thearena | (no subject)

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(no subject)

WHO| Aunamee, Grey, Hyperion, R.
WHAT| Grey isn't fatally wounded, but Aunamee leaves him for dead anyway.
WHERE| Fantasyland
WHEN| End of week 2.
WARNINGS/NOTES| death, violence, sadism

When he was twelve years old, Aunamee would sit with a police blotter pressed up against his ear, the volume whisper-soft so that it could be his little secret. These were the days when his name was Ariel, when he was mortal and helpless and saw nothing when he closed his eyes. Whenever he heard about a car accident, a suicide, a murder, he would get his bike out from the garage and peddle down to the scence, his shoelaces click clicking against the cold metal of the frame. Let’s watch this. Let’s see life in action.

As an adult, things were very much the same. Aunamee harmed and Aunamee killed, but he preferred it when he could sit back and watch everything unfold, a spectator in a wild orchestra of flesh and blood.

He told Grey he was giving him a reprieve. He cut his binds. He left him out in the open, bruised and beaten, and then he stepped backwards and out of sight, cloaked in ruins.

Let’s watch this. Let’s see life in action.

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R needs to get it together. He keeps picking prey who are fast or have backup or both and all he has to show for it is that one bite he got in. One bite's never enough.

His stomach shrivels in on itself. He imagines he can feel it turning to dust on him. (He hopes he doesn't have maggots).

R wanders away from the Feast at some point; he's not sure exactly when. Story of his life. Eventually he ends up in what used to be Fantasyland. All he gets it the vague sense he's been here before, a long time ago - he should recognize the place, the broken down rides, all the other stuff that blurs together the more he tries to stare at them. After awhile R shrugs and moves on, goes back to shuffling because it's like busy work for corpses. Focusing on something like walking gives him something to do.

It's the sound of something scrapping to the left that draws R away from the main road, snaps him back to the present, his head coming up and turning. His good eye refocuses. He listens, swaying, and yup, that doesn't sound like a rat to him. Sounds bigger. Hopefully it's still there by the time he gets his shambling act into gear.

R eventually lurches into sight of the stage and what he sees makes him start to think today is shaping up better than yesterday. There's a man lying there, not moving fast like all the others and that's already a good sign. Slow and easy - way better odds to a zombie who couldn't even take down a little girl. He gurgles in his chest as he starts to come closer to investigate.

Aunamee intercepts.

He doesn't rush into it, doesn't scurry over in a panic, but instead crosses diagonally between R and Grey, closing the distance in calm, even strides. He was afraid of R when he first met him, afraid and uncomfortable because here was someone who should be dead but wasn't dead, here was someone who defied all the rules that Aunamee knew and mocked him with uncertainty, but he grew to appreciate this strange boy. So earnest. So malleable.

And now he can read his thoughts.

It's an interesting sensation, listening to someone who isn't really alive and isn't really dead. It reminds him of the ocean, almost, how the thoughts slowly ease in and out of his mind like pebbles caught up in the tide.

"R," he says, smooth and easy. He approaches without hesitation. Without fear. "Shhh." Gentle and soft like a father. "It's all right."

Grey isn't moving, yet somehow he goes even stiller at the sound of Aunamee's voice. The man hadn't left after all. Semi-conscious, he attempts to lift his head, to see what's going on. Aunamee must have hit him harder than he thought. That, or there were zombies in the arena.

Why would Aunamee keep him alive? Why would Aunamee protect him from this atrocity? He had a feeling that he didn't want to find out. But there's no running, not now. Not with broken ribs and a concussion that threatens to send him back into darkness at the slightest disturbance. He puts his head back down against the floor and breathes.

It’s movement - calm, controlled, unhurried movement – that makes R’s head loll to the side to take in the person approaching. He stares for a long second without recognizing him, that smell telling him if that’s dinner on the floor, this one’s the second course strolling at him like he wants to be eaten first. That’s… new. That’s never happened before. In fact it’s so new that the zombie stops and stares, R’s mouth hanging open as he starts instinctively working up some drool, a string of black oozing out his mouth. It dribbles down his chest.

He thinks he knows this man.

He thinks maybe it’ll be okay.

R stands there and lets Aunamee get closer, his good eye fixed on him, the other off doing its own thing in his shattered eye socket. The Living man gets so close R starts to think maybe he’d feel even better if he was elbow deep in his ribcage and sampling, say, his lungs. (M’s more the liver type of zombie, if they can’t go for brains). The thought wanders away before it gets very far, something smoothing it down. Maybe not. Maybe he’s just fine the way he is. It’s not a bad place to be when you’re a corpse. R sways as his mouth opens and closes wordlessly, struggling to remember how to form sentences so he can ask Aunamee how he’s so dead sure everything will be a-okay in the end.

