thearena | [OPEN] The power's out in the heart of man

Entry tags:

[OPEN] The power's out in the heart of man

Who | Sigma and the Initiate; Sigma and you!
What | Sigma decides enough is enough and starts a bonfire outside of Chapter One.
When | Week 2 and 3.
Where | Chapter One bookstore.
Warnings/Notes | Mentions of serious injury. To be added.

[OPEN]

Sigma was nearing the end of his considerable patience for this Arena.

The cover of his biography alone had given Sigma a terrible start: -Confessions of a Gamemaker, as poorly written and uninspired as the title suggested- and he'd hidden himself in the back of the store to read it cover to cover, eager to discover what dirt the Capitol had on him. What he found disturbed him wholly. He understood the spin: Sigma was an unattractive old man with a small handful of fans, most of whom had moved on to more interesting Tributes before long. But his confession had sparked interest, drawn those who loved the idea of Games in a world other than theirs, and thus this piece of trash had come to be. He wondered if these books would be made public, published in Capitol bookstores - or worse, narrated dramatically during the broadcast. A sensationalist interpretation of his life was one thing, but spreading lies about Diana when she might still be alive... He couldn't begin to express his disgust at such slander. Sigma clenched what remained of his right hand until metal ground into metal and screeched. Facade be damned, he was going to burn every last one of these.

It did not take long to gather a stack of them into a pile and ready the fire starting kit he had received. He did not think to comb the store for more copies, only emptying the ones on display and dousing them in an excessive amount of gin. The inferno was loud and immediate, rising tall as it burned the paper to ash. Sigma sat near the blaze and waited, warming himself. This would no doubt draw attention - that suited him. He was looking for a fight, half a man that he was, lumbering about the Arena with only one hand left and no sensation in it. Yes, it might be nice to give up, here...

As the fire spread, Sigma covered his eyes with his sleeves to shield his grief. He did not want to admit that there was a piece missing from his life, a connection between himself, Diana and Phi that he was not privy to. There was evidence contrary to what these books believed, and Sigma could only cling to it helplessly for reassurance. He didn't want to consider the implications if such an outrageous guess turned out to be true.

[Sigma and the Initiate]

Recovering from a traumatizing ordeal, Sigma continued to tremble long after he'd escaped from Harley. He'd retreated to a far corner of the mall to survey the damage the grenade had wrought: his left hand had been blown clean off, breaking his wrist into a sharp metal stub. Traces of charred skin clung to the back of his right hand, but as sluggish as the damaged skeleton was, it was usable, to Sigma's great relief. The injuries his coat concealed were far worse: his chest was soaked in blood from shrapnel that had rained down on him, both from the grenade casing and from splinters that had once been the bones of his hand.

In shock, Sigma collapsed against the wall and waited to calm, completely overwhelmed. It took a long hour before he could gather the strength to make it down to the lockers. Sponsor gifts waited there, as he had suspected: his villain speech had drawn some interest from the wealthy, after all. He surveyed his supplies: a fire starting kit, a crowbar, and a bottle of gin. ...So it wasn't exactly what he had anticipated, but he would make it work.

Sigma stole some clothes from a nearby store and ripped them into shreds for gauze. He unbuttoned the jacket that had nearly melted onto his skin and shrugged it off to expose his injuries. Holding his breath, Sigma attempted to pour gin over his injured shoulder - his shaking and crippled hand spilled a quarter of the bottle onto the ground. Sigma cursed; he couldn't rub a soaked cloth onto his wounds if it would force the metal deeper, but he couldn't pick out the shrapnel with a broken hand. He'd find help, or he'd suffer. Pulling a clean woolen jacket over his shoulders, Sigma gave in to despair and huddled there.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

His ears have stopped ringing from the cafeteria explosions. His mind is all kinds of caught on his other self, on Signless and Kankri. But going back just yet ain't going to happen. He has to find Terezi first. She ordered him to stay by him, he has to find her.

