Remnants of the Earth

TEINAR => Wastelands => Topic started by: Lion on July 12, 2017, 07:57:35 pm

Title: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on July 12, 2017, 07:57:35 pm
The sun wouldn't be getting any higher today. It was all downhill from here, and Ibsen wasn't going to be waiting around for the skin around his ribs to get any tighter. Food had been scarce the last few days. Between avoiding the slobbering packs of raider gangs and wild animals, he knew he had to get to his stash before someone else did.

The last haul paid shit. Such as it were. A few pieces of scrap from a junked out truck that had picked apart from anything good. Ibsen took the pieces that could be used for a few mods on his bike, but not much else could be salvaged. He'd need something bigger to pry off the hull and drag that back. Outposts could always use more scrap to fortify their defenses. A good steel truck hood could do just that.

In return, the location of a stash of goods that had been stolen from one of their ranks, tried to take off toward one of the raider gangs, they suspected. Not that it mattered now, the guy most likely was a pile of bones in the dirt. Just like everything else, the earth swallowed it up and never gave it back.

The engine shut off and he took the key from the ignition, letting it cool off, and overlooked the crater where the stash was located. It was...one hell of a goddamned mess. It was a massive cylindrical structure that had been hollowed out, clearly having crashed into this hollowed out section of earth, and the skeletal remains only partly protruded out from beneath the dust. The crater itself was deep enough to be hidden in a valley between sections of dead canyon.

Ibsen had found the location well enough. A fallen airplane, or whatever it was called. Didn't matter since the only things that came out of the skies were dragons when Pilots had a mind of stepping out into this place where they didn't belong. The skies were largely clear, not even a storm on the way, and it didn't seem as if there was anyone else around.

He readjusted the poncho over his shoulders, flipping up the front flap and pulling his sidearm from the makeshift holster on his side. It was an older beat-up revolver, a piece that had seen better days. But it worked and the grip was custom adjusted for Ibsen's hand. His clothing blended into the tawny earth, except for the dark brown poncho that now looked like little more than a cape over his back. Better safe than sorry, that's how he saw it.

For now it didn't seem like anyone else was around, so betting down toward the metal cache that seemed rather shiny in that high sun. Seat leaked down his brow, and passed over the black goggles that were sealed to his face. The bandana over his face was more for aesthetics than necessity in this case. The air never bothered him. The goggles, however, tended to keep others from staring into his eyes overlong.

The hood stayed on his head, as he carefully made his way down. The metal cache was right there. And...

“What the fuck?” Ibsen murmured, holstering his revolver. He looked inside and found that it was empty. “Shit...”  Well, mostly empty save for a  16 ounce can of “Rootin' Tootin' Ron's Pinto Beans” that hard hardly collected any dust sitting just carefully at the bottom of the tin.

“Well shit, if today ain't my lucky day, spank my bottom blue,” Ibsen laughed and pulled the black bandana from his face, reaching down to pick up the can. Or almost. The sound of movement nearby indicated he wasn't as alone as he thought, and like wildfire his hand reached for his revolver.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on July 13, 2017, 07:23:11 pm
   Chasing that crow had been a bad idea. For one thing, crows could fly, and no matter how much Konstantin tried he could never do anything close to the same. And you could only move your arms so fast before they just got tired, all without getting more than a jump's worth off the ground.

   The second thing, was, of course, that the crow had never been real in the first place. Kostya had his suspicions of course-- he couldn't remember if crows still existed or not. He remembered that they were crows, so maybe they did? Or maybe he remembered that crows once existed? But surely if he remembered they once were that meant they still were, because he wasn't that old. And he'd never lived anywhere but the Wasteland, so where else would the crows be?

   Either way, though, chasing that crow had been a bad idea. For one thing, Konstantin had already been massively hungry before taking off after it. The chase had expended what few calories he still had left, and he was presently in the process of squeezing the life out of the last, solitary survivor. It screamed for mercy, but none was to be had. He needed to keep going, he needed to keep going, he hated starving to death-- no amount of painkillers was enough to stem off the agony of your own body eating itself to keep moving, the agony of forcing already overspent muscles to Do The Thing one more time. And one more time, and one more time.

   Chasing that crow had been a bad idea. His bag bounced listlessly against the back of his leg-- it was emptier than usual; just a scrap of metal with paint all over it and some threat of bodily harm scratched into the paint in lieu of any real writing instruments. Kostya was just impressed that the person sending the message had been able to write in the first place. Kostya was still impressed that he, himself, was able to read in the first place. Or maybe not, because wow, what was scratched into that metal was a whole level of open hostility that Kostya hoped to never face himself.

   He was pretty sure just delivering the damn thing would get him shot. But not delivering it would also get him shot, and the sender had lots of things that Kostya needed. Including but not limited to Someone who could rewire his goddamn headphones. The left one was starting to crackle in and out of focus, fading here and there and sometimes cutting out completely unless Kostya held his head at a certain angle-- and he couldn't really go around the Wastes with his head at 45 degrees for the rest of his life.

   Well, he could, but it would hurt after a while, was the point.

   Wait, where was he going with this.

   Right! His bag against the back of his leg. Bounce bounce. Super light. No messages. No food. And a stupid, probably not even there crow.

   Kostya looked around, squinted at the hazy sunlight overhead, made even hazier by waves of heat off the barren dust. He licked his lips, did a slow 360, and then another just for the hell of it. Okay. Okay. West, there. And... if he remembered right, further east was the skeleton of a highway that had once been the lifeblood of some metropolis or another. Or maybe not.

