thecapitol | [Open] A Reverse Will

Entry tags:

[Open] A Reverse Will

Who| Phillip Gray and Open
What| first death and reliving bad memories
Where| District 6 Suite & Training
When| Week 4
Warnings/Notes| Gore, mentions of murder and body disposal and then there's the Arena

A. District 6 Suite

The first thing Phillip Gray did as soon as he woke up from the Arena was to head to the nearest bathroom and toss whatever the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He wanted to believe it'd be a smooth transition, like he believed Venus and Sandy. That it'd be like in the movies. He wanted his death to be quick, but no, the universe had other plans for him. He escaped his punishment at Freddy's, now he had to endure this. It was his lot in life to die multiple times, this was just the first. Destroying all that evidence at the Pizzeria only compounded that weight. The old routine came back: washing out what little bits and pieces of the other night guards came first. Second: toss the bigger chunks in drums, then lie to their significant others or family when asked about the dead men's whereabouts. Ninety days later, file the report. How the hell was he to expect anything less than hell?

Back to the present, whole body was shaking after that first heave, motor skills reset to that last night before his reaping. Phillip was back in the pizzeria, just as he did when he had that panic attack with Julian. He was trapped inside rapidly draining doors, hoping for a miracle he knew wasn't coming. He even uttered some of that last few words he left Mike...But this wasn't home, Mike wasn't here. No one he knew from that place was here. In fact, it had been a while since Phil thought about his old home. Might as well step out of his room and stretch his legs, probably get something to eat. Maybe watch the Arena-wait yes! He can do that! He could watch those he cared about carry on! It wasn't the best solution but Gray figured he could keep his own demons at bay with that.

B. Training Center

Everything in the Training area had a new meaning after going through the frigid Arena. It wasn't just to keep one's self fit as a way to fine tune survival skills. Phil silently stretched out and smiled in a bittersweet manner when he spotted some of them. The first-aid one would be getting a quick review, if to brush up on catastrophic wounds like deep slashes and severe organ failure due to gunshot. He shuddered a little at the memory, feeling lead pierce through his body before the blood started pouring out. The sheer pain of dying motivated Gray to land the first punch. He was too reliant on escaping, there were times when he'd had to fight and perform a kill...

"I'm not him," Phil told himself as he tried a few more hits, each harsher than the last. The him in question, had been the main reason he hesitated in murdering anyone in the Arena: the serial killer back home. It was ridiculous to think now but if there was someone Gray wanted to beat until bones broke, it was him. The Hunger Games took away that proverbial clean slate, he'd have to be on that level. The Capitol didn't bring him here to be a saint, they brought him here to give them a show.

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Well, that... was pretty far from whatever answer Firo expected. He thought about asking more, but then the man's face changed--unexpectedly, in Firo's opinion.

'Sir' was unexpected enough to make Firo blink, but it was much preferred to the usual 'kid.' The minor detail was enough to coax something almost akin to a smile form himself.

"No thanks." He really did want to punch something, but a bag wouldn't do it. There was something he needed to hit, but that was more a specific someone.

He considered the bag, then looked back to the man. Perhaps he only needed to let off some steam, but Firo figured he could try and be helpful. "If you're lookin' for somethin' that'll put up a fight, I could help you out. Better practice, eh?"

If his time in Freddy Fazbear's taught Phillip anything, is how to smile as convincingly as he could and lie through his teeth about how he really felt. If it was a little jarring, he'd apologize later, but it's better to put the mask on.

"You want to fight with me?" that was a surprise. "I, uh, don't think I'd be that good of an opponent." That was true: for all the venting Gray did, without a weapon, he was pretty much useless.

He shrugged. "I'm offerin'." Firo was by no means averse to violence, but right now he could take or leave some sparring. The thing he really needed was something to keep him from thinking, whether that was a fight or a conversation or what.

"Doesn't that give you more reason to take me up on it? You can't get better without tryin' it out."

