thearena | open

Who| Brock Rumlow, and Open
What| Xenos and airlocks and murder, oh my?
Where| Upper levels of the station
When| Week 1
Warnings/Notes| Aiming for fights, rescues, and Brock using other people as meat shields. Unless you were one of the few to get into his good graces at the start. Any questions or potential ideas, pm me.

There had been a grand rush for the Cornucopia, as he'd imagined, and the temptation to try and edge someone out in the effort to grab something useful had been there. He wouldn't lie about that. But priority had to be given to finding a secure location to defend, to last as long as possible. That meant figuring out the station, what was on it, and finding food before anyone else got the bright idea. Then he could worry about getting the drop on someone and stealing their weapons or tools, or whatever else he needed. Couldn't be any harder than the struggle of the initial rush, or so he supposed.

He had to remember that there were in fact other people when the station around him was so resoundingly quiet. Lights flickered and cast sharp shadows against the wall, abrupt enough to set anyone on edge as they moved between puddles of light and dark. Moving to the end of a section and tapping at the airlock, Rumlow found this way cut off. No amount of button pushing seemed to be gain him access. Oh well. The station seemed circular, so maybe he ought to double back the way he'd come.

And that might have been the plan, had he not heard something drop to the floor behind him in the darkness. Instantly he shrank back against a nearby wall, dropping to a crouch as his breath fogged the inside of his helmet, waiting.

A tribute? Or something else. This damn suit was clunky as Hell, going to slow him down if it came to a fight. Was he really going to bite it because he refused to be seen wandering around in a pink spacesuit?

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Sigma, too, has decided to keep his suit on - the visor impeding his vision, his cybernetic eye picks up too late that the airlock he has entered is not unoccupied. He curses his fate, and should have known that, sooner or later, he would run into someone whose identity was also obscured. The spacesuits were useful tools: it kept one anonymous from enemies as well as needy friends. His old legs and cybernetic weight, compounded with the hard metallic floor and narrow echoing walls, made running rather futile. He was grateful, at least, to have the assistance of the morphogenetic field - a warning that someone was dangerous was better than any hiding place his legs could carry him to. Without assurance that he was walking into certain death, Sigma decides to take his chances and approach the other Tribute.

He removes his helmet, the wrinkles of age plain on his face, as he observes the anonymous figure on the floor.

"You're fortunate those helmets are one way. I do not know who you are, but rest assured I am not looking for a fight. Reveal your identity and I shall consider an alliance. Should you spring at me, I will not hesitate to kill you." They were big words coming from an elderly man.

Edited 2014-12-18 19:31 (UTC)

Big words, sure. But the old man's got guts. Rumlow's got to respect that, and he pulls himself to his feet when Sigma steps forward.

Of course, he's not whipping off his helmet easy as all that. They've both got a disadvantage in bulkiness, but Rumlow still figures he can probably move faster than the old geezer if he has to. Doesn't look like he has anything worth taking, and taking him along for the ride's only going to slow him down. "Alliance?" he replies, through the distortion of his helmet. "Yeah. I just bet."

His gaze lingers on that eye. Interesting feature. Better than an eyepatch, at any rate.

Sigma does not recognize the voice that comes from behind the helmet, but he is not daunted. The old man casually sets his helmet under the crook of his arm and puts his hands on his hips.

"You're new, aren't you? Surviving the Arena is no easy task for one person on their own. After all, there are Xenomorphs around here," he pronounces the name carefully, making it perfectly clear he knows what he is talking about. Sigma had seen the eggs and knew it was only a matter of time before the Capitol got their bloodbath. There was, of course, a chance that this man came from a world where such creatures were the works of fiction (rendering his information useless), but Sigma could not be certain. "Do you truly believe you would last long, one on one?"

He will know the other's decision soon enough. Sigma stands his ground and waits for a vision that might tell him one of the possible outcomes of his gamble.

"Only gotta last longer than everyone else," he pointed out, fingers flexing at his side. There's a number of options available here. He can turn his back on the old guy, stake him out for bait for these things -- Xenomorphs, really? Where's Arnold when you need him? -- or accept his help. So far, he doesn't seem that useful.

