Captain Jack Sparrow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
drinkupmehearties) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-02-23 05:49 pm
drinkupmehearties) wrote in thecapitol2015-02-23 05:49 pm
Entry tags:
there's plenty of men to die
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."
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."
no subject
At least the mistake hadn't been a permanent one.
"I've no qualms about doing whatever it takes. Do tell, though. What does a Victor do, what did you do, to survive it?"
no subject
She hesitates, not liking to talk about her own Games, but she knows how easy it would be for him to dig out the footage of the 69th Hunger Games anyway.
"There was a boy, one of the Tributes from District Ten. He saved my life twice in the Arena. We were allies, but I think he mistook that for friendship." Sometimes she's not sure whether she made that mistake, too - she'd feel far less guilty if it was clear in her mind that she'd used him for her own survival. Though she's not sure if it's the look of surprise and sadness on Calder's face as he'd died, or the accusing looks she'd received from District Ten on her Victory Tour that she actually felt bad about. "We were the last two Tributes left, and there can be only one Victor. It needed to be me."
no subject
As Emily elaborates, the pirate continues to slowly fix up his trap. He's listening intently to her words in the meanwhile, and the last part finally pushes him to lift his gaze over to her. He could piece together that since she'd been raised in District Seven, she was most likely a native to this place. Which meant that her Arena run was back when the Tributes -- all children, no less -- had died and stayed that way.
Jack wasn't sure whether that was better or worse than being thrown into it over and over like they all were now.
"Ah." It's the only word that the pirate says for a beat, finishing up the trap. "Sometimes the only and best course of action, like you said, is to do whatever it takes. Self-preservation, as it would be. No shame in it."
no subject
She peers closely at the trap, nodding in satisfaction. "Perfect. That'll set you up nicely for the Arena."
no subject
Really, Jack had become accustomed to the horribleness that the world, that people, could (and would) inflict on one another when he'd been back home -- he'd been part of all it, too, in his own small ways -- and so having the ability to shake it off had become a necessity for his own personal survival.
The pirate lifts both hands away carefully, as if the trap might collapse from a mere touch. But her approval earns a grin from him. "Lovely. You've been a grand help, Miss Emily." And with that, Jack extends his hand out for a shake.
no subject
no subject
He hoists himself up to his feet, tapping a couple fingers to his temple in parting, then moves on.