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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

A thread for characters going for the cornucopia.

Edited 2013-10-19 21:23 (UTC)

For those that are headed elsewhere...

He'd only had his new leg a day, maybe less, when they told him he was going back into the arena. When they warned him to make sure he acted like he wanted it. Like he was meant to be there. He wondered vaguely if this was meant to be a sort of punishment, though he couldn't imagine a worse punishment than the one he's already recieved, currently supporting his weight but with the strangest sensation possible. He couldn't feel his leg, not really, though it moved when he expected it to move, and the ground was where he expected it to be. But it wasn't warm, didn't tingle. He tried not to think about it as he stood on the platform.

5. 4.

The truth was he wanted to be here.

3. 2.

The world made sense here. Fight. Die. Continue.

1.
0.

He took off as if his leg was exactly the same as the old one and immediately tripped over it, hitting the ground hard. He pulled himself up with a curse and tried again.

Even the Peacekeepers could tell Sigma was seriously ill. When the time came for the tracking device to be inserted in his arm, they had stopped to disinfect the injection gun carefully before moving onto the next Tribute. Following that, Sigma slept the rest of the ride, and proceeded into the Arena in a deep fog, his flu having not improved at all since he had caught it despite his efforts. Even outside of the Arena, with all of the Capitol's modern medicine and technology, it may have been fatal - in here it was certainly the kiss of death. The Doctor knew this well, and yet he had resolved not to resort to suicide, as it was against his principles. No matter how difficult things became, he had to show whoever was watching that hope still remained.

As he was lifted into the Arena the humidity hit him like a truck. Sigma wheezed and his posture slackened - his spine bent about his waist and his hands grasped for his knees to keep him upright. He could barely breathe! But the thought of Howard somewhere in the circle watching him forced him to straighten up. He stared with a faux confidence ahead, pretending his suffering had just been nerves.

His throat burned, his chest felt sensitive and raw, and Sigma suppressed a violent cough. Even the brief moment he had taken to change into his clothes for the Arena had been too much time out of bed. Water... He needed to find water, and a place as far away from here as he could manage where he could rest.

He looks upon the well-stocked cornucopia enviously, knowing its prizes will not be for him. It is easy to waver in his decision now that he has seen it, and so he shuts his good eye tightly, wills his mechanical one to cut power.

At the end of the countdown, Sigma turns from the cornucopia and breaks into a run - it is no sprint, for the man struggles to draw breath, and he cannot seem to escape fast enough. At the very least there will be no weapons at his back for some time yet.

Edited 2013-10-19 22:01 (UTC)

500 yards to the south. 500 yards to the south.

15. 14. 13.

The plan goes through her head as she waits through the countdown. She looks at their surroundings, at the massive Cornucopia, then at the other Tributes. She can't see John, and can just barely make out Sherlock's profile.

10. 9. 8.

She looks back at the Cornucopia. There's so much there, maybe getting something from it would be less dangerous than usual.

5. 4. 3.

She's smaller than most of the people here, not to mention a number of these people are trained killers. Going for the Cornucopia would be too dangerous, she decides, and with all these plants around, there's got to be something edible, right? Right.

2. 1.

0.

Joan pauses, watches as some people make a run for the supplies while others make for the jungle. She sees both Sherlock and John racing toward the Cornucopia, and that cinches it for her. She turns and bolts for the jungle to the south. On the way, she passes giant steel rods stabbing up from the ground to the sky. She doesn't know what they are, but she's almost certain she doesn't want to find out.

She crashes into the jungle, and slows down so that she doesn't trip over a root or a vine and start the arena off with a sprained ankle or worse. She keeps going until she estimates she's about 500 yards from the Cornucopia. Then she looks for a tree to climb.

Edited 2013-10-20 01:00 (UTC)

For once, Eponine decides to run for the Cornucopia. Not because she's interested in grabbing any supplies. Quite frankly, she doesn't plan on lasting long enough to be hungry.

Still drunk from the amount of brandy she downed the night before, that she had been drinking non-stop since Howard broke up with her, she sways slightly on her platform. Her face is pale, tear stained. Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose red from both the flu and from her constant crying. When the klaxon sounds, she staggers away, towards the Cornucopia.

Please let someone kill me. Please let it be quick. Please. Please,please, please.

His fourth arena.

For a moment as his stylists work silently he is almost struck my the mundane regularity of this fact. Four arenas. Three deaths. One more to come. He's long since given up on the concept of surviving himself - that isn't the point, and it's boring. He's had to make a mission for himself and he repeats it in his mind, ad nauseam. Give the Watsons the best possible chance of surviving.

So as he raises up, as the light blinds for a moment and he comes to see their surroundings, a chill runs down his spine.

