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(open) Attention, all personnel. Reward for finding lost marbles.
Who| Hawkeye and you, and later, Hawk and Cuthbert Allgood
What| death and stuff. stuff and death.
Where| Fourth Floor, or just tell me where else
When| Week 5 through Mid-Week 6!
Warnings/Notes| character death, of course, but it's Cuthbert who's doing the favor! I'll be sure to update this if anything else comes up. Possible violence. Language. Things. There's three open scenarios for you to choose from, or make up your own, and there will be a threadstarter for Cuthbert and death things first thing in the comments.
1
The first shot rang out and the noise drifted like a lazy roll of thunder over him. Some part of him wanted to identify the clamor, some part of him had wanted to go to see what the announcer had promised would be a great surprise for them all. Hawkeye stopped what he was doing then, let himself find a path through what sprung to mind. He should have gone, but maybe he wasn't as suicidal as others may want to see him. His own skin would come first now- he was done with helping what couldn't be helped, and damn the first guy that would make him break the selfish pledge to himself. The thought doesn't ring with malice. The day goes on, the question of the shot-- Hawkeye refused to acknowledge it was a shot. The question of the strange noise only gave him something to mull over where he had camped. Finally, he thinks he's hungry enough to deservingly use the word 'starving'. He thinks he's skinny enough to drive himself mad if he ever caught sight of himself in a mirror. He thinks his jaw hurts and his tongue is too heavy to use ever again. He thinks if anyone came and kicked him the way he had kicked the rigid and reeking speaking corpse, they'd break any bone of his they wished.
Somewhere between the haze of staying still and sitting, somewhere between the nightmares that'd jostle him awake from his not-quite-sleep, he couldn't mute the sound any longer. It must have been late night, because the lights around were either off or dim. It must have been night because his heart was the only thing he could hear, and he heard it as loud as the gunshot of earlier, as clear. It hadn't been lazy thunder, it hadn't been that at all. Guns. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, they now had guns.
Like nobody could hear him if they were close, he says aloud, "They're going to bomb us." like it's a fact, the next logical step. Because just look at Japan and just look at Korea, and there hadn't been so much time, so much progress, as the journals like to say, between the two compared to this. And he looked up at the sprinklers, you know, the ones installed over head, and he tried to remember history didn't always have to repeat itself.
2
He was almost sorry he couldn't sleep. He was almost sorry he was so tired. He was too tired to be sorry, and too sleepless to rest. Hawkeye wandered from the mammoth protection the Triceratops display seemed to offer in disinterest, slinked his way to his feet after pausing to catch his breath and stare at the nothingness of the ceiling for a second to convince himself he could still very much heave together the will to move ahead. He didn't even know where his tags had wound up- under the bed in the Capitol suite, maybe, buried in the back garden of the Tribute center, run into the pavement of the broad roads of the city- whatever the case, he didn't have them now to taste. Weird, he knew. Oh, he knew. But he couldn't even find their cowbell clinking comforting this round, and he hated the way it stirred a phantom apprehension awake.
It was nonsense, and he knew that. In the jungle, with the crickets and the raptors- and Hawkeye pat a skull of one of the beasts like he'd pet the neighbor's dog through the chainlink fence in passing- he distinctly remembered watching his step against the mud and the leaves, listening to every breath of his against the noisy background. He had tucked his dog tags under his shirt to keep them silent. Here, he missed them. And perhaps 'missed' was too strong a word for the enslaving things, but where the hell had he left them, really?
The question trot around his mind as he moved. To his merit or dismay, he thought he was doing a fine job of keeping track of what he had set out to do. Relieve boredom, play safari. There were toys and trinkets and fossils- dioramas of the finest kind all around. But the animal he was tracking, and with real intent, too, was elusive. Dangerous. It was hailed as the pinnacle of evolution, the apex predator, the one creature who dared give meaning to life and challenge the Creator- if such a fella existed. Hawkeye stayed low. He moved with a blind sort of certainty. His game was any injured tribute. Funny, huh, the double meaning of it? The game was playing, at any rate, at least, was doctor. The draftee kind- always sort of lost in their own thoughts, always sort of lost as to where they're heading, exactly, because the terrain is too far from home to ever fully register as real. The kind that didn't mind staying on their feet for far too many hours in one go when they were petrified, because that was when there was more work to be done or seek out. Because pish posh. Who needed supplies?
