thearena | We'd Live on the Blooms Carried in on the Breeze

Entry tags:

We'd Live on the Blooms Carried in on the Breeze

Who| Wyatt, Julie, R, Howard, Hyperion and Daniel Jackson
What| Wyatt's hopes and dreams get crushed, R gets eaten by piranhas.
Where| Tom Sawyer's Island
When| Week 5
Warnings/Notes| Death. Tag order Howard, Julie, R, Wyatt, Hyperion?

After the fireworks, Howard knows better than to relax. He knows that the sense of security is fragile at best, if not entirely illusory. Even still, there's a sense of comfort and stability that comes from rebuilding. Howard insisted on returning to the wreckage of Thunder Mountain, despite the explosions, to try and salvage some of the rope and traps they'd used before, but having done that, he's ready to put Frontierland behind him and move forward. Survival doesn't leave much room for sentiment, a sad reality both he and Julie seem to feel too keenly.

His little pack of people, the Mickey Mouse Club, as he's thinking of them, has relocated to Tom Sawyer's Island. That there's only one bridge to and from the island is a little bit of a concern, but it seems to be the safest place for the moment, and there's no sign that anyone else has spent much time here. The Tree House offers a nice view of anyone coming, though Howard doesn't particularly like having to climb up there with his injuries. His right hand has become almost entirely unusable; aside from twitching his thumb and index finger, he can't manage anything more with it. It's immobilized by pain and numbness. He cradles it to his chest when he's at rest.

The view from the Tree House is unfortunate in another way, too; from up there, it's undeniable to see the havoc the fireworks wrought. Some parts of Disneyland are still smoking. More uncomfortable still, the faces of the dead appear to seem closer from up here, and Howard suspects that if they're in a bubble, they're closer to the ceiling at this location. He doesn't like being up next to the enlarged visages of his fallen competitors. Something about it gives him, for lack of a better word, 'the creeps'.

Howard sits at the Treasure Trove, using his knife to carve at a piece of wood. He's trying to complete R's pirate outfit by crafting a peg leg. It isn't easy doing it one-handed, and he keeps the piece of wood in place by trapping it between his ankles and the ground. It's shoddy work, much shoddier than he'd like to admit, but R seems to appreciate it, and that's what matters. Howard doesn't know of any better way to show affection for someone than to give them things, and he wants to encourage R to realize that while Howard's still smarting over almost getting eaten, they're still cool. They're still bros. Friends.

The four of them. Friends.

"Whose turn is it to see if we caught anything in our snares?" The traps they set haven't yielded much on the Island, but there are still some in the buildings of Frontierland and around Adventureland. Howard's been trying to pull his weight with the group, but Wyatt's advised him against going off on his own in the battered condition he's in, so he's been left to more domestic tasks.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

So the Arena had already ruined cute fish for her, and now fireworks. What else were they gonna throw at them? Mickey Mouse mascot zombies? Because that'd be great. Maybe they could all get eaten.

At least all the running around has helped her learn more. The tributes, the whole... games angle. She watches the faces in the sky and finds herself feeling sick when she thinks it's romantic. At least everyone knows they've died. They're not faceless corpses like she's used to -- a body to search for supplies, for Carbtein. Though she knows, realistically, if she found one here too, nothing would stop her from checking them.

She's been busy counting their miracles. They all got back together, the four of them shoved into a treehouse, and Wyatt's not scorched completely and R managed to avoid the same.

From personal experience, she knows that kind of luck won't hold up for much longer.

"Not it," she says immediately, leaning back to watch Howard work. "Unless someone's gonna cough up their knife." She makes sure to emphasize her look at Howard here. Woodcarving is far from one of the skills she's been made to learn to survive. It doesn't help unless you want to make, like, a pointy stick. Which at this point she wouldn't say no to. Actually, that's what it looks like, albeit thicker than she'd think. "Are you seriously making a pointy stick?"

R starts lurching to his feet, assuming as the only zombie here he's got the best chances making a run down there and getting back in one piece...more or less. It's pathetic it's come down to this. He's used to being an expendable corpse, one of a hive, someone who the others wouldn't even throw a second look at if - when - he got his head blown off. That's just how it's been as long as he can remember. It's sucks but it's life.

A look from Julie, though, makes him reconsider. R parks his butt back down. It's the same look she used to shut up Perry with.

Seems like it works on zombies too.

R sits where he flopped down, watching the wood-carving and he has no clue what Howard's planning to do there other than dull his folding knife. Spear? Staff? Hockey stick? "Pointy thing" is the obvious bet.

He might be getting antsy. He’s not sure. R's definition of "antsy" isn’t exactly the same as the others, mostly because it takes him longer to work up to it and because he’s not much of a fidgeter. Shrugger, mumbler, all around dead guy – sure. Fidgeter? Not his thing. But R is getting the urge to do something, even if it’s a groan or a shuffle or hobble from Point A to Point B and back again, and he’s working up the words to volunteer himself for the next snare run. Julie’s don’t even think about it, buster stare or not.

Edited 2013-04-17 21:59 (UTC)

Wyatt was stacking a small pile of wood for a neat little fire. Every so often, as Howard carved and Julie and R watched, he would look up and pause, eyes moving over them one at a time.

Since the fireworks, he's taken to the counting them, his three kids, in the quiet moments, repeating their names over in his head like a mantra. Howard, Julie, R - safe and sound, somehow still all alive despite the Capital's best efforts.

Howard, Julie, R.

He carefully placed one last crooked twig and lightly clapped his hands together, dusting them off.

"I'll go."

Of course. He barley thought about it, offering simply and easily, not even really hearing Julie refusing.

He expected it. Preferred it even.

Better him than them.

