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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.
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.
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anyway.
He holds still when she walks past him. He can't help allowing himself an eyeful. A second later, he trots to stay by her side. His feet hurt from so much dancing around but he won't be telling her that. The first mosquito to suck at his neck gets a full shiver out of him.
"If you can find some food, I'll take what I need and you'll take back what you need for the kids." What he doesn't say if that he'd rather carry an armful back to wherever those kids hid himself- his hands were larger. He'd just. Drop everything at the cave entrance. At least that's the plan forming in Hawkeye's mind, loose as it was. His steps are heavy next to Holidays but he's trying to not be a target. He's not humming. He won't even talk if she won't. It's like he's proving a point, or trying to.
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Her mind begins to wonder why he's finally quiet. She would like to think that it's because he's finally listening and trying to stay calm now, but it could be because he's trying to think of a plan to pull the wool over her eyes. It was risky to trust a stranger in this place, so she keeps one hand on her knife, for him or others.
She doesn't argue with his settlement of the hopeful food spoils, though. That sounded just fine with her. Since he's quiet now, rather he was thinking or just being good, it seemed like the perfect time to explain some things.
"This isn't my first arena," she starts, "This is my fourth one. When you die, you'll wake back up in the city, the Capitol, almost immediately. The Capitol posses amazing technology, but I've seen people get blown up and mauled in these things. In the last one, I lost my left arm. I don't know how they do this. Clones or advanced stem cells or something.
"If you don't die, you'll be the Victor and have to live with whatever wounds you carry out with you. They usually don't have to come back into these things, but Victors are still prisoners like the rest of us. Their advertised jobs is to be mentors to the tributes of their district." She'll pause there and wait for the inevitable torrent of questions and emotions.
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Logically, maybe he shouldn't be as unnerved as he was.
He'd seen the proposed enemy at twenty paces, rifles aimed. He'd been at gunpoint. He'd been to the Hell that was battalion aid. Death came knocking like a thirsty friend. Twenty hour shifts standing elbow deep in dead children.
"No," he says. It's curt and flat and all too simple. He looks ahead. Maybe if he tries, he'll convince himself to not accept. No, people don't come back to life. Not to be put on a supposed television show. Not to be savagely murdered again. He-- it--
He loses his breath, really. He shouldn't have. He shouldn't have done a lot of things. There's this self-involved glaze he hated so much to see in other people. It sounded familiar. A nightmare he'd seen before. One foot in front of another. March on. Life continued. It was a machine. A glorified machine.
There's a frog in his throat and he just wants to stop and sleep it off. Children died. They just did that. "Huh," he huffs out. He couldn't wrap his head over what Holiday had said, not all of it. He knew he couldn't. He couldn't connect the dots to some pieces if he wanted to. He didn't want to.
"I'm chief surgeon. At a- it's a MASH. We're operating in Korea." That was a nice pun, he figured. The bridge of his nose burned. There was a sinking feeling around him. But he kept quiet. He won't shout when he's drowning. He never did. He just shook and fell and Billy laughed. "A lot of us there never wanted to be there. We were drafted. Uncle Sam said 'do or die' and, well. We fix broken boys so they can get killed at a more convenient time. I, uh. This sounds like it'll just be another day at the office." No it doesn't, but immunity was built up little by little. If your heart bled for every bleeding heart, you'd be nothing. "I think I'm ready, y'know. Doom, gloom, no escape, insanity, inhumanity, no reason--"
--he'd gotten progressively louder. He shouldn't have. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Here he thought he knew bombshells! What's there to do? What's there to say? He understood only parts of those words. He hadn't wanted to hear any. Why can't he ever get anything? Why can't anything ever be right? The world's a whirl and he's too sober. He lifts his arms and calls, "I asked for a vacation, I got a Holiday!" but that's at least lower than before. There's a laugh he barks out so all of a sudden and it's paired with a crooked smile. He's too sober to feel pricks in his eyes. Hawkeye draws a breath-
"So. Holiday. That's your real name? It's peculiar." A bleeding heart was nothing to bleeding boys.
