thearena | Mutual destruction

Entry tags:

Mutual destruction

Who| Ian Chesterton and Tim Drake
What| A sword fight to the death
Where| Frontierland
When| Week 7
Warnings/Notes| Death

Ian was not going to give up easily. It didn't matter that he ached, he was hot, he was thirsty and he was bleeding from the wounds he'd got when he hadn't parried or got out of the way fast enough. If he stopped he was dead, so he wasn't going to stop.

He stepped back for long enough to wipe his face with his sleeve, leaving more dirt on his face than he'd started with. But he kept his cutlass held up, protecting his body.

"I've killed greater men than you," he taunted, willing the other man to rush in and leave an opening Ian could exploit.

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Always a cautious fighter, Tim was even more wary of this fight and held back at the taunt, keeping his weapon up and his weight on his back leg. His opponent was no longer an older man fumbling with an unwieldy club. He was a bigger man with a sharp sword, and he had used one before - Tim knew that now. If he'd known it ten minutes ago, he would have fled at the sight of him, rather than stay in hopes of relieving the competition of another weapon. He had thought he would throw it in the piranha-infested water by the tree house. What a miscalculation that had turned out to be.

Tim was bleeding from his misjudgments of the other man, the curve of the cutlass' blade, his own arm strength. The missing finger on his right hand affected his hold on the sai, and Tim was using his left hand instead. The sai was not his weapon. He had used one before, yes, but he'd never trained with it seriously.

He'd blocked some of the cutlass swings with it, but didn't have the skill to use the sai to disarm. He tried to dodge the rest, but the conflict wasn't ending. As it drug on, it seemed like the cutlass caught him with a little less time between each mistake. The first had only been a scratch, but the new one - the fourth one - caught him at the waist, a good slice along his side.

Tim was tired, and he didn't think it was just the blood loss. It was malnutrition. It was the way his rib cage could be distinguished from his increasingly concave stomach. "Yeah, well, I'm only seventeen, and you haven't killed me yet. So, what does that make me?"

"About to die," Ian replied. Although if it ended up being death from a thousand cuts that was fine with him. As long as he could get them in before he suffered the same fate. None of the slashes from the sai had hit anything vital yet, but he was tiring and it was only a matter of time, even if it was only luck on the other man's part.

It would help if he could disarm the other man. So far Ian had been fighting to win a sword fight, not thinking properly about strategy. He hadn't really been thinking properly for a while in here, if he'd thought about it.

So he switched his attack to focus on the left arm of his opponent, turning to the side so he presented less of a target.

Why did he have to be smart? Tim had been fighting turned at an angle as well; it minimized most kill shots. Now, the man was doing the same. Was he merely mimicking the stance, or did he appreciate the value of it?

Come on, he thought, attack me. He wanted a more reckless opponent, if he was going to be forced to fight. One that he could hit on the head with the heavy handle of the sai and run. Hide. Find Steph, and tilt the odds in his favor.

"Then you're gonna have to do better," Tim pointed out. "I'm still breathing. Let's go, old man."

The old man taunt was easy to ignore - he was used to teenagers thinking he was old. "I can soon do something about that."

It wasn't enough to make him reckless. He was practised at fighting to the death and he was determined to win. He feinted at the chest and at the last minute turned his cutlass to slice at the nearest shoulder. The angle meant he ended up nearly turning his back to his opponent, but his eyes never left him.

Tim had been prepared to block a swing at his chest, but the angle was wrong to stop the swing at his right side. Tim tried to dodge left, but he wanted to take advantage of that nice, open backside. With a weapon he knew how to throw, he would have flipped or rolled, but he won't risk a missed throw. Losing the sai is death. He stabs towards the back of the man's leg, hoping to rip through tendons and hamstring him.

But he doesn't move fast enough, and the sword pierces his right shoulder, just below the clavicle. Tim grunted as the force of the blow pushed his shoulder back, twisted his torso, and raised his left arm and arc of the razor sharp sai considerably.

[Ian has gotten Tim's lung. Couldn't work it in without assuming success of Tim's attack. Feel free to mention the sucking wound or him coughing blood.]

Ian cried out as the sword went through him, from the top of his leg up his back. He didn't know how bad it was - he couldn't see and looking away would give the other man a chance to finish him off. It was painful, but even a scratch could be painful.

