Daryl Dixon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
weaintashes) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-11-04 06:47 am
weaintashes) wrote in thearena2015-11-04 06:47 am
Entry tags:
Rising Tide
Who| Daryl Dixon and The Ψiioniic representing the Ass District.
What| Escaping the flood and dealing with mask-induced madness.
Where| The water area.
When| Week 5ish.
Warnings/Notes| None yet beyond what can typically be expected in the Arena.
With the forest now burned to cinders and frozen over, destruction squared, it's slim pickings as far as game goes. Before moving on, Daryl had risked tangling with a smaller dragon for the sake of having some fresh meat to ration, and even weakened from the freeze as it was, it'd given him a run for his money. The assortment of scratches, bites, and minor burns he'd received are manageable, thankfully — it's the gash down his chest incurred at the Cornucopia that's still the only really concerning injury.
Rick had been perfectly capable of checking, resetting the trails of snares Daryl had meticulously set throughout the woods, which had left him with the much needed opportunity to simply rest and recuperate for a while, tending to tasks closer to their camp. But with that food source lost to them, and still having Ellis to look out for too, it's back to the grind.
Despite Daryl's unfamiliarity with the sea, the water draws him to it. It stands to reason that where there's water, there's bound to be life. This assumption proves correct as he takes to beach scavenging, and later, once he's gotten a feel for the local fauna, slipping into the water to spear cuttlefish, crustaceans, and other edible-looking critters. The role of a fisherman seems to come naturally to him, and soon any starvation concerns are put to rest. Occasionally he invites Rick or Ellis out with him, which enables them to tackle bigger prey.
On the day the storm hits, he's hunting alone.
Barefoot and with the pant legs of his jumpsuit rolled up to his knees, his boots along with the day's catch are carried in his pack as he makes his way along the beach. The drizzle of rain isn't immediately concerning, annoying more than anything, but it's shortly apparent that this isn't a regular spot of bad weather that's happening. The churning water has him picking up his pace in alarm, and then running flat out once the whirlpool is fully realised and the surrounding islands begin to crumble. In his scramble for higher ground, with visibility dropping, he's caught completely unawares by the flash of grey skin and pointed teeth — are land sharks a thing? — he's stumbled right into and over, his momentum spilling him into the sand and painfully knocking the breath from his lungs.
He comes up sputtering and cursing, but it's cut short when he gets a good look at what tripped him. Who, rather. The peculiar eyes, the double sets of horns, he can practically hear the lisp in his mind—
"Psiioniic?" he asks incredulously, wariness etched in his features, his posture suddenly tight as though anticipating a fight. His hand strays to the hunting knife sheathed at his hip, gripping the hilt. They may be districtmates, but that hardly guarantees an alliance in the Arena. He glances between the rapidly rising water and the troll, knowing there's simply no time to debate the matter, and allows his gut instincts to make up his mind for him — he's reaching out to grasp Psii's nearest forearm, giving a hard tug without letting go, trying to pull him along. "C'mon! Unless you feel like swimmin', we gotta go now."
What| Escaping the flood and dealing with mask-induced madness.
Where| The water area.
When| Week 5ish.
Warnings/Notes| None yet beyond what can typically be expected in the Arena.
With the forest now burned to cinders and frozen over, destruction squared, it's slim pickings as far as game goes. Before moving on, Daryl had risked tangling with a smaller dragon for the sake of having some fresh meat to ration, and even weakened from the freeze as it was, it'd given him a run for his money. The assortment of scratches, bites, and minor burns he'd received are manageable, thankfully — it's the gash down his chest incurred at the Cornucopia that's still the only really concerning injury.
Rick had been perfectly capable of checking, resetting the trails of snares Daryl had meticulously set throughout the woods, which had left him with the much needed opportunity to simply rest and recuperate for a while, tending to tasks closer to their camp. But with that food source lost to them, and still having Ellis to look out for too, it's back to the grind.
