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

[bratwonder]

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.

Comments

[orestes]

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.

[bratwonder]

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."

[orestes]

"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."

[bratwonder]

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.

[orestes]

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.

[bratwonder]

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.

[orestes]

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."

[bratwonder]

"...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?"

[orestes]

"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?"

[bratwonder]

"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.

[orestes]

"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."

[bratwonder]

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.

[orestes]

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."