thearena | (no subject)

Camp is a crevice between great stone formations, wide enough for a campfire, to seat two, maybe three people around it if they didn't mind getting to know each other. Narrow enough to protect from the worst of the wind and sand.

Wyatt's coat was stretched across the opening, tacked into it place with the knives he'd taken from the Cornucopia. The tail rippled, flapping noisily in the wind. He'd tried to call the dead boy in, to get him out of the storm at least, but he'd refused. Insisting in that slow, stuttering way of his.

He wasn't sure if he should be touched, or think him mad. Both, maybe.

He tended his wound, the sleeve rolled up to his elbow as he checked the haphazard stitching he'd done with his off hand. Smeared on fresh salve to keep it soft and reapplied a new bandage, hoping again against infection.

His stomach rumbled and he eyed the remaining cans, but he settled for a mouthful of lemonade, and let his eyes droop.

He hadn't realized how tired he'd been, how much easier it was to sleep with an extra pair of eyes and ears until R had arrived. His chin dropped and he slipped under, trusting the boy to rouse him if he saw anything.

Edited 2013-07-08 21:02 (UTC)

Maximus was built and prepared for the sandstorms, even in the dead of night. His desert robes whipped around him in the wind but his headdress was pulled tight over his face and neck, the only visible portion of his face a tiny slit were his eyes were, darker as the sun and dust hand browned his skin. On his back lay a crossbow with several bolts (some he'd fashioned himself), and tucked into his robes and his belt lay his other supplies, many of them attached by small lengths of rope that he'd cut from his stash.

He was a one-man survivalist machine.

But he was finding it impossible to sit still.

He'd only had twenty minutes warning before the dust began to kick up and whip at his face - not nearly enough time to find shelter. His torch had gone out in the wind (a stick wrapped in rope and smeared in animal grease) and he'd replaced it on his hip, unwilling to waste it when the weather was so bad. He just kept moving towards where he knew the rocks lay.

A flicker of light teased in the distance and Maximus drew to a halt. A fire? Someone's camp, perhaps? He considered turning back the other way - wasn't willing to battle himself with whether or not he should bring death upon its occupants - when a sudden gust of wind nearly tore the crossbow from his back.

He took it off, settling it in his arms. Fine. Shelter was more important than moral qualms. He would just have to deal with them when he got there.

Five minutes later, he saw the outline of a figure against the sand. He ducked down immediately, drawing the cross bow close. Couldn't be more than a few feet away... damn, this visibility!

Good thing it worked both ways. R was looking right there and he couldn't even see him - the most he got was a slightly darker shadow out there, something blurry that could be anything at all. Faint motion. A smell? Someone was (maybe) out there, but he couldn't get a pin on them, from how far they were or if it was wishful thinking: a meal fresher than the Cornucopia's dead man. R sniffed again, tilting his head up. His mouth dropped open as he strained against the sandstorm. The zombie lurched forward an uncertain step, stopped, and swayed.

To keep going to investigate or stay here, closer to Wyatt? R could hear the snapping of Wyatt's coat, faint like it was so much further away and he knew even without shuffling forward that he'd get lost, fast. R decided to stay where he was. Guard duty, right. Keeping a lookout. Play this smarter like he was a human. A smart human wouldn't wander off.

Just to be safe, though, R let out a curious "hggh?". It wasn't a "stand up and show yourself, buddy" but he thought it got the job done.

The strange groaning question - not even a word, just a sound - sent a chill through Maximus' spine. There wasn't a lot that Maximus was afraid of, and he himself wouldn't say he was afraid of the Zombie, but what had happened to Javert had shook him to the core.

He knew what this shambling outline was.

And he knew what he had to do.

He was loading the crossbow before he even thought about it, standing suddenly in the whipping wind. He raised it. Aimed.

And fired.

It was a spectacular shot for being both at night and in the middle of a sandstorm. It still missed its mark though: the bolt fell shy of R's forehead.

The bolt slammed into the soft flesh of his neck, punching right through the thin layer of leather peeling away. R grunted in surprise, kicked back a step hard. Somehow he didn't end up flat on his back. A moan forced its way up out of his throat, gurgling around the bolt lodged in there, and still jiggling. R shifted and spotted a shadow where there hadn't been one before, only a few feet away. Another Tribute. Must be the one who took pot-shots at him. Armed and able to attack from a distance.

