(no subject)

[marcato]

Who| Aunamee and Wyatt -- then R
What| Aunamee dies. Wyatt and R reunite.
Where| Desert arena.
When| Week 1
Warnings/Notes| Death

He doesn't know what the final straw was. It could have been Ariadne's execution, the way those government officials smiled with bright eyes and promised no escape. It could have been the knife in his guts, the way Grey told him that he was nothing and how, for a split second, Aunamee believed him. There is a good chance the final straw was when he lay dying at Wesker's feet or when he first realized there was poison coursing through his veins. What is more likely is that this whole thing was inevitable.

The final straw brought Aunamee to his knees the moment his telepathy went silent.

"Hey," he says to the figure ahead of him, blurred by the sun and sand. Since waking up from the poison, his mind has been a forest of thorns and tangled thoughts. He swallows hard enough to swallow a rock.

His folding knife is clutched tightly between his fingers, the blade extended.

"You should turn around and say hello, dear stranger."

Comments

[the_marshal]

He had seen the glint in the distance and had wary approached, expecting a Gamemaker trap. But when the voice called out, something straight out of his dreams, he almost wished he'd gotten mutts instead.

Fire. More poison.

Not Aunamee's smiling face.

He turned his back on the Cornucopia slowly, facing Aunamee on a twist of his heels, eyes drawn immediately to the wink of the blade in his hand.

[marcato]

"Oh," he said with some surprise. He recognized Wyatt around the same time he recognized the Cornucopia, that glistening shell in the empty sand. "I mean dear friend."

Despite the sweet words, Aunamee made no attempt at the lie. His eyes were harsh. Hollow. His smile grew crooked and sickly.

This must be inevitable, too, he thought. Destiny.

"I see they got you as well," he said, stepping forward at a quick and steady pace, the knife still clutched in his hand. "With the poison. Dragged down to the second level of Hell with all the other sinners."

He feinted to the left and then he lunged towards Wyatt, the knife flashing through the air.

[the_marshal]

It wasn't like Aunamee to attack so quickly, he was the smug grinning viper coiling 'round the Tree of Knowledge, venom dripping from his words, not the glistening fangs, and Wyatt was caught by surprise.

He just managed to get his arm up, taking a slash along his forearm instead of the blade burying in his ribs. Pain burned up his arm, ruby welling beneath the flimsy fabric of his sleeve, but with Aunamee's attention low, his left arm snapped out, fist cracking hard off Aunamee's mouth.

[marcato]

He tasted the blood before he felt the pain, his teeth crumbling like a jostled jigsaw puzzle. The shockwave resonated, boomed, thundered all the way to the back of his skull. He stumbled backwards, his vision filled with stars, his free hand darting to his mouth to catch warm strands of bloody saliva. He choked. Spit.

And then he lashed out with the knife once more.

He aimed for Wyatt's face.

[the_marshal]

His knuckle split, and he dripped red from both hands.

The knife seemed to smile as it swung out to kiss him, the sunlight flashing off the blade. Unbidden, he realized distantly what Aunamee's grin had always reminded him of.

He jerked back, rocking on his heels, and the blade hissed past his nose. He didn't stop to think, simply did, reaching out and grabbing Aunamee's arm as it arched past, pulling even as he threw himself forward, twisting his shoulder into Aunamee's chest.

Using all his weight to drive them both down into the sand.

[marcato]

He lost the knife.

He didn't know when. All he knew was that after his body collided with the sand (another shockwave, more stars), his fist was wrapped around nothing, his nails buried in skin instead of plastic. He swung that empty fist, kicking up his legs, struggling to knock the other man off of him.

His bloodied teeth were clenched into a sneer. His eyes were wild.

There was no longer even a hint of that sweet, polite veneer.

[the_marshal]

It had been some time since Wyatt had ridden, but back home had been up there amongst the noted for his horse skills. Aunamee bucked and tossed and Wyatt twisted and turned with him, refusing to let go of the advantage he'd won himself.

Aunamee's empty fist - thankfully empty - slammed into his jaw, snapping his head to the side. The crack echoed up into his neck, the pain electric, but his fingers only tightened, one set curling into the front of his dirty white suit, the other into a fist. He pulled with one, swung the other.

