Arena 12 - The Spaceport

[etcircenses]

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.

Comments

[molotov]

All Molotov is trying to do is get to the cubes. She's never been in space before, and she's struggling with the lack of gravity, the loss of her usual grace and coordination and sheer power. Nothing has changed for her, nothing feels different or unusual, or anything except frustrating.

She startles at the sudden appearance of a person next to her; she's sure she was mostly alone a moment ago. But maybe she just didn't notice, maybe she was distracted by attempting to get to the Cornucopia.

The voice is muffled, unintelligible. Molotov squints through her helmet, trying to see who's inside that other spacesuit. "Tom?" she calls, then realizes that the other person won't be able to hear her either. She figures that, based on the size of that spacesuit, chances of it being someone she cares about are small.

Molotov kicks at the figure violently, more out of self-defense than anything else.

[celebrityskinned]

In zero gravity, Venus has no way to dodge the kick, but it also doesn't have much force behind it, as Molotov has nothing to brace it against. Venus takes it to the stomach and starts to float backwards, away from Molotov, before grabbing the rope attached to the stranger. It drags them both to the side.

She grabs for Molotov's helmet - not to pull it off, but to try and see through that reflective shield if it's one of that shortlist, confused and lashing out in fear. There's no way she can make the gesture gentle and unthreatening.

[molotov]

Molotov's immediate response is to attack. She doesn't know who this is, but they're signing their own death certificate by grabbing like that. She still lacks grace, lacks coordination in zero gravity, but one thing she does have is the other person's rope.

She quickly yanks it up, loops it around their neck and tightens it, pulling, pulling.

[celebrityskinned]

And just like that, Molotov moves herself into the realm of a foe - none of the people Venus is looking for would move so quickly to a stranglehold. The rope catches for a second on the edge of her helmet, sparing her until it slips into a noose.

Were she younger, less experienced, Venus might panic at the sudden suffocation, but she knows now what it is she can do. She's a combatant. She's a mutant.

Light and spots of anti-light dance around her hand. She fires a laser straight into Molotov's stomach, and in the blink of an eye disappears into another dimension, emerging safely in the spaceport.

[molotov]

The world blinks out temporarily in a blaze of white hot pain, and Molotov instinctively lets go of the rope that now holds nothing. She floats for a second, forcing her mind to overcome the agony searing through her body, prickling across her skin with every breath she dares to take inside her helmet.

Her vision comes back in a pinprick of light, pure focus, her brain grasping on to every word she learned during training, her internal voice screaming the motivation to keep living and moving at her. You have work to do. Grab something and get inside. You can be hurt when you're dead.

Molotov moves miserably through the space, as fast as she can, and grabs both a case and a crate, holding them tightly under her arm as she drags herself back down the rope. She reaches her podium, forces the cube into the lock that lets her into the Arena. The airlock barely gives her time to stumble past the door, where she collapses on the spaceport floor, throwing her helmet aside and gasping in anguish.

She digs through the crate that she still clutches, finds a switchblade. Her only option is to wait until someone she's friendly with finds her. She wishes for Tom, closing her eye and groaning softly, the scent of burnt skin gently wafting up to her nose.

[pimpcanes]

Molotov's wishes are answered, possibly by fate and possibly just by the Gamemakers' design. Tom shoves the cube into the keylock and all but pries the airlock open before getting through. Gravity hits him hard, as he goes from floating to standing to kneeling all too quickly. He cries out in pain as all his weight goes on his bad leg, but forces himself up.

He's blood-spattered, carrying a rusty piece of metal, but he's alive. A voice in his helmet tells him that there's oxygen to be breathed, but he sees another helmet rolling across the floor and knows he's not alone. He tenses for a moment, then makes out the form all but crumpled over a crate.

And with that, he rips his helmet off. Foolishly, maybe, because it provides protection, but he suddenly finds he would rather be able to see and be seen - perhaps to spare a second to kiss and be kissed, as the thrill of adrenalin and relief pumps through his body.

"Molotov, thank God. And you've gotten supplies, wonderful." He pauses when he sees her face. "Are you alright?"

[molotov]

The noise of someone new appearing makes Molotov's grip on the switchblade tighten considerably. She can't roll over, can't summon the energy to actually see who it is, but she refuses to go down without a fight.

It's only when Tom speaks that she allows the knife to roll out of her hand, letting out a sob that's somewhere between relief and complete agony. She'd laugh, if her body wasn't so filled with pain, every inch of her skin prickling with knife-sharp awareness of just how badly she's injured.

The wound on her stomach is large, its only saving grace being that the spacesuits, both layers, had been singed to her skin, keeping her from exploding in the pressure of space. Where there would normally be pale skin, there's a crusty black area, oozing blood now as it blisters and cracks with her breathing. Under the scabbing, the fabric melded to where skin used to be, there is only a gaping wound, all the outermost layers of her skin gone.

Molotov blinks, almost as if she can't see him at all. "Tom," she manages to mumble, just barely holding out one hand sticky with bloody. "Tom, I got hit with something."

[pimpcanes]

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?"

[molotov]

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."

[pimpcanes]

Tom frowns, then starts to strip off the spacesuit. He plunges his hand down the collar and pulls out a necklace with a wooden charm. He can feel it, the latent energy, chemical bonds he doesn't know the name for but can call to his palm and bidding. He doesn't have to do anything dramatic, but for effect, for Molotov, he creates a fireball around his hand that dies out as soon as he closes his eyes.

"They've enabled people's superpowers." He shoves the charm away. "We need to get the burn covered. It's liable to get infected, and Lord only knows what they have around here."

