thearena | there is nothing more deceptive

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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. )

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He's not sure how long it's been, exactly, since the intercom announcement of Aunamee's death. He'd been on the sixth floor, and he'd taken out his frustration on some display cases, the crowbar smashing them in some very satisfying ways. Even if it had opened up some of the blisters on his hands, necessitating a rather painful and awkward change of bandages, and setting back his healing a bit.

There are two sides warring within him now. Is Ellie alive? Hawkeye had been convincing enough to at least put doubt in his heart, despite years, decades, of secure knowledge that the dead stay dead.

He's crouching down among the fossils on the fourth floor now, fingering the note he'd received with those last food rations. Don't do anything stupid, her voice whispers in his mind, and Joel knows that either way - he doesn't intend to die just yet, if he can help it. Either way, it's not what Ellie would want. Not after all she went through to keep him alive in Colorado. He won't spit on that, either way.

The man he spots is a new face - not surprising, though, given most people Joel sees are unfamiliar at this point, having only just arrived a few weeks ago. But he's nearly out of food, and he needs more, and the cafeteria has been destroyed. There's a lot of cover here, to creep up on someone unawares, and grab them from behind. Which is what Joel attempts to do now.

He steps gingerly through the exhibit, his head turning this way and that to take in every detail. He has mentally mapped the general layout of the floor—knows that the cafeteria exists, knows that he’ll likely run into more than one Tribute there. But for now, he remains in the exhibit. It’s not remarkable, in any academic way. He’s seen more exciting fossils designed for children’s field trips. But those are idle thoughts, one that take away from his overall focus.

So that may be why he misses the figure moving under the cover, at least at first. He gets too close, before realizing.

Joel doesn't go for the kill, this time. Don't do anything stupid, he hears in his head, over and over again. A quick grab, hand over the guy's mouth, that's all he intends.

"I'm not gonna kill you," he growls in his usual Texas drawl. "You're makin' an easy target of yourself, though."

Ironically, it’s something of a relief. A real threat, a tangible danger. He’d begun to wonder if he was just going crazy—that he’d imagined the whole scenario, including the cryptic warnings from other Tributes. It’s insane to think so, really, but it is a relief.

Still, he doesn’t like being touched. He goes limp, for a moment, and then he does what anyone would do—he bites down on his assailant’s hand, as hard as he possible clan.

Juvenile? Undoubtedly. But he doesn’t regret it.

And if Joel had been just about anyone else, he probably would've reacted accordingly to the juvenile move. Unfortunately, Joel is from a world where getting bitten can mean terrible, terrible things, and over the years he's developed an incredibly heightened sensitivity to the possibility of it.

His hand is still bandaged, but the bite is definitely hard enough to a) cause him excruciating pain, and b) alert him to the fact that yes, he is being bitten.

The man has shown no signs of being infected, but that doesn't mean he's not, and that doesn't make Joel's reaction any less violent - he slams the guy into the nearest wall, going for his crowbar, his stance showing that he knows exactly how much force it would take to kill a man with it. All thoughts of relatively peaceful exchanges are gone from his head. If he managed to draw blood...

"What the fuck are you playin' at?" he says, angrily, and then - "Has anything bit you lately? Anyone?"

He registers the pain, dimly, but is far more intrigued by the reaction he’d garnered. It’s not one that goes along with anything he’s experienced before, and though his jaw and one arm ache, especially, from where he hits the wall, he’s excited by the new possibilities. It’s not the most normal reaction, but then he’s never been typical.

He pulls himself up to his knees but doesn’t get all the way up, just glances nonchalantly at Joel’s crowbar and smiles it a mirthless way.

“I’m assuming you don’t mean in an erotic sense.” He’s a little miffed to have been caught off-guard, to be physically outclassed (as is becoming increasingly obvious). But his best defense is his mind and his words, so he falls back to them.

“To answer your query—no, I have not. Last I checked I was not the carrier of any particularly infectious diseases, either. So you can rest easy on that count.”

Edited (typos!) 2014-02-16 07:32 (UTC)

Joel considers the man before him. It's a cold sort of calculation - a threat assessment. His hand is throbbing, but that's of slightly less immediate concern than what to do with this guy. Thuggish he may be, but Joel is also clever. Assuming this guy is telling the truth - he's not infected, and there's no harm done. Besides that, at a glance he's no physical match for Joel, and there's no point killing him out of hand.

