thearena | (open) Attention, all personnel. There's a loon on the loose.

Entry tags:

(open) Attention, all personnel. There's a loon on the loose.

Who| Hawkeye and the unlucky who run into him
What| A crash course and a sorry welcome
Where| Heading southeast though he hasn't gotten far from the Cornucopia
When| Tail end of week 2
Warnings/Notes| Can't think of any now, but I'll update as needed

It's been a... day? One day? Had everything really happened in only one day? They could have had the goat. But did they listen to him? No. Their loss. He's long since tucked the dog tags into his shirt to keep them from sounding his presence with every step. Now all he had to worry about was him sounding his presence with every step. Twigs and leaves and mud and bugs-- it was their loss, you know. They could have had the goat. It would be quieter, possibly. --Ha! Nah. Hawkeye knew goats. You know, unfortunately. They weren't quiet, no. So that's one thing to take pride in, and he'll take any ridiculous opportunity to boast. He's quieter than a goat. He's also sweatier than one. And if he finds one, just randomly in the middle of the jungle, he'd like to eat it. It'd be like lamb, but maybe with a more wild, tangy taste. Tougher meat, but he'd still love it. Or maybe 'love' was too strong a word. He'd like it. He'd appreciate it. He's hungry. He's just so damn hungry. And so much for trying to be quiet, all non-existent survival instinct and training showing off now in his supposed time of need. There are sounds in the jungle, but Hawkeye hates to think how easy it is to distinguish between what steps belonged in the setting and which didn't. His didn't. His steps had already landed him in danger. He had already been captured by that... that one guy. He had high tailed it out of sight the second the swap was made. A prisoner exchange except he'd been the only prisoner. More than leaving with just a wounded pride -what kind of guy sets foot in a trap so soon after being labeled game?- his confidence, not that he'd had any to begin with, well... well, shit, that sure was shot. And all the while after, all he could admit to thinking was 'well, prisoner exchanges are nothing new'. And 'that went well'. And 'one day I might get used to almost dying'.

He titters. He can't hear anyone else around. His legs hurt, his stomach hurts. Maybe he should have taken calisthenics more seriously. Just maybe. There's a pole. A rod. To his left. "Uh huh."

And there's another to his right. He has no idea what they do. Are they radio towers? He didn't have a radio, so it wouldn't be worth the while to figure it out. What a lousy design! Ruin the majestic moss and rubble, all radiating green, by sticking two poles just there. "I take back what I said," he declares, again, to nothing. "I don't- I don't like this. You could have at least disguised them as trees." The rods were just there! They really messed with the atmosphere of the place.

They really helped drive the point home that he was going to die.

A death in a jungle would be, to a point, normal. Plenty of people wandered off into the wilderness, got lost. Were never found. A jungle was wild- who could blame it if it got a little hungry now and then? But this was man-made. Altered, at the very least. A planned death, one the unsuspecting sap doesn't know the day or cause of, that's... that was never good. Do you know what else wasn't good? Yelping. Yelping when you're trying to be silent and pass under the radar. But damn, Hawk could have sworn something touched his foot and something green slithered on the ground in front of him. And he hears a buzz and his break time's over. He doesn't know why -it might be because his newly found, shallow acceptance of his imminent death- but he shudders loudly and violently, all because he could. He catches sight of movement again and hop-steps forward with a hasty "Alright, alright, I'm moving already!" And move he does.

The sun's falling and he's wet and hungry and tired and lost. Drafted again. Everything's a pleasure, a joy. He finds a grin snake onto his expression. It hurts to keep but it'll do the trick.

