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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Nick lets out a long breath, as if he had been holding it in this whole time - which is true to some extent. Sometimes he forgets to breathe in the midst of dealing with the situation at hand. If he had met this guy before, like he has met others on the training center rooftop or the bar or something, this would've been different. Now, it's no different from him encountering a survivor in the woods. Or a bridge. Dammit.

He shakes his head and comes to from his thoughts and notices the guy stepping closer. He stands his ground though, keeping his legs as still as he can. He's got a couple of inches on this guy but that's all he's got going for him. He considers the guy's question. He's not just asking what district he's from is he? Not that districts ever mattered to him.

"Where dead things eat you," he answers impatiently, hoping for it to just get brushed off as sarcasm because what does it even matter now? He thinks about what's left of home for a moment and what's left of his idea of a family as his eyes soften with honesty. "Fuck. Look, I don't got time for this. I need to find my friends make sure they're okay."

They are okay. They gotta be.

He keeps his gaze on Daryl for a while, as if pleading to let him go as he finally takes a step back to go back down the hallway.

"That's the whole damn world," Daryl points out, keeping his irritation from his voice. This isn't the time to instigate a fight. He'd been hoping for a state name, even a vague geographical region, since it's obvious Nick's from the South and quite possibly Georgia, and it'd be common ground for them both. Something they share. Establishing that sort of thing can sometimes make the difference between living and dying; it wasn't just an idle query.

Luck is evidently on Daryl's side today, as Nick finally stops blocking the exit.

"Go on then," he says reasonably, and doesn't waste any time in slipping past the guy in case he changes his mind. "And good luck."

You're gonna need it, you jittery shit.

It quickly becomes apparent Daryl chose the wrong way when he's greeted by the rapid pattering of footsteps from somewhere close, maybe a couple corridors away, headed in his direction. Could be children judging by the lightness of the steps, but he's not going to count on it. He ducks into the lone doorway in the corridor, and reaches to shut the door, but hesitates.

You always was a bleedin' heart, little brother.

"Shut up," he mutters to himself under his breath.

Gonna git yer fool ass killed.

He really shouldn't give a damn about what happens to that guy outside. He doesn't need his dead brother's voice in his head acting like his Jiminy Cricket to know this. But fucking hell—

Before he can debate it further, he simply leans out the doorway and gives a sharp whistle hoping to catch Nick's attention. Once he has it, he motions for him to come inside the room. Or he can take his chances with the roaming herd of aliens approaching. The choice is his.

They nearly bump shoulders when Daryl passes him, Nick uttering a "whatever" out of pure habit instead of returning the courtesy. If it had been at a different time maybe Nick would humor him and answer his questions more directly. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about where the guy's from - and his nonchalant reaction to Nick mentioning lurkers makes him wonder if he's from the same "world" so to speak. Just like meeting Beth.

His moment to relax is short-lived when he sees Daryl suddenly duck into the corridor. Somethin' ain't right. It's quiet enough right now that even Nick can hear the footsteps - though a little too late as they already appear in his field of vision. Small, but more than strange enough to set off the fight-or-flight instinct in him.

"Oh, what the fuck."

The whistle from Daryl helps his brain make the decision for his body to just go for it as he makes a mad dash into the room. He catches a glimpse of what looked like something out of a sci-fi movie (well, they're practically in one now) before making it in. "Jesus..."

The door's slammed shut the moment Nick's clear of it and Daryl braces his back against it, staying silent while he listens for the creepy little aliens. They're obviously right outside the door, but from what he can tell they're not doing a whole lot other than milling about in agitation. Speaking with each other occasionally, but he doesn't understand the language.

Once he's confident they won't be breaking down the door anytime soon, he slides down it into a sitting position, knees drawn up. And then he's just staring at Nick for a long moment, contemplating what to do with him.

"Might be here a while," he eventually says. "Unless you wanna go make some new friends."

In other words, stop hovering and take a seat.

Nick braces his back against the door also, letting his body slide down to sit by Daryl.
"Fuck that," he replies as he shakes his head. They're nothing like he's ever seen, but they weren't lurkers. The sound of hungry, dead things pounding on the walls around him is nothing new. He has since grown used to that.

Well, now there's time for him to answer Daryl's question.

"I was in North Carolina before -"

'Everything went wrong. Or never was meant go right at all.' He keeps himself from saying that though the pain is a little harder to mask.

"... endin' up here." He looks at Daryl while ignoring the goosebumps forming along his back as he feels the aliens pattering about right outside. "You from Georgia?"

Daryl tips his head back against the door, blows out an unsettled breath. Yeah, fuck that. Fuck all of that. All that's missing from this low-budget alien flick is the anal probing.

