thearena | Oh my love, I know you are the Candy Man

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Oh my love, I know you are the Candy Man

Although the mood in the Capitol is...taut, once the Tributes are in the transportation craft, things seem to lighten. The peacekeepers almost seem jovial - as jovial as peacekeepers ever seem. About half the Tributes are checked over and given an injection into their tracking device.

In the underground room, the stylists have all their prep teams running busy, dressing up the tributes in bright costumes, chatting with each other, clearly excited to have so much freedom over what their Tributes are wearing in. Each one is dressed in a personalized costume, elaborate, and entirely soft.

Finally the Tributes are placed on their pedestals and sent on up, all gussied up.

25 - 24 - 23

The light is blinding for a moment, before the candy-colored world around them comes into focus. And it's not just candy-colored - it is actually candy. Some Tributes might be reminded of the game Candy Land, if it was something in their home world. Music plays, scarily cute animals roam, and every thing just looks so gosh-darn happy.

20 - 19 - 18 - 17 - 16

The Cornucopia sits, candy-striped itself, and over-flowing with a generous bounty of food, weapons, and supplies. Even these all reflect the nature of the arena, brightly-colored, and cheerful-looking, just begging to be gathered up.

11- 10 - 9 - 8

They've all been warned not to step off their pedestal early. But as the final number ticks off, those Tributes that had their tracking devices adjusted in the transport suddenly feel a sting starting in their arms. A slightly diluted version of what Ariadne was given the day before is dumped in their veins.

The dilution doesn't help them, of course; it just causes the poison to take effect more slowly.

5 - 4

3

2

1

Go.

The burning is starting for half of them, spreading through their body, lighting their nerves on fire. Within 10 minutes it's effecting their motor skills, causing them to stagger, twitch, to move against their will.

Those who are small fall faster, barely lasting 15 minutes in the bloodbath. The stronger and bigger among them might make it 30 minutes at most.

By the time the bloodbath is over, the Cornucopia is surrounded by corpses. Half of the Tributes have fallen without even a single competitor having to touch them.

[OOC: Don't forget the OOC Arena post, especially those of you running for the Cornucopia. Every Tribute must post to this post. There will be a Cornucopia thread, and anyone else feel free to post as you will. Please add a tag with your character's name.

Those who were poisoned are anyone in group 2. You will have a second post up shortly.]

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Howard doesn't know what's happening. He responds to the command without thinking, information processed on some level below his conscious mind. Thoughts flicker in and out like shorts in the circuit - high ground, keep moving, oh my god I'm bleeding - but nothing sticks for more than a few seconds, as if every bit of juice in his brain is being poured into keeping one foot in front of the other, in keeping his hand clasped in some kind of dead-man's grip over the bag.

If it weren't for Sherlock, he wouldn't have been able to run so far. He nearly knocks Sherlock over at one point as he missteps and his balance goes haywire. He imagines planes; he imagines them crashing, one wing scraping into the earth in a panoply of different sorts of smoke and fire. The ground seems to pull and tug into little vortexes of gravity, like a water bed.

Thankfully, they're well enough away from the Cornucopia when he loses his footing again, one leg overcorrecting for a miss in balance like a hypnic jerk and sending him slamming into Sherlock's side and then into the bright pink ground. "Unn!"

Edited 2013-06-23 03:48 (UTC)

At some point in the melee, Sherlock's hat has gotten lost and in all honest he doesn't mourn it in the slightest. He half pushed half dragged Howard away until they toppled into the ground together and Sherlock's head snapped backwards, half expecting to see Karis right there behind him.

Satisfied that she was not, however, he immediately pulled his attention back to Howard. It was as he had first thought - a head wound, probably a concusion, copious amounts of blood. Sherlock tsked lowly under his breath as he pressed his palm to the gash on Howard's forehead. He would need a bandage. And a doctor. He glanced around, but it was obvious that they'd run in the wrong direction, and far enough that the cornucopia was now out of sight. Damn.

"We have to get you to John." He said in a low voice, in case anyone else had run in this direction. "Bandages first." He reached out and grabbed the bag without asking, and rummaged through it. No bandages. Everything else in the bloody world, but no bandages. Fine!