For all he knew, this guy was here to raid Wyatt's camp. Followed them here. Thinking of Hyperion, remembering more and more about those quiet nights with Wyatt, R lurched back into action faster than he thought he could. Driven. Zombies usually weren't that driven but here he was, thinking about Wyatt exposed behind him and that man probably reloading.

R lurched for the man, waiting until he was close enough to see that shadow start to resolve into blurry details before he dropped his shoulder, snarled, and lunged.

Edited 2013-07-09 15:15 (UTC)

He was halfway through loading his crossbow a second time, cursing his slowness with the weapon the whole time, fingers fumbling over the mechanism, when the Zombie hit him like a freight train. Into the sand they went, the crossbow thrown from his grasp, landing in the sand with a thump.

Maximus grunted lowly, immediately churning in the sand, trying to get his hands on R's face so he could keep the creature's mouth away from him. The crossbow bolt in R's neck lashed against his face, pulling the fabric away and leaving an angry red cut across the bridge of his nose.

R went down on top of the man in a clumsy sprawl, sand flying up in his face. He immediately went for the kill, his teeth bared as he dunked his head, going for the jugular. Zeroing in on that pulse of Life singing over the sandstorm's howls.

Only he couldn't close those last few inches. The man beat him to it, his hands crushing against R's face and pushing back - R could only jerk his head side to side, weaving desperately, his eyes scratched to hell from the sand and faded almost white now instead of his usual Dead gray. A few drops of black drool oozed out as he struggled to force his head forward. It was only when the man's face cloth was torn away that R realized with a start he'd seen him before.

Air's friend. The one who mercy-killed him. "Awkward" wasn't even tickling the surface.

Jesus, R thought. For a second he debated backing off. But look what happened with Hyperion floated up and R decided no, that wasn't happening again. The zombie pushed in for the kill, his growling cutting through the storm.

Wyatt couldn't say what woke him. Skimming beneath the surface of consciousness, the groans and grunts didn't seem that out of place in the storm, just more howl and grit, but something stirred him. Instinct maybe. Fate.

Whatever it was, his hands twitched and he jerked awake, blinking wide, dark eyes at the low dancing flames as he struggled in that first, chaotic instant after waking, to remember where he was. Shaking himself, running a hand over his face, rubbing at his mustache, he reached with the other for the coat, pulling it aside - expecting to find R just on the other side, shuffling eagerly forward to show him whatever it was he'd found.

But he wasn't, the dead boy was-

"Shit."

He shot to his feet and out into the sand, not even bothering with his hat. He couldn't make out the other figure - just the struggle - until he was on top of them, until the white robes were puddled at his feet.

He cursed again and grabbed R without hesitation, one muscled arm wrapping around his bony, thin chest. The other hand came down on the back of his neck to try and take both his hands and teeth out of the equation as he pulled, dragging the zombie back.

He hoped, distantly, he wasn't about to get stabbed or bitten for his trouble.

"R! No! Not him, R!" He wrestled the boy sideways, twisted them so he was in between R and Max. A wall of flesh and bone.

R almost did snap instinctively at Wyatt, caught up in the moment. His hands scrabbled away, clawing at air and sand, mostly. His teeth got nothing as he was manhandled off.

Then suddenly Wyatt was between him and Air's friend, this human shield looming up out of the dark, so close even R's scratched eyes could make out his face. R pulled back in surprise, his corpse's face still frozen in a snarl. No? Why not? He'd taken a shot at him. That was intent right there. It was the only time R considered himself actually lucky he was a zombie, otherwise he'd be drooling blood on the ground with a path straight to Wyatt left wide open.

And Wyatt was protecting him. Clearly R didn't have the whole picture here. He sensed this was a running theme in his life.

"Don't...und - " R cut off as the bolt run through his neck bobbed. Great. Another speech impediment he'd have to work around. He stared hard at the man Wyatt was protecting, doing his best to concentrate and moan around the crossbow bolt. "Get. Wuh...why?"

It happened incredibly quickly. One moment the creature was about to take out his throat, Maximus roaring and pushing back to get him off, and then suddenly between them was air - the zombie hauled off him bodily, and another person between them--

Wyatt.

He drew his knife with ridiculous speed, an arm already going out to try to push Wyatt out of the way.

"Get back!" he cried, the warning in his voice sharp, his usual calm even token broken with a trace of panic. "Get away from his mouth!"

