there's plenty of men to die

[drinkupmehearties]

Who| Jack & OPEN + a closed thread to Firo
What| Dealing with his Arena death back at the Capitol
Where| District 8 Suites & Tribute Center
When| Late week 3
Warnings/Notes| Drinking, mention of gore, talk of death, etc.

It felt unnatural, unreal.

Despite nearly three weeks of hell -- starvation, insomnia, constantly struggling to stay alive in spite of it all -- the only mark that had been left on Jack was wholly mental. The memories lingered back in his thoughts, but no actual physical damage had stayed. Even the hunger that had gnawed at him hourly, for days on end, was completely gone.

As if it had all been a vivid fever dream that he'd merely awoken from.

Of course, overshadowing all of it was the last few minutes, the moment the gun had gone off. Beneath the high-pitched ringing in his ears, the impact had felt like someone had taken a bludgeon and forcefully slammed it into him, followed quickly by a searing, burning pain. Then the disbelief had followed, the surge of adrenaline that poured into his body in an attempt to keep him alive.

And then everything had plunged into utter darkness, folded into the silence of death.



(A. District 8 Suites)

But now Jack stood in the Suite's kitchen, as if nothing had happened.

Naturally, upon revival, the pirate had made a beeline for the nearest bottle of liquor and drowned himself into a drunken stupor back in his room the first day or so. But having now run out of his initial stock of booze, he was pushed to venture back out to restock.

He's in the kitchen, at present, rifling through the Suite's selection of liquor, culling whichever bottles look the best to him and setting these choices aside on the nearest counter. He's dressed in the fancy clothes Swann had had made for him, all silk and brocade and tight material, largely because his old clothes had failed to turn up after a couple days of 'cleaning' like she'd promised.

All the while, the pirate is casually singing a particularly brutal song to himself:

"Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum
The skipper lay with his nob in gore
Where the scullion's axe his cheek had shore --
And the scullion he was stabbed times four
And there they lay, and the soggy skies
Dripped down in up-staring eyes --
In murk sunset and foul sunrise -- "

In a mutter that's just audible above the hum of the television in the nearby common room. He turns to place another bottle in his growing collection, but the movement is a bit too off-balanced and quick. His hand bumps against one of them -- it wobbles, briefly, then slips off the counter, smashing onto the floor with a loud shatter. A sharp curse from Jack hastily follows it.


(B. Training Center)

Sometime later, Jack can be found down in the Training Center. It isn't a place that one would usually find him, but as much as the liquor helped to dull down and alleviate it all, the chance to release any pent up energy felt almost as good. Besides, his time in the Arena had shown him where a few of his weaknesses lay.

He spends a portion of his time practicing his hand at constructing the rabbit snares and traps -- and most times failing -- and the rest of it with a knife, skillfully stabbing and gutting the dummies, or hurling the knives at them with unusually good aim. Anyone is free to notice him -- and if not, eventually Jack may pause to take a breather and glance to the nearest person with a weapon to watch with interest, then remark: "You've quite the knack for that."


(C. Closed to Firo)

Apparently not soon after Jack had been killed, Firo had followed suit in a horribly similar way.

Already aware of how rough everything could be after revival, and as partial thanks for the time the boy had stuck around him in the Arena, Jack grabs whatever food was easiest to snag from the fridge -- which happens to be a half-eaten box of cold pizza -- and a couple bottles hard liquor, then heads to Firo's room.

He leans his head towards the door, at first, listening for any sign of life, then raps his knuckles against the hard surface and calls out, "Firo, lad. Are you there. I've brought you something."

Comments

[whatisay]

There's something in Jason's hand, half-stuffed into his pocket, that seems to twitch or flinch with every clink of the bottle, as if it's struggling to remain of this time and place instead of being flung into the past, or into a fist.

"And if you were one of mine, I'd have your tongue ripped out for that kind of talk." His nostrils flare slightly, something inside him withering at knowing he has so little recourse against a Tribute that isn't his. Were his temper on a little slacker a leash he may have backhanded Jack already.

