(closed) You know that ancient joke about the guy who saves his regiment, shoots the cook?

[swill]

Who| Sam and Hawkeye, then R and Hawk
What| Being hungry. Raiding the cafeteria with Sam, then later in the week, a squabble with R for some munchies.
Where| Third floor
When| Early and mid- Week 3
Warnings/Notes| None that I can think of? I'll update this if the need should arise.

Sam
It was difficult to admit he liked this Arena better than the last. There's this pesky part about him that refuses to admit to liking anything having to do with murdergames, but every once in a while when he felt a pang of pain in his belly and he'd know it was from hunger- not starvation, mind you, not that he hadn't lost his share of weight in three weeks, not that he was visibly thinner and worn-- and not from a nasty infection from a spear head stab, Hawkeye figured this arena was alright. Despite the nagging intercom and the reminder the games raged on, it seemed terribly far away from him. His encounters had been-- well, horrifying, some. There had been some guy with meat in his teeth, the skin just dangling there. There had been shadows pass him and voices behind him at times he couldn't have predicted or hidden, and still, Hawkeye figured he was doing fine.

Apart from being frightened, a full-time job that he had taken to heart since he'd been a lad, Hawkeye only found himself wincing from hunger. True, he had served in a front-line unit before all this. By all accounts, he should be used to some hardship. God forgive him for the endless bitching, but at least the mess tent slop had always been there to lap up.

--he took it back. All of it. If things hadn't gotten desperately bad yet, they would soon. Waiting was the worst part, and that wasn't a surprise coming from an inherently impatient man, but even the coming and going between floors had gotten quicker, antsier. More people were moving, more people were beginning to struggle, the food and supplies were beginning to dwindle. And he had said it before, ya know, that being in an enclosed space wasn't going to be any good to anyone. Hawkeye knew about the cafeteria, thought that by now, every living Tribute had heard of it. He still slinked nearer. Weeks of moving between this floor and the lower ones especially and he had yet to step inside for fear of disturbing any lions that slept near the watering hole. But impatience was beginning to grab everyone and why should he be spared? If there was food left, he was awake enough and able enough to, maybe, get out being bled dry. If there wasn't any food, well now he'd know, and he'd leave his adrenaline in tact for less suicidal missions than this. Trouble was, with floors so quiet despite the occasional muffled or too-shrill, too-near cry of injury or death, he didn't want his rumbling stomach to somehow echo about the place. The coast seemed clear. He stepped in.

Not a dozen paces forward, and the museum speakers announced closing time, and the lights flickered off as Hawkeye swore a huffy "Damn."

R
Back in the jungle he had been skin and bones by this time, the paranoia was high-- but he knew the dangers, at least, he thought. And what the hell would happen here? Would the wax figures spring to life, grab their ancient weapons and start slicing at them? Would the fossils of the dinosaurs above sharpen and fly out, in a burst, in all directions, and go right through someone's head? This can't be exciting to anyone in their homes, damn them, sipping hot drinks and their toddlers pointing at the screens of the televisions they pass at the markets. This can't be fun, a bunch of rats sticking to their nooks. Everyone was growing antsy. Reckless, even- because Hawkeye knew the cafeteria was in the other end, had gotten his thrill of searching through it, had even gotten friends to gift him food out of pity. He was terrible at this, he knew. The surviving part of survival.

But damned if waking up from a poor and cold sleep and seeing bony hands and finding his clothes fitting looser than they had days ago didn't startle him all the same.

Damned if every cheerful ping of the elevator didn't make him ease out of hiding to see who stepped out, stepped into his current realm of worry. Hawkeye's brows furrowed in confusion this once- bleary-eyed, sure, but there wasn't movement from the hallway's end. The ding of the elevator kept ringing, but the doors were wide open and-- and oh. One of those bastard grenades called a gift was sitting warmly on the floor, small light flashing red, ready to be taken by the swiftest hands, nevermind who it was meant for. It made for a better show. He steeled himself, told himself he'd count to five before he'd dash.

In the end, Hawkeye ended up counting to three, because who the hell counted all the way to five before firing the pistol and breaking into a sprint?

Comments

For Sam; early week

[swill]

[iwatchtjhooker]

Sam had received a few days' rations, earlier. Of course, he'd made that last a little longer, with aid of the edible plants and his own self-denial, but he knew, too, that that would not last forever. And he'd finally ventured back to the cafeteria, looking for nutrient-rich food he could subsist on. It wasn't altogether surprising he'd meet someone he knew there.

