thearena | (no subject)

Who| Maximus and OPEN
What| Wyatt is injured, Maximus decides he's done with this Arena, he meets up with Shepard, they agree to kill some people, and... well. Clusterfuck happens.
Where| Desert to Candy then back to Desert Again
When| Final Week
Warnings/Notes| Death, Gore, Violence, Beheading, Bromance and Bad-Assery

[ooc: planned out threads will get individual sub-headers, but feel free to throw your characters in here if you want to be taken out by Max / Shepard / Both.]

He was starting to see things.

Not horrible things, not even disconcerting things. Simply chilling things. His son, running into the sand, out of the corner of his eye. His wife, standing at the top of the Dune. He knew they weren't real. No one could see the dead, not even here, but it didn't keep the chill from his spine. He didn't mention them to Wyatt, there was no point.

He kept his ghosts to himself.

He didn't know where R was. They'd gotten separated when the worms crashed through the world, and Maximus hadn't seen him again. He wasn't exactly torn up about it, though he slept lighter, now. Waiting. He and Wyatt took shifts sleeping - the rhythms off as the nights and days lengthened and twisted the world around again.

It was dusk when he woke. An endless dusk. And he was alone.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Maximus only nodded, letting out a long breath, steadying himself-- before with as smooth a motion he could manage, he pulled the stretcher up onto his back with a low grunt.

A part of him knew Max was trying to be careful, trying to be as gentle as he could. ...The rest of him felt the movement like a stab. Like a red-hot blade deep in his spine.

The curse was there, riding his tongue as black lights flashed in his vision, but his teeth came together hard on the inside of his cheek and warm, wet salt washed it away.

"Hand," Maximus grunted, once Wyatt was in place. "Left one. If you see anything, anything at all, squeeze it once. Confirmed tribute, squeeze it twice," He said, his hands still gripping the bones at his shoulder. He wasn't even sure that it was really necessary, but something in him thought it would be easier with that connection than without it.

He was slow to move, the moment stretching, but his fingers slipped in against Max's, the touch cool and light. His head lolled, clammy temple on the back of Max's neck and he squeezed weakly, on the right, as much confirmation as he could give.

His chest lurched and he sucked in a breath. Nothing for it. Whatever way it happened, this was the end of the road.

"Good," he said, his mouth surprisingly dry. "Let's go."

And with that, he stepped out into the desert, carrying the man he cared about most in this strange, foreign world, stretched out and dying on his back.