Nobody would blame him for humming a tune. It rained all night the day I left, the weather it was dry. Nobody was around to criticize. He had heard and made sure. But he was sure he'd lose it if he heard nothing but birds any longer. Oh, Susanna! Oh don't you cry for me. Keeping his mind on the pitch of unsung lyrics kept it off of the rising panic and his stomach which was resolved to eat itself through. Ladies and gentlemen: the captain is here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

No, no, that's fine. Just. He'd heard the guy coming. Of course, there just hadn't been time to look up and turn to see him before Hawkeye felt the weight of something on his shoulder. Then an airy tickle against his neck. He doesn't shut his eyes and some day he might think he was brave for that. His shoulders are square, tense. He turns his chin up and doesn't know why. Thing is, he's not really thinking of much. He's not thinking words the way he usually does. There's ideas in his head, only, all swarming to get to the forefront, all muddled, all screaming. He feels cold. He hasn't let his chest rise or fall with a breath. His eyes stare dead ahead and he feels like maybe he'll chip a tooth if he keeps tightening his jaw the way he is. He wants to choke out a sob or an apology or a cuss that would sear the man's ears to hear, but he doesn't.

Why drag this out?

Finally, Hawkeye relaxes his jaw just enough to force out a chuckle.

His hand rises slowly, numbly, until it's close to where the blade rests but it doesn't touch.

"Sorry, barber," he chirps cheerfully. His voice is tight but still recognizable to himself as his. And yes he's proud, though now his eyes are closed and a crooked smile's showing. "I've already had my shave today. Two, in fact!" And the third time's the charm.

He didn't struggle. Didn't try to attack him.

All pluses, in Wyatt's book. The spear head rested light - it didn't move away, but neither did it move closer to the pulse pounding in the man's throat.

"Easy, friend, I'm not lookin' to give ya a third." It's a slow, soft drawl. Steadying. No need for rash decisions from either of them. "I jus' wanna know where yer partner is."

Curiouser and curiouser.

"Oh, good. Because I tell ya, there's nothing like a good close shave with your own blade. Borrow someone else's and ffshoo, you get little Japanese flags dotting your chin all morning. Never do that when there's inspection. Never." And Hawkeye heard his voice waver that once, but he makes a fist with his one hand that's down and then releases it and feels like maybe, after some seconds, he has his head on straight again. The blade's still there. It's not cutting. He feels like he ought to thank the fella.

The hand that's near the spear head moves a hair down. Can he touch it? He wants to shove it away. Damn. The impulse was a struggle to hold down but unlike the urge to jabber on, this one could be controlled. Hardly.

None of this made sense. Hawk opens his eyes. He knows he's not dead. That's all.

"Partner? I swung her 'round and 'rou--"

Seriously. There's some stuttering as he shifts gears.

"I don't have one. I don't know what you're talking about." That's all.

Most of what the man said was lost on Wyatt, the words strung together too quickly for him to even hope to pick over the context for meaning. Flags and the Japanese and inspection... Blinking, he tried to keep up, trying to figure out what any of it had to do with the question at hand, just about to tell him to calm himself and speak plain when he suddenly switched directions.

Wyatt latched onto the bit he did understand, frowning at the back of the stranger's neck.

"You were talkin' to someone."

Oh, good. His stupidity hadn't gotten his throat slashed yet. While he lives for pressing his luck, pressing his luck seems like a sorry way to die. The hand hovering near the spear head finally comes down, gingerly, and a finger touches the blade. Yep, that's sharp, all right. And it's lowered. And his hands are kept still at his sides because he feels like maybe raising them to his head or anywhere above his chest or waist might be seen as a preparation for retaliation.

And the pitch of his voice is lowered a tad, too. Nerves got in the way of honesty, sometimes. Some people thought that. Hawkeye wasn't going to risk it.

"I, well, yeah. Yeah. I was talking to me, myself, and I and apparently, though I didn't know it until some very horrible and terrifying moments ago, you, Handsome. If you want to get technical, I was talking to whoever was around to listen, but I thought and hoped that that was nobody. I was talking to nobody."

Funny, he feels like maybe he won't have to feel his blood spray out after all.