3
He'd sleep when he was dead. Silly phrase, everyone knew it. No use saying it, because he was pretty sure he felt it. He was skinny and heavier than he had felt in ages- how in the world something like that works is a question for someone with the right skills. Definitely not him, no. Definitely not Hawkeye. He felt like a mess. Maybe he was a mess. The hell did he know? The hell did anybody else still around look like, for comparison's sake? Heck, he always thought himself a good looking guy, why should anything have changed? Sure, he's thin as a twig but Hawkeye now even remembered himself this skinny years back at the lobster festival. Way back, too far back, so far back it deserved its own little display and chapter in the museum and what do you know, somewhere the thing probably existed.
So anyway, he looked like a mess. Some of his shoulder was gone- could you believe a guy would just bite and hang tight and- no, right? It was insane. He couldn't, either, despite the constant hurt, despite the infection that wasn't the right kind. And did you know what eyes felt like when they were broken like eggs? Crusty. Like his own felt right now. Like they wouldn't stop itching no matter how much he'd rub with his hands. And speaking of- his hands were filthy.
They were the first, second, and fourth thing he washed after finding a working water fountain. Little, classic thing attached to the wall somehow and making that steady hissing sound of the mechanisms inside turning. The third thing Hawkeye had washed had been his face, of course. He had cupped his hands under the stream of cool water and splashed the delightful little scoop onto his face and of course that meant some of the water wet his robe, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he shrugged to let the robe slip down the hurt shoulder and he splashed some cold water on the ache and the bandages there, too. He lowered his head and felt a little like a giraffe at a watering hole, a bit too tall to double over without it being a touch awkward, and he scrubbed at his neck and his face again and he straightened up and scrubbed his hands.
This was going on forever. The washing, the hiss of the fountain, the games. They were going on forever.
What| death and stuff. stuff and death.
Where| Fourth Floor, or just tell me where else
When| Week 5 through Mid-Week 6!
Warnings/Notes| character death, of course, but it's Cuthbert who's doing the favor! I'll be sure to update this if anything else comes up. Possible violence. Language. Things. There's three open scenarios for you to choose from, or make up your own, and there will be a threadstarter for Cuthbert and death things first thing in the comments.
1
The first shot rang out and the noise drifted like a lazy roll of thunder over him. Some part of him wanted to identify the clamor, some part of him had wanted to go to see what the announcer had promised would be a great surprise for them all. Hawkeye stopped what he was doing then, let himself find a path through what sprung to mind. He should have gone, but maybe he wasn't as suicidal as others may want to see him. His own skin would come first now- he was done with helping what couldn't be helped, and damn the first guy that would make him break the selfish pledge to himself. The thought doesn't ring with malice. The day goes on, the question of the shot-- Hawkeye refused to acknowledge it was a shot. The question of the strange noise only gave him something to mull over where he had camped. Finally, he thinks he's hungry enough to deservingly use the word 'starving'. He thinks he's skinny enough to drive himself mad if he ever caught sight of himself in a mirror. He thinks his jaw hurts and his tongue is too heavy to use ever again. He thinks if anyone came and kicked him the way he had kicked the rigid and reeking speaking corpse, they'd break any bone of his they wished.
Somewhere between the haze of staying still and sitting, somewhere between the nightmares that'd jostle him awake from his not-quite-sleep, he couldn't mute the sound any longer. It must have been late night, because the lights around were either off or dim. It must have been night because his heart was the only thing he could hear, and he heard it as loud as the gunshot of earlier, as clear. It hadn't been lazy thunder, it hadn't been that at all. Guns. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, they now had guns.
