thearena | And me without my coon skin cap.

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And me without my coon skin cap.

Who| Tim Drake and OPEN
What| Tim derps about, until someone finds him?
Where| The outskirts of Frontierland, where it meets the river
When| Week 3
Warnings/Notes| Previously existing wounds, zombie.

His stomach is starting to gnaw on his gallbladder, Tim's sure of it. He hasn't eaten since in thirty hours, and he wonders if he shouldn't have stayed in Tomorrowland, where there was food. But, aside from that, he doesn't think that he's in bad shape. Dehydration is his biggest fear; he can feel the headache coming on. Water would trick his stomach into feeling full, too, for awhile. Other than that, a couple of bruises, a few scrapes. Not bad for a death match. It's all from doing things that were borderline inadvisable - mainly climbing the rotting facades of New Orleans Square. The only actual cut he's gotten was from trying to break off a rusted pole early this morning. He had thought one of the feral cats was around, but the clanging protests of the metal must have scared it off. He wasn't hungry enough to eat a cat anyway. Not yet.

The cut's on the back of his hand, red and painful, even when he doesn't try to make a fist. He needs to clean it. Sitting on one of the few intact lengths of fence, Tim is looking towards where he knows the Rivers of America are. After Bruce's warning, he'd given the largest body of water a wide berth, but he needs to drink soon, before delusions set in. He'd rather not die of thirst. If he had more oranges, he wouldn't need to go near the river, but it's a trek back to where the trees are. There might not be any fruit left, anyway. He'll have to brave the water here eventually.

A silver parachute drifts down into his field of vision, and Tim instinctively reaches out to snag it. Dangling from its lines is a small flick-knife. He looks up to see where it might have come from, but sees only sky. This place just gets weirder. "Uh, thanks?"

Pulling the knife free from the parachute, he takes opens it up and inspects the blade. Short, but sharp. It may come in handy for all of the vermin running about. The chute, itself, too is a gift. He can cut it into strips to bandage his hand, once he cleans it. With a sigh and knife in hand, Tim gets up and starts heading toward the river.

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"What do your friends look like?" Tim is already picturing those he's seen so far, creating mental groups of hair color, age, skin color, weight, etc. Strangely, he realizes that he hasn't seen a single female yet, although Bruce told him that Barbara Gordon was still alive. "I can keep an eye out for them."

Tim realizes how that may sound and hastens to elaborate, "I mean that in a normal, I've-lost-my-friends-in-the-mall sort of way. Not the 'I'm-secretly-going-to-act-out-an-Agatha-Christie-novel' sense that everyone expects."

Blaine smiled a bit at the reference. "Can you blame them?" Blaine asked. "Given our situation."

Slowly, he straightened up completely and looked over Tim. It was clear to someone who could read people that Blaine wasn't much of a fighter. He wasn't standing correctly for defense at all. No matter the training he had between Arena's, it wasn't natural for him to treat everyone like an enemy. "You're new? I don't think I saw you outside of the Arena."

"I'm Howard." He drums his fingers on one hand, the unbandaged one, the one he carries a knife with, over the fabric and on the thermos in a jazzy sort of rhythm before he starts walking, doing his best not to limp in front of Tim. "Tomorrowland has gift shops. They mostly been run through already, but there's some useful stuff too."

He gestures to his clothes. "That's where I got the new clothes, too. You don't want to know what my old set looked like. The Capitol dressed me all in white, and, well."

He motions to his face again. "I looked like a giant tampon."

Not the most polite way of putting things, but Howard's only just out of the age where fart jokes are the height of comedy. Even before the FAYZ, he wasn't the most polite kid, but he's eschewed most social etiquette entirely in the last two years. "Look, I can show you where the piranhas are at and we can get you some Indiana Jones swag or something. You know Indy, right? Crystal Skull, Temple of Doom, all that?"

