thearena | [OPEN] The Lord Rebuke Thee

Entry tags:

[OPEN] The Lord Rebuke Thee

Who| EVERYONE
What| The third floor is collapsing (except those darn tar pits!)
Where| 2nd/3rd floor, but just about the whole place will feel the shakedown
When| the night of 2/7
Warnings/Notes| Inflict blindness, deafness, death, and other injuries to your characters here! Also, building collapse stuff. Etc etc.

He was angry. Of course, he was angry. Everyone was angry in this place. Life wasn't fair, boo hoo, but these hedonistic pigs just went and jumped the gun on him. And no, he didn't mean the other tributes. Some of them were worth his anger as well, honestly. Some of them were virtuous people, like Guy. He was okay. He cared for people. He cared for progress. He didn't want bad things to befall anyone, per say. The good may not always be devout, but they were still good and... knew where they stood on the chain.

Minerals
Vegetation
Animals
Humans
Angels
Archangels
God

God left. Michael and Raphael weren't here... Now, Gabriel never wanted to be a leader. He always left that to his brothers. Even though they weren't here, that didn't change his position. He still didn't want to be any sort of leader or even in a position of power that had to make such cold and calculating decisions, but he still served in Heaven's wars. He still fought alongside Michael; he still obeyed God's commands; he still loved his fallen brother; he still saved humanity; he still knew how to turn someone inside out with or without his grace.

Could it kill them to show a little bit of respect?

Whenever someone messed with the great chain of being, things always went wrong. The Crusades. The Holocaust. Achilles. Icarus. The list went on and on without any of those pompous assholes getting out clean. He wanted to bring the same downfall here. He wanted the Capitol to burn. He wanted everyone to be cleared away so that maybe they can try again and get it right just this once... He couldn't destroy it, though. Not yet. Not here.

Still, he wanted respect.

A glow pulsed from his vessel's body and a piercing sound struck through the third floor. Glass and fine pottery vibrated and statues of stone nearest to him began to weep blood. He looked up to the ceiling, breathing heavy beneath his newest mask and flourishing his arms to the crowd. No one in the arena would be able to understand his voice and they would have to pray they didn't hear it, but perhaps the Capitol could translate Enochian for their viewers. They knew so much, after all.

«I am Gabriel. Archangel of the Lord and Messenger of God... Are we having fun yet?»

This one's for you, Wesker.

***

On the third floor, anyone that could see the strange, unearthly gold light will only have about thirty seconds to high tale it somewhere safe. If they stick around long enough or try to get closer to Gabriel, their eyes will be burned out of their sockets, but this doesn't have to be a completely fatal wound. If they were smart enough to close their eyes, but not leave earshot range before Gabriel starts speaking, their ear drums will rupture and they will go deaf or very nearly. Again, doesn't have to be fatal. As a description, his voice will sound like nails on a chalkboard amped up the 12 and will be completely discernible (unless they're an angel).

If they're still somewhere on the floor and not in a tar pit or in the stairwell, they'll find that the third floor is succumbing to an earthquake before a great noise erupts that sounds like the whole building is coming down. Don't worry, it's just the floor beneath your feet. The entire floor is going to crumble away.

On the second floor, you guys are going to have to watch out for falling rubble from the floor above. This will include not only entire sections of concrete and plaster, but also displays, other tributes, and (oh yeah) lava from the volcano.

The rest of the museum may experience vibration and light shaking, depending on which floor they're on. The sound of the collapse would be pretty loud as well.

And yes. Gabriel's dead. If someone finds what's left of his body, feel free to nick his treasured laser pointer.

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Something was wrong. The light caught his attention and Gabriel was at the center of it, but something was wrong this time.

"Gabriel? Gabriel, what's happening?"

He thought back to what he'd said about destroying cities, talking about something horrible and magnificent as if it was commonplace.

Edited 2014-02-07 23:59 (UTC)

At one point not very long ago, his vessel would shake with rage, but now all he could feel was the atoms of his vessel vibrating at such an extreme and familiar rate. He wasn't being granted his former strength back. He just didn't care anymore. Pushing the boundaries of these masks was his first order of business.

