thearena | And we're slipping off the course that we prepared [OPEN]

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And we're slipping off the course that we prepared [OPEN]

Who; Rose Lalonde, open
What; Rose enters the arena
Where; Main street
When; Week 4
Warnings/Notes; Eye gore

The good thing about fighting with knitting needles was that they were always quite easy to replace. Even in this Arena, all it had taken was breaking into a few homes here and there, Rose getting the concept that they were abandoned quick enough, and boom. Someone was a knitter. And so really she takes no shame in stealing those, plus a few spare pares to tuck away on herself, nor does she take shame in going through the rest of the house to try and find anything else of use to her.

But she doesn't let herself stop, knowing she can't afford such a waste of time. She may have still been dazed when they forced her onto that platform but the words got though to her quick enough. Fight, Kill. Kill or be killed and Rose is hardened enough by her life and her memories that she doesn't plan to be on the side of killed. Even if her mind is racing with questions, whether this is the Batterwitch or not, some new twisted plan of hers. Where Dave is in turn, if he's still breathing here even. Too much time has passed, slipping through her fingers far too quickly for her liking and there's nothing she can do. It'd be folly to run yelling out into that fog.

Rose Lalonde is used to being alone, but not like this. For once her mind seems quiet, and no matter how hard she tries she can't See. The future, all fates, they're blocked off to her in a way that haven't been for all her years of sobriety. And in it's own way it's terrifying because she was used to it. She's used to knowing, and now she's blind on all sides on all topics.

She can't hide in this house all day though, so finally she makes her way through the partially disintegrated door, hopping over the hole in the front porch and she steals herself. And then she steps out into the fog, mindful of each step she makes, each breath she takes, needles held tight in her fists.

It's kill or be killed and Rose Lalonde will not be killed.

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It was complete and total perfect timing, that was all that could explain the two of them running into each other. Bro was scoping out houses, looking for shit he could loot. It just so happened he chose the house that Rose is leaving. He'd been sneaking around from the back of it, and catches sight of her stepping off the porch.

He does a double take.

In the density of the fog, the blonde figure resembled someone else to Bro. His kneejerk reaction was a big fat NOPE, and anger at the Capitol for bringing someone like her here. Then there was that jump of his stomach and a weird light feeling.

It seems like forever since he saw her.

"Roxanne?" He blurts out, giving up the whole sneaky ninja thing entirely. His tone is almost baffled, like he can't actually believe it's her.

The fog is a pain in the ass, even if it does provide a good cover. It still makes her blind to so many things, make her strain her hearing for any and every sound. She hates it, not used to having to have her guard up so high. After all, if there was a threat, she'd See it.

She doesn't see him before he speaks and so when he calls out that name she feels every muscle in her body tighten, Rose turning in a tight circle, needles up.

Roxanne. She knows that name. She also knows why anyone would call her that and so Rose steps forward, slowly, carefully, eyes searching the fog to find him, the voice naggingly familiar.

"No," she finally says, loud enough that if he's close he'll hear, but soft so her position isn't given away. "Rose, actually. And you are?"

He definitely is close enough, because after blurting it out, he'd stepped closer to her. When she turns around, he realizes his immediately that he was wrong. This person is definitely not Roxanne Lalonde, but that doesn't mean she doesn't look horribly familiar even despite that.

Bro probably looks confused, and it intensifies when she actually speaks. Rose. Rose Lalonde. As in his other genetic offspring that he doesn't actually have anything to do with.

Rose who, from his perspective, should be thirteen. Or sixteen, to match Dave.

Not... fucking. old.

His expression hardens, because he's realizing time shenanigans are at work here, and in a roundabout way he's being screwed with simply by her presence. Is this some sort of sick joke?

"Oh Rosie, look how big you've gotten."

Bro's voice is deadpan, but it's obvious that he's not exactly happy right now.

The fog clears and she sees him and for a second Rose's serious mask drops. She's... surprised? With an edge of happiness. But just as quick as those emotions show they're hidden again, Rose studying him carefully.

It's not Dirk, she knows that much, even without her Sight. And that leaves precious few that it could be, and the name comes to mind, even if her memories are more of Dave speaking of the man.

Bro. Dirk in another world, her genetic father. A face she honestly never thought she'd see, but. Today has been full of surprises.

"What can I say," she shoots back, just as deadpan because Strider's and Lalonde's don't do expressing feelings. "You look away for two minutes and suddenly we're all grown up."