Wyatt didn't have time to explain, had just gotten his mouth open when another hand was grabbing at him, firm on his shoulder, as Max's voice boomed in his ear.

He tightened on R with one hand, pulling him further behind him as he turned the other out to push at Max, palm against his chest, trying hold him back and stave off the knife.

"Don't, Max! Let him be, it's alright! Nobody has to die here if the both'a will just simmer down!"

R had no clue what was going on here, although he guessed they were probably on a first-name basis and that cemented in the No Biting Rule Wyatt had just put in place. R reluctantly stood down, his shoulders relaxing from that hunch as he swayed there, peering over at that blur who'd tried to shoot him. With the sand whipping around them, he could barely hear Wyatt's yell.

"Okay," R wheezed around the bolt. He didn't sound too sure here but still. It wasn't like he was rolling in friends right now. R was definitely going to respect Wyatt's wishes. "Thought...he was...bad."

To show Wyatt that he meant what he said, that he was a good chill corpse and he could do better, R took a slow step backward, so slow it was deliberate even for a zombie. Then another one. Some of it was because a little distance didn't hurt and made the temptation to start biting his way through Wyatt to Max fade just a tiny bit. Most of it was because he really did want to prove he could be trusted.

"No, Wyatt, you don't understand, he--" But he cut off abruptly, eyes narrowing sharply when the thing spoke - when it listened and backed off.

The bloodlust and rage were still more than apparent in his eyes but he stepped back out of Wyatt's grasp too, glaring across at the Zombie.

"So it talks," He said, almost a growl, still brandishing the knife but no longer actively trying to attack. He shot a look at Wyatt. "You can't trust him. Javert -- If you'd seen what he did to him, and then he never came back--"

The name - Javert - meant nothing to Wyatt in itself, but knowing it held importance for Max was explanation enough. He looked back at R, eyes narrowed against the driving sand tearing across his face, scouring every inch of exposed skin.

He'd seen him feed, had watched him tear into Aunamee like a starving dog - was that the last thing Max's friend had seen? Felt?

...But R had never tried to harm him, had helped him scavenge the Cornucopia, found him the supplies he'd needed... and was just standing there now, swaying in the wind, as docile and earnest as ever. As if patiently waiting for Wyatt to decide his fate.

He shook his head, turned again to Max.

"It'll be alright, Max. I promise." He jerked his head toward the rocks where the firelight glowed, the only real discernible marker in the storm. Offering. "Let's get outta the storm - we'll talk."

(He hadn't forgotten their earlier argument beneath the blistering sun, but it was neither here nor there in the moment. Even if they disagreed about the arenas, Wyatt trusted Max unequivocally at his word, and he wouldn't - couldn't - leave him alone in the storm.)

It. R's face was stiff between the rigor mortis and the heat drying his skin out, the only reason he couldn't look offended at being called an It. Max was right. He was an It, he'd even thought of himself as a "thing" and a "dumb corpse" before in his darker moments, but he couldn't help feeling a little hurt anyway, even if it was deserved and 100% accurate. The zombie dropped his eyes guiltily when Wyatt turned to look at him, feeling that stare burning.

"I'm sorry" didn't cover it. It didn't with Perry or Air - Javert - or any of the hundreds of people he'd probably killed over the years.

"Won't," R said, finally looking up to stare at Max and then Wyatt, registering the knife as an afterthought. "Protect. Wyatt...has good...idea."

Maybe they really could talk this over. R was willing to try. Sensing that Wyatt was putting his foot down, R turned his back on the man who'd shot him and began stumbling toward that fire, a blurry light wavering against the sandstorm. Either this could go well or he'd end up with a knife lodged in the back of his skull. Personally, R was hoping for the first one.

Maximus took a deep hard breath from his nose, trying to get his frantic heart to calm down, and got a lung full of dust for his trouble.

Coughing, he slipped the knife back into place at his side, reaching up to replace the fabric around his face. Narrowed eyes glanced between Wyatt and R, every muscle in his body taut, ready to spring, but he stayed still.

He watched as R as he trudged back towards the fire, seriously considering running up and stabbing him in the back of the skull, but he didn't re-draw his blade. He hadn't expected the creature to talk, let alone to talk sense. He looked straight at Wyatt with his most disapproving look, and walked over to him.

In a low breath, just over the wind, he said: "If he goes for my neck again, or yours, I won't be lenient."