Despite Daryl's unfamiliarity with the sea, the water draws him to it. It stands to reason that where there's water, there's bound to be life. This assumption proves correct as he takes to beach scavenging, and later, once he's gotten a feel for the local fauna, slipping into the water to spear cuttlefish, crustaceans, and other edible-looking critters. The role of a fisherman seems to come naturally to him, and soon any starvation concerns are put to rest. Occasionally he invites Rick or Ellis out with him, which enables them to tackle bigger prey.
On the day the storm hits, he's hunting alone.
Barefoot and with the pant legs of his jumpsuit rolled up to his knees, his boots along with the day's catch are carried in his pack as he makes his way along the beach. The drizzle of rain isn't immediately concerning, annoying more than anything, but it's shortly apparent that this isn't a regular spot of bad weather that's happening. The churning water has him picking up his pace in alarm, and then running flat out once the whirlpool is fully realised and the surrounding islands begin to crumble. In his scramble for higher ground, with visibility dropping, he's caught completely unawares by the flash of grey skin and pointed teeth — are land sharks a thing? — he's stumbled right into and over, his momentum spilling him into the sand and painfully knocking the breath from his lungs.
He comes up sputtering and cursing, but it's cut short when he gets a good look at what tripped him. Who, rather. The peculiar eyes, the double sets of horns, he can practically hear the lisp in his mind—
"Psiioniic?" he asks incredulously, wariness etched in his features, his posture suddenly tight as though anticipating a fight. His hand strays to the hunting knife sheathed at his hip, gripping the hilt. They may be districtmates, but that hardly guarantees an alliance in the Arena. He glances between the rapidly rising water and the troll, knowing there's simply no time to debate the matter, and allows his gut instincts to make up his mind for him — he's reaching out to grasp Psii's nearest forearm, giving a hard tug without letting go, trying to pull him along. "C'mon! Unless you feel like swimmin', we gotta go now."
no subject
All levity died when he saw the currents picking up. He'd been on a boat long enough (thanks, Signless) to know when water was turning bad. Though he absconded the minute it started to look dicey, the torrential roar of the whirlpool rose to catch up with him anyway.
Wrapped in a wall of sound, he didn't hear the human stumbling behind him until he turned and he was on top of him. Literally. Psii shoved his assailant off and stumbled to his knees, fumbling for his spear (which was really just a short shitty stick with a bit of metal tied to the front).
Daryl Dixon, who's scruff rivaled Signless's. Also he and Psii were districtmates. (The thought of apologizing for not being able to find or save their District's kid crossed Psii's mind.) Psii instinctively drew back from the grab, but Daryl's words made his intention clear.
"Thwimming ith the latht thing I want to do!"
Psii decided to take his offer, because only an idiot would refuse help now. If Daryl tried anything funny, Psii had his powers; Signless always said it was better to believe the best in people and give them a chance to do good, but Psii liked to have backup plans. And if Daryl double-crossed him, he'd have to deal with Psii banging on his respiteblock door at all hours and forcing him to re-watch video footage of his deception over and over.
He let Daryl tug him along, occasionally stumbling like a lanky bag of sticks. The water continued to rise, effortlessly engulfing trees with sickening crunches. Psii trekked uphill double-time to catch up.
"Are you thure you didn't pith off thome hidden thea monthter or thomething??" he yelled above the roar slowly catching up to them.
no subject
It took twice the expected effort to slog through the sand with the way it was shifting now, and soon his every unhealed injury stung fiercely from the grit abrading them, but he refused to let it slow him down. While he was shorter and stockier than Psii, he had an understated strength that kept his grip firm as he determinedly pulled his districtmate along, as though worried he wouldn't be able to keep up otherwise. Each stumble was accommodated by easing up slightly, so as not to overbalance Psii and send him reeling face-first into the sand.
(Elsewhere in the Capitol, tasteless Arena commentary would mention how District 9 Tributes were spotted frolicking hand-in-hand up the beach.)