And so, while it is for her that he searches, it's Sigma he finds. For a second his chest goes all tight. Is he dead? And more than that, if he ain't, will the motherfucker even want as to see him? Sigma had been furious discovering him as he'd been. He can't remember in the fog of that first day of being released, what part was act and what was being legit.

He can see there's blood. Sigma's hurt.

The Initiate moves forward, going to kneel down by Sigma's side and make all a noise in that process. He's different from when last Sigma saw him. Those dud-fins on his ears have been cut off and mutilated, only the small shredded remains of one left, the purple scabbiness of it having finally started going down, indicative it was some time ago now. But it's more than that; Kurloz has been making him learn sign and speak for weeks now-- Kurloz who may well be dead-- and all everyone has come down with their sorrow upon him.

He ain't got no vocal cords, no tongue. But a chitinous windpipe ain't neither of those things. He does something what he ain't allowed to do, purposefully; He clicks loud at him. He calls for attention. And he stares at Sigma fearful, worried, but expectant.

Sigma is exhausted. The injury to his left arm brings back a wealth memories of poison and pinpricks and saws, what it was like to live helplessly for four months and be unable to feed or dress or bathe oneself. His sanity has been rubbed raw and he huddles there believing it cannot be soothed. Weary with blood loss, he's begun to lose consciousness, content to be picked off.

The clicking noise springs him from the warmth of sleep, his sore heart pounds at several hundred beats per minute. This is going to kill him. If his injuries didn't get to him first, his heart would surely give out-

His cybernetic eye cracked and damaged, it's his organic eye that seems him first. It widens in disbelief.

"Ku-Initiate..."

He cannot contain himself. The father who was supposed to have denied the Avox cries out in relief, loud and sharp, lifting his stubbed, charred arms towards the Initiate's neck as if to touch some part of him and be assured he is not dreaming. He stops short, gaze falling on his damaged fins, and his expression glazes over at once. He drops his cybernetics to his side and just stares. It's too exhausting to think that he could have prevented that; his nerves are shot. Neither of them are well, Sigma least of all. He is damaged, body and soul. Understanding it is how Kurloz must have felt during and after his torture, Sigma admits he was a fool for raging against him - even as an act.

Sigma's eye fills with tears from both flavors of pain. He lowers his gaze, now too ashamed to look at him. Lips barely moving, his voice is very small: "...Are you well?"

He takes in Sigma's relief, letting it become his own. He wasn't all turned out, not really. Of course it had been an act, how foolish of him. Now Sigma's all gone to blowing the cover and he's all of an emotion swelled in his chest.

But then his eyes are upon those charred bits of metal, where a hand out to be. It becomes all clear and evident quicklike that Sigma is more than just a little bloody. He wants to ask what happened, but that is too much for him to manage just yet, in terms of violating his condition and making to speak.

But simple things, he can sort of answer. Thank Messiahs for the chitinous windpipe. He doesn't dare fool himself into thinking they won't take that from him too, when all this is over. He gives an insect's chirrup, ending in another click. It doesn't answer much but it's an acknowledgement of the question and an attempt to answer-- which in itself says something.

He doesn't want Sigma to be ashamed, or all to be looking away. He frowns in concern, gives a nod of his chin back at Sigma, then another small sadder chirp. As close as he can get to a question; what can I do?

Sigma lays back against the wall, jacket slipping from his shoulders, unblinking and attempting to keep tears from falling from his eye. He's grateful his boy is alive, grateful his conditioning had begun to break. That would almost be enough to die peacefully here, to let himself slip into unconsciousness and be picked off early.

He forces himself to resist the temptation. Wounds exposed, embedded in bloodsoaked fabric, Sigma explains what he needs. "...My cybernetic arm met a grenade. I am otherwise fine, but the shrapnel buried itself in my chest. I have alcohol to disinfect my wounds, but I cannot remove the fragments on my own. If you could do that much, I would be indebted to you again..." He hates to be a burden on his own child; it makes him feel decrepit. When he raises his gaze to the Initiate again it is filled with affection and an apology. "...It looks worse than it is."

