thearena | Mini Arena 2

Cecil receives a nod in return, tugging the Avox behind him as he slogs his way back towards the door he'd come through. The water is slowly but surely rising, dripping into his shoes and making walking uncomfortable. But squishy shoes are the least of their worries.

The hallways are narrow and the light erratic, flickering on and off and casting inconstant shadows on the walls. One line against the wall up ahead sparks, forcing Albert to turn quickly and shield Cecil from the spray, singing his suit. He shrugs out of the jacket quickly, putting it out on the damp floor. "Damnit, not this way. We'll have to find another way around."

[ooc: oh my god, I am so sorry for leaving that unfinished sentence just hanging out there D: ]

Cecil's more or less stuck in a permanent flinch to begin with; this isn't much different, except for the actual present danger overhead. He flinches harder at the burst of sparks, though, tugging free of Albert in his hurry to get away. (Some help he is.)

He scans the corridor behind them for some sign of another way out - up would be preferable, he thinks, judging by the water just beginning to lap at the tops of his shoes. There's a door in the wall some yards away, though whether it's to another corridor or just another room he can't say-- but, well, there are no sparks coming from it, so maybe it's preferable to where they are now.

He strikes the wall next to him once, just loud enough to get Albert's attention, and looks over his shoulder in the direction of the door. Albert said we - Cecil's involved in this now, whether he likes it or not.

As the ship goes down, the noises grow louder, more frequent. There's a fear rising in him, and if he didn't know better, he'd think it was the fear of everyone around drowning him before he even got to be drowned. But no, no power, it was all him. All the training he'd gone through and yet here he fucking was.

With teeth grit and real genuine cursing, he finds, not a way out but other looking for the same damn thing. He stops in the hall the moment he turns the corner, knife raised and lowered when he realises who it is; Albert, one of Terezi Pyrope's people. And Cecil. They did say they'd put him in the arena, and ain't like he's ever believed anyone to be truly merciful, but it's still odd to see him here.

He sticks the blade back in his suit jacket and starts to move toward them. "NOTHING THE WAY THIS MOTHERFUCKER CAME. You find anything down here?"

"I found Cecil, but that's it." He motions to his companion. "Anything further down is already flooded and there's a junk fuse the other way. We were going to try this door."

Truthfully, he'd been about to greet Initiate with a swift kick and take down if he hadn't lowered the knife. Even now he's wary, but he and Initiate are on good terms and he'd like to keep it that way.

He's about to say something else when the ship creaks ominously, keening just enough sideways to send Albert staggering and grabbing onto the door frame.

Cecil stumbles as well, losing his footing in the water sloshing around his ankle and catching himself with a thud on the opposite wall. There's a slope on two axes now - higher ground gets more difficult to find with every passing minute.

He's peripherally amazed (under the fear of the rising water) that there are now two people here who have not killed him, and don't seem likely to. He'd had a second, when the Initiate appeared, where he'd been sure his luck had run out; but death had, once again, not come. Every time it doesn't, Cecil finds himself less inclined to accept it when it does happen.

So, he pulls himself from the wall and sloshes back toward the door, grabbing at the hatch and putting his shoulder into trying to open it - confirming for the Initiate that they were indeed about to try this door. The pressure of the rising water makes it difficult, though, and his feet sliding on the floor don't help matters, either - it doesn't open for him.

He doesn't know how to ask for help. So he just keeps trying, keeping his eyes on the floor, his jaw tight with exertion. It's his job now, right? It's what he has to do.

As the ship rocks off balance, his arms go out to steady himself, just like up on wires high. He growls in frustration, not at Cecil or Albert, but the whole of the goddamn situation. He's never felt trapped by an arena before. It always meant he didn't have to try restraining himself so motherfucking much. But here there's something to actually worry on.

It's kind of amazing when Cecil moves first. Leading the motherfucking way even being as he is. Well, ain't no point just standing idly around.

