thearena | o.1 ( ARENA 06 )

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

Whether he feels it's unfortunate to have a name like Punchy remains unclear in Hyperion's expression, simply giving it a soft purse of his lips and arch of his brows, as if letting the matter drop where it belongs. He brings a hand up to rub his nose lightly, briefly, listening to the remainder of his story with an attempt to show something more than indifference. It gets hard, sometimes, to remember you need to show emotion to blend in. Pretend you're still one of them.

"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?"

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?"

Hyperion can only shake his head silently, revealing nothing beyond the answer. "You're the first I've found."

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.

"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!

"Oh, you're a pro?" He nods, seemingly amused, arms crossed and relaxed, the same way an adult would be entertained by a child's bravery. There's some room to appreciate the wounds on his face, another to appreciate the fact that he wears them with pride. "I might think about it, Punchy. I got no idea what I'm up against anyway."

"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."

He lifts his hands, as if to show his intentions have been disarmed.

"No second-guessing. Got it."

o.1 ( ARENA 06 ) | OPEN

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