Everyone has a gun, they're always at war

[libertin]

Who| Les Amis + Open
What| Building a barricade
Where| A deep corner of the Arena somewhere where they hope not to be disturbed.
When| Week 1
Warnings/Notes| Nope? Will update as needed!  Free-form tagging, making your own threads with each other.  It's your one stop shop for Frenchmen galore.

The meager supplies in the case had been hard fought, and Courfeyrac was intent on protecting the contents with his life. Still, opening the case to find a medical kit, three mysterious syringes, a flashlight, and a confusing taser-gun was incredibly disappointing, especially considering that somehow in the melee of the Cornucopia run, Courfeyrac had managed to break his left leg. He wasn't quite certain how it had happened or who was responsible, only that in the crush of the crowd he'd been stomped somehow and he knew from the hideous crunching sound and the shot of pain that he was in trouble.

Unwilling to give up, he'd fought his way inside of the station, and once he had achieved a decent distance from the entrance, he dared to look inside. Disappointing, yes, indeed. But he had what he had and he would work with it. Or rather, he would need to find Combeferre or Joly and let them work with it. He'd let them tend to his leg too. As it was now, he was too horrified by what he might find to try taking off his own boot.

Instead, he hopped and hobbled through the twisting and overwhelming corridors of the station until he found what he hoped was a dead end, and after backing himself into a corner, he started the hideously slow process of constructing makeshift fortifications. On his own, it would be slow going, but until he could stand to look at his broken leg and tend to it on his own, he'd have to make due with whatever he could find. If he was going to team up with anyone this time, they'd have to come to him, not the other way around.

Comments

[permets_tu]

Grantaire pinched his eyes shut for the third time in a space of a few minutes. He was alone still, and based upon the violence he'd witnessed of those who had made their way for the cornucopia, this was a good thing. He had not seen anyone familiar, had not found Courfeyrac and seen nothing of Joly, Combeferre or Marius either. The girl, Eponine, was also absent, and thinking on this he stopped for a moment, leaning up against the wall and taking a moment to breathe. Believing them dead was sensible, and no great difficulty on his part. They all seemed to be meant for death, no matter where they were, and it was kinder to simply assume the worst.

Having not run for the cornucopia he had found himself inside the space station sooner than many, though distraction and ignorance of a few things had delayed him. It had taken him longer to discard the cumbersome suit he'd been outfitted in, kicking the whole ensemble aside when he was free of it. He then picked up the helmet after a moment, reasoning that it may be able to provide some use, but its size quickly disabused him of the notion. Too awkward to easily carry and a waste of time to try.

A part of him wondered at why he even entertained this small effort, questioning its purpose. He had no reply for it and thus let it go ignored, making his way through the spaceport with a vague ambition towards stealth, but eventually finding even that attempt not worth the trouble.

[medecin]

Joly had no idea what the hell was going on, why it was going on, or what exactly they were supposed to do in space, if this was indeed space and not some crafted replica of it. In any case, he'd simply glanced around at the other tributes and followed their example to get in where the laws of gravity applied. And that was when he'd started attacking the maze of corridors, a stream of profanities slipping freely from his throat, anatomically incorrect in the translated common language that they were. The unadulterated effect of Provenal, French and Haitian, when literally translated was particularly interesting, and the tapestry of obscenity that Joly wove was particularly an impressive one.

There were moments when the translations here, and their occasional failings or tendency to overly literal did prove hilarious. When one was muttering things about space being a death trap, and darting back and forth between the corridors actually proved to be one of them, and it was probably for that reason that, when Joly spotted a somewhat familiar figure in the darkness ahead of him, the first thing that he did was snort as he approached.

"Well, now that I've nearly failed at being weightless out there, I've really come to understand the gravity of our situation." he muttered. "I suppose they can't have gone for many frills in this, the cost must be astronomical as it is, no?"

It was an effort, anyway.