Cybernetic; all gone to looking real outside but the inside is robotic. He's seen a troll or two what got lucky enough knowing someone good with robotics as all to replace limbs. It was just so damn easy losing limb on Alternia but only some got being lucky enough to get replacement. Those on Sigma's world were clearly advanced enough for such things, but he wonders about the Capitol.

None of that is being too important though. He's got a job and although distantly he realises Sigma might curse himself, clearly not meaning to make command, the Initiate prefers to take it that way, so he can do it more aptly and more than that, have that breath of relief to be doing something.

He'll have to touch Sigma-- a tribute-- to do this, but if he shakes at all he'll cause more damage and pain. He must remain steady.

He shuffles carefully closer, eyes intent and searching the wounds. He looks to Sigma's face quick all to seek permission and if perhaps he ought lay down or get his clothing out of the way, but then his eyes are down again. His claws have been filed somewhat but not too much that he can't pinch nothing. If there is no protest, he'll reach out and try and pull out the first shard. Being Alternian, blood ain't no thing. Being an avox, well, it's just a job.

He's grateful for the Initiate's sense of duty, for Sigma is not certain he would be able to remain so calm if their situations were reversed. The Doctor does not have flesh on his arm left to bite into to keep himself from screaming, and as the Initiate's nails near the splinters, he tenses and grins his teeth. He does not think to lay down as it would make him feel vulnerable should someone come after them, and with one hand he cannot remove his shirt without disturbing his wounds. They would have to make do.

Within seconds there is the sound of the phalanges of Sigma's left 'hand' screaming against the tile, dragged across the floor as he makes a fist. That was just one fragment of many, but Sigma is already breathing shallowly, whimpering in pain. He looks over the Initiate's shoulder, staring into nothing. He tries to focus all of his attention on watching for other Tributes.

Before the Initiate starts on the next one, he manages to speak between breaths: "You... You'll have to disinfect them with the alcohol..." He didn't care how he did it, if he waited until the end and soaked one of the shirts he'd found in alcohol, or if he poured it over the wound as he worked. In fact, Sigma decides he'd rather not know: he looks up at the ceiling, not so high that he cannot watch for enemies out of his peripheral vision, but enough so he cannot watch the Initiate at work. Anticipating pain was the worst part of suffering.

The whimpers start up and, curiously, his first thought is that he wishes Sigma had for a moirail. Preferably a moirail what could sit by here. Motherfucker is all about needing the shoosh paps sweet up and on, a soothe against the ache. But Sigma ain't got one and it ain't the sort of thing the Initiate can or wants to give.

The whimpers and noises of pain try as to make him unsteady. He's hurting a tribute, is what his thinkpan whispers on at him. Disobediant. Sinner. He grits his teeth hard to fight against it. His ears flatten against the metal's screech.

He only pauses for true when Sigma speaks. He goes still as he considers all the same things what Sigma does. Now or later? Later, he thinks, would be best. Do it all at once. Get the sting over with and then the relief. Leave no question when it's like to be motherfucking over at last.

Its amazing Sigma should let this happen. Were Sigma a troll, the Initiate would be culled surely for what he's doing now and attempting to do, getting so close to one who was injured and in pain. He thinks on his own self and he can't remember even taking such care with his ownself. Disinfecting a wound? The fuck was that? But here, now, it all makes sense.

And with Sigma, it seems worth it. He hopes this works. He prays not again to try and save someone only to have them die in his grip. He is so tired of that.

With his eyes focused on his task, he plucks one bit after another. He trills lightly, just to see that Sigma ain't fading on him.

Without Phi or Diana to ground him, Sigma's mind has retreated somewhere far away, the place he went when suffering overwhelmed him. He is only vaguely aware that the Initiate has made a sound, and opts to respond with a drowsy nod rather than an answer. Keep going. The sooner this ended, the better for the both of them.

Each piece removed causes Sigma's whole body flinch. At the end of the ordeal he is almost within a state of catatonia. In his younger body, he had strode unyieldingly into into the maw of a killing machine. Now his age has reduced his capacity for pain, and he has gone pale, on the brink of fainting. He feels as though his chest has been rubbed raw with a grater, and with his high blood pressure the loss of real, red blood has made him dizzy. The temptation to rest is too great: Sigma closes his eyes. He falls upon the borderline between consciousness and sleep before he worries he would frighten the Initiate, and so he forces his eye open, like prying skin from frozen metal. After he blinks a few times, his eyes finally seek his caregiver for reassurance that this is almost over.