"Well, no," he admits with a touch of disappointed sadness, "But, at the same time, I want to. It's not how I was trained. It's not how I was raised. I'm okay with bending a few laws, I admit that. The police could probably lock me up for illegal weapons manufacture and assault, if it wasn't being put to good use."

Not to mention breaking and entering, being a threat to national security, moving criminals across state and federal borders, and, oh, a whole host of other things that he's done or been an accomplice to. "But I'm having trouble with the idea that I'm supposed to run around jacking anyone who occupies the same space. Maybe it's because I'm new. I've been here almost four days. Don't bother filling me in, Bruce already did."

Blaine nodded at that. He knew there was a Bruce in District 6 and thought that Tim might be talking about the same guy. He didn't push about it though. Asking people about their allies was another way to get on their bad side, he thought. Though he hadn't minded when Tim asked him about his, he also hadn't rushed to answer the question.

"I'm Blaine," he said. "This is my second Arena. I wish I could tell you the stuff you've heard is wrong."

Gift shops. Okay, he knows that he likes this kid now. He's a survivor. "I've been to Tomorrowland. There was still some fruit there, when I left."

Wrapping whatever meat they scavenge in orange peels should conceal the foreign taste. Tim feels wasteful suddenly, having discarded the peel the other day. He won't do it again.

He doesn't mention it, but he's going to keep them from going into Space Mountain, already working out a story about an armed, bloody man going inside. He feels that he owes it to Punchy, somehow, to protect his location for not killing him on arrival.

Tim snorts at the giant tampon comment and looks down, trying to hide the faint blush that he can feel in his cheeks. He grabs onto another topic like a life preserver rather than try and tie together a joke about the Attack of the 50 Foot Woman. "Great, piranhas. I love this new Disneyland. Can't wait to check out the Haunted Mansion. And yeah, I know who Indiana Jones is. I haven't had time to go to the movies in years, so I haven't seen the Crystal Skull. I call dibs on the hat."

"Oh, so you found it too." Howard doesn't look thrilled at the idea that many people will be going there - not just because it means sharing, but because it means that there will be more people to run into whenever he tries to get at the blackberries and tomatoes. Howard doesn't want to run into many more people than he has to.

That's part of the strategy of keeping Tim around, too. There's some safety in numbers, and hopefully if they run into any maniacs the bad guys will go after Tim instead. It's not much of a hope - Howard's obviously the wounded gazelle here - but he doesn't have many options.

"Crystal Skull was awful. Spoilers, there were aliens. Everything is aliens. In an Indiana Jones movie." There's a strange lightheartedness Howard uses when talking about pop culture. It stands at odds with his usual biting tone, with the mutilating wounds on his face. He could almost be any teenager at the mall, complaining about how he wants his ticket money back.

"I was consider shoring up in the Haunted Mansion, but then I was like, hell no. Knowing the Capitol there's probably real live ghosts crawling around it, maybe from all the people who've died already. That's a charming thought." He gestures to the shooting gallery and a 'saloon' in Frontierland. "I been using the big stuffed animals from the shooting gallery as bedding. There's no food left in the restaurant but there's stuff that can be used, utensils and tablecloths and the like. Anyway, in Adventureland there's some netting in the Indiana Jones ride, so we can use that to catch fishies."

That’s enough to make R pause for longer than a few seconds. “…You’re…one of the…cool ones?”

The zombie stands there listing slightly, that thought clicking around on his face as he tries to size up the Tribute and decide if he really is telling the truth. R’s terrible at lying and that means he sucks at telling if someone else is too. How can he tell? Gut feeling? Instinct? They’re on opposite sides of the fence here. R’s mottled mouth moves silently as if he’s trying to work out what he wants to say. That, or he’s let it flop open again like he’s waiting for flies to come in (it’s happened before). Satisfied that he has himself a spanking new sentence, R starts up with the tortured moans.

“Good. Yeah, we’d be…good. Howard is…a friend. But…he has…bad friends too,” R groans it out piece by piece. “I’m…R. You?”

