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Who| Punchy, Tim, and Tim!
What| A sort of rescue, then a group encounter with achupacabra reptiroo.
Where| Desert arena.
When| Right after nightfall!
Warnings/Notes| I'll update as they come up- none yet!
In hindsight, this was a bad idea. He should have kept to the plan to just head for the hills. Had he done that, this night might now seem as dark as it did, the dangers not running through his head as acutely. He would have had some defense at his back, and that would mean a world of relief when literal back stabbing was what he was most worried about. --scratch that. Even with having to turn his head to glance over his shoulders ever other minute, it wasn't like there was that annoying, god-awful music making it impossible to hear something coming up behind him. He was more worried about how parched his throat was and how heavy his head felt. He had thought he could reach the shelter of the mountains before night fell, but that was obviously wrong. Keep the big heap of rocks to your right, he figured, and go explore and map out the terrain for yourself. He had found prairie dogs galore and a good grassy patch...
(...was he really going to have to eat grass...? Nope. No. Not right now, at least!)
And now the mountains were still somewhere off to his right, but kind of not so visible anymore, and Tim thought for a second that it was a good thing the sun had gone down because the air was beginning to cool and it felt great against his sweat soaked self. The moon's light hardly illuminated the path ahead of him but still Tim could make do and catch the quick glint of what he assumes to be a scorpion scurrying past. No need to step on the thing, no way to tell if it's poison-packed, and so he steps over the it and the rock its now perched on. He swallows, tries to ignore how tired he actually felt-- and then he hears some rustling, you know, that real generic sound of something approaching. A quick scan revealed nothing but a chilly gust of wind that made him shiver, and it must have been the sand rattling against itself and the tumbleweeds tumbling.
Then he realizes, belatedly, that his hair's standing on end for another reason. Tim stops in his tracks, and straightens up stiffly and keeps his ears and eyes keen. Nothing. So then how is he going to die? This game is a death match-- and he has nothing to defend himself with. No bo staff, no small flash grenades, no smokescreen, no wire.
But just behind him, he'd passed a sizable rock. Kind of silly, but he backtracks, takes special care to give the scorpion king one very respectable and well angled, uh, nudge with his boot to get him off what Tim's now deemed his weapon until he finds something better. It fits in his hand, so it shouldn't be too burdensome to carry. With a huff, he straightens up after having bent down to pick it up. And it must be the moon again glinting off of some more far away rocks, because he sees a pair of shining things that hadn't been ahead of him before. And they can't be rocks, because. They're kind of multiplying. Two, four, eight. Coming closer and snarling. Uh. Then he sees that to his left there's a dead hare. Their dinner. --well, before he showed up.
"I promise I wasn't going to eat it."
Quick, Drake, what have you learned about dealing with wild animals in death arenas? One step, two, three back, never lowering his eyes from the glowing yellow and greens stalking closer.
"I'll just back away slowly and let you get back to your thing."
The funny thing is, there's nowhere to run and he's not stupid enough to believe he can outrun a coyote pack. Gee, he hopes they're not rabid. The night gets a hella lot colder when there's a clear yip and a bushy tail up and some jaws gaping. He can take on four dogs, he tells himself. He has a rock. And good training. Then there's a mountain of fur racing towards him and Tim takes a stance. And he really does wish he was a few inches bigger.
What| A sort of rescue, then a group encounter with a
Where| Desert arena.
When| Right after nightfall!
Warnings/Notes| I'll update as they come up- none yet!
In hindsight, this was a bad idea. He should have kept to the plan to just head for the hills. Had he done that, this night might now seem as dark as it did, the dangers not running through his head as acutely. He would have had some defense at his back, and that would mean a world of relief when literal back stabbing was what he was most worried about. --scratch that. Even with having to turn his head to glance over his shoulders ever other minute, it wasn't like there was that annoying, god-awful music making it impossible to hear something coming up behind him. He was more worried about how parched his throat was and how heavy his head felt. He had thought he could reach the shelter of the mountains before night fell, but that was obviously wrong. Keep the big heap of rocks to your right, he figured, and go explore and map out the terrain for yourself. He had found prairie dogs galore and a good grassy patch...
