thearena | Open!

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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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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