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thearena2014-08-18 09:38 pm
etcircenses) wrote in thearena2014-08-18 09:38 pm
Entry tags:
- ! arena 11,
- aang,
- albert heinrich,
- bucky barnes (mcu),
- cassandra marko,
- clara murphy,
- commander shepard,
- harley quinn,
- jet link,
- molotov cocktease,
- sigma klim,
- the grand highblood,
- the signless,
- ✘ alex murphy,
- ✘ astrid hofferson,
- ✘ brainiac 5,
- ✘ bruce banner,
- ✘ bucky barnes (616),
- ✘ carlos the scientist,
- ✘ clementine,
- ✘ dave strider,
- ✘ dennett norton,
- ✘ donatello,
- ✘ edward nygma,
- ✘ elsa,
- ✘ eridan ampora,
- ✘ hiccup,
- ✘ homura akemi,
- ✘ joel,
- ✘ justin hammer,
- ✘ kankri vantas,
- ✘ kurloz makara,
- ✘ mindy macready,
- ✘ nasir,
- ✘ natasha romanoff,
- ✘ peggy carter,
- ✘ pruna,
- ✘ rocket raccoon,
- ✘ ruffnut thorston,
- ✘ skye,
- ✘ sollux captor,
- ✘ steve rogers,
- ✘ tess,
- ✘ tony stark
ARENA 11-PaneMall
It’s pre-dawn when the Tributes are roused from their beds and sent to their tubes. Those who’d been imprisoned for the past few weeks had their heads covered before transport to the staging area, and there’s an air of confusion surrounding just about everything that’s happening until the stylists and managers arrive on the scene and try to calm everyone down. The reunions may be happy, but they're sadly very temporary.
The first clue that something strange is happening comes from their clothing: figure skating costumes with bright colors and sequins and ice skates strapped to their feet. Some may even find it difficult to stand with the blades on their feet, but as they're placed into the arena, all becomes clear. The mall skating rink seems quiet and quaint, especially after weeks of uncertainty and stress. Too bad the peace and quiet can’t last.
20
19
18...
Above the ice rink (which houses all 100+ Tributes) there are floors with shops looking over them. Large, bright fluorescent lights dot the multi-storied ceiling and create a warm, nostalgic glow to the place. Benign music is piped in from various hidden speakers to compliment the intended mood of fun and commerce.
17
16
15…
The countdown continues and the Tributes, some of whom haven’t seen each other in weeks, stare at one another helplessly. That is, until one of them boldly decides to speak.
"We're expected to fight here today," Steve's voice suddenly cuts through the tension in the room. It commands attention without demanding it, a conviction of truth in his tone.
14
13
12...
"To turn on each other through fear and self preservation. And we could give them what they want. A bloodbath," here he pauses longer, lets the reality of his statements sink in. Let people realize what he's saying, that this is a choice.
"Or we can choose not to fight. To instead work together," an option so many seem not to even realize they have. "No one here has to die by our hands today," he knows his speaking won't be without consequence, but he does want to believe he'll be the only one to pay for this.
"This is a risk. One many of you are hesitant to trust, let alone take. But everything we do here is a risk to ourselves and those around us," nothing in the arena comes without putting your life on the line.
"I, for one, am willing to take this risk, to choose not to fight," Steve looks around the room, making eye contact with a few people as he does. He's not telling anyone what to do, this is for them to decides for themselves; their freedom of choice.
But he's got faith in the his fellow tributes. "And I've got a feeling I'm not alone.”
… 3
2
1…
After the countdown ends, there’s a moment of utter still and silence. Then...
BOOOOOOOOOOOM
The room seems to erupt with noise and concussive force. The explosions are so violent that the muzak is paused in its tracks and shakes some of the Tributes off of their pedestals, and after the ice fog and smoke clears, it becomes apparent that fifteen of the Tribute pedestals and exploded there on the ice rink. Fifteen corpses lie mangled on the bloody ice: Deanna Winchester, Danny Fenton, Fili, Kili, Kain Highwind, Perry Kelvin, Julian Bashir, Clint Barton, Karkat Vantas, Sirius Black, Rahm Kota, Cinderella, Bunnymund, Robin, Rock Lee, and Rokk Krin.
The center of the ice rink remains completely intact and stocked with a few dozen keys of varying shapes and sizes. This is the Cornucopia and the Gamemakers are compelling the Tributes to skate for it.
The gong rings out, and the countdown's voice announces “The Arena is now open.” The Games have begun.
