thearena | [walking up to me expecting words]

Entry tags:

[walking up to me expecting words]

Who | Cecil Palmer and Albert Heinrich
What | A DRAMATIC TEAM-UP AGAINST THE ROOMBA HORDES
Where | In the vicinity of the food court
When | Beginning of week 3 of the Arena
Warnings | Fighting!! Action!! Swords!! Probably some blood!!

On the bright side, he had a weapon now. A weapon with his name on it, no less.

...Not, of course, that he had any idea what to do with it. Cecil clutched the sabre in both his hands as he moved through the wide, bright-lit hallways, clumsy and awkward; every so often, people saw him and moved away, because he had a sabre and they didn't. He knew that he was exactly as dangerous with it in his hands as he had been without it. But it appeared that not everyone knew this, and he could hardly explain that to them.

It was getting toward closing time, he noted; the light was changing, and the small vacuums that seemed to be on constant patrol were moving with more finality than usual. None of them seemed to take much notice of him, presumably because he wasn't leaving any kind of mess behind him. (An Avox knew better.)

But there was something odd about their movement-- ordinarily, their patrols were random, meandering, moving toward messes visible only to them and then veering off to whatever needed their attention next. But there was one off to Cecil's left moving in a straight line. And another, a little behind him and gaining fast. And a third, zooming around a corner in the same direction as the first two - all determined, all without distraction, focused on what could only be the same goal.

Cecil picked up his pace, the smallest of frowns appearing around the corners of his mouth. Where could they be going? Against his better judgment, he followed-- they were headed toward the food court, in the same direction he was, anyway, and they didn't appear to be upset with him.

He slowed as he approached. He could see a figure there, familiar in a distant kind of way, but not immediately recognizable - and the little vacuums appeared to be making a beeline for him.

Cecil hesitated, bringing his sabre up cautiously into both hands, and waited-- for an order? No, not so much. Only to wait for one uncertain thing out of the many before him, at least, to resolve itself.

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The evening food raid had gone off like any other, Albert dropping from his rope on the ceiling and snatching as much as his backpack could hold. In fact, he'd made off with more than usual and was nearly halfway back up the rope when it happened.

The zipper broke, sending all the food he'd grabbed tumbling back down to the food court floor, half of the seals breaking and spilling pasta, soup, and various other dinner related items in a sloppy mess.

Damnit.

He slid back down to see what he could salvage, picking through the litter while still trying to make sure no other tributes took the opportunity to attack. Of course, looking out for tributes is very different than looking out for angry robots, especially when until this point, the things had been ignoring him completely.

Not so now. Apparently they want revenge for the mess.

The first one has the misfortune of bumping right into the back of Albert's legs, sending him reeling forward and barely able to keep his footing on a soup slick. The next comes from a slightly different angle and he nearly topples over, saved only by a nearby table. Even so, he sends a plastic chair clattering across the floor.

What was two are suddenly a half dozen of the things, ludicrously trying to batter Albert off his feet over a bit of spilled milk. It wouldn't be so frightening if some of the late joiners weren't sporting shears and other pointy bits coming off the top.

God he hates robots.

When Cecil finally rounds the corner, Albert's doing his best attempt at keeping his ankles and calves out of the way, half up on the table and kicking at the roombas fairly uselessly with one shredded pant leg fluttering with each movement.

Albert. Cecil realizes it as he steps closer, his expression shifting from neutral to alarmed-neutral. There's still something in him that whispers, Something to clean-- work to do-- but it's overridden, this time, by a much more immediate realization of the impending danger. To himself. To Albert.

Before he has even made a conscious decision, he comes running - long limbs flying, spandex outfit doing... nothing much, sabre hanging from his hand - and aims a kick at the nearest of the tiny robots. His foot catches it right under the lip of its little round body, and it flies-- hitting the ground upside down with a crack and languishing there, its wheels spinning uselessly in the air.

Cecil stops in place, staring wide-eyed at Albert, breathing hard - equal parts fear of him, and fear for him. And something else, too-- his sabre is still in his hands, held aloft, and his gaze is... unusually direct, for him. Like he were not only incidentally here, but... but offering his help.

