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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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."

"You have my condolences. This is not a scenario I would wish on my gravest enemies, let alone those close to us." It's a tricky situation, for him, given that the great love of his life also ended up being his greatest enemy. But no, he can't imagine putting Moriarty through this, let alone the people he can care for without regret. Gregson, Bell, Alfredo. Watson.

"If you have faith in her, then I assume you'll take her words at value. Given this place, it isn't an entirely horrible assumption. At least, until proven otherwise."

"She was a kid, but she wouldn't exaggerate about somethin' like that," Joel says quietly.

He pauses another moment, and then offers one more thing:

"Back before we - came here. She drowned. She couldn't swim, and she got pulled under, and I pulled her out. I was tryin' to bring her back, but she wasn't breathin'. I got knocked out, and that's the last thing I remember, until I showed up here, and she was fine. So... Take that however you like."

"Whoever controls this game has shown themselves capable of a great deal. They might have taken her moments before," Sherlock suggests. "Or perhaps they have unlocked the secret of human life. Bottled it for consumption-- they seem fond of capitalist cliches. In any case, you can hope for a best-case scenario until you're faced with a different reality. I suggest you take that chance."

Joel snorts faintly. "Pretty fuckin' hopeful of you," he says. Hope is largely alien to Joel's experience, these days. He has a little - enough to keep going on, anyway. Enough to keep driving him forward, putting one foot in front of the other.

Ellie had enough hope for the both of them, really.

"Our odds were never good," he finally points out. "Even before we showed up here. Thanks for the help, though." Even if he was the cause of it.

"That's a qualitative assessment of a neutral statement." Sherlock doesn't really hold with hope, or at least wouldn't admit to it. He shakes his head, taps his fingers against his thighs as he rocks on his feet. "I was merely stating an option that is open to you, and that may soon be gone. The typical response to fleeting opportunities is to chase them."

He shrugs off the thanks. "I should thank you for not trying to murder me horrendously for a televised audience." He doesn't say that he thinks he could've maneuvered his way out of a situation like that.

Chase them. At this point, Joel is pretty much done chasing anything. He doesn't necessarily want to die, but people in his experience rarely have a choice in those matters anyway. He's been too lucky, for too long. Maybe he's as ready as he'll ever be.

He glances at Sherlock at his final statement, though, and brushes it off with a grimace. "That ain't what I do. Not for an audience, not for fun, not because I can. I kill if I have to, to stay alive. That's all."

there is nothing more deceptive

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