(He could hear Howard's screams, could feel the phantom hands of the Peacekeepers as they'd pulled him off, could see the look in Max's eyes as he said he would give the Capitol what they wanted, as he tried to smash in Aunamee's bloody sneer.)

[marcato]

He saw the fist.

Then time stopped. Skipped.

Before he knew it, his head was rebounding off the ground, a dull thud echoing around his skull. He felt blood between his teeth and teeth between the muscles of his throat, knocked free and now half-swallowed. He coughed and gasped to clear the airway, his vision blurring and shuddering with every attempt. His mind rolled, rocked, twisted inside out, kissed pain on the back of its hand. He suffered. He couldn't think.

He no longer struggled against Wyatt.

[the_marshal]

He lost track of the heft and swing of his arm. One moment, Aunamee was alive, trying to cut his heart out, his blood pounding through his veins, boiling with adrenaline. The next, his shoulder was burning and his hand throbbing. His throat raw and aching from the wordless roar he hadn't even been aware of making. Aunamee's face was meaty pulp, blue and black and red, and the echo of the cannon blast rolling across the sky like that last dying rumble of a storm.

He sat up, nose flaring as he dragged in a haggard breath, slowly becoming aware again as the rage subsided - his knees in the gritty sand, the pain in his arm, the sun beating down.

He felt no joy in, just a grim sort of completion.

Aunamee wouldn't be attacking anyone else this arena.

He found his feet, weary now, as his blood cooled, and turned his back on the body, shaking his arm free of his coat and headed once more for the Cornucopia.

Cannibalism warning of the zombie variety

[shambler]

What day was it today? Did it matter? The sun beat down on his shoulders. Hot. R registered it was hot, like it was happening to someone else. The heat had been shriveling his skin since…since forever. Everything blurred together into soup. Details slid away until eventually he gave up trying. Too hard. Too much effort. With the heat drying his corpse into jerky, R shut down to a zombie's most basic instinct:

Feed. Eat. Chew. Crush and drool. Keep eating. He’d like to stop but he knew he wouldn’t.

The hunger twitched across his body.

R’s mouth dropped open in a moan. It croaked out, dry. No other Dead here. No one to talk to or even bump shoulders with. A Dead guy could go crazy like this: just that blue sky threatening to eat him alive, more sand, more shrubs, and that was it. “Depressing” wasn’t even close. By now R’s shoulders were stuck in a permanent hunch, like it’d make any difference, the zombie putting one foot in front of the other because he had to.

When he finally caught something – blood splashed on sand, still fresh, still counted - R felt a relieved gurgle hiccuping out. The hunger slammed back. R’s lurching picked up as he followed that smell of fading Life, ignoring the sun flashing off the Cornucopia. Weapons, supplies? Who cared? If he was lucky, he’d be first one there before the coyotes beat him to it. This one was his, dammit. R called dibs.

The body came into sight, sprawled in the sand like a gift and oh man, oh man, blood was still glistening in the sun! That was how fresh this dead man was. His bruises were still bright shocks against the sand. Rigor mortis probably hadn’t even set in yet. R didn’t cautiously circle around, checking for other Tributes or traps or even those coyotes. Everything tunneled to the free meal laid out before him. Blood was splattered red against that white suit, R almost thinking it looked familiar before the hunger dragged him forward.

He fell on the dead man, tearing away flesh with desperate jerks. R swallowed without even chewing the first few bites, Aunamee’s blood oozing down his chin.

[the_marshal]

Wyatt didn't hear the approach of the new tribute right away. Surprised by the amount supplies left for the taking inside the sweltering golden horn, he was rifling through the items quickly, his wounds stinging painfully as sweat ran into them.

He had just paused on a box of crackers, almost impressed with the Capitol's dedication to cruel irony, when he heard it. A wet slap.

Flesh against flesh.

Reaching for something sharp, he eased out of the mouth, knife in one hand, crackers in the other, and stopped. In his tracks. Unsure if he was seeing what he thought he was, or if the heat had finally taken its toll.

"...R?"

typos

[shambler]

R was oh, he'd say about face deep into the dead man's stomach when a voice broke through that haze.