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Then there was the sponsor dates, training time, previous arena footage, celebrity interviews, making friends, crying in showers, merchandise, terrorist attacks, live executions, etc. The arenas were only the tip of the iceberg and she did not envy Hawkeye for going through it all. She pitied the children, tried to keep them safe, but there was something to be said about how a child or teenager takes this sort of thing compared to an adult.
If he doesn't want to progress any further on what she's told him, she won't force it. He can go at his pace, but it'll all happen either way. What Holiday hears from his end is a MASH unit in Korea. Drafted. Providence didn't draft anyone as it wasn't military and the government didn't know what to do with the EVOs, so this was definitely before the Event (and Kiev) but still on Earth. So.
The Korean War. She should really mention the diversity of people around here, but Holiday doesn't. He needs to take one thing in at a time and the topic change suggests that he can only do so much at once right now. For her, the Korean War ended over 80 years ago.
"My last name. Rebecca Holiday. Everyone at home just called me Doctor Holiday or Holiday, so I brought the same over here on habit." Glad she did. Anything to remind her of home. The green ribbon wrapped around her wrist is her only cherished possession and it's just a reminder. "What about Hawkeye? Your last name is Pierce, right?"
Chief surgeon was also nothing to laugh at and she tucked away that bit of information for later. Perhaps she could quickly catch him up on modern medicine advances once they were both out. It may help.
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The smile stays. It's lazy but not unwanted.
"Ah, Rebecca." He draws out the affirming noise, letting his mouth open so he looks like a panting dog for that one moment. "I knew a Rebecca once. Nice girl. Always a holiday with her. She'd tell me to shut up, too, all the time." Story-telling, but short. He changes his expression with near every sentence, rises and lowers the pitch of his voice. Moves his hands. "But that was so her roommates wouldn't find out. Nice girl. Decided to throw a slipper at my head instead of a boot once." He pauses, thinks about digging out his dog tags and decides against it. He's positively cheerful. Talking about the most mundane things! It would be jarring if it weren't the first time. "Well, on my birth certificate it says 'Benjamin Franklin' but everyone calls me Hawkeye. And I mean everybody- back home, too. It's from my old man's favorite book. Last of the Mohicans."
They were looking for food for starving children, he was exercising his ability to keep relatively quiet, she was exercising her patience more likely than not (bless her), and he was explaining his name with such pleasure. Funny and almost disrespectful if you thought about it.
"Pair it with 'Pierce' and uh, I don't know, it's snazzy. Calling everybody by their last names only is just too formal. I couldn't do it. Their first names, too. Some of them are just plain hideous." Here's looking at you, Walter. And still, the only footsteps he could hear were his and the woman's.
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Instead, she's just happy he doesn't say anything on it and even manages to pull a smile at the story of this other Rebecca he knew. It was nice to talk about simple things every now and then. "Your father has good tastes. One of the most innovative inventors and a courageous hero all in one."
Six always seemed to think that names were important. That they described someone and should be chosen with meaning and purpose. The conversation reminded her of him and she didn't like it.
"I was the lead scientist and researcher in, well, an important world-wide organization. The only person I know now that doesn't call me by my last name is my little sister, unless they just refer to me as Doc. Guess it just stuck. Feel free to call me whatever you like. One kid once referred to me as Holly or Hols once upon a time." She missed Hols.
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Whatever Rebecca says is of some importance to him and so he makes sure to remember parts. And the smirk is wiped off and see what he meant about the short-lived cheer? She was being awfully vague about her work, not that he had gone into grand detail about himself. "Some important world-wide organization." He repeats, not as impressed as he maybe should have been. "I'll tell you now, the CIA's not as big on the 'Intelligence' part of their shtick as they think they are, Holly." Because 'Holly' was more common than 'Hols', at any rate, and he didn't think hard of giving anybody a name. And right, right, she had said 'world-wide' and not 'American', but how patriotic would he be if he didn't think America was the entirety of the whole damn world?
She had mentioned a little sister, so the bite is kept out of his words.
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Holiday certainly didn't mind talking like this. There were still things he really needed to know, but even she liked to relax in these arenas every now and then.
