An Occupational Obstacle [ORBS vs Cleaner Squad Z; day 2]

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Everything was quiet, except for the occasional buzz of the watch because an excited tribute wanted to make a sarcastic comment or taunt. Nobody was speaking from the foursome that Royce found himself in. Cyril Rinne, Orion Starcrest, Oblivion Reigns, and Royce. Probably not the most iconic or ironic pairing, he’d note, but he felt safe enough with them all. The last thing he would want is to be left alone here, especially when the arena this year is among the most confusing he has ever seen.

At least he was not alone in the disorienting environment. Oblivion, someone from a career district, was even confused with the weapons that the Cornucopia and sponsorships had to bear. Royce identified them as guns of some sort, with a cock ready, locked and loaded to shoot at an enemy. And there were cylindrical additions that you could add in them, as well, which he assumed would make them last longer. He’d never shot a gun before, so he consistently practiced aiming it at a wall to get a better feeling for it. Royce kept his back turned from his allies, both worried that he might hurt them and that they might hurt him if they interpret his practicing wrong. And then there was a huge pack, something that he had absolutely no clue how to manage or how to even attempt to understand it.

Orion rambled off as much information as he could about the tools, leading Royce to become even more interested in the wayward ways of District Three. Maybe, he thought, if he were to win, Royce could visit the practically polar-opposite land to his own home. He imagined it to be much like the Capitol, although with more thingamajigs and what-do-you-call-its laying around. Orion noted that it could propel you in the air, or help you to take flight. He decided not to toy with the one that fell in his own lap, however. If anything, he’d let Orion instruct him on how to use it.

Royce later tried to message in that ‘group chat’ system the watch had, only to leave himself with more failure than success. He could not get the typing right for the life of him, even with Orion’s steady hand and long, detailed explanations. Eos and Sky were the ones who notably poked fun at his errors. He just isn’t a natural at the whole technology thing, and despite his best efforts, it only reminded him of being back home, where there was nothing he could do right compared to everyone else.

It was a reminder that this was him home now. Or, rather, the cheap motel that he decided to stay in because he had no other choice.


--

In the morning they all walk together, with Orion, the youngest and smallest of the four, leading the way. Royce followed behind him closely, just in case he had any immediate questions to ask of the District Three boy. He was genuinely curious, but also wanted to be ready for anything, including other tributes or any sort of tribulations the Gamemakers had in store. If anyone in the arena was prepared for what was to come, it was him.

He again gives his analysis of the area that they’re in now, which Royce had assumed was for research anyway, but Orion confirmed it. Together they were quiet, especially because it was entirely possible that there were other tributes around.

He took this moment to begin typing again on the watch. This time, he was slow and careful not to make any mistakes. He saw that tributes could edit their messages, and Orion noted that there was a backspace button, but Royce just wanted to learn how to type.

-

Do you ever just kfdvm!4tgk%daaa
?

-

His fingers fell into a frenzy at the end of his message, just when he was getting zero mistakes. Some sort of robotic things pushed at Royce and the others, running past them and nearly knocking them off their feet.

“Hell.”

He added one last question mark to his statement before getting out the gun blaster-thingy.

Hands in front of him and blaster toward one of the robots, he prepared for his second fight of the games.

Ready.

Aim.

Fire.

[royce benstaloe 10m attacks GOLF BALL; laser blaster (throwing knife) (8x ammo)]
trBB_ZXMkOthrowing knife
9007 -- Shallow Cut on Back -- 4.0 damage

g; mattio | t; arrows

As the anthem sparked to life on Cyril's watch, his suspicions about the group message were confirmed. The Career Girl from 2. The Boy from 5. The Girl from 6. All dead. He had a hard time making sense of it. He thought of them all as strong, as people that would be lethal and elusive and altogether ideal victors. And yet they were already gone from this world at the hands of others. Cyril wondered who of the tributes left had the first blood on their hands.

How soon would he get blood on his own?