Finally, he lowers the crowbar, enough to inspect the bite. It's not bad - just hurts like hell, the way Joel's hands are already messed up from the sprinklers.

"Unless you got a death wish, I don't recommend you go around bitin' strangers, even in this hellhole," he says coldly. He'll need to re-wash the hand and change the bandage, too, and he has limited gauze.

“I was under the impression that wish or not, death was an inevitability.” Sherlock shrugs at the statement. He’s still a little disappointed, at the way the arena has turned out to be. Even though he claims to have little use for the masses, he’d expected better than for them to just jump to attention and proceed to kill as ordered.

He glances at the crowbar, lifts his chin a bit. “Bludgeoning seems a particularly brutal way to do away with your competition. I imagine that’s not your preference.”

"Doesn't mean you should help it along," Joel says with a vague snort. Clearly, this guy is more interested in talking than fighting, which is fine by him. He's not in the habit of killing without reason - whether his reasons line up with what others consider acceptable isn't his problem.

"I'm not competing, just tryin' to stay alive. And I don't have preferences. I use what I got, and do what I have to do."

With that, he crouches down to dig out what's left of the first aid kits he's got, to deal with his hand. "Before you bit me, I was gonna ask if you had food, or if you needed some."

"Unknown circumstances. There's only so much that can be learned through observation. Sometimes you have to experiment." Which is his way of saying he's not sorry.

"A very pragmatic approach. But if the end result is a death toll of all but one, I can't imagine it makes much difference." He's not judging, exactly. He hasn't self-examined his own capacity to kill that thoroughly, yet.

But eventually he just shrugs. "It hasn't been my primary priority." Because he's been more concerned with learning as much as he can about this place. Food has always been a bit of a inconvenience to him, in any case. "But I suppose I will, eventually."

"Christ, you just got here, didn't you?" Joel says - and it's not really a question he expects a direct answer to. That's really obvious by this point, honestly, and he just shakes his head, almost bemused.

Of course he'd grab the newbie, with nothing but the clothes on his back. Jesus.

"Food should be your priority now," he points out after a moment, carefully dabbing his hand with what's left of the antibiotic ointment. It's awkward, but he manages. They're a lot better now than they were when he first got hit with the dry ice. "Cafeteria is gone - it was on the third floor, and it was a death trap even before the volcano blew. Second floor's pretty much a wash, too, if you haven't figured that out, yet. Cafe down on the first floor might still have somethin' edible - if you're lucky. But not for long. Everyone left is gonna be real hungry, real soon, if this keeps up."

"It wasn't obvious?" Of course, it was. He could have acted like he knew what was going on more than he did, but what good would that have done? He was probably less likely to figure things out that way.

"Then I suppose we'll just start eating each other. History repeats it's train of human depravity." Because that's the point of this, isn't it? To push people to their worst? At least, he assumes so. Why else would they be monitored, challenged to kill one another?

He watches carefully as Joel tends to his hand. It wasn't hard to tell that it was injured, but he'd reacted as he'd had to. Even now, his mind jots down the other man's weaknesses-- the injured hand, the aversion to bites.

Joel gives the man a sharp glance at that - sharp and hard, and closed off, as his expression twists into something akin to disgust. Cannibalism is a line he won't cross. One of the few he has left, and after what he saw in Colorado, the very mention of it is enough to make him leery.

"If that's a joke, it ain't funny," he says after a moment, though his tone is neutral. "Besides, there's at least one infected here that I know of. No sense riskin' it. There are things worse than starving to death."

“I do not joke,” Sherlock replies simply. “I conjecture based on fact. For instance, you carry yourself more like a soldier than anyone else I’ve encountered—you clearly weren’t as ill-prepared for this scenario as many of your fellows. Which begs the question of what your life was like, before this. You reacted most strongly to being bitten—you fear infection. So I feel I can safely assume that wherever you were before this, an infection had turned your environ into something closer to a war zone than a suburban paradise.”

He speaks with uneven pacing and volume, his voice going up and down and ringing particularly triumphant when he says something he knows to be true.

“Wore things—such as having to kill? Or perhaps dying in a more debilitating fashion. Most would prefer to go fast, all things considered. And starvation is painfully, bitterly slow.”

