Arena 05 - Chill

[gamemakers]

Usually, the tribute's outfits for the arena aren't accessorized. But today, the last thing their stylists hand them before the countdown begins is a pair of heavy black glasses, polarized and thick-lensed. They look at odds with the thick, winter gear they've been outfitted in.


It's a long rise to the surface today, inside their individual little tubes, much longer than usual. They start to feel the cold only about halfway up, and to hear the wind. It howls across the surface as they reach it, pressing all of their clothes flat against their bodies. And the reason for the glasses is immediately apparent.


20 - 19 - 18


The sky is white. The ground is white (and gray and black and blue but mostly white), the far-off sea is blinding silver. Everything in sight flings light around, fractures it into scintilating rainbows and sheer white beams of reflection. It is strong, cruel light, and it bears no heat at all. The surface is so cold that the little metal trackers ache in everyone's arm, and the countdown has to continue at a deafening volume to be heard.


 12 - 11 - 10 -


The circle of silver pedestals is the only regular shape to be seen. All else is fractured and split, the most uneven footing imaginable. And at the center of the circle, the Cornucopia sports icycles hanging from its lip, almost to the pile of supplies tucked all neatly inside its mouth.


4


3


2


There's a lull in the wind just as the gong sounds, letting it peal out across the frozen glacier, and echo off the high rock cliffs in the distance. And the ice answers, with a loud crack that seems to come from miles down.


Let the Games begin.

Comments

[alldeduction]

Feeling infinitely better without a lunatic's hands around his throat, Sherlock petulantly kicked a good deal of snow in his attacker's direction before attempting to get up.

Unfortunately, under snow is often ice, and the grip of his boots was not enough to keep him up upright when his balance was already shaky, and down he came, straight on top of his attacker. His knees took the brunt of his fall, however, and not wanting to find himself strangled again he lashed out with his hands (not exactly attempting to land a blow with them so much as keep Katurian from getting anywhere near his face), oddly resembling an unarmed seven year old at a pillow fight.

[downbeat]

When Katurian had wandered around the Capitol, begging for his freedom and claiming that there had been a mistake, he had been right about one thing: he was not a fighter. With his body prone, he was no longer the confident attacker he had been mere seconds earlier. His (attempted) blows were scrambled and frantic and blind, and like Sherlock, he was worried more about keeping the other man away from him than the kill.

He kicked up his knee, attempting to knock Sherlock in the gut.

[alldeduction]

Sherlock grunted as the knee connected, winding him slightly, and he used the force of the push to get himself backwards and off Katurian, scrambling through the snow to attempt to get himself at least a few feet of distance to decipher exactly what he was planning to do next.

Alas, he couldn't help but heckle.

"Please, if you're going to bother to attempt to kill me you could at least do better than that," the waspish baritone snapped through the frozen wind.

[downbeat]

Katurian scrambled onto his hands and knees, panting and wheezing. The cold air burned his lungs.

He recognized this voice. He knew who this was.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, because it seemed like the only thing he could say. He was wrapped up in a private horror, in a nightmare where he was the monster that crawled out from under the bed, his nails and teeth long like knives. He was the bogeyman. He was the murderer. The blood pounded in his ears, thunderous and unending. "I'm so sorry."

[alldeduction]

The parkas and the glasses had made telling the participants apart extremely difficult, especially considering Sherlock had not met all of them. But there was no mistaking that grating plea. Sherlock sneered as he stood, hoping his height would allow him to look somewhat intimidating.

Every moment he wasted was another piece of equipment, another can of supplies, gone before Sherlock could mark who had taken it.

"Get out of here," he growled, pulled up to his full height, the wind whipping around him. "Get out of here before I change my mind and kill you after all." It was a complete bluff, of course. Not that he didn't think he could - it was a matter of would. He needed Katurian out of here or all the supplies were lost to him forever.

[downbeat]

Katurian didn't need to be told twice. From the moment his back hit the ice, the word run was on the forefront of his mind. He stumbled up from the ground (twice he slipped, once he nearly fell down all over again) and tore off in the opposite direction, running as fast as his feet could take him on the treacherous ice.

His mind was cloudy and his neurons were screaming, but one thing was certain. Surprising, but certain.

This man did not try to kill him.