The first clue that something strange is happening comes from their clothing: figure skating costumes with bright colors and sequins and ice skates strapped to their feet. Some may even find it difficult to stand with the blades on their feet, but as they're placed into the arena, all becomes clear. The mall skating rink seems quiet and quaint, especially after weeks of uncertainty and stress. Too bad the peace and quiet can’t last.
19
18...
Above the ice rink (which houses all 100+ Tributes) there are floors with shops looking over them. Large, bright fluorescent lights dot the multi-storied ceiling and create a warm, nostalgic glow to the place. Benign music is piped in from various hidden speakers to compliment the intended mood of fun and commerce.
16
15…
The countdown continues and the Tributes, some of whom haven’t seen each other in weeks, stare at one another helplessly. That is, until one of them boldly decides to speak.
"We're expected to fight here today," Steve's voice suddenly cuts through the tension in the room. It commands attention without demanding it, a conviction of truth in his tone.
13
12...
"To turn on each other through fear and self preservation. And we could give them what they want. A bloodbath," here he pauses longer, lets the reality of his statements sink in. Let people realize what he's saying, that this is a choice.
"Or we can choose not to fight. To instead work together," an option so many seem not to even realize they have. "No one here has to die by our hands today," he knows his speaking won't be without consequence, but he does want to believe he'll be the only one to pay for this.
"This is a risk. One many of you are hesitant to trust, let alone take. But everything we do here is a risk to ourselves and those around us," nothing in the arena comes without putting your life on the line.
"I, for one, am willing to take this risk, to choose not to fight," Steve looks around the room, making eye contact with a few people as he does. He's not telling anyone what to do, this is for them to decides for themselves; their freedom of choice.
But he's got faith in the his fellow tributes. "And I've got a feeling I'm not alone.”
2
1…
After the countdown ends, there’s a moment of utter still and silence. Then...
The room seems to erupt with noise and concussive force. The explosions are so violent that the muzak is paused in its tracks and shakes some of the Tributes off of their pedestals, and after the ice fog and smoke clears, it becomes apparent that fifteen of the Tribute pedestals and exploded there on the ice rink. Fifteen corpses lie mangled on the bloody ice: Deanna Winchester, Danny Fenton, Fili, Kili, Kain Highwind, Perry Kelvin, Julian Bashir, Clint Barton, Karkat Vantas, Sirius Black, Rahm Kota, Cinderella, Bunnymund, Robin, Rock Lee, and Rokk Krin.
The center of the ice rink remains completely intact and stocked with a few dozen keys of varying shapes and sizes. This is the Cornucopia and the Gamemakers are compelling the Tributes to skate for it.
The gong rings out, and the countdown's voice announces “The Arena is now open.” The Games have begun.
Re: OTA
Perhaps before, he'd have gone about a different way, no need to hide when he could fight and cull and defend himself easy. But an avox does not fight and an avox most certainly doesn't harm a tribute.
Still wearing the skates and skating suit patterned like glowing armor, but without none of the perks of padding or any protective qualities whatsoever, he makes his way. It would be easier to remove the skates but he is almost certain he is not allowed to do so of his own will-- a thing which is not supposed to exist. His hair is short, he's without paint, the dud-fins show, and he hasn't a single bit of anything in him to be anything but an obedient non-person.
Obviously, he's a prime target.
no subject
He's hardly the intimidating presence he saw on the network that one day, hair shorter now, and he looks far less wild. Far less crazy. That doesn't stop the rise of anxiety that's boiling in the pit of his digestive sack.
While not being worried about many of the trolls here, Initiate is a wild card, something he's not dealt with before, something he's not really seen before. He's barely had exposure to Gamzee when he's not being a worthless pile of slime, stoned out of his mind, drooling on everything. The unknown is worrying, but as it seems, the Initiate is nearly ignoring him in a way that's downright uncharacteristic.
Time to put his game face on.
"Hey-- ugly," he starts off, pretty sure he sounds like a badass, "Yeah you, I'm talkin' to you finle-" but then he sees them, the little dud fins, and he can't help but almost laugh. Fucking indigo bloods, worthless wannabe sea dwellers.
"HA! I see why you always got that long nasty hair a yours, if I was you, I'd be hidin' those failure-fins too. Anyway, you here to fight, is that why you'we sought me out?" he says all of this while keeping hold of his skates, tightly, in both hands. Tentative steps forward, not wanting to seem scared, or worried. He's more then latter, than the former, anyway.
no subject
So he slows, because he is being addressed... mostly directly, and because he's not sure he's supposed to stop.