Like nobody could hear him if they were close, he says aloud, "They're going to bomb us." like it's a fact, the next logical step. Because just look at Japan and just look at Korea, and there hadn't been so much time, so much progress, as the journals like to say, between the two compared to this. And he looked up at the sprinklers, you know, the ones installed over head, and he tried to remember history didn't always have to repeat itself.
2
He was almost sorry he couldn't sleep. He was almost sorry he was so tired. He was too tired to be sorry, and too sleepless to rest. Hawkeye wandered from the mammoth protection the Triceratops display seemed to offer in disinterest, slinked his way to his feet after pausing to catch his breath and stare at the nothingness of the ceiling for a second to convince himself he could still very much heave together the will to move ahead. He didn't even know where his tags had wound up- under the bed in the Capitol suite, maybe, buried in the back garden of the Tribute center, run into the pavement of the broad roads of the city- whatever the case, he didn't have them now to taste. Weird, he knew. Oh, he knew. But he couldn't even find their cowbell clinking comforting this round, and he hated the way it stirred a phantom apprehension awake.
It was nonsense, and he knew that. In the jungle, with the crickets and the raptors- and Hawkeye pat a skull of one of the beasts like he'd pet the neighbor's dog through the chainlink fence in passing- he distinctly remembered watching his step against the mud and the leaves, listening to every breath of his against the noisy background. He had tucked his dog tags under his shirt to keep them silent. Here, he missed them. And perhaps 'missed' was too strong a word for the enslaving things, but where the hell had he left them, really?
The question trot around his mind as he moved. To his merit or dismay, he thought he was doing a fine job of keeping track of what he had set out to do. Relieve boredom, play safari. There were toys and trinkets and fossils- dioramas of the finest kind all around. But the animal he was tracking, and with real intent, too, was elusive. Dangerous. It was hailed as the pinnacle of evolution, the apex predator, the one creature who dared give meaning to life and challenge the Creator- if such a fella existed. Hawkeye stayed low. He moved with a blind sort of certainty. His game was any injured tribute. Funny, huh, the double meaning of it? The game was playing, at any rate, at least, was doctor. The draftee kind- always sort of lost in their own thoughts, always sort of lost as to where they're heading, exactly, because the terrain is too far from home to ever fully register as real. The kind that didn't mind staying on their feet for far too many hours in one go when they were petrified, because that was when there was more work to be done or seek out. Because pish posh. Who needed supplies?
3
He'd sleep when he was dead. Silly phrase, everyone knew it. No use saying it, because he was pretty sure he felt it. He was skinny and heavier than he had felt in ages- how in the world something like that works is a question for someone with the right skills. Definitely not him, no. Definitely not Hawkeye. He felt like a mess. Maybe he was a mess. The hell did he know? The hell did anybody else still around look like, for comparison's sake? Heck, he always thought himself a good looking guy, why should anything have changed? Sure, he's thin as a twig but Hawkeye now even remembered himself this skinny years back at the lobster festival. Way back, too far back, so far back it deserved its own little display and chapter in the museum and what do you know, somewhere the thing probably existed.
So anyway, he looked like a mess. Some of his shoulder was gone- could you believe a guy would just bite and hang tight and- no, right? It was insane. He couldn't, either, despite the constant hurt, despite the infection that wasn't the right kind. And did you know what eyes felt like when they were broken like eggs? Crusty. Like his own felt right now. Like they wouldn't stop itching no matter how much he'd rub with his hands. And speaking of- his hands were filthy.
They were the first, second, and fourth thing he washed after finding a working water fountain. Little, classic thing attached to the wall somehow and making that steady hissing sound of the mechanisms inside turning. The third thing Hawkeye had washed had been his face, of course. He had cupped his hands under the stream of cool water and splashed the delightful little scoop onto his face and of course that meant some of the water wet his robe, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he shrugged to let the robe slip down the hurt shoulder and he splashed some cold water on the ache and the bandages there, too. He lowered his head and felt a little like a giraffe at a watering hole, a bit too tall to double over without it being a touch awkward, and he scrubbed at his neck and his face again and he straightened up and scrubbed his hands.