"I have nothing on me apart from my charm and own good looks," he explains. It's hurried, but he's trying for clear. "And I don't know-" anything. "I don't know anybody here. I was just left here. Some people told me I should be honored- it was a fight to the death and everybody would love to be a part of it- but I'm still hoping I'll wake up in my flea-ridden cot screaming bloody murder. Pardon the phrase. Did you know they deloused me when I got here? I don't know how I got here. I don't know where 'here' is. I don't- look, I don't know anybody. I don't have a- a partner. I had a. We never married, though. I wasn't talking to anybody. I was just talking." And then he just. Moves his left hand in a slow circular motion. Just because. And he bobs his head a little and okay, maybe the nerves are eating him again. "I like talking. You know, in case you haven't figured it out yet. But if you'd rather I don't talk, that's- that's fine. I'll just. I'll shut up." See, if anybody in this damn place had half a brain, this man could be talking to a goat. "But I'd appreciate it if you got the knife away from my throat. I don't know how much more intimidated I can get. I'd offer two bits, but like I said, I've got nothing."

Hawkeye moves his hand again.

"Don't they teach manners in schools these days?"

Whatever Wyatt was about to say in response to the man talking to himself - making a target of himself - was lost, buried as the stranger carried on, another whirlwind of words. He decided, as they ran together, a river washing free of the banks, flooding from the man's tongue, that if the guy was lying, if it was all just some sort of act, he deserved a medal for it.

And, even then, eyeing him up and down (he had inches on Wyatt, but Wyatt had weight, muscle to the sharp edges he could see around the man's elbows and knees, poking through the back of his shirt), Wyatt was fairly certain talking him to death was about the only way the stranger had any hope of bringing him down.

"Couldn't tell ya, friend." Exhaling, mouth twitching, he took a step back, spear lifting away. "Even if I could say I had faith in the Capitol's schoolin', I've been outta my knee-shorts in some time."

"Oh, so now I'm a friend! I had such a swell time back when we were only 'acquaintances' I can hardly wait to see how our lives will pan out now." The dam's been broken and he can't stop the torrent. There's mirth in his voice, glee when he finds he can roll his shoulders without there being a murder weapon sitting there. His pitch has gone high again but it's so deliberate any theater instructor would have thrown a shoe at his head and rushed him out of the stage by setting fire to his skivvies. --well, hold on a minute. There's no weight of a weapon his shoulders. Belated, Hawkeye snaps out of his act. He doesn't know if he should turn. There's a quick shiver because he doesn't know if he's gone and blown it and the minute he turns he'll be run through by whatever it was had been stuck on him.

He sighs. He turns stiffly. He sees the spear first, then the man. He moves his hands up with palms forward.

He can't help it- his eyes next go the man's legs. Blame Klinger. Everything is Klinger's fault. The next time he sees that Lebanese man he'll throttle him, he swears to God.

"You've got the legs to pull it off," he chimes. "And to think I almost called you Tall and Dark along with 'Handsome'!" Christ. "You know, what you did back there really wasn't all that nice. Friends don't do that to each other." Yeah, he's still terrified.

Wyatt called everyone friend when met them for the first time, as much for lack of anything else to call them, as hopeful thinking.

"It's the arena. An' I don't know you from Adam," Wyatt replied flatly, head tipping a fraction to one side, mustache twisting bemusedly. "So you'll have to forgive me for bein' jus' a bit cautious."

Shifting, he raised his free hand and held it out.

"Wyatt, Wyatt Earp."

Right. Wyatt's movement has Hawkeye sobering up, small as it had been. There's a brief moment when he recalls seconds ago when he'd felt so lost and done for. His stomach growls and Hawkeye thinks it's partly because the rest of him is slowly coming back to life after the scare. Lucky guy. Had a spear. Had a cheesy mustache. It must be so easy to have an upper hand on him. --Hawk's hands go up to scrub at his face. If his gut got run through by the spear, at least that tickle of sweat running down his face won't interrupt the glory.