(...was he really going to have to eat grass...? Nope. No. Not right now, at least!)
And now the mountains were still somewhere off to his right, but kind of not so visible anymore, and Tim thought for a second that it was a good thing the sun had gone down because the air was beginning to cool and it felt great against his sweat soaked self. The moon's light hardly illuminated the path ahead of him but still Tim could make do and catch the quick glint of what he assumes to be a scorpion scurrying past. No need to step on the thing, no way to tell if it's poison-packed, and so he steps over the it and the rock its now perched on. He swallows, tries to ignore how tired he actually felt-- and then he hears some rustling, you know, that real generic sound of something approaching. A quick scan revealed nothing but a chilly gust of wind that made him shiver, and it must have been the sand rattling against itself and the tumbleweeds tumbling.
Then he realizes, belatedly, that his hair's standing on end for another reason. Tim stops in his tracks, and straightens up stiffly and keeps his ears and eyes keen. Nothing. So then how is he going to die? This game is a death match-- and he has nothing to defend himself with. No bo staff, no small flash grenades, no smokescreen, no wire.
But just behind him, he'd passed a sizable rock. Kind of silly, but he backtracks, takes special care to give the scorpion king one very respectable and well angled, uh, nudge with his boot to get him off what Tim's now deemed his weapon until he finds something better. It fits in his hand, so it shouldn't be too burdensome to carry. With a huff, he straightens up after having bent down to pick it up. And it must be the moon again glinting off of some more far away rocks, because he sees a pair of shining things that hadn't been ahead of him before. And they can't be rocks, because. They're kind of multiplying. Two, four, eight. Coming closer and snarling. Uh. Then he sees that to his left there's a dead hare. Their dinner. --well, before he showed up.
"I promise I wasn't going to eat it."
Quick, Drake, what have you learned about dealing with wild animals in death arenas? One step, two, three back, never lowering his eyes from the glowing yellow and greens stalking closer.
"I'll just back away slowly and let you get back to your thing."
The funny thing is, there's nowhere to run and he's not stupid enough to believe he can outrun a coyote pack. Gee, he hopes they're not rabid. The night gets a hella lot colder when there's a clear yip and a bushy tail up and some jaws gaping. He can take on four dogs, he tells himself. He has a rock. And good training. Then there's a mountain of fur racing towards him and Tim takes a stance. And he really does wish he was a few inches bigger.
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The Sponsors have declined to send a flashlight, too, so he and Tim are mostly fumbling around in the dark. It's the best time to travel, but the lack of visibility works both ways. It's both camouflage and a hindrance. Punchy's actually being uncharacteristically quiet, trying to listen for people around them.
"Yo, Tim," Punchy whispers. He hears a voice on the wind that he may even mistake for Tim, if he didn't know that Tim was to his left. "You catching that?"
He peers into the dark and sees shapes moving by moonlight no more than thirty yards from them.
Sorry it's TL;DR. Felt I should explain the scythe.
Between sponsors and a brazen, heart-pounding raid on the Cornucopia only minutes before the sun went down, they aren't in bad shape. Tim had left Punchy to stand guard over their water and other supplies and shout a warning if someone else approached. He'd also given him the instruction to leave if Tim was inside the Cornucopia for more than 2 minutes. That would mean someone else was inside.
He'd taken the folding knife and the sleeping bag with him and come racing back several minutes later with a long scythe, the sleeping bag slung over his shoulder like Santa's sack, and the feeling that it had all been too simple. There'd been no one else there. He'd even had time to snuggly thread throwing knives into his belt.
Aside from sun damage (his face felt like Punchy's looked), it had been going smoothly. Tim has a sleeping bag, and he's offered the tent to Punchy for the night - for all nights, really. During the days, they could take turns sheltering from the sun. They have a supply of food and water. Tim is armed.
It's not supposed to be this easy, and, like a confirmation, Tim hears someone talking in the distance. That sounded like -
The angry yip. It's not a human sound, and he's got the scythe in his hand as he moves closer to Punchy.
