thearena | "Some men just want to watch the world burn."

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"Some men just want to watch the world burn."

Who| Damian Wayne and anyone!
What| Burning a body turns out to be a less-than-awesome idea. Fire and sickness ensue, w h o o p s.
Where| Candy arena.
When| Middle of week two.
Warnings/Notes| Nothing in particular! I'll edit as necessary.

Nightfall was welcome. Damian reveled in it. It was about damn time that the bright, obnoxious colors of this world dimmed and the song of those stupid creatures faded away. As much as he enjoyed it, though, it was time to disrupt the night. He had a duty to at least one of those fallen tributes, regardless of how whiny and annoying said tribute happened to be.

Early on, Damian had made it a point to get that body somewhere a little less public. There were no battoys to be stolen or secret identities to be found out, but the fact that the bodies had been left strewn about, like old dolls that the gamemakers had grown tired of, disgusted Damian beyond belief. These people didn't deserve that. If he could do something about all of them, he would, but he couldn't. He could barely stand to be around them at this point, with how badly they'd deteriorated.

He held his breath as he struck the match and dropped it onto the rotting, sugar-covered body of some whiny guy named Tim Drake. He wasn't doing this for him, he told himself. It was for them. It was for the symbol that united them. He intended to honor it even if they weren't wearing it. It was also a "fuck you" to the gamemakers or whoever the hell thought it was acceptable to leave the bodies of (mostly) innocent people lying around like they were nothing.

Damian couldn't hold his breath forever, though. Eventually, he has to take in the awful smell of smoke and rot and something vaguely toxic, and if he wasn't feeling sick before, he's definitely feeling it now. So, you know, don't mind Damian. While the fire spreads (whoops...), he'll just be over here. Throwing up. No big deal.

He told Dick once that he wouldn't let the dead get to him anymore, but you know what? This really sucks.

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It was, perhaps, dangerous to be wandering around the new Arena at night. The hazards were still a relative unknown, though he doubted very much that the overtly pleasant-looking creatures and vegetation were entirely harmless. Still, Enjolras couldn't be bothered to care much for his own safety. To him, his death was an inevitability, and fighting back, delaying his return to the Capitol, would only give them their desired entertainment.

Apart from the Arena itself, there was the danger posed by his fellow Tributes who were more enthusiastically participating in their ritualized, serialized murder-suicide. Nevertheless, it was the light and warmth of the fire which drew him to the area just in time to see Damian doubled over. He's distracted by the small, distressed figure that he doesn't notice what the fire actually consists of focusing on it, moves to help.

"The food in the Arenas is sometimes toxic," he supplies in a grave, but helpful tone which he hopes will dissuade the child from any negative reaction. Tugging the back pack he found at the Cornucopia off, he opens it, rifling through some of its contents. "There is medicine in there, I think. Something which might ease your stomach."

Ngh. A voice. How embarrassing. Damian looks up the minute he hears him despite how awful he feels, but he's not extremely concerned. If the guy was smart (and he thinks he might be—he's sure he's heard that voice before), he'd missed a good opportunity to attack. And even if he hadn't, Damian was sure, overconfident as ever, that he could still totally take him if he needed to, even like this. Nothing to worry about.

"I'm fine," he responds, clearly annoyed, though it's more by the situation than by the offer for help. This was dumb. He wasn't sure why the bodies had decomposed the way they had. (Was it this world? Just the arena? The poison?) He hadn't really counted on the smell being that bad. He'd done the right thing, but it hadn't quite worked out the way he'd hoped. Ugh.

...on second thought, maybe medicine isn't such a bad idea. But medicine from a stranger? Suspicious. He covers his mouth with a hand before questioning him. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I have no expectation of living very long and thus have no use for it myself. Perhaps I will need it in a day or two, if I live that long, but for the moment, you need it more than I do." His tone is calm and patient, and maybe even a little concerned. The response is expected, almost. It's a pity, truly, to hear it from yet another child, but Enjolras can easily see where it comes from. He's entirely right to be suspicious of any help and he doesn't have to look up to know that the boy is being entirely forthcoming in his reaction.

Abruptly, he pulls a small package out of the pack, offering it to Damian with a small smile. "Please, take this. I hope that it helps you."

He looks down at it, contemplative, though it's not even a minute later that he swipes it from his hand. He's remembering the voice, remembering the conversations he listened in on... He tries not to remember Tim's ridiculous act. There was no way to know how much of this man's demeanor was genuine, but, well, he'd find out soon enough.

"You're optimistic," Damian says sarcastically, fiddling with the package. "If this kills me, I'm going to make you regret it."

