thearena | Welcome to the Thunderdome, Part II

Who: Topher Brink and OPEN
What: Wow, this is the worst dream EVER
When: Week Five
Where: Basement

Topher pinched himself once again as he huddled behind a dusty Chevy. This was impossible. Impossible and all too terrifying. Opening his eyes to the smiling faces of Stylists shoving him into a stupid onesie and loading him into a tube of death was like a flashback into Hell. Okay, so the onesie was kind of cool, but that didn't make up for the whole tube of death part!

None of this made sense. There was no "To Be Continued" end credit on dreams. They ended, he woke up, and coffee magically appeared in his hand thanks to Ivy. He wanted his magically appearing coffee, damn it! A speaker announced the death (murder?) of someone and Topher cringed at the sudden flash of his own murder. The sharp pain, dying in Punchy's ar--wait, who was Punchy? This was far too much input at once.

The nearly silent sound of feet moving closer to his poorly hidden position had him smashing himself closer to the car. Maybe he could meld with it and stay hidden until his mind decided it would really wake up this time.

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They'd split up out of necessity. It's been some time since they awoke here, shoved into what Albert thought was supposed to be some kind of fight to the finish, but he and his two teammates hadn't seen another living soul since arriving. The signs are there; a broken skylight, the massive rumbling days ago under their feet, and the intercom doling out an overly detailed death toll each night, but none of the three had seen either hide nor hair of anyone aside from each other.

Unfortunately, this also meant no new information and by the third day with them ensconced in the wax museum with the torrential rains beating against high glass windows, they're all hungry. Water hadn't been an issue at least; collecting it from the sinks in a nearby restroom or from what the broken skylight had let in was easy. They'd even stripped some of the dummies for more suitable clothing for a survivalist environment. Pajamas? No thanks. It's just unfortunate none of the shoes fit.

Unfortunately most of the building's been picked fairly clean, which forces Albert to think creatively in terms of searching. The cafes would make the most sense but since he can't get to hardly any - he'd recovered a few granola bars and one snack size packet of chips before slipping back into the shadows unseen as he heard voices nearby - he's decided to try and head back down to see if he can jimmy open a car and check there.

He closes the door to the fire stairs as quietly as he can, crouching low as soon as his bare feet hit concrete. There, to his left behind the Chevy he can hear rapid breathing and see someone's seat on the floor. He remains silent as death, moving in a low army creep to round the car, keeping a pillar between him and it, and wondering if he shouldn't have taken one of the wax dummies arms to use as a club after all.

He's not prepared to face this dream again. It's full of nightmares and memories that he'd much rather forget. Mentally Topher's reminding the universe that there's no place like home, while in reality he's scanning his environment for any hostiles.

A shadow. No, he's imagining things. Unless he's not. A small voice in the back of his mind tells him that shadows can kill in this place. He really doesn't want to think about that. Slowly, and as quietly as can, he shuffles over towards another car that has it's hood raised. He's no car guy, but he also happens to be genius enough to know that there will be something in there he can use as a weapon.

The figure's retreating, or going for a weapon, but Albert can hear rapid breathing that betrays fear and it squeezes at his stomach to think someone he's never met is that afraid of him. Why would anyone set up anything like this arena? Where fear and violence reign?

It's true if he tries to offer help the other person may just attack or flee, but he has to take that chance as a human being. And he is that, a person, no longer a machine and certainly not someone who would murder in cold blood just because he's been fed some bullshit story about this being a fight to the death.

"Wait, I don't want fight. I'm Albert Heinrich, I've been brought here against my will. Am I right in assuming you're in the same situation?" He stands from behind his pillar in plain view of his company, hands up in front of him and shown to be empty. What the other man does with this information is his choice.

Damn. He knew he could ignore the voice; it was very likely some sort of trap. That doesn't mean he'll just stand around unarmed. Under the car he's hiding next to are enough parts that he just reaches under to grab the heaviest object, a metal rod, before standing.

"Um, hey." He waves his empty hand, friendly but not too welcoming. "Same? N-no, I doubt that."

He was right, a weapon. Albert's white eyes flick to the pipe for a moment before training back on the younger man's face, mind already calculating the best way to disarm him without hurting him if he should decide to be stupid and charge. To prevent that, he decides to keep them talking. "No? Are you here on purpose then?"

"I-I don't know, maybe? Things are kinda...fuzzy." He just needed something solid to tell him this wasn't some horrible dream, or worse, the Attic. As it was he simply has too much adrenaline running through his body for him to think straight.

"What do you say your name was again?"

"Albert Heinrich. As I said, I don't intend to harm you." He keeps his own hands visible and palms out still, trying to keep this amiable. The guy across from him looks just as confused as he feels and Albert's still disregarding the brief explanation he'd received before being tossed up here. He won't kill anyone if he doesn't have to. "What's your name?"

"T-Topher. Topher Brink." He tried to calm his heart, because he was fairly certain that dying from a heart attack was just bad t.v. "Look, Al, I'm a little...fuzzy right now. Everything is sort of screaming for attention all at once and as amazing as my brain is even I'm having trouble processing." There were all sorts of memories hitting him at once. Memories of dying and horrible parties. Memories of Alpha overlaid with memories of Alpha. There was no stopping the headache that was creeping up on him.

"Um, how long have you been in here?" How big of a threat was this seemingly harmless guy? If he was new then maybe he was as lost as Topher felt.

"I can see that. It's alright." He doesn't particularly like the immediate jump to a nickname when they've just met, but he suspects it's meant to be more sarcastic than familiar. He can't blame Topher for that, not really. He's feeling pretty laconic about getting shoved in some fight to the death as well. "I've been here a little over a week, so not long."

Welcome to the Thunderdome, Part II

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