The anthem vanished, leaving Cyril and his allies in silence, all of them undoubtedly lost in their own thoughts. Eventually Oblivion brought them back to reality with a question about the jetpack. Orion launched into an explanation, but Cyril wasn't paying too much attention. Space was the one thing he'd always had an interest in, the one topic that he excelled at whenever it came up in schoolwork. He already knew about spaceships and astronauts and jetpacks. How many days had he spent imagining himself up in space, exploring the stars and planets, looking down at Panem from above. How ironic it was that the Capitol seemed to be fulfilling his wishes by sending him to die.

Once he finished sharing his jetpack expertise, Orion busied himself with helping Royce understand the watch. Cyril watched as Oblivion sat in silence, clearly lost in her own thoughts. Cyril was also lost in thought about his companions. Oblivion from District 1. She could've easily grown up as a Career, could've aligned herself with the tributes who had better training for the games. But she had chosen her company in the quieter ones, and Cyril couldn't help but admire that. Royce too, with his background in District 10, could've easily chosen anyone in this arena to align himself with and probably been successful. And here he was, getting lessons in how to use the watch from Orion. Orion was so incredibly smart, he seemed to have knowledge of everything you'd ever need to know. If Cyril's mother had Orion for a son she'd probably be thrilled.

Cyril quickly tried changing his train of thought away from the family he left back home. It was too painful to think about them when it seemed so hopeless that he'd ever get to see them again. Eventually he was relieved of his own thoughts as the group decided to go on the move. It was too dangerous to stay in one place, especially a place where so much danger could hide in waiting.

---

It all happened so fast.

They had stood for a minute at the door to this new room as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Soon they had seen that everything in this new environment had an air of sterility and cleanliness. Broken glass was scattered about, quickly being whisked neatly away by a group of robots. As Cyril's eyes landed on the strange-looking assortment of creatures locked behind cages Cyril knew where they were. This must have been the ship's laboratory. Cyril's spirits raised as he thought of the possibility of medical supplies being hidden somewhere for them to find.

He made to move and start searching and hadn't noticed he was in the direct path of one of the cleaning robots. They collided, leaving Cyril with a bit of pain, and then all hell broke loose. The robots attacked the four humans that had intruded and impeded on their cleaning duties. Another robot made contact with Cyril, this time causing a lot of pain.

Ouch.

Adrenaline numbed some of the hurt but Cyril was sure something had broken. He needed to move, needed to fight back, but for a moment he was frozen in shock. He saw Orion and Royce shooting their Laser Blasters at two of the robots. He didn't move. He saw Oblivion sweep the legs of one of the robots. He didn't move. He saw the robot fall to the ground and smash into pieces.

Finally, he moved.

Table by Arrows / Graphic by Mattio

He's always had a soft spot for robotics, for the intricate connection of coding and hardware. Not because of the jobs they can perform or their hands-free capabilities, but for the communication he can so easily achieve with them. With other people, it's messy. Emotions become too hard to quantify and Orion is left with a lack of control, a lack of control which emerges as a complete inability to speak normally and freely. But with robots, it's easier. With them the environment is controlled and they respond directly to numbers and computations. Sure, he's simplifying it a bit, but at least when he is working with robotics they never call him names or shove him into walls.

Well, before today that is.

As Orion watches the way the robots wind and weave, he can conclude that they are all connected to a central server. If he were able to identify this overarching server he would go directly there to call off the attack, but the place is too big to rationally search while being hammered by cleaning droids. It really does seem that the optimal option is to deactivate them all as quickly as possible. Luckily, no thanks to his first shot, two of them are already leaking oil onto to the floors.

"You wouldn't happen to know a way to turn these off, would you?"

Royce's voice searches for Orion's ears.

He gives a small shrug.

"Technically, yes. Realistically, no. Their base speed factor is too high for me to try to override their primary coding one after the other. They are in constant motion, where I would need them to stay still. We are better off just blasting them."

Orion wishes he had another answer, a way to utilize his mind more effectively. But the Game Makers want this fight, and they always get whatever they desire. Instead of trying to find away around the confrontation, Orion knows he needs to start solving how to accelerate its completion. It brings his head back home.