Hawkeye entertains the idea of making a run for it. His eyes wander past the fella in front of him, to the jungle he'd just come from and what stretches on beyond it. He mulls over what to say before he decides on, "Well you'd better thank your drawl and bits that I can tell you from Eve." And he turns his attention back to the man.

And he just kind of stares at the hand offered to him, like he doesn't know what to do with it. He steps back. He chuckles breathlessly. He stretches out his left and is painfully flimsy in his hold but that was kind of on purpose.

Figures he wouldn't be the only actor in the mad house.

He mumbles I was dancin' with my darlin' in tune, out of a fit of need to hoard association. Stars and chopper pilots and the stalest popcorn ever to be thrown at sorry bodies. He realizes he's lost himself. Realizes he had to return. "Uh," he starts, because he'd just been told he's shaking hands with his would've-been killer Wyatt Earp. "Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce." And at least that had been steady and clear. Hawkeye half way regrets having such a sorry hold. "I'm a doctor." As if that'd make it better, as if it was a save. "And call me Hawkeye."

Whatever opinions Wyatt was forming over Hawkeye's handshake - or lack of one - he was polite enough not to say. He could grant a lot of leeway to a new tribute. He remembered all to well what it was like to be the new arrival.

No idea what was goin' on, no one to get answers from... That kind of thing could make a man lash out.

Truth be told, Hawkeye seemed to be handling quite well. Better than Wyatt had, at any rate.

"Hawkeye," he echoed. The doctor. He made a mental note of both, but the latter in particular. Just in case. Also, "Captain? Ya served?"

He might have underestimated him. Wyatt watched him carefully.

'Don't wear it out' is at the tip of his tongue but he reels it back. Man talk. That's what this was. It was a friendly way to plea for your life. See, killing a man you know the name of... Hawkeye hopes it was more difficult than killing a no face, no name stranger. He hoped doing either was extremely difficult, but he knew casual killing. His profession revolved around it. He just maybe shouldn't piss off the guy with the spear who fancied himself Henry Fonda.

He nods. Hawkeye, yes. Speaking. The 'captain' bit was tricky and so was standing still under the scrutiny. He could manage, though. He perfected the art of dismissing anything military.

"Captain, oh, yes, that's me." It's a jab at the rank, the way he says it. "Serving as I was brought here, actually. Indentured servitude. The only thing that says what I am are two little bars and the papers on file, and I don't even know where the bars are half the time. Call me 'doctor' and I'll feel better. You'll feel better."

Wyatt couldn't help but think of his brothers, signing up and riding off to the war, and as Hawkeye's disdain became clear, of himself and his father. All the times he'd tried to run off and join his siblings, only for Pa to drag him home again.

"Whatever ya say, Doc," he replied, soundly vaguely amused. "Though, if it's all the same to ya, seein' as how that makes three of ya that I know of, I think I'll stick to Hawkeye."

Though, to be fair, he didn't call Sigma by the nickname anymore. He didn't address the man at all.

"Could get a might awkward, once yer all back in the Capitol."

He nods, oblivious to any train of thought going on in the stranger's head. He looks at the spear again and finally decides it was worth ignoring if he struck the right chord with the guy. The tone he heard sure seemed to suggest that was the case, but forgive him for being twitchy. Not every day you get told all kills will be personal, after all.

Hawkeye perks up, visibly, at the mention of other doctors around. His eyes widen a fraction and some color returns to his face, though pale as he was there wasn't much. He nods. He apparently liked nodding too much. But this time, he was paying attention. This time he was actually in agreement. The Capitol was a name that was lost to him. He thought it was just a main city. He thought this meant doctors were let out of the match early.

To serve in hospitals, see.

It made sense.

It made perfect sense!

He lets out a yelp- a howl- a hoot- whatever it was. A cry. Color! He'd see that soon. Something other than green! He'd be let out of here! He bends his knees so little and doesn't look unlike a puppy told he'd have scraps for dinner. His heart's pounding again. He risks it- a heavy hand slapped down on Wyatt's shoulder.

