thearena | (open) Attention, all personnel. Reward for finding lost marbles.

Entry tags:

(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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Hawkeye was with trusty old Triceratops again, because the Tyrannosaurus was mean spirited, the raptors were a gang, the eggs wouldn't hatch and the mammoths were too high to look at the little people below. The beasts. Triceratops was large, too, but he looked down, and he felt safe, and not even the horns seemed threatening in the odd amber lights and shadows cast. He hadn't meant to make this exhibit his base any more than he had intended to, back in the beginning, make the Korean family his go-to safe haven in the Games. It was only something that was found on accident, that caught his eye, and that caught his sentimentalities in all the wrong ways because of the history of the hall.

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."

There was a mess, and then there was Mindy. Two people had been out for her head: one injured, one dead. The dead one was a friend, or former friend likely when she woke up. That was just the way of things at this point. Oh, there had also been attempting to go for a weapon, that had cut her up good too, not to mention the fight and death of Pruna which earned her a pretty deep scratch on the face. Her clothing was in tatters now, enough so she finally ditched what underwear she was wearing for some clothing on one of the displays: sorry Ms. cavewoman, totally needed your loincoth.

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.

The aquatic exhibit has been his home base for the past few days, but Sherlock recognizes that staying in one place, no matter how stable, is no guarantee of safety. It’s hard to keep track of the hours, in the arena, but he decides to move when he thinks it must be night.

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.”

Finding her, he first felt the perfectly normal and easily explicable wave of guilt. A kid, and so he'd thought she had been done in, though why- search him. Hawkeye waded through his memories to find her, the Arenas- plural? they were plural now?- and the Capitol already had written a too hefty tome to skim through simply. He stalked around, not quite silently, trying first to place her name. He could make out red on her face, could see the girl had already gotten into some nasty scuffle. Who would hurt a kid? She was a kid. Just a little girl, but she had already died, right?

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?"

Mindy tensed at the sound of her voice, swearing to herself. Goddamn it she was BETTER than this, the fucking injuries were making her sloppy! She was ready though: the gun was raised, the voice of some swaggering, piece of shi-

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."

Hawkeye was almost sure he had read this in a handbook somewhere, some time. Something about looking both ways, left and right and left again, all in excruciatingly technical terms that did nothing to hold his attention to what was such a common sense and simply subject. The book had gone on to say something about looking up, but not before having looked under the bed and having conversed with the lint bunnies and- and maybe he was off and only trying to keep himself still, keep his mouth shut. He didn't budge, thankfully, didn't even startle at the new voice. Another player in the game. For a frightening second he felt like he was playing hide-and-seek in the woods or down the road or in Tommy's dad's garage. But the reaction wasn't what he'd seen before, wasn't at all what he expected this far into the murder spree of others. And stupid of him, ya know, for having run his mouth in the first place but Hawkeye only kept his gaze on this other fellow, this strange fellow, and didn't budge.

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.

Cuthbert was walking through the various halls in search of the last remaining prey he had. He wanted the game to be over, wanted to go back home and see the people he loved again. He wanted it so badly he could taste it, just not enough to look down the wrong end of his gun. No, if he was going to get out of here it would be with a crown on his head or with a fight. After all, the only thing he had left was his honor. And his humor.

"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?"

By some miracle, call it protagonist luck, Joe was still alive. He'd heard the announcement of death of not just 1 but 3 of his friends. The first death had been Jet, and Chaud's soon after, but when he'd heard Albert's name be called over the system Joe instantly regretting ever agreeing to split up.

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.

In all honestly, the man—Hawkeye?—doesn’t look like he can handle much of anything. Not a surprise, not a hard shove, not a gentle gust of wind. It’s particularly cruel, Sherlock has notes, the way the supplies and drops have dwindled. They’re surrounded by displays of extinct life, and it looks like the Gamemakers are intent to push them in the same direction.

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?

As if the gun wasn't unnerving, there were riddles, too. Hawkeye found himself feeling his chest hollow all of a sudden, feeling also like his feet were bound to the spot. This guy must be exhausted, talking in his sleep, and maybe if Hawkeye hadn't spoken first he might have been ignored somehow. A target is something he hadn't wanted to make himself. That question is something he never wanted to hear, had spent nights mulling over and so it's easier to reply to than to think over what it might mean.

