thearena | [OPEN] Why don't you come to your senses?

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[OPEN] Why don't you come to your senses?

Who| Tim Drake and OPEN
What| Tim is making like Moses, only he’s lost his tribe.
Where| Anywhere in the desert arena! Dessert Arena Tributes are free to bump into him in the tunnels.
When| Week 5 (from the day after the start of the sandworms) through Week 6
Warnings/Notes| No warnings thus far. Big note: I’m not looking for death here, as Tim’s been bought out.

The desert is slipping into sameness. There was never much to differentiate one acre of open, baked ground to begin with, save for some areas being more sandy and others more packed and cracked, but Tim had been doing okay with recognizing this cactus as opposed to that one, using the boulders and rock formations as landmarks. Mnemonics helped. This one was the Keebler Elf, in profile, and that one reminded him of Red Tornado. He’s been losing his touch with directions, though. It started when they found AndrAIa’s body. Worsened when he watched Punchy pass away.

Then, he saw himself die. Swallowed by a sandworm that was there and gone in an instant. It had happened so close to him. One second, walking along as normally as they can, with the younger Tim Drake slightly ahead and to the side. . The rumbling again, nearer than it had ever been and bearing down on them. He thought that it was a flash flood. It had to be. Instinct said to run for the mountain.

Only one of them made it. Now, after spending days holed up in and on the mountain, Tim has been aimlessly wandering the Arena.

He can't think about it. It's not any easier to this time around, with no way to have saved any of them. It doesn't ease the guilt, regret, anger. Tim tries to keep himself occupied with other things, inventorying in his head what he had and what he’d lost over and over without brushing the reasons why. He had a sleeping bag, rolled up around two lidded containers that were watertight and a container with a smidgen of burn cream left in it. The bundle is tied up with rope and slung over his shoulders, cross body, like a yoga mat or a quiver – except for the curved scythe blade sticking dangerously up out of it. Tim had shoved what handle was still attached into the roll as snugly as it would go. The staff is ever in hand. Punchy’s mask, borrowed after the teen no longer needed it, is on under Tim’s sunglasses.

The tent, wire, most of the meat, and throwing knives are gone. What else is gone, besides the lunch that he hadn’t been able to keep down in this heat today? He can’t remember. He lost them… was it four days ago? It might have only been three. Another thing that he’s failing to keep track of. He’s got a few small comforts left: he hasn’t seen Steph, Damian, Barbara, Diana, or Howard in the night sky.

But he can’t find any of them.

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Ruby's been looking for Snow since day one. Not in the arena - she's convinced Snow is back where they first started out - but up in the sky. Not seeing that image is most of what's kept her sane, while her newer friends were disappearing. She had to keep alive, because someone out there was probably still watching the sky for her image, too. She couldn't afford to die out there.

She'd gone through her tank of water long since, having to rely on plants or what she found abandoned. Meat was easy enough, though, when you had a cross bow and a scythe. Rope for traps and snares, too, wound about her waist.

Unfortunately, what she lacks is sun glasses. Her hand shadowing her eyes can only do so much, and Tim - if he's paying attention - is likely to see Ruby long before she sees him. Not that she'd run away if she did see him... but she'd be more cautious than to amble blindly toward him.

Tim sees her from thirty yards away and doesn't move, at first, staying crouched in sparse grass that the animals haven't mowed down yet. Adult female. Well-armed. He can't place her name, but he knows that this isn't her first Arena. No one lives this long in an Arena without luck or skill, and Tim doesn't want to meet an unknown with either - or worse, both.

At twenty yards, his hands tighten and twist on the crude staff. He's starting to feel like the hunted, when he should be the hunter. Stalker, he mentally corrects himself. Panem has taken the lingo that once was so comfortable and twisted it back towards its original meaning.

The scythe doesn't worry him. They're unwieldy, and he's been doing better this Arena in terms of supplies. He's lost weight, but Tim has been doing better in terms of food. There's some dehydration; careful, obsessive rationing keeps it from overwhelming him.

