thearena | [open]

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Who| Draco Malfoy and anyone nearby
What| Draco fell into a crevasse, and he can't get up. Except that he totally can.
Where| a crevasse!
When| throughout the second week
Warnings| language and death

Draco wasn't finding this Arena nearly as bad as the last few. Perhaps because he'd actually made an attempt at things. An attempt at the Cornucopia - he'd received more supplies than he knew what to do with; an attempt at an alliance - he'd sadly lost Wyatt one evening after he'd found Momoko, but it was the point of the thing; an attempt at killing - Howard had sustained injuries that he hadn't expected himself to manage. It was an Arena of firsts, and though something deep inside him shivered at the thought of killing another Tribute in cold blood, despite having already done it the last time around, he was starting to get the hang of this.

Still, there was something so much more civilised about the Capitol, he thought. And without the illness of the last Arena to drive him around the place in search of people, Draco had found himself currently holing out in a crevasse. He heard people going by every now and then, but he had all the supplies he needed, suddenly grateful that he hadn't wasted his canned goods in the first few days like he'd thought he might.

It was only when he reached out for a can that evening and had it fly to his hand without prompt (though perhaps an internalised Accio can) that he realised maybe this Arena wasn't so bad at all.

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It was a couple of days after he'd initially found himself in there. He'd gotten the grasp on some of his more basic magic, though it was pretty obvious that he'd need his wand in order to do much else. He was hoping, in the back of his mind, that one of the sponsors had seen him practicing by himself and would take pity on the poor demagicked wizard with the pretty blond hair sometime soon. At the very least, he'd figured out how he could levitate himself back up and out of the crevasse, though it had taken the better part of a day to manage.

Finally, he'd done it, and once he had, he didn't really plan on going back down there, not for the amount of effort it had taken. So with that, he'd set up camp just at the edge, wrapping himself up in his sleeping bag, his pack stuffed far down at his feet to protect it from anyone who might think he was an easy mark.

It's colder at night. That much should have been obvious to Howard, but it still manages to surprise him how frigid it is. The snow has soaked through his boots, melting around his feet and ankles, making each step feel like walking on broken bones. His nose has been intermittently bleeding again, leaving frozen tracks down over his mouth and chin. Occasionally he licks at it, but that means breathing through his mouth, which is slightly more painful than breathing through his nose in this weather. His underfed body doesn't have any built-in protections against the cold, and even in Eponine's discarded layers he worries he's shivering away all the weight he gained back.

But he can't find a place to hide and sleep now. He's lost track of Alpha and Sigma. He doesn't know where they are. But what bothers him more is that he's lost Eponine, and he's furious with her no matter where she is. If she's being pampered back at the Capitol, he's jealous, angry at her for 'cheating' her way there. If she's dead for good, he's livid with her for being so stupid as to think the sponsors would approve of suiciding your way out. It's the anger and the fact that moving keeps one from freezing to death that keeps him fumbling around through the dark, sleeping bag on his back and rope tied around his waist and shoulders.

He only stops when he gets near the edge of a gulf in the ice. It yawns open as if threatening to devour the landscape and anyone careless enough to get close. He starts walking along the side of it, but stops as he sees a dark figure, not jagged enough to be a rock. A sleeping bag. He knows Sigma had one, so he gets closer, trying to see if he can make out who it is or if they've already frozen to death. He doesn't want to kill anyone, but he'll happily scavenge, even steal.

But his mind changes when he approaches enough to see a wisp of blonde hair against fair skin. All that anger he was directing at Eponine finds a new victim - not just for the injury in his side or petty conflicts over spilled drinks, but because he recognizes Draco from what Eponine told him, of having her throat cut and her killer not even feigning the proper respects afterwards. Howard may have called her cannon fodder, but surely Draco proved it.

It's some kind of mad impulse that makes him move forward, not even sure what he'll do next. Maybe he'll slash Draco's sleeping bag to ribbons. Maybe he'll take any belongings Draco has. It's foreign to Howard, the desire to hurt someone, out of malice rather than panic or defense. His mind conjures up satisfying scenarios, of forcing Draco to strip down as Eponine had to freeze in his underwear, or just of making Draco afraid, very afraid of the knife at his throat, of playing with Draco's fear like a child with spray-string - and some part of Howard's head, underneath the fear and stress and pain and sleeplessness, says no, no, you're not a violent person, what are you doing?

