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Who| John Watson, anyone who wants a brief encounter that John will walk away from ~~relatively~~unscathed, and finally Maximus
What| Desert survival, seeking shelter, a scuffle with a gladiator
Where| Desert arena
When| After waking in the desert, meeting with Max after his argument with Wyatt
Warnings/Notes| None atm beyond an increased chance of typo and autocorrect errors, damn lack of laptop

John hadn't quite known what to do when he found himself very much alive after having been very much dead, but very definitely not in the Capitol. The rules to this game seemed to change every five minutes, particularly if changing them would cause as much hurt and damage as possible- but for whatever reason, it seemed clear that the game wasn't over. They'd simply changed locations.
He'd been in a desert before, which he supposed gave him some kind of advantage, but he wasn't sure if it was an exchange for the better, all things considered.

It was blisteringly hot. Pulling himself up from the ground he brushed sand off his face and clothes, thankful that his costume came complete with a hat and plenty of cover- he'd be grateful for that, though the pleather jacket wasn't great. He took it off, tied the sleeves together at the cuffs and used the resulting loop to sling it over his shoulder- the material was probably watertight enough to be useful should he find a source of water and he was loathe to waste it. Water, of course, was the priority, but it would be everyone else's too- seeking it out would be dangerous.
Spotting an outcropping of rock that would provide a little shade for long enough for him to gather his thoughts, he checked his surroundings and began to make his way towards it, mouth locked shut behind dry lips.

Sand. God, he hated sand.

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It was impossible to tell how long had passed, Maximus' internal clock finally having given up in the glare of the impossible sun. Every few hours he would stop walking and rest, or try to, covering his eyes with his headdress and burrowing into the sand. He was still angry, still hurt - the burning vengeance he had felt back home was starting to slip into his feelings here. His hatred of Commodus slowly being transferred to the Capitol. They were cut from the same cloth. Sadism, dishonour. Bloodsport above loyalty. Entertainment above lives. They didn't kill for a reason, they killed for pleasure.

So he would bring them the death they wanted.

And then he would bring them the death they didn't.

He leaned back into the sand, unable to find sleep, staring up at the bright blue sky. It was then that he heard it - the tell-tale shuffling of a man walking through sand. He tensed, aware of the knife at his side but unwilling to use it (if only it had come from anyone else than Wesker). He froze, waiting for the footsteps to approach, his once-white robes now nearly sand coloured, hidden in the dune.

He'd had a delivery from a sponsor what must have been hours ago- and though he'd never met the man, he knew who he was. He'd even looked up and nodded his thanks, for all the good it would do- it never hurt to try. Food and water secured in he makeshift bag made from the jacket of his costume, now tied like a backpack over his shoulders (he'd learned from his previous arena how disastrous it could be, having your supplies too easily available to desperate hands), he'd set forth towards what seemed likely to be a safer place to try and sleep. He'd given up waiting for nightfall.
There was a kind of hypnotism to be found in walking through the desert. Afghanistan had been much more of a recognisable landscape, in comparison, and John found it increasingly hard to concentrate as he trudged in the careful, measured pace of a man trained to march, his feet sinking into the sand. He hardly noticed that his limp had faded away completely. Perhaps it had simply been drowned out by the parched, thirsty call for water every cell in his body seemed to be broadcasting, or perhaps Mycroft really had been right, and it wasn't that he was traumatised by violence and stress and pressure but that he missed it. Needed it.
Thankfully, he hadn't the spare energy to ruminate, thinking only of one foot in front of the other, his ears trained for sound and his eyes trained for movement.

He lay perfectly still, waiting, though as the moments ticked by and John finally appeared over the crest of a dune, Maximus grit his teeth. Wyatt's voice in his mind. Could have asked, first...

He took in a breath. If he didn't use the knife, he'd need all the advantage that he could get. (And he couldn't use the knife.) But Wyatt had questioned his honour, though he hadn't said as much he'd certainly implied it, and Maximus had little fear that anyone in the arena could best him.

So fine. He'd simply have to actually issue a challenge.

He rose suddenly from the sand, legs spread wide to balance on the dunes, headdress flapping around his face as the wind suddenly picked up.

"TRIBUTE!"

John tensed, stopping short, his body dropping his weight into a stable, ready stance as he assessed the threat as quickly as he could.
Tall. Well-built, though the costume disguised much of his outline. Strong. Stance read training, confidence, willingness to commit. No clearly visible weapon.

He wet his lips automatically, instantly regretting it. He had water for now, yes, but who knew how long it would be before he'd have more?
"John Watson," he called out, weighing up his chances. If the other man was looking for an easy kill, why announce himself like that? "Looking for shelter, not trouble. But don't think I won't defend myself."

Maximus steeled himself before sliding down the dune, the sand running up over his sandles as he strode up to John.

For it was him, and Maximus could well remember him - one of the few to recognize the name of his Emperor, and beyond that, speak well of him. He had few enough friends, now, and had already attacked one, that he could not bring himself to attack another.

"You won't need to, John Watson," he said gruffly as he stepped up, making sure the fabric of his headdress wasn't in his face. "Though you'll find little shelter here."