You know. After he comes back. Which sounds totally convincing coming from a ten-year-old, of course.

"Optimism is another word for hope, and I prefer to live with hope." There's a sense of relief when Damian takes the medicine. He's never liked to see children suffer, and although he does seem capable and fully able to make good on that threat, Enjolras can't help but be slightly amused by it. At least the children he'd met here hadn't given up. "I don't doubt that you will. Do you need water? I believe I have some of that as well."

Most people just kinda roll their eyes at him when he makes his threats, so the fact that this guy doesn't is a thing he can sort of appreciate. Maybe this guy is alright. The glaring subsides as he takes a pill into his hand.

"No. I have some already." This time, it sounds much less like stubborn protest and more like the truth. The man seemed generous and Damian wasn't about to take advantage of him. He puts the pill in his mouth and reaches for his water bottle. "Stay away from the fire. I think it's the smell from the poison that got me."

He straightens up, though there's a certain disappointment to his stance which he makes a poor effort, if any effort at all, to disguise. The fire had been part of his motivation for walking in this direction originally. Light and warmth were never unwelcome in the Arena. "May I ask what you are burning?"

That... is a good question. He considers his answer as he swallows the pill and drinks some water to go with it. An acquaintance? True, but probably suspicious—it wasn't like he was burning every body he saw. (A choice that he definitely does not regret right now.) An ally? Ehh. A friend? No. A brother? God, no.

Ugh, these choices suck. He opts for a more roundabout explanation, putting the water bottle away.

"Someone I know died when the arena opened. I thought... his family would appreciate it if I didn't leave him around to be mauled by zombies or these embarrassing excuses for monsters."

The answer earns Damian a grave and considered nod in response. Enjolras doesn't know Marius particularly well outside of their mutual friendship with Courfeyrac, but he would feel compelled to do the same for him in a similar situation. For Gavroche, and Eponine, as well, and possibly even for the handful of strangers he'd met in the Arenas and the Capitol. He had led himself to believe in an equality in death, or at least that there should be meaning in it. One of those principles was compromised by the very nature of the games, but the other could be maintained. A respect could be maintained.

"I am sure they would appreciate your efforts." There's a hoarseness to his voice and the words feel thick and coarse as they catch in his throat. Perhaps it's the flames, perhaps it's the subject matter. In either case, the situation has turned, at least to his mind, from a casual encounter to something more sobering.

"My name is Enjolras. May I ask yours?" He doesn't offer a hand in greeting, or any other superfluous gesture. In Paris, or even the Capitol, he might, but even so, there's a Laconic quality to this boy which makes him think that the lack of pleasantry is almost to me more appreciated than any ingrained sense of propriety.

Damian's not sure if they would appreciate it. His efforts were more likely to be misunderstood than appreciated, and that was without the help of whoever was in charge of the media here. He could already imagine the whiny complaints from Drake, who always seemed to think the worst of him even when his intentions were good. But that was fine. He didn't want him thinking he actually liked him or something, because it couldn't be farther from the truth.

...but it would still be annoying. With all that in mind, he's content to focus on the man's introduction rather than have to keep justifying his actions. And besides that, well, he was still alive. That was a plus. Damian nods and introduces himself, too.

"Damian Wayne." Always the full name, even at the risk of being associated with some loser. ...he should probably thank him for his help, he thinks, but gratitude is hard. Once again, he takes a more roundabout approach: "...you didn't have to do this."

"You were unwell," he says simply, as if to imply that there really isn't anything else to discuss within the topic. Fifty years after his time, perhaps, Enjolras could have defined his beliefs as a sort of opportunistic socialism with the needs of the people being tantamount and the benefit of the individual always been secondary to those needs. But as it stood, the vocabulary had, to him, yet to be defined, and explaining those egalitarian views would probably take longer than the duration to which either of their attention spans would hold.

"You were unwell, and I had the ability to help, so I did." Again it's a simple, logical extrapolation on his previous statement. "I wish our meeting were under better circumstances, Damian."

It shouldn't sound so strange to hear him say it. After all, that was the same behavior that was expected of Damian—of Robin. But it was difficult to trust people normally, even when he didn't have to worry about the possibility of being murdered at every turn. (...though, to be fair, that wasn't anything new, either.) Even though it was his job to help people, he didn't expect the same in return. Not from anyone who wasn't a fellow morally obligated superhero, anyway.

Responding with a "tt," Damian shrugs. "It could be worse. We could be trying to kill each other." It's not a threat, only a reminder.

...optimism is definitely not his strong point.

