thearena | [OPEN] Let's play a Game: this time, it's my choice...

Entry tags:

[OPEN] Let's play a Game: this time, it's my choice...

Who | Sigma Klim, Commander Shepard; Sigma and you!
What | Sigma gets locked in a puzzle room and gets "betrayed" by a friend. The entire thing is very familiar.
When | End of Week 1
Where | In a science lab puzzle room.
Warnings/Notes | Death. If you want to handwave the puzzle solving, that's cool! Your character can also meet up as he's finishing up the room, or just as he's starting, whatever you prefer. Sigma is good at puzzles and would seek out more than one room to hide in. I am looking for both fights and new CR (or both?), so come at him.

The Arena was very much like the game he had crafted, once: narrow halls on a distant moon, unpredictable gravity, a battle of wits in a fight to the death. It was also not unlike the facility where he had lost his arms and eye: a viper's den of traps and, assuredly, illness.

The Arena was very much like home.

It had once disturbed Sigma to think of Rhizome-9 as home - in time it would become a battleground where the people he loved lost their lives. But he had nowhere else to go, and after the birth of his son, he thought he might be content to live a happy life with him on the moon.

But even to an esper who could duplicate their memories across all time and space, nothing lasts forever.

Now, in a similar environment, Sigma can compete. He knows the lay of the land well; when the gravity lightens, he has great control over his own body. There is nothing that could come at the end of a narrow passage that he had not considered, himself; alien enemies included. Of course, he would never have sent Xenomorphs after his friends. But with Dio in play, it would be a lie to say the thought had never crossed his mind.

Not wanting to become one of the Runner Xenomorph's incubators (he had seen the third movie, this could not end well), he seeks refuge. His search coaxes him into a lab - and he is almost startled when the door locks behind him. A sobering familiarity settles upon him and Sigma surveys the room, mouth agape.

Then, back against the wall to support himself, he tilts his head back and laughs wildly, hardly able to believe his eyes. He cannot despair when the scene is so ironic, so characteristic of his time as Zero.

It wasn't a fight for survival without puzzles, was it?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Roland could stay where he is. These labs are safe places in that, if someone is headed toward yours, there's usually some warning. That this particular warning comes in the form of loud, slightly unbalanced sounding laughter is worth noting - it's foolish to fight a madman outright, and if this tribute is such a one Roland'll be best off waiting for him to pass the puzzle room and trying to take him unawares.

Or it would be, usually. But waiting in the dark doesn't make for much of a show, and giving the monsters watching back in Panem nothing tasty to slaver over is more of a death sentence than any kind of risk.

So he walks out of the lab, hears the hiss of air as the doorway shuts behind him, and takes a look at the figure at the other end of the room. Roland's own state is easy to see; no real injuries, dirt smeared over his suit to try and dim its aqua that so draws the eye, jagged metal hanging from the torn fabric tied around his waist and one hand to wield it. Not impossible that he fights with his right hand, even missing the first two fingers as it is, but it's probably unlikely.

"Care to share? Little enough to laugh about in this place." This'll be the real test. He's been close to death enough times these past few days that he doesn't need another fight, probably, and an ally would be just as valuable. He'll take either. He'll be ready for either, because how the next few minutes go depends in great part on the next few seconds.

The Doctor is quick to relax as he discovers he is no longer alone. He pushes away from the wall and composes himself, straightening up as he regains what he hopes is a respectable air. Clearing his throat, he surveys the other Tribute, thankful to find the other is also sizing up the situation before launching into an attack. The man is dirty, and could be fatigued from previous battles; good, he could use that as leverage to call off a fight. Sigma also cannot help but notice that encountering this Tribute is the closest he has come to meeting someone around his age: Sigma's circle of friends was composed almost entirely of children. If he wanted to craft an alliance with someone mature, it would do him well not to reveal his background.

However, that ship had long since sailed, and if this Tribute did not already know his identity, he would soon discover it outside of the Arena. Sigma nods agreeably. "Please forgive my outburst. I assure you that there is a rational explanation: I could hardly believe..." - he shakes his head for emphasis - "...That I might come across a near copy of the 'Arena' I once designed."

Edited (sorry, misread the tag!) 2014-12-20 05:19 (UTC)

Roland, as it turns out, doesn't know the history of any of his fellow prisoners. That's what you get for when you can't bear to play the game enough to do the proper research, and spend much of your free time knitting instead.

A gamemaker. Or close. Roland catches the odd emphasis on 'arena', but the man'd said it, hadn't he? Whatever he is, it's close enough to the gaolers of this place and Roland was not at all expecting it. His expression hardens, his posture goes tense. He does no more than that, though, because Roland was not built to release anger that isn't deliberate, hasn't been calculated and aimed precisely. Whether or not this man is the enemy, it won't do to behave as such and he realizes just why once he's allowed that first impulse to pass.

"You'll know how this works, then." He says it evenly, tone carefully absent of any emotion in particular, and glances around the room to show what he means. "Shouldn't be too hard for you to figure this out. Looks like it needs two." It's an invitation, though Roland can not quite bring himself to offer help outright.