Edited 2014-10-29 21:53 (UTC)

He doesn't want to do this. On no level does he want to do this and he's trying so hard not to shake with what he's going but it's motherfucking hard. He gets scared sudden and sharp when Sigma's eyes close. He remembers trying to save Disciple with that amounting to nothing. This time the blood coating his hands it red as rage. Red as love. Sometimes he thinks humans had this color blood to taunt him.

But Sigma's got white too. White like care. And that care gets pushing Sigma's eyes back open and he gives a choked chirp of relief.

Then apology, because next all comes the liquid what's sure as sure going to burn. He picks it up, looking pleading. Brace yourself. Then he starts to pour.

Sigma expected the alcohol to burn, but not one of his infinite lives had prepared him for the fire the union of gin and blood would create. Sigma screams, the desperate wail of a man who, more than all the evil in the world, hated pain. Seconds later it is choked out, lost in his throat, not wanting to put the Initiate in any more danger than he already was. As he writhes, his functional arm sprawls out behind him and gropes for the crowbar he had laid against the wall. He clings to the weapon like a hand to hold through pain. Then it is done, and Sigma gasps and sobs between breaths, tears burning down his cheeks.

It takes him a good while to compose himself. Tears give way to a stoic, hollow expression. From his position on the ground, Sigma drags the crowbar along the floor carefully, trying to make as little noise as he can manage. He no longer has the strength to lift it into his arms.

He adjusts his grip on his only weapon until he is satisfied he could swing it, given the need. "...If someone comes, you run," he commands. His eyes are empty, his head limp against his shoulder and staring at the floor. He cannot tell the Initiate how he loves him and how much good he has done, but he can express his gratitude in other ways.

The scream fills his ears. He's not unaccustomed to screams. But he doesn't want to hear it come from someone what all he cares for. He doesn't want it to come about by the will of he who's Avoxed. There's one irrational moment he thinks of slamming his hands over his ears, but he refrains from it.

Tears flow and he almost thinks to wipe them from Sigma's face. But then Sigma grabs the weapon and all his old instincts and what he's got of his Avoxing crash down, and his arms go up to cover his head without thinking. But Sigma doesn't swing at him. Not even when he's near able.

He's just making to protect himself, for if he should be left alone. His arms lower down and his shaking, blood-coated fingers go to the floor.

i stay?

He'll obey Sigma's command, of course. But no one's coming yet. At least, he can't hear anyone. His eyes dart about, just to be sure.

Edited 2014-11-18 01:36 (UTC)

He can see the Initiate move from the corner of his eye - Sigma protectively attempts to sit up when the Initiate covers himself, believing he had been startled stiff by another Tribute, or an incoming strike from the Gamemakers. His pain prevents him, and when Sigma gauges that there is no immediate danger and returns to rest, he realizes with horror that the Initiate had expected a blow from him.

His simmering anger towards the Capitol once again spits and boils beneath the surface, but is quenched by his own hatred of himself. He had caused this, caused Kurloz to expect pain and punishment from a man on which he should be able to rely.

He was so far beyond becoming a good person and an admirable figure for his son that the Doctor did not know why he continued to live his parasitic life. "I would like that," Sigma whispers tiredly. His voice lowers, still audible to the audience, but easily mistaken as a dying man's confusion. His eye begins to flutter open and close as he loses the battle against keeping himself from slipping into unconsciousness. "But only if it is what you want."

If he knew, if he even could, he'd argue. It's a natural thing on Alternia. It's a natural thing as an Avox (although, were he better, he'd have let whatever happened just happen). It's perfectly reasonable for someone to do so to him. He'd not even hold it against Sigma if he had.