The tiny vacuums are hesitating, searching for the source of the threat to their comrade. Cecil's expression asks: Run, or fight?

One foe out of the way and Cecil flying to Albert's rescue, so to speak, is heartening and the former cyborg is able to redouble his efforts, catching another similarly to how Cecil downed the first and sending it careening towards the kitchen area where it can be heard for several seconds bouncing among stainless steel fixtures with all the racket of a pinball in its machine.

They're far from out of the woods, but whatever small amount of automated intelligence the roombas have seems to be making them hesitate for just a moment, long enough to clack pinchers in the air and whirl blades against nothing in calculating another tact. Which is just what Albert had been looking for.

Though shorter than his fiance, Albert is not a small man by any stretch and he takes the pause as cue to jump down from the table and then lift said table over his head - the faux-wooden thing surprisingly heavy for being mostly plastic and particle board - to crash down upon his and Cecil's enemies.

Then and only then is he able to grab the Avox's hand and start for anywhere but the food court. "Run!"

Cecil's a little slower on the uptake, and he almost loses his footing (and his sword) as he's yanked along. But the order takes hold - he can't let himself fall, because he's been told to run. He stumbles a step, finds his feet, and then he is sprinting after Albert, one arm pumping and the other white-knuckled on the hilt of his saber. He feels the stab of tiny instruments of death at his ankles, and though he is moving too quickly for them to find any real purchase, he knows he will leave blood behind him as they go.

He swings his sword as he runs, striking the tiny vacuums with metallic clinks and plastic cracks and feeling savagely glad to see them fly into each other. They are outpacing them, though the swarm is still behind them.

Cecil throws a glance over his shoulder. Where is safety? ...Upstairs. They need to run for an escalator, a staircase, something.

He wants to tell Albert this. He... he actually wants to tell Albert this. He is suddenly fiercely frustrated that he can't-- angry that he can't shout just one word, can't even say Hey! and then point the direction they need to go. He's useless, and he could be so much less useless if he only only speak--!

There's no time to be frightened by the magnitude of that thought. Cecil increases his pace (though he's far less fit than Albert, and his lungs are already starting to burn with exertion), enough to stretch out a hand and tug hard at Albert's sleeve.

Albert may be fit, but he's only human and if he'd been prepared to run then maybe he would be fine, but as it stands he didn't get a good start and this is out of panic instead of exercise. They're running full tilt, so his breath is already coming hard when Cecil tugs on his sleeve, stalling his steps just for a moment. Not enough to trip, but enough to shorten his stride and run beside the former host instead of in front of him.

He doesn't have the air to speak and breathe at the same time, so instead Cecil receives an arched look, something that doesn't need to be heard over the racket of their feet on the tile and the ominous whirring of the little robots at their heels.

Well, that's sort of encouraging, isn't it-- neither of them is speaking. Nonverbal communication is something Cecil has developed an instinct for, for obvious reasons. He could pretend he's communicating with an Avox, almost. If he were in a situation that allowed him enough presence of mind to put forth the effort to pretend anything.

So, he looks right into Albert's face, eyes wide, gasping for breath, and points ahead with his saber - ahead, and up. Up the stairs. Up-- anything, really, anything immediately available. Cecil thinks he would take a rope to swing on, if it became suddenly available.

They'll have to swerve to make it, from what Cecil understands of the mall's layout. It'll give the robots a few seconds' lead on them. But if they do it together-- if they're both there to ensure the other doesn't find himself tripped up and buried in a cascade of furious tiny bladed vacuums-- then they might have a chance.

The saber draws Albert's gaze and he immediately takes Cecil's meaning. The roombas are short and on wheels, stairs would be nigh impossible for them to climb. There are stairs down the next hall, if Albert's memory serves. A small set, much less perilous than the escalators all rimmed with sharp edges, but he too sees the potential flaw.

They'll have to get around a corner, and with the army of viscous vacuums gaining and trying to flank them, they'll have to time it well to avoid getting dragged off like so much trash. Not that they have much time to plan.