"Sherlock...?" Howard's speech is slurred, as if the words are just dripping out of him instead of being spoken. "My head hurts."

He tries to pull away from Sherlock's hand over his forehead. More coherent thoughts are starting to coalesce, but the basic wants and desires still rule for this second, and he doesn't like his space invaded, especially by someone he doesn't especially like. The facts of where he is kick in, and he realizes he's in the Arena, and that he's with someone he recently had a pretty nasty fight with, and pulling away seems to give way to wanting to escape, and he draws his hand over the wetness on his face-

-oh. Blood. His blood. Maybe Howard should be bothered that that doesn't hugely surprise him. The world tips again and Howard keels sideways. He's in no position to run away, so he decides to plead instead, revealing his metaphorical belly.

"What happened? You know where John is?" It's difficult to see on his dark eyes, but one pupil is more dilated than the other. There's blood in one ear, too. "Sherlock, what happened?"

Sherlock grabbed one of the ninja stars and then Howard's arm - cutting through the excess fabric dangling from the oversized sleeves and used the sharp edge of the star to cut it into a long strip.

"Karis happened," Sherlock said, his tone dark. "I lost sight of John but we were meant to meet back near the cornucopia. Once we stop this bleeding we'll get you there and he can deal with it," He said, his tone rapid-fire and non-nonsense as he tore the bandage in half, making the strip longer, before he started to wrap it around Howard's head. He didn't brook any nonsense - any time Howard tried to move away he just pulled him back again. He wasn't a doctor. That much was very clear.

"You grabbed a bag and the Karis took you out. Straight to the skull. Bleeding. Whether or not there is internal bleeding should become clear soon enough." The tone was dry.

"Karis..." Howard's eyes roll back briefly as he searches for the name in his mind. Right, the woman R was going to eat him with. Figures she'd come back for round too. "I hate that bitch."

For a second he struggles against Sherlock, but then he goes still as he starts to piece together that Sherlock isn't here to hurt him. He doesn't protest as the makeshift bandage goes over his head, and while Sherlock does that he takes the pink ninja star and starts to clumsily cut at the other sleeve.

His head is starting to get clearer, clear enough to connect the searing pain in his skull and the vertigo to a head injury, clear enough to worry about the idea of internal bleeding. He curiously holds a hand up over one eye. There's no difference. He's half-blinded.

Awesome. Starting this Arena off right.

And the dots start to connect in another way. There's no innocence in Howard's tone when he asks "did you save me?". Only confusion and surprise and skepticism. Possibly even anger. And the ever-present slur.

Sherlock works as quickly as he is able - once the first bandage is secure he reaches to where Howard was cutting a new one, helped it along and then tore it free, only to tie it tightly around Howard's head where the first was. It wasn't going to be perfect by any means, but at least Howard no longer had blood coursing down his face...

"No, of course not, I left you there to die and now you're dreaming," Sherlock said sarcastically as he tied the second bandage off. "Don't be an idiot. You're still here, aren't you?"

"Aa, aa, not so tight...and hey, a lot of shit could have happened while I was busy bleeding out my brain." The sarcasm coming back is healthy, right? "Aren't you worried I'm going to kill your polyanalogous boyfriend?"

The tone to that would have been bitchy to start with, but with his brain feeling like it's about to explode and nausea building inside his abdomen, it becomes downright hateful.

"Please, as if you could hope to kill anyone in this state," Sherlock said, ignoring Howard's protestations as he finished off the bandage.

"Polyanalogous, indeed," He muttered half under his breath. "I'll be sure to note to John that your ability to form words is the same as ever."

"I've got a higher kill count than you." The bandage done, Howard slumps back to the ground and shuts his eyes, hoping that being unable to see will give him a momentary reprieve from the dizziness. He holds one hand over his forehead and the other over his stomach. After a moment, he moves the one on his head down a few inches to rest over the blind eye.

"Fuck off, asshole." Howard knows on some level that it's probably, at the very least, really impolite to be an ass to someone who just saved your life. But the words that come out next seem to be immune to rationality. "Are you even going to be able to talk to him or are you just going to jump on him and start m-"

Howard pauses. What's that word? He knows the word and yet he can't seem to get it to come out of his mouth.

