Carnage in the Caves

[etcircenses]

Who| Participants in the bloodbath
What| Murder and mayhem ensue after the jabberjays chase people into the caves.
Where| Deep within the caves. This area of the caves cannot be broken into or escaped from until 24 hours have passed.
When| Over a twenty-four hour period beginning now.
Warnings/Notes| Violence, death, gore, etc. You have been assigned a target to kill, but you may run into other characters in the caves as well.

The jabber jays begin their screaming, driving you deep into the caves in an attempt to escape the cries of your loved ones being tortured, beaten, or killed. When the maddening sounds finally cease, you will find yourself trapped in a series of corridors and caves, sealed tight with no chance for escape. Luckily there are plenty of weapons and supplies at hand (machetes, axes, hunting knifes, swords, maces, spears, clubs, hammers, scythes, bows & arrows, food, water, clean clothes), but any delusions of good fortune are soon squashed when an announcer assigns each person a target and gleefully informs you that you must kill your target within 24 hours or else you will run out of oxygen and die.

Over the next 24 hours, you will be tasked with killing this person in any manner you can. You may also happen upon other unfortunate souls trapped in the caves, but be wary of befriending them down here. They're on a mission too, and there's no rules against collateral damage.  

Good luck, and don't forget to put on a show.

Comments

for Rick and eventually Clint

[shenunigans]

At this rate, Dave should know better than to follow ominous birds and harrowing sounds. The fact that it could be a trick occurs to him somewhere in the back of his mind, but apprehension is outweighed by hefty amounts of experience with the Capitol. The screams he's hearing are from people who haven't even made it here, but it wouldn't be the first time they've pulled in a victim to dance around the ring for them.

Typically, Dave doesn't make it far into his quest for discovery before he's treading on ice and not rock and losing his footing. It's a tumble into the cave that leads him to Cornucopia 2 Electric Boogaloo, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's fucked up here. He brushes himself off and makes for a sword, taking it in his hand as the exits are sealed off and cocking his head to the side when the announcements are made.

His first instinct is to get the fuck away from populated areas, so he delves into the cave quickly. Who the fuck is Rick, though? He's pretty sure Clint is an Avenger, but he's never met or heard of the other guy. He's in no particular rush to kill either of them, but as the hours crawl on he begins to grow more and more paranoid. Every footstep could be this Rick guy trying to take him out. Clint is a wildcard, he could be in it to win it too.

He doesn't blame either of the hypothetical enemies he's created, really. He's starting to want to get out of here himself. His heart is racing and his grip on his sword is tight, he's rounding corners carefully but his thoughts are so loud he can hardly hear anything but himself.

[rictator]

Regardless of its impermanence, the wound left by Daryl's death was fresh and already festering. So long as Beth was there, breathing, Rick had a purpose - He had no intentions of abandoning her. It was for that reason he'd withdrawn, pulling away as he struggled to contain his own hurt; even back home, he'd developed an unhealthy habit of boxing away his more turbulent emotions, postponing grief until he was better equipped to handle it... Laughable as the notion was, that they'd ever see a break in the hell they faced. Too often it felt like they were jumping from the frying pan into the fire, his mourning put on an indefinite hold.

Even knowing they'd be reunited in the Capitol, the loss had affected them both. They'd already lost too many, and for Daryl to die after everything... It wasn't the first time they'd had to put down one of their own, but this time had cut particularly deep. Rick couldn't help but wonder if he was finally brushing up against his limits, realizing the edges of his own humanity; he'd watched one of those closest to him die twice now, knowing he was doomed to repeat it over and over for the foreseeable future. A part of him knew it was only a matter of time before he collapsed in on himself again, dependent on which of them they'd be burying next.

That was why, even had he been in a better state of mind, Rick would always have proved himself easy prey to the Jabberjays.

They played him like a goddamned fiddle, their false cries striking on too familiar chords; he'd been down this particular path once before, following the whispers of the dead, chasing ghosts. The mimicked sob of his wife had been enough to rattle already cracked foundations, while Shane's choked shout tugged at the thread that threatened to unravel him. He knew in his heart they were dead. They were dead, gone, and this wasn't real; they couldn't have been there.

