Venus Dee Milo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
celebrityskinned) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2014-08-20 01:45 am
celebrityskinned) wrote in thearena2014-08-20 01:45 am
Entry tags:
Nowhere to Hide, In Your Dreams You Are Useless [Open]
WHO| Venus Dee Milo and anyone in the Arena!
WHAT| Venus finds the food court the first night.
WHEN| First night.
WHERE| Food court.
WARNINGS| Mentions of torture, violence and mutilation, plus some dark mental stuff.
She finds the food court on the first night, and for a few moments allows a little spark of hope to catch the tinder in her chest. She and Kankri did well in the cafe for several weeks back at the museum; there might be food there, a stockpile she can jealously guard. More importantly, there might be people.
She doesn't know who among her allies might have been exploded. The entire thing was too fast for her to keep track of which people were reduced to bloody splinters and chips of bone, droplets and chunks across the ice. She'd gone straight for a key and tried to find Kankri, Joly, Ellie, even the boys - but in the tumult, in people's scrambles away from the killing field and to identify their loved ones, she didn't even see if they were among the living.
To be honest, she isn't sure who her allies are anymore. Maybe it's better they haven't seen her like this up close, with bruises festering purple and sickly brown on her neck and arms and bare legs. Her face, usually the envy of skin cream models and makeup artists, is a wound. The brand that sprawls across her cheek, nose and upper lip looks rotten, and the yellowed skin withers away from the edges, where painfully raw flesh beneath peeks out. The juxtaposition of her current state and the daintily-beaded, sequined spandex outfit she's wearing doesn't escape her.
She has a baseball bat from the sporting goods store. She holds it close but not cocked as she starts to go through the metal cabinets behind each buffet line. She pauses occasionally to look over her shoulder, but she doesn't take much care to hide the clatters of metal on metal. She's alright with being found, so long as she can act on it.
Thirty minutes going through each kitchen station yields nothing. Nothing but the hiss of oil in the fryer, spitting at her.
She takes a seat behind the cash register at the Panda Pantry. Her figure skates are dangling around her neck, resting against her chest. She folds up her legs, lets her palms take in the coolness of the tile on the floor. There are no victories for her here - not in the Arena, not in Panem.
She would cry if she weren't on camera, or if she weren't so good at swallowing it down by now, but she's had a human body for over a year now. She knows how to keep it to herself.
WHAT| Venus finds the food court the first night.
WHEN| First night.
WHERE| Food court.
WARNINGS| Mentions of torture, violence and mutilation, plus some dark mental stuff.
She finds the food court on the first night, and for a few moments allows a little spark of hope to catch the tinder in her chest. She and Kankri did well in the cafe for several weeks back at the museum; there might be food there, a stockpile she can jealously guard. More importantly, there might be people.
She doesn't know who among her allies might have been exploded. The entire thing was too fast for her to keep track of which people were reduced to bloody splinters and chips of bone, droplets and chunks across the ice. She'd gone straight for a key and tried to find Kankri, Joly, Ellie, even the boys - but in the tumult, in people's scrambles away from the killing field and to identify their loved ones, she didn't even see if they were among the living.
To be honest, she isn't sure who her allies are anymore. Maybe it's better they haven't seen her like this up close, with bruises festering purple and sickly brown on her neck and arms and bare legs. Her face, usually the envy of skin cream models and makeup artists, is a wound. The brand that sprawls across her cheek, nose and upper lip looks rotten, and the yellowed skin withers away from the edges, where painfully raw flesh beneath peeks out. The juxtaposition of her current state and the daintily-beaded, sequined spandex outfit she's wearing doesn't escape her.
She has a baseball bat from the sporting goods store. She holds it close but not cocked as she starts to go through the metal cabinets behind each buffet line. She pauses occasionally to look over her shoulder, but she doesn't take much care to hide the clatters of metal on metal. She's alright with being found, so long as she can act on it.
Thirty minutes going through each kitchen station yields nothing. Nothing but the hiss of oil in the fryer, spitting at her.
She takes a seat behind the cash register at the Panda Pantry. Her figure skates are dangling around her neck, resting against her chest. She folds up her legs, lets her palms take in the coolness of the tile on the floor. There are no victories for her here - not in the Arena, not in Panem.
She would cry if she weren't on camera, or if she weren't so good at swallowing it down by now, but she's had a human body for over a year now. She knows how to keep it to herself.
no subject
What she finds instead is Venus looking like hell. The burns on her face bring back memories of seeing Alex after the explosion. And, god, seeing someone who's been nothing but kind to her in the past in that state shakes her. Not enough to the point where she's going to cry or anything, but enough that she feels safe enough to approach.