"It doesn't matter. I just think it's a shame when good Escorts get bad Tributes. A damn shame, I say." He gestures with his cigarette at the Avox. "Don't help them. It scares them when you pretend they're people, and for good reason."

[drinkupmehearties]

Unlike most times, the pirate would've welcomed the attack from Jason. It'd be a neat little excuse to retaliate in kind, to release all that pent up indignation and rage that had twisted itself into his gut as each day marched by, made even worse in the Arena when that bullet had torn its way through flesh and organ and ego.

But instead, for the time being, Jack will settle for prodding further at Jason. He's not moved in the least by the threat, and it shows. "Would you now. That's very interesting, mate." This guy's a piece of work, that's clear as day. Godspeed to those poor Tributes that have to deal with him in his district.

He lifts his index finger, pointedly. "As, it seems, that is a touch counter-intuitive for an Escort such as yourself, aye? Seeing as you Capitolites are so peculiarly preoccupied, or otherwise infatuated, with presence and appearances and the like. That'd put a large damper on the whole appeal for the audience, wouldn't it. And it certainly wouldn't help a good little Escort like Swann win the approval of the masses." Jack had a sense that Swann meant something to Jason, more than his dismissive words led on. But of course that could be wrong, and the man was just simply defending his own ilk.

But then again that begged the question as to why he was in the District 8 Suites to begin with, and not terrorizing his own Tributes.

Jason's last comment causes a brief clench to the pirate's jaw and narrowed eyes. "No. That's where you're dead wrong, mate. They're as human as the rest of us. Cutting the tongue from their mouths don't make them less so."

[whatisay]

"Oh, you wouldn't be one of my Tributes anymore. I'd have you made up like one of those." He flicks his cigarette at the Avox, still scurrying around cleaning things, and then, to kill the smell of alcohol coming from the broken bottle and invading his nose, takes another long drag of the herbal analgesic.

"And they aren't human. We brainwash the souls out of them, and that's merciful, by our standards. I says we should just line them up against a wall, but no one listens to common sense these days, and I guess they're useful for taking out the trash." He wrinkles his upper lip at Jack. "Well, some of it, at least."

He helps himself to the District Eight coffee, realizing that Swann may take a while, a necklace gift for her feeling heavy in his pocket.

"Anyway, if you're going to go around making judgment calls, you should get to know what country you live in. Don't assume we stop at cutting a traitor's tongue out." He sticks his own out, briefly, at Jack, without a semblance of childishness.

[drinkupmehearties]

The pirate is used to others looking down on him like he's worthless, bottom of the gutter filth upon meeting him. By now the contempt is expected, anticipated even, whether from people back home that Jack came across or, now, from snobby and uptight Capitolites like Jason. After so long, he'd stop letting it actually affect him. At times, he'd even embraced it.

Let everyone think badly of him. That way, there's no true disappointment to be had when Jack actually acts terrible.

But the way that Jason treats the Avoxes rubs him in all the wrong ways, particularly since, by all accounts, they appeared to be the equivalent of slaves in the Capitol -- no matter how many times Swann insisted they were servants. "Dress it up all like you like, mate. They're still livin' and breathin', assumedly brainwashed or no, and they're still human by my count."

He hauls the pillowcase full of booze off the counter, letting it swing by his side. The last bit that Jason says, including the ridiculous tongue-sticking-out, has Jack giving him a unimpressed, half-lidded look. "Is that right." He gives another cheeky, cheerless half-smile, a hint of gold in his teeth. "And so thusly color me wholly unsurprised to hear it. I've had a great deal of worse and terrible things done to me, in the past, so perhaps it's best to save your breath for someone who'll care more for your petty threats." He waves his hand in a shooing motion, like he would to a child.

[whatisay]

"Your count? You can count? News to me." Petty, certainly, but Jason's rankled by the smell of the alcohol and the clinking of the bottles and the very audacity of these offworld brats and slicks talking back to their betters. He misses the malnourished teenagers, not for their personalities but because they were malleable, because they were like kicked dogs underfoot and that made them easy. There was something unseemly about that, too, but it was more repellant than it was infuriating. "They're about as human as the thing that's making my coffee right now, and not even as useful most of the time."