This was going on forever. The washing, the hiss of the fountain, the games. They were going on forever.
For Cuthbert; death thread
It meant he had gotten comfortable, as comfortable as a man working on basic survival can get, and he'd sometimes, if things seemed too quiet, sit at the skeleton's feet and even risk a little lean against the old bones.
It meant that when he sucked in a hot and throaty breath- and Christ, now he was going to get sick from that shower, of all stupid things- Hawkeye had been sitting plumb on the display when he saw the figure approach. He blinked once, and figured he recognized the guy. Blinked again, and he stood. "I think you took a wrong turn, fella," he chances. "This room's reserved for old bones only."
no subject
"I fear there are no right turns in this godforsaken place. But it seems it is my lucky day, so it is. I needn't even set a trap and I caught myself an Old Bones. But what will I do with my catch? Old Bones have nothing to skin, and there's no sport in hunting what's already dead. So what do you suggest, Bonesy? How do you want to die?"
no subject
Old Bones replies, "Oh, I don't know. I mean we have a- a family plot. You know? In Maine. Crabapple Cove. It's a small town, all Americana. Despite it, it's still a really great place and. We've been there a while, the Pierces." In pieces, some. The dead ones. Hawkeye eyes the gun Cuthbert holds with a real fear he'd rather send off. A waver in his voice gives it away. "Since 1680. Live long, not uncommonly healthy lives. For the most part we, ah. Pass. Peacefully. In bed, asleep maybe, with whatever kids wringing their greedy little hands behind their backs waiting for the will to take effect and wondering who got willed the house and who the old pottery." Actually, that was wrong. It was a silver set, not pots, and Hawkeye so leisurely strolls forward. One step, two.
This guy wasn't going to kill him.
He hadn't even answered the question, and being killed before he did would be rude.
"I don't have a house here yet, but I can give you Ferdinand" -the forever immovable behemoth of a fossil, horns lowered, never charging- "without the very unpleasant deed of dying. Let me go and I can write it up in a jiffy."
no subject
"Is that fear I hear, Old Bones? One last gasp to try and hang on to that useless flesh that keeps your name from being more literal?"
He lifts his arm and fires a shot right through the skull of the triceratops shattering the replica bone and making a lot of noise. Neither of those things bothers Cuthbert, who brings his arm down and points his gun at Hawkeye.
"Mayhap I'll make it easier on you. You can die here like a man, or run like a coward. Those are the choices left to you."
no subject
He wasn't scared of the boy, he was scared for his life. Cuthbert's advance isn't one Hawkeye hasn't seen before and he keeps his composure well enough and even manages a lackluster little scoff, a little sneer. But yes, his heart was racing, his blood was pumping, if he hadn't been dehydrated he might have lost some fluids. It was a little like watching a car crash-- only the car was crashing into him, so slowly, first constricting and then suffocating and then piercing and rupturing with metal. And when the gun was raised, Hawkeye nearly yelped. He let out a noise- he didn't know a man who would keep quiet like the heroes did in the old films, when a gun was raised with mad intent- and flinched and felt his skin cold and clammy.
But it was Ferdinand who died, not him. Hawkeye knows because when he opens his eyes again, he's squinting at the boy and down the barrel of the gun.
"Mayhap you can turn around," Hawkeye said and he couldn't move forward or back because there bone fragments scattered all around and who could outrun a bullet, really? That thing is going in his head, Hawkeye reasoned in a bout of lucidity. The Triceratops was the demonstration. It was the adrenaline. He roared. "Why don't you leave me alone? I've never hurt you, and I'm not going to, damn it! You can't hide behind a firearm and call me the coward. You can't just kill me!"
Oh, but Cuthbert could, and Hawkeye knew.
2.
She washed when she could, but the wounds kept her busy, and in this state she knew she had to sniper or she'd be DOA. She had the gun in hand, of course. If someone wanted to come for her so bad, take her while she was kicked, well, they'd find their ass out the game too. She'd lasted this long.
a wild mindy appeared! /o/
A mercy kill, Guy had said.
