thearena | Arena 06

Arena 06 - Happy

The last few hours before the Arena have a strangely stifled quality, as if half the people they interact with are trying very hard not to laugh. Maybe it's the costumes, the fancy gowns and velvet tunics, the short capes. Or maybe it's their destination.

The round courtyard to which the tubes bring them could not be more different from the last arena. Though outside the circle of pedestals, disrepair and neglect has taken over the roads and buildings, the garden inside the circle could not be more perfectly sculpted. Every hedge is a smooth, rounded shape. Flowers bloom brightly in concentric circles of insane color. The Cornucopia sits gleaming and golden, and just in front of its mouth, a bronze statue of a man and a mouse stands amid the heap of supplies.

20, shouts the voice from the sky.

Aside from it, there is a hush. No flies in the flowers, no wind in the trees. It is a cool day, with the comfortable chill of early spring and noon's short shadows.

19 - 18 - 17

Outside the circle, behind the tributes on the northern side, a castle looms. Through its wide gate, devastation everywhere, but it, itself, is shining clean, glowing pink and blue. Opaque windows look down from the heights of it, as uncaring as every hidden camera the veterans know is there.

12 - 11

Music starts as the countdown nears the bottom, a whimsical, dramatic tune.

3

2

1

And with the final note, the gong rang out, and a firework shot into the sky from the castle's peak, bright enough to burst redly across the sky above them all. Let the Games begin.

((OOC NOTES: IF YOUR CHARACTER HAS POWERS THE CAPITOL HAS NERFED, make sure you are on this list.

And everyone really should review the arena post. Because there's a little more to play with than you might think.

And please remember to add your character's tag to each post they're in.))

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John felt more focused than he'd been in a long while. He and Sherlock had planned as well as they could for this, and his nerves hummed with concentrated energy as he was loaded in his tube and left for a few moments alone with his thoughts.

Fall back away from the Cornucopia, find cover, wait for Sherlock.

He pressed his lips together as the tube rose and the bright light revealed both the bizarre surroundings and the other Tributes, all in what seemed to be colour-coded versions of- oh. Oh, but that made sense. Disney Land. Or was it Disney World? He'd never been, and he doubted Sherlock had either, if the lack of popular culture knowledge he'd demonstrated so far was any indicator.

As the countdown began he looked over the other Tributes- scanning them all to try and identify Sherlock- and there he was, in red, staring intently at the cornucopia. Of course he was. Fellow tributes for District 7 were decorated in the same light green as he was, which he supposed would probably be useful later. They'd be able to tell who someone was likely to be from a distance, if they could see them coming.

There were seconds to go. He steadied, took measured breaths, and waited. The second the gong rang out, he ran towards the main street, not looking back.

Javert was originally intending to go towards the castle, but even with it standing stark against the skyline, he manages to keep losing track of where he's supposed to be going. He's been wandering for a while now, trying to push past the pain in his shoulder and the splitting headache that could have, possibly, chosen any better time to afflict him. The bite mark, the place where a chunk of him is missing feels hot and tender to the touch, and he suspects an infection, although he can't fathom how it's struck so quickly.

R's red cape, at least, is keeping the worst of the chills away. He wanders through main street, trying to keep the castle directly ahead of him without staying in the middle of the road. The orange outfit he's in makes it hard enough to blend in with anything. He stops when he sees someone else on Main Street. In all likelihood, John's already seen him, although Javert notes from the way John's looking around that he might be waiting for someone. An ally, perhaps.

Javert highly doubts that the cape, which clearly belongs to someone else, and the red smear down the right side of his body will convey that he's a trustworthy person, but if this stranger in green has one ally perhaps he wouldn't mind having a second. So he pauses, one hand clutched over the mangled, bloody mess that is his shoulder, watching John, trying to decide the best way to engage.

John's been watching from the partial cover of a doorway framed with decorative pillars, focused intently on the direction of the cornucopia and watching for a red-caped figure. When Javert starts making his way towards him, however, he stiffens. A red cape on an orange-costumed figure could mean very bad news indeed, and he's currently completely unarmed...

He doesn't recognise Javert, but he does recognise the stagger of a wounded man. It's possible the man has a weapon, hard won at the cornucopia. He eyes him warily.

"For god's sake, stop drawing attention to us," he hisses at him. "Either come at me or move on."