The sun is low, nearly sharing its second kiss of the day with the horizon. Hues of orange glow across normally grey stones while Orion sits alone on the side of the house. A few fresh bruises litter the lengths of his arms, but no water stains the stretches of his cheeks. He watches the sky in solitude until Adromeda comes and settles by his side. Her hair is radiant, mixing with the colors of the wilting sun.

"O, you're smarter than the boys you let do this to you. Sometimes you can't just run from things, and with that brain of your's, I'm sure you could figure out how to defend yourself."

His eyes blink, and Orion is back in the lab with the others. All these years later and her lesson still applies. If he can pick up on the pattern of the robots' movements and readjust the trajectory of his blaster, he can lead them directly into one of his shots. It's like his light prism, only this time he isn't guiding them. He is deciphering their pattern.

"Try leading your shots. They are pre-set to a specific algorithm. If we can figure it out, we should be able to fire at where they will be next. "

Orion steadies his hand and focuses on the way they wind within one another. He can sense the field of their sensors and his hands move to account for it. And just when he thinks he's gotten it, he fires. 

Robots are falling left and right, yet many are still cleaning away like nothing is going on. It's such a strange world, and Oblivion isn't sure what's going on. Beads of sweat roll from her brow dripping into her eyes, and it burns extremely bad. It's never been like this before. The heat is weighing against her plastering her long blonde locks against the side of her face. It's hard to breathe in a place like this, yet she can't worry about it because she's trying to get out of the way of the oncoming robots that's slowly traveling away.

Orion and Royce are talking, and if these creations were standing still, Orion could potentially stop them from running into them, but the work isn't done. They're moving around, and they're moving fast, and she wants to run away from them before they knock her down and destroy her.

Her watch continues buzzing, and perhaps not everyone is in the middle of this robotic war, yet sometimes she stops what she's doing midfight only to respond. Sometimes her messages fly through to her allies, and sometimes they're sent straight to the chat where everyone can talk. In a time like this it's best to completely take away notification if possible since not paying attention only made things worse.

Orion mentions leading with the shots so the robots run straight into them, and she scratches her head for only a moment. Not once in her entire life has she held a weapon like this, and aiming it seems nearly impossible. How can she shoot when she's not even sure what it is? It's a gun of some kind - she's seen the peacekeepers marching through the district holding guns, and while these aren't similiar, perhaps she can learn a lesson or two.

"Is there any way to make this thing less awkward?" She asks holding up the gun for the entire world to see. "District one has a lot of weapons lingering inside, but these aren't exactly placed on the racks for us to use."

It's so awkward in her hands, yet her eyes follow along with her allies in attempt to mimic their motions. They're aiming ahead, and it's like they robots don't even know they're being shot at until it's too late. Thankfully these cleaning creatures don't have the brain to comprehend what's happening, and it sort of makes her feel bad, but if they're going to keep running into her while trying to clean, she needs to act quick before the other robots become more aware of what's actually going on.

A heavy sigh leaves her chest as she aims the weapon;

At least it's not a human being.

graphic by mattio <3 | table by arrows <3

Suddenly there is silence, refuge after rampage. Each of the six sweeper system robots now flickers in minor flashing flames. Meanwhile, Orion is in quiet victory with a small smirk slipping across his face. He did it, found the parameters of the pattern and secured a solution. Up until this moment, the young boy has felt as though he's done nothing except spew constant chains of freakish factoids. But this, this helped everyone beyond just being able to identify what a jet pack is. For the first time, Orion is proud of himself.

Stepping away towards a nearby table, a sharp pain erupts from the epicenter of Orion's ankle. Amid the mayhem of battling bots, adrenaline had hidden the extent of the injury inflicted to his leg. Merely trying to place pressure onto the ankle spurs waves of rippling agony through Orion's body. His teeth grind tightly together. First a broken nose and now a broken ankle. How much more will his body have to handle?

Calming the churning current of pessimistic thoughts within the sea of his head, Orion turns towards the others.

"There's a lot of supplies we should gather here," he winces for a second before looking towards Oblivion, "also, I need a bit of help walking. It's more than probable one of the robots broke my ankle in the fight."

ooc: sorry for the quick short post, Brit did the fun thing of forgetting to post a flee for the mutt fight!