He can't see anything edible. Not a single plant in his eye-line is one he knows they can eat, the tangled jungle far in the distance obviously toxic to his trained eye. Not that strange, he thinks, for them to make the world poisonous, but highly annoying. He only has one option, though he'd already known it was a risk he'd likely have to take.

The Cornucopia.

As the horn blares, he takes off like a bullet from a gun.

This is Pruna's third arena, she knows what to expect. She knows not to ask too many questions because no one will answer her. She gets dressed quickly, the clothes aren't too bad though she frowns at the boots. They tell her to keep them on, she grumbles and vows to take them off once she is safe.

There is grass everywhere, actually even once the pod locks in place all she can see is grass, and if she looked up she could see the heads of the nearest tributes through the grass. They probably couldn't see her. That was an advantage.

She took in the sights, took in what she could. Watched the Cornucopia, calculated if it was worth going for. She figured it was, the terrain was to her advantage and last arena she wouldn't have gotten so far without her initial haul.

3

She stood ready, knowing not to move until it hit zero. She wished she knew if Sandy was here, they told her she would be put in once she woke up, but no one would tell her how she was.

2

She glanced from left to right, taking a deep breath

1

Looking forwards, eye on her destination, ready to run.

0

She left her platform at a dash, heading towards the supplies, ready to fight for them.

A drumming heartbeat, a thickness in his throat.

Every arena was different, in the end, but they started the same for Wyatt. It was strangely comforting, that one familiarity in the ever changing landscape. Like an old friend, he gathered his apprehension to him and let it strengthen his muscles, sharpen his focus, as the pedestal climbed into the damp and the heat. Into the swaying field of green that immediately set of the warnings in the back of his head.

He'd gotten rather good at spotting the Gamemakers death traps when he saw them.

One of the rare pluses of being around as long as he had.

Scanning across the tips of the grass he squinted at the Cornucopia, aligning himself to the gleaming horn, preparing to make the break as soon as the cannon crashed.

Another breath, his heart near a hum then in his ears. He glanced at the faces closest, noting those to avoid, hoping for Howard, maybe Doc, or maybe even....

Everything went still. He couldn't feel the wind on his face, or hear his drumming heart. There was only the denial snapping through him, a full-bodied reaction, sticking him to the pedestal. His neat plans falling away as the cannon boomed. Leaving him with nothing but a curse stuck in the back of his throat, and the terrifying uncertainty if what he'd seen was even real as he pushed belatedly off the platform and into the grass.

Terezi is more wary this time around. Throughout the shuffle of getting ready and being escorted to the launch area, she's constantly aware of who and what is going on around her. She keeps expecting the same deal as last time: the sudden puncture of a needle, poison flooding into her system. But it doesn't happen. There are no tricks in store for them this time. Oddly enough, it's not until she's entered the launch tube and been sealed in that she finally starts to relax.

As the platform rises, Terezi stands completely still. She needs this moment to take in as much of her surroundings as possible before deciding what to do. She wants weapons, that much she knows before anything else. Hand-to-hand combat is not her forte. She's just considering what sort of provisions she might need to dive for, when the first scents hit her.

Her mind goes blank. It smells like grass and dirt; it smells like leaves; it smells like plants and air and sky. It smells damp like rain-soaked wood in the distance. It smells warm like a dozen humid summers under a canopy of thick leaves.

It smells like home.

A feeling bubbles up in Terezi's chest, and it takes her a few ticking seconds of the clock to recognize it for what it is: Excitement. She doesn't care that there are other tributes out there. It doesn't bother her that they may be stronger or faster than her. She's all but fearless in the face of whatever tricks lay in the grass between her and that copper mound.

This arena was made for her.

Terezi hunkers down, making herself smaller and more easily obscured by the tall grasses. She doesn't need to see her opponents. She can hear them and smell them just fine. As the clock ticks from 1 to 0, Terezi darts off into the grass towards the opening fray.

She was silent through the entire process, glaring at the peace keepers and the stylists alike, letting them do what they wanted though as sullenly as possible. She could feel her pulse begin to race as the countdown began, as the placed her into the tube and as she rose toward the sky.

Calm down, Ellie. It's fine. You just have to do what you always do and survive as long as you possibly can.

The giant cornucopia glinted in the sunlight and her eyes widened. They'd told her about it, of course, told her how important it was, how that was all the supplies they would had.

She'd no idea there would be so much.

As the countdown continued she sucked in a breath and held it, waiting.

3.
2.
1.

On zero she was off, running as fast and as hard as she could, straight for the cornucopia.

Nightmare. It's a nightmare.

Who even styled these outfits? Not a bloody sequin in sight.

Calico rolls her eyes even at herself. Here she is, trapped in another death arena, with not only a load of Tributes, but the bloody past victors as well... Cal knows she doesn't stand a chance. She shouldn't have stood a chance all those years ago. And now, with her dismal track record with the authorities - wouldn't this be the ideal to just finish her off?

