cutshort: (009)
▼ ([personal profile] cutshort) wrote in [community profile] thearena2013-03-20 01:55 pm

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!

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.
nunpunching: (Rimshot!)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-21 03:46 am (UTC)(link)
Punchy's spending a moment on Main Street, after having run into Lady. He's finding himself easily winded; his previously interminable stamina is failing him. He knows he may have to rest soon and let his body recuperate from all the blows it took at the Cornucopia - the missing eye is the most evidence problem, but he doesn't know how much blood he lost from the gashes in his face and neck, or if Karis passed anything onto him when she bit him. Furthermore, his naked torso is starting to show signs of a few ugly bruises he doesn't remember the origins of.

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.
nunpunching: (Gangsta's paradise.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-22 06:13 am (UTC)(link)
"Oh, yeah, I'm cool, I'm chill. Got a bit bashed up on opening night but that ain't no big D." While Punchy's gregarious, he's also not totally stupid, so he doesn't come running up. He stays a healthy few body lengths away.

"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.
nunpunching: (Default)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-23 12:15 am (UTC)(link)
"Fo' shizzy. You looking for shelter, chow, a piece? Because I can't give you a piece, you might use it to ice somebody."

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."
nunpunching: (Default)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-23 07:33 pm (UTC)(link)
The building was once the Mainstreet Markethouse. It has scattered wire chairs, a large stove, and barrels of dusty, no-longer-edible former merchandise lining the edges of the room. There's dust everywhere.

"I'm an OG, dawg. Ain't afraid of nothin'." He gestures to a wire chair. "What's your name?"
nunpunching: (Why you frontin'?)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-24 04:29 am (UTC)(link)
Punchy is immediately jealous. He would love to have a badass, videogame-like name like 'Hyperion Crius'. Instead, he got saddled with Matthew, which is in the top ten most popular boys names every single year, and O'Connor, which everyone thinks is like some supreme court judge or something. His attitude gets a little frostier towards Hyperion just out of envy.

"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."
nunpunching: (This ain't breezy with me.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-25 03:29 am (UTC)(link)
"No, it's my real name. It's legit." This is a complete and utter lie; Punchy is not yet a registered superhero and as such, can't even claim Punchy is his legal name, much less his birth name. One can't register until they're 21 and have a certain amount of heroic acts to their name (Punchy has zero, although he does have a few failed attempts, which he thinks should be worth partial credit).

"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."
nunpunching: (Sounds wack.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-27 03:56 am (UTC)(link)
Punchy seems not to notice if Hyperion's putting any effort into feeling sad. Instead, he seems a little lost in his own head, as if he didn't totally leave the bloodbath even though his body is here.

"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?"
nunpunching: (Sounds wack.)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-28 05:38 pm (UTC)(link)
"Good. Some of these bitches out here is cray. You'd need to be a pro like me to handle them." He gestures to his slashed-up face as if it's a badge of doing something well, rather than of making a mistake; truly, it was both luck and skill that got him out of the Cornucopia without any fatal wounds.

"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!
nunpunching: (Why you frontin'?)

[personal profile] nunpunching 2013-03-29 05:20 pm (UTC)(link)
"Yeah, I'm a pro," Punchy says, looking a little bit defensive. The one visible eyebrow knits into a peeved furrow. "So you can put your faith in me, a'ight? No second-guessing or nothing."
marcato: (yeah over there stands my angry angel)

[personal profile] marcato 2013-03-24 06:54 pm (UTC)(link)
There are no weapons on the borded-up Main Street Shops, but there are old t-shirts and stubby pencils, tiny little souvenirs of a time gone by that can perhaps be of use in the future. Aunamee — the prince, the savior, the chosen one — ties them all up in his clean and pristine cape and hoists it over his shoulder as he moves through the street. The air is quiet, absent of cannons, and he finds it disturbing somehow, like the calm before the storm.

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.
marcato: (that's just being free.)

[personal profile] marcato 2013-03-25 06:44 pm (UTC)(link)
He still has it, that pathetic shard of plastic he picked up when he met Wesker in the fake graveyard. He doesn't like how this man watches him, how he treats these ruins like his domain and smiles in the face of the unknown. He wants to use the pathetic shard and the ruins and the rocks to wipe the smile from his face.

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."
marcato: (to keep the dogs at bay)

[personal profile] marcato 2013-03-30 05:35 pm (UTC)(link)
He doesn't disguise it, how he looks Hyperion up and down, how his eyes pierce and peel and unfold the other man's skin.

"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."