thearena | Open!

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Who| Brendan Frye & YOU
What| Staking out the competition, figuring out what the hell to do. But first? Water.
Where| Adventureland or the Rivers of America
When| Week three
Warnings/Notes| TBA

This wasn't right.

The majority of this world wasn't--some corroded ruins of a theme park, and everywhere Brendan looked it was pretty much the same: trouble. He hadn't seen anyone yet, and if he was being honest with himself, he didn't want to. The fleece jacket he practically lived in had been ripped from him, now dressed like he should be slaying dragons, and Brendan felt uncomfortable, felt an odd itching in his skin because he couldn't just blend into the background like a normal day in school. This was anything but normal, after all.

Water is his first goal--he has absolutely no supplies and from what he's heard, other people do. He's not even sure he believes in a game like this, a dangerous one, but in a twisted way it reminds him of San Clemente high anyway: cliques will form, information will be withheld or whispered, and sooner or later someone takes the fall. This time it's not drug rings and hash heads, it's not as simple as watching a few people die and then jumping out of the king pin's window as the cops arrive. He needs a bigger plan, a better plan. He doesn't know anyone so he can't play them, simple as that.

But first, he's going to need water. The map tells him there's two potential places to go. The idea that someone's already set up camp has occurred to the teen, which is why caution matters above all else.

Brendan's going to be creeping as silently as he can to the rivers--but he's used to pavement and the concrete jungle, not this place. It's not hard to spot him, if you're on the lookout.

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Sandy was always on the lookout. It was one of the only ways she had survived this long.

As Brendan crept along she stood as still as she could, stone coating her skin and hair. A perfect little concrete statue of a nine year old girl in a ripped and torn version of a princess dress. It was still probably eerie feeling her staring at him.

It's the clothes that make him stop--they're like his, only the female counterpart. He imagines it is, anyway. It's not like he hasn't seen very many people.

If he's being honest with himself, that worries him.

But she's stone, just a statue of a little girl. Looks a bit like Snow White aught to, Brendan thinks, and crouches in his usual position, staring at the other for a few moments. He doesn't see anything move, but he's not convinced.

When he stands, it's to cautiously tap her forehead with his index finger.

The "statue" blinked when he did that. Little stone eyelids complete with eyelashes sliding over pebble eyes. Air flowed out of her nose as she let out the breath she'd been holding.

She blinks and Brendan doesn't just take a step back, he pushes the other away from him, attempting to shove her down. He says nothing--doesn't want to in the first place--because that isn't normal. Certainly not in his world.

Then again--neither was the ability to arrive in a 'arena' like this.

She let out a yelp as she was shoved and landed hard on her stoney butt which makes a heavy thud.

"Jerk." She grumbled fully aware that she had it coming to her anyway.

"You can talk." It's all Brendan can really say. He's not used to this sort of stuff--so he sits down, rests on the balls of his feet while the little girl is down, and looks at her through rounded glasses.

"Same clothes--you in here like me?"

She glances up at him trying to suss out if she should be worried.

"Yeah. Like the rest of us. Just another player in this stupid sick game." She grumbled digging her fingers into the dirt in case she needed to make a quick escape. Her stone skin would protect her against some things...but as she'd learned last time it wasn't strong enough to save her life from everything.

Edited 2013-04-09 21:21 (UTC)

"That why you're not trying to send me to the big sleep? Don't agree with this place?" It's good to know. And maybe a little cruel, but Brendan's already putting her on the list of easy targets. Except for the skin...

"How'd you turn to granite?"

Sandy frowned at the first question, "I'm not trying to kill you because I'm not a friggin' psycho. I'm just a kid, what kid goes around killing people?"

At least the second question was easier.

"I was born a metahuman. I'm a freak. Pretty simple."

"If those are the rules of the game," Brendan says, and then shrugs. He doesn't really want to, either, but from what he's already seen today anything's possible.

"You can use that to your advantage, though. That's smart."

