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Who: Siroc and Open
What: Siroc enters the arena and has found a shop. What happens next? Well, death happens in the form of Bro.
Where: Main Street
When: Week 4/Start of Week 5
Warnings/Notes: There's mention of eyesquicky things in here. And, you know,the whole being killed thing.

This whole entire thing had the makings of someone's depraved mind, though Siroc had not been given any time to ascertain entirely who was most at fault here. He'd been told something of gamemakers, and a capitol, and before he could ask more questions had been stuck with the needle that had, apparently, contained something to track him with, strangely reminiscent of a prisoner tattoo, but somehow, much more irritating and really rather itchy on top of everything else.

And then, before anything else, he had been shoved into a tube and dropped here with no weapon and no other means of defending himself, though he could think of quite a few methods that MAY work for such a purpose if they were nearby. Of course, until he had something to hand, the best idea was to keep to whatever coverage he could, and as much as it seemed a coward's way of facing this, it also seemed a whole lot smarter.

The fact that the fog he currently was working in also made it difficult for HIM to see anything, was a problem, one which could probably be solved by some means in the future if he lived long enough to see it through. Some kind of protective eyewear, maybe? Either way, for now, he kept close to the ground, forcing his way through toward an area that seemed to contain shops at least. While he doubted very much that there would be anything like a sword or pistol left to any of them, it was still possible to find SOMETHING of use. A knife, perhaps, if he was lucky, even the scissors from a sewing kit could be used in ennucleation, or some sort of cord that would be useful as an impromptu garrote.

Stepping, still hunched over, into what seemed to have been a shop, a food one, judging by the smell of rotted fruit, he glanced about for weapons or anything else that might be useful. Dried pepper if he could find it, or even some other irritant, and water mixed together, then thrown in someone's face would not be deadly but could give him an element of surprise that allowed for time to make a deadly play. Time to start rummaging about, and opening containers in search of what he was looking for then, right?

If there was anyone on his trail, or in the shop itself so far, he had not quite noticed it yet, but he could hope at least this would go well, couldn't he?

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Siroc had better hope he managed to find some pepper or other irritant, because it would come in handy- because he was about to come face to face with somebody playing this disturbing little game to win.

So when heard movement in the fog, he was quick to follow it until he found the source of it. He followed for a moment to see if Siroc went anywhere interesting, before deciding he'd probably be better off just getting it over with. It already felt mildly creepy, stalking someone in the fog. Then again, Bro also didn't have a problem with being creepy, so that was beside the point.

Bro ran ahead, just so that he could step out of the fog in front of Siroc, all dramatic like. "Yo," he said, and the butcher knife he had held in his hand was quite obvious. "Looks like you stumbled into the wrong neighborhood."

"Your hideout?" Siroc managed to quip a little, even as his eyes were firmly fixed on that knife, and where it was going. He still hoped very much to make a break for it, or at least not to look like he was blindly running around here like a lamb ripe for slaughter.

He'd managed things like this before, although he hadn't been weaponless at the time, and usually he had at least one of his friends there for backup. At the moment? Backing up was about the only thing that he could do, well that, and trying to pull off the nonchalant angle of facing death on an almost daily basis. Unfortunately though? There was something about the Arena that had him at a distinct disadvantage.

"I mean, I do apologize for barging in like this if it is. Home...ah...hideout intrusion is up there on the list of pretty awful things." If only he had gotten to a weapon of some kind before all this, he could have actually put up a fight. As it was, he wasn't going to beg for anything, or well, actually.

"Now would be a very good time for a mysterious weapon of some kind to float into my hands, now wouldn't it?" He asked, giving where he thought the cameras might be a look that he'd seen d'Aratagnan master, only puppy eyes didn't quite have the right effect on his usually more somber face.

Well. He was probably dead in a few minutes, then.

Bro let out a small scoff. Man, what was it with people rambling in the face of death? Did they think that it would somehow endear them to him and he would decide not to kill them? He had some bad news; that wasn't going to happen. It wasn't like it was anything personal or anything, but the more people he killed, the less chance he had of dying himself, and maybe even winning- though that wasn't a priority, only surviving.

"I think the chances of that happening are pretty slim," he said. "I mean, you can hope for sponsor gifts all you want, but I'm pretty sure the folks watchin' at home know your time is up. Why would they send a dying man a gift?"

