air seal, he smirks at Sam. "Wanna see a trick? Might want to stand back."

Sam follows him, adding in a strip or two of fabric from his own supply to help fuel the fire, giving a smile at the gourmet comment. "Just something warm feels gourmet here, man." It's far from the first time he's had to rough it for food, and he knows to appreciate what he can get. Right now, anything that's not dehydrated sounds fantastic.

His smile grows when Albert smirks at him, and he dutifully takes a few steps back. "Hell yeah, man, let's see it."

Once Sam is far enough away that he won't likely get hit if anything goes awry, Albert cocks back the thumb of his right hand fires the wad of fabric from his finger so it combusts and lands right in the pile of kindling they've put together, starting a fire quickly. The noise was probably enough to alert anyone in the general vicinity, but not so loud as to echo past the spaceport in general.

"There. Best get the potato on there, it won't burn for long." And it'll be smokey too, but they have to work with what they have.

He can't help but tense, just a little bit, at the sound, automatically going quiet for just a moment to listen out for any sign of a reaction to the sound. But then he flashes Albert a smile. "Handy," he comments. "Kind of impressive, too."

Sam pulls out one of his makeshift knives, pokes the potato a few times for venting steam, then uses the knife to set it over the flames. "Thanks, man."

"It's useful, more useful with ammunition. I'm not surprised they didn't give me these cybernetics back as opposed to the pointless ones Jet and I were saddled with as a wedding gift." He shrugs at the thanks and stays standing as Sam cooks his potato, guarding their little cookout from anyone or anything the shot may have drawn to attention.

"I think the turrets have compatible ammunition seeing as they fire machine gun rounds, but I haven't yet figured out a way to get close enough to scavenge from them without being riddled with holes." He sounds so flat about it, as if it's an everyday occurrence and he doesn't care much one way or the other if he ever manages to extract his bullets. It doesn't really matter anyway, he reasons. They're all going to die in here eventually.

"I think Barnes figured out a way," he comments as he holds the potato over the fire, but it's mostly absent. He's more focused on Albert's attitude, on the tone of his voice. On the way it's pretty obvious that he's given up.

After a moment, without looking up, Sam asks quietly, "You don't want to win, do you?"

"Do you know how?" He doesn't look at Sam when he asks, making idle conversation, but the effort is moot. Sam's already made him for his lack of motivation.

Albert leans against the nearest surface; a stack of woefully empty plastic storage containers that creaks a bit as they take his considerable weight. He's nearly over 300lbs without ammunition, closer to a half-ton with. "There's no point. Even for those who have lost their allies there are still their Districts to consider, but District 3 is dead."

He says nothing about winning for himself. He won't even dignify it with a response. If he won, he couldn't help anyone. His mental health isn't even part of that equation. He'd have to watch Jet die from outside too anyway if he were to win and be let out of the Arenas before his husband.

"I could ask, if you want," Sam offers, but he doesn't expect Albert to take him up on it. Or to really care about the answer, if he does.

Yeah, that's about the response that Sam'd been expecting. Except the bit about the Districts - Sam'd forgotten, that another reason that they're fighting in here is for the Districts they represent. Or, no, he hadn't forgotten, really, it'd just faded in importance compared to trying to keep Steve and Natasha and Bucky and the others alive.

"There's a lot of people who'd say there's plenty of other points. Not dying and wondering if they're going to bring you back, not having to be in an arena again." Fame, glory, and wealth, supposedly, but those aren't even worth mentioning. He's not even sure the other two are worth mentioning, seeing as Sam himself doesn't think they're reasons to win, not when his friends would be still in them, but he says it anyway.

Neither of them care about the answer, and so Albert just lets that pretense drop. He'll figure something out later, if he has to, but Sam's confronting something Albert's not certain the man understands and he can't leave that alone, as uncomfortable as it makes him.

"And I'm sure the 'lot of people' that say these things deserve it more. For me, I can't stand in the Capitol and watch while others die." Even though he's frightened every time, even though he wonders if they'll leave him dead, if they'll leave Jet dead, if they'll come up with some new horror that he can't face and it will leave him a huddled, broken heap with all sense fled. He can't be that again; he's not sure he'll be able to be put back together a second time.

"I'd like it better if a child won, or someone like Clara who won the last. Someone who's life before Panem wouldn't have encompassed fighting to keep it." What he'd really prefer is that none of this was present at all, that they'd already overthrown this disgusting establishment and no one was forced to fight for the amusement of the masses. But if wishes were horses than beggars would ride and they are none of them cavalry at the moment.

He focuses on the fire as Albert talks, saying - well, just about exactly what Sam himself thinks. He's supposed to be pretending that he's in this to win, for the sake of sponsors, but honestly, that'd been a thought that never really stood a chance once he got in the arena. It's been way too obvious that Sam's only trying to survive to protect his friends and allies.

"For me, too." His voice is barely above a murmur, turning the potato over to catch the last of the dying flames. "I can't decide if that's bravery or not, you know. I'll face down whatever they throw at us in here rather than watch others do the same."

Not because being front and center when people die is less traumatizing than watching it happen on a screen - but because even if him being there wouldn't have helped at all, he'd always be haunted by maybe.

"We're all cowards, in our own ways. The Arena simply brings it out violently." You can all of it any way you like, but Albert knows much of his motivation now is tied up in being afraid. He's afraid he'll win if he tries and not be able to help anyone in here. He's afraid he'll lose and go through it all over. Afraid he'll die for good and leave Jet and everyone he's come to care about alone, afraid Jet won't be waiting for him, afraid enough that he's paralyzed into feeling nothing about any of it because he's fundamentally afraid of feeling.

