you’re not the only one refusing to go down

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Who| Sam Wilson and Brock Rumlow, featuring Bucky Barnes
What| REMATCH complete with intervention
When| Last week of the arena
Where| A random hallway in the spaceport
Warnings/Notes| Violence, blowtorches, and death


The longer the arena lasts, the more friends Sam loses, whether by watching them die or seeing their faces up in the stars at night, feeling a sharp pang of grief every time. But he’s still going on, still fighting and surviving and not thinking of why. The alternative is, well, giving up, and Sam refuses to do that. He’s not going to break down on a goddamn reality tv show.

He’s out scavenging again today, because even if they’re pretty good on weapons, the infirmary could always use more supplies, and needing more food is almost a constant. It’s not like there’s a lot to go around. Sam’s seen better days, yeah, but at least his injuries look more or less well taken care of - there’s an almost healed bite out of his upper left arm, a bandage around his right forearm, both visible thanks to the fact that he’s been sporting the sleeveless look after using the fabric for first aid.

There’s a switchblade in his hand as he moves, a flashlight and a sharpened piece of metal in the cord at his waist that’s serving as a belt, and he’s on his guard, listening for anything that sounds like it might be the approach of another Tribute. Or anything else the gamemakers might throw at him.

Comments

[rumlow]

He's managed to get his hands on a knife, despite ducking out on the blood bath at the cornucopia. It's been a matter of sticking to the edges, keeping on the move and looking for stragglers, ways to thin their numbers quickly and improve his own chances. He's got plans, after all, and if he's gotten this far then maybe they'll consider him. Even if he doesn't win.

But he's going to. There's no reason to aim for anything less.

By the Sam wanders by he's taken cover, having heard the footfalls of another tribute and sinking into position. Step. Step. He waits, listening, still as can be, until one of those flickering overhead lights throws a long shadow just past his hiding spot.

Rumlow makes his move, turning out with blade in hand, lunging for the approaching figure with a high-arcing slash for the throat. It's only seconds later that he realizes who he's found, and a feral grin breaks across his face.

Wilson.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Sam picks up on the incoming attack just a second too late - well, a second too late for him, a second too early for his attacker. He twists, causing the knife to miss its target, though it does graze across his collarbone as he dances back out of immediate striking range.

Just enough for him to be able to identify the other Tribute, and oh, fuck this shit. At this point in the arena, Sam’s not as forgiving of someone attacking him, whatever the reason, but any thought he might have had about trying to talk the person down vanishes.

The only second thought he gives is that Bucky’d wanted to kill Rumlow, and no one deserves the opportunity more than him.

He should probably say something, if only because he’s supposed to be playing up for the cameras, but he doesn’t think of that at the moment. Just circles around, watching for any telegraphing that might give away Rumlow’s next move, before lunging forward, feinting with a slash of his own knife to Rumlow’s right shoulder and following it up by snapping the heel of his other hand forward, aiming for Rumlow’s nose.

[rumlow]

Oh, he'd love to play it up for the cameras right now. But he's not dense. Wilson's decent enough a fighter to give him trouble if he gives him the opportunity...

As he so deftly proves, seconds later. The lunge with the knife Rumlow manages to dodge, arching back out the blade's path, but the strike to his nose earns a crunching sound and a pained grunt. Blood floods his mouth, but if anything the pain seems to goad him on, and he quickly drops into a leg sweep meant to knock Wilson's legs out from under him.

Turning his head he spits a mouthful of sticky red to the side, grinning sharply. A broken nose? That the best he can do?

[sizeofyourbaggage]

The leg sweep works, and Sam curses as he goes down, thankful only that he knows how to fall smart, if not painless. He can take a little pain in favor of not being as vulnerable as he could be, and he angles so that his head’s ducked down and his elbows are tucked in, trying to protect himself from incoming attacks as he gets knocked on his ass.

He doesn’t immediately try to get up - he can't risk giving Rumlow an easy opening like that. Instead he takes advantage of the floor against his back to provide a pushing point as he stomps out a kick, heel aimed for the side of Rumlow's knee.

[rumlow]

It scrapes by, catches him in the calf and that smarts, but it's not a crippling blow. Instead Rumlow merely stumbles, a half foot if anything, before finding balance again and wheeling back with a kick aimed at Wilson's kidney.

This isn't going to be quick, if he can help it. This is about pain. This is proving a point, because he can, and because there are eyes on them watching this fight. He's going to beat him into the dust, and the world's going to see it.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

The kick connects - not completely, thanks to Sam protecting his vulnerable spots, but his arms aren't a hell of a lot of protection there, and oh goddamn does that hurt. It's all about fucking pain with this asshole, isn't it?

Still, he has enough presence of mind to try to wrap his arm around Rumlow's foot before he can pull his leg back, attempting to keep it there long enough for him to stab it with his switchblade.

[rumlow]

There's a snarl as the blade connects, sinking deep into muscle. But the pain that lances through him and has him seeing red has a purpose, a channel, and right now that's buckling down just far enough to aim a blow at Wilson's skull while he's occupied with his fucking leg.

Not good, he knows that. Blood loss, loss of mobility, he's going to have to think fast on this one, but taking Sam out is nearly more important than all of that. He wants to live, but he wants to kill this asshole first.

Period.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

There's something kind of satisfying about landing the blow, but he doesn't really have any time to think on that, considering he's trying to avoid getting his skull bashed in. They're too close, and Rumlow's a little too quick, for Sam to move completely out of the way, and even a glancing blow to the head is enough to set him back a minute.

He should be focusing on getting the hell out of the way, getting some distance between them so he can shake it off, but his hand is still wrapped around his knife, and he's not willing to give it up. Not to this asshole. So he takes the time to yank the knife downwards a little and then out, unfortunately leaving himself open a little in the proccess.

[tookthewheel]

The sounds of a fight draw him near without needing to know the identity of the combatants. At this stage of the arena with numbers and supplies running low there's no excue to pass the opportunity for an easy kill by and so Bucky drops into a low crouch, moving as swift and silently as he can, picking his way through debris until he reaches the corner of the hall and peers round it.

To say he see's red in that moment would be an understatement. It's pure vindictive anger spliced with a sense of triumph at finally finding one of those he'd set down as a target from the start.

Before the Soldier has even truly processed what he's seeing he's already sprinting down the hallway, pushing his body in a furious charge that will have him slamming into Rumlow and ramming the Hydra agent into a wall if he doesn't manage to get out of the way.