Sandy scowled. "So you're just another one who's gonna do what they say? Play the game, kill people. Good people." It was strange to see someone so young acting disgusted with morality. But she hadn't been a true child in a long while.

Edited 2013-04-17 20:24 (UTC)

"If I win, yeah." Brendan glances up and down at the other. She's just a kid--and at that thought his lips set into a firm line.

"So you better heel it now, dig?"

"Heel it?" Her face turned from annoyed to puzzled.

"Do I look like a dog to you?" She asked clearly thinking his lingo was more stupid then it was insulting. His threat though was enough to make her stone skin stiffen.

Brendan's confusion is obvious. "...don't understand what you're saying, doll. Dogs have nothing to do with it.

She returned a very flat, dry, unimpressed look.

"Heel. Like you tell a dog to heel. Did you hit your head or something?"

"Got nothin' to do with dogs," Brendan's voice is sharp, and if you listen carefully, moderately annoyed. "Heeling, like to take a powder. Leave, dig? Not stay like some sorta dog."

As if to drive it home, he points to his heel. You need it to run.

"You don't bump gums like any of the dames where I'm from. You don't know what heel means?"

This was starting to almost be funny. Bump gums? Dames? what time period was this guy from!?

"No one around here talks like that dude..." She tried to explain. "And no one from my world either. You're the odd man out." And for once Sandy didn't feel like that was her job.

Blaine was going back to Adventureland to check on his friends when he saw Brenden up ahead. He watched the other boy get close to the waters edge and frowned. Was he new? Didn't he know?

"Wait!" he called out and then automatically put his hands to his mouth. Worried that Brenden was just bait, he ducked. Hiding in case there was anyone else around.

Brendan looks up sharply, and when he notices it's another person he bolts up altogether, taking a few steps backwards out of habit.

Tchk tchk tchk, his feet sound odd when they're not on concrete, and he's pretty close to the edge, if not about to teeter. He takes in the other, eyes narrowing however briefly. The other teenager ducked down. He didn't fight. That meant one of two things: he either didn't have a weapon and didn't want to bluff (or didn't know how); or had shouted at him in the guise of stopping him--and of putting him in some sort of trap.

Because no one could be that stupid, he thinks. Unless he's just a normal gee that got mixed-up in this, too. Brendan doesn't move, watching where he'd ducked down. Doesn't bother to clear his throat or anything to be polite, just talks.

"Shouting out here makes you duck soup."

"I know," Blaine said from where he was. His voice was quieter now, but he was still hiding, still watching Brendan from where he was. He had to stay in one piece for Kurt, especially when Kurt thought it was okay to run off to 'feasts' without telling him first. He needed someone here to watch his back.

It was weird how much more he cared about surviving when Kurt was around too.

"But there are muttations in the water. They'll eat off your face if you get too close."

Good to know. Brendan's not going to harm him--yet. But Brendan doesn't have a weapon in case things go south. He glances from side to side, as if to make sure no one's listening. It's more to make sure the guy before him doesn't have people sneaking up.

"You gonna take a powder or sit on empty hands like that?" Calling Blaine's bluff: does he have a weapon or not? Is he planning on hiding there all the time they're talking?

Slowly, Blaine moved out of his hiding place and looked around before coming closer. He had no idea what Brendan was talking about and that worried him. "Has someone hit you on your head?" he asked, concern there and serious. "Any of the other Tributes?"

Brendan's brows knit, shaking his head. "No," He said simply. He'd heard that phrase before, though--tributes. People like him. People fighting to the death for no reason.

His lips quirk into a half-smile. It's Lord of the Flies all over again.

"Why's the water no good?" Other than the fact that it's a swampy mess, of course.

"Do you have a sanitation kit?" Blaine asked. "Otherwise, I wouldn't trust anything from there. You might end up getting sick."

That was if this guy wasn't already sick. Slowly, Blaine moved to show the canteen he had with him. It was probably a bad idea. What was to stop Brenden from killing him and taking it.