Sigma reads Roland's darkening features and braces himself for an attack; his fists clench, he takes a step backwards. When nothing comes, his mind pauses with surprise and he is slow to process his opponent's words. Roland did not have had the youthful, energetic hatred Sigma had come to expect of the Tributes. What may have matured in its place was restraint and, he suspected, a calculating mind. Sigma could admire that.

So instead of brawling, he smiles. "...That is correct." He relaxes to clear his head, a hand hovers at his chin as he surveys the room. Seconds tick by in silence until he arrives at a conclusion: "From what I can gather," his hands move in a grand, sweeping gesture, "we must pass that energy beam through the indent in the wall." Said beam now rested in a straight line, boring a hot hole through inches of solid steel wall. The 'indent' that might receive it was some distance away, a clean path towards it obscured by pillars. Sigma smiles darkly: "Arranging those mirrored cubes should help us change the light's direction, but we run the risk of burning ourselves. I imagine if we make any wrong moves, it will be... with serious consequence." Mirrors- or, at least, the reflective substance that must repel the beam- also lined parts of the walls. It meant that if the other thought their partner had outlived their usefulness, hot light reflected in the right way would take care of them. But perhaps the room would become the victor's tomb as well, if they had misjudged the solution and the door did not open. A Pyrrhic victory if there ever was one. "I have always enjoyed a good challenge. What about you?"

Roland grunts, taking another look at the room. Enjoying this is irrelevant. It's got to be done, so he'll do it. But he's got to give more than that, doesn't he, because they're not quite allies yet. Were, in fact, about to fight a moment ago, and seeming too unfriendly could set them toward it again. Small talk does occasionally have its uses.

"Prefer a game of watch-me, myself." And then, because no one still in Panem knows what that is, "It's like poker. You know, sa- sir," Which isn't at all the word he wanted, but the machine in his head has never translated his world's speech very well and besides, the word's out now, "that I'm not inclined to trust you, and I'd be surprised if you didn't feel the same. I'd make a vow if I thought it'd make a difference to one such as you, but maybe there's some other arrangement we can come to. Some kind of exchange once this arena's ended. Then we'll both know the other has a reason to see us out of this alive and well." Roland's thoughts, obviously, have taken the same path as Sigma's have. It'd be far too easy to be rid of someone in this room, especially someone trustingly taking direction from the other on what to move where.

Edited 2014-12-28 01:30 (UTC)

As Roland indulges him, Sigma maintains his calm demeanor. He, personally, had never been good at cards; Akane and Kyle always managed to outwit him. His Panemian identity was the longest he had maintained a poker face, by far. "I will not betray you. I do not find it wise to kill one who might become an ally instead." He wondered if the audience would call his bluff after his betrayal of Ruffnut, but they were not active participants of the Arena. "And yet, I cannot think of anything outside of the Arena that I could offer you to reinforce this deal. If it is collateral that you seek..."

Sigma's hands move from his sides to clasp the machinery in his right eye - and with a twist, the cybernetic lens falls into his palm, and he holds it out to Roland. "Please, take this. Without it, I cannot use its special abilities; in fact, I cannot see from that eye at all. It is quite delicate; I believe any attempt on your life would break it. Rest assured it will not impede my performance during this puzzle." In the same breath, and with the same smile, Sigma continues: "...As for your end, I am not worried. I believe you will find yourself quite unable to betray me, first." He did not mean that Roland was incapable. His cryptic comment only implied that he would not be the one to draw first blood...

He holds himself still when the eye is removed, carefully not letting show that first instinctive expression of disgust. Looks from it to the man's expression and doesn't reach out for it. It's a goodwill sacrifice, but if he's still confident enough to make that last comment - which Roland understands just enough of to decide that it is a threat - then that sacrifice is useless. An empty gesture. Clearly this is a man who has had some experience with politics.

"Keep it," Roland decides, shaking his head. It may be a bad decision he just made, but then it may be best to look gracious, rather than call the man on a bluff that turns out to be every inch the threat it sounds. "The offer's enough."

He takes a couple steps forward, toward one of the mirrored blocks that sits nearby. There, stepped away from the doorway now. That's an expression of trust, even if there's no clear danger yet. Another sort of goodwill gesture. He'll just have to do this and trust himself to be quick enough to react to whatever might follow. "That arena you designed. Was it exactly like this, or only similar?"

Sigma shrugs his shoulders ever so slightly, pressing his 'eyeglass' back into its notch. "Very well, then." There is no madness in his words anymore, just resignation to the situation they have found themselves in. He had not meant for Roland to take his comment as a threat, but if his public face was going to be the rough equivalent of a cartoon villain, he will not make a correction. The fact that neither of them have introduced themselves yet is not lost on him; Sigma planned to do so if they survived this room. His cybernetics power back on with a near-silent whir, and he joins Roland in initiating the puzzle, choosing a mirrored block across from him and lifting it, deciding how to place it.