He wishes he could say he isn’t lumped in with the bad friends, that he’s cool too. Making it up is going to take awhile.

Patience is the name of the game. R’s working eye fixes on the other Tribute, gray and unblinking. The guy still has that knife out like he knows how to use it, R’s still standing there trying to look like he means business, and they’re at the closest thing to a standoff a zombie and a human can have.

"Then who's to say it's for you?" Ian hefted the fence piece in an attempt at intimidation. He wasn't about to attack someone who had a knife when he couldn't be sure he'd win.

There was only one person in this arena that Tim would willingly hand the knife over to, and that man wouldn't ask for it. He wasn't going to be bullied.

He shook the cloth free of his left hand, because if he let go of it during a fight, it could loosen and stream. Tim dropped down into a ready stance. "I say it's for me."

Ian shook his head. "You've finished with it. Now it should be my turn." He advanced on the other man, albeit slowly, giving him plenty of time to attack first.

"No, I'm sure I'm going to need it for a good, long time," Tim said as evenly as he can. He wanted to provoke a fight, but it looked too late for that.

When the man came almost within range, Tim flipped backwards and landed in a crouch that quickly morphed into a low, creeping sidestep. Make him work if he wanted to use that mace, because scavenged or not, that fence pole could do significant damage. Vertical swings are sloppier; they leave wide openings.

It was weird to have Bruce actually be a welcome topic, for once, but he wouldn't have minded talking about him. Granted, Tim didn't know exactly what was fair game to reveal about him. The word Batman was off limits, but he figured that anything about Bruce Wayne would be safe. He needed to discuss it with him first, so perhaps it was a bad topic after all.

"Tim," he offers with an acknowledging nod. "I wasn't expecting you too. I've seen enough to know that it's not."

He was curious about the other Arena, almost asked about it. Tim knew that Blaine was too normal to be the likely victor choice, and he wanted to causing flashbacks or meltdowns. Death was... not a pleasant memory.

Normalcy made Blaine the perfect person to ask questions about the other tributes, though. Tim was too paranoid. Bruce was even worse. "How many people here are like you and me?"

That gave him pause - mentally at least - because it seemed like the other man knew what he was doing. And wasn't scared enough to just run away. Ian wasn't desperate enough for the knife to get killed over it, but neither was he going to give in.

When Ian came close enough that he was still slightly out of range he swung the fence piece down, intending to hit the ground hard enough to bring up a cloud of dust.

"You mean Tributes?" Blaine asked, seeking clarification before answering. "There are 12 Districts and each District has at least four Tributes. That was before the Arena though, there might be more and more that are arriving as we speak."

He remembered what it was like to just be plopped in the middle of an Arena. The confusion and terror were two things he thought he'd never forget.

"Yes. I'm one of the totally cool ones. Just like you," Tim encourages. He's not entirely sure what's going on here, but he'd agree to anything to make the zombie go away, preferably not in a second death. This chat is complicating matters. This is not a mindless killing machine with no concept of good and evil.

But knowledge of accepted morality and social norms does guarantee adherence thereof. Tim remembers the nasty bites covering Howard's face. Maybe R is a killing machine. Maybe not. Tim only knows that, if he attacks R for existing, he's going to end up with infected wounds.

And that's at best.

"I'm Tim," Tim suppresses the gentle, patronizing voice that he almost slips into. This is not a lost toddler. There is a limit to how soft he is willing to appear in hopes of walking away. He's convinced that if he's too accommodating, he'll be a lamb chop. "Listen , R. You can go ask Howard. Ask him if Tim Drake touched him. I didn't. He'll tell you for himself."

Taking a few more steps, he widens the gap between them. "I'll warn all my friends that this place is Howard's."

Actually, he'd warn them to never attempt the river in the dark and to try to trusted backup, but it was close enough to the truth. It's how you finesse the presentation. He doesn't go so far as to offer his own friendship. His parents. They looked like this. Talked about missing him, glad to be together again and rotting...

