thearena | there is nothing more deceptive

Entry tags:

there is nothing more deceptive

His first thought is that the entire situation is ludicrous. The outfits, the setting, the very premise. After entering the arena, Sherlock’s first thought is to wrap his head around the entirety of the situation, but that proves easier thought of than done. He takes to rubbing his forearm where the tracker had been implanted, a gesture he knows comes off as a nervous tick but one that he can’t help.

The need for cover doesn’t seem real to him, yet, but he bets on the fact that the explanation he was given was true. So when he finds an overturned car in the basement, he ducks around it for a moment. He tries to take stock, listens carefully. If he hears anyone approach, he’ll try to observe them before making himself known. He isn’t much of a runner, but he’s counting on his ability to distract if it comes down to it.

--

A little while later he can be found at one of the doors to the staircases. He knows that the elevators would be faster, but they’re also more easily controlled. He doesn’t have any of his lock-picking tools with him, but he’s good at improvising. So for several long minutes, Sherlock toys with the locks with bits of thin rubble, trying to rig them open.

He looks as though his concentration on the lock is absolute; he doesn’t turn his head or even pause. But his senses are acute, trained to notice if anyone comes at him. He knows of his own tendency to get lost in his own head, and so tries his utmost to be as alert as he can.

--

And finally, he’ll grow tired of the door’s lock and abandon it. That’s a tough pill for him to swallow—failing at something—but compared to all else going on around him, it’s the smallest on his list of grievances. Instead, now, he turns to the elevators and picks a random number once he’s inside.

He ends up on the fourth floor. He lifts a brow, as he prepares to exit the elevator. A museum. He supposes that’s fitting, given the atmosphere of the arena. A museum is a place of past spectacle. They’ve just now combined it with a live, present one. It’s almost too fitting, in a campy way that makes him feel like he’s being mocked. But he takes a deep breath, rubs at his arm again, and prepares to explore.

( ooc: feel free to encounter him at any point; i'll edit things if anything major occurs. i have a permissions post for deductions here, if there's anything you think i/sherlock should know. and if you'd like any more specific scenarios or want to plot a bit further, please let me know. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"You'll need to be more specific than that," Kankri replies. He's watching Sherlock closely. Though the constant movement is less than reassuring in his current paranoia, at least it seems to be nervous tics rather than a preparation to come closer and attack.

"Shall I give you an itemized list?" He snaps that, impatient. If he's not going to get anything out of remaining here, he needs to move on. But he doesn't want to give up possible sources of (peaceful) information, either. It's a hard life.

"More specific on what you're prepared to trade for the information, as well as the kind of information you want, yes," Kankri snaps back. "Did you miss the part where we've hardly any resources and we've been set to kill each other? We've been here for weeks, anything you can ask for has value at this point and it's not a good idea to just offer that up to people you don't know. For all I know you could be the person who cut apart my-"

He chokes on the words. He doesn't know how to express what Signless is to him. Certainly not in human terms.

"I have no reason to trust you," he manages after a few moments. "And considering I've already volunteered information on myself and you haven't, isn't it on you to prove you'll come through?"

“You have been here for weeks,” Sherlock corrects smoothly. He does like correcting people, and explaining things. It’s a simple act to slip into, and he lowers his hands to sit across his chest as he continues. “I have only recently arrived. You have, or had, allies—I am not so fortunate. I suppose telling you of my relative inexperience and vulnerability could be seen as foolish move, but if I read you correctly you have no more desire to harm me than I have you.”

He pauses, momentarily, and then takes a few steps forward, slowly. “I do not like being out of the loop, as it were. If you answer a few of my questions, I would be inclined to help you create a more effective security system.”

"Oh." An expression of sympathy crosses Kankri's face. "They brought you in without any explanation? I see."

He lets out a sigh, standing up and swinging himself over the counter so he can have a seat. The crowbar remains in his hands, set across his lap. He's at least learned caution, even if he hasn't learned enough yet.

"This is my first time in the Arena, so I'll warn you that I might not know everything. But all right, go ahead, ask away. And stay there, if you please," he adds. "Unarmed or not, caution is a better policy for me at this point, and after losing someone close to me I'm not inclined to let strangers come near."

