Test Drive Meme

[etcircenses]

Welcome to Panem. You have been selected to participate in the 75th Annual Hunger Games!

Premise: This Arena is designed to be a small mock arena not all that dissimilar to the in-game arenas we run here at The Games. The party is similar to some of the gathering logs we have inside the Capitol when an Arena begins. Our hope is to give new and prospective players a place to get their feet wet, and get a feel for the fun (and bloody) mess that goes on around here.

This meme is open to anyone and everyone who would like to play. Current cast members, veteran and new, as well as anyone just wanting top drop in and have some fun!

How To Play.

Current cast members - you may tag into this Arena in any way you choose, even cast members who aren't or are no longer tributes.

***An important side note, as it is within the confines of the Arena in-game, all powers are lessened/nullified to bring any character down to a vincible level. (i.e. make more magical/super-powered characters easier to actually kill for a normal person). Rule of thumb: If it's a physical difference, the Capitol will not mutilate it out (wings, etc.), but otherwise it's gone.

The Arena.

The Tributes are put into the tube by their Stylists and emerge into blistering dry heat and blinding sun. They stand atop a red rock peak, in a circle, with the Cornucopia in the center. They're dressed in cargo shorts and tank tops, men and women, and hiking boots. The sun beats down mercilessly, and there's a fifty-foot drop around them from this natural pedestal.

The Cornucopia's bounty includes rock climbing harnesses, water bottles, ropes, climbing grips for shoes, globes, sunscreen, and cans of food and water. Naturally, weapons are also available - crossbows, bear traps, "walking sticks", hunting knives.

The wildlife waits for them below: gila monsters with poisonous mouths, violent javelinas, shrikes bred to go for the eyes, rattlesnakes with hallucinogenic venom.

5...

4...

Ropes and carabiners hang from the sides of the peak, for those who don't die in the bloodbath or fall to their dooms.

3...

2...

1...

With the sound of the gong, the Arena has begun.

-/-

The Party.

Back in the Capitol, the Cornucopia is being celebrated with a lavish party inside a hologram room. The walls of the party shift around to various exotic locales, but the theme of the evening seems to be Heat. Saunas and tanning beds are available, and Capitolites, their makeup practically dripping off from the temperature, are in hot tubs or stripped down in fluffy robes. Avoxes, tongueless and sweaty, bring ice cold drinks to everyone.

Anyone who's anyone is invited.

Comments

Mister Scratch | Alan Wake | Tribute

[tolduimapsycho]

Oh good.

Blistering hot sunlight.

His favorite.

NOT.

Mister Scratch stood squinting in the circle, sweat already beading on his forehead as he tried to shield his eyes with one hand. Here he was, at the very least, less sensitive to the light...but it still gave him a headache, still made him instinctually recoil.

Oh, well. Wouldn't kill him. And there was stuff to be had! As soon as the gong went off, he was sprinting for a hunting knife and some climbing gear...and then, as soon as the knife was in hand, he fairly started prancing towards the edge of the cliff. Daring people to approach him.

Hell, he was practically twerking as he got set up to climb down from the rock face.

[maybeimaleon]

The bright sunlight was more than a little unexpected. And not entirely welcome either, given that what they'd all been asked to wear was likely going to leave everyone terribly sunburnt in the long run. Assuming there wasn't anything to help with that, but Squall wasn't going to assume they'd be so lucky. Better to expect the worst, so that you'd be at least something closer to pleased once it turns out not be the case.

By the time he comes across Mister Scratch, he's got a hunting knife of his own in a makeshift holster that looks to be mostly one of the belt loops of the shorts plus a little extra to make sure that it isn't about to fall out in a hurry and hopefully also makes it harder to steal.

That said, it's the dancing that gets him to cross the rest of distance between him at Mister Scratch. Not because it's of any interest to him, but because it stands out.

"That isn't going to help."

late tag!

[workofart]

All those years thinking he had it made, he was safe now. He was never going back in the games. He was never going back to jail.

Weeell, he wasn't going back to jail, but he's pretty sure this doesn't quite count as better.

The gong goes off and Art stands by perfectly still, looking from left to right at the off-worlders rushing forward. What had Micaeus taught him? Aaaww, right. right.