Seek him out? The motherfuck would he do that for? Now. He does remember before but the idea of that now is strictly not allowed. He does not dare even summon the memory. It is a solid no within his mind, with a sure hanging punishment to follow the mere thought.
What he does instead is simply blink. His eyes are still avoidant of Eridan's face and his posture is still just the same. Only with an added unsureness, for if Eridan was seeking a fight, he'd hardly be getting one.
no subject
That isn't necessarily a bad thing.
"What's the matter, pouncebeast got your tongue?" he asks, mockingly. He takes a few second, then he's approaching again. Cautious, watching, waiting. Eridan knows nothing about avoxes, doesn't even know they're a thing, so this all seems like a trap, but he's armed. Armed and ready, and if this asshole tries to pull anything, he'll gut him with this boot-blade, so fucking help him.
"Go on, speak up, or are you scared? I wouldn't blame you, if you were."
no subject
He stops walking altogether, staring down at Eridan's feet with blank eyes. He knows to be attentive, a tribute is speaking to him. He pretends like he doesn't even notice the blades.
His hands stay at his side as that of a proper servant and he waits for something to come of this. Questions are not things he is to answer, and calls for speech are even less likely to get response.
no subject
"What's with the silent treatment?" Eridan asks with obvious annoyance. By now, there's only a few feet between them, the skate acting like a shield with it's blade turned to the Initiate.
"You didn't seem to want to shut the fuck up when we first spoke. You also looked more of a mess than you do now. So, what? Now that we're here, now that you're facin' me, you ain't got the torso-pillar to do shit?" he sneers at him arrogantly.
"If that's the case, then I suggest you get on your fuckin' knees an' bow before your prince," he's not expecting him to actually listen, he's just being an asshole. Arrogant as always.
no subject
Immediately the sound of bone on tile sounds in the air. It's without pause, without a break in the moment of the command to the sound itself. He is standing one second, then on his knees the next.
His body folds right down flat, low as he can make himself, palms down. His horns are bowed with his head, so low his nose and forehead can touch the floor. It is a right proper bow. It is such a sufficient grovel, it puts the weakest, most pathetic lowblood to shame.
There is no spark of nothing in him what has him of thought to do otherwise. The almost Grand Highblood bows deferential to Eridan Ampora.
no subject
He lets out a bark of a laugh as the Initiate bows so low that he's pretty certain his nose is grazing the floor. It's such an expertly done bow, that Eridan's nearly impressed. Not impressed enough to save the indigo blood's dignity any, within the next moment, Eridan's foot (bare of it's skate) is roughly stomped onto the back of the Initiate's head. Not hard enough to cause any horrible damage, like slamming his nose into the ground, but there's quite a bit of discomfort to be hard.
"That's right. That's your rightful place before your better," Eridan's eating this up with egotistical glee. He adds pressure, digging his heel in, which in turn serves to press the other troll's face into the ground if he puts up no resistance.
"You ain't nothin' but scum beneath my hoof, an' it's beneficial to you that you realized this fact."
no subject
A miracle what puts his face to the floor, getting dirt upon the bare paintless grey. Selfless, personless grey. He's squashed right down so the bones in his face make want to bruise the skin pinched between them and the floor. He keeps one eye open in case he's requested to do anything more.
Of course Eridan is better. He is a tribute, always better than an avox. There was no need to point out that he was scum beneath. It is a statement of the obvious.
He wonders for a short second if Eridan might kill him, and his fingers hardly twitch.
no subject
Eridan keeps his foot there for far longer than is necessary, but he does withdraw it, placing it on the floor as he stares down at the heap of a troll before him. Idly, he does consider taking advantage of this, the thought of slaying this usually nightmarish troll seems too sweet, and it's temptation is almost impossible to resist, his hands gripping the skate in his hand. His eyes following the length of the blade that's meant for ice, but could split a husk just as simply as it could scar the rink. With a quick oscillation, his gaze falls to the silent troll still arched before him.
"Sit up."
no subject
He rises on command, head lifting but not raising to look at Eridan or meet his eyes. His ganderbulbs remain trained on the floor. The Initiate's hands rest upon his knees as he sit on his haunches, back straight.
Just like that, he waits. His oculars are empty.
no subject
He stares down at his face, bemused by the fact he doesn't meet his eyes. Subservient, submissive, obedient. Even so, Eridan's natural instincts are screaming for him to do more, asserting dominance isn't enough. It's never been. Death has been the ultimate form of control, ultimate means of dominating. Of being the greater of others, the strong survive, the weak die. It's the natural order of things.