No. He can feel the facial muscles tic. Don't glower. Don't let him see the revulsion. It's not at him. Not all of it.

"No, I mean - look, neither of us has tried to break the other's face, and we've had time to hesitate and work up the nerve. How many can you say that about?" Tim really does want his opinion on this. Somewhere between a normal person's estimation of untrustworthy people and Bruce's (everyone) was the actual number. He doesn't expect Blaine to be right. "Half? More or less? Who are you keeping 50 yards away from? I want your opinion on what we're up against. I haven't met enough people for even a 10% sample size."

He rubs the back of his neck. " I hate playing catch up."

Tim can see that the arc of the pole isn't big enough to hit him, but he rolls to the right anyway. Caution wouldn't hurt him. Underestimating would.

The dry soil kicks up a sizeable cloud of dusts, and Tim hurriedly backs away from it to get as much clear air around him as possible. Forget the knife. Tim folds it and sticks it in his pants. It's more of a threat than a weapon. It's a folding knife, he wants to scream. If you slice in the wrong direction, it will begin to close on you. Everyone just keeps honing in on it.

Both hands in front of him, one in tight at sternum height, the other held further from his body and looser, ready to move, Tim waits.

"Oh," Blaine had to think about it for a moment. "About half, I think. But don't quote me on that. There are some really sick people here, but there are also some good ones. There's a man named Wyatt. He's a US Marshall. He saved me from a psycho last Arena and then when it was just him and a girl as the last two he... He took himself out to let her win. He's a really good man. There's also a woman named Diana with dark black hair. She's the one who has been looking out for me. Those two are the ones I know for sure will help you out, but I've heard there's a guy named Howard that's pretty decent."

Blaine takes the time to describe Wyatt Earp and Howard to Tim, trying to help him know which of the Tributes can be trusted.

"There's also a girl named Sandy. She's blonde. If you meet her... Well, she's got a good head on her shoulders but she can use people looking out for her too. She's the one who told me about Howard."

Just like you, Tim says.

R feels guilty all over again.

Peering at Tim, trying to read his face and all those tiny twitches in his muscles, see past the pulse of his neck and the flush in his skin, R thinks he believes him. No, he’s sure he believes him. It’s not like he’d be able to pick out any tells if he was lying, but R decides he wants to go on his gut feeling on this one. If he really was one of the uncool ones, he wouldn’t tell him to go back and ask, right? R turns it over, chews on the question a bit in his head. He still comes away thinking that Tim’s telling the truth. R’s shoulder drops down from where it’d raised – he’s still dead but he looks more relaxed in his slouch, his head tilted slightly to the side.

“O…kay,” R finally says, unaware that he’d been staring for several long seconds that go past plain awkward and into creepy territory. “You…do that. I’ll…take your word.”

That wasn’t so bad. Maybe he doesn’t have to kill him. R really rather not. Tim seems like he’d be down with talking it out and that’s fine with him if they can be people about this (and he's willing to sit through groaning). R doesn’t chase Tim as he takes a few steps back, all sneaky-like, R not even noticing the space between them has suddenly grown several more feet in the meantime.

Now he was annoyed - it would be even harder to get the knife. A small rational part of his brain told him that it wasn't worth getting killed over and ir probably wasn't worth getting injured over either, given the other people around here who would then see him as an easy target.

Yet he felt he deserved to have that knife. So he followed and swung the pfence piece again, this time aiming for the knees.

"Yeah, I found it too," Tim says sullenly. They're competing for a food source, after all. It's the oldest way to cause two animals to fight. Overpopulate an area, and they'll be pushed to the brink of starvation. Some poor sap walks by with a banana, and nature takes its course. Sometimes, no one ends up with the banana. Tim assumes that he's probably going to starve to deah, in the end.

