it wasn't faith, not divine (semi-open)

[orestes]

Who: Enjolras & Venus (& Zombie!Grantaire) / Enjolras & Open
What: Hunting for supplies.
Where: Idk. Around the town area.
When: Zombie time
Warnings/Notes: Violence maybe? I'm up for some confrontation stuff on his more open ended prompt, maybe even with Zombie!Grantaire tagging along. If you want to do something specific, shoot me a PM, or hit me up on the plotting post.



(( Option 1 :: Enjolras & Venus (& Zombie Grantaire) ))

The news of Courfeyrac's death had hit everyone hard. There was nothing to mitigate the emotional blow, but it, unfortunately, had to take a backseat to the practical matters to which they were all forced to attend. With Joly dead, and Marius incapacitated, that left only a few bodies to comfortably search out supplies. Combeferre was an automatic out, as they couldn't risk losing their only other trained doctor. Max was a last resort, as none of the men were comfortable sending a child, much less a young girl, to do their dirty work, even if they knew intellectually that she would be better, stronger, and probably faster at it than any of them. Marius was Marius, which left Enjolras and Venus, whenever she decided to stay around their small camp.

Today they were looking for water. The heat was such that no one had much of an appetite, which was good as food was increasingly rare. Unfortunately, it also made them all sweat, compounding the natural dehydration of the Arena. Thirst was a dreadful way to go. For Enjolras' part, he'd rather be killed by someone else's hand if it had to come to that again.

The faucets in the shoe store were dry, but their existence meant that some sort of aqueduct system had to exist in the small village. The water tight bags which had delivered their supplies weeks ago had been emptied, and their contents distributed so that they could be reused. Only the fog kept the sun from beating down on them as they walked aimlessly through the eerily deserted street, and it was a small comfort, if one at all.

Their footsteps echoed, their breathing sounded rough and ragged from inadequate rest and nutrition. All of it popped crisply for a split second before dissipating into the void of the fog. All except for an odd shuffling, a dragging a few paces behind them.

"Do you hear that?" He asked, looking over to her quizzically. It could be Max, perhaps, but unless the girl was more tired than she'd been letting on, he doubted they'd be aware if she were following them. "That noise," he looked back, as if to illustrate where he thought it might be coming from. "There."

—
(( Option 2 :: Enjolras (& Open) ))

Along the same block as the shoe store were a host of other small store fronts. A five & dime, a grocery (the produce from which smelled of rot and decay, and the nonperishables were, if anything, actually worse off), and an empty hall with billiard tables but no other signs of use and no poles or balls with which to play. When circumstances didn't dictate that they remain on high alert, Enjolras busied himself ducking in and out of the surrounding buildings, gathering what he could, things that seemed useful to bring back to camp. Scraps of fabric could be made into bandages, or used to seal up the weatherworn cracks in the walls, stray tacks and nails could be fashioned into weapons or traps by him and Combeferre to protect their decaying camp.

He was off to an early start today. The sun had only just begun to peak through the oppressive fog, and the heat remained omnipresent, but not so intense as to be oppressive. Enjolras dabbed at the sweat collecting in the curls at the back of his neck, cursing the fact that the more time passed, the more he'd have to wipe away, and the less hydrated he'd be. If only they could go foraging at night! —But it was too much of a risk.

—
((Option 3 :: make something up!! ))

Comments

[celebrityskinned]

She wonders if this was what Kankri felt like last Arena, watching his ally deteriorate into a haze of withdrawal and injury. She feels as if she's witness to this unit disintegrating, pieces flaking off and dying one by one, in body for some and spirit for others as the elements take their toll. This isn't the first Arena she's had allies, but it is the first that they've suffered side-by-side with her. It's the first she's had to watch people she cares for sink a little bit deeper into their aches and pains and anxieties with each passing day.

It's hypocritical, really. It's not as if she's doing much better. Azula's made sure she's receiving regular doses of her medication, which she appreciates even as she knows it comes at the expense of food she could share with the group. Other than that, however, she's as starved and dehydrated as the rest of them, and has an ugly but manageable knife wound in her lower back that she stubbornly refuses to let anyone but Combeferre see (and thus, assess the seriousness of). In her more snippy moments, when asked about it she's stated that it brings her down to 'their' level in the Arena, and then immediately regretted it. The sensory-deprivation hell of the fog and heat has had everyone on edge.

"Yeah, I hear it." She takes a step towards the danger, because it's in her nature to lean forwards to things that could bite, stab or burn her. She is, as ever, subconsciously infatuated with her own destruction, not with intent decision but with a sort of unwitting will that knots up her muscles and bends them to it. She lets the dart of the chain fall from her hands (the weapon unfurls like a flag).

The groan sounds almost masculine. Her eyebrows pull together, corners of her eyes tightening as she peers at the shape starting to emerge from the cloud.

"Who's there?"

[orestes]

It takes him a moment to actually recognize the figure as it continues toward them. It drags its feet as it moves, drunkenly, he thinks. The antique boots seem to weigh it down and cause it to stumble and flail at them limply through the mists. It's then that he catches the dark hair contrasting sharply against the milky air around them, then that the green of the ragged waistcoat, and the sick stained parchment white of the linen shirt seem to click in his head.

All in all, Grantaire doesn't look all that different from the last time Enjolras had seen him. There aren't gaping bullet holes in his chest, of if there are, they're disguised by the fabric, which seems stained by the dirt of the Arena and wine, unsurprisingly, but nothing more insidious than that. It's a blow nonetheless. His skin is sagging and as the zombie lets out another vacant, inhuman groan, Enjolras decides that he looks bad, even for Grantaire.