He wrinkles his nose as the boozy bindle, thinking of how stressed Swann was trying to make sure Jack dried out smoothly in the Arena, and here he goes undoing all her hard work. Escorting is the most underappreciated job, he thinks, an underprivileged and humiliating routine with hardly the paycheck to make it worth it, and he feels his mother's medical bills and his brother's caretaking costs pile around his neck like a yoke.

"I hope you're not telling me to go anywhere. Can't you see I'm making myself a coffee?" He roughly shoves the pot into the machine and leans against the sink while he listens to the coffee burble and hiccup.

"Besides, I'm not threatening you. I'm giving you a word of warning. You should say thank you."

[drinkupmehearties]

The pirate just looks incredibly amused by Jason's attempt to insult him. "Aye, I can count an' recite the alphabet -- in order, no less." The sarcasm and mockery dripping in his tone is almost suffocating by this point. "It's utterly incredible, shocking, even, I know it. But I wouldn't wager a crowing Capitol fop like yourself, with no more brain than a simple sea turtle, to comprehend it possible. Just isn't in you, pity as that is." Petty is good, because it gives Jack an excuse to be petty back. Not that an excuse was really needed for him.

"Then we agree to disagree, mate, an' leave it at that."

For Jason to say that Jack should thank him for all that information earns a full-on eyeroll. In response, the pirate abruptly invades Jason's personal space and swishes his free hand in a dismissive gesture. "Right then, you've been ever-so-overwhelmingly helpful. I'll be sure to pass on to Miss Swann how thoroughly I've benefited from such sage advice about tongue-cutting and all manner of abhorrent and vile punishments you Capitolites take part in."

If Jason plans to stake out a place in the kitchen, the pirate wasn't interested in keeping him company. Particularly because the urge to smash a bottle over the man's head was starting to seep its way past good sense.

[whatisay]

"You're damn lucky that you're not running your mouth to a Sponsor right now. Or while Swann's here." Jason curls that upper lip. His people once had the sway to lord themselves over Tributes, to buy and sell them and make them dance. Now he's an Escort, and all he can do is remind them that he may be kind (may be forced to be magnanimous, because he doesn't really have enough power not to be) that not everyone else here will be.

He doesn't flinch back from Jack's gesture, just stays stubbornly rooted with his neck muscles tensing.

"Be sure you do, although she can probably guess that I've been here." Jason makes a gesture with his hand like he's trying to ward off a fly. "If you're done ransacking the kitchen for something to addle your brains with? I breathe easier when the pungent body odor in a room is kept to a minimum."

[drinkupmehearties]

A part of him knows that if it had been a Sponsor, or someone that had more immediate control over his life, that all this back and forth wouldn't exactly be in his best interest. And most times, Jack is better at restraint when it came to his temper, particularly with that last bit in mind.

But the bullet hitting his chest, the incredible pain it'd caused, his death -- it's all still absurdly fresh in his mind, and so it's hard to let the anger just dissipate away. Yet the fact that Jason doesn't rise much to his words helps, in some way, and the muscles in his jaw merely work for a couple more seconds until his shoulders lose their tenseness.

"How fortunate, then, that I find myself not." The pirate has moved away from Jason, finally, and is headed out of the room. He plucks a bottle from the bag on his way, however, and twists it open, takes a swig, then swishes it in Jason's direction, the liquid sloshing within it. "Enjoy that coffee, mate. And while you're at it, send my regards to your pretty little piece, if I don't happen to come across her first."

[whatisay]

"You don't get to call her that," Jason snaps, even as Jack leaves. Now that he's claimed Swann as his own he sees fit to defend her honor in some way, so it's something only he can sully.

He sneers at the drops of liquor that dribble from the open bottle to the floor, but doesn't get up to fix it. Instead he summons that poor Avox, who nervously and quietly wipes it up with a towel that smells like sterility.