He could rip apart his space suit, but he pauses. He may need it later, and while he does care for Molotov - more than he might care to admit - he doesn't know if it's enough to start funneling his resources at her.

He starts ripping apart hers. It's useless with the giant hole in it anyway.

[molotov]

Molotov barely notices his hand, the fire. The light it creates flickers against her face, where her eye has already closed as she rests against him. Her breathing is already shallow -- she's ready to just pass out and let the pain fade away with unconsciousness, even if she knows it goes against all her training.

But her father had never anticipated that she'd be shot in the stomach with a laser. She can keep going with a bullet in her gut, with knife wounds in her back, but this... this is something she wasn't really prepared for, as stupid as that may have been on her part. She'd heard that the powers were triggered by things won, she didn't know it would just be automatic like this.

She doesn't seem to care when he starts tearing at her suit, exposing the hot pink thin suit underneath that she hates because it clashes with her hair. She just holds onto him, knuckles white with her grip, and slowly cracks her eyelid to look at his face as he works. Reaching out to touch his face, all she can do is whisper with a sort of pained smile.

"Promise me you'll burn them all to ashes when I'm gone."

[pimpcanes]

"You're not dying, Molotov. Don't be dramatic. It'll give you wrinkles."

He doesn't have time to meet her eyes. He's looking through what she brought with her, instead. There- there! In the supplies, a medical kit. He snaps it open and rummages through it until he finds a tube with familiar ingredients.

"This is going to hurt like the devil, so hold my arm." She can leave bruises on his bicep if she wants. He half-empties the tube of antiseptic onto the injury, then follows it with burn gel. "And for what it's worth, I already got three of them for you."

[molotov]

She doesn't have time to smack him for being so businesslike when she's indulging in dramatics. Of all the people in the world who should understand the need to put on a show when under stress, it's Black Tom Cassidy.

Molotov cries out instead when he disinfects her wound, her nails pressing hard into his arm, her whole face contorted with the severe shock of pain that accompanies the gel. The burn cream is better, cooling enough to let her exhale and loosen her hold, her head falling back to the floor with relief.

"That's good. Don't be a dick to me, Tom."

[pimpcanes]

Look, sharing the spotlight is hard for him. He didn't get enough attention as a child, and Cain was very good at overlapping very little what with his brawns-without-brain schtick. Being part of a power-duo with someone who doesn't just mindlessly follow orders is going to be a learning experience!

He grits his teeth a little as her nails manage to break skin even through the dark green suit. And when she relaxes, he leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead. Her skin has sweat a little from the strain of it all. He starts to wind gauze and fabric around her.

"Then maybe you should thank me for fixing your burn."

[molotov]

Her breathing is still ragged, still an effort that hurts every time her torso shifts with the inhale, and she lies still as he dresses the wound. The kiss brings just a little bit of a smile to the corners of her mouth, and she snorts.

"I'll thank you after the Arena," she mumbles, feeling the cold floor underneath her, her muscles slowly unwinding enough to let her focus on anything besides her damaged body, the dwindling fire of pain receding from every nerve. "You'll like that better anyway."

[pimpcanes]

"Well. Undoubtedly. Especially when you're thanking me after I win." He does a tidy job of patching her together, but there's no way for it not to be an unpleasant experience. His nose is wrinkled throughout from the smell of her baked flesh.

"There. That's the best I can do for you." He sits back, concern knitting a wrinkle into his forehead. "Can you stand?"

[molotov]

"I can still win." It's a grumble as she keeps holding him, relaxing on the floor. It feels so nice and cool, comparatively. "I only have to kill you, don't I?"

There's a moment where Molotov tries to push up on her elbows, only to wince and groan and scrunch her face up with pain. "Help me up."

[pimpcanes]

So he does. He wraps an arm under hers and over her back and lifts so she can get to her feet.

"That's certainly the plan. Although superpowers being in the fray is a spanner in the works."

Look, he killed Thor last time. He's pretty sure having an angry god with a grudge against you is all the worse when that god has powers.

[molotov]

She makes a soft pained noise as he lifts her, and leans heavily on him, very clearly miserable.

"Well, we can let most of them sort each other out?" she suggests, half-heartedly, more focussed on how terrible she currently feels. "If they use their powers to maul each other, we can just lay low. We might need to, until I can move better."

[pimpcanes]

"That may be the winning strategy this time. Not terribly interesting for the viewers, and far from noble, but that's not very high on my list of priorities."

At least they've agreed to a plan. It's something. He helps her through the hall, face taut with vigilance.

[molotov]

Her fingers are white from clutching at him, though she can luckily still walk well enough. It's more the pain hobbling her than anything else, a distinct throbbing and the occasional flash of white hot agony.

"We need to find food. There is no way this place has a food court, Tom."

[pimpcanes]

"One fewer thing for me to blow sky high," he says, with a sigh to show he's joking. "Tell me, what are your opinions on cannibalism? I heard that the Capitol isn't fond, but I haven't ruled out the possibility that they expect it of us."

[molotov]

"I promised Jolie I'd try to avoid it, but I won't starve." Her breathing is labored, getting rougher with every step. "Not that I'm terribly keen on the option, mind you. Maybe there will be some kind of animal around, something non-human that can be cooked and eaten."

[pimpcanes]

"At least with a human, you know what its makeup is." Tom wrinkles his nose a bit. There's hardly any way to be optimistic in this situation. "For all we know, the aliens are toxic. There was an Arena not long ago where all the foliage was indigestible. Terribly boring."

He slows down his pace, trying to keep her from tiring on him.

[molotov]

"Well I didn't mean we should eat aliens." It's a grumble, like she's annoyed that he misunderstood her. She meant that maybe there were rats or something. "There has to be some kind of food somewhere."