And that was that. His intentions were clear, and he knew if he didn't act quickly, he would lose the advantage. So he broke into a run. Instead of going for the obvious kind of attack, at the last second, Bro dropped into a slide. As he slid past Siroc, he swing the knife at Siroc's leg. Crippling the enemy was always a good step to killing them, after all. And Siroc looked like a runner.

It was actually, probably a really interesting sort of phenomenon. Siroc would consider it so, certainly. Aside that though, well, nerves more than anything else were playing a role in his stream of babble and attempts to be witty just now.

Though, probably not on the sponsors, and Siroc really could understand why. They had told him he did not have a district like the others had yet, though he was not quite certain what these districts were. Bearing that in mind, he doubted anyone from any of the districts would be thrilled with him just yet,and particularly not thrilled enough to take a chance on sending an unknown a gift.

"As far as I can see, it seemed worth trying, and it WOULD have made the fight a little fairer. Granted, I think none of this is actually fair..."

What was he doing with that run towards him then? Siroc had figured on dramatics, his assaulter slowly drawing out the moments of his death. Anticipation had a way of turning on you, though, and Siroc's anticipation here could very well kill him. As it was, it got him slashed across the leg, and oh that hurt, first burning, and then throbbing and then there was so much blood that he could not think for a few moments. Moments that would probably cost him as he slowly tried to return to himself.

All of that blood meant a deep wound, or that something vital had been damaged. It also meant, that in spite of all his years of training, in spite of everything that had been worse than this, and in spite of all the ways that Siroc told his body to resist, that he was hitting the floor quite quickly.

It did not leave him many options, did it? Still, if Siroc could manage to grasp his attacker's ankles, at least one of them, he may be able to pull the man down beside him. It at least seemed like a last reasonable effort, something that could show he went down fighting for his life, instead of whimpering in a closet somewhere. It didn't hurt to try, at least, and, spreading blood across the floor as he dragged himself a few inches closer to the other tribute, he reached out for the ankle closest to him and he tugged, hard as he could.

Siroc would not make this easy anyway. Instead,he would die as proudly as was possible in this arena. He was a musketeer, and, if he could not fight like one, at least he could still die like one instead.

If the situation were different, Bro might would have laughed at Siroc's words. Bro was of the opinion that life was unfair. It kicked you when you were down, it through impossible odds at you, and it never stopped shitting on you. But he never let it get him down too much. Instead, he made a point to survive in a world that wouldn't cut you any slack.

It was the same back home, it was even more true here.

As it was, he didn't laugh- mostly because he was too busy getting grabbed by the ankle. He hadn't expected that one, and he fell forward into a kneeling position, the knife sliding out of his grasp a few feet in front of him. With his other foot though, he aimed a kick at the man's head roughly, as hard as he could.

"The sooner you accept that life ain't fair, the happier you'll be," he spat over his shoulder, wishing this shit could be over. He wasn't interested in drawing it out for longer than he had to. He was a dramatic man, yeah, but he didn't want to make people suffer unnecessarily. It was strictly for survival, that was all.

Life had not exactly been what Siroc could have called "fair", really. It had just been the best comment for the moment that he had been able to come up with. He was not exactly under the impression anything in life was all that fair, really, but it had felt especially ironic in those moments, because, after all, here they were in a death match.

For now, he'd settled on keeping something of his composure, though he'd been quick enough to try reaching for the dropped knife, his reflexes reacting on that, and not on the fact that Bro was close enough to...

Ow!. Siroc let out a little hiss of breath, and looking rather dazed, could really only lie there for a moment, uncertain of what else to do, and a bit too weak just now to easily do much but wait to be killed, really.

"No, life has always had its ways of dispelling that notion once and for all. Still, the mechanics of this place had to be tested one way or the other, right? I think we live in hope we'll someday stumble into some kind of utopia where the physics of the world allow for some little bit of fairness. I'm fairly sure all of us here could do with finding it."

He knew perfectly well life was unfair, and hard, and, yes, kept tossing shit at you when you needed it least. It'd happened to him more than a few times, he had to say.

"I don't know that I'm really happy getting that fact confirmed again, but well, a man can dream."

It was a satisfying feeling, having his foot connect with the other man. He couldn't have been sure that it would, but with that done he felt confident that this would be over soon. He scrambled for the knife that had slid out of reach, and it was in his grasp a moment or two later, as Siroc rambled on behind him.

"You're a talkative motherfucker, holy shit."

He couldn't imagine being so longwinded when he was about to die. Just shut up and take it, for god's sake. "You can dream all you want, but shut up."