That's really it, he knows. When push comes to shove in these situations he simply shuts off because it's easier. Cold logic is more simple to deal with, even if he knows eventually whatever decisions he makes now will hurt later, but he's so terrified of that feeling of loss, of loneliness, that he'll pretend as hard as he can to feel nothing just to stave it off a little longer. Sometimes he thinks being dead permanently would be easier and that thought frightens him most of all. He'd promised Jet he'd fight that, and so he does, but he doesn't even know if Jet is there to fight for anymore.

And around in circles he goes internally, unwilling and unable to voice any of it for the cameras. "They prefer cowards, I think."

He looks up, studying Albert for a moment, but it doesn't take long for confirmation that there's no more emotion there than there really has been for most of this conversation. Albert's pretty much shut down, and they both know it. And he should say something, he should, but-

But anything he could say, anything he'd want to say, would be centered around the knowledge that Jet's gone. It would be personal, so goddamn personal, and he can't do that in front of the cameras. He remembers snapping Bucky out of himself, after Steve - but Sam hadn't been thinking about the cameras then. He'd been ripped up and trying to find his own way to grieve, and he still is, but it's different. He can't do this.

So he backs off, lets the conversation drop. That's the best reaching out he can do, when part of him's stuck on just wanting his friends back.

"I think the potato's as done as we're gonna get."

The lack of response is at first welcome and at second a disappointment. He's not sure what he was expecting from Sam but this was not it. He's certain he shouldn't be expecting anything, though. Sam Wilson is not his therapist, or even his confidant. Sam is just... no not just. Sam is his friend, and he shouldn't expect any more or less from him than he does anyone else. Albert's emotional turmoil isn't Sam's burden, and he can appreciate not having the energy to pursue something like this, even if it's something you want to do.

How many times had he wanted to talk Jessica out of her drunken funk? How many times had he worried over Delilah and her mental state, especially in the Arena without medication? And how many times had he not because he didn't have his own emotional reserve high enough to be able to help at all? It's unfair to expect that of someone, even if they sometimes offer. So he lets it drop too, his shoulders relaxing against the crate and a small smile forming on his mouth, one he allows for now despite its feeling alien.

"Have at it, then. No salt or butter, unfortunately."

It’s hard, not knowing the right words to say. And not being able to say them, even if he could manage to sort himself out enough to figure out what they might be. Sam’s not perfect, no matter how good he is at what he does, he doesn’t get it right every time.

But the worst is when he doesn’t even try.

He thinks about backtracking, about trying to work it into the conversation again. He doesn’t even know what it’s going to be, but something, anything. But it’s a brief thought, because he knows forcing it isn’t going to do either of them any good. It’s a familiar feeling, and if he thought he was done, being in the kind of state where he wasn’t going to do anyone any good, maybe he could use a reminder that recovery doesn’t have an end of the road.

It’s still too easy to feel guilty for letting it go.

“Warm is all I care about right now, with all this dehydrated crap we’ve got.” He flicks his knife the rest of the way through the potato, cutting it in half, and offers up half to Albert.

He shakes his head and motions for Sam to take the whole thing. He's not hungry, hasn't had much of an appetite at all since seeing Tom's knife split Jet's face in half. He can run on smaller amounts of food as it is right now, being near-entirely synthetic. Jet, Chang, and Joe had trouble with that on their team before, their metabolisms being such that they had to snack near constantly to keep up their various systems, but Albert isn't built for speed or fire. He's built to be a tank.

"I had some of that cosmonaut food not too long ago." He lies, but he doesn't look gaunt or weak with hunger so he's fairly certain Sam can't tell. In any case, Sam needs the food more than he does.

Sam can't tell, and really, he doesn't have a reason not to believe him. He's still a little skeptical about eating the whole thing himself, though. It's always felt weird, eating in front of someone who isn't eating, and that doubles when not only is this a place where food is scarce and warm food virtually non-existent, but he's only able to have it because of Albert in the first place.

"My grandma'd be pissed as hell at me if she knew I took all your food and ate it in front of you, man."

He starts in on his half anyway, because like hell is he going to waste warm food.

"If she's from my generation, she'd be angrier if you didn't accept what's offered in a time of need," he snorts, imagining a fictitious caricature of Sam's grandmother, blanket across her lap and hand on her cane, ready to deliver judgement on an ungrateful grandson if he didn't mind her.

He finds himself jealous even of that woman that doesn't exist. He'll never have the chance for grandchildren, and he should have several by now, at over 100 years old. "Were you close? With your grandmother I mean."

Sam makes a little bit of a face at that, because Albert’s right. She would, which means if Albert doesn’t want it, then Sam’s going to eat it without too much protest.

“Yeah. We’re a pretty close family, aside from the military stuff.” There’d been a lot that Sam couldn’t tell them with that. A lot they couldn’t understand, though they tried. But he’s a little more focused on that first bit, and his brows are furrowed a little as he looks back up at Albert.

“Your generation?”

"Did I not tell you? I was born in 1933. I'm over one hundred years old." Which before was a mark of unhappiness for Albert, but at this point it's been so long that he's resigned to it and even almost enjoys the looks of surprise that come over the people he tells.

Sam though, he might be used to it given that he's friends with Steve, someone whose history parallels Albert's to an alarming degree, even if the execution was much different. Honestly Albert believes that the version of Earth that Steve came from is the most closely related to the one Albert and Jet lived in than any other, they just traded Black Ghost for Hydra.

Edited 2015-03-03 18:37 (UTC)

yippee-ki-yay

Spaceport

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