thearena | All bets are off!

Who:Rat and YOU!
What: Rat is using his wound to the fullest and trying to bait people in for an easy kill. Let me know up front if you're good with just a wounding or if you're okay with your character getting killed. He'll make it quick and painless! A few people are immune, especially Hawkeye. Mindy and Garrus will be attacked if you tag.

Secondly, he's a fine actor, and will be doing his best to pass as an (admittedly quite flat yet muscular) woman when people come to him. Of course, it wouldn't be flawless since he doesn't have makeup and hair supplies at his disposal. But he's wearing a rat kigurumi for his pajamas.
When: Week 2, after Shion's dead.
Where: Any floor!
Warnings: Blood, angst, etc.

He picked out a good spot, in an area where no one was. Conveniently, there was already a blood patch on the carpet from some earlier kill. He dropped to the ground. In some ways, he hadn't a choice. He untied his hair from around itself, and let it fall in a mess over his shoulders. His leg was looking ugly. Just a little bit longer. He could survive this much.

He took a deep breath, and let out a loud, despairing, decidedly female scream. He laid out on the ground, his forehead resting on his arms. His bleeding leg was quite obvious from most of the entrance points. From between tangles of his hair, he could see one of them fairly well. His knife was securely tucked in the cuff of his sleeve.

Would taking out someone trying to 'save' him make him a bad guy? Who knew? But he knew it'd get people's attention.

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He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he wasn't above messing with them a little. He didn't really flinch much, but it was more out of will than anything. "Ah, but a ballgown and some stage lights make a world of difference. For now, a pretty voice and a batting of eyelashes is enough."

He just hoped he had better ideas for the leg than Sigmund did. "What's the prognosis, Doc? The last guy wanted to cut it off and end my dancing career."

"Too bad you've only got the eyelashes," he shoots back, short and dry and everything Rat's games weren't. Banter, though, he couldn't resist. After a clear look at the gash and the swollen skin around, exposed flesh wanting to find any semblance of what it used to be to hold on to, he clicks his tongue. A simple tut, because the alternative would be to ask how or why and Hawkeye thought he knew those answers already. Something that slips from him for a moment is the mention of the Last Guy, and it isn't until he starts prying open the first aid kit and searching for an ointment, isn't until he slips a hand in a pocket of his to take out a strip of cloth, clean as can be and acting as a bandage now, it seems, that Hawkeye mouths a confused little "Who-"

Then he starts actually answering Rat's little question. "Bad."

Was that good enough for the fella? Possibly not. "I don't know what you were thinking trying to brave it out when you should have stayed off it. Is that really why you planted yourself here? It hurts you? It's infected, that's what. And unlike Whoever-The-Hell you saw before, I'm not interested in an amputation." The ointment went on the cloth strip, the tube of it unmarked, and Hawkeye only hoped the sponsors in their fucking infinite wisdom and magical medicines had given a cure-- if a solution to this mess was only that simple. And because Rat is a boy who just rubs him the wrong way, Hawkeye added, "For one, because I don't have a bone saw handy." Which was such poor form, but.

They'd live.

He didn't really fill in the blanks of how things went with the "last guy". And he left that half-asked question unanswered.

"You nag like Shion," he responded to the criticism of how he was treating his wound. "If I stop moving, then I'm probably going to get killed. And it's a fine stage to set, anyway," he continued.

He didn't know what kind of entity would make a guy like this any kind of doctor, but as long as he didn't turn on him, he wasn't going to complain about the bedside manner. He flinched severely at the ointment making contact, but he didn't make any sound. He kept his leg stubbornly in place.

Finally, he sucked in his own nerves and the only show Hawkeye made of it was to lower the coated cloth stips to touch the wound, the leg. He expected a hiss or a recoil and it might have been to drown the possibility out that he went on, "Fine stage, sure, but don't expect me to advertise any tickets. What I meant was that you might have done a little better by laying low- you know, not... screaming, like you did. Just to try and knife somebody. I mean, you're lucky you got me instead, but." But he remembered still having the knife at his throat, and the doctor shook his head. Kids these days. And if he thought about that, he'd derail, and so he continues to tend to the wound, to dig around the jar of ointment when he needed, to wrap and tighten a bandage when he wanted.

A second of silence ticked by and it seemed like too much silence for Hawkeye to bear, and so he sighs out a breath- guilt ridden and he confesses, "It was a bad joke. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did about the saw- your leg's going to be fine. Your sponsor- look, the medicine here is really something else. You'll be fine, but I'm serious about wanting you to stay off of it. If you can." If you're a trooper, he'd add, but this boy was a stubborn son of a gun and he doubted he needed to.

All bets are off! - Open!

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ouch, this is horribly late-- my bad, sorry