It was like a slap upside the back of his head; R was prepared for some peace and quiet in the sweltering heat. Just him and this other dead guy getting to know each other in the most personal way possible and he was trying really, really hard not to go for the brain first because that was the best part. Wanted to save it. Now his head jerked up, almost guilty, a long strip of guts hanging out of his mouth as he stared right at the voice.

For a long couple of seconds there was only empty staring, R drawing blanks as he looked right at the man and past. Older guy, nice mustache. Big coat. Obviously more alive than his meal. As fresh as you could get, R chewing away and already feeling it turn to ashes in his mouth compared to that guy. He'd go down a lot better. The hunger started to point toward the newcomer -

It hit him, then. His name. He had one, his little pathetic ghost of a name. This man knew it, which meant he must've told him sometime. R struggled to focus past the hunger and tried to remember. His mouth, split by cracks from the heat exposure, pursed as he concentrated.

Something swam up.

"Wyy....tt..." R trailed off, his head canted to the side. He fixed the Tribute with another dead-eyed look, grunted almost thoughtfully, and turned his back on him and went back to feeding, pulling and pawing at his food. It was almost like a signal of trust: I'm trusting you not to headshot me. We're cool, right?

[the_marshal]

His fingers had tightened on the handle of the knife instinctively, the look in R's eyes universal enough to send a chill racing up his spine, but then the boy said his name - something like it anyways - and he relaxed again.

Though his nose didn't wrinkle.

"Ya really do eat people, don't ya, son?"

It'd been mentioned last arena, but talkin' about it was one thing, seein' it - hearin' it - was far another.

Though, as awful as it sounded even to him, outside of how his stomach turned, he couldn't find much in him to be upset about this being Aunamee's fate.

[shambler]

This was new: R couldn't remember any time he'd sat down to eat with running commentary. Not only that, but there was a lack of screaming or judging or anything. Just...this frankness. Like it was fact. R could get used to this. (Besides, it helped he didn't actually kill this man himself. Did wonders for his conscience).

R shifted where he was on his hands and knees, keeping an eye on - he had to strain again before he lost that name - on Wyatt, torn between eating and sneaking peeks at the Living man because his curiosity was killing him. With each bite, he felt a little bit more of himself coming back. His corpse, shriveling in on itself and hardening into cracked leather, was probably a lost cause. At least thinking was starting to come back, R peeking at Wyatt more and more over the dead man despite himself.

What kind of guy would stand there and be so understanding? A friend? Thank God he didn't bump into him first.

Eventually R had to call it quits, so distracted he actually forgot to go rooting around for the brain. Call it a first. The zombie staggered to his feet, as full as he could feel because at the end of the day, he was only one Dead here. Friend. Wyatt. Good guy. Tell him he's not next. R latched onto that.

Without realizing it, his hand came up like he wanted to straighten the ratty shemagh tied around his neck, self-conscious. Like he hadn't been caught red-handed. Look more presentable for Wyatt just because. R only succeeded at smearing blood around. This was going to be totally awkward, but he wanted to make sure they were on the same page here. Might as well get it over with.

"Wyatt?" R stumbled over, leaving the half-eaten Tribute behind. He kept on trucking despite his slurring. It'd get easier the more he talked. "We're...fff....friends?"

[the_marshal]

His boots held their ground, though he did lean back at the waist, weight shifting as R staggered to his feet and turned his gore splattered face to Wyatt.

His chin lifted, blue eyes narrowing just a fraction. "I'd like to think so, son," he said carefully, uncertain as to whether or not he should be expecting an attack.

[shambler]

R felt like he could stand up a little straighter hearing that, despite the dead man's blood caked all over his face and the fact he was pretty sure good posture was a pipe dream. R's mouth twitched like he wanted to smile at Wyatt but couldn't.

"Ss..." R's first attempt wheezed out between his cracked lips. Okay, trying that again. R closed his eyes, concentrated, and did his best to be intelligible for his friend. "Ssorry. About..."