"Coyote?" He breathes the question out, not wanting to attract the attention of whatever it is. Maybe they're downwind, their scent won't carry. He's creeping towards the noises when he can just start to make out the shapes ahead. It's only enough to see a fighter gearing up before a low, shifting mass of movement.
"Stay here." It's an order, loudly given because Tim is already running over and he wants to draw attention to himself, so that he doesn't have to listen to anyone get torn limb from limb. Especially if he's right about that stance, but there's no time to stop and verify identity.
One of the dogs is lunging through the air when Tim reaches the other Tribute. His swing is strong, but awkward, and the results are messy. The point of the blade buries deeply in the creature's gut, and Tim has to kick it several times before he's able to pull the scythe free. He slides his hands further apart on the handle, trying to allow for the odd balance, and the next swing is better. Too good, in fact, lopping off a head that goes flinging off somewhere. Both body and head land with dull sticky thumps
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Then it was almost like he jinxed himself.
Between the din of angry dogs, his own rushing thoughts, matted fur and sore muscles, he sees out the corner of his eye the bigger coyote in the air-- and he has another ready to bite on his calf-- there's nowhere to move at all. He blinks, he can't help it, braces himself to claw at the animal's eyes when it tries to go for his throat-- but that never happens because the animal gets impaled on something. There's a spray of blood and Tim turns to land a heavy kick at the head of the coyote with its fangs tugging at his loose pants.
Then there's just no more coyote head there, either.
The remaining two dogs are circling, only baring their teeth until one goes to sniff at its dead companion's decapitated body. Tim knows he's shaken-- and tired to boot- but he's moving away from the scythe the moment he finally pinpoints it. He's breathing heavily, his hair's a mess, he's sticky covered in coyote blood. And don't get him wrong, he's really, really grateful for the guy holding the murder weapon but. Mouth agape, panting, he's not saying a word until that last dog goes away or is skinned alive or something. Holy shit. Alert eyes have caught sight of another person nearby, another guy, somewhere around their age. Friend? Foe? Tim Senior's got the blade, sure, and Tim Junior breaks his self imposed rule to hiss out, "There's someone behind you."
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So barely a second after Tim Junior's warning to Tim Senior, Punchy barrels forward and tackles one of the coyotes like a linebacker, because that is clearly the most logical course of action, with some kind of incoherent battle cry that's soon joined by a crunch and squish as both teen and canine slam into a rock. The coyote yelps for a second and Punchy says "aw, shit!" as he realizes he's skinned his wrist up to his elbow (and that said injury produces no insignificant amount of ouchies), but then he gets back to whaling on that poor evil doggie, which only just manages to squirm away and stagger, tumble and limp into the night.
The final coyote nips at his ankle until he gracefully flips over and gives its muzzle a kick that makes a resounding cracking noise. The coyote squeals, its jaw and nose shattered, and stumbles back to take stock of the situation. Torn between both Tims and Punchy, and between the clear options of sticking around to get decapitated or book it like its limping brother, it high-tails it out of there. Punchy gets up, brushing dust off himself and shaking his hands.
"We all breezy here? Tim?" Punchy kicks a bit at one of the dead coyotes. Normally he wouldn't be so morbid, but a pelt wouldn't be the worst thing to have on a cold night like this. He doesn't approach the smaller guy, though - he remembers, very vividly, what a stranger could repay you with.
Topher got gutted. Punchy himself had his throat stomped to bits. So Punchy's voice is wary when he addresses the new guy. "You frosty, dawg?"
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This is all that can come out of a weapon like this. One gutted, one beheaded, and he shouldn't be unnerved by it, but he doesn't need daylight to know that there's blood everywhere. He can smell it, metallic and hot, and the smell lingers even after he drops the scythe and scrubs his sleeve against his cheek, where a spray of arterial blood caught him.
He's never been an instinctual fighter. This was a mistake. There was probably no other way for this to have gone against wild animals. He never would have been so brutal otherwise. This wouldn't have happened with people. He doesn't do wet work.
Tim clamps down on extraneous thought. Ignoring the stench of the beasts, he crouches down and examines the weapon. The blade is bloody, and, since Tim doesn't know how long it takes for blood stains to oxidize and rust metal (only that they do), he methodically wipes the blood clean on a dry patch of pelt. "Are either of you hurt?"
