open;

[gluteus]

Who| Maximus and YOU
What|  Maximus arrives in the Games, and anyone and everyone can come bother him though they might get beat up a little
Where|  All over the arena
When|  Mid-way
Warnings| Probably lots of violence and possible death, but not his. Not yet. Not yet.


He'd been told almost nothing. Equipped with gear completely foreign to him save the fur lining of his hood, Maximus said nothing as he was prepared and had little more explained to him. He wondered, vaguely, if he was dead. Had Commodus's assassins come for him in the night? Had the gods judged that he must pay his dues before he was worthy of joining his brothers in Elysium?

But as he rose into the blinding white snow, and the cold whipped around him fierce and fast, Maximus knew he was alive. A new game, perhaps, that Commodus had smuggled him to in order to watch him die. They had not even armed him - he was meant to be no more than fodder. The small metal piece they had pushed under this skin was a new and unique branding to match the scarred out tattoo on his shoulder. Forever owned, a piece of his mind echoed. He ignored it.

He would not die here. Not today. He would win this arena like those before it until he stood face to face with Commodus.

As he stepped off his pillar, he crouched down to the ground, fingers meaning to find dirt but instead finding snow. The snow would afford no better grip, but then he had no weapon to take a better grip on. He had seen snow before, of course - they had fought in the north for nearly his entire military career, and the harsh winters had killed more than a few friends. But not him.

He raised his eyes to the horizon - but there were no stands, no crowds, no audience. He knew, somehow, that they were watching. The mob was always watching.

Strength and Honour.

Comments

[gluteus]

It was Maximus' turn to stare, and raise an eyebrow. He'd known that the Gauls were often uneducated, but to care what the year was and not know it?

"The year of the consulship of Publius Postumius Albinus Luscus and Calpurnius Piso," He offered, his voice steady, as if talking to a child. He knew it was slightly hopeless - even in Roman Gaul they rarely knew the names of the consuls. Helpfully, he added, in a slightly darker tone, "The year of the death of Emperor Marcus Aurelius," unwilling to name Commodus as the current emperor.

Typosomg.

[the_marshal]

That wasn't a year, was Wyatt's first response, but then, on the heels of that came the realization that didn't much matter either way. The question had still been answered.

This man was lost. Misplaced in time. Much as Wyatt himself was.

And if Wyatt had to hazardous a guess - with that talk of Rome and Emperors - a time even further back than his own.

"I see." He nodded slowly and cleared his throat. "I'm, ...well, not quite sure how to say this, but I'm afraid yer mistaken. See, you've traveled. Not just across land and water, but across time as well."

As he spoke, his eyes moved, dropping to watch Maximus' hands. Ready. Just in case.

[gluteus]

"We all travel through time," Maximus replied flatly, though he had a suspicion that wasn't entirely what Wyatt meant. He shifted, glancing out to the horizon.

Tartarus. It was a concept he'd considered several times, but now grew more firmly in his mind. Who knew how time progressed after death?

He glanced back at Wyatt. "Explain."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt took a deep breath, trying to work out the best way approach it.

"They have a way here - a machine or somethin' that allows them to take tributes, like you and myself, from anywhere. Anytime. Hundreds, thousands'a years apart."

He paused, uncertain if it would help or just make things more confusing.

"Where I was taken from, the year was 1878. I was in Kansas. It was'a state that was part of America. Now, ya said earlier that you didn't know what that was and I think that's 'cause it was after you. A while after."

[gluteus]

Maximus looked completely impassive as he attempted to process this information, but too much of it meant nothing to him. 1875? 1875 from what?

He shook his head slowly. "The date you give means nothing. Surely you must have some concept of what year it is in Rome? No matter which calendar they use in... 'America'." He was ignoring the 'machine' and the 'thousands of years apart' for a moment - processing the easier concepts first before he moved on to the rest.

[the_marshal]

"We use the same calendar," Wyatt said slowly, carefully. "All of us. Rome, America, Panem..."

It had been hard for him, yes, to realize the truth, but this... this was different. At least Wyatt had had some sort of idea of what was goin' on. This poor bastard...

"We all have the same date."

[gluteus]

Maximus grunted lowly. The only calendar he knew that counted upwards was from the founding of Rome, but he never used it. A quick calculation meant he was somewhere in the 800's, which would place this man...

At least a thousand years in the future.

The hair on the back of his neck bristled slightly, as if he could feel the tendrils of ghosts.

"A thousand years," He said slowly, "At least. We're dead, then."

[the_marshal]

There was something, a fleeting expression, if Maximus was looking, that darkened Wyatt's face.

A sadness. An empty sort of blankness behind the eyes.

Then it was gone, washed away a heavy exhale.

"You and me both. As far as you are to me, I am to them. Everythin' I knew, everybody I cared about... was gone years and years ago."

[gluteus]

Maximus said nothing for a long moment, his expression grave. A mutual grief, perhaps, though he didn't outwardly express it. Tears were for his wife, only, and those could only be given in private.

"... It matters not," He said eventually, with a dark finality. "Gladiators are always dead men."

He paused, unable to keep himself from thoughts of his family. He always thought if he was dead, that he would rejoin them. But it seemed the Gods had different intentions.

"There need not be a thousand years between freedom and slavery for them to strip you of everything that matters."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt snorted, nodding his head in agreement.

"Truer words, friend." But still, strangely, the corner of his mouth turned up. "But they can't stop me from wishin' ya the best."

Not luck, per say, as it was just as likely they'd both be back in the Capitol within the next few days. But the best - hopefully those days would be uneventful and the death good.

[gluteus]

Maximus nodded, taking a step backwards and glancing out at the ice. With eggs in pocket, it was time to go.

"Strength and Honour," He said again, with solemn finality.

[the_marshal]

Wyatt reached up, touching to fingers to his temple - just aside of where the cut begin next to his eye. A touch of an imaginary hat brim.

"Same to you."

And he stepped back, one, two, steps, and turned, head down once more as he continued across the nesting ground.

No, he didn't expect Maximus to cross on his word and attack from behind... but had no intentions of leading the man back to his camp neither.

He'd take the long way 'round. Just to be safe.