The sea monster comment was acknowledged with a dour glare, before he turned his attention back to navigating their increasingly perilous route to higher ground. Goddamn he wasn't meant for this long-distance running shit, though.
The growing maelstrom was like a black hole, sucking everything into it at a frightening velocity. It quickly became obvious they wouldn't be able to outrun it at their current pace. Daryl pushed on regardless of the odds, doing what he could to shield his face from the violent wind and whipping sand with an arm, never letting go of Psii. What else could they do? He peered back at his unlikely companion, the question clear in his expression. If they couldn't figure something out, and soon, this was going to be the end of the line.
no subject
With his free hand, Psii dug around for the mask he'd found. He knew what it did by now, and he knew the risk of fatiguing himself in the company of someone he didn't know well. It would be so easy to kill him in his sleep, but Psii shared the same sort of ill-advised self-sacrificial tendencies. He could never live with himself if he deliberately left Daryl there. That was equivalent to culling, killing that Alternians casually did or let happen because they believed it was justified. What he was about to do was a serious decision, but he couldn't help grinning instead.
"Oh, come on, do I have to do everything for you? Thith relationship jutht ithn't going to work out...."
He slogged closer to Daryl and tightened his grip on his arm. He slapped on the mask, and his power washed over him like the relief of a warm bath—until, of course, the voices of the future dead chorused into a headache. Ah, the good old days. He released a glow of red and blue sparks around himself and hovered from the ground much more gracefully than his previous gangly run. To his credit, he refrained from picking up Daryl without permission, even as he glanced worriedly at the deluge threatening to engulf them.
"Keep all appendageth inthide the vehicle at all timeth, and pray I don't faint. If you're thcared of flying and would rather drown like a lother, now would be the time to tell me."
no subject
If it was going to come down to a death match between the two of them, the monstrous whirlpool would undoubtedly kill him even if Psii didn't manage to, so he really had nothing to lose here. And who knows, maybe this leap of faith wouldn't end quite so horribly for a change.
The pointy grin really didn't put him at ease, though.
"I've never—" Realising how irrelevant his inexperience was at the moment, he cut himself off. He sure as hell didn't feel like drowning and that was what mattered here. "Just do it," he shouted instead over the roar of the storm, the uncertain inflection in his voice almost but not quite making it a question. It wasn't his first rodeo where powers were concerned, but he'd never exactly invited anyone to use them on him before, and had little idea of what to expect or how he should be bracing himself.
... 'Psiioniic'. Of course. Suddenly the etymology of his name — or whatever it was, it also sounded like a title — made heaps more sense.
"That ain't just a name, huh?"
no subject
"You mean my title? No shit, geniuth. Now hang on, it'th eathier for me to not thmash you into a pulp if you're clothe."
The arm that wrapped lightly around Daryl's back was warm with buzzing sparks. He covered both of them with a glowing layer of them, a pleasant tingle in the face of the whipping sand and rain. It was required in order for him to lift, since he couldn't bear Daryl's weight on his own for long. He bolstered it as a shield while he was at it, tired of the sand getting in his eyes. Compensating for the wind was easy; Psii's power was enough to move vehicles and bust down walls, even with the cap habitually placed on him for arenas. As long as Daryl didn't suddenly punch him, Psii could rise several meters in the air and start scouting for high ground.
"Thee anything? Find thomething quick, the more I uthe thith mathk, the more tired I will get. You wouldn't want to fall out of the thky, would you?"
no subject
It was hard resisting that initial urge to flail to keep his balance as the ground fell away, but he managed, worried Psii might change his mind and toss him into the water if he caused too much of a commotion. Soon enough the urge dissolved entirely in a rush of elation. Far from being scared, he thought the whole flying thing was pretty fucking cool, not unlike the feeling he used to get speeding down empty roads on his motorcycle, wind in his hair, nothing between him and the open sky. Only in this case, the sensation of being weightless was far more literal.
He'd familiarised himself enough with the area that his innate sense of direction easily oriented him, and he quickly searched for the tallest landmarks he could recall. Only problem was... they all appeared to be disintegrating and were getting sucked into the whirlpool. Well, shit. They'd have to set their sights higher.