He sets off, not touching any other tribute but weaving and dancing on through them like water around stone. He breathes deep and slow as he winds his way to the cornucopia. This, that, things he can't do without, then winding back out untouched.

And now for his own brand of survival. No one bonded like tributes in the arena did-- when they weren't killing each other that is. Tibutes had a special binding unity and he just had to play that.

"Hi! I'm Art! You got everything you need there? Need any help?" He offers, crossing fingers behind his back.

Aigis | Persona 3 |Tribute or Past Victor

[notjustamachine]

The Arena (OU Robot)

Supposedly, it's sweltering hot in this arena. Aigis notes with a well-programmed eye that the tributes nearest her are already starting to sweat, and she can see the heat haze her distance vision. All of these people will be dead, she thinks to herself as she looks around. She feels something in her wiring shudder, and her eyes settle on the cornucopia. Food and water she ignores, but all of that climbing equipment is mighty tempting.

The gong sounds and she hesitates half a beat. Instantaneous calculations tell her how many other tributes are running for the equipment and how likely she is to lose a limb if she gets close. An instant later she's running for it, her eyes set on a promising looking bag slightly away from the main section. She's fast, faster than you would expect, but any seasoned runner could catch her or cut her off if they tried. If anyone gets near enough for that, her spring-loaded knees will take her sailing over their heads.

The Party (Human Panem AU)

Aigis hadn't necessarily planned on coming. Socializing was not her strong suit, and nothing about the overdone and overdressed masses of the Capital made her feel like she belonged, but her stylist had insisted, and the tributes she had trained were about to risk and potentially lose their lives. Even through her empty, apathetic demeanor there's just enough loyalty there for her to be convinced to make an appearance.

No amount of loyalty would talk her into some over-wrought dress, though. She's practically famous by now as the under-dressed victor. Her usual style is presented today in a pressed black suit with satin at the lapels and cuffs and a shock of a red tie. Black and red was appropriate for the start of an Arena, she thought, as though that was an excuse for her usual uniform.

An Avox offers her an ice water and she takes it with barely a glance, though she doesn't drink from it. Currently her eyes are fixed on one of the screens displaying the Arena, and she's unconsciously mouthing along with the countdown.

[tookthewheel]

The sun has Bucky sweating soon enough, his hair sticking damply to the back of his neck and his forehead from it. He shifts on his podium as the countdown commences, loosening his muscles and checking the functionality of his cybernetic arm as he readies himself for action.

Once the countdown ends he's off like a shot, woe betide anyone who tries to get in his way. Supplies and getting off this rock to somewhere cooler is his first priority. He won't actively attack anyone though unless they invite it.

He snatches up a bag after the reflection of sunlight off his arm to blind another tribute going for the same item and then turns to head for the edge of the mesa and start climbing down -- which is when he almost runs into Aigis.

Thomas Barrow | Downton Abbey| Mentor

[mrbarrow]

There's something so lavishly disgusting about this particular party, if one happened to ask Thomas his opinion on all of this. They had not, of course, and he's been stuck here, makeup dripping off his own face, because even victors, apparently, can't avoid the fucking stylists for very long. Beyond that, he does have a job to do, and getting the Capitol elite to throw cash at his tributes is about the only part of this mentor thing he actually prides himself on.

Bringing glory and honor to one's district, or whatever the hell it is they've decided to mix in with the usual phrase, disguising it, maybe, is a complete crock of shit. Even though the tributes they've brought here get brought back to life right away, it's still a crock of shit, and he's barely bothered to learn their names, the way he's always done. Granted, it has become a little different, now, and he can't exactly call the current batch of sacrifices "Boy" or "Girl" any longer. Still, it's not as though he's gotten to know their names.

Give the old traditions SOME credit, after all. It's not as though they're human until they've proven they deserve to stay alive. Still, lying through his teeth about how great they are, is the sort of thing that's become natural now. Poised next to a table, drink in hand, he's mingling, or making his best attempt at mingling, anyway. One never knows, after all, who they may run into here. Even a customer might come along, and be so pleased that he or she throws money at his tributes in the morning.

