Karkat Vantas ♋ carcinoGeneticist (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crabmunicator) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-11-16 06:59 am
crabmunicator) wrote in thearena2015-11-16 06:59 am
Entry tags:
[closed] all the neighbors are startin' up a fire
Who| Karkat and Roland, then Alain
What| In punishment for his interview speech, Karkat gets an aura that causes rage in those around him. Things don't go too well.
Where| The bunker.
When| Final week.
Warnings/Notes| Everyone dies, description of gore, allusion to/possible discussion of suicidal ideation, PTSD-type freakouts.
A. Roland
The weeks have gone on and somehow he's still going. Alive, tired, worn out, sore, driven by momentum more than his own wish. People drive him on in their way. Sansa needed help, then there were dragons, and Phil said to keep fighting for her - for Maglev. He can't pay back anything to District 6 if he doesn't win.
It's been hard, sometimes.
But things are getting late in the arena now. Time's hard to keep track of, but it's been long, over a month, and he's seen the dwindling numbers by the names put in the sky at night. The arena has shrunk, driving them in closer together. Now, the Gamemakers have bombed out the land above, and he's been driven into the bunker.
When it's not disturbingly quiet, it's something coming for him. The things they put down here have too many arms, too much speed, and voices that they shouldn't. Karkat hears them call like people he notices who aren't around anymore, and he knows they would kill him if he stopped. It might be fair in some roundabout way to let them do it, but in making it this far he's compelled to keep doing it.
So he runs, a sickle tight in his hand, until rounding a corner sends him slamming into someone else.
B. Alain
The door swings open and Karkat slams into the wall ahead of it. The door lasted fine enough. Dented when the thing after them hit it, sure, but the lock held; it was his own slick, fumbling fingers that undid it. He's alive. He's breathing. It comes in thick, choking gasps, hitching, then retching when he turns his head to vomit. It's not much, this late in the arena.
Nothing much smells good this late, either, but entrails and blood fill his nose more than the sick. There's red on his front, on his hands, dripping off the sickle he holds in a trembling hand. Some is his own, but it's Roland who lies inside the room, his gut cut open by the jagged curve of his weapon.
He's not watching his steps when he stumbles from there. They're loud, clunky, soles tracking more of the mess. He barely sees what's in front of him to even bother looking back. Everything is images: Roland matching Sheen, Maglev in the dirt, Signless and his eyes. His thoughts are too much a jumble. He doesn't know where he's going, and doesn't care to listen.
What| In punishment for his interview speech, Karkat gets an aura that causes rage in those around him. Things don't go too well.
Where| The bunker.
When| Final week.
Warnings/Notes| Everyone dies, description of gore, allusion to/possible discussion of suicidal ideation, PTSD-type freakouts.
A. Roland
The weeks have gone on and somehow he's still going. Alive, tired, worn out, sore, driven by momentum more than his own wish. People drive him on in their way. Sansa needed help, then there were dragons, and Phil said to keep fighting for her - for Maglev. He can't pay back anything to District 6 if he doesn't win.
It's been hard, sometimes.
But things are getting late in the arena now. Time's hard to keep track of, but it's been long, over a month, and he's seen the dwindling numbers by the names put in the sky at night. The arena has shrunk, driving them in closer together. Now, the Gamemakers have bombed out the land above, and he's been driven into the bunker.
When it's not disturbingly quiet, it's something coming for him. The things they put down here have too many arms, too much speed, and voices that they shouldn't. Karkat hears them call like people he notices who aren't around anymore, and he knows they would kill him if he stopped. It might be fair in some roundabout way to let them do it, but in making it this far he's compelled to keep doing it.
So he runs, a sickle tight in his hand, until rounding a corner sends him slamming into someone else.
B. Alain
The door swings open and Karkat slams into the wall ahead of it. The door lasted fine enough. Dented when the thing after them hit it, sure, but the lock held; it was his own slick, fumbling fingers that undid it. He's alive. He's breathing. It comes in thick, choking gasps, hitching, then retching when he turns his head to vomit. It's not much, this late in the arena.
Nothing much smells good this late, either, but entrails and blood fill his nose more than the sick. There's red on his front, on his hands, dripping off the sickle he holds in a trembling hand. Some is his own, but it's Roland who lies inside the room, his gut cut open by the jagged curve of his weapon.
He's not watching his steps when he stumbles from there. They're loud, clunky, soles tracking more of the mess. He barely sees what's in front of him to even bother looking back. Everything is images: Roland matching Sheen, Maglev in the dirt, Signless and his eyes. His thoughts are too much a jumble. He doesn't know where he's going, and doesn't care to listen.