"Have fun storming the castle," Howard says, waving his good hand with the knife tucked between his palm and thumb. He doesn't care that only he'll get the reference. He watches as Wyatt goes and returns his attention to the peg. A rustle of breeze sweeps over their belongings, the camp they're beginning to make again. Two rat pelts hang from a shoelace over the edge of the treehouse. They've amassed another small pile of old clothes to serve as blankets. "I'm making you a peg leg, R. Hey, it works with your name. Arrrrr the Pirate."

After Wyatt's gone about ten minutes, there's a sound at the bridge. Howard looks up.

The sound is there, quiet, calm, almost as though it knows it's an expected arrival. There are three presences up ahead, one of them easily recognizable. Hyperion stops in his tracks, slowly, lance in one hand, the other tucked in a pocket, fingers toying with the knife he acquired almost immediately after his arrival. It's easy to consider it his best friend - it's served him well so far. Once, twice, he's sliced with it and left corpses behind.

He thinks he might be ready for round three.

No greeting. No threat. No nothing. His eyes just scan the youngsters and the pet zombie they keep with them. The one who almost managed to sink its teeth into his throat. His skin almost flares up with the memory.

Hyperion doesn't smile. Not yet.

"I remember you."

Damn right that zombie isn't going anywhere. He's already lost a leg and basically an eye. Not to emasculate the guy, but he's not exactly helpful when it comes to an activity that requires a little speed and a little more subtlety.

She's a little relieved it's Wyatt, to be honest. Guy can move, do it without fiddling around, get back here where they're -- relatively -- safe. Julie gives him a wave and goes back to watching, laughing despite how terrible the joke is.

"That joke's been waiting hours to be made." She tucked the singed ends of her dress under her feet, wiggling toes in her boots. As much as she's all for losing them, she knows their camp might go sour at exactly the wrong moment. Like with the damn fireworks. After that, she's been prepared, nerves as taut as violin strings.

For good reason, apparently. Any noises around here are worth investigating. She wished she'd paid more attention to the fireworks as it was. She tips her head to Howard and heads out, seeing as she's the only able-bodied one left here. There's the bridge, Wyatt, and -- face she doesn't recognize.

Boom. Alarms going off. Red flags. But the guy hasn't been sneaky, as far as she can tell, just standing there.

She tenses. "Wyatt?" Because remembering him could be good or bad. Might be acquaintances. Might be a former almost-victim. But there's four of them and she's confident. Doesn't let the edge of fear creep into her voice.

Wyatt takes off and for awhile, it's the three of them. R finds the quiet almost comforting. For starters, there isn't this dull hum of moaning like at the airport. There's only the scratch of Howard whittling and carving away, Julie reaching up to brush her hair away from her face after she fidgets and plays with her dress. R's hands twitch were they rest in his lap, an urge to tuck Julie's hair behind her ear trying to resurface. (Even he thinks that's sappy. That doesn't mean he still isn't tempted to do it).

Things are okay. R almost smiles at the idea of Arrrrr the Pirate. He does smile when he realizes the peg leg is a special, custom-order gift from Howard, hot of the assembly line. It touches him, R thinks. More of that warm fuzzy feeling he started experimenting in.

He doesn't hear or smell the intruder until he's already close - R got lazy, even for a zombie, and there's so much Life in here that he doesn't smell the stranger. It's the voice that tips him off, R's head jerking up because he actually recognizes it. It takes him several long seconds to place where - plenty of time for Julie to want to investigate, R sitting there like a lump of dead meat, useless - and when he does, that warm fuzzy feeling? It dies out. R grits his teeth so hard he can feel them grinding together. The man from the Feast. One of the Tributes he couldn't kill, for every Beck he did.

R starts to stagger to his feet, grunting something that doesn't even remotely sound like stay put to Howard, and he hobbles after Julie.

By the time he catches up, he spots that man standing there. He's still alive, obviously, standing a lot straight than any Dead. R looms up behind Julie, trying to look threatening. R takes in the lance, the way he's standing there like he meant to be here. Like he...tracked them here. The zombie decides he doesn't like that anymore than those three words.

He doesn't want to be remembered. Not by the man he tried to eat.

"Go...awww-away!" R moans, putting oomf into it.

Edited 2013-04-23 22:49 (UTC)

Howard, figuring it was Wyatt, feels his blood running cold when another voice chimes in instead. The hair on the back of his neck and on his arms pricks up, and he pulls the knife away from the peg and holds it close to his chest instead, where his heart is doing a crazy hammer-like dance under his ribs. R doesn't even need to tell him to stay put; Howard crouches so his legs are under him, but otherwise makes himself as small as possible and stays motionless, as if danger could be averted simply by hiding in plain sight. His shoulders shiver slightly.

He should have known better than to hope, than to relax. He should have realized that the instant he found something good, the Games would assault it. His hand feels clammy on the handle of the knife and he watches R's silhouette against the setting sun go up to stand next to Julie, to yell at the stranger to go away. The three of them are standing strong while Howard shrinks.

He wants to yell at them both to run, to get out while they can, because no one just walks into a camp and starts talking here unless they've come to beg or come to kill. But that would mean asking them to abandon him, and even if they'd listen, Howard doesn't want some psychopath to kill him when he's alone. Memories of the last Arena boil up in his mind, of bleeding out on the ground, of the pain and the fear and wetting himself and crying and pleading no, no, please.

So he doesn't say anything. He watches and sees what the stranger does, and it feels like slow motion.

Hyperion finds that he likes these reactions. Each of them is unique, each of them is somehow linked to the last, all of them surprised, all of them fearful or somehow tense. For all the insignificance that being alone in the world represents, these little moments of impact upon others make it all worth it. It's... addictive, in a way.

First he sees the blond girl. Then the zombie comes after her, leg missing, growling some sad little attempt to shoo him. Then the last one, the young man, crouching in fear, staying behind. Cowardly things. But they're all afraid. It doesn't matter how they react.