There is the possibility, at least. Turning as someone approaches, Thomas flashes the newcomer a smile, full of charm and poise, and total bullshit.

"Good evening. This place is charming isn't it?" Whatever gets you ahead, isn't that it?

[notjustamachine]

If Aigis had any sort of powers of mindreading, she would have known right away that this particular partygoer shared some opinions in common with her. As it is, she barely has any basic social intelligence, so she takes him entirely at face value when he grabs her attention.

"Charming is not the description I would use." Then again, there is very little she does find charming. Charm was not something she was ever taught to detect, or value. Efficient killing and stubborn survivalism, yes. Still, some amount of politics was necessary here and she had learned such. "Forgive my manners, I have been told that I can be abrasive." Whatever that means.

Korra | Legend of Korra | Tribute

[unjoined]

The Arena

Korra is in no mindset to kill anyone right now and no amount of preparation and dolling up could get her there. She could only squint through the sunlight at the others but she didn't have to see them to know she couldn't end them. But would they try to kill her? Without her bending, it would be harder to pacify a fight. It's not like she could one on one fight the steam out of each of them until everyone calmed down. With a worried frown, she realized that at least for now she would wait to try reasoning later.

She had other things to think about. Korra frowned in concentration, reviewing her options during the countdown. No doubt what awaited down the cliff-side would be dangerous and a weapon or tool of some kind would be pretty useful. But... The cornucopia is the steadiest ground but surely the most deadly. Plenty of others probably had the same thought as her, and would duke it out up there. Who knows how hard climbing down would be against all of that.

The countdown neared its end and she made her decision the last second. At the gong she darted quickly to the side, not moving to grab anything along with her, and started to climb down. Korra's strong enough, and fast, but this could still be difficult. She wouldn't be able to stop herself from helping someone down if that's what it came to.

The noise I made wasn't human

[actually112]

Aang learned from the last arena. Weapons are okay, but food and water are paramount. He leaps into the Cornucopia, gracefully avoiding crossfire long enough to grab a bag with food and water in it and a walking stick before jumping off the lip of the canyon and catching himself on the wall.

Then he starts climbing down like a little spider monkey, because all self-respecting mountain-dwellers can climb a measly rock wall.

He slides next to a girl. He spares her a glance just long enough to make sure she's not going to randomly swing out and try to kill him, but he notices something. He recognizes the hairstyle, as well as the skin color and the general facial structure.

"Oh, hey! You're a Water Tribesman!"

Yes, that's worth noting, because thus far she's one of the only people who looks like she could be from his world. Everyone else usually has really round eyes or yellow hair or something. And yes, he's excited enough to comment while they're climbing away from a bloodbath.

Cassie Lang/Stature | Marvel Comics | Tribute

[magnetlips]

Cassie had no idea what was going on. Well, she had some idea. She probably shouldn't be surprised this had happened to her. This was like a rite of passage for superheroes: transported to some unknown world, taken by a powerful force. How many times had this happened? Only it had never happened to her.

And she didn't have her powers.

While the countdown started she looked around and saw only a sheer drop from a cliff. If she could only grow. The countdown stopped and she could move but she still found herself frozen. This was hard to catch up to. Looking at all these people moving it struck her that she was expected to kill everyone? She wouldn't do that.

But she didn't want to die either so she ran for the Cornucopia, her only way off this place.

She really wished she'd taken some rock climbing classes.

"Sorry," she murmured instinctively as she knocked into someone on her way to the Cornucopia. But she didn't stop running

TEJ PARKER FROM FAST & THE FURIOUS AW YEAH

[theygotatank]

Tej isn't terrified yet. Maybe it's some sort of delayed response. Maybe he's just used to adrenalin pumping through his veins, flooding his brain with some sort of immunity to usual risk calculations or danger assessments. Somehow, the idea of running straight into a blood bath, while terrifying, doesn't get him to stop.

He only really realizes what he's going to do, though, when a blonde girl bumps into him and apologizes. He figures people who want to kill him probably won't apologizing for a little elbow-jostling - and that the people who do apologize don't deserve to be killed.

He follows her.

"Keep going, I'll cover your back!" He's serious. "I won't hurt you!"