Bro was quick to move on top of him, straddling him. Oh, how many times he'd been in this position before- only this time, it was to stab somebody. Unless Siroc stopped him, he would lift the knife over his head and bring it down hard to stab him wherever the knife happened to land.

"I'm sorry, this is my first murder."

It was probably BETTER for him to just shut up even while he struggled to get away, shifting his weight from side to side to roll away, but Siroc had spent a good portion of his lifetime shutting up and taking it from too many people, and even though there were usually rules about this sort of thing when you were taking a beating(the first,and most important, one being 'keep your mouth shut'), he didn't feel much like playing by them now.

'Spit in their face' was also not typically on that particular Do-list, but Siroc did that anyway, hoping for a moment or two that might break Bro's hold and allow him to get away.

There were few things that really pushed Bro over the edge and made him angry. The biggest berserk button he had was Dave- you threaten his bro and you would get your ass kicked. His second one? Bodily fluids.

Dave peed on him one too many times when he was a baby. That kind of shit stuck with you, and there was nothing he hated more than pee and bodily fluids in general. It was just one of those things. Blood, he could handle. Anything else? Nope. So when Siroc spat in his face, he felt anger wash over him. Now it was personal, now he was going to make it fuckin' hurt.

Bro rolled off of the man, knife still clenched in his hand tight- but he wouldn't need it anymore, not yet. He wiped at the spit on his face with a look of disgust. "You've done it now, fucker." He stepped towards the man and once again kicked at him, swinging his foot as hard as he could wherever it may connect, but he was definitely hoping to get his face. Break a nose, knock out a tooth, something. He just wanted it to fucking hurt.

It was, admittedly, underhanded and would certainly have resulted in a lovely, earburning conversation with his captain at home, all about such tactics being below the dignity of a musketeer, and badly representing them and other such things Siroc had heard said to those of the musketeers and cadets while lingering outside his office.

And, in any normal circumstances, it would actually be deserved. The message involved in spitting at someone was, well, designed to piss them off, though Siroc's version had involved hoping to catch Bro just a little unawares here. As it was, having had no such luck, Siroc did attempt to twist away as Bro rolled off himself. If he could be fast enough with that to stand again he'd...

Well, so much for improvised plans going awry JUST as you'd come up with then. As Bro's foot connected with his face, there was the sort of cracking noise and pain that came with a broken something, and Siroc was groaning, in spite of himself, a hand slipping towards his nose while blood poured out of it quite rapidly.

Resetting, Siroc thought. He must reset it should he get out of this, but here, he couldn't give Bro more satisfaction than he had so far.

"I've made this worse?" He managed, the words sounding extremely thick and hard to work through at the moment. "Here I thought you were only going to kill me."

The sound that came as his foot connected with Siroc's nose was extremely satisfying, and he took a step back for the moment to reorient himself and figure out what it was that he was going to do next. A part of him had to wonder if he should just go ahead and kill him, or give into his wounded pride and make it hurt a little more.

He was leaning towards making it hurt a little more, because pride could be a very loud voice in your head. "Yeah, you have," he said when Siroc spoke. Under normal circumstances, he would have sounded funny. Bro wasn't in a laughing mood. "I was gonna make it quick before, but then you had to go and piss me off, so now it's gonna hurt just a little more than it would ordinarily."

With that, he aimed another kick at Siroc, and then another one. "I hope you fuckin' learned a lesson not to spit in people's faces," he said, between each kick. "It's not fuckin' nice."

Siroc would have personally opted for the 'kill now' option, because, frankly, everything hurt too much to keep up much of a good performance for the audience and cameras. Playing the stubbornly sarcastic one, even in the face of death was getting to be a bit too much, even if he knew that people seemed to love somebody who could keep up with banter til the end. If he was given a killing blow just now, he wouldn't have to try so hard to think, especially about everything inside his face besides his nose and how THAT might have been damaged.

Yeah, Siroc got the concept of pride entirely too well just now, considering that pride had gotten him here, lying on the ground and trying to make his breaths seem somehow not pain filled. At least, if he woke up again, which he sort of doubted, the pain would be gone, he had been told. It wasn't quite the ideal situation for getting out of this gladitorial bread and circuses style of nightmare, but if it meant the pain would stop, he'd have to say that he approved of it.

He had almost been going to apologize, even before the next two kicks connected, one of which caught his cheek and one his chin, both of them radiating through his nose, and somehow that was exceptionally more painful and he couldn't help groaning a bit there anyway, but then Bro was speaking again, and the words sent a sort of rage through Siroc that he couldn't talk himself down from, though he didn't WANT to either.

