Night 57: The Coliseum

[el_aguila]

Touching the sandy grounds of the coliseum was a catalyst, and the progression of day did not mean the end of the process. By fortune or otherwise, this group's efforts were not allowed to halt simply due to the rising sun. Therefore, when nighttime was pronounced, those who had undergone the beginnings of an incomplete trial were pulled from their

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[scalyfishman]

It took a moment for Depth Charge to realise what S.T. was doing, head down like that- for a nanoklik he thought he was gonna be sick, bad pretzel or something- but when the silicon chip finally dropped he immediately wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Maybe there was some way out on the floor, like a fire escape. No, stupid idea- like they'd really worry about that in here of all places. But maybe...

His eyes were dragged up from the floor by the sound of Jones' voice, talking smack like they were in some kind of stupid bar brawl over whose turn it was to pay the tab. Even those gunshots were almost drunkenly lazy. Playfighting.

Spider-Man couldn't have looked more serious, living up to his name in spectacular fashion. Not attacking yet, though, not seriously- he couldn't blame him for that, even if he could still hear Scott's spluttering and see the red at Dent's side. Even if he barely knew half of the people here, if he'd been down there, he'd still have seen his own mech fluid spilt over someone else's. Or maybe he didn't even need to be down there to feel that way.

He wheeled fiercely around to face Scott. "I'll do it!" he shouted; faintly, he felt a wave of cold skim his skin, but that aside it had been almost instinctual, easy as recalibrating. Gets easier with practise, then, he thought, but it didn't sound as glib to himself as he'd hoped. "I'm already dead! Get 'em out of there and I'll do it!"

It took another moment for Depth Charge to realise that he was being, quite literally, deadly serious. This wasn't some off-handed grasping at straws. Why couldn't he? It was pretty clear that all of these guys knew each other well, that they made a team; he was flotsam here. Just like on Earth. And also just like on Earth, he couldn't just stand back and do nothing. You're such a slagging Maximal sometimes, DC. You just can't help yourself.

[toxicspiderman]

S.T.'s brain hung on one sentence for a minute. Already dead? Like weird paranormal shit on the bulletin board dead? Or just that night they'd all gone down and woken up only varying orders of traumatized? Enough with the death fakeouts. No one liked reruns, especially of teenager snuff flicks.

"Hey, asshole. Least you could do is give me a hand up." He struggled to his feet before D.C. could possibly take the comment seriously. "I don't think they're looking for a one-man show."

He cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted again. It wasn't going to do anything the first batch hadn't (except double the odds of Aguilar offing them like everyone wanted to do to the guy whose pager had just gone off in the front row, world-class brain surgeon or not). "You got your volunteers right here. He's just a fucking kid."

[scalyfishman]

The next thing Depth Charge knew, S.T. was up on his feet again- and offering exactly the same thing. The Maximal blinked, thrown. The point was that only one of them needed to die, he couldn't just- seriously? It was surprisingly disorienting, he realised, to know that the guy who'd been pretty high up on his priorities list when it came to protection was prepared to be just about as stupid about this as he was being.

So it went against every instinct he had. Depth Charge was still impressed. "Idiot," was just about what he managed to mutter, along with a firm shove to the shoulder that nonetheless could have been a lot harder. "You wouldn't last five minutes against Waspinator, never mind me." But it wasn't a no, or a don't even think about it; he wouldn't patronise the guy by acting like he didn't know what he was doing.

He didn't even blink as Spider-Man turned his frustration on the two of them; if he seriously thought they had nothing to do with this, he was even more stupid than he looked. Maybe just willfully stupid. Typical slagging hero complex. It was kind of hypocritical to look at it that way, admittedly, but hypocrisy wasn't nearly the worst of his sins here- that honour belonged to what he knew was sheer blind refusal to acknowledge that they were trapped. What Depth Charge needed was to be able to hit something, let off some steam, but the Institute hadn't even given him that much.

So blind refusal it was. "Any point in asking Aguilar?"

[toxicspiderman]

As D.C. turned to him, S.T. was still watching the action. Peter had the gun, and, fuck, was doing the obvious thing to a teenager who hadn't figured out that teenage immortality didn't exist, especially when stacked up against suicide. The gun didn't fire, negating decades worth of propaganda about kids and guns, but it wouldn't take Peter long. He was a smart kid. So if they were doing this, now was the time.

"Hey, man, no need to insult me first," S.T. said, under his breath. Gallows humor, but it got him thinking. If that harpoon had been Depth Charge's tail, how much damage could he do in his original form? Would he even fit in the stands? Was this going to be more Terminator or Godzilla vs. Bambi?