Peachy. Just peachy.

When the Klaxon sounds, Cal beams cheerily for the cameras, and waves. For once, she's glad they took away her high heels; short as she is in this grass, she might not be able to be seen.
It's not Victor behaviour, is it, to run away from the fight. But then, maybe they expect it from Cal by now. She won once by crying; maybe hiding and hoping they all kill each other off quickly will work this time.

She turns tail and runs far away,panting as she goes. Oh dear, someone shoulda worked out more.

It was one of the best cornucopia hauls he ever had, despite his leg. It had slowed him down, but he had still managed to drag away enough supplies to keep him going for a while.

Not to mention the four knives and four spears he was now armed with - three of the spears on his back, one of them in his hand, and the rest of the blades tucked away. He knew enough about the capitol to recognize the warning that came with the alarm and cleared out as quickly as he could, staggering with an obvious limp. Now that he had supplies, he had only one goal in mind.

He had to find Wyatt.

He'd made off with what he could, more even he thought he had the last time, when he'd had the Cornucopia nearly to himself. Luck, maybe. But Wyatt couldn't help but suspect another trap, another warning in the bounty of the copper horn.

He had never known the Gamemakers for their generosity. There had to be a reason for it, and something told him it wouldn't be a good one.

He retreated into the forest of monstrous trees, weaving in and out amongst the roots, using the sharp head of the spear he'd gotten to mark his way. When he was satisfied with the distance, the sound of the battle quiet, he dug himself a cache, pawing at the soft earth.

Like a mountain cat with its kill, he buried his goods, and then turned back. Ready to try his odds again.

What he'd seen at the Cornucopia might just have been a trick, and truth be told, he sincerely hoped it was, but if it wasn't - if Max was truly back in the arena....

He had to find him.

The sky of the arena is the first sky he sees in this new world. Justin looks up and the white glow of the sun nearly blinds him. The sky is wrong, his weapon form is somehow locked away, and his headphones are missing.

6.
5.
4.

He could run for the supplies, but the place they've put them in seems like it will have supplies enough for weeks. He can run for now, find a spot to set an ambush and pick up supplies later.

2.
1.
0.

Justin turns from the pile of supplies and heads off to the jungle at an easy lope, ready to head up into the trees as soon as he reaches them.

Edited 2013-10-20 22:36 (UTC)

Nothing made sense of course. One minute she was going to school, resigning herself to normal, to civilian life, and the next minute shes hearing some speech about how she was competing in some games. Was she tempted to scream and yell and blow shit up? Oh yes. Mindy could only tolerate so much smoke up her ass, especially when it didn't feel like a lie, not any of it. She was here, in this...this special hell maybe? It was hard to tell, but it was a spectacle. I mean, people HAD been going into it the night before while she was just piecing everything together.

And then morning came and she was supposed to get ready. Right. Stylists swarmed over her and then kept away: the look in her eye was enough that they knew just what was and was not going to happen. Mindy was not the type to pretty up, but once she knew what was happening, that was all she needed. The moment of quiet before the storm, ha. She knew that well, didn't she? She'd had it when she broke into D'Amico's apartment, when she knew the men were coming, and the wrong move meant death. She had that now, but she had mastered it. If anything, she had to be honest: there was a buzz of excitement in her. From the streets of New York where she had to surmise the layout, but an apartment was only that. Once the smell of grass hit her she knew they were far, far from the streets she knew and now in the world of the strange of unfamiliar. They even had a countdown and everything.

She took a moment to survey her opponents. Some were strong, some looked breakable, but most knew some of what was to come. That was their advantage. They did not look all like seasoned killers though, and that was HERS. She did this shit for a living.

Then she saw it. The cornucopia. Supplies. Weapons. Food.

Sporting. There were some special motherfuckers, weren't they? They were basically animals in a show.

"I'm game!"

Yeah, worked for her. The reality wasn't going to change at the unfairness of it all, but as she broke into a run, the understanding that it would be a less dead reality gave her comfort and thrilled her.

And then there was this guy.

Suddenly he was running side by side with her, without warning. Not on purpose. That was just what the grass ended up. But he was there, now, mere inches away.

He turned, giving her a single look. Maybe even a glare. Something Eponine was free to interpret however she wanted.

She interprets that as 'the end'.

Oh thank heavens it'll be swift.

For a moment, she carries on running, but she soon stops, and looks across to Don.

"Do it." Her voice is slurred from alcohol, stuffy with the flu.
"Kill me, Monsieur."

It was Arena time. That much he knew. And as he was brought up on the platform, he tried to get himself back into that mind frame fully. Where nothing hurt when he let himself go.

He tried hard not to think of the Disciple. He couldn't.

Not here.