"It was similar," Sigma answers honestly. If revealing his past as a 'Gamemaker' had been a detriment, at least it gave them something to talk about while they worked. "It was on the moon, and it was also on a space station, of sorts. There were puzzle rooms that the 'Tributes' were required to solve, or else they would be unable to proceed through the Arena. In addition, I used the threat of fatal illness to keep them alert, which- if those Xenomorph eggs outside are any indication- the Gamemakers also plan to pay homage to. But there is always the possibility that this is all one big coincidence, I suppose... There is no voting on who will survive to the next round." He has his back turned to Roland, now, as sets his cube down gently in front of the beam - it deflects at a 90 degree angle, aimed away from Roland. It was his turn to move.

The moon. There's the chance that the other man's lying, as there always is when talking to anyone, but he doesn't think so. It's only that it sounds like one of Cuthbert's old jokes, those ridiculous fancies he'd go on about right up until - and usually after - someone threatened to strangle him for silence. That's right, a death-labyrinth where I could show off my skill! And I'd put it... on the moon! Why not? On the moon, so it would rise and fall with the passage of the day! Oh don't look so long-faced, Roland, plenty of room for both of us!

And there had been. For a while. But now Cuthbert's voice has rejoined those many voices of Roland's dead, and of course Bert's would be the one who spoke when Roland least wants the distraction of grief. He sighs and wills the voice away, feeling a little pang as the command's obeyed, as it rarely had been in life.

There's something else more important there, and Roland turns his attention to it. "You're familiar with those creatures? Don't suppose they have any weaknesses." He walks another few quiet steps after he's finished talking, decides the first thing is to start moving the light around that pillar. He shifts a block into place, angling it carefully to send the light toward one of the mirrored spots on the walls, and reflecting from there at an angle that sends it well away from both of them. It does not escape him that, for all the other man's experience, there has been no hint of advice. He'll just keep going until he needs it.

"Oh, yes," Sigma answers dryly. He remembers an age where he used to love the creatures, from a creative standpoint - that admiration had ceased shortly after his arrival in Panem. "In fact, you would be, yourself, had you arrived some time ago - this is not their first appearance in this world." He remains purposefully vague as he thinks of their next step. Arranging blocks haphazardly may get them killed. "They do have one weakness. It is fire. But I have not come across a source, yet." There was one more thing - Sigma decided he liked Roland, and would provide him with some potentially life-saving information: "...I have already alluded to this, but if I were you, I would give their eggs a very wide berth."

He finally slides a block into position and the light has maneuvered around the obstacle - just like that, their teamwork is beginning to resemble a solution. Now that they are reaching the end, Sigma can observe that the "goal" ahead was raised slightly above the level the beam sat at - eventually, one of them would have to tilt a mirror manually for the other to aim at. Doubt begins to prickle at his thoughts; would the other man keep his word in such circumstance? Certainly a body could prop up a cube up at an angle.

And of course, both those pieces of advice are going to be very useful. If they're true. But he isn't about to say that latter, insult this man over a matter they've already decided is unsolvable - the matter of trust. He starts crossing the chamber, deciding where to place their next piece, and for a moment looks up to follow Sigma's gaze.

"I'll keep that in mind," is all he says, because to Roland, very little has changed. Either the other man will try to kill him, or he won't. "Are those in the lower levels? Might've seen something likely while I was down there, but there was no time to look."

Another of their dwindling supply of blocks, the light again redirected, and they're that much closer to their end goal, and whatever circumstances are going to accompany it. Maybe it's time for another goodwill gesture of his own. "If you do go down there," he says, still squatting by his most recently moved block and watching the other man closely, "be very careful about stepping away from the light."

Sigma looks about the room uncomfortably, his replacement for fidgeting. He rather hoped those eggs were not in the lower levels, as the idea of anyone enduring a forced 'incubation' deeply disturbed him. He would, perhaps, kill himself or someone else - no matter who they were - rather than allow that fate to unfurl. "I do not know. I saw them outside, while I was finding my 'key.'" The cube that unlocked the door, of course. As for Roland's advice, he has not yet clued in to what he meant. "Why is that, exactly?"

"Because your, ah..." He searches his memory for the word the man'd used, saying it slowly and with care. "Xenomorphs aren't the only creatures here to fear. The one I fought in those lower levels was large, and quick, and only moved in shadow."

He glances at the end point of their little puzzle, then back to the other man with a dry look. "Of course, these places being what they are, we'll probably be killed by something else altogether. Are you ready to take our next turn? Or would you like me to finish us off?" Roland is not going to risk their brief truce by outright asking if the other man's lost what little trust they'd managed but, of course, he is not at all opposed to implying it.

Sigma listens to Roland, a hand hovering over his mouth thoughtfully. In spite of his occupation he had not the demented creativity of H. R. Giger. He could not imagine a creature that could produce more fear from him than a Xenomorph, other than, perhaps, a manifestation of his own past. But he did not doubt the Gamemakers had been attempting to imagine one their entire lives...

