thearena | Arena 12 - The Spaceport

Arena 12 - The Spaceport

As usual the Tributes are woken up early for the start of the arena, leaving the Tribute Centre before dawn. A few hours ride in a hovercraft delivers them to their destination where their excited prep teams will outfit them in skintight suits that are colour coordinated by District (D1 is White, D2 is Red, D3 is Orange, D4 is Aqua, D5 is Purple, D6 is Pink, D7 is Light Green, D8 is Blue, D9 is Yellow, D10 is Dark Green, D11 is Lavender, and D12 is Black) over which they will be put into what is instantly identifiable as a spacesuit, complete with oxygen tank and helmet before being loaded into the tubes.

They rise up into what appears to be outer space and immediately upon emerging from the tubes Tributes will find themselves floating upwards with a length of rope the only thing holding them to their podiums. The countdown crackles out from speakers built into each Tributes helmet.

20

19

18…

The Cornucopia sits in the middle of a dusty crater with buildings surrounding it, made up of a number of chained down cases and cubes in limited numbers. Cubes which sharp-eyed Tributes will note look like they fit into the slots beside the doors that lead into the spaceport.

8

7

6…

The mirrored visors of the uniformly white spacesuits make it impossible to tell friend from foe. Tributes fighting for goods will have to risk harming their friends but the alternative, floating off into space or suffocating when their oxygen runs out, leaves them little choice.

3

2

1…

The gong rings out and the countdown’s voice announces, “the Arena is now open” before the line goes dead. The Games have begun.

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"I am sure." No he wasn't, but he wasn't about to inflict Nitou and his magical appetite on anyone that didn't absolutely deserve it. And even given what had happened? He wasn't sure that Terezi deserved that, if on some long shot she turned out to be a magical troll.

"Look, let's... let's keep moving. Figure this place out."

There's something of that in her gaze, nothing that the Capitol might pick up on, nothing most people would pick up at all, honestly. But Clint has known Natasha for years, and they have lived through more than most could ever think of. He's learned her tells.

Still, he shoots her a confused look, brow furrowed, mouth down turned. That doesn't make any sense -- but Natasha's never led him wrong when it really counted, so.

"Fury's office, a couple of months after Manhattan. I'd just gotten reinstated. What about you?"

Because if they don't sync up then, well, he's not entirely sure what that means.

For now, he'd add. But saying shit like that doesn't help anything. Instead he attempts a chuckle, though another cough escapes instead. "Yeah, I can't believe it either."

Something about the shock tells him that the Gamemakers could've made it stronger, but they only needed him just barely, dead to let those mutts get to him. Assholes, all of them. There isn't much they can do about it now. They're doing even less just sitting here and Nick isn't going to let the group slow down on his account.

"I'll be fine," he tells them both, moving to stand while ignoring the brief dizzy spell he just got. "Could use some medicine if there are any."

But he can move, and that's what matters.

Edited 2015-01-10 09:42 (UTC)

To no surprise, Luke and Clementine share the same line of thought. As much as he’d let Nick rest a half hour longer at the very least, they’d be increasingly hard-pressed to find shelter, food, water, and supplies -- and with only one survivor destined to emerge victorious he can’t see any of it being available to a great extent or for very long. Time was siding against them and every second that slipped away only stacked the odds higher against them.

Keeping to a room with one of the exits blocked off wasn't the safest either, he muses. There's no knowing who - or what - might enter from the other side.

“Okay y’all,” He looks between Nick and Clem, seeking their attention, their agreement. It comes as a relief when he doesn’t have to urge Nick to his feet prematurely – though he does eye him, prepared to steady him if need be. “Keep your eyes open for anythin’ that seems like it could be useful - we'll probably have to get creative here. We’re lookin’ for food, water, better weapons, an’ medical supplies. Someplace to rest would be nice.” Then, to Nick: “We'll see if we can find somethin' for that burn.”

Sam's first instinct, after the first terrified split-second, is to run.

He's frightfully quick, for his size-- Hobbits have no inborn magic, but their propensity to move without being seen is given to them for the purpose of avoiding Big People's notice. In a twinkling, he's out of his corner and leaping behind the Winter Soldier on his furry feet, his boots abandoned with a thunk on the metal floor.