What was her name, what was her name... he wasn't going to approach without having at least her name. She had a gun.
And an injury. And after a moment that Hawkeye said had been to assess her from a distance, to see if there's a visible gash elsewhere, to see if her balance is off, her breathing, he steps closer to Mindy, approaching from her right. "Hey," he hissed- a soft and harsh sound at once, like he was working backstage in some production and he had to call back the star. It wasn't fear. Soon, he's quickening his pace, closing the distance, raising his voice and adopting a chit-chat friendliness for it. "Hi. Remember me? The whig?" Wig. Homophones. Aha. What fun. She had a gun but she wouldn't shoot him, would she? No, no. Hawkeye remembered her being good. She was a kid. Kids were good. This kid was hurt, and Hawkeye now had a temporary new obsession. It was bad form to grab a lady after having hardly introduced himself, but if he's not shot or otherwise shooed off, Hawkeye will move to lift her chin. Better light, you know. "Love your dress but you happen to have this little thing on your face. It's distracting. I'd fire your make-up artist if I were you, it's very gaudy. Tasteless. Trashy. Did I say distracting?"
Re: a wild mindy appeared! /o/
Wait. No. That was just Hawkeye.
She lowered the gun. Her head was swimming in pain and her whole body was aching, feeling like an open wound rubbed with salts yet she could manage a wheezing sound that on a better day, would have been a better laugh. That fucking wig, that need to make a joke.
Shit. She could use a few jokes right now. The world was too damn serious the last few days.
"They try their best but they just can't make it work," Mindy said, doing her best to imitate an uptight, fairly effeminate artiste. "Hawkeye. I'm actually really glad to see you lasted this long. You look considerably less shitty than me right now."
no subject
(And why was everyone always so surprised he could survive longer than a day in the arena?)
"Dahling, pardon my French, but just about everyone looks less crummy than you." What? He wasn't going to curse in front of such a little kid! The man had standards. It meant he wouldn't mention his ailments to her, not ever, and it meant a mischievous glint of a joke shone in his eyes as he took her arm gently, having to slouch a little to get a comfortable grip. "Let's get you out of the spotlight while I see what I can do for you, okay? It'll be a regular makeover."
no subject
"There was nothing in that sentence that needed pardoning you faker," she said, then rubbed her neck. "Christ, these people carry grudges. But yeah, I'll go wherever. You didn't get messed up, did you?"
no subject
He began rooting around his pockets- he had some ointment from an old first-aid kit he'd been given, he still had some makeshift bandages from the ancient clothes on the mannequins. Just cloth strips, and he didn't know if Mindy would want to sit or stay standing or-- so he gestured for her to sit, and he asked at the same time, "Thinking of taking a break for a while?" before he answered her question with the same breath. No use wasting it. "Nah, no, I'm fine. I wouldn't say no to some pistachio-- for some banana nut bread, but I'm fine. Do you really think I'd be walking around if I wasn't? I'd be curled into a little ball, blubbering the days away." Possibly thinking of how melted eyeballs felt or how gray skin stunk or how many times too many he'd seen flesh hanging out of teeth this arena, but anyway.
He rubs at his shoulder. There was a bite under the red robe, old but feeling fresh. There were bruises on his chest. He was no worse for wear. He'd done pretty darn well, if he could say so himself, so far.
He shrugs.
"I think a vantz bit me when I napped at the cinema. Who was carrying the grudge?"
no subject
People dying, her causing the deaths, attacks all over and somehow by some strange madness she was still here. It even baffled her. She was happy to get the aid though, she needed it right now.
"No pistachio, sorry. All I have is a bit of cheese I practically shived someone to get in the first place."
no subject
So. Zombies and pistachios and cheese.