If he stopped and thought about it, he shouldn't be trying to help someone else here; the trade-off of a distraction for a skill that could be used against him wasn't all that great a deal for him.

But he didn't really care about winning when they went back in the ring. All that mattered was his family back home; and if his one death really had screwed everything up for Ennis, then there was no reason to worry about surviving future arenas. Same if, as he was desperately trying to convince himself, she was unaffected by what happened to him here.

As Phil bandaged his hands up, he thought about the offer. "If you're sure about it, mister," he referred to anyone he didn't know by a title, common courtesy you know?

I'm going down on the first round, the guard was quick to judge himself after sizing Firo up. "No hitting the groin though, I'd like to keep some of my dignity after the Arena." Yeah, because dying from multiple gunshots was embarrassing.

"Sure I am. We got plenty a' time to kill, don't we?"

"Wasn't even thinkin' of it. I'll be civil if you will." Despite the fact that, he assumed, both of them had been through a bloodbath, Firo didn't see why they couldn't play nicely. And even if this guy was just hustling him, Firo was both confident he could come out okay and apathetic to the idea of more hurt. He was a little on the small side, but he'd figured out how to work that to his advantage.

"'M Firo, by the way. You can stop the 'mister' stuff." Much as he liked seeing at least someone show some respect.

Phil couldn't hustle his way out of a fight but the agreement was settled and he outstretched his hand to shake with Firo's, "Phillip, Phil if you wanna keep it short."

This was just a test, he had to remind himself as he assessed his opponent. Smaller didn't always mean weaker as Gray knew from Sandy and Karkat's outbursts before the Arena.

"Ready when you are."

He shook the offered hand, then stepped back to prepare.

He nodded. "Ready."

Even as he rocked back on his heels, trying to see what Phil would try, he got a little chatty, "How many fights've you been in, anyway?"

He decided to leave it ambiguous as to whether he met just in the arena or overall. He was morbidly curious about how many people dragged here were all that used to fighting.

"If I'm honest? None," Gray said before taking the first swing. "Other than avoiding a bar brawl."

Don't worry, this guy got talkative, especially doing stuff he wasn't comfortable with.

Firo leaned back to avoid the blow, dropping his arms to see if Phil would take advantage of the opening. It was an obvious gap, but sometimes you had to start with the clear ones before learning to recognize those more obscure.

The remark Firo wanted to make, of course, was on how ridiculous it was that the Capitol sent non-fighters into the arena. Instead, he opted for the less depressing one. "You don't really look like the kinda guy who'd be a wild drinker."

"I-I'm full of surprises," Phil joked around, "I was on my night off and some guy started raising hell."

He spotted the opening and swung again, as if he were slinging a knife. His inexperience shone through when he stumbled on his feet to recover. "I couldn't do much other than avoid missing work!"

"Don't overextend like that." That was where, in a life or death fight, Firo would've gone for the gut or throat. Though pain was a pretty good teacher, he figured they could make do with verbal warnings. Instead of going into an attack just yet, he left his guard down to see if Phil would learn.

"There's always somebody like that, ain't there..." At his promotion party, it'd been Szilard. Took a real asshole to bring a tommy gun to a party. "How'd it go, then?"

"Thanks," the guard noted in his mind and tried again, now thinking about where the punch was supposed to land. He stopped short of landing the fist as he caught up to Firo's strategy. He wasn't wasting a lesson if he could avoid it.

"It was either punch the man in the nose and run or get a bottle to the face," Phil explained, remembering bits and pieces of that night. He was trying to relax after three months' of surviving and investigating.

He nodded his approval this time, though he almost laughed when Phil didn't follow through. "You can hit me." By Firo's thinking, they should both be at least a little comfortable hitting someone. But for all he knew, maybe that was what had gotten this guy killed. Mercy wasn't always a virtue.

This time he shuffled forward to throw a punch of his own; a light and relatively slow jab aimed just around the shoulder. "And what'd you do to piss him off so much?"

"All right then," Phil sidestepped a bit too late and got the jab, but he laughed at the thought, "I think it was breathing the same air. He was one of those angry drunks that just wanna swing at people."

