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(closed) There's enough brass in here to make a spittoon.
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.
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.
no subject
"We both know you're not gonna make it," he says impatiently, taking in Hawkeye's physical state. "You wanna die for good? You wanna not come back? Frankly, I couldn't care less - but you know you'll be breakin' Ellie's heart if you don't come back. You turn me down, and it happens, it's on you. You wanna die knowin' that girl won't ever see you again, be my guest. Or I can send you back there right here and now."
no subject
And then there was dying, which would be the same as the first, but dying later. Maybe harder.
And Hawkeye would be as wary of that death as he had been the first time he was dropped in the middle of a jungle with the simple instruction to play.
It was a mystery. Hawkeye didn't like mysteries. They were no fun to decipher in the cots of Korea with rocket blaring behind the shifting lines and it was no fun now. By all accounts, he oughta be begging the other guy to end him.
"No offense, but I don't trust your judgement calls," Hawkeye offered. He thinks a sorry date in a secluded, dim-lit bar was enough evidence to back that up for both their sides. "Or your hands." There was a family plot in Maine. Hawkeye would somehow make it back to be shoved into that hole. For a guy who had thrived, in a twisted sort of way, on a business where stacking bodies like bread was the norm, he wasn't a step closer to being buddies with death than he was when it took his mom. "Dig around my bag. I've got water and some food and a first aid kit. If I know you at all, I strongly advise you take the first aid kit. Hell- take what you want, but you're not taking me. As for Ellie, you know she's watching and letting off some steam shouting words that'll make a sailor proud. She didn't get called to this Arena so don't drag her into it."
He just didn't want to die. It wasn't his fault his voice wavered.
no subject