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etcircenses) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2014-08-18 09:38 pm
etcircenses) wrote in thearena2014-08-18 09:38 pm
Entry tags:
- ! arena 11,
- aang,
- albert heinrich,
- bucky barnes (mcu),
- cassandra marko,
- clara murphy,
- commander shepard,
- harley quinn,
- jet link,
- molotov cocktease,
- sigma klim,
- the grand highblood,
- the signless,
- ✘ alex murphy,
- ✘ astrid hofferson,
- ✘ brainiac 5,
- ✘ bruce banner,
- ✘ bucky barnes (616),
- ✘ carlos the scientist,
- ✘ clementine,
- ✘ dave strider,
- ✘ dennett norton,
- ✘ donatello,
- ✘ edward nygma,
- ✘ elsa,
- ✘ eridan ampora,
- ✘ hiccup,
- ✘ homura akemi,
- ✘ joel,
- ✘ justin hammer,
- ✘ kankri vantas,
- ✘ kurloz makara,
- ✘ mindy macready,
- ✘ nasir,
- ✘ natasha romanoff,
- ✘ peggy carter,
- ✘ pruna,
- ✘ rocket raccoon,
- ✘ ruffnut thorston,
- ✘ skye,
- ✘ sollux captor,
- ✘ steve rogers,
- ✘ tess,
- ✘ tony stark
ARENA 11-PaneMall
It’s pre-dawn when the Tributes are roused from their beds and sent to their tubes. Those who’d been imprisoned for the past few weeks had their heads covered before transport to the staging area, and there’s an air of confusion surrounding just about everything that’s happening until the stylists and managers arrive on the scene and try to calm everyone down. The reunions may be happy, but they're sadly very temporary.
The first clue that something strange is happening comes from their clothing: figure skating costumes with bright colors and sequins and ice skates strapped to their feet. Some may even find it difficult to stand with the blades on their feet, but as they're placed into the arena, all becomes clear. The mall skating rink seems quiet and quaint, especially after weeks of uncertainty and stress. Too bad the peace and quiet can’t last.
20
19
18...
Above the ice rink (which houses all 100+ Tributes) there are floors with shops looking over them. Large, bright fluorescent lights dot the multi-storied ceiling and create a warm, nostalgic glow to the place. Benign music is piped in from various hidden speakers to compliment the intended mood of fun and commerce.
17
16
15…
The countdown continues and the Tributes, some of whom haven’t seen each other in weeks, stare at one another helplessly. That is, until one of them boldly decides to speak.
"We're expected to fight here today," Steve's voice suddenly cuts through the tension in the room. It commands attention without demanding it, a conviction of truth in his tone.
14
13
12...
"To turn on each other through fear and self preservation. And we could give them what they want. A bloodbath," here he pauses longer, lets the reality of his statements sink in. Let people realize what he's saying, that this is a choice.
"Or we can choose not to fight. To instead work together," an option so many seem not to even realize they have. "No one here has to die by our hands today," he knows his speaking won't be without consequence, but he does want to believe he'll be the only one to pay for this.
"This is a risk. One many of you are hesitant to trust, let alone take. But everything we do here is a risk to ourselves and those around us," nothing in the arena comes without putting your life on the line.
"I, for one, am willing to take this risk, to choose not to fight," Steve looks around the room, making eye contact with a few people as he does. He's not telling anyone what to do, this is for them to decides for themselves; their freedom of choice.
But he's got faith in the his fellow tributes. "And I've got a feeling I'm not alone.”
… 3
2
1…
After the countdown ends, there’s a moment of utter still and silence. Then...
BOOOOOOOOOOOM
The room seems to erupt with noise and concussive force. The explosions are so violent that the muzak is paused in its tracks and shakes some of the Tributes off of their pedestals, and after the ice fog and smoke clears, it becomes apparent that fifteen of the Tribute pedestals and exploded there on the ice rink. Fifteen corpses lie mangled on the bloody ice: Deanna Winchester, Danny Fenton, Fili, Kili, Kain Highwind, Perry Kelvin, Julian Bashir, Clint Barton, Karkat Vantas, Sirius Black, Rahm Kota, Cinderella, Bunnymund, Robin, Rock Lee, and Rokk Krin.