"...I will keep that in mind." There is gratitude in his voice, for Sigma was truly afraid. What did not frighten him was the possibility of betrayal and, calming himself, Sigma steps forward. There were no prophetic visions to be seen. "...I will do it." He does not bother to make a threat as he walks quickly towards the last unused block, kneeling to tilt it back and aiming it where they needed the beam to hit. All there was left to do was for Roland to turn the previous block until the beam was directed at Sigma's 'shield'. "...If you could act quickly. My knees are not what they used to be."

Roland snorts, because he knows that feeling, and leans to take the block in his hands. "Didn't think men of the Capitol let themselves get old." Design an arena, kidnap tributes and run them, it's all the same to Roland. It all puts you on the same side, a side there's no point in pretending that he's willing to forget about.

Which may not be the most reassuring sentiment to show while the man's life is directly in his hands, but then Roland's block turns slowly, precisely... and the light hits its target, and the door in front - and, judging by the sound, the one behind - opens. Even if he were about to betray everything he stands for and start killing for so little reason, he might not here - if the other man were dead, Roland wouldn't be able to figure from any possible response whether he really is from Panem. He could simply do the research once out of this arena, of course, but if there's a bigger pain in the ass than sorting through endless recordings of empty headed gossip for one specific tribute's history, Roland has not yet found it. Especially without even knowing that tribute's name.

"Try moving the light away a little before you put the block down. If the doors close when it moves, we might have a problem."

Sigma cannot help but laugh nervously at Roland's joke. It did not take an anthropologist to notice that the Capitol had a distaste for old age: it seemed only President Snow allowed himself to display the marks of his wisdom, and even then, Sigma could not place how many years the man might have lived. "A wise decision," Sigma hums, but he is tense until Roland concludes the puzzle. Hardly able to believe they succeeded, Sigma gently tilts the block as Roland instructed - it would be very Panemian of this puzzle if it were built to seal a Tribute away - and waits for the sound of bolts realigning into the lock.

When nothing happens, Sigma collapses against the block and releases a reassured sigh that he had not meant to hold. He had always meant for there to be a way for all of his players to succeed; perhaps this puzzle was made with him in mind, after all. He rises to his feet unsteadily, wiping the sweat from his brow and favouring his back, before speaking again:

"...Regrettably, I am not of the Capitol. If there were ways to delay age in the world I was from, I have yet to discover them." Straightening up, Sigma draws closer to Roland, stretching out his hand for a handshake. If he declined it, he certainly wouldn't be the first to deny him respect. "...My name is Dr. Sigma Klim. Thank you for helping me through this, sir. I don't believe I caught your name..."

Edited 2015-01-21 18:15 (UTC)

It hadn't been intended as a joke, but from someone who tends to speak with such confidence, the nerves in that laughter he got in reply are interesting. He notes them, and compares them with the man's obvious relief once the doors stay open. Normally he wouldn't be so suspicious of shows of emotion, especially in an arena, but for a man like this - sure. Roland's got suspicion in plenty.

Suspicion, though, is not enough that Roland does not want to hedge his bets. He straightens, too, and reaches his right hand to shake with about as firm a grip as you could expect from a hand without its two strongest fingers. "Roland Deschain, of district four." No matter that he's never seen that district, and doesn't intend to. He is Roland of Gilead no longer, and why not tell the man where he can find Roland, back in the Capitol? "Maybe next we meet, you'll tell me how someone not of this world came to design an arena."

He has a feeling Roland's curiosity is not without some disgust, but it was a topic worth discussing. Sigma had made his bed when he chose to become a Gamemaker; he had to lie in it. "Absolutely, Mr. Deschain," Sigma responds respectfully. He is an awkward man, but knows better than to pay the lack of fingers any mind. He pulls away from him and nods towards the door. "Would you like to go on ahead? If we are in close proximity when we leave, we may not be able to tell the sound of a threat from eachother. I will wait here awhile. The best of luck to you." He was genuine.

The disgust is there still, but it's outweighted by interest. Roland knows very little about Panem, still, and little about the Gamemakers and their inner workings - maybe even less than he'd thought. If Dr. Klim does mean that as more than polite nonsense he'll be providing Roland with information, and that is something which Roland will seldom refuse.

But - later. That's a matter for later. Roland notes it in his mind, then nods. "And you, Dr. Klim." He eyes the man a moment, then turns his back to him, and leaves. Not really a risk, but it feels like one anyway.

And then he's back out in the shining, sterile corridors of this latest arena, and it's time to file the whole encounter away. What happens to the other man now is his own business.

It's another lab where Kenny's sought refuge, one that holds showers to be precise -- and it's not until he hears the door sliding shut that he glances up from where he's nearly halfway through the "puzzle", wide-eyed. There are colourful lasers all over, like some kind of ridiculous light show, only it's quite clear by the way he's contorted himself that actually touching one of the lights will likely result in tripping something. Kenny's already fucked up another puzzle elsewhere--a mistake that led into a series of fucked-up events culminating in a mini-massacre--so now nothing in these rooms can be trusted.

