(closed) There's enough brass in here to make a spittoon.

[swill]

Who| Hawkeye, Joel, and Rat
What| Joel tries to help, and then Rat goes ahead and does so
Where| Nearing the District 6 wing, and then in it
When| Early in the game, Mini-Arena
Warnings/Notes| Injuries and death, of course!

Joel
He wanted to go home.

He'd have nearly four hundred dollars if every time he uttered the thought was worth a dime. A month's salary, and the more of those he could rack up the sooner he'd pay off Uncle Sam's goat- and Hawkeye can't believe it, you know, that his arm's broken, that his skin's torn, that his head must be purple and part way swollen along with the rest of his body, and he's thinking about the goat that financially ruined his life. It had been his first thought coming up the pod into the jungle of the first Arena and now it was-- well, and now it was here, just giving his mind something to mull over with silent, seething resentment at the inability to grieve something of importance. Like his health, for one. Like not being able to take a steady or silent step (and Hawkeye knew the straggling wasn't silent because he could hear his own footsteps echo, damn the warped noise of the maze). Like the way he still held on to the bag with the water and treats and first aid kit inside as if it would help. It just might, if he found another shadow around the next corner and if the shadow turned out to be friendly.

Truth be told, though, he didn't want to run into anybody. He hadn't met anybody friendly. Hawkeye was determined to not die. He'd be disappointed but that was how life worked, and it'd build character or something to try. Damn it, he was going to try. That meant not one more scuffle or else he'd fall over from the sheer excitement of it, his heart giving out like an old man's might at the sight of dame. He might just fall over now and call it quits- the adrenaline was wearing thin and so were the pills and so was the voice of unreasonable reason that told him he might just make it. The walls around him turned to something like concrete, and that told Hawkeye he was near some prize. Then Hawkeye heard footsteps that couldn't be his own because he had stopped walking for the sake of hissing in a breath and leaning against the wall. He allowed himself a moment of sanity were his face contorted in pain and he worried over his body. It almost seemed like his vision blurred for a moment when he lifted his head and saw a big, bearded fellow. And it was supposed to be a joke when Hawkeye rolled his head back and whined, "Take me, I'm yours."

Rat
If the clock had chimed an hour yet or not, Hawkeye didn't know. He'd honestly be disappointed in himself if he couldn't will himself to last past the first hour, though on the other hand, the fact that he had no token for himself yet made him wish anxiously the hands on the clock didn't move at all. It was a conundrum, and it stumped and stupefied him. Arenas before had made his stomach churn and lurch but the feeling of prosecution had been significantly less. And funny that, when now the game wasn't to hunt each other, but hunt the tokens instead. The game wasn't to beat each other to a pulp, though Hawkeye well resembled one as he shuffled along, but to beat the countdown. He was being prosecuted by a clock-- and idea was stupid enough to make him want to not play. He had worried about it before, about how much faith he put in the Capitol and their ways of playing God, and if it weren't for that new and twisted faith, Hawkeye might just not have believed the part about not being brought back to life if they failed to cooperate. But he did believe it. And he had a will safe and ready in some office somewhere- wherever the hell the Army kept those things- and he had known he was going to die long before he was brought to Panem, and he'd been terrified before, but. But Jesus Christ, being told the fact flat-out was exhausting work to accept.

The asphalt walls were silent and boring. He ran into dead ends left and right and wondered how low the odds in the betting pool must now be in his favor, and how pissed anybody must be if they had ever been dull enough to bet on his survival in the first place. He was pretty sure he had come face to face with the exact same end twice now, and one time Hawkeye thought it was a good idea to let off steam by further bruising himself and throwing himself against a wall, just to see if it would nudge. It didn't.

Whoever said you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks was a god damn liar, because Hawkeye never tried that again. He trudged left and found himself sore to step over a discarded wheel. He wondered if there were bicycles around and by the time the thought passed over his mind, he was silently mouthing a curse to Finnick for no good reason- sorry, Finnick. Hawkeye felt like he was practically, suddenly ensnared in a tunnel of gears. One leg shook to keep still in between the spoke of one wheel, another rose jerkily to step over a ridge, his shoulder nearly brushed something metallic-- and Hawkeye wondered why he couldn't just turn into a ferret and get the puzzle done with. He choked out a cry when he had to duck and was forced to turn his broken arm at an angle. He choked out another when he saw a table near but realized something moved under his belly at the moment, and then when a gear caught his ankle. It was a Christless meatgrinder, and Hawkeye leapt forward like a spooked show horse. One. He would get one token this hour, at least, and no-- no, no- he wouldn't lost a limb getting it.