[permets_tu]

So he was not alone, and has been wrong on that count. Grantaire turned to the voice, a crooked smile on his lips and the voice, which had been so finely expelling absurd vulgarity, changed in tone when the speaker caught sight of him. Grantaire scoffed, pushing himself from the wall and closing the distance between them.

"What do I care for over-spending? They can cough up their coffers, spend themselves dry, loose satyrs in the bordello. They are poets, romantics, all extravagance was spent on the stars! When you turn your face from beauty it is all dust in compare, come back to earth, wake up, opulence within this labyrinth would be too much a trouble and may expose the dangers it hides; where is your ball of string?! Beauty is a death sentence, ships sailed for a face, we stargazers tip our heads back and bare our throats for the sacrificial knife. Ugliness is the same, it is the marble alter exchanged for the filth strewn floors of the slaughterhouse, gravity sends us to graves."

He looks upon his friend and does not tell him he is happy to see him alive, though the opinion exists plainly enough. If Joly has found him maybe the others are still yet living after all, but hope is a delicate thing unsuited for his cynical nature, and he does not allow it to take root.

[medecin]

There was something about Grantaire's ability to take and expound upon a situation, especially a grim one, that made Joly feel much better than he might have otherwise, honestly. He did not know that he had taken so much comfort in it until he heard his friend's voice again, expounding on the matters that, in spite of the situation, had Joly grinning, regardless.

"So you would have it that poetry may be averse?" he muttered, "Generally, they do seem to like their opulence along with the danger." He added, aware that now, especially, it would be hard to say much that did not sound like criticism.

"A ball of string would have been the intelligent thing to do, but I have met no fair Ariadnes in this yet. Unless you've found and stashed her someplace; thankfully we have no Artemis to ruin that should she appear.

Gravity's work will do us all in, yes, Asterions or not. I somewhat hope that it is soon enough. But come, such digest is rather morbid humor, no? Have you seen anything of the others?"

Glad to see Grantaire or not, he does intend to find and gather everyone still left alive, best as he can.

open;

[libertin]

The pain in his ankle had overcome him at last, and while Courfeyrac had no business trying to mend a broken ankle, he could stand the pain no longer. Feeling at least moderately secure behind a mess of loose piping and metal wall panels, he crawled into his nest and set about the arduous process of boot removal. His attempts were quite in vain, however, as each time he tried to pry the boot off his swollen ankle, the pain became blinding and he had to stop himself from crying out.

"I am a goner, then." He said, blinking back a few stray tears which had rudely formed without his permission. "This is it. I cannot walk, I cannot even free myself. What a waste you are, Courfeyrac. Dead out the gate, and for what?"

[permets_tu]

[continued from this thread.]

He spared a wan smile and shrugged. "We Corinthians, then. Come with you, ha, I do not see why not. My choices are sad ones and I have nothing better to do. Lead on, I follow, this starry slaughterhouse will not go unseen."

And so it would go. Grantaire found himself entertaining silence, swallowing his words as he allowed himself to dwell on their situation. He spoke of the inevitability of their deaths easily enough but that did not mean he was fully reconciled to experiencing the pain of it all over again. Especially a death that was not of his own making, and for no other cause than for entertaining madmen. But then, what did he care for causes? It had never been for any cause that he had chosen to die.

As their exploration moved forward he thought of how he had been sincere in hoping the rest of their friends were dead and free of the tension that mounted with every corridor they turned down, regarding his own relief when they failed to run into any person or thing along the way with disgust too finely mixed with apathy to stir him much. He wallowed in a vague sense of self-pity and dread as they walked on, and at what appeared to be a dead end filled with clutter he prepared to turn around.

The voice he heard stopped him.

Such a pessimistic soliloquy was out of character for that voice and Grantaire froze, seeking the source. He had been startled once by Courfeyrac's grim demeanor, dedicated as it was to bleakness and self-loathing. Hearing it again set him on edge in a way he was unfamiliar with, and he threw his hand out, catching Joly by the shoulder.