Kenny seems to relax after a couple of seconds, though, in spite of how he's sort of twisted around between a blue and green laser with his foot carefully placed in front of a red one. He's looking pretty worse for wear: hair a dirty matted mess, bloodstains in various shades over his suit with the outer green shell all but melted and torn away, pallid face a mess of disgusting sores that have only barely started to heal. He feels practically skeletal in this suit, though with its sagging bulk it's not as apparent on the outside. In spite of all this, however, as soon as Kenny sees it's the cool cyborg dude from his floor his face lights up.

"Zero! Heyyy! Zero!" He's grinning--even if it's sort of lopsided against the broken skin at the corner of his mouth--and waving, excitedly but very carefully. Who knows if Zero will actually recognize the kid outside of the tightly-bundled clothes he normally wears, but Kenny's got to try and get his attention anyway.

It takes a moment to come down from his manic disbelief, and only once he does does he notice he is not alone. Sigma's psychic abilities mean he is cursed never to forget the worst of moments, but there are some advantages - such as the ability to compare an obscured face from memory to the boy who approaches him now.

Very few people called him 'Zero' without a note of disgust, anyway.

He starts towards him, waving back, perhaps a bit awkwardly - Sigma was not used to day-to-day social cues. He begins contorting himself around the lasers to get closer to his districtmate, remembering this would be his very first Arena-

"Kenny?"

-And stops suddenly, foot balanced over where rather festive red-and-green coloured lasers crisscross. He has noticed the blood on the child's clothes, the sores on his 'innocent' face. His foot narrowly avoids the sensors as it lowers to the ground, cybernetic eye busy studying the child, his skin a shade paler than his usual grey-white. "My god, you look terrible. Are you alright? What happened to you?" Where there had once been a monster who had boasted of a bloody history, there is now honest, almost grandfatherly concern in his features.

It's not the door closing that startles Albert; he's been through enough of the station now that little things like that are to be expected. No, it's the sudden appearance of another man floating in the room. He supposes that shouldn't actually be surprising, given that there are technically over a hundred other Tributes - give or take - but the space station is rather vast and he's been... preoccupied.

Desolate, more like.

Jet's gone.

It shouldn't hit him this hard anymore, he's tried to reason with himself. It's the Arena, they're expected to die, and this time he'd even helped to do in his husband's killer and now Jet is back out in the Capitol, safe (for the moment) from all this. And he didn't die falling apart in space again so that's something. But no, Jet dying never loses its impact, never gets easier to handle, and reckless as it is Albert had split himself off from his allies and gone to walk the halls of the station alone and found himself here, in the zero gravity room with all the strange push-blocks. It's probably a puzzle. He doesn't much care.

Death doesn't hold fear for him anymore. Why should it, when all it means is he wakes up and can be at his husband's side again? As guilty of a feeling that is too. He should be helping people, should be protecting his allies and friends, but what's the point when all but one of them will die regardless? It's futile.

And here's Sigma, he recognizes the other cyborg now from across the room. Sigma who decided they should be friends simply because of their mutual deformities, who's lead Eponine into the den of evil and is attempting to corrupt her entirely into the Capitol's ways of thinking. Sigma, who's betrayed all of his fellow Tributes with his actions.

Something in Albert snaps a little, under all the grief and stress, and while Sigma's laugh rings out from the other end of the room, Albert pushes himself from the wall and comes straight for him.

There are few people Sigma could fear in the Arena and Albert was one of them - Sigma, once, was also volatile with love and knew better than to take on a man who would fight for it. But the Gamemaker was also proud, and his disgust could override reason. Sigma spins his body in space to see who is coming for him... and could choke to death on his own hatred. Someone who might boast of being above the Capitol desired to play their game. Someone who acted like he was the better man was willing to make the first move. The old cyborg's eyes light up with a primordial instinct and he prepares himself for a fight to the death.

But first, Sigma wants him furious, too. He knows he is outmatched and wants the stronger, younger man to make a mistake. His words reverberate off of the walls, though there is barely the time to speak them: "I see you are as inclined towards brutishness as you are impertinence. Then kill an old man and call yourself a hero!"

And he stands there like a brick wall and waits to see what else Albert is made of.

Albert doesn't respond right away, instead letting his momentum carry him close to Sigma and following through to crunch the man against the nearest bulkhead with teeth-rattling force, locking eyes with the older-appearing but likely younger man.

"I'm no hero, but I don't corrupt the young and vulnerable for my own ends." His voice is cold, the same chill of the void outside the station, colder than the Arctic and twice as biting. This is Albert when he's truly angry, no fire and brimstone but frigid wind howling through frozen wastes.

He could kill Sigma right here, pop the knife from his left hand and run it thought the other cyborg's throat with little fanfare, but Sigma's words give him pause whether he wants to admit it or not. He hesitates, giving his opponent the time to think and struggle.

The Doctor, in dire need of a reminder that he is no longer young, takes the blow hard - and is winded as he connects with the partition. In spite of this, Sigma makes no motion to escape, not yet. His heart skips, his eye widens with surprise - and then his expression falls into a reassured calm. He had not foreseen his death, and yet he had not been doomed. His taunt had surely bought him time.