Craning his neck back to get a better view, he squinted into the distance. The smaller islands were obviously a bust, though some of the other structures were still holding. For how long he couldn't guess, but they might be their best bet.
"How 'bout there?" he suggested and pointed toward the strange dual cities, one with golden towers, the other in purples, both with great ominous chains leading into the water. They were considerably closer than the opposite shore. "Looks safe enough for a pit stop," he said, not relishing the thought of ending up stranded there. "Otherwise..." A downward glance confirmed what he suspected; water already covered where they'd been standing. "We gotta cross the water. There's nothin' else out there that won't be submerged pretty quick."
no subject
"Thith ride will be over thoon. I thaid I didn't want to wathte time, didn't I?" he said gruffly.
At least his passenger calmed down enough to take stock of their surroundings. Psii needed a second pair of eyes. He squinted at the towers, too. The wind was calmer up here. Psii picked up the pace and the towers grew. The golden ones were held up with columns and curves and light. The purple ones were sharp with Gothic arches and black shadows. Light was considered dangerous among trolls; daytime was when the searing sun and undead came out. However, the purple city had its own ominous air, like the whispers of a half-remembered dream from the furthest ring of subconsciousness. The rising water and dusty wind cast a foggy pall on the two cities, but their tallest spires rose defiantly out of it.
"....Like thomething out of a dream—or a daymare. Well, better there than at the bottom of a lake. Have you been there before? Betht to know what we might run into. It'th a little too clothe to the Alternian foretht, but buggarth can't be chootherth. Ath for which thide I'd prefer, I honethtly don't know. I'll land uth thomewhere in the middle and thee."
no subject
"Never been to neither. But I reckon there's plenty waitin' to try and kill us no matter where we go, so best to just be expectin' it," he answered, pragmatic as ever. Fortunately he hadn't lost his pack or weapons — an axe and a hunting knife — during the prior commotion, so at least he'd be going in armed. Experience dictated that any advantages offered within an Arena, such as the mask that was clearly allowing Psii access to his powers, always came at a steep cost, and he wasn't convinced that fatigue would be the worst of it in this case. But he had no intention of leaving Psii to fend for himself in a weakened state, so he figured he'd have to be prepared to fight for the both of them if it came down to it.
Knowing his luck, it likely would.
It helped being shielded from the wind. He took the opportunity to try and brush the sand out of his eyes as they approached their destination, and cautiously tightened his arm around his districtmate's shoulders the closer they got, both in anticipation of being set down and expecting he might have to support Psii's weight if the fatigue was instantaneous. He couldn't help tilting his head back to briefly admire the spires arching skyward.
"Middle's good," he agreed. As good as anywhere else, since it was totally foreign territory. "How tired does that thing make you? Give me some warning if you're gonna pass out on me." And hopefully spare them both the potential embarrassment of landing in a heap of tangled limbs, or worse.
no subject
"I don't exthpect to lothe conthiouthneth, but be ready for me to fall flat on my fathe. With my luck, that'th what'th going to happen. Ehehe, almotht maketh me want to keep it on.... But I know that'th probably jutht another exthcuthe for the Gamemakerth to finish me off thomehow."
He made them an efficient yet comfortable landing, but waited to take his mask off. He knelt and touched the bifurcated gold and purple floor, sending fine little webs of sparks into nearby corners. "Nothing nearby." He glanced at Daryl, almost afraid to show a bit of weakness. But it had to be done. He removed the mask, and a wave of dizziness pounded his head as hard as the waves below. He listed to one side.
