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[leiche]

Who: Jeremy Fitzgerald, OTA
What: That care package is only confusing him further.
When: Beginning of week 2.
Where: Forest and surroundings.
Warnings: Mention of head injuries and various FNAF related grossness.



This is hardly what he expected the afterlife to be like.

He wasn't exactly religious or spiritual. He'd always figured that whatever the end of the line would be, he'd deal with it when he got there. Just because he's here a little earlier than he'd expected had nothing to do with his surprise upon finding out what awaited him after death was just more of it.

Kill or be killed is what he was told. But I'm already-- was what he wanted to answer with, but he was only shushed, told to try his best, and then he was out in the middle of it all. He'd stepped out into what could only be described as a warzone, bodies and blood scattered about and his only instrinct - once he could force himself to move - was just to run. Run, run, keep running, hope you don't pass out.

He has no idea how he made it this far, but he's just glad he's remained conscious. It hasn't really hit him yet, the seriousness of the situation he's in. As far as he's concerned ... well, he's still very, very dead. How much worse can it be to die again?

For a long time, Jeremy wasn't even aware of his surroundings. He just ran, and found someplace to hide whenever he heard a noise. It seemed to go well for the most part, and the forest he finds himself in now is certainly different than anything he'd ever known. It's near one of the quiet, shallow ponds that he decides to take a break, sitting down near the water's edge and breathing heavily from the journey. And then he takes out his findings from the odd little parachute that nearly knocked him in the head earlier in the day, keeping a water bottle by his side as he reads the note again.

"Keep moving ... sorry for-- for what ha-happened. Need help, find ... Luna, Sansa ... Firo, S-Sandy, Daryl, Kar...kat, Nick."

He reads it to himself again, before rolling his eyes, crumpling the paper in his fist and letting it fall to the side. "Fat load o'good names do m-- me now."

It doesn't help that the same hallucination has been following him around since day one, usually in the corner of his vision but sometimes - like now - right across the pond from him.

"God-- fuck off, already," Jeremy grumbles at the shadow, frustrated enough to flip his middle finger up at the damn thing as he rubs his scarred forehead with the other hand. What a headache this is. "Leave me alone."

Comments

[shiftingurbulls]

"I would not raise too much hell," a hushed Southern drawl whispered from behind, as a careful tribute made his way to this new one. Poor man seems like he's seen some shit and probably yanked from a bad situation.

Plus he had supplies with him, so Ellis figured there could be some bartering in the future. "Yer a new face, wha's yer name?"

The caution El displayed was typical of his survivor friends: welcoming but ready to fight if there was any displays of aggression.

[didnothing]

Luna's cautious when she ventures into the forest, armed with nothing but rations and a first aid kit. There are creatures about and she doesn't have much by way of self-defense skills, so she's in hot water in the probable event that she encounters trouble. But she's never had any illusions about her odds of winning, while she does have of hopes of making some small difference for someone who needs it.

She sees someone in the distance to her side and makes to approach them. Luna is careful but not silent (sneaking up on people would give the wrong impression of her intentions) so when Jeremy makes a rude gesture she assumes it's directed at her. She can't quite make out what he's saying but the sentiment is clear, so Luna steps back from where she is and waves her hands in apology, calling out to him to make herself heard more clearly. "I'm sorry! I just, um...are you all right?"

[weaintashes]

The ponds are veritable buffets if one knows which woodland critters are safely edible and which to avoid, even if it's always sort of a crapshoot in Arenas, with how fond the Gamemakers are of murdering Tributes in unexpected ways. It's a necessary risk as far as Daryl's concerned; they can't survive on sponsor gifts alone.

He's thigh-deep in one of the ponds and wading through, methodically gigging frogs with a makeshift spear when he hears the telltale sounds of someone approaching, still a ways off — too far away to have seen him, hopefully. He quickly gathers the haul of skewered frogs in his pack, slips his axe into its sling on his back, and vanishes into the undergrowth to wait out the intrusion.

The guy who shows up looks pretty unassuming, and not well equipped. A face he's never seen before.

Other Tributes remain the greatest threat in any Arena, and Daryl makes a point of finding out what he can about the 'competition', in particular, who to avoid or kill on sight. Being new makes this one a wild card and thus dangerous by default.

Just as he's turning, intent on slinking away to hunt elsewhere, he hears the new guy muttering to himself — and what's unmistakably his own name. Firo and Nick's, too. Huh. The note must have been from someone he knows well, if they're telling this stranger that Daryl'll help him. He hesitates for a long moment as he makes up his mind, and then cautiously moves forward to reveal himself, rising to stand on the opposite side of the pond from the stranger (thankfully not overlapping the hallucination), a hand gripping the hilt of his hunting knife sheathed at his waist. Just in case.

"Who's that note from?" he asks by way of greeting, voice pitched low enough that it won't carry far, and tips his chin toward the crumpled note. "Seems they think I oughtta be helpin' you."