Luke (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
burningdaylight) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-06-15 09:58 pm
burningdaylight) wrote in thearena2015-06-15 09:58 pm
Entry tags:
zombie ghosts / wasps are nature's assholes [closed]
Who| Luke and Sam; Luke n' Rochelle
What| Luke meets up with Sam, who's been giving him first aid refreshers back in the capitol. The week after, Luke gets familiar with the wonderful world of tracker jacker stings, Rochelle pays him back for his help by dragging his ass out of harm's way.
When| Week 2, Week 3
Where| The forest
WARNINGS| Gore, hallucinations, more added as they come
Sam Wilson:
The night deepens, alive with sounds.
The rustlings of little creatures in the brush and a careless twig-snap somewhere, frogs from the Biblical rain-plague dumped over their heads humming endlessly. The distant rumble of the cannon, too, few and far between.
Luke scrubs at his face, glancing back as someone ducks out of their hut-like shelter to relieve him of his post. He murmurs a quiet ‘thanks’, standing to stretch the kinks out of his legs, axe at his hip. After the better half of the day spent helping to expand their temporary shelter, an effort supported by supply run punctuated by close calls and supply runs, he’s as exhausted as the others. But wired, too. Always aware of the low hum of tension in his gut. Always waiting for that goddamn shoe to drop. Such is the price of survival, he supposes.
Though he’s familiar enough with the surrounding area, he has the sense not to wander all too far from camp. Being armed doesn’t guarantee much in a place perpetually on the cusp of change, on a gamemakers’ whim. To say nothing of the threat other tributes could pose.
Wouldn't matter who or what attacked him if he was already dead.
He breathes and breathes, sides drenched in anxious sweat, carefully reaching for the axe hilt at his hip. Going still when his fingers brush something slick and sinuous -- and very much alive. That’s when he sees it dangling from the sheath-strap at his waist. A long, shimmering snake raising its head, studying him through slitted pupils. Then it rears back.
fuckfuckFUCK
It’s wicked-fast, uncocking like a spring -- but so is Luke when he’s wired with just about enough raw adrenaline to jump-start a car battery. Hissing out a curse, he manages to snap his hand from its hooked fangs, blinking the sweat out of his eyes.
And then it’s gone. Not slithering deep into the brush or winding up a tree but full blown faded-out-of-existence gonea magical asshole snake -- and all he can do is stare stunned into empty space, pulse racing in his throat. His axe is there, on him where it always was. Why wouldn't it be?
What| Luke meets up with Sam, who's been giving him first aid refreshers back in the capitol. The week after, Luke gets familiar with the wonderful world of tracker jacker stings, Rochelle pays him back for his help by dragging his ass out of harm's way.
When| Week 2, Week 3
Where| The forest
WARNINGS| Gore, hallucinations, more added as they come
Sam Wilson:
The night deepens, alive with sounds.
The rustlings of little creatures in the brush and a careless twig-snap somewhere, frogs from the Biblical rain-plague dumped over their heads humming endlessly. The distant rumble of the cannon, too, few and far between.
Luke scrubs at his face, glancing back as someone ducks out of their hut-like shelter to relieve him of his post. He murmurs a quiet ‘thanks’, standing to stretch the kinks out of his legs, axe at his hip. After the better half of the day spent helping to expand their temporary shelter, an effort supported by supply run punctuated by close calls and supply runs, he’s as exhausted as the others. But wired, too. Always aware of the low hum of tension in his gut. Always waiting for that goddamn shoe to drop. Such is the price of survival, he supposes.
Though he’s familiar enough with the surrounding area, he has the sense not to wander all too far from camp. Being armed doesn’t guarantee much in a place perpetually on the cusp of change, on a gamemakers’ whim. To say nothing of the threat other tributes could pose.
Rochelle:
He never sees it coming.
Barely hears it with the wind battering his skull, whistling in his ears. There's no gunshot rolling across the woods, swallowed up by the mist hanging low and heavy over the arena like a blanket. Just a whining hum, a furious, high-pitched thing like a dentist's drill, before what feels like a bullet rips through his shoulder and again through meat above his armpit, barely missing his collarbone. He gasps, staggering sideways while his brainpan erupts into frenzied starbursts of lights and colours. But even half-blind with pain and panic he has the sense to scramble for cover, pressing his back against the trunk. The bark scrapes his shoulderblades.Wouldn't matter who or what attacked him if he was already dead.
He breathes and breathes, sides drenched in anxious sweat, carefully reaching for the axe hilt at his hip. Going still when his fingers brush something slick and sinuous -- and very much alive. That’s when he sees it dangling from the sheath-strap at his waist. A long, shimmering snake raising its head, studying him through slitted pupils. Then it rears back.
fuckfuckFUCK
It’s wicked-fast, uncocking like a spring -- but so is Luke when he’s wired with just about enough raw adrenaline to jump-start a car battery. Hissing out a curse, he manages to snap his hand from its hooked fangs, blinking the sweat out of his eyes.
And then it’s gone. Not slithering deep into the brush or winding up a tree but full blown faded-out-of-existence gone
I hope this gives you enough -- please let me know if you'd like me to add more
“Thought I'd –“
He breaks off, suddenly, when he hears stirring leaves and a shivering intake of breath in the brush behind him. His face stiffens, arms still at his sides. Eyes gleaming, alert, his throat clicking dry as he swallows.
Something’s wrong.
Either for them or for someone else who has yet to show themselves -- and when the breathing jerks, transforming into deep, retching sobs, he feels something tug at him despite the alarm pulsing through his brain.
‘Daddy! …Daddy, ple-ee-ase…!’ the voice chokes out and Luke goes cold, staring blank-eyed into empty space.
Oh Jesus.
A trill of adrenaline races up his spine, his mouth opening before he knows what to do, what to say. He blinks, scrabbling for sense and for his bearings. He needs to keep it together. His people need him to keep it together.
“…Sarah?” He manages, swallowing against a queasy, rising sense of dread while his own throat tries to close on him. It sounds less reassuring to him than it ought to -- and he can't imagine it being reassuring at all to a recently orphaned kid. For a long time he strains his ears, barely hearing her above the hammering of his own pulse in his ears. Her voice is so small and fearful, strangled with tears.
‘Luke?’
Luke glances to Sam with a blank, helpless look, searching his face, as if for permission.