thearena | (no subject)

Who: Aunamee, Hyperion, Maximus, Howard (closed)
What: Encounters.
Where: Tagger's choice!
When: Week 5.
Warnings/Notes: Animal cruelty, violence.

Aunamee's ankle is broken. His rib is broken.

The first thing he does after spearing his latest meal (a cat like the one he sent howard, sharp teeth, sharp claws, matted fur) is break its back paw and crack its ribcage. He listens to the sounds it makes, the wails, the cries, the bone rubbing against bone, and then he puts it out of its misery with a sharp stomp to its head. When its over, he's panting, and every breath sends a charge of pain from his stomach to his neck.

His facade is crumbling. The elegance he carried in his first weeks (the smooth movements, the careful steps, the smiles) is giving way to his truer nature. Sadism. Madness. His hands tremble and his eyes dart. His clothing is covered with Topher's blood. He is too hungry for this (he is not used to hungry) and too exhausted (he is not used to exhaustion either) and when he least expects it, rage surges up from his throat like bile.

He is good at pretending, now and again.

But he is not that good.

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That's not an answer. Hyperion's head shifts slowly, watching him, stretching his neck in the process. Lines are starting to show on his features, lines of a man who has gone too long without rest and supplies. He doesn't seem to mind.

"A gift."

"A man," he clarifies easily. His shoulders are relaxing, little by little. His sneer is fading. The memory of that moment -- of Hyperion killing Grey because Aunamee directed it -- is so sweet and perfect that it leaves him breathless. In the hellish landscape of the arena, this is the thought that keeps him going.

"I don't think he introduced himself," he says, watching Hyperion with his razor sharp eyes. He purses his lips. (The memory is still there, still so sweet. Like a candycane.) "But his name was Grey, and he was a psychotic."

Like you.

"Grey."

All he remembers is thinking how pathetic he was when he fell, eyes staring up with nothing left in him except - what was it? Lunacy? What were humans when all they had left was a beating heart and hollow mind? Vessels made of flesh and bone, little more. Sometimes Hyperion dared to think the virus was a blessing. If he ever disappeared, truly disappeared, it would remain and keep him going. The man could be stopped, but not the machine.

"I killed him."

Was it a question? Aunamee was entirely free to interpret it as one. It was wrapped around a sense of satisfaction, like a child remembering a misdemeanor that no one had been around to witness.

"You killed him," he confirms, his syllables sweet and easy, his eyes still buzzing with the pleasure of the memory. "Yes."

The building around them creaks and sings and settles. It took Aunamee a long time to find a place where he could hide where the floorboards didn't squeak or give. Even now, he needs to support his weight on a dollop of hardened, melted plastic to keep the ground from moaning underneath him.

"I'm not much for killing, myself," he says. A practiced lie. "But I knew you would have fun with it."

There isn't much interest invested in this conversation. The man before Hyperion looks like someone who stands tall but would cower away the moment he found himself hopelessly trapped. Maybe he could try that right now, grab him by his hair, force him to kneel and beg for his life through his teeth. It's a nice image.

"How did you know?"