“Ghhguh…?” R moans.

His eye roves from Aunamee to slide over his shoulder toward the other man. Another glob of ooze drips out. What about his lungs?

Aunamee loves everything about this. He loves the taste of Grey's confusion and fear on his lips, salty and sweet, and he loves the buzz of R's hunger. It's an undervalued sensation, hunger, that rigid marriage between pain and dissatisfaction. Starvation even more so. It only makes it more interesting, more invigorating, that R has labeled him as a potential target. It is half the reason, really, that Aunamee ever goads someone on. It is so nice to be connected with such powerful emotions.

It is so nice to be on someone's mind.

"You're not yourself, R," he says, feigning a quiet concern. He cocks his head. "You're missing something."

He extends a leg and gives Grey's shoulder a light prod before retreating it.

"Do you think this one is the answer?"

And then, smoother, the innuendo slipping away:

"Do you want to eat him alive?"

Edited 2013-04-13 20:23 (UTC)

The scientist flinches as if it were a bite itself and then he tenses, breath stopping momentarily to see if he heard Aunamee right. Now the question... is Aunamee playing with him again, or does he really intend to let this thing devour him living? He lifts his head again, a pained sound escaping him as he turns himself over onto his stomach.

He can see now. See both threats. As much as his shaky vision will allow, at any rate. Planting his left forearm against the ground, he starts to lift himself. If he has anything going for him, the boy appears to move rather slowly.

Not…himself? Tell R something he doesn’t know. He hasn’t been himself for years, he’s not even sure what the real him is like. That guy died a long time ago. The question hits R harder than he realizes, the zombie staring at Aunamee with a lost expression like he’s trying to plead with him and he doesn’t have the words. “Missing”, he gets. Ever since he woke up with flies buzzing his mouth, R’s had a feeling something definitely was missing. Something like relief shivers through his ruined organs as Aunamee says out loud what he’s thought all those years.

He knew he liked Aunamee for a reason. He’s mindful of others.

“…I...wuhhhhnnt….” R wants to say hell yeah, promise he’ll make it quick (true) or he won’t be messy (white lie – he means to, it just never happens), but he’s too hungry for a conversation right now. Too much effort.

His teeth click together as his mouth continues that almost fish-like opening and closing, as if he’s already picturing himself gnawing through Main Course’s lungs. The guy looks like he’s beat up pretty bad, tenderized. Maybe “pulverized” is the better word. R almost, almost feels like he’d be doing him a favor ripping open his skull. Maybe that’s what he’ll tell himself to feel less guilty when he murders him: all these years and he still has trouble looking the people he eats in the eye. Sometimes it’s because another zombie’s already chewed off their face and he has an excuse when the eyes and nose are only bloody pulp. Other times, he doesn’t, and it’s all on him.

The new hunger shrugs.

R tries to totter past Aunamee, close enough to bump against the man, attracted by that little sound of pain breathed out behind him. Seeing the main course trying to crawl away, corpse-slow, gives R purpose.

And Aunamee knew he liked R for a reason.

The eagerness, the naivety, the willingness to please and bend are all important, yes, but Aunamee cares most about the people who are only parts of a whole, people who once had something but now don’t. It is why he likes Howard, and it is why — when he peers into R’s not-quite mind and soaks in his memories — he’s so pleased that the two of them already know each other.

As R pushes past him, he curls up a hand to rest on his shoulder.

“I want the best for you,” he croons. His fingers slide from R’s shoulder and he extends his index finger into a point. Look. Over there.

“There’s better elsewhere.”

He jerks his index finger forward. A more dramatic point. A less subtle gesture.

"Over there."

The scientist pauses when Aunamee stops R and when it becomes clear that Aunamee is not sending R after him, is instead redirecting him, he allows himself to sag back to the floor, eyes flicking in the direction that Aunamee points. Who is he talking about?

The hand on his shoulder makes R stop - or that's what he thinks, R feeling that body heat from his hand seeping into his shoulder. R drags his one good eye reluctantly away from the man behind Aunamee, groaning to himself in frustration because come on, even R thinks he's an easy target and he goes like a mile an hour.

The zombie turns, slack-jawed, to stare at Aunamee. Yeah...yeah, he helped him out before, right? Had his best interests at heart because his still works. Maybe he's right about this too.

R obediently shifts to look at where he's being pointed.

