Luke (
burningdaylight) wrote in
thearena2015-06-15 09:58 pm
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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
no subject
Rochelle's voice is sharp in tone, lecturing. It's the tone she uses with Ellis, when he gets reckless and self-sacrificing. Teamwork is the foundation of survival. You can't survive alone. Luke couldn't survive like this, alone, and to be cruelly practical, Rochelle couldn't return to camp without him. Jane wouldn't believe any excuses she tried peddling--Maybe she would, but she would suspect. Or at least, it was a risk Rochelle couldn't take.
And that was assuming Rochelle wanted to leave him. Self-sacrifice wasn't her style, it didn't suit survival situations. She didn't like doing it, didn't like seeing it.
He slumps, and she moves to hold him again, but he pulls away, leaning on a tree. She clucks her tongue like a mother with a negligent child, and moves away. But only a few feet, and Luke will be able to hear scraping noises as she starts to use her foot to slide leaves into a pile for him to sleep on. Look at me. And they said I didn't have any nurturing instincts. Except the only one who said that was herself.
She still snorted a little at the scenario, and kept an eye on Luke, until she had a decent pile of leaves.
"Alright, c'mon. Bunker down, or I'm dragging you down. I'll wait while you sleep, I ain't got anyplace better to be, any how."
no subject
He's still leaning his forehead against rough, scaly bark when she objects, barely hearing her above his screaming nerves and the blood rhythmically slamming his eardrums. Though what he is able to catch sounds an awful lot like something out of his old man’s mouth.
He's in no position to dig in his heels and pit his stubbornness against hers -- and warning her is impossible when his throat hitches and ropes of bile jet from his mouth, splashing the tree trunk. He gags helplessly on the vinegary tang of it, coughing wet until his throat burns and choking air back into his lungs, struggling to get a breath in edgewise. And once his legs go weak, the rest of him follows. Pain arcs through one knee as it cracks against a rock jutting from the ground but he barely feels it, throwing his hands forward to catch his fall. Pushing back to his feet is out of the question but his body tries, once, twice, wobbly and uncoordinated like a newborn foal before giving up and sinking into the bed of leaves she’s shuffled for him. Sunspots dance in the darkness behind his eyes.
“…no.”
It comes out as a weak moan like he’s trapped in a nightmare, his breathing fitful and shallow. He has seen this before. Seen someone stay back with him, someone try to save him, and then watched them crash through the ice, the both of them plunging in. “…s’gonna... kill us both…”
no subject
She gives a little sigh when he tries to put up a last resistance, and reaches forward, brushing the hair away from his eyes. She was a survivor, and she had told herself that she would be putting her own life in front of anyone else's, save her teammates. But they were gone, and for now, Luke and the others were her teammates.
If someone did show up, if she knew surely and truly that it was her life or his, maybe that would be put to the test. Maybe when having to make that choice was assured would she have to leave him. But she also had to think long term--This arena was just one arena in a series that would stretch as long as the gamemakers could. And that meant that she had to think about how her actions effected her in the long run. Would abandoning Luke make it harder for people to trust her in the future? Would Jane and the others hold it against her?
Things she should think about--But she can do that later. For now, she hushed Luke, running her fingers through his hair, and brushing the hair off his face. What little comforts she could give him.
"We all die anyway, Luke. Don't wanna do it looking a fool." She replied, unsure if he could even hear her. The audience would hear, at least, and it sounded good.
no subject
He knows they won’t.
But he lets himself buy into the reassurance the unexpected tenderness of her touch offers anyway, basking in it needily. So grateful for the smallest mercy it offers from the pain squeezing his brain in a vice-grip, reducing his existence to something miserable and barely human, living breath-by-breath and shuddering wave-by-shuddering wave.
Maybe it’s just wishful thinking or a trick of the light, maybe not. But after a while, between her hushed tones and the gentle stroking of his hair, he seems to breathe just a little easier.