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Entry tags:
(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.
Squeak squeak
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.
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The last arena, it had been pretty clear - keep Ellie alive, and after that had proven impossible, his own survival instincts had taken over and carried him through to his own end, for whatever that was worth.
But this time, there was something else. Ellie wasn't here, and if he didn't get all the tokens, or get to the end with them in time - he was dead. Really and truly dead. He'd become another person who'd left Ellie behind. That thought was what drove him on this time - that, and making sure none of Ellie's other friends left her behind, either.
He was going to make sure they all came back to her, whether he liked them or not. What mattered was that she liked them, and would be devastated if they didn't come back.
The voice that greeted him as he turned the corner was one such - grating to his ears, a thorn in his side since he'd first met the man, Joe couldn't stand to be in the same space with Hawkeye for more than a few minutes, normally. But he was a mess. "Shit, are you alright to walk?"
Liking or not liking was beside the point in an arena. It was about keeping Ellie's friends alive.
Re: Squeak squeak
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."
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He grinned. He grinned and it wasn't dripping with aggression- Hawkeye didn't think he hated the man, really. Dislike would even be a hard word to bring forward. But when his arm was swollen purple and was looking dead and his back and sides felt like they spasmed every other breath, when his neck hurt to turn and his cheek and forehead were both an angry color of red and brown, and he was standing, Hawkeye thought it was funny that the concern was for his legs. "I'm most certainly not going to crawl," he shot back. In fact, he wouldn't make an effort to move at all, because the wall behind him was cool and steady and that alone was a comfort. "I have some dignity." So that was the joke, that was the line that killed the grin, that was his version of Yes and Joel should learn it. "Besides, you're not even wearing heels for me."
Besides, Joel couldn't fix him. Hawkeye wasn't sure he wanted the man to try, so why even explain every injury he could count on his body? He forced down a heavy breath because he had been on break, and now this clown had ruined it. He stood silent then, simply eyeing Joel like a hawk (what a dumb way to say it). Another movement towards him, and Hawkeye might be able to see how better off Texas was than him, and it was what he wanted.
Re: Squeak squeak
"You're in sad shape, old man."
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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."
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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.
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Joel had Ellie. Ellie had... well, more people than just him, by now.
"I don't give a shit about you or your jokes, Doc," Joel growled at the other man, stepping forward - he was mostly uninjured, save for a few superficial lacerations and bruises. "But I'll be damned if I'm gonna see you die for good and break Ellie's heart, so you'd better be straight with me here."
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"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."
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"I've always been straight with you," Hawkeye pointed out. "You'll know if I ever feel any attraction."
Just because he could. And because talking forced him to breathe more evenly for the sake of spitting out words in the correct tempo, and Hawkeye very much liked to breathe but had previously thought the hurt prevented him from doing so. He'd thank Joel for the favor later. Hawkeye frowns. "No, I think I'll be the one who's damned if I die for good." But what did that even mean? That the other times he died, they'd been bad? Where the hell was Trapper John to answer these questions when he needed him? Another moment of silence to let the stupidity waft away, and Hawkeye continues. "I can walk just fine- just ignore the fact that I'm not doing it now. My bag's got a first aid kit but that isn't going to mend any broken bones. Other than that, I've got a bruised ego and bruises in places I won't tell you about. I don't know if I have a concussion. Isn't that funny? Your concern is touching." And horrifying. "I'd be more worried of Ellie not finding you back, so I'm also curious why you're here chatting instead of off exploring. How many trinkets have you snagged? I'm holding a record of Zero so far."
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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.
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"I'll make it back to her, one way or the other," he growled with conviction. What he didn't trust was this idiot. "You don't have any? Jesus Christ. Look, if it's bad enough you won't make it for sure, I can do what needs doin' to get you back there. For her. What I'm not gonna do is stand here listenin' to your goddamn brainless nattering while you slow me down and put us both in danger. Save it for her."
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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."
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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."
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If only he'd known.
The selflessness of survival for another's sake wasn't going to be shrugged off, and Hawkeye didn't know if he could ever make room in his head to keep all of his worries stored away. He wanted to allow himself to feel sick and blamed it all on Joel- he'd been fine with his doom until the man showed up with the truth that he was dooming himself wrong. Hawkeye made an effort to pry himself away from the wall as the anxiety bit through his core, and his good hand didn't know if it should head to cradle his broken arm or his gut or his neck. The anxiety spurred, of course, by Joel's insinuation. "I never thought you were such a nice fella, you know. Going back for seconds in those pits just so you can let me have your extra tokens-- gee, you're a nice fella."
Of course Hawkeye knew that wasn't 'what needs doin'' but he was a little busy processing to do anything but purposely infuriate the man.
No, no, no, no, no. Nuh-no. No, no.
It can't be that casual. Nuh-no.
Hawkeye's back is hitting the wall again in a fit of desperation. His jaw's slightly slack, and from his mouth escapes a wail of a sigh. "So go. It's not me that's holding you. I don't know if you've noticed, but brainless nattering isn't barbed wire, and it wasn't me who built the holding cell. As for terminating me for the greater good- noble gesture, but I vote 'no'."
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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."
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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?"
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"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."
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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