the_hit_list: (Default)
Tim Drake ([personal profile] the_hit_list) wrote in [community profile] thearena2013-03-28 09:44 pm

[ OPEN ] So, apparently, it IS a small world after all.

Who Tim Drake and OPEN
What Tim arrives in the arena.
Where Main Street towards Tomorrowland
When Week 2
Warnings/Notes None so terrible. Punchy has grievous head wounds.



When his body raises up over tube, Tim runs. It's the beauty of the fight or flught response in the absence of an aggressor - just go; you can panic later. He doesn't wait for the platform to stop, doesn't study his surroundings for more than the instant that it takes to verify that there is, in fact, ground aside from the platform.

Other things click into place quickly as he moves along a street. The long abandoned stores. The absence of people. If this really is an arena, he doesn't see or hear his competitors yet, but he's not stopping to really observe until there's some room between where they put because it's obviously where they want him to be. Sticking out like a sore thumb, a lone target in the open.

It's unnerving, having so very little to go on. He should have fought more on the way in. Too late for that now, he thinks. Work with what you have.

The arena is old, crumbling in fact. Has it been used before? Is it real, broken down by time? If it's a facade, someone wasted a lot of time reclaiming materials for... What? Some place that unknown assailants throw their kidnapped victims and force them to battle to the death? It doesn't make sense, and almost everything makes sense once you know enough about whose behind it.

Well, he hasn't seen anything clownish, so that eliminates the almost. But what he does see still stops him in his tracks.

Tim catches as his breath, alternating staring at the large, domed structure ahead and checking his six. He remembers that building, remembers promising that he's not too little or too scared, just please one ride.

It's Space Mountain.

This is Disneyland.

Which means that he needs to add 'when he is' onto the growing list of questions that he has. None of which will ever get answered if he continues to stand around gawking like a mint green dope. Space Mountain is as good a place to start as any - if he can climb it, he'll have a good view.

He starts towards it, because that's better than letting his mind waits while it works out if he's now spiraling through time like Bruce was, and he's moving quickly but with more purpose now, keeping close to any buildings and debris and generally trying to stay out of the middle of the street. Get to the mountain, see what there is to see, find out if this is a real death match, then worry about the big picture.
nunpunching: (We cool we cool.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-29 04:39 am (UTC)(link)
Punchy's set up camp at Space Mountain, which is now silent, because he's found the source of the spacey music and unplugged it. His original plan was to find the boombox and either convert it to a microphone, or, if it was attached to a computer, use it to hack into the overarching network here. Unfortunately, it just seems to be a set of speakers running on a simple tape loop, which are about as retro - and useless - as you can get.

Never one to be stymied by physical impossibilities or his own lack of mechanical knowledge (he was always more of a software guy), Punchy's still fiddling with and poking the speakers and tapedeck. He's commandeered the loading dock to Space Mountain, and he sits now, naked except for his blood-spattered pants and the sleeve he's using as a bandanna-slash-bandage for his missing eye, with his legs danging over the rails.

The silence is a bit unbearable, so he's beatboxing to himself, occasionally throwing in a grunt or a 'yeah' as if gearing up for a supreme emcee takedown.

"Come on, Judy, throw me a beat or some shit," he whines at the little cloth and wooden puppet drooping at the helm of an old roller coaster car. Naturally, the puppet doesn't respond, and Punchy goes back to poking at the speakers. He only stops when he hears a noise - Tim entering Punchy's little lair here.

"Yo, anyone there?"
nunpunching: (We cool we cool.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-30 05:39 am (UTC)(link)
"No? No one here?" Punchy's eyebrows squinch together and then pull apart as he remembers that making facial expressions like that hurts without one of his eyes. He gets up and brushes some dirt off the back of his pants with his hands and grabs his puppet.

"You heard anyone?" he interrogates the doll, then uses his fingers to move her head and shake it in a 'no' gesture.

"A'ight, you stay here," he says to the puppet, setting it back down. "I'mma check this shit, patrol my crib, you know?"

He frowns a little bit as he starts to walk around the perimeter of the loading dock chamber.
nunpunching: (What up wit dat.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-31 06:54 pm (UTC)(link)
Punchy jerks his head over to look at the plastic. He has to rotate his spine a lot further than he otherwise would, but being blinded in one eye has that effect. It also takes him a fraction of a second longer to identify it as a pointless piece of plastic and calculate where it must have come from.

"Yo, I know you're up there," he says, turning to face where Tim's hidden in shadow. He takes a jump up over the cattle stall rail and lands gracefully, not in a combat stance but not in a relaxed one either. Someone sneaking up on him could just be a scared person looking for resources, or an enemy that he'll have to tie up and...well, he'll figure that out when he gets to it. "I ain't gonna lay no heat, pinkie swear."
nunpunching: (We cool we cool.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-31 07:16 pm (UTC)(link)
"Oh, chill. I can dig it." He nods and relaxes a little, taking Tim entirely at his word. He leans back against the rail. "Been getting a bit OD'ed on the murderin' type around here, you know?"

Punchy reaches up to touch his face, as if remembering for the first time the ghastly injury there, the empty socket and the gash running down to his neck. "Oh, this? It's no biggie, just got it bustin' some killer peeps and saving some civvies at the fiesta."
nunpunching: (Sounds wack.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-04-01 03:14 am (UTC)(link)
"Yeah. Saw about four peeps put in the ground at the start," Punchy says, with a certain amount of gravity that has been previously absent from his speech. Reverence for the dead, really. And guilt.