The lance changes hands, casually, as though he's ready to free his hand to offer a greeting. That's not it, though. His attention is temporarily focused on the others before it returns to R, the only one that represents the slightest bit of a threat in his memory. But that was when he could get close, when his hands could reach for him and he could pick up Hyperion's scent right off his neck. The lance gives him the upper hand, now, allows him to keep a distance, lest the attacker desires to get severely hurt.

"Who are your friends?"

She knows intimidation when she sees it. She's lived with it all her life, hanging over her like a roof about to cave in. She doesn't miss the coldness, either, and it's enough to give her a wave of fear. She doesn't have a gun. She knew she could take care of herself if she did, take it out and the guy would be down in half a second. Bullet right in his head. She's also come to accept she will probably never find one.

Or a hunting knife.

Julie looks back at Howard, but what she sees is the knife. And she already knows that's not gonna help them, and it's not hers to take. Fuck --

Oh no. Not looking at R. Nope. Too bad he towers over her, but she stays in front of him. Of both of them. Howard's not even in a position to fight, and realistically, neither is the zombie. So it's her. And Wyatt, except they're both still weaponless.

"Hey, can you not take a hint?" There's a fierceness there, but she knows she looks like a little girl without a goddamn weapon. Nothing to take seriously. "Seriously, fuck off."

R's not used to anger or fear or anything in the extremes. It's not how things are when you're Dead - you flatline, you don't spike.

He thinks he might be starting to spike now.

His muscles tense instead of sag as he stares across the short distance between him, Julie and the intruder, and thinks it could definitely be bigger. His mouth wants to pull back in snarl as he notices the man looking at Julie and Julie bristling and he doesn't like that either. He really, really doesn't like it.

R plops a hand on Julie's shoulder, gently trying to push her to the side so he can handle this. This is his problem. He'll face it. In fact, he'd rather she head back to Howard and either book it, find someplace safe or whatever is they need to do.

"They're...no one. Just...people," R says, voice raspy. His odds aren't good with the lance. That's about a few extra feet of advantage there and R knows how slow he moves. Maybe he can try to talk his way out of this, apologize. Try to explain - if the man will even listen.

Somehow he doesn't think he will. R has to try.

"I'm...sorry about...what...happened."

R doesn't have a loud voice, and as such Howard can barely hear what's going on. He just knows that it isn't good. He slowly rises to his feet, not because his tiny, malnourished body is going to be terrifically imposing, but because it'll make it easier to run.

But who's he kidding? He can't limp out of here fast enough, and he can't leave R and Julie. Not when there's a lance in play. Even R's zombie powers aren't going to be of much help here.

Howard's pulse flutters like a moth inside his neck, inside his wrists, in his thighs. His peripheral vision is blurring out. Fear is squeezing him like a hand around his torso, a cinch closing tighter and tighter.

"What happened, buddy?" Hyperion asks, taking a step towards them, apparently holding no interest in the boy or girl - for now. "Do they know? Did ya tell your friends?"

Oh, fuck this. Julie knows she looks as intimidating as a toy dog, but this is bullshit. She's not dealing with R's guard dog act and she's not up for being ignored. Not that she's willing to be a target, but she has people to protect and R's only dangerous with his teeth in someone. Her eyes are on the lance, knowing that's not happening.

And she sure as shit doesn't care what happened between these two, because obviously it wasn't friendly. Maybe R tried to eat him. Giving the vibes the guy is setting off, she's not sure she blames him for trying.

Boy, sure is easy to think like this when she's ignoring the rapid beat of her heart. Cold sweat down her back. Easier, always easier, to face down a hungry horde than any kind of human. The Living are unpredictable, and half the time they're guided by emotion. Which meant attacks could be fueled by revenge, or cruelty, or the selfish need to eat. The paranoid need to kill anyone who looked like a threat.

Or someone who wanted to own up to the whole gladiator deal.

In the back of her mind, she wonders where the hell someone even finds a lance around here. Do they just drop weapons off wherever?

Julie backs off only because she's sensing some Male Tension here, the kind that ends up with taunts before anyone actually gets hurt. She moves back to Howard's side, eyeing the knife gripped by white knuckles. It's not really gonna help anyone unless she can throw it and brain the guy, but pocket knives are so off the aerodynamic end she's pretty sure she'd never make it. "You should go. We'll stay here."

It's a shitty plan, sure. Best she can do.

Technically R only met Julie a few days ago. Even with Perry's patchwork of memories, it's not that long in the grand scheme of things.

It still feels like forever. R can read that way Julie aggressively bunches her shoulders like she wishes she had a shotgun on her - there's this silent back off coming at her, not aimed just at the intruder but also at him. Julie's the last girl on Earth to sit there playing damsel. She'd rather sneak off and nearly get eaten by zombies.

Normally R would love that about her, the never-say-never thing. Today? Not so much. It's better he faces this man than Julie.

The zombie isn't sure what to say to the intruder, if he wants the truth, if it's a trick question, if he should even waste the will-power moaning anything. R hadn't exactly lied. The pathetic thing was he'd tried to eat so many people in the Arena that R hadn't thought to pick out one and spill his guts to either Howard or Julie about it. It slipped away as most stuff did. He hadn't even come clean about Air. Or hunting with Karis.

"I...tried to...eat him," R cringes mentally at saying it. "He got...away. I couldn't...stop. Starving."

Both his human friends know what he is, but it's different having to admit it aloud with someone he tried to murder confronting him about it. R stares at the man, the lance, takes in his face. That way he looked at Julie and Howard. That spike of emotion rears its head again. Without thinking, R suddenly starts lurching at the intruder, his teeth baring in a snarl.

"Can't," Howard whispers back to Julie. "He's at the mouth of the bridge and I can't swim in this condition."