Some madness takes hold of him. Maybe being stuck so far from the comfort of the ground has robbed him of all his senses; maybe it's the sight of his boots and bag there on the floor, ripe for the robbing from this great big person with his cold look; maybe it's the thought of finding Frodo and Bilbo and having to admit, shamefaced, that he'd lost all he'd managed to snatch at in his brief minutes at the Cornucopia. Either way: Sam skips back three steps, plants his feet, grits his teeth, and raises the taser in both hands.

"You'll put down that crate and be on your way," Sam cries furiously, in a shrill voice that trembles, "Or you'll have a taste o' this, you will!"

No, sir. No one. I heard plenty, but I've seen-- [His breath catches; he coughs, and tries again.] --seen none alive.

[Aimlessly drifting corpses, yes; by the Cornucopia, and again in the airlock. But no one yet in here.]

I came straight here, Mister Bilbo, just to rest, you understand-- have you seen anyone? Frodo, or-- or Strider?

[He's doing exactly what Bilbo's doing, in a way, reaching out to touch his hands and his shoulders, frightened and aimless and seeking something useful to do. Sam himself is unhurt, save a couple of small cuts on his feet - he'd cast off the boots without thinking, among the broken glass.]

Gary's excitement boils over into a hoarse laugh. He could hug her. In fact he almost attempts to, taking a step forward and holding out his good hand--but Gary remembers that first meeting with Nill quite vividly, as much as he would like to forget how awkward it was, and he's long since made the connection that holding her is what made her so distressed. He stops short.

"Yeah! Yeah, uh--" How to explain? Gary presses a hand to his head, equal parts baffled and giddy. "--my brother can do stuff like this. It's weird, like...he gets in your head, and he's not really there but he's there. You know?" Yes, crystal clear description, good job Gary. "Shit, I can't wait to see the look on his face when I tell him about this!"

"Um!" Shit. Think, Epps! Where has he seen this guy before? Big guy, tall, imposing, blonde hair. Blonde. A lock of blonde hair. That's it! Gary perks up as the recognition hits him. "--I need a favor. Just a quick one. Uh." Wait, no, he needs to make sure he's got this right. Gary squints. "You're Thor, right?"

Clementine stands up as Nick does, her hands half-raised like she could catch him if he started to fall. People like them, people who had gone through what they had, they learned how to push past what other people wouldn't as a matter of survival. That doesn't mean Clem doesn't still worry for him.

"Yeah. Okay." she turns her head and looks at Luke, nodding. "Let's keep moving."

Turning round she picks up a piece of metal from the floor, it's as good a weapon as she'll get for now. "There has to be something around here."

Maybe if they're lucky there'll be sponsor gifts soon, she thinks, not yet realising that there'll be none of that in this arena. Until then they just had to keep moving.

"There's gotta be something around here Chimera will eat..." Something. Not someone. That's got to be a good sign, at least. It's not like Nitou was really looking forward to trying to eat someone else, even if Chimera wanted it. "Think he'd eat killer robots? I bet a place like this would have killer robots..." He should probably sound more worried by that, but no, he's just really interested. Maybe even a littl excited.

Nick's been telling himself to keep on running because he can do it no matter how much it hurt. But, the second they start slowing down he's reminded of the pain again and feels slightly relieved that they're slowing down. He just hopes it won't cost them.

"Oh, fuck if I know." Nick's no doctor. That was Carlos's job before all hell broke loose for the billionth time. Still, he reaches down to feel his rib cage, wincing a little as he does as he keeps his breathing tight. "Don't think it's broken...but, listen."

He wiggles his way out of Sam's support and leans against the nearby wall instead. "I owe you back there so...thanks." He says that sincerely, knowing that anyone else probably would've left him behind. "I ain't gonna trouble you no more." He doesn't want to.

"But I gotta look for my friends and you got your own people to worry about so - dammit." He winces again. Stupid ribs. It'd be easier if he didn't have to talk.

Don't waste any time on me.

The thing about Beth is that she really wants to believe the best in people. It's a little naive, but that belief doesn't exclude the fact that she's seen a lot of horrible things in her lifetime. The Governor beheading her father. The mutilated girl on the mannequin in the country club. Hearing about what happened between Shane and Rick. She knows that there are people out there that will hurt her with very little provocation. She knows about human cruelty.

But this? This is enough to nearly feel sick to her stomach. To the point where she's reaching out to grab his hand and give it a quick squeeze - I'm glad you're okay.

"That's terrible," she whispers it, dizzied with the mental image and the realization that she came so close to losing them all. People do crazy things when they're desperate enough, but eating other people? That's messed up.