His breath is labored with pain, but Sigma can manage a smirk, Albert's fury kicking up bitterness. Had he said 'corrupt?' Oh, this boy... "Are you talking about Eponine? I have done no such thing... or is one no longer permitted to speak with their own daughter?"

Still Sigma does not struggle. He wants to predict Albert's next move - and, more than that, he has a point to prove.

"You are not her father." His voice is a hissed whisper, bringing with it a tone so icy it nearly makes a frost.

Why doesn't Sigma fight him? Doesn't he know Albert means to kill to get his point across? Only he doesn't, not right away. He can't force himself to do much more than hold the other man there and rattle him against the bulkhead. Whatever Sigma's crimes, killing in cold blood is never something Albert has enjoyed or sought to do in his right mind. There were times of grief, times of madness brought on by Arena food or similar, even times of retribution such as in the case of Perry, but this is... different. And he can't make himself do it unless Sigma at least attempts to defend himself.

Sigma had meant for his statement to be a revelation to Albert, to give him a reason to leave Eponine out of the discussion - and his denial enrages Sigma. Smirk wiped clean from his face, the Doctor's brown-green eyes narrow, his gaze locking with Albert's as his face contorts with rage.

"I am her father!" There's a sort of desperation to those words, as if Sigma has yet to convince himself. "Blood relation does not matter - should not matter. It is my responsibility to look after her." The sentence tastes differently than when he had told Donatello that the Tribute the mutant had killed had shared his flesh and blood. Sigma knows that in spite of all the love he could give, relation did not tie them together, and Eponine's favour of him would eternally hang by a thread - now Sigma's fists clench, the gears inside Sigma's archaic cybernetics whir and prepare for action. His decision to let Albert move first has been suddenly revoked.

He wants to scream back, wants to rail at Sigma for being part of the problem, for allowing Eponine to fall back so easily from the growing pains of youth into adulthood and wallow in childish wants and reactions. She'll never survive like that, as she is, and Albert knows he hadn't helped in buying her that doll, but he hadn't known any better at the time.

Sigma does.

But Albert doesn't have time to try to explain, not with a metal fist aiming to do him harm. He raises his own arm to grab at the man's wrist and prevent the strike, his own cybernetic arm's servos silent in their metal casing.

Sigma has always been, above all, terrified of loss - the thought of losing Eponine as he lost Kyle puts ice in his blood. This makes him quick to interpret Albert's movement as an act of violence, as a threat to take away his life and his daughter, and something snaps in the gentle man. He's twenty two years old again and staring into Dio's eyes - Dio, who would gamble with the life of a child - and he's seeing red.

He tries to jerk violently away from the other cyborg's grasp, acutely aware he no longer holds the advantage in strength. His cybernetic eye narrows and locks on Albert's face just before he raises his own arm to punch his opponent in the chest.

The weightlessness of the room helps in that regard, Albert able to flip up entirely out of the way, using Sigma's own arm's jerk as momentum to avoid the punch. It's hard to get any power in zero gravity and so it likely wouldn't have hurt much in comparison to a regular blow, but he can't run the risk of Sigma being somehow stronger with his cybernetic arm than Albert's own metal chest plating.

The flip sends the German towards the ceiling and his feet hit the tiles there. It's a strange vantage point, especially since the room looks virtually the same from this perspective as well. He briefly wonders if it's because of whatever puzzle the room entails in order to escape it but the lion's share of his attention is still on Sigma, his rage, and Albert's own cold address of the same.

"She doesn't need a father, she needs to stand on her own and think for herself!"

The Doctor wonders if the two of them must tear each other apart, component by component, without weapons or gravity. For an instant Sigma laments his arm is not the sharp splinter it was in the last Arena, but he is not so desperate to break it again to stab Albert. Instead Sigma pushes himself down the wall - it was the gravity on earth that was alien to him, having lived in almost zero a vast majority of his life - floating across the room with ease and lifting a large puzzle block into his arms.

"She is still a child," Sigma spits. His feet against the wall, Sigma kicks off of it hard and transfers his momentum to the block, pushing against it with herculean strength and sending it spinning towards Albert. "She is not ready. She needs guidance!" Above all, she needed protection from the Capitol... a powerful figure to bury her mistakes. She had already been executed once, 'thinking for herself,' though no one but Sigma and Eponine remained to know that secret. Left to her own devices, he believed Eponine would become not an independent woman but an overgrown child who had never been taught how to behave.

Edited 2015-01-21 17:14 (UTC)

The moment he steps into the lab, he knows he's made a mistake. There are no windows here. It's bright, white, sterile, motherfucking suffocating. He can feel a panic entirely his own rearing up in his chest.

The door locks behind him and he whirls, but doesn't make no move for it. He won't beat on the door this time, as he did when the ship sunk deep into the ocean. He won't whine nor break. He has to move along.

But it's hard to focus on moving along when he can't see a way out. When his head is spinning to fast to grasp what things he needs to do. Abruptly, he's sitting down on the floor, clutching his aching head in his hands and trying, trying, trying to pull the fear back or otherwise attune himself to it.