"I can give you some of mine, if you like. I got it from a sponsor so it's safe. I'll drink first if you don't trust me."

"Can't tell if you're a sap or trying to win me over." It's the truth, and Brendan isn't afraid to spit it out--not maliciously, but more out of extreme caution. He tilts his chin, nodding in the direction of the canteen. You drink first.

"Trying to win you over? Like to trick you or to be your friend?" Blaine asked. He opened the water bottle and took a drink, swallowing it to show that it was safe.

Then, slowly, he moved over to Brendan to offer it to him. "I'll need the bottle back."

He's satisfied with the way Blaine drinks it. It's enough for him to take a large swig, and he doesn't think he's ever tasted anything greater than the water from the metal canteen.

He's greedy, sure, but Brendan doesn't want to show too much weakness. He holds off after two sips, closes the bottle, and throws it back to Blaine. Still not going to trust him--not much, anyway. Can't trust anyone in San Clemente, sure as hell can't trust people here.

"How long has this been going on?"

"This Arena or the Games overall?" Blaine asked as he put away his canteen. This could be such a long conversation depending on what Brenden was actually asking.

"Arena. Need to know how much time has past." What his odds are. "How many people got the big sleep since entering?" And the rate of mortality.

It pays to have someone relatively friendly, even if Brendan's being awfully standoffish.

Blaine explains then, how long they've been in the Arena, how many people have died. He even explains the cannons and how Brenden can tell how many people have died. He finishes by going over the projections that will be on the Arena's walls at night. "They just post pictures of a Tributes face and their District, so it won't do you much good until you have some names to go with it."

Brendan says nothing as he speaks--simply holds his wrist with one hand and squats down, barely even blinking. Processing the information as best as he can. It's when Blaine finishes that he finally gets up and--he's started to pace.

In an odd way, things feel a bit like home, now.

"And it's one if you eliminate the other players. Pretty simple premise, easy way of following through." If he played his cards right, he could do it. He'd have to kill people, but....

"It's duck soup," He announced after a while. "All they want is a show, huh?"

He'd have to give them a show.

Blaine nodded at the question but now he was starting to feel nervous. If Brenden was going to start playing, what would stop him from killing Blaine right now.

"I should probably get back to my friends," he said carefully. "Do you have any other questions before I go?"

R's probably going to lose his foot any time now. It’s pathetic that’s the highlight of his day.

One of these days he’ll get a life.

The zombie's wandered off from the rest of his little pack now that they've all fed and there isn't much of a reason to herd together until the next time. R stumbles around in that haze of close-to-okay, the blood and gristle still sticky across his face and neck. It’s no longer hot with Life, which means it’s not worth his time and he stops licking his lips. What he wants is water. R tried to keep clean in the past and now that the new hunger isn’t constantly pointing at everything, he wants to scrub off the gore out of habit. Try his best to forget the Tribute’s pain.

That and R needs to find Howard. Apologize. Better do it when he’s not coming at the little guy looking like a man-eater.

R makes his way back to the swamp with the piranha. It’s a long way from Fantasyland to Frontierland for a zombie and it takes R most of the day to shuffle through the rubble with his broken ankle that’s twisted around and around on itself over the past couple of weeks until it’s ready to snap off. He hopes it hangs in there until after he finds Howard. Maybe we can use it as fish bait, a part of him thinks darkly and laughs. The laugh doesn’t make it out his mouth. It gets stuck on a piece of rotting meat jammed between his teeth.

Eventually he makes it to the very edge of the swamp as night falls. A few crickets start chirping. They shut up as he passes by, as if he’d bother eating a couple of bugs. R shuffles to the swamp, wades in to his ankles, stoops awkwardly and starts splashing himself, loud and not even trying to mask his presence.

He doesn’t notice Brendan – not yet, anyway.

The water is no good--it's swampy, and Brendan's reminded of the trickling water of the A-tunnel and how it was already foreboding and unwelcoming even before he found Emily's dead body.