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."

He froze when the gun was raised, felt a cold wash over him and his eyes shut. The next instant, he's opening them and finding the gun down and a look of recognition, and he found a laugh despite its terrible execution, and a grin split his face despite just about everything else. He thumbs the cut on her face when her breath hitches once, in case she felt like hissing or wincing, then it would come nearly naturally. It seemed bad, but not alarming, and the girl had done her part to wash it at least once, Hawkeye noticed, if dried blood far from the cut was a sign of it. But the freshness was, well- it kept the cut alive. He clicked his tongue again, against the roof of his mouth, and synched with Mindy's own comment.

(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."

See, Hawkeye's so used to being the one surrendering that it takes him a moment to make sense of the gesture. He furrows his brows, he looks over his own shoulder in an exaggerated manner much in a 'who, me? or is there a big scary guy behind me' charade. When he turns his attention back to the stranger, Hawkeye's look of puzzlement is now complete with genuine feeling of finely repressed pleasure. Recognition was such a silly thing to get worked up over, but let the man dream. Caution is thrust aside to make room for curiosity, for an open friendliness that would follow Hawkeye even to the worst days in the sludge. See, now he had a story to tell, and he rambles on with eagerness, "The latter, but sadly only through the printed word of a paperback older than the home I've heard it read in."

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."

She coughed. Humor. God, she was totally up for humor right now. Mothering her would have been flat out unacceptable, but Hawkeye being Hawkeye was just what Mindy was up for right now. She felt bad about the gun being drawn, but they were IN the ARENA. Letting your guard down was as good as turning your back on an armed killer. Mindy would know.

"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?"

He was drowsy, well beyond tired, paying his attention to the trickle of the water and the sensation of never being quite woken from his half sleep despite the fact that he was now, honestly, drenched. Wet hair, wet robe all down the front, he'd probably catch a cold. Of course, he knew just being wet and cold didn't make somebody catch the cold, but there was always still the childish fear. So anyway, he was drowsy. Hawkeye was drowsy and had his head ducked under the stream the best he could and he swears this is what he should have tried days ago when it was sweat soaking him instead, but he knew someone had come near enough for him to reasonably take notice of. Or, rather, he knew he had the feeling of knowing someone had come near. The whole feeling eyes behind him thing. God knows how that works, but it did.

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?"

He ended up guiding her to what best he could describe as a secluded corner, behind a display, behind a diorama, just nestled near the wall, no lights shining on the pair but there was still enough light to see thanks to the displays around them. Maybe Mindy wouldn't take well to the trapped feeling the little nest of a place seemed to radiate, maybe Hawkeye at another time wouldn't, but for now and for the occasion the best he could describe it as was 'cozy'.

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?"

"Yeah well, be careful, Mindy said. "There's fucking zombies around, and no, I'm not exaggerating or being cute, zombies, all right? Last thing you need is to get attacked and started going all drooly on me. As you can see, kinda got my hands full with a few encounters. Nothing good; sucks all around."

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."

Fucking zombies. And Hawkeye had had one biting into his shoulder like a stubborn and rabid dachshund. Any amusement dropped from his features in that moment, a small frown forming on his lips. He wanted to mimic her, to adopt an obnoxious high pitch and ask what would ever be cute about zombies, but the thought that he hadn't thought of an infection spreading made him nearly sick.

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."

"Not a fun prospect, is it?" Mindy said dryly. "He told me what happened, got the fuck out of dodge. Last thing I need is to be a part of the trope where a monster who isn't one yet tells you to run and you stand around like a fucking idiot. Just what anyone needed."

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.

Another nightmare to fend off- thanks for that.

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."

That's what she was here for.

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."

