thearena | operation robodachi

There'd been a change in the arena--a very visible, very audible one (and boy, was it annoying)--, which was clue enough for him to reinvestigate the locker rooms. He'd seen other tributes, with and without keys going in and coming out with new items or fuller backpacks, and chance was even in his favor when he found the first aid kit Holly had gifted to him. He still had it tucked away in his backpack, even though there wasn't a single item he recognized in it.

Guess they don't have kolto plants here. Honestly, he didn't understand why they pulled people to serve as tributes but didn't apply their technology to pulling other things that could be useful to their civilization here. Maybe they didn't actually want to improve as a society.

Enough philosophical thought for now.

There are many lockers, putting to perspective for him how many tributes are here. Formerly, this many targets would have been no problem to eliminate. Now? He'd be lucky to take out a quarter of them in the time given, or before his own demise.

He moves quickly through the rows, looking for his own name while also exercising caution when crossing rows occupied with the presence of other tributes. Finally, he finds his own and opens it, less than thrilled with the prize that his eyes fall upon. Great, a sword. Saber. Technicalities. The point was that while he had been given skill and training with all manner of weapons, he was an assassin, not a warrior, so he preferred tools he could use with stealth in mind. Sword fights are not stealthy. They have never been and will never be stealthy.

Still, he takes it anyway, and saber tucked close to his body, he makes his way out of the locker maze as best he can with company. However some of that company happens to be the lucky recipients of assault rifles, and against all logic, he stops at the end of an aisle, eyes locked with envy on one such weapon. Half-planning-half-daydreaming a scenario where he takes down its handler with his sword and adopts the weapon as one of his own…

What he doesn't account for is the possibility that the person holding this weapon might actually know how to use it.

Edited 2014-09-04 07:01 (UTC)

Eridan was more than pleased with his prize, and had made his way to retrieve it pretty early on in the morning. He was nocturnal, after all, and so getting to the lockers before most others proved fairly easy for him. His prize: a carbine. He was skilled with fire arms, though his preferred one being of a legendary beam rifle variety, but he could settle for this.

It was far better than what he could have gotten. Like a sword, or something. Who even used those, anyway?

He had headed out of the area, trying to avoid what threats he could in the mean time, but he couldn't help but give into the thoughts running through his head. How he certainly should put this to use, if he were to win this brutal game. Surely sitting on this gun and its ammo would be a waste, and the more he killed, the more he'd be favored by the on-watching audience.

So he returned, waiting down one of the aisles to see who would first become his hapless victim. He had no qualms about killing, none what so ever. It was second nature to a troll like him, and he almost craved it. So when he caught the daydream-like gaze of HK's, the man armed with a sword (HA), he narrowed his eyes, aiming the gun straight at him.

He wasted no time pulling the trigger, the shot aimed at his head. Then again, Eridan wasn't really accounting for him to move. Considering his weird almost zoned out staring, but there was also the fact that Eridan wasn't used to this gun either, and so his aim was bound to be slightly off.

Good job HK, he's aiming at you. He's fired the gun at you. What sort of an assassin are you?

One in love with guns, not swords.

Luckily, he has enough reaction time to move out of the way, ducking behind some lockers, but not lucky enough as it tears through the flesh of his shoulder, stuck somewhere below the clavicle and just before the shoulder blade. All pain he had experienced up to this point had been mild shocks from falling or even a mano-y-mano experience with some warrior type from a very archaic culture. Now he had a feeling to go with all those times he'd pulled the trigger on some meatbag target he'd hunted to eliminate at the orders of one master or another.

However, instead of being a poor sport about it, as he knows just as well as anyone the point of the arenas, his only reaction to Eridan is to call from around the lockers he'd ducked behind, "Affirmation: Nice shot!"

It really could have been a kill shot if he hadn't moved, and he had some level of respect towards that.

Eridan curses under his breath when his shot doesn't make its mark. Sure, it hit him, but he wanted a kill shot. Oh well, he writes it off on the fact he just needs to practice more, and moving targets make for a challenge he can enjoy.

However, when HK shouts out the compliment, Eridan can hardly help but grin to himself.