Striders and Lalondes are the two last people to ever express feelings. So he pushes back any surprise, disappointment, or regret he might feel, just the same as she goes deadpan. Because this is Rose, but it's not the one he knows of. She's... not really his.

He needs even more of a mask than usual.

"Don't I know it," he says with a shrug. "I look away for a hot minute and suddenly Dave's sixteen. I'm pretty used to this shit, to be honest."

Suddenly he became aware that they were still standing out in the open. "We should probably have this heartwarming family reunion somewhere else, y'know. Unless you want to get killed, that is."

"Sixteen, thirty seven isn't it all the same thing in the end?" She shrugs herself, casually like none of this matters. But her mind is racing, trying to recall things that another her was told, and growing frustrated a little. This would be so much easier if she had her Sight, so she could be sure.

Because like this she can't be certain that he's not just a figment of her imagination, something dreamt up by the Batterwitch to throw her off her guard. So she keeps those guards up, needles still in her fists.

"I suppose," she says anyway, and she steps a little back to her left. "There was a house back there, it seemed safe enough."

it may not be the wisest thing but Rose doesn't wait for those doubts to get her and she heads back the way se can,leading him back to the house.

Edited (spelling, adding things now that not on phone) 2014-06-23 10:26 (UTC)

He'd heard what they'd told him, but it hadn't really sunk in. Kill or be killed? There was always a third way. There had to be another way. It was a false dichotomy.

....wasn't it?

All evidence pointed to the truth of it, but there was a part of him not quite ready to give in yet, and that was the part that was armed with...a stick. Not the most formidable of weapons, but he was hardly a formidable man.

He hears a sound, like feet on a wooden porch, turning, stick at the ready. But no, Dennett. That's hardly the way to make a good first impression, so he whisks the stick behind his back, trying for a comforting smile. "Hello." He's radiating all the benevolence that years of bedside manner have given him. Or trying to, at least.

Sometimes the world was many shades of grey, Rose knew that much. And she also knew how to pick through the shades and sort them into the black and white categories. Knew how to make a decision and live with it, whatever the choice. After all, that was life, making choices, living with the results.

This game was just another extension of those decisions.

It's stupid, in her opinion, to call out to her and Rose turns to the sound, reflexes still sharp even if her ability to See beyond what others did gone. And the fog clears, enough that he can be made out and Rose studies the man with a careful mask of disinterest. Older, a plus for her, even with his natural advantage of gender. And he seems soft, someone who's had an easy life, not had to physically fight. And it's clear he's holding something, Rose not fooled by his smile.

Slowly she raises one blonde eyebrow, staying where she is, fingers curling a little tighter around her needles before she speaks. "Hello. You've just arrived as well, I assume?"

After all, there's no reason to jump straight into battle, patience is a virtue and she'd rather figure him out a little more before she acts.

If 'stupid' means 'not acting like a natural born killer' then, yes, guilty as charged. Though Dennett would be hard pressed to consider not being a bloodthirsty murderer a bad thing.

So, yes, he's new here.

He takes in the needles and figures, well, naturally, she's afraid. And in his mind, no more skilled at picking weapons as he is.

He offers a smile. "Yes. New. And still kind of hoping to wake up in my own bed." But that's becoming a more remote possibility. "I promise, I mean you no harm." He's not lying. He's figuring that together they can find a way through this. Safely.

Ethics and moral have no place here, Rose knew that much. And if that made her a bloodthirsty murderer and not a survivor... so be it. She's never cared that much about what others think of her.

She assunes in turn that he'll look past her needles, assume them to be the first thing she grabbed and not a weapon she actually searched through houses for. That's one of the best things about using something so simple, the way people don't see them for what they can be in the right hands. A sword may be more flashy but her needles let her decieve her enemies for some time.

His smile still doesn't prompt one from her, Rose still looking incredibly neautral. "A sweet thought," she says after a pause. An innocent thought she thinks in truth. Just as innocent as his second statement, in a way tgat Rose mentally scoffs. Fool. "You may not, but how do you know I intend to claim a promise like that to your own well being. That is if I in turn take your words as absolute truths and not a ploy. You were listening to what little we were told correct?"

She doesn't know why she's even standing here, taking apparent sympathy on him. Enough to try and make him reconsider this foolish attempt at pacifism. Maybe its just for her own reasons.

It's easier to kill someone who wants you dead after all.

He'd learned to care about what people thought of him, when it all became attached to funding and grants. But that doesn't seem to be on the radar here. Just, to his mind, a frightened woman clutching some knitting needles.

Rather sweet, actually.