He steps forward right up to Cecil's side and pushes alongside. He's a highblood. No matter what it may or may not seem, he's strong as hell and if the door don't give way for him and Cecil both he'll be real motherfucking surprised. And all stuck with a lamenting, but that's a whole other thing.

Between Cecil and Initiate - well, mostly Initiate - the door finally wrenches open and allows the three men to make their way into whatever lies beyond. Albert takes point, keeping Cecil safely between himself and Initiate behind.

Unfortunately, all that's behind the door is merely a storage room and not an avenue of safety. Nothing to see but some large crates starting to float in the water seeping into the cabin, making the bolts on the exterior wall groan ominously.

"Shit." Scheisse in his head but it comes out as English thanks to the damned chip and he doesn't have time to lament it. "We'll have to find another way ou-"

He's cut off by a loud groan, flickering lights, and a quake that rattles the bulkheads.

It's frightening, how quickly the water is rising. Cecil can't even see it flowing in from anywhere, and yet it seems that with every passing minute, it's noticeably higher, lapping already around his shins. He follows Albert into the storage room, takes three sloshing steps further in, just in case there's something they've missed, some port on the other side--

--and then the ship lurches. He feels the groan of the ship in his bones as much as he hears it. And then there is a more immediate sound, higher pitched, a longer, rasping groan followed by a quick pop-pop-pop-poppoppoppoppop. Cecil freezes.

And then the ceiling comes down.

He doesn't see this, of course. He's far too busy flinging himself at the farthest corner of the room, arms over his head, every part of him screaming in panic, to watch death come for them. He doesn't see the way the metal of the bulkhead crumples overhead, like giant hands were squeezing it from either side; he doesn't see it bulge, and twist, and then fall. He only hears it, vaguely, through hands clapped over his ears, over the splash of water in his face (the saltwater stinging against the scabbed-over wound at the back of his mouth).

Even when the groan subsides and the water calms and he opens his eyes, he sees nothing-- or, well. He sees dim shapes outlined against a room that is suddenly much, much darker. They are not, he notices, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, outlined against a doorway.

Without standing (he doesn't trust his legs to hold him up), Cecil raises his arm and hits the wall with his closed fist twice. A deliberate signal. I'm alive. Are you alive? Please, please be alive.

The two of them get their walk on in before he makes to. All on in do they go and he's just a second's splitting away from joining them. When the ceiling falls. He does see it. It looks like god pushing down upon them, to crush them in. And really, it ain't far from.

"FUCK!"

His ears go down and back. He leaps out of the way, jumping back to the wall, and everything caves in all of a cataclysm. He watches, wide eyed and with a vague mounting horror. Being able to see in the dark as he can just makes it all the worse. The whole thing is just piled up ship carnage, bent and twisted metal corpse all piled and tangled up togetherlike. Where Cecil and Albert were, they surely ain't no more.

"Oh Mirth..." He mutters, as he rises up from his crouch, walking forward to the mess of it all, looking for a hole to peer through. He hears the knocks. "...THAT YOU CECIL?" He calls over the mess of it all. "Albert?"

Cecil had been fast, throwing himself to a far corner of the room at the sound of the bulkhead's supports starting to cave. Albert, broader and heavier, hadn't been so quick. He's still alive, for now, but with his leg pinned under the wreckage that now cuts the room off from the rest of the ship, he won't be going anywhere soon without help. And the water's still rising.

Twisting himself with gritted teeth against the pain, Albert spots Cecil from his knocking on the bulkhead and then turns himself again a moment later at Initiate's call. "Cecil's fine, though we're trapped. Can you see anything on your end? Move anything?"

His voice is laced with pain, strong still but tremulous just at the corners as he can't tell if its water or blood that soaks his pant leg. The wreckage is too thick. Even if they can dig him out, he'll be more of a burden now than an asset.

Cecil is grateful for the announcement on his behalf. It saves time. He forces himself to stand up - though something in him is convinced that any movement will bring more of the ceiling down, that his small motion will be enough to bring more destruction down on them - and to move forward, to see if any of the wreckage can be shifted.

