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

[swill]

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.

Comments

[swill]

It's only normal, you know, that someone goes a little loopy. That after a day of nothing but stress -beginning with the goat, the damn goat, God damn Klinger's goat- the mind starts to seek a little release, a little recreation, a little rest. Some tomfoolery. Heck, Hawkeye loved tomfoolery. It was almost as if he and his mind were one. They loved the same things. But. But sometimes Hawkeye can't say he really agrees with his head, or with what it wants to tell him.

Right now he doesn't want to believe a lot of things, but knows he has to. He's trying to find a way- a loophole- some way he can convince himself the red hand didn't just call back to him. So. Not a bird. Not a lizard. He wants to peer at what's connected to the clawed hand, but thankfully both Hawkeye and Mind agree curiosity is not worth risking a Body over. They both loved their body, thank you very much.

"I'm not Quixote tilting at windmills, either!"

Be reasonable. He couldn't outrun the creature. Might as well see if it's friendly. Or die trying. That's kind of like the drill.

[letthemburn]

He can try to find a loophole. He might even manage to succeed, given the various circumstances. Still, the presence of a loophole is unlikely to change the fact that the owner of the clawed hand has spoken, and is unlikely to stop doing so anytime soon either. But at least there haven't been any outright indications that she means to attack, and that's bound to be something.

"I can't imagine whyever someone would care to tilt windmills."

[swill]

His hands start talking before he does, moving. Seems to be a theme here, talking hands. Ha. "Not tilt as in skew, tilt as in skewer. Don Quioxte of La Mancha. He was a special fella," Hawkeye mumbles. His eyes search for what's connected to the hand. He sees spots of red, here and there. Nothing much. Someone with a prop, he figures, but the voice is weird. A prop and a red coat instead of the greens and browns he'd seen parading around. His shoulders move up in a tight shrug. "Or so I've heard. I try not to associate with that kind of character, though Tuttle- he was an exception."

Tuttle. What a guy. What a blatant disregard for for the sanctity of a eulogy.

"The kind of character here being, uh, fictional." He moves back. He steps forward. There's no reason to be alarmed yet, apart from the fact that there's an unidentified red thing hiding and holding conversation with him. A prop. A costume. Maybe it was the court jester. He's wary but not overly so. Perhaps it was a mistake.

[letthemburn]

If he wants to talk with his hands, Iskierka isn't about to stop him. She might find it a little odd, but to be fair, the closest thing she has to hands are her foreclaws and those are often used in an entirely different matter. It comes with being bipedal, although that is one that isn't really the most clear at the moment.

"Well, of course not. It's hardly as if they're real."

[swill]

He was losing his mind and he'd been here only some hours. Hawkeye wavers- steps forward, then steps back. He goes absolutely nowhere, he stops with the useless gestures. He'd do absolutely nothing, too, and wait for something to start making sense but then he thinks he'd be waiting entirely too long. So. Casual. He can play that card. "You know, it'd be easier to hold this conversation if I knew who I was talkin' to. No offense, but people are mostly always put at ease when they know the name of who they're chatting with. I'll start the introductions. I'm Hawkeye."

[letthemburn]

There's a briefest moment of silence at that - Iskierka can mostly parse what Hawkeye is saying, but some of the finer details are still a little odd. But if it's names, that much she can deal with. After all, she's never had any sort of problem offering that much before.

"You may call me Iskierka," she answers.

In her opinion, it was a much better name than Hawkeye, but she managed to keep that comment to herself for the time being.