The laughs sounds. His head lifts up.

"SIGMA!"

Sigma turns at the sound and, briefly, finds himself in another time: an Arena where he and the boy before him had both clawed at a sealed door desperately, where the waiting to die had been far worse than the sharp shock that fried Sigma's cybernetics and ended his life. Kurloz had not been so lucky. At least there is comfort in knowing that this door could be coaxed open, that it would play by the rules he had written as Zero. The laughter is cut from his throat and Sigma makes his way as quickly as his feet will take him over to his son.

"Initiate!" It must have been designed to be familiar, meeting with a person he knew so well- and simultaneously knew so little about- in a deadly puzzle room. Had it truly been 45 years since he had met Phi in this way? The memory was still too fresh to be nostalgic. "I am thankful that you turned out to be my 'partner' this time..."

But at odds with his memory is the suspicion that something that should be there is gone. He watches the Initiate grip his own head and places it, a bitter taste on his tongue. The relief in his voice has vanished.

"Your horns..."

He's rising (only a little unsteady) back to his feet. His head still spins, but if he can focus on Sigma, not anything else of this room, it's not so bad. The fear is something he can ride along on.

A smile fragile graces his face for a moment or two. Parnters. Ha. There's something funny about all that in a way he's not sure he could full and proper explain to Sigma. But it's apt, and warming, as all to be considered and considered gratefully.

"Gone," He answers quick, like it was being question. "WOULDN'T HAVE FIT UP IN THE HELMETS. Ain't really made for space, me." Said the alien in wry joking tones. "GOTTA SAY AS IT BE GOOD TO SEE YOU TOO."

Sigma drops his gaze, certain Kurloz had not easily accepted the change, not at first. He imagines his boy alone in the silence of the Cornucopia, perhaps in a cold sweat under the mask of his helmet, as Sigma left the battleground behind him. Why was it that, for all of his good intentions, he could be nothing but a cruel and distant father?

"I suppose that would have been a difficult fit, indeed. Still... I am sorry." These days, to apologize for something seemed as though he spoke on behalf of the Capitol. He knew there would be no more apologies once his time as a Tribute was up.

He is not so insulting as to rush to his side, but watches the Initiate rise to ensure he does not stumble. Now that his shock has abated, he senses a fear in the air that is not his own, and wonders how much of it was Kurloz' power versus the troll's own terror. "Are you well..?" The question spills from his lips warmly and unfiltered.

He hardly thought of Sigma as cruel and distant. He had known cruel and distant. It had, in fact, been all he'd known, until Sigma. And yet, he'd still needed that old goat. Had wanted him dearly and desperate. With Sigma, such wanting was not so futile.

Instead, it was a blessing unexpected every damn time.

"Ain't nothing what all you did," He says, both soft and firm. "I..." He looks around the room upon the question, not quite sure what proper answer he should give. Finally, he admits, eyes dropping down and hands curling into fists as to keep steady, "I DON'T MUCH LIKE IT HERE."

A simple enough answer. One what covered the truth of the medical building he was silenced in, the room in which they'd been locked to drown.

Sigma is, at first, oblivious. White... what was it about this room that would make Kurloz uncomfortable? He had not reacted badly (all things considered) to his cybernetic blood. Was it reminiscent of the seagoat? Unlikely. He decides the white halls and clean features of the cruiseliner might be the answer. But the last half of the truth occurs to him slowly; the Doctor had come to accept laboratories and confined spaces as natural and homely, and when it hits him that the sterile theme of the room may be what he fears, Sigma flinches.

"Ah..." He does not want to picture it, the image of the Initiate bleeding from the mouth that infects his thoughts. You can hurt me, his son had once assured him, but Sigma can not allow the construction to become real twice. He can not, will not allow Kurloz to become the shadow of himself he had been that last Arena, afraid of whitewash and closed doors. The cringe on Sigma's face is in response to a suddenly upset stomach. "...Yes, I think I can understand why. ...Initiate," anywhere else, that wouldn't have been his name right now, "we shall proceed quickly."

He gestures about the room, a place crisscrossing with light bridges and bright red beams, with confidence. "Would you believe these areas are similar to my own design? My 'Arena' had puzzles as its central mechanic. As it so happens, I am rather good at them..." Only Initiate could understand him enough to be reassured by his talent for solving deadly traps, Sigma thought.

He winces himself, for as the image flashes across Sigma's mind, there's enough fear in it that he can see it too. For one moment, he's strapped back in a chair. In another moment, he's of a different life entirely, world fogged for it not being a memory his, taking shaking hold of a six sweep old Meulin with green and indigo all over his hands, the latter spilling...

He grips one arm, keeping his eyes down and the visions out of Sigma's head. He nods, both in gratitude and agreement for their progressing on.

There's a dark nostalgia in being so proud of something what all caused grief. Their abilities of slaughter highlighted skill, intellect, strength. So much of the time they were weighed down with the guilt of that. But every so often, as of now, they could push past it and recognize it, just for the effort it took more than the havoc it caused. With Sigma, he could grin just that little bit and proper appreciate with a whistle and muttering of, "Damn..."

