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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It's not that Nill has seen things like this before - mostly, her silence is inspired by the fact that it's not surprising. It's horrific, but along the lines of what she expected from the Capitol. In other worlds corporations and hunters had to worry about politics, about weaving a believable story. They needed their public images, and President Snow doesn't have to worry about any of that at all. She closes her eyes, focusing a little more on the memories than the real world. She disconnects, does her best to hear the emotions without necessarily feeling them.

The relief is gone, but these images are easier to bare than the other ones, the memories of death after death after death, the screaming. She opens them again, finally, and glances down at the knife in her hand, tilting it ever so slightly to watch the light reflect off the blade.

"They can't bring the people I loved here," she tells him, the voice somehow quieter, maybe even a little somber. As if that somehow means that it might be better if she was the one doing dangerous things, not someone else. "I'll be careful."

After a moment of wishing very badly that she had a cigarette, Nill turns her gaze up to the ceiling, and shows him another memory.

It's a conversation through a tablet. The hands holding the tablet look like Nill's, but they're devoid of all the marks and scars currently on her hands. --Well. Conversation might not be the best way to put it.

Someone is gone. Whoever it is that Nill is talking to is obviously trying to keep her in check, but she protests all the more: they need to go now, they had to leave, they had to find him, they had to save him, anything. The argument doesn't get them anywhere, and Nill finally gives in, agrees to follow his rules. But there are tears welling up in her eyes, and shaky hands hover over the screen as a few tears drip onto the tablet, before finally, she manages another reply.

"we're going to make them pay, right?"
"Yes. Yes, we are."

The image fades, replaced by a new one, much shorter than the last. There's a troll girl with horns that are undoubtedly Virgo, and the chaos of where they are has made it impossible to hear much of anything, let alone the armed man that's coming at her from behind. She doesn't see him. Nill does.

Barely a second later a hole appears in the side of the man's head, and the snow on the other side is painted red. It looks like a battle of some kind. The memory ends there, and Nill lifts her head to look at the Initiate once more.

"I've been to war before. I can do it again. They'll pay."

For taking his voice, his freedom. Everyone's freedom. All the dead people, all over this planet and all the people that were probably in this arena right now that would never make it home.

"When we find a place to stop I'm going to see if I can talk to Linden."

Edited 2014-12-10 03:15 (UTC)

The pain in her head continues for a couple of moments as she pushes her fingers against the scalp in what she hopes will be soothing circles. She's always known that Nill was a little unusual, what with the wings and the notepads, but the idea of someone speaking directly into her mind seems like something out of a comic book or a movie.

"Nill? Where are you? I'm hearin' you, but I don't see you..." because she's speaking into her mind, right? Gosh, her head hurts even more now.

There is no hesitation. When he feels her small body lean into his, her hands reaching, he’s slinging an arm around her shoulders without a second thought, every racing thought of his bent towards keeping her alive and well for as long as he could. He looks left and right knowing neither of them can afford to linger or relax into the embrace. Not here, when the spaceport is crawling with danger.

“I’m fine…” He rubs soothingly at her back, fighting to shake off the flashes of memory at being trapped in one of the airlocks, air-starved and pounding desperately at the doors while his strength had drained from his body. A déjà vu that still left him in a cold sweat.

“I’m, I'm fine.” He gives her a little pat before allowing her to pull away. “One a’ them machines jus’… exploded a little ways back. I got lucky standin’ where I was at the time; if I'd a’ been any closer, that shrapnel could a' tore through me like paper.”

His arm took the brunt of the damage when he raised it in a defensive reflex, most of the blood peppering his suit camouflaged by the red of his district colour.

“What about you?” He asks while giving her a once-over, wondering if there’s anything he’s missing.

Edited 2014-12-10 03:30 (UTC)

Before he abandons his vigilance, he smashes the control panel that would open the airlock with one spacesuit-gloved fist. If anyone else wants to take this entrance, they'll be regretting not being quicker on the draw. It sparks and beeps at him.

"Christ in Heaven." He gets down on his knees next to her, nose wrinkling at the smell of burned flesh. It's not something he's unfamiliar with; anyone with his literal definition of firepower would have more than a cursory knowledge of burns. He doesn't touch. He knows better than that. He holds her hand and pulls her next to his shoulder and roots through her crate.