He stops beside Albert. It's dim, but his eyes are adjusting, enough that he can see that there's a very good reason he isn't standing up. He can hear it in his voice, too - that something isn't right. That something is terribly not right.

He kneels in the water beside Albert with a soft splash - afraid to touch him, his hands moving with small jerks in his direction and then away, as though he wants to try to help but can't fathom how. He wishes he had some way to tell the Initiate. He wishes he could think of a way to say, simply, Albert is hurt.

He can't think of a way to say that. And so he kneels in the water, his hands shaking, and hopes that someone will tell him what to do.

It's hard to tell, what being with the sound of water, the ring in his ears from the crash, and the muffling done by all else, but Albert does not sound okay. And he notes that when he says Cecil is fine, he doesn't say we. He steps back and looks at the mess of metal before him. He might well make it worse. But, well, they ain't gonna get no where if doesn't try.

Back to the wall again he reaches into the scraps and pulls. He holds his breath, grits his teeth, and he makes metal shriek. He's a highblood, stronger than a whole lot of motherfuckers what is being here, but that ain't mean capitol hasn't found no way of restraining such things. It don't mean it's easy. He fights and snarls and keeps at pulling-- something what ain't looking like it might bring more down if he does.

The water is getting higher and higher. He feels real fear coming quick.

One piece of metal gets taken out with a roar and tossed down. With hard breaths, he looks up at what's left. A lot. A whole motherfucking lot is what. But there's a hole what as can be seen through, maybe.

He looks around for the next bit and tugs. It don't budge. Again and again he tries. "GH- IT'S BEING MOTHERFUCKING STUCKJAMMED HARDLIKE!" He shouts.

Oh Albert can tell alright. Even moving that one piece had caused the entire pile of shrapnel and rubble to shift, driving whatever was keeping Albert pinned further down instead of lightening the load. He didn't cry out, but his teeth grind hard in his mouth and his face drops several shades paler as Initiate shouts back to them though the wreckage. The water slowly rising in the storage room seems a little pinker than it was before, copper tinging the edges of the salty scent.

Whatever has him pinned isn't just on top of his legs, it's through one of them.

It takes Albert a moment to pull himself together enough to speak, looking at Cecil with an unwavering gaze despite it being clouded by pain. "See if you can find some kind of hole you can squeeze through."

He may not be able to move, but there's no sense in both of them drowning if they don't have to.

Cecil has seen a lot of death. He's lived to watch almost forty Hunger Games. He has seen people die in many, many ways. He has seen blood shed and spilled and flowing and trickling and dripping and spraying. But he has never smelled it like this before - never watched it stain the cuffs of his jacket pinkish, never breathed in the bitter tang of it on the humid air.

He's so frightened that his fear is audible. His breaths are coming short and sharp and panicked, loud enough to echo in the confined space, even with no voice behind them. He swallows, and it clicks in his dry throat.

But he obeys.

With only a second's hesitation (and a wary glance at the Initiate), he obeys. He moves to the wrecked wall, the pile of twisted metal, and begins to search for a way through. He moves carefully around the troll, ducking his shoulders in involuntary fear whenever he comes too close to one of the huge hands; there don't appear to be any gaps, except... the one the Initiate made.

All fear is the fear of death, in this moment. And so Cecil puts his hands on one of the broken beams and pulls himself up until it's only his feet in the water, clinging to a handhold, almost level with the Initiate's face. He can see from here that the gap is still too small for him-- but he has to try. He has to see.

His head and shoulders make it, sort of. That's encouraging, and so he stretches his arms through, grabs at a handhold on the other side and hauls himself inches further. There are edges digging into his arms, his legs, his chest, but it is fine. He is fine. He hauls again, and feels the dig of blunt metal into his waist - his feet are no longer on the ground. It is fine. He hauls one more time, excited to obey, to put his head through, to be free-- and quite suddenly it is not fine.