"I was listening, but, I mean, they can't be serious. They can't just...just....pull people from their homes and turn them into some slasher movie villain!" Excuse the stammering: he's a little excited.

Rose finally moves after her long pause of standing like a statue, her mind made up. She's going to have to do this, if she wants to win. And she does. Not for glory, or any of the reasons they tried to use to make her fight. No, she merely wants to go home, knows she has to go home, no matter what. And so her fingers move, curling tighter around her needles and she takes one slow step forward, eyes locked onto him.

"It's clear they're more than capable of doing the first." Her eyes almost seem to bore into his, a stunning and unusal violet and Rose finally blinks. "Why would you think they're not capable of the second?"

Her eyes are...really captivating, he thinks, blinking after a moment, almost hypnotic. He wonders how they've been enhanced--obviously it's some colored lens or something, right?

"Well, I mean technically capable, yes, and if so there has to be a way to reverse it, to go home. But, but...kill each other? It's a way of keeping us from banding together." That's his read on it, anyway.

He extends a hand to her, following that up. See? They can be a team. They can start here.

Rose knows how odd her eyes are, how easily they catch the attentions of others. It's why Dave and she assumes Dirk wear their sunglasses half the time, to avoid such attention. Violet is a little easier to get away with, some what, but they're still handy. They're still distracting.

"Perhaps there is. But there are always going to be things that are irreversible," she says, voice completely calm even as she readies herself for what she's going to do. "But to follow such a train of thought as the one you put forward... Human nature is rarely so kind and naive I have found."

She sees the offered hand and ignores it, even as a small sad smile forms. "If it helps, I am truly sorry. But the good of the many are worth the sacrifices of the few, you must understand. And if this is what I must do to be assured going home..."

Rose lets her sentance drop and then without another wasted second she leaps, agile even at her age, and quick too, aiming to take him down and end this swiftly. She's no sadist after all.

"Yet," he says. "Things that seemed impossible to us fifty years ago are everyday occurrences now." That's what science is for, he figures.

"But people, yes. We can do terrible things." He knows this all too well, and knows how tempting it had been to push just one tiny step over the line, the another, then another, till he could barely even see the line behind him anymore.

"Sorry? For wha--!" And suddenly she's on him. She may not be the fastest thing on the planet, but she's got the element of surprise, and Dennett is, to put it mildly, not an athletic person. He lands, heavily, almost losing his grip on his stick. He has no combat technique, only a wild flailing, trying to get her body off him.

There's no more time for debating morals and ethics, the merits of human nature when put in situations like this. Rose knows she has to move fast, surprise only lasts so very long and her strengths lie in being quick. So she dodges his failing, one arm batting his own away even as he manages to get a wack in, pain radiating along her forearm.

And she aims, her other fist bringing down a needle, the force behind it enough to pierce his eye through to the brain, a quick death, if she strikes true.

Where her mind is quiet, his mostly certainly is not. There's a hum in his ears, a dull roar. There's this thing and that on his mind, and with all everything, after stumbling away from yet another corpse pile, with a want for his moirail and to be done alfuckingready, his mind is not quiet.

He should know better. He does know better. Just not at this moment. And so he doesn't even hear no entry as he searches the house cupboards for something edible. Anything what ain't rotted or gone to dust.

He shouldn't have had the fruit from the orchard. Poisoned shit. Mirth dammit. His insides ache terribly, in a way that's unfortunately familiar.

The kitchen is a cacophony of crashing and shatters and splintering wood. It almost drowns out the noise-- noise, noise, noise-- up in his headcasing.

Edited 2014-06-26 05:01 (UTC)

Thirty seven. Heh. Damn, this place truly is fucked up- but in a fascinating sort of way. He'd died, long before Dave or Rose ever really got the chance to grow up. So... seeing them is pretty nice, in a way- though he would really have preferred if she weren't older than him. That's going a little overboard, to be honest.

But while it's fascinating, it's also annoying because they think they're clever and amusing, bringing someone like her here the same time as him. Ha ha ha, well he's not going to react.

"Yeah." He follows along, relaxing just a little. He's fairly certain she won't attack, so his guard is down. When they reach the house, he carefully steps inside so as not to fall through the floor or something. Once in, he leans against the wall. "So, why don't you tell me everything I missed." A beat. "Oh and did you get the child support checks? I might've missed a few years, on account of you being older."

Dennett would be fine to rewinding a bit to talking more about morals and ethics. He might not have the high ground there, but at least it doesn't, you know, hurt.

