thearena | (no subject)

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Who| The Psiionic and Roland Deschain
What| car shenanigans
Where| the desert, starting in the wreck yard
When| vague week 1 sometime
Warnings/Notes| none

The sun's really too bright to be staring up like this, but he does it anyway. The pile of metal and machine that rises up in front of him makes this a special occasion, and besides, it's interesting. These old, rusting things could well be the ones of his world, if you squint and overlook some of the stranger decisions made in their design. They give the same impression the similar machines in his world always gave, the impression that the viewer is seeing something from a forgotten age, hearing a piece of some old story, one long ago and mostly forgotten. But in his world, this many of them in one place would have been a marvel, drawing the curious even from nearby baronies to come and see.

The curious in this case numbers one, and Roland knows nothing he'd have seen in his old home would have looked like this. Most have obviously cannibalized their neighbors, and mismatched bits of metal skeleton stick out at every conceivable angle. Some bear weapons, some sit on treads, some have wheels with sizes so mismatched anyone in it would surely go tumbling out at the first bump. One particularly enthusiastic designer has covered every single inch of his own machine in long, disorganized spikes. A good idea in theory, Roland thinks. Probably not so much in practice.

It isn't as if he's forgotten, though, that this is a fantastic place for an ambush. There is a significant part of Roland which is always aware of facts like this, and the handle of the shillelagh stuck through his makeshift purse - not the deadliest weapon, but a weapon - is never far from his hand. But for now he stands, tugs the wrapped up jacket further over his face, plants his hands on his hips and looks up at these strange and mismatched marvels. He walks a little closer, eyes automatically scanning over possible hiding places until he gets close enough to try and look in, wrap his two metal fingers around a sun-warmed handle and tug. The door resists, creaks, and the machines stacked above this one start to creaking, too. He looks up, squinting again against the sun, and watches the pile of spikes and metal sway. Instead of moving preemptively Roland just watches it, waiting to see whether this particular pile of oddities really is about to fall.

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Psii preferred scavenging to fighting, surviving to dying. He hadn't gotten any weapons at the Cornucopia because he simply hadn't gone for the Cornucopia. Sometimes he was reckless, and sometimes he really didn't feel like being torn limb from limb by other Tributes.

He would craft as many makeshift weapons and supplies as he could between finding things to eat. The sun didn't burn anyone to a crisp in the Earth desert. He hoped none of the Alternian undead wandered over here either. After reacquainting himself with how awful Alternian deserts could be some days ago, he felt much better about this one. He could even don his mask and use his powers in a pinch.

He'd used the night to travel and was just looking for a place to bed down for the day when he spied it on the horizon. This behemoth gathering of primitive Earth wreckage was a good start. Each vehicle looked like it was cobbled together by the most destitute and isolated of trolls, or perhaps just crazy humans. It was an obscenely impressive pile, fit for a feelings jam of several nights, though it didn't look at all comfortable to lie on. Psii would stick to his tribbles. Still, he couldn't help but be jealous. Who the hell had time to put all this shit here? The Gamemakers, apparently. And if he knew them, he knew there would be no relaxing or feelings jams here.

He jumped when the pile groaned and listed towards him. Surely it would fall if there was a particularly strong gust of wind. He should move. He darted around to the safer side, hoping to grab something of worth and run, but the teetering mass followed his path.

And there was Roland, looking like he was merely fascinated by his impending automotive doom.

"Mother Grub!" Psii cursed before lunging to snatch his shirt and the man wearing it away.

Since he recognizes the voice Roland doesn't fight. He might even help, keeping his eyes up toward the great stacks of metal to better predict which is next to topple. Because of course, as close as they all are, any fall won't be limited to just one. He grabs for the Psiionic's sleeve to more easily 'suggest' the right route and dashes along, spots a stack of machines laying in a way that'll block them from any more falling, if the two of them can only get on the other side of it. He tugs the Psiionic in that direction and then lets go to deliberately lose his footing, goes sliding under a gap beneath one great hulk of metal and rolls out of the way and makes his way up again, standing to look over the rows of fallen old things with dirt in his hair and flecks of rust sprinkled over his face.

