A lack of honor [CLOSED]

[formersurgeon]

Who| Joan Watson and Tom Cassidy
What| Joan is tricked and murdered
Where| On the way to the food court
When| Week 3
Warnings/Notes| Death


Joan was going it alone. She had managed to find a spot in Touch of Class where the racks of clothing efficiently obscured a corner without obviously appearing to hide anything. She stayed there, creeping out at different times every day to make her way to the food court. There were days when she hung back, unwilling to confront the people in the food court, and returned to her hiding place without food. So on days when she was able to grab things, she took as much as possible back to her spot, and rationed it, keeping herself alive, able to move, even if fighting would be a struggle for her by this point.

She was on her way to the food court again when she saw another Tribute, and ducked into a store front. Maybe he hadn't seen her. Maybe he was one of the Tributes who refused to fight. She waited for a moment, then carefully peeked around the corner.

Comments

[pimpcanes]

The mannequins throughout A Touch of Class don't mean much to Tom. They aren't people he recognizes, and though he thought for a moment he might see faces from the Arena, they've turned out to be almost entirely strangers thus far, or people from his world that he's never had the misfortune of meeting. Dr. Bruce Banner. Funny, that.

He wonders how many of them came from him and his food court attack. He can't tell. No one bothered to write it down, and in a way, he's glad to know that he doesn't necessarily have trophies. It's not that he minds killing, or even doesn't take occasional pleasure in it; it just seems kind of gauche to really revel. Mementos, checklists, tokens: that's the realm of serial killers, not a career criminal.

He's heading back to the clothing outlet to see who else, and more importantly, how many else have fallen when he sees a woman ducking into a storefront. Almost out of habit his hand goes not to his knife, but tightens around the cane he's using to help with his limp - but that would be useless, here, in a power with no Arenas.

He doesn't approach, but he does wave a hand. "Is this the part where I say peekaboo?"

[formersurgeon]

He's seen her. Crap.

She sighs, then steps out from the storefront. "If you know to say anything the game is already up, she says with a shrug. She tilts her head, takes him in, notes especially the cane, and the limp. That's an advantage, at least. Joan might not be the best person at fighting, but she's pretty sure she can outrun this guy.

"I don't think we've met."

[pimpcanes]

"Afraid we haven't." His Irish accent is thick, his smile congenial but wary. He looks tired but like he's weathering what seems to be an incomprehensible nightmare with a stiff upper lip and a decent enough attitude.

"You wouldn't happen to be one of the ones I've been warned about, would you? I hear some people here are actually playing this game."

[formersurgeon]

"God no," she said. "I've never played the game. Not any more than I have been just by the default of being here."

She took a small step forward, tilting her head, wondering if the injury that gave him the limp was recent.

"I'm a doctor. I'm more interested in healing people than killing them."

[pimpcanes]

"Never? You're one of the ones that's done this a few times?"

He decides, right about then, that it's a good time to play up to her sympathies. After all, she's extending herself like an olive branch already, with that implicit offer to heal. He shuffles forward, playing up the limp, and towards the store so that they can get some cover.

"I only arrived moments before they stuffed me into a tube and blew some of the people standing next to me to hell. I don't know what kind of madhouse this all is."

[formersurgeon]

"This is my...sixth," she says, frowning faintly. "I think. I've been here over a year, it's been a lot to take in."

She moves toward the store as well. He's new, and clearly injured, and seems to be more interested in talking than fighting.

"Has anyone told you yet that they bring you back from the dead if you die in the arena?" She glances away. "Well. Usually."

[pimpcanes]

"Christ," he says softly, and his facsimile of empathy is very near indistinguishable from the real thing. Honest disturbance can do that.

Once in the store front, he ducks behind a register, taking in all the angles with the professional ease of a sniper - because he's been one. This row of registers is a good place to sit and talk without being snuck up upon.

"Someone's filled me in on those details. I can only imagine that the less savory among us are using it as an excuse to exonerate themselves for murder."

[formersurgeon]

She follows him to the registers, checking out the same angles but for completely different reasons.