Besides, he wouldn't leave them. At least, he wouldn't leave R; he hasn't known Julie all that long. He doesn't leave his friends; it's quite possibly the only virtue he's stapled himself to. Howard has resigned himself to being many things (a cheat, a coward, a weaselly little brat who runs at the sound of the gun) but he's always been loyal to the few friends he has. When you don't get many of those, you can't afford not to stick by them.

And as such, it doesn't matter to him that R's only confessing this now, when the fact is shoved in everyone's face anyway. It's true; Howard has issues with cannibalism. It turns his stomach in a way nothing else does, because he knew a kid, Panda, who ended up eaten by other starving kids. He played Xbox with that kid and snuck him cigarettes. Sometimes in dreams he's eating garbage, as he is in many dreams, and he'll find pieces of Panda in his meal, not literal pieces but fragments of the kid Panda was, mini action figurines and orange quadrahedral pencil erasers and skateboard logos.

But none of that matters, because R is a friend, and because R was starving. Howard knows nothing can be more compelling. Even the memory of starving is enough to drive Howard out of his mind, to pushing his body beyond what is can hold, to staying up late in the night crying, to getting himself killed because he can't deal with food like a rational human being. How could he ever blame R for acting badly when R was starving?

Especially when said guy comes across as such a colossal tool.

Howard's trying to think of something that will both reassure R and not give Hyperion an excuse to be angry at three people instead of just one when R lunges forward. Howard stands up quickly but doesn't step forward, although it's clear the impulse is there. "R, no!"

Edited (ack typos) 2013-04-28 18:41 (UTC)

Hyperion smiles.

They knew - he can see it in their faces. Somehow they knew but the confession was still spelled out for them, the confession that Hyperion had nearly been killed by a starving cannibal, body decaying, mind deteriorating. Yet they stand by his side, aiding the abomination. They even care about him.

It's an alarming thought. As much as it amuses him, Hyperion detests it as well. It turns his stomach, as much as emotion still manages to slip in through the cracks of his very own, lost humanity.

When R charges at him, all it takes is a swift movement and the end of his lance sinks into the abomination's stomach, piercing through and through. With a kick Hyperion pushes him off, breathing sharply through his lips.

"You should go." He nods at R, picking the lance with both hands, weapon changing palms as he steps backwards aside. He offers no reasoning for apparently forgiving what was done to him. They expected him to be here for some revenge, didn't they? That's what they're afraid of, of all things. "But your friends stay. I wanna talk to them."

Edited 2013-04-29 17:51 (UTC)

Then they get him off the bridge. Obviously. There's water, and she assumes more crazy fucking fish. Either way, she doesn't care what they do as long as this asshole leaves.

"We'll distract --"

Of course she manages two words before R is the lurching, desperate zombie that he should be. She doesn't give a shit that he tried to eat this guy, because right now she's all on board the train that maybe he had it coming. Or maybe he's just here for revenge. Seemed like a little too much taunting for that.

Julie watches R charge, wide-eyed, only climbing out of her frozen state as the lance spears him like a pin through a bug. "R!" she screams, taking a few steps towards them before stopping herself. R only bleeds black sludge (sludge she's worn herself a couple of times), but he survives. Not the head. So the guy knows what R is? Or only that he could survive that?

It's desperate. She has nothing and no promise this guy won't spear R's head when he turns around. She only hopes the fucking zombie listens to her. "R, get the fuck out of here!"

This is not happening. Not right now. She turns on Howard, nerves buzzing. "Give me your knife."

R feels the shock of the lance traveling up his body. The only thing missing is pain: no lightning bolt of agony, nothing. Only a sense of pretty sure that's not supposed to be there.

The zombie paws at the lance impaling him, spearing out his back, trying to either claw his way up it or - or yeah, actually, that's about his entire strategy right there, keep clawing until he gets somewhere. His reach isn't remotely close. His fingers swipe uselessly several feet away from the man. Black liquid oozes out from the wounds, dripping slowly like oil as R continues squirming, trying to force his way up the lance and for some reason it's not working. Could be stuck on something. Now R's close enough to see the man's face, see the veins beating in his neck, smell the Life reeking out in waves.

Normally whenever R's run at someone, they look scared. He's not seeing that right now.

Judging by the shouts from Julie and Howard, this wasn't the smartest plan.

The kick dislodges R, the zombie sliding off the lance with a squish as he topples back and slips on his stump. He lands flat on his back, still snarling and struggling to get back to his feet. The man's planted between him and the others. R's eye goes from the spear to the guy who just impaled him and then past to Julie and Howard. Howard’s standing there, looking sick and gaping. And Julie…

Julie wants him to leave; she's even screaming at him. The zombie looks at her and Howard, unsure.

Christ, he's crap at thinking on the fly. "They'll be...safe?"

Howard shrieks. He can't help it. The noise just bursts from his chest like a flock of pigeons, and then he claps his hand over his mouth as R flails around at the end of the spit. Howard's seen plenty of awful things, but watching your friend impaled in front of you isn't easy to adjust to. Even if said friend doesn't seem that much worse for the wear once the spear is slid out of him.

Howard feels like he can feel his heartbeat in his eyes. Julie's yelling something, then she's talking to him, and it takes a full second for him to realize what she's saying, and another second for him to realize it's a request he can't grant. He wants to. He wants to be brave enough to let her take the knife, but she doesn't understand; it's his parachute for the free fall. It's his escape hatch, his security blanket, his key from this cell. He sees it from the corner of his eye, still clasped in the hand covering his mouth, the handle cool against his lower lip.

And he can't give it up, not when memories of the last time he died are simmering into a full boil. Not when he can still feel Aunamee's blade inside him, in his stomach and in his chest, slipping like a cat between ribs and muscle and then morphing into a crowbar to wrench flesh apart. Like the spear that went through R.

So instead he quickly shakes his head, then doubles over and retches up air and spit. His hand clenches even tighter on the knife.

