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thearena2013-05-09 06:41 am
president_evil) wrote in thearena2013-05-09 06:41 am
Entry tags:
One more thing before we start the final face-off...
WHO| Wesker, Barbara Gordon, Karis Needleteeth, and Clint Barton and Tony Stark
WHAT| It's the final countdown, ya'll.
WHERE| Tomorrowland
WHEN| End of Week 8ish
WARNINGS/NOTES| Wesker and not the bloody deathAunamee his fellow tributes were hoping for.
In the old restaurant that Wesker had claimed as his base of operations, on a table near the back - closest to where he slept - he was keeping count of his fellow tributes. Scratching hash-marks into the pale plastic for every death. It was a loose tally, allowing for the plus or minus of any newcomers who had debuted mid-arena or any deaths he might have missed, but even so, as the days stretched on and the tabletop was lost beneath a sea of pock marks, he knew.
Victory was close at hand.
The end was nigh.
WHAT| It's the final countdown, ya'll.
WHERE| Tomorrowland
WHEN| End of Week 8ish
WARNINGS/NOTES| Wesker and not the bloody death
In the old restaurant that Wesker had claimed as his base of operations, on a table near the back - closest to where he slept - he was keeping count of his fellow tributes. Scratching hash-marks into the pale plastic for every death. It was a loose tally, allowing for the plus or minus of any newcomers who had debuted mid-arena or any deaths he might have missed, but even so, as the days stretched on and the tabletop was lost beneath a sea of pock marks, he knew.
Victory was close at hand.
The end was nigh.
Karis Needleteeth
Barbara Gordon
Re: Barbara Gordon
Other than that, though, she was in perfect health. Not a burn, not a cut, not a broken or sprained limb. It was surprising how few injuries you could get when people insisted on continuously dying for you.
...That was over, though; or she hoped so. There was nobody left to die for her. Maybe not even strangers. It was just her and... whoever was still standing.
They'd tell her if she was the last one, right?
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As she stumbled down the broken avenues, fleeing or searching or simply waiting for her absolution, a shadow fell in behind her. As silent and dark as Death itself.
He hadn't forgotten the way she'd escaped, all agile limbs, up onto the rooftops. The scent of her fear like a beacon in the dark. A promise just out of reach.
Somehow, her return now, seemed almost like fate. A reaffirmation that everything was going to plan.
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How long could that victory last her, though, now that her treacherous feet had taken her into Wesker's domain? There's a part of her that would have rather die from starvation than fall to him/ It didn't exactly seem like she'd have a choice, though.
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(Had she learned her lesson?)
When it became apparent she did not, he gave up the pretense, his stride lengthening and eating up the ground between them.
He was on her in a heartbeat, past and present blurring as a thick, muscled arm roped around her neck, squeezing across her throat as she was hauled off her feet and clamped in the vise of his arms.
"Barbara," his voice as calm and cool as ever, not the least bit fatigued. As if he'd just casually strolled up her. "How nice to see you again."
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But wishing wasn't enough to get his hands away from her throat. Internal screaming did nothing to end the contact. Neither did her feeble writing, most likely, or her faint kicks in his direction.
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The arm over her throat tightened, the other moved; a large hand sweeping up to clamp over her mouth, her nose pinched between his fingers.
"Don't make this harder than it has to be, Barbara. It will end far more pleasantly for you, if you simply accept."
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No escape this time, Barbara. No one to save you.
Just Wesker with his arms like a vise, his fingers like blunt knives.
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At least not yet.
she had to get out. She had to pry his arms off of her.
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No more struggles. No more pathetic desperation. Finality.
The last word of God.
His fingers dug into her cheek, his arm flexed, and snap.
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Tony & Clint
Re: Tony & Clint
"Come on," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Tony. "We need to find clean water and something we can eat without cooking.
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This was it.
The farthest he had ever gotten. But how many others had paid for it?
Tony knows they don't all come back. And there's always the worry that there is no one left outside this place worth fighting for. Worth trying for.
But he doesn't want to die. He hates dying. Losing. Failing. And so, he follows after Clint without hesitation. "You know, I would kill a man for a cheeseburger right now."
Its a bad joke, really.
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Wesker knew this, and as the days stretched and the numbers dwindled - three now, perhaps four, including himself - he patrolled the borders. Waited. Endlessly patient.
