thearena | the sweetly sleeping, sweeping of the Seine

Entry tags:

the sweetly sleeping, sweeping of the Seine

Who: Enjolras, Hyperion, Punchy, and Thane! (Did I get everyone?)
What: Enjolras is supply-hunting! Hyperion is attacking! Punchy is attempting to save Enjolras, and Thane is just (tragically) along for the ride.
Where: Fantasyland
When: Week 3
Warnings/Notes: Violence and death. Possibly a violent death.

Supplies were becoming more and more scarce as the days passed, and Enjolras was forced to venture further and further away from the hideout he and Little Rock had created. It wasn't the best arrangement, and he suspected that soon the lack of food and useful good available in the shops directly below them would necessitate a move, but for the moment her suggestion of higher ground had worked out well. Or, rather, as well as could be expected given the circumstances.

It was an error of calculation on his part that had him heading back toward their hideout so late. The sun was fading fast beyond the trees and the shadows around the buildings of the town were growing longer. Enjolras didn't like it. The lack of natural visibility may have meant he was better hidden but it meant the same for any perspective threats be they the awful creatures he and the girl had encountered around the Arena, or other Tributes. He would admit to being slightly more wary of the idea of other Tributes for reasons he suspected were not entirely unreasonable.

Still, there was nothing to do but pick up his pace. The faster he could reach the safety of their camp, the less chance there was that he would be attacked, or worse, lead anything unpleasant back to her.

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Not too far ahead was Hyperion, standing quietly, towering over an empty pile of garbage ravaged by other Tributes. If nothing else, it meant that they had been here. If they were smart, they would have moved on, if not - well. He's sure they felt it was wise to stay in one spot, close to an easy access to supplies. His stomach had complained often enough with hunger and thirst, but those were lesser concerns when other motivators kept him going. The dried up blood on his clothes, for one. The smell had become a banality long ago, but it still flared his senses, made him want more. One drop was all it took to make Hyperion a well-behaved Tribute. Doing exactly what he was expected to do.

The little girl called him slow. She claimed she had eight deaths under her belt, after all. Hyperion had some catching up to do, and he'd been stalking the corners of the playing field for a good while. It was a matter of watching and learning, but there was nothing new to be taught. Just survive, and kill those who can only try to do the same.

His presence was unannounced. Enjolras' seemed to go unnoticed. Then Hyperion lifted his head and locked his eyes right on his target.

He proceeded down the path hastily. In the darkness, he couldn't be sure of anything. The shadows betrayed him and only added to his anxiety. Enjolras longed for a candle, or some other light source to guide him. It was a foolish wish, though, even he knew that. The same light would only grant him unwanted attention.

It wasn't until he was almost upon Hyperion that he spotted the other figure in the darkness. By then, it was surely too late. The other man would had to have noticed him. Enjolras set his jaw and stopped, not yet reaching for the knife he kept tucked in his boot, but taking note of its presence all the same. These encounters were becoming altogether too frequent.

"It would be wise for both of us to find shelter before the sun sets. The animals grow more bold in the darkness."

The figure in the dark was slow to turn and face the other one, eyes relaxed, the line of his mouth neutral. There was nothing friendly about his posture or the way he looked at Enjolras, nothing remarkably emotional or - human. He might as well be made of wax. Then he spoke.

"That ain't what I'm looking for."

Fingers curled tightly around the blade in his hand. He'd just found it.

It was frightening, even from a distance. Granted, his wariness of their situation may have impacted his perception, but even in the darkness, Enjolras could feel the utter coldness in the other man. He squared his shoulders, glancing quickly around to see if there were any likely escape routes. There weren't.

"Tell me what you need. I will help you find it if I can." It was a stall. The longer they stayed talking, the longer he had to figure a way out of this. Hopefully this sinister man didn't see through it.

The expression he produced, shadows shifting his features, was not a smile. No one in their right mind would confuse it for one, even if it was dangerously close. One step took him closer to Enjolras, then another, then another.

