Venus Dee Milo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
celebrityskinned) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2014-12-14 09:55 pm
celebrityskinned) wrote in thearena2014-12-14 09:55 pm
Entry tags:
I'm Just Trying to Take This New Skin for a Spin [Open]
WHO| Venus Dee Milo and open!
WHAT| Various Arena encounters.
WHEN| First week of the Arena.
WHERE| Anywhere you want!
WARNINGS| None yet.
She has a map now.
Over the last few days, making about one 'jump' an hour or so, Venus has cased out the ground floor of the space port and gathered supplies for herself, Jet and Albert. Some of it's food, some of it's water, some are just sharp pieces of metal or strange vials that she's certain could make for a decent weapon. A strip of spacesuit cloth, tied over the edges of the upturned helmet, has transformed it into a handy messenger bag, and she's sure that the design will be all the rage in the Capitol soon. She's filled it each time with whatever scraps might help them last the weeks and track down the people who most definitely won't be winning.
She can tell by the way her skin seems to hum when she's done teleporting that she's been pushing it lately, and because she's with people willing to call her out on it, she rests. She sleeps while Albert keeps watch, keeping the injured Jet company while he takes his turns. She eats from the little dehydrated packets and she doesn't do more than two 'jumps' in an hour if she can help it. She makes sure to clean the makeshift bandage on the stab wound in the side of her chest on the regular. After they figure out the pattern to the gravity failures, she makes sure that they're all strapped in to the ground for the twice-hourly jolt.
When she teleports, it's nearly painful to see, a trick of the eye as reality arranges itself in perverse ways to squeeze her out of the dimension and back into it. She seems shrouded in the afterglow of lights that clutter up an eye after a flash, and then disappears into a blind spot that vision should not have allowed. She emerges in the same way, silently but preceded with the colorful blots of the optic nerve going haywire. And when she's crawled out of the pocket dimension she travels through, she only sometimes remembers to apologize for startling anyone she comes upon.
She may just teleport right next to you.
WHAT| Various Arena encounters.
WHEN| First week of the Arena.
WHERE| Anywhere you want!
WARNINGS| None yet.
She has a map now.
Over the last few days, making about one 'jump' an hour or so, Venus has cased out the ground floor of the space port and gathered supplies for herself, Jet and Albert. Some of it's food, some of it's water, some are just sharp pieces of metal or strange vials that she's certain could make for a decent weapon. A strip of spacesuit cloth, tied over the edges of the upturned helmet, has transformed it into a handy messenger bag, and she's sure that the design will be all the rage in the Capitol soon. She's filled it each time with whatever scraps might help them last the weeks and track down the people who most definitely won't be winning.
She can tell by the way her skin seems to hum when she's done teleporting that she's been pushing it lately, and because she's with people willing to call her out on it, she rests. She sleeps while Albert keeps watch, keeping the injured Jet company while he takes his turns. She eats from the little dehydrated packets and she doesn't do more than two 'jumps' in an hour if she can help it. She makes sure to clean the makeshift bandage on the stab wound in the side of her chest on the regular. After they figure out the pattern to the gravity failures, she makes sure that they're all strapped in to the ground for the twice-hourly jolt.
When she teleports, it's nearly painful to see, a trick of the eye as reality arranges itself in perverse ways to squeeze her out of the dimension and back into it. She seems shrouded in the afterglow of lights that clutter up an eye after a flash, and then disappears into a blind spot that vision should not have allowed. She emerges in the same way, silently but preceded with the colorful blots of the optic nerve going haywire. And when she's crawled out of the pocket dimension she travels through, she only sometimes remembers to apologize for startling anyone she comes upon.
She may just teleport right next to you.
no subject
She picks through the scrap metal, a knit working into the corner of her mouth as she pulls sharper edges against her fingernails to check their deadliness. The white lines against her nails stand out even in the dim light, it seems. She sets the pieces that pass muster aside. "Yeah, these are useful. In case you want to bleed someone."
Going out and killing has been the elephant in the room. She knows both Jet and Albert know about Venus' reputation, her body count. She hasn't asked if she's allowed to roam free and try to hunt Molotov and Black Tom down, but at some point she will.
no subject
"Bleeding someone's kinda the point, right?" Killing was the elephant in the room, but Jet knew it was something that needed to be approached and, really, right now when it was just them was the best time.
He could remember a time when Ivan had told Joe that the cyborgs didn't kill needlessly, they spared lives whenever possible and almost always tried to find the peaceful resolution before taking on the violent one. Those were the ideals Albert still held, maybe not as tightly as Joe might, but tighter than Jet held them. Albert wouldn't condone blood spilled outside of self defense (or occasional retribution) unless it were to Black Tom or someone else on his husband's shit list. Jet was less idealistic about it. He wouldn't hunt anyone down in cold blood (unless they'd earned it) but if someone he didn't know or didn't care about got in his way...well, it was a death arena.
He's quiet a moment and when he speaks, it's low and careful as though he's considering his words for once. "Al'l tell you we shouldn't play their game -and I agree, to a point- but being passive forever's just gonna get either yourself or people you want to see win hurt. And then, I figure, that's still playing their game, just in a different way...so what's the point in running in circles till you're shot down?"
no subject
She rubs her thumb over her cut nail, lips pressed together, shadows gathering in her eyes.
"I used to figure that if I killed people, if I did it gentle, it was a net good. That it's better they die fast and gentle and dramatic the way I do it than get ripped apart by Capitol mutts or whatever. But that's hypocritical, because if that's a kindness why don't I afford it to kids or my friends? It's like my subconscious knows I'm lying and is calling bullshit."
It's a knot she's still untangling. Strands are free, but the core is still matted, twisted, frayed, messy. And maybe it'll stay that way forever, all the more splintered the more she works her fingernails into it.
"Killing seems like the only thing we can do, here. If we're protecting people we're just extending how long they get to suffer."
no subject
Of course, then it got down to one of Jet's biggest fears of finding himself in a position where he protected them too well and now he had to make choices...but it hadn't happened yet, so it was better to not let it go too much further than a passing thought. And the longer they all stayed in this place, the more attachments they'd make and the pool of 'obvious targets' would get smaller.
The less they tried to play the game, the more they found themselves in a new and much more complicated one.
He rubbed his hand through his hair and a wry smile twisted his lips. "It's a mess. But you do what you've gotta do in these things and I'm not going to think any less of you, promise." He was itching to find some new topic to turn to, something less difficult and washed in grey, but he also felt it was something that needed to be said at least once. She needed to know he had her back no matter what.