Comments

Squeak squeak

[saveswithsong]

If he'd had his rats with him, he'd have a different strategy entirely for this particular room. They were surely strong enough to bring back whatever token this area had. They weren't so sadistic to make people carry back a 10 pound sprocket, were they? He was glad he didn't say that out loud to give these assholes any ideas.

Rat negotiated the room one step, one gear, one chain reaction of movement at a time. Being so light on his feet meant sometimes he didn't even set off any movement. But his luck was about to change. He was presented with a massive gear, and he had two options: he could ride it up and over the top, or scurry under it like the rodent he was. Crouching, he could see under it that the pavilion was just there. But he couldn't see well enough to know what waited for him up above. A known risk was preferable to an unknown one. There wasn't much space, but he was quite sure he could fit. Especially if he timed it so that he was between the teeth.

So down on his belly he went. The machete was held in a backward grip so that it pointed out in front of him as he pulled himself forward on his elbows. He waited a moment to assess the timing, and scrambled in as quickly as he could once he had what he wanted.

Halfway along he curled his legs in as the teeth of the gear came swinging down behind him, out of the way just in time.

But he hadn't anticipated a small clump of tiny gears whirring away just on the other side. They bit into his hair and as soon as he felt the tug he knew what he had to do. He reached up to check how much distance he had. That was a mistake. The gears caught a couple of his fingers and by the time he got them free they were gone to the first knuckle. And he had no choice but to take the chance. He swung the machete behind his head, as close to himself as he could. If he knicked himself, it wouldn't matter as long as he didn't get chewed up.

He felt the tug release, and he rolled forward. He looked back just in time to see his deep blue hair, attached to a chunk of skin and blood, disappear into the tiny whirling gears. Some of his hair, still attached at the perimeter of his hairline, hung lankly around his head. It stung where some fell into where he'd scalped himself. His hand ached, and he was sure it was adrenaline that kept it from hurting worse. He could tend to his wounds after he made sure he was alone for now.

He wasn't. But they weren't a likely threat. "Hawkeye. I never get to see you when I'm at my best." Somehow a smirk made it onto his face, despite everything.

Re: Squeak squeak

[swill]

It alarmed him that there were children playing this game. This game in particular, and Hawkeye had at least had some moments of relative peace to stagger to the table in the pavillion only to find that the goodies here were lug nuts. He had a moment to double over the table and to rest his forehead on the surface and to cradle his mangled arm and to feel something wrong with his back and to howl. With gusto. And it was almost great, because while he bayed about getting grinded by gears for a simple nut, he hadn't thought about one kid. Not one. And it was great and he straightened up the best he could only in time to see a machete among the glistening gears, turning and first Hawkeye saw blue, and then blood.

And then finally he remembered the kids and it was all twisted, all wretched, because if took the Capitol's word (mistake number one) then they had all been hand-picked. Then it wasn't just the Capitol that wanted them all to die, it was the districts who didn't bother to learn, who never cared to care, that children in the Hunger Games were wrong. That the Hunger Games were wrong, but that there were somehow levels of wretchedness, and. And anyway, there was a bleeding boy ahead of him, and Hawkeye pocketed the token because he couldn't get rid of it even with the spur of concern that drove him to dive forward towards Rat. He knew the boy. Knew the kid. And it didn't matter if he did or didn't- Hawkeye didn't even think. "Probably for both of our sakes- your eyes are distracting even on a day like today." and maybe if he can cut up his shirt into strips, he can fashion bandages for the head and the hand and Hawkeye's lifting the hem of his own shirt in a blink, using his good hand and ignoring the busted and purple one. "Hold still, this won't take long. The tokens aren't going anywhere."

Re: Squeak squeak

[saveswithsong]

The old man had seen better days. Though, he supposed he has an older soul than he was in body. He was a bit curious about that, but that was a story for another day. "Whoa there," he said, reaching out to put a hand on Hawkeye's shoulder. "Save throwing your clothing at me for when I'm on stage." Well, Hawkeye still had all his bits attached, but that didn't seem like too much of a benefit. "I've had worse." Sure, such as a nearly-fatal gunshot wound. Or had he actually died that day? Whatever had happened, he saw the sun rise on a destroyed wall the next morning, and that was not something he had expected.

"You're in sad shape, old man."

[swill]

A hand on his shoulder was a clear step up from a knife pressed against his throat, and Hawkeye thought fleetingly that he was more alarmed by the gesture to stand down than he had been from the start of self-defense back in the museum. It was a fat lie travelling his mind and was discarded as quickly as it came around. He'd never understand these kids, and that fact was alarming. The Old Man, the Old Bones, raised a brow in immediate protest. He saw a boy with fingers cut off and he knew how to sew the bits back on if he had the tools. He knew the name to the bones that wanted to show behind the flesh and blood and he knew, well, that Rat's head was what was in sad shape and could, maybe, be saved. Or at least not destroyed further. Same difference, wasn't it?