But of course he wouldn't. Sigma is good. Sigma is kind. Sigma has and will always look out for him, penultimate. He'd have one less person what to rely on, without Sigma, and so he'd never wish him to go. He believes that.

He leans forward and nods frantic, even knowing Sigma's slipping off. There's just one moment of pause, and then he's shifting around, moving so that his back is to the wall, right next to Sigma. He's not touching, but he's close enough to reach. His presence can be felt, no matter how he tries not to have one. He should keep watch, he knows, but just for a moment or two, he thinks to rest his eyes next to someone he cares for.

Edited 2014-11-20 22:54 (UTC)

It was impossible not to see the fire. Homura knew she hadn't made it. However, it was near the bookstore. Perhaps someone at last had taken her advice about burning the books. It would have been no loss to her, seeing those books destroyed.

Grabbing a stray book nearby - the bookstore was quite ravaged, because of people just tossing their copies of their biographies away in disgust, no doubt - she started towards the flames, ready to throw the waste of paper into the blaze. She had no clue who's book it was. She didn't care.

That was when she saw the massive figure, huddled in the corner.

"...Sigma?"

Edited 2014-09-10 18:50 (UTC)

Sigma doesn't appear to be listening carefully. He only notices Homura when she speaks; once he turns to her, he smiles at once. She wasn't calling him 'Dr. Klim' any longer. He decided that was an improvement. "Homura. I was worried you were caught in the explosion - I am thankful to find you alive." His expressions are somewhat animated, overcompensating for the situation, and it is quite clear that Sigma is not entirely well.

His gentleness is, however, genuine when he lifts a hand to gesture her over: "You brought kindling with you, I see. Come. Rest for awhile." Palm outstretched, he waits for her to take his hand.

Its...odd. On the one hand, it would be easy to hate him, or show hatred towards him, after his confession. After claiming he understood the Capitol. But Homura found she couldn't. He and she had too much in common, she understood him enough that it would have felt wrong to abandon him like that. She hadn't even realized that she had called him Sigma, instead of Dr. Klim.

"I wasn't near the blast." Still holding the book to her chest, she went to take his hand with her free hand. "Are you all right? Was this fire your doing?"

Edited 2014-09-12 17:51 (UTC)

It isn't until Homura's pale fingers wrap around his silver hand does Sigma realize he'd extended a cybernetic skeleton. He is shocked for a moment, and watches Homura's face for some sign of disgust. There is none. "...Forgive me. As you can see, I have seen better Arenas." He helps her down the best he can, the stub of his other arm danging uselessly at his side.

"...It was," he admits quietly. "I had a man come for my head, earlier. It appears they are gleaning more information than I'd like about my history from these books," he lies. It must be obvious to Homura: his expression is pained, he watches the blaze with some satisfaction, as though he could bury his mistakes in the smoke. "I would rather they not speak on my behalf."

His skeleton didn't scare her. In truth, in her mind, Dr, Klim was more of a human than she was. His heart still beat, he had grown up, had children. He would one day have the chance to die of old age, cybernetics or no.

Quietly, she sat, seeing at last the arm that no longer was. Her eyes widened slightly, and almost on instinct, her ring transformed into the Soul Gem, glowing slightly. She watched, and...

Nothing. Her Soul Gem did nothing. So, still no power. No healing his arm. No transforming.

"...They're written ridiculous things about me in those books, as well. Little of it true." She can't quite hide the dejection as her Gem changed back. "...Who was it who attacked you?"

Sigma raises his eyebrows when she withdraws the Gem. He had seen it before, in a vision and in person - he knew it to be the source of her power, for when it was exhausted, she became inhuman. He is so touched that she might try to use it to fix his arm that for a moment he can feel the sting of tears burning at the back of his throat. He swallows them.

"I am sorry. It is not a good feeling, is it? ...Harley took my arms. I believe the man named 'Nasir' tried to take my head. I saw to him," Sigma says stiffly. He is not proud of having tried to kill a man, but there he can at least claim self defense.

"...I see." Harley, huh. She'd keep that in mind. For no reason, of course. Nothing personal. Not at all. "Dr. Klim...can I ask a question?"