And then continued on towards the fire.

Wyatt hoped it wouldn't have to come to that, but couldn't deny it was fair. For whatever else, self-defense was a line in the sand they could both agree on.

Head ducking against the wind, he fell in at the back of the column, eyes all but closed, open just enough to see where he was headed. ...If not the crossbow he nearly tripped over. Digging it out of the sand - figuring it had to be Max's - he carted it back with him.

At the fluttering coat, he paused, taking one last - rather pointless - sweep of the storm, before pulling the fabric aside and ducking in.

Close quarters, between the three of them, the campfire, and the small stack of supplies, piled back at the narrowest point of the crevice. 'Tense,' wasn't a bad description either.

Shifting, he held out the crossbow to Max and tipped his head at R, nodding to the bolt jutting from his throat.

"You alright, son?"

It didn't seem to be bothering him any, but Wyatt still thought it should come out. For R's sake, for one, and for Max's.

The bolt could be reused.

Edited 2013-07-10 16:21 (UTC)

He could feel more than see Wyatt's friend glaring death at his back. Must be some sixth sense, some instinct that somehow survived R dying but hadn't been enough to save him when he was human. Now it just made him vaguely paranoid, R casting a look over his shoulder and barely able to make out the dark blurs of Wyatt and Max against the storm.

R shouldered his way into the crevasse between the rock formations. Somehow he didn't stumble in like an undead klutz and drag off the coat Wyatt had carefully strung up as a curtain slash door-thing. Once inside, he squeezed to the back, giving the two humans the only way out, trying to show his good faith by...letting them have an escape route. Totally not creepy. R whistled out a sigh as he turned and faced them, seeing Max's distrust despite only being able to see his eyes above that cloth covering his face against the grit.

"I'll...live," R said, trying to be casual about it. Bad timing? Julie had told him to his face he was an awful comedian. Probably bad timing.

The zombie paused, realizing Wyatt was staring at the bolt, and oh, he probably wanted it out. Saving him the trouble, R reached up, wrapped his browned, boney fingers around it and pulled: the bolt didn't slide out immediately, R having to use everything he had because the thing was in there pretty good. Black oil reluctantly bubbled as he worked it out. It came free with a dull squish. R held it in his hand like he didn't know what to do with it, eyes roving from the Wyatt blur to the Max blur. Which one? The man he trusted not to shoot him, the cool one, or its rightful owner, who was probably pissed at getting jumped twice now.

He hoped he didn't regret this. R lurched one, two steps over and held out the crossbow bolt to Max.

Maximus was used to death. Had lived with it his entire life. One step from it, always. And a harbinger of it for others. But R... R was something else.

He let the fabric fall from his face once he was inside, and he replaced the crossbow on his back. He watched - compelled - as R removed the bolt from his neck. It made his skin crawl, but he did not flinch or look away, reaching out and taking the goo-covered bolt with a deep solemnity. Carefully, he wiped it down with the hem of his robes, and then replaced it. He watched the zombie, docile as anything, for a long minute. 'I'll live,' indeed.

"He's different," he admitted grudgingly. "Last I saw him he was trying to hunt me." He glanced at Wyatt with an expression that could only be read as 'What did you do'?

Wyatt watched the exchange carefully, mentally preparing himself with the hows and what fors of trying to grab either of them around the snapping fire if he had too. His eyes tracked the bolt until it was out of sight, and then, finally, he looked up, meeting Max's stare.

"His name's R. He was one of mine last arena, in the mountain with Howard and Julie."

The ones he'd lost in one fell swoop that had nearly dragged him along with it until Max had turned up and found him lying in the dust at the base of their smoldering camp.

"He's... eaten," he added slowly, eyes steady on Max's, man enough to know he had to own up to his part in the mess left behind at the Cornucopia. "He'll be alright now."

Edited 2013-07-10 23:48 (UTC)

"One of mine" - normally that would make R feel almost alive with that strange, warm glow he'd been having. Knowing he was accepted for who he was, despite all the corpse hangups. Despite everything. Now he just stared awkwardly at his feet, unable to meet Wyatt's gaze, feeling Max studying him as he swayed there in the firelight.

Alright now, but for how long? Could a zombie really keep friends?

"Al...ready d-dead. Didn't...kill him," R muttered, like that detail would make a difference. "Trying."