The pain is different from the many cuts and bruises he's already sustained. This is sharper, more immediate, bigger; it starts in his side, just over his hipbone, and when he hauls himself forward again to escape it, it burns down his thigh. (He has the unbidden mental image of paper tearing.) He can't exactly cry out in pain, but his breathing is ragged at the edges, hoarse and uneven. Is he bleeding? He thinks he's bleeding. He doesn't know. All blood smells the same.

He hauls one more time, and the strength in his arms fails him. Or, well-- any part of him capable of pulling himself forward knowing that it will cut him more to ribbons fails him. He can't turn himself to see well, not from here; but he can make a fist and pound weakly at the beam next to him, make a hollow, watery clang clang clang-- Frantic and fluttering like his heartbeat, a feeble gesture that he hopes says to anyone behind him, anyone on the other side, Please-- please help me through. I am only trying to obey.

The tap resounds after so many seconds of helplessness. His fists clench.

Half a sweep ago, he wouldn't be here. He could walk past this and leave them without the slightest feeling. He could laugh in the struggle, or grab Cecil and pull to watch his guts tear. He could've just culled them the moment he saw them. It would've been so easy.

He's been trying. He's been doing as his friends want, being as they want him to up and motherfucking be. He's refrained from the cull, even though it makes his fingers twitch and his mind spin. He's started feeling shit when all he didn't, even though there was no reason or purpose or use. He tried to save people-- his false-descendant, Sigma and his not-matesprit, Disciple and her torn off leg and he made her burn and it was for nothing. All his culls to keep his Moirail around, pointless.

He hasn't been able to save anyone up at all, he isn't any goddamn good at it. He's not made for this. And he knows, just looking at Cecil and the twist in his face, hearing that familiar tearing sound, catching that scent, he's not going to be able to save him either.

It's not fair.

Dammit. His teeth grit and he goes forward reaching in to Cecil. His face is the apology he won't say, because it ain't going help. He grips the avox as best he can, trying to do so in a way what all will make for less. Then he says, "Brother, motherfucking brace as for this."

He draws up all the wicked unmercies what ever got being done by him, to make shield. And then he pulls. Cecil can't scream. He can't bite his tongue out in the pain. The Initiate just hauls and pulls once again making motherfucking murder without meaning to. He keeps going until he can Cecil right against his cold self, and there is bright red blood all over. He'll have to set the motherfucker down to get proper look on, but he figures even the cold of the water isn't the top of Cecil's problems now.

"GOT HIM," He calls to Albert, and it sounds hollow.

Edited 2014-09-02 14:00 (UTC)

With the water turning red so much faster around them and Initiate's voice devoid of any emotion, Albert can guess that Cecil's freedom will be short lived. Or maybe that isn't the way of it, maybe he'll just be the first one to be free of the arena.

It's easier to swallow like that.

On his end, Albert's still stuck sitting awkwardly in the freezing water, the tide rising red and creeping up his sides. It'll be to his chest soon, and then... and then...

He still can't move.

"Initiate." When did his voice get so weak, so wavering? He tries again. "Initiate, take Cecil and go. There's nothing you can do for me. There's no sense in all of us drowning."

He's going to die alone.

Joan was gone-drowned to save Jet from the same fate-and while that was disheartening, he didn't let it stop him from continuing to search the lower levels for people who might need help.

The fact the lower he went, the deeper the water got didn't escape him but he kept going anyway. As long as he was mobile, he could always go back up and get out of the water. Assuming he didn't freeze to death from the damn stuff first.

Voices drew his path down a long hallway and a turn, bringing him face-to-face with large troll and who he recognized as Cecil, even in his pale and bloody state. Jet's first thought was that he'd walked in on a killing, but the way the guy was holding Cecil made him second guess that thought. As quickly as he could in water up to his knees, he made his way over. "What happened?"

Maybe he could help...although, from what he could see of Cecil's wounds, he was probably beyond help now.

When the Initiate pulled him through, Cecil made a sound-- not a voiced sound, but a long, hoarse, ragged gasp, involuntary and loud enough to echo off of the metal walls. He clapped a hand to his mouth, but it was too late to stifle it. It was the loudest sound he could remember making since they'd taken his voice. It frightened him as much as the deadly pain in his side.