His son, on the other hand, could have been.

Something snapped within him then, breaking down logical thought and crushing every self-preservatory urge into little more than background noise.

Carl.

It was only when he'd heard his son's voice among the horrific chorus that he'd broken out into a run, ignoring the way the breath felt as though it had been forced from his lungs. The birds were thick overhead then, wheeling and darting past, almost seeming to usher him back towards the gaping mouth of the cave as they flew. They'd bedded down there for weeks without any sign of him - but he'd arrived late in the last arena, so it wasn't impossible. The voices didn't seem to come from any real direction, reverberating off the trees as though coming from the birds themselves - but it was him. The screams were too real, too pained to be anything or anyone else.

He needed it to be him. He needed to know that this wasn't just him falling apart again, buckling under the weight of his own loss. He would find him, he would be in time, and he would save him. He couldn't bury his son, he would find him, he couldn't bury anyone else that he-

Rick was already too deep in the tunnels before he was aware the voices had faded, Carl's cries echoing in his mind long after the true sound had stopped. The announcer's voice was meaningless, his words didn't matter, just as their newest game didn't. None of it did so long as there was even the glimmer of a chance that Carl was lost down there, Rick already too far gone to care how little sense he was making.

He needed to protect his family. That was what mattered.

Dave and Clint were the furthest thing from his mind when he pulled one of the axes down from the wall, his shoulders tense and ready for attack as he headed back down the maze of tunnels. If Carl was there, he would find him - God help anyone who tried to stand in the way of that.

[shenunigans]

As the minutes trickle onward, Dave can feel himself growing more and more wary of every sound. Everything echoes in these damn caves, the tunnels are going every which-way and he could run into anyone. After his encounter with Black Tom last Arena and Molotov the Arena before that, his weak trust in people had been strained all the more.

Anyone could leap out at any moment and it would be over. Boom. He considers that people could be in the same situation as him, a little overwhelmed and very fucking paranoid, but he needs to look out for himself. He got himself in this stupid mess, he needs to come out alive and find Feferi again.

The damn voices are still ringing in the back of his head and making it harder and harder to focus on a hinged thought. He needs to get out of this damn hellhole, but he isn't going anywhere until he finds the people who own those names. Rick. Clint. God. The only way he's leaving is via the hovercraft once he's good and dead.

He rounds the corner a little too quickly and Rick comes walking up a little too fast. Dave struggles to read his expression, but it looks like one he doesn't want to fuck with. His sword is held out in front of him and his arms jerk forward protectively, seemingly confused as to whether he wants to attack Rick or back up. His eyes are trained on the other guy's face as he makes his clumsy movements, trying to read for any sign of what to expect.

[rictator]

In the heat of the moment, the only thing that truly registered was imminent threat.

Rick saw the flash of the sword more than its wielder, his body reacting before he could fully process what had happened. Years of hardwired survival instinct reared its head, clawing its way back to the surface of his addled thoughts; he wasn't going to be finding anyone if he was dead. That revelation and its effects were instantaneous, having already twisted just out of range as the weapon grazed his side and sliced neatly through layers of blood stained parka. His snarl was nothing short of feral as he brought his own axe around in a tight, retaliatory arc, fully intending to cleave his attacker's skull in two...

... only to stop short. The blade hung in the air as though stopped by some invisible force, his white-knuckled grip on the handle tightening in tandem with the vice around his chest. Painful recognition flickered briefly across his features, Carl's voice still fresh in his memory.

Dad! Dad, please-

It wasn't so much that Dave looked like his son, because in truth, he didn't. The fair hair, the shape of his face... All of the finer details were wrong. It had been the smaller, leaner frame that had given him pause, his shape just similar enough to make Rick falter; had he been thinking clearly, his mind wouldn't have been so quick to leap to such a distant connection, desperate and grasping at what it could. It was far too easy to imagine him in Dave's place, and part of him wondered if he maybe he was imagining all this...