"Huh," Roland says, repeats the words "Mother grub," thoughtfully and listens for a moment while the land in front of him creaks and groans, resettling itself. "Looks like I was right not to take shelter from that twister in here." Then he looks at his company for the first time, casual, mildly curious. "What'd'you make of this place?"

Edited 2015-10-20 05:02 (UTC)

Psii stumbled and flailed along with Roland's unexpected path of motion, finally coming to rest when he tripped and fell flat on his face behind the stack of modified scuttle buggies, chitinous municipal transporters, and the like. He should have known he had faster reflexes and didn't need saving. Thanks, Roland.

Psii cursed, the translator garbling his speech into various excrement-related words, then scrambled to his feet, scowling at Roland's casualness. He just duck-slid-rolled like it was no big thing, like he was Troll Indiana Jones and Psii was the clumsy sidekick quadrant interest, except they weren't fucking. Psii dusted the considerably larger amount of sand off his face. He had once again found himself fondling the short end of the antagonism stick. Story of his life.

"It'th a vehical yard, no doubt put here for aeththeticth. Not much of a shelter, particularly thinthe shadow dropperth could eathily wander here from the Alternian dethert, but I bet we could craft thome toolth and weaponth."

He notes the glare with a raised eyebrow and, from long exposure to Karkat, decides to ignore it. Maybe that glare is for Roland toppling all those stacks of machines in the first place, in which case it isn't exactly unwarranted.

"I thought so too," he says, and steps toward another nearby stack of machines. "Though the only thing I could really use is a knife, and maybe something that'll help fires catch. The only real problem is how to get at anything without that happening again."

He bends to look in a window - his hands are well away from the thing and he's being careful not to touch it, but that doesn't mean he doesn't still want to study its insides. "Which might depend on what exactly it is you want to make. How've you been, Psiionic? Run into anything interesting lately?"

Anything interesting. What the hell kind of planet was this guy from, that he could just casually ask if he'd seen anything interesting in a murder arena? Well, two could play at the deadpan game, Mr. Projectile Weapon Fondler.

"Oh, nothing really. Jutht a Carnival of mutiliation and death, nerve gath, a replica of my luthuth, undead, and a goddamn thand monthter—I can't really remember what Shepard called it, but it wath huge, and it tried to kill uth.... You know, the uthual."

Meanwhile, Psii approached a vehicle that seemed most unlikely to topple the pile. It looked intact enough to actually run, but surely that would be too good to be true. Maybe he could just take some parts. He hauled the hood open and coughed as sand and dust billowed around him.

"....Huh. Tank'th full."

There is one part of that recitation of events which Roland's mind latches onto, and as he walks up to join the Psiionic in his look at the machine's insides it isn't the machine he's studying, not just yet. "You saw your lusus?"

He's frowning a little bit, watching the Psiionic's expression closely, and though Roland would scoff at the idea of psychology if it was suggested - and has - right now he is all but leaning back with a cigar in hand and asking the Psiionic to tell him about the fucked up alien death monster which may or may not have been his mother. He is not asking directly because the Psiionic is a grown man who can decide for himself whether the meeting effected him enough that he needs to talk about it, but the implication is definitely there. Because of all the things the Psiionic says he's done in the arena thus far, of course only one of those is something with the potential to really effect someone. Death, danger, mothers, which of these topics is more terrifying than the others?

Much like when it happened on Alternia, Psii hadn't even had time to process his lusus's death just afterward. One thing led to another, and they were suddenly on a daring car chase across the desert trying to outrun both the sun and daywalkers. And then there had been the thresher maw from Shepard's universe, and Psii had lost all the fucks to give.

Now he had a few of those fucks again, but he didn't feel like giving them. The whole thing was probably something the Gamemakers had cooked up to upset him in the first place. He couldn't say that was a complete failure.... Psii cursed as his fingers slipped and dropped the cap into the bowels of the engine. He fished it out and screwed it back on the gas tank.