"Will you?" An exhale left his nose, something amused, distant. Shaking his head, Hyperion made the knife's presence unmistakable, its purpose easy to guess. This time he was openly smiling, distorting the sentiment behind it. "No need."

There was still time. If he ran, Hyperion was now close enough to grab him and make him regret the decision.

"What's your name?"

No, there wasn't any mistaking the knife, or what their proximity probably meant for his chances. Enjolras drew in a ragged breath. "If you killed me, would my name really matter to you, Monsieur?"

There were few options left open to him. He'd waited too long, miscalculated his ability to reason out of this. It was an error that could cost him very dearly.

There was an alley to one side of the building nearest them. It wasn't an avenue Enjolras had ever investigated before and he couldn't be certain that it would lead to safety. At most, he could hope it would lead to a more open road, or at perhaps another series of alleys in which he could lose his would-be attacker. At worst, it could lead toward any number of other, greater dangers, or even trap him in a dead end. Fortunately, there was hardly time for him to make his body move, let alone to fully contemplate all the perspective risks dashing off into an unknown situation might entail.

He breathed deeply once again, and ran. If it did dead end, he would fight. There truly wouldn't be another option.

"Why the hell not." Hyperion tilted his head briefly, watching him, eyes narrowing for a beat, as if trying to read his target's mind. He wouldn't try to run, would he? No, that would be a bad a idea.

A bad idea he apparently followed anyway.

Hyperion didn't waste a moment taking off. Catching up shouldn't be too hard - he kept himself in shape, and the implants in his eyes did the rest for him. If it got too dark, he'd still be able to see. If he got too far, he'd still be able to track him down, provided there weren't too many corners in the way.

Focused, a hand reached out to grab Enjolras by the back of his clothes, yank him back and cause him to lose balance. As soon as he was properly immobilized, Hyperion pushed him to the ground, stomach up, one leg on each side of his body. He knelt down, knee to his target's chest, barely drawing a breath for effort.

"Who told you to run? Why would you do that, huh?" They could almost be earnest questions, concern for what the other man had done so poorly. Knife in his hand, the other reached down to grab Enjolras' jaw, expose his throat in the darkness, blade softly pressed against skin. "I didn't even get your name. Not very nice of you, was it."

Enjolras struggled against his attacker. There wasn't much to do other than struggle and hope that his movements didn't result in a worse injury than what the other Tribute had planned. He couldn't see how they might, Hyperion's intentions were more or less obvious.

"Let go..." He wheezed, sharp breaths of the cold Spring air burning his lungs as he kicked and bucked. It wasn't until saw the glint of the knife again, and felt it leveled firmly to his throat that he stilled. This wasn't how he was supposed to die, but all his noble intentions seemed for naught in that moment. At least he hadn't led this terrible person back to Little Rock.

Punchy's beatboxing as he walks again, and thus almost misses the sound of a scuffle. It's only because he's stopped to admire his shirtless body and inspect his missing eye in a shop window, and thus lost his rhythm, that he actually pauses to hear anything at all.

His superhero senses immediately start to tingle. There's the sound of running, of crashing, of panting for breath. Punchy bolts into action and rounds corner to the source of the noise. There's no response to what he sees before him but dismay.

He thought Hyperion was his ally. There has to be an explanation for why he's on top of the scared man he's got on the ground, the one whose throat he's pressing a knife to.

His mind flashes back to the Cornucopia, and all the people he failed to save there. His body aches as if in sympathy for the ones who didn't walk away.

"Let him go, Hyperion Crius!" he says, gesturing and pointing dramatically at the scene before him. All the best heroes give their opponents a chance to surrender before tackling them - which is about what Punchy plans to do if Hyperion doesn't explain himself.

He can almost taste it - the knife sinking into flesh, drawing blood, staining his gloves, draining life out of the helpless victim as he helplessly chokes until death takes over.

Then he hears commotion behind him. Then he hears his name.

His head turns up and he turns back, knife still steady in its place, with a hint of annoyance in the line of his lips. This wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to be alone.

He still has time to make this happen. If not, there will just have to be two targets instead of one.