Raphael | TMNT | Tribute

[darkvigilante]

Okay, so the shirt, shorts, and boots didn't fit.

At all.

The heat felt good, at the very least, but little else about the situation made him feel particularly confident. Everything that led up to this moment proved to provide very little in the ways of training, no matter how they coloured it. Sure, he was trained for fighting anyway. For surviving. Stealth. Whatever. But this was different.

Blinking away the sting of sunlight, he tossed the clothes aside and broke out in a sprint toward the pile of goodies. He wasn't sure what to grab, or if he'd even have the time to be choosy. Chances weren't in his favour for the latter-- these guys were serious, and he knew it. This wasn't a damn tickle fight.

Harness, bottle, water, rope, and knives... if possible. Two would be even better, but scoring at least one would grant him the ability to potentially carve out another.

You know, if he made it past all the oogie boogies. And tributes.

First thing's first.

Here we go. Cornucopia. Time to dine and dash.

OH HELLO

[polyturtle]

Shell. Well, this was always fun. Heat.

He leaped off the platform and began to run. At least he could tolerate heat; had it been cold weather, he would have rued all the coffee he'd been drinking. But here, he at least could--

He nearly skidded to a full stop as he saw the turtle-shaped creature in front of him. No. No. That couldn't be right.

It had to be an illusion.

"What the shell--!?"

Brock Samson | The Venture Bros. | Tribute

[samson]

Deserts don't bother Brock. You find shade, you find water, and you travel at night. A hat would be nice too, but he's pretty sure he can just, you know, kill a guy and go all Lawrence of Arabia with his clothes.

And for all the build-up it was getting, Brock is actually finding the initial moments of the arena to be pretty boring. He barreled through the throng like the frenzy of murder he is, getting his hands quickly on a weird-looking sword and, after getting it stuck in somebody's skull, he traded it for a more comfortable knife.

Bodies fell -- dead or dying; he didn't really bother to check -- and once he was pretty sure nobody was on his back, he hoofed it to the edge of the plateau. As he jammed the crampon into the cliff and secured the rope, Brock considered that probably most people didn't come into this joint with decades of expertise in murder and weirdness. Oh well. Not really his problem.

Nobody thinks to pull some stupid rope-cutting Wile E. Coyote bullshit on him while he's rappelling down, which is nice, because it would be a stupid way to die. Probably all busy murdering each other, he thinks, glancing up from the bottom of the plateau as he unhooks himself from the harness and prepares to get the hell out of here.

Stephanie Rogers / Captain America | MCU (fem!AU) | Tribute

[fight_like_a_girl]

This whole set up is horrifying in a number of ways, but she doesn't have time to think about the injustice and ethics of it all. This is life or death. That's something she understands instinctively.

So as much as she might not like it, Steph needs to survive long enough to figure out how to to get out of here, how to make it back home. She won't kill anyone unless absolutely pushed to, considering everyone else is just as much a victim as she is. She's killed before; but that doesn't mean it makes it easier.

But then it's upon all of them, the mad dash to the pile of supplies.

Well greetings. Sorry this is kind of rubbish.

[arrogantalloy]

Tony had not been entirely thrilled about being forced into hiking boots, and cargo shorts. And even less thrilled about finding out he was on the top of a rocky plateau.

He eyeballs the cornucopia, but knows that his going in there unarmed will just end in death, so while everyone immediately caught up in scrabbling for weapons and food Tony eyed the drop, standing close to the end, clearly not all that put out that he was so close to the edge before picking up the rope to test how sturdy it as he contemplates his descent.

[tookthewheel]

Not everyone has scruples against killing, at least not if someone gets in their way.

Bucky uses a metal elbow -- metal gleaming sharply bright in the sunlight, already starting to heat up dangerously -- to crack into another tribute's chin and send them falling back, stunned as he takes up a rucksack of supplies and swings it over his shoulder. Then not wanting to waste a moment he whirls to head for the edge and comes face to face with a woman he doesn't recognise.

It's a tense moment as he eyes her, trying to discern if she means to get in his way and challenge him for the bag or not.