"Did you see who did this?"

Tom lashes out with his makeshift knife again, but soon Carlos is far enough away that it doesn't matter. He could try to pursue, although Carlos pushing against him to get away has sent him back as well - there's nothing really to brace against here, and aside from the rope tethering him to his podium, Tom has no way to direct himself unless he keeps himself close to the ground.

Instead, he lets Carlos float away from him, imagining the man suffering. Smiling to himself with grim satisfaction. He wraps the rope around his hand, then around his elbow, and levers himself with it back towards the podium and the cratered earth beneath them.

He doesn't imagine Carlos will cause him too much trouble in the rest of this Arena.

The images wash over. The younger Nill, the pain of losing someone all like that, being reassured that things would all be fixed as like to come together-- he remembers being one to say that exact such thing to another young weeping girl.

The funny thing, with what she shows him, is that he recognizes the troll. Jadeblood, sleek fangs overhanging, a stern face, one horn a simple curve, the other marked with a sharp hook, resembling perfectly the horns of the mothergrub. There's but one difference and it's simply age.

Through his mind flashes, all of his own fear from his youth, a tall troll in jade green dress, sclera being that too-yellow hue indicative of her motherfucking day-glow rainbowdrinker status. The image is off her towering over him, showing him as the youth he'd been, back when he and signless were closer to each other than anyone.

Her descendant, he realises. Nill knew of the Dolorosa's descendant. Maryam.

They can't bring the people I loved here. Maybe so. But they could bring alternates. Ones like Mituna. Ones all being from times other. Or times doomed. It's good she ain't said this alloud. He's sure, if they could hear her, they would try.

And it would be so motherfucking easy to make her suffer. That's always how it is. Everyone gets thinking they know the limit, of where they couldn't possibly be hurt no more. It doesn't exist. He would know.

Unwarrented, quick flashes of war, torture, inquisition, screams, his own grinning face, come along. He stamps quick upon them, hoping she ain't seen too much.

They will pay, he agrees. This is fact most assured. Even if he's no longer motivated by it anymore so much as he is that they all be free. The vengeance is what got him into this and now here he is.

just don't pay up for their mistakes.

He didn't wish to lose no more. Not her or anyone.

Wait. She had connection with Linden? Why?

He looks at her, confused.

Nill has been very careful since she got here. Try not to show favoritism to anyone in particular - equal parts kindness for most of them, with more kindness for the ones she saw more frequently. She tried and she tried, and then the kid Arena happened, and she sent tickets to two boys and cried when the Initiate had died. Kankri was a target. The Initiate was. Nico, too, if he had ever made it out of that Arena, but he never did. His is the only name she's used here, because they already got rid of him, and surely they wouldn't bring him back just to get at her. It would make sense to go after the people here. Even the place she claimed to be from didn't actually exist anymore. They couldn't use that against her, or the fact of her death. She'd tried so hard.

She almost thinks to comment on the jadeblood, who looks so much like her friend, but then those flashes happen, and though Nill didn't understand the meaning, they were enough to be on the alarming side. She tucks her hair behind her ear and tries to make sense of it, but... she can't pry. Wouldn't. So she doesn't, and she doesn't ask.

"I'll do my best." She can't make any promises.

(Was he smiling..?)

"My teacher was a lot like Linden. Brilliant. Tired. An addict. I used to be able to talk to him like this no matter how far apart we were. I always found him, so Linden would be the easiest person to find. I want to see if I can hear anything outside the arena."

There's also a hint of fear underlying the words, bits and pieces that flicker in and out, slightly ulterior motives that don't hugely impact the good intent behind the action. How awful Linden had looked before the peacekeepers came to escort her away. His health is poor enough as it is, and she's afraid that even if she does get brought back from this Arena, Linden might not be alive anymore.

Edited 2014-12-10 22:51 (UTC)

The dull thrumming of the spaceport puts Daryl in mind of the streets lined with neon signs in the big cities, back before the world went to hell. They'd always made him uneasy. But the droning is quiet enough to disregard when he isn't thinking about it, so he instead focuses on listening for the other sounds. The occasional faint hisses, thumps, rattles, and unmistakable sound of steps, not always bipedal.

