thearena | (no subject)

Who| Eddie, open scene
What| desert survival plus crazy traps
Where| desert arena
When| week one
Warnings/Notes| no warnings atm. note me if you have any questions.

Edward is jolted to consciousness on his back, lying in the sand, staring up at the sky. The heat of the sun is at first welcome, compared to the fire of the poison in his veins. But, it only takes a moment before the relief of glorious lack of horrible pain is overwhelmed by relief that he is still alive. He is not in the capital. He is still in the game.

Interesting way to move him elsewhere. He sits up, lifting a flannel-sleeved arm to shield his eyes. There's no one else around that he can see, here on this small slope he's found himself on. Stumbling to his feet, he slowly turns a full circle, surveying his surroundings.

Water, shade, and avoiding anyone else out looking for the same is the priority. If he can find a good spot, same idea as in the last place, he'll be in a better position to plan his next move. So, the game right now is to find home sweet home and survive the process.

He crouches, and gathers up a few small stones, then he takes off the ugly tie and the flannel jacket, leaving on the white cotton shirt underneath. There's no lining in this jacket, and it's flimsy - good to tear up, and in a bit, he at least has cloth to keep his head and mouth covered. The tie gets unwound and reconfigured into a makeshift sling. He tests it out, launching a stone out into the brush.

***

It's difficult to judge distances, and the shadows aren't moving. That is an interesting turn of events. Sure. Fascinating, blah blah blah, whatever. None of this is getting him any water, and anywhere he's not covered is turning red.

He takes frequent breaks, and it's painfully slow progress, but he knows that's for the best. He's sitting on a small rock, nudging his toe in the sand, when he realizes there's a camera. So, he makes sure he's facing it, and pulls down the cloth over his mouth so it can see him smirk.

"This is going to be dull until I can get some water. Bear with me, friend camera. With a little luck, it won't be long now." He kneels closer to the thing. "With less luck, I'll run into trouble first, but that's what we're here for, hm? Regardless... I have to keep the commentary short."

And so, he starts to take break for rest and commentary. It's a worthwhile expenditure. This is a show, after all.

***

He finds shade, and decides that it's evening. There's scrubby plants and prickly pear and rocks all over the place here. And that shade - a cave burrow. It's inviting, a little too much so. He's wary of it being someone else's home, and it seems like it goes pretty far down.

He doesn't want to sleep, just rest a moment, but he jolts awake again, disoriented and sore, with the sun still shining beyond the hidey-hole.

And there's a parachute out there, too. Two canteens, a length of rope and a knife! This is way better than coffee to clear his sun-addled head! Time to get to work!

***

And so, he settles into a routine, of sorts. Slowly, carefully, going on tiny sips of water, he's doing his best to make this area as dangerous as he can. First, brush and sand and stones are stacked and concealed throughout the small area he's set out as the perimeter, to give him a shot of hearing clattering rubble if someone approaches. This includes deeper inside the cave. Just in case of sandworms or kobolds or whatever.

There's a prominent ring of stacks of small stones, arranged into eight evenly spaced piles, each with a different number of stones. There are more piled up in the area, but the straightforward route will lead into hidden piles of rocks set up to trip the unwary, a low dip in the ground filled with prickly pear and jagged rocks, covered up with the parachute and hidden with more rubble, and several snares. Using the circle of stones as a directional key turns the other stacked stones into an arrow maze through this mess.

He's attacked this task with determination. It's worn him thin, and taken a toll on his hands. His water supply is down considerably. He is not so much sleeping as fitfully resting, and he's not so much eating as nibbling at bits of prickly pear to stave off at least some of the hunger. Even with the pocket knife, despining the cactus is risky business, and digestion will use up moisture. He tried to set up a condensation trap, but between lack of practical experience, and the weird, artificial daytime, that's not doing him any good.

Staying put without action will make him boring to the audience, anyway. If someone doesn't show up, he resolves, he's going to set up a badly hidden cache to leave behind as a lure, and move on.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If there's anyone more sunburned than Eddie, it's Punchy. A hundred percent Irish-American genes have never lent themselves to tanning, and every exposed part of his body is a painful cherry red, with pus-filled blisters starting to well up on the back of his neck and the tips of his ears. His Zorro outfit, all in black, was once drenched in sweat that his body is no longer bothering to produce.

And yet he's still pressing on, because if Punchy's one thing, it's doggedly persistent. He pauses when he sees the little stacks of rocks, and approaches one, although he keeps looking around over his shoulders to see if there's anyone around. There's a small cloth puppet tucked into his belt that he holds in his left hand, kneading in his hands reflexively.

Impulsive, yes, but he's not stupid. He stops at one of the stacks and crouches down, touching one of the heated rocks with his fingers and trying to think of what the puzzle here is.