Francoise Arnoul / 003 | Cyborg 009 (Archaia Comics) | Tribute

[cyballerina]

Francoise has made it past the first hurdle. How she managed to dodge the bloodbath, grab some meager supplies, and get down the cliff face in one piece is nothing short of a miracle. She's still disoriented from her power loss-- She's been so used to hearing every sound, big and small, that suddenly being thrust into a quieter world is jarring. She'll get used to it in time, but she knows that at the moment it leaves her wide open to attack.

It's not that she's unused to being a target or being chased. Francoise has been in battle simulations before, back when they where testing the first round of cyborgs, and she can hold her own in a fight. But all of this has left her feeling vulnerable. And for the first time in a very, very long time, she's alone. Her teammates are nowhere to be seen.

She's huddled in what meager shade she can find even if it gives no respite from the heat. She needs a plan, and she needs one fast.

Hey sister

[silberfuchs]

Albert had long since decided the Cornucopia wasn't worth it and he and Jet had gone straight for their respective ropes. Free-sliding down into the canyon below probably wasn't the best idea but it was better than having to fight for their lives on a precarious pillar of rock and potentially get tossed to their deaths. Albert's already died by falling once. He has no intention of doing so again.

That said, now that they've been on the ground for an hour and are already sweating profusely in the heat, he has to wonder if they made the wrong call. The search for water has proved unfruitful so far and Albert is having a hard time seeing clearly with his white eyes allowing in far too much light. He's starting to get a headache.

Though that may not just be from the sun.

"Alright, Jet. Alright, we should have gone for the Cornucopia. I was wrong. Are you happy?"

Black Jack | Black Jack (fem!AU) | Panem!AU

[lifes_expensive]

Kuroi Hazama would rather be anywhere than here. Ah, scratch that. Anywhere but here or the newest area. While Victors may abound at the horrendously lavish party, she is not one of them. She was spared that violence against humanity. The scars on her face however suggest that she didn't get out of something else in one piece. How hardly matters at the moment, and as much as she would love to miss the premiere of the newest massacre, there are appearances to be kept up.

She might be cynical, abrasive, and downright rude, but she's never openly opposed these games. She's not suicidal enough to. Yet the hand that twists in the fine silk of the tablecloth does so not out of excitement or anticipation, but anger at what's playing out on the screen. What good was a doctor when people where off killing each other for entertainment? Kuroi's face however gives away nothing. She's gotten good at hiding.

Caterina Sforza | Assassin's Creed | Capitol!AU

[tela]

[Dressed in a drape of linen, beautiful in its simplicity and reminiscent of Roman togas, Caterina is prepared for the occasion. Eschewing heavy makeup in favor of something lighter and practically modest, Caterina looks comfortable and entirely at ease in the party's desert setting.

She sips an ice-cold drink and has a smile and a wink for just about everyone.

Meanwhile, she is watching everyone carefully, keenly aware of who everyone is and what they might be talking about.

She's a politician. It's her job to know.

And she does her job very well.]

[dominus]

[ Ezio arrives fashionably late, and fashionably underdressed to accommodate for the heat. He slips beside Caterina after a bit of schmoozing with other friends, other sponsors. ]

Your glass is nothing but ice now.

[ Look, he's brought her a fresh drink in a highball glass, grinning in his white, Roman skirt. Someone's just had a quick duck into the sauna, sweat beading prettily on his tanned skin. The arena opener is interesting, but not half as interesting as Caterina. ]

the chronicles of riddick ⇀ riddick ⇀ tribute

[survivorship]

ARENA

[ So it's a game. No surprise. People have made a game of life and death from the very beginning of existence. It's a dangerous one: fight, scrounge, survive, endure. All bets have been placed, spectators to their positions, pawns to their platform. And that's what the participants are. Pawns. Instruments in the grand scheme of entertainment; no one has to care about them. After all, spectators are safe where they are. A good distance between their idea of what life and death really meant and what it actually means.

Well, someone should have told them Riddick doesn't play games.

He wins them.