Possibly not, but while he typical takes a more idealistic view himself, the realism doesn't offend Enjolras. His only issue with negativity stems from when it directly contradicts his own view points and serves no other purpose than to force people to wallow in their own pathos. He offers Damian a small quiet smile. It's not confident, exactly, but he certainly doesn't seem afraid either. "Yes, it could certainly be worse. I am no threat to you there, however."

And he means it. The incident with that poor woman last Arena aside, Enjolras has no intention of killing anyone here. He might defend himself if attacked, but likely not against a child. Damian seemed capable (and certainly wary) enough, but Enjolras didn't think he could live with himself after the fact if he purposefully hurt someone barely older than Gavroche. "I find myself unsuited to this environment. I suppose that makes me easy prey."

Fighting, he could do. War, and revolution, were things for which he could even feel passion, things for which he did feel passion. Meaningless games meant only for entertainment or intimidation of the masses however? Those left Enjolras feeling disinclined to participate on any level Better to die quickly than to live at someone else's pleasure.

Damian doesn't doubt him too much. He's still incredibly wary, certainly—there's still the chance that the guy could be lying, waiting for him to let his guard down, but it seemed unlikely. And if Enjolras truly meant him no harm, then Damian meant him no harm. Of course, he doesn't say that, but hey, it's the thought that counts.

"I doubt a lot of these people are actually suited to this environment, either." It was somewhat of an advantage for him, even if it meant that things would be pretty boring, too. He knew that wasn't true for everyone, though. "Most of them are just looking to survive. The problem is that they'll do whatever it takes in order to do it."

He couldn't fault them for it, he supposed. Even if they all came back to life good as new, no one wanted to die. But that didn't mean it wasn't frustrating, either, to have to deal with people idiotically waving weapons around and hurting others in the process.

And their general inability to fight back given their situation certainly wasn't becoming any less frustrating as the days passed. Enjolras could appreciate Damian's words well enough, definitely, and his sentiments, should he ever have been made aware of them, even more so. However, it was the futility of their place in this world that truly bothered him, not the violence, or pain associated with it. Undoubtedly, though, the boy was entirely right. Most people were reacting out of an animalistic instinct to survive by whatever definition one could consider survival here. He couldn't really fault them for that.

"I find myself torn between such impulses and the desire for a quick and painless death so that I might occupy myself more productively." The words were grim and rushed, but entirely truthful. If there was progress to be made in Panem, he was almost entirely certain it would come from the Capitol, not within the Arena. "And you're right, I'm unsuited to this environment. I have no desire for death, if we're to be honest, but I have a certain distaste for being treated as an amusement. I imagine more than a few of us feel that way."

"...hmm." It's not the wordiest response he could give, but there's understanding in it. The whole notion of not fighting at all seemed ridiculous before, but his explanation actually makes sense. They certainly weren't getting anything done here, that's for sure. Being in the arena was just a waste of time. And while Damian wouldn't dream of going down without a fight, he hated that even then, all of this was for some twisted person's entertainment. It was disgusting.

The new perspective isn't something that could change his own approach, but he gets it, and because he understands, he doesn't argue it. It's made him wonder about something else, though.

"Does it not concern you to be so honest?"

"Not at all." The reply isn't without consideration as much as it seems well worn and oft repeated. "I find myself to be an abysmal liar and I haven't the stomach to deceive people anyway. I could not tell you which of those things came before the other, but I've more or less always been that way."

There's a small, very wry smile that plays on his lips momentarily before disappearing again behind a calmly neutral expression. "I am aware it's a quality that can be off-putting, or even dangerous in a place like this. Such is life, I suppose."

Which was in itself something of a deception. Given an important enough goal, Enjolras had no trouble lying to just about anyone. Rather, in the Arena, he didn't see the point of it, or the cruelty which others tended to exhibit. Again, it wasn't that he couldn't fight, it was that he chose not to. "Do you suppose there's any reason to lie to people here? When we are all going to die no matter what we do?"

"No. It's pointless." He doesn't even have to think twice about his own answer. It wasn't that he disapproved of lying all together—lying and deception were often entirely necessary in his line of work, after all, and he had no problems doing it when he had to. But pretending to be okay with what they were being put through here, just because it might be 'safer'? No way. It was a matter of pride, and lying in this particular situation was beneath him. (Much to Tim's frustration, probably.) It wasn't something he wanted any part of. "Cowardly. It'll take more than feigned pleasantries to get us out of this mess. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool."

Was he making his own situation more troublesome than it needed to be? Possibly. But he had his pride, darn it.

