HG OCT: Round Two - Coming to Grips (III)

Best Laid Plans

If anyone ever asked him, Roarke knew that he would never be able to explain just what woke him up. It hadn't been a sound or a physical feeling just a sense that something was off. He compared it to that feeling one has right before a storm rolls in. The air was electric somehow without there being any sign of lightening or thunder. There were clouds though. In fact, Roarke couldn't remember when he'd ever seen a fog this thick before and certainly not in the middle of a forest. It had weight, texture and even with the chill of the silky tendrils, it seemed to have life. It surrounded him and left him unable to see anything except for the surreal glow of fire beyond the shifting curtain of clouds.

He could still feel the log at his back. His hand reaching along the surface towards where he'd left Rhona's knives. They were gone. Now whether she'd left with them or not was another matter. Cautiously coming to his feet and using the log as a guide, he stepped over it to where he could crouch and retrieve his weapon from where it lay. The cold clink of chain seemed to echo around as he looped it over his shoulder.

Someone moved to his left; a slight shifting of a heavy foot. Caleb had been there when he'd fallen asleep but whether it was worth the risk of calling out or not was the biggest debate. If it wasn't his friend then it could very well be someone he didn't want to bump into. Like that Rackham kid. Out of all of those that would drop in under the cover of fog like this, Jack was one that he wouldn't put it past. He might not admit it aloud but that kid weirded him out enough to pray they'd never meet in the game.

"Roarke…" the girl's voice didn't belong to Caleb, or to the little would be thief they had brought into their camp. It was so familiar, "Roarke, why did you leave me?

Levis! That was where he'd heard the voice before but she was dead. He'd seen her face in the list of tributes. He could feel his heart quicken, his breathing getting heavier as he put his back to the fire, both knife and staff at the ready.

"Roarke! You said you'd keep me safe!"

He wanted to yell back that it hadn't been his fault, that he had gone back to see if she'd still been there but he couldn't. Something wasn't right. Someone was just waiting for him to give away his position. He had to keep a level head, he had to stay quiet but it was growing harder and harder to do as that lost voice continued to berate him through the fog.

"Cassus, we can't see a damned thing."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President but we have to be certain they reach the proper saturation before clearing the area."

The Game Maker was grateful to the lackey that had responded for him, Cassus could tell that Kane was getting agitated the longer three tributes were lost in a massive fog bank. As they had explained to the rather impatient man before activating the trap, the "fog" was a hallucinogenic vapor. Like PCP taken through a nebulizer. They had slowly pumped it into the area of the campfire, until it enveloped their tiny troupe. Roarke being the closest to the fire had gotten the lesser end of it but his companions were another story.

A sudden curse and clang of metal on metal had Kane's patience at its limit, "Empty it out now."

Nodding down at the technician operating the foggers, Cassus turned his gaze back to the multiple screens before them. Hidden fans generated a slow wind to help the quickly dissipating cloud out of the shot. Scuffling and guttural sounds of a fight rose from the screen.

"Anytime now, Game Master…"

"Y-yes, sir," motioning for the fans to be turned up a bit higher, Cassus shifted his lean weight from foot to foot praying that the fight wouldn't end before the viewers could see it. What was finally revealed a moment later was more then worth the wait.

Roarke struggled beneath the lightweight of the little street urchin straddling him. His hands clamped tightly about her wrists in an attempt to keep the deadly points of her knives from biting into his skin again. Already three new lines of brilliant red were dyeing his shirt and he wasn't looking to earn any more, especially since it had already cost him a gash on his hand as he grabbed for her.

She'd come out of the fog like a rabid dog going for the kill. At first, he couldn't even figure out who, or what was attacking him, she had sounded like an animal. It had taken a few lucky grabs to figure out it was a person, and a hard stumble to get her off guard enough to grab her wrists. Then it was just corralling the fight, something far easier planned out then actually done. As the fog dissipated, he saw just why it was so hard. Her eyes were fully dilated, crazed, nothing like what he'd seen when she attacked him before. Her feet ground into the dirt, knees squeezing his sides and shifting to pummel his ribs as she fought to free herself. A desire he was more then willing to grant as another figure came from the shadows.

Caleb wasn't rushing to help him, he was stalking towards them; assessing them. Waiting. The darkness around his eyes looked far too much like the gaze of Death for Roarke's liking.

Death.

With the writhing body of Rhona still struggling to get at him, Roarke watched as the shadows around Caleb shifted and began to flow like the fog had, enveloping the tall boy in a wispy shroud. He took a moment to look at Rhona who still looked like she'd lost her mind but otherwise like her self. When he looked back to Caleb, however, he still saw Death. He was hallucinating! He had to be! That or it was one seriously screwed up dream. Unfortunately, that was a theory he didn't want to test.

Focusing back on his most immanent threat, Roarke yanked her arms back over his head getting just enough leverage to bring a foot up from between her legs and force her into the air. He doubted that she would be winded for long in her state and with the hard thud of boots coming at him; he knew he just might have jumped into the fire. No time to grab his leister, he took up the next best thing; the dagger was scooped up on the run. He counted out fifteen steps before turning to face his pursuer and was slammed into the ground by a perfect tackle.