Gabriel stretched out his hands in front of him and just looked at them for a moment before slowly rotating his head to look at Guy. He was certainly not a target of the archangel's wrath. Really, he was one of the few that gave him a reason to be wrathful for in the first place. He could even, despite the vast ocean of differences between them, could be considered a friend.

"The masks give people their powers back. Even mine." His voice was definitely not as joyful as it was outside of the arena or as biting as it had been a few moments ago. He was calm, collected, in control. "You should leave, for what it's worth. I think I want to try proving something for once..."

Guy nodded, still staring at him in awe. "Okay. Okay."

This wasn't about him. He understood that much. He understood that the Capitol had tampered with his power. He understood how much of a no-no that was.

The light was starting to get blinding.

He'd been warned and he knew that was something some might not have gotten.

"Leaving. Leaving, now."

And he ran for the elevators.

Gabriel watched Guy run off before putting him out of his mind again and turning back to the task at hand.

The light only got brighter and seemed to chase after any fleeing tributes. So long as Guy didn't look back or stay in one spot for too long, his eyes should make it through unscathed, even as the heat of a star was at his back.

It still took Gabriel a little while before outright speaking, but it certainly couldn't be seen as speak. A piercing sound began to surround the area, growing in pitch until glass and fragile objects shattered to pieces. It was so loud, it could probably stop someone in their tracks, even kill them if they tried to listen.

Howard and Wyatt are scouting the second floor in their attempt to find a good place to hide after the Sherlock incident when the volcano goes off and Gabriel goes nuclear, almost at the same moment. At first it sounds like a particularly loud clap of thunder from the storm outside that's been raging and raging.

Then it sounds like the world's exploding.

Howard shrieks and drops down to his knees as the fire alarm goes off and the sprinklers throw cold fire around. A crack splits the ceiling, brilliant light from Gabriel shining through for a second before lava fills the fissure and starts to drip down. Steam and smoke clog the air in equal measure. The whole museum seems to shake. Pieces of ceiling tiles and rebar fall from above.

The alarm's siren wails over Howard's cry for Wyatt.

Wyatt had guessed - had known - that damned volcano was not to be trusted, but in the moment, he didn't feel any vindication. He was too busy trying not to get killed.

He'd just mentioned the teepee he'd seen while he'd been down here with Ellie, it wasn't perfect, but still worth a look, when the rumble started. When something tickled the back of his ear. Reaching up he found grit, a hard biting powder, and he looked up to see it falling from the ceiling. Looked up in time to see the first tear rip through the plaster and stone.

Then there was only enough time to shift, to take a breath to call out to Howard, before everything went to hell.

Alarms shrieked, braying like hell-hounds, and fire rained, blue and red and gold. He threw up his arms, trying to protect his head, and cried out for Howard...

But he didn't get to him. A heavy piece of steel fell from above, hit him hard enough to knock him off his feet - a dull pop echoing in his ears as he hit the steaming floor.

"Wyatt!" He screams again, seeing only the piece of metal caving downwards into the cloud of smoke and steam where Wyatt was moments ago. Then more rubble falls, and a jet of liquid nitrogen sears the side of Howard's head, and instinct kicks in. He runs for shelter just as the noise reaches a fever pitch.

He claps his hands over his ears and throws himself under a cafe table. A hunk of the ceiling drops down and smashes on the table surface. His eyes remain frozen open as he tries to stay under the relative safety of the table, looking for Wyatt, when white light starts to flood the room-

And then it's just darkness. For a moment, Howard wonders if this is death - if this is really death. He can't hear, he can't see, and the smoke has killed off his ability to smell anything.

His hearing comes back slowly, and he realizes it's not that he's deaf but that the ringing in his ears has blocked out everything else. He can hear some things. His heartbeat, crawling up his chest. His harried breathing and coughing. The cracks and sputters of fire and rubble settling.

And he feels something dripping down his face, like tears but thick and gelatinous. He doesn't touch and as such, can't tell that it's his own melted flesh.