He knew. On occasion he'd let slip a murmur of an apology or a 'you'll be fine' as he tended to her. The job wasn't shoddy- it was anything but- but it wasn't going to win him awards for tidiness and when Hawkeye figures he's done cleaning and patching up the smaller cuts, he risks wiping his hands on one side of his robe, kind of wishing he had asked for pants instead because that robe must not be the cleanest thing out there after having been on his back for so long. His voice was still ringing in a haphazard tease when he said, fuller in intent and conviction, "Let's put it this way: I choose not to take your food. I'm making a conscious decision to reject the offer- the very kind offer, if I may say so, because I believe that hunk of cheese can better serve you than me. It wouldn't stay in my system long enough to make any discernable difference in my state of being, and so I'd prefer that it doesn't go to waste."

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?

"I'd prefer for you not to die on me, but if you're gonna be that stubborn about it, I can't force you. Obviously I don't have the strength to do that right now."

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."

That was one problem over with and Hawkeye worked to keep any look of giddy victory out of his features. It wasn't much of a task, considering now the talk of food and the nerve to reject it had made him miserably aware of how empty his stomach was, and had been, for a while now. Now every breath he took was cradled in this hollow cavity, not even a chest, not even a belly.

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?"

Mindy hardly winced. If these cuts were indicative of what was to come, she had no business flinching. She'd had her ripped off, after all. After that, this should be cake (it wasn't). At least they were being tended.

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."

Cuthbert just advances slowly while Hawkeye talks. He walks with that slow, determined pace that he knows will be all the more intimidating.

"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."

"It doesn't hurt to be a little empathetic," he says, and wonders where his challenge laid. It usually wasn't any trouble-- usually, he wasn't getting pummelled after being responsible for someone's final breath. Usually it wasn't anybody he was attracted to who turned blue and gray and dead on him. Once, there had been Tommy. Hawkeye fought back a sigh, thought long and hard about the fact that he would have gotten his skull cracked in half if he ever had to deliver the news of a dead little girl to BJ. His voice starts hoarse and Hawkeye grunts it back to normal. "No fooling, but being told you're resurrected is kind of hard news to swallow. I know a chaplain who would do a double take at it."

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."

"I wouldn't say that," Mindy said. "Sometimes it hurts way WAY more to be empathetic. People give detachment too little credit, especially here. The Arena is a pretty shitty place for hurt feelings."

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."

Oh, God damn it.

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.

"Hate to break it to you, but detachment's why we're dying." But it was a conversation for another day and Hawkeye's gentle tone implied that. He would remember to get closer to Mindy if he could, and maybe he could avoid asking all the wrong questions like he seemed to adept to do since he was brought to the holding cell of so many other worlds. At last he was done with his chore of treating the wounds he could find and binding what had to be binded, and Hawkeye took the liberty to clap his hands once after he brushed them free of oily medicine and the minty, sour smell of it. He hated to break it to anyone, but he'd prefer a busted lip and bruised ribs to a broken heart too. But death-- well, gee willikers, he didn't want that at all. His profession, the thing he had married, was the idea to fight against it. At all costs.

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."

"You think that? Guess we'll have to agree to disagree there."

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."

He could count on one finger the things he was certain about regarding Joel's world. The knowledge gap was deliberate. In a sense he just went and proved Mindy's theory correct, how much easier and better it was to just shut up and do your job without caring about the Whys or the Whats. For all his desire to know, Hawkeye had yet to find himself in a situation where he felt comfortable asking about other past lives. The current ones were almost too much to handle themselves, and in the same vein, Hawkeye only thought about asking Mindy about her world and didn't get around to it. Instead he raised a nearly skeletal hand to brush at his nose and sighed. And decided against saying anything about the perfect makings of an army. "It takes a special kind of person who can stomach politics," Hawkeye offered carefully. "Anyway, I'm not-- Joel's going to figure this place out. He's tough and he hits like Joe Louis. Or at least hits harder than that one quarterback, because I'm still limping. Brawn, he has. But when he finds Ellie again-"

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?"

"Yeah, I agree, though I generally think its a shit business unless you're an asshole. Really, how many good politicians do you know?"

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?"

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

(open) Attention, all personnel. Reward for finding lost marbles.

For Cuthbert; death thread

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a wild mindy appeared! /o/

Re: a wild mindy appeared! /o/

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sorry it's so late! /o\

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