"There." R grunts and then starts to lurch that way. "O...kay."

Grey doesn't move for a long while save to shift into a position easier on his broken ribs. Even the knowledge that Aunamee is likely still nearby, still in his head, doesn't move him. It's pointless by now. Aunamee's already stripped him bare and taken away every shred of control he's ever considered himself having, poked and prodded in places no one else should ever have been able to go.

Eventually, he starts the difficult process of trying to find his feet. Moving his head sends the world spinning, causing him to dry retch as he holds himself up with his left hand. The ringing in his ears is far too loud alongside the pounding waves of pain within his skull.

There are gaps in his short term memory, that he's grateful for.

Not enough of them.

He almost doesn't hear it. The gasps, the slight struggle of muscles and bones against flat ground. It shouldn't call for his attention, here - it could be a trap, for all he knows - but Hyperion feels today is a day for exceptions. Try something new, he thinks. Only a few days in this arena and his blade has yet to draw any blood. He's even made friends, for what that's worth. He let them walk away with a smile and a wave and nothing more. That's improvement for someone who is used to showing them why giving Hyperion their name is such a mistake. To him, it's a sign that he's just slowing down.

Then he sees.

His approach is silent, calm. Almost harmless. He could be a casual observer, someone sent over to take a look at the situation and call it in. (Nothing to see here, just a man drawing his last breaths.)

He wants to know what happened. He wants to know who could have done this - and done it so well - only to leave the job unfinished.

"Hey."

He has to resist the urge to look up quickly, instead easing himself back down onto his left elbow before lifting his head slowly to squint at Hyperion. His vision is shaky. Dried blood stemming from a wound on his forehead paints his face, a worse wound at one temple having spilled blood all the way down onto his shirt. The injuries are at least an hour old. His right hand is a mangled mess, fingers jutting in directions they aren't meant to go, the back of his hand dark with bruising.

"Hello..." He says slowly, momentarily confused. Oh. Oh. It's another person. He renews his effort at finding his feet, teeth clenched against the pain of broken ribs shifting with the movement.

He keeps losing his balance.

Pathetic. Brutal. He wants to know how it was done. He wants to know who it was done by. Curiosity is a most persistent thing.

Hyperion tilts his head curiously, eyes scanning his state from head to toe. He might as well be figuring out an abstract painting.

"What happened to you?"

He finally manages to stand steady, feet set apart and shoulders squared. A crooked grin twitches to life on his face. "S'just a concussion." Oh, don't laugh. That will hurt. Of course, he knows what Hyperion really means. What he really wants to know. But he isn't answering that.

"Looks like hell of a lot more than that to me, buddy."

He could be concerned; he could just be persistent about his morbid curiosity. Hyperion isn't making any movement to step closer to the crooked man - he looks like the smallest gesture could make him collapse on himself all over again. Wouldn't want that just yet.

His eyes have momentarily gone unfocussed, but after a few seconds it becomes evident that he did, indeed, hear Hyperion. "A few broken ribs..." He starts before stopping himself. His unsteady gaze grows cold. "I don't need your help. ...What do you want?" There's still an occasional slur to his words.

"Help?" His brows arch, lips stretched with either incredulity or amusement - it's not very easy to read the meaning of his expression in that moment. Hyperion leans his upper body, just slightly enough to hear what the other man says a little better, fingers remembering the weapon he keeps in his pocket. Small, convenient, not the most efficient, but enough to get the job done. He preferred knives and blades to louder alternatives, anyway. "No, no. I'm just asking."

There's a dismissive hand when he says so, but the fact that he's taking a couple of steps closer to Grey betray his supposed lack of intention.

And Grey notices. For how disoriented he seems, he notices rather quickly. A grin stretches across his face. "Ah, I see. You're here for an easy kill." And he knows he will be. Relatively, anyway. Just standing is exhausting him. There's no running, as if that were even an option, but he aims to make things as difficult for Hyperion as he can.

Saw right through him. Hyperion makes no move to pretend he's interested in him for any other end. Perception should be rewarded, after all, especially when Grey is making such a vicious little expression.

"I could be nice to you. Do it quickly. 'That what you want?"

"That wouldn't be fun, would it?" He says with a smirk. He isn't ready to accept defeat. Not yet. If he can just survive to the end of the arena it will be enough. If he can just outlive Aunamee again.

"Doesn't have to be." But he'd like that, or so the little smile creeping into his lips suggests. "I don't mind either way."

Go on. How are you going to make things harder for him, Grey?

