Benjamin F. "Hawkeye" Pierce (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
swill) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-11-25 03:06 pm
swill) wrote in thecapitol2013-11-25 03:06 pm
Entry tags:
(open) Attention, all personnel. New survival manuals have arrived.
Who| Hawkeye and anyone!
What| He has his first adventure in the Capitol; don't worry, it's a tame one.
Where| Out in the city, then in the common room.
When| Week 6
Warnings/Notes| None yet!
Dying was new. Dying as in losing his life. Dying as in being lost in terror and losing all or most sense of being a person, he'd done before. Despite it all- the miracles of medicine he had no doubt experienced moments prior to being escorted to his room, before he lay in the luxurious bed for hours and stood under the warm spray of water in the shower for hours more- Hawkeye felt like he'd just done all of this before. He felt he should be more thrilled. He wasn't. He wondered if maybe that meant something was wrong with him, that he hadn't hollered and hooted at taking a breath of air again, at seeing his hand whole, at being able to move without pain. After a night back in the company of the living -because he sure as hell wasn't dead and this sure wasn't Hell or Heaven- Hawkeye had convinced himself he was as sane as he should be and as content as was acceptable to be.
[Out and About]
Silent pep talk done with, he silently slipped out of his quarters -it was weird, thinking that entire room was for him alone- and with a skip to his step, he dared venture down to the common room, the lobby, that place where he inferred all the poor bastards and disheartened saps had to congregate or at least pass through to get away. A first step. And he wasn't sure why he hadn't noticed the color before -chalked it up to his being in shock- but it's what strikes him first after the relief of getting an elevator ride done with. Color! Again, he was supposed to hoot and shriek. He had whined about the dullness of olive and green and beige all around him for the past three years. He had dreamed about color, about bright reds and oranges, and pinks and blues. But suddenly it was too much, too bright, too soon. He stepped through the room without much celebration. One woman with a too-pale face and make-up that'd make the crudest call girl cringe waved at him and he waved back. Hello, stranger. Hello, strange world. There were televisions around- or projections- or whatever. They forced him to look ahead, to his goal and nothing else: out. Lovely room, lovely showers, lovely beds and sofas and what a lovely lounge. But he had to get out.
And when he finally did step out, he wasn't sure if he should keep walking. Hawkeye looked this way and that, found a road that seemed straight enough, and marched on. The Capitol had to end somewhere, by God, or maybe that was the liquor talking. His suite had been stocked.
[Central Commons]
But it didn't end. And eventually he found himself sprawled over one of the couches, screwing with the communicator, drawing back every time he'd manage to make it do anything and shutting it down. He decidedly kept his eyes off the projections of the Games still on-going. He bemoaned the fact that he didn't have a ball and paddle or yo-yo. When a man with bluish skin and green hair strolled on by, Hawkeye whistled shrilly to get his attention, asked how life as a stick of broccoli was going for him, and fought back the urge to deck him for the hell of it. But it'd look silly to exert so much effort into something that would be so fruitless when Hawkeye was upside down in the seat now, head danging where his legs should and legs bent comfortably over the back of the chair. It at least earned him a look here and there and Hawkeye took it as more evidence that he was, in fact, alive again.
So he had said he was through freaking out about that earlier. So he'd lied. Sue him. Do it.
Someone to his right, another freak, another stupid person in this new and stupid world, talks about a lost bet. Hawkeye growls, pretends he's a dog. Gets the person to at least step away. His eyes catch, after much struggle to keep them averted, a replay on one of those fantastic screens. The jungle's shown, a pair of strangers fight. Someone here, away from the jungle, talks about betting again. He swears he would have punched the bastard if he had gotten right-side up quick enough to find the face he was looking for. Hawkeye feels a shudder travel through him, and knows his finger isn't steady as he points at the screen ahead and hollers, red in the face, in a higher pitch than he'd cared for, "Somebody shut that damned thing off!"
What the heck was the matter with these people?
"Or tune it to a different channel! It's been the same thing playing all damn day."
Didn't they get bored? He did. He got bored easily.
What| He has his first adventure in the Capitol; don't worry, it's a tame one.
Where| Out in the city, then in the common room.
When| Week 6
Warnings/Notes| None yet!
Dying was new. Dying as in losing his life. Dying as in being lost in terror and losing all or most sense of being a person, he'd done before. Despite it all- the miracles of medicine he had no doubt experienced moments prior to being escorted to his room, before he lay in the luxurious bed for hours and stood under the warm spray of water in the shower for hours more- Hawkeye felt like he'd just done all of this before. He felt he should be more thrilled. He wasn't. He wondered if maybe that meant something was wrong with him, that he hadn't hollered and hooted at taking a breath of air again, at seeing his hand whole, at being able to move without pain. After a night back in the company of the living -because he sure as hell wasn't dead and this sure wasn't Hell or Heaven- Hawkeye had convinced himself he was as sane as he should be and as content as was acceptable to be.