As yet, Sam had managed to avoid hurting anyone, at least seriously. He had no intention of changing that now. And when the noise came, and he crept forward to see who it was, it was only to increase his knowledge. As the lights went off, he'd just rounded a corner, and it wasn't until he hear the exclamation that he knew who he'd run into.

"It's all right," he said, stepping forward, hands raised. "I can light a fire, if we need."

[swill]

At least this time, he was prepared to see someone else. 'See' being loosely used, because the best he could make out of the approaching figure was the silhouette. He stepped back when Sam stepped near, until he heard the voice announce his presence plainly and he placed the name with what he could make of the face. Hawkeye drummed his fingers on a table top. Hey, he had already been found. Why bother being silent now? He remembered the boy having struck a good chord before.

Hoped and was convinced despite not knowing that he wouldn't be struck now, chord or no.

He shakes his head, not minding if the gesture's noted or not. Surrender wasn't needed with him- for him. The hell was he going to do, talk Sam to death? "I have a flashlight with working batteries if we're going to be stumbling around the dark," he offers, pulling the small handheld light out of a pocket. There was a question and a statement mixed up in there. "If the flashlight works, I don't know yet." Easier to shut off if they should ever need the dark.

[iwatchtjhooker]

"I wouldn't put it past them," he muttered. Doling out false hope seemed like their style. He dropped his hands, stepping closer. "I'm glad you've made it," he added. 'So far,' he didn't bother to say aloud. It was a pretty inane thing to say, but if he wasn't planning on killing anyone, he was pleased someone else who wasn't was still alive. And he had a feeling that for all his talk, Pierce was a much better man than Sam could hope to be, at this point.

[swill]

For the life of him, he couldn't hear anyone else. That Sam was talking was a great sign, because who would really trust themselves to his survivalist instincts, after having said a comment like that? But it makes Hawkeye snort, and he holds up the palm of his hand, makes the flashlight contact the skin, switches it on-- "Why does everybody say that?" He muses, catching the meaning and tossing it back. And oh, he knows why. He'd toss the comment back, too, but try as he might chug it out, it didn't sit right. The sentiment, he supposed, shouldn't be quite so blunt.

And there's the small red glow as the light hits his skin, as if he's asking for permission before he pulls the flashlight away and the beam of light shines over tables and chairs scattered by the comings and goings of Tributes. Ahead is a door- he can only assume it's for the kitchen, the displays already and unsurprisingly empty. He feels like he's struck gold, or at least his wide grin shows that. "Turns on like Gypsy Rose Lee," he chirps. "If you don't know who that is, and if you'll hold it for a second, I'll get up on a table and do an impersonation." --no, he wouldn't, boy. "I think if we go through that door we'll find the stuff." That was a plan, right? Find the stuff? It sure as hell seemed so to him.

[iwatchtjhooker]

We. Okay. That's what Sam had been hoping for, because he still really, really wasn't playing this game. Or maybe he was, without knowing it. Playing it really badly. He was so goddamn tired of being played with. At least now he'd been made aware of the fact, but somehow that wasn't helping as much as he might have thought.

"My girlfriend was obsessed with musicals," he said, raising a hand. "Maybe later. Stuff first." He eyed Hawkeye as best he could in the gloom, but it was just for effect, anyway. "I think anyone watching would enjoy that way too much."

[swill]

He's about to prod, about to lean in a little nearer and ask about the girlfriend, but then Sam brought up the all too true point and Hawkeye had to breathe out a laugh, and nod. "What's not to enjoy?" he asks, rolling his shoulders and if he had long hair, he swears he'd flip it. But nerves are beginning to ease into him again after having been dissipated temporarily, and he gestures instead forward.

Just forward, because after a quick glance at Sam and after flashing the ray of light at him directly- no injuries worth a fuss that he could make out- Hawkeye starts to move. It's not sluggish going, but he was more than content to sacrifice any speed for the sake of not being something quiet and sly. You know, sly as someone pointing a flashlight at the only door ahead could possibly be. His stomach rumbled, and Hawkeye took the moment to speak over it, the rude thing. "And I'm glad I met up with you, too," he offers. Friendly faces made the world keep spinning, or something. It kept him alive at least. And boy, he's glad he's so far been right about the fella. "Some day you'll have to introduce me to your girlfriend."

For R; mid-week

[swill]

After the failed scuffle with Mouse?

[shambler]

R came at Hawkeye from the right.

