thearena | (no subject)

WHO| Katurian and OPEN.
WHAT| Katurian is tiptoeing around the arena late at night. With a garrote.
WHEN| Second week.
WHERE| South-East (Parts of Fantasyland, Tomorrowland, and Main Street)
WARNINGS/NOTES| Attempted murder.

Katurian is a night owl. In his old world (in his old life), Katurian would sleep-walk through his days at the slaughterhouse and only revive once he left for home and the sun went down. He'd write until his body collapsed in exhaustion underneath him, and even when it did, words would still tickle the roof of his mouth and the tips of his fingertips like tiny beings clamoring for attention.

It's no different in the arena. Sleep is a near impossibility, and while he knows he has a relatively secure camp with Draco, it isn't enough. His mind twists and thrives and writhes, the words less like gentle beings and more like angry spirits living underneath his skin. Maggots. In the last arena, he solved this by pacing back and forth on the ice, a folding knife clutched tightly in his hand.

This time, he wanders the darkened arena with a thin patch of fabric tucked in his pocket. This time, he listens to the words.

This time, he fights.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Odd name's better than some Joe Schmoe tag, you get my drift?" Punchy's always hated that his birth name is so boring: Matthew O'Connor, which is the least hip hop name one could ask for. He might as well be called Whitey McCatholic.

Punchy reaches up and touches his face, as if he totally forgot that he can't see out one side. "This? Eh, I get banged up every day. All part of being a superhero, a'ight?"

He cracks his neck. "Just got me a bit dizzy, is all."

"You're not a superhero," he says, his praise and gratitude quickly flittering into disbelief. He laughs, and the sound is raw in his throat. Katurian has long stopped believing in superheros, in selfless saviors that could step out onto the scene and make everything right. He doesn't see them in real life. He doesn't write about them in his stories.

"This is some --" He gives another vague gesture, only now there is a frantic air to it. Hysteria. He doesn't want to believe what he is going to say next, but what else can it be? "This is some child soldier shit."

"What." Punchy's one eye narrows. He stops where he is and glares at Katurian, looking as if the wussy writer guy's just lathered him with the most egregious of insults. Or lathered his mother with the most egregious insults. Something really awful.

"I am a superhero!" he yells, as if completely unaware that someone could hear them. He waves his arms like he's trying to land a plane. "I went to school for it and everything! Just because you can't hack it don't mean some of us don't make the big leagues, you wanksta!"

"Shhh!" he says, batting his hands midair. "You're a superhero, all right, you're a goddamned superhero, now keep yourself fucking quiet."

And then those hands -- those frantic movements and gestures -- find Punchy's shoulders. Katurian has always been a creature of touch, perhaps as a way to compensate for his weak voice and nervous smiles. This is grounding, this automatic, and it isn't until his hands are gripping tight before he realizes what's happening.

Punchy shuts up, but if dirty looks were fatal Katurian might be taking a trip to the Capitol, courtesy ala wangsta. He drops his arms to his side. "That's right, I am. Now don't be frontin', a'ight?"

You'd think a civilian who got saved would be a little more appreciative.