“They offered some explanation. I did not find it adequate.” And then they had refused to answer his questions, which was just rude, really. But he notes Kankri’s sympathy. It’s one more thing that’s giving him a picture of who he is, how to gauge his reactions. His next words are calculated, in that regard, but not insincere.

“I am sorry to hear of your loss,” he says, and his words don’t sound as flat and matter-of-fact as they have. To show good faith, Sherlock sits down where he’d been standing, his back against the wall. He’ll still be able to see if anyone else decides to approach.

“As for questions, I have several. How many people were released into this environment? How many have been killed already? Is there any particular incentive to win, other than survival?” He has more, but he pauses for breath, there.

"I understand. I arrived before this started, and it still took time to get a grasp on the situation." Kankri sighs, shifting slightly. He winces just a little with the movement, his arm pressing against a tear in his red hoodie close to his ribcage.

"I believe it was somewhere on the order of ninety or a hundred people. At least half of those are dead now, I'd say. I haven't been keeping count, it's..." He makes a face. "Morbid. But they announce who has died at the end of each day."

He taps his lip, thinking. "As for incentives...the Victor no longer has to participate in the Arenas, and instead mentors the other Tributes. All the others are resurrected for the next game. I haven't been through this myself, but I've heard it from plenty of people I feel I can put my trust in. Did they tell you what District you were assigned to? We all visited our Districts last month, it was...mm, well." He's at least got the sense not to say subversive things on camera now, after Fraysong's warning. "The Victor's District is given much more food and basic comforts until the next game, from what I understand."

It’s an effect inherent to humanity, Sherlock thinks. The ability to turn on one another in times of duress, to commit mass violence. The environment he’s been forced into simply preys on those basest of responses in order to create the desired result. He decides, at that moment, that he must never succumb to those circumstances. (You would have found it abhorrent, Moriarty’s voice sounds in his mind.) If one such as her could step away from murder, how could he possible step towards it?

“I was given no particular allegiance,” Sherlock says, aloud. “In many ways I have been set up to fail. Perhaps our courteous captors were attempting to create a variation on the theme. I can see how a hundred people all placed in exactly the same situation might not provide enough variety to be thoroughly entertaining.”

He doesn’t appreciate lagging behind, but he can try to understand it. But even as he’s speaking, something else begins to concern him.

“Resurrection?” he asks, carefully. “I didn’t believe such things were possible.” He doesn’t believe they are now, either. It seems too convenient an excuse, to get people to kill because there would be no lasting consequences.

"Entertainment is their preoccupation, yes," Kankri replies. "Did they tell you about Sponsors? If you appeal enough to the audience, they can pay to send you things to help you survive longer. Every moment inside the Arena is televised, and we are very public figures when we're not in the middle of... this." He gestures to their surroundings vaguely, his mouth pulling aside in a frown.

"Did you not have that?" he asks in reply to Sherlock's next question. "It wasn't common where I was before here, but it was entirely possible. The applications weren't as broad as they seem to be here, though."

Fame has never held much draw, for him. He knows all too well about how it can corrupt, erode one’s character. He thinks about Lestrade, briefly. “It’s a complex game,” he says at length. “One has to give them credit, for that.”

Not credit of the positive kind, but credit nonetheless. Sherlock taps one hand against his chin, thinking for a moment. When he replies, his voice is softer.

“It’s an impossibility. Unless you were never actually dead to begin with.”

"Perhaps it was where you're from," Kankri says delicately. "Though for my friends and I, it was more that we had a spare lying around in case of trouble. How it works here is as baffling to me as anyone."

"Spare life. How quaint." Or disturbing. Fascinating, perhaps. He'll have to conduct more research, when he's in a better position to.

"And you have proof that it actually does happen, here?"

"Personally? No. However, I've been assured of it by people I...let us say my relationship to them is such that I trust them implicitly, even about something so hard to believe. I've also seen...footage, from the previous Arena, with some of the Tributes I've seen here." He looks more than a little sick at the thought.

"Well. Have you any more questions?"