"-start kissing him all over?"

"Higher than zero? Good, I'm so proud," Sherlock said, the tone slightly bitter. He stands, his hands covered in Howard's blood. He goes to wipe them on his bright white stockings, tsks, and wipes them on some nearby 'candy' instead.

He freezes, though, when Howard mentions the kissing, and whips his head around. "A head injury and that's what you remember," He said sharply.

Howard murmurs something under his breath at Sherlock's snipe, but it doesn't seem to evolve beyond generic swearing, and it's so quiet he can barely hear it himself. He screws up his face and rolls over onto his side, trying and failing to keep the pain of the headache from showing outwardly. He jerks a little as some of the blood in his ear canal starts to dribble down and catches him off-guard.

"It was kind of a big deal." You know. If you're Howard and spent your time ignoring the assassination and bombing and instead stalking John Watson.

Edited 2013-06-23 05:00 (UTC)

Sherlock looks completely incredulous for the briefest of moments before he reaches down and pulls Howard until he's sitting up.

"Kind of a big deal," He repeated, still baffled. "Well at least I have some measure of your priorities. We can't stay here. Can you walk?"

"My priorities are fine. 'M trying to protect Dr. John." He slowly gets to his feet. "I can walk."

And then he nearly falls over as he keens to the side. He grabs Sherlock's arm for support, surprised by his own vulnerability. "But not alone."

It's not an easy confession to make, realizing how helpless he is and how he needs to rely on someone he believes he loathes. Someone who, inscrutably, just saved his life. Why?

"John is completely capable of taking care of himself, I can promise you that," Sherlock said, his tone oddly tight.

He leaned down until he could drag Howard's arm up over his shoulders, until he was sure he had enough of Howard's weight to get him to stand up straight.

"Not last time." This is, oddly, said without any of the malice of the earlier statements. Instead it seems like a genuine fear.

Howard short enough, and Sherlock tall enough, that his heels don't totally hit the ground when he's supported.

"His limp's back." It feels like one of the things he can say that would indicate John's not alright without talking about how he's watched John sleep when he was allowed to stay over. Even he knows that's creepy, though he feels like he can't help himself. John never even told him the limp was a psychological thing, but Howard's observant.

"I'm aware." Sherlock said, his voice clipped and dark. He was all too aware. That was ninety percent of the point of this entire stupid escapade. He hated that limp more than anything, but Howard didn't need to know that.

"I can't account for beings like Karis. But you would have to be an idiot to think that he's in any danger from me."

Howard tries to step forward now, small steps that won't take him from Sherlock's side.

"Look, I don't like that Effie woman either, but break-ups aren't fun. You trying to split them up's going to..." Howard makes a little noise, unable to put words onto his tongue. He wrinkles his nose and makes another pained, frustrated sound before giving up on it. "It's not okay, okay?"

Effie smells like papier mache. Gross.

The fact that Howard was limping here, bleeding from a head wound and trying to give him dating advice was so far beyond anything that he was equipped to deal with that he nearly rolled his eyes out of his skull and snap 'Priorities' at him, which he only managed to keep under control by biting down hard on his inner cheek. The performance wasn't for him, he reminded himself. This would all be on the television in the capitol. Keep it believable, and sympathetic.

"As if anything I could do would change his mind," He grumbled lowly. "He already--" He bit the words off, and frowned, as he tried to help Howard lope in the general direction of John. It was going to be a bit of a walk, like this. "There's no reason to be concerned. He made it all too clear that it is not an option."

"He did? Why?" Howard sounds a little too interested in the answer. "He actually likes you."

Because to Howard that's pretty unfathomable, but he admits that Sherlock doesn't exactly shoot for the 'traumatized hypersensitive teenager' demographic.

"We should go to high ground. Wyatt's..." God, that word thing again. Why is it so hard to say basic things? "I told Wyatt I'd go to high ground. He patched me up last time. And you can find John."

And the four of them can play house, he supposes.

Sherlock's lips form a thin line at the question. "I think we've discussed this subject quite enough," He said a little testily.

