thearena | Bang you're dead, alouette, here's your silhouette. [closed]

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Bang you're dead, alouette, here's your silhouette. [closed]

Who| Nick and Jack, Firo, Jane and Phone Guy
What| Nick gets a little stir crazy and realises this is only going to end once people start dying.
Where| All over the place.
When| Late/End of Week 3
Warnings/Notes| Cursing, lots of murdering

Ever since Nick, for reasons still beyond him, took on a Saber Tooth Tiger he's been laying low. The injuries he sustained were debilitating, but a medkit and a good friend made all the difference. Nick and Ellis had food, knives, warm clothes and blankets and most importantly of all a gun. It warranted a sense of security and afforded Nick a little time to let his back heal some after being scratched and slashed to high hell. Eventually, they're going to have to find some more food and move their asses and it gets Nick wondering just how long these things are meant to be. He's lost track of time, but the weird and suspiciously erotic Valentine's gifts he receives from Jason seems to indicate that they're breaching the third week.

Third. Three. That is longer than he had wanted to deal with this shit. He expected mayhem from the get go and a real struggle around every corner, but the stretches of silence span too long for his liking. It's abundantly clear to him that he needs to shake things up if he wants to thin the herd, because he sure as hell isn't intending on waiting around for everyone to die of frostbite or starvation.

Jack:
Dark intentions aside, Nick is happy to enjoy his sponsor gifts for the moment. He and Ellis have secured a cave and he's perched outside it with his gun concealed in his coat. He should be watching his supplies while Ellis is off fishing, but he's distractedly flicking through one of the issues of Celebrus while taking swigs out of his bottle of chocolate sauce. It seems like the ideal time to sneak up on him, but his attention isn't as hooked onto the scantily clad Capitol fashions as he would have the outside world believe. He isn't dumb enough to zone out entirely, but he's dumb enough to look dumb.

Of course, the bottle of chocolate doesn't help.

Jane:
So. Supplies. He needs some of those. Jason has been a sport so far, but Nick would like to think about where he's standing at least a week in advance. Of course, his intention isn't just to go forage for some shit like a boy scout, he's hunting people as well as their shit. If he can gun down someone with something useful, it'll be all the better for him in the long run. He's had more than enough experience with this sort of thing, even if the wilderness isn't exactly his forte.

He watches Jane fuss with her supplies for a long moment before he decides not to draw it out anymore. He could try to shoot her from the bushes, but he knows how the Capitol loves dramatics. He steps out into the open, rifle pointed (with the finesse of someone used to holding a gun) at Jane.

"Looks like you're about to have a bad day, honey."

Firo:
With a few deaths under his belt by this point, Nick is feeling a little more open to broadening his horizons. The figure he sees stirring in the distance looks to be someone young, so even his weak conscience hesitates before he tells it to shut the fuck up and approaches with very little concern for anything but his target. He hadn't checked to see if he was worth a bullet before, but in seeing the backpack he's solidified his intentions in his mind long before he opens his mouth.

"Smile, kid. You're on TV." Says the strange guy, pointing a rifle at Firo.

Phillip:
There was probably a point in the apocalypse in which Nick decided that maybe he ought to work out his life, work on his priorities and stop being such a dickbag. Being here pretty much destroyed those intentions before he really even started working on anything but trying to make friends. Whatever, right? He was neck deep in zombies, fighting for his life and now he's here in this slow crawl doing the same thing with less guns and less action. Quite frankly, he's doing everyone a favor.

He recognises Phillip when they happen upon each other, though Phillip doesn't see him lurking about at first. He takes a moment to assess the situation before he steps out into the open and points his rifle at the other guy with a friendly smile on his face.

"Hey- hey. How do you like them apples?" He chuckles, then he needs to lower the gun to raise an eyebrow at Phillip. "Get it? Because I left you up a tree. That was funny."

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He stiffens and stops in his tracks when he hears the voice. Damn it, damn it, he didn't want to waste the energy fighting if he didn't have to, but at least he's armed to take on someone. He turns to face the speaker, thinking that just so long as the guy doesn't have a long-range weapon...

Well. He's been on this end of the gun a few times before and it's never gone well for him.

That doesn't mean he'll give up right away, though. Maybe there's something he can cook up. His knife is in his hand, but he knows it won't be much good at this range. Fast as he is, he can't close a gap this big before the other guy can pull the trigger.

