thearena | Something Bad

Darcy's entrance was just as graceful as Quill's. Which is to say that she's lucky she didn't fall flat on her face in front of Panem's viewing audience. Especially in the ridiculous dress they stuffed her (literally, considering the severe case of boob smash she has going on at the moment) into.

As proof that great minds really do think alike, Darcy also heads into the department store and it's somewhere near the shoes and jewelry that she hears something. "Look, whoever you are, you don't want to fight me. I'm considered a great warrior where I come from." Which is a lie. "My skills on the battlefield are feared by many." Maybe if she's talking about Halo. Maybe. "I once bested a freaking god in combat." Okay, that's actually true. "Trust me, you don't want to mess with me."

"Not particularly, no," comes Quill's answer as he steps out to where he can see Darcy. "I mean, I'd like to think I'm good at improvising, but I'm really not interested in trying to fight someone with ice skates," he says, leaning one arm on a clothing fixture.

"...that, and it'd do us both a huge indignity to try and throw down in these getups. Makes you wonder about whoever is running this shindig and their taste."

Darcy looks standoffish. It's not that she's trying to, it's that it's easier to have her arms crossed over her chest to minimize the fact that her boobs are currently ridiculously compressed and probably look weird. In any other situation, she'd have her hands on her hips and look free and open, but right now...well, not so much. "Okay, that's totally fair. And good. I didn't want to have to fight you anyway." Especially because he's pretty tall and, from the way those clothes look, fairly muscley.

"Maybe they want to see a us do our best Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding impressions so that they can get the on ice fight that everyone wanted." Which...okay, it's a bit before her time, but she's heard all about it and it's the first thing that comes to mind.

For several moments, Quill looks at Darcy with a rather confused expression. He's not certain what to make of her comment at first. However, a slow look of knowing dawns on his face, and he raises a hand up.

"...they... They were figure skaters. On Earth. I think, it's been a while--" He cuts himself off, and tries to keep an even composure. He mostly fails. "Are you from Earth?"

"Uh...yeah." A couple years ago that would've been followed by some sort of pithy comment about, hey, isn't everyone from Earth? But then Thor happened and...well, suddenly the universe is much bigger than she thought it was (minus explanations from Jane about how the universe was always that big and is now much fuller than previously believed. There's a difference, Darcy). "What, do they televise the Olympics on Asgard too? Does this mean you guys are going to start sending a delegation to the Olympics? Because that would be totally unfair to everyone else considering you're all kind of big and muscley. Not that being big and muscley's a bad thing and I'm just going to shut up now before I say something really dumb."

"No, no-- I'm from Earth too, I just. Haven't seen someone from there in a long-ass time is all." Quill grins in a slightly doofy manner, which is probably isn't helping her perception that he's an Asgardian. "Not familiar with Asgard myself, but hey, it's a big galaxy."

The comment about being muscley though, that makes him straighten up and puff up a bit. "Name's Peter Quill. Most folks know me as Star-Lord, though."

"Seriously? Where've you been? Five year mission into uncharted territory? Or caught a ride with a dude in a blue box?" Okay, sure, Darcy's aware that those are works of fiction, but to be fair, all this seems like some crazy work of fiction too.

Most of her life has felt like one as of late, really.

Darcy lets out a small laugh at that. "Star-Lord?" Really, it isn't less ridiculous than Captain America or Iron Man. "Well, Star-Lord, I'm Darcy Lewis and most people know me as...Darcy Lewis."

Darcy gets a look that's half incredulous, half nostalgic - if it's possible to manage such a thing, Quill's going to manage it, 'cause it's been far too long since someone made a crack like that at him.

"Try a big flying box with a blue dude for about twenty-some-odd years, and you'll be a little closer," he answers, then lets out a faint sigh as she laughs at his name. Not the best reaction, but better than most. He'll take it.

"Well, Darcy, if I understand the situation right, it seems we have the displeasure of having to kill each other. Thankfully, I've never been that good at following orders."

"Is the blue man bald with a penchant for black turtlenecks by any chance?" Aaaand she's not sure if he's going to get that reference. Also, it would explain a lot about the show her friend dragged her to during her first semester at Culver.

Oh. Right. That super Battle Royale death match thing. She had almost forgotten about it for a moment, what with the friendly introductions and pop culture talk.

"And lucky for you, the only order I'm really any good at is coffee orders," Darcy says giving him a sunny smile. "So, Star-Guy, got any thoughts about how to get out of here without the dying violently part?"

Dave has done this song and dance a few times by now. Arenas never ceased to amaze him for their creativity. A mall? Really? It was genius. It's been a damn long time since he'd seen something that reminded him quite so much of home. The skating digs will have to go, but he keeps finding himself distracted by various elements of the surroundings.