"Ho! Hear that? Some wretch haunted by Moros, some cynic already embracing the gnashing white teeth of those blood drinkers who hover over him. Listen to how he wastes words, how his spirit shrinks; where are you, poor Courfeyrac?" He threw up his hands in disgust, too painfully aware of his own hypocrisy. "Oh, this is too much, damn what I would not do for a drink!"

[medecin]

"If I but knew which way to lead!" Joly tried for joviality, though the strain in his voice did come out a little at the prospect. "Hmm perhaps this way." He suggested, making his way down one of the corridors for the moment. "I hope that nothing springs up at us unawares on my lead." He confessed, babbling a little still.

"l'Aigle told us at the Corinth that he felt we would be taking a diligence to another planet, but somehow I doubt he meant it so literally as this. At any rate, my own ability to be so diligent in these dark corridors is, perhaps, not so great as it might have been. Still...."

He stopped as Grantaire did, tensing in the direction of Courfeyrac's voice, not liking the way that it sounded at all, no. He was a bit more used to his friend's voice taking on something of the tone of voice he used there, but not quite the tone of conversation.

"Well, he need not waste them so much longer, if there is anything that can be done." he suggested, own tones grim. "It would be something serious indeed to produce those words in Courfeyrac. Perhaps if we have gotten lucky enough, it will be a problem mended quickly enough, and if not, well, there may be something to knock him into the land of sleepers if not quite of dreams."

At Grantaire's own commentary, he did have to admit that possibility was worrying too. "I do not think we've been granted anything like that in an arena yet, but then, we may get lucky. Do you think yourself able to continue, so far?" Not that he knew what he might do if Grantaire could not, and he was having horrified visions of tending to a Grantaire in the midst of tremors and a badly injured Courfeyrac with no supplies to do it with, but then, he'd managed Marius in the arena. He could manage this.

"At least, no use in lingering here whilst you are still able." he added, pushing forward in the sound of their friend's voice. "Courfeyrac?!" he called, trying not to attract too much unwanted attention, but risking it anyway. "Can you keep speaking, perhaps? Direct us toward you as we come?"

[libertin]

What was this? Did his poor, tired ears deceive him? After hours on his own, without a single soul answering his impotent whining, had the answer come at last? He stayed still and listened, nearly choking on his own breath when their voices came closer and made themselves clearer, and he scrambled to quickly brush away any evidence of his crying.

"What luck! The drunk? And the medical student? Ah, but one of you may save me yet! Perhaps today is not the day I am picked off and killed! Perhaps poor Courfeyrac will live to see the blackened, starry dawn!" Courfeyrac's voice was louder this time, though a bit shaky from exhaustion and pain. Both elements crept through him and made themselves fully evident, like the effects of poison or drink. He almost didn't recognize the voice himself. "Come closer. Do you not see me? Good, then I am well hidden, even in this state. But I cannot go to you, I fear. Come now, toward the nest of pipes and panels. Do you not see where a man could hide behind them? I am in them. Do you see me now?"

He paused then, waiting patiently for one or both of his friends to appear before him, glad that at least in this instance, he still maintained his gravity. With two of his planets back in orbit, surely the others would fall into their places again, too.

Re: open;

[philosophe]

Unfortunately, Combeferre has become all too familiar with his friends' cries of pain over the last few months. As is his habit, he is seeking out the rest of the amis once in the Arena, trying to stay out of sight and hopefully out of trouble. Once he hears a familiar voice, however, he is heading to it as directly as he might be able to.

It sounded like Courfeyrac -- and clearly it was, judging from the words, and he was certainly wounded somehow. With any luck, he could get behind the panels without being seen and see to his friends wounds.

"Hallo?" He called softly, approaching the makeshift shelter. "Courfeyrac?"

[libertin]

He knew that voice, knew it so well it nearly made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He tried to make himself look a little less miserable, wiping the involuntary tears from his eyes and sniffing back all traces of emotion before answering his friend.

"Good evening, my friend." He answered in a whisper of his own, beckoning Combeferre come nearer with some urgency. "I am saved! You have found me! But can you save me yet?"