"Wyatt!" he yells. "Wyatt!"

Edited 2014-02-09 23:19 (UTC)

Wyatt could hear nothing over the din. The wailing alarms, the hissing sprinklers, the crack of the floor above and below him. The rush of his own heart, pounding in his ears. The scream of his shoulder.

He didn't even feel the heat in his hands, the back of his neck. The water soaking in through his shirt, burning through to the skin beneath.

(The jacket and the breeches, the thick deer-hide saved his life, offering a layer of protection.)

"Howard!" He knows he's speaking because he can feel it, strangling in his throat. The fog choking him.

(Distantly he remembered Holiday, telling him not to breathe it in.)

"Howard!" He struggled through, stumbling as the building heaved and shook, one arm still up, trying to defend himself, the other hanging uselessly at his side. "Howard!"

"Wyatt! Wyatt!"

In the wreckage, Howard's like a lamb bleating for help. He curls up in on himself, holding his broken hand to the cold burn across the side of his head.

He doesn't even realize he's blind. He just thinks the light's all gone.

He reaches out with his free hand, exploring the texture of wreckage around him, looking for the warm (can't be cool, can't be cold) wrist that will tell him Wyatt's alive and near.

His eyes were starting to burn, filling with water as a last defense against the smoke and heat. He found Howard more out of luck than design, and, truth be told, for a moment after his hand closed around the one that brushed his, Howard could have been anyone. Wyatt still would have hauled them out, pulled in against his side, and started to drag them away.

He just assumed it was Howard - hoped.

"This way! Come on!" He wrapped his good arm around the boy's shoulders, tried to tuck his head down, trying to protect him as best as he could.

Howard doesn't argue. He doesn't know if it's Wyatt leading him, or if it's someone else, but at the moment he has no option but to put his faith in the warm stranger embracing him. He moves as fast as he can over the cluttered terrain without seeing, which means that the two of them don't travel all that fast.

Something hot hit the back of Wyatt's neck, a searing pain he felt down to his bones, but he didn't stop. He slipped and stumbled over the quaking ground, rumble shifting beneath his feet and trying so hard to trip him, coughing and choking.

The stairwell was no relief, the freezing water still raining down, the steps turned to ice, but they didn't have a choice. Pressing his numb shoulder to the frosted railing, he tried to guide them down the stairs.

Howard feels strips of skin rip from his bare feet against the stairs here. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't scream. He could try and turn back, but to what? He can't tell what he's going to or from.

It feels like it takes them hours to get to the safety of the lot, but really it's only a few minutes. The alarms continue to scream behind them, but not on this floor.

They get a few yards in, the adrenalin racing through Wyatt's veins carrying them that far before his body gave out, giving in at last to the pain, to the shock. Howard slipped from his weakening grasp and he slumped, hitting the wall, then the pavement.

His lungs burned and he couldn't breathe. He could barely see, his eyes closed to mere slits, red and streaming.

"Ho--" He broke into a wracking cough, couldn't get the boy's name out.

Instinct pulls him to corners and coves. He falls to the ground and wriggles, wedging himself between a wall and Wyatt's body.

Everything is blinding pain. His bare feet feel electric. Burns have carved wounds in the shapes of drips down the back of his neck and arms. His insides are in agony, racked by coughs and smoke irritation. Howard coughs too, grabbing at anything he can reach with his good hand to try and figure out what it is through the cloud of torture.

He waits for someone to find him this vulnerable and end it, but no predators find him here. No enemies lurking in the darkness.

He recognizes Wyatt's voice by the coughing.

"It's me-" He wheezes and takes deep breaths. He whimpers. "It's me."

He couldn't feel individual wounds, not even the throb of his shoulder. It was one wave of pain, cresting over him, washing him from head to toe. The touch of Howard's hand only brought more, racing up and down his spine like lightning.

He shuddered with it, stiffened... and tried to force it away. Tried to force his eyes open. When he finally found his voice it was several degrees deeper. His drawl a painful rasp.

"...We made it," he whispered, unsure what else to say. He didn't ask if the boy was alright, knowing Howard could only be as bad he was, knowing neither of them were.