"When?" He asks, practically breathless. For God's sake, man, when?

Wyatt's mouth pulled into a frown, eyes jumping to the trees as Hawkeye's whoop broke through the jungle like a shot. He was half a beat from shushing him, asking him what the hell was wrong with him when the hand came down on his shoulder.

Equally surprising.

The muscle beneath Hawkeye's hand was tense, a hard knot. Even being friendly enough, Wyatt never truly relaxed in the arena. Always ready, never expecting the calm to last.

He'd been at this too long. Had seen too much.

"When?" He arched an eyebrow, the question as unexpected as the touch. "Ya mean when are ya goin' back? When ya die. Or ya win."

Maximus Decimus Meridius had won. He wasn't supposed to be here, not really, but it wasn't the first time the Capitol had changed the rules and he doubted it would be the last. In truth, he didn't mind. He actually preferred the arenas to the strange city - preferred the sharp edge of a knife that he could see rather than the ones he couldn't, hidden in the fangs of the locals.

Death didn't even count here, not really. Not always. He had thought Aunamee dead forever but the man was back. So he held out hope for the friends he had lost, too.

That didn't mean, however, that he let his guard down. For himself, or for his friends, and Wyatt was chief of those. So when the man didn't come back when he should have, Maximus quickly smothered their fire, covered up their shelter, grabbed a spear and a knife and made out for him.

He heard their voices, first, and couldn't help but feel a little relieved - if they were talking then Wyatt was unlikely to be injured, or dying. Not that it would remain that way for long, of course, but it meant he had time. So he braced his spear against his side, sharp head pointed out, and he stepped out of the shadows.

They hadn't let him wear his armour, here, but his hair was still cropped very short - his beard infinitely at stubble length, thanks to the capitol's magic. He looked even less Roman, perhaps, since his leg was a prosthetic - slick and new and very metal looking (he hadn't wanted the flesh looking ones) that replaced his leg from his thigh stump.

A present, again, from the Capitol.

"Wyatt. Everything alright?"

It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault nothing made sense- it wasn't his fault absurdity and insanity had been forced on him time and again from the time he arrived in Korea until now. It wasn't his fault that the moment the authorities in charge started making a lick of sense, they took it away. Wyatt, here, was almost authority. Hawkeye, hand still on the man's shoulder, still half-way pleading, wouldn't sock the man across the jaw though he should after hearing the stupidest shit he'd heard in... a while. The grin's vanished, and crestfallen was a generous description. "I'm a doctor- a surgeon." He explains again, because maybe the cowboy didn't hear him the first time. The other man was a veteran compared to him but he wasn't going to let this slip, though he very well should.

"I belong in a hospital, not in a-"

Whatever this was supposed to be, because of the people he'd been unfortunate to cross paths with, he'd been killed by none. Some death match.

He tightened his grip because he was trying to drive a point home, but he can't remember what that point was supposed to be. No, it was fine. He was used to being tossed to the front. He'd be fine, really. In a heavy breath he swears, "Damn." And he ducks his head and purses his lips and then almost immediately snaps his head up, lets drop the hand he had on Wyatt's shoulder (Fonda, he decided he'd call the guy, or Tex). Maximus had stepped into his line of sight, and second to noticing the prosthetic leg it was impossible to not notice the man's body. A wet noodle- that's what Hawkeye was in comparison to any regular enlisted man who could do twenty push-ups without breaking down crying. He was a worm compared to the beast.

When his brain caught up with him and delivered the line Maximus had spoken, Hawkeye would like to think he relaxed a little even if he didn't. Excited, the only cure was to make some noise. "Oh-hh," he sighed. "That's what you meant by havin' a partner. No, I live a strictly, simply single life, fellas."

Hawkeye faltered, eyes pinning on something over Wyatt's shoulder, and his first thought - here in this steaming hell - was betrayal. That the man claimed to be a doctor, a caregiver not a murderer, meant very little when Wyatt could remember all to well what Grey's - he'd called himself a doctor too - knife had felt like buried in his guts.