"Ah, fuck—No, don't touch me—"
The mask clattered to the floor, and so did he. Something was wrong, and he didn't want Daryl to support him just yet. His hands shook. He felt unaccountably nervous, even fearful. What was wrong with him? It had never been this serious before. Would Daryl take advantage and cull him before he could fight? It would be a very arena thing to do. Psii was sure Daryl only agreed to come because he knew Psii would be at a disadvantage. He pushed himself to his knees and hissed, the scars on his face sharpened by lips pulling back from his fangs.
no subject
Being waterlogged and having sand in every crevice was singularly unpleasant, but there was nothing to be done for it. At least his socks would more or less be free of grit, tucked away as they were in his pack. Shrugging it off as he shifted into a seated position, careful to keep the axe within easy reach, he retrieved his socks and boots and pulled them back on.
And there it was — the Gamemakers collecting their toll. He certainly didn't need to be told twice to keep a healthy distance from Psii. Of course, the guy presumably wouldn't have given a warning if he was planning on putting those pretty fangs to use, and especially in light of their escape from the storm that had been facilitated entirely by the troll, he probably deserved the benefit of the doubt here...
"What's goin' on?" Daryl asked in a low voice, thick with unease. His hand had reflexively moved to the hilt of his hunting knife sheathed at his hip, but after observing Psii for a long moment, he let his hand drop away. "Does it hurt?" Not that he'd know how to ease it, but this was obviously something beyond fatigue, whatever was happening. Christ. He drew himself back into a crouch, but rather than gearing up to run the hell in the opposite direction, he was leaning toward Psii. Prepared to render what help he could, or at least attempt to.
sand in Daryl's buttcrack is a mental image i did not expect to have
He saw that leaning towards him, that indecision regarding a knife and whether to draw it. Like hell he was going to tell Daryl if he was in pain or not. Incidentally, he was, battling a splitting headache that only piqued his anxiety and put him on the defense.
He should never have saved his human. Why did he always have to go and get himself into trouble on account of his humanitarian tendencies? Psii didn't even have a word for 'humanitarian.' Being troll-like just meant being tougher and stronger than his enemies. There was no word for believing that leaving someone behind was the same cruel act as culling, unless one counted 'wimp' or 'pushover.'
He unslung the short spear from his back, little more than a sharp bit of junkyard metal tied to a shitty stick. He didn't brandish it quite so expertly, but a tall, horned, fanged troll with a spear made a point. He clutched the mask with his other wet, sand-covered hand as a second threat.
"I'll inthinerate you if I have to!"
Psii's lucky he doesn't have double butts :| were we going to have Daryl disarm/sit on him here?
Confusion only growing, Daryl raised his empty hands in the universal sign of surrender, slowly getting to his feet and careful to keep Psii in front of him. That was one sorry excuse for a spear, true enough, and it hadn't escaped his notice that Psii didn't seem entirely comfortable wielding it, but he could respect that the troll obviously meant business. Even if he was acting like an utter jackass now. Inexplicably.
"Easy now," he murmured, watching Psii's eyes rather than his hands. In those few split-seconds prior to an attack, that was almost always where the tell would appear first — or at least in most humanoids with discernible irises and scleras, it would. Of course it couldn't be that easy here. "Ain't lookin' for a fight. And maybe I could help if you'd tell me what the hell's wrong."
Despite limited familiarity with his districtmate and with trolls in general, he was inclined to attribute the erratic behaviour to an outside influence; undoubtedly something cooked up by the Gamemakers. Because a hurricane-force storm and goddamn maelstrom weren't dramatic enough for the Capitol audience.
Yeah, this probably wasn't going to end well. But, maybe, if he were quick enough — if he could knock that mask away first — he could attempt to restrain Psii before his troll PMS got them both killed.
yes, psii needs to be sat on with maximum butt effort
Daryl rising up to his feet only raised the hair on the back of Psii's neck. He growled long and low. Hormonal fluctuations had nothing to do with Psii's mental state. Even with his usual bipolar swings, he wasn't nearly this belligerent. He was all bark and could potentially have some bite, especially with his powers, but he preferred to avoid physical confrontations. The Capitol, of course, had other plans.
He waved the spear again, but that was when Daryl struck. The mask clattered to the ground, and Psii's eyes followed that instead of doing the smart thing and impaling the human right away.