"I agree. Though I would also argue that we Tributes owe it to one another to be kind when it is possible." What Damian characterized as pride, Enjolras would have referred to as dignity but it was all more or less the same thing when you got right down to it. They were both unwilling to betray their principles even in such a place.

He turns, looking through the crisp night air at the little bit of the candy-coated arena actually visible to them in the dwindling firelight. "Well, I hope you're feeling better, at any rate."

He's right, they probably do. The majority of them were in the same situation—brought here against their will, fighting not because they wanted to but because they felt like they had no other choice. There was no good reason to make things harder for themselves by not trying to help each other.

Damian couldn't afford to assume that people here would be kind until proven otherwise, but maybe it shouldn't be so surprising that people like that would exist here. Idly, he wonders how different this conversation would go if he had listened to his mother and stayed out of Gotham.

"I suppose I should thank you." By which he means that he is thanking him, of course. "What will you do now?"

The guy didn't seem to care if he lived or died here, so you know. He wonders.

Enjolras waves a hand, as if to physically indicate just how unnecessary those words are. He isn't doing this for the thanks, or to make Damian indebted to him in any way. Rather, this is just how he copes with the Arenas. It helps him to help others whenever possible. To make the whole ordeal a little less cruel, whenever possible.

"Survive, as best I can. Fight back when it becomes necessary, I suppose." A frown works its way across his face as he finishes that thought. It's not exactly a pleasant one. "Be well, my friend. I hope we meet again under better circumstances."

"Aw, shit, they put a kid out here?"

Venus has a sword now, tucked in to the side of the belt on her Catwoman costume. Her hood has been pulled back, allowing her hair to breathe, allowing the camera to take in that money-making face that's been set with grim, but not unattractive, determination all day.

She brings her elbow up over her nose as the wind brings some of that noxious smoke over her way. "Good God, kid, what are you burning, that stuff smells rank..."

Oh. It's a body.

Oh well. Venus walks over towards the flames and places herself between Damian and the pyre, as if he needs to be blocked from the vision of what he's created (and as if the sweat won't ruin her perfect makeup).

The sound of her voice causes wariness in him, and the sight of the weapon, even though not drawn, doesn't really help. But she makes no move to attack him right away, and the fact that she seems to just block the fire is... strange. He doesn't know what to think about it. Damian relaxes for now, but just a little. He's still suspicious of everything that moves.

"Stupid poison," he complains, followed by an attempt to stifle a cough. It's a weakness, one he doesn't want to emphasize, even if there isn't much he can do to hide it. "Didn't expect the fumes."

Well, he did, but he didn't expect them to be that bad. As a kid, though, it might just sound like an excuse. And maybe, in a way, it kind of is.

Venus reaches up and pinches her nose, letting her tongue hang out her mouth like the tail of a letter 'Q'. "Doesn't even need to be poison. Caramelized corpse just flat-out never smells like roses. You okay?"

She holds the other hand out, elbow resting at her side, as if to remind him that she hasn't pulled the sword from her belt. She knows better than to assume every kid here is docile, but she also knows that no one really wants to watch a grown woman beat up a pre-pubescent boy.

"You know that guy you're flambeing?"

Edited 2013-07-30 19:01 (UTC)

"I'm fine," he says, though he still sounds pretty exasperated. Perhaps saying, 'I will be fine.' would be more appropriate, but again, that would be admitting that something was wrong. He'd argue that it isn't the first time he's burned corpses, either, but that would mean explaining things he doesn't really feel like talking about right now. Because of that, he's actually a little grateful that she asks about the body.

"And yes," he nods. "I know him. He's... someone I know from home. He died when the arena opened. I thought it better than allowing him to be eaten by these bizarre creatures."

Even if he was already dead, having your body torn apart by Doki-Doki seems incredibly embarrassing. Even so, Damian seems sincere about what he says.

"The singing Neopets, huh?" She looks back at the body and then remembers oh, yeah. Kids generally take death a little harder than adults. Just like that, memories come flooding back, of opening her eyes to the blasted house where she killed her parents when she was only a little younger than Damian, here.

It's an inconvenient memory, so she shoves it out of mind with so much mental force that a tiny grunt escapes her lungs.

"I'm sorry. Not sure getting turned into a human s'more is a ton better though, honestly."

He'd say that Tim would appreciate it, but truthfully, he couldn't be sure if that would be the case. To say they didn't get along was a gross understatement, and Damian figured that Tim would sooner think it was meant as an insult rather than a gesture of respect. Realistically, Tim should know better, but sometimes, it was like they looked for reasons not to like each other. (In fact, that might not be far from the truth.)

