Chuck Hansen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theyoungperish) wrote2015-09-17 10:12 pm
theyoungperish) wrote2015-09-17 10:12 pm
Entry tags:
"God, what are we doin'?"
Over the years, Chuck’s seen more Arenas than he can count. The new ones each year with fresh faces and new names, and the replays, over and over and over again. In truth, they’re just another part of life, one that didn’t matter much for a while, up until Derek volunteered in his place and everything went to hell.
Until the Gamemakers apparently decided to give him a chance anyway, benediction and agony in the gentle pluck of their fingers.
But watching the Games can’t compare to participating in one.
Chuck tries. He liked his life, and though he’d been prepared to step forward and fight last year, he’d been somewhat glad he hadn’t had to. To see Derek go through that in his place ate at him though, and it’s only the fact that he had him back, that they had each other, that got them both through that. There was promise there, a future, and he’s pissed that it’s being robbed from them. That Derek is watching him fight now, knowing he could die, knowing that he’s half the size and weight of all the Tributes left.
They both knew his odds, and they both decided to fight it.
And he did, and he does. Chuck kills easily, unflinching, knowing that this must be done. He is small but he is smart, and Derek ferrets him formulae with his gifts. Guides him in the best way he knows how. Slowly, slowly, his chances increase, until Chuck thinks that he might make it out of this in one piece.
He should have known better.
The mutt is twice his size, snarling and snapping, eyes gleaming like coals. Chuck goes cold, hearing the thump of his heart like a timer running out. Behind the mutt's shoulder he can see the last two Tributes, grinning viciously with victory, and in that moment Chuck knows what it is to hate a person with his entire being.
He can't focus on them though, because the wolf advances slowly, a predator with its prey in his sight lines, and he snaps his attention back. He braces, feet firmly planted, spear held easily aloft, and snarls back. Dimly he's sure the Capitol is getting a kick out of this, a Tribute barely five foot, squaring off with a mutt he can't hope to take.
But Chuck has a promise to keep, and he won't break it. He can't allow himself to even think of that option.
So he tightens his grip, lip curled back over the calcite row of his teeth, and charges.
The wolf leaps forward, snapping, and he dodges, spear lacing across its side. As long as he stays out of range he can escape it, he can survive. He can borrow a little bit of Striker here, Derek in his bones and muscle, guiding his aim. Chuck is single minded in this dance of death, well aware that he has a time limit on this face off. For a few moments he almost thinks he can win this, can come out of it whole.
And then a glass flies by, nearly nailing him in the head, and he remembers the Tributes.
Another shatters at his feet as he curses, attention split. The wolf seizes its chance, slipping through his guard easily, knocking him to the ground where chemicals and glass dig into his back. Claws cut into his chest, ribs protesting the weight, but it's the teeth tearing into his shoulder and the snap of collarbone that makes him scream -- a primal sound that rends the air, bloodied from the wreck chemicals made of his throat.
He can hear laughter, hidden under his scream, and it pisses him off. The spear cuts cleanly into the wolf's side, nearly gutting the mutt, but it doesn't stop. Desperate, mind sharpened with pain, Chuck bites down on the mutt's ear and rips it clean off, blood splattering across his face even as the wolf yelps and retreats, spear clattering to the floor. Chuck gropes for the blood soaked wood, baring his teeth still, and braces with one arm dangling limply as the wolf rushes again.
This time they both go down, but only one gets up, blinking blood from his eyes.
Chuck sets his sights on the Tributes, gaze feverish, blood soaking his front. He only has one functional arm, but that doesn't fucking matter. They back up, clearly intending to run, bewildered and cursing -- "How the fuck--"-- as he rears back, throws like a warrior of old. His aim rings true, spear burying itself into the girl's chest. She drops, and he yanks the spear calmly free, ignoring the blood gushing over his hand.
Only, only the spear splinters and breaks as it catches on her rib cage.