"They'll be safe." From R, from his hunger, from his clawing little hands. Not from the lance. Not from Hyperion. This he doesn't need to know, not until it's too late.

Hyperion speaks as he tilts his head at the black oil oozing from his victim, the same way one would at a beetle they'd never seen before. That's what he is. A bug that gets impaled and still won't give up. Fascinating. And irritating.

He pays no mind to the situation behind him. Not to the girl asking for the knife, not to the boy doubling over as painful memories pour in through his stomach. His attention is on the undead boy, waiting for him to crawl away, patient and unmoving.

"I'll be brief."

Julie would often pride herself on not being the girl that freezes. Just stands there and doesn't do shit.

Still, it's what she does. Because she can only watch R flop around like a one-finned fish, trying to get back to his feet, and she's staring at Howard so hard she's sure her eyes are gonna pop until he freaks the fuck out. She steps back, instinctual, a nice rise of bile in her own throat before she covers her nose and turns away in revulsion.

She can't take the knife from him like this. Howard's terrified out of his mind and she's not much better, but a part of her's too much like Perry, too accepting. About time, she has to think. Ten years is a long time to keep on living everything.

Howard's lost; she writes him off. She can't count on him to attack the guy, to give the weapon over. All she can do is make herself as big a shield as she can, stepping in front of him, a few more feet towards where R's bleeding all over. One thing at a time. Focus.

"R, just go." Save who you can. "Now."

Sensory overload and zombies don't mix.

R stares at Howard trying to puke; he's barely eaten enough to get really going, and then there's Julie standing there center stage, the girl swallowing with her eyes wide, this shade of blue that's almost colorless today. Light reflects off the black blood glistening from the spear. Life itself fills R's nostrils as he inhales. It tries to kick and pull and tell him he should get back up and make another pass at the Man until he gets it right. R can't think. It's hard on a good day.

Today isn't a good day.

"Safe," R repeats, sounding lost. "I'll...I want..."

He knew what he wanted, before today took a nosedive. His friends with him. Julie's hand in his. Julie and Howard safe. Keep them safe keeps circling around his skull, this magic word that he clings to with stiff fingers. It's Julie's voice that decides it for him, R seeming to peer at her as if seeing her for the first time. Okay. She said go. He's the one who tried biting the man, so if he leaves, then...

It doesn't occur to R that he needs to think this through. Think smarter. The zombie gets awkwardly to his feet, listing on his stump with his head hanging down. Shooting the three humans a look over his shoulder, R begins to shuffle away from Tom Sawyer island, an uneven clumping across the bridge that eventually fades away.

Howard gasps and chokes on air, letting a string of spit drip from his lips to the ground. Strange little whimpering noises burst like bubblewrap from the base of his throat. His arms wrapped around his stomach, the busted hand curled up fetally against his chest, the Disneyland sweater, the gutsy young woman standing in front of him, none of them will protect him from this stranger with the smirk and the spear.

And R's walking away, shuffling. Hyperion seems to have the decency to let them watch R recede from view, and Howard tries to scrape together some of the shreds of his mind enough to hope to God that R can find Wyatt and stage a daring rescue. Even if R's moving at turtle speeds, maybe they can stall long enough for Wyatt to come back for them.

He tries to straighten up, tries to hold the knife out to Julie but his arms are limp like wet rags. He needs the knife. He's clinging to it like a liferaft.

A plan starts to form in his mind. R is safe, presumably. Wyatt's safe. Julie has legs she can run with, and if he can get her the knife...but he has to get her the knife. There's no possible way for him to escape in this condition while Hyperion's alive and dangerous. Not even for a moment can he entertain that possibility. So that leaves another option.

"What are you going to do to us?" His voice is barely a whisper, and it's possible to miss it entirely. He feels like he has to force himself to exhale enough to produce sound.

Edited 2013-05-05 08:25 (UTC)

Hyperion watches the entire scene with a vague interest, tilting his head as R finally gathers enough strength and intelligence to do as he's told. The remainder of the group isn't quite as entertaining to watch. They're just scared or angry, nothing new in the way either one of them reacts. One is trying to be a hero, the other is hopelessly needing to be rescued. The question rings him pleasantly, however, while he shakes off some of the strange black substance from his spear. Hyperion is quiet for a moment.

"I want you to tell me about your friend."

The one that got away. The abomination that tried to kill and devour Hyperion. They should have interesting things to say, once the adrenaline wears off.

If the adrenaline is ever given the opportunity to wear off.

Fucking finally. Julie, unlike Howard, doesn't have much hope. Not for daring rescues -- those don't happen in real life. Sometimes you get lucky, most of the time luck doesn't exist. As long as he's gone, though, it's one less body to worry about.

Only thing she regrets is R hadn't even managed to bite him. At least then she'd get to look forward to knowing the guy was gonna turn Dead.

This is so movie. She's looking death in the face, feeling like shit. She's hoping he's gonna skip the evil monologue, but she's bracing herself for it. At least zombies don't talk. They kind of moan and chew your neck open. It sucks to have prepared the last ten years of her life, getting ready to get offed by a zombie somewhere, somehow, and she gets thrown here. At least she won't pop up a zombie. Worse things to be than dead.

"He's Dead," she says, moving closer, raising her arms and dropping them like who cares? "So what? Obviously you've got a grudge. What do you want us to do about it?"

Thoughts rush like a swarm of insects through Howard's brain, disjointed, chaotic, fighting past roadblocks of fear and panic and aborted escape plans and weird memories of his parents that always seem to crop up uninvited when death is breathing down his neck.

He likes Frank Sinatra and comfortable clothes and he likes it when people let him finish his sentences and he's lukewarm on bacon and steak but he'll eat it if you give it to him because he wants to impress people, and you get used to the way he smells after a few minutes, and he'd probably be a great writer if he could read...

But he knows Hyperion isn't looking for that. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and he's shaking so badly that he feels like he's about to put his eye out with the blade he's still holding. He lowers it a little, licks away the last of the spit and bile.