"Any luck finding anything?"
no subject
She meets Clara's eyes and there's honest-to-God regret there. Clara's been gentle; from what Venus can tell she's a sweet person worried about her husband. Venus wishes her family, what was left of it, had been so supportive when she'd undergone her change, instead of just punting her around and then leaving her on the street. She wants to tell Alex how lucky he is for Clara, but that runs directly counter to the duty she's assigned herself now.
There are people here who deserve to win more than Clara. There's a kid here Venus promised to protect.
"Oh, Clara. I'm real sorry."
And with that Venus gets to her feet with nigh-supernatural grace and swings the baseball bat.
no subject
Which is the only reason the tip of the bat grazes her upper arm instead of hitting her square in the chest. Which hurts like a bitch, but she'll worry about that later. Logically, she knows she shouldn't stand a chance against Venus who has a much higher score than her, but really, if she wants to be sure that she can try to see Alex through to the end of the Arena so that he can win, she's going to have to do her damnedest to stay alive.
"Venus, you don't have to do this," Clara says as she edges back, bringing out the knife she grabbed earlier. "We can both walk away from this."
no subject
"I do." She wants to tell Clara that Venus isn't doing this on behalf of any desire for her own victory, but for the teenager who's stood by her side in spite of everything. That even that's selfish, because there are plenty of teenagers in this Arena and Venus is just choosing the one that's wormed into her heart with his endless patience and understanding. She can't say that without making a target of the kid in question.
But she imagines Clara might understand that, if she could hear it.
"I'll make your death quick. Promise." She throws the bat at Clara, then lunges forward, going for the knife with one hand and twisting to throw an elbow at Clara's nose with the other.
no subject
Clara dodges the bat, but not the elbow, which hits against the corner of her eye instead of her nose. She has the feeling that she'll have one hell of a shiner tomorrow, but it'll be fine, she'll still be alive to have one. Using her free hand she tries to grab for Venus's wrist so she can try to stop her and talk some sense into the younger woman. "You're better than this. Steve was right, we don't have to play their game."
let me know if this is too godmodey!
You're better than this. Venus can't explain that once upon a time, this blood sport, apparently reserved for the lowest of the low, was her voluntary occupation. She may be forced into the Arena, but she chose the life of a killer a long time ago, thinking herself unworthy of anything else.
Maybe, before she got herself caught by the authorities and got her face mauled up, she could have considered Clara's words.
Clara's wrist closes around Venus', and in the struggle the knife goes skittering under a metal cabinet.
"Shit!"
She gets her hand on the back of Clara's head and wrenches her arm downwards, slamming Clara's face against the corner of the food court table next to them.
no no, this is perfect!
She just thought she'd be able to stay in more than a day.
It won't be until later that Clara will really be able to start pondering whether or not Venus missed her intended target or whether she was being petty and trying to draw it out so that it could be as brutal and drawn out a kill as possible because Clara kept talking. All she knows now is pain as her eyeball bursts as it makes impact with the completely non-OSHA compliant from how sharp it is counter, the awful feeling as the remains ooze down her cheek, and the bloodcurdling scream that rips through her, the sound echoing around the general area.
no subject
She throws a punch into Clara's gut, buying herself a moment to scramble to the side and try to grab the knife. Her hands scarper under the cabinet but find nothing. She won't have much time before Clara's getting up and running away, or before someone comes and responds to the screaming.
She can at least stop the noise. She lunges back to Clara and straddles her, pressing her hands against that pale, taut throat expelling shrieks like a water fountain. Trying to cut off the air. Venus has never strangled someone to death before, and to tell the truth she doesn't know how to do it efficiently. She doesn't know where the jugular is to block off, and Clara's wriggling makes it difficult to find anyway.
"Just die- please, just die already!" she huffs, trying to swallow the distaste for such a violent, intimate kill. Her disgust for herself passes through her like a wave of nausea, leaving an undertow in its wake. She wants to apologize. She honestly wants to.
She almost thinks she can't, with an audience expecting the murderess they know, but the audience doesn't love her anymore and the gruesome mask of her face reminds her of that. So as she presses as hard as she can on Clara's throat, she says it out loud, too.