He grabs the drawstring to Draco's bag and pulls it tight on his fist, sealing Draco's limbs from motion. The knife, streaked with blood from sea birds, goes up against Draco's throat. He lays his knee on Draco's side to discourage struggling.

"Wake up."

While staying in one place was one's best bet in the snow, it was also mighty boring for all involved. So Riddick ventured out of his hole in the snow to explore at dawn and dusk, when it wasn't too bright but wasn't too cold. He found the crevices, but didn't try to climb into one until he spotted a familiar blonde head at the bottom of it.

"Somebody looks cozy," he called down, trying to make his tone sound amiable despite having to yell. He had his goggles on and was snug in his coat and hood, with the remains of his food and his firestarting kit tucked away in various pockets and layers, but Draco looked even snugger down there.

He wasn't exactly in a deep sleep, but it had been deep enough. Deep enough that he hadn't heard Howard coming, hadn't heard the crunch of footfalls against the packed snow. His sleeping bag was remarkably warm, and though he'd been grateful for it before, he was even more so now, when it almost completely kept out the cold. He was almost downright warm. Certainly, he'd have gotten a better sleep if he'd stayed down below, in the crevasse, able to finally feel his magic running through his veins again instead of damped, the way it was up here, but there was only so much he could ask for.

Draco woke up with a jolt, eyes suddenly flying open and wide as he gaped as his assailant. The first instinct was to reach for his wand - useless; he didn't have it here - the second, to go for his harpoon. Just as useless; the way that Howard had his bag sealed left but his face uncovered, left to the open nip of the air. Fear lingered for a moment before being eclipsed by pure, unadulterated anger. Every time he met up with this man - boy, he was realising - one of them had to come out on top, and it was fairly obvious who it would be this time.

He was already starting to plan out the horrid things he'd do to Howard when next he got the chance. In the Arena or out of it. All he needed wa a Sponsor, his magic back, a wand, and he'd be fine. Howard wouldn't know what hit him.

He didn't say anything at first. The knife at his throat dissuaded it, and it wasn't like he had anything to say.

Howard's tone is angry in some attempt at intimidating, but there's a certain high-pitch to it, a certain tremor and accelerated pacing, the uncertainty that comes from someone who is neither entirely in control nor sure what they're about to do.

"Remember me? I hear you don't remember all the skinny kids you stab." His eyes dart to the dark knife against Draco's pale throat. It's not even a very sharp knife. He'd have more luck stabbing than slicing, and the idea makes him want to vomit. He tries to push it aside.

Robbery. He can go with just robbery. Leave Draco helpless and half-clothed and let the elements take him. That's entirely different than murder, right? And is that what Eponine deserves, a half-hearted revenge?

Who cares what she deserves. She's the one who willingly left. The blade of the knife is shaking in Howard's hand; Draco might even be able to feel it against his neck.

His eyes travel down the sleeping bag to the feet. "What do you have in the bag?"

Edited 2013-01-25 03:14 (UTC)

Draco was snug down there. Incredibly so, with his pack set neatly against the wall, his harpoon stuck into the ice (though not so deep that he couldn't whip it at the nearest threat), and him tucked away safe and sound in his heavy sleeping bag. So heavy, in fact, that it almost reminded him of his bed at home when he closed his eyes. Nothing like nostalgia.

For a moment, when he heard Riddick's voice high above him, he was concerned, nervous that he was going to get ambushed; when he realised it was only Riddick, he smirked a little, shimmying out of the sleeping bag a little bit. "You have no idea. I daresay I'm almost warm down here," he called back.

"Hard to forget you. You're such a prick, I think it'd be rather hard," Draco retorted, voice absolutely even save the spitting venom that just came naturally to him. Briefly, he wondered if he could somehow flip the pair of them down the crevasse again, and Summon something to knock Howard out. But the chances of that going well - especially with him in the bag like that - were slim to none.

He could feel the blade's tremble against his throat. It was hard to miss. All it did was tell Draco that, on the off-chance he could get out, get to his weapon, he might have a shot.

"My body," he replied, tone dry and annoyed. It was a lie, but one that sold well. "What the fuck do you think I have in here?"

Howard's spent most of his life being called much worse. He doesn't even flinch; if anything, Draco's lack of fear stokes the rage in him further, enough that it begins to overpower the anxiety. "I wonder what it feels like. Stabbed in the neck. Eponine said it hurt, but I guess you wouldn't really care what she thought, right?"