So, she even gives a chuckle. "Not the CIA, thankfully. I worked for a place called Providence. A lot of people here don't even know of its existence. Most people... aren't from the same places I'm from. They sort of take us from all over. Different... dimensions. Times... Take that as you will.
"If you were from the same place and time that I am, then trust me. You would know what Providence is. We weren't exactly secret."
Guess she was getting to that part sooner rather than later.
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"Rhode Island?"
Because like hell he wasn't going to interrupt. For what it was worth, he shut up for the remainder of her tale. Because that's what it was, a tale. The caveman and the... those people, the judges in the scoring room. They were a world apart, sure, but.
Well, so what? Everyone in Korea was from all over, too.
"Who knew they'd hit it so big, the little buggers."
Oh, he's just talking for his own God damn sake.
"Look-" He should believe her, maybe. He didn't want to. Want, need, could, should- why was there always a conflict between them? "Christ, why can't anything be simple?" He murmured, more to himself. Then louder so Holiday could hear clearly, "Look, Becky. I'm not sure I believe that. So are we near the foodthings or what? This is a fun little scavenger hunt but what's really keeping me going is the idea of sinking my teeth into something that's not made out of World War II surplus powder."
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She didn't elaborate on Rhode Island or her home or... any of it. Let him take it in as he can in the time it takes him. He'll have to swallow it all eventually, whether he believed her or not. If she were in his position, she wouldn't.
When this is over, she would buy him a round of drinks to enjoy. It was her only relief here.
"Keep low and quiet. If I say run, we run, all right? I know some of the people in here. If someone there is unfriendly, we don't want them to see us."
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"What, you don't trust me to be quiet?" He says, turning to her. He had meant it as a joke but he's doing his part to look serious. She had seniority, after all.
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The clearing was getting closer and closer with every step they took. While Holiday couldn't really see anyone around, she also couldn't see anything around. It looked like it was picked clean from her point of view...
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Hawkeye found himself a step or an inch ahead of Holiday, feeling some spirit of competition rising. Not in that way. Not in the 'I'll find this before you do' sort of way that would also make him search for details he didn't know and crane his neck. Competition in the more primitive way, the alert way, the 'survival' sort of way. It would be impossible to miss the Cornucopia by now and Hawkeye thinks back to his arrival.
The clearing was prime ground to hunt.
His heart was beating hard, but how was that any different from the rest of the day?
"How do you feel about splitting up?" He asks, though by how low he voices it it might as well be mouthed. No worry, though, he'd also taken the liberty to step closer, to practically brush shoulders with the woman. He didn't see a damn thing in that building. "If someone wants to pick us off going in, we might as well make it difficult." Not a damn thing in that building.
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Biting her lip, Holiday nods in resignation. "Just be careful," she tells him just as quietly, but still sternly.
Then again, he could be plotting to get the jump on her. If that's the case, let him. It would make some guilt go away.
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He gives Holiday a final look see. Pulls a face and waggles his eyebrows suggestively and slips away until he's some good yards away, still in sight of Holiday, still hidden in the treeline. Hawkeye keeps his gaze on her, keeps his ears focused on what's around to try and pick out any disturbance. He'd wait until she made the first move, and he'd sprint ahead. It felt a lot like waiting to try a new procedure, no experience, life on the line, text book open to page 213 with watery illustrations. So Hawkeye felt a streak of confidence it could be done.
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It seemed quiet. It seemed abandoned. Either it was and there was nothing there or it was a trap. Or maybe some grateful thing in between.
It would have to be done quickly.
She looked back to him and nodded before going on the move. Holiday sprinted into the open, but kept to the treeline as she circled her way to the center, knife out and ready.
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The nod brought it back.
Rebecca sprinted and Hawkeye followed. She kept to the treeline, he made a straight dash. He figured out how to signal he was willing to help. If someone had hidden and no-one had caught it, then he'd just go down. But he was at the behemoth building's front sooner than he imagined, if he had imagined anything at all. He didn't register what there was or wasn't. He just searched, because they had made the dash acting on hope.