At the very least, he can settle for learning this guy's face so he can hunt him down later. He may not be very smart, but Firo doesn't forget faces easily. He scowls as his eyes scan over the man's features. "Why don't you try watchin' your goddamn mouth, pal?"

Not that being called names is the most important thing at stake here, but even if he's going to die anyway, he can't just let that slide. And it's a way to try to keep the man talking.

Nick doesn't look remotely unsettled or concerned by that scowl or that knife, his expression is full of condescension and disinterest. It's clear he's just looking to off anyone he bumps into, he has no personal interest in the situation. Maybe he feels a little bad over the fact that Firo seems so young, but he can't drum up much sympathy. They're all stuck here, but he's the one who deserves to win.

"Ooh, feisty." He breathes that out in a low chuckle. "You really think you're calling the shots here, small fry? You got a gun in that big mouth of yours? Because that would be truly impressive." He's just being an asshole now, blaming it all on Firo's attitude and not the fact that he's pointing a gun at him.

"Anyway. I'm gonna kill you." He states that plainly, with as much emotion as he'd use if he told Firo he was gonna borrow his coat. "Any last words?"

As much as he knows--quietly, somewhere in the back of his mind--that he shouldn't let himself get riled up, the insults are doing the trick. Neither they nor the lack of emotion nor the barrel of the gun are unfamiliar enough to scare him, but he is very obviously pissed off.

"How 'bout you stop actin' like a fuckin' coward and put that fuckin' gun down? I'm happy to show you how a real man fights, bastard."

He knows the chance of the bait working is damn small. The Camorra's rules about guns are, admittedly, pretty damn outdated. And this guy sounds just like Dallas and all the other street thugs Firo's run into all his life. If anything, the words are just to try and make the other guy as annoyed as Firo is right now.

So right as the words leave his mouth he takes his last chance and throws his knife. Having spent so much time around them since he was a child, Firo knows this thing isn't made for that and its balance is terrible. It's a slim hope that it'll do anything at all--that's why he aims for the center of the chest and just hopes it'll do something.

"Nah." Nick says, very little consideration in his tone when he does. If he's offended by the implication that he's a coward and a horrible fighter, he doesn't show it in his face. "Sounds like somebody is a sore loser." His expression has turned from amused to sour, solely because this is harder than it should be and he should just pull the trigger.

He doesn't expect Firo to do something stupid like throw a goddamn knife at him, but he probably should have. It's not a throwing knife, so it doesn't imbed or anything so terrible. It simply slashes across Nick's chest, prompting him to fire the gun at Firo's chest before Firo can do something dumber. The surprise compromises him some, but his aim is pretty good and he's adept with a gun.

"Fuck you." He hisses, feeling his shirt dampen with blood from his new gash.

Edited 2015-03-04 10:01 (UTC)

Phillip had been foraging for supplies, testing a fire-making kit he got from his Sponsors and carrying a big bundle of roses in the bag where he used to carry his tent. When he heard Nick's voice, the guard rolled his eyes and spoke up. "Oh ha ha, you lying pile of sh-" he began before he turned around and saw the business end of a rifle. A goddamn rifle.

"Whoa..." Gray instinctively dropped the kit and raised his hands in that classic don't shoot pose. What was even scarier than the gun was the friendly way his assailant was acting. "Nick, don't do this, you have a gun and there's bigger problems than me. Save your bullets." First saber-tooths, then what? Guns were commodities in the Arena and to see someone use it like a crazed murderer (though not far from the truth at that moment), made the situation that much more dire.

Edited 2015-02-14 23:50 (UTC)

"What was that?" Nick asks, raising his brow and lilting his gun upward as if to characterize his curiosity a little more. He knows exactly what Philip was going to say, but he isn't too intent on forcing it out of him. He hears it enough already, really.

Nick's lips curl into a smug smirk when Philip raises his hands, already satisfied by the influential power of a gun. It certainly makes people more compliant, but the best part is that it makes them die faster. "Don't tell me what I already know, guy." He rolls his eyes, shifting the gun back into place. "It's nothing personal, trust me. I'm just doing my good citizen's duty and thinning out the herd. I really, really want to have a shower." The fact that he's so casual about all of this is probably a little offputting, it rings of a guy who has done this many times before.