"Shove off, bulgethucker," he muttered. "It wathn't really him, jutht a clone or thomething."

And that was the end of that, in his mind. He prodded the rest of the engine, closed the hood, and began inspecting the underside of the car.

Roland studies the Psiionic a moment more, then nods. The Psiionic's judgement has been accepted. Roland does not believe that the experience wasn't a bad one but he does believe that the Psiionic is a grown man - at least, when he and the Signless aren't sharing a room - and a grown man who knows his own mind. Roland flicks the topic off of his list of priorities and the machine in front of them is the most important topic once more.

"You've seen these before?" He squats and hunches over, trying to see the bottom of the big machine and to make out what it is the Psiionic's doing there. "Worked with them often? I take it this sort of thing's common on your world?"

Is it always time to learn about Alternia? Why yes, yes it is. Well, it's not Roland's fault the place has become important, simply because of the people who were bred there.

"Not often, but you forget I'm a fucking geniuth," he grunted, glad for the change in topic. He didn't feel like discussing his lusus issues, at least not on national television. "Keep watch, I'm going under.... Ugh, all thith human shit, hardly any biotech in it at all.... No offenthe. Man, thith ith thome primitive, purely mechanical bullshit. Where are the electric componentth?"

After the sounds of tinkering faded, Psii scuttled out and got to his feet again. He ducked his head into the driver's rolled-down window to make sure the controls were sound. Though the buttons and prongs were different, he could guess what each of them did.

Out of habit, he squinted around for signs of life, and potentially danger. There was a shadow behind some boulders he hadn't noticed before. It almost looked like it was moving.

"We could tetht out the buggy.... Hey, what'th that?"

"Dangerous," Roland says, unworried, and if the Psiionic looks over he'll see Roland, still squatting beside the car, looking over in that direction. He's been watching it. "Probably. Is that machine going to move, or will we have to think of something else?"

"It'll move, in theory," Psii said quietly, though he suspected they'd probably been watched since before he yelled at Roland not to disturb the teetering pile. Daywalkers or Tributes, both made Psii's vascular pump beat nervously. "Get in on the pathenger thide—the right-hand thide, I mean."

It still boggled his mind that people could come in not knowing how a scuttlemobile worked. Psii eased himself slowly over to the driver's door and gently clicked it open. It's rusted hinges groaned loudly in protest, and Psii flinched. He was thin enough to slip in without opening the door more. A cloud of dust and sand rose from the seat when he sat. He tensely jimmied the controls and got the order right on the second try. The car shuddered to life with a surprisingly loud roar. Psii jumped and whipped his head around to glance wide-eyed out his window at their potential threat.

Roland follows the Psiionic's lead, opening the door only far enough to get inside. He keeps his back to the machine the whole time, but doesn't seem to be looking out the window when he says, "Whatever it is, it's on its way. If this machine really can go somewhere, it probably ought to do it now."

"Well, it'th alive."

Psii pressed on a foot pedal, but nothing happened. The figures drew closer, and Psii recognized the false undead shambling that preceded some pretty fast running. "Shit, shit, shit...." He slammed his foot on another, and the engine revved angrily. "Where'th the fucking thafety node—wait—" None of the labeled dials on the dashboard were the parking brake, but the oddly-placed lever between him and Roland was.

The car shot forward, throwing Psii into the back of his seat. Something screeched and clawed their bumper before letting go in a flurry of sand. Behind rocks and other rusty hulks, an army of swaying figures emerged. Somehow, their initial slow movements just increased their level of scary. They uttered half-rotten groans before leaping towards the car in surprisingly fast sprints. A few at a time should be no problem for a moving vehicle, but several bodies impaling themselves on the car's spikes with no apparent pain while pounding on the windows was cause for alarm.

"ROLAND!"

Ah. Another bit of evidence that these spikes owe more to enthusiasm than actual thinking. If it weren't for those, it might be a great deal easier to move this machine in such a way that would shake them off. But this is what they've got, and this is what he has to deal with. Roland doesn't respond to the yell, at least not in words. He loosens the shillelagh from his purse, taking care not to get in the Psiionic's way with the length of the weapon because commanding this machine is the most important thing, here.