Javert raises the hand not clutching the wound out. "I'm unarmed." He heads over to Watson, moving quickly and trying to stay out of easy view but still stumbling and staggering a bit. He breathes heavy; he's in quite good shape, he shouldn't be so out of breath as he is.

He stops a few feet from Watson and straightens up, and even though stiff and straight is his natural posture, it feels strenuous to maintain here. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm looking for shelter long enough to dress my wound."

John wets his lips, frowning. He's never turned an injured man away- friend or not, and today doesn't feel like it's a day to change the habit.

"All right," he says quickly, beckoning him into the relative shelter of the doorway- though not too close to him. "I'm a doctor. If you want, and as long as you keep your hands exactly where I can see them, I'll help you. Just one question. The cloak. Who did you get it from?"

There's the slightest bit of relief in Javert's features. Not only has he found someone who, thus far, isn't trying to kill him, but supposedly a doctor as well. He nods; keeping his hands out is entirely reasonable. He hunkers down in the doorway.

"The man who bit me." Javert holds it out. "He isn't dead, so far as I know. I only meant to get away from him. I didn't bother to retaliate any more than necessary."

He frowns. "I was bitten by a criminal once before, but I didn't imagine anyone would have it in them to take an entire piece off and chew on it as if it were a piece from the butcher."

Well, that ruled Sherlock out, at least. Of all the things he'd been guilty of, John couldn't imagine him biting a chunk out of another man's shoulder.

"Right. Hang on." He stopped, crouching beside him, examining the amount of blood on the cape and looking up to the wound with a careful expression. For a reportedly fresh injury, it looked far more advanced than it had any right to, with the symptomatic inflammation of the surrounding flesh, sickly yellow pus oozing up. Infection had already set in, far too quickly to be natural. "I don't suppose you picked up anything at the cornucopia that can help clean this up? You have a serious infection that I really don't have tools to deal with. Even salt water would help a little."

"That's unfortunate," Javert says in a perfect, not-all-that-upset deadpan. "I'll have to go back to that confounded Capitol much sooner than I would like."

Right. Just an inconvenience. As if he doesn't have a serious infection from where someone bit him.

"I abandoned hope at the Cornucopia for obvious reasons." Like the fact that someone bit him. The more he thinks about that the grumpier he feels. "So there's nothing you can do?"

He keeps everything in view, just like he said he would, not even contemplating doing anything underhanded to the good doctor.

He shook his head. "Not without supplies. I've never seen a wound deteriorate to this condition so quickly. You might be able to fight off the infection if you could clean the wound with something sterile- but it looks unusually aggressive. I can give a bit of advice on caring for it, I can help you wrap it up, but I can't fix it for you."

He sighed, trying not to think too much on the question of whether he'd be trying to do more if the other man wasn't an opposing contestant in a fight to the death.

"I'm sorry," he added.

Javert frowns a bit with one side of his mouth. "Well, maybe it'll do good to know this is one of the threats of this Arena. The one who did this is a tall young man with dark hair. Probably in his twenties. Pale skin, blue eyes."

He likes to keep it all business. That way none of the sticky emotions like fear can work their way in. He used to have righteousness as a buffer against anything like that, but he's not so sure anymore, not of his own role in the world nor of the world itself, and there's a slight tremor in his voice.

He meets John's eyes and nods. "I appreciate it. And I'll appreciate any advice and help dressing it. It's in a bit of a difficult place."

It couldn't have been Sherlock, could it? Of course not. He wet his lips and nodded, gratefully- the injured man had no need to provide him with the information but had done so anyway. It was oddly noble of him. "Thank you. I'll steer clear," he assured him, hoping the idea of having afforded someone else protection from a similar fate would be appreciated.
"It's not hopeless, all right? We'll all need water, so there will be some available. If you can find salt water, or sphagnum moss, all the better. The problem is this- can you see? The flesh here is beginning to necrotise. It needs to be removed to improve the chances of healing. In smaller wounds, if treated carefully, the body does this itself, and we might still be able to encourage that, if we're careful and lucky. May I have your sleeve? Wool's a little too dense, and you'll want to be able to check on your arm easily anyway."

"Hopeless, perhaps not. But in an arena like this, it's hardly an advantage." Javert softly chuckles to himself, and it's a dry, unhappy sound. "No matter. I don't even know what sphagnum moss is."