Survive is what he does. When he was done with this? He was going to get out of it. No one cages him. There hasn't been a slam that can hold him, a planet he hasn't been able to get off of. Left for dead, left to be eaten, left behind, and he comes out of it. This? All of this? It's nothing. Absolutely trivial compared. Still, rules are rules. Riddick doesn't play by those, either, merely observes them for the sake of keeping his head on his shoulders long enough to figure out what the hell he's got to do from one point to the next.

When the gong sounds, Riddick doesn't dive off into action. He strolls up to the edge of the cliff side and glances down the drop calmly. Leans down to take some dirt into his hand and test it, feel it between his fingers. Breathes in. It smells like dust. Baking rocks. The sun is brutal and there doesn't look like there's much of an escape from it. Water a long way off. The cliff doesn't have any shade, and the rocks were going to burn and blister. Fifty feet. Long drop. He could take the more frightened and toss them clean off it. Thin the herd. He doubts it'd get him anywhere. At least not yet. But there are some footholds. He'd be able to get down. ]

Test of endurance, huh? [ Dusting himself off, Riddick makes sure his goggles are secured. ] Some people are gonna be real disappointed soon.

[ With that, Riddick just lowers himself over the cliff's edge. He moves fast, never in a straight pattern, though, very aware that someone might get the bright idea to drop rocks down on top of him, and he was right. He's going to have heat blisters.

At the bottom, he walks. Just walks. Doesn't run. A methodical, even pace. Doesn't seem to particularly care on who stays behind him or who goes right ahead. More than well prepared for the possibility of traps.

Later on? Well, you might find yourself lucky if you run into anything nasty. Riddick can fight just about anything bare-handed. Can you? Not that he does do it because he wants thanks. Riddick does it for survival. He's decided on his course of action: The more people there are to distract everyone else, the better. The more people who think a little more favorably of him, the more likely someone might be to share something later-- preferably water.

Riddick's more than willing to deal with people who don't seem to follow the same logic: anyone who wants to make an enemy out of a seasons murderer is going to have a hell of a fight on their hands.

Get your game face on, friends. Riddick is a man on a mission and nothing is getting in his way. ]

Davesprite | Homestuck | Tribute

[anachronologistics]

The blistering dry heat is vaguely, if superficially, familiar to Davesprite; it reminds him of LOHAC. And Texas, if he thinks about it hard enough -- and he is thinking hard enough. Thinking about LOHAC and Texas is a lot easier than thinking about what his purpose here is, thinking about what it means to be sitting here at the edge of this shitty circle on top of a shitty plateau.

... really, he'd be a liar if he said that the thought that he might not ever be able to feel such dry heat again had never crossed his mind.

So, while the other tributes mumble and murmur to themselves about the heat, Davesprite just tips his head back to let the sun beat down on his face. His eyes close behind Ben Stiller's shades (he'd put up a vehement fight for them before the stylist finally conceded and shoved his wings through the wifebeater he's wearing now) and he waits with a contained sort of energy for the gong to ring. It isn't nervous energy (ha, that's a fucking lie...) but rather more like a spring ready to snap.

Booted feet shoulders' width apart, hands hanging limply at his sides, wings kept at an awkward angle (one of which whose feathers are a little more thinned out than the other) he's quite a sight for sore eyes. Everything about him has a hint of orange, like the living embodiment of an orange Kool-Aid dye job gone horribly wrong in a way that's nigh impossible to properly conceal.

It stands out. Horribly. Like a blinking neon sign in the middle of a dark Vietnamese jungle in the summer of '72 sort of horribly.

So when the gong sounds and the others rush forward, he spares himself a moment before rushing in as well. If asked, he'd say it was a tactical choice; let the others kill themselves while they clamor for whatever supplies they want to kill themselves over; supplies ain't good for anyone if they're dead and he's not stupid, that's exactly why the damn thing is set up the way it is.

The truth for his pause, however, is that the boots the stylist had stuck on his (stupidly skinny) new legs are heavy, and the asshole had not really given him enough time to actually practice walking in them before he was shoved out into this hellhole. That said, after his tactical pause is up, most of his speed as he dashes forward is mostly propelled by his lack of coordination, and not from any real skill. Case in point, the hunting knife he snatches is one that had clattered to the ground after whoever had gotten it first lost it after getting kicked in the face.