Luckily, Albert and Jet have been leaving ropes everywhere to get around. They certainly can't stop long enough to climb one, but if he can grab Cecil with one arm and swing them around the corner with the rope...

"Grab onto me!" It's coming up fast and they only have one shot. Breathlessly, Albert reaches to grasp one arm around Cecil's waist as his opposite hand stretches out for the rope just before they meet the corner.

It's good he phrased it as a command-- it means Cecil reacts almost without conscious thought, without taking precious milliseconds to evaluate the situation. He flings his free arm around Albert's shoulder as Albert grabs his waist, grabbing at a fistful of clothing and clinging with all his strength. He'd have his other arm around him if not for the sword still in his hand-- that swings free on the other side of him, pinging off of plastic vacuum shells and tiny blades in a graceful arc as they swoop around the corner, overturning the little rolling discs and starting a momentary traffic jam of confused robots.

Cecil, however, sees very little of it-- he's got his teeth gritted, his eyes squeezed almost shut, and his head ducked. This is far more adventure than any Avox was ever intended to experience, and he would hate to give the impression that he wants to be here. It reminds him of one of his favorite Arenas as a kid-- one held on a series of sailing ships, where Tributes killed each other for one of the limited piles of rope...

An acrobat Cecil is not, but the stunt accomplishes what it's intended to-- as they swing around the corner, the clatter of wheels and the whirr of blades is left farther behind them than it was. If they can stick the landing, it'll be a straight sprint up the stairs.

Albert's arm digs into Cecil's hip as they swing around the pillar at the corner, the rope straining under both of their weight but holding. The arc is wide, both of the men's feet clearing the front-most robots and flying far enough ahead to give them a decent lead.

There's a clatter as Albert releases the rope and he stumbles two steps forward before his stride evens back out into a run and he clears the first three stairs in a leap. He keeps hold of Cecil the whole time, awkwardly pulling the other man behind him in an effort to keep him out of harm's way as he'd failed to do in the sinking ship arena.

So help him they will both make it out of this in one piece!

It takes Cecil a step or two longer to find his footing - but he makes it onto the stairs with only minimal damage (mostly to his left shin, which he barks magnificently against the first step). He only has to be half-dragged up. This is an accomplishment.

It's only at the top of the stairs that he slows. Every inch of him is still alive with panic, but something in his mind knows that, with the stairs behind them, they are... well. Safer. Not safe. And so he slows, because his lungs and his leg and his heart are begging him to, and he can't offer then any compelling enough reason not to.

He stops. If he goes any further, it will only be because Albert is still moving. He tries to stumble a few more steps, but he's done-- first, the saber falls from his hand with a clatter, and then he almost loses his footing reaching for it, and then he can't get his pace back, and-- no, he's useless. Officially useless.

If Albert keeps running, he'll simply let his arm drop from around his shoulders, and allow himself to fall to the carpeted floor.

The former cyborg doesn't get all that far ahead, only a few steps before he's bent over double, wheezing and trying to catch his breath. But they're safe here in the second story corridor, at least for the moment. He has to wonder how many people lost money back in the Capitol betting that they would be mauled and hauled off by killer vacuum robots.

Minutes later Albert feels together enough to turn back and attempt to help Cecil up. He's still panting, but no longer heaving for breath, yet instead of getting them both to their feet, he just helps Cecil sit and then plops himself down beside him to take a more extended breather.

"Thank you," he's finally able to say. If Cecil hadn't come to his rescue, he's fairly certain he'd be back in the Capitol now with whatever system they have for reviving tributes trying to put back together all his little pieces.

The help is appreciated. Cecil sits gingerly, doubles over and takes long, deep breaths, not caring for the moment how loud they are. The sword he pulls closer, to rest beside him. After a long moment, he sits back up.

From a long three paces back, he leans over to peer at the bottom of the stairs, where the herd of angry vacuums has already begun, one at a time, to sullenly fold away its whirring blades. He looks at Albert, and he's wide-eyed and openmouthed and panting - and then, for the briefest second, a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

It doesn't make it all the way on to his face, but it is there - exuberant, triumphant, a little disbelieving. We did it. A response to the thanks, in a way - that wasn't just routine. That wasn't just duty. That was... really cool.