"I think most people aren't interested in hurting anybody. They're more likely to be driven to it that choose to do it on their own."

[pimpcanes]

"You've a more optimistic view of humanity than I do." He sits down, stretching his bad leg. "You mentioned healing?"

[formersurgeon]

"Maybe. That's been my experience at least."

He stretches out his leg, and she moves closer to crouch down and see the leg closer. "When did you injure it?"

[pimpcanes]

"Mid-thigh. I can cut the trousers, if that makes it easier to roll up the leg. It's not as if the world will mourn the loss of such cheap fabric." He laughs, and sounds genuinely as if he's trying to make a bad joke, the best of a painful and somewhat embarrassing situation.

[formersurgeon]

She gives him a small laugh. "Yeah, these aren't the highest quality outfits. Sure, go ahead and tear your pants if you're comfortable with that. Actually, though, I asked when you were injured. It will affect how I treat the wound."

sob I swear I read "where" after writing a reply for "when", dumb brain

[pimpcanes]

"About two days ago." The lie comes easily as water. Curling over himself to reach for the hem of his pant leg gives him the perfect cover for slipping the hunting knife out of where he's strapped it to his ankle.

It's all a deft motion, because he's done this before. The knife doesn't even seem to appear until it's buried in Joan's stomach. It's as if it's wound up there by magic, or that the handle has emerged somehow bloodless from her middle, only to be followed by the dark red pool that goes from nonexistent to eyecatching.

He smiles. "Sorry about that, lass."

No worries! <3

[formersurgeon]

There's a moment of confusion. Her stomach hurts. Why does her stomach hurt? It doesn't make sense. There's blood, and for that one moment she wonders if it's his.

Then it all becomes terribly clear, and she gasps in shock and pain, trying to pull herself away even as her strength and life flows out with her blood. She presses her hands to the wound, and the blood spurts between her fingers.

"You son of a bitch," she spits out.

[pimpcanes]

"Language." He clicks his tongue and stands, much faster than the exaggerated limp would suggest. He brings up the injured leg and kicks her in the chest, down.

"Really, you should have seen that coming."

[formersurgeon]

She refuses to scream. She will not. She grits her teeth, gasps, writhes...

Then he kicks her, and the agony rips a scream out of her. She tries to get up, and she can't. Her muscles refuse to obey her.

"Congratulations," she grinds through her teeth. "You're a monster. Enjoy your box."

[pimpcanes]

If judgments on his character ever made an impression on Tom, they certainly don't after nearly thirty year on the job. At least he looks like a man these days. That's enough humanity to keep him perfectly content with himself.

"Oh, you have no idea." He presses his foot down on her shoulder. "Now be a dear and let me have my knife back."

He reaches down and wrenches it from her, twisting it on the way out and wiping the blood off on her pant leg.

[formersurgeon]

Joan shudders with a strangled cry when he wrenches the knife out, but when he bends to wipe his knife on her pants, she uses her very last ounce of strength to kick him in the face.

[pimpcanes]

He takes the hit - it only avoids breaking his nose, and instead splits his lip. He snarls with rage and spits the blood onto her, shoving her back to the ground.

"You're lucky to be dying, or I'd make you pay for that." He steps on her hand and twists, then kicks her in the stomach. "I hope you linger."

And he stalks off, the limp still there but so much slighter than it was.

[formersurgeon]

She doesn't have the strength for anything more than a bare groan of pain.

"You will," she whispers, not loud enough for him to hear, not really making any sense, consciousness fast slipping away. "You'll pay. We all pay."

As everything fades away, she wonders if they'll even bother bringing her back. If instead she'll be like her friends, like Sherlock and Punchy and Gabriel, just left for dead. And she can't decide which one she wants. She wants to live. But dying for good...maybe it would be like now. Maybe it would be a mercy that spared her more agony.

Her thoughts gently unravel, and the last of her consciousness and strength floats away. Moments later her heart stops beating, and she dies in the spreading pool of her own blood.