He kept his hand over his mouth as he curled into the Initiate, trying to hold back the noise of his breaths. He'd been taught not to respond to pain if he could help it-- to bear it silently-- but he could see the redness of the water around the Initiate's legs, and he knew where it had come from. There was, he reflected dizzily, probably as much of his life in the water at this point as there was in his veins now. A ratio that was changing against his favor with every passing minute.

Jet caught his attention, though - it was a hazy attention, flickering in and out (like his vision was beginning to, at the edges), but he managed to turn his head, to take in who it was. It took a second to register properly who it was (all fear was still the fear of death), but then he understood.

Cecil took his hand off his mouth and, with the last of his strength, pointed-- back the way he had come, through the gap, where Albert was. There-- helpful, right? That was what he'd be looking for. Maybe Jet could help, where the Initiate alone couldn't. Maybe all three of them would make it out of here. Maybe one of them would win the Arena. Maybe they could say they'd done it with his help.

The pointing hand curled into a fist, as another spasm of pain rocked Cecil. He twisted the fingers of his opposite hand into the Initiate's clothes; gasped again, long and ragged; curled into himself; and another gasp did not follow.

The cannon would, though; distantly, about ten seconds later.

It ain't the first time someone's died on him. Likely won't be the last. But there's something particularly twisting about the was Cecil hangs on like that. Cecil was an avox. He's not got a great chance of coming back like the rest of them.

His eyes close as his breath whistles through his teeth. Then, slowly, he sets Cecil down in the water, back to the wall. There's a brief moment where he thinks to take off the head-- just in case, part of habit-- but they don't need more blood here to draw no beasts and ain't none of them going to live long enough for no dead rising anyway.

And there's someone else what's being there what he ought to attend to. "Ceiling caved. ALBERT'S BEING UP ON SIDE OPPOSITE. Looking as to be stuck, he is," The Initiate says, clarrifying Cecil's last message. But just to be sure this one ain't hostile, he asks, "THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

If he wanted to be responsible for these deaths he would've motherfucking culled them himself when he found then-- as he should've, but such as things goddamn are. He stands before that wall of metal like he can help for shit if this fucker wished for strife.

Jet. Albert can hear him, tinny as his voice echoes though the rubble and around the metal corridor but still his partner. He's suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of urgent negativity, wanting to tell Jet to leave - or better, hoping that Initiate doesn't tell him who's trapped on the other side of the wall of shrapnel. There's nothing they can do for him and Jet having to watch him die again, this time slowly, is too much. He can just prey that Initiate has some sense.

It's a short-lived hope and he closes his eyes in resignation once the large Troll shouts his name with that talking quirk of his. He can see Jet face in his mind's eye, blue eyes widening in realization, turning towards the mess and immediately trying to find some way through, some way to move it, something, anything he can do even when it's clear there's nothing.

He can't handle his partner in pain like that, angry and railing against the inevitable as he always does.

"Jet, it's useless. There's nothing that can be done. Go with Cecil and Initiate." If Cecil's even still alive. He doubts it. And moreover his voice is weak trying to talk around the lump in his throat, trying to send Jet away when he can feel himself bleeding out and the water's creeping up his chest, soaking the dress shirt in what feels like ice as he slowly runs out of room to breathe. He can't even tell if he'll drown or bleed out first and all he wants is to touch Jet's fingers before he goes.

But he can't ask even that much. Not when his life would be put in danger by it too. "Just go! All of you!"

The sudden yelling is off-putting, but once it registers what was said, it might as well have been a whisper for how much attention it's paid. Albert was stuck on the other side. And before he can rake together his suddenly racing thoughts to give his name, he can hear his partner's voice distantly though the metal barrier and it makes desperation flair even brighter in his mind.