He's accustomed to this feeling of vulnerability, of not knowing what might be lurking around the next corner, but somehow, creeping around in a disconcertingly bright yellow, skin-tight space suit just makes it that much worse. The unwieldy outer space suit was shed and stashed in an alcove he's mostly sure he can backtrack to if needed (thankfully the corridors aren't all identical), but he still feels like a walking target as he makes his way through the hallways filled with blinking lights. Everything seems to reflect off his suit in the worst way.

Thus far his scavenging for supplies has left him empty handed. He's crept through several of the strange, circular rooms so far, but none have produced anything remotely useful — with the possible exception of one that had contained tubes large enough for a person to fit inside. Those may yet come in handy.

Rounding a corner, he moves quickly once he can see there's no one else in the hallway, but stops short at the muffled thump he could swear he heard. Somewhere very near, possibly from within a wall. He warily moves away from either wall and glances toward the ceiling to check it just in case, already preparing for the fight that he feels is inevitable. But maybe there's still time to retreat...

She's been so still, and so quiet for so long by now, and it's beginning to bring back memories of being stuck in that car trunk for an entire night. Crouched down into cramped dark spaces, stiff and tense and waiting to be attacked at any moment now. Only the difference here is that she doesn't even have a knife to defend herself with. She has no food, and no real plan of action, and a whole city full of people who are eager to watch her die.

Beth hasn't been in the vents for very long. Just long enough for her pounding heart to stop hurting her with every beat, forcing the panic down because the fear doesn't help her. It doesn't get anything done. She needs to -- find some food. Find a safer place. And she knows it's not going to be easy.

His footsteps have her waiting with baited breath, shifting just the slightest bit to peek out of a hole in the metal in a revelation that makes her bang her elbow against the side of the vent with a clang. And then she's falling out of it, cushioned somewhat by her bulky space suit, but not by much. Falling nearly on top of him, missing his body by a foot or so. She picks herself up, and there's damage excepting a few bruises and her pride - and of course, the shock of seeing him here. The last place she wants him to be.

"Daryl?"

Beth whispers it, like she hasn't already made enough noise falling out of the damn vent already, but still.

He was getting colder by the second, faster than he was losing blood and it occurred to him he wasn't impervious to the extreme temperature as he'd been the last two times, he'd nearly forgotten he was human. But then he's moving and he does his best to help out and get them where they were headed. He couldn't see who it was, but he could guess based on stature.

Once they were through the doors, Jet was finally allowed to collapse in a half-obscured corner hopefully no one unfriendly would notice. Where the cold and gravity had messed with his blood flow, there was now nothing left to stop the internal and external damage, pulling a pained groan from him as he clasped his hands around what he could now see was part of a broken blade.

A crawling sensation broke out across his skin, something he thought was just a side-effect of bleeding out until he felt his entire skeletal system begin to change. Red blood changed to pink fluid mixed with red jet fuel as artificial skin replaced broken organic skin and metal panels traced their way along his form, invisible under the spacesuit he still wore. Although the feeling of the trinket on his cheek absorbing into his skin was a pretty good visual indicator. Their ijiva had been turned back on.

"Son of a bitch." He groaned and tilted his head back, eyes still closed in pain. He might not be dying as quickly, but he still had a sharp object shoved in his gut.

Once inside and securely in gravity and atmosphere, Jet's not the only one who feels a change come over him. Limbs that had felt so heavy after they were installed feel even heavier still as his old cybernetics come to the fore. He doesn't feel the cold any longer, and while his parts are bulkier, there's a more streamlined and natural way about his movement. He's used to this. This was his body for more than half a century.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Albert pulls his left arm from the unwieldy outer space suit and extends his knife from the outside of his hand. Carefully, he cuts Jet out of his suit, deeming it useless anyway with a large slash in it, and tries to get a better look at the wound. After a moment, he comes to his full senses as the panic gets down to manageable levels and remembers to pull off his own damn helmet so he can see better.

"Well, it's deep, but now that you're mechanical I don't think it's fatal. Do you want me to try and dislodge the blade?" He tries to keep his voice level, letting none of the worry show, but he can't help the disapproving tone that sneaks in around the corners. It's not Jet's fault space is terrible luck for him. Or, well, not this time.

