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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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)