Eddie is holed up in his little cave. It isn't 'evening' as far as he's concerned this moment, but he's conserving his strength and fighting off a doze. To keep himself awake, he's chewing a bit of cactus pulp, otherwise still, looking out into his little domain through narrowed eyes. Depending on the angle, the cave might not be visible, and he might not have noticed Punchy yet, either. If he's careless with where he puts his feet, he is close enough near the key circle of stones that he might knock over a pile set to topple, and make some noise.

The nearest stacks of stones outside the circle are roughly the same distance apart from each other, each with a different number and indicated direction. And so on and so forth.

"This some kind of clock bullshit?" Punchy muses out loud, walking in a circle around the marker '7'. He scratches at his chin, then stops as the uncomfortable combination of stubble and blisters makes such a thing a bit painful.

He finally reaches over and, with one finger, topples a stack over. The other hand is in a fist, at the ready in case he needs to defend himself. His body is tense.

The stones fall, and Eddie's gaze darts in that direction, immediately tensed. He inches closer to the entrance, one hand closing around the folding knife on the ground beside him.

He moves forward a little more, not yet speaking, but not making the same effort to hide himself, either. His plaid is very much not camouflage. If his being a burned and exhausted target brings the newcomer any closer, good. Go on, knock more things over. Blunder right on up here. He smiles.

Punchy stops as he sees motion in the corner of his eye. He stands back up, hand tightening to a fist around the puppet. He squints, even though that isn't easy in the sun, and shades his eyes.

"Yo, unless you's some coyote wearing some wack-ass threads, I see you out there. Ain't no need to be laying the stealth walk on me, you don't sneak worth shit."

Eddie scrambles to the top of the burrow entrance, until he's sitting with one leg dangling and one propped against the rim, ready to get better footing if he needs to stand, but relaxed for now. He's still holding the knife, but not brandishing it. It remains folded.

"I am a coyote," he says, voice rough but cheery. "Do you know which way you're going, eagle-eyes?"

"Nah. Don't need a destination long as I know where I come from, a'ight?" Punchy eyes the guy. It's not at all in his nature to be suspicious, but the Arena is already starting to get under his skin. He's seen too many people die in his arms to let his guard down too easy.

He points to the stacks of rocks. "What's with the landscaping, homes?"

Eddie leans back, propping himself up with one arm, the one without the knife, but the weight on his palm sends a sharp reminder to favor his hands. He jolts a little, then sits up again, flexing his fingers and rotating his wrist for a moment, then resting the hand with the knife on top of the other, protectively. All this is while he talks.

"It would be a considerable waste of energy to do all that for funsies, wouldn't it? I do still have some water left." He lifts both brows, hinting that the statement might be an offer. "But for the sake of the journey, if not the destination, I hope at least you've got an eye on the news."

Punchy doesn't make it obvious he's watching the knife, but he doesn't lose track of where Eddie's hands are. He rests his hands on his hips, tilting his head at a cocky angle.

"Good you got yourself some drank. Hot as shit out here." He brushes some of his bangs, which has plastered with sweat and sand to his black mask, from his forehead. "What's your game, dawg?"

Eddie isn't making any sudden moves, not even fidgeting or gesturing with the knife, which is a nagging and unwelcome habit, with his hands as sore as they are. He does laugh, though, when the guy strikes a pose and holds his ground instead of begging for the water or rushing forward. That counts for something.

"You noticed," he says, then thinks for a long moment, sizing up the other guy, frowning slightly. "If you come any closer, you're playing. It doesn't need to involve you, but you need water or you will die. That is all I will say about my game. What do you say?"

"I say it's either a pit so you can snuff a homeboy like me over time in the sun, or fire. Money's on the first, because flames've got mad backfire." Punchy sticks his tongue out the side of his mouth and pulls his puppet out of his belt, slipping his hand inside it and making it talk. "What you thinkin', Judy? Am I aces on this?"

He cracks his neck. "But I got mad game, so just tell me how to play."

He laughs more, though it turns into a dry cough to clear his throat. "Pardon. Tell you how to play? No, no, please, proceed." He starts to raise a beckoning hand, but catches himself and lifts his shoulder, instead.

He watches the puppet. Curious, but he's accustomed to all kinds of little quirks like that.

Punchy counts the number of rocks on his fingers, using the puppet's hands to gesture. Eight rocks, not twelve, so it's not a clock. Possibly a compass, but he's not going to count on it.

He tucks the puppet away and takes a step forward.

After the cough, he stays quiet, tensely leaning forward as he watches Punchy consider the path before him, and finally move. If Punchy follows the path correctly, he will continue to stay quiet, at least until it's clear that the guy has it.

If he doesn't, whatever trips him up is Eddie's chance to make a move, and if he does, then he'll see if Punchy's going to be all peaceful-like and get something to drink, or if he'll have to fight. But besides all that, it's always interesting to test the mind of a new acquaintance. That's very important.

Punchy, good at patterns as he is, isn't firing on all cylinders here in the heat and dehydration. As such, he ends up going down the wrong path, although some sense at the back of his mind, buzzing like static, tells him that something's wrong.

He trips a trap.