The center of the ice rink remains completely intact and stocked with a few dozen keys of varying shapes and sizes. This is the Cornucopia and the Gamemakers are compelling the Tributes to skate for it.
The gong rings out, and the countdown's voice announces “The Arena is now open.” The Games have begun.
The first clue that something strange is happening comes from their clothing: figure skating costumes with bright colors and sequins and ice skates strapped to their feet. Some may even find it difficult to stand with the blades on their feet, but as they're placed into the arena, all becomes clear. The mall skating rink seems quiet and quaint, especially after weeks of uncertainty and stress. Too bad the peace and quiet can’t last.
19
18...
Above the ice rink (which houses all 100+ Tributes) there are floors with shops looking over them. Large, bright fluorescent lights dot the multi-storied ceiling and create a warm, nostalgic glow to the place. Benign music is piped in from various hidden speakers to compliment the intended mood of fun and commerce.
16
15…
The countdown continues and the Tributes, some of whom haven’t seen each other in weeks, stare at one another helplessly. That is, until one of them boldly decides to speak.
"We're expected to fight here today," Steve's voice suddenly cuts through the tension in the room. It commands attention without demanding it, a conviction of truth in his tone.
13
12...
"To turn on each other through fear and self preservation. And we could give them what they want. A bloodbath," here he pauses longer, lets the reality of his statements sink in. Let people realize what he's saying, that this is a choice.
"Or we can choose not to fight. To instead work together," an option so many seem not to even realize they have. "No one here has to die by our hands today," he knows his speaking won't be without consequence, but he does want to believe he'll be the only one to pay for this.
"This is a risk. One many of you are hesitant to trust, let alone take. But everything we do here is a risk to ourselves and those around us," nothing in the arena comes without putting your life on the line.
"I, for one, am willing to take this risk, to choose not to fight," Steve looks around the room, making eye contact with a few people as he does. He's not telling anyone what to do, this is for them to decides for themselves; their freedom of choice.
But he's got faith in the his fellow tributes. "And I've got a feeling I'm not alone.”
2
1…
After the countdown ends, there’s a moment of utter still and silence. Then...
The room seems to erupt with noise and concussive force. The explosions are so violent that the muzak is paused in its tracks and shakes some of the Tributes off of their pedestals, and after the ice fog and smoke clears, it becomes apparent that fifteen of the Tribute pedestals and exploded there on the ice rink. Fifteen corpses lie mangled on the bloody ice: Deanna Winchester, Danny Fenton, Fili, Kili, Kain Highwind, Perry Kelvin, Julian Bashir, Clint Barton, Karkat Vantas, Sirius Black, Rahm Kota, Cinderella, Bunnymund, Robin, Rock Lee, and Rokk Krin.
The center of the ice rink remains completely intact and stocked with a few dozen keys of varying shapes and sizes. This is the Cornucopia and the Gamemakers are compelling the Tributes to skate for it.
The gong rings out, and the countdown's voice announces “The Arena is now open.” The Games have begun.
no subject
And sparks tend to, well, spark things, and in this case there's pride in what a brother all did, and a little bit of proper pity which is shoved very, very far away because there is no way it would last, no way the Initiate would stay in such a sorry, miserable state for very long.
But he'll take that deeper breathing as the sign of thanks it could well be... and also as the pointing out of their continued positioning and how odd and awkward it was now that they'd reunited.
But now that he'd been culled proper (for now), now that he was all right and proper whole as he should be (or as whole as he could make him be), the sheer complete silence between them came into stark, jarring, uncanny focus.
He still had paint on his fingers, though, so rather than get all up off of the Initiate, he turned to write on the floor.