Another man might feel the sting of shame about being stabbed in the face by a woman: Dennett's still hung up on the 'getting stabbed in the face'. He cries out, the desperate sound of a wounded animal that seems to his ears to echo through the entire place, (or maybe it's just all contained in his head), thrashing clumsily to try to push her off, even as a white hot lance of pain blanks his vision.

Considering she had spent a large portion of her life expecting to play some sort of... aunt-like figure to her own father, seeing him at this age, younger than her still isn't that odd. But its interesting in turn for her, while she may have seen glimpses of Roxy and Dirk in turn, they had still been relatively young with disruptions stopped her from Seeing further. Seeing him at this age is new. Its nice.

The fact that she may have to kill him is one she ignores quite firmly. Rose Lalonde is many things recovering alcoholic, eccentric recluse and rebellion leader but she isn't a person who would harm her own family. Their games be dammed.

She steps further in than he, looking around the room again. There's nothing new that's appeared in the past 5, 10 minutes but. It gives her something to do. Something else to look at."Everything? Would that be in regards to the Rose's that played the game or in regards to my own life? It's all a rather long tale." A beat, the ghost of a smile showing. "Its hard to send those through alternate dimensions, so I'll excuse the lapse. Unless paternal guilt is getting to you and you feel a need to buy my daughterly affections?"

She knows there's someone in here as soon as she enters, the crashes loud enough for anyone to hear and Rose slowly draws her needles as she steps forward. She contemplates leaving even as she does, even as her fingers tighten around her weapon and she knows she won't. Curiousity always has been a weakness of hers.

And so she steps forward, careful with each lift of her feet. Balance is easy though, even as she has to hop over rotten floorboards and the noises coming from the kitchen more than cover any creak of hers. But still, she never knows when those will stop, and she hasn't gotten this far, gotten innocent blood on her hands for nothing.

She reaches the doorframe easily enough, but it's when Rose peers around it that she likely gives herself away. It's a soft thump as she leans a little too heavily against the doorframe because she knew it, she fucking knew it, the bitch has some hand in it, because how else could you explain one of her own kind being here?

It's only a second that she's paused from shock, but it's a second lost all the same. A second someone could use against her.

Each second counts and so she uses each second. Even as he cries out, the sound of pain easy to recognise she steals herself and pushes down harder. Even as his flailing winds her she pulls the needle free, ignoring the sound it makes as it pulls free of flesh. Her arm is throbbing, her lungs fighting for air but she needs to finish this, even just to make it merciful. End his suffering, even if she in turn is the cause of it.

So she strikes down again, hand falling to his throat to hold him still as she aims for a quick kill. There's no joy in this, just cold precision.

As a neurosurgeon, he's heard his share of gross squelching metal-on-brain sounds. Just never from, well, this perspective.

He has to say it's a lot worse this way.

He coughs at the hand on his throat, swiftly losing breath, managing to croak out a wheezy "Why...." before his hands fall away from even attempting to fight back.

It's nowhere near pleasant but it needs to be done. It needs to be, it had to be ever since she first took aim. Rose can't let herself regret or hesitate in this, even if her blood feels like ice and her limbs heavy. Everything is so very crystal clear in her mind.

She presses hard, feels the metal of the needle sink deeper and she knows she's reached her goal when he falls still under her. She's killed him, a man who was most likely innocent. It's a statement of fact and she won't ever try and deny this.

She's slow as she sits back, and for the time all there is to hear is her own ragged breathing, Rose staring down at her victum. She doesn't even know his name. She never will.

Finally, in seconds that stretch to minutes that seem to stretch forever Rose rises, the softest grunts escaping her as she pulls her needle free from him. And she steps away, eyes forward. It's kill or be killed and she's already proven which path she'll take.

"Well now it's gone and gotten complicated," he says with a heavy sigh. That's a lie, it was complicated from the very start. But it seems this Rose is from a different universe. That makes things a little more awkward, but at the same time he feels a little better that she isn't technically the Rose from his ecto-droppings.

"I feel cheated and lied to," he continues, "I mean fuck. The post office said it was universal shipping."

What dicks.

"But you know me, all the guilt. I'm fuckin' drowning in it. So why don't I go find you a pony? I mean if you don't mind one with a few extra eyes, or sharp claws. That seems to be the norm here."

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And we're slipping off the course that we prepared [OPEN]

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forgive him for being so deluded

Sobs I just feel so bad for him /face in hands (btw do you have plurk?)

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Early week five / late week four

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sadly he has no icons for this

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tbh if he did I would be surprised.

good point. :P

Meanwhile I have so many needle related one,also,ping me if you want this changed I am just assuming

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