"I'm sorry!"
no subject
It's the screaming that puts Alex from his usual steady walk to a full-on sprint: he comes charging in, his head lowered, arms pumping, the black visor's slit gleaming red. His footsteps thunder against the tile. He registers assault - no, assault with intent to murder - and that seals the deal. It doesn't matter if it's his wife lying there with her eyesocket a bloody mess, gasping. It could have been anyone else and his response would be the same. Crime in progress. He's authorized to use lethal force if the situation calls for it. This one bypasses "Verbal Warning" and "Physical Force".
He queues up [ Pacification - Lethal Force (Approved) ].
Alex comes up behind Venus, his graphene hand shooting out. Armored fingers curl around her neck with a clicking sound, squeeze, and he jerks her backward. This new Alex doesn't care about his own strength, doesn't worry about hurting others or wig out about seeing armor instead of flesh and bone. He doesn't think about the lawsuits or chain of command. All that matters is Venus is dealt with. Venus is sent hurtling back against the buffet line, glass shattering, as Alex turns to look down at Clara, his head and then chest swiveling. His HUD measures her vitals, tells him they could be better but she'll live.
Alex makes sure to make a video log of her injuries, to put it on record.
"You're advised to put pressure on it until EMTS arrive," Alex's words are clipped, professional and disinterested. He stares down at his wife and her weeping eye and feels nothing but a barely defined disappointment that a law-abiding citizen was injured on his watch. "Stand by."
He turns, goes from zero to charging as he guns for Venus. Alex's hand comes again for her neck, the visor reflecting her face back in the black glass.
no subject
Really, the only thing that he said that managed to get through to her was to put pressure on it, which seems like a tremendously useless idea considering a) there aren't exactly EMTs in the Arena and b) putting pressure on an empty socket sounds like a terrible idea. Once she has her brain a little bit more together, she'll actually be about to voice the idea that he take her to Dr. Norton since he might be able to at least properly clean it out.
The thought of having to go to Dr. Norton not to be simply patched up, but to have him clean out her empty eye socket sends a horrified chill down her spine.
From the way it sounds like Alex is moving, he's heading towards Venus at a quick pace. There's probably something in the programming that okays killing people in Venus's position. Clara doesn't want anyone to be killed because of her, despite what Venus did to her. "Alex," she manages to croak out, "please don't kill her."
no subject
It's a rookie mistake, being hit from behind, being picked up like a kitten in its mother's mouth and tossed aside like that. She won't be making it again. Even disoriented and off-balance, she throws herself to the side and onto the ground. It doesn't matter that her instincts don't have a plan for how she's going to get to her feet. All that matters is getting away from the massive metal hand going for her neck again.
That and getting to the baseball bat. She feels her hand close over its leathery grip, feels how grainy pieces of glass burrow deeper into her fingers and palms when she clenches a fist over it.
The first swing is clumsy and retreating, an attempt to buy some space while she fights to get to her feet. She stumbles backwards and scrambles up against one of the tables. Her bare feet slip. She feels as if she's using a stick to try and scare off a dog.
But the second swing, oh, the second swing is the work of a professional.
When Venus was ten, she was on the softball team. She couldn't pitch worth a damn, but she was a good batter. Something about moving targets, something about being able to feet the tip of the bat as if it were an extension of her own hand. There was something satisfying about the clap of wood on fabric as the ball went whizzing off past the end of the field.
There's nothing satisfying about the crash of Alex's visor against the metal bat now, or about the way the impact reverberates through her wrists and up to her shoulders.
no subject
"You're resisting pacification. On the ground, hands on your head."
He doesn't care what started it. Even if Venus cooperates, he will still respond with lethal force.
Alex dogs after Venus, trampling his way through the remains of the buffet stand. Glass crunches under his feet as he brushes aside the metal piping and the plastic trays like they're made of cardboard. He demonstrates why this metal chassis is superior to any cop on the police force - he doesn't worry about splinters, doesn't flinch back from the first hit that skids uselessly off his chest-plate. The HUD tracks Venus's stumbling steps back, simulating possible escape routes he'll need to block off. When he sees Venus wind up, her shoulders bunching, he doesn't try to dodge. OmniCorp rated his visor high-impact.
A baseball bat shouldn't do more than ding it.
The blow jerks Alex's head to the side, the glass shattering. Shards rip gashes across his face and it's only luck that his eyes don't get taken out. The HUD flashes a bright ugly red as it sends up warnings, Alex's arm coming to protect his face as the other shoots out to grab the bat.
no subject
All she's trying to do right now is mentally regather herself. It's obvious that Alex didn't listen to her and, as awful as it may be, she can't quite bring herself to care. Sure, she doesn't want Venus to die (or, more importantly, for Alex to be what the Capitol wants him to be) because of her, but if it ends up happening, she wouldn't exactly shed a tear right now.