North Carolina. He hadn't been far off, then.

"Yeah," he answers, suppressing a flinch when something clangs against the door. "Up north originally." In the mountains. Makes him about as much of a hick as it's possible to be in Georgia, but he's beyond caring about a stranger's opinion of him at this point. "Lot'a places since then."

He's only mostly sure he'll be made to regret sticking his neck out for this guy, since that's how it always goes these days. Cut someone a little slack and it's the noose they'll hang you and yours with. But for the time being there's nothing to be done about it, so they might as well be civil, and anyway Nick seems like an all right guy so far. Uncertainty lingers in Daryl's eyes as he glances at Nick before getting to his feet.

The doors down here are reinforced in a way that the doors closer to the entranceway hadn't been, which eases his anxiety somewhat about their current situation.

His situation, he corrects himself. And he needs to find Beth.

He gets to work inspecting the room with a methodical precision born of leading countless supply runs, where distinguishing the useful from the useless in the shortest amount of time is an art. It's also made simpler here by virtue of the fact there's just not a whole lot of anything available to them — exam tables, nonfunctional equipment, scattered broken vials too small to be of practical use. Packets of... something. Miscellaneous rubbish. There's also what appears to be another doorway a bit farther in.

"So what've you been doin' since the world went to hell?" he asks while he investigates one of the packets, shaking its contents out onto the counter before him.

This guy seems to be taking the whole space station and aliens crap pretty well. Nick wonders if he's been in an arena before (that alone leads to other questions, like if he had killed anyone here) but something about him seems different that Nick can't place. Whatever it is, the fact that he didn't let Nick to die to those things out there gives him a little credit, but he can't trust him entirely yet, if at all.

He watches Daryl search the room and feels a sense of familiarity as he does. It had been the way Nick and the others have been living before ending up here. To some extent it hasn't changed, so at the very least Nick's accustomed with going with no or less food. He finally sits up to go over to look under the nearby tables in hopes of finding something useful.

Small talk while scavenging isn't anything new to him either, but he didn't expect to hear that question and what it could mean.

"What the hell does it look like?" Nothing too different given what they're doing at the moment. They're just in fucking outer space. "Tryin' not to die for one, but these - " assholes, he wants to say, but keeps in mind that they're being watched, "...guys in charge are goin' to make sure all but one of us will."

It's a prospect he does not look forward to think about. It seems the only best way for him to go about it is to make sure his friends are safe and that he dies before he sees anything worse happening. He can't just carry on without thinking about it like Luke probably can, but he keeps these thoughts to himself, frowning before moving onto rummaging through one of the cabinets. No luck, like always.

"Some things never change."

The smartass reply earns Nick a vaguely annoyed look before Daryl returns to the task at hand. He leaves the dehydrated food flakes and begins shoving around the nonfunctional equipment instead, hoping to find something solid to snap off and improvise a weapon from.

"Kill or be killed," he surmises. He turns to look back at Nick, still trying to get the measure of him. "Don't gotta be that way. Killin' in self defense is one thing. Murder's another."

No one can make them murder other people. They can choose who they are, who they will be. Part of him still believes none of the good people make it, but it's considerably harder to disregard everything that Beth believes — some of which she has him believing now, too. She'd been right. And he hadn't been too proud to tell her so.

Nick obviously has some kind of experience dealing with shit, but something about him still seems a bit green to Daryl, and he finds himself hoping this guy won't end up being another casualty of what this fucked up world does to people. Woodbury. Terminus. Joe's group. Grady. Assuming that he isn't already on that path...

Getting up, he writes this scavenging off as a lost cause. Maybe other rooms will have something. It's imperative that he keeps moving, though; finding Beth is his priority. He cautiously makes his way through to the other doorway he'd spotted, and pauses there for a moment, calling back over his shoulder. "You comin'?"

For better or worse, he's decided to keep helping Nick.

Nick keeps his gaze on the table, staring at the bits of broken glass too small to be of any use as some make shift knife. He doesn't see Daryl look at him but he knows when he's being watched. It's already unnerving knowing that this sick game is being televised live but having someone stare and assess him in the same room is another level of annoyance that makes Nick uncomfortable.

But it's the way things are and he can't afford to stand around biting his nails, so he looks up at Daryl as the other mentions the differences between self-defense and murder. Murder. The word makes his stomach lurch as the image of a man falling off a bridge comes to mind...blood on his hands that will never wash off. "Yeah," he says while staring at the brittle pieces of glass. He can relate. "You're right."

