thearena | 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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"I can't fucking think who'd want to," Karkat says. Anyway, it's not so much that he mangled the idiom as the dialect for lowblood trolls favors overcomplication. "So, when did you get here?"

"Oh, about two hours and fifteen minutes ago." He says that lightly. Like they're discussing the weather.

"From what I can tell the rest of you have been here much longer. Four weeks, or further into the second month?"

"Shit," Karkat says, "you really are a fucking noob. Did someone give you the whole talk about being resurrected yet? Because that's a thing they do if they find you sufficiently entertaining. Me, I've been on Panem for perigees. This is, like, my fourth arena and the third one where I've been in from the start."

"You must be hiding your ability to be sufficiently entertaining quite well at the moment, then."

But four arenas-- and personal experience of resurrection. That's... something.

Karkat rolls his eyes. "Fuck you, dude. You don't even know what these Capitol humans like. They're all about interpersonal drama and shit and I'm just so fucking lucky to have that crap following me around everywhere."

"They seem like most examples of humanity, actually." He's deduced that much. "Taken to a frantic, exaggerated end, yes. But the tendency towards drama, and reveling in violence-- that's something we've had all along."

He looks up, as if he's comprehending something.

"If you are the common factor in all your associated drama, it does beg the question of whether it follows you or you originate it."

Karkat can feel his cheeks heat up. "Not all the time," he mutters.

"Which leaves most of the time. Which may have proved an annoyance in the past, but is now keeping you alive. That must be grating."

He's more fascinated than amused.

Karkat shoots him a dirty look. "Yeah, must be. You better hope yours goes to shit too if you want to keep going."

"Hard-won peace isn't worth a few more days of struggling for survival." He shrugs off Karkat's statement immediately, because his life has been shit, and he's not inclined to go back to his worst extremes. It seems fitting that he would've seen Moriarty just before arriving here, in that sense. As a reminder.

Karkat rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Anyway, congratu-fucking-lations, you've just got dumped into the part of the game where everyone's food's running out, though knowing Kankri he probably gave you some of his anyway because he's a moron with no sense of self-preservation."

"If you don't care for his well-being, why would that bother you?" Is he picking at the issue on purpose? Oh, yes. Though he chooses not to confirm Karkat's very correct assumption.

"It doesn't," Karkat lies.

"Then it wouldn't bother you if I told you our mutual acquaintance gave up quite a bit of his meager stock for my sake. Rather generous, really. But also perhaps fatally stupid."

Karkat scowls. "Moron. He better hope his stupid ki--" And then he cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence. "He better hope his stupid shit gets him resurrected when he does starve."

"According to your assessment, if he was entertaining enough you should have no concerns." Sherlock doesn't actually want to think about Kankri dying-- he's a child, and he had at least tried to be kind. And he had been useful.

Karkat shrugs. "Yeah, well, who fucking knows what the Gamemakers are even thinking?"

"They may not come out and tell us. But with a bit of investigation, one could figure it out." Which is what he intends to do, incidentally.

"Good fucking luck with that," Karkat says under his breath. But maybe this Holmes would have a better chance, he was another human after all.

"Luck has little to do with it." He manages to sound confident about that. "It's a science. Even when they attempt to throw you off the path, they are revealing something of themselves."

It's not any science Karkat knows about--but then again most of the science he does know he'd researched in order to argue with Gamzee about miracles and he'd never heard Gamzee describe figuring out what people thought as a miracle.

"Yeah, well, you go do that, then. Tell me if you figure anything the fuck out."

"My very first priority will be to inform you." His tone is always a little sarcastic, but now it's overtly so. Then again, Sherlock does think that solving this place will be his greatest triumph. So he will want everyone to know.

"Yeah right," Karkat says, rolling his eyes again.

"Doubt all you like-- in fact, doubt more. I'm sure that will keep you safe, here." That seems to be all Sherlock wanted to say. He takes a step towards a bend in the hallway, seemingly distracted by it.

"Dude, nothing keeps you safe here." But he notices that Sherlock's distracted by other stuff, so he shrugs and adds, "I'm going to find my friends. Good luck with your shit."

You're going to need it.

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costing - 2014-03-21 05:58 (UTC) - Expand