"Tell me if that glass on your side starts cracking," he says and, without any hesitation at all, smashes the shillelagh through the glass on his own. That lets him push one of the creatures off and away, the closest, and he leans forward, smashing at the glass a little more to let him get at the others. "Start swerving a little more, if this thing can do that. See if we can't shake some loose."

Between lashing out at the creatures near him, Roland looks around, thinking on what they have, what they need, and what they can use. "Psiionic. Can this machine stand up to hitting one of those stacks, like the one I knocked down earlier?"

Whoever put spikes on the car didn't expect the foes to be undead husks that felt no pain.

"Oh my God Roland, it'th called rolling down the windowth, not thmashing them!!"

Psii would rather have that barrier against sand and enemies, even if it was only glass. Psii swerved whether he wanted to or not, as he grasped at his own window crank and prepared to demonstrate just how to roll down a window. A daywalker smooshed its face against it, and Psii thought better of that. He hissed back, baring fangs at fangs, and yanked the wheel around. The car drifted, spraying hard-packed earth and sand, and the zombie slipped off its spike and crumpled in the dust. Psii rubbed where his horn had banged against the car door.

"We can hit thtuff, thure, but the whiplash will probably injure uth. We'll be better thcraping thethe fuckerth off the thideth. We're headed towardth a refuthe pile now."

He experimentally banged a few buttons and dials, and the tape deck crackled to life with a cheerful banjo ditty. Not remotely useful. As the music twanged manically, Psii's foot kept the pedal floored when he wasn't jerking the wheel back and forth in an effort to throw off their pursuers.

Roland sways when the machine does but bears this patiently, bracing his feet wide to keep himself stable and leaning forward, still waving the weapon out the window. As to the glass, well, it'd made sense at the time. No time to waste figuring the workings of this machine when there are undead trolls to kill.

"How durable are these things? Karkat wouldn't say precisely when we fought one, and I'd like to know if these'll get back up after we get them loose."

The noise coming from the machine makes an especially high and piercing series of twangs and Roland frowns at it. A face, half rotted, lunges at him while he's distracted and, without looking, Roland uses his weapon to hit it in the face. He studies the buttons the Psiionic hit, frowning, and his fingers hover over them. "Hitting these won't kill this machine, will it? It'll only make that music stop?"

"Who knowth, genetically engineered arena creatureth can be very different from the oneth back home. But I'm guething they're ath durable ath trollth, exthept they don't feel pain and don't mind lothing a few limbth. Aim for the head!"

The music made Psii's eyebrow twitch in annoyance, but as soon as he saw that weathered, disapproving look on Roland's face, he couldn't help giving him a hard time anyway.

"Oh, you don't like my exthquithite tathte in auricular thtimulation? Not entranthed by the vibrating thtringth on the ruthtic thtrummer devithe? I thought you would find it an elegant exthample of high culture."

Psii wouldn't know high culture if a musclebeast punched him in the face. The vents on the dash whirred angrily when Psii inadvertently twiddled another dial, and the passive-aggressive wind of the car's fan blew hot, stale air in their faces. He flailed at a second dial, but that just increased the volume. The undead roared and moaned twice as loud.

"I don't think they like it either. What wath that you thaid about hitting pileth?"

He pulled out of another mad swerve and made a beeline for the wreckage. He only wanted to scrape some reanimated bodies off the side of the car. He didn't fancy trying to survive in this arena with injuries from a direct car crash, but he passed as close as he was able. Flying was easier, since he generated lift and direction using his own intuitive psionic power. The car was finicky, old, and loud. He grunted when they banged more than scraped against the metal ruin, and it tumbled down with several bodies. The undead on their left side shrieked in surprise, leaving a few detached fingers clinging to Psii's side mirror.

"I was saying it'd be damn useful to knock some of those piles into the ones behind us," he says, looking in the mirror set next to the door to try and judge just how many that might be. "Take care which way you hit 'em, we'll want to take out as many of your undead as we can with one shot."