He clicked his tongue. He gestured to the machete. For once, he didn't bother with addressing the part about a show despite knowing his way around it. "You're bleeding," he says, like it wasn't obvious. Like it meant Rat won this round of 'who looks worse' because being beaten and broken and burning wasn't leaving a trail. But bleeding would. "Give me the knife. I keep my shirt, you keep what's left of your hand. I've worked with worse."

[saveswithsong]

He shrugged. "People back home always said I needed a haircut," he said, brushing off Hawkeye's concern. He was starting to feel the ache now that the adrenaline was coming down, and he squeezed his eyes shut against it. The hand on Hawkeye's shoulder was going cold. "And it was just skin anyway." But somehow, he acquiesced to his request for the machete. He set it on the table. Even if he didn't expressly trust Hawkeye, given their respective conditions, even if the next place that blade was destined was Rat's gut he'd be able to stop him.

He braced his hands on the table and lowered his head to shake off a wave of nausea. "Shit..." he muttered under his breath. "I don't have time for this...." When he did, Hawkeye would be able to see that while it was true that he'd only scalped himself, it was bleeding in that profuse way that only head wounds could, and the hair that remained below the wound was already turned deep burgundy in the minutes since it'd occurred, and was heading into his shirt.

[swill]

Despite all that Hawkeye was inclined to agree, he only snorted in answer. Tame derision pulled at the gesture, and Hawkeye reached for the machete the instant it hit the table, was careful not to snatch it from the boy's hand before then to mitigate any suspicion that he'd use it against him somehow. Hawkeye draws in a breath and holds it in as he maneuvers the thing so the sharp edge of it rests on an extended bit of his shirt, so that when he decides to hurry up and stab it through the fabric, it doesn't catch his sorry skin. One-handed, because Hawkeye sure wasn't going to even try to move the swollen mass of tissue that was his left arm, it was slow going. Out the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Rat and the dizzy spell, and see why he snorted at the idea of 'just skin'?

"You're right," he started, upbeat at first until his concentration steadied his tone. "The quicker we can stop the bleeding, the better off you'll be. That's in regards to both your head and your fingers. In that order. I like to think you use your head more than your hands when you're navigating a maze." Shock was coming, possibly soon, and Hawkeye only didn't have the heart to tell Rat about it now. He had a cut an irregular couple of chunks from his shirt. With Rat just leaning and heaving and bleeding there, Hawkeye couldn't help but think the posture looked a little more comfortable than standing at the ready. He left the machete back on the table so the metal clinked, and then thought they were both shit out of luck coming to the next step.

Hawkeye went ahead and nudged Rat's shoulder. Something, something, getting the patient involved made the patient care. Something, something, Christ, was it a bad idea to ask this of anyone wounded.

"Either you lie down so I can wrap the wound with enough pressure using the table as a support or you give me your good hand and help me out. It'll be like those three-legged races. Teamwork. We can get this done in a jiffy, I promise. I hate to be so pressing, but the clock is ticking. And I mean that in terms of your health, mostly."

[saveswithsong]

Rat's eyes followed the machete, even if he didn't really move. Oh, he knew he had a doozy of a shock coming any time now. He was already feeling cold. But he was far too stubborn to not try to fend it off. Once it was back on the table, he snatched it back up and moved again, this time going to sit on the ground, with his back up against a table leg. "Make it quick, old man," he answered, raising his intact hand up in compliance with Hawkeye's request. It shook a bit, and he made a point of keeping his breathing even.

Stay focused, he told himself. If you fade off or pass out you're gonna die. "Just keep chattering away." He didn't actually mean that sarcastically. He needed something to focus on.

[swill]

What a lovely thing to dote on: orders.

Hawkeye was mildly miffed at Rat's decision to sit instead of lie down- his preferences, medical and personal, both somehow ignored and somehow the gesture still allowed for prompt mending. He'd applaud it if it didn't mean he would have to hunch over to reach the kid's head well, if his back wasn't feeling so brittle and weak that Rat calling him an 'old man' seemed natural to his ears. Hawkeye snorted, winced at the way the sudden intake of air pained his stomach, and let one end of the cloth strip fall to Rat's open hand. Hawkeye's good hand then went to hold Rat's, then to push it and pin it to the side of Rat's head near the worst tear. Pressure, he indicated. Hawkeye began to bandage. He wished he had kept the first aid kit, and then wondered if it was selfish. He also wished he hadn't taken most of the painkillers, because there was no question if that was or wasn't selfish. The bandaging was sloppy at best. Hawkeye sported a permanent grimace.