That crossbow is another issue. Does she know how to use it? If yes, is she a decent shot? He's still not too concerned, having sparred against Speedy enough to feel much safer facing another archer shooting to kill than he did the first time it happened.

Twenty yards. Tim straight up with the bo held in front of him, at ease but ready. "I think you should keep your distance, miss." Polite and firm. He wouldn't say no to an allegiance with someone that he knew a little, but not a stranger this late in the Arena. With the dwindling numbers, who can tell when someone chop off your head the second you put your guard down?

She preferred the longbow. But her granny had slept with a cross bow with years, and Ruby knew how to use one. She wouldn't normally miss a man sized target, not even a moving one - though maybe someone with Tim's skill would do better, particularly if he could catch those metal bolts on his staff without it cracking. She had eight bolts in her quiver, though. So it would come to whether he could get her to spend them all, or else get close enough to bat it aside without getting shot.

It was true that the scythe wouldn't do much good if he could get close to it - she'd mostly been using it to cut spikes off of plants, and butcher her animal kills. She had only avoided breaking off the staff because she wasn't convinced she wouldn't need the range.

Of course Ruby din't want to kill him. She would't hesitate if he made the first move, but she had no intention of being first. She was't a killer. She wouldn't let this place turn her into one.

So when he spoke up, she stopped, eyes focusing on him. Her fingers twitched, but she didn't reach for the cross bow just yet. "I didn't know this place was claimed." But she needs to get through it.

"It's not," Tim said brightly. Even if he had been intending to camp here, seeing another Tribute is the first and only sign that he needs to know that it's time to move on. "I was taking a minute to enjoy the scenery on my way through. It's a nice patch of sand. Very beige."

He was being sized up, and Tim held his ground for it. She might have more weapons, but that was as encumbering as it was helpful. Good luck holding onto the scythe while wielding a crossbow, or vice versa. Whichever she dropped, he would smash. There were other points in his favor, as well. The clothes hid most of the damage he'd taken in the fight with the Grand Highblood, and his shoulder had been popped back into socket by an ally. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't his dominant arm anyway. He looked healthy enough, for the Arena.

And - Batgirls and Wonder Woman be damned - he was male, and Tim knew that psychologically that counted. No matter how much stock a person put into the women's liberation movement and equal rights, there were millions of years of evolution behind men being seen as dominant, threatening fighters.

If he took control of the situation, maybe they could both head off without other injuries. "I still want you to keep your distance. We circle around at 20 yards, and I'll let you go your way. I'll go mine. This never happened."

The tone. It's all about how things sound, and Tim hits that Red Robin voice on all cylinders: low in pitch and strong in volume, without resorting to shouting. There's a firmness that implies that acquiescance is not only expected, but recommended. The bo never so much as quivers in front of him.

The scythe was tucked under arm - fine for now, but she'd have to shift it or more likely drop it in order to aim with both hands, using her cross bow. Same for if she wanted to use the scythe - she lacked the physical strength, here, to handle the heavy weapons with one hand.

If it had just been Red in that head, his manhood's affect might have been blunted. She'd grown up among dominant women, after all, with no men in sight. But there was Ruby in there, too - dulling her fighting instincts, chipping away at her self-confidence... and far more familiar with masculine capabilities than Red had been. Still, at this physical distance, she had her nerves under control. She just needed to keep it that way.

Beyond that, though, she's a wolf. His masculinity didn't come in, there - her granny had been an alpha-type, and so had her mother had ruled an entire pack; not exactly patriarchal. But the tendency to respond to commanding tones is still, there, and she wasn't contrary enough to fight back on something they both wanted.

"I'm just after the mountains," she promised him.

The biggest reason Damian ends up going through the castle is mostly because it's something different. It's kind of hard for him to feel grateful to be alive because not dying isn't about luck, it's a necessity, a requirement. So he's mostly just bored as he wanders, looking for something to do. Anything to pass the time so he can get this stupid thing over with and deal with whatever's left in the end. What can possibly go wrong?

