thearena | Welcome To Arena 08

Welcome To Arena 08

Today begins particularly early by normal standards. Long before the sun, or even a hint of dawn arrives. When the world is still and black and quiet, save for the parties still raging on from the night before. Night owls still have not gone to sleep. Everyone knows what today is, even if you've only just arrived.

There is a palpable tension in the air as everyone is ushered out under the cover of darkness to board the hovercrafts. A stream of faces both familiar and unknown filter in and take their seats, and very little is said as tributes are strapped in and attendants make their rounds, activating tracking devices. There are no windows, no openings no view of the outside world as it passes silently, below. The journey takes hours. And when everyone finally arrives, there is no hint of sky or grass or cloud or tree. Just long concrete hallways and rows of uniformed peacekeepers that remind everyone to keep in line in the underbelly of the unknown.

One by one, each tribute is lead into a small concrete room where stylists outfit tributes in their only bit of protection for the next coming weeks. Little is given away by the clothing each stylists put their tribute in. No flair or flourish or costumed monstrosity this time. Just simple, functional mundane civilian clothing. Khakis, cotton shirts, boots.

There is little time to dress and say goodbyes. Only a few small moments left to gather your thoughts. And then, the countdown starts. A countdown displayed in holographic blue begins:

25. 24. 23. 22....

The smell of earth and grass and a general damp green fills your lungs as you rise, slowly into a large grass field. At first, its the only thing you can see in all directions until the pedestal locks in place.

20. 19. 18. 17....

In the near distance, the cornucopia looms. Massive. Copper. Even hidden by the grass you can see its spoils are plentiful, tempting anyone with even a mild curiosity streak to come explore. Some may see this as a warning sign already .

15. 14. 13...

You can see the others, around you. Their heads, maybe the shoulders of taller tributes, and very little else. If there is anything hidden in this field you would never know it. The grass is too tall and too thick to show what might be lurking near the ground.

10. 9. 8....

There is just a hint of a breeze and the lingering scent of recent rain. The humidity is more uncomfortable than the heat., its a thick, jungle-like warm. You can see a dense tangle of trees in the distance. Blue sky filled with towering white clouds. Its the sort of place where nothing ever truly seems to be dry. At least you might not have to worry about freezing to death.

6. 5. 4...

For just a moment, everything goes perfectly still. Perfectly silent.

The grass rustles.

You feel the breeze.

2.

1.

0.

You will have two hours until a short warning alarm will sound and the sonic fences turn on across the entire arena.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I want to be the crocodile." He smiles, showing off the too-perfect teeth the Capitol gave him to replace his own rotten, crooked chompers. "California after the apocalypse. Well, apocalypse-ish. Pseudo-apocalypse."

She smiles. "If I'm ever in charge of casting the Peter Pan Arena, you will definitely be the Crocodile."

It seems like post-apocalyptic timelines are pretty common around here. "How did your apocalypse happen? Nuclear war, zombies, aliens, what?"

"Tick tick tick," he says, then the grin fades as he adds in a whispered afterthought. "Boom."

He climbs a bit higher up the tree. "No idea. Probably aliens. Maybe radiation. Could just be psychic mutants. Where you from?"

"New York. 2013. No zombies or aliens. A nice place, really. I've lived there most of my life."

She watches him climb. "Is there anyone else here from your world?"

"I always wanted to go to New York. You from New York City? Always wanted to go there, like, actually see the place, I never even been out of California before this."

He gets to a high knot in the tree, finds a little cove and starts to stash cans in there.

"Some bitch named Diana and my best friend, Orc. You'll know him if you see him. Just your average-looking eight-foot rock monster."

"Rock monster." Of course. Why not? Zombies, giant turtles, why not animated rocks?

"New York City," she confirms. "My partner and I live in a Brownstone in Brooklyn. You can see the bridge from our rooftop."

"Sounds fancy. Your partner? You a lesbian?" There's a strange tinge in Howard's voice, not lecherous but hopeful.

"Ha. No. My partner is a he, and we're not romantically involved. We work together."

She gives him a smile.

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"I'm not disappointed. Why would I be disappointed?" He's half-tempted to toss a stick down at her for that. "Work on what? I'm a prison warden, technically."

"We're consulting detectives. We work with the NYPD, usually on homicides." She tilts her head, curious. "What sorts of prisons do they have in post-apocalyptic California?"

"You're cops?" He furrows his brow. "We have my basement. We kept a serial killer down there for like, four months."

"Not a cop. We're independent, which means they don't pay us, but we can also get away with a lot more. We even had a serial killer in a straitjacket in our parlor, once. How did you get one in your basement?"

He leans his back against the trunk, resting his legs on one of the brances and folding his arms. "They're noisy fuckers aren't they, serial killers? Anyway, we don't really have a police force where I'm from, so we kind of just make do with what we got. And what we got is a basement that locks."

"Some of them. The ones that get caught. The one in our parlor was actually pretty quiet. If you don't have police, though, how did you catch the guy?"

"That was considerate of him." Howard shrugs. "Anyway, I didn't do the catching. There's different kinds of justice than just law and order, you know?"

She raises her eyebrows questioningly.

"Karma?"

In all seriousness, she can't imagine Howard actually taking down a serial killer. Maybe it was the rock monster.

The laugh that comes out of Howard is sharp, cynical, and from the gut. And mean. It's a bitter sound that seems too old for him.

"Yeah. Karma. Right." He starts covering his stash in the nook of the tree with leaves. "Because that's totally a thing. What did you do wrong in a past life, Snakey?"

She huffs a short laugh, rolling her eyes.

"I doubt you captured a serial killer on your own. So, what, vigilante group? Rock monster?"

"I didn't say I did catch him, but thanks for the vote of confidence. I totally need that when I'm walking into a death game where everyone's twice my size." He rolls his eyes at her. "Someone else caught him. And you didn't answer my question. What'd you do wrong to deserve all this?"

"Not everyone."

Joan, for instance, is tiny. She might be more fit than him, but she has no advantage size-wise.

"I thought you were just being sarcastic. I didn't realize you actually wanted an answer." She shifts on the branch. "Nothing I can think of."

A lie, of course. She thinks of the patient who died on her table. But she doesn't believe in this sort of karma.

"Almost everyone. Have you seen some of these guys?" He exhales deep. "Wow, you made it to what, sixty years old without any serious fuckups? I'm impressed."

"You're funny," she says wryly, rolling her eyes. "Of course I've messed up. I just don't believe this is punishment for it. Them."

"Them?" He raises an eyebrow.

"It." She glances at him briefly, then looks away. She's not about to open up to this guy. "What have you done to deserve this?"

"Lady, you got no idea." And Howard doesn't sound likely to divulge. "So how so you know Dr. John?"

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