"Old man?" Like the words barely caught up to him. "I'm in my prime. Don't mind my gray hairs. I'm like a silver back gorilla. I'm strong-" the wimpy pressure on Rat's head could confirm that much- "resourceful, resilient, respectable, admirable, attentive, affectionate, ah-- running out of breath, but why do I need to explain myself to you anyway? I'm too busy trying to figure out how to tie this with just-- see, if I just tuck in this loose end, the dressing's bound to come off the minute we let go and, uh."

He had to tend to Rat's hand, and after he tended Rat's hand he might want to fuss over Rat's head again. So Hawkeye shifted his weight. He leaned against the steady table, propping his broken arm up with little thought and with a shrill whine. Oh, fun. Oh, what a doozy. Oh, Lord, what a bad idea. But oh, then Hawkeye passes his end of the strip to his one hand, and takes the other from Rat and ta- "-da!"

He didn't have the breath for this. "A knot."

Beautiful little bow.

"Still with me? Your hand's next. Tell it to... tell it to quit bleeding until I make myself sit down. Or until you stand up. But don't do it fast. But I'll sit down slow. I'm old."

[saveswithsong]

Whatever meandering path that train of thought of the doctor's had gone on, Rat dragged himself along it. It was a good thing to hang on to as blood rushed in his ears. He forced himself to breathe evenly, and didn't do much other than move his hand as Hawkeye needed it. He didn't even have any smart comment in return to his contention that he wasn't old. Once he was done, though, he stayed right where he was. He wasn't in a condition to get up yet.

He just waved a dismissive hand and raised his knees up, putting his feet flat on the ground. He hung his head between his knees in a pose Hawkeye might find typical of someone that was more than just a little dizzy and being stubborn about it. But he didn't let go of the machete that his maimed hand clutched. Sure, he was a terribly stubborn patient, but he patently refused to pass out. He knew this would pass.

And it only took a little bit longer for it to do so. When he finally moved again, he pushed back on his heels and just rose up to a full standing position. "You sure as hell know how to take an open invitation..." he finally said. "My hand's fine."

He looked Hawkeye up and down again. "You're a dead man walking, though."

[swill]

He was a fraction away from thinking he had messed up, from thinking Rat had messed himself up, or from thinking that he was about to witness a boy give a surprise birth. Hawkeye opened his mouth to advise against the position- he had information on the vitality of blood flow and studies and conclusive evidence- and instead he just watched and swallowed and waited like he was on the other side of the operating table in his studies, and his mentor was inspecting. He didn't care for the weapon or the glint of it, his attention on the kid's breathing and on flying, fleeting, tangled thoughts of how to talk him out of hiding.

Then the next second, Rat's up and Hawkeye can't believe that he even saw it, wondered if he had shut his eyes or something during it. His gaze flashed to the bandaged head and to the blood still oozing, his chest constricted in concern. Concern for what, though-- well, Rat stood and Hawkeye felt like he was pulled back by a force. That force was unease. He could wrangle it, make the sensation never rear its head. "Your hand is bleeding," Hawkeye urged. His lips turned down, pulled back at his words. He was sure he had already said this. He was sure he looked like a cornered mutt. "You've lost a part of it." Because why else would the boy be searching him like that? Hawkeye wasn't sure if he preferred Flagg's looks. Flagg at least carried a gun, not a kitchen knife. His voice rose- lowered, too. He felt suddenly sore and stiff all over, and his body didn't feel quite like his own. Except for the arm-- that was definitely his.

And he didn't want to shuffle back- Cuthbert's taunt rang in his head, right before Ferdinand's frill exploded- but Hawkeye did. The observation was lined with truth. Hawkeye didn't like it any more than he liked grenades strapped to bodies. It wasn't that caution overpowered concern in that moment. But it was similar.

"I'm a live man standing, thanks. I'm also sick of being told what I am when no one seems to know. Put that weapon down, I'm only trying to help you. I already have. My shape's of no concern to you- you just want to win this game. You'll get through it easier if you just let me do my work."

[saveswithsong]

Rat looked at his hand, and wiggled the fingers he had remaining. He almost lost his grip on the weapon in the process, but he grabbed it again and even twirled it nimbly around his wrist. "I've got three more." He put a smirk back on his face. It was as though he hadn't just been trying to keep himself together a moment ago.