Sigma nods at once. There is not much he would hide from Homura, save for what he must to keep up his persona. "Of course, Homura, anything at all. What is it you would like to know?"

At this, Homura took in a quiet breath.

"I...what do you plan on doing, now?"

Sigma stares into the fire a moment before smiling sadly.

"I am not certain. I have no sensation left in my arms, and the wounds on my chest limit my mobility." They were concealed by his jacket, a clean shirt and fresh dressings, but when Sigma straightens up he winces. "I imagine I will not last much longer..."

He does not look at Homura, afraid of her answer. "...Yourself?"

No sensation. Limited mobility.

I imagine I will not last much longer...

A grenade slid into her hands.

"I think I know what I'll do now."

Sigma raises his eyebrows and recoils at once - the pin has not been pulled, but the implication stuns him. He has seen enough of explosive objects to last him a lifetime. But then realization sobers him, and Sigma puts a skeletal finger to his lips. Was she implying what he thought she was? He is silent a long moment. Thinking of Homura dying alone with a grenade to her heart made him too sad, as acutely aware as he was that she could not be allowed to win.

"...You realize I cannot allow you to do that alone."

Edited 2014-09-20 00:40 (UTC)

At that, she looked at Sigma.

"You..." Her fist clenched around the grenade. "You want to...with me?"

At first, Sigma shrugs, dismissing the idea. It isn't so much that Sigma wants to die. "I am one to fight until the bitter end," he says quietly, "in spite of the odds. Rather..."

Whenever he'd seen Homura, she had always been alone, just like him. She had had someone she loved taken from her, too, and he was certain she was still hurting. And Sigma knew that if he were forced to endure death with no one else there to hold his hand... it would be something with which he would not be able to cope.

"The thought of you dying alone... That makes me too sad."

To the bitter end. If she had Grief Seeds, and a chance to win, of course. She'd have no qualms. But this was not a world for that. And Sigma...just like that...

She looked down at her grenade, then back up at the older man.

"Then...I'll see you in the Capitol. Right?"

He would be there. He had to be.

Sigma nodded once, smiling sadly. He moved towards her, touching what was left of his hand to hers reassuringly.

"Of course, Homura. I hope we see each other very soon."

He closed his eye. The power to his cybernetic eye was already cut.

She squeezed his hand, before sliding her thumb into the clip, popping it out.

Then, she closed her eyes in the several seconds that were left.

Boom.

Shepard found that confidence put a lot of people off. You walk into somewhere like you own the place, people will usually hesitate to tell you that you don't. Meet their eyes, stare them down, force the issue. Not really typical arena strategy; it was a diplomatic thing, not combat.

But this wasn't really the typical arena.

So, maybe Shepard did some sneaking, but most of the time she did just this; walked up to the bonfire with all the casual confidence she could muster and crossed her arms.

"It's real subtle, Doc," It was, quite possibly, the least subtle thing in the entire mall, up to and including the tributes themselves, "I mean, I don't like mine either, but..."

Staring into the fire, Sigma hadn't been keeping track of his surroundings. Shepard's voice is enough to make him jump - he attempts to play it off as an adjustment of his coat when he realizes who it is. "Commander," Sigma answers with an anxious flinch. In spite of all that had happened he continued to hold a great deal of respect for her, and would be ashamed to discover she thought little of him. He attempts to straighten up, to make himself on camera the fearsome presence Zero had once been for his 'Tributes'. The longer he remains in the Capitol the more he realizes that his persona is breaking; the self he had repressed for forty five years has begun to tear through the seams. It would have been surprisingly easy to have said, Fuck, you scared the shit out of me! Are we good, or not? At least, almost.

"I'm well aware the damage has already been done. However..." It's risky to make such a defiant action against the side he was meant to be on. He must try and spin his anger in another direction. "I didn't want there to be any souvenirs remaining. You understand." He laughs hollowly, his raw metal skeleton of a hand pulling his coat closer to himself. It's a weak lie for someone who hadn't bothered to comb the store. He feels through his jacket how hot his metal limb has grown from the heat of the flames, for his singed cybernetic nerves could no longer feel pain. If she attacked, could he use it to keep her at bay? She wouldn't, would she? "Someone tried to take my head earlier, you see." The amusement in his voice wavers halfway in a failed self-deprecating joke.

