(no subject)

[the_marshal]

WHO| Wyatt, Anna, and OTA
WHAT| Pre-Arena Reflection
WHERE| The Lounge
WHEN| The night before Arena 5
WARNINGS/NOTES| No specific warnings at this time, but they will be discussing what happened in the last arena. (A.k.a., Anna's death at Wyatt's hands.) Also, anyone else who like to have a word with Wyatt before the arena starts is welcome to pop in.

Outside snow was falling. Fat, feathery flakes, drifting slowly across the glass like down. Inside, the lights were dim and the lounge was all but closed - save for a few restless patrons.

One of whom was Wyatt, who was seated alone at the bar. Above him, on the screens, there was excited talk of the new arena, opening in just a few short hours, but he wasn't watching.

He was nursing his bourbon and watching the snow.

Avoiding sleep and trying to hold off the dawn for as long as he could.

Comments

[downbeat]

By the final night, Katurian's fear had faded into numb acceptance and (unless he was mistaken?) determination to succeed, to win, to come out alive no matter the cost. His veins were pumping out hope instead of despair. Still, his teeth chattered. His hands trembled.

Unlike Wyatt, he watched the televisions with the attention of a hawk, his lips tracing along both familiar and unfamiliar words.

"It's like looking at a human fist under a lens," he said, trying to keep his tone light. He didn't look at Wyatt. "Isn't it?"

[the_marshal]

Wyatt turned from the window - and was trapped again.

He'd seen the man when he'd sat down of course, but sometime over the course of the hours he'd all but forgotten about the quiet stranger with Elias' face.

He stared for a moment, ambered glass half-way to his mouth, then slowly remembered to drink... to turn his head and follow the man's gaze to the screens.

"Which part?"

[downbeat]

"They can't wait to watch us die," he whispered it like a secret, like a prayer. He extended his arm and traced the outline of a reporter's smile mid-air, his finger following the crooked lines of her lips. "They're like bruised knuckles, practically trembling with anticipation for the next punch."

He formed his own hand into a fist-- and then lowered it, surrendering his energy. "We really are a piece of shit species."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt watched him out of the corner of his eye, following the movements of his clenched fist carefully until it was once more resting on the bar.

The man might have had Elias' face, but that didn't mean he had the mentor's good sense. And Wyatt hadn't exactly been keepin' track of how much he'd been drinking.

"They're not all bad," he said finally, eyes flicking back up the screen with a heavy exhale. "The worst ones just tend to draw more attention to themselves."

[downbeat]

Yes. That was right. Katurian thought about his brother, about the cold nights they shared together with blankets and tea and stories. He thought about his wide smile, his little jokes. He thought about all the other specs of goodness in his life that did not add up to much, but that existed none-the-less.

He gave a tight nod and turned to Wyatt, finally, taking him in. Like all of the other tributes, this man made Katurian feel small. After all, Wyatt looked sturdy and self-assured. He looked like a river carving out canyons. Katurian was thin and weak and sleepless.

"District Twelve," he said, extending a hand.

[retrieverchef]

Eliot brushed the snow off of his jacket as he walked into the lounge. He was in no rush to sleep, either. He'd never slept much and that had only gotten more pronounced lately with the bidding. He didn't need the nightmares when he'd already lived them. He walked over to the bar and grabbed a shot of whisky.

"It's still not quite the same as a good Tennessee rye from back home."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt gave a friendly a nod and lifted his glass in greeting as Eliot joined him at the bar.

"No," he smiled tiredly, "but it still gets the job done."

[retrieverchef]

"It does that," the longer haired Tribute agreed. He tossed back the shot, sighing at the burn it left in his throat. He really wanted to get drunk tonight but with the new Arena starting tomorrow... "You ready for tomorrow?"

[the_marshal]

Wyatt tipped his head. "Is anyone?"

Anyone worth mentioning anyways. There were some - one or two - with intentions better left unsaid.

[retrieverchef]

Eliot chuckled mirthlessly. "Good point. But there's the training level. When there's time."

[itswhoyouare]

Anna Morasca operates on little sleep. This is an established truth, so when she pops into the Lounge for a drink it shouldn't come as any surprise. What does surprise her is realizing the man next to her as she orders a glass of wine is the one who pretty much gave Neeshka full access to killing her.

She tenses only slightly, but her expession betrays none of the wariness. She just looks mildly annoyed.

[the_marshal]

He didn't have to turn, he could see her reflection - vaugue and not quite certain - in the glass, and he could hear her.