It was a long term consequence of his mercy that got him killed: by helping Nick and not killed him at the Cornucopia, he sealed his fate and apparently three others.

He stepped back to give Phil some space.

"There're guys like that everywhere. Usually they ain't so tough, though--any time somebody got rowdy like that in our place, Sena could chase 'em out just fine."

To be fair, Sena was much more formidable than your typical middle-aged restaraunter. And she had a gaggle of gangsters backing her up.

"Sena? A fiend of yours back home?" Gray took the chance to try and swing twice with his arms, and seized the opportunity to strife out of Firo's range if he were to retaliate.

"Huh, this feels like almost dancing," he thought out loud, nothing like the punching bag. Of course, he sucked at it but it was a start. Phil was starting to have fun again, being able to make a stand.

"Family, more like, but yeah. She ran our restaurant and speakeasy." The second blow landed and Firo watched to see if the man's face would change at all when hitting another person versus a bag. Ideally, someone would be able to be just as harsh on one as the other--at least in Firo's book.

He laughed, "That's what some people say. I've never danced before, but you've gotta read your opponent in both, right?"

Gray flinched at landing the hit but he wasn't as upset as he would've back home. These were different circumstances and, while this was a exercise, he still saw Firo as Firo. "Very true!" he tried to play his hesitation off as merely testing the waters again.

The brutality he'd inflicted on the bag was special, having been festered for years. Phil in good faith couldn't just wail on a human being so easily.

Firo noted the flinching and held off on attacking once again. Instead he stepped back and spread his arms out. "C'mon, I've seen you do better than that."

He knew it was to his benefit to be surrounded by people foolishly merciful and that he shouldn't be questioning it. Let them pull their punches. But Firo himself was coming to realize that he had a bit too much of that kindness as well--he could blame his family for that.

And he could see this as a way to tweak the side of the Capitol by refusing to compete. That idea was pretty damn appealing.

"I-If you say so!" Phil took a deep breath and slammed his fist as best he could onto the chest. This time however, he used the knowledge from the first aid simulation to pinpoint where he could hit and cause pain but not crack ribs. Firo really didn't need a trip to the medical wing any time soon.

"I don't fight, I just run away and hope whatever's following me gets bored and finds someone else," he admitted.

Firo almost didn't expect to be taken up on his offer. He made no move to dodge, but he did allow himself to move with the hit and exhaled to keep the wind from being knocked out of him. Doing his best to hide a wince, he righted his balance and nodded with a slight smile. "That's better."

"How long've you been doin' that?" In terms of the Arenas, he was still a newbie, so he figured he should actually know how long that had worked out for this guy before he offered any opinions. After all, both in and out of the Arena, Firo's strategy of not running had gotten him shot dead a few times.

"Before this place? Five years," Phil boasted without thinking it twice, something that surprised himself. He never thought he'd speak of Freddy Fazbear's in anything remotely positive. "This was my first Arena...until I got shot. Multiple times. Can't exactly fight a bullet!"

Firo only hesitated a little before nodding. "Same here," there was more than a note of bitterness in his voice. "To both a' those, actually."

He straightened, no longer in much of a ready stance. The chance was slight, but he was awfully curious to know if they were done in by the same person. "I don't know if my guy was the only asshole out there runnin' around with a gun... but who got you?"

As soon as he spotted the difference instances, Phillip relaxed, "Kinda tall, black hair, always with a sneer and kinda guido-ish. His name is Nick."

It's a small world after all as the man would realize. "Don't tell me..."

'Guido' didn't mean anything more than a last name in Firo's time, but the other pieces were enough for him to put it together. He scowled, fists tightening as he thought of the man's face.

"...shit. That's gotta be him. Really fuckin' rude, too?"

Small world indeed. There was something reassuring about that, in this instance. Firo fully intended to get payback and another brain might be help with that.

He learned forward, as if he were about to start an interrogation. "Was that the first time you met him? How much do you know about him?"

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