He stiffened, a sharp tightening of muscle. Ready, willing, and more than prepared to defend himself... until the newcomer spoke and he eased as quickly as he'd tensed.

There was no one he trusted more at his back than Max.

"It's alright, Max," he replied, head tipping a fraction to the side and back so Max could hear him. "Jus' came up on a new tribute, an' was tryin' to explain some things for him."

He kept his eyes on Hawkeye, arching a brow at his statement. He recognized the innuendo by now, having heard it so often in the Capitol, but it meant little to him.

He was hardly shamed by what Max was to him. Whatever anyone else thought of it.

"Max, Hawkeye." His first two fingers uncurled from the staff of the spear, waving back and forth between them. "Hawkeye, Max."

"Maximus," He corrected as he continued to walk towards them. Max was reserved for Wyatt, for his friends. He fell in line beside Wyatt, his heavy gaze still on Hawkeye. He knew what the Capitol said about them, of course, but he also knew that the Capitol said that he slept with a new slave every night so what was gossip? But unlike Wyatt he'd never quite gotten used to the innuendo, and, well, Wyatt was his partner, so why would he deny that?

"Another one they've thrown in first with no warning?" Maximus asked, glancing between them, the spear still ready but he was no longer advancing. He knew the feeling. He had been brought the same way, a long time ago.

Fat lot of explanations there had been, and Hawkeye can't help the resentment from springing up at Fonda's silent readiness to imply he was a liar. Blind he wasn't, and he'd seen those muscles tense to grab at the spear again. He'd promised he was alone already- should he swear it on his mother's grave? The Brick- Hawkeye would think of him as that, names be damned- advanced and he was overpowered now, truly. His shoulders stoop, he shifts his weight to one leg, he's not exactly a spring ready to bolt anymore. It simply wouldn't help. But Hawkeye reasoned it wasn't hopelessness which made him now aloof.

Talk was nice. They were nice.

"Yeah, he was helping." Hawkeye agreed, nodding to Wyatt, quiet and calm. Correct him if he's wrong, but Brick seemed to him like a no-nonsense guy. Fonda had been generous. He'd plant a wet one on the guy's cheek if the silent reception of his 'partners' crack hadn't planted a seed of actually doubt in his mind. Instead, he finds himself fumbling on what to say. Death. That was the only way out-- nonsense, he wants to cry out again. The jungle had to end somewhere- there had to be a city somewhere. Those people in the concrete den had to be holed up somewhere. Those people who brought this sentence down on him had to know what a doctor was. They had to know-- even the U.S. Army knew. And they were imbeciles, all of them. All of them. But there were MASH units in that forsaken place. There had to be something here. A doctor, damn it. That's what he was. Hesitating like he was, either acting in one extreme or the other, he wondered if Wyatt maybe thought him drunk or literally insane.

"I'm a doctor," he repeats, this time to Maximus, looking up and steady and all, trying to match himself with the other's being. "A- a healer," because that one other guy had preferred that word. "The army took me from home; I haven't seen my family in almost three years. I was in a war, but all I did was take care of whoever got hurt. I'm not a fighter, and all you need is a look at me to know that. I won't fight. I'm not going to… inflict anyone's wounds. I'm tired of having patch them all up. So. So you don't have to worry about me. I just got here and Fond-" shit.

"Wyatt. He's the second one to tell me I don't have a prayer of getting out of here. Actually, he didn't just say, he also showed through example. Very informative." He feels out of breath, doesn't quite know why he's just told so much to Brick. He feels out of breath, maybe, because he just admitted to his inevitable death. So then what kept the duo in front of him from snapping his neck and saving someone else the trouble in the future? A heart, he hopes. "I just don't think he liked my singing."

Wyatt slanted Max a look from the corner of his eye, a silent communication, as Hawkeye launched into another stream of words - more in seconds than either of them bothered with in hours.