He paused to look around, the absolute absurdity of the arena now dawning on him when he wasn't immediately taken up with taking care of Howard. High ground. High ground. He'd have to find bloody Candy Mountain.

"Wyatt." Sherlock said, unconvinced that Wyatt would really be able to help him. But if he would be able to find John faster without Howard slowing him down, so it wasn't a bad plan. Finally he caught sight of the highest ground around them and nodded towards it. "There. Let's go."

"'Kay..." Howard decides he's not getting anywhere, and besides, he's trying to prevent the dizziness and nausea from causing this morning's oatmeal to have an encore appearance. He'll find a way to drive a wedge between John and Sherlock later.

He hobbles along as fast as he can, using Sherlock for balance. He's well aware that standing out in the open is a bad idea, but as they get near the gingerbread cliffs he can spy little holes and nooks to hide in. It's hard to make out how far away they are with one eye.

He doesn't like that he has to keep leaning into Sherlock's side to keep from tipping over, doesn't like that every time he misjudges where the ground is it's this goon whose arm he clutches to get right again. Somehow, this bothers him more than the splitting pain, more than the fact that his face is still bloody, more than the vertigo and blind eye. Maybe he's just used to pain, or maybe it's that the physical contact side of things is still a difficult one, even for business purposes.

He makes no complaint as they go, not even noises of pain, and after a long enough pause he finally says "thanks for s...thanks for helping me."

Edited (typos, oog) 2013-06-23 17:13 (UTC)

"Don't thank me," Sherlock said, completely seriously, "Thank John."

He never was good at taking gratitude - at least not when it wasn't a case. Gratitude from a case was only natural. Gratitude for saving the life of a boy that you didn't particularly like from the clutches of a woman you hated? No. That was basic. Maybe, though, just maybe it might go a little ways to having John forgive him, in the end. Not everything I do is for myself. I can do things for the good of others, it just rarely looks that way.

None of which he spoke aloud.

They finally reached the base of the Gingerbread cliffs and Sherlock's eyes scanned relentlessly across them until he caught the dark outline of a figure.

He hoped to hell it was the man they were looking for.

The man, yes, if not the state they were likely hoping to find him in.

Wyatt had come up the tube with an uncertain hope tossing in his gut: the clothes, - eyepatch and makeup aside - were so familiar, so like the ones back in his room... for a moment he'd been certain of what he'd see when he reached the top.

But he'd been wrong. None of the other tributes were wearing anything like him and the arena - bright and strange and... was that candy?

He didn't understand what the point was in the strange getups, how they possible went together with the pink, sweet arena, but as the count had run down and the tingle in his arm turned into burning, he realized that it didn't matter. That the Capitol had a whole nother plan in mind.

At the sound of the canon, he came off his pedestal with a lurch, his chest tightening. They were killing him.

But he couldn't give in, not to the pain, not to the way his vision swam, not the sweat that beaded on his face and ran down his spine.

He'd made a promise. He had to find Howard.

When the pair found him, leaning against the strange cookie mountain, he was on his last legs, barely able to lift his head, driven this far only by the strength of his will.

Howard recognizes Wyatt even without seeing his face. Something about the form of that body is stamped into his mind, about the dignity with which Wyatt holds himself. That stands true even when Wyatt's ill.

It doesn't mean he can't tell immediately that something's wrong. He breaks away from Sherlock and runs over to Wyatt in a staggering, off-kilter jerk, coming to rest on his knees in front of the man. His eyes are wide; his breath hitches. He scrambles up to his feet again and helps hold Wyatt up, trying his best not to sway himself, all though of his own injury forgotten.

"Where you hurt, Wy?" His words are a tight, panicked hiss. "I been studying how to medic from a book, where you hurt?"

He turns to look at Sherlock, bracing himself against the gingerbread to keep from tipping over. "We need John."

Sherlock didn't need a second reminder - it was obvious that something had happened to Wyatt, though he could see no signs of violence on him.

That worried him more than anything else.

"Yes. Stay here. Don't move." And with that, he was off like a shot, running into the candied landscape with his tailcoats fluttering behind him.

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