"Look, you obviously didn't get bit any. Now you just have beef to have beef, so you can just...please just let us go..."

He wishes he didn't sound so pathetic, like he's on the verge of tears. You don't get to negotiate when someone else can tell they have all the power, but he's never been good at hiding terror. He hopes Julie can keep up the tough act a little longer, stall a little longer.

One sudden move and he'll get desperate, and he knows that desperation is the no man's land where all bets are off.

"We'll make sure he doesn't try to bite you again."

Edited (added a sentence) 2013-05-07 17:41 (UTC)

"No, you won't."

His answer is simple. Collected. Calm. The other two people present in this conversation are so fired up with fear and anger, so much he can practically taste it. In turn he looks like he can be affected by nothing, no hint of emotion in the twist of his lips, int the shift of his eyes. He has no empathy for how terrified Howard feels, he feels no amazement at how brave and angry Julie wants to be.

"Don't lie to me." He narrows his eyes, shaking his head. Wrong decision. Wrong words. But back to her question. "I want to talk."

She could've given the guy a break if it hadn't been evident that Mr. Zombie was doing fine not eating everyone he came into contact with. God, the guy had somehow managed to make friends. It's not exactly gonna take a muzzle to get R not to eat people.

It's not like he wants to.

"He's not our attack dog," she all but spits, the fear coiling nicely into anger. It's not just wanting to be pissed -- she's way beyond want now. "You don't want to talk, you want to threaten." Please. Been there, done this. He wouldn't have taunted them, taunted R enough into attacking, if he wanted to just sit down and have a conversation and share their fish. "So get on with it."

"If you wanted to talk, you'd put the weapon down." It's not an accusation. Howard's not in a position to accuse. Neither of them are, even if Julie is acting like she is.

Howard's mind is racing, trying to find another way out. Even if he could magically run for it, Hyperion could take either of them down, and that would leave Julie vulnerable. She's not about to leave him, either. She's not the cut and run kind.

He's already running calculations. Only two people will walk away from this at most. And somehow, there's strange comfort in that, because thinking of the practical aspects means not thinking about all the things Hyperion could do to him with a spear.

"Julie," he whispers. Another drop of saliva slides down the gash down his face and hangs precariously from chin. He keeps blinking, as if trying to change the channel on the situation in front of him. "When I give you the signal, take the knife."

Hyperion is smiling when the other two spit words at him and exchange others between them. No, he isn't here to just talk. He would have liked to, for a while, but in the end there would be only one thing to do.

It seems they're the type that would like to skip on over to just that.

Without another word, without another sound, Hyperion takes quick steps towards them, grabbing the girl by her neck, shoving her back with what looks like a pleasant little snarl, showing teeth, leaning in to intimidate and take a very close look at how her expression shifts, if at all.

He points the spear at Howard. For a moment it's nothing but a quiet threat - then he turns his head and attention to him.

"You. Stay there."

Julie likes to think of herself as practical. It's why she hates stressful situations -- she'd like them just to get over with it instead of drawing out the fear. Fear is exhausting. It can only last so long.

Guess she has more of her dad in her than she thought. Maybe not. He probably would've impaled himself on the pointy end by now. Or he would've stolen the knife and had it lodged in the guy's forehead.

At long last, thank the goddamn lord, he actually does something.

Which surprises her, admittedly. Julie's thrown off her balance, because despite her experience and her skill, she's not big and she's not bulky. Problem is, she's a scrapper when times are desperate. A snarl isn't going to scare her off; she's already too fucking scared for that with a heartbeat like a trapped rodent and the taste of bile in her mouth.

She frowns, swallowing the lump in her throat, tears already in her eyes. Because she's not gonna survive. Figures that's just the way it goes. At least if the lance goes to her, Howard might have time to do something.

So the moment his attention is turned away, she aims a hard elbow right at the guy's solar plexus, just enough force to shove the breath out of him.

"Julie!"

Howard lurches forward on his feet, to his tiptoes, then forces himself back when he sees the lance in his direction.

There isn't anything he can do for Julie. He can't throw a punch or a blade or anything like that. He can't reach her, not when they're separated by a maniac with several feet of wood and a pointy end. The most he can do is capitalize on that moment where Hyperion's attention is diverted, to create as much chaos as possible, and hope maybe throwing the proverbial chessboard across the table will let Julie find a queen in the rubble.

He wants to justify it as being to help Julie. He wants to say it's not a cowardly act, that it's actually a noble thing, to remove himself from the equation. He wants it to be something greater than what it is, a virtuous distraction, an atom bomb instead of a sparkler.

But the truth is he's just terrified, and that's what allows his body to move too fast for the impulses of self-preservation to neuter the momentum out of his fist. The truth is that he's still just running from the memory of being tortured to death.

"Make me," he hisses back at Hyperion. He lunges forward and off, to the side of the spear, the opposite direction as Julie as she throws her elbow.

And he slams the blade into the base of his own throat.

Julie's attack only seems to motivate him even more, hunching over for a moment before he gets his breath back and shoves her once again, that same snarl present in his lips, ready to ignore the boy completely and show the girl why that was a very big mistake.

Except Howard does something extremely unexpected, and it takes a reaction from the girl to make him realize exactly what it was.

He stands almost frozen, watching the boy struggle with his self-inflicted death, watching the blood pour from his throat like it's the first time he's ever seen someone bleed. It's only when he finally tumbles over lifelessly that Hyperion remembers his place.

"Not much of a friend."

In half a second she's hoping R's stumbled off fast enough to find someone, anyone, or at least get himself out of hearing range, and she wonders crazily -- how far can he smell it? How far can zombie instincts reach out and smell blood?

He better not recognize it, that's all she's saying. He better not come back.