Edited 2014-09-12 17:54 (UTC)

Shepard watched him flinch and fidget like a nervous politician. It was an easy way to get yourself killed, the way he was going; but she wasn't about to underestimate a self-proclaimed 'gamemaker'.

"Well don't worry about me," she held up her own hand, still bound in its makeshift brace, bruised and swollen. It had been badly broken during her torture, and wouldn't begin to approach real healing for weeks yet; by then the Arena would probably be finished, at least so far as Shepard was concerned, "If I were going to try something, I probably wouldn't have warned you."

Truth has a certain brutal ring to it, doesn't it?

Sigma smiles wryly. Would it be an admission of weakness if he told her that that was what he'd hoped for, in some way? He grew tired. "What a relief," he answers dryly, beginning to grow comfortable with her company. As an afterthought, he adds: "...Your injury is unfortunate." He can't say he's sorry to see her in such a state, or that he didn't approve of the Capitol's idea of punishment. He hopes she would understand.

He displays his own ruined arms, one a metal stub of bone and the other black with burned fake flesh, no more than a titanium skeleton, and shrugs. "I empathize, truly." While Shepard had been injured by the Capitol for her association with Rebel Tributes, Sigma had faced the exact opposite scenario.

She could sympathize with that too; even the greatest general grew tired of war, of seeing their men dying, of looking forward, standing vigilant. You got to where you kind of hoped you'd get shot. It broke up the monotony, anyways.

It gave you the hope of resting. Was it wrong to say she missed it?

Christ, how fucked up could one woman get?

"Well, I can name a few people I've seen today who wouldn't agree with you, if they knew," She hasn't killed anyone this time. At least, not yet she hasn't. Blaming her injuries is as good as anything, at this point, "Looks like it hurts."

He's impressed that Shepard could look upon a damaged metal skeleton and assume that it caused him pain, and he raises his eyebrow curiously to communicate it. Most who knew him no doubt suspected he'd never had feeling in his cybernetic replacements, but that could not be further from the truth. "It did, terribly," Sigma admits, "until the cybernetic nerves shut down on me." In the event of catastrophic failure, he had programmed his cybernetics to stop relaying pain signals, a failsafe in place of his body's endorphins. "The framework still operates satisfactorily, but now I am completely numb." He shakes his head. He does not consider this a blessing. "I spent twenty years of my life lacking sensation in my arms. Being unable to touch my loved ones, my children... I hope I do not have to go back to that any time soon." Guess he'd better lose.

He gestures to the flame. "At least the fire is cathartic," Sigma laughs, a small but genuine smile sprouting on his lips. "You know, if you wanted your books burned, I wouldn't mind assisting you." It's his first attempt at a joke in a long time.

"They're not so bad. It's just..." She can't help the face. It's like a bad smell, and the roll of her eyes just puts the cap to the expression, "They were written...by a fan. I like being written as a hero, but there's a limit to how far I'm willing to take it."

Still she can smile, and offer a shrug with one shoulder. You're alright, Doc.

"Appreciate the help. If we're gonna be hanging out with this dead giveaway bonfire, might as well make it useful, yeah?"

An Avox approaches, stands quietly off to the side while the pile burns, a bucket full of water in hand, ready to keep the flames from spreading. Just another Avox, another nobody. When Sigma is done here, the Avox will make sure the area is cleaned.

He won't put the fire out too early, won't stop Sigma from adding more books to be burned.

It takes a long time for Sigma to realize that he is not alone. With only one eye in commission, it isn't until he stands to stretch that he finds Justin Law watching him. He's immediately guilty, but does not let it show. Before he considers that it would be good for his image to ignore the Avox, Sigma is already walking towards him.

