The Weak or the Strong, Who's Got It Going On [Closed]

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Who| Punchy and Hyperion
What| Punchy makes a bad decision and finds out the hard way.
Where| Tomorrowland orchard
When| Week 7
Warnings/Notes| Death and treachery.

Punchy's given up, and Punchy has never, ever before given up. Having seen two people he was trying to protect die in his care, and having killed a third with his bare hands, has done something deep and injurious to his sense of resolve and his faith in people. He's no longer attempting to corral up an army. He's no longer attempting to take down the Gamemakers from within.

Now he's just trying to do a little good before he dies. And that means hunting down muttations.

He takes a break where he's standing now, over the corpse of a giant rabbit with claws and curved sabre-tooth fangs. It got a good gash in on his bare shoulder, and he has to admit that even with all the conditioning superhero school put him through, and as used to long nights as he is, he's exhausted. He wipes sweat from his brow - it's dripping down into his empty eye socket - and grabs a cloth from a nearby store to cover its dead, staring eyes. Its black fur is matted with blood, his and its.

"Now you won't be jacking up any of the remainders, bitch," he says to the corpse.

Comments

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Not too long after, not too far away, the sound of a man struggling is audible. Thuds follow groans, both of pain and effort, spear sinking into the ground as he stabs them through flesh and bone, knife cutting through air and spilling blood. Even in his condition, implants almost fully functional within the limits of Tomorrowland, Hyperion is finding himself weakened by hunger and exhaustion, less patient and attentive. The creatures have managed to nip more than just a little of his own clothes and bruised his legs and arms, but nothing is making him stop, unless and until he falls over.

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Punchy hears the sounds, and a part of him wants to walk away. It could be two more Tributes going at it, and the last time he was involved in one of those he had to clean blood off another corpse of someone he knew. He doesn't want to know if the sound is coming from little Gavroche as he's strangled, or Tim Drake as he bleeds out. He doesn't want to care.

But there's a yip from the muttation on Hyperion, and the fact that it's an animal on a Tribute amplifies the sense of duty - and opportunity, opportunity to be the hero - roaring in Punchy's ears. He lopes - he doesn't have the strength to run - through the grass with his shard of metal until he sees the scene before him.

"Hypes!" He rushes in to tackle the giant mouse attacking Hyperion.

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The memory of the voice should be aggravating, but more pressing matters are grabbing his attention when he turns his head, familiar shape stumbling but determined to make his way towards him. The spear is yanked from the ground and jabbed against another muttation, growl released from Hyperion's throat, sweat shining on his forehead.

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Two muttations. One injured Hyperion. And one injured Punchy, but who's keeping count? Punchy yanks on the muttation's neck hard enough that he feels its neck give a mighty crack, feels the scrabbling limbs go limp against the ground.

And he breathes deep, seeing that Hyperion has skewered the other one. And sees that the blood on Hyperion is not just the animal's.

He straightens up and wipes grime and a splatter of mud from his forehead. "You look like you been gave the Heisman, dawg. What the shit?"

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Why does he insist on talking like that? It's not natural. It's not even slightly impressive.

"They appeared out of nowhere. I was unprepared." He shakes the blood off the spear. "It won't happen again."

No 'thanks for your help' or anything of the sort. Doesn't Punchy feel appreciated.

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"Yo, you could at least give me props, dawg." Punchy rolls his shoulders back and take a few deep breaths. "You okay? You's all beat up. I got meds, if you need it."

He hasn't forgotten what Hyperion was going to do to Enjolras, and his now off-center nose won't forget what happened when he intervened. But heroism is all he has left.

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"I didn't ask for your help."

Simple, isn't it. He couldn't have brushed him off any more kindly.

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"But you needed it."

Punchy folds his arms, glares. "Homes."

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"Is that why you helped me?"

He stops.

"Because I needed it."

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Punchy nods his head slowly. Once.

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"It wouldn't be the first time your heroics got you into trouble."

He doesn't sound annoyed. He doesn't sound pleasant, either.

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"You frontin', homeboy?"

He rolls his shoulders back and cocks his head. He's not afraid. He knows Hypes isn't the nicest guy, but he can't imagine he won't at least get a chance to book it.