"Stay out of this, buddy."

Wild-eyed, Enjolras observes the exchange above him. There isn't much he can do but lay there, the cold blade pressed uncomfortably to his neck, knowing that the slightest movement on his part or that of his attacker --Hyperion Crius, apparently-- would be his end.

He breathes once, twice, carefully ignoring the sting of the knife as he moves against it. The adrenaline subsides after a moment, and there's nothing to be done but wait and hope for an opportunity to escape. It's a dull and empty realization when he finds, considering the situation thoroughly through the haze of exhaustion and hunger, that he cares about his own survival only instinctively. On an intellectual level, it's easy to accept that even before setting foot in the Arena, he'd been living on borrowed time.

"You got two secs to get the piece away from that homie's throat, brother." Punchy takes a step forward, then another, figuring he ought to be approaching the situation with caution at the very least. He wouldn't want to startle Hyperion and make that blade move just a few inches to the left.

"I don't care if you got beef with him, he's down. And you don't got to worry about nobody while I'm around to keep the peace, a'ight?" He takes a deep breath, reaches up and rubs at the empty eye socket. His other eye, the one that still has expression, betrays not fear but uncertainty. He didn't get far enough in school to go over hostage negotiations. He's just going by what seems sensible: no sudden movements, calm tone of voice, reasonable alternatives.

He holds his hands up to show he's unarmed. His pulse feels like it's pounding in his head. A slight trickle of sweat rolls down the nape of his neck. If this goes wrong, it'll be just a second before the new guy's blood is decorating the pavement.

"Be frosty, Hyperion. We cool. Just put the knife away."

This is anything but what he wanted. The so called hero is nothing short of aggravating, and Hyperion is doing everything within his power to hide how much he wants to puncture the throat beneath his hand and drive the blade into the chest of their interference. Just another portion of blood to add to the disaster. This was supposed to be easy. This was supposed to be enjoyable. Now it's ruined and more complicated than it ever had to be and he has to find a way out.

In a swift movement, the knife finds its way into Hyperion's pocket and he gets up, lifting both hands to show he is now unarmed. Enjolras is left on the floor, no longer held down by his knee or threats. Hyperion doesn't seem too concerned about turning his back to him.

"It's all right. See? I'm all right, he's all right." Everything's going to be okay, Punchy. Just step a little closer and he'll show you how much. "It's just one big misunderstanding." He exhales, lips stretching with a smile, eyes relaxed, betraying the mask he's trying to place on. "How've you been doing anyway?"

The removal of pressure is all it takes for Enjolras to start skirting away from Hyperion. He won't take his chances just because the assassin seemed momentarily disinterested, the more space he could put between himself, this man, and the newcomer, the better.

"There is no misunderstanding, sir. You attacked me unprovoked." He calmly cut in over Hyperion's question, finding it necessary to at least attempt a defense. Despite his apparent benevolence, Punchy had said that he and Hyperion were allies, if that was true it wouldn't take much to turn him into Enjolras' enemy.

"That true?"

And step closer Punchy does. He actually moves past Hyperion, offering a hand to help Enjolras up. He does give Enjolras a quick visual once-over but, as he suspected, he doesn't see any weapon.

"I'm breezy, Hypes, same as the ush."

Everything about this is wrong. Punchy's superhero senses are tingling. Something's wrong and he just can't piece together what it is, but, he suspects, that's nothing special about this place. Everything's been wrong since he got here and witnessed people beating each other to death. Since Karis ripped out his eye. Since people started reacting with horror to the idea of being helped, because they couldn't believe it.

There's something rotten at the core of this whole situation that's blinded Punchy to seeing what's right in front of him. Just because he knows he's missing something doesn't mean he knows what it is.

Hyperion's lips press unpleasantly. Enjolras ought to be a little smarter and keep his mouth shut. There's little more he can do but watch, fingers curling into his palm, stretching the fabric of his gloves.

"Why don't you walk away so we can have a conversation, buddy." His eyes are practically burning a target in the back of Punchy's head, though he eventually makes it clear who he's talking to, gaze slowly shifting. (This is your chance to get away, stranger.)