He couldn't bring himself to say out loud what he'd already been caught doing, his hand fluttering up and gesturing, sort've, over his shoulder at the dead man behind him. That guy. Doing...that. Too late to take it back, R hoping Wyatt didn't think he killed the guy on top of everything else. Considering the fact he stood his ground, R thought things were going pretty well, looking at it like that. Now he was determined to be a bro back and...and do whatever it was bros did.

"Be...friends? ...Help...you...?"

[the_marshal]

Wyatt couldn't help but think of a wolf as he looked at R's bloody, open face - a wild beast come in from the hunt,... earnestly expecting to be petted.

Disconcerting, but not overtly threatening. Strangely sweet.

He eyes flicked to the mangled mess than remained of Aunamee, and then back again, exhaling deeply.

"Come on, son." He half-turned, nodding back toward the Cornucopia. "I could use yer pockets, iffen ya don't mind."

[shambler]

He had no idea how much he'd wanted that drawling answer until he felt something weird surge over his body in a wave - it took R a dull, startled second to realize it was relief. Maybe he needed to hear that twang more than he thought.

"Okay," R wheezed.

Pockets. He still remembered what pockets were, R slipping his bloody hands into them - his jeans hung a little looser now that he'd started to lose weight over the week - and he was happy to find he did have pockets and no, he hadn't gone stuffing leftovers in there. No awkwardly turning out his pockets in front of Wyatt. Whew, he was clean. R followed Wyatt over to the edge of the Cornucopia, the light flashing off its lip as the zombie approached. R shuffled into the shade after the Living man, his foot bumping up against one of the supplies, his head drifting up so he could look around now that the sun wasn't right in his face. Whoa. Lots of stuff in here. A hoarder's paradise.

"What...do I...carry?"

He reached up to touch one of the machetes leaned up neatly against the brassy wall, sending it clattering, loudly, to the floor when he fumbled.

[the_marshal]

"Whatever ya think might-" he winced - a slight downturn of his mouth, a small narrowing of the eyes - as the blade crashed to the floor of the horn, metal meeting metal with a sound as loud and sharp as a gunshot, "-be of use."

He glanced outside, eyeing the horizon warily, checking for anyone or anything that might have been attracted. (His fight with Aunamee had already drawn in R, Lord only knew what else might be on the way.)

Turning back after a moment, he tossed the crackers aside and tucked the knife into one of his boots. "Ya find bandages, er medicine, ya let me know."

His arm was still bleeding, his sleeve stained black and clinging wetly to his skin, a trail of red marking his trail through the Cornucopia. He needed to clean out the sharp, glass-like grains of sand and stitch it closed.

Bending, wounded arm held close to his chest, he picked up the machete and started to move back toward the pile of cans he'd spotted earlier... but paused, and turned back, staring at the other two blades still hanging upon the curved wall.

Thinking suddenly of Max.

[shambler]

"Will...do." R said, wishing he could form his mouth around "copy that" or "roger" or anything cool sounding. Today wasn't one of those days. He guessed he should be happy he could manage anything better than a groan.

He nosed about the Cornucopia, trying not to get too distracted by that smell rolling off Wyatt and getting trapped inside here. More blood, fresher and sweeter to the hunger than that dead man. R was about as full as a zombie could get and even he was trying to work up a drool at Wyatt. He hurriedly turned his back on the human, hunched his shoulders like a wall, and wished he could hold his breath. Stop sneaking little greedy sniffs in Wyatt's direction. (He caught himself inhaling anyway, feeling Life smell flooding his body). R distracted himself by trying to look around.

He found another pile of tin cans off in the back. Something about them pinged him on a level he couldn't really place, R reaching out and starting to stuff them into his pockets out of instinct. The curve of the metal felt almost familiar. Maybe he used to eat one of these and call it a day, doing the whole survival thing. The sunglasses went next, reminding him of Julie.

He tried not to think about the last time he saw her, that look on her face, the way he'd almost chewed her leg off. Hopefully she was still okay, wherever she was.

"Wyatt?" R thought he found something that looked like it might be medicine. No luck on the bandages yet. He pointed over at the anti-venom sitting on top of a sleeping bag. "This...gg...good?"

[the_marshal]

One machete tucked under his belt, Wyatt tied a second onto his back with a length of rope (just in case), arm protesting every movement. Adjusting the knot against his shoulder, he moved back, stepping close and reaching for the bottle, turning it over in his palm, studying the label.