He turns his head over to the door where they came in from and frowns when he still hears the critters out there. "Guess there ain't much of a choice." As he waits for Daryl to proceed first, he feels to need to ask. "Have you killed anyone?"

Whether it's in the arena or wherever the hell he's from, Nick has to know.

He spares Nick another glance, expression shuttered, before stepping through the backdoor first. It isn't an exit, but rather an extension of the lab at the front, home to more of the same broken equipment. There's also several metal exam tables and more of those strange person-sized tubes he's seen before.

"Here, no one," he eventually replies, surveying the room. "Before all this, only the ones who tried t'kill me or my people first." It's a good thing to ask, and he doesn't fault Nick for wondering, which is why he answers honestly. Something catches his eye in a corner — what appears to be a safety shower — and he makes a beeline for it, hoping for water.

"I'm lookin' for one'a my people," he admits while messing with the shower, trying to get it to work. "I found her here... then we got separated." The shower head begins to sputter and Daryl warily steps away from it. After a few seconds, there's a full stream of something that definitely isn't water coming out, a clear liquid that smells like rubbing alcohol. He risks holding a hand under the stream, and when his flesh doesn't melt off, assumes it's the real deal and brings his other hand up and rubs them together, effectively washing off the muck. Water would've been preferable for drinking purposes, but he isn't complaining. The location of this shower is worth remembering.

"What about you? You killed anyone?"

Nick gives the lab a last glance before following Daryl, keeping his eyes open for anything that may jump out and catch them by surprise. Knowing his luck, it's likely going to happen anyway - but he puts that thought away when he hears Daryl speak. One of his people. The phrasing of that isn't unfamiliar to Nick and he has met people both good and bad use it that way. It could refer to someone who is a trusted ally or something beyond that, like a friend or more. It's hard to tell. Daryl's answer was given as if he was asked two questions. He clearly can make a distinction between self-defense and outright murder, but the fact that he has killed at all is something for Nick to keep in mind.

He doesn't know what to say about them getting separated because saying sorry sure isn't going to help and he'd rather tell himself that in his mind than hear another person do it with their voice.

He feels relieved for only a short time when Daryl discovers the water, only for the smell to give away what it actually is. He moves to where the cupboards are, letting his hand settle over them to make sure nothing was moving inside before opening them in hopes of finding something useful. He's in the middle of sliding some beakers aside when Daryl asks him the question. Slowly, he lowers his hand and looks at the white counter he rests it on and tries not to imagine it being stained with blood. It'd be so much easier to play along and agree, but crossing the gray area never has been an easy thing for Nick to do with a clear conscience.

Especially when He turns to face Daryl, unsure of how to respond and it's evident in his face just how much.

"No one here," he answers, trying to work out the tangled thoughts that have been set aside for far too long. He remembers the devastation on Walter's face when he tells him about Matthew and the fact that he was forgiven for it makes it all the more difficult to swallow. He'll never feel like he deserves any and it's all too late to make any amends as it is impossible.

"I was just tryin' to protect my friends." Now he sounds like he's making an excuse in front of someone who doesn't need to know shit and he hates himself for it. He tells himself to remember where he is, that this ain't the lodge and Daryl doesn't need to know about his fuck ups. Gotta fucking focus. "The same ones I'm lookin' for right now."

Any deaths caused while defending his people get included in the nebulous definition of self defense, so far as Daryl's concerned. It isn't murder. These distinctions are important to maintain, no matter how fine they may have to become.

Lacking anything else to dry his hands with, he wipes them off on his dirty spacesuit, somewhat defeating the purpose of washing them in the first place. The clink of the beakers had caught his attention. He moves to where Nick's standing, cautiously reaching around him to retrieve one and then steps away. Now these could be useful. He runs his fingers along its surface to inspect it for any cracks, his expression becoming pensive in a way that makes it clear he's listening to Nick, though he doesn't look at him.

The information about Beth had been volunteered partly to encourage Nick to share a bit more in return. At this point he's willing to entertain the possibility that Nick's a decent person. He's been wrong about this before, but not often enough to start doubting his gut instincts about people now.

And so he simply nods and says, "Shit happens."

There's clearly a story behind the answer, but he isn't anyone's confessor or judge.

"We're both lookin' for our people." And he's looking at Nick expectantly now as he shifts his weight to one foot, posture straightening. Sort of sizing him up again. But this time, not as a potential opponent. "If you wanna tell me more, I could help keep an eye out for 'em," he offers. "And you could help me with mine."

He'd had no reason to help Nick out with that pack of aliens, but he'd done so anyway, and in doing so had effectively laid his cards out on the table already. If he wanted to kill someone or let them die through inaction, that would've been the prime opportunity. He's far more interested in having an extra set of eyes looking for Beth.