He looks back to Draco's feet and laughs. It's a strange hyaena-like sound, lacking entirely in humor and packed with nervous excitement. "Yeah, right. You're not that tall."

He just rolled his eyes at that, huffing a breathless sigh of annoyance, swallowing against the knife. It pressed against his Adam's apple, cutting a barely there line into his skin, hardly enough to cause more than minor irritation.

"No, of course not. I didn't tower over you last time around or anything," Draco snapped, wondering how it was that he was about to get taken out by an absolute moron.

"Hah, hah, hah. Maybe I won't stab you. Eponine said that was pretty quick for her." He can tell he's stalling for time, trying to sort through his indecision. "I'm doing this for her, you know. She's dead again this time. Maybe for good. People like you tell people like us we're not even worth remembering when we die, and maybe you're right."

He pulls the knife away from Draco's throat and lets go of the drawstring, though he still keeps his weight on his knee on Draco's side, and starts to cut open the foot of the sleeping bag to see what's inside.

"Lucky you," Riddick shot back, amused. "Look downright comfy. Where'd you get all that shit? Finally got somebody to like you?" Or was he benefiting from a lucky Cornucopia run? Riddick still shunned that place, but then, he'd also been gifted a few things in the meantime, so he was doing at least relatively well without it so far.

"Eponine this, Eponine that," Draco drawled. "Merlin's beard, you go about that girl a lot. If I didn't know better, I'd think you liked her or something. Bloody pathetic, that."

He scoffed, lying back as he waited for his opportunity to get out and away, eyes locked on Howard all the while. When he was let up on so much as a little, he writhed sharply like a fish out of water, in an attempt to catch Howard in the face with his feet. After that, he took the opportunity to wriggle his way out of the sleeping bag, finding it more difficult than it should have been; his harpoon was within reach, though, so close he could almost taste it.

"I finally took on the Cornucopia, wouldn't you know it," he grinned a little, finally pulling himself out of the thing, shivering a little as the warmth it provided slowly seeped out of his body. "That place was good for something after all."

Just like these crevasses were good for something. Draco held out one hand towards his pack once he was up on his feet and stretched out properly, muttering an emphatic 'Accio backpack' under his breath. Maybe he wasn't quite up to snuff quite yet, but he had practiced just enough to warrant the pack flying towards him, letting him catch it out of the air gleefully. That was much better.

"It's not like that, it's- augh!"

He does get Howard in the face, undoing all the healing to Howard's broken nose that has been going on for the last few days. Howard yells and claps his hand over his face - the other hand comes out and slams down in a fist on Draco's side. He doesn't even realize at first that he has the knife in his hand when he does so. He doesn't even know if he hits Draco through the puff of the sleeping bag.

But once he's started it's as if something goes off inside him. The pain in his face and the pain of the cold and the pain of losing Eponine all emerge as electrical impulses in his arm. He jams the knife down again, then again, then again, using his other hand and his legs to hold Draco down. He brings it down nearly twenty times, until in his flailing he loses the blade in the snow and realizes he's just pounding Draco with a bloody fist.

Edited 2013-01-25 05:10 (UTC)

He couldn't help but smirk to himself when he realised belatedly that he managed to cause some damage; it was quickly wiped away when he felt the knife punch through the bag, the chill seeping in automatically. The shock of the action was enough to surprise him away from the knife grazing his side - he was too skinny for it to catch him fully. But that didn't last long. Draco couldn't wriggle nearly fast enough, and then he was pinned against beneath Howard's weight, and there was no amount of wriggling that could get him out of that. Enough of the blows caught him in the midsection that pain was overtaking cold-induced numbness, and he could feel blood seeping through his chest.

He coughed when the knife got lost somewhere to the side, curling in on himself as if to try and protect his wounds, his bloodied chest; blood spattered from his mouth, clotting in his lungs as he went through perhaps the slowest, most miserably fucking death he could imagine. The edges of his vision were growing black, but it still wasn't fast enough. Draco had enough strength left in him to be able to try and lash out once, a swift fist towards Howard's head. He wasn't even sure if it would land, but it was worth a shot. Better than just lying there and dying silently.

Even though he rather liked his snowbank snowcave, Alex spent most of his free time looking for crevasses to explore. If he could find one with a nice ice cave, he'd move camp there. Less chance of someone accidentally stepping through his roof. By the second week he'd started climbing down into some of the more shallow crevasses and using those to get into the deeper ones. That's how he stumbled upon Draco one afternoon, rounding a bend in one of the narrow crevasses and realizing he wasn't the only one down there.