Taking the skates by their strings in one hand, he reaches out (with the Initiate's height he hardly even has to bend forward), grabbing larger troll by the chin, forcing his head up to look at him. It's risky, and he knows he's leaving himself open, but perhaps the daring gesture gives him an adrenaline high. Even if it seems this troll before him is incapable of attacking him, or fighting back, it still gives him a thrill that's all too euphoric-like.
"It'd be so easy to cull you like the wasted mound a slimy flesh you are, you know that?" he doesn't expect an answer, so he continues, "but you're lucky. I'we got bigger fish to fry."
Though he does aim to turn his head to the side, so he can scrutinize those underdeveloped fins with notable disgust. Sure, he doesn't plan to kill him (yet), but he does idly think about removing those laughable fins from this troll. He hardly has to right to them, even if they're worthless and not fully developed, but he dismisses the thought.
He releases his chin, drawing his hand back, before aiming to deliver a solid kick to the indigo's chest. Obviously trying to knocking the troll back, for all Eridan might be a young troll, he's still notably strong. Sea dwellers are no slouches, that's for damn sure.
no subject
He expects it, assumes it. His culling is coming. Will he bleed out the throat? The guts? Some other way?
But then he doesn't. He says he ain't going to and this would be whereas he might feel relief or... something. He doesn't. He remains numb, fearful only of disobedience.
He even knows, when his head is jerk to the side, Eridan is beholding his shame. But that's distant too.
The kick is less so. He falls back, head hitting hard against the floor. He doesn't rise, because who's to say if Eridan wants him to. But he does cough some with trying to catch that short breath lost.
no subject
Maybe. Maybe he should leave him with something to remember this by, to remember him by. Or, maybe less leave him with, and more so leave him without. Eridan takes a step to the side, so that when he order's him to turn his head, the horns won't catch him. Then he squats down, elbows resting on his knees. He reaches with his free hand, and roughly pats at his cheek.
"Turn your head to the side. Lemme see that ugly fin a yours."
Fortuitous for him that he's got these ice skates. It'll be awkward, cutting those off with such bulky things, but he hardly cares about precision.
no subject
There's the first bit of true fear to follow an order. He can see the dots connecting now, eyes widening with it. But still, his head turns, compelled.
He swallows, and his claws try on digging into solid tile, getting nowhere for the effort. His teeth clench tight and he finds a place for himself to stare off into, as he tries to draw away from feeling and sensation.
He fought seadwellers before, gone for all the weak parts. He knows this is going to hurt.
no subject
So he stands up quickly, stepping over the Initiate's head, so one foot is on either side. A risky situation to put himself in, but if this overgrown troll is to do anything, well, he figures it'd be done by now. In the next moment, he's plopping his ass down right on the chest of the other troll. Not giving much of a shit of how his rear lands rather unceremoniously on his sternum. Yes, this gives him a much better angle to slice those ugly fins.
"Alright, hold the fuck still, I don't giwe a shit how much this might hurt, but you bloody derserwe this either way, and I ain't gonna deal with no squirmin'," he nearly hisses the words out as he grabs hold of the indigo blood's laughable fin, his other hand holding one of the skates, brandishing the blade against the skin. He presses it, letting the sharp edge encourage the first dribbles of indigo from the entire process.
The sight's lovely, to say the least. And perhaps there's more than Eridan's typical cruelty that fuels this. There's an almost primal sort of need, some display of dominance, and the need for revenge. He knows what this troll does eventually in life, whose life he takes for reasons not worthy of it.
He might not kill the troll by the end of this, but he wants him to hurt, wants him to have a constant reminder of whose blood line he's crossed, and that Eridan Ampora is not a troll to fuck with, with reckless abandon.
no subject
Don't squirm, he says, and so the Initiate tries ever more to dig his claws into tile, bracing for what's to come. He stares off and off, trying to find that distance, but for some reason, it's now when as he's being hyper aware of those things he'd always hated, always wondered why he'd never just torn them off himself.
The answer comes. He feels the blade press and draw blood. His eyes go wide. He sucks in air, and then all instictive of no, no, don't let no one get their touch of them he tugs sharp. He feels the flesh and clustered nerve ends tear. The air leaves him like all what should be there is being some sort of cry or scream or something, but there's nothing, there's not a sound even as his mouth opens formed to make some.
His vocals are cut. There's no tongue visible in his maw. He has no voodoo. All he has is noise of breath.
And even still, he forces himself still again. Orders are orders. He can feel his blood run down to the back of his neck.
no subject
The slicing of flesh, and the fin slowly becoming free with the staining gush of indigo is like visual art to Eridan. The act itself is such a simple thing, cutting the half-fin off of someone isn't that big in action alone, but the meaning behind it, the symbolism. All of it is enough to be intoxicating. It's like emasculating a troll in one of the worst ways possible, especially considering what fins mean to trolls.
