Tim Drake (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_hit_list) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2013-07-24 09:53 am
the_hit_list) wrote in thearena2013-07-24 09:53 am
Entry tags:
[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.
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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.