That voice that had shrieked at him in a language he hadn't understood.

He tensed, his shoulders and back stiffening.

[itswhoyouare]

"Liquid courage before you help kill another injured Tribute?" Excuse the tone, she's just a little pissed off about that.

Nothing personal... ish.

[the_marshal]

His eyes fell closed, her words like a hot brand. Labeling him, scarring him with what he'd done.

Murderer.

He inhaled, held it, and finally turned, opening his eyes to meet her accusations.

"I'm sorry." His eyes were pale and fathomless, unblinking, as he held her gaze. "Ya may not believe it, and I understand iffen ya don't, but it's true just the same. I am sorry for what happened."

[itswhoyouare]

Her reply is a mere snort and roll of the eyes, followed by a sip of her drink. After a second of studying his face, she responds much more neutrally this time.

"What intrigues me is the fact that a man like you would team up with someone like that thing when she clearly enjoys the Game and thinks murder is fun."

[polyturtle]

Well, it was the last night before the Arena, and so for the past few days, Donatello has been drinking.

Coffee, that is.

And so Donatello sat down next to Wyatt, ordering the usual "five cups, no decaf". The bartender bemusedly complied, firing up the coffee machine he'd bought just for the turtle.

[the_marshal]

Wyatt's mouth twitched, the corners turning up.

To each man his poison.

He didn't turn, but instead met the turtle's eyes in the mirror behind the bar and tipped his glass in a friendly sort of greeting.

They'd never met officially, but Wyatt had heard things.

Good things. Generally speaking.

[polyturtle]

Don looked up just as Wyatt tipped that glass. He gave a small smile, realizing he was right next to the guy, and he turned to face Wyatt.

"...Hi."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt turned as well, pushing the brim of his hat up with one finger so as to see him better.

"Howdy." He held out the same hand. "Donatello, right? District 9?"

[polyturtle]

"Yes." The turtle went to shake that hand. "You're...You're Wyatt Earp, right?"

It was one thing knowing that a guy who was dead for nearly a century was there. Another to be talking to him. It was...quite surreal, even for a guy who didn't watch many westerns, only knew of him because his brothers liked watching them.

[tailforbrains]

Despite generally being okay with the whole death-arena-thing... mostly, anyway... Neeshka still didn't sleep too well the night before. She didn't last time, either. Even knowing she'd be coming back no matter what happened, it still was a little nerve-wracking to know you were going into a potential death match in the morning.

It was one of those things that kept a girl up, wandering around the building, sneaking into things... whatever she could manage. Neeshka was a creature of night, anyway, so it wasn't like it was any hardship.

She wandered down into the lounge and spotted her favorite buddy, and turned her wandering his way. "Can't sleep, huh?"

[the_marshal]

He wasn't watching the snow anymore. After Anna had left, he'd turned to the mirror behind the bar and had taken to staring at himself. Judging what he saw.

When Neeshka appeared it was almost as if his thoughts had conjured her.

"Never do the night before," he replied, swirling his bourbon 'round the bottom of his glass. "Too much to think about."

[tailforbrains]

"Yeah." Neeshka's voice was a little wry, there, and maybe a little nervous. She climbed up onto a stool next to him. "Thinking about maybe dying again?" she asked, though knowing him, he was more likely thinking about killing again. Even though it didn't stick, so it wasn't really killing.

At least, that was her thoughts on the matter. His might be different.

[the_marshal]

"Partly." The swirling stopped, discomfort creeping over him. For all their differences, he liked Neeshka, and he didn't want to have this conversation. Didn't like thinking that he might upset her.

But the things Anna had said were weighing on him, and he figured it would only get worse if he tried to ignore it.

No... it was best to upfront about these kind of things.

Still, he knocked back the rest of his bourbon before carrying on.

"And partly about the other things that might happen. Things like what happened last arena." He turned to look at her. Watching her with that steady, blue stare. "Like what you and I did to that woman."

[tailforbrains]

"Huh?" Neeshka looks back at him in momentary bewilderment. That she and he had done to... oh. Oh, right, that chick she'd tried to shoot who Wyatt had saved her tail from in the end.

"Oh, you mean the one fighting with me, who would have had to kill us eventually anyway if someone else hadn't?" she asked, and rolled her eyes, not catching on to Wyatt's seriousness just yet. "Can you believe she's still holding a grudge? I've caught her glaring at me, since I got out of there."