He shuffled his feet, falling back into zombie routine because it felt familiar, even if it didn't really make him feel that much better. R glanced up at Wyatt and Max, fixing those grit-blasted eyes on each man, going opaque from constantly being scratched. He had trouble making out their faces this close, everything blurry at five feet and hopeless at anything further than that. He told himself look, it was promising they were talking and having a conversation like people and Max wasn't shooting him in the face. It was a start. Find the positive in little things.

Edited (typos) 2013-07-11 12:01 (UTC)

Maximus did not like it. He guessed, of course, from the way that Wyatt had said 'eaten' just what that meal would have consisted of, but it was another thing to have it confirmed by R himself.

He thought of the way Wesker had swallowed down his ear.

There were too many men here willing to eat him, he decided. He didn't say it out loud - that would probably only encourage the capitol to bring more.

"... So he eats, and then he can talk." Maximus said, though he didn't quite believe it, eyes hard on R. "You didn't talk before, and I saw the chunk you took out of Javert. I saw what you made him. Are you saying that sometimes you're an animal and sometimes you're not?"

And worse, that he could spread that inhuman hunger for flesh? Those dead, dust-lashed eyes?

Everything in him thought it was wrong to even take a chance, with this. That he was doing a disservice to Javert's memory by even listening. It was only his respect for Wyatt that kept his hands free of blades, kept his body still.

It wasn't as easy as killing an animal, of course. But then Maximus had never had qualms about killing men, either.

R could rip out a man’s jugular with his bare teeth. He’d shared brains with M over and over again, the zombie version of a six-pack between friends. And yet he couldn’t meet Max’s steel-hard stare, R’s own eyes drifting away guiltily. It was only a matter of time before he’d run into someone whose buddy he killed. Having the confrontation last longer than a few pissed off seconds with a sniper specifically out to get him, though? Not what he expected. Somehow it was worse. It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it.

The least he could do was tell the truth, instead of staring and then stumbling away to forget like he wanted to.

R struggled to put what made a zombie tick into words, something he could force his cracked lips to form the consonants and the vowels.

“Can’t…stop when hun-gry. Can’t…”

He paused, stumped. He couldn’t even begin to explain how bad the hunger could get, how it was a force in itself. The fire crackled between them, the sandstorm still raging outside. Keep talking. Don’t chicken out, R. It might take him several minutes to even get a few sentences out but he had to keep going while he was still all here.

“Trapped when like…th-this. Prison…?” This. This body. This shell of a brain. When having even a single letter to your name was a small miracle. Most zombies didn’t even have that much. R closed his eyes to concentrate. “Stuck. Attacked Javert when...starving. In…fected because…”

By then R exhausted his little arsenal of words. He pointed to his mouth, then raised his finger unsteadily to his skull, and shook his head. Because Javert had run before he could get to the man’s brain. Because R knew he should stop, he kept telling himself he wouldn’t, and he did it anyway like a broken record.

Wyatt's head tipped, listening to R, but watching Maximus across the flickering fire, his brow wrinkling as the boy went on. They'd talked about it before - he'd known from the get-go what R was and what he did - but this was the most detail R had ever given.

There was nothing more he could do now then he could then, but those soft, uncertain words certainly made him wish there was.

"I don't like it either, Max," he admitted, as low as the flames, when R voice faded. Shadows played over his face as he shook his head. "But he ain't some stone-cold murderer, doin' it for the fun of it. He's jus'-" he took a breath, shoulders rising and falling in a tired sort of shrug, "-doin' what he has do."

Like any of them, just trying to survive.

Maximus was extremely patient - he never rushed R, through the entire halting, epically slow speech. Nor did he blink. Or look away. He only took his eyes off the zombie when Wyatt spoke, to look over at him instead.

"It's worse than death." He said under his breath, though whether he was talking about Javert or R's 'prison' was unclear. It made his stomach twist in horrible ways to imagine it, to picture it. Death was death. Undeath was horrifying.

It was then, possibly, that the tiny seed of sympathy lodged itself in his chest.

He looked back at R. "How long does a feeding last." It was a flat question, but a question none-the less. "You've fed, but how long before you have to feed again?"

That was one way of putting it, R shooting Wyatt's blurry face a dull, grateful look. Maybe. It helped knowing he hadn't burned all his bridges. At the same time, though, he was pretty sure that reasoning wouldn't fly to someone in Javert's position, if he could pop up, alive and breathing again.