Of course, even exploring the castle is kind of boring, but discovering the connection to the desert—that's interesting. He's not surprised to find that the bars are immovable, but he still looks around anyway. Maybe there's something...

Tim has taken refuge in what he hopes is an empty cave, after seeing a worm breech several stories out of the sand and nearly land on the side of the mountain. It seemed like a good idea to begin with, but he's read The Hobbit a few too many times and refuses to stay inside a cave that he hasn't examined the end of.

The tunnel's stretched out so long that Tim has stopped along the way, using rope to strap the staff across his back and holding the scythe at chest-level instead. It feels off, somehow, and joking thoughts of orcs have been replaced with real concerns of muttations and whether or not baby sandworms live in dens.

He can hear something moving ahead, the soft sounds echoing down the stone walls even when Tim stops moving, breathing. If he can hear it, it can hear him, and fleeing footsteps would only give a beast the notion that prey was near.

There's something in the darkness ahead, and Tim can make out a few long glints, like thin, wet teeth several feet long.

Oh, he can hear him, alright. The sounds cause Damian to pause, looking over in the direction of the footsteps. It's hard to see much past the bars... It annoys him (ugh, what he'd give for some actually useful tools around here), but he's not too worried. The bars were an advantage in case whoever was on the other side happened to be an idiot, and he remembered exactly where he came from, so he could make a quick escape if necessary.

...unless it was a worm. That might be a bit more difficult. But he doesn't think it's going to be a worm, especially not when the other side goes silent. Damian makes a face, but he decides that he's not interested in making small talk—he's got other concerns, like finding a way past this area, so he just goes back to investigating instead. He's still mindful of the other's presence, but he's preoccupied at the moment.

Something's moving again. But nothing's moving. There's nothing advancing. It's keeping the same distance, and Tim finds himself drawn forward. What's the worst that can happen? He dies. Getting ripped apart by a giant worm would probably be quick. It's going to happen anyway, if there's an animal down there to chase after his escape. He might as well meet it head on. Get it over with, for the second time this Arena.

He wished that the poison had killed him outright and sent him back to the Capitol, where he could pretend to be making progress and feel slightly less like a circus animal.

Tim eased his way towards the glints. He didn't want to startle whatever it was and was surprised when bars came into focus. They were followed by something, someone, moving in the darkness. Small and obscured by the costume, but so familiar, and Tim is suddenly relaxed, letting one hand release the staff and the other drop to hold it loosely at his side. "Damian?"

Leaning the weapon against the wall, he's already testing the bars for weaknesses, but he's no metahuman. Tim gives up after a few seconds, not wanting to waste the energy. It's too hot outside of these caves to lose water by sweating it up in here as well. "Is this a cell, or did you make your way down here too?"

...oh. Damian stops what he's doing when he hears his name, looking over with a frown on his face. He didn't need to look to know who it was, of course, but there's something vaguely relieving (shut up) about seeing a familiar face. Tim's definitely not his first choice for anything ever, but he's still alive, and he supposes that's a good thing. It's not that he'd been worried, exactly, it's just that he thinks the others are barely capable of surviving on their own! It's clearly a miracle that Tim or any of the others are still alive.

"Yes, I did." For once, he answers without much in the way of insults. It probably won't last too long, but hey! It's something. Still, he sounds exasperated when he continues. "There are a few caves like this. I can't find a way past these bars."

At least now he knew what was on the other side, but it wasn't just curiosity that made him want to get past here.

Tim is impressed by Damian's survival. It's not that he expected Damian to go down easily, but he's seen enough videos to know that getting away from Cornucopias alive can often depend on reaching it first and luck (a certain willingness to kill helps - although Tim's not sure if killing would be something even Damian could do so immediately upon entrance, with a field dominated by teenagers and children. Maybe an adult, he thinks, but the idea dismays him). He doesn't think that Damian would have been able to resist the lure of weaponry. The kid is fast enough to have gotten in and gotten out.