"I'm no soldier," Joel points out quietly, evenly. But he got the rest right, more or less, so there's no point commenting on it.

"Starving to death is still death. It's still better than bein' infected. Losing your mind, the fungus eatin' away at your brain, drivin' you to kill the people you once cared about. You become a shell - just a thing, to spread the infection further.

"So yeah, starvation is pretty bad, but there are worse things. And I really wouldn't go around bitin' anyone else."

Losing your mind – driving you you to kill – become a shell…

Something clicks, and the words spill out of Sherlock’s mouth before he even thinks about them. “You thought I was a zombie.” It’s a combination of ludicrous, fascinating, and insulting. But it does make everything he’s observed about Joel make more sense.

“Your advice is noted, if somewhat belated.”

"Infected," he corrects, awkwardly gripping a length of bandage in his already-bandaged left hand, to wrap it around his right. If Ellie were here, she'd help him - she'd been a pro with this shit, for better or worse. But there's no point dwelling on that.

Either she's waiting for him in the Capitol, or not.

"You got a name, just in case I need to curse it when the Cordyceps turns my brain to mush?" It's kind of a half-assed joke, but it's the best he'll get for now.

“Sherlock Holmes. And if you do curse it, you’ll undoubtedly be in good company.” He doesn’t have a lot of friends, and he is more or less alright with that. He takes a step towards Joel and holds out a hand.

“It can’t be easy to do that properly with one hand. Let me.”

Joel is a little wary - touching strangers for reasons other than self-defense is kind of a no-no where he comes from, for obvious reasons. But hey, it is Sherlock's fault he now has to change his bandage, and it's true that he just wouldn't be able to do as good a job himself with it.

Finally, he hands over the bandage and offers the other man his injured, blistered hand - it's healing, but it still looks pretty ugly.

"Joel," he finally offers. "My name's Joel. And, uh. Watch the sprinklers. They don't spit water. They spit dry ice." Hence, his injured hands.

Sherlock looks at the wound perfunctorily—he can tell it’s an ice burn before Joel says it. When he takes the bandages and begins wrapping the hand, his technique is near perfect but brusque. He doesn’t waste any of the gauze and binds it tightly. It’s all very clinical, but lacking a doctor’s bedside manner.

“I appreciate the warning, Joel.” He seems like a good man, and Sherlock does regret the circumstances of their meeting. “If it wouldn’t put you at too much a disadvantage, would you answer a question for me?”

It's no more than Joel wants or expects, to be honest. He's not interested in comforting words, or being all buddy-buddy with anyone. Sherlock's skill is obvious, and his silence is a relief. The last thing Joel wants is anyone to think they can go asking him personal questions, or feigning concern, or playing shrink.

"Shoot," he says with a shrug. He's not really too concerned about giving others an advantage over him. A guy who bandages your hand is probably not gonna turn around and kill you in the next breath. It's a total waste of effort.

Sherlock steps back, after his task is complete. He steeples his fingers in front of him and presses down on his knuckles, in a nervous and constant gesture. After a moment, he says, "Have you been here before? In an arena."

Joel focuses on his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally. It's good work. Maybe he'll even thank Sherlock for the help.

Maybe.

"Got here a few weeks ago," he says by way of response. "I hear every arena's different. Someone told me the last one was a jungle. With dinosaurs. Living ones. But this is the only one I've seen, personally."

He purses his lips, but nods. "So you'd have no personal experience with resurrection, then."

He can't believe it. But everyone seems so convinced. Of course, they are probably not as smart as he is.

A brief, sharp look of raw, animal pain crosses Joel's face at that, and his fists clench reflexively, despite the lingering pain in his hands.

"No," he growls out. For a moment, he doesn't intend to say more. But somehow, on some level, he gets that this guy is asking the same question that's burning through his mind right now.

He can't answer it, but he can offer something up. Even if it's personal.

"I lost someone I cared about," he finally said, hesitantly, picking his words with care. "I was there when she died. Then some machine snatched her body away. Few days later, I got a package of food, with a note. Supposedly from her."

Even saying that much - to a perfect stranger - feels like it's being ripped out of him with knives. "She believed it. Told me she'd died before, and come back."

there is nothing more deceptive

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