"You looked for me?" Beth doesn't know why she's surprised. She's just...touched, that's all.

At first, she's terrified. Because all she hears is the scrape of claws against the ventilation shaft, and she has no weapons to defend herself with. If any would even work in such a cramped space. Beth's intention with this hiding space had been to be quiet enough that nobody noticed her.

And then she realizes that the sound is coming from the place she was planning on exiting the vents from. Beth is scrambling to move further down, to find another exit when he catches up to her.

Oh.

He waves, and she lets out a shaky breath, burying her face in her hands just for a moment. Enough for her heart to stop beating at a million miles per minute.

"...Hi," she replies, waving back with some hesitation. "I didn't think anyone would have the same idea."

There's no telling how many "Tributes" there actually are scurrying like lab rats through this hellhole, though evidently not so many that they're impossible to avoid. His running into Nick probably never would have happened if not for that dead end. So what are the odds of there being more than one Beth.

"Beth Greene?" he presses, becoming more animated than he had been, grasping after this little spark of hope. Nick clearly has his attention with that. "You seen her anywhere? That's who I'm lookin' for. We were in a bad spot, pinned down..." He trails off without elaborating further. Even if Nick does know her (his recognition had seemed sincere), there's no need to get into the ugly details. All that matters is getting to her.

With a renewed sense of urgency and the empty beaker still in hand he's moving through the room, only to be brought up short by the rows of lasers that have abruptly flickered to life before him, barring their passage to the door beyond, which presumably leads back out into the spaceport proper. He looks back to Nick with his eyebrows raised, wearing a you've got to be shitting me expression.

He doesn't take it as weakness or trust. Clint's a spy, he knows the trade, knows that that unconcerned glance is anything but. He doesn't let on, because that's one way to get his fool self killed, but he knows and he listens. It's all he can do if he wants information.

"Well that's a relief." Wry, Clint doesn't relax, because something tells him that this guy doesn't quite care of necessarily believe him. This, he doesn't realize, isn't entirely the truth. But Clint doesn't know who Bucky is beyond strange, threatening goon hiding out in some hallway, so who knows maybe that's what he does.

Because Bucky Barnes fell from a train and died screaming. Because the Winter Soldier was once a ghost story, until Natasha showed up with a hole in her belly and a description that rang far too close to fiction. Because this guy is a ghost in the halls, metal arm covered, face uncovered and faintly familiar, but not enough to ring all sorts of bells.

Clint doesn't trust him, but he's a chance. And, well, something is telling him to follow.

Thorongil stares.

"I have known few indeed who can do the likes of what you have shown me," says the man, glancing down reflexively at Aang's hands. Only those who bear the Three can do such things -- and perhaps the Istari, though they do not show their power often. Aang looks like neither.

But he gives a slow nod.

"But if what you do can heal, it cannot be altogether bad," Thorongil says. "I will accept your help, for I must go on, in this Arena -- there are those whom I must find, and protect, from the horrors I am sure are here."

Clint knows what the Hulk can do, knows what fear and damage it can amass. But Clint hasn't really seen much beyond the snippets he got in the battle against the Chitauri. He is wary, but he's generally wary when it comes to any threat. This is nothing new. The way Bruce moves is more interesting, even if it's only so Clint can figure out who these allies of his are, who these people he once fought alongside were.

It doesn't mean he's not startled.

"What." That -- doesn't seem to fit with what little he already knows of this Capitol. Why would they shove tribute into jail when instead they could force them to kill each other over and over and over until will was broken and they'd become more rabid dogs than anything.

He's clearly missing more information than he'd already thought, and considering he didn't know much at all...well.

Carlos takes a deep breath, then lets it out. What Thor is saying is logical, and though he tries to defiantly meet Thor's gaze, he finds himself giving in to the logic and glancing away.

"...you're probably right," he admits. "Okay. I'll let you carry me, but only until I stop bleeding. All right?"

Gary pales slightly. Yes, he's aware that Brock could kill him, along with pretty much anyone else here that he isn't friends with (along with those that he is friends with, but he doesn't consider that). The less he thinks about how true that is, or the more he can convince himself that it isn't true, the better.

"A little bit, yeah." It's fine, though! Totally fine. Gary seems to act like it is--he doesn't appear to be in any pain, though he moves and breathes rather stiffly. It, and the swelling of several fractured ribs, are only somewhat inconvenient. "But you wouldn't kill me, because I'm offering to help! Who does that?"

