Into The Arena - RP for doc_suresh
"Next time, save it for the Arena. Got it, Gray?" The guard shoved the brunette roughly back into gen pop, still looking the worse for wear for his run in with another inmate. The dark purple bruising covered half his face, connected via scratch marks to a ring of bruises about his neck, and disappeared down beneath the collar of his bland, grey jumpsuit. The eye under the bruising had finally reopened, after his week-long stay in solitary confinement. The sclera had broken so that the white of his eye wasn't white at all, but bright, bloody red.
Still, the other guy was far worse off. The dumb, fire-starting hick was still in the infirmary, from what he'd been told, but that didn't matter. They were coming up on another season of the Games, and that meant as many prisoners out in gen pop as possible, to be shown off to the cameras. The Intuitive could already feel the mechanical eyes zooming in on him from within their protected recesses all throughout the prison. His reintroduction, especially in his condition, would make for great TV.
And that's all the masses really cared about these days. Now that the Human Mutation Regulatory Act was in its fifth year, and society could live easy on the backs of the genetically gifted. Now that they had nothing to fear from those monstrosities who might have overthrown their world into bloody chaos.
Sylar popped his neck conspicuously for the nearest camera, letting them get a good look at the stainless steel band fastened close about his neck. Silently reminding all the normal people watching at home that this was the only thing that stood between them and his murderous vengeance. As one of the first to go into the prisons, and have his every ability taken from him, Sylar had the sharpest axe to grind against those who benefited from the exploitation of his kind.
And though the odds should have been stacked massively against him, as he'd been here since the institution of the Games, Sylar had yet to be chosen for the Arena. He'd stood with every thief, and murderer, every rapist, and revolutionary among them in the Yard for the semi-annual selection of the names. Then he'd watched them, those chosen in the lottery, all so much smaller threats than himself, sent into those horrific death-traps. Only one in twenty ever survived to the end of every Game.
Nine games, so far. Nine chances at a life-or-death bid for... Well, it wasn't exactly freedom, but it sure as hell wasn't being stuck in here. And nine times he had escaped their snare, for Sylar was certain of one thing: if he went into the Arena, nineteen super-powered opponents aside, the Game Makers would never allow him to win out.
Still, the other guy was far worse off. The dumb, fire-starting hick was still in the infirmary, from what he'd been told, but that didn't matter. They were coming up on another season of the Games, and that meant as many prisoners out in gen pop as possible, to be shown off to the cameras. The Intuitive could already feel the mechanical eyes zooming in on him from within their protected recesses all throughout the prison. His reintroduction, especially in his condition, would make for great TV.
And that's all the masses really cared about these days. Now that the Human Mutation Regulatory Act was in its fifth year, and society could live easy on the backs of the genetically gifted. Now that they had nothing to fear from those monstrosities who might have overthrown their world into bloody chaos.
Sylar popped his neck conspicuously for the nearest camera, letting them get a good look at the stainless steel band fastened close about his neck. Silently reminding all the normal people watching at home that this was the only thing that stood between them and his murderous vengeance. As one of the first to go into the prisons, and have his every ability taken from him, Sylar had the sharpest axe to grind against those who benefited from the exploitation of his kind.
And though the odds should have been stacked massively against him, as he'd been here since the institution of the Games, Sylar had yet to be chosen for the Arena. He'd stood with every thief, and murderer, every rapist, and revolutionary among them in the Yard for the semi-annual selection of the names. Then he'd watched them, those chosen in the lottery, all so much smaller threats than himself, sent into those horrific death-traps. Only one in twenty ever survived to the end of every Game.
Nine games, so far. Nine chances at a life-or-death bid for... Well, it wasn't exactly freedom, but it sure as hell wasn't being stuck in here. And nine times he had escaped their snare, for Sylar was certain of one thing: if he went into the Arena, nineteen super-powered opponents aside, the Game Makers would never allow him to win out.