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