The grin may be just a shadow, but the exhilaration Albert can almost feel coming off of Cecil in short waves. He can't blame the man, there is something brilliant in the feeling of escaping death. He remembers when he used to get that odd mixture of relief and pleasure at making it out of a dangerous situation with his life. Now he just feels exhausted, but he can appreciate Cecil's experience.

"Let's not make a habit of that." He leans back on his arms, the bottom of his pack squishing down against the floor and making the bag act like some sort of chair. It's surprisingly comfortable and he decides to wait there another few minutes to recover. "Where did you even find a sword?"

He knows Cecil can't respond in words, but they've managed to communicate alright so far since Cecil's Avoxing so he doesn't really give it much thought.

How to explain? Cecil picks up the sword, laying it across his lap. He turns it toward Albert, his eyes flicking between Albert's face and the two words inscribed neatly on the blade, just below the hilt: Cecil Palmer.

He didn't find the sword. It was given to him. He isn't sure what he did to deserve it, or what anyone thought he would do with it, but it was given to him by someone who wanted him, specifically, to have it. He doesn't have any explanation beyond that, which is fine-- it's not like he has much power to explain further, anyway. There's a hint of guilt in the hunch of his shoulders. He doesn't want it to look like he sought out something that wasn't his, especially not a weapon. It is not his fault, he says, that he has this sword.

He leans over, fishing in his pocket, and pulls out a locker key, which he lets rest in his hand and looks at intently for a moment. There is a connection between these two objects, the sword and the key. Cecil glances back up at Albert's face for a second, trying to tell if he understands.

"Ah, the scavenger hunt." He and Jet had participated, but come up empty handed. He knows others received similarly monogrammed weapons and for a day or so the two former cyborgs' tensions were high, thinking they'd easily be taken down by someone who'd had the fortune to receive a gun, but the handing out of weapons hadn't changed the playing field much, at least not from their point of view, and Albert at least had just mentally marked who to be careful of and carried on.

A sword, though. To an Avox. Albert has to wonder if it's more of a cruel joke than a gift, but then again Cecil wielded it against the roombas, and had run with Albert to preserve himself so perhaps it's aiding in breaking down that programming. Carlos would be glad to hear it, he thinks.

Speaking of. "Ah, I've been meaning to tell you if I found you. Carlos is looking for you. I was trapped with him the first night in one of the stores."

Cecil had never expected to use the sword. He'd taken it with him because it had his name on it, and it had felt vaguely disobedient to leave it where it was, somehow. He's glad now he did.

When he hears Carlos' name, though, his expression drops suddenly back to neutral. His eyes flick back and forth as he listens, but for a second, it's his only reaction.

He still isn't sure how to respond to mention of Carlos. He's avoided finding him, so far. There is too much tangled up there - too much sadness, too much uncertainty. He doesn't know how Carlos feels about him; not really. He doesn't know how much to believe about what he's heard, about the things Carlos has been saying. They'd met only once since his Avoxing, in the elevator where Carlos had declared him unfit to be even a test subject.

After a long second, Cecil glances up sidelong at Albert. Hesitant, but inquisitive. Inviting him to go on. Surprised that Carlos should be seeking him; unable to pretend that he isn't interested to know what Carlos is doing.

"It's really more for him to say, but..." Albert sighs, his breath finally back to him after their madcap dash. "He told me his story, and his mistakes about your part in it. How he lied to you. As I said, it's not for me to explain. He has more than enough of his own words, but I can tell you this at least; For all his faults, Carlos is a good man, and when you do find each other, I think you should hear him out."

Albert looks over Cecil with his white eyes, trying to gauge his friend's reaction. "Whatever you decide after that is for you two to work out, but I thought you should know. And this from someone who fundamentally disliked him the moment we met." As if that lends it more credence somehow.

"Still, life here in Panem is too hard already to not hold onto those things you care about, whatever that is."

Hear him out. Here's a weird problem with not having a voice: The moment you hear something that you would have made into a joke about not having a voice had you a voice, but which you cannot make, because you do not have a voice. This is almost a joke in and of itself, and funnier still because he can't tell it. Because-- well. Yeah.