Slowly, he starts to approach the lockers that HK ducked behind, making sure not to get too close. He saw that the human had a weapon on him - a sword, not a gun - and he's really not looking to get stabbed if he can help it.

"I'll make another one if you stop hidin' like some yellow-bellied landfucker." Eridan retorts finally, a good ten or so feet from the corner the lockers make. He could round it, try to blast him away before he has the chance to draw his sword, but Eridan also likes to play with his prey a little.

After all, he already fucked up the one-hit kill, so he might as well draw this out for pleasure's sake.

No amount of internal scolding would ever truly balance out the damn fool mistake he made, standing around and leaving himself wide open to take a bullet. At least his legs still worked and they could carry him away, fist wrapped around the hilt of his saber pressed into the wound. He'd played their games and he wasn't losing his prize due to some stinging and blood.

Okay, some stinging was an understatement, but as his body started it's own process of blocking out the pain, it hurt much less than it had. He knew it'd be worse when the endorphins wore off though, and he had to use this time wisely. Exercise more wisdom than he had when he got himself into this mess.

But the carbine rifle had been so beautiful and appealing compared to his bladed accoutrement, it was easy to be still with love at such a sight.

He'd have an enamored sigh about it another time. For now, he grabbed a pair of cotton pajama bottoms off of a clothing rack as he moved past it and headed for the dressing rooms. There was a chance someone else would be hiding out there, but there was also a chance there'd be an empty one he could hole up in while he figured out how to work the tools in his first aid kit and then put together a sling for his arm with the clothing item he'd taken.

A door is cracked open with no sign of anyone inside so he slides in and closes the door behind him. He drops the saber from his hand, now shaking, and it clatters quite loudly, enough to alert anyone who hadn't already noticed he was there. Gently, he shrugs off his backpack, careful around the wound on his shoulder. It seemed inward enough that it hadn't reached the brachial artery, which meant he maybe wouldn't die of blood loss. A win? Probably not.

Backpack + one-handed + shaking is, he very quickly comes to find, a very frustrating combination. HK-47 has never been shy about expletives, one after the other pouring from his mouth with each fumble or failed tug of the zipper on his pack. Reactions without being prefaced.

Eventually, between the bleeding and his trembling fingers, he resigns, a fight he's not going to win alone. He sits on the bench in the dressing room, sucking the deepest breath he can. A pause. He stops and thinks, too hard, about his habit and honestly isn't sure how to preface this. But he doesn't have time to struggle over defining his pleas, so he carries on.

"If you can hear me: you are not obligated to trust me, but if you could assist me with treating a wound, I would be in your debt."

Those carbines certainly are beautiful. That's why Molotov is in search of something she can jury-rig into a holster, so that maybe she has less to carry in her hands. She's looking at belts, comparing leather quality and colors when she hears the clatter -- it immediately sends her into fighting stance, her center of gravity low as she creeps toward the dressing rooms. She's ready for a battle, rifle drawn and her face grim.

It's only when she's just outside the door that she hears him calling, and she straightens a bit, mind working overtime. Debt. Maybe he has something she can take as payment. Maybe he has gin, she's definitely always looking for more of that. Weapons are good too, but gin is first priority.

When she yanks the door open, she aims her gun in first, just in case. When she peaks around the doorway, she squints at him, at the bleeding. "Robot? You've been shot."

When he sees the gun first, he doesn't even care. He's pretty done right now. When he sees the familiar face, he becomes a bit more relaxed. If Molotov killed him, it'd be worth it.

"Sarcastic Reply: Oh, this? No, I was playing with ketchup bottles in the food court." His stare says Thanks Captain Obvious, but the small grin on his face is a dead (haha) giveaway that he's happy to see her. He picks up the backpack and holds it up.

"I have a kit in here, but I'm having trouble with my hands. Faulty wiring, I guess," he says with a little laugh at his joke. Nerves are the wires of the human body though, it is a true enough statement as well as joke.

"Watch your tone or I won't help you," she snaps at him, glaring, but picks up his saber anyway and hangs it on one of the hooks on the wall. She takes his backpack and opens it, shifting through for the first aid kit (and taking inventory of everything else he has). Molotov kneels down in front of him when she finds the kit, and goes into her own duffel bag for a swiss army knife.