He strips out of the rest of his own suit while he waits for Jet's answer, down to the bright orange skin-tight jumpsuit underneath. He'll have to find some way to disguise that, otherwise he's a beacon to Tributes and other dangers. Heaving a sigh, he starts cutting half of his outer suit into strips for bandages, imagining they can use the remaining half for some sort of blanket.

He almost apologizes, but bites back the urge as he works. What good would it do when all Jet will say is that it's not his fault? The last thing they should be worrying about right now is blame.

He wishes the pain would vanish along with the cold, but it's still there and still biting deep in his systems where the tip must be lodged. It could still do more damage if it stayed, but he could 'bleed' out faster if it was pulled.

"Hold on." His voice was tight but level, the immediate danger past at the very least. He stared past Albert at nothing, his eyes seemingly going out of focus as the camera-like lenses contracted. Read-outs, levels, scans all filled Jet's vision along with the myriad of flashing red lights that tried to alert him he was damaged. Yeah, no kidding. Nearly a full minute goes by before he responds with a blink, his eyes returning to normal.

"A couple of fuel lines severed, my system's got back-ups to take care of that--" a pained hiss escaped him and he tried to relax more instead of tense up like he wanted. "There's some tissue damage...but without a doctor, there's nothing to be done." Hell, without a mechanic or the proper tools, none of the damage was fixable, but the organic stuff...it could lead to internal bleeding that could kill him within the week.

"Yeah, take it out, it's only gonna make it worse."

He closed his eyes and focused on breathing through his nose as he tried to prepare himself for what he knew would at least be a quick and efficient extraction.

She knows that if she walks right now - if she nods her head, looks sorry and then keeps on her way - Luke won't really blame her, not logically, at least. He would believe her to be a good person helpless to come to his aid.

But what happens when he watches the footage later, when he sees her walk away and then teleport to safety somewhere else? How can she look him again in the eyes, not knowing if he's yet seen how she abandoned him to suffocate? The next time they meet, if they meet, will apologies tumble from her lips or justifications or denial?

She should know better. Luke winning will be on a road slicked with the blood of other people, more deserving people, teenagers and younger who've done this stupid charade five, six times each. She remembers Kankri dying in her arms and then waking at night time and again with tears in his eyes, pleading her to protect him from another Arena. She remembers Ellie's empty bedroom, cleared out already by Avoxes.

Luke from North Carolina.

How many people does she have to let reach the finish line before her own people make it there?

She shakes her head at him and turns away. And she takes one step, and then another, and each one sounds less like footfall than like a sucking sound of a lung half-filling with air.

She closes her eyes and wishes herself anywhere but here, and when she blinks into existence and opens them right next to Luke, she can't remember if this is where she intended to end up.

"Are you sure? If there's bleeding, the shard still in the wound could be the only thing slowing it," but he's not a doctor, he has only basic field training. The cybernetics he could likely reconnect somehow with his knowledge of Gilmore's work and his own mechanics, but when it comes to flesh and blood he's a layman.

"If we could find someone-" he starts, but cuts himself off almost immediately. They're still too close to the Cornucopia and even with the surprising number of Tributes they know that have some kind of medical skill, there's no guarantee any of them made it out alive or that if they did, they're anywhere nearby or in a shape to help.

Still, he looks this way and that anyway, desperate not to let his husband bleed out in his arms within the first five minutes of the Arena.

He's braced for the expected impact of something lunging out of the vent at him — planning to move with their momentum rather than against it, the easier it will be to flip them into the wall — only to have his would-be assailant tumble unceremoniously to the ground before him.

Recognition causes his usual impassive facade to slip, revealing an expression of anxiety and surprise, with a trace of undisguised happiness if one knew what what to look for on a face that rarely smiles. He's not smiling now. He reaches to help Beth regain her feet, simultaneously checking her over for injuries, an act that's second nature by this point.

Not quite the reunion he'd hoped they'd have, but at least she's alive. Trapped in an arena death match with him, but alive. Alive is what matters.

"How'd you get here?" he asks in a voice similarly hushed, and scans the hallway for possible threats that might be drawn by the noise. "What's goin' on?"