｢A BROTHER AIN'T DONE DROPPED NO MOTHER FUCKIN VERBIAGE DOWN ON NO ALTSELF'S HEARDUCTS.
WHY｣
no subject
He reads the painted ground over twice. Just because he can. (Maybe because getting words from one what ain't speak seems all of being gifted special.) And also because he has to think how to answer without actually answering.
He does the simplest most obvious of the things what to do; he opens his maw.
There up inside ain't, well, anything. There's no chewed up bit like he did on the act of it himself. It's removed real clean, hardly any damage to the tender inner flesh but how it's all still swelled and indigo to say, just not so long ago there was some incisionaries being done up in this. And now there is no sign of tongue at all. And by all rights, maybe he could still make noise without a tongue-- Kurloz did afterall go to sewing himself-- but his vocals ain't being a thing, all careful cut along with the other surgery done. And his will for it ain't either, breaking the rule of no-speech. His mouth closes. That will have to do.
no subject
They were the reverse of one another once more, with this crude, Alternian wriggler being done bestowed on him a clean cut where his own was all did done by his ownself in an emotional fit, all chewed and jagged and inelegant.
He wouldn't wish either on anyone.
Unknowing what of the other surgery all done, all he registers what for is an awful, aching numbness not-quite guilt. It isn't his fault what was did done, and he couldn't have helped if he'd known or tried, but it is reminder sound of own past actions and reminder still of own past struggles, all done made worse now without use of voodoo.
There isn't much paint left on his fingers, but his hand shakes, this time, as he writes again;
｢A MOTHERFUCKER ALL WILL DONE GET HIS LEARN ON OF MIRTHFUL MOTHER FUCKIN WORDS DONE SIGNED｣
no subject
It's the way his brother's digits get their quake on, he who's gone all to being the strong one of the two of them, that's what gets about. He just watches as Kurloz writes once more, until the words die out slow with the paint depleting. Not much more words from his brother, and he might mourn that more than his own.
The words confuse. They get all tricky upon meaning. Signed? The fuck was that? Sign. Symbol. The hand motions. They way the turn and churn of digits got to meaning things what he didn't know.
This sounds of communication (punishable, be such a thing). But it is also very clearly an order. Just to learn, maybe, could fine. Just to understand. Didn't mean using it necessarily, even if the terror churns rough by mere relation.
He turns his head back to the troll atop him and blinks real slow. Deliberate.
Aight.
no subject
The paint runs dry on his fingers before he can tell the Initiate to not go lettin no motherfuckers be killing him before he's done got his educatin' on of a brother right proper like, before they can meet up again, because he's not sure that being together so soon would be so safe, not when neither of them have their bearings, not when the Initiate is so... unlike the motherfucker he'd all done got his meet on of the first day.
Its frustrating that he can't communicate what he wants, but still he stands and steps back, gives the other troll what space he can before reaching down - he'd all tackled him, the least he could do was help him back to his feet.
no subject
Kurloz's hardly there weight lifts off him as he rises up. He notices the way the bright mall lights silhouette and halo him. He finds Kurloz reaching to grab his hand, instead of being all expectant he can just take it, cause he wouldn't, couldn't otherwise.
He's back on his feet, bare now from when Sigma got done trying to help him. He already is starting to become more awares of guilt for that. Maybe it'll fade away in a while, when orders come again.
There's two seconds where he can hold Kurloz's eyes and his hand, like he might actually come back into himself, then he's dropping both and he's a serf and nothing more again.
no subject
That didn't stop him from circling his double, of poking and prodding and checking all at him for injuries already sustained from explosion or other tribute or even from his own action in greeting him proper.
sorry about the fin retcon 9u6
He shouldn't flinch, what with Kurloz being right there and knowing he's there, but he does. His back is straight and his eyes forward, like Kurloz is a subjugglator enlistment officer or a straight up drone and he's under examination for culling. He's quiet as is avoxes are made at to be. But still the flinch comes, however light, with each prod and poke.