   One way to find out.

   It was only about two hours later that Kostya realized that chasing that crow had been a mistake, because he was lost as fuck. Hungry, hot, and lost. He squinted through the visor of his gas mask as something wavered in his line of vision. Metal, maybe. Some bigger skeleton of something that might've once moved, the remnants of a great metal beast lost to the old world. Back before the earth was soured, back before the sky was hazed, back before the winds put poison in your lungs and stripped the skin off your bones.

   Either way, that big a corpse meant at least one thing-- shelter, for one, a place to sit and hunker down and die in some kind of peace. But maybe... maybe...

   Kostya saw the can before he saw the other person. Such was the level of his hunger, the level of his inability to focus, such as that particularly was. He had just shimmied his way underneath the curve of rusted and pitted metal, dust and sand kicked up under his feet when he spotted them, finally, the other figure covered in the same brown as everything else in the Wasteland. Camouflage. It worked.

   Camouflage didn't hide the fact that this stranger was reaching for a gun, though, and some surge in adrenaline kicked what was left of Kostya's energy reserves into overdrive. He didn't wanna die today. He was tired of dying today. He didn't wanna die today. So, like any normal person who saw someone else reaching for a gun, Kostya ran at the other guy in a full tackle, slamming both of them to the ground and scrabbling for that gun.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on July 13, 2017, 08:51:50 pm
Ibsen's focus hadn't noticed any crow passing over it. For now it only saw a stranger encroaching on his find. First come, first serve! This can of bean was coming along with the scavenger and whoever this muthafucker was, he was about to get a goddamn bullet to his goddamn --

"FUCKHEAD!" was all Ibsen was able to get out before the fuckhead was bullrushing him and tackled him into the ground. The debris all around proved to be a rather deadly web of old pipes and protruding spikes of rust, steel cords rusted out and from the corner of his eyes a skeleton was still hooked on a section of cording not far from his head.

The sheer force of landing knocked the breath from Ibsen and he gasped, the revolver knocked from his hand. His eyes were wild beneath the tinted lenses of his goggles, wide and that primal urge to survive kicking in full force.  That knocked out wind left the scavenger half-dazed and when it came to deciding which one of the three distorted heads to attack - picking the middle one tended to be the best bet.

Ibsen screamed and forgot about the gun for a half second, it was tossed a few feet away from them at the moment anyway, and he reared his head back and launched it forward, cracking his skull against the other guy's as hard as he could, ignoring the gas mask that was largely in the way. White took his vision, and he squeezed his eyes shut to stem the dizziness.

Ibsen forced away the pain and pressed a hand underneath his shoulder, feeling the bracing of armor just partly underneath the man's dirty filthy duster. Ugh, he was nasty! With as much momentum as he could muster he shoved the other body off of him, rolling along with him, and shoved a knee in against his chest, reaching down to rip that mask off him.

There air was still now, but it'd make hitting his fucking face a hell of a lot easier.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on July 13, 2017, 09:48:54 pm
There was lots of screaming. Some of it was his own, Kostya could feel it in his throat, raw and dry and thirsty. Some of it was this Camouflage-- he could see him, teeth bared and mouth open. And shut. And open. Syllables, loud and echoing, and coming from every single direction after that headbutt. The world was swimming, and for a second Kostya thought about his headphones, how they faded in and out and then nowhere at all. He blinked, hard, and noted the telltale spiderweb crack in the upper corner of his mask.

The world swam again, and then rolled all the way to the side. He sputtered as his mask was yanked off, dust and dirt and sand kicked up and into his exposed mouth as he swatted at the body above him. Kostya gasped, harsh and ragged, half expecting his lungs to melt right then and there-- but no, it seemed the dust devils decided to keep at bay for the moment. Baring his teeth and spitting grit, Kostantin lashed out, grabbing for the Camouflage's face, trying to get under his goggles and into his eyes and instead grabbing a fistful of hood.

Kostya pulled in either regard.

The pitted carcass of the former airplane was a death strap of loose cabling and exposed shards of metal. Below them, tiny shark fins of rust pressed into Kostya's thankfully armored back like a bed of nails. Above them, warped metal broke small holes, little palm sized beacons of daylight pouring down into the muted shadows of the plane's interior.

Kostya pulled on the Camouflage's hood, and threw the useless scrap of cloth to the side. He reached for his assailant's face again, the pair scrambling to get in as many hits as they could before the other, and their mutual thrashing bucked the Camouflage up against Kostya's thighs.

It was enough, just for the barest moment, to push the other guy's head in the path of one of those sun-holes, a halo of light caught at the back of his head and sending cascades out against his hair. It had looked black at first, but now, like this, there was no mistaking the deep hue, deeper and more vibrant and beautiful than Konstantin had ever seen it.

He had seen lots of blues before. There was the blue of paint, liquid and shiny when the can was first opened and settling into a soft chalky matte as it dried. There was the blue of wires, partially stripped away by weather and time and coated in a fine dust. There was the blue of plastic beads, partially transparent and shiny despite everything the Wastelands had to offer. The soft and pale blue of some eyes, like old bits of string faded in the sun.

And then there was this blue-- deep and rich and inky and, and oh, oh Kostya wanted to touch it. He didn't even seem to notice he was still being punched, eyes wide in amazement as his hands scrabbled upwards again, curling against soft-- so soft!-- strands and gripping tight, trying to fight the guy