'Anti-venom' meant nothing to him, but R was trying.

He tucked into one of the deep pockets of his coat. Maybe it's purpose would reveal itself later.

"A start, son, thank ya. Thread, now. A needle, somethin' I can stitch with." Turning, he looked around, spotting a container of pale yellow liquid and went for it, dragging it off a shelf.

Popping the top he sniffed at it, not particularly caring what it was so long as he could drink it.

Lemonade. Piss warm, as he took a swig, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

[shambler]

R looked like he wanted to smile again at Wyatt, pleased to be helping out. So that was medicine after all? Happy to able to scratch off one success, R shuffled off to look for some thread and a needle. Those, at least, he could find without being literate. If it was here, he'd find it.

He glanced up at the sound of sloshing, watching as Wyatt taste-tested some kind of drink. How much would he need? How much before the desert got to him? R had no idea here, the zombie staring for another long moment, studying his new-old friend, and then dropping his head back down. Right, yeah. Searching.

Eventually he stumbled upon a little plastic box - the big red cross on it seemed familiar in a way the tin cans of Living food did and he assumed it was worth looking into. It could've been important, back in the day. Survivor-important. No sign of needle and thread just lying around. Besides, he liked that red shape stamped across the front, in his face and loud like a visual shout. Grunting, R picked up the box, the dead man's blood drying on his hands, and started lurching back over to Wyatt with his new prize, proud to say he was on a roll today. R held it out shyly.

"This...what...you wanted?"

[the_marshal]

Tucking a package of jerky he'd discovered behind the lemonade into the pocket with the bottle, he turned - and relief washed over his sweat dampened face.

"That's exactly what I wanted, well done, son." He reached out to take it, popping the clasp and rooting through the contents.

Not only did it hold the needle and thread he wanted, but a gel for the wound and bandages. Everything he needed and then some.

"Well done," he echoed, closing the box again and jamming into his other pocket with one hand, clasping R on the shoulder with the other. "Alright, grab anything else ya have room for and let's get outta here. I don't wanna over stay my welcome."

It was a quiet unease, born of knowing the Gamemakers too well.

There was simply too much here, too easily taken. Even with Aunamee.

Grabbing the lemonade jug with his good hand, he started to make his back toward the mouth of the Cornucopia, pausing just long enough to grab useful looking items as he passed (a second knife, tucked into his other boot, a fire kit he just managed to squeeze into the pocket with the anti-venom and jerky, and a pair of cans - contents unknown - just small enough to carry out in hand).

typo fixing, sorry for the edits :\

[shambler]

R came dangerously close to glowing at Wyatt's compliment. Well-done.

Getting out of here because they'd attract attention between the noise and a big shiny Cornucopia hadn't even crossed R's mind. All he thought was I want to go where Wyatt's going and that was good enough for him.

He tried to hurry as much as he could, his feet kicking into boxes as R shuffled around, his head lolling from side to side as he looked for anything that looked useful to a human. He stopped at the sleeping bag, started to think you could turn that into luggage by stuffing things inside (zip it right up, nice and neat). Could carry more that way. Feeling proud for an Idea, he started to groan his brilliant plan. Only problem? It slid away on him the next second, R staring at the sleeping bag and feeling something - a vague sensation like he was so very, very close - collapsing on itself.

R lurched past the sleeping bag like he hadn't seen it.

When he wandered back to Wyatt, he had a pair of sunglasses dangling from his fingers, tin cans stuffed into his pockets and threatening to fall right back out, leading any Tributes their way. R had a bottle of water hanging loosely from his other hand, slicked with the dead man's blood. Good thing it was sealed tight.

"...Ready...?"

Wrap?

[the_marshal]

Waiting just outside the yawning mouth, Wyatt was looking up the sky, wondering where the flying machine was and why it hadn't already come for the mess that was Aunamee.

Were they too close to the body? Were they not bringing Aunamee back - didn't they still come for the remains even so?

A chill raced up his spine.

Were they coming for any of them?

At the sound of R's voice he tried to shake it off, nodding and turning his eyes pointedly from the horizon.

"Let's go, son."