"I know him," he tells Venus, not bothering to ready his knife. Grantaire wouldn't raise a hand to Enjolras or anyone under his protection, much less a woman. He'd always preferred to cut with words. Beyond that, from the gait of his approach, the man didn't seem capable of harming much of anything right now. He barely seems capable of standing.

"How long have you been here?" His voice takes on a rough, authoritative sort of edge that it's been lacking in the past months. Enjolras is self-aware enough to realize he doesn't like it, but not enough to stop. "You are lucky to have found us and not someone who would cut the throat of an inebriate suffering withdrawals."

[celebrityskinned]

"Your friend?" Granted, she remembers what she saw on the exposé - she isn't sure the initial look of disdain she saw on Enjolras' face would really qualify this young man as a friend. It's a similar expression to the ones she's seen him use on Marius, especially lately as Marius has become, at best, a hindrance.

She reaches out and gently wraps her hand around Enjolras' wrist. "Don't get too close," she whispers. She remembers the visions of other Tributes in the jungle Arena, the Arena he won. It wouldn't be the first time the Capitol decided to pull this trick, although in Venus' opinion it's getting a bit old-hat now.

It's strange to think of such a messy, disheveled person as part of the little collective of revolutionaries. Even Marius, for all his vapidity, and Joly, for all his hysteria, had a certain air of liveliness to them, the sense that they could devote themselves to something wholly, be it love or panic. Vibrancy. The man stumbling towards them seems more a hobo, and an apathetic, weary one at that.

Weariness is a mood for the French boys she knows, not a trait.

Venus takes a step forward, willing to catch Grantaire if he stumbles and reluctant to let Enjolras close the gap first. "I'm Venus. We haven't met."

[orestes]

The zombie eyes her blankly, its deathly expression void of any discernible emotion. Its breathes are rasping and labored, and it teeters again, forward this time, before righting itself with a start-liked motion. Enjolras' face hardens further, his mouth forming a tight, unforgiving line.

"This is Grantaire," he says, irritation clear in his voice. "If habituation of company makes for friendship, I suppose that we could be called friends." Not that he could claim to enjoy the man's company, merely that he always seemed to be around them, tagging along with Joly and Bossuet, or Courfeyrac and Marius. Or simply being at the Musain before they arrived because, of course, it was a wine shop and Grantaire may as well have rented its back room as an apartment for as many afternoons as he ended sleeping there.

At Enjolras' voice, the zombie visibly perks up, ears seeming to twitch. His expression becomes a ghostly, clouded form of ornery, and his very posture changes. Defiantly, he lifts himself up, almost reaching Enjolras height before choking out a groan and deflating again. Grantaire's shoulders hunch again, the gathers on his antique shirt making them appear even more round. "I suppose we should bring him back to camp with us. Joly and Courfeyrac would have enjoyed his company if they were still alive and could manage to sober him up. We will suffer it."

[celebrityskinned]

"Joly told me about him. Said that he rubbed your inner optimist the wrong way."

She's well aware, almost without looking, of the expression on Enjolras' face. Back in the early days of their flirtation, or whatever the hell it was, it had been turned on her a few times. She suspects it would be an even more lethal weapon now than then, and she feels almost as if she's been grazed by a bullet when it's targeted on someone nearby. There's an intensity to Enjolras' sense of disappointment that carries a physical weight.

"Careful." She works in Hollywood, she's seen withdrawal and intoxication at least a handful of times. Something about this, however, seems off (aside from Grantaire's stench, which seems to be best described as 'pickled'). She slips into Grantaire's arm, trying to catch him as he trips over some whatever on the ground. He's heavy, moreso because she's tired than anything else, she imagines.

"Okay, some words in French kind of sound that garbled, but I'm like, ninety percent sure that that was just a grunt. Parlez vous anglais, Monsieur Grantaire?"

[orestes]

He ignores the comment about the French language mostly because she's right in at least the second half of her statement. Whatever's the matter with Grantaire, it's effecting his speech more than even a typical bender normally would. The man, for all of his problems and annoyances, is remarkably eloquent even while drunk. This is different. It causes Enjolras to take step closer and truly study the figure in front of them.

"I've never heard him speak English. Greek, perhaps, or Latin. Occitan, if he is feeling particularly bothersome to me, but never English." And it never sounded that way, anyway. He looks the zombie up and down again. The clothing isn't right for a Tribute. If Grantaire had been suddenly thrust into the Arena, he presumably would have been put into the same modern wardrobe, the rags of which they were sporting. No, this is different. Instead, he looks exactly as he had the morning of the barricade. The implications of that realization wash over him slowly, and are difficult to address. Almost as difficult as the odd sense of guilt he's developed regarding that morning.

"Do you suppose that the Capitol would be capable of recreating someone based solely on our memories of them?" Grantaire's head snaps up at the question, and he seems to stand a little more firmly in place, as if offended by the idea of being nothing more than an abstract reflection of Enjolras' perceptions. Were their roles reversed, Enjolras would probably feel the same way. No, he'd definitely feel the same way. "You should step away from him. Now, I think. Monsieur Grantaire is not acting much like himself."

[celebrityskinned]

Sorry, bro, your native tongue is kind of silly.

It's strange, to be talking about Grantaire as if he's not there, even as he responds, if mutedly, to the stimuli around him. It only adds to the sense of unease around them now. As Grantaire straightens, Venus pulls away so his weight isn't on her.

Venus, recalling the end of the expose with the sound of bullets cracking as if they're right in her ears, takes a chance and rather than stepping away entirely, pulls at Grantaire's lapel. And reveals two bulletholes in his chest. There are likely more that the crumpled nature of the clothing have just made difficult to see.

"Oh God."

Now she steps away.