The Disciple ♌ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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thearena2014-03-06 01:28 am
disciplewhomsignlessloves) wrote in thearena2014-03-06 01:28 am
Entry tags:
Waiting for your death in the rain
Who: The Disciple, Donatello
When: Backdated to late sixth week
Where: Floor Five
What: Disciple gets cold burns from nitrogen rain and walks into a murder
Warnings/Notes Death, burns, etc.
The museum isn't really cold but fire an irresistible lure after all this dimness and dark. The rocks are stolen from one exhibit, the grass and wood stolen from another and she's holed up behind some tables and chairs in a corner. Carefully, she coaxes up a spark, a light, her hands warming with that soft glow. Warmth. Real warmth. She'd forgotten it after these months, so much dim light and howling wind. It makes the arena seem that much colder with her palms by the flame.
It makes the abrupt shock of freezing cold rain that much worse. No it's not cold, though it is, it burns. Her skin feels like it's on fire, burning burning and there's nowhere to go. She stumbles over the chairs and tables and her clothes are sticking to her skin, pulling with every movement. It's agonizing, each step, as her pajamas slowly stick--freeze, she realizes. Like snow to her scarf or ice to the fur on her jacket when she fell on the lake, it's sticking and her skin is there beneath, freezing too.
It's only an alcove that saves her, just out of the reach of the dangerous rain. Her body aches, cold cold, and she's afraid to look at her fingers. They feel ...like nothing. Nothing at all. Her breath comes faster, harsher, as the rain finally stops and she can get a better look at herself. Hair broken off in chunks. Bright white burns on her skin that hurt to look at, hurt to think about, because they've stopped hurting at all. But when she moves, when her skin pulls at cloth, she wants to scream. A whimper is all she allows herself, breath coming heavy as she reconciles all of this.
She'll die like this. Hardly able to move or defend herself without screaming agony.
And it's so convenient that the next thing she hears is footsteps.
When: Backdated to late sixth week
Where: Floor Five
What: Disciple gets cold burns from nitrogen rain and walks into a murder
Warnings/Notes Death, burns, etc.
The museum isn't really cold but fire an irresistible lure after all this dimness and dark. The rocks are stolen from one exhibit, the grass and wood stolen from another and she's holed up behind some tables and chairs in a corner. Carefully, she coaxes up a spark, a light, her hands warming with that soft glow. Warmth. Real warmth. She'd forgotten it after these months, so much dim light and howling wind. It makes the arena seem that much colder with her palms by the flame.
It makes the abrupt shock of freezing cold rain that much worse. No it's not cold, though it is, it burns. Her skin feels like it's on fire, burning burning and there's nowhere to go. She stumbles over the chairs and tables and her clothes are sticking to her skin, pulling with every movement. It's agonizing, each step, as her pajamas slowly stick--freeze, she realizes. Like snow to her scarf or ice to the fur on her jacket when she fell on the lake, it's sticking and her skin is there beneath, freezing too.
It's only an alcove that saves her, just out of the reach of the dangerous rain. Her body aches, cold cold, and she's afraid to look at her fingers. They feel ...like nothing. Nothing at all. Her breath comes faster, harsher, as the rain finally stops and she can get a better look at herself. Hair broken off in chunks. Bright white burns on her skin that hurt to look at, hurt to think about, because they've stopped hurting at all. But when she moves, when her skin pulls at cloth, she wants to scream. A whimper is all she allows herself, breath coming heavy as she reconciles all of this.
She'll die like this. Hardly able to move or defend herself without screaming agony.
And it's so convenient that the next thing she hears is footsteps.
no subject
Still, he had to find Mindy. Even if it was just to give her what supplies were left. So he ventured onto the fifth floor - through the stairway, and very carefully. And was hit by the smell of metal, and the sensation of sharp cold. It wasn't cold cold, rather the feeling of cold, but that it had been much colder. Not that Don felt particularly lucky about that as he started shivering his way into the floor proper. His breathing became harsh, and he even began to whimper, as it was cold, so cold for a tur--
...wait. That wasn't him. The whimper was female. If it was female, it could be Mindy. Oh no...
His head whipped around, looking for the source. It wasn't long before he found himself running towards it, only to find that the figure wasn't Mindy at all - Mindy wasn't a troll. But she was still dying, nevertheless. He brought his hand towards her, thought better of it when he saw just why she had whimpered (Burns. These burns. Liquid nitrogen. That's why its so cold in here, this place was doused in it!), instead deciding to use what remained of his first aid bandages for makeshift gloves first.
The sound of tape ripping cut the air.
no subject
As his hand reached for her, she jerked back, wincing as she did. It's just pain, she tells herself, just pain. It passes. If she remains perfectly still she'll be fine. The cold settles in her bones, in her body, and she shivers.
Her burned face tugs when she opens her lips to speak, "What are you doing?" Just kill me, she thinks, what on earth is that tape even for.
no subject
The jerking back gave him a better idea what was going on. She was alive, obviously. But it wasn't good at all. She was practically soaked in the liquid nitrogen. How she was even still alive was anyone's guess.
"Do...you even realize what's happened to you?"
no subject
"Frozen--burned? I can't tell. The rain, it was freezing, burning cold. Not rain really, it came from the ceiling. I tried to get out but I couldn't find a really safe place." She's rambling, maybe it's shock, maybe she's just scared because this is nothing like anything she's been through. Her chest hurts, like something wrong is happening and she remembers the fog, the way it burst up when the rain settled and breathing it because she had no other choice.
"The fog, the rain, I breathed it. I thought, steam, like hot water but it hurts. Inside. I just lit a fire that's all."
no subject
It was so weird. Particularly as he realized who exactly this was. This was the woman he'd hurt in the Capitol, during the alien raid. At his lowest, when he didn't give two shells about what happened to him, or anyone else.
He still didn't know whether he should care about himself, after everything.
"You're going to die very slowly from these burns, from infection. I...don't have enough in my kit..."
He trailed off. So, that was how it had to be, huh? Ironic. He's hurt her unintentionally when he didn't care about anything, and now he'd likely have to kill her purposefully when he started figuring things out again.
no subject
She's going to die like this. Moving will be painful, her wounds will be infected--if they manage to try to heal at all. Her mind swims through the pain and there's only one way out. She knows the arena will end soon, why isn't it over already she thinks. There's one way and she knows she can't do it to herself.
"Just--Just go ahead. We both know I'm a target like this already." Her lips trip over her words, "I'm a quackbeast, sitting like this. Better to be done sooner. Not die slow."
no subject
There was no way he could really give her any comfort, otherwise. His hands came back up, but he thought better of it. Snapping her neck, while it would be quick, would risk him being burned as well. So he had to go a different route.
"Ok." He brought out a knife. "This will hurt, but it will be quick. Just...breathe out for me. All right?"
no subject
"It's okay. This is how I died last time. I remember."
Another deep breath, a nod, and she lets it out. Her eyes close, if she can't see it coming, she's less likely to reach out to stop it.
no subject
no subject
Her hands lose their grip on the wall and she slumps, falling, dying, painted green. There's not much time to think between the fall and her death, seconds perhaps, but it feels like a lifetime before her life fades and everything goes dark.
no subject
It had to be done, after all.