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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.