He knows Sigma will understand, like others won't.

"GUESS THAT'S BEING GOOD FOR US GETTING OUT THEN, AIN'T IT?"

Edited 2015-01-24 23:28 (UTC)

He watches the way Kurloz lower his eyes, curl into himself, and realizes what must have been seen. Though the moment passes quickly, Sigma gets the impression the other is concealing far worse from him, and his guilt is mixed with gratitude. The truth was surely more terrible than what his imagination could conjure, and to know it would take the wind from him. At all costs, they must move forward; for Kurloz's sake, especially.

So Sigma laughs, a dark, self-deprecating sort. Though Kurloz withheld their telepathic link- and Sigma had no news anyway, nothing to show for his months of hard work- he felt understood, nonetheless. "I would agree." He finally gets a good look about the room, and realizes he never checked to make certain the door was truly locked on the other side. It bothers him, but he shelves his compulsion for the sake of staying near Kurloz. The light bridges were arranged in an unusual pattern, and it occurred to Sigma that they were moving. Across two of them shone steady red beams. "...It appears to be a timing puzzle. Those mirrored blocks in the corner of the room," he motioned to a stack of four against the wall, "they will reflect that red light. I know so, because the puzzle in a previous room utilized them. There were much more than four, however..." He touches a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "...We should see if those flat beams can be phased through. I already know the red ones are hot, so I would not recommend going near it if you can manage..." He laughed again hollowly.

Edited 2015-01-30 04:05 (UTC)

He looks from the phasers, to the blocks what all Sigma's pointed out. Well, Sigma would be the expert up on this noise. (And truly, thank fuck for that. He was clever enough, but it was hard to concentrate here, and really, this all just screamed science anyway, something what all wasn't his sort of expertise.)

He moves to those blocks. They seem heavy, but not enough that he can't move them. He's significantly strong anyway.

He gets on behind them and starts to push one over. "Perhaps using this?" He suggests to Sigma.

He watches Kurloz make his move and grins. Sigma supposes he developed nothing short of Stockholm syndrome when it came to solving puzzles, but after an infinite amount of time working through them, he had begun to enjoy them and was proud to see Kurloz work towards an answer. The feeling of accomplishment after a good puzzle was always a thrill. Shame about the circumstances. "Perfect. Bring it here," he says excitedly, jaunting towards the nearest light bridge. When tried, the light bridge would indeed act as a solid object and would move the mirrored block to the end of its path against the wall - as the block passed the red beam that ran perpendicular to the light bridge, it would reflect it until the block was carried away. It would be prudent to watch where one stood.

Sigma's excitement... well, he's not sure how else all he could look at it but to say it was cute as fuck. It feels good to see him so excited. It's nice to see him getting his happiness up and on.

He pushes that block along right up to where Sigma asks. He has to hide the grin on his face, but admittedly, doesn't do a very good job up on it.

Then comes following after.

Sigma sees Kurloz trying to hide his smile and it vastly improves his mood. He was reminded of the camaraderie in his puzzle rooms, where happiness could come out of terrible situations. In response to the bridge's stability, Sigma punches his palm with his other hand, feeling victorious. "Excellent. Okay..." Sigma stops to think, concentrating as his eyes dart about the room. "In the other room... There was a place where the beam could be shone into that would open the door. I do not see one inside here. But...!"

He follows the mirrored block down to the end of the light bridge and carries it back to the start. "I want to try something. I think if we can get the red light to shine into all four of the blocks at once - so the red light is one continuous beam- the door might just open. I've seen more outrageous solutions. But since the bridges are moving and the light only shines above the bridges, it'll require good timing. Think you can help me?" In other words, if the blocks were laid down so they all hit the middle of their bridges at the same time, the light would reflect in a square-shaped pattern. Very 'Legend of Zelda'-like, he thought; like that part in the Spirit Temple where Link had to use a series of mirrors to beam light through metal bars... The Gamemakers were speaking his language today.

The Initiate was fond of humor in the harder spots. He was a member of the Cult of the Mirthful Messiahs afterall. He was an Alternian troll. If he didn't find mirth in these tough spots, he wouldn't find it up at all. He can appreciate this moment for exactly what all it is.

And what it is, is something Sigma knows familiar. Something he'd almost get to calling fun, like he himself had called strife, once. Before.

He nods along with what Sigma is saying, gears clicking up in his mind as all he starts to work it on out. Getting them all about and together up at once might mean working this quick. Risk was being burnt on through, but, fuck it.

He laughs. "AIN'T GOT NOTHING WHAT'S BEING BETTER AS AT TO DO. Lead on, O' Captain." He'd do whatever Sigma asked.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[OPEN] Let's play a Game: this time, it's my choice...

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Sorry about the delay! Link is just for a similar example

no worries :D

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Seek A Way Out!

ehehe (oh god I suck at puzzles)

ahaha me too...

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