But they were alive. If only for the moment.

He lays on the ground, clinging to Wyatt's voice, gasping and gasping.

"Wyatt..." Howard's voice is quiet and small, like a trickle of sound making it past all the stones in his throat. "The lights..."

But the fear is already creeping in. There's the blindness of fear and panic, there's blindness in the dark, and then there's this. Howard prays in his mind for Wyatt to say yeah, son, looks like they left us in the dark here and produce a flashlight, but he's coming to suspect that that isn't the case.

The reality is that Howard's fortunate that he doesn't have eyes to see the reflection of his face in a nearby car bumper, with skin and gore like melted cheese spilling out of his eye sockets.

Wyatt didn't understand at first, too tired, too weak to piece together, but slowly it picked at him. He couldn't see much, a watery blur, but it was enough to the lights were indeed on. The same weak glow as before - enough to get around by, but no where near enough to light the darkest corners.

He twisted, a slow, careful turn, trying to find Howard - trying to see him.

"...Howard..." It took a long moment for the boy's face to come into focus, but it did and his voice broke in time with his heart. "Howard, son...."

What did he say? What could he possibly say?

He doesn't need to hear Wyatt's voice to know something wrong, but the way Wyatt's throat chokes up on the words sends chills down his body.

"Wyatt. Wyatt, I don't..."

He reaches his good hand up but doesn't touch; some instinct tells him not to touch when the air alone striking his face is torment enough.

"I c-cant see, Wyatt, Wyatt, I can't-" Panic starts to fill his voice again. Even the horror they just survived wasn't enough to tap that well dry.

"It's alright," he cut in, too hard, too fast to be completely true. One of the worst lies he'd ever told. "It'll be alright, Howard."

What could he do? Even if he still had medicine, it would have been near enough - not enough for Howard alone, let alone the both of them.

"Ya still got mine. I can see for ya."

They'd get through it, somehow. As long as he had breath, he wasn't going to give up.

Telling himself that, making himself promise again, he tried to find his feet. Bit back a hiss of pain as his hands, so terribly burned, met the rough floor.

"I can't see, I can't see," Howard moans, rocking himself slightly, startling when Wyatt moves. Some part of him wants to ask if Wyatt's hurt, but it's blotted out by the horror of his own situation.

The perversity of the situation is that he never more wanted to just cry. Instead he just makes a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat.

"Don't leave me, please don't leave me, don't leave." Words keep getting stuck in his head, the same sentiments rolling around over and over and over. Unable to string together anything coherent, he can only repeat himself. "I'm scared."

Wyatt struggled to his feet, everything in him protesting. His skin pulled, the blisters on his face and neck, under his hair cracking and tearing. His shoulder was a stabbing pain, sharp and jagged, but he couldn't feel his fingers - nothing but a distant, unpleasant tingling.

He wavered, breathing hard, fighting to fill his lungs, and looking for a moment like he might stumble again, but he held his ground. Waited for the world to right.

"It's alright, Howard," he told him again, trying to sound more like he meant it. "I ain't goin' anywhere without ya."

He started to reach for him, but hesitated, unsure where or how to touch him - his dark skin so angry, pocked and torn and weeping fluid - without hurting him. Swallowing, he hovered.

What did he do?

"We jus'... We jus' need to get out of the open, find somewhere safe where we can patch up." One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. "Howard, son, I need to touch ya. I'm sorry, I'm jus' tryin' to help--"

He tried to be gentle, but knew no more amount of care was going to keep his touch from hurting.

But Howard will gladly, hungrily, take that hurt if it means knowing Wyatt's right there. He thrusts his good hand out, grabbing around to look for Wyatt.

He realizes he's shivering.

"Don't leave, don't leave," he keeps mumbling, finally reaching his broken, splinted hand up to examine not his eyes, but cooling heated flesh pouring from them. "I..."

He makes another noise again, a choked combination of revulsion and fear and pain as he feels the texture on his cheeks.