"Damn right it does." Nick replies without hesitation, even if he isn't always in the right state of mind to deal with said shit. If anything, he's grateful that Daryl doesn't press on about it because he just doesn't know how much he can keep it together. It's taking a lot for him to not freak out about not knowing where Luke and Clementine are or if they're in danger at this second and he's not there to help. Whether he'd actually be able to help or make shit worse is another level of worry that he can't afford to think about.

It can't hurt to describe Clem and Luke to him. Hell, if he underestimates Clem especially he'd be in for a surprise. And he can gauge if Daryl's description of the girl he's looking for is bullshit or not.

"One of 'em's a little girl. About eleven years old, I think. She always keeps her hair short. Her name's Clementine." And she has proven many times over that she's smart and capable, more so than others including himself. And so is Luke, he's definitely better than Nick at nearly god damn everything.

"And Luke's about your height. Brown hair and eyes with a stronger accent mine...and a honker the size of an ostrich egg." He chuckles quietly at that last bit in spite of himself, suddenly remembering all the little moments with their group of friends poking fun at Luke's nose and classic Luke just takes it like a champ by laughing along with them. Nick, knowing himself, would probably just get pissed off. Classic Nick.

He needs to find Luke. Him and Clem both. They gotta be alive.

Edited 2015-01-01 18:34 (UTC)

Daryl's surprise is apparent at the description of the little girl. Kids in an arena where the combatants are supposed to fight to the death? That's fucked up on an entirely new level that he doesn't particularly want to dwell on right now, doesn't want to speculate on what these Gamemakers must truly be like to allow such a thing. To encourage it. Better to focus on the things he has some control over.

"Clementine and Luke," he repeats, committing their names and physical descriptions to memory. "If I come across either of 'em, I'll do what I can." Nick doesn't seem like much of an actor, so the hint of fondness when describing his one friend is probably genuine, Daryl decides. That's a good thing; it lends credence to his story about searching for these people.

"Mine's a blonde girl, about," he raises one of his hands to illustrate her height, much shorter than he is, "this tall. Light green suit. Beth's more likely to help someone than hurt 'em." And that's one of his biggest concerns at the moment. What if Beth tries to help the wrong person? Tributes obviously aren't given any choice in being here, judging by his own situation, but it seems highly unlikely that they'll all refrain from violence. Odds are there's a few out there who might be actively hunting other tributes and aiming to "win".

Nick had been disgusted when he found that out himself. It was difficult for him and Luke both to see Clementine, Beth and the other younger tributes go through an arena themselves and the adults couldn't do shit about it. Regardless of the person's age, this whole game is fucked up and they all know it. They just need to watch out for the psychos that do.
It's probably still too early to say (he'd be a hundred percent certain if his instincts hadn't backfired on him before), but he doesn't peg Daryl to be that sort person.

"Thanks," he says with an appreciative nod, listening to Daryl's description. His face is still laced with worry for Clem and Luke. He'd rather hear it from someone that they're alive rather than see their names in the void of space.

There's a glint in his eyes when Daryl says her name. "You know Beth?" It wasn't long ago that she and Luke were singing some Tom Waits while Nick was listening along and enjoying the cookies she made for them. And she's out there too, somewhere.

Edited 2015-01-09 14:48 (UTC)

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.

"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."

"'Course you would'a had 'em too. Walkers, lurkers, lame brains, whatever you call 'em — that shit happened world wide. Scientist at the CDC said as much before he blew himself up. Also said we're all infected, even if you ain't been bit."

He's already cottoning on to the fact they may just be in some alternate reality, universe, whatever best applies here. He's seen some Tributes who were pretty obviously not even human. Then there's all the roaming aliens, and the spaceport itself... He has picked up on the unusual way Nick has talked about home a couple times now, but isn't sure how reliable information from him might be.

Well. Fuck pretty much sums up the situation.

There's a row of different coloured switches on a nearby panel jutting out from the wall, the only other thing of interest in the area besides the lasers. It isn't difficult putting two and two together, so he steps over to mess with the panel. The first switch causes the lasers to begin moving. The second switch does the same, but in a different pattern in conjunction with the first one. Moving both switches to the off position and then flipping only the second one causes yet another pattern variation. The key seems to be in finding the correct combination that will make a pathway through, and with as many switches as there are to test, they could be there for quite a while...

"Take walkers any day over this bullshit," he mutters as he begins testing combinations.

"Beth ain't got a mean bone in her body," he says, returning to better topics. "If there's anyone who don't deserve to be here, it's her."

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Arena 12 - The Spaceport

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