thearena | Everybody Dies [Closed]

Entry tags:

Everybody Dies [Closed]

Who| Howard, Alpha, R, Julie, John Watson, Tim Drake-Wayne (?)
What| Howard's last days in the Arena.
Where| Both Arenas.
When| Last few weeks.
Warnings| Zombification and gore in the thread with R and Julie.

He doesn't tell Diana where he's going. She'd laugh at him if he did, or worse, she'd believe him. I'm off to hunt down the man who tried to kill me, and then I'm going to kill him. At this point he's not certain what he is in her head, the scrawny kid who sold drugs and ran from gunfire or the killer who burned people alive, and he's also not sure why he cares.

When Diana wakes up, hair full of sticky pieces of candy, Howard just tells her he'll be back in a few hours and heads off, letting the smell of sugar and the pinkish yellow sun envelop him. He imagines walking into, and through, a horizon. One hand is at his knife, and the other over his rainbow-colored bag filled with explosives. He finds high ground and he watches for his target.

Eventually, he sees a flash of blonde hair. And he slides down the gingerbread hill, teeth gritted, eye that isn't behind the eyepatch narrowed.

Last Week

He spends more time in the tunnels. The bear traps he's dug up guard the entrances. He generally prefers the sandy, rocky side, including the little mine tracks that lead up to the end, because at least it's a nice break from the monotony of candyland. He sleeps with his knife close, his throwing stars in his pocket, some broken arrow tips tucked into his belt loops. His clothing is tattered to ribbons at the sleeves and ankles.

He told Wyatt he'd win. He promised.

He and Diana cross each other's paths less now. They spend more and more time scavenging for food as it becomes scarcer and scarcer. Soon the watering hole dries up, and most of the day is spent looking for alternate sources. They've dug a little gutter at the top of the cave, but no rain comes to fill it.

He plans on waiting out the last week.

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Alpha has stashed most of his weapons away, still has a couple of knives left hidden on his person, but at the moment he has only the pink and steel umbrella monstrosity out. It amuses him, mostly because it's clearly ineffective as a weapon, or at least inefficient. If necessary he'll take it apart to repurpose the pieces, but for now he's twirling it idly as he walks, senses alert even as he appears focused on the umbrella.

He hears footsteps before he can see the figure clearly enough out of the corner of his eye, smiles, but doesn't stop or turn, let's Howard make the first move. He's curious if Howard's going to try and extend their farce of an alliance or if he's going to try and take a shot while Alpha's back is ostensibly turned.

"Hey. Hey Alpha." Howard keeps the high ground, although without depth perception he has to watch his feet carefully to avoid kicking a giant graham crumb loose and sliding down. "I been looking for you."

He keeps his voice purposefully neutral, and his hands away from his pockets. Given that he usually has them tucked away, it might almost be too casual, too trusting a gesture.

R can't even remember what he groaned to Julie. Something probably about needing time alone, space; food, always food. Once he caught himself thinking he'd been doing so good about the man-eater thing until the Capitol. Days without even thinking about how hungry he was.

Now it's all he can think about. What do you call it when it feels like you can't breathe but you're already Dead?

Did he tell Julie where he's going? R stands there at the lip of some cave as he inhales, a dark blur in front of him instead of the burning hot sand. Cooler air fills his shriveled lungs, his teeth exposed to the air since his lips peeled back into leather and they got stuck like that. After meeting Julie again, you better believe he's been careful to avoid any repeats with her - one bite and it's over. Find another Tribute., he told himself. Anyone else. It's a big desert out there. Anyone and anything non-Julie should be fair game.

The person in here is fair game. R can smell Life in here, scared, tired, sweating Life. Soft breathing. A pulse. Staggering in, he follows the trail of it, his foot steps rasping quietly as they go from sand to rock. His mouth hangs open, face slack, as he focuses on whoever's in here with him. Get back to Julie after this. Groan to her that he's good, he's okay, she doesn't have to worry about him. Seems easy put like that.

R can hardly believe his luck when he finally stumbles upon the other Tribute. The breathing is the quiet, steady kind of someone he's caught asleep. He doesn't waste any time waffling: R attacks, his desperate groan echoing in the dark.

Alpha stops at the greeting, turns to Howard while still twirling the umbrella, like he's out for a stroll. "Oh? I don't hear that very often," he says, looking Howard up and down, noting the eyepatch with amusement. "I hope you appreciate just how hard it is for me to resist pirate jokes right now."

He notes the casual stance with less interest. He feels secure in his control over Howard, even more secure in his ability to take Howard down if it becomes necessary. Confidence has never been a struggle for Alpha.