He nods for her to come with him and carefully starts moving forward, not wanting to linger there too long now that others have undoubtedly been alerted to their location. Best to keep moving and looking for supplies.

"Yeah, I'm sure...Al, come on. It's gonna bleed whether it's in there or not and this hurts like hell." There was frustration in his voice, but it wasn't directed at Albert, it was for the situation. Albert's fears would be no different from Jet's if the situation were reversed, but why'd he'd get hurt anyway? Yeah there was a risk to the cornucopia, but Jet'd never faced it before. This just said to him space really was unhealthy for him.

"It's too early, people're still finding their places, no one's gonna be around to help us out." He nearly laughed but held it back in favor of a smirk.

"Sorry I've got such crap luck, Al."

She groans softly when he moves her to his side, her fingers flexing weakly in his hand. It's strange, she thinks, that all she really cares about is how she hates the feel of the spacesuit under her cheek, how she wishes he were in real clothes so that she wouldn't feel such a buffer between them.

"I couldn't see their face," she says, almost whimpering as the wound cracks again and bleeds. "It was.... light maybe, light from their hand. And then they were gone, as soon as they hit me. They just disappeared."

The windows that look out onto the sprawling emptiness of space are an unnecessary distraction as far as Daryl's concerned at the moment. It's disorienting, thinking too hard about the fact he may very well be trapped up in space in a death match arena, if this isn't all some kind of fever dream. Previously he'd never been out of Georgia. Hell, he's never even had a vacation before.

He doesn't allow himself to get distracted by these thoughts as he finishes shedding and stowing the bulky outer space suit, then methodically commits to memory the layout of this particular alcove and hall in case he has to return to it. With that taken care of, he resumes stalking through the corridors as silently as he can, in search of supplies. Weapons.

There's nonfunctional, closed doors at the end of one corridor he investigates, effectively making it a dead end. Perhaps literally, he thinks, upon hearing footsteps approaching, presumably someone taking the same path he did. There's nowhere to hide, and in his eye-searing yellow space suit, it's not as though he can hope to remain unnoticed.

Mentally preparing for the worst, he moves to meet the stranger head on and stops a short distance away. His hands are held at his sides, palms up, to show he's unarmed, and he's pleased to note his unwelcome visitor's likewise unarmed. He doesn't disguise the fact he's sizing the guy up, attempting to ascertain how much of a threat he might be.

"Dead end this way," he offers in a low voice.

[ooc. Brock is escaping the Cornucopia with minimal injuries. He is 100% open for injuring or killing adult males, so hit me up here if you want to plot the thing!]

Luckily, blue is Brock's color. He is not too bothered about it.

He is not really too bothered about space, either. He's been in space before. At least this time, he thinks as he coils his muscles on the platform, sizing everyone up, he has a spacesuit and an oxygen tank. Probably that's an advantage or something, experience with space. Put that on his CV.

When the gong sounds, Brock climbs down the edge of the platform and launches himself off it with his feet, using momentum to barrel toward the crater. His breath echoes weirdly in his helmet, and the silence of everything is underwhelming in what he knows is a false sense of security.

Inside the airlock, Brock doesn't waste time. He's sure that a good chunk of people who survived that out there are now going to spend a minute catching their breath once they reached safety, but he's not stupid. His oxygen tank is depleted, useless, and most importantly it is heavy, so he shrugs it off and leaves it there. His helmet is trickier, quite frankly, not only because he doesn't really get the latch, but because he doesn't know if he'll need it later. But it impedes his peripheral vision, so he sheds it too, leaving it along the way as he starts jogging through the corridors, just to get away from the door and find a place to regroup.

GENERAL SPACEPORT SHENANIGANS.

Once he's far enough from the airlock, Brock takes care to move a bit more stealthily. He's looking for air vents, some place to crawl into so he isn't a huge fucking Smurfy target just strolling through the corridors, but it doesn't seem to particularly be in the cards.

Whenever he comes across a dimly-lit corridor, he ducks down it, hoping it will lead him to a more secluded room. He mostly just winds up in some stupidly florescent corridor again, though, and he is beginning to suspect that this is less a spaceport and more a Habitrail. It's ridiculous and insulting and he's getting angry.