Though he'd only dropped further into a fighting stance as the other man skated down the dune, at those words and the dawning realisation of who they belonged to, John's shoulders shifted and he straightened up, relaxing. It was entirely clear that he was willing to take Maximus at his word without any pause for deliberation.
"Well, I'm glad for half of that," he admitted. "I was thinking of trying the mountain. Have you been that far?"

"Not yet. Making my way there, slowly." He didn't smile, his clean-shaven face set in a perpetual frown. "I've no doubt they've arranged all manner of traps and beasts for any who go looking for shelter there."

But it was also the most likely place to find other tributes...

John half wanted to ask if someone had sent Maximus a razor, though he wasn't sure he'd take the joke as well as Sherlock might. He swallowed it.
"Wouldn't doubt it. But we need shade- I have no idea if this arena is even going to have a nightfall."
He glanced towards the mountain, and back to the clean-shaven gladiator. "And I get the feeling that's where we're supposed to go."

Maximus shifted, the frown still deep-set upon his face, obviosuly discontent. He turned to look at the mountain as the wind ran through his pale robes and he had to grab them to keep from turning into flags.

"I'm sure that's where they intend us to go, yes," Maximus said carefully. The Gamemakers were not the fates, after all, no matter what he had believed when he had first arrived here. "Were we all poisoned and sent here?"

He shook his head, suddenly very conscious of the moisture he was losing with each word. It was a little ridiculous, perhaps, when he didn't know if he would be dead before he had a chance to really get thirsty, but he'd always been more cautious than not.
"No. Not all of us. Sherlock- my friend- he was fine. But I was poisoned. I saw others. How many do you think are here?"

Maximus shook his head. "I could not tell you. I've seen only you and- Wyatt." He hesitated on the last word, his face growing dark. "I thought, at first, that this might..." He looked back out toward the sand, and then shook his head. "But once I received gifts, I knew we were still in the games."

He carefully replaced his headdress so that the fabric covered his mouth (to keep out the dust, and keep the moisture in), before he began to start the long trek toward the mountain.

Maximus hadn't said, exactly, that they were to travel together, but he certainly seemed to be going in the direction John had suggested, and he hadn't been before. John hefted his makeshift bag a little more firmly on his shoulders and followed, his strides lengthening as he slipped into rhythm.
"This would be one hell of an afterlife," he muttered, glancing sideways at the white-robed man who definitely wasn't quite a friend, but certainly someone John found it easy to respect. "Did you get your gifts from someone you've never met, too?"

"No," He replied as he settled into a steady walk, though he was always alert and aware, waiting for any sight or sound of someone else coming upon them. "I received them from a man named Timaeus, who was once my host."

That his humour wasn't quite itself was apparent - Maximus never once smiled. And he didn't mention the present from Wesker, though the thought did make him glower a little more harshly.

Only survivors.

He nodded. Well, as much of a blow to the ego it was to know he hadn't been singled out, it was also oddly reassuring. He didn't think he'd like being the sole focus of anyone's attention in these Games, not one bit.
"Same," he said.

Maximus was steely and silent, more so than he had been before by several degrees- but he'd known many soldiers who changed completely when on active duty, and wasn't surprised. After a moment's silence, he spoke up.

"Howard wasn't with Wyatt, was he?"
He didn't like to think of Howard facing the desert alone.

"No." The word was darker than he meant it, as a strong gust of wind and dust blew past them and he gripped his robes against it.

"Perhaps Howard remains in the other place, un-poisoned." He paused, his expression souring even further. "No, when I left Wyatt, he was alone."

There was definitely something going on, there, though he thought it best not to pry too much. He'd known Maximus and Wyatt were about as much of an item as he and Sherlock were, but if Maximus had left him behind--
Well. He'd had rows enough with Sherlock.
"With any luck Howard will be with someone to watch his back or back in the Capitol already," John sighed. "I don't know what Sherlock will do. He'll think I have really died, with no message to tell him otherwise."

He glanced over to his companion.
"I'm sorry to hear about Wyatt. He'll probably head for the mountain himself, eventually."

"Howard's a survivor," He murmured. He hoped. He'd lost enough friends between arenas already, he didn't know what losing Howard would do to Wyatt. He didn't know the man John spoke of, though he could understand the worry. Not that he thought it changed anything. They were all here to fight and die. Even if not everyone could accept that.

He tensed slightly when John said Wyatt's name, seemingly directly out of his thoughts. "He'll do his duty as he sees it," Maximus said stiffly. "And I will do mine."

He nodded. What else was there to say to that? It was all any of them could do- though quite obviously, each of the Tributes had very different ideas of duty.

They paced on through the sand towards the mountain, silence settling down on them like a blanket. He kept his eyes busy, scanning the desert for movement as they walked- so at first, John wasn't sure if it was his eyes failing on him, but the sky was darkening, far too quickly. He glanced over, checking to see if Maximus had noticed.

Maximus had noticed. It was impossible not to notice. He drew to a stop, looking up at the sky, the frown deepening on his face.

"No natural dusk," he muttered, before glancing back at John. "We should quicken our pace."

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OPEN TO ALL IN ARENA 2

FOR MAXIMUS

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