He's searching for a pair of shades to cover up his red eyes when he hears the siren song of a pop culture reference. He sneaks along the aisles to follow the sound of the stranger's voice so he can call out to them.

"Real subtle, Hunt." He's just giving him the blandest look.

Edited (autocorrect....) 2014-08-21 21:47 (UTC)

Peter stiffens up when someone speaks up, and whirls in the direction of the voice, and makes an attempt to brandish his skates in a threatening manner.

Unfortunately, they're ice skates being wielded by a guy that's dressed like he got the lead in a Bubba Gump musical at the Grand Ole Opry, so he looks about as threatening as a wet paper towel and a hundred times as ridiculous.

"Yeah, well-- I don't know a Hunt, but I was totally stealthy. Totally."

The ridiculousness of the outfit only serves to make Dave less wary of the guy, not that he was particularly afraid of a guy humming spy music while trying to be stealthy. Of course, it's something he'd probably do, and he's just a little excited for more humans who seem to know a good reference.

Dave holds his hands up lazily in surrender, indicating that he's unarmed. He'd abandoned his skates long ago due to distractions of an unforeseeable nature.

"..Hunt. Mission Impossible guy?" He squints then waves him off. "Ah, whatever. You the new kid on the block, Tom Cruise?"

Attempts to be subtle and suave are long-gone by this point, as it's time for nerding. (Not that they were all that there in the first place.) There's a little bit of excitement on Quill's part as well - meeting another Terran, or at least what he's assuming is another Terran, fills him with a little bit of glee.

"No, no, Briggs and Phelps were the Mission Impossible guys, there wasn't anyone named Hunt in the show," Quill answers, making a gesture with one skate as if he's knocking Dave's comment off of a proverbial table.

"...I am new though, I guess. I'm not entirely certain where I am, that's for sure."

"Briggs and.. Oh god. You're old." He feigns a look of horror. "They made a movie, man. When are you from, the seventies?" He hates that he needs to ask that in complete seriousness. This place is really weird and it gives him tension headaches, damn.

"You guess?" He gives him a skeptical look. "Welcome to Panem, my friend. I'm sure you've heard by now that these are the Hunger Games. Congratulations, you are now the property of sadistic overlords hellbent on watching us murder each other so they can get up close into our personal lives. Constantly. I mean it. They're always watching." He raises a hand to wave up at nothing in particular, revealing that he has an ugly, Capitol branded cuff on his wrist before he drops it back to his side. "Where were you before this? Earth?"

"I'm not that old!" The retort is instantaneous and more than a little...squawky. He's used to calling other people old, not having the shoe on the other foot. He huffs, planting his hands on his hips. "The eighties. Eighty-eight was my last year on Earth. Guess I missed a helluva lot," he adds, trailing off there at the end.

There's an idle glance around after Dave finishes before Quill speaks again. "Y'know, I don't expect a lot of sense from the kind of folks that would do this, but who holds glorified coliseum matches in a goddamn shopping mall?"

"Ah, the eighties. Good years, great music, terrible movies and television that goes on to be the pillars of ironic entertainment." He sighs like he's nostalgic and then shrugs. "'Course I missed them by what, five years? But the Nineties only got better. everything. Spice Girls. Midriff everything. Nintendo and pokemon." He needs to stop himself, and he does so reluctantly.

"Well, the one before this one was set on the Titanic so I can safely say that I'm glad not to be knee deep in water and rats. Before that? It was some weird foggy town with zombies. They coast from trope to trope here, there isn't an original bone in their bodies. Just think yourself lucky that you can change out of your costume, Mr.Mistoffelees."

Molotov ditched the ice skating gear ages ago, trading it for all black, spandex pants and a tank top. One thing that she had been on the wrong side of the mall to find, though, were high heeled boots.

She doesn't like sneakers.

So, backpack of supplies from the camping goods store on her back, she made her way through the arena, until she was close enough to climb up through the ceiling tiles of the crappy jewelry store next door -- the department store was just too big and too risky. The unfortunate side effect of this is that she doesn't know where the hell in the store she is, even when she can move a tile and peek down.

It's during one of these peeks that she hears humming. Her eye narrows, and she removes the tile to silently flip down behind this freaking idiot, a camping saw in hand as she stands up straight. She raises her saw to reach around and press it to his neck, as long as he stays distracted.

"Who are you and why shouldn't I kill you right now?" she asks, Russian accent thick as she whispers, lest someone else be in the department.