SCIENCE LAB.

Eventually, the stars align or some such bullshit, and Brock actually finds a room. It's below the endless maze of corridors, and he has to wonder what kind of crazy Winchester widow designed the station.

But it's a room. Finally. He stands there for a second as the door whooshes shut behind him, and he realizes it's some kind of lab. Brock is not a super-scientist, but he has spent enough time in labs to know that this is maybe a place to scrounge for supplies. Acids or something. Test tubes he can shove into people's eyes. Things like that.

He's rummaging through the drawers as quietly as he can, and eventually he comes to the conclusion that there is fucking nothing in here. Which is, you know, fantastic.

But there is another door, which ostensibly leads to another part of the lab, and he moves toward it, his back to the first door.

Edited 2014-12-10 17:49 (UTC)

Daryl is not supposed to be here. Beth knows how this works now, and the relief she feels upon seeing his face slowly trickles away into cold panic. Everyone dies. Sometimes, they come back the same, and sometimes they don't and there's really no way to tell. They're all at the whims of the Capitol here, and despite how strong he is, she doesn't want to see him die. Doesn't want him to be forced to kill more than they are at home.

Beth gets to her feet and she knows they ought to move, but she takes the time to hug him first, stopping him in his tracks. Wrapping her arms around him tightly, just for a moment, and then they'll move. It's nice, to see a familiar face, even though the circumstances here are less than ideal. She's missed him, and Maggie and Rick and everyone else even despite the new friends she found in the other tributes.

"I think I've been here for over a month now," and it's been surreal. A month of having enough food to eat. A month of being surrounded by harsh government oppression despite all of that. "I don't know how. They could've been the ones who took me from the funeral home."

There's a distant noise that startles her and makes her pull away from him. Stubbornly leading the way. "C'mon. Let's get goin'."

The door opened, and standing behind it was just this awkward-looking Japanese kid who had somehow managed to find a Personorb? It didn't actually seem all that useful, but maybe he could throw it at someone and run away if it turned out he was going to run into some Mad Max mutants or something.

Kaito did not. Really. Know what was going on or who this giant gaijin was, and actually it was probably a testament to how unprepared he was for this that he was really more weirded out by running into a giant American (?) than he was by someone who might actually try to kill him.

He'd stripped off his outer suit, revealing that he was wearing District 7 colors. "H... hello! Am I interrupting something? You know what, I can just leave."

Kaito moved as quietly as he could through the halls (which was pretty quietly, actually; that was one thing he was rather good at), peering around corners carefully because the station didn't seem like a particularly friendly place. You know, even taking into account the deathmatch. He didn't actually want to kill anyone (surprise, surprise), but he did want to not die, which he felt was a very noble goal and one that anyone could aspire to, even if --

Yikes, wow. That wasn't a costume, was it? Like who would show up to a battle royale dressed like... whatever Garrus was dressed as? Okay, if it turned out this stranger wanted him dead, he could just scuttle on back to one of the darker areas and try to lose them, right?

He just needed to play it cool. Just be casual and not let on that he had relatively little idea about what was even happening.

"...H-hi! Sir or ma'am. Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"

Nailed it.

"A chimera in your stomach? That's a new one on me." said Kaito, peering around a corner in his own light green jumpsuit. Maybe walking in on some dude talking to his stomach was more than he'd bargained for, okay?

"I thought they were generally, you know. Giant monsters." Kaito himself was about as actually magical as a potato, but he did know his mythology and so on.

Kaito should probably have made it more of a priority to find a good hiding place and stay there, but once he'd gotten to the science labs, all the gadgets and puzzles and so on were a little too hard to pass up, and anyway, he was going to be here a while, right? They were all trapped in this joint for now. Given that, it made sense to familiarize himself with his surroundings.

So instead of doing something actually useful, Kaito was just sort of dicking around with the jumping pads and light bridges and so on. Awesome, A+ survival skills.

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Page 4 of 28

Arena 12 - The Spaceport

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don't mind if i do

Brock Samson | OTA

Brock Samson | OTA

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science lab

Re: Garrus Vakarian | OTA

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Kuroba Kaito [OTA]