Between being garrotted, sniped by crossbow and trying to bite Mouse off him, he looked a bloody mess. His chin was covered in a glistening red mask familiar to anyone who watched the past Games, as much an Arena calling card as Howard's traps. Usually it meant someone had died. If they were lucky, they didn't start lurching around a few hours later, confused and grey and hungry. And still dead. But not.

He tried not to worry too much about biting that kid. Just because he could die and come back didn't mean he was still infectious. That was what R had been telling himself until he saw that blur of motion, man-sized, bigger than Mouse had been. That last...scuffle hadn't gone that well. R was still alive - well, as alive as a former-zombie could be - but his crowbar had skittered away in the dark and he was sore to the bone. Exhausted. Part of him wanted to fade into the shadows and pretend he was part of the wall.

The other part was determined to get that sponsor gift. He'd bite again if he had to. Re-live punching his teeth through warm flesh and blood.

In a way it was easier to go at this without weapons. It felt scarily familiar to raise his hands and grab at the guy as he closed in on him, trying to drag him down into the floor in a tackle. It wasn't elegant. But he hoped his weight and height might work in his favor, R bracing himself for the impact.

Sure thing!

[swill]

He'd seen a freakish thing this arena already- it was impossible to stay hidden from so many people. Kevin just hadn't been anything he had ever seen before, not alive, with his all-black and glassy eyes that were as expressive as the black marbles on the taxidermied bison roaming the North American plains. There had been skin and meat hanging from that mouth, but if Hawkeye was honest with himself in the moment of impact

he kind of liked Kevin better than R.

It wasn't even the first time he was slammed, oblivious to any attack until he heard footsteps and told himself to turn and at least know who he'll deal with after hitting the ground. He sees the red half of his face, knows the boy from a need to stay away. He tries to bat the hands away, only manages to entangle and distract himself and the next thing he knows, he's hitting the floor. The next thing he knows, he's blinking stars away fiercely. His shoulder stings and he's pushing against the body in a thrash, with a cry. He'd say he didn't mean to, but he kicks. Hawkeye wasn't a big or strong man, always only bordering on average, but no man wanted to be pinned. Not by a dead body, not by one reeking of blood that's not his.

Sorry, typo I missed

[shambler]

At first R was elated. He'd dragged this Tribute to the floor faster than the last guy and with the element of surprise, he -

Was getting kicked the knee. Hard. Something popped. Didn't feel right. The pain that flooded through his body made him gag, R left breathless as he fought to hold on where he had an advantage for a change. This would've been a fantastic time to be incapable of feeling anything, actually. This time R didn't wait to get kicked again - it'd worked with Mouse and he knew in the bottom of a heart that shouldn't be beating anymore it'd worked again. He'd had years to perfect it. It was the only thing going for a dead boy and he assumed it was still good even if he was half-Cured. The only thing he could hope for was that his bite wasn't infectious. That a bite from him didn't mean a countdown to death and reanimation because he wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even another Tribute who probably would've happily killed him if given the chance.

R can regret it later. Now he surged forward, aimed for what he thought was a shoulder in the darkness and the scuffling, and bit.

He dug his teeth in as far as they could go, hating that the wash of blood in his mouth was coppery and familiar. Dizzying. He worried at the bite like a dog, trying to do as much damage as he could. Give this guy some second thoughts about that sponsor gift sitting feet away, its light blinking red like a beacon.

np!

[swill]

Oh, Jesus Christ, the boy didn't just look it, he sounded wrong. Hawkeye hadn't meant for that to happen and he all but recoils at the gag. Keeps looking ahead, away, because he's almost sure he wants to claw the carpet out with the way he keeps reaching, trying to straighten up but the dead weight (no pun intended, funny that) and swirl of disgust seems too much. He almost doesn't have a clue, only wanting to shove away, turning on his back, legs stilled, placing his hands on the chest he can only suppose is empty or foul inside.

And to his surprise, the boy moves towards him, not away. The body does, anyway, and his eyes widen at the assumption that-- but what the hell does it matter, what does anything matter, when he pushes with more fervor, when he kicks out again and opens his mouth to shout- and that before the teeth sink in.

When they do, Hawkeye feels like his mouth couldn't open any wider, like he couldn't cry out any louder-- like a tidal wave had taken him by surprise and the only taste he got with a breath was the stink of dead fish on the shore. Jerking back was a stupid thing. He drew a blank. A hand that had been on R's chest moves to his neck- not to squeeze, no, he wouldn't, he couldn't-- but to push away. Oh Christ, the thing broke skin, he realizes, and bellows out, "Hey!" Because 'hey, stop biting me' was too long for his breath.