Thinking he has the advantage, the last Tribute scoffs, knives in hands. He's tall, probably on the very edge of Reaping age, and there's a moment of déjà vu. But Chuck will not fail, and he simply brandishes the snapped point of his spear, calculating as he circles the other boy. A well placed strike knocks one knife out of hand, another breaks his nose. But though he tries, Chuck misses killing blows. The pain is sharp and wearying, and adrenaline can only do so much. He eventually stumbles, and the other boy laughs.
"Tired, Hansen?"
He snaps forward, knocks the spear aside, and catches Chuck by the throat. Even though he tries, the world whites out with pain for a second or two.
It's enough.
The tribute is strong, and he lifts Chuck clear off the floor, fingers a crushing grip, intending to make this as painful as could be. Chuck keens, breath caught in the ruined mess of his throat, lungs burning, one arm largely useless. He claws at the hand holding him, scrabbles to steal the last knife even as the other boy clucks his tongue in disappointment.
"Shhhh, shh, let's give your boy a show." He drawls cruelly, mouth stretched wide in smirk, eyes gleaming with ill humor.
Reminded, Chucks eyes snap open from where they'd listed half closed, lips twisting from his open mouthed gasp for air into a familiar snarl. He reaches out, quick as a snake, and digs his fingers sharply into an eye. Under his force it pops like a grape, viscous fluid weeping down the tribute’s face as he howls in pain.
Chuck doesn't bother taking a moment to gasp for air as he hits the ground. He plants his feet, snags his weapon and angles up, forcing the broken end of his spear into the Tribute's gut and clean through the other side. But it's not enough, it isn't. And maybe he's gone half mad with pain and fury, because as the boy doubles over gasping and choking, Chuck lunges forward and sinks his teeth into exposed throat. His teeth sink into flesh, crushing throat, thrashing and ripping clean through in a feat of strength he didn't know he was capable of.
The boy drops, spear in his gut, half blinded and gurgling. Above him, heaving for breath and spitting blood, Chuck stares down at his last victim and waits for the Canon. As it tolls his gaze lifts, finding the nearest camera with unerringly precision. He stares it down, green eyes gleaming against pale skin and blood, impossibly bright despite the dim lighting, and doesn't sway on his feet. He won't show that weakness, he swears to himself, he'll never let them have that control over him. They have enough already.
Over speaker, the Gamemaker crows --"Ladies and Gentlemen, your 71st Victor!" -- and Chuck doesn't break eye contact with the camera until the Peacekeepers round the corner.
Until the Gamemakers apparently decided to give him a chance anyway, benediction and agony in the gentle pluck of their fingers.
But watching the Games can’t compare to participating in one.
Chuck tries. He liked his life, and though he’d been prepared to step forward and fight last year, he’d been somewhat glad he hadn’t had to. To see Derek go through that in his place ate at him though, and it’s only the fact that he had him back, that they had each other, that got them both through that. There was promise there, a future, and he’s pissed that it’s being robbed from them. That Derek is watching him fight now, knowing he could die, knowing that he’s half the size and weight of all the Tributes left.
They both knew his odds, and they both decided to fight it.
And he did, and he does. Chuck kills easily, unflinching, knowing that this must be done. He is small but he is smart, and Derek ferrets him formulae with his gifts. Guides him in the best way he knows how. Slowly, slowly, his chances increase, until Chuck thinks that he might make it out of this in one piece.
He should have known better.
The mutt is twice his size, snarling and snapping, eyes gleaming like coals. Chuck goes cold, hearing the thump of his heart like a timer running out. Behind the mutt's shoulder he can see the last two Tributes, grinning viciously with victory, and in that moment Chuck knows what it is to hate a person with his entire being.
He can't focus on them though, because the wolf advances slowly, a predator with its prey in his sight lines, and he snaps his attention back. He braces, feet firmly planted, spear held easily aloft, and snarls back. Dimly he's sure the Capitol is getting a kick out of this, a Tribute barely five foot, squaring off with a mutt he can't hope to take.
But Chuck has a promise to keep, and he won't break it. He can't allow himself to even think of that option.
So he tightens his grip, lip curled back over the calcite row of his teeth, and charges.