It's only a half-formed thought. She's back on the floor before she even realizes it, and there's no time to react. Julie watches as Howard bleeds without even enough breath in her throat to cry his name, like it'd fucking help a bit. What the Christ. What the ever-loving fucking Christ. She can't even scream. She opens her mouth and a hiccup-like sound comes out, her eyes striking warm with tears.

Not the first time she's watched someone off themselves. It's not the kind of thing a person gets numb to.

She keeps watching as the body crumples -- because she's learned from Dad, she's not stupid, that once the light's gone it's just a body, and if there's no bite it stays just a unmoving corpse. His voice is loud in her head: it's not even good bait. The Dead don't eat bodies.

She sits back up, but doesn't push to her feet. That was all the fight she had. Why bother now? The point of being a distraction's gone. Her face is blank as she looks over the lance to the stranger's face. Not a zombie, like she's always figured. Living, breathing human. The more dangerous animal in the end.

"Hey," she says, the tears leaving tracks over the dirt on her face. At least humans understand last words. "Fuck you."

He's still staring, fist closed, fingers toying with the inside of his palm, trying to assess the situation. It's a shame that the boy should take his own life - another man had threatened to do the same, right in front of Hyperion, just so the virus-infected tribute wouldn't take another life with his own hands. At the time Hyperion preferred to let him go, watch him leave instead of watching him bleed in vain. Now he could only stare and ignore the tearful girl. Even her words barely left a mark in his thoughts.

There's an almost distracted quality to the way he turns back to her, lips neutral, eyes slightly widened, image of a suicide still ingrained in his head. Humans do understand last words. So does whatever Hyperion's virus turned him into.

She's ready.

He leans down to grab her again, by her hair, walk with her until he finds a nice spot, right by the corpse of her last hope. If it's death she expects, it's death she'll get. Pity she was so willing to fight before, pity it's all gone from her now.

"They're coming. You won't be alone for long."

Because everyone dies alone, even by the side of their dearly deceased. That's a promise.

He lifts the lance, steady and frozen in time, then drives it down her chest.

There was nothing like seeing the Gamemakers at work. Daniel's muscles gave a twinge of protest as he carefully navigated the bridge. He'd had to make a mad dash once they started falling. The fireworks had been both designed to shock and awe, and then some; they had come exploding around the park suddenly in loud bangs and fizzle-pops. Then the cannons had begun to roll, the reports cracking the air. More deaths rolled through like a tide rolling in.

It was clear that the Gamemakers didn't want them hunkering down. It probably wasn't so easy as staying inside either, not if one took Wyatt's words as they were. If they had true control over the Arena, staying out of the line of fire wasn't going to do much. Keep moving. That was the plan for now. It wasn't, in his opinion, a good enough plan. This was only survival. this wasn't stopping the games, ensuring a way out for the survivors; had this been any other situation, any other planet, Daniel was sure he'd have seen a more solid way out of this mess.

Evening drew close. With it, came the sound of what he'd come to recognize as Panem's anthem. Hands tight on the rickety side-rails, Daniel turned, dreading what faces he'd seen in the holograms this time.

R isn't thinking straight. That's about every single day for him, but it's worse than usual and he can’t concentrate. All he can think about is the looks on his friends' faces.

He screwed up, bad. His friends are in danger all because he attacked a man when he was starving and he didn’t eat him. It’s one of the few times R actually wishes he killed someone, because if he had, Julie and Howard would be safe. They wouldn’t be hostages. That’s about the gist of what goes through R’s decayed skull as he treks away from the man-made island, each hobbling step taking him further and further away and feeling like a huge mistake with each passing minute.

It occurs to R after awhile maybe he shouldn’t trust the guy he almost killed to keep his word. For all he knows, he’s big on grudges. He needs to go back.

What he also needs is help. Backup. Cavalry. Whatever the Living call it these days – he needs that. Soloing it last time didn’t really get him anywhere.

R shuffles across the bridge, raising his head up. It’s night. Again. He has no idea what time it is, the zombie peering out into the dark with his good eye. The other one bumps up against the eyepatch but stays in.

It’s his lucky day: there is someone out there, not far away at all. They’re only a shadow in the night, but they’re reasonably tall, probably a man, not hunched over and swaying like another corpse and while he’d almost prefer Karis at this point because he knew how good she was at this, he also wants to make sure Julie and Howard aren’t next on the menu. What R needs is another Living person. He’ll explain on the way, even if he has to strong-arm him into helping. The closest thing to a panic a zombie can feel makes R even sloppier than usual.

R slouches up, limping on his stump, and slaps a hand down on the man’s upper arm. His fingers close, dead man tight, around his bicep.

“Hhhhggh…” R’s in too much of a hurry to get those two words help me out. At this point, who cares? Once he drags his cavalry back to the island, he’s sure he can see for himself they need help. It’ll work out. It has to.

Edited 2013-04-21 12:39 (UTC)

Another flicker, and another face, this one he didn't recognize, and the sky darkened again. Yet another Tribute joined the list of the dead. The crickets hesitantly began to chirp once again.

That was when a hand, bony and surprisingly strong, clamped down on his bicep, the fingers digging painfully in. Daniel's heart gave a skip. His head snapped around, and what he saw there made his heart try to really give climbing right out of him a serious go. It was that Tribute from before, the one that had tried to eat him while he was sleeping weeks ago.

Somewhere along the line, he'd earned himself new injuries and an eyepatch to cover up the part of his face Daniel had nearly caved in. He was too close, practically right on top of him, with nothing but the murky lake around them. The fingers squeezed as a groan bubbled out. The archaeologist was both so startled and so afraid then that the swears that come out are in about four different languages and jumbled in on each other.

Those fingers began to squeeze. Daniel reacted, more instinct than anything else, he tried to push him off, using all his strength.

- Really?!

R couldn't believe his luck. The one person he had to grab and it was another one of the guys he tried to eat.