In the end, it didn't matter. Real or not, he couldn't bring himself to follow through.

[shenunigans]

Dave makes his choice quickly. He knows the look in Rick's eyes, he saw it in Tom and Molotov seconds before they plunged their blades in his gut and called it a day. Rick means business and Dave has no want to take that axe to his head. He's tired of dying and coming off looking weak and incompetent.

He won't use anyone as fodder to look impressive, but his reflexes snap where Rick's halt. He doesn't understand the look of recognition, he's never seen Rick face to face like this in his life. He barely registers anything as he makes his lunge forward. His movements are quick and his blade is plunging deep into Rick's chest as fast as it's being pulled out.

There's so much blood, warm blood. Dave is cold to his fingertips and toes when the realisation hits, all he can do is stare through his shades at Rick's face with an expression of surprise.

"Shit." He hisses, casting a glance down to his bloodied sword and back to Rick's clean axe. "My bad." He spits out, unsure if he should really be apologising for this. The guy hesitated, though, he didn't. Does that make him the asshole? Should he have ran instead? This is exactly how this should have gone and he still feels incredibly fucked up for it.

[rictator]

He didn't hear the sound as the axe hit the floor, clumsy fingers no longer able to retain their grip.

It wasn't as though Rick was any stranger to pain. Shot, stabbed, beaten half to death - He'd brushed with his own mortality more times in the past few years than most did in their entire lifetimes. He'd already seen the end once, courtesy of the Capitol, and had been forced to come back and experience the cycle all over again; at least the last time, it had been quick and painless.

This time, the absence of that pain only made it all the more surreal; the shock had temporarily masked it, made him numb to the agony he knew he should have been feeling. He was vividly aware of the space occupied by the blade; he could feel everything, from the way the sword caught one of his ribs as it was jerked free to the heat of the blood that spilled forth in its wake. Too much blood, thick and dark against his stained jacket. The moment was somehow both quick and excruciatingly long, his mind racing with the adrenaline and yet not quite able to piece things together.

He opened his mouth, but the only sound he managed was choked by a mouthful of blood, unable to breathe as the air was ripped from his pierced lung. Dizziness hit him like a brick wall and he stumbled back a few paces, a hand pressed weakly to the wound; whether it was a futile attempt to stem the flow or just plain disbelief, even he wasn't sure.

... Was this how Shane had felt?

[cognitived]

The first bird had scared him, a scream in a once familiar voice ringing in his ears. He'd turned, stunned, and suddenly the quiet of the world was shattered, too many familiar voice screaming his name, screaming for help, aching, aching, digging down deep beneath his sternum into the softly beating pulp of his heart. He hadn't followed the sounds of his long dead parents, or the sound of his brother yelling for him -- because there was no way, there was no way.

But then he heard Natasha's perfect bell of a voice ring out, terrified in the way she once was. Back when he first brought her to SHIELD, and she woke up still locked in a dream, crying out in Russian and English and some mix of both. Clint is many things, but he's loyal to his friends. And Natasha is the most important person in his book.

He runs, ducking birds divebombing him, singleminded in his pursuit. He notices the caves, but that was fine -- they'd been living in caves, hadn't they? Maybe she got pinned down in one. Except he plunges into the darkness and the cave seals behind him and the screaming cuts off, echoes.

And that's when he starts to feel real goddamn stupid. But for all the message the Capitol leaves him, and the bow and arrows awaiting him, Clint doesn't see anybody for hours. Hell, he has no idea who Rick or Dave are. They could be giant purple aliens for all he knows.

But eventually, there's the sound of battle, the clatter of metal on ground, the gurgle of someone choking on their own blood. He pads carefully forward, arrow at the ready, and keeps an eye out. Doesn't expect a kid pulling a sword from between the ribs of someone.

"Shit."

He hisses, a quiet exhale. Doesn't let the point of his arrow drop one centimeter. If he's lucky, Dave wouldn't have noticed him and he can back out, carefully. If he's not, well, then he'll deal with it.