PIIIIIIIPE WREEEEEENCH FIIIIIIIIIGHT

[unrecovered]

Who| Wash and others
What| Murderworld. So much Murderworld.
Where| All over the arena - locations are in toplevels
When| Murderworld! Late day 1, all of day 2, and early day 3
Warnings/Notes| Violence for days. Most of these have been planned using the almighty spreadsheet - if you want to plan something, feel free to poke me on plurk!

Get pulled from a perfectly benign covert mission to be thrown into a bad Hunger Games ripoff run by someone with zero sense of style or humor. Survive, probably on his own, until help comes or he manages to escape. Sure. Okay.

What could possibly go wrong?

Comments

[unrecovered]

That was not a good landing.

There were a lot of great things to be said about gathering half the Legion stuck in this little corner of hell into a single convoy hell-bent on breaking out. There were equally as many less-than-great things to be said about their inevitable failure and Arcade's subsequent scattering them to the corners of the arena. Abruptly. With no consideration for inertia.

So when Wash plows facefirst into a grassy field at painfully high velocity, he can't exactly say he's surprised. Instead, he rolls over slowly and groans. "That," he declares to the sky, "was the worst landing ever. Of all time."

[whyarewehere]

Nice landing. It'd be a real shame if something were to happen to it.

Grif pops back into existence mid-scream, bounces off of something that is quite probably human, rolls for several feet, and lays there like the dead for a good fifteen seconds, stunned.

He finally catches his breath, sits up to spit out a mouthful of dirt and grass, and looks over.

Oh, that was Wash. Sorry, Wash.

"Can I just be the first one here to say what the fuck?"

[unrecovered]

Wash doubles over, curling in on himself as something impacts his stomach and rolls off. It's like getting a gut punch from Maine, and he absolutely does not miss those.

He rolls over on his side, still curled up and struggling to catch his breath. Whatever that is - wait, it's Grif, are you fucking kidding - has knocked the breath out of him. It's going to be a minute or two before he's got a witty retort, aside from a very labored, "fuck...you."

[whyarewehere]

Grif rolls his eyes.

"Oh yeah, I decided to do that. With all my decision making powers. You're not gonna die, right?"

He's doing pretty well himself, but that's because a certain poor bastard in this conversation broke his fall.

[unrecovered]

"I'll be fine," Wash grits out, sitting up slowly and taking as deep a breath as he can. That wasn't fun, but it'll take a whole lot more than that to kill him. "Are you okay?"

[whyarewehere]

"It turns out the bad guy can send us wherever he wants! This is totally fair and not stupid in any way! I'm great!"

Grif's covered in dirt, grass stains, bruises, and ill-temper, but bitching levels are perfectly within tolerance. That means he's probably fine.

[unrecovered]

"Well, we already know he doesn't have any creativity or style." Wash shrugs - it's unnecessary, but being a dick to the guy in charge definitely makes him feel better. He's not above it. "He probably cheats to make up for it."

Grif's bitching is a pretty good indicator that he's fine. Good.

[whyarewehere]

"And you know that just doesn't even make good television," Grif adds. "Like what the fuck do you think people tune in for? There's no suspense. No drama. Cheaters are boring. He knows that if he'd left us at that barrier for like five more seconds I'm pretty sure somebody would've figured out how to take it down."

Because they are space superheroes. Grif may complain about his teammates and the job in general, but it's given him pretty solid expectations of what they can do when pressed.