When he's done with the scythe, he starts grabbing handfuls of sand and scrubbing it against the animal blood on his clothes to get as much off as possible. "Tim. Scour your clothes with the sand. We can't spare water to clean you up. I want other predators to smell a meal here and not head to our camp."
The camp is currently full of their supplies and evidently unguarded. Dammit. Without another word, Tim grabs the dead hare and starts back towards it.
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Then there's still the matter of keeping a distance between his other self and his partner. Suppose killing dogs wasn't a big thing when it really was for self defense, but then there's the... that scythe is a really killer weapon. Sand it salty, and Tim's trying to wash his hands off with it when he catches a sting. Some scratches, then, but he definitely didn't remember a bite.
"Yeah, I'm cool," he replies to Punchy. It's only taken him a minute to reply, no big deal. Tim counts to five and tells himself to man up. So his next reply is louder, but he's not going to be trying to project to the entire area or anything. "I'm fine. They came after me because I stepped too close to that rabbit--"
Wait a minute. Back to Punchy. He doesn't know who this guy is. He doesn't even know if he should follow them back to their camp, but he sure as heck will anyway. He can deal with Himself if he focuses on the new guy. --well, it's the new guy in his eyes. "Thanks for the help." He'd be kibble by now otherwise, and that was embarrassing.
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And he certainly hopes nothing out here's looking specifically for human blood. He'll have to keep his eyes open for that as the time comes, although he suspects not, because the sunburn blisters and strips of peeling skin have been oozing small amounts of blood for the past few days now. He rips off a piece of his case and fumbles in the dark to get it to cover up the injury. He looks between the two Tims, blinking, forehead knotted in a perplexed expression.
"So. Uh. Timeline or clones? Or am I just seeing double up in this shit?" There was some class at the Seminary about sensitivity to clones ("Genetically-Augmented Individuals, Civil Rights, and the Superhero Community: Ethics 260"), but damned if he remembers anything from it. He's pretty sure he spent most of his time in that class either fantasizing about hot pockets or flicking wads of paper at the butt of the girl who sat in front of him (something they undoubtedly addressed in "Gender Equality and Superheroineism: Social Sciences 140", which he dropped after realizing it was not actually an excuse to ogle famous crimefighter women in their scanty costumes).
He starts to walk back to the camp, relaxing his guard significantly. A friend of Tim's is a friend of his - especially if he's just Tim 2.0. Or Tim Beta. Whichever. "So you's another Tim, and I'm Punchy, and we're going to beat the system here, a'ight?"
He's about as good at keeping his mouth shut as he is at following orders.
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There's not much of a breeze here. A six foot radius should do it, and he kicks the chopped brown grass far to the side. There's no real thought of whether it's safe to build a fire. If there's going to be three of them, they either need a fire or someone's going to risk freezing to death. Besides, something about eating a dead bunny with dog slobber on it is making his stomach turn even more than it had.
"Timelines or alternate dimensions," Tim confirms as he starts digging through the sleeping bag/sack. There are matches in here somewhere. Timaeus Nadir really was a generous sponsor, because he'd sent Tim a veritable stockpile of goodies, including the sleeping bag and folding knife that he'd used to raid the Cornucopia. In a way, he owes him for everything he'd gotten in there as well. "He hasn't said anything to make me think he's from another world though."
He finds out a small jar that had come down with the parachute that he hadn't paid much attention to at the time, opens it and sniffs at the contents. It smells faintly of aloe. Tim sets it to the side to examine once there was firelight. The pocket knife joins it. Ah, there they are. "Thanks again, Timaeus," he whispers as he plucks out the matches. When he read the note that came with the parachute, he'd bowed deeply in the martial arts style, afterwards meeting a fisted hand to his open palm, but it never hurt to show more respect. Particularly since the salute implied by the bao quan may not be recognized.
"Do either of you know how to skin an animal?" Tim starts to gauge at the ground, using the still folded knife to gouge out the center of his small clearing. If the fire needs to be put out, they'll need more loose sand to kick onto it than is readily available. The ground is surprisingly packed here - probably from all the animals. "I skinned a fetal pig in biology, but this is a lot... fresher than that was."
