thecapitol | (no subject)

WHO| Cuthbert Allgood and Open!
WHAT| Food fight... sort of
WHEN| Afternoon on a day when nothing all that interesting is going on.
WHERE| Training Center
WARNINGS/NOTES| Minor injuries possible in this post.

It took some serious searching and luck and probably pestering various people who work for the Capitol, but Cuthbert has managed to get a decent slingshot to practice with. He knew he should have been practicing more of his close range and trapping skills, they would serve him better in a place where he wasn't likely to get the weapon he really wanted. But the temptation to practice with something he was comfortable with was just too much to resist.

Which went a little ways toward explaining what he was up to at the moment: firing unpopped popcorn kernels at anything he considered a worthy target in the Training Center arena. That included other tributes, so long as they had something interesting to aim at.

"Damn! These things are just too small."

He wasn't as accurate with the popcorn as he had been with the steel balls he used to use, but far less chance of getting in trouble this way (he hoped). It may not be wise to bend over until he has been disarmed or runs out of ammo.

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"One shot in three isn't bad. Though in truth I would be dead by the third if you were any hand at shooting."

The smile on his face was of the 'shit eating grin' variety. Clearly, he thought he would get away with all of this. He was just starting trouble because he could, surely Wyatt knew boys like this when he was young.

"Besides, 'tis impossible to waste something that flows like water here, aye?"

His mustached twisted, mouth turning up in-spite of himself.

"A fair enough point, I suppose." He bent, rubbing the back of his wet and stinging hand against his pant leg, plucking up the corn kernel that had bounced off his hat with the other.

He rolled it between his forefinger and thumb, studying it almost thoughtfully. "But firin' when someone's back is turned is still a awful yellah thing to do."

And without looking up, he flicked it back.

There might have been one or two others that had been called faster on the draw, but Wyatt'd long been considered one of the truest guns in the west.

Edited 2013-06-04 19:36 (UTC)

"If I was shooting to kill, then mayhap you would have a point. Somehow I doubt a man has ever fallen from deadly assault with corn."

It was something of a shame he had to make his first impression of a Gunslinger with Cuthbert, he wasn't exactly a shining example of the men they were supposed to be. But if both of them had guns at their waist they might find their draws evenly matched. But as it was, all Bert was armed with was a nuisance.

"The worst I could be is a danger to your hat." Which was exactly what he was aiming for next.

"Still mighta asked first," he pointed out, eyes narrowing warily as Bert pulled back on his slingshot. "Considerin' yer aim."

The kernel buzzed under the brim of his hat, hissing past his left ear like an angry hornet and clinked noisily off something behind him.

"Ya may not mean any harm," he rubbed at his ear with one hand, pulled his hat off with the other and tossed it on the bar, pushing it an arm's length away as a peace offering. "But I rather like havin' two eyes."

"If the good surgeons of the Capitol can reverse death itself, they can surely replace a missing eye or two."

But he is taking aim at the hat now that it's off, trying to reload and shoot as fast as he can, intent on trying to knock the hat down. Far fewer of them are likely to hit Wyatt now, but there's probably some bounces.

Wyatt wasn't so sure about that, given his current standing in the Capitol, but he kept that to himself as he set about mopping up the mess that'd been made.

Pushing a napkin through the puddle of bourbon, he kept one eye on his hat as it inched across the bar, pushed along by the volley of yellow bullets. It jerked and twitched and slid... back, back... and abruptly topped over the edge, disappearing behind the bar.

"Congratulations, friend." He slanted a dry look at Bert. "I dare say it surrenders."

"As it should in the face of a greater foe!"

He was far too pleased with himself and his rather minor accomplishment, but his aim was getting better and that at least was something to celebrate.

"Now if I could only subdue something larger with such certainty." He looked around for suitable moving targets, firing surreptitiously at anyone walking close enough to be hit.

Glancing first one way, then the other, Wyatt pushed up off his stool and hauled himself onto the bar on his belly, leaning over to snatch up his hat as quick as he could. (Both to avoid upsetting the barkeep and to avoid presenting Bert with another, far more sensitive, target.)

Swinging upright once more, he dusted his hat off with the palm of one hand before settling it back on his head, his fingers sliding along the brim. "Lord help us all should the Capitol provide a pea-shooter and a bag of popping corn at the Cornucopia."

He had enough restraint to let that very tempting target go. A man should be allowed to keep his hat, even in the worst of circumstances. "I've done more damage with less." And that wasn't just a boast.

"Besides, if they did not want me to kill, they should not have brought me here. Clearly they like my style, even when it includes a few more... creative projectiles."

He cracked his knuckles audibly. For some reason all this was making Cuthbert want to start a fight. A real fight.

Wyatt's head tipped, brow furrowing as he leaned against the bar, eyein' Bert speculatively, blue gaze flicking down to the cracking knuckles and then back up.

"So yer lookin' forward to it then? The arena, that is?" he asked.

Edited 2013-06-12 14:22 (UTC)

"I've put bullets into a good number of men who will never awake again. 'Tis a great honor to be able to say that, at least to me and my fellows. And now that same talent for death can be used to put me into more luxury than I have ever seen or will ever see again. Why, therefore, should I not be excited for it?"

Despite his normal jovial nature, Cuthbert was dead serious about this. As far as he was concerned this was a dream come true, except that he wasn't yet knee deep in beautiful women and an unlimited supply of guns and ammo. He was proud of his skills and the prevailing views on death being a bad thing didn't seem to slow him down.

Wyatt's face stiffened, muscles hardening and tightening along his jaw, his mouth thinning.

For a moment, as Bert went on, the young man stopped being the stranger Wyatt'd just met and he was suddenly far more familiar. For a moment all he could see was the leering grin of Spike Kenedy. His cruel eyes staring down at him over the gleaming barrels of twin six-shooters.

(Quietly, beneath the thrumming of his own heart, he heard the echo of the misfire.)

"'Cause you ain't God, and other people's lives ain't yer playthings. Death ain't a game to be taken lightly." His eyes were shards of ice, cold and hard. A muscle in his cheek echoed the stormy beat of his heart. "It ain't an honor. It's a necessity."

His head jerked, a sharp shake, as he slipped off his stool and stood before Bert, strong and tall, his shoulders straight and square.

"You and yers, iffen ya don't understand that... I ain't sorry I don't know you."

And he turned away, striding out of the lounge to the phantom sobs of a widow, begging him to bring her husband's killer to justice.

Edited 2013-06-14 17:12 (UTC)