(Again and again, apparently...)

Hunting knife will have to do. It's the closest thing he's going to get to a shitty sword, anyway.

And just as he's stumbling toward the bloody mess, he's stumbling away again, toward the closest set of rock climbing gear. Nevermind he's never actually used the shit before.

Welp.




Needless to say, he is going to get down, even if it means that once he gets to the last fifteen or so feet before he just cuts the cable, slides down...

... and almost manages to land on his feet, except, haha, really, how long has he had these feet, and he winds up stumbling into a brambly, tangled shrub like a dumpass.

Anyone nearby will hear a strangled sort of half-cawing sound, followed by a disgruntled, "Jesus fuck--!"

The most graceful, Davesprite is not, at the moment.

[arosewiththorns]

She's been lucky the past few arenas. An empty town and a mockery of a mall, both places where she'd been able to get her hands on needles, her natural weapon of choice. But really she was expecting that luck to run out, was surprised it had lasted this long even.

So when the platforms take them up to the desert landscape she isn't shocked, instead just. Grim. She draws a deep breath and holds it as the time ticks down using said time to scan the platforms for the faces most familiar. Dave, Bro- and Dave again and that breath Rose was holding leaves her in a rush as she stares at the orange version of her brother. Another one and not the one she knows best and he must be brand knew since she knows she would have seen him had he arrived a day earlier and before she can really contemplate it the gong goes off and she has to move, has to get something so she isn't left to die.

The Cornucopia is always a rush of people and sounds and Rose tries to shut it all out as she narrows in on a sword and yanks it clean from its sheath and there's no time to stop as she twists to the side to avoid a blow from another tribute his face unfamiliar and she works on instinct, swinging the blade in a neat arc and the blood his her shirt in a splatter of red and it's sickenly warm but she can't focus on that, forcing her feet to run, trying to scan for those faces again for Dave, regular or sprite one of them or both of them.

She's still scanning when she sees the flash of orange and she watches him fall and Rose doesn't wait for the other two Striders to find her, swinging into action and clambering down the rockface herself. Her face is grim, a speckle of blood on one cheek and she's surprisingly nimble for someone this close to 40 and she finds her feet easier than he does, moving quickly to where she hears that squawk, something in her expression softening as she offers him her free hand.

"Dave."

beth greene | the walking dead | tribute

[schnapp]

At this point, Beth is sure she's only survived this far because of some of the things Daryl had taught her. How to make a fire without matches. how to eat whatever you can find. How to catch a snake and cook it, which is exactly what she does when night falls. It's a good thing she's already used to the humid Georgia heat, even if the dryness of the arena's environment parches her throat and cracks her lips. She's not used to how cold it gets the moment the sun goes down.

She's not used to being this alone.

The snake tastes like she burnt it a lot, which probably makes sense since it fell in the fire a couple of times. But it's food, and she's hungry and dirty and exhausted but too afraid to fall asleep out here on her own. With no one to watch her back. It's the silence and the loneliness that gets her, more than anything.

And even though it's probably a little foolish, Beth sings to herself under her breath.

That baby’s a man now he’s toilworn and tough
Still whispers come over the sea
Come back Paddy Reilly to Ballyjamesduff
Oh come home Paddy Reilly to me.

It helps, a little. Even if the sound carries a little and all she's got to her name is a tiny knife. It's the song her dad once wanted her to sing, but she never did. And she'll never get to. So if Beth's eyes sting a little, she tells herself it's from the fire. Because she doesn't get to cry, or be upset.

[anachronologistics]

"Needs more bass."

The boy stepping out into view is tall and skinny, and probably looks as bedraggled as Beth does. A pair of orange wings are folded tight to his back, almost like he's trying to hide them from her. In his left hand, he holds a large hunting knife.

He regards her closely from behind a pair of dark sunglasses, turning the knife in his hand once, twice --

-- before crouching down to stab it into the ground. He's not a threat, not unless he has to be.