"I don't think they know it's illegal for me to be holding this." And that pretty much confirms that. "Don't tell them when you get back, alright?"

"Kinda hard not to, you're on this world's most televised pr-program, you lying pile of shit," Phil spat out then he heard the reasoning behind his inevitable death: a shower. A goddamn shower and a prize in exchange for every life he takes. Dramatic, yes, but Gray has a horrible suspicion that Nick has done this before. That meant that whatever was going through Nick's mind, it was set in stone and all he could do now was run. He didn't care that it would look cowardly, he had to make sure the gunman wasted as many shots he could. The former guard knew he was done for, might as well make things difficult for someone as shallow as his killer.

With that, Phil turned tail and took off and headed towards the forest.

"Don't listen to him, he's being dramatic." Nick glances upward, speaking vaguely to the inevitable audience. He can guarantee people are watching him based on the fact that he keeps getting prizes sent to him. That seems to define a dedicated viewership, so he hasn't got a lot to worry about in that regard.

He probably should have expected this chump to do something stupid like run, but he still curses under his breath in surprise when he does. Speed is definitely not on his side with his injuries, so he makes an attempt to take him out as he runs. His aim, for all of his injuries, is still pretty good. It doesn't seem like the shot took Phil out though, so Nick growls under his breath and runs after him.

Nick knows better than to waste bullets, even if he has two boxes of them to go with his gun, he'll shoot at Phil when he feels he's in range but he isn't about to go firing rounds into thin air.

The shot graze Phil's leg, exposing raw flesh to the sudden cold, causing him to yell out in pain. He didn't want to die but in the end, he wouldn't be able to hide forever from someone as determined and a good shot as Nick was. Wherever he came from, he was used to putting people down like it was dismantling a couch.

He hid behind a thick trunk of a tree as he tried to stop the bleeding, not give the man a bright red trail for him to follow. "I'll give them a show too," Gray muttered under his breath. The trees weren't great for climbing but with this, "If you're so intent on killing people off, why pick me? There's others you can choose." Though if Nick or anyone dared mention putting down children just to win, to be that cruel and selfish, Phillip would not hold back and charge right at him.

Nick very briefly pauses at the yell of pain, as if trying to confirm if it's a yell of death or a yell of injury. The rustling answers his question pretty well, and the trail unsurprisingly makes this pretty easy. He doesn't round the tree at first, opting instead to stand on the other side as Philip mutters to him.

"I didn't come looking for you, y'know. It was coincidence. Destiny. Whatever." The shrug is practically audible in his tone. "I'm equal opportunity here." He doesn't want to sound too much like he believes he's a good Samaritan, but he also believes that nothing is going to get better as they get further into the Arena.

"You really wanna try making it through this thing with a fucked up leg?" Says the guy, pushing through with scars on his back and stitches that aren't happy with him now. He's starting to circle around the tree slowly, pointing his gun like Philip is a wild and dangerous animal that he's out to hunt.

"I-I can try," Phil hissed, spotting Nick by his peripheral sight and tried to run away. "But you won't stop, will you?"

His leg was already starting to fail him, the cold crystallized his blood, inflicting even more pain than he anticipated. He wanted to swing his bag at him, he was already thinking about what his friends could scavenge off his dead body. When Gray finally realized that nothing he had was worth losing, he came to a choice all of his own.

Phillip Gray chose to die by trying one more lounge at Nick, to shove him into a tree and make him lose that damn gun. It was useless but he went down taking a stand.

"Nah." Nick admits, casual as ever. To his credit, he isn't lying. He's dropped one bad habit for another one at this point. He doesn't care. He hates the wilderness, he hates that he just came in from the worst time of his life and got put into the next horrible phase of it. He misses living like a normal...ish..person. Bed, food, booze and all of the simple pleasures you forgot when you were living on adrenaline and slim pickings.

He loves himself a whole lot more than Phil at this point, there's no question in his mind as to whether he'd rather spare this guy or get another step closer to home. Or more gifts, at the very least.

Nick is ready for him when he lunges. He raises his gun and shoots at him with an easy air. He doesn't waste bullets on him, he's a good shot and Phil gave him the close distance he needed to make a hit like that. He lowers his weapon and gives Phil a wary look, waiting to confirm how badly he took that bullet.