"You owe me if I take this bullet out," she warns, sitting on her haunches and holding the knife casually, like she isn't offering to stab it into his shoulder. "You do know that, right, Robot?"

"Aside comment: Master liked my tone. Master thought calling everyone meatbags was funny too." His reply is less directed at her and more like muttering out loud, eyes wandering off, a corner of his mind always alight with his devotion to Revan, even in this moment.

In his backpack, she'd find there's fishing line, a few different things for making homemade explosives but there are things missing from the equation and no actual bombs, a small knife, some binoculars, and an almost empty bottle with fountain water in it.

His attention returns to her and he takes a second to reflect on what she's saying. He offered and he was a being of his word, honesty a stronger trait in him than deception. Galactic laws regarding the programming of droids and whatnot. "Statement: I am aware, and I will accept whatever your terms are when I am in a better state of mind and body. If I do not, you can retract the assistance provided."

Meaning you are welcome to shoot him should he not agree to whatever you want of or from him.

"Well, I am not your master," she grumbles back, her dismay with the contents of his bag evident, then sighs and dives into her own kit bag. She's been stockpiling from the sporting goods store since day one, and her sponsors were apparently far more generous than his. "But that does explain a lot."

She uses a hunting knife to slice off a strip of leather from a pair of shoes she didn't like all that much anyway, then throws both shoes to the side, since now they're no good. "Bite down on this," she tells him, placing the leather at his lips, "because this is all going to hurt like hell and a half." A splash of gin from one of her bottles is used to disinfect the knife, which she immediately plunges into the open wound, not giving him time to dread it or tense up.

Sorry to disappoint, but he preferred to travel light. At no point to argue or be contrary anymore, he takes the leather between his teeth. A moment later, he realizes how good it is that he did. Between the penetration of the knife itself to retrieve the bullet and the residual sting from sanitizing, it's everything he has in this moment to focus on other things. The taste of the leather in his mouth, the creak of it between his teeth, her red hair (his favorite color).

Just focus on something else while she works. He keeps his eyes on her though, instead of on blank space. He was afraid that if his mind wandered, he wouldn't find a way back. Afraid, that was new.

It takes a moment of fishing before she finds the bullet, and she bites her bottom lip as she draws it out, close enough to the surface that she can at least use two of her fingers to pull it out. It's not like she's got tweezers, sorry. When it's out, she sort of absently hands him the bullet to hold before working at cutting away his shirt, so the wound can actually be cleaned and bandaged without a bunch of bloody fabric getting in the way.

"You're okay," she says, focused more on her task than on him, but she figures he probably needs to hear something. If he goes into shock, he probably will die, and it's not that she really cares, but she is actively trying not to kill him at this moment.

"Thank you," he speaks softly, words almost a whisper on an exhale.

He holds onto the bullet, moving it between his fingers as some point of focus. This bullet could have been a quick end for him, and it spoke little of his talents if he were to die so soon with no blood on his own hands to show for it, save his own maybe.

At this point he wondered if all that mind over matter Jedi meditation actually had something to it. He hated to sit on the other end of their hippie preaching but when they actually engaged in battle, he knew firsthand that they were trained to be machines of death. Note to self: investigate meditation further.

When he speaks that way, Molotov pauses and glances at his face -- he isn't going to be thanking her in a minute, that's for damn sure.

She stays crouched, reaches up to touch his cheek, and grabs her bottle of gin. "Bite back down," she tells him, her eye focused on his, then twists his shoulder to pour alcohol in the wound, so that it doesn't get infected from the inside. She immediately wipes it back out with gauze from the first aid kit, sops up blood and gin that's run pink, discards pad after pad of gauze until she reaches the last one. She tapes it over the hole, dries his skin with a clean part of the pajama pants.

Then she stands and sort of disappears, only to return a moment later with a questionable tee shirt and a skirt she's already tearing open to make a better sling.

"Think you can change shirts?"

There is only one possible reaction to the sanitation of his wound, teeth clenched down on the leather: "FHHHCK!" Afterwards, he was sure to take deep breaths as she finishes cleaning it up and taping on the gauze.