They would come, sooner or later, by their own design or the Gamemakers, and here, where he was all but unstoppable, he would claim his victory.
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He was more than willing to make bad jokes right now, just before they died. There couldn't be too many of them left in the arena anymore, which meant, he was almost done here. He'd almost saved Tony.
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There is literally no enthusiasm behind that comment to be found.
"Should be interesting," he's still kind of perplexed at just what the hell he's wound up with. An evil blade fan? He's more likely to cut off his own damn fingers with this thing than kill someone with it. But hey. When life gives you lemons?
Throw them at someone else's face.
In all seriousness however, Tony is quite aware of the graveness of their situation. So his empty stomach is in knots; bundles of sour nerves that twist and turn and nag at him as he and Clint continue on, still not sure if he's wanting to die in pursuit of a goddamn orange or not. But then again? The end is at hand. They've all been handed weapons. There's been a so many faces in the sky, the body count has to be enormous. The pickings are clearly getting slim.
Numbers have dwindled, and now it's show time. He has no delusions in knowing most of the world is watching their every move, hanging on their every word.
He's seen enough footage of the finales prior to know what they look like. And this? This, my friend, is the finale. Just a few more left. And once people make it this far.... well, may as well play to win.
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That was Wesker's intention. The only result he'd accept. ...But even so, as eager as he was to be done with it, when the voices finally came, he was wise enough, controlled enough, to drift back into the filtered shade of the trees. To watch them approach, to give himself time to determine their level of threat and the best, quickest, way to dispose of them.
Behind the cracked, flaking trunk of an apple tree, he waited, listening to their inner workings as they drew closer. To the hearts beating steady, to the strange mechanical hum, purring from inside the closest.
His head tipped, momentarily intrigued,... but then they were there, the curiosity was pushed aside, forgotten, as he burst from behind the tree. His fingers wrapped in the shirt of the man of metal and bone and swung him aside with impossible strength, smashing him into the unforgiving trunk.
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As soon as the guy attacked, his ax came up, and he swung it directly at their attacker's back, intending to embed it in his spinal cord.
sorry this is so late. :c
Shit.
This was already bad and about to get worse.
There's the familiar tang of blood in his mouth and the piercing pain of a freshly broken rib or two. But he's far from out from the game. Not yet, anyway. He stumble-pushes himself away from the tree. Away from his attacker. Then snaps open his bladed fan in preparation to fight.
No prob, bb. <3
While the second was hefting the axe, he was already shifting, a blurred movement that saw him side-stepping the swing of the blade. A blink and he was moving again, closing in as the blow landed on air, a fist with all his impossible strength behind it swinging at Clint's face.
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The guy sure packed a wallop, but Clint wasn't going to dwell on that while there was still a chance he might actually be able to get Tony out of this alive.
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Goddamn it. These were the worst sort of assholes to deal with around here; the ones that just attacked a guy for no good reason. And while Tony may not be sporting his favourite suit at the moment, he knows that this fight or flight situation he's in, really only has one option.
Fight.
Optimism isn't really something he's big on in this place, but it's two against one and he and Clint even have the advantage of fighting together before. Granted, they were a little bit disadvantaged without... all their home field advantages, here. So yeah. Optimism isn't high. Likely, he's already earned a few broken ribs and Clint's face just got readjusted. This guy clearly means business and judging by speed and strength alone he's definitely not someone originally from the same earth Clint and Tony are from. Some robot alien vampire mutant test subject or what the fuck ever.
Holy hell does he wish he had something more useful that a... metal fan.
"Not even a hello?" he snarks at their new friend. Figures that if he's going to go out, might as well do it as himself: a smart ass.
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Wesker wanted to win, and that's what he intended to do.
At the sound of Tony's voice, he whipped around, cape swirling like a pale tail. His lip curled, serpentine eyes flashing red beneath the black lenses of his glasses.
"Hello," he sneered.
And he moved, crossing the distance between them in a blink. He twisted, his back to Tony, and drove his elbow into the man's sternum.
Goodbye.
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Its a blur or people and arms and fists and blood. He can taste it in his own mouth and he can actually feel pieces of him inside that are broken, so sharp it leaves him breathless.
This is going down hill fast.
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There and gone. Barely registering.
Clint came at him with the axe, but he was already spinning, twisting to catch the staff as it arched.
He stared over the handle at Clint and sneered - a slow, cold smile - before a fist came up and struck across with bone crushing force.
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