Damian's alive. Tim doesn't care how much they don't get along; suddenly, he wants on the other side of these bars more than he's ever wanted anything, because getting driven crazy by the most petulant Robin is preferable to being slowly driven insane by heat and one's own bloody memories and thoughts. Insults and arguments are still talking, and Tim hasn't had much of that in recent days.

"Good." Tim didn't know what he'd do if Damian were locked in there. Probably spend the rest of the arena scratching away at the bars with the scythe until one broke off, and he could pull and twist Damian through the bars. He picks up the bladed weapon again and looks at it carefully, then runs a hand along the rock wall. "How soft do you think the stone here is? If it flakes like flint or shale, maybe I can gouge it enough to free the moorings. We've got time."

His next words are icy. Tim is trying not to think about them, really. "You can still hear the sandworms outside. I'm not heading back out there."

He looks up again at the question, noticing the bladed weapon in Tim's hand. Lucky fool. Despite the thought, though, Damian doesn't complain. He didn't need weapons. (Even if they were awesome and amazing and ugh, you have no idea how much he missed his weapons from home.) He simply shakes his head.

"Not soft enough, but you can try." He had a few small knives, but nothing like that blade, so at least it was something different. It might be pointless, but they only had so much to work with, and as much fun as it is to rain on Tim's parade, he won't do it this time. Damian was willing to try anything at this point. He'd even considered trying to just slip through the bars, even though it was clear from a glance that the space was too small. He wasn't losing it or anything—he's fine. But the futility of the situation was more than a little frustrating, to say the least.

Giant sandworms hadn't really helped, either. Damian had seen people eaten by them and had to deal with trying to avoid them himself, too. Tim makes it quite clear that it's not a good subject for him, but that doesn't stop Damian from opening his mouth anyway. It's nothing personal, really. It's a matter of normalcy. (...not that it matters much when it's an insult, but you know.) He speaks again as he moves to the other side of the cave to double-check.

"Afraid of a few worms, Drake?"

He could try, yes, but there's the blade to consider. Dulling it to end up wherever Robin (and the others? Oh please, let the others be there too. There's so many he hasn't seen here or in the sky) is a trade he'd make in a heartbeat. Ruining the blade in a fruitless endeavor that only leaves him weary and sweating out more water that he doesn't have to spare? He can't risk it. Tim shakes his head. "I'm not going to try. I don't think there's a chance of it."

They wouldn't have supplied him the means to get around their bars. They've gone through so much trouble to separate the Tributes. The Gamemakers obviously have a plan here, and they would safeguard it well. Tim slams the butt end of the blade against the bars, or he tries to. His eyes widen in surprise when it slips between them, momentum carrying it down to ring against a crossbar.

Tim is still staring at the weapon nestled between the rods when he answers Damian's question numbly. "A sandworm took out the other Tim Drake. It swallowed him whole."

His eyes flicker over at the boy, trying to see what he's carrying, what might be tucked away under that ridiculous uniform. Did he have weapons? Food? Tim can't spare any water for him, and the nights are so cold that he's loathe to offer up the sleeping bag, not when it doubles as a means of carrying his water containers. Damian has lasted this long. He's doing something right. Tim wants to up his odds. "Did you go for the Cornucopia?"

Oh. Well. That was awkward. It was still weird to think of them as being the same person, even if they were both annoying in all the same ways, so hearing that Tim Drake died but Tim Drake is still right here is... well, really strange. But rather than say that it unsettles him at all, he's going to do what he always does.

"I suppose there are worse ways to die." He sounds a bit more dismissive than malicious, though it might not count for much. He wouldn't know what to say in this kind of situation normally let alone one where someone's past and present self is involved, and it's a lot easier to say something mean than to try and figure out a more reasonable response. Thankfully, Tim's question makes it easy to change the subject and focus on something else.