The bullet strikes square in Gray's chest, ripping through at least his lung and parts of other organs. The force of it all is enough to knock him onto the tree trunk. He isn't getting up and would die in a few minutes as blood began to fill up and drown. What's more, he wasn't fighting or getting up anymore. Phil was almost thankful for Nick's shooting him, smiling as he hung his head down. At least now, he would die as a man and not a pile of organs.

A few minutes earlier, the pirate had spotted Nick and promptly flattened himself against the side of a tree, out of view. Normally, this would've been where Jack would slip away unnoticed and mentally mark this cave down as occupied. But desperation had finally started to settle in deep. Beyond the chance fish here and there, or friendly Tribute willing to share a meal, Jack hadn't eaten all that much. The uneasiness, headaches, and lucidity that being sober brought about -- which the vodka helped to quell until it was summarily gone -- only compounded the problem.

Glancing around the tree trunk a couple times, Jack confirms that the man is alone and distracted. He lifts his chin and carefully slips the hunting knife from his parka, eyes fixed on Nick, then edges out from cover. His approach is slow and steady, within the man's blind spot, and as silent as Jack can make it.

Killing Nick isn't his intention -- not unless his hand is forced and escape proves impossible. If Jack had been in a clearer state of mind, too, he would've knocked Nick out first as a safeguard. But instead, with thoughts locked only on the prospect of getting some actual food, the pirate circles around to the man's back and inches into the cave.

Light from the sun illuminates enough of the place for him to spot the supplies, and so Jack moves over and gets to work rummaging.

Nick is fully aware of the absurdity of sitting around reading a magazine in the middle of the death olympics. He and Ellis have amassed quite a good collection of food, knives, blankets and the odd bottle of booze. Most of it had gone to disinfecting the wounds on Nick's back, and he's aware that the wounds might slow him down too. However, he's also pretty sure that he's one of few who managed to get their hands on a gun. Chances are, anyone coming his way is going to be an easy target and anyone with a gun is a 50/50 chance of survival depending on how well they use it.

Considering how many people are from the past? He likes his chances. He really, really likes his chances. He might have this in the bag already if he can take on a tiger, but he won't get far if he can't hear people touching his stuff. The rummaging suddenly becomes apparent to him, but he has no idea what the source is. It could be another fucking big cat, so Nick is slow in his movements. He takes one hand off the magazine and draws it into his jacket, pulling out his gun and standing slowly with the gun so he can turn on Jack.

The sound of him cocking his rifle is probably the first thing Jack will hear, but at that point Nick is tutting. "You look like a betting man." He says in a bored tone, annoyance simmering under the surface. "How much you wanna bet I can take you out in a single shot?" He asks, raising his gun to aim. "I like my odds."

Edited 2015-03-03 12:20 (UTC)

The noise does immediately snap his attention upwards and over to Nick, and the pirate freezes when his eyes land on the rifle.

Well. Shit.

His hands jerk away from the supplies, releasing the bottle of booze that he'd been trying to take. He lifts both hands up, the serrated hunting knife still clasped in one, and gives Nick a placating smile. "Never had the stomach for it, really." He's trying to calculate the distance between them, to figure out whether or not he could cover it in the amount of time it would take for the man to pull the trigger on him.

Or if throwing the knife would be a better bet.

In the meanwhile, Jack is trying to slowly lift himself from his kneeling position, all fingers curling on his free hand except his index. "Hang on, hang on. Let's take a think on this and not be short-sighted and rash, mate. You look to be a reasonably intelligent man, I'd ... wager, and, as I'm sure you've realized it, there's many a more danger out there to be had than just me." He's lightly gesturing outside the cave, in a slow way that doesn't spook Nick into shooting. "So I say -- and again, I can't stress enough that you think on this -- why waste a bullet like that?" He lifts both eyebrows. "Rather, how about, instead, I can go on me merry way, quietly, and we can forget this foolishness ever happened." A short pause, almost hopeful. "Savvy?"

The knife is of immediate concern to Nick, but Jack is fortunate enough in his eccentric manner to be distracting. Nick hesitates to shoot him so fast, eyes trained on him and brows furrowed as he takes in the situation. Booze? Really? It just isn't Jack's day.