He holds his other arm up a bit so John can do what he will with the sleeve. "I can take good care of it. I'm nothing if not diligent. I can't exactly claim to be lucky today, though."

John pressed his lips together for a moment. "It's just a natural source of iodine, and a pretty common moss. Not necessary. Just find some water."

He ripped Javert's sleeve off as carefully as he could- frowning at the bruising, and tore the material into strips, folding one up into a wad of cloth. It wasn't worth making the man more nervous than he already was.

"One of these, wadded up and moistened with water. Keep the wound moist but change the dressing regularly, letting any pus drain when you do. Alright? And secure it in place with another, like this." He tied the bandage in place, offering the stranger a wry smile. "If you turn out to be lucky after all and can find a knife or medical supplies, and if I'm lucky enough to still be around-- I'll do what I can for you then."

"They have to have water about here some place. It's hardly a show if we're all dying of dehydration, I suppose." He holds still and lets John work. He knows the very, very basics of dressing a wound but this is far beyond him. He doesn't flinch, even though it hurts, but he does reach up and rub one of his temples intently. His headache is brutal. John may even be able to feel the fever when working the sleeve.

"You're waiting for someone. Who?"

"Sherlock," John told him, becoming more convinced the longer he looked at Javert and felt the heat radiating off him that the man wouldn't make it back for help. He didn't share the prediction.

"From District 2. We made an agreement to meet here after the cornucopia. Did you see him?"

"I don't know him. I'm from District 3." Javert takes a deep breath. "Not that I suppose it matters much."

He tries to think back on the chaos of the Cornucopia. He doesn't remember where the figures in red went. "But if I see him, I'll let him know you're looking for him, doctor."

Just at that moment a ridiculous figure in a ridiculous outfit went tearing down the street - piercing blue eyes scanning every doorway even as he ran. He was cursing under his breath, completely empty handed, though getting more optimistic with each doorway he passed. Maybe they could break into one...

"John!" He cried out, running towards them and suddenly wishing that he had a knife. But it didn't appear that John was in immediate danger...

He skidded to a stop, looking back over his shoulder to check that he wasn't followed, before turning his attention back to the two of them. Javert. District 3. He'd been in the last Arena - Sherlock had seen the replays.

He startled as he heard the running footsteps, leaning out beyond the doorway to get a look at the approaching intruder. The relief as he recognised the dark haired man in the red cape rolled off him in waves. Sherlock seemed unharmed- and that, as far as John was concerned, was a win.

"He's a friend," he called out quickly, not wanting Sherlock to get the wrong idea about his guest. "I'm fine."

Javert watches quietly as John and Sherlock reunite. There's clearly some kind of deep camaraderie there, moreso than just something forged in the few weeks between Arenas. There's a bond of trust that these sorts of events seek to sever, rather than forge.

"The blood is mine," he says, to keep Sherlock from possibly getting the wrong impression. His eyelids flutter a bit.

"Already making friends?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow as he walked over to them, glancing at Javert as he spoke.

"Obviously," He responded, about the blood. "That was easy enough to tell at first glance." He frowned as he stepped closer, however, getting a look at the amount of blood Javert had already lost, throwing a questioning glance at John.

Edited 2013-03-19 03:27 (UTC)

"Looks that way," John informed him firmly, shooting Sherlock a look that he hoped communicated what was already obvious. He'd done what he could for the man, but he wouldn't put money on his survival- especially as it looked like they were all out of supplies.

"I don't suppose you picked anything up back there?"

Javert looks a little amused at Sherlock rebuffing him. "And I suppose you could also tell me why I have a 'serious infection' for an injury I received not two hours ago?"

Then he winces as the headache throbs as it hasn't yet before. His shoulders shudder with a chill.

"No." The word was curt. He'd tried his best, and was obviously sore about coming back empty handed.

His eyes narrowed slightly - he couldn't see under the bandages, of course, but the flush was obvious enough. He shook his head. "John's the expert," he deflected, before glancing back down the street to triple check that he hadn't been followed, though his mind was furiously wondering if there weren't engineered infectious agents at work in this arena.

He wouldn't put it past the Capitol.

"Apparently he got bitten," John offered, trying not to look too disappointed at the news that Sherlock hadn't managed to get anything at the cornucopia. "A tall man in his twenties with dark hair and blue eyes."

Heading down Main Street

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