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

Opening night. Looks like Hyperion has already missed out on quite a bit.

"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?"

"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."

"You're just gonna let a stranger into your shelter?" The slight disbelief in his tone comes with a hint of humor, pinching his brows together and pulling his lips to a lopsided smile. "Awfully trusting of you," Hands raised disarmingly, he falls one step backwards, "Not that I'm complaining."

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?"

That's quite a claim. One he'd like to prove wrong, preferably with blood, should the occasion present itself. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, he reminds himself. Certainly there's more safety in patience and satisfying his curiosity.

"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."

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."

A name like Hyperion Crius would be the equivalent of Matthew O'Connor where he hails from - times have changes and so have habits. Every child is named after a deity in whatever pantheon the parent can remember, and all the Crius triplets were no exception. Helios, Apollo, Hyperion, all named with the concept of light in mind. Mother and father must have thought it would somehow make things better for them.

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'?"

"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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