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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"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.

Wyatt didn't even seem to notice the strange in the navy tailcoats, once Howard came running, he only had eyes for the boy.

He'd done it. He'd made it.

He'd kept his promise.

With that knowledge, with that done, the last of his strength drained out of him on a wave of relief. On the sea of burning pain that he'd just managed to hold at bay.

"No..t-not," he stammered as he sank, legs giving out, to the sticky ground. "Hurt. Cap-capitol did-"

His head rocked, rolling like a flower on a broken stem, trying to find Howard.

"No, no no no, Wyatt, what are you..." Howard sinks down too, helping lay Wyatt down on his side, and crumples over himself, bleeding head angling a bit too far to the left. Like Wyatt did once before, Howard reaches a hand over to Wyatt's chest and looks for the heartbeat, and he lets out a nervous giggle of relief that it's still there.

"You're okay. It's okay, Wy. I got you." He can feel Wyatt's muscles starting to jerk beneath him. He bites his lip and grabs the contents of his bag, which he hasn't gotten a chance to examine, foolishly letting himself believe just for a moment that he might have grabbed medicine from the Cornucopia.

But there is none, so instead he uses the sleeping bag to try and prop Wyatt's head up in a more comfortable position and holds some of the coconut water to Wyatt's lips while the disappointment and fear soaks into his leaden heart.

"Talk to me, man, talk to me."

He can barely feel Howard lifting him, can see nothing but the boy's hazy shadow hovering above him, blotting out the sky.

His body twitches and jerks and seizes, his jaw tightening, teeth grinding so hard he can taste the bitter salt of his own blood when they crack.

He chokes on the water Howard offers, and it runs down his chin pink.

"Sss," he struggles to speak, the words hissing out of him. "Sstrong... be, bra-ve. I-I beeli..ve in you."

"No, no..." Howard keeps whispering protests as if it's something that matters. "Don't- don't..."

Don't leave me, he wants to say, but he can't make the words appear. How is he supposed to do this without Wyatt? Who'll be there to stitch him up, to protect, and most importantly, to tell him things will be alright?

He lays his skinny body down on top of Wyatt, curling against his side to anchor his sheriff to the ground, to keep him from hitting his head on anything as he goes. He reaches a hand over and wipes Wyatt's chin, then holds him there, protecting Wyatt from the battery of his own body.

"I'm right here." Howard's seen people die before more times than anyone ever should. He's never grieved for them while they were still alive, even knowing that they might meet again on the other side. He can feel Wyatt's pulse in his neck, and he wonders if Wyatt can feel the way his heart is pounding against Wyatt's side.

He can't find words. He should have prepared for this and still he can't find words. He was stupid enough to let himself believe this would never happen, and now he's not ready, because he never wanted to believe Wyatt was fallible. He never wanted to believe Wyatt would go first. A tear lets go of his eyelashes and rolls over the bridge of his nose.

"So let's do some living after we die...wild, wild horses...couldn't drag me away..."

Because he can't find words, he sings, a soft lullaby for the dying broken by hiccups and sobs.

"Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them someday..."

He looses the words first, Howard's voice warbling in and out - and then that goes too. And then last hazy light.

All he knew was the twisting agony, the red-hot knife driving into the back of his head. The pressure building, a shrill whine crescendoing in his ears.

He wasn't aware of the way his body shook, the way his limbs jerked of their own will, of the way his chest gurgled and his mouth foamed, red bubbling at the corners.

He wanted to reach for Howard, to tell him - so many things - but it was too late.

He'd run out of time.

The dark closed in. His back arched....

And he settled. Still and silent, his bloodshot eyes vacant and dull.

Howard feels the moment Wyatt's soul leaves. He doesn't even need to hear the cannon to know. He can feel when the brave heart under his hands stops its beating.

He lays there for a while, singing quietly. His hand clutches around the jacket Wyatt's wearing, grasping and folding like a kitten kneading a blanket. And he waits for the hovercraft, like Wyatt waited for him, until the song in his mouth turns into humming he uses to comfort himself.

The hovercraft doesn't come.

Finally he sits up and kisses Wyatt's temple. It's a strange gesture, but one that feels natural, with no one to watch. Wyatt's cool forehead is covered just barely by a sheen of sweat. He closes Wyatt's eyes and brushes the last of the pink spittle off his lips.

"I'm gonna win for you, okay?"

Howard takes Wyatt's eyepatch and, for the first time since he was a child, he prays.

"Look, I don't know if you're editing this out or anything, but God - Sponsors - whoever. I need matches. Please, God, send me matches."

By the end of it, Sherlock was running for his life. He couldn't see what was chasing him, but he could hear them - a pack of them - just barely audible over the continuous screech of strange music through the arena. He hadn't stopped to figure out what they were. If they were coming down on him, then Wyatt and Howard were sitting ducks, and he doubted he could take down a pack of animals by himself, with not a weapon to speak of --

He heard Howard's voice, a song on the wind, long before he saw him. He was still running, the singing getting louder, when he realised he was no longer being chased. Once he caught sight of Howard, cradling Wyatt's body, he finally allowed himself to slow - the adrenaline and the fury making his heart pound like a jackhammer in his chest.

By the time he actually reached Howard, he was walking - barely making a noise as he approached the boy, a solemn expression on his face despite his racing blood. It only took a glance to affirm that Wyatt was dead - killed by the same poison that had killed John.

His fingers curled into a fist, tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

"I don't have matches," He said, his voice oddly emotionless. "John's dead."

Edited 2013-06-24 21:22 (UTC)

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