Nick snorts in response to being reasonably intelligent, but everything else is pure and unadulterated bullshit. He pulls a face, like he's not sure he wants to change his tuna sandwich for egg salad. As if this were a silly little decision and not a hugely awful thing he's about to do.

"I got two cases of 'em." He says curtly. "And while there might be a hundred of you assholes out there, you're the one who touched my booze. One less thing to worry about, right?" He cocks his head to the side, briefly, before he pulls himself back up into position and very abruptly proceeds to shoot him in the chest.

"Don't bleed on my shit." He hisses, no sympathy in his expression as he lowers the gun. "Savvy?"

His spiel was meant to either talk Nick out of it, unlikely as it looked, or distract the man long enough for Jack to take action. Either way, honestly, would've worked for him. But the tilt of Nick's head is the pirate's first indication that time had run out, and he's only one swift step forward -- the knife clutched in his hand -- when the rifle fires off and the bullet hits.

The impact slams into his chest like a hammer, causing his eyes to grow wide, and it knocks the breath from him with a half-choked grunt tangled in his throat. He drops hard to his knees, but the sharp pain from that barely registers above the sudden flare of white-hot pain that explodes out from his chest and races through his body. One hand weakly snaps out to keep himself from fully face-planting onto the floor, while the knife in his other hand clatters to the side, useless.

The sensation is familiar. He's been shot, before. Stabbed.

But this was the first time -- as warm blood gushes freely over the hand that's pressed futilely against his wound -- that it'd been this fatal. "... Bugger." The word fades on his lips, and a couple seconds later the pirate collapses fully onto the floor of the cave.

Were it someone else, Jack's plan might have worked, but Nick is intimately familiar with that sort of talk. He's wormed his way out of tough places with similar attempts and he holds a small respect for Jack just for the attempt. Maybe in different circumstances, they could have been best friends, but Nick doesn't mourn the loss of him now.

He isn't surprised his shot hits the mark, he isn't surprised when Jack drops down and he takes a step back so as to avoid him. There's the faintest sense of guilt in the back of his mind, but more than anything he's relieved. One person down, one step closer.

There's no mourning for Jack, Nick grabs at his arm and drags his body out of the cave. Out of sight, out of mind. The last thing he needs is Ellis wandering back to this like he's some cat that caught a bird. He doesn't bury Jack, but he hides him in the bushes and he walks off dusting his hands like he did little more than take out the trash.

She's crouched over in the snow, scouring her hands with some of the sleet on the ground despite how the cold bites right down into her bones. Granule by granule it melts against her skin, sloughing away the dried blood coating her arms to each elbow.

Beside her, the earless carcass of a rabbit lies stripped crudely to the muscle, its pelt tied in a bundle beside it with a strip of fabric. It sinks slightly into the snow as it loses heat, already beginning to freeze. She wants to bury it away from the blood to better disguise what she and the others are storing for later. Her deposits are scattered throughout the clearing, a couple kills to each hole, and from what she saw earlier, they're keeping just fine.

Compared to the last arena, they're living like kings. Nick fishes, she traps with the snares she improved on in the training center, and Luke has been hunting. They had struck out at the Cornucopia, each one of them making off with something that had proved invaluable several times already. The knife she had used to skin the rabbit is strapped to her thigh, a familiar weight. Other tributes seem to be laying low, but this is what they know. Minus the walkers, this arena is a homecoming.

It's been nearly three weeks, and they're all still alive, even Clem and her old friend. She feels prepared. She feels safe. She feels like one of them really has a shot this time.

She hears him too late. Snapping upright, her feet crunch in the snow when she rounds to face Nick, knife already unsheathed and in her hand.

That's when she sees the rifle, and the murderous look on her face becomes one of pure shock.

From what Nick can gather in his brief inspection, this woman is something of a crafty survivor. He knows other outbreak survivors are out there, there's a lot of them all things considered, but he has no idea Jane is one of them. Not that it matters, in the end. As far as he's concerned, she's just another person in the way of his own success. He has a grand plan that involves winning, kicking back, living in luxury and sponsoring Ellis until he wins as well. She's another face in the crowd and the gun just makes it all the easier to knock her off the shrinking list of problems around here.