Roland has never in his life heard the words 'backseat driving'. This does not change the fact that he was absolutely born to do it.

"That pile there, if you'll hit it just that way..." Roland sticks out his free hand and demonstrates the necessary angle, focusing on his study of the piles of machines in front of them now but not letting that stop him from reaching the smaller end of the shillelagh out of the window again and stabbing another enemy through the eye socket.

"And don't be an ass," he adds absently, frowning out the window and shaking the shillelagh in the hopes that the corpse of this latest enemy will shake off. "If you want to show me your high culture, I expect you to try a little harder than that."

He shakes his shillelagh one more time as the music twangs away in his ears. The body of the thing does detach and goes bouncing away; the head stays where it is. Good enough.

"You know what Roland, why don't you drive," he hissed through clenched teeth, "you know, thinthe you're tho good at thuggethting we angle our vehicle into pileth that could potentially trap uth and enthure our futureth ath daywalker nutrition."

He knew perfectly well that Roland couldn't drive, and that even his experience as a passenger was limited to his time in Panem. Psii yanked the wheel angrily, mostly hoping to jerk Roland with the sudden swerve rather than do anything useful. It served to throw a few zombies off the car, though the various body parts stuck to the spikes remained.

The car drifted with a sandy skid, then shot forward again. If they wanted to knock something down and escape damage, they would need speed as well as precision. The car jumped a little as a wayward arm slipped off it and was crushed beneath the tires. Psii was good enough with high-speed flight to even break the sound barrier and stay on track. but he faster they went, the harder it was to control steering. The car bumped, rattled, and complained. Psii's knuckles gripped bone-white on the wheel, and his eyes widened with the effort of keeping track of the undead they zipped past.

"Thith wath your idea!" was his last needling shout before they crashed and scraped the side of the car against another pile. Psii's neck jerked, but he slammed the gas harder, not waiting to see if the pile would collapse into them or the piles before it.

Not them, luckily; Roland twists in his seat to watch, wanting to know how many they're taking down. "Too bad there's nothing here to shoot with," he notes, watching a few of the creatures able to escape the falling stacks of metal and machine.

He isn't bothered by the accusation that this was his idea. It was. There's no need to panic about it. Roland may actually look like he's perking up, sitting straighter - as much as he can, anyway, while shaking and jerking along with this machine's movement - and looking generally interested. It really is too bad his guns are long gone. Usually he doesn't think of them, not so often as he used to, but with the machine moving under him and the targets moving around, a part of him is itching for them, wanting to grab at those familiar sandalwood grips and see what he can do.

"Can you do that one more time? That should take out a good number of 'em. And then- is there anywhere else in this desert we can stay? Anywhere safer?"

"Yeah, I'm thure you would jutht love to gun down all thethe fuckerth, showoff," Psii grumbled loudly. He would never admit that he would love to see Roland's supposedly legendary gun skills, almost as much as he'd love to pick up this car with his brain and carry them out of this sandy dump—and maybe snipe a few undead with optic blasts on the way.

"There'th the Normandy, Shepard'th bathe of operationth, but I don't exthactly have permithion to bring otherth into her thpathecraft." Psii would rather not make an enemy of space marine mom, even if she was an ally by association with Karkat. "There'th altho that weird human thity eatht of here. There might thtill be monthterth, but at leatht we won't thlowly burn into dried meat—oh wait, it'th too late for you."

Psii was unsure about doing this stunt a second time, even if he usually did things in twos. Roland's backseat driving wasn't helping. He swerved towards another pile as more shadows darted out from behind it. If they crashed to a stop here, they would surely be eaten alive. The car shook as it rammed a few daywalkers. They flailed angrily at the spikes impaling them, but that didn't stop their fists banging on the hood. The next moment, they were crushed between the front bumper and the pile. Rotted blood spattered the windshield. The car plowed through the lower edge of the refuse, wheels complaining against the bits of metal they drove into the sand. The pile started to topple over, but they were long gone.