Diana's sat, totally lost in thought. Trailing her finger across the scabbed nick on her forearm left by Pruna, the past few weeks relaying in her head.

She knows Howards out. She hopes he comes back. Why? She's not sure. So she's not alone? So she doesn't feel like the worst human being in the current area? So someone else can call her the names she keeps in her own head?

The crossbow rests against her leg as she runs the fingertip up and down in a focus induced trace.

She thinks about Howard. About the games. About the Capital. About the fire. About the killing. The FAYZ. Caine. The baby... Panda...

Diana barely winces as her nail, which she didn't realize she'd begun picking at her scab with, catches and allows the skin to form the smallest pearl of blood. Frowning, she returns to stroking the area instead, rubbing the redness into the dirt coated arm until it's no longer visible.

"Well, I figured you'd be looking for me, since we're, ah, alll..." Howard winces and rubs a hand over the nasty wound on his head. The word eludes that, and some part of his mind wonders if brain damage can be poetic. "We're a team."

He slips down a little closer. The lighter and the bombs in his pocket feel heavy, but this isn't like lighting Neffa and Jay up. He's giving Alpha an out, he feels - and if not, this is only self-defense.

"I've always felt this relationship worked better long-distance," Alpha says, snapping the umbrella shut. He stays where he is, letting Howard come to him for the moment, although his instincts have him focusing a little more. There's something off about this situation, he's starting to feel it. "And I got the feeling you felt the same. Not to mention all our trust issues, lately. Had a rough time so far, have we?"

"People like to hit me in the head. I'm starting to suspect someone shaved a target into my scalp." He bites his lip, stopping about ten feet away. "So. What've you been doing to help me win out here?"

He wonders if Alpha still has the marshal's badge he gave him - the fake one.

It's easy enough to hear Howard coming. Where he was once stealthy and quiet, now he's clunky, sluggish. Every motion is jerky, like moving in stop motion, and he can't help but think of Frankenstein's monster twitching with the aftermath of the lightning bolt darting through its stiff muscles.

There's no other sound quite like a corpse dragging itself up a hill. It's at once fleshy and dry, a rough tone like burlap with the occasional squelch of coagulating blood dripping from his knees and palms, which have been skinned all the way through by the rough terrain. The blood is bracky, almost chunky, like syrup that's been left out too long, and has the appearance of motor oil.

He smells Living, and so he heads for it. His mouth hangs slightly open, dry tongue poking around his teeth as if trying to taste a meal that isn't there yet. His hunger is excitable, and is capable of fantasizing even only hours after Howard's eaten the remnants of R and Julie. There's still a clump of blonde hair dangling from his mouth, like an ersatz Christmas ornament from a tree.

His hand, stiff and clumsy, reaches over the lip of the cave as he starts to haul his way in.

The desert had just about killed him. Since Joan's death he'd been simply doing his best to avoid trouble, stretching out the supplies to try and last as long as possible- but it was getting harder and harder. He'd seen the giant worms and knew the sand was no place to seek shelter- and so he'd returned to the mountain.

The last time he'd been here there had been grates and grilles, no access through the tunnels- but now they were gone, and sweet, tantalising smells wafted through, beckoning. He stumbled forwards, stomach practically turning itself inside out with hunger, the darkness of the tunnel after the blinding light of the desert almost giving him a headache. He couldn't see a thing, his vision struggling to correct for the contrast in light levels, and he certainly couldn't see the cruel bear trap lying in wait for unsuspecting Tributes.

He stepped right onto the trigger.

Steel jaws sprang shut, teeth piercing his leg. He cried out, sharply, pulse spiking as he tried to kick whatever it was off him and failed- it took a few more moments to process what had happened. Desperately, he crouched and tried to yank the trap open- but the hinge was strong and his limbs were weak from days of little food and water. Nothing he had in the makeshift pack on his back would help him, here- or would it?

Wincing and hissing breaths between his teeth he rifled through his meagre provisions, hoping to find something he could use to lever the trap open or dismantle it. The pain was intense, but his will to survive was stronger.
So far.

Having left Diana awake and watching the food, Howard begins creeping through the tunnels again, checking his traps and making sure anyone or anything caught in them is dead. He's managed to scavenge up some doki-dokis from the traps, but usually they devour each other, so there isn't much left by the time he gets to them.

He stops when he sees something laying in the tunnel. Something big, not an animal. Something that appears to have clothing. For a long time, Howard just stays very still, listening and watching the lump, wondering if it's alive or dead.

If he or she is alive or dead, he thinks. Not 'it'. 'It' is for animals.