R's shoulders were already starting to hunch before Max finished his question, his facial muscles giving a useless shiver like they wanted to wince and couldn't. He could tell where this was going: how much time before you lose it again? Before he went animal, as Max put it earlier.

"....Days?" R thought he was right, except the only problem was he couldn't say exactly how long. Time management wasn't really his thing. "I think...days before...feeling It."

It wasn't the old school hunger, centered in the stomach instead of everywhere at once. R vaguely remembered that. He remembered having favorite foods he used to like (he never could remember the details - just that he used to have favorites and allergies and he traded those in), and he could say this wasn't even close. At some point a zombie would lay down and give up, but before then? A starving one stopped caring what they bit, so long as they had their teeth in anything moving. Not exactly the reassurances he wished he could groan.

R's eyes drifted over to Wyatt, distracted by the firelight carving out shadows across the human's face, then back over to Max. The man had a steady gaze. Did he even blink the whole time? Because that was one impressive stare that made a dead boy want to wilt under it. R caught himself wondering how close Max and Javert had been before...you know.

Edited 2013-07-12 15:50 (UTC)

Days.

Wyatt swallowed and stared into the fire. Of course he'd expected that it would come up again - he had to eat regularly, so too surely did R - but there was knowing it was coming in a vague, uncertain future and knowing the gritty details.

Knowing that in just a few days, R might look at him again as he at the Cornucopia. That flat, hungry stare.

What would they do then?

He'd lost himself in the killing of Aunamee, would he do the same to R? Even in self-defense, would he ever be able to forgive himself?

His jaw worked. Blue eyes flicked to Max and then back to R.

Days.

He looked over at Wyatt, hoping to hell the man knew what he was doing. There was no way he could leave him here alone with R, no matter how calm and docile R seemed now. If the hunger came upon him in the night, while Wyatt was sleeping...

No. No matter how frustrated Wyatt still was with him, he was not going to let him fall to that fate. He looked back over at R.

"I won't kill you." He said, flat as anything, his hard stare meeting R's blank and sand-blasted eyes. "On one condition. You tell us, if there is any chance of you becoming hungry. Any chance. If I find out that your Hunger is growing and you haven't warned us, I will not hesitate to send you back to the capitol."

He reached into his robes, bringing out his tin of water, and taking a gulp of it, swirling it through his mouth and spitting it into the fire. He was tired of tasting nothing but grit.

"We'll figure out feeding you in the meantime," He said darkly.

Wyatt was still here - but R could see something shift in his face, even blurry as it was, like he just realized there was a timer on this. Ouch.

R's chin had drooped down to rest on his chest, the zombie raising it slightly in surprise so he could stare, baffled, at Max. He'd screwed his friend over and then basically forced Max to mercy-kill him on top of it...and now he was letting that slide for now, letting him off with a threat R had no doubt he'd carry out without blinking. R didn't bother defending himself. All he could do was stand there listening to the howling storm and list to the side, watching as Max pulled at his water tin.

"Fair...enough," R said. He told himself not to shrug, catching himself about to whip one out. "...Maybe...Cornu-copia...again? Go...out."

The few times he'd talked about his diet with Howard and Julie was bad enough. Now R wanted to melt back into the sandstorm raging outside, horrified. He searched about for something to say, trying to think of all the animals he'd seen, suggestions. Changing the subject. Anything, basically, that wasn't staring and groaning and being totally unhelpful here.

The agreement was made and Wyatt let it lie. It either would, or would not, come to pass and there was little any of them could do in the meantime.

Hell, for all they knew, they might all be dead before it even became an issue. The Gamemakers might find a way to poison them all again before it came to that. Send a mutt after them. Crush them all right here between these very rocks.

...He was wearing a traitor's brand after all.

Watching Max swill and spit, he reached for the jug of lemonade and held it out silently. There wasn't much left, but he offered just the same, just as readily - firelight glinting off the metal cuff on his wrist. The bull's eyes flashing just beneath the bandage on his arm.

"There's food too." He tipped his head toward R, to the stack of cans scattered around his feet. "Salted to high hell, but edible."

"The cornucopia." Max said, wondering himself. A honey pot to pull in the flies. Extremely dangerous, but perhaps they would find more resources that way, and... and something for R to eat. "Alright."