Option two seems pretty good. He's not armed but if he gets the drop on the guy, he's pretty certain he can snap his neck before he has a chance to retaliate. Better to feign an alliance up until that point, however, and he straightens his back.

"So what's the plan, exactly?"

Sigma opens his mouth to tell his new partner to keep moving - that standing stationary was a surefire way to attract unwanted company - when pain explodes behind his eyes and he doubles over. Another world unfolds around him, still very similar to their own, where he and this yet unnamed man are travelling through the corridors of the Arena. Something moves in the darkness ahead, drawing long shadows in the barely-flickering light.

Sigma stops and raises his hand, signalling the other to stay still. Were those the telltale sounds of a Xenomorph's nails clacking against metal? They sounded a bit different from the archetypal monster - as if it were down on all fours...

He lowers his voice to a whisper. "...Wait. I don't think we're-"

Apparently this man didn't get the memo.

Falling victim to his own mistake, Sigma realizes an instant too late that removing his helmet had been the wrong thing to do. The other man's hands tighten around the sides of his head and with one, powerful twist, the vertebrae beneath Sigma's brainstem snaps. The elderly man lives long enough to die in a blind panic, twitching on the floor, unable to breathe or speak a word of his agony.

The vision takes moments to wear off and leaves Sigma blinking back white. Straightening up, he sighs angrily, running his hand down his face before gripping the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache. He really did not have the time for this betrayal nonsense, and even if he were to bail now, there was a good chance that one or both of them was already damned. He may as well speak straight.

"First, I am going to ask you if I need to put my helmet on, or if you're still going to snap my neck after I tell you there's an incoming enemy?"

He glares at the other with all the intimidation he can muster, thoroughly unimpressed.

That brings Rumlow to a dead halt. At first he figures the guy's having a heart attack, or something close to it. What he says next clears his head of that notion, and his lips curl into a faint sneer. "What, you some kind of mind reader?" he countered, though casually enough to dismiss if the man was just speaking his hunches out loud.

And if he wasn't? If he did know what he was planning? Didn't much care for the idea of someone rifling through his thoughts. Being untrustworthy as a rule tended to make you not trust other people, too certain that they'd be every bit as likely to turn on you as you might be to turn on them.

Licking dry lips, he takes a step closer, fingers curling tight at his sides.

Rumlow is, apparently, a man who will not be moved by reason or by bartering - exactly the sort of person Sigma has a hard time dealing with. He watches the other man advance and must stare at him in confusion before he realizes he is being threatened. He would kill him for reading his mind? That was usually not the reaction his powers begot.

Sigma has no choice but to retreat somewhat, to take a step back before Rumlow comes within arm's reach. "I..." He is still blinking spots back from his eyes, where his sight is returning from the doomed world to the present one. "I can predict death," he blurts out, which is not quite the truth, but the brevity might save his life. Now Sigma steels himself, plants his feet at shoulder's width apart, and holds out his hands. "Stop. We do not have the time for this. You are going to die if you don't listen to me!" It was another quick half-truth, but Sigma feared what might come down those halls more than a broken neck.

Self-preservation is the top priority here. That, and making a good showing for the folks back home.

So when Sigma signals for him to halt he does, albeit with a look that says he better keep talking. He wouldn't kill him for his gift, no, he's not prone to wasting something useful like that. Of course, this could all be some distraction tactic so the old man could shiv him in the back at the first given opportunity. Who's to say?

Rumlow's jaw works tight in frustration, but he's obviously willing to listen. For now.

The next moments tick by like a trainwreck in slow-motion as Sigma waits for the betrayal. It does not come. He releases a muffled sigh, dropping his voice low. He cannot know when the creature will come.

So Sigma straightens, grateful for this man's eagerness if not to work with him, then to preserve their lives long enough to part on a neutral ground. "Alright. I do not know how much time we have. It seems to have given us enough time to begin backtracking together, so I presume less than ten minutes. It will come towards us from that direction..." He points down the hallway they both came.

He stops his rushed explanation to think. "Perhaps if we hurry, we can head it off. Or, we can take our chances with a barricade and hope someone else attracts it interest. Any ideas...?"

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