He'd heard that plenty of times, that he needed to just learn his lesson, and every time he'd heard the words, they'd never failed to seriously tick him off. He needed to learn a lesson about thinking that he was smarter than his betters, about looking so smug, about thinking that he could possibly orchestrate escapes and uprisings, and frankly, there was no phrase in any language that could have pissed him off MORE at this point.

As much pain as he was in, as much as he felt about three broken teeth rattling around inside his mouth, and as much as he just wanted to make this end, he let rage run through him and managed to pull himself half upright. It was enough to do something at least, and seeing he had no other resources right now, Siroc launched himself at Bro, trying for a headbutt to his stomach if possible.

"Guess I'm a pretty slow learner then." He tried, the words sounding all garbled through the swelling and the blood and the lost teeth. "I think four people, maybe five I know, still think I'm nice. Thankfully I'm not exactly one of them."

Or that was what he wanted to say anyway. What came out was pathetic, garbled, and seemed less like a statement that could be a hill to die on than a bit of whimpering or something now.

Well, shit.

Bro hadn't been expecting Siroc to find the fire in him to try attacking again. His nose was already broken, he'd figured that a few more kicked and he'd be able to stab him without much resistance. Oh, how wrong he was. He'd let himself get sloppy enough that when Siroc decided to headbutt him in the stomach, he went down, falling onto his back. He kept the knife clutched in his hand all the while, not letting it slide away again.

He couldn't half hear anything Siroc was saying, nor did he particularly care. Using one hand, he attempted to push the other man off of him, and with the other he aimed a stab at his side with the knife.

Honestly, if he hadn't said that bit about learning his lesson, Siroc would have let it go. But words like those were fighting ones to him, even if his style of fighting, at this point wasn't well developed. He was probably going to die anyway, but he was going to die with at least showing his killer that there were some things he wouldn't take and some words that were personal.

Of course, his resolve lasted right up to the point where he was getting pushed back. While trying to struggle against Bro's hand, the knife that he was holding sunk in deep and Siroc let loose with a few pained obscenities, kind of glad that this was live so they could not possibly be censoring it yet. It felt better that way, knowing that someone would at least hear his really quite creative string of last words.

Every little bit helped, now, didn't it?

There were some things Bro couldn't blame people for, and that was definitely letting out a few choice cusses when you were hurt. Many a time he'd stubbed his toe and suddenly it was as if he were suddenly sailing the titanic for all the words that left his mouth.

To him, that was dying with dignity. Even if he was still asschafed about getting spat on, but that wasn't the point. He gave the knife a twist, just to make sure it did the most amount of damage, before yanking it out and giving Siroc a hard shove to get him off, so that he could haul himself to his feet.

"I'd say it was nothing personal, but fuck you it kind of was," he said, his voice irritable because of how fucking covered in blood he was from all this shit.

Dying with dignity for Siroc would have been a little different, ideally, and he'd almost died with it several times now. Maybe his experiences as a musketeer had spoiled him a little in terms of death and near death because he sure wasn't getting them now. But it could've probably been worse. In its way.

Getting shoved and not being able to fight against it was also not part of the dying with dignity thing, but hey, at least he hadn't fainted, right?

"The...personal touch..." Talking was incredibly hard now because it both hurt, and because of the flow of blood at his stomach that he was trying to stave off and failing badly at. "makes killing kind of...an...art. So, uhm...thanks..."

And then it was too hard to keep his eyes open anymore and Siroc thought he saw a lot of light in front of him, almost blindingly white, and someone he cared for waiting on the other side.

"Papa?" he asked, clearly seeing something no one else could as his body started to seize a bit. "It's...good to see you." And with that, he lost consciousness completely, and not long after that, his heartbeats slowed a lot, before they stopped all together.

"Uh..." He started, really not even sure how to take that gratitude. "You're welcome. I guess?"

Why was it that everyone he's killed here so far has had some really goddamn awkward deaths? First there was Hiccup praying to his father, now this. "Oh geez..." he murmured, as Siroc apparently began talking with his father. This was awkward. This was fucking uncomfortable.

"I'm sure he feels the same way," he said with a wave of his hand, as he started moving towards the door. "Sounds like one hell of a family reunion. But I'm out."

And he was gone before Siroc managed to die completely.

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Little later, as per our talk on plurk

Re: Little later, as per our talk on plurk

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