She stays on her hands and knees until she hears the crack-shatter of Alex's visor and Venus's baseball bat connecting. Something inside her springs to life from that sound. She quickly crawls over to the cabinet her knife fell under and, using her eyeless side at first out of instinct before turning her head so she's looking with her left eye instead, grabs the knife and climbs to her feet.
Clara isn't sure whether she's being fueled by fear or adrenaline or rage, but as soon as she feels steady on her feet she quickly rushes over to the fray, raising the knife so it's at the back of Venus's neck. "You touch him one more time, and you won't live to regret it."
V out, you can continue using this post if you like!
She doesn't know what the oil does to metal, but it hurts like hell on her own bare flesh as it splashes up onto her hands and forearm. She grunts and swings her foot behind Alex's ankle, pushing him into the counter before she releases.
Two-on-one is not a fight she wants to have right now, especially not with the Tin Man. She may have been able to avoid getting laid flat, but she isn't sure she hasn't seriously been hurt going through that glass pane. She suspects adrenalin is numbing up the worst of it.
The decision is made almost subconsciously. She takes the split second before Clara recovers, before Alex pushes back from the counter, and she books it, not heeding the glass or the shooting, blinding pain throughout her body.
She runs, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind her.
no subject
That moment of distraction where Alex's eyes flicker over to Clara is what gives Venus that opening.
His hand closes over the bat, his graphene fingers clenching, metal squealing as he jerks the bat out of Venus's hands and sends it flying. He's just off balance enough that she catches him before his stabilizers kick in - a second later and they would've slammed into place and he couldn't have been budged no matter how much she pulled. The hot oil hits his face before Alex can get the other hand braced against the side of the fryer. By the time he jerks himself free, Venus is gone, his HUD is wigging out about the burns to his face, and hot oil drips down the jagged edges of his visor. It doesn't occur to him to try to wash it off. The damage isn't life threatening, but there is a probability he may lose vision in one eye, even so. Alex is confident OmniCorp will fix that. They salvaged his face from the car-bomb, therefore this should be easy in comparison. It's not even his original eye.
Besides, what should've been agonizing pain is reduced to discomfort, the connection that should've had him screaming neatly cut. Cyborgs take hot oil baths like a champ, apparently.
Alex turns to face Clara, his face already bright red and glistening in that unnatural way burns do. He looks head-on at the bleeding socket where Clara's eye should have been and doesn't flinch. The nausea doesn't rise in throat. What he does do is put markers where the bloody footprints go so he can follow up on Venus.
"Don't obstruct a police officer again, understood?" Alex steps closer, reaching to confiscate the knife. While he can accept she took it in self-defense, it's still theft if she keeps it. "I don't want to pacify you."
Not when Clara Murphy had such a clean record.
no subject
Which doesn't stop that small panicked feeling from rising up in her chest when she sees the burns on Alex's face. Compared to the way he looked after the bombing, they're downright mild, but it still hurts to see him like this, even if he won't acknowledge that he's hurting. She considers looking for a cloth to try to at least clean him up with the slightest bit until he starts talking.
"I was trying to help you," Clara says hoarsely. "I'm not sure if you've forgotten it, but that's what people do for their loved ones." And once she notices that he's reaching for the knife, she steps back, clutching to it. "Could you please take me to Dr. Norton? I need to see him."
no subject
He steps closer, towering over Clara and between the hot oil dripping off his face and the blisters starting to form, the dead, flattened look in his eyes, and he looks like something wearing her husband's face. He comes closer and closer and his hand reaches out - he leads this time with his flesh hand, the hot oil still splattered across his armored one and still capable of burning Clara. His skin brushes against Clara's fingers as he takes the knife gently but firmly. He pivots, scans for the knife rack on the counter, and slides it back in. Alex grabs a rag to wipe the hot oil off his chassis before he turns back to Clara.
"Since EMTs don't seem to be on their way, I'll carry you to Dr. Norton. He may be able to assist you while I look for your assailant." Alex fixes a stare, looking at Clara's face instead of gaping at the eye socket. It's not the worst injury in his database. Plenty of other Detroit civilians have learned to live with injuries such as this. Clara Murphy will learn too.
He bends down and easily lifts his wife, bridal-style. There's no bracing himself, no joking about getting old. He just comes down and comes up, Clara pressed against graphene plating that smells strongly of fryer oil.