The wolf leaps forward, snapping, and he dodges, spear lacing across its side. As long as he stays out of range he can escape it, he can survive. He can borrow a little bit of Striker here, Derek in his bones and muscle, guiding his aim. Chuck is single minded in this dance of death, well aware that he has a time limit on this face off. For a few moments he almost thinks he can win this, can come out of it whole.
And then a glass flies by, nearly nailing him in the head, and he remembers the Tributes.
Another shatters at his feet as he curses, attention split. The wolf seizes its chance, slipping through his guard easily, knocking him to the ground where chemicals and glass dig into his back. Claws cut into his chest, ribs protesting the weight, but it's the teeth tearing into his shoulder and the snap of collarbone that makes him scream -- a primal sound that rends the air, bloodied from the wreck chemicals made of his throat.
He can hear laughter, hidden under his scream, and it pisses him off. The spear cuts cleanly into the wolf's side, nearly gutting the mutt, but it doesn't stop. Desperate, mind sharpened with pain, Chuck bites down on the mutt's ear and rips it clean off, blood splattering across his face even as the wolf yelps and retreats, spear clattering to the floor. Chuck gropes for the blood soaked wood, baring his teeth still, and braces with one arm dangling limply as the wolf rushes again.
This time they both go down, but only one gets up, blinking blood from his eyes.
Chuck sets his sights on the Tributes, gaze feverish, blood soaking his front. He only has one functional arm, but that doesn't fucking matter. They back up, clearly intending to run, bewildered and cursing -- "How the fuck--"-- as he rears back, throws like a warrior of old. His aim rings true, spear burying itself into the girl's chest. She drops, and he yanks the spear calmly free, ignoring the blood gushing over his hand.
Only, only the spear splinters and breaks as it catches on her rib cage.
Thinking he has the advantage, the last Tribute scoffs, knives in hands. He's tall, probably on the very edge of Reaping age, and there's a moment of déjà vu. But Chuck will not fail, and he simply brandishes the snapped point of his spear, calculating as he circles the other boy. A well placed strike knocks one knife out of hand, another breaks his nose. But though he tries, Chuck misses killing blows. The pain is sharp and wearying, and adrenaline can only do so much. He eventually stumbles, and the other boy laughs.
"Tired, Hansen?"
He snaps forward, knocks the spear aside, and catches Chuck by the throat. Even though he tries, the world whites out with pain for a second or two.
It's enough.
The tribute is strong, and he lifts Chuck clear off the floor, fingers a crushing grip, intending to make this as painful as could be. Chuck keens, breath caught in the ruined mess of his throat, lungs burning, one arm largely useless. He claws at the hand holding him, scrabbles to steal the last knife even as the other boy clucks his tongue in disappointment.
"Shhhh, shh, let's give your boy a show." He drawls cruelly, mouth stretched wide in smirk, eyes gleaming with ill humor.
Reminded, Chucks eyes snap open from where they'd listed half closed, lips twisting from his open mouthed gasp for air into a familiar snarl. He reaches out, quick as a snake, and digs his fingers sharply into an eye. Under his force it pops like a grape, viscous fluid weeping down the tribute’s face as he howls in pain.
Chuck doesn't bother taking a moment to gasp for air as he hits the ground. He plants his feet, snags his weapon and angles up, forcing the broken end of his spear into the Tribute's gut and clean through the other side. But it's not enough, it isn't. And maybe he's gone half mad with pain and fury, because as the boy doubles over gasping and choking, Chuck lunges forward and sinks his teeth into exposed throat. His teeth sink into flesh, crushing throat, thrashing and ripping clean through in a feat of strength he didn't know he was capable of.
The boy drops, spear in his gut, half blinded and gurgling. Above him, heaving for breath and spitting blood, Chuck stares down at his last victim and waits for the Canon. As it tolls his gaze lifts, finding the nearest camera with unerringly precision. He stares it down, green eyes gleaming against pale skin and blood, impossibly bright despite the dim lighting, and doesn't sway on his feet. He won't show that weakness, he swears to himself, he'll never let them have that control over him. They have enough already.
Over speaker, the Gamemaker crows --"Ladies and Gentlemen, your 71st Victor!" -- and Chuck doesn't break eye contact with the camera until the Peacekeepers round the corner.