Someday, he'll have to thank the other Tim by making him knuckle down just through existing.
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He really misses Alfred, y'know.
He nods when he has to- yes, he's another Tim. As if the games didn't make him feel a little less like of a person all on their own. But timelines? Clones? He's hoping it's not timeline, and suddenly his stomach does a flip and he knows his heart rate's just elevated again. Yeah, yeah, they're going to beat the system here because everything here is all wrong. Heck, he shuffles around when the older Tim (they need nicknames here awfully bad) says there's really not much difference between their worlds and that spooks him enough that he has to interject, just blab about whatever came to mind first--
"You know, this costume the stylists stuck me in has a lot of extra fabric. It's wearing me down and if we slice some of it up we can get some strips for bandages. For your hands, Punchy."
And he's trying really hard to just not say anything about what he heard from Damian or Stephanie or Harley. Maybe he's even trying not to look at him, but that's just a reaction that bleeds the tell that there's something heavy between them. And maybe he's the only one who feels that way about it. It's nonsense. They have to all buck up if they're going to get out of here but. "So just do what you did in biology." He could swear he had imagined over and over that awkward wouldn't be one of the many things he'd be feeling when tossed into the arena.
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He walks back to their little camp and flops onto the dirt, all long teenager limbs and swagger, as if the idea that there might be snakes or spiders or even sharp rocks in the sand is entirely foreign to him.
"And props up to our homeboy Timaeus," he says quietly, throwing a gangster salute at the sky. He received water from the guy, which he greatly appreciated. It wasn't quite the ego-boost of the time he got a Sponsor gift just for taking his shirt off, but he's aware that unless he wants the angry, flaky red burn all over his lower face to turn into a full-body disaster, he needs to keep his clothes on. Even if they're starting to smell downright rank.
"Hell naw, how out in the boonies do you think I live, dawg?" Punchy knows his thick accent peeking through even his slangiest words can't sell him as being from anywhere but the rural South-or-somewhere-close, although he did try to pretend he was from Atlanta for a few years there. On the relatively short list of things he'd change about himself if presented with a magic genie, losing the accent would be near the top. It's hard to be hood when you're from Marysville, Missouri.
"Yo. Homies. Eh, your hands're full." He gestures a hand at littler Tim. "Check that cactus for drank. I saw it on like, Discovery Channel or some shit."
And forgot to mention it until now, yes.
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"I don't know how far out in the sticks you live, but I figured it was worth a shot." Warmth isn't as much of a concern as this rabbit. Tim lays it out on ground and picks up the scythe, his hand high on the handle. He takes a deep breath and slams the blade down, watching the head skitter into the fire, where at least it will be useful. Things only get messier from there, as it's now bleeding over the sand, and Tim just wants it over with. He picks up the hare by its hind legs and shuts his eyes as the blood runs out. When the sound of the thick drops running out finally stops, he cringes and gets back to work, using the scythe again to chop off the feet.
It's now more up close and personal, as Tim can no longer work with the long scythe and limit his contact with the carcass. Using the pocket knife, he cuts into the fur, and his stomach twists as he finds that skinning a rabbit is easy, like peeling a grape with his fingernails, only there's a slickness on his hands that is way too real and familiar. He wants to stop and scrub his hands off on the sand again, but he can't yet. He's not finished. Throwing the hide onto the fire, he cuts into the belly and grits his teeth as he uses the knife slice free the organs. Tim has to reach in with his hand to pull some of the guts out, and he can't stop thinking about the disemboweled body that he saw in an alley. Or how Johnny Warren looked in the end. But he gets it done, the organs in the fire give it a bloody, sweet smell, almost like a barbecue.
And Tim backs away from what's left, dragging his hands against the ground to try and shake the sticky shakiness in them. "One of you cook it. I'm done. Give me a minute and I can look at your arm, Punchy. There might be sand in it. I'm good at picking out gravel and debris." He just needed to wait until his hands were steady again.
