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

[the_hit_list]

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.

Comments

[nunpunching]

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?"

[the_hit_list]

Behind a tall, cracked tube, Tim freezes at the voice, coming from somewhere up ahead, inside the mountain. Okay, he wanted to find out what was going on, but he had every intention of doing that alone. He had been hoping to not meet anyone at all. Really, he was hoping that if it was all some nightmare induced by an undigested bit of beef or blot of mustard.

He doesn't recognize the voice, but it's not like he was expecting to find friends here.

His hands fumble at the costume to find something useful, but, of course, there's nothing, not even a good, heavy broach. Tim eases down and picks up a broken off scrap of plastic. It's terribly flimsy and absolutely useless for anything, but he still tucks it into his belt. Maybe it will make enough noise if he throws it to be a distraction. He just doesn't want to have absolutely nothing.

There's no way he's going to waltz up the ramp to the loading dock - right now, it's open and gives the advantage to whoever's further inside, because it's easy to see from darkness into light. The ramp is looking way too much like the ever-narrowing corral to the slaughterhouse, and his original thought, climbing from the ramp up onto that little lip before the roof took a 45 degree slant, would leave him more prone than he was out here, right now, until he got up there.

He could run, but he's curious and wants to see what this voice has to say and what its owner will do. He doesn't answer, but waits down near the bottom of the ramp.

[nunpunching]

"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.

[the_hit_list]

Punchy doesn't get a response out of Tim, not at first.

But it doesn't take long before he realizes that there's a chance that this person is like him, someone who doesn't want to fight. He might be able to find out more about this place. It's tempting. Tim knows it's a risk, but he reassures himself with the realization that he still hasn't seen any bodies. Unless, of course, it only just started and -

He shakes his head slightly. Thinking like this could go on forever, and he already knows he needs more intel to figure out anything. There is someone in there, and, even if this person tries to kill him, he'll learn. Tim starts moving up the ramp cautiously, pausing every few yards in a crouched position to listen and watch. When he gets close enough, he grabs the bit of plastic that he'd picked up and flicks his wrist, sending it gliding like a frisbee into the dock. He can hear it quietly skitter as it lands.

[nunpunching]

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."

[the_hit_list]

Tim takes a step back from the new arrival. About his age. Badly wounded, if he's taken the time for that makeshift bandage that looks like scrap cloth. That would explain the missing shirt. It also goes a long way to confirming that this is some sort of pitched battle. If it comes down to a fight, Tim hopes the kid has a TBI already.

He's a bit stuck on the slang mixed with the pinkie swearing. It's so incongruous that the phrase just sort of hangs there in the air, and Tim blinks. "What - I'm not going to attack either. I just got here."

His hand gestures upwards, in the direction of the other guy's face. "What happened?"

[nunpunching]

"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."

[the_hit_list]

"Civvies? There are civilians in here?" The disgust is evident in tone and face. It's one thing to grab someone like himself, who might stand a chance, and another to put an innocent in with a crowd of 'killer peeps'.

Tim wants to relax and help put the guy at ease, but it's hard to do that when he's completely baffled. It's like... the words are in English, but he doesn't understand. There's three decades of slang in a few sentences. "So- this really is a death match. That's... not groovy.

[nunpunching]

"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."

[the_hit_list]

Not wanting to know if the four dead were kids, Tim says nothing in response to that. What is there to say? I'm sorry? That never works. He can only hope that they never saw it coming and that this guy didn't know them.

And that he didn't kill them.

"And there's the ones that are in-between, like me. I'm Tim, by the way. Tim Wayne." The introduction is not as casual as it sounds. He knows that you have to a kidnapper to see you as a human being. Maybe Punchy's not the kidnapper here, but it's easier to fight a nameless face. "Where do you fit in on the scale?"

[nunpunching]

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..."

[the_hit_list]

"I'd say it's nice to meet you, but... we're here," Tim finishes weakly. He eyes the offered hand before reaching over and accepting the handshake. "At least you know that it was worth it."

"A superhero, huh. I've known a few." The name Punchy almost puts a smile on his face, but Tim contains himself. Robin isn't the sternest sounding code name either. They're both better than Dove. Besides, it could be the guy's real name. He hasn't come across a Punchy, hero or villain. "So, does that mean you've got superpowers?"

[nunpunching]

"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?"

[battroll]

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.

[the_hit_list]

It's some time before Tim slipped out of Space Mountain and scurried down the ramp until it was safe enough to jump off the side. He wasn't feeling any better about this place, but he couldn't hit pause on life to mull it over and mope. He had to prioritize needs, and right now, finding a place like Punchy had - somewhere enclosed with only one viable ingress/egress - was at the top of the list.

