Terry Bombazine | D8 (![]() ![]() @ 2014-04-06 11:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 57th games, - arena, tribute: 57th shift rhodes, tribute: 57th terry bombazine |
WHO: Terry Bombazine and Shift Rhodes.
WHAT: A little talking, a little planning, a little preparing to manufacture the ZZZs.
WHEN: Night 1.
WHERE: *~*~Somewhere. DETAILS TO BE ADDED, I TOTALLY PROMISE.
STATUS: Complete
Shift was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he'd killed someone. He knew he had to. He knew that in order to survive, in order to win at these Games, killing was part of the deal. But having it happen for real was a different matter entirely. They'd killed the girl from Four. It had been hours ago -- they'd already seen her face in the sky -- and yet he could still see flashes of it as it happened. He didn't want to close his eyes. Instead, he fingered the coins he'd grabbed on the way out. A pouch of coins. Useless, he thought. What good was money in the Hunger Games arena? "How's your hand doing, Terry?" he asked, squinting over toward his ally. Terry had taken more hits in their fight at the cornucopia, and had come out with a broken hand. "Can I change your bandage or something?" With what, he didn't know. Another strip of liner from the inside of his fleece, maybe. He hoped it didn't get any colder than it was then. “It’s fine,” he said, staring up eyes unblinking at the dark sky made darker by the sunglasses he still wore. Earlier, he made a rudimentary splint from four stiff pieces of bark stripped from a tree and the excess length of his bootlaces, using the corkscrew he used before to put a hole in the Four girl’s head to make holes for the laces to string through. It itched like hell but it kept his hand immobile - hours later, it only hurt when he moved it even if it was swollen in an ugly way. His mind continued to spin - bandages. Surely some fabric would minimize the itching but he ruled it out when he considered that he might want to wait to mutilate his clothing until he knew the full extent of the arena’s conditions. It was still too soon to put himself at a bigger disadvantage than a broken hand. Terry’s splinted hand and forearm rested atop his rib cage, his other arm folded behind his head as a pillow. It was about as comfortable as he could expect to get right now. As an afterthought, he added, “But thanks,” in response to his ally’s offer of assistance and turned his eyes from to sky to look at him. “In a few hours, we’re gonna go ‘round and one of us is gonna yell like the fuckin’ dickens for Silas and Buckwheat and the other one’s gonna be real quiet. If we don’t find them, someone else is gonna find us and we’ll kill ‘em,” he explained his plan to Shift in a voice curiously devoid of emotion, like he planned murders all the time back home or something, “The fog’s gonna keep people from knowin’ what they’re walking into, we got the advantage of more numbers than most prolly got.” Between dead allies and the heavy shroud that obscured the tributes from each other, he figured he and Shift had to be one of the very few allies who managed to meet up. Aside from careers, there wasn’t much of anyone he was concerned about running into. Shift wasn't so sure yelling was the best idea but he knew they wouldn't accomplish much else without their allies. He'd held his breath waiting to see either of their faces in the sky and was thankful he didn't. "You think this fog will ever lift?" he asked. He rubbed his eyes and leaned in a bit closer toward Terry to make sure he caught every word he was saying. "Maybe we should keep moving instead of staying in one spot. Who knows how big the arena is." There were just so many unknowns, Shift thought. He knew there would be, but sitting in the arena waiting for the next move made it even more palpable. He flipped a coin and caught it. "Guess this candlestick is the closest thing to a club, huh?" Slipping his arm out from beneath his head, he rubbed his good hand over his scalp. It was waxed smooth, smoother than it’d ever been back home and smoother than it would ever be again unless he came out of this a Victor. “No one’s gonna get much sleep tonight,” he said, tucking his arm again, “We’ll be as bright eyed an’ bushy tailed as we can get after sleeping out here in the cold on the ground and they’ll be tired and slow. Let’s stay put, get some shut eye. You want first or second shift?” Shift. Somewhere in his head, he found it funny that he’d just used his ally’s name in a sentence but it wasn’t funny enough to rouse a smile. Sighing, he turned his eyes upward again, seeing Faline’s and Cannel’s faces there once more in his mind’s eye. When he saw it the first time, he could practically feel the ‘I told you so’s of his mentors. Terry wasn’t usually one to take the advice of others over his own gut, to appreciate being strong armed into a decision he didn’t choose for himself, but he was glad to have not been so resistant for once even if it still felt shitty to know he’d broken his word. He could see Challis there, too, as pretty in the sky as she had been in life, but unable to find safety with him or the Careers, it seemed. “I dunno if the fog’s gonna lift,” he stated after a few moments of silence, “I hope so but then I don’t. We can work with it but…” From his reclined position, he managed some semblance of a shrug, “So can everyone else, maybe.” Unless he was right about there being few allies. A singular tribute was less likely to use to fog as an offensive advantage like he planned to, he figured. Terry looked back at Shift, “Gotta tell ya, Rhodes, I’m one fuck of a multi-tasker but I can’t sleep and talk at the same time. You want first shift or what? You can use your, uh,” he nodded to the candlestick, “Awesome club if anybody creeps up.” "I'm not tired," Shift said automatically. It was true, too. He was wide awake. "I'm up for a while." He picked up the candlestick again and let it weigh down his palm. It was good enough, and he sighed then tucked it in against himself. "I'll let you know if anything happens. Go to sleep." He tried to give Terry an encouraging smile but it came out a bit strained and a bit like he was going to be ill. If he were being honest with Terry, or even with himself, it would be to say that closing his eyes meant he'd have to replay their fight with Misty over again. Or anything at the cornucopia. The screams and shouts and grunts and then everyone's faces in the sky. He didn't know how Miles made it through this. It was barely day two and Shift wanted it to end. To be clear, he wanted it to end with him alive, but to end nonetheless. He just hated that it ending meant that some other people, people like Terry, would be dead. After gramps died, Terry’s familial responsibilities and heavy workload would keep him up at night even when his body seeped weariness from every pore. Eventually, he learned to just turn his head off. It’s what kept him well rested enough to do the things he had to do to make things work at home, push through training in the Capitol, and he expected it’d keep him from growing sluggish here, too. “A’right,” he said, letting his eyelids fall shut behind the privacy of his designer shades, “Gimme a shake when you’re gettin’ tired or a few hours go by, whatever comes first.” He tried to toggle his mental off-switch. It was stuck. Stuck on Misty’s dead eyes, the darkening of her red hair when it soaked with blood, the aching in his hand that had since turned to a loss of sensation, the sting of a broken promise, and the unforgiving, hard ground under his back. Terry tried the switch again and again until it worked. |