"Are you happy now?" he shouted above the din of scraping metal, screaming undead, and banjos. "I can't even fucking thee through the viewpane!"

Roland twists around to look behind them, craning his neck, and his only response to the Psiionic's complaining is a grunt. He is sure he's got the general idea of the Psiionic's talk, and it is this: they're fucked, they're fucked sideways, as he thinks one old friend of his might have said, and it is probably Roland's fault. He doesn't quite agree with this, but he doesn't think the Psiionic does, either. It's only talk. It isn't whining, though, what the Psiionic's doing, not quite, and so Roland does not mind it.

Another group of the things, he sees, fell under the metal and weight of that pile of machines, and the smile is still on Roland's face once he turns back. He's resisting the urge to tell the Psiionic to do it one more time; that should do it, after all, no matter that something familiar at the very core of him would have him pledge not to leave this place until everything else in it is dead. Or at least, as dead as a moving corpse can get.

The urge to kill is there, still whispering in his ear, and he lets it. No sense in paying it any mind. Best to leave while they can.

"I will be," he says, because happy is something that waits for him if he can put on a good enough show in this arena to wake up in the Capitol again afterward. "That human city - can you get this machine to it? Do you know the way?"

While he speaks, he isn't considering his own words so much as he's considering that blocked windshield. Then, without waiting for the Psiionic to answer him, he takes out his shillelagh again, leans a little ways out of the window, and scrapes the skull still stuck onto the weapon's end into the blood and guts spattered across the glass. Some of it smears. A little of it does move, and he waves the shillelagh around until he's made some attempt at clearing all the glass he can safely reach.

"One of those arms might reach your side better," he notes, matter of fact, after he's stuck his head back inside to say it. "Do you see one stuck anywhere?"

Psii had seen plenty of murderous bloodlust before. Roland's flavor was subtle, but uncannily premeditated. Psii's outbursts were usually born of fear and unplanned circumstances. Clearly Roland had more fun while fighting.

"Fuck no, I'm done touching undead, even if they are fake! You know what, Roland, I think you're the only one having a good time here! Jutht don't thtart touching yourthelf or I'm dumping you and you can walk!"

He hauled the steering wheel in the approximate direction of the city. The undead were too far behind to catch up now. Psii checked the fuel indicator—he assumed that was what it was, given the "F" for full and "E" for empty—and wiped the sweat off his face.

"We've got a full tank, but I thtill thay no detourth. I don't know where we'd get more fuel, other than where we jutht came from."

The smile twitches back onto Roland's face at the Psiionic's threat and, man Jesus but the Signless' dearest friend does remind him of Cuthbert, sometimes, and he wonders how the Psiionic would get on with Bert. With Bert, or with the Cuthbert-that-was, the one who'd been here in Panem who Roland failed so abysmally to protect, or to open to, or to understand.

Nevermind. The city. The creatures shambling somewhere far behind them. That's what there is here to focus on.

That, and one other thing.

"I don't know how far the city from here, not in this machine, but I know one thing. We'd better be able to turn off this damned music."

"Keep your pantth on, I'm working on it," Psii grumbled as he mashed a few more buttons. A few whirs, clicks, distress lights, and hot air gusts later, and... the banjos played on.

"Fucking hell," Psii cursed as they drove towards the horizon. He would still try, but he was also prepared to resign himself to the fate of music that made his brain slowly explode through his ears.

Roland snorts, part annoyed, mostly amused, and looks toward the horizon again, stretching out. His eyes flick to the mirrors sometimes, checking behind them for any followers, but mostly, he looks forward. He stretches his arm out along the inside of his broken window, feels the hot wind on his face, and absently watches the body parts still stuck on the spikes outside and the way they bounce in unison whenever this machine runs over a bump. Later, there will be fear and death and maybe worse, of that Roland is certain. But for now he stretches out and settles in to the silence - the near silence - and watches the desert, and watches his friend drive.

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i guess i'm npcing a car now, it has a crotchety personality and likes banjos

excellent

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aaand fade into the metaphorical sunset