Curtis Everett | Snowpiercer | Tribute

[dispositioned]

THE ARENA

01. The heat's already getting to him on top of the platform. It beats down on everyone, leaving them flushed and sweating straight away. In eighteen years, he never thought he would feel anything but the rattling cold and now he finds himself baking under the sun. Apparently moderation is just not something to be tolerated anymore. Even the light still makes him wince; it's a good thing they don't start immediately or else he would have been an easy target to pick off while he waited for the spots in his vision to recede.

And as he breathes the oppressive dry heat, lips cracking, he glances to the others in the tubes around him. Most seem focused, others distracting by the inevitability of their doom. It's hard to blame them, but that's not what Curtis is looking for. He watches their faces, deciding just what caches their attention in the Cornucopia. The effort certainly deserves an A, but it's rather a useless study. Instead he focuses on what he can salvage. In this environment, he won't last long without supplies even if his Mentor suggests otherwise. He can fight, but survival has been cooped up on a train car being fed slop like a pig. He knows only what he was taught in training, and that was just a crash course. No, he needs a pack and he's going to claim one.

The seconds are agonizingly slow once his adrenaline rush kicks in. His body's radiating pent-up energy waiting for the start. Then it's time and the blood pumping through his veins almost deafens him to it. With a heavy breath, Curtis launches himself off the platform and heads for a pack on the fringe of the Cornucopia. But he's not the only one. From his right, another tribute is heading for it as well, and that spurs him on. That pack means life or death for one of them, and he won't let it be him. This isn't his first time to be running for a literal finish line. He knows the importance, the single-mindedness it brings and he focuses on its memory to push himself. If he has to rip the person apart, tackle them into the blistering rocks underneath his feet and bleed them out, so be it; they are just one more clot of dirt under his feet as he staggers to his goal.


02. Curtis gets about a few meters ahead before he's stumbling like a drunk in the evening. That sigh of relief when he had gotten down from the cliff had doomed him. In the dark he had misstepped and his reward was the rattle of a snake. He had killed the damn thing, but not before it struck him. Knowing enough to cinch the wound to keep the venom from spreading faster, he does so, but the rest ran away with fear and sickness.

He can't remember if it's fatal or just a giant fucking pain in the ass, but he doesn't have the capacity for critical thinking for very long as he struggles to maintain his vertical altitude. It's with the skin of his teeth that he makes it close enough to a crush of boulders to cower behind while his mind swims of visions he can't tell exist or not.

Curtis doesn't want to die here. Not like this and not when he had come so far. When eighteen years of vengeance was about to be vindicated, he can't stop here. But what can he do? With a wet huff, the man leans back against the cooling rocks and breathes quietly, looking for a peaceful place in his mind. He can't find one.

[kinesia]

When the timer goes off, all Grey cares about is getting what he needs. He doesn't look at the other tributes. He throws and pushes them aside until he can get his hands on a knife, the only weapon he needs or wants. A pack, a small one, is scooped up, but he doesn't look inside it. Scaling the cliff is a task that suits him. He's spent his life climbing up things and over things, and he's not afraid that he'll fall. He's more afraid of the others. The other tributes.

And the sun, which feels hot enough to drain the life from him.

He has never known light like this. He'd seen sunlight once in his life, through a window, and never again. Now it's not just an abstract thing that makes him squint. It's glaring, blazing, making him sweat through his new clothes and making his skin slick in a way he hates. It makes climbing harder.

His mentor had told him to grab what he needed and run. Don't care about anything else. Just run and find cover, stay alive. That had been the order. That's all he's trying to do, and then -

The person below him makes him stop. Grey sees him by chance, hidden among boulders. Dropping on top of those boulders is automatic. All other thoughts are chased from his head. It's Curtis, it's Curtis. Curtis is here, and it makes everything else stop mattering because if Curtis is here, then he'll follow him and never mind any other orders. Grey crouches on the boulders, already reaching for him to see what's wrong. At least the boulders are in the shade. He touches at Curtis' arm, at his shoulders. Look at me, that's what he's thinking. Are you okay? Please be okay. Don't be hurt, you can't be hurt. What's wrong, what can he do?

Grey can't speak, but the questions and the fear that comes with them are written all over his face. Grey has lost his home. He's lost Gilliam. He's lost everything that he knows, but Curtis is here, and he'll help. He can't die. Grey won't let that happen.