[Out and About]
Silent pep talk done with, he silently slipped out of his quarters -it was weird, thinking that entire room was for him alone- and with a skip to his step, he dared venture down to the common room, the lobby, that place where he inferred all the poor bastards and disheartened saps had to congregate or at least pass through to get away. A first step. And he wasn't sure why he hadn't noticed the color before -chalked it up to his being in shock- but it's what strikes him first after the relief of getting an elevator ride done with. Color! Again, he was supposed to hoot and shriek. He had whined about the dullness of olive and green and beige all around him for the past three years. He had dreamed about color, about bright reds and oranges, and pinks and blues. But suddenly it was too much, too bright, too soon. He stepped through the room without much celebration. One woman with a too-pale face and make-up that'd make the crudest call girl cringe waved at him and he waved back. Hello, stranger. Hello, strange world. There were televisions around- or projections- or whatever. They forced him to look ahead, to his goal and nothing else: out. Lovely room, lovely showers, lovely beds and sofas and what a lovely lounge. But he had to get out.
And when he finally did step out, he wasn't sure if he should keep walking. Hawkeye looked this way and that, found a road that seemed straight enough, and marched on. The Capitol had to end somewhere, by God, or maybe that was the liquor talking. His suite had been stocked.
[Central Commons]
But it didn't end. And eventually he found himself sprawled over one of the couches, screwing with the communicator, drawing back every time he'd manage to make it do anything and shutting it down. He decidedly kept his eyes off the projections of the Games still on-going. He bemoaned the fact that he didn't have a ball and paddle or yo-yo. When a man with bluish skin and green hair strolled on by, Hawkeye whistled shrilly to get his attention, asked how life as a stick of broccoli was going for him, and fought back the urge to deck him for the hell of it. But it'd look silly to exert so much effort into something that would be so fruitless when Hawkeye was upside down in the seat now, head danging where his legs should and legs bent comfortably over the back of the chair. It at least earned him a look here and there and Hawkeye took it as more evidence that he was, in fact, alive again.
So he had said he was through freaking out about that earlier. So he'd lied. Sue him. Do it.
Someone to his right, another freak, another stupid person in this new and stupid world, talks about a lost bet. Hawkeye growls, pretends he's a dog. Gets the person to at least step away. His eyes catch, after much struggle to keep them averted, a replay on one of those fantastic screens. The jungle's shown, a pair of strangers fight. Someone here, away from the jungle, talks about betting again. He swears he would have punched the bastard if he had gotten right-side up quick enough to find the face he was looking for. Hawkeye feels a shudder travel through him, and knows his finger isn't steady as he points at the screen ahead and hollers, red in the face, in a higher pitch than he'd cared for, "Somebody shut that damned thing off!"
What the heck was the matter with these people?
"Or tune it to a different channel! It's been the same thing playing all damn day."
Didn't they get bored? He did. He got bored easily.
no subject
He looks up- at nothing. At the ceiling. Because he feels like he's wearing a muzzle.
When he glances back at the boy, he's returned to his drawing and Hawkeye feels like he has to try and see what the hell it is that's so important. He steps forward. He shrugs and rolls his shoulders like, oh, if the boy can be so casual about this than so can he. Just look at the nonchalance he can radiate too. "I think they'd be happy to get some food. Water. Medicine. But don't listen to me, I haven't watched. It's just a hunch."
Twerp.
no subject
He stared off a moment, before taking up his work. "But this was my first Arena. You might have more experience with that."
no subject
To hell with ideals--
he'd just made the boy feel as crummy as he'd wanted the Broccoli Man to feel, if the guarded speech and precise lines on paper told the doctor anything.
Hrrm. It wasn't his fault, he wanted to say. He huffs again- and it's a huff this time, just an exhale, not a silly and dramatic-styled sigh. "It was my first Arena too, bub." He says, tired. He scrubs a hand down his face. He wonders why he's trying to make himself feel... bad. He was working to make himself feel rotten. There was effort in this. There shouldn't be. He'd heard the word 'battle'. He was just tired. "Is that what you're working on?" Plans to keep the recycling to a minimum? And wasn't it funny? How he'd used to wish there was a way for wars to just recycle their boys, instead of having to bring in new bodies for every time a general got a whim?
no subject
He glanced toward the screen idly, as though it had merely distracted him. But then he looked back to Hawkeye as he slouched back on the couch. "But that's a shame. I was hoping someone could tell me what to expect from here." He was still fairly exhausted from everything that had gone on lately, so he was perhaps being a bit more open than he normally would have intended.
no subject
But when you were looking for ways to be offended, everything was an offense. So he hummed at that.
And he wanted to ask about the arena, about how long he lasted and how he went. But that was the morbid curiosity that was repulsive, and that made him grimace.
"That's right, what a shame," he agrees. "I'm a disgrace through and through- you'll learn. You'll see. What else can you expect from someone who calls himself Hawkeye? And you? Got a name?"
no subject
He leaned back over the papers, and just started writing a few notes.
no subject
He was getting a headache.
And his gaze kept wandering from the boy himself, to the vest that Hawkeye now found troublesome, to the papers Armin was so involved in. He scratched at his elbow, and finally took enough steps forward to be able to look down properly on what Armin was writing if only he didn't pull the paper back. "What are you, uh. What are you doing there?" Something to help his friend who was still fighting, he knew, but dear God what?