Then the blue eyes flicked back to Hawkeye, steady and unblinking.

"The Capitol don't care who you are," he said, his words by comparison slow and measured. That same unhurried drawl. "I was a U.S. Marshal, Max... he was a gladiator, an' a soldier - a general - before that. An' I already told ya yer about the third er fourth doctor I've met. They take us all the same."

The ultimate equalizer, the Capitol. Whoever they were, wherever they'd come from, they'd all turned into the same.

Tributes. Slaves.

Dead men walking.

Maximus and Wyatt could spend hours without a single sentence between them, so the sudden barrage of words was almost overwhelming. He tried to follow all of it but he got lost somewhere in the army and caught up again when it came to singing.

Wyatt's slow, measured drawl let him fall back into understanding a little more easily.

"As far as escape goes, you indeed have no chance," Maximus said heavily. "Whatever means they possess to keep us here, they are unbreakable. And they do not revive every man who falls. But they are unlikely not to bring back a tribute after their first game. The Capitol will still have interest in you, yet."

There'd been a shootout at the O.K. Corral- in a mess tent of a MASH unit stationed three miles from the fighting front, resting on the outskirts of the village of Uijeongbu, too. They had happened several years apart, and one was decidedly much more real than the other.

What were the odds the game would turn so real? All Hawkeye had ever wanted was a laugh, a chuckle, some movement and bloodspill that was just pretend.

So he was the fourth. So he wasn't the only one who dealt with blood as a career -and the shiver down his spine is real- and he wasn't the only one in Uncle Sam's flock. The same, his ass. He's breathing hard and the next breath is the heaviest sigh he can muster instead of dealing out a scoff- just to clear his lungs, since he can't seem to clear his head. They didn't make sense. They didn't understand. Don't they know how frustrating that was? "Yeah, well, I'll find a way." He tells the general with the prosthetic leg. Less agitated, more fact-of-the-matter, more decidedly stubborn, and definitely louder compared to the present company. Generals never saw all the options before them. Hawkeye was pretty sure gladiators did, when they swung their swords and the audience cheered. But besides his mock-up bravado, what else was there? Something vague about revival. Something very clear about capture.

Silence, for a while. Another glance at the jungle behind the duo before him. At Wyatt's stupid mustache. At the gladiator's fake leg.

He plants a hand on his hip. Cocks it. "Won't someone tell me the capitol's name or do I have to keep guessing?"

"That is its name, so far as I've ever heard," Wyatt clarified, the mustache in question pulling over his lip as his mouth thinned, pressing together. "Now the country's Panem to them, but to you an' me, she's what's left of the United States."

His mouth fell into a frown, his words growing heavier with the weight of the years. Of a loved memory turned and twisted.

"Somethin' happened to it, an' everythin' changed."

Maximus said nothing - after all, Wyatt had said it for him, with more feeling than he had on the subject. He glanced back over his shoulder to take in the man's expression.

He knew the pain. Rome was so far and so long gone that there was nothing left to even reach for. He had to imagine that for Wyatt it was worse: having his world nearly in his grasp but still just as impossible to grasp as Rome itself.

He doesn't particularly care if he interrupts anything Wyatt says now. The man's proven himself patient enough to deal with it, and vaguely Hawkeye wonders when he lost respect for the man and tells himself he'd have to make up for it after. But he hears he's standing where he wanted to go back to for so long, and he just rolls off the words "God bless America."

There should have been a bite there but it wasn't present. The incompetence of himself and his new world came crashing back into the forefront of his thoughts. It should be easy to accept- this was some twisted future. Different worlds came together. If Hawkeye didn't think about it so much in so little time, he might have let the subject slip away long ago. He still wasn't sure he got it.

America being not what it should be, though...

That he could get.

Insanity he could understand.

The disheartened Captain turned to Max, the Roman, and asked intently, "But is she Communist?" Because he's got to know this one very important thing.

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