Zero clears his throat, putting his hand and stub behind his back as he speaks. "I remember you well. You understand that your death was nothing personal?" He had ripped Don's arm from its socket when he had killed his son, and he hadn't been prepared to allow Justin to make a mark on his other child, so perhaps this is more of a lie than he intends. He can't blame Justin for that, of course, being the party that started the fight - Sigma tilts his head: "I am not going to kill you this time. I recognize that you are no threat to me and it would make me quite the coward. If you are going to stand there anyway, why do you not come by the fire?"

The conditioning hasn't worn off enough yet. He can make eye contact in short, careful glances, but coherent replies are still beyond him. He looks up, then looks away. Yes, he understands it was nothing personal. It's never personal in the arenas.

Sigma's request is practically an order, and so he steps closer. He wants to be a threat. As a weapon, he should be a threat to anyone he comes across. But as an Avox, he is not.

He recognizes that the boy had approached him not because he wanted to, but out of a sense of duty, and Sigma is momentarily disturbed. He would try and make it up to him. "That is better. Come, please sit and warm yourself. Even when I was a young man, I found malls like these too drafty to be comfortable."

The ex-Gamemaker reclaims his seat and pulls his knees to his chest with a titanium skeleton for an arm. "I regret that you cannot speak. If I were to find you some paper and a pen, would you write? Or are you content to listen to the ramblings of an old man?" Sigma grimaces, watching the boy for a nod, or some sort of expression that might answer him.

He has no choice. Justin sits obediently, moving with the appropriate stiffness and awkwardness that comes with an Avox who has been noticed. There's no response to anything Sigma says, until the older man offers him something to write with. That gets him to pull back violently, hands held tightly to his chest. He absolutely will not, cannot make any sign that he could want to communicate.

Sigma cannot know why the boy is so averse to writing, but respects his decision nonetheless. He wonders if it has something to do with his conditioning. "I see. This may be quite the one-sided conversation, and I hope you can forgive me. I have a tendency to continue rambling once I have started."

He shifts to make himself more comfortable. "You almost remind me of my son, like that. When he was very small, he never made any expression and hardly ever spoke. I was worried I had done something wrong." He laughs nervously. He is hoping to humanize himself to the boy, make himself out to be something other than a killer or a Gamemaker. "But he turned out alright. He merely needed more attention. I think it will be the same with you, in time, if you have someone you know to help you along. You do have people in this Arena that care for you, don't you? Are they still alive?" There was no doubt that being an Avox was very difficult.

An Avox cannot communicate. It is completely forbidden. Everything. Spoken, written, absolutely everything is forbidden. The conditioning is wearing off, breaking down little by little and there are so many things he can do that he never knew he could. He can look over at Sigma, shock and vulnerability written clear on his face.

No, he doesn't. He has no one. He has never had anyone in his whole life, he's always alone. Here in the Arenas, he has absolutely no one.

Loneliness was something Sigma was intimately familiar with and Justin's expression registers with him at once. His face falls, his eyes darken in empathy; he regrets asking the question to begin with.

"...I see."

The silence that passes between them is stifling. Now that they have had more time to get acquainted, Sigma realizes that Justin is still a boy. Physically younger than his son, for certain. He stares into the fire pensively, his reason telling him that the troubles of others were not his to put on his shoulders... but his heart insisting he try nonetheless.

"Well, allow me to reintroduce myself, then. My name is Doctor Sigma Klim; also known as Zero. When you regain the capacity, you may refer to me however you wish." He smiles at the boy as warmly as he can manage in his state of mind. "...There you are. Now you know someone you may turn to." He thought it was extremely unlikely that Justin would turn to someone who had pierced a sickle through his back, but there was no harm in trying.

Justin bows his head, staring down at his hands. Doctor Klim. The weapon part of him thinks 'an ally'. The Avox part of him thinks 'a master'. The other part of him, the part he doesn't really know, thinks 'someone to help me'. Because this man is someone who can help him. His death in the Arena was nothing personal, but the offer of help was completely unexpected.

And now that he knows someone he can turn to, it's almost an order. Instructions. He so desperately needs instructions. He can turn to Doctor Klim and he won't have to search someone out.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[OPEN] The power's out in the heart of man

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