He'd gone looking for him and found him when it was too late. No, he had to try, even as he knew it was hopeless, giving up wasn't an option. Just as Albert predicted, Jet moved to go towards the metal separating him from his goal, but the large troll was standing there as a second barrier and it took everything in the blond's power not to turn his ire on him instead. It wasn't his fault, he vaguely even appreciated the protective gesture...but it was in his way right now.

"Jet. I'm his fiance, so let me try and help."

Of course, what could he do? He could guess they'd tried moving the metal and weren't able to and if a guy as large as this guy was couldn't move the metal, what could Jet do with his flimsy flesh and bone arms? There was the hole Cecil had pointed to...they were close enough in build, Jet could probably get himself through there too. He'd have to try it.

He tried to soften his expression, offer some of the thankfulness that he felt that Albert wasn't left alone show. "He's right though, you should get out of here, no point in you staying when you can still try and survive."

Cause Jet wasn't going to, he'd made his choice

He hasn't the faintest motherfucking idea what as a fiance is like as to be. But he registers the note of belonging to the other and assumes it's likely something important. Beyond that, he doesn't much care enough to find out at the moment. He steps aside to let Jet pass.

The Initiate gives about as much attention to Albert's pleas for them to leave that Jet does. If only perhaps a bit more because the water is rising and he's already tried and failed to save more than one person today.

Jet however, manages to catch him. His mouth opens without knowing what at all he ought to say. He wants him to just leave them? But then they'll both die. This motherfucker's got for chance all ripe and legit for surviving. Why throw that away?

Maybe for a quadrant.

Either way, he can, Jet ain't going no where. His mouth closes. His eyes squeeze shut. The water is rising. They've both made their choice. He opens his eyes and doesn't say a word, just nods once and turns away.

"Idiot," he calls over the sound of rushing water, of sparks from the hallway, but it doesn't pack much punch. He slams his fists uselessly against the floor, splashing in the rising tide and lacking any real satisfaction there either.

He's helpless, hopeless, and now Jet's going to throw his life away - throw potential victory away - simply because Albert had gotten himself trapped. "Idiot, don't do this! It's pointless! Just go!"

It's all he can do to yell at Jet until his hoarse and know it will do no good.

"Shut up, Al."

Jet watches the troll go a moment before turning to consider the hole in the rubble. Albert's light insults and orders to leave go thoroughly ignored beyond Jet's first response.

It would be a tight squeeze and he couldn't afford anything extra on his person in case it got caught, so the items he'd grabbed at the cornucopia are dropped without a second thought. He gave the space a second go over with his eyes, assessing the best way to go through and where he might hold to pull himself through, before actually climbing into the rubble.

As he pulls himself through, something seems to press against his side and back, but it doesn't rip or catch on anything, simply makes things a bit more uncomfortable before he was finally able to get his shoulders through. Once they were free, the rest of him was easy and he was soon at the German's side, trying to inspect the debris covering his partner's legs. It definitely didn't look good. The water was too red and the metal too close to the floor; it had crushed him. Even if he were able to get Albert out now, his injuries were still likely to kill him.

This was it.

"You just don't know how to stay out of trouble without me, do you?" The lightly teasing remark is made with a small smile dampened by the reality that there was nothing he could do to help but stay with the older man.

"You bastard," he tries to snarl but there's no real punch in it at all. "You're perfectly healthy, you could have helped others, or won yourself. Now you'll just die pointlessly."

Like him. He should have been able to help Cecil, help anyone, and instead he's practically just a torso in a slowly filling fishbowl and this prodigious moron has to come in and stay with him when he could have been so much more useful elsewhere.

And Albert can't fathom how grateful he is he doesn't have to die slowly and alone. Guilty, surely, but grateful all the same.

He grabs Jet's hand, pulling him away from the debris and closer so he can rest his forehead against the palm. "You complete dope."

Mini Arena 2

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rolling this along... feel free to do the ceiling falling in.

holla if I should go back and change anything!

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Lemme know when we want Jet in and I'll tell them

This round of confused panic and then Jet, perhaps?

sound good to me!

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