He clutches his knife close, his lighter in his other hand, ready to light the tunnel up and escape if he has to. "Hello?"

He jerked into action at the sound of Howard's voice, gasping sharply with pain as he moved, brandishing the knife he'd taken from Joan's body. He couldn't think clearly enough to determine much more than the simple fact that he wasn't alone, that he might soon be called on to defend himself.

"Don't," he bit out, a wet, pained edge to the word despite its dangerous tone. He might be trapped, but he wasn't going to go out without a fight. "Don't come any closer."

"John?"

There's a depth of horror to Howard's voice that's like a cave. He hadn't considered - for all his contingency plans, for all his preparation, it never occurred to him that his traps could catch prey he didn't want. He rushes over to John's side, not bothering with the warning, not worried about the other traps in the tunnel, completely disregarding the warning.

"John, John, don't move!"

He breathed out- a slow, shuddering thing, not quite relief slumping his shoulders. He dropped his hand holding the knife, though he still gripped it, tightly.
"Howard," he warned, his voice nowhere near as strong and calm as he'd hoped it would sound. He tried again. "Howard, my leg's- there's a trap. Might be more, watch where you step..."

"I know." Howard's voice is cold, crisp like morning air, horrible in its certainty. "I set it."

And with that, he crouches down and sets to undoing it.

John sat completely still, his chest heaving with ragged breaths that stuttered every time Howard moved the trap piercing his leg.
"Hope... hope I'm the most exciting thing you've caught yet," he joked hoarsely. Christ, but it hurt. Almost as much as being shot, he thought- though he didn't really remember the pain, exactly. It was a distant, intellectual horror, slowly bleeding out into the sand, voices floating through the dust and smoke.

Howard dreams.

Usually, he's too afraid to sleep, but there's a certain relief that comes with abject necessity in the Arena. When it comes to the real danger not being the ones his subconscious conjures but the ones that are actually trying to kill him, the dread of dreaming becomes an afterthought, and while he rests lightly he can stay still and silent for long stretches of time. At the very peak of his cycle he twitches, makes noise. His fingers jerk slightly, as if little bits of electricity are working their way out of his head and down his nervous system. Strange whimpers, divorced from language, emerge from his throat like mice from underneath a floorboard, tentative, hurried.

And is his dream, Aunamee is on top of him again, one hand against his shoulder, the other holding a knife high. Droplets of blood are cast off the blade onto the snow, only it's not snow, it's the blank white void of death, and it's rising around him like water in a gutter, up over his nose, in his mouth and nostrils so he can't scream. He knows what comes next, the knife to the chest, and even knowledge doesn't let him brace for it.

But the knife doesn't come for his chest. It comes for his neck, and it's not a dream but teeth sinking into his throat.

Howard's not even awake when he slams his leg out into R's midsection, when he gives a yelp strangled by the way he can't breath for the the zombie trying to take a chunk out of the section between his neck and shoulder. He's awake but not aware when he brings the knife from his pocket and makes a slash at the figure he's forcing back with every bit of strength his flailing limbs can manage.

But he is aware when he gets a few feet of distance between himself and R, and he presses against the wall, a sob in his throat and his hand against the bloody mess that is his neck, his face twisted into the right side of a tragicomic mask.

It's so easy for Howard to get the trap open. So easy. All it takes is a hairpin he stole from Diana while she slept.

Howard wants to cry thinking that for lack of a hairpin, John wouldn't be here.

"Yeah. Just animals otherwise." His lower lip is shaking. His own breaths are light, airy, somewhere in the top and not the base of his throat. "How long you been here?"

"Don't know," he hissed, eyes squeezing shut as Howard dismantled the trap. How embarrassingly easy it was for him, where all of John's frantic and later hazy efforts had been in vain. Dark, arterial blood began to run again from the punctures in his leg the moment Howard pulled the spiked teeth free.

"I think I passed out, for a while. Howard, the kit-- help me get everything together, I scattered it trying to- trying to find things. I need more light, need to see, stop the bleeding..."

"People can be cruel in these fights to the death," Alpha says, and wonders if the kid has some sort of brain injury. It would explain why he's not shaking like a rabbit at the sight of Alpha armed, for once. He puts on a apologetic tone. "I'm afraid this hasn't been my most productive round, this time. Trying to avoid a diabetic coma, for the most part. Why, is there something you needed?" He does a sarcastic little bow. "I'm at your service."

Alpha does, in fact, still have the badge, tucked away in his terrible Hawaiian shirt as a mocking sort of Token. He's been waiting for the most entertaining time to bring it up.

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Everybody Dies [Closed]

Alpha

John

Tim

R, then Julie

Diana

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