Slowly, carefully, he poked his head out from his hiding spot to come face to face with Combeferre.

"Etienne." His voice was firm, and the choice of first name was meant to drive home the gravity of the situation. "I have utterly destroyed my leg. I need your help or else I will surely die here."

[philosophe]

He had likely seen him in worse situations, either here or at home -- but nevertheless, their situation was quite dire. "You will not die," he said soothingly, automatically moving down to the injured leg.

"What did you do to it? Let me have a look and we shall see what can be done for you." There was little point in keeping to a whisper now that he was relatively under cover, it would just make conversation more difficult to hear. "Have you a light or anything you might have picked up?"

[saisamour]

Undertakings Marius Pontmercy is particularly disastrous at: a great deal of them.

Ventures Marius Pontmercy is exceptionally accomplished at: tailing suspecting, or unsuspecting, gentlemen.

It was the stars that distracted him, back at the Cornucopia, and before he knew it his chance had gone, so instead for joining the fray he had opted to escape and search instead for his fellow Frenchmen. He knew Courfeyrac's district color, vaguely, and his body structure, somewhat, so when he found someone that matched that of his memory he glanced around to ensure that no one was around to spring up on them, before taking Courfeyrac's very same path in light and hurried steps.

He lost the other man but only for a few minutes, before the faint sound of friend's voice rang from several feet away. He rushed in that direction and that was how he had discovered Courfeyrac in his current predicament.

"Courfeyrac!" He twisted and slid through the fortifications to reach him. A sharp metal edge nicked against his clothing, creating a shallow, almost imperceptible tear. He ignored it. "What is the matter?"

[libertin]

How was it that no matter what the situation, Marius always seemed to spring upon him like some dopey little puppy at its master? Even now, his loyal hound had found him, and while Courfeyrac could have been helped in other, better ways, his heart was warmed by Marius' arrival and dedication.

"It is my ankle," he said, taking hold of Marius by the shoulder, to calm and soothe his eager friend. "It is broken. I heard the crack of it. I cannot walk. No, I cannot even stand to remove my boot. But it is lucky that you found me. At least I won't perish alone."

[saisamour]

And Marius's shoulders did relax, a little, at the hand that rested on it. He stared at the offending ankle as if doing so would incite a ground-breaking discovery of how to cure it. But he knew not what to do in the case of a broken ankle, nor did he have anything on his person to soothe the pain.

He cast a quick glance around, partly hoping that one of their other, more useful, friends would suddenly appear out of thin air. When that didn't happen, he turned to Courfeyrac. "I must seek help for you."

[carnagecarnival]

For the most part, pain came with fear. He couldn't feel the pain of others like he could their fears-- thank holy mirth for that-- but he could tell well enough when they was being tangential. One fed the other. In the case of an arena, there was simply too much. He could not appease no pain nor fear. There was nothing he could do but turn his back and ignore the rabble.

But to just come across one laying about his path couldn't hurt, surely? Especially not when it's being one what all he recognizes.

"NOW BROTHER, BE NOT OF SUCH ATTRIBUTINGS UNRIGHTEOUS. I'd not hardly call one such as your ownself a waste," He says as greeting. Hornless and tired, but looking otherwise near-happy, he makes his approach. "WHAT TROUBLES IS AT TO MOTHERFUCKING BE? Got at to be means done of moving onward."

[libertin]

So consumed by his misery was he that he found himself quite startled by the sudden arrival of his hornless troll friend. Coufeyrac did a double take, then dramatically wiped his eyes. "Good day to you, brother. You have happened across my path at a most inopportune time, for you see I've broken my ankle and cannot stand any longer. It is a tragedy, and I am not long for this world. Alas, alas."

[carnagecarnival]

It's a yet another moment where he's startled by how human tears are clear as crytal, making want to not show at all. He gets notice proper as they is being wiped and it pulls that smile down some. He kneels down and looks Courfeyrac over.

