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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He doesn't know, exactly, but he can figure. Zelos certainly has the look of a celebrity, the aura. Sherlock is particularly wary of fame-- he doesn't do what he does for credit, doesn't particularly need any attention or acknowledgment except from certain individuals-- but he knows it's a different story here. It might be smarter to curry favor.

"By the looks of it, they want to see you bludgeon others."

Well, he had a point, but it's not like this is the first time he's had to kill someone. Killing for the sake of survival must be easily forgiven than killing for ideals, right?

He does look at his crowbar with a expression of slight distaste though, before shrugging. "I'm more of a swordsman, but, well, you know what they say about beggars and choosers. Besides, isn't that the whole point of throwing us all in here?"

Sure as hell wasn't to watch them make nice and become friends.

"If it's a repetitive cycle, then there's likely a much larger game," Sherlock says. He hasn't figured out what that game is, yet, but he's sure he'll come to it eventually. "Our deaths are small scale. Insignificant."

He's already been able to tell that much, though he's just arrived. This isn't the goal-- it's the means to it.

Sherlock might notice Zelos' eyes glancing away when he mentions the idea of a larger game. He knows for a fact there is, discovered it on his first day here, as a matter of fact, but he keeps it to himself. If the Arena is being televised, they could be on tv at this moment and it ranks pretty high on the list of 'bad ideas' to give those pompous Capitol viewers a taste of the cold truth.

People like to cling to their safe, sheltered view of the world, after all.

"You tell me how insignificant and small scale it is when you're bleeding out after someone attacks you for food or supplies," he answers. The start of the Arena at the Cornucopia had been unreal. Not something he was keen to remember, but hard to forget people killing each other for a pouch of medicine or a weapon. "You're lucky you're meeting me like this, and not earlier."

It's as much a bluff as what he thinks might actually happen should he get desperate enough. He's been lucky so far, but he knew as well as anyone the fickle ways of an audience's favour.

Edited 2014-02-25 08:47 (UTC)

"Lucky? Perhaps. I prefer to think of myself as perceptive." His voice goes lower, his head cocked to one side as he considers Zelos critically. "You have no intention to kill me. You haven't, since we began speaking. Now, I could probably wind you up a bit-- goad you into killing me, as it were-- but there'd be little point in that. I'm sure there's another competitor around the corner, or up the stairs, just waiting to take us both out."

He finishes this little tirade by spreading his hands, having laid everything out as he sees it.

Perceptive indeed.

Zelos gives him a good long look for a moment, not liking the way the guy read him so quickly and threw it back in his face. Might not be a good idea to stick around, but he's not used to not having all the cards. The guy could still offer something. But after a few moments, he relaxes his grip on the crowbar. "That doesn't count for much when I told you myself that I wasn't going to attack."

He shrugs. "I'm a man of my word. Since I'm not going to kill you, and you're not even armed, looks like we're at a standstill. So I'll get us started on something productive, name's Zelos. How long have you been here?"

"Eighty-seven minutes, give or take a few seconds." It's simple enough for him to keep track, though he may offer the specifics for effect more than anything else. Sherlock knows that his greatest asset here, as ever, is his intellect-- he speaks as he does, with casual deductions, because he knows it sets most people on edge. It's not an entirely conscious strategy, but it is one nonetheless.

"Sherlock Holmes. Lately of New York City." A name for a name is only fair, after all.

"Eighty-seven minutes?"

He didn't know it was possible for people to get yanked in mid way through the Arena. Interesting... He also takes note of Sherlock's name, though the city, as usual, was unfamiliar to him. "And you're not freaked out at all by any of this?"

"I could be." He shrugs again. "But that would serve little purpose. Running around like a decapitated chicken, bemoaning my fate, would just make me an easier target. And give the elusive cameras more fodder. I have no desire to be a media spectacle nor a corpse."

"It sounds to me like you're already ahead of some other tributes running around here," he chuckles, though with no real sincerity. "Are you planning to stay down here?"

His tone is casual, but he waits for Sherlock's answer with no small amount of trepidation. Zelos isn't stupid enough to pull out his stash of food to eat around another tribute, neutral as he seems to be right now, so if the guy plans to stay down here, then he was going to have to find somewhere else to go.

"I tend to be ahead of most people." All people, he would say, but he doesn't have accurate information on everyone. He doesn't make boastful claims unless he can back them up, usually.

"I have little reason to stay. I can't gather information by remaining static, and though exploring the more populated regions might bring me into contact with those more wiling to use their crowbars, it's a risk I'll have to undertake."

"What kind of information do you need to gather?" he asked dubiously. "It's 'killed or be killed'. Simple."

At least, right now, it was that simple. Everything going on behind the scenes, about why all of this is happening, or who really is behind it, or even the mysterious post on the network from before this Arena. All of that was irrelevant inside the Arena, when people could be just as likely to stab you as talk to you.

"And you don't think information would keep one from being one of the killed, as opposed to the alternative?"

But he's not hoping to gain intel on how to kill these people. He's not desperate yet, and can still consider himself above the demands of the arena.

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