Re: np!

[shambler]

R fought back, trying to lean against the push with his teeth snapping as if he was greedy for seconds. That part wasn't intentional. It happened on its own, involuntary like a cough or a sneeze or the hungry groan that actually ripped itself out of his Living vocal chords. He was horrified. Ashamed. But the part of hm that wanted that sponsor gift was determined to keep biting until he got what he wanted and if he didn't want to get killed, he'd have to let that part take the wheel.

He managed to get a mouthful of clothes. A shirt or something that didn't matter because he knew he needed to hit flesh.

"Go...away!" R choked out. A small chunk of Hawkeye's shoulder dribbled of his mouth, half-chewed and glistening with blood and saliva. He couldn't have timed it better.

With the hand against his neck, he couldn't get a good shot at the arteries he knew were pulsing like a vitality road-map. R continued to struggle against the other with more life than he would've if he was still a corpse, his mouth still gaping red.

[swill]

It was like an animal, and he couldn't melt into the floor no matter how hard he tried. He could only crane his neck, dip his head-- and at one point, he channels his energy into sitting upright, head down, and he hopes against all hope and for the sake of his watering eyes and pounding chest for a headbutt. He should handle this like an animal attack, because he's sure not even mountain lions gnash their teeth so loud, and this wasn't a boy, wasn't a human, this was just a nightmare.

The roar made him jump, made him involuntarily tighten his grip on the thing. He could kick and hit a rib. Blurred vision and a sensation of drowning on rotten tides made him sink back down. Blood. His blood. He couldn't force his shoulder-- a part of it was gone, Jesus Christ. "Fucking son of a-" oh Jesus Christ, he eased the pressure on R's throat. It was living. It wasn't. The hand flies up to cover his head, he hunches over. He feels the jolt of angry nerves and doesn't know if there's new ones severed. Bitten.

And fuck him, too. He kicks.

He roars something out too, shrill and cracking and entirely not him. "I'm fucking trying!"

[shambler]

It scared R how easy it was to fall into this again - he had a heart that shouldn't be beating (but was), but his hands remembered what it felt like to be a zombie and it was like riding a murderous bike. He tangled himself into the other Tribute. Lanky arms and legs got in the way. He registered pain from the man digging his fingers into his throat, his breath whistling and wheeze as he bared his teeth. R told himself it was only for effect. You know, to scare the guy and sell this.

Not because he was actually hungry for flesh anymore. Not at all because he'd already swallowed a few strips of still-warm skin and thought not bad.

The guy was predictably not taking it well. R couldn't tell if it was because he recognized him from another Arena, realized what a bite meant (could mean), or if it was because most sane people really didn't like getting chunks bitten off. Either way, he didn't care.

The kick managed to dislodge R.

Hoping this wouldn't get him killed, he ignored the package and instead scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees toward the other man. He let his mouth hang wide. Hopefully the sight of some bloodthirsty Tribute would send this guy packing.

[swill]

Anybody else with a gun would have shot it. Hawkeye had half an idea where the thought had sprung from- from the pain and fright and the sleepless nights ahead, from the beginnings of pain of hunger- but he wavered all the same. He scrambled to his feet and the instant he sucked in a fresh breath not reeking of rot, his hand went to clasp at the torn bit of shoulder of his. It must have been in a daze that he staggered back and away.

R- that was the boy's name. That was this thing's name. This thing that was charging like an animal and who coaxed another terrified shout out of Hawkeye. He didn't bother to feel anything but horror. Starving seemed great, suddenly. Retching seemed great. Both would come later, may come later, if he bolted away. So Hawkeye didn't bother to gape at the open mouth and the bloodied chin and the way the boy's body galloped toward him like a sick bull. He just felt his skin chill and his heart leap like it would rather burn than endure this, and he ran.

[shambler]

Thank God he didn't have to scramble that far. The man booked it, his footsteps fading away as R stopped his pursuit. For a few seconds he huddled there, still tense and bruised and sore, and aware of his heart racing in his chest in a way it wouldn't have an Arena ago. An Arena ago he would've been full dead, rotting and shambling and at least here he was alive. Mostly alive.

Alive enough to realize there was only so long he should wait there, listening for any signs the man he ambushed was coming back.

R hustled back to the elevator and dragged the package to his chest in a hug. The red light blinked on-off. The lettering on the side could've been a note, maybe, or the man's name - either way, he couldn't read it and right now he didn't care. He hurried away into the dark with his prize, feeling the blood still caking his mouth and wishing he felt more compelled to wipe it off.