"...NAW YOU'RE NOT. Got my believings in you, brother. CAN BE ALL THE FUCK THAT SURVIVALING NOISE. Or at least getting a proper comfort up and on until you can be being getting to return up at to the Capitol." Since, that was certainly to be an option too, he supposed. Not like they wouldn't all be dying in here eventually. "WHAT YOU NEED IS A MOTHERFUCKING CRUTCH. Or one of them bitchin' rollin' chairs. MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIND SOMETHING LIKE THAT. Or you could rest by all me getting watch on."

Whichever of you guys wants her!

[celebrityskinned]

She hasn't seen most of the Frenchmen in a while, not since she and Enjolras split and since he died shortly afterwards. It's a strange space to negotiate, and other things have occupied her thoughts, darker things, things she and Courfeyrac share in common with the brands on their faces. The last she saw of him in person, his face was a disaster zone of scabbing and raw flesh. The torture they'd undergone had left them both shaken at their cores, their former liveliness splintered and weakened.

It was difficult to see Courfeyrac like that, and so she was a poor friend afterwards. She didn't seek him out to offer and find the support they likely both needed. She found it too painful to see him like that and so she shuffled the fact of his torture and branding out of sight, out of mind.

She isn't looking for the collective aside from Joly right now. With Jet resting and recuperating and Albert taking watch, Venus is teleporting throughout the spaceport to do reconnaissance. She's too tired to do more than one or two jumps an hour, so the rest of the scouting she does on foot, stripped down to the tight clothing under the spacesuit to keep her agility.

She thinks she might hear something.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

[permets_tu]

[He's coming on down from here.]

Grantaire had not precisely lost track of time, but it had begun to blur together, made worse by the ache that he could feel growing in his skull. The length he had gone without a drink was not even so substantial yet but for he, who relied on it in such a way that he knew crippled him, these were the beginning twinges of a greater discomfort. That he was hobbled by his reliance did not trouble him so much, they were all slaves to their vices in one way or another, and he had elected libations without looking back. That did not mean he enjoyed the symptoms that arose when he was unable to satisfy them.

Of course, he never could have fathomed of being in a situation quite like this one.

Rubbing at this temple he did not immediately register hearing the voice, a fact that made him even more ill suited for his role as scavenger. His lack of awareness would do him no favors, it would neither help him avoid danger or aid his search for anything that might help the wounded Courfeyrac.

That there had been a voice at all occurred to him only after he had gone five steps closer and, in so doing, brought him directly into a line of sight. Grantaire stared at the woman, and was silent for a moment as he gathered his wits. Not too hard a task, he presently had few of them to mind.

"Only Grantaire," he replied, though he did not know her and did not expect her to know him. He aimed for flippant and only succeeded in sounding weary. Oh well, that brought a bitter smile to his lips. "No threat, if you cannot see it for yourself."

DISREGARD THAT FAILTAG

[celebrityskinned]

The sight of him, this man she doesn't know aside from a name and a face she saw in passing on pre-Arena footage, is enough to make her chest tighten and her palms ache. He looks a mess, distracted and tired. There's always such a difference to her, seeing the soldiers like her who take the Arenas in stride and the ones who seem no stronger than wrung-out rags by the first week.

"Not many people are much of a threat me now." She can't even tell for herself if she's meaning to sound cocky or as if she's just reassuring him that she isn't about to panic and stick him. She plays to the cameras by instinct, rather than by making calculations in her head, and her agents always said that it was what made her seem genuine. You can read a book on how to get people to like you and memorize every word, but that won't make you charismatic.

The flip side of that is that since there's no mental paper trail to each decision she makes, she has no blueprint to go back and understand her own configuration.

She approaches a few feet, but not quickly and not in a threatening manner. "I'm Venus. I won't hurt you. I'm just looking for people."

DONE!

[permets_tu]

Venus.