But he sniffed with derision at Hawkeye's accusation. "And you think you can, looking like that? What's your plan for this arena? Run around and patch up all of your opponents until time runs out?"

[swill]

He wouldn't even mind it if it was Frank Burns hollering at him that he was a dunce, or shrieking at him to buzz off. Hawkeye would sock the guy in the jaw if he felt like it then, would snarl back and just make the guy listen and sit still because while he wouldn't ever understand the man, he had learned how to deal with him. The sight of Rat looking nearly smug or professional or something as he twirled the machete just further led Hawkeye into the pit of confusion. There was no winning, no certainty on which brand of help to offer or ask for. The second guessing was overstaying its welcome, and Hawkeye heard himself say "Oh good, you can count." as he nodded his head. Three. Yup. That's what he saw, too.

He nodded his head again, in agreement and acceptance. Acceptance that the alarm was dissipating despite it not needing to, awareness both that it was happening and that his answer was alien, and as seemingly illogical as green little Martians. Though in this setting, who knew. Who knew, and that was his excuse for it. "We need to get a few things straight here- first, that I'm not your opponent. I'm not competing against anybody. It's the same as calling me a soldier, it's plain wrong. I'm not fighting against you. You're not my enemy." Hawkeye felt short of breath there, took a second to gather his thoughts, construct a point. He had squabbled against that one nosy bastard, landed a few punches. It was different than fighting for the game and for the audience. And anyway, Hawkeye draws in a breath again and continues, his voice rising in pitch in earnest.

No, in his shape he couldn't last. Just wouldn't last. And if he lasted, it'd just be worse for him.

"I think I can help and in fact, I'd like to. I've been called a mother hen before. I've also been compared to a headless chicken. If I have to run around like either to do what I swore to do 'til my dying breath -and don't get any ideas-, I'll do it." It was senseless. Just like back in Korea. If Hawkeye ever got home, then he might take a year or two to observe the wonder of medical procedures done with reason and genuine care as if it'd be the first time he ever observed. He tried to shrug. Ended up tilting his head part way to one side instead, staring the machete down as if he could convince it to wilt.

[saveswithsong]

He didn't really consider Hawkeye's recommendations incorrect, but they were highly inconvenient. Now that he had moved through that wave of unsteadiness caused by the wounds, he needed to move forward.

"You're lying to yourself. The sooner you understand that, the better you are. Just because you don't think you're anyone's opponent, doesn't mean no one else thinks you are. You could be something as a notch on someone's belt on their way to the Victor's crown. Sure, you're a doctor, but that doesn't mean you can pretend this isn't a place where people are going to kill each other.

"Sometimes all you're going to do is extend people's suffering before they die. And there is nothing that is more despicable than that." There was genuine venom in his voice as he finished.

[swill]

"Oh, I'm aware," Hawkeye interrupts. His gaze snaps back to Rat's face because it seemed more proper, or because he was finally too worked up to mumble to a piece of metal. He'd just been called a liar, and it would only sting more if his nerves weren't already dulled from the past beatings he'd received. "All the people who come at me all too happy to behead me just because they can't bear to disappoint their hoards of screaming fans back in Panem have made that perfectly clear." And he'd start speaking with harsher words, maybe, because nobody understood the difference between sincerity and stupidity in this place. "So have the kids scared out of their wits who think impaling another kid is going to grant them some sort of mercy."

And what could he say next? Something about how there were bigger people out there to target, something about how small all their minds were if they thought their lives meant anything at all when men in suits played chess and chatted in an air-conditioned room. Something about how triage was all about letting the boys bleed to death if they were going to do so without giving them a second glance or thought. Honestly, Hawkeye had worked Rat's final comment to near extinction before the boy had ever said it. War meant he had no control. He did what he had to. That meant some boys died worse deaths than they would have had they never fallen to his table.

There was nothing to do but not think about it.

But Jesus Christ, he wasn't the delusional one. He shouldn't be the target for the hate. And all Hawkeye does is school his temper and sway on his feet and repeat, "I help whoever I can. That doesn't mean everybody. And just because you're an actor doesn't mean you should always think you're a hero." But no venom on Hawkeye's end. He'd spit it at Snow.

[saveswithsong]

He rolled his eyes. "I'm no hero. You know nothing about me. You're only running around patching people up to appease your own ego. Don't stand there and try to tell me it's any different."

He raised the machete and pointed it in the general direction of Hawkeye's neck. "Now then. Shall I help you with your wounds in my own way?" Whatever fire had been in those silver eyes of his had retreated. There was only a cold gleam. Actor may not be his primary trade, but he was good at pulling away parts of himself that were a nuisance to what needed doing.