Then he raised his voice. "Naah, the jackass isn't going to do shit about it. Too afraid to let someone with more power than some hyperactive rubber bands who can't even shoot himself loose down there."

[scalyfishman]

Depth Charge managed a grin, even if his spark wasn't in it so much as three hundred microquads away and still running. "You're full of slag, S.T.. But thanks." Like Aguilar would let him loose in here with his lasers and rockets intact. They had to at least pretend it would be fair.

A glance back down to the arena- no, no one was dead yet. Good. That meant they had time to figure something out, assuming there was anything to be figured out in the first place. He took a few steps by the seating, searching whatever floor space they had left for a hatch or something, but his efforts turned up nothing.

Even without any results, though, having something to focus on was doing wonders for his temper. He flashed S.T. a pensive look, brow knit. "So no getting through the floor. Think we could get over the sides?" Now there was a mood killer. Even he knew enough about humans to know you wouldn't survive a drop like that without earning a shedload of seriously broken bones. But that was the point, wasn't it?

[toxicspiderman]

"I think Captain James T. Nerd over there already proved that one." It couldn't hurt to try, presuming S.T. did so with something other than his face. He threw out a few pretzels. Each one shattered on an invisible floor/wall.

Things were getting desperate. He wasn't a fucking action hero, recent events notwithstanding. Science and a little eco-friendly trespassing, where death was dealt in slow motion and holding back the tides by bailing out the basement with a recycled bleach can might work. Shit, when Star Trek flashbacks were the best he could do, they were all toast. Besides, there was no way in Hell Aguilar was letting him down there no matter what story he spun, and faking death only worked on TV because the cameras looked away.

"Air is getting through. Give me a hand." He held one hand out and leaned out from the edge. His other hand stuck out, hunting for the affront against physics to make itself obvious.

[scalyfishman]

Right, right, Scott'd spent the last five minutes making a show of just how solid that barrier was- not to mention how much it would hurt to try- but since when had Depth Charge ever let himself be convinced by the evidence? Unless he could try it with his own hands...

The pretzels dissolved almost instantly. After everything he'd seen and shouldered in his life he'd never figured that seeing food frazzle out like that would end up as a serious contender for the biggest kick in the mainframe ever, but here he was, feeling sicker by the second. He hadn't thrown up when Forte had died and he wouldn't now, he refused to, but at least he'd had the chance to do something then.

No, stupid thought, he could do something now. They could. There were four of them up here, not counting Mr. Ringmaster in the middle, they'd figure something out. Keeping swallowing it, DC, keep swallowing it. Funny how you're only a pessimist when it suits you, huh? "Got it. I'll give you a leg-up."

The Maximal leaned forward and down towards S.T.'s legs, ready to lift him up and out so he could feel out a little further without ending up as a permanent splat on the arena floor. That was his job.

Or maybe it was Jones'. His eyes were around shoulder-level when he saw Spider-Man take the leap for his jump-kick. It was a good kick, he could give him that, hard and fast and unexpected- which was probably why it caught Jones so off-guard. What Depth Charge wasn't expecting, though, was for the man to crumple so suddenly. For there suddenly to be a whole lot more blood running out onto the arena floor, a brilliant scarlet even at this height. Spider-Man hadn't seen it coming either, because next thing he knew he was down on the floor next to him with his mask off, and, Primus, he was just a kid. What was wrong with these people? What was this supposed to prove?

His fists hit the edge harder than he'd realised his body could managed. "No!" Number three, been and gone- and the second he'd watch die in front of him here, too, though if he were to include his record from outside of the Institute... "Slag it!" Another slam with his fists, and the shock-waves reverberated up his arms and rang out painfully in his joints. Why couldn't he ever make a difference? What was he doing wrong?

[toxicspiderman]

"Fuck!" Some instincts were universal to both humans and ex-robots. S.T.'s fists hit thin air. They bounced off as ineffectively as Depth Charge's had. A second later, so did the rest of him. He was watching a guy die through a man-sized prairie dog bubble with his cheek smashed against the glass.

How the fuck did this happen twice? First Brainiac, now Indy, and this time he couldn't even hop down there and make an asshole out of himself. Indy was saying something. Father? Right, there was a sequel coming. S.T. didn't have the money for first-run movies, so even the trailers hadn't hit yet. Was his old man here? Or was that just a dying line that was getting washed up out of order like a shrink-wrapped turd?

He smacked the air again. It was as hard as bulletproof glass. Hit anything hard enough and it would leave bruises. Air, water, whatever. He rolled over on his side, and sneered at Aguilar. Better than watching Peter go to pieces.