Cecil lets the potential joke go and nods slowly, once, in reply. It's reluctant-- hesitant-- because it's difficult for him to admit, even now, that he cares for Carlos. Even with his conditioning wearing off at the edges, it feels dangerous to admit. If Avoxes are not allowed any feeling at all, then such an incredible depth of feeling as he has for Carlos must be somehow more forbidden, right?

He isn't sure how to explain the other reason he's been avoiding Carlos. Carlos is a danger to him, it's true-- but isn't he just as great a danger to Carlos? How would it look, for an Avox punished in part for Carlos' crime (because it was Carlos who had given him the second part of his broadcast, the part laying the blame for the epidemic on the Capitol) to go seeking him out afterward? Might it not only incriminate him further?

This is a great deal to say all at once, and Cecil can't begin to fathom how to communicate it. And so he condenses it: He draws his knees up to himself, hunches his shoulders, drops his gaze and curls his arms into himself. Making himself smaller, less noticeable. Letting his expression go neutral. Tucking himself away from the conversation.

It says, in short: I am afraid.

Cecil cocoons in his fear and Albert worries that he's said too much, pushed too hard. He hadn't meant to kill whatever strange joy Cecil had found in their near piratical escape from the horde of robots, he'd only been trying to help. He feels he made a mistake in assuming he knew Cecil's feelings on the matter, or at least in his guesses of how the man would react. He'd expected either acceptance or anger, not fear.

But this makes sense too, if he thinks on it with himself in Cecil's shoes. If these things were done to him because of Carlos to an extent, wouldn't Cecil fear being close to him? It's not the same thing, but Albert can't help but compare this to his seeing Jet again after His Voice, after running off for three decades without any word and then reappearing just to die saving humanity. Albert had been so tired of being hurt, so afraid it would happen again, that he'd pushed Jet away instead. He might still have if circumstances were different.

Or maybe not. Maybe it's always worth a second try. Or a third try. But it's not Albert's decision to make here, this is on Cecil and Carlos.

"It's you choice to talk to him or not, believe him or not, whatever that choice may be." A steady hand comes to rest carefully on Cecil's shoulder. "I won't mention it again, I'm sorry."

Cecil doesn't flinch away from Albert's hand, which says a lot, really, about how much he has come to trust the man. Whatever fear he's feeling, it isn't compounded by Albert's presence.

Instead, he turns toward him-- looks, for a second, into his face, and rests his own hand, briefly, on Albert's hand on his shoulder. It's a forgiving gesture-- Don't worry. He might find Carlos eventually, one way or another, and he'll make a decision then, however great his fear.

He hesitates. The way his eyes flick back and forth show that he's trying to think of a way to communicate something. He wants to say Thank you-- for the news, and for the help, but he isn't sure how.

He tries for... for an entire two seconds' prolonged eye contact, and a single slow nod. He manages it, too - though he has no idea if he's managed to say what he hopes he's saying. (And if this doesn't work, maybe... maybe there's some other way. Something else he can try. Something else he can give his friend.)

In general, Albert is very good at reading people, but no one is perfect and while he understands the 'don't worry' he misses the meaning in the rest of it. The eye contact just makes him mildly uncomfortable, which he tries not to show. The last thing he wants to do is insult Cecil in some way.

"We should probably keep moving. We may have escaped the robots, but there's always other hazards or the other Tributes to worry about." He stands and offers his hand down to Cecil to help him up too. "You can stay with us - Jet and I - if you don't have somewhere safe of your own."

It says something, that Cecil finds it so frustrating not to be understood. He has gone so long without trying to communicate-- has been so firmly conditioned not even to wonder how he might communicate, if he could. It bothers him more than it has in weeks that his message does not make it across.

It isn't Albert's fault, of course. It's because Cecil doesn't have words, and he has always needed words. He has never quite known what to do without them, and less so now that he has started to grope for them again.

But he lets it go, because there isn't time for him to find exactly what combination of gestures will communicate what he's trying to say. Instead, he reaches up to take Albert's hand, and lets himself be helped to his feet. His sword comes up with him. They gave it to him without a scabbard, and so he just lets it hang at his side, with his name on the blade facing the world.