10 9 8 7

The grass loomed overhead, Making it all but impossible to see anything except to crane one's neck up. Still, the Cornucopia loomed larger. It seemed ready to burst from all of the supplies it held.

And that was when Don was suddenly struck with a thought.

Why so many supplies?

6 5 4

It was way too much. More than any of them would need for any normal Arena. That meant something was up in this one, that might require more supplies. Supply and necessity.

He wasn't sure just what that something was yet. Why would he? How could he? He'd just gotten there.

But Don had a feeling he'd find out.

3 2

It also meant he would at least need to try for the Cornucopia. It was the best resource, after all. And he always made good on what he got from it. He'd been luckier than most, thus far.

Maybe on this one thing...out of everything else in this horrible place...his luck would hold.

1

And he was off, as the klaxon sounded, tearing through the grass towards the Cornucopia.

Many Mentors, former Victors, were playing in the Arena this time. He knew that. He knew he wasn't the only one. He also knew, when they forced him back into the truck and loaded him onto the transporter, that he had no choice.

He wasn't ready. He just wasn't, after what happened.

10 9 8 7

Their "interventions" to get him ready for the fight were laughable. They wanted him to hurt. Wanted him to have scars. They wanted to remind him that he could be broken just as easily. His chest, throat, whole body still ached terrifically from the torture. Because that was what it had been. Torture.

And for what?

An accident.

6 5 4

And now he was here. The grass was around him, and the heat and humidity seared into him. Like the rainforest. Not as hot but still humid. He at least knew he could handle it. But he'd need supplies from the Cornucopia.

And it looked like the Cornucopia had plenty to give.

3 2

His hair was disheveled, unkempt and unwashed. He had a week-old golden blonde beard and mustache on him. His eyes had dark, puffy circles under them. And his scar - the old scar from when he'd first won - was uncovered for the world to see.

He barely looked like himself anymore.

1

But he'd show them. He'd show them - all of them - they were wrong about him. He was not a fool, or a madman, or a slave, or a criminal. He was Jack Atlas.

And he was pissed off as he leaped off the platform, running towards the Cornucopia.

He was keeping as low to the gass as possible though the spears on his back marked his presence. He was making for the trees but it was slow going, his leg shifting awkwardly and unpredicatbly under him. He was cursing under his breath when he caught the dark outline of a shape darting out from the trees.

He froze, watching, but it didn't take him long to recognize the silhouette.

"Wyatt!"

His name came just as he was hitting the grass, sliding into the green, he froze, ears straining, breath coming in a hard pant.

He didn't want it to be true. Max was supposed to be back in the Capitol, safe from all of this. If there was anything he'd done right in the previous arena, it was helping the Roman win....

Pushing through the grass, he made in the direction of the voice.

He didn't want to be here right now. There were so many things Beck had to refresh himself up on now, it was ridiculous. The whole User-body thing he was getting a lot better with, but just...his memory. It was like a huge chunk of it had been deleted, and there was no way for him to recover it.

Something happened the last time he had been here. And it affected what happened in Argon. But could he remember...?

The air in the arena is...actually refreshing. There's something wonderful and crisp in the air; hardly anything like the other two arenas he had been in who-knows-how-long ago. The view is crisp and the scenery is pretty beautiful. There's something unpleasant about how hot it is, though. But the breeze makes up for things.

10. 9. 8. Beck quickly scans his surroundings. There was a lot of tall grass, so he could make an easy escape. All of his training as the Renegade told him to go that way. To blend in and be forgotten....7. 6. 5. But he couldn't do that here. Setting into the background unarmed meant easy deletion. It was just Beck, Beck, and Beck here. And Beck had to stand up for himself, or else face consequences.

4. 3. 2. The Cornucopia was right there. If he was going to go for it, he had to make up his mind-

1. Beck started to spring for the bronze horn. It was best he had a chance than no chance at all.

(( ooc- Beck's going to be making off with some stuff! I'm always up for an injury or two of course~ ))

He stumbled again, cursing as his metal leg sunk into the ground in a way he didn't expect, and when he his head came back up over the grass it was just in time to catch Wyatt.

He flashed the man half a grin as he made his way over.

"I'm in luck. I worried it would take days to find you."

There was someone else, heading right for those same supplies. Someone twice, if not three times Pruna's size. And he was in no mood to entertain mercy in the Arena, even towards children.

She'd better pray they were not going towards the same supplies, as Jack burst through the bushes like a madman.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 20

Welcome To Arena 08

CORNUCOPIA

Throughout The Arena

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Sigma Klim

Joan Watson

Re: CORNUCOPIA

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warning: there will be eye injury somewhere in here later

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Calico

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Justin Law | OTA

Re: CORNUCOPIA

Re: CORNUCOPIA

Re: CORNUCOPIA

Re: CORNUCOPIA

Re: CORNUCOPIA

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beck | ota!

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