The name sparks a memory, a conversation, a revelation. Grantaire is almost tempted to laugh and indeed, a smile touches his lips, lazy with tired if biting amusement. Of course, he would find her in the Arena. It was fitting for reasons he would not contemplate. She looked in better shape than he which both pricks his sense of pride and also does not surprise him at all. A woman with the name of a goddess would be poorly represented by someone who succumbed easily to the danger. Even a goddess of love. He snorted. Especially a goddess of love, if one wished to preserve the romance.

He looked over her critically, trying to see what had drawn Enjolras to her. Courfeyrac had painted her as a wanton woman, one who pursued a man not out of respect for his beliefs but from attraction to his physical attributes. He had no real censure for that but did note that she bore the same mark upon her face as Eponine and Courfeyrac. If he had it right it was a mark that named her a threat to the ideals of the Capitol. Courfeyrac had said she had not shared Enjolras' revolutionary fervor but she had objected loudly enough at some point to earn herself the brand.

"I recognize your name," he admitted. "We share a mutual acquaintance." He would not expand further than that. His words were accented just as Courfeyrac's were, just as Joly and Eponine and the others. "I am Grantaire."

If you don't mind a probably unwelcome guest?

[gardienne]

Eponine couldn't really believe what had happened. In the scuffle, she had managed to kill - and not just anybody. She had killed Sandy, that poor little girl that the Capitol hated. Whilst it might have done her standing with the government some good, Eponine hated herself, and she walked with shoulders slumped and her eyes on the floor. She'd actually made that poor girl's head explode. She had been sick then, in her helmet, and the odour of vomit still clung to her like a sour cloak.

She wandered alone now, looking out for that nice Grantaire who had been so kind to her, or Felicity, or Venus as well. But it was Courfeyrac she found, and she stopped, uncertain. The last time they had spoken, they had drowned together in the boat arena. But he had been so lovely then, keeping her calm until the end. Surely, surely he wouldn't send her away straight off?

She approached cautiously.

"Sir? It has been a long while, no?"

[libertin]

He did not have to strain to recall Eponine anymore, her face and figure were forever etched into his mind after their ordeal in the sinking ship. She'd been so small, so frightened. It made him nearly sick to think about how she'd clung to him as the cold water lapped at them, higher and higher until it overtook them both and they'd slipped down into darkness. How horrible to remember.

And there she was again before him, still skittish, still afraid, still looking as though she thought him capable of harming her. Really? After all they'd been through? Was he still an object of fear? He didn't even consider that he might seem fearsome with his gritted teeth and the look of pain in his face. While he didn't look sick, there would be no mistaking that he was injured, from how he seemed to wince with every slight little motion.

"Yes, it has, miss." He'd really called her mademoiselle. He longed to speak French to her, to have some sense of familiarity with someone from home. How unjust it was to hear the ugly word miss pass his lips. "Come here, my dear. Come closer, please. I cannot stand to greet you, otherwise I would, but I do wish to exchange pleasantries. Are you quite alright, my dear Eponine? You look a fright. Come, you must tell me what is the matter, and if it is in my power, I shall help you to right it."

[gardienne]

"I bet all the ladies say you're charming." Eponine chuckled, despite herself, as she came closer. She did look a fright though: orange was not her colour at all, and there were vomit stains in her hair and on her face. But that was by the by.

She came closer happily, smiling now that she thought she would not be sent away. "Are you not injured? Perhaps we ought to think of that rather than what I havevdone now. Truly, Sir, I hardly want to tell you, for you shall hate me again, and I didn't mean a bit of it. Oh, but to see her head burst." She shook her head, clearly troubled. "I were sick. But I couldn't take off the hat. Oh," she moved on hurriedly. "I am no doctor, Sir, but I can help you, p'raps? I have a first aid box."

[libertin]

He would have smiled, if not for the swelling and the pain. Instead, all he could do was muster a slight grimace and force a laugh to mask it away. And once she began to speak further, he was convinced that it was all no laughing matter anyway. He tried then, in his way, to put her at ease, patting the ground beside her that she should sit. "I shall be fine, dear girl. I am only sitting here awhile. You mustn't worry over me, no. You have been ill. What's that all about? You saw something dreadful?"