There's light traces of dirt on his skating suit from the floor. If Kurloz looks, he might see more dirt in his hair, right at the back of his head where someone ground their foot heel in, but what might not be no more than just dirt from the floor. There is a notable amount of dirt on his knees that shouldn't have otherwise been and what was possibly a footprint on his chest, before it became smeared. There's spattered blood done all bright and there's his face what is painted now. On all levels of who he is, he stays still and obedient.
There's only one thing worth noticing that he might not have before, besides that he just can't seem to stop flinching. It's his ear. It's not been bandaged in a way for healing, but for hiding. There's something what might be hockey tape all done in a grey matching his skin so as not to be noticed. With close inspection a torn bit of cloth can be seen there tucked to the underside where fin used to be and remains on the opposite side. There to catch blood. And what blood ain't caught by that? Stopped by a gluey gel taken from the Only Bath Salts store. This is all clearly asking for infection. But also asking note to be seen up at all. It'd be easy to overlook, in the chaos.
no worries, bab
Clearly, he isn't.
He might have warned the Initiate about quick, sudden movements were he able to, but as it is, the best he can do is to touch him gently on one area or another before seeing to it that all the dirt was brushed away, that any blood done dried on skin is brushed away in kind, that he's all made as presentable as can be before eyes fall on haphazard tape and bandage and strange gel.
It is a slapdash job of cleaning his ownself up, to be sure, but he can't honestly say he has anything better to be making of it, so a mental note is made to watch the motherfucking injury and his hands meet the shoulders of his other and he makes a point to look him right in the eye, look for some shred of who he was all up ins.
Come on, wake up.
no subject
There's another flinch as finally he's all stopped and done being brushed over. Instead, Kurloz is there looking. Holding him steady and trying to find he who ain't supposed to be no more.
Kurloz catches his eye before he can even look down and there's something terrible and mesmerizing about looking into the eyes of his reflection turned flipways. He feels himself cringing away from up inside, trying to get away from his eyes like he's all stripped bare and exposed.
He can't wake up. He doesn't want... it's too hard to. He is bolted by his feet to the bottom of the motherfucking recooperacoon. Tearing that out is gonna hurt something fierce.
no subject
When he knew he would only be getting one in the ambiguous "someday", if at all.
He almost shakes his alternate. He's all got to be wakin' himself up, before he gets to drowning his ownself in the sopor, no matter what if tearing himself out would all done hurt.
no subject
But he can't give it. Especially not now.
One of the few things avoxes do get being allowed to feel; guilt. He's feeling real fucking guilty right the fuck now. All what he can think is sorry, sorry, sorry like it's meaning anything up at all. This must be some hoofbeastshit for him, seeing what as his other self could become. He's weak. He can't do nothing for his brother true.
He closes his eyes to Kurloz, all to hide his shameful self within. Sorry.
no subject
Fat lot all of mother fucking bullshit, that all was. He knew his alternate was stronger than that. He knew his alternate could rise all up higher than whatever had been mother fuckin done improper to him.
But he couldn't all be fixing that none proper himself.
So he did give in and shake his alternate before dropping his arms in defeat and sighing, still looking up at him with the faintest glimmer all of hope.
no subject
Them Makaras were always hard to beat down, even after losing.
He turns from Kurloz abruptly. Without no warning, he gets all kneeling upon the ground where Kurloz did get his write on at him. He takes the side of his skating suit as to wipe out all them words-- though he hates to on one part, and knows it ain't near a good enough cleaning job on the other and he'll have to come back.
He leaves just a bit, smudging one of them letters to be a lower case 'n'. And without looking back, he drags the end of it to a loop like all it's an accident. Something universal. Something what ain't words. Capricorn. Still fucking here. And then the fear washes down on him hard and he frantically wipes that out, perhaps even more than is needed.
But for a second, it was there. Even if, when he rises up, his eyes are seeming even more corpselike than before.