"And what is there to guarantee that you and your ally wouldn't come after me? Or attack once my back is turned? No, monsieur, I should expect an explanation." Naturally, Enjolras could see the danger of pressing the issue as he is. Still, if he were to be attacked again, he'd rather face his death head on this time. Perhaps even fight back. Two against one made for deplorable odds, there wasn't anything for it.

"I could stand some expo too, Hypes." Punchy folds his arms in his best bossy 'I am a superhero and you should listen to me' pose. It's not very convincing, mostly because Punchy doesn't look the part of a unfazeable hero. In fact, he's rocking a bit of bedhead and a pretty brutal sunburn right about now.

It's hard, though, to tell which person he should keep an eye on. Enjolras is an unknown entity and Hyperion may be as well. The congenial newcomer Punchy met seems to have taken a bit of a different tack. Punchy turns his head to face Enjolras again.

His patience wears thin. Usually Hyperion makes it his greatest talent both the ability to pretend he has no ill intention and how flawlessly he executes said intention, but he also has a hunger for total control that often turns against him. In this case, he just wants to slam his palm against Punchy's face to push him aside and finish the job that was so rudely interrupted. (Stop staring at his throat, Hyperion.)

"There's no explanation. Just get the hell outta here before you regret it, buddy." His eyes tell a dangerous story, his tone offers an audible threat. He can handle Punchy on his own, be it to talk his way out of this or show him why his superhero facade is a flawed one.

Enjolras glances uneasily from Punchy to Hyperion and back again.

"Very well... " he says to both and neither of them in particular. His voice trails off distantly and his eyes eventually settle on Punchy. "But be wary of this man. I'm telling the truth, he did attack me."

He isn't entirely comfortable leaving the stranger, but there isn't much to be done. Moreover, if Hyperion is distracted it lessens the chance he might follow. It's worth a shot.

Punchy watches Enjolras go, turning his words over in his mind. It's good, he thinks, that the civvy's getting out of the way. It's good that if Hyperion really is a threat, that it'll be the two of them, and that Punchy won't have to worry about bystanders.

But he doesn't even realize that as he keeps an eye on Enjolras' retreat, he's giving Hyperion the perfect opportunity to strike.

Strike he does, shoving that free hand against the young throat next to him, pushing him against the nearest wall, using his leg to immobilize Punchy's own. The knife is out again, quietly and discreetly threatening to drive slowly into Punchy's stomach if he makes the wrong move.

Hyperion tilts his head, contemplating, thinking, breathing in the scent of the air around them. He likes to take in these details sometimes, a insignificant as they become after enough time has passed.

"That was awfully rude of you, buddy," He practically snarls, voice quiet against the silence around them. "What are you doing here?"

Punchy makes a small choking noise as he's pushed against the wall, as his feet are swept from under him, as the knife point presses into his abdomen, pushing but not drawing blood. He sucks air in and doesn't fight it, but he doesn't go limp, either.

"No homo, brother," Punchy says, and his expression is deadly serious. Unafraid, even. Surprised, caught off guard, a little pissed off, but not afraid. His cheeks flush a little, reddening to match the swelling and pinkness around his one hollow eye socket, obscuring his freckles. "I took a walk."

One hand grabs Hyperion's wrist, the one holding the knife. The other braces against the arm holding Punchy up against the wall.

He doesn't like the way Punchy is looking at him, he doesn't like the way he talks, and he certainly doesn't like the fact that he thinks it's fitting to defend himself against Hyperion's hold. Whatever effect Punchy thinks he was going to get, it's interrupted by a kick to his stomach, knife at their sides, now, grip tight and determined. Once again Hyperion shoves him back against the wall, showing teeth.

"You don't fight back, buddy, got it? You stand still and listen."

And hope - hope that he gets out of this situation alive. Hyperion doesn't like his chances.