"Some of the peeps here is just regular types. Even got some kids bumping around. And there's some stone-cold gangstas out here too."
nunpunching: (Some mofo just brained me.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-04-02 03:35 am (UTC)(link)
Punchy thrusts his hand out to shake with the enthusiasm of a puppy dog meeting another canine.

"Dope. My name's Punchy." That is totally not his real name, but he doesn't hand out his real name if he can help it. One of the perks of being a superhero, aside from the cool gadgets and hot babes, is the fact that you can leave boring names like "Matthew" behind.

"I'm a superhero. Savin' homies is my jam." He scratches the back of his head. "When I, you know. I saved two. It was so fast..."
nunpunching: (Gangsta's paradise.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-04-04 09:33 pm (UTC)(link)
"Fo' shizz. Besides, very least I'mma get myself a blinged-out eyepatch for all this. Figurin' when I survive all this I can start a line, you know, make mad bank off the one-eye thing."

That doesn't mean he plans on being the only one to survive this, and it's as if the 'only one walks away' idea hasn't occurred to him. He plans on saving everybody, if he can.

"I got the baddest skills, dawg. You ain't even seen shit this tier." Punchy grins, but it falters. "Not that, uh, I can do it here. I think they hacked my mojo when they brought me here. How about you?"

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battroll: (how'd I turn my shirt inside out?)

[personal profile] battroll 2013-03-30 04:25 am (UTC)(link)
Bruce was used to getting by on not very much sleep, but this time in the arena was beginning to stretch even his limits. This wasn't a good place to be off your guard, which was in itself the problem. Bruce could stay away for extremely long periods with profoundly little sleep, but he would still need it eventually. Trapped in a battle royale style death match that included such things as ducks which ate other ducks rather than more traditional water weed, he didn't want to sleep at all, and those few times when exhaustion had forced him to rest, he'd barely allowed himself to nap. He could feel himself beginning to slow down, and it frustrated him. There wasn't time for such a human response. The arena left no room for it.

He was tired now, exhausted, but did not allow himself to stop - and it might be a good thing that he had. He was near enough to the cornucopia to see the figure who was brought up and released, and who immediately began running.

One of the few advantages Bruce had managed to create was keeping tabs on his fellow tributes. A new one meant a wildcard, something Bruce didn't like on the best day.

A new situation: a new tribute. Investigate and move on. Quietly, Bruce stole across the courtyard, and paced the other at a distance.
battroll: (pic#5941042)

[personal profile] battroll 2013-03-30 11:31 pm (UTC)(link)
The way he moved was...

Bruce shook his head and tried to focus. It seemed almost familiar, certain gestures, small things like the way he placed his feet when walking - but he didn't look particularly familiar, which probably meant that all he was seeing was another sign that he was too tired. It was, nonetheless, enough to keep him interested. This, combined with the fact that he didn't have anyway more pressing to be, at least for now, was enough to keep him moving. It was amazing how quietly he could move, and how stealthily, for such a big man.
battroll: (I won't tell you that I love you)

[personal profile] battroll 2013-03-31 01:10 am (UTC)(link)
Bruce made a very, very small annoyed sound at that, barely more than a hiss of breath. Either he'd been careless and had been seen, or... or what? It was possible that this person was just paranoid, being overly cautious in a forum where such behavior was, admittedly, entirely justifiable.

This could be a trap.

Bruce preferred not to walk headlong into one of those, but....

As he stood, Bruce considered. This other person had newly arrived, and was unlikely to have the materials to set a trap properly, at least yet. Overly cautious then? Likely.

Very well, he would be too. It was quietly, very softly, that he stole towards where the other had vanished.
battroll: (we're all getting shit wrecked)

[personal profile] battroll 2013-03-31 01:56 am (UTC)(link)
Trap.

Bruce was lucky that he was on high alert, he instantly ducked into a crouch, under the others punch, hand darting up like a snake to grab the others wrist to pull into a throw. Which, at least, should buy some time to properly judge the situation.
battroll: (control your poison babe)

[personal profile] battroll 2013-03-31 05:54 am (UTC)(link)
It wasn't much to go off of, one punch and one throw, but it was still enough for a beginning. Whoever this was had been trained, and trained well - it took a lot of practice for moves to become so automatic, engrained beyond needing thought. And that stance....

Bruce settles into a mildly aggressive pose, not moving but ready to. But this boy... He seems even more familiar now, many little things, it's almost unnervingly so, like a case of deja vu. Bruce doesn't like it, he doesn't like not knowing things.

"That's not exactly playing by the rules of the game," he comments, in a way that's almost conversational - except, when he speaks, it's not Bruce Wayne, it's Batman.
battroll: (you're a criminal as long as you're mine)

[personal profile] battroll 2013-03-31 06:52 am (UTC)(link)
He's taken aback at that, nearly to the point of shock, enough that he breaks pose, stepping back into something that, while not entirely harmless - he'd still be able to react, and react quickly if necessary - is still far less overtly aggressive than the other. Because, with that sentence, and more importantly that word, everything drops very neatly into place. How he looks, how he moves.

"Tim."

He doesn't respond to the rest of what he says - for all he knows they're on camera. Or, more than on camera, being broadcast. He didn't want to say in as many words that he wasn't going to play along, not unless necessary.

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