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As much as Tim would love to turn away and check that cactus for drank, he wasn't going to do so with his bare hands. So he had to wait for the head to roll off, the blood to drain out, looking black against the lighter ground it touched, and the little once hoppity-hopping feet to be cut clean off before he can reach for the scythe that had been discarded. His face is twisted in a grimace, a scrunched up nose and all, and he's not sure why he hasn't hurled yet.
But the moment the skin starts to peel off, he feels his stomach flip and he hears a rumble and nope.
It's up to Punchy to cook and watch the fire, because he's testing the weight of the blade and how to balance it, and then he's taking off some yards to try his hand at cactus collecting. Discovery channel. Yeah. Totally Survivor Man up in here. No big deal if he gags a little where the older guys can't see, right? Right. Balance is crucial, and if that means getting a little fed up by decapitations and skinning, then that's O-Kay.
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"Yo. Dawg. I'll take that. You rinse your hands off in sand or some shit." He says it gently, but not so much as to be condescending. He'll find a slab of rock to cook it on, some kind of shale slab to heat it up. Nothing too complicated.
Punchy's not scared of dead animals, not grossed out. He remembers finding a rabbit tied to a tree when he was nine, its back legs all twisted, it kicking and thrashing like a fish in a boat. The neighborhood boys, older than him, had lashed it up so they could fire their BB guns at it. Punchy remembers that he untied the rabbit and got a tooth knocked out for his trouble, that he found the rabbit dead the next day outside his porch. That he buried it, so he could continue telling his mother about how he'd dramatically rescued it.
"Help homeboy over there out with the cactus." He grabs a piece of rock and starts to construct a makeshift stovetop out of it, standing in front of the dead rabbit so they won't have to look at it anymore until it's edible.
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Tim wants to hug Punchy for taking that off his hands, but he doesn't know him well enough to be so free with him. He doesn't know most people well enough for hugging. Punchy will have to settle for a mumbled "Thanks" before Tim busies himself with cleaning up his hands.
A second round of sand-scraping is more than his sunburnt skin can stand, and, instead, Tim finds himself cautiously daubing some of the aloe-scented cream onto his fingers. The second he dips a finger into the little tub, there's that burst of refreshing coolness that he immediately associates with childhood and evenings after a day at the shore, ignoring warnings about putting on more sunscreen lotion and coming home pink as a lobster to get his back rubbed down with aloe. The feel of it used to make him shiver.
Right now, it feels like bliss, and Tim gently and thinly coats his fingers with it. He'll worry about his face later, once he sees how many coats this will take for his fingers to not be stiff with sun damage. Utility before vanity, even if he knows the bubbles on his cheeks are signs of sun poisoning, not acne. "He'll be fine. Two people are just more hands to get in each other's way. We don't want to be knocking our hands into needles when the only thing we have to dig them out is knives. It'd be messy. Speaking of messy..."
Tim holds out the medicine. "I think Timaeus showed good foresight. This is a burn cream."
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Punchy could totally use a hug.Punchy rolls a rock over with his ankle to sit on, and plants himself decisively between Tim and dinner, for now. He doesn't bother keeping an eye on Tiny, figuring Tim will manage that instead. His knees splayed, he starts to take off his shoes, and the pebbles that come out of the boots make even him wince. He doesn't want to know what kind of blisters he's hiding under those socks.
"Thanks, dawg." He gingerly takes the cream from Tim's hands. "I'm baked up and not in the sky-high kinda way. Feels like my skin's been jacked with some lizardman shit up in the cellular."
He pulls up his Zorro mask and looks like some sort of inverted red raccoon. The part of his skin that's been spared is mostly the same creamy freckled tone he came in with, just a bit taut and flaky from dehydration. The part of him that's been exposed to sun is covered in blisters and small trails of blood, flakes of skin, cracks. The corners of his mouth are perpetually bloody.
The cream, going from fingertips to cheeks, feels so good that for a moment, Punchy just pauses to suck the sensation in. Then he dabs two stripes under his eyes like war paint and hands it back to Tim, smearing the rest over his hands.
"At this point, we ain't gonna outlast none of the popular fuckers. Some of 'em're probably high-balling it with Sponsor gifts and outlasting the po' boys."