[Closed]

[tis_allgood]

Who| Cuthbert and Sherlock
What| Mutually Assured Destruction
Where| Main Street
When| Week Seven
Warnings/Notes| Deaths for both

Working day and night the past few days Cuthbert and his two troll partners managed to dig a decent sized hole, many times longer than it is wide. The center of it is somewhat poorly disguised, and anyone watching where they walk would be able to see the rouse relatively easily. However, the pit on either side has been very carefully disguised and may not be visible until it's too late.

Added to that are a couple of trip lines, set only to help those not paying close attention trip and fall into the pit. And with all of this careful work complete, Cuthbert baited the whole thing with a very nice looking orange. He was set to sit and watch for any signs of other competitors but the heat and fatigue of the afternoon have caused him to drowse instead.

Comments

[alldeduction]

It had possibly been two days since Sherlock had eaten. Two, or three, he'd lost count. Without John or Danny in the arena and without a real sense of self-preservation, Sherlock had simply forgotten for the first day or so, and then afterwards food seemed more of a hassle than anything else. Eventually, however, his body began to violently remind him that he was human after all, and he began to wander around in search of food.

The main street was already out, in his mind, but he had to cross it to get to more advantageous areas of the park, which is where he spotted it. The orange.

It was ridiculous, of course. An orange, out in the open, in the middle of nowhere? Especially when he had been here a few days before? Please. His keen eyes immediately scanned the whole area. He stepped up to the first tripwire, knelt down next to it and plucked at it carefully. Not razor wire. Good. Following it to its edge, he untied it, slowly moved it to another position, and then retied it. Better.

It was ingenious, really, that someone had bothered to lay traps, and almost a relief compared to what the later days of the last arena had brought him (hypothermia and bifurcation via magical broadsword).

Slowly he was making his way towards the orange, testing the ground carefully as he walked, avoiding putting his weight down on anything until he was certain it could take his weight.

[tis_allgood]

It took far too long for Cuthbert to jerk awake again, and by then the worst of the damage had been done, at least as far as the effectiveness of his trap. He was a little shocked to see that anyone had gotten this far without being swept in, but he was prepared with a decently heavy chunk of wood that he was wielding like a club.

All he had to do was maintain the element of surprise and there would be one less person between him and winning. But this wasn't a normal person, who would probably have fallen in by now. Cuthbert kept his distance sneaking up on him, staying in the shadows as best he could.

[alldeduction]

Sherlock didn't see him. It would be a point, later, that he would sit and watch it on tv and curse himself quietly, but the fact remained that for the moment the quietly skulking Cuthbert completely evaded his notice. His attention was, instead, completely focused on making sure he didn't fall into the trap he was currently weaving through - even as he felt the ground crumble slightly under his foot. He cursed under his breath and pulled it back before any weight was put on it, and tried again. Better.

He stopped at the edge of a much more obvious pit, frowning down at it. Obvious, but also less of an edge to sneak by on. Pity. Maybe if he threw his knife he could knock the orange off to somewhere safer?

He knelt down, pressing fingertips to the ground extremely gently. It would be quite useless if he knocked the orange and then that caused the inner trap to collapse, after all...

[tis_allgood]

If Cuthbert knew he had a knife he would have sought Sherlock out to bludgeon him before. He was still exercising caution, Sherlock was an unknown and that was trouble.

He lowered his makeshift weapon slowly. Something didn't seem right. And Bert wouldn't kill an innocent man.

”What do you think you're doing to my orange?”

[alldeduction]

Sherlock froze - unaccustomed to being surprised - and slowly drew himself up to his full height, the ridiculous red prince outfit now faded and torn, covered with blood (not his own, almost entirely John's). He slipped the folding knife into his hand and flicked it open, ready.

He didn't know the voice. A new tribute, then. This arena? Must be. He turned, ever so slightly, careful not to move his feet far from where they were planted, aware that there was death on every side.

"I believe the more apt question is 'What do you think you are doing to my traps?', and I should hope the answer would be obvious."

[tis_allgood]

Bert's eyes were immediately drawn to the knife and he tried to draw up a quick assessment of whether or not this careful stranger had it in him to follow through with the implicit threat. The blood on his clothes and the fact that he had survived this long would tend to indicate he did.

"A good trap should not be obvious. So yes, I would hear from you how you found it before I kill you and take that little wisp of a knife off your body."

He took a step forward, attempting to spook Sherlock and get him to step backward into oblivion. Unfortunately he was focused enough on what he wanted to do that he had slipped his foot under the moved trip wire.

[alldeduction]

Sherlock managed not to glance down at Cuthbert's foot, but he didn't need to - he knew exactly where that tripwire had been moved to. A small smile snaked across his face, unable to keep from being a little bit smug. He spread his arms.

"I merely looked. It really wasn't particularly difficult," He goaded, carefully taking a step towards Cuthbert.

[tis_allgood]

Just a little closer and Cuthbert could take a good swing. Even if this man was clever enough not to fall in on his own didn't mean he couldn't be pushed in. Just going in was the important part.

"Oh? I'd like to see you do so well with nothing but your wits and a bit of time. Not all of us were gifted a blade. But that part is not so complicated, once I'm done with you I will have a knife to use toward making my next trap better."

He lunged forward, catching his foot on the moved wire and taking a far longer swing than he had anticipated.

[alldeduction]

Sherlock smiled. A cold, impersonal smile, though his eyes lit. Challenging his wits, hmm? Very well th--

Except that anything he had been about to say, the deductions he was about to reveal, were cut suddenly and completely short as the large piece of wood smashed into his chest like a hammer.

Some piece of his mind impersonally began to check off the damage. Ribs - broken. Sternum --

He knew enough to cringe as he fell, smashing through the trap and falling down into the pit. He knew, before he hit the ground, that even without the fall he would be dead in seconds. His sternum was shattered, and pieces of it even now would be traveling into his lungs and heart--

He landed, back flat to the ground, with a massive thump, the air rushing out of his damaged lungs in a great rush.

It was not replaced.

[tis_allgood]

There wasn't even time to register that he had made a successful kill, by the time the canon went off it could have been for the man he'd knocked out or for Cuthbert himself. Because not every area of the pit was cleared for easy retrieval of bodies and when he had set the trap Bert had set the trip wire for the far end where he had left enough sharpened branches to be sure he wouldn't have to finish off anyone who tripped it.

He just didn't picture himself being the one he had to finish off. He had enough time left as his heart frantically tried to pump blood into a now torn and useless aorta to enjoy the irony of falling into his own trap. At least he could die with pride knowing he had done his best with the items at hand and had not forgotten the face of his father.