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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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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."
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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.
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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."
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"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."
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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?
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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."
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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?"
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"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."
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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."
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"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.
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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?"
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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."
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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.
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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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Part of him was offended, but more of him understood. Recognized that desire to hold onto the possibility of a better answer (a way out, a chance).
He didn't take it personally.
Glancing at Max, watching the question wrinkle the Roman's brow in confusion, he tried to help - even if the Captain didn't want it.
"They call the man in charge President, if that's what ya mean. President Snow..." he said, hoping the context was related (unlike so many of the other things the man had said). He paused, glancing at Max again. "But I've been here as long as anybody an' I ain't nothin' about any elections."
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He was just lucky that Wyatt could make some sense of the conversation for him.
"No. He may as well be Emperor in all but name. I've not even heard of Senators, in this place, so she is no Republic."
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So his new buddies clearly didn't understand how much he didn't care about the whole thing. How little it meant how the civilization was run if it meant the morals that kept people from pitting people against each other were shot to shit.
Hawkeye keeps his gaze on the gladiator.
Yeah, he's thinking about you, chum.
Surreal was too nice and orderly a word for this all. He'd scream and tear his hair our in frustration, but that'd just be returning to square one. What little progress had been made here would have been lost if he'd done what he wanted and taken the marshal by the shoulders and hollered are you crazy, and don't you understand.
And it's not defeat. It's not acceptance of the strange theories, the tales. He just. Hawkeye just wouldn't get anywhere if he continued asking questions that made no sense to himself. He stays quiet. Maybe the two have learned to expect an outburst after the silence wears itself out. Finally, he turns back to Wyatt. The marshal. And his blue eyes lock on the smaller man's and search and maybe plead. For what, he isn't sure. So he distracts himself. "Don't worry, it's stupid anyway." He says quietly.
And then, gentlemen, the outburst: "Führer Snow doesn't sound so catchy," he says. He drops his hands and the sassy, stupid pose. He wants to pace, and this time he does. He walks a yard away, to the left of them. He wonders if he can bolt it to the treeline. Realizes he really can't. Flaps his hands like an exasperated school teacher instead. "But they weren't communist. Don't worry. Snow? Sounds like a teddy bear!" He's not shouting. He should be shouting. He was just afraid of losing his hide if he did, suddenly. "The only teddy bear I know is called Bear." --he thinks. He stops dead in front of the two again.
"You two are partners?"
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He actually recognized the German - the sound of it, if not the word itself - having heard it often enough in the border towns, a good many immigrants making the push west (distantly, he could remember the priest, traveling with his family, riding in the wagon behind the Earps). But before he could comment on it, Hawkeye was turning to talk of teddy bears and the memory was lost again.
He looked carefully at Max again - was just about to cock his head toward the trees, a silent suggestion to get while the gettin' was good - when Hawkeye spun to face them again.
"Yes." He said after a beat, waiting to be certain more wasn't coming.
A simple, direct reply. The truth, as Wyatt saw it.
Felt it.
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Though he had been introduced to teddy bears.
He wondered vaguely where Venus was, at that moment. He hadn't seen her face in the sky, so she was still alive...
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So he clasped his hands in front of him, instead of running them through his hair. There's a brief and pained expression that passes through him, but it's schooled nearly instantly.
"Why?" He asks and feels like a three year old but sounds ten times as old. Still young, in a way. "The way I heard it, there's only going to be one man walking out of here alive." Face value and trusting so... blindly. He wasn't used to that. He just didn't have a choice here, did he? Gee, he loved these men, Hawkeye realized in a spur. Gee, he'd love even more to be that one man alive. But what a lousy way to achieve that goal.
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How did you tell a stranger you were willing to die for someone? That you were willing to give up your safety just to be by their side when it all came to an end?
Finally, he turned back to Hawkeye.
"Death's a funny thing, here. It ain't always as permanent as it aught to be. But even when it is... some things are worth dyin' for."
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It wad a very simple equation after all.
"I am already a victor - I won the last arena." He let out a breath. "Even if I hadn't, allies are useful. You're more likely to survive to the end with one than without."
He paused, looked back towards the trees. There was something else, though, something that he wouldn't say when he knew the Capitol's ears were in the trees. So instead, he merely murmured:
"We're stronger when we stand together."
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