How soundless the act is, is odd. Only the sound of breath and the cutting of sensitive skin, but even the latter stops before too long. The fin finally being separated and tossed unceremoniously on the ground besides the head it was once attached to. With a firm hand grabbing Initiate's chin, he eyes his work: bloody and hardly a clean cut, but he's pleased. With that same hand, he aims to turn the indigo's head. He wants the next fin.
He's going to be thorough, even if this act is giving him some sympathy pains to his own fins. Not because he sympathizes with the initiate, of course not, but because losing his fins would be a daymare he never wants to live, so doing it himself makes him feel almost a little sick. He ignores it, however, because this sack of putrid behemoth leavings doesn't deserve to have such royal protrusions.
no subject
His breath drags shallow and his body shudders involuntary as he feels the flesh come free. All his senses are focused up on the one spot and the sudden strange lack there, underneath the pain of it.
It is both far from his mind, and entirely too present, the meaning implicated in this all. The perfect poetry to have a seadweller being one to take off the single similarity from the highest of landwellers, making it firm and clear as they've been making to try on to do since he was two sweeps old. His blood is not the middle ground of shore and sea, no matter what implies otherwise, what things nag cruel and agonizing. His blood is of the gap, the line drawn of not being good the fuck enough. He'd hated those fins. But without, everything feels worse. An image of his Da turning tail in the waves flashes through and he is made shamed and shameful more still.
He is an avox. He is a nonperson. He is a traitor, a sinner, and a criminal. He deserves this. And he will remain obedient.
The blood is sticky in his short hair. It leaves his side being all of a chill. Eridan's hand is colder but the flinch ain't hardly noticeable in the shudders. His head is turned and he gasps again, another noiseless cry wanting to form as he's forced to lay upon his injury. His eyes squeeze shut this time, once he settles, knowing it ain't yet over.
no subject
It isn't guilt, far from, the troll he's assaulting while simultaneously using as a stool is nothing but dirt to him, but the sympathy pains of cutting his fins off is getting to Eridan. His fins have phantom aches, and so with one last swoop of the blade, he cuts a good chunk of the fin off, but not the whole of it. He curses at himself, for his hands anxiously wanting to depart themselves from their task, only for it to be left partially done.
"Good enough." He spits out, his nose crinkling in disgust. It doesn't look much like a fin now, at least. Just some disfigured lump of flesh below his auricular protrusion. The prince tosses the skate away from him, the blade stained indigo, before he stands. He places his foot on the cheek of the troll below him, pinning his head in a way that's utterly disrespectful, but totally in Eridan's right, he thinks.
"Listen here you absolute frothin' bag a fetid behemoth shit, if I see you again it won't be a portion a your disgustin' husk you lose. I'll cull you like one a my standin' got the right to. Now go an' clean yourself up and stay outta my sight. You'we been a blight on my ganderbulbs long e-fuckin'-nough."
He removes his foot, and moves away from the Initiate, standing to the side watching him as he tries to calm his stomach, and push his active imagination away from how it must feel to have his fins sliced off so crudely.
Eugh.
no subject
He ain't going to be sick, he knows that. But the final slash brings a terrible surge of illness with it what he can't deny. Every muscle in him is cramped from the effort of staying still. The blood is washed over his neck, all upon his bare face and around his eyes in trails. He can taste his own blood in his grit teeth.
Good enough, Eridan says, and he can't hardly believe it, even when the skate is tossed away and he can see the blood on it too, as well as the small spatter trail from the work what got done. His face is pushed further into the blood, crushing that ruined ear down and soaking his hair and clothes purple. There's a split second twitch of what might have been snarl once, but mostly his eyes stay shut and his teeth stay grit.
He could almost make like he ain't listening, except the order comes and his eyes open, face going blank once more even despite the pain piercing his skull and zapping every nerve end like he's on fire. The moment Eridan allows him he stands upright, swaying only a little. He doesn't give the other troll so much as a passing glance. He walks off to clean the blood as ordered. The lack of fins leave a hollow feeling but it's one what he can ignore, with the press of fear saying these must be hidden from sights what could be offended. Even if wrapping and taping them down immediate like that hurts something unholy. After that, will come cleaning the blood from his hair and the clothes he's been given, to watch indigo run down some drain.
And of course, once Eridan is gone, he will return to wash the blood from the floor too. He is not a person and so he should not leave no trace. Not even by his blood.