Y'know, things were going halfway alright for Peter, if you turned your head and squinted. And then there's cold, prickly metal all up on his neck now out of friggin' nowhere. He raises his hands and drops the skates in a motion of surrender.

He also tries to not focus on how nice that voice sounds, 'cause damn.

C'mon, Pete, get it together. Reason to not get killed. Also who you are. Think fast!

"...I am a very confused man dressed like a rhinestone fisherman that's trying to find the men's department in this store. I only ask that you let me live long enough to find clothing that I could die in with dignity, miss."

One leg stretches out to sweep the skates away, even though she doesn't move the saw -- in fact, she only presses it a little harder to his neck, craning her own up to scoff at the side of his face.

"Try again. We all showed up here confused and dressed like morons, it isn't my fault that you haven't found new clothes in the past three days. One more chance before your head comes off and I get to hear a cannon. Who are you?"

He's losing time, as should be evident from her free hand snaking from behind him to press a small but sharp camping knife to his gut. Yes, yes she did raid that store, thank you for asking.

So much for that card. It's like Gamora all over again, geesh.

"Three days? I just got dumped on my ass here like five minutes ago, lady--" Okay, that's a second pointy object. "Okay, okay! Name's Peter Quill. Sometimes known as Star-Lord. Something of a legendary outlaw."

Yeah, kind of! Minus the green skin and plus a whole bunch of Russian bitch.

"Star-Lord is a stupid fucking name," she answers, which is saying something because her last boyfriend's name was Monstroso, "and don't tell people you are legendary. It is like giving yourself a nickname, no one respects that."

She withdraws her weapons, though, and raises her leg at the same time to kick him away from herself. He's clearly a complete moron, which makes him a whole lot less of a threat.

Quill stumbles away, but recovers quickly enough, and brushes himself off once he's totally upright. He puffs up just slightly, trying to keep his pride, but he loses it once he reaches up to rub at his neck where the saw was.

His pride is bruised, but if anyone asks, he totally planned that outcome. Totally.

"Hey, I don't go around nitpicking your name, lady - whatever it is," he says, then catches himself. "Not that I intend to."

"...it's an awesome name."

"My name," she says, glancing around with her weapons in both hands, held out to her sides, "is Molotov Cocktease, and there isn't anything to nitpick. I didn't nickname myself something stupid. Star-Lord sounds like the name of the sidekick in a bad space-themed Broadway show. Probably on roller skates. With a silver scarf around his waist."

She gives him a deadpan look, pointing at him with the knife. "Should have told your stylist your name, they could have gone with gay space disco king instead of that thing."

"Jet boots," he corrects, at least at first. He looks deep in thought - probably considering the idea of the scarf far more than he should. Distraction from his considerations over self-image crops up in an unfamiliar term being flung his way.

"Stylist? The hell are you on about?"

She sighs and rolls her eye, gesturing at him again with the knife.

"Stylists. Those people who shoved you in that ugly outfit? Da, yeah, they are called stylists, and they dress you for everything. Interviews, the Games, they even make all the clothes you wear around when no one is looking. They do your hair, makeup, skin, everything. Every District has their own team."

The face she makes clearly indicates that she thinks he's stupid for not knowing this.

"See, there's the thing," he starts, tone growing a bit more irritated as he acts less like a lost dog and more like an angry one. "I wake up in a strange place, and nobody bothers to fill me in on why I'm being dressed up like I'm going fishing with Liberace, or who they are. I get told I'm here to fight to the death, get some kind of shot, and get dumped out here." He pauses, then draws a deep breath and sighs before gesturing widely with his arms.

"KIND OF OUT OF MY ELEMENT A BIT! Flying by the seat of my sparkly pants!"

His tone makes Molotov raise her saw again, a warning that he needs to calm the hell down or she'll make sure he won't scream in this arena ever again.

"Shut the hell up!" she snaps, hissing. "In case you didn't hear yourself, this is a fight to the death, and I might be willing to let you live -- for now -- but you don't know who else is around, and they might not be as nice as I am!" She pauses, takes a breath, and shakes her saw at him. "There is no handbook, they told you the same thing they tell everyone. You showed up in the middle of an arena, so none of the other Tributes could teach you all the other stuff."

There's another beat, punctuated with a glare. "And that isn't my fault, so watch your tone."

For a moment, Quill recoils just slightly when she raises the saw again, then he rubs his face with his hands as Molotov's words set in. "Right. Right. Just a little overwhelmed is all. More than a little, but. You're right." He sighs, then shakes his head for a moment before putting one hand on his hip and gesturing vaguely at Molotov.

"Well. What do I gotta do to turn that 'might be willing' into a 'will be'?" He pauses, then adds. "...for now."