Safety in numbers is why Tim is keeping Howard around for now, as well. It's mid-day, and he thinks that even the tributes that tried to stay awake into the night would be up by now. It would be too risky to sleep the entire day; it's safer to sleep at night. The odds favored the others sticking with what they were accustomed to and sleeping at night. Besides, Howard would make too attractive a target on his own. Tim wouldn't be able to rationalize leaving him behind even if he wasn't being promised food.

"Okay, while I'm not going to say that aliens are never the right call, more often than not - it's not aliens. Maybe the screenwriter saw that tv show "Ancient Aliens" and thought that, if aliens built the Sphinx, they belong in an Indiana Jones film?" Tim pauses, considering this for a moment. He can't remember where he saw the show. He dimly recalls one of his crazier history teachers showing it in class. The one who had a collection of Hawaiian shirts and dreamcatchers.

That wasn't good supporting evidence for the validity of the show. "Or maybe they just assume that we're all stupid, which is true, by and large. More than 50% of Americans believe that dinosaurs and man walked the earth at the same time."

Tim glanced over at the shooting gallery. The structure looked like it would cave in if a fly landed on it, which made it pretty good cover. He would assume that no one would venture in something so obviously unsound. "Just be ready to move if you hear any creaking," he cautions.

The utensils in the saloon are most likely gone, he reminds himself, especially if they were metal. You're not going to beat anyone to death with a serving spoon, but it could serve as a cup and might even be useful deflecting knife attacks. He'll head back this way later, to check, but it's not tantalizing enough to turn them wround right this instant.

That's as good a response as Tim could have hoped. He puts the real number of people who will attack without warning or provocation at 75%. Hope is a powerful motivator and, when coupled with the will to live, there are plenty of people, otherwise non-violent, who wouldn't think twice about braining a sleeping teenager to improve their odds.

But there was at least one other person out there actively trying sabotage the death game, and that was a comfort. He naively wished that they were all doing that. Human nature won't let that happen.

Tim starts a little at the description of Diana. Black hair - real black hair, is common when you consider the entire human race. However, with the name Diana, it's reasonable to eliminate Asian ethnicities, thereby narrowing the potential pool by billions. Latinas may still have the name. "I knew a Diana, in my world. Black hair, blue eyes, attractive. Kind, but you can tell by looking at her that she won't take any crap."

Tim dodged the swing, but he didn't move far enough. His right knee buckled when the wood slammed against it, but he had braced for it and managed to stay on his feet.

It had been necessary. Taking a hit was the only way to be in close. Before the man straightened and readied another blow, Tim dived for the man, intending to force them both to roll and then throw him. Tim hoped to jar that pole out of his hands.

"You've seen that TV show? I love that TV show." There's a kind of energy to Howard now, as if just being able to connect with someone over pop culture excites him. It reminds him not just of home, but of a life before everything went crazy. The days when he could curl up on the couch with his PSP and some soda and let the History Channel or VH1 run, back when he and his parents would watch American Idol at the dinner table, back when he and his mom used to make deals in the car that they could listen to songs off one of his favorite CDs if he put up with the morning news on the way to school.

It's still there, hanging over him, like the shadow of who he once was. There was once a kid inhabiting this body who worried about getting acne, not about getting his face slashed open; there was once a kid in this body who refused to eat anything with pickles, rather than stuffing himself with rotten tomatoes from Tomorrowland.

He gives Tim a curious look. "You mean dinosaurs didn't? You mean We're Back lied to me?"

Seriously, though, he didn't realize that, and that bothers him. He doesn't like the idea that Tim's marking him up as uneducated. Uneducated is different than stupid - having your enemy think you're stupid is a benefit. Having them think you're uneducated is just insulting.

And the truth is Howard has a seventh grade education.

Howard's already ransacked parts of Frontierland - the prop guns from the shooting gallery, for example, have all been taken and destroyed. But as he limps into the gallery he starts to collect other things, kicking through sharp splinters on the floor to find a piece of wire, a cable here, the drawer from a cash register there. All things that can be used and repurposed. His eyes dart around as he imagines ways these things can be used.

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And me without my coon skin cap.

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