Hawkeye huffed, worried the tube of ointment until he began to drab its contents on a strip of cloth. "I don't take well to cheese," he lies for the second time, smooth as the first. Milk built strong bones blah blah blah- the kids needed it more than a geezer. "Much less shived cheese. I used to like cheddar. Now tell me if the cut on your face is the only one or if you're hiding something worse before I decide to make a fuss over this one spot."
no subject
She gave him a haughty look. "Hey. It's here. You don't like starving do you? Tell you what: I actually am fucked up more than the face. Chest, legs, you name it. I need aid. It's been a really bad day. Reward your hard work with some food."
AKA I CARE IF YOU DIE SO KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF.
no subject
Hawkeye pressed the slicked cloth strip bandage against the side of Mindy's face without much ceremony or warning. Better sooner than later if he wanted to rest easier thinking he'd done her some good with the aid, and when Mindy finished speaking he huffs again- and there's a smile ghosting his lips again. "Working hard or hardly working? Mindy, I think you've got your wires crossed," he sing-songed, pointedly ignoring the jab about starving. No, no. He wouldn't be cowed by a child.
Still, his gaze went to his hands as he prepared another bandage, as he pressed the one already on Mindy's face so it stuck to the cut like a parasite. Bony hands ran in the family, that much was true, but his wrists were even screaming to be let out of the skin encasing them. Hawkeye shook his head, bit his tongue, and worked. And hey- hey! He knew he'd remember her name eventually. "But seriously, cheese will kill me. Actually, before I was brought here, I was plotting the sinister execution of this one goat- yeah, I know, poor thing- that made my life hell. Our hairiest sergeant thought she'd be a great way to make a buck. He was wrong. I hate that goat more than I've hated anything more in my life. Hold still, I'm going to wrap your head a little and might mess your hair. No cheese. I don't like it. I want pistachios."
no subject
It hurt, of course. Her whole body felt like one sore wounds, tugged at and torn and ripped. No wonder people didn't last long in the Arena. No wonder they ducked and covered and got the hell out of the way when they saw trouble coming. It didn't pay to actually try to get involved. It was just pain.
"You need food yourself, don't lie. We're what, close to the end of the middle of this thing. Things are getting desperate. Sorry you're lactose intolerant."
Because what else could it be?
She didn't cry out, he was doing his best, after all. That led, of course, to another subject.
"Thanks...for trying. With Ellie, I mean. The girl run through with the crowbar."
no subject
He'd have to remember not to scarf down cake or chug a tall glass of milk in Mindy's presence now, too. Hawkeye hunches his shoulders a tad, silently thanks whoever he has to thank for not being infected from R's bite, in the zombie way, he thinks, and then he wonders how Mindy did it. How she stayed so calm through this, through saying that. It just wasn't right, and Hawkeye fought the urge to fidget, to run a hand down his face or through his hair. He said, "Where else are you hurt?" And thought to brush off her thanks because he didn't deserve it because he'd done nothing.
A maudlin demeanor never helped anyone, and a heavy sigh later, Hawkeye's shrugging again because he doesn't know what to do with his body, how to move it any other way. "I couldn't do anything without my supplies," he admits, voice a touch high and breathy but he's in control, ya know. "I don't know how she got away from Joel long enough to get so hurt. I know she'd sneak off- she got away from him once to come visit with me but I told her to quit doing that. The son of a bitch would kill you if you even thought to look at her wrong." -Joel, he means. And then he pauses for a beat and, "How'd you know?"
How'd she know they went to him?
no subject
She wouldn't anyway: he didn't want to eat, so he wouldn't, and if he threw it up that would be a waste wouldn't it? This was not the time to make mistakes: if the cheese could last, she would keep it until she needed it. She just hoped it wouldn't spoil anytime soon: then it would just be a waste.
To answer him, she pushed the pajamas down to her waist. On her right side there was a fine cut, and though it wasn't enough to actually be exposed, it still hurt like hell and made it impossible to move quickly. Thanks Pruna.