Draco, at that particular moment in time, was practicing his magic. He'd found fairly quickly that he could use it down there - why, he hadn't the slightest, but he wasn't about to complain. Not when it meant that he could feel normal (if a bit cold) for a little while. In fact, he wouldn't mind just hanging around in there forever, if possible.

Practicing magic, in that moment, meant that the blond was carefully levitating things. Such as himself. The charm, learned back in first year, was fairly basic for him, more than capable without his wand, though it was taking far more effort than usual. Still, magic was magic, and he was about two feet off the ground, keeping the spell firm in his head as he concentrated on it. He barely even noticed Alex rounding the corner.

Draco misses, but only because Howard pushed himself off Draco and is backing up like he's trying to put as much distance between himself and his victim as possible without looking away. He covers his mouth and nose with his hands, shaking, horrified.

It seems to take Draco forever to die. Howard doesn't know how long is it, but he's sure it must be an eternity. After a few moments, he hears a gurgling, phlegmatic death rattle and the cannons going off.

"I didn't mean to," he says quietly, but who in the Capitol will believe he didn't intend to kill a boy he stabbed eighteen times? And didn't he mean to? Doesn't he hate Draco more than anyone else in this game, wasn't he the one who snuck up on Draco with a knife to his throat?

He looks down at himself. He's covered in blood, both his own and his victim's. His front and gloves are soaked through.

"He hit me first," he mumbles. He licks his lips, tastes the fresh blood from his nose and spits. "It was self-defense. He deserved it."

It occurs to him that he should take Draco's belongings now, before they're cleared out of the arena. He goes back over to Draco, trying to keep the bile from rising in his throat as he sees the dead eyes, the perfectly-still blood-spattered face. He reaches over and shoves his hand over Draco's face as he finds the knife and cuts the rest of Draco's things out of the sleeping bag. He hesitates in indecision between taking the bloody clothes and sleeping bag or leaving them, then decides it's too cold to leave anything behind - if all fails he'll just burn it for fuel, or hope no one sees him with the mess.

He leaves right before Draco's body is taken away.

Alex had taken off his eyegear as the glare wasn't as bad down in the crevasses, but he still stopped, blinked, and shook his head when he caught sight of someone seemingly floating in mid-air. All the snowglare must have affected his vision, made him see things.

But then he caught sight of the supplies. So even if the light was somehow acting funny, that really was another Tribute.

Draco frowned to himself as he focused on getting up another foot off the ground, still blissfully oblivious to Alex's presence. He managed it, slowly but surely, only catching a glimpse of the other Tribute as he accidentally levitated himself a little too much on one side, nearly putting himself off-balance. And then he was off-balance, surprised by the fact that he was no longer alone, and dropping to the ground rather painfully as his concentration broke off.

He fell with a shrill yelp, wincing when he hit the bottom, and shot a prompt glare off at Alex, finally recognising him. "You again. You're still alive?"

Alex's eyebrows shot up as the other Tribute fell. Maybe he was hallucinating, but he'd never been this creative before. Or maybe there was just an ice shelf behind this guy and he'd simply slipped off of it. There was a logical explanation for everything (except for how Alex had ended up in this Panem in the first place).

Unbidden, a small smirk tugged at his lips as he recognized the other Tribute's voice, and the cold glare.

"Is that so difficult to believe?"

"Only a little bit, I suppose," he replied, groaning as he pushed himself upright slowly, rubbing the bruised area lightly with a wince. Rising up to his feet, Draco eyed Alex casually, warily. It wasn't that he was moving towards his harpoon with any sort of malice - he just wanted to be sure that he was safe.

"Have you been down here long?"

Alex watches Draco carefully. He doesn't move from where he stands and he doesn't reach for one of the arrows in the quiver on his back. But he doesn't miss the fact Draco's moving closer to a weapon.

"Just long enough to see you take a tumble," he answered, his voice calm and even. "Have to be careful down here. Lots of ice."

Draco stopped a few feet away from his pack, brushing the residual snow and flaked ice off of his clothing before shrugging. "No more than up there, really. And that was your fault, you know. I was doing fine before you interrupted me."

Riddick's brows went up over the tops of his goggles, watching the bit of magic that Draco just performed. "That's a neat trick," he commented blandly. He wasn't at all sure how the kid had done that. He'd heard rumors of psychics, and of powers that elementals had, but he'd never actually seen any of it in action.

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