When she returns, he isn't sure what a "twerk team" is but it sounds ridiculous. He takes the bit out of his mouth, wiping the leather taste out of his mouth with the back of his hand.

He could answer seriously, but his nature was not necessarily inclined that way.

"Oh, I absolutely doubt that. Please, assist me so that I might feel the light caress of your hands once again upon my body and I can become filled with awkward sexual interest."

Look, it's been a few weeks, and pickings on shirts have gotten slim. It was either 'twerk team' or a shirt that said 'gay is the new awesome', so Molotov went with the better option, she thought. Don't be picky, buddy.

She glances around when he says that, and while she thinks that's sarcasm, she's actually not one hundred percent sure about a robot's capability to be properly sarcastic. Is that something they're programmed with? The only robot she knows talks mostly in beeps and only a small group of people really know what it's saying, so.

Molotov doesn't have the time or patience to figure this shit out. She's barely slept for the past few days, she's kind of grungy, and she just saved someone instead of killing them. So she just shrugs and starts tearing the remainder of his shirt off, so that he doesn't have to lift his hurt arm.

Reasons why HK-47 would be investigating a movie theater: not many. Knowing all parts of the environment he's in, checking for supplies, checking for easy kills he could get in. He's kept up care of his bullet wound but it's really a matter of time before he goes and an assassin in a death match with no kills before his own demise is a sad story.

A sad, sad story.

Looking at the screens in the different theaters, he can't help but wonder if this universe is very different or very archaic. Based on the intelligence of the droids here, he'd have to say both. They had no personalities, no speech, and seemed to have one mission: cleaning. That was it. It was enough to make him feel pity for them. They could be so much more...

HK enters one of the theaters, and when he sees there appear to be occupants, he turns to leave immediately. Turns, and the door to the theater closes with a very loud click-hiss-whatever noise you'd call it from the joint that keeps it from slamming shut.

He has no say in anything anymore. The level of doneness cannot be described on any sort of scale.

His free hand rests on the hilt of his sabre as he turns back around, tucked in a makeshift half-scabbard on his hip. One: he might have made a lot of bad life choices up to this point but he wasn't going to leave his back turned to company, and two: he'd be ready to fight should he need to.

Reasons why Dave would be in the movie theater? They are abundant. Most of which relate to the fact that he's curious about what they're playing and eagerly soaking up the nostalgia being here gives him. For a long time, he'd managed to hang out here along, but the sound of the door gives away the entrance of someone else.

He can hide and run the risk of being stuck here who knows how long, or he can nip this in the bud quickly and stake this out as his turf. He ducks down to hide anyway, only so he can check whether this chump is armed. When he only sees a sword, he feels relieved and a lot less intimidated. Hopefully he doesn't pull a gun out of nowhere when Dave uses all his god given stealth to slink a few rows closer only to pop up again a little ways away from the stranger.

"Hey pal, pool's closed." Ah yes, make an obscure internet reference he probably won't get. Dave points his saber at him accusingly, gesturing for him to piss off to the corner.

Pulling a gun from out of nowhere would be a feat he wished he had the capacity of performing, but that would require having a gun, and perhaps for his other arm to not be tucked against his body in a sling while his gunshot wound heals.

And as postulated, the reference goes completely over his head, and he even glances around the theater before looking back to Dave in befuddlement. As for having a weapon pointed at him, he wastes no time in pulling out his own, well acquainted with the weight of it by now, and poised to fight even with his handicap.

"Statement: This is a theater." Four for you, Captain Obvious.

So far, Dave has met plenty of people who don't really get jokes, particularly his heavily internet and popculture based references. Yet, somehow, he's never met someone who managed to respond quite so dryly. He almost needs to wonder if he's being ironic in his no-fun-nelly approach to the situation.

"Shit? Really. I got my trunks on for nothing." He gestures down at himself despite being clothed in far more than just trunks, as if silently testing the man's humor. "More importantly, it's my turf, so buzz off." Normally he'd be more careful, but this guy has his arm in a sling and Dave isn't too worried.

operation robodachi

Ain't No Party Like a Locker Party - Closed to Eridan - Day 1

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A Touch of Sass - Open - Day 1

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Centurion Skineplex - Closed to Dave and later Clara - Day 4

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