"I ain't fighting back, homeboy," Punchy wheezes, gut tightening in response to the blow. He doesn't let go of the hand with the knife. Part of him deep inside finds this all just a little bit thrilling. He's in a real-life stick-up. He's already rewriting in his head how he rescued poor Enjolras, who has, in his mind, become a fragile and weakened old man instead of a strong twenty-something, from Hyperion, a psychotic mugger who probably had a gun as well as a knife. When he tells this story later, that's how he'll recollect it.

The more rational part of him is nervous. He really doesn't know where this is going to lead, and he's not keen to have his moment of glory robbed from him by a shank in the stomach. His eye searches Hyperion's face, wondering what happened to the stranger he met only a few days ago.

"No? Good," he breathes through his teeth, muscles trembling only slightly with the urge. The only reason he has to kill Punchy where he stands is just as good (and unfounded) as the one he had to kill the young man that came before him. Nothing or no one is here to stop him, this time, and in his mind, he deserves a little beating. A lesson. There's a reason superheroes are only fiction in his world.

Thane had not been much for sleep even before arriving here, and of late he'd been sleeping as little as he could get away with and still maintain his body in reasonable condition. Reasonable. There was little food and little rest, and it was taking it's toll.

But it means that tonight he was keeping an eye out across the field and saw Enjolras moving quickly away from somewhere. A moment to ascertain as well as he can that the man is not injured and will be well and then he turns his attention to where he came from, looking for any sign of danger.

A moment later he is up and moving, urgent and swift. He has no weapon and he is tired, but what he can see indicates a situation going bad very quickly and he is unwilling to stand by while tributes kill each other. It is a pointless waste of life.

Ideally, he'd be able to make a clean kill, snap Hyperion's neck and be on his way, but he doesn't know the situation and he does not want to kill a potential innocent. Nor is it safe, with the knife at the boy's side, which also eliminates simply tackling him. He has no means of a long distance kill. Instead he slows his pace and steps out into view, spreading his hands. "Hyperion." His eyes don't move, but he's using the extra moment to catalogue the unfamiliar surroundings, assess the possibilities. "Let him go."

No, no no no. This is not how Punchy wants it. Granted, he doesn't want to die, but it makes a better story that he was callously murdered by a maniac thug in protection of the innocent instead of rescued because he's too helpless to save himself.

Even if getting rescued by what is apparently an alien is really, really boss.

"Yo, homie, I got this," he gasps to Thane. He has most certainly not got this. He's at a loss what to do, and unless he can get his other foot on the ground his chances of using a disarming move on Hyperion are close to zero. His cheeks are turning red with the stress of having to struggle to breath. The one leg still on the ground quivers a little.

Their irritation is shared. How many more times should he expect to be interrupted? People are supposed to be more spread out than this - one Tribute here, another there, most of them hanging out on their own because they can trust no one else. Easy targets. He already let one fly away - he isn't about to give up the second.

(Maybe third time's the charm.)

"Sorry. Forgot your name," He mutters, eyes barely over his shoulder to acknowledge Thane's presence. As neutral as he sounds, it's clear in the way his fingers curl in a fist that he is very, very unhappy. His eyes return to focus on Punchy's face, tilting his head as if trying to decide where to strike next. "You shouldn't be here."

He finishes his calculations quickly, starts moving towards Hyperion in a slight circle, enough that to keep an eye on him he'll need to turn from the boy. Amonkira grant him strength.

"I will not repeat myself."

Punchy tries to say something painfully witty, some kind of awesome Caruso-esque remark to both his glory-stealer and his captor, but unfortunately his breath is too blocked by Hyperion's arm. All his does is make a wheezing noise. A little burble of spittle falls from the corner of his mouth.

Hyperion's eyes look elsewhere, an annoyed quirk of a man whose patience is about to run out. The arm lets go of Punchy's throat with one last shove against the wall, twirling the knife in his hand to turn his back and face the second newcomer. Hyperion licks his lips. He does look rather grotesque, doesn't he? One would think getting used to an alien's appearance wouldn't take so long, but apparently he views the world differently.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

There. Thane breathes out, considers the bulk and muscle and easy movement of the man, settling his stance firmly. The boy will need time to get away - Hyperion does not seem inclined to let go of the concept of hurting him easily.