"I ain't," Wyatt promised, the words steadying with every echo. "I ain't. We'll find somewhere an' we'll be alright."

He wished he could lift Howard, just carry him away to safety, but his arm was useless and for all his strength he still didn't have enough. The best he could do was tuck the boy in beside him and encourage him to lean on him, to let him take the brunt of it.

Bracing himself against the wall, he led them away from the stairwell and deeper into the garage.

How can they ever be alright? Howard can tell from the way Wyatt doesn't move to carry him that Wyatt must be hurt too, which, really, isn't surprising given the circumstances they just escaped.

How can anything ever be alright again? It's been so long since any of it was alright.

Howard stumbles with Wyatt, trying not to lean too much, unable to really feel out where he's going with his feet because so much of the skin on the bottom was ripped off by the liquid nitrogen. He can't help the little mewls of pain that catch in his mouth. He tastes something that drips onto his lips and he doesn't want to know what it is.

Unable to do anything but follow Wyatt, he obeys wholeheartedly.

It had become a prayer almost for Wyatt, a mantra he reached for in the darkest moments. The Capitol had taken everything else from him - his freedom, his right to choose, the future he'd glimpsed so briefly - it was all he really had. He knew it was no more use than a Hail Mary, but it brought it him quite a bit more comfort.

Helped him focus. He just had to push himself, to keep slogging through the mud. ...Or through the cold dark, over the cracked, uneven pavement, as the case was here.

There wasn't really anywhere to go. The floor was empty except for shadows and the silent metal sentries, watching with their vacant glass eyes. He had no choice, but to steer Howard toward another of them - further away from the entrances, the stairwell and the elevators both, away from the looted Cornucopia and out of sight of the car Sherlock had defiled.

He wouldn't take Howard back there.

They limped around the back of one and Wyatt fumbled for the little latch he'd learned was hiding along the back hatch. The lever that would open the trunk.

The back of this 'mini-van' as Howard had called it once, would big enough for the boy to stretch out. To rest, as comfortably as he could.

"Here, Howard." He eased the trunk lid up past his chin, over his head, and leaned Howard toward the bumper, trying to help him find it. "Up in here."

Howard's good hand is aching and stiff by the time they reach the minivan, having been clutching tightly as possible to a crumpled up bit of Wyatt's clothing. It's something to help him feel safe. Something to grip against the waves of pain radiating inwards from his skin, his face, his feet, his neck.

He's expecting the car Sherlock attacked him in - Howard at least had a backpack of scavenged gift shop things there - and is surprised at how much higher the bumper is than he anticipated. He runs his hand over the metal, over carpeting on the back of the car, over whatever he can to try and fail to gauge where things are, before crawling in.

He continues to shiver, continues to be short of breath. Shock, no doubt. If anything could induce shock he suspects this is it.

"Are you okay?" he finally asks, finally forces the question he's been unable to form out for Wyatt. He moans slightly as he tries to find a less pained position (comfortable is no longer an option).

"What now?"

Wyatt worked the strap of the bag he'd so dutifully carried since the Cornucopia off his straining shoulder and down over his limp arm. He was torn between telling Howard the truth and not worrying him further... but after a moment, knew he had to tell him. They had to know where they stood before they could move forward.

"My shoulder's pretty bad. I got hit with somethin' an' I heard it, before it went. I can't use my arm."

He dragged the bag up into the trunk and leaned tiredly, giving himself a couple shallow breaths before he forced himself on again. Pulling on the zipper, dragging out the soft roll, the little white kit.

"Here..." He tugged on the string holding the roll tight and shook it out as best he could one-handed. "Rest on this, Howard, it's softer."

He guided the boy's hand to the makeshift bed, helping him find it.

"What about your skin? The fire alarms..."

Howard felt the liquid nitrogen rain on his neck and shoulders, and he was partially in the crook of Wyatt's arm. He can't imagine what's become of Wyatt's back. Images flash through the darkness for him, of the metal beam falling to where he thought Wyatt was standing, and he realizes it must have hit.

(That image replays over and over and over...)