Out of sheer instinct, he hooked his arms up and under those of the darkly robed being atop him, keeping his attacker from getting up so that he could drill his knees into its side. He might not have been a soldier; he may never have had to fight for his life but just as the taunting voices rose around him, he did remember times where he had to fight for his pride. Cruel children's voices turned to their grown up counterparts joining the abandoned cries of Levis in his mind calling him weak. The jeers that his father was a traitor echoed harshly. Blame for the loss of four ships that day could never be proven but many had thoughts of conspiracy that dropped Roarke right into daily fistfights after his father's death.

He learned to fight hard and dirty and never noticed when the blade he'd been holding had sliced up into Caleb's armpit. The drugged up tribute was unable to feel his lifeblood pouring from him as he fought on, the hot sticky fluid slicking his arms enough to get loose sending a rain of fists down on Roarke who found himself on the defensive again. That distorted face roaring at him with the screeching wail of a banshee. He brought his arms up to block could only spare his chest and head leaving his ribs open to the pounding until he was certain he'd heard a crack.

It wasn't his ribs though. The heavy weight of Caleb's body swayed with a final punch to Roarke's stomach before he slumped to the side. The tributes long legs still lay tangled with Roarke's who was trying his hardest not to throw up after the last hit. His own eyes slightly crazed and barely able to catch his breath he came face to face with a blood-smeared rock clutched between two dirt-encrusted hands.

Rhona was panting just as heavily as he was, tears streaming down her face. "I'm sorry, Ain… I'm sorry…"

Panic burst forth into Roarke's chest as he watched her slender arms tremble and lift the rock high above her head. It might not kill him in the first strike but he wouldn't be getting up. As she wavered, he clawed for the chain of his knife, his legs kicking off the heavy weight of Caleb's own. The slick ground beneath him not helping matters.

"Don't move. I promise it'll be quick, please… Please! Don't make this harder then it has to be!"

"Fuck you!" Yanking the chain hard he felt the pole give and come towards him. Rhona's once lowered arms were lifted high once more as she pleaded with him again to stop moving. "I'm not, Ain, dammit!"

"Anyone who falls behind gets left behind…" She just started repeating it over and over, as her steps followed his shifting figure ready to bring the rock down on his head.

"Son of a…" With one final hard yank, Roarke rolled right towards her. The long tangled chain drug up under his chest as the hook end of the leister slapped against the back of her legs. The heavy metal staff and his added weight in front pushed her forwards, tumbling over him with an outcry. The rock slid down the slight slope as she cursed him. Her feet tangling into the chain with every kick of her legs as he came to his knees, he was shivering so badly that the vicious tips of his trident trembled above her chest.

She was so far gone that he doubted she even saw the weapon above her. If she had, there was no way she would have come at him, her voice all but screaming at him as she pulled a knife from her belt and slammed right into the hooked points. A look of shock that mirrored Roarke's own cut across her face. Breath halting in her throat as blood tinted the corners of her mouth, Rhona's fingers went numb and her knife fell to the ground.

The dull thud snapped Roarke out of his disbelieving trance. There was blood everywhere. The dirt clung to both of them. Dark grays turned black and the air was leaden with copper. Her tear-filled eyes were focused right on him. Slowly, carefully, he lowered her back onto the ground. His fingers reaching to brush her hair from her forehead but instead of wiping her brow he smeared it with brackish crimson. His hands were coated in blood. Hers and Caleb's. His own blood created a macabre goatee about his mouth and blended in with the stain on his shirt that had once been Caleb's life.

A trembling gurgle escaped Rhona's lips. Her small fingers reaching out to him had nails that were stubby from being bitten and knuckles thick from getting broke. Her life hadn't been easy. As she repeated the name from before, he wondered just what had happened, just what she'd been made to do. Not even realizing the tears that cut pale lines down his face, Roarke leaned over despite the protesting of his battered ribs and pressed his forehead to hers.

"I'm sorry…"

He lost track of how long he sat there like that. It was well past the time she'd gone limp when he sat back on his haunches and ran his hands over the sticky skin of his face. He could feel that he was missing a tooth. His mouth tasted like he'd drank a glass of copper. The sudden din of cannons above him made his blood run cold. He knew the two faces that would be there. One was a young woman whose name he didn't even know, one he couldn't remember, and whose body shifted with a sickening bob as he pulled his weapon free. The other was Caleb. He'd been a soldier; he'd survived the war only to be thrown back into the lion's den and to die in such a way…

Like some mechanical automaton, Roarke rolled up the long chain as he stumbled to where Caleb lay. The metallic shine dulled beneath stuck on leaves, dirt and blood didn't even register with him as he looked down at the tribute from District 9. A deep ragged gash sliced from under his arm straight back to his shoulder blade. More knicks and punctures riddled his upper ribs where Roarke's blade had caught him as he tried to keep him from getting up to attack. A cruel dent at his temple the tell tale sign of Rhona's strike.

Then there was him. Roarke didn't bother taking stock of his injuries. At the moment, he really had no right. They'd been played by the Capital - Gladiators for the public's amusement. The whole thought of it, of the two dead bodies behind him and the others that hadn't made it, on top of the adrenaline and drugs in his system finally crashed down on him. Dropping him to his knees with a jangle of chain and metal as he retched until not even acid seemed to be left in his stomach.