"It's a matter of dignity," he explains, shrugging a shoulder. "As in, he should be grateful that I bothered to preserve what little bit of dignity he has left by not allowing him to be eaten."

Damian would be lying if he said he didn't care if his actions were misunderstood, but it didn't matter in the end. He wasn't doing this for Tim.

Venus laughs and starts walking, hoping Damian will walk with her. It's human instinct to herd together, to hover around other people who don't appear to be a threat when the unknown is pressing in. She doesn't trust him, but she doesn't mind taking the front and letting him stay safe at her back, with an open target.

"Spared him getting eaten or having some loser come by with a sharpie and doodle mustaches all over him." She giggles and covers her mouth with her fingertips. "If I weren't a classy lady I'd do that to these corpses."

He hesitates for a moment, but ends up deciding to follow her anyway. He was feeling somewhat better now (somewhat), but getting away from the fire and that awful smell really isn't such a bad idea.

"He would deserve it." The thought hadn't even occurred to Damian, but you know what? He could totally get behind that. "Next time, you have my full permission to draw facial hair on him. I doubt he could grow his own anyway."

"If I had a marker, I totally would. Maybe some charcoal." Venus grins and practically saunters. "So, what's your name, pyro?"

"Damian." He offers the name without trouble, and doesn't even seem to have an aversion to the nickname. He doesn't mind her so far. "You?"

"Venus." She winks. "Dee Milo. Get it? It's a pun."

He raises an eyebrow.

"..."

No. No, he doesn't get it.

"Uh. My first name's Dee."

God, introductions are awkward. She wants to go back to being famous and getting to skip the A/S/L crap.

Barbara was staring.

She couldn't help it. There was a burning body and a boy she barely knew burning it.

She barely knew either of them, actually, but that didn't make it any better.

"What are you doing?" the words slipped out without her quite meaning them to.

Damian recognized her voice immediately. He was feeling better now even though the smell was still pretty awful, but he still couldn't help feeling a little annoyed that she was there. He had no idea how much she had seen, but he wasn't exactly at his best right now. Being caught vulnerable, even if only slightly, was extremely troublesome.

"What does it look like?" he said, the irritation clear in his voice, totally ignoring the fact that... no, it might not actually be very obvious what he was doing. In fact, it might even look kind of incriminating. Oops?

"It looks like you're burning Tim's body." Which was. You know. Really suspicious? She barely knows either of them, but of the two Damian is definitely the most likely murderer.

"I didn't kill him," he responded almost indignantly. Whether she had been thinking that or not, he couldn't know for sure, but he was used to people making assumptions like that, so he couldn't help but feel defensive. "He died when the arena opened. If you were paying attention, you would have known they'd been poisoned."

That still didn't explain why he was doing it, though. That was going to feel a lot more awkward to explain even if she didn't know them as well as Oracle did.

"I never said you were." But with all the people who'd been poisoned, how easy would it be to just... kill one more, and burn the bodies before anything came out of it.

She studies the body as best she can out of the corner of her eye. Now that he'd mentioned it and all. "Were you two close?" Emotionally? ...Physically?

Just the thought of being close to Drake in any way, shape, or form made Damian want to throw up. Again.

Ugh.

But luckily, that sick feeling had mostly already passed, so instead, he simply scowled. "We hate each other," he answered bluntly. He would leave it at that, but he could already guess what the next question would be, so he chose to answer it preemptively. "For some reason, my father and the others insist on keeping him around. I respect them, despite their poor choice in allies."

....Riiiiiiiiiiight.

"And those others areee....?" Her? From everything she's heard, she should be on the list, right? But somehow she doesn't get the impression that Damian respects her opinion at all.

Damian rolled his eyes at that. It wasn't that it was a bad question—it made sense that she might not know who exactly that referred to—but rather, he didn't realize he would have to clarify. Part of him was also a bit hesitant, too, because he didn't trust this place, but would it really make a difference? They were already here, so probably not.

"Our 'family', for lack of a better word," he shrugged. He didn't like using that word to refer to all of them, but thanks to Tim, it seemed like he was stuck with it. "Pennyworth, Grayson, and the girls, too, I suppose."

Sure, he valued some of those opinions more than others, but even for the ones he respected less, he knew he was stuck dealing with them, too.

"And by 'those' girls you mean... me?" she prompted, her lip tugging up faintly at the corner. It wasn't so much that she didn't get it, as that she she was determined to make him say it out loud.

She had been learning about their makeshift family for quite some time since getting here. So she only had two questions - where Damian fit into it, and where that left hr.

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"Some men just want to watch the world burn."

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So painfully late.

It's all good! c:

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