Entry tags:
o.1 ( ARENA 06 ) | OPEN
Who, Hyperion and Open!
What, First impressions.
Where, Main street, for now!
When, Shortly after Hyperion is throw into the games mid-Arena.
Warnings/Notes, Language? TBA!
What, First impressions.
Where, Main street, for now!
When, Shortly after Hyperion is throw into the games mid-Arena.
Warnings/Notes, Language? TBA!
His steps are slow, careful, treading the ground like every moment traces a silent, invisible map in his head. His fingers curl into his palm (missing one finger on his right hand, barely a reminder of his past anymore), tense and relaxed, his breath escaping warmly to breathe in the colder air. He can feel it in his arms, behind his eyes - something is wrong with the cybernetic implants, like they were made dormant. His eyes can't focus as well, his arms don't carry the same lightweight sensation. Something was done to him, something beyond the obvious.
He doesn't like it.
It shouldn't be a good idea to walk out in the open like this, but he doesn't look too focused on the dangers around him. Whatever he's looking for - it seems to be one of those times where he'll only know it when he finds it.
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He's about to work up the energy to head back to Tomorrowland when he sees someone else in the road - a man, a face he doesn't recognize from the Cornucopia, but could he really be expected to remember seventy-odd faces? Maybe he just missed this one in the crowd.
Punchy, being the trusting sort, leaves the doorframe he was resting against and presumes Hyperion's open disregard for sneakiness is a good signal, a preemptive olive branch, perhaps. He holds hand out and waves, wearing a big grin and not much else besides a sleeve wrapped around the wound on his face and his pants and shoes.
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"Hey," he mutters, confusion pressing his brows with the ghost of a helpless smile. There's a pause to appreciate the wounds. "Jesus, you're..." Completely fucked. No - let's try a different approach. "Are you okay over there?"
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"You, on the other hand, look a bit jumpy, homeboy. You ain't bought into this 'kill or be killed' BS, have you?" Because it'd be good to know if he had, so Punchy could, you know. Not die.
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"I'm still fuzzy on the details of this whole thing, to be honest." He rests his hands on his sides, head tilting slightly with a thoughtful frown. He's playing the part of the newcomer, still lost even though he's been given just enough details to get started on the rat maze. Find the center first and you're free to go, isn't that how it normally goes? (Here it's kill the last one standing and you're free to go.)
But let's try to put that aside and talk to the other rat.
"I, uh - I'm new. If that means anything. And it looks like you need it more than I do, but - think you can help me out?"
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That's Punchy's strategy. Help people out, keep them alive until he can find a way to save everyone. That the former may frustrate the latter doesn't seem to hugely concern him.
He gestures to the house he's been hiding in. "I got a floor you could crash on if you need it. Can't help with chow, though."
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"I'm an OG, dawg. Ain't afraid of nothin'." He gestures to a wire chair. "What's your name?"
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"Hyperion." He steps in after his host, gloved fingers reaching for whatever detail catches his interest for longer than a second. There isn't much else strong enough to keep it, be it for good or bad reasons. "Hyperion Crius."
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"Ah. I'm Punchy." Well, at least he can give himself a good superhero name. "And I only had one person try to shank me since I got here. Peeps is generally chill, for a murdergame."
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If they could only see what's left of their precious boys now.
"Punchy? That a nickname?" He begins, brows appropriately arched, eyes focused on the other boy. Hyperion takes one last look around them before continuing, nodding idly with a tentative quality to his tone. "I'm guessing that makes you of the lucky ones. Or just the luckier ones?" Who knows. He doesn't care until the moment he has to. "What else can you tell me about this 'murdergame'?"
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"Yeah. I'm one of the lucky ones." He sighs. He can't forget the four dead bodies on the ground. He can't forget that he failed to save them. "They put us all in the field together and everyone ran at each other. Peeps was capping each other. We got four dead already."
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"That's horrible." A quick frown, bringing his hands back into his pockets, watchful and apparently concerned. Why did they bring him in afterwards? "... Did you know them?"
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"Nah, they weren't my crew or nothing. Never even seen most of 'em." And now he'll never get to know any of them. He failed. He failed and it doesn't even make for a good story, because there were too many people for him to be the hero. "You know anyone here? You know if you know anyone?"
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He wonders what it means. If he was simply given an easy target or if coincidences dictate he should take advantage of calm beginnings and wait to move on to a bigger challenge.
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"But stick with me and I'll look after you, a'ight?" Punchy's now taking it as a measure of faith that Hyperion's a good guy. After all, shady people don't act sad about the dead or give out their real names!
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"No second-guessing. Got it."
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He sees Hyperion.
This isn’t someone Aunamee recognizes. That lean figure, that clipped blond hair. Aunamee was always thorough in his research, in examining each and every tribute, how they operated and fought and fell. But no, oh no. This one is new. This one is unpredictable.
He slows his pace, his eyes locked on the other man.
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There is nothing to be said. Nothing to be done. Instead Hyperion interrupts the stillness in the air by stretching his lips at him, friendly and unreadable.
It could be an invitation to approach, it could be a challenge to attack. He's curious to see how the reader interprets it.
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But on the outside, Aunamee smiles back. Cautious. When his lips fall once more, it's as though he's never smiled in his entire life.
"You're happy to see me."
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"Could be. Are you happy to see me?"
Are you here to fight or to run?
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"No," he answers simply. "Because we're on a killing field."
He approaches. Little by little. Step by step. Pride pushes him forward like stilts, his boots kicking up tiny pebbles. Dust.
"And I don't know what sort of man you are."
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"Like you said," He opens his hands, letting them hang by his sides, dropping to find their way into his pockets. "This is a killing field. How many can there be?"