He's been spending the majority of the day getting the lay of this area, looking for ways in and out but he always returns to the lake for the most part--it's night, now, and he's stooped low, crouching, staring at the water in front of him and trying to figure out where would be safe to spend the night.

It's hard to concentrate when all you hear is Laura Dannon's voice as she whispered one last thing in his ear. It still echoes, causes guilt Brendan didn't even know he had. He buries it--focuses on the important matter at hand.

There's a noise, though. Loud, awkward splashing and Brendan mentally reprimands himself for not hearing another person come up earlier. If he wasn't so warped in the memories of before he got here, he'd be able to tell sooner.

The shuffling is odd. Entirely too loud for someone trying to stay as quiet as Brendan, and he finds curiousity getting the better of him. He tries to shake off the feeling that he hasn't slept in weeks--it's been almost 6 days on an hour of sleep a night before the arena happened--and he examines the other's movements.

He's injured.

"Easy, soldier." Brendan's voice is even. Calm. "You status quo?"

The voice behind him doesn't make R start - the first sign aside from all the noise that something's not right here. The other is the way R is oblivious to the piranha starting to sneak closer for nips at his ankles. Instead he stands up, turns at the voice and faces the other guy.

R has no idea what he said.

Is this a Living thing? This is a Living thing, isn't it? Because R might be dead but he still understands English and reviewing what the Tribute just said, R still can't make heads of tails of it no matter how much he chews on the words. He shoots him a lost look. Maybe he's decomposing more now. Maybe that's why he still doesn't get those five simple words. They're not clicking. Suddenly worried his brain is on its last legs, R tries to exercise it by speaking and forcing out grammar and all that good stuff.

Instead all he gets out is "huh?"

Awesome. R eyes the other Tribute with his one good eye, the other one facing off in the wrong direction. Maybe he'd understand those five words if he sank his teeth into his forehead. R knows that's the hunger talking, greedy as usual, but he can't deny it's not tempting. R staggers a few feet closer to the other guy.

He doesn't look as healthy as some of the other Tributes in his opinion. There's dark circles under his eyes - sleep deprivation - and he looks like he got into a fist-fight and lost.

No.

Brendan's brow knits together and it's an involuntary reaction--he's surprised. It takes a lot to dig under Brendan's skin. He's seen a lot more than a normal 17 year old has, he's seen a lot of dead bodies.

This one is different. This one is upright. Upright, with an eye out of it's socket and an ankle that looks like it's going to snap off in five seconds.

He takes another few steps back, shaking his head. As if the creature could read his mind, as if it stood for reason. Brendan's a man of logic, and this? Is not computing. Then again, neither is getting swept into an arena.

"Take a powder, dig?" Before he winds up having to relocate himself.

Take...a...powder? ...Dig?

R's hit with the worst sense of vertigo he's ever had since he woke up flat on his back with a dead girl next to him. He gets the words. He gets they're English. They have meaning by themselves, he knows they do. But there isn't any context, zip, nada, and R continues to stand there with his mouth hanging open as he stares at the other guy, a part of him - maybe an old part - almost convinced he's trying to pull his leg. Who even talks like this?

His mouth starts twisting into a confused frown. "I don't...under...stand," R groans. "What's...a powder...and...?"

He loses his train of thought as he gives out a frustrated moan, both at the rest of his words catching and dying and because this guy is not helping. One of the few conversations he gets to have with someone Living without screaming or head-shots and it's like they're not even speaking the same language!

He talks. Brendan really can't hide his surprise--he's skilled at keeping his composure but this? Is ridiculous. It's a zombie. A talking zombie--and Brendan swears he smells the scent of decomposing animals, like in the A-tunnel.

....It's R, he thinks. Even if he's imagining it because of the gore, he's pretty sure it's not a carcass. Or rather it is, but the carcass is of a human.

He takes a few more steps back. Better to keep distance, especially with no weapon.