"No. I don't trust it." Damian didn't trust anything, but especially not something offered to them by their captors. "Considering half the tributes died before it was over, I think I made the right choice."

Sure, others had gone for the Cornucopia and turned out just fine (unless they'd been attacked by someone else, of course), but he still didn't trust it.

She's tired and bordering on grouchy. It's been awhile since a sponsor came through with food and she's wondering if there's a reason for it. Maybe it was punishment for not killing. Well, if that was the case then too bad for them.

And too bad for her stomach.

She entered the caves hoping to spot someone she knew. Boredom had her walking deeper than she had before. The sudden appearance of metal bars caused her to stop. "What the...?" On the other side was a cave that looked less candy coated and more like an actual cave in a mountain. She gripped the bars and shook her arms, but the metal was strong and deep in the ground. It was her bet that somewhere over there were the other Tributes that had "died" that first day.

Heading back into the cave was stupid, Tim told himself a dozen times as he made his way back down the curving path, one hand trailing along the stone and the other gripping his staff. He had gotten lucky the last time, finding Damian and providing the Capitol with something that they could and would twist into a ridiculously heart-warming scene. Two brothers, one or both doomed to die, finding each other against all odds.

But he couldn't keep staying away from it. Not after searching aimlessly for some other connection. There had to be a way over there. There had to be more than just a tease. How else would the field ever narrow down to one? Maybe they'd open them up when the numbers got lower. Maybe they were open now, and he could get out of this oven-roaster hellhole.

When he was nearing the gate again, Tim caught his breath as a voice carried down towards him, followed by the sound of someone struggling against the bars. He knew that voice. He had to stop himself from racing the last bit - he was not going to give them the satisfaction of a slow-motion instant replay of lovers running to each other.

This was a set-up, and he knew it in his core. They want their highlight reel, and he, well - Tim wanted to see for himself what shape Stephanie was in. There was nothing else to do but walk forward, pulling Punchy's mask down to hang around his neck, until Stephanie came into view. "So. What're you in for?"

She couldn't help the laugh that came out. Tim. He was here. There. He was there and he was alive! It had been hard doing this and not knowing what was going on with him. The all too few glimpses she'd been given on the scattered screens were agony. Every night she looked up at images of Tributes flashed in the sky, not sure if she wanted to see him there or not. At least if he'd been there she'd have known he was safe in the Capitol. Seeing him here now was better. Almost.

The bars that separated them were wedged deep into the cave floor, but she still gave them a little shake.

"Timmy. You're looking worse for wear." She smiles. She smiles because she is happy to see him. That doesn't mean the smile reaches her eyes. She too is worn down. Her light pink hair is in a braid now, but that's the only part that looks decent. Still, she's a live which means something.

"I'd kiss you but I bet you have horrible desert breath."

Several days prior, Eddie began to wander more, moving away from his initial base and its now wind-ravaged assortment of obstacles. The desert is large and featureless, and rarely has he crossed paths with his fellow tributes, but as he goes, he keeps a careful watch for the signs of their passage, and deliberately chooses the signs he leaves behind. Small symbols, easy to lose, made from pebbles pressed into the sand, arrows and directional indications, leading across the landscape to another marker. Wind and worms have done their good work; nothing stays intact for long, but Eddie keeps his circuit as measured as he can.

It's important to keep track, because he needs to find the best potential places for better traps, better ambush points, in relation to the survivors. But for that, he needs to find someone while avoiding becoming worm-chow, so he is skulking around near more rocky ground.

His left hand has, by now, gotten a little better, and the added dexterity is a help in maneuvering himself into hiding spots during the brighter hours, and he spends that time keeping watch.

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[OPEN] Why don't you come to your senses?

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Setting this THIS week, after the worms.

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Setting this at the tail end of the worms.

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Setting this THIS week.

gross, i'm so behind

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