But Punchy wouldn't run anyway.

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Hyperion slowly turns his head to Punchy, no longer interested in a distant detail on the horizon, brows drawn. Suddenly his knife becomes a presence between them, quiet and still in his hand.

"What will it take to make you stop talking?"

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Punchy's hands clench. "You promising you won't shank nobody once I turn ass on you would do it."

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The silence between them is drawn, heavy. The quirk in Hyperion's lips is barely there.

"I can promise you'll be the last."

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The corner of Punchy's lip twitches. Upwards. It's a smile, and the wind brushes his bangs away from his forehead. His gaze is unyielding and triumphant. A few moments ago he felt betrayed, but now he's rearranged his frame of reference, and he knows just what he's supposed to do.

Every superhero needs a villain.

"Bring the pain, bitch."

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Punchy can be a little entertaining, sometimes. He's always trying so hard to be more than his fate will obviously allow. Still, his bravery and unrelenting will to do that could almost impress him, if he will himself to gather that emotion. Hyperion barely needs to make an attempt at all.

"I'll do my very best."

His fist goes for the boy's nose, quick and sharp pain expected to hit him just to cause some momentary disorientation, reaching back with his knife to strike the first vital spot it can find.

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Punchy feints to the side. For the moment, all his combat training is enough to push through his exhaustion and dehydration, and that means he doesn't get a fist to the face. It just grazes the side of his head instead.

He drops back to aim a high kick at Hyperion's chin.

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The kick hits Hyperion in full, knocking his head back and forcing him to stumble and struggle to keep his balance. There's a pause where he wipes the blood slowly snaking from the corner of his lips, staring down at it with a strange frown in his brows. It's as though he's surprised to see any blood was drawn at all.

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Punchy doesn't give Hyperion long to ponder it. He pushes himself back up from the ground with his hands, then, left-handed, moves to slam a fist into Hyperion's stomach.

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The punch is taken again with every expected reaction, but Hyperion takes less time to fight back this time, slamming his head up against Punchy's, one hand reaching to grab his arm and keep him in place as he folds his other arm and throws an elbow across his jaw.

/sob this got lost in my inbox

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Stars fill Punchy's vision, comets, supernovas, explosions of light. He can feel the half-perspective he has from his mutilated face shut down, just in time to register the next blow cracking his teeth together. A canine tooth rolls around on his tongue, gets caught between there and his gums.

He lunges forward to tackle Hyperion entirely.

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Hyperion stumbles backwards, both hands trying to hold Punchy, keep him under control despite the impact, gritting his teeth with a groan, legs steady and holding ground to keep both of them on their feet. This time he kicks up his knee to catch Punchy's stomach, once and twice and thrice, whatever it takes to make him stop and fall over.

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Air and blood spray out of Punchy's mouth, onto Hyperion's once-white outfit. He twists his hip to the side, letting one leg go out from under him to try and drag Hyperion to the ground. He drops his hand and grabs Hyperion's ankle, yanks.

And all the while, his vision starts to slow down, like a smear of paint.

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He struggles to stay on his feet, kick back and show the boy why some things are simply a bad idea. His foot digs into the dirt but he ultimately stumbles inelegantly, frustration building up in the back of his spine, making him grit his teeth and growl as he brings his elbow down with him to strike again.

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Punchy's brain stutters for a second, long enough to realize his face is in the dirt. And then it stops, and he's unconscious. His breathing forces bubbles of blood out of his nose. The broken tooth rolls to the corner of his mouth and then dollops out onto the ground in a glob of red spittle. His hand is gripped around Hyperion's pants. The other lies in the grass and twitches.

He groans, but he isn't fighting anymore.

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There's a quiet pause, broken by Hyperion's exhales, mouth dropped and body half-collapsed on the ground, struggling to stay off it. The spear was dropped somewhere in the fight, but he has time to reach for it now, get back on his feet and pick it up to finish what's been started.

Minutes pass. The blood pouring from Punchy's face means very little in the pause to observe its color and flow, before he readies the weapon in both hands. His foot nudges Punchy's shoulder, rolling him on his back, chest exposed.

At long last. The boy will not speak to him again.

The spear strikes down, still bloody and infected from the muttations he killed. Punchy deserves no better.