He's right - it's not exactly the kind of idea one might expect to come from someone even remotely normal. And in her home world, she'd never reveal something like that about herself unless she really needed to, because her specialty was always being able to blend in when she needed to and make an impression when it was required. But the Capitol already knows all about her, apparently. No harm done.

In fact, it might actually ward people away from attempting to pick something with her. Which would save her a lot of time and trouble. But that obviously won't be an issue here with him, when he sounds like he's already given up. It makes her raise an eyebrow at him.

She's always wanted to survive.

"Don't tell me you're just planning to lay down and die," Natasha asks, and it almost sounds like she's exasperated. "They don't care if you like the game or not. You're in it already."

Brock's surprised she's that forward about it, but honestly... not that surprised. It's refreshing, in a way, to have somebody be that straight with him. He's become so accustomed to dancing around real answers since he got here that it takes him a minute to formulate a reply.

"Way I see it, it could go one of two ways," he answers, dropping the pretense too, tone businesslike. "We show each other just how good at our jobs we are. Or... we extend a little professional courtesy. We're both in the game. That's gotta count for something."

In other words, he's not going to pull anything as long as she doesn't. Honor among spies has to be a thing.

"I haven't seen her around here yet," and neither does he know her last name. His tone deflates a little, disappointed that he doesn't have much to offer. The fact that she and Daryl got separated doesn't bode well, but there hasn't been any announcements made so far for the deceased. There is one way to know that they're talking about the same girl. "She and I are from the same place, sorta. Different states, but we both had lurkers - dead folks roamin' around eatin' people."

He isn't sure if Daryl is aware about the fact that not everyone here is from the same place. And even if they are, they could be from a different timeline such as the case with Clementine. Even with the weird shit happening around them, it's a tough pill to swallow, that there are others out there who aren't even human or have it even worse than they do. Nick's already slightly envious of those that never had to deal with lurkers.

"She's a nice girl," Nick begins as he moves around the tables to catch up to Daryl. "If I see her, I'll - huh?"

The look he returns to Daryl is saying the same thing. Their lives are just a god damn movie it looks like. Curiously, he kneels down to pick up a piece of plaster broken off from the wall and tosses it into the strings of light. It's hard for him to hide his bewilderment at the sight of the plaster landing on the floor, now diced to pieces. But he regains his composure (or it appears that way anyhow), appearing more annoyed if anything.

"Well, fuck."

He lifts his left arm and points down the hall, and if Clint is listening carefully enough maybe he'll hear a faint electronic whir come from underneath the fabric, "Walk ahead of me. I'll direct you where to go."

A necessary precaution as far as Bucky is concerned. Steve might know and trust a man called Clint Barton, so might the rest of the team that the Soldier has found himself a part of, but he doesn't know this man himself, not at all. He doesn't know Clint's full range of ability or what he might be inclined to do, so it's better that Clint walks ahead and Bucky follows so he is a stronger position to act should the other man try anything.

There's too much at risk here to make even a single mistake.

Bucky whirls around to follow Sam's movement, still on the assumption that this is a child he is dealing with and though he doesn't harm children he is under no delusion that a child couldn't harm him. Children have been used in warfare longer than he has.

What he see's on turning though does not quite fit the image he has of a child, there's something off about this diminutive person. It takes Bucky a moment to place him from the Tribute rosters, Samwise Gamgee, not a child, a hobbit. There goes mercy.

"No." he says shortly, incredulous at the demand. This crate is his, hard won from the Cornucopia, he's not about to let it be stolen.

He doesn't miss the taser but is confident in his ability to disarm it from his opponent, overconfident in fact with knowing relatively little of what he's dealing with her. Bucky bends down and grabs for Sam's arm to remove the threat.

Clint is listening, watching, searching for any clue that might be found. But, well, his ears never were quite as good as his eyesight. The aid helps, now a days, but that tiny whir is mostly lost under the heavier, louder sounds of the station. In any case, he pauses, freezes, eyes Bucky like he's a wild animal about to bite.

But he's...just as cornered, really.

So with a barely there nod, Clint steps forward, off to the side, back angled more towards the wall that towards Bucky. He doesn't like people at his back, especially not strangers in murder games. He is, however, on Bucky's left side. Although unknowing, the advantage is definitely heavily weighed towards Bucky than Clint.

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Page 21 of 28

Arena 12 - The Spaceport

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