He hesitates; and then nods, once, slowly. He's avoided staying with people so far, for fear that he will be ordered to do something he won't be able to refuse; but that fear, next to Albert, is so distant as to be ignorable. In fact, something like relief comes into his face, something almost like happiness-- he's glad to have been asked.

He takes three long steps further up the corridor (away from the stairs), eager to be somewhere safer; hesitates again, turns back and looks at Albert questioningly. ...Where?

"Upstairs," on the other end of the mall, but at least there's another staircase nearby at the other end of the hall to get to the upper level. Thank goodness for logically laid out buildings.

Albert moves to join Cecil, adrenaline finally wearing off and leaving him feeling a little cold, and maybe even a little like his apparent age. Physically he's fit, but that doesn't stop joints from popping or muscles from aching after major exertion, not to mention the shallow cuts from the robots and the one Bucky had left across his chest and abdomen sting with drying sweat. It's healed enough not to bleed, but it itches and pulls a little when he moves and the others he can feel rivulets dripping into his socks. Albert's starting to suspect that it won't be any one encounter that does him in this Arena, but an amalgamation of several small injuries until he's unable to defend himself.

"We've managed to make a safe camp. Nothing fancy, and we have to be awake when the roombas come through or they'll try and drag us and our supplies off." Which is the sole reason they still surround themselves with the fishing line tied with various metal bits to make a racket. It's a poor alarm for people coming near, but when the robots try to take it down, they know they have to move until the mindless little things are done. "Not the best accommodations, but we have food, water, and a bathroom nearby."

He shrugs. It's not a life, but it's the best they've ever done in an Arena so far and makes him feel safer, at the least. Especially with Jet blinded. It's defensible, and they don't have to go far for anything save to replenish their supplies. With Cecil present though, maybe he wouldn't have to worry so much about Jet being left alone while he's gone.

"I, ah... I was actually wondering if you'd be willing to help out a bit. Something happened and I've been loathe to leave him much, but we still have to eat." A strain comes over his expression, the kind that being in the Arena too long brings on, grasping at straws, knowing that the only hope is through death or victory and that it's not even exactly a real hope so you fight it as long as possible because... well, because.

Cecil looks at Albert with concern, brow furrowed slightly, as they walk. He's taken fewer injuries than Albert has, and is rather younger - he's hardly at top form himself, but it's due more to hunger and the constant, gnawing fear than injury. He keeps his steps slow, careful, and lets the other set the pace.

It is a small thing - but it means something, to be asked if he is willing to help. It's not something Albert has to ask, and Cecil thinks he must know that. Cecil's conditioning is weakening, slowly, but it's still a constant pull at his senses, a weight in the pit of his stomach-- there remains, constant, the urge the obey, and the small relief, the dulling of the fear's sharp edge, when he does.

He would not have resented Albert for commanding him to help. He could not have resented Albert for commanding him to help. He knows this, and he is grateful, nonetheless, that Albert asked. That he will help goes (thankfully) without saying. Not just because, technically, he cannot refuse - but because he does not want to refuse.

What happened?, his expression says, or tries to say.

He doesn't always ask, he's not conscious of the predilection when not running for their lives. It's just how he always phrases things; if it's not an order, given for reason of survival or combat, he asks instead of directs. Orders carry more weight if they're only given when necessary.

Cecil's expression is clear enough and Albert sighs softly before responding, stopping briefly at the bottom step to the staircase upwards. "He was blinded. Nasir caught him in the kitchen."

Nasir's name is said with distaste but he doesn't elaborate further. There's nothing to be done right now and Albert would rather run across Nasir himself to make him pay than to share his vendetta with someone else. That, and he's far more worried about Jet right now. "I don't think anything can be done for him. We used the ointment in a first aid kit so the scarring around his eyes is healing, but his vision is likely gone until the end of the Arena."

He doesn't say it, but he doubts they'll win purely for that reason. Jet would be stuck blind if Albert forced him to be the last man standing. He can't make that decision for his partner.

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[walking up to me expecting words]

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