Predictably Sneezy didn't take it too well.

The human immediately started trying to jerk away and escape because he had every reason to considering how their last run-in ended up. R hung on stubbornly because it was his first instinct to hang on and not let go and if he did, he'd lose his chance of backup. He needed this Tribute. R knew first hand he could handle himself. He could help save Julie and Howard, he was sure he of it!

R's fingers kept squeezing as he tried to throw his weight backward and drag his "helper" back toward Tom Sayer Island, the zombie not aware he was holding on way too hard now. His fingers began to dig into the other Tribute's flesh, punching into the bicep and starting to dig bloody furrows. His foot's stump caught on the creaking planks under them, R's sense of balance all over the place as he wobbled dangerously.

His mouth opened as he tried to get a word out, anything, even those two grunts if those still count. He hoped they counted. There had to be a way to convince this man in four words or less.

Edited 2013-04-22 21:54 (UTC)

For having parts of him missing, and the rest of him looking like it might follow suit at any moment, the zombie had a surprisingly strong grip. Daniel had expected him to stagger back, but the Tribute latched on with a grip that would make a rottweiler jealous. Sharp trails of fire went up his shoulder as the fingers dug in against the shove. Blackened nails broke skin, and dragged angry red lines down his arm as he tried to lurch back. Daniel could only stare, frozen, as the Tribute's mouth opened. The same deteriorating teeth greeted him. All it would take was for him to lung forward and keep pulling.

The training the SGC made him go through came through the fear.

He grabbed at the Tribute's wrist, prying at his grip. At the same time, the archaeologist kicked forward, trying to knock the remaining ankle out from under the Tribute.

This was off to the worst start ever. R wanted to snarl and groan that he needs to cut it out right now.

So far he managed to hold on but he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it up. There was a huge difference grabbing onto a human long enough to bring him down and start taking chunks out. Holding onto one and trying not to hurt him was another ball game, R finding out the hard way it was so much harder than he thought. The man grabbed at his wrist hard enough to crush skin to bone.

A human would wince, maybe let go. It would hurt.

R was more concerned about his stump threatening to give out on him. The kick sent R tumbling against the railing. It cracked, rotted out from the inside. Another hit like that and R would end up head-first into the swamp.

Pushing himself off, R threw himself back into the fray, putting everything into dragged the man the way he wanted him to go. He reached out and his gray hand slapped against the other man's shoulder, grappling for purchase, trying to get a fistful of clothing - anything at all to make this easier.

Daniel almost went staggering in after the Tribute as they smacked into the railing Despite looking so gangly, the zombie still carried enough weight to be a problem.

His balance was almost thrown off. Whatever he'd had before had been questionable at best, but along the way, the Tribute had suffered enough injury to make it more of a miracle he was shambling anywhere. For being so slow - at least, normally, when he wasn't out for meat - the zombie was surprisingly fast. Call it properly motivated. And oh geez, was he properly motivated, because the zombie came lunging back at him.

There was a chance Daniel wouldn't get lucky this time. He had to rely on his own speed and agility; if he could put some distance between them, he could leave him behind again. The moment he saw an opening, the archaeologist shoved him as hard as he could.

Edited 2013-04-27 04:39 (UTC)

Between his naturally awesome coordination and his missing foot, R didn’t have a chance. The shove hit him hard in the chest.

He flailed out instinctively, grabbing onto anything. R caught a glimpse of his hand tearing red tracks across the man’s face, fingers catching against his glasses and knocking them off. They vanished over the side with a splash. His turn. R smashed into the railing. He felt something catch and drag along the back of his head - a big fat splinter of wood taking out a chunk of his skull and hair, his brain suddenly exposed. White sparked in front of his eye. For a split second R thought he was dead again, really dead.

Then he tumbled into the swamp, wood splashing with him as the zombie sank like a rock. Murky water, cloudy with scum. He thought he tried to swim, only he didn’t remember how to do anything other than go right to the bottom.

It wasn’t ocean deep. Thank God! R finally reached the bottom after a minute or two.

Shit! He wanted to kick himself until his head caved in. Now Sneezy would be gone by the time he got out of here.

The thought of Julie and Howard back at the island made R kick into overdrive, cavalry or no cavalry. Groping around blindly, unable to see, his smell shot by the water around him, R tried to get up and start walking along the bottom of the swamp. His foot shuffled forward, the stump dragging in slow mo, almost feeling weightless for a change. The zombie kicked up more mud. R got a total of two, three, four feet before he got tangled up in thick weeds along the bottom – the more he tried to bulldoze his way forward, the worst it got until he couldn’t move his legs at all. R’s mouth dropped open in a frustrated snarl as he got the idea to claw at the weeds. He felt more than saw them. His fingers fumbled.

The piranhas rolled in a few minutes later. By the size of the splashing, the Capitol commentators would guess it was the whole school of them.

They went for the softest bits first. A few hundred pecks at whatever flesh was exposed. Most of them attacked the best parts like his eyes and nose and mouth, R going blind as he lost his good eye in the first hour. The very last thing he saw was a piranha’s teeth latching onto his eyeball. Light’s out.

They didn’t kill him fast. He was too big, too Dead. R wasn’t going anywhere. They could afford to be lazy.

Time blurred, stopped, and then didn’t exist. Fish came and went and more replaced them, each piranha swimming away with mouthfuls of his corpse, little chunks that didn’t seem like a big deal until they added up. Eventually they started nipping at the back of his head, discovering the section of his skull that got shaved away when R fell in. That set the piranha school off into another feeding frenzy, the swamp water foaming all over again as they attacked his brain.

It was another few hours before they finally burrowed deep enough to kill him.

R’s cannon boomed almost a day later.

Edited 2013-05-01 01:41 (UTC)

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We'd Live on the Blooms Carried in on the Breeze

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And R is out. Thanks guys

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For R

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