Unfortunately for Grey, Aunamee's taken his weapon. He has no plan other than to make things as difficult as possible. And perhaps gain control of whatever weapon Hyperion happens to have.

"I have no intention of dying easily." He says, struggling to focus on the man in front of him.

That's almost cute. Romantic. Certainly idealistic. A man in his condition hoping to give someone like Hyperion a hard time either hasn't met him or is frequently plagued by delusions.

Maybe it's what was done to leave him in this condition. Who knows how altered he's been by the violence executed on his skin, against his mind. Hyperion's smile is obvious now, almost welcoming. Step in, tells us all about what you think you can do.

"Show me."

He isn't going to be able to get the other man to charge him first, he realizes. Hyperion won't be giving him that benefit. Not even that much. Smart man.

The scientist laughs and it's the laugh of someone who knows it's hopeless as he focuses all of his energy and thought into moving, into balance, coming at Hyperion with the intention of using his cybernetic left arm as a shield against whatever weapon the other man might pull. With that hand, even gripping a knife by the blade would be possible. If he could just disarm his attacker he stood a chance.

Hyperion is quick to move, fully expecting the charge, using one hand to shield himself while he twists himself out of the way, expression changing with the alertness and effort of the movement. A closed fist to Grey's side follows immediately, taking advantage of whatever damage may have instilled on the area before this.

But no weapon comes.

Hyperion doesn't even need one to bring him to the ground again, not when his fist meets the side with cracked ribs, sending a sharp wave of shooting pain out through Grey's chest cavity like cracking glass. It takes his breath away so that he's choking on the sound of pain, legs collapsing beneath him.

Desperate to make some impact, to not die pitifully, he reaches out through the darkness in his vision, trying to hook his left arm around one of Hyperion's legs at the knee, to send the other man down with him.

Edited 2013-04-23 16:35 (UTC)

Ready to simply circle his victim like a curious predator, the sudden push to knock him down does its job beautifully, forcing him to collapse inelegantly, hitting his back and bringing his hands flat to slap the ground beneath him. Needless to say the distraction doesn't sit well with him, so his leg fold and kicks out to connect with Grey's neck and shoulder, push him away to create some space between them.

The impact jars his head just a little too much and he blacks out for several precious seconds as he's sent over onto his back. When he opens his eyes, he doesn't know where he is at first. Sluggish, he tries to force himself up as memory returns to him, to get to Hyperion before the other man can find his feet.

It's too late. Hyperion is already crawling and crouching over Grey, both hands taking hold of his clothes, pulling him up with bare teeth just to slam him back down. The goal is to impact his head, draw blood if he has too. The goal is to exorcise his anger, the energy pent up in his arms, in the back of his mind. He is full of violence. He is full of hate.

He too bares his teeth in something between a snarl and a grimace as he's drawn up by the front of his shirt and he starts to reach forward with his cybernetic left, fingers clawed and set for Hyperion's eyes, but then he's colliding with the ground again, his eyes rolling back in his skull as he hangs on the edge consciousness.

Hands suddenly drop him and Hyperion hovers, breathing coarsely through his lips. He could kick the man on the floor and it would give him the same satisfaction as breaking a window with his bare hands. He was barely able to move, barely able to react. Fucking pathetic. He couldn't last much longer by himself.

Hyperion couldn't be more right, as Grey's skull has taken one too many hits. He manages to turn onto his side to vomit bile before he begins seizing, something clear tinged with pink trickling from one nostril. When he comes to a rest his eyes are tracking back and forth in jerky movements as he stares at the sky, dazed.

Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.

There's nothing else to be done here. No more fun to be taken out of running and fighting back. At this point killing him would be nothing more than a merciful act.

That's exactly it. Mercy.

Hyperion kneels by his side, careful not to get any of that bile in his gloved hands. He takes hold of the man's head by his forehead, turning it towards him, exposing his neck. The knife is tightly held in his other hand, softly pressed against tender skin, and he whispers something under his breath.

"Pathetic."

One slice and it's over. Blood pours and he stands back up. All he can do now is watch, and wait to see this man's face splayed in the sky above them.

He's hyper-aware of the feel of Hyperion's fingers on his skin and he tenses, swallowing, his eyes finding the other man as his head is forced towards him. His mangled right hand lifts as the knife is pressed to his neck, but pauses before falling back to the ground. He's too disoriented and weak to direct it.

There's the slightest flinch as the knife's run across, hot blood flowing out in time to his heartbeat. His breaths come further and further apart until they don't come at all, dull eyes staring up at the sky as his cannon sounds.

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