Footage can be faked, his mind supplies helpfully. And death can be, too. Even when there's blood and DNA. But he can tell that Kankri believes what he says to be the truth, so Sherlock sees no point in voicing his doubts aloud.

"That will suffice, for now." He gets to his feet, but doesn't move. "I believe we were bargaining, however. So now it comes to me to help you."

Not something he's really in the habit of, but fair is fair.

"Ah, yes." Kankri hops down from the counter, and now the red-stained bandages on his side are clearly visible through the tear in his sweater with the change in position. "You had mentioned improved measures for security."

Even if they've kept safe successfully for the most part, he doesn't want to take extra chances with Venus so wounded and still fighting the infection in her leg.

He notices the wound, but can't really offer to help in that regard. Not for the first time, he wishes Watson were with him. Not that he'd want her to be here, but he knows he'd do better with her around.

He spreads his hands, looks around as if making a sales pitch. "Are you planning on staying here, in this location?"

"For the foreseeable future," Kankri replies, and ticks off the points Venus impressed on him to remember for this sort of thing on his fingers. "It's close to exits in case we need to run. It came stocked with food, which has meant we've been able to barter quite a bit so far while keeping a significant amount of rations for ourselves. There's running water, so for the foreseeable future we can keep our bottles filled in case they shut it off and also clean any scrapes. It has plenty of spots to duck into and hide if need be, including the pantry, which we can shut ourselves in in a pinch. And it gives us a good view of all the approaches, so if we're vigilant we won't be taken by surprise by anyone. It's also close to the elevators, which deliver our Sponsor gifts, so there's less chance of someone getting to them before us."

"A mildly impressive strategy. Assuming you're always aware of the people coming from or towards the elevators themselves." He steps back for a moment, surveys what he'll be working with. It isn't much, but he's resourceful. The chime on the elevators is one layer of defense for those on the other side, but it's still possible to be caught off-guard. "If you set up an alarm system along the perimeter, it'd afford you more time. If anyone did approach."

"They have to pass by here to get to the elevators, and the elevators make a different chime for Tributes and Sponsor gifts," Kankri replies. "But what were you thinking? I wouldn't mind another layer of defense."

"Use obstructions to your advantage, not theirs." Sherlock says, simply. If he's ever strapped for cash, he'll make a really good private security consultant. "Set up a path of obstacles in your line of sight with known weak points-- places you know to look to see if anyone's using them for cover. Then know the blind spots they create, so you can use that cover without weakness."

"I see. Make it more difficult for people to come in unannounced while not making it look as if it's occupied, so people looking to take out competition won't target it unless they already know we're here." He nods. "It's sensible. And it's easy to make it look as if things were scattered about in a tussle."

He glances to the man, then to the pantry. Bites his lip. They're short on food. He can't afford to give it away anymore. Hunger gnaws at him near constantly now. He could afford it before, but he can't now. He can't.

He digs in the tote at his side and holds out a stale cinnamon roll, not looking Sherlock in the eyes. "You need it more than I do," he mumbles. "Most of the food has been picked clean by others already, and the edible plants and the cafeteria were destroyed last week. We're not likely to get a lot more."

His stomach growls slightly. He pointedly ignores it.

Sherlock nods, then continues to point out several spots this might work best in. There’s about three or four in all, scattered so that if Kankri needs cover he’ll be able to get it wherever he is.

He doesn’t immediately reach for the roll, shaking his head. “That was not part of the bargain. You owe me nothing else. It would be smarter to conserve your resources.”

"It's not about the bargain," Kankri snaps. "Or what's owed. Or what's smarter. Just because I'd rather not die doesn't mean I can't be a decent person. For that matter, it would be smarter for you not to turn down any such offer."

"Though I may not be the best judge, I was already under the impression that you are a 'decent person.'" He says it lightly, but he can tell that here, that means a lot. What kind of person you are, particularly if you're doomed to die.

"I've gone longer without food," he continues. "It won't be a problem."

"Longer than four weeks?" Kankri says tartly. "Because that's how long we've been here, and as I said we're down to just half our previous numbers. Just take it."

there is nothing more deceptive

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)