She's fast with her knife, that earns her a smirk from him as he keeps his gun level and pointed at her. "Fast hands, slow ears, huh?" He quirks a brow at her. "Any last words, cupcake? Not to be cliche, but I'm itching to pull the trigger here." Itching and not eager to give her a chance to attack him. If she so much as moves, he'll probably shoot her, but for now he's content to give her a final moment to be impressive for the cameras.

Were she aware of his motives, Jane might have understood. Survival has moved her to do some things that look pretty shitty in the light of day. But the rules are different here, and she won't play by them, won't murder without a cause. She has no illusions about what this means; part of her is already resigned to this, but it doesn't stop the resentment burning in her eyes.

There are things she could offer him, would have tried to offer him if there were anything stopping him from taking it all for nothing but a bullet in exchange. Bartering won't save her life, and she isn't the type to beg. She thinks of Clem and the others, of Luke and Nick and Daryl, who don't know that guns have made it into the arena. She hopes at least one of them will hear the shot, and that they'll know better than to come running with her missing from the cave.

In the end, Jane says nothing, because her knife in his gut would say it so much better. Instead she straightens to look him right in the eye as she raises a foot and brings it down on the skinned rabbit, grinding it through the snow and into the mud and frozen dirt beneath. There's no getting out of this, but she won't be forgetting his face anytime soon. Whether he cares or not, he's made an enemy of her, and they both know he won't have that rifle forever.

Edited (banning myself from editing now okok) 2015-03-05 07:06 (UTC)

Nick doesn't doubt that she's got quite the valuable collection, but it doesn't appeal to him anymore. Things are moving too slow, people have got to start dying. If he puts on a show, he can promise he'll be rained down with food from sponsors and the like, but he can't promise anything from her.

He might not have the gun forever, but in his mind he won't need it. He'll shoot his way out of this thing if he needs to. He doesn't care if he's the least popular victor so long as he doesn't have to endure another one of these shitshows again.

"That's what I thought." He murmurs at her defiance. He doesn't waste time taking aim and firing at her chest, shooting twice to be sure he guns her down without the disgusting mess of a headshot. There isn't mercy or pity in his expression, and he doesn't feel much of it either. It's hard to imagine a life where shit like this isn't a necessity, so Nick doesn't spare a thought for a way things could have gone differently.

She tells herself she's ready, tells herself she's already been stabbed in the heart and beaten to death, that this'll be quick, but beneath her searing anger bubbles a traitorous fear. She's died before, yes, but in the end it makes little difference.

The first shot fires right through the top of her stomach to come out just shy of her spine, while the second one hits dead center and is stopped from exiting by a pair of vertebrae. Her knife slips from her hand, landing a split second before she does. Jane herself collapses with a gasp that's disproportionately quiet to the rifle's report, breath escaping in a fog between her teeth while her blood begins to melt a patch of the snow beneath her. Bone-white hands are slow to try and stop the bleeding, and almost uselessly shaky. It feels like all the heat in her body is flooding out of her through the holes he made. She can't see it, but her wounds are steaming slightly in the winter air.

Maybe he'll stick around, the way Dandy had, and she'll get even when she reanimates. The others come to mind too, and how they're even less safe than they were before. She can't even warn them, can't hand off the obsolete equipment that in the end only got her this far. The bitter rage she feels is only matched by the pain lancing through her where the bullets tore a path.

"Fucking.... asshole..."

Edited (editing for the knife, which is Nick's for the taking.) 2015-03-09 08:17 (UTC)

There's no plan to stick around here. Once she starts to collapse, Nick is already taking steps toward her to grab that knife. He won't waste a chance for another weapon, you can never have too many knives in a place like this. There's a hollow ringing in his ears and head, both from the bang of the gun and that familiar selfish satisfaction he feels for being a step closer to winning.

Maybe he does feel a little bad, but just a little. He doesn't hate her, he doesn't know her. She's stuck here as much as he is. However, he weighs himself above her and above anyone he doesn't know. If someone is going to win an Arena, it's him. If it's not him, it's Ellis. He puts himself first, but he's not beyond clearing a path for the only other person he gives a damn about.

"I've heard it all before, peaches." He mutters, sparing her a final glance before he turns away from her. He's gone as quick as he came, delving back into the depths of the forest to continue his warpath.

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Bang you're dead, alouette, here's your silhouette. [closed]

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