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"Anything?" she asked once she was at the entrance, watching the tree lines with her knife drawn. A glance behind her told her there wasn't much there, if anything and it wasn't like they could stay long and shop.
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"Dirt," he announces. "Lots of that. The world will never want for... dirt."
His breathing was labored and he wondered if he should make it so obvious how out of shape he was around the woman wielding the weapon. Her children would go hungry. If she hadn't lied, Hawkeye figured she had more to worry about than the ragged man stating the obvious. "Do we go out the same way we came in?" Sounds like puke, he thinks. "Is there some secret tunnel I don't know about?" He's not looking forward to another run. "There wasn't anything left."
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On the other hand, there didn't seem to be any other tributes in the immediate area, unless they were planning an ambush. The news of nothing left over was a bit disheartening, but she'd handle that in better safety.
"Get back to the tree line," she speaks hushed and quickly. "I'll cover you." Holiday spares a glance pass Hawkeye, seeing very little left for the grabbing, if anything. She idly wondered if tree bark was poisonous in this arena like some of the other plants as she turned back to look around the area. She could always try some first before making it back to the cave.
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And he crept forward until he was peering back out the mouth of the Cornucopia and the sight of the jungle again made his heart sink. Seconds inside a shelter, one so terrible as this, where it seemed everyone wanted to get to, had made him soft. He sucks in a breath and takes off, though, straight out the way he had come in. A sprint to the trees, and he's gasping for breath by the time he reaches them and the safety they were supposed to offer. Vision swimming, he searches for Holiday behind him.
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What a stupid move. But nothing lost and nothing earned, so it didn't really matter now.
Rebecca darted into the trees right behind him. She took a moment to stop and listen, hoping that he would be quiet for that long. For what she heard, it didn't sound like anyone else was around. All of that panic for... well, for dirt. She still observed the surrounding area, as if something or someone would come through at any moment.
Eventually, she just... nodded to him, not really knowing what to say and being uncomfortable with saying anything in the first place. He was good at talking to help with that much. That is, until she did find herself speaking. "We have a temporary shelter, a little food, if you want to come back with me."
The cave was sadly temporary. Punchy was the first to notice the ever rising tide.
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Then he's shocked, you know, at her offer and at the fact that it seemed to him to be sincere.
Despite himself, he finds himself grinning. Despite himself, he finds himself raising a hand and panting out, "No, no. No thanks. A little food isn't going to do me any good. I'm a growing boy." Though it would honestly do a lot better than no food at all, which is what he had to his name at the moment. "And if you make me run one more time I'm going to barf and just lay there. So forget it." He thought again about dying at the hands of another person, another-- what the hell'd they call them? Tributes? Yeah. He'd help the woman and the kids then, but only then, by his size and weight alone. If the game was survival, strictly, he'd be nothing good to them. He couldn't hunt. Couldn't scour. Couldn't keep quiet and he sure as hell would only take space and temper and food away from who needed it more. Useless was a lousy thing to be, but hey, it was the truth.
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So, when he turned her down, she just frowned and nodded again to him. Besides, there truly wasn't a lot of food and she really shouldn't have offered in the first place since she's not the only one in the little camp.
"There's a series of caves on the northern part of the island along the beach. We've made camp in one of those, if you happen to pass by there in the next few days... After that, it'll probably be underwater and we would have moved on, so don't worry about it then."
Assuming they weren't all dead, of course. Hawkeye was a likable guy, though. If he found the right person, he should be just fine, hopefully. "Good luck and... sorry about the Cornucopia. Thank you for helping me." She had nothing to give in thanks, sadly.
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There were children. He waved his hand again.
He made a split second decision and decided against telling her about his claustrophobia. No caves for him, no, no. He actually might rather die.
"No, you- you watch over your kids." And he's back to being grave, just like that. Because he was talking about lives he maybe didn't know but that maybe were in just as much danger as they were. And Holiday was alright, minus the first impression. No-nonsense and he could respect that, at the moment. "You watch over the kids and-" and wait. His brows furrow. One quick question, teacher, one quick question before you go, he wants to say. He glanced back at the Cornucopia. Oh, so now he had a name for it. "Why were you expecting to find food there?"
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