Maximus caught sight of the bandage as he reached out to accept the lemonade, eyes lingering on it as he brought the jug to his lips, took a swig, and gave it back. He'd never really known the taste, before, but it was an extremely welcome one. The little bit of sugar was like an energy kick straight to his chest.

"Thank you." He said, honestly, lowly. "You didn't have that before," he said, motioning to the bandage.

"I wasn't the first one to the Cornucopia," he said flatly, taking his arm back.

He glanced at R, shaking his arm idly, pulling on the bandage with his fingertips.

"Aunamee was waitin'. He was... rabid. Attacked me with a knife. R came up on us after."

He didn't give any of the details, but at this point, it wasn't likely that they were necessary.

R was about to drift off in his head, thinking - stupidly, he guessed, looking back on it - that he wasn't getting stabbed after all and with that truce between them, things were okay. Not amazing. Only okay, which was way better than expected. The zombie stood there in the flickering shadows, half-listening to the two Living voices talking. Let the humans catch up, since they were friends, R happy to sit there and fade into the background.

A familiar name dragged him back to the present. R's head lolled up.

It didn't click immediately, R staring at Wyatt and Max blankly. The Cornucopia. The dead man with the nice suit, the face beaten to a bloody pulp. The one he'd thought tasted so nice going down...

"Man...I ate? Aun...me?" R was interrupting and he didn't even care. He felt like he needed to gulp for air, even with his lungs dry as a grave and he had no idea if he'd had too much sand go in there or it was something else. The opposite of the warm fuzzy feeling he'd had recently. It sank in. R wished he'd drifted off all the way now because at least he wouldn't have known: that Wyatt murdered his friend and that...he'd gone to town on him like any old corpse.

R's groan came out strangled and small. "He was...my friend."

The fire popped, the only immediate sound that followed the zombie's groaning declaration. For a long beat Wyatt could only stare, his face tightening slowly, eyebrows furrowing into a vee.

R and... Aunamee? The man who had butchered Howard with such glee, who had attacked Wyatt himself without prompting? Who had verbally picked at him so often he could hear the man's taunts in his nightmares?

The math didn't work.

"Yes, R," he replied tightly. "I killed him, you ate him."

Maximus glanced between them. His initial slightly proud feeling at Wyatt having killed Aunamee (he'd never liked him) mixed with his slightly annoyed feeling (as he had been deliberately avoiding killing on Wyatt's behalf) was quickly overtaken by the gentle storm he could feel brewing in the small space.

And a quickly deepening resolution in his chest. So R did eat his friends.

Well that was a good thing to know.

He didn't interrupt, however, though he did throw Wyatt a questioning look.

R didn't say anything at first, between being stunned and just not having the words for whatever he felt curling in his chest. It definitely wasn't his heart. That thing had been hanging there dead for who knew how long. It felt like it should hurt.

Instead it felt the same as usual: dead like the rest of him.

"He...was a...good man. Nice to...me," R wasn't even sure where he was going through this. Suddenly he was wondering now if Wyatt was as good a friend as he thought, his eyes sliding back over to him. There was the faintest hint of something else beside that usual confused expression plastered on his face. Betrayal? Was he sad? Sick? Was this what it felt like? "Didn't...know it was...him."

He was aware of Max taking this all in, glancing at Wyatt and letting the other human talk. R started to take a staggering step forward, hand raised like he wanted to grab answers and then stopped, remembering oh, right, yeah. No sudden movements. His hand dropped back down to his side. After that little speech, R had to take a break before he started moaning again. So now what? Maybe he needed a breather outside. Whatever it was Dead guys did when they suddenly needed to get out of this alcove. He'd rather drift away in his head, sand-blasted by the storm, than try to focus on Wyatt's blurry face and wonder what else happened? Who are you?

He'd had such a friendly face, too.

'He was a good man.'

Wyatt heard the words, knew them for what they were supposed to be, but trying to match them up to Aunamee just didn't fit.

He watched R's face fall and slacken and wrinkle slowly - he couldn't pinpoint what exactly the emotion was supposed to be in his strange, cracked face, but he could tell it wasn't anything particularly warm and fuzzy.

Back teeth clenched, he looked at Max, eyes moving over the Roman's furrowed brow, taking in the hard set of his mouth.

"Apologies." He ground the word out. "Next time I'll be sure an' let him slit my throat."

With that he turned, snatched up his hat, and pushed through the coat and out into the storm, muttering back over his shoulder, "I'll take watch."

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