Space Mountain wasn't really a good choice, though, and wouldn't be even if it was unoccupied. It was too big and famous - just look at how he, himself, had made a beeline for it, Tim thought as he made his way slowly around the structure. Others might do the same thing. He had to find somewhere more obscure, something that people wouldn't be drawn to. The "It's a Small World" ride would be perfect.

He shuddered involuntarily. Oh hell no. Anywhere but there. If the music was still on, he'd be insane within hours, and the water in there was pretty green, if he remembered correctly. That was before whatever Armageddon had wrecked the place. New Orleans Square is a possibility; climbing up onto a third story balcony would hide from most sight lines. The Golden Horseshoe Saloon. Maybe. He'd check out both and look for functioning water fountains on the way.

[battroll]

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.

[the_hit_list]

His step was careful as ever because Tim was trying not to go clomping all over the place and attract every Tribute in Tomorrowland. That meant more weight on the ball of his foot and hardly any on the heel, just enough to keep well-balanced. It's out of trained habit, but it's also because he doesn't feel comfortable traipsing through the arena like this. This isn't how he's used to operating.

Tim thought he was being overly paranoid with this feeling that he was being followed. He let the cape get caught between his legs, faking a stumble that twisted him and took a few seconds to recover from. He didn't see anyone, but there was still this nagging feeling that a death match should have more action. More people. That kinda should be the point, and it's not paranoia if they're actually out to get you.

He turns and continues creeping for a few feet, then suddenly sprints ahead until the curve of the building completely obscures where he just was. Tim puts his back against one of the support beams, hiding him from anyone coming the same direction he did.

[battroll]

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.

[the_hit_list]

Tim wondered if he was being crazy, hiding from no one, and if it was the downside of fear and adrenaline. He was barely breathing, but he felt distinctly alive and in control for the first time since he woke up on that cot. It seemed like it was days ago, but it couldn't have been a few hours.

He might not have any real control over being in the arena, but this - hiding and waiting to see if a situation develops, is the closest thing to normal that he's had so far.

And then he hears it. The faintest scuffle of a foot, but no time to even brace himself before a tall figure has barely moved into his line of sight. Too close to kick, and so Tim throws his weight behind a solid punch aimed at the face.

[battroll]

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.

[the_hit_list]

Crap. He was hoping for someone that didn't know how to fight. Tim jumped into the throw rather than resist it, and he somersaulted in mid-air to use up some of the momentum.

He landed on his feet, dropping down into a low stance that mimics his opponent's. His hands hovered in front of his chest, but palms out.

"I'm not trying to fi-" Tim stopped mid-sentence, because he had been trying to gauge the man's reaction as he spoke and had looked at his face for the first time. He looked so familiar. Too familiar. Maybe he was back in the Unternet again. That would explain everything.

He pushed both hands forward slightly, as if he was telling Damien to simmer down. "I'm not here to fight."

[battroll]

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.

[the_hit_list]

If he added up all the lectures that he's gotten from that voice, Tim thought that he'd spent months just listening to him. He knew that voice. He could even imitate it. He had no idea how many people could. But this man - he looked more like Bruce did five years ago, but Tim, couldn't be sure. His older memories of Bruce were of a man larger than life, of someone that no one could live up to. They said, statistically, there are eight people in the world that resemble you. That didn't include voice or posture or miraculously being that stealthy. Of all the things that the resemblance might be, Tim was certain that a coincidence was not one of them.

He doesn't relax his stance or drop his arms yet. "And here, I thought we were supposed to be above playing by the house rules. That we didn't need to sink to their level," he said slowly. He didn't see any harm in taking a chance. If he was wrong, this was Hush. Or he was in the Unternet and Lonnie had a lot of explaining to do. Or... any number of unknown scenarios, but he would at least cross 'reality' off the list.

"Bruce."

[battroll]

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.

[the_hit_list]

He nodded once and allowed himself a moment of relief, recognizing that there was the possibility that this was Bruce. Hadn't he suspected that this was a time travel thing? If time could be bent to force a child to grow to prepubescence in three days... if he knew more than one person who had been a thousand years in the future... if Bruce had been sent back in time...

After all that, this would should be easy.

Nope. He still hated time travel things.

He just had no other working theories left. The Unternet wasn't a rational theory because, even if he managed to explain why his mind pictured him in mint green, there was no explanation for him or Bruce to be imagining Bruce in what looked like it had once been pink.

"You aren't exactly the same," Tim ventured, straightening up and letting his arms fall, "As you were yesterday."