Molotov's eyebrow arches, and she thinks about it, looking at him appraisingly. He looks so stupid in that glittery fisherman outfit, she doesn't even know what to think about it.

"I don't need anything," she says, cocking her head to the side, "so why don't you tell me what you think you can offer?"

Venus isn't bothering to be particularly stealthy either. Where she actually planned to get fairly far into the last few Arenas, this time around she can't find it in herself to come up with any gameplan more complicated than "kill a bunch of people and try to help Kankri". With that in mind and her own survival a discarded editing-room-floor idea, she's whistling to herself through her mangled lips as she tries on cute clothes at A Touch of Class.

Ironic, that they'd call themselves that and yet have such an array of booty shorts. Maybe if Venus' legs weren't covered in purple and greenish bruises, she'd look good in them. She glances up when she hears someone humming in an entirely different key than her.

"Hey, honey, this is the women's section. Jockstraps are a floor down."

Hearing a voice, Quill straightens up and brings his makeshift weapons to bear for a moment, then lowers them in a wince once he sees no obvious signs of hostility in the woman addressing him and gets a look at how wounded she is. "...christ, lady, you've been playing to win, haven't you?" And immediately after, he realizes that may be a terrible thing to say, and he may have just sealed his fate.

She rolls her eyes behind her scarred face. "Please. No one in this Arena could have fucked me up this bad."

It's a lie and a boast, but she wants to make sure he knows that even if she were playing to win right now, he'd better not attack her. She's up to the task of defending herself.

It just so happened that Rocket was in that store, raiding it not for the clothing (since none of it fit him anyway) but for the various electronics within it. He'd actually torn apart a light fixture or two before planting himself by the cashier, which he promptly began taking apart in search of anything even remotely useful.

Normally he'd be humming to himself, but the lack of anything decent in this place had him scowling and muttering instead.

"Crap... Crap... What the- Crap. Ehhh... maybe. Crap. Crap..."

Eventually he reached in and yanked out some wires- And in doing so happened to catch sight of Quill wandering around the store in some fancy ice skater outfit. For a moment he just stared... and then he burst out laughing.

"You look like a friggin' moron, Quill!"

Now there's a familiar voice. Quill drops his guard as he turns, then grins once he sees Rocket laughing at him. "You have no idea how glad I am to be laughed at right now, Rocket!" He jogs over, glancing around to make sure nobody is gonna come charging in after that outburst, and casually leans on the counter before speaking in a more hushed tone.

"...tell me you've got a plan."

"HAH! Good! Get used to it, 'cause you're the damn funniest thing I've seen in ages!"

He was still chuckling and shaking his head as he returned his attention to yanking out wiring from the machine next to him. "Well, Plan A is 'kill everyone, win my pass outta here.' Gimme some time on Plan B, Quill. This place is full of humie junk. Not what I need for buildin' Grade A artillery."

"What is the relevance of that song? I've heard someone from a different chronological origin point humming it before. Clearly it's some sort of cultural reference."

Superboy had hummed it sometimes when he'd set out with the Legion on particularly dangerous missons.

The green fellow that had spoken to him seemed entirely nonplussed by his presence in the store, probably because someone making themselves that obvious most likely wasn't a threat and even if he was, Brainiac could handle most individuals in a fight long enough to escape. Especially this early on, before he'd started having to worry about getting adequate nutrients due to his fast metabolism.

Another reason he wasn't fussed probably had to do with the blood splattered all over his clothes. He'd cleaned off his face but apparently he'd gotten thoroughly...doused by one of the exploding Tributes.

(One of his teammates, in fact.)

With a start to the day like that, it was a bit hard to get shaken or surprised by anything.

The blood might have been why he was in the store - he was rifling through clothing, too. Or he might have been hunting for clothes because the whole front of his shirt was made of mesh. That could have been it, too.

Quill just stops as Braniac poses his oddly complicated question, and squints. If he didn't know better, he'd think his life was taking a turn for making him a magnet for dry-witted green aliens of capable martial ability.

The latter is assumed, simply based on the fact that Brainy's covered in blood in the midst of a battle do the death.

There's an awkward pause before Quill glances side to side, then hesitantly gives the answer. "...Mission Impossible. TV show about spies. It's the theme music."

"Ah. An ancient television reference, yes? When my team was trapped on 20th century Earth, my team-mates were often preoccupied with the available programming. There was a show, Space Trek 2022, that they enjoyed. It was some kind of slice of life soap operatic program."

Actually, it was a science fiction show, but to anyone living among FTL-capable societies, sci fi lost a bit of its speculative nature.

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