He finds the bed and curls it, even though the softness offers little peace to the torture racking his flesh. His shaking, shivering hand closes over a morsel of the knit.

"Gonna need more than a medical kit," he says, with a pathetic attempt at a laugh.

He swallowed, or tried to, the muscles on his throat seeming to catch and stick. Even those hurting.

"...I'm pretty tore up, yeah," he admitted softly, the familiar drawl so low and rough.

He'd caught his reflection, in the glass as he'd opened the trunk. His face ragged and red, angry tear-marks racing across his skin. Pale, thick blisters bubbling up on his cheeks, around his nose, up through the dark hair along his jaw.

Only slightly less painful to look at than to live in.

"...But I'll live. I'm more worried 'bout you, son. We need to get ya taken care of."

Not that he knew what to do. He knew the gel helped, but it was gone, and even if it weren't, somehow he doubted it would do any good for Howard's eyes.

He wants to ask what the hell it was, but he knows it doesn't really matter. It was Gamemaker in nature, and thus unlikely to repeat itself now, unless the creators wanted to destroy the entire Arena.

"You're saying you have to go get help." He knows, logically, that that's what must happen. That Wyatt needs to find help, venture out alone injured and weakened to bring someone or something back to help.

And yet the idea of being left alone here in blindness, racked with pain and only able to hear people by their approaches, shrivels up his insides. He can't cry, so he dry sobs.

Wyatt always comes back, he tries to tell himself.

"There's... there's nothin' I can do here on my own."

It was hard to admit, a weakness he'd have given anything to change. Not wanting to go anymore than Howard wanted him to.

"But I will come back," he said determinedly, not needing to be able to read minds to know where Howard's had gone. He reached out and gripped the cuff of the boy's pajamas - rather than him. "I'll find some medicine, er one of the Docs--" or both, if he was lucky, "--an' I'll be back, straight here."

Edited 2014-02-11 02:17 (UTC)

"Stay safe." Howard doesn't want to hear Wyatt's name on the intercom's readout tonight, which will undoubtedly be bloated by the damage today. "Don't go yelling and screaming for help. I don't need it that bad."

A lie, clearly - if he has any hope of surviving he needs fairly urgent care - but he's less scared for his own vulnerability than for Wyatt's at the moment. He takes a deep breath (little jerks go down his back and legs without his bidding) and he rests his head against the roll.

He hesitated, a moment, then slowly withdrew the heavy crowbar from the bag, deciding to take it with him. A part of him wanted to leave it behind - to push it into Howard's hands and to tell him to swing away at anything that didn't announce itself first... but he knew he might need it himself.

He wanted to believe Howard would be safe here, tucked up and out of sight.

"Steady, Howard," he told him.

He reached back into the bag, pulled out the fold of paper he took everywhere.

"Be strong. I'll be back."

Then, with a last look, he stepped back and pulled the trunk lid down, clicking it shut.

He ran like his life depended on it - because it pretty much did. The light grew brighter and brighter but even despite the shadow of the museum, it wasn't a welcome thing. It was the kind of light that bleached bones in the desert sun. It was a scourge, not a source of warmth.

The ringing grew louder and louder, until it was deafening, until it was painful, even. Glass cases started to shatter around him as he ran.

He reached the elevator, slammed his hand on the buttons and dove inside the moment it was open, hitting the button for the top floor. As the sound rose higher and higher, he screamed along with the noise, hands clamped over his ears, falling to the floor against the back of the elevator. He felt the light burning his eyelids and didn't dare open his eyes.

Right before the door closed, he felt something pop in his left ear, the one angled more towards the door, and he screamed even louder.

Just in time, the doors finally closed and he felt the elevator rising. He felt blood trickling from his left ear and realized that the high-pitched ringing he was hearing only seemed to be coming from his right.

Moments later, the whole building shook and there was a far off rumbling, and for a moment, Guy feared the elevator might drop somehow.

It didn't, though, and after the doors dinged open, he wound out stumbling out amidst wax bodies, falling to his knees, reeling from a kind of awe and terror he had never known it was possible to feel.

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[OPEN] The Lord Rebuke Thee

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