He turned back round, grimacing with the pain and saw that his blow had been successful. The blood might have come from the other man's mouth, except that Ian never hit him there. Ian might recover from his wound, but the other man's would kill him without medical attention, of the sort he wasn't going to get here.

"Surrender," Ian said, not moving to attack again, not least because moving hurt, "and I promise you'll have a quick death."

The searing pain and peculiar, wet whistling told Tim all he needed to know. He doesn't need anyone to tell him he's going to die here, doesn't need to look down to see the bubbling blood on his chest. His lung was punctured at least once. Maybe twice. It was already hard to breathe, with the air escaping from the hole in his chest, and it was only going to get worse. Even if Ian walked away now, he was dying before he drug himself to anyone that might be able to save him. Nothing in this arena was getting the increasing amount of blood out of his lung and chest cavity.

Coughing and tasting iron in his mouth, Tim shook his head slightly. He wasn't giving the man the satisfaction of pleading while he died. If he surrendered, he'd find out if Bruce lied about the tributes being brought back right now, and he wants to injure Ian as much as possible, so if he finds Stephanie or Barbara or Rapunzel... Maybe they'll be OK.

Tim coughed again, putting his free hand over the wound and covering it as best he can. Not completely airtight, but good enough to get a deeper cough that brought up more blood.

He spat in the man's face and raised his weapon again.

"Still alive... Do better next time," he managed, weakly but angry that he still has to waste his precious oxygen on this lowlife. "Hint. The heart is center left..."

Ian made a face and wiped his face with his sleeve. "I know where it is." He took the comment as a personal slight at his biology knowledge. "I'll get it next time."

Although he found that when he tried to raise his cutlass it pulled at his wound. The way his shirt felt wet at the back suggested it was a deep cut and he had to finish this so he could do something about it. He shifted the sword to his left hand, looking confident.

Now if only he was ambidextrous he'd be fine. The weapon felt odd in the other hand. He hefted it a bit, going for a better hold while trying to look threatening and not move too much.

Maybe if he went for one strike it would hurt, but it would be over. He was banking on being stronger than the other man. No feinting this time, he just lunged, going straight for the heart.

He saw the move - knew it had been coming. He'd deliberately egged the man on to hasten it, before the lung slowed Tim down too much. He had gotten him with the sai; it was dripping blood. He had hoped to be faster than Ian, to lunge in and stab in the stomach. Stumble away. Find Rapunzel.

The will to live is so strong.

Maybe he could pull it off. Maybe this drastic measure won't get him killed. Maybe they'll both live. Tim charged forward, thrusting the blade towards the other man's abdomen.

All of the maybes vanished when the cutlass ripped into his chest again.

Catastrophic damage to the heart. Extreme loss of blood pressure. Oxygen deficiency. Shock. Just some burning, some gasping, and then it will be over with relatively little pain, Tim told himself as he took a step back, slid off the blade and found that he couldn't stand. Surprising. It shouldn't be.

He had lost track of the sai. It was the only thing on his mind as he fell to the ground, blood pouring out of his ruined heart. His brain refused to process any of the pain as it struggled to maintain life.

What did you do, Rob?

Did you drop it? Careless, Drake.

Did you stab him, and it stayed in the wound?

How could -

The mental voice, a blend of his father, Bruce, Stephanie, and Conner cuts off abruptly, as all brain functioning shut down, overwhelmed by stress. A few more raspy wheezes, as muscles and organs tried to carry out rote functions, and, then, Tim's eyelids stopped twitching. The open blue eyes were lifeless.

A cannon went off.

Edited 2013-05-03 13:12 (UTC)

He was stupid. He should have thought that move through, not left himself open. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, especially when you have a sai in your abdomen.

Ian fell to his knees, telling himself he had to stay upright, that falling forwards or backwards wouldn't help, and neither would pulling that sai out. But the extra blood loss from this wound on top of all the others was making him feel faint.

His thrust had hit the heart though, he was sure. He looked up to see he was right as the cannon went off. At least he'd won, even if it had been a hollow victory, because he was sure he wasn't going to last long without some medical attention and a blood transfusion. Both of which were in short supply.

He swayed a little on his knees, trying to stay upright, but the relief of not being under threat any more made it harder for him to find a reason to stay awake. He fell back unconscious in a pool of blood.

It was some time later when the second cannon went off.

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Mutual destruction

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