"It would not be my first choice." But he would do it, if necessary. The knife is a danger - if he loses much blood he will die, sooner or later. But if he can obtain it - "I suggest you leave this area." The fix of his gaze suggests that he is speaking to Hyperion, but there is a momentary flicker to Punchy, a gesture towards the area behind Thane. It is relatively safe.

Punchy hunches over slightly, massaging his throat and gulping down air. He looks back at Thane, then at Hyperion. He shakes his head.

"Yo, Greenie, no way I be blowin' this joint and leaving this wack-ass muthafucka to own you all up ins."

He could almost welcome Thane's presence by now. Punchy's unfortunate choice of words have finally irritated him enough to strike him, elbow connecting with his nose and forehead, strong, vicious and unexpected enough to leave the boy unconscious. If nothing else, it should at least shut him up.

With his eyes back on Thane, he blinks and tilts his head.

"You were saying?"

It's not what he was looking for - it leaves the boy too vulnerable, still, too open. He needs to get Hyperion away from this area so that he doesn't get any ideas as to what he could do to an unconscious victim.

"I was saying that killing is not the solution to this situation."

"I'm not looking for a solution." And that's that. He takes one step closer to Thane. "And nobody is looking for your help, buddy."

That is that. His fist clenches almost automatically, a preparation for biotics that are no longer at his command, and then loosens when he remembers. The hard way, then. "They do not need to."

When he stops, he smiles, faintly, watching him.

"Are you going to fight me?"

"It seems it will be necessary." The weapon must be the first thing to go, but he does not know this ground or this person's fighting style. This time the first move will not be his.

Hyperion holds his ground quietly, eyes scanning the other from head to toe with that same hint of amusement in his lips. He's holding his ground for now, curious to see if the tension between them will break from one side or the other.

"Then let's fight."

Brute force and the advantage of his weapon are the methods from Hyperion he has catalogued so far, but it's not enough. He needs more information, needs to know if there is anything different about him.

But for now he is silent, beginning to circle the other quietly, steps taking him a little closer.

Eyes follow the other, no sound, no intent, just a readiness to strike if struck first. But the other is taking his time, making him impatient.

Fine, then.

From his pocket the knife is drawn again. Hyperion pulls his other arm back to swing at Thane, hit him nowhere particularly vital, just looking to startle him into reacting.

An impatient fighter makes more mistakes than a patient one, and with his body in the condition it is Thane needs any mistakes.

He ducks under the blow, turns the duck into a spinkick aimed at Hyperion's chest.

It's a pleasant surprise, despite the pain, despite the air that's snatched right off his lungs and forces him to stop to regain it. Hyperion's free hand stays pressed against his chest when he crouches, stumbling backwards, feet almost touching Punchy's unconscious body behind him.

It's only when he manages to take a deep breath that Hyperion lunges again, less forgiving than before, using his knife to strike Thane's body.

The move is blurringly fast, and Thane throws up his arm to block the blow, grimaces at the warmth of the blood and tries to fling his arm to the side, take Hyperion's with it so he can have a clear path to strike flat handed for his throat.

It's too late. Hyperion is already throwing his head in to clash with Thane's, impacting going against any usefulness of that hand, striking again with the knife, trying to get to his arms, his torso - and finally his throat.

He ducks one, blocks another blow with his arm again and tries to get in a blow of his own in return. And then there's a split second where he has to decide to move, could slip away from that last blow but he's losing blood. He's losing a fair amount of blood. His body will shut itself down, now, unable to function, and he has always preferred the idea of a clean death.

So in the split second before the blade hits he simply meets Hyperion's eyes, hand starting to fall to his side. Enjolras has distance. The boy has had some time, hopefully enough to stir enough to wakefulness that he can run. That is sufficient.

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the sweetly sleeping, sweeping of the Seine

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Thane's cue, mayhaps?

slides in here

Re: slides in here

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