"You can understand me?"

"I, uhh...." R has to pause, because he's dead sure this has got to be a trick question. He gets it's English, but the rest? "Kinda...? I can...speak and...listen. But - "

R strains for the words, trying to put something together to match what's been going on in his head the whole time. It's not easy. After a long couple of seconds, R defaults to his secret weapon: he shrugs and lets that do all the talking. It's easier that way for everyone. The zombie raises his head to peer at Brendan with his good eye, swamp water still dripping from his face and with the blood caked on him from that Tribute, it's not his best look. (Granted, he hasn't lost his ankle in front of him, so it could be worse. R's half-glass full like that).

"Never...mind. Not...imp-important. What...happened to...?" R flops a hand at his face, then toward the other guy's. It looks like he got hit by a truck and that's putting it nicely.

Okay, well. He's talking to a zombie.

His face pulls itself into a bit of a squint, unsure. He can get enough through body language--god, what a strange concept, the body language of an undead creature--and checks the distance between them. Good, they're still a ways away. Brendan's seen dead bodies before, but this is a little too much to stomach. It's enough to make him nauseous.

"You should take a look at your mug, bo. You're one to talk."

What? Is there something on his face? R suddenly has the thought maybe he didn't wash off all of that man he killed and there's something sticking out of his mouth or stuck on his cheek, plastered on there like a guilty verdict. The zombie reached up, wiped his hand clumsily across his face and nearly popped his eyeball back out before he was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Nope, he's good. He's clean.

"...Always look like...this," R groans, confused. He can feel the guy giving him a squint like he's not on the ball here. R pauses, deciding since they're here, he wants to stop looking at the guy and thinking "Hey You" or "Meal on Two Legs". A name changes things. The hunger's still idly kicking around the idea of lurching at Hey You if he's already beat up that badly. R tries to smash the urge down before it gets any further.

The zombie reaches up to touch his chest. "Rrr. You...?"

It's a start.

"Rrr?" Wait--that a name?

Brendan lets himself squat. He's far enough and R's wrecked enough that it'll be fine if he bolts. He studies the other, piecing together what he can. Capable of human speech, but not much. Still has emotions--sort of.

"Brendan," He answers. Doesn't give his last name out--instead holds onto it, like a child with a security blanket. "You not exactly from here, too?" A quick whirl of his fingers towards the area.

R follows that little finger whirl, his own finger starting to inch up to copy Brendan. Anything he can pick up to make getting his point across easier, he'll snatch up and file away.

"I'm from...airport. Near a....city. Out of...towner, too?"

Specific as always, because that's how R rolls, the zombie throwing in a finger whirl of his own at the Arena. R stares down at Brendan squatting on the ground, his balance so much better than any zombie's.

"San Clemente." No harm in naming a town that, from the looks of it, didn't exist. "California. Until I win? District..." What was it? "10, I think." He barely even knows what it means, and to be honest, that bothers him more than the zombie mirroring his actions. R is a potential problem he can see, a problem he can outrun or outthink if he needs to. Not knowing something? That's a lot more dangerous.

It sets Brendan on edge, causes him to want to start raising hell to figure it out. Not yet, he knows. There's also a fine line between stupidity and not enough patience.

R has only a vague concept of California as being west, not here when he tries to pin it on his mental map - the map's full of holes, probably towns that are bombed out or barricaded or full of Dead by now. He wonders if Brendan's San Clementine survived. It sounds like it's still out there, from the way he talks. It sounds almost like it's the present tense, not the past.

"Dis...trict Four," R says. He remembers he's supposed to be from some District 4. Something with oceans and fish. "Will you...win?"

The zombie peers down at Brendan, not sounding threatened at the idea that the human could easily pop at his feet and kill this conversation. He sounds dimly curious.

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Open!

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Sorry for the delay D:

No worries :) Just glad you didn't bail

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Post killing-Beck

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SO SORRY for the delay

It's fine!

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