"He told me he was gonna, after he swooped down and took her away. Hell of a daddy complex he's got. Not that it was gonna do any good: Ellie was kinda fucked there. I take it Joel was not happy about losing her."
no subject
He began to drab ointment on the girl's side, too, after a quick swipe of a cloth over the cut to supposedly clean any grime. These kids needed to start playing better, he thought in worry, or else he'd have to drag them out of the jungle gym.
Mindy certainly wasn't doing any favors to his mood. "I don't care what kind of complex he's got," he announces, but it wasn't true-- having it heard instead of saying it drove the point home that much harder. Joel did think he was a father, and Hawkeye couldn't even whine about the marks the punches had left anymore. "He has to learn how to play well with others. He's certainly not doing himself or anyone any favors by being that gruff- certainly isn't helping Ellie, either." And he feels dirty for some reason, talking about Ellie when he's talking to Mindy, so Hawkeye waits a beat and asks, "You two were close?"
no subject
It bothered her that Hawkeye hadn't taken the food though. She didn't make that offer casually, and doing the whole "poor kid" thing was just dumb. She'd taken people out, at least. She couldn't imagine a guy like Hawkeye doing that. He should at least be skirting out of danger with something in his stomach.
"I didn't say he wasn't an ass about it. I figure that's what happens after fucked up zombie apocalypse world, even if its annoying. What pisses me off is that I can't blame him: he thinks he saw Ellie die forever, and they were each other's comfort in their world."
Mindy chuckled. "Well. I've never had a best friend before, but I think if I ever wanted one, she'd be it."
no subject
His tone lightens, he just about finishes up working Mindy's scrapes. "What? You don't pass notes anymore? Just ask her to circle Yes or No- go ride bikes one Saturday afternoon. It wouldn't hurt."
no subject
And her feelings wouldn't have helped her here anyway.
"Yeah, you know, I think I will. Hanging with Joel will only make her old and sour anyway."
no subject
And he would lose at all costs.
And Mindy's offer made Hawkeye crack a smile anyway. It was all mushy and gooey and he felt like he was just dying (ha) to call Mindy cute. "I hung out with Joel for a full four minutes the first time," he said, "and I think I sprouted a few gray hairs. We don't need children with liver spots."
no subject
Everyone held onto hurt feelings, like this Arena meant anything more than having them die some kind of death somehow. Detachment didn't bring you that: it kept you focused and, more importantly, made you sharp. It was stupid to bring people into this thing who had never fought before, because they would find themselves face to face with death real quick. She supposed, really, that this made good TV. That was proof itself of how warped the Capitol's sensibilities truly were.
"Joel comes from a pretty harsh world," Mindy said. "Hell, he might have fit in with mine. But the abrasiveness shit gets under my skin. Act like that awhile, people are going to start noticing. This place isn't just death and dying. In one way, its also all politics."
no subject
He coughed, clearing his throat. It wasn't even Ellie's fault for the frog, it was Howard's. The image of the mangled head stuck, and it was all Hawkeye could do to continue yammering. "You're going for the gold?"
no subject
It was a genera rule in Mindy's head that politicians were usually out to abuse their power. Her world, after all, was full of those scandals.
"What about Ellie?"
1.
He passes Hawkeye by chance—an oversight, on his part, likely brought on by the fact that he’s been rationing the food that Watson’s been sending him. He’s used to going many days without food, but he’s usually working when it happens. His intellectual marathons override his body’s needs, and when it’s over he tends to the physical. With no goal and no hope of reprieve, his system has come undone.
It’s the words more than the state of the man that catch Sherlock’s attention. Instead of ducking for cover, he murmurs in return, “I’d think they’d just hand us the bombs. Have us blow ourselves up.”
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New fellow, because he wasn't skin and bones, or maybe smart fellow. Who knew? Who could tell?
It was impossible to think, sleep weighing too heavily on Hawkeye's mind, to try and see if he could place the face to one of those hundreds he'd seen about the city, in the common room, in the fishing district. And scratch that, he thinks to himself, he didn't feel like he was caught in a game of hide-and-seek. He didn't feel like a deer in headlights, either, and that much he was proud of. The moment of silence had ticked by. Hawkeye sighed out a reply, "I don't think my heart could handle the suspense." like he was joking with a chum, and watched. And finally he thinks he knows what image his mind ought to focus on: two spooked cats, bushy tailed and not wanting to crawl nearer and-- and nah, that didn't fit, either. He got to his feet and his gut still hurt because he was a fruitcake. No, the Gamemakers wouldn't give them bombs. They were too big. "Hawkeye." Hi, he means.
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Sherlock is nothing of a humanitarian, but he can’t pass a starving man unmoved. He walks slowly towards Hawkeye, hands lifted with his palms up. His mind registers that he’s been imitating police officers regularly, in this arena, with their calming techniques and vigilant stances. He decides not to question it too much.
“Hawkeye,” Sherlock repeats, rolling the word over. “Are you Iowan or acquainted with a Mohican?”
He kneels down when he’s about six feet away. There’s his makeshift pack slung over one shoulder, and he turns it around until it’s in front of his chest. He reaches inside and pulls out one of Watson’s packages, considering. He needs the food himself, if he’s to last. But letting a man die is no better than murdering him, is it?
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Like he was just telling some buddy the tale after being asked what the hell kind of name 'Hawkeye' was, and why couldn't he just use his given name like everybody else.
Then the man kneels and Hawkeye figures they're going to get along fine or else he's about to be proposed to. (What?) He watches in silence. Eager. Practically craning his neck to see what's in the tin as if he had X-Ray vision like Superman, and then he thinks he gets it.
He waves his hands with no particular gesture in mind and scoffs, "No, no, no-"
Yes.
Gee, what a headache he must be. Now he feels like a dog, all up and down and down. "I'll owe you if you do. You don't have to, you know. It's great that you're that kind of person that goes around offering but I'm not planning on making it to the end. Getting that far requires doing some work I don't feel at all comfortable doing. Though nowadays you can say I'm not comfortable about a lot of things. For example, this robe. You have no idea what I'd do for some flimsy pants right now, and I actually don't have an idea, either. But I do know you never told me your name. See, I remember." Like a dog. Hawkeye lifts his gaze, lifts a brow. It's a silent nudge. Come on, fella, give him a name to work with. To thank for the food, he hopes. Food would be good. It was food, right? What else? "I told you mine and now you tell me yours. That's how this works, Chingachgook."
3
Surely if they'd stayed together they'd still be alive. If they'd just not gone out on their own to try and survive this insanity none of this would have happened.
Truth be told, Joe had no idea how much longer he'd last. He hadn't eaten a real meal in what felt like, well to be frank, weeks and that was what it had been hadn't it? He was barely surviving, in desperate need of some water, and that was when he stumbled upon Hawkeye.
Joe went silent when he saw the older man. He'd already figured out that trusting anyone here other than his own friends would be foolish. Not everyone was as intent as Joe was on not killing anyone, and as this was his first Arena he was clinging stubbornly to those morals. He started to take a step back, deciding to wait for Hawkeye to leave before trying to go in for his own fill of water. Wouldn't you know it, some of Joe's luck had ran out as a fallen twig snapped under his foot.
sorry it's so late! /o\
So he stopped pressing the little lever that made the water of the drinking fountain run and he skipped the part of bringing his hands up to wring his hair dry-ish and went straight instead to wrangling himself out of that awkward position he had held himself in for so long. He stepped back, he half-way straightened up, he wondered if the fountain could hold his full weight if he leaned on it and wondered what day it was- Tuesday or Thursday, because Wednesdays had such a bad habit of getting away from him and his notice. To one side of him was this young fellow, and under the fellow's foot was a twig and oh, so that was what had caught his attention at first. Hawkeye debated bringing a hand up to wave.
He stepped back just once instead. "Hi," he greeted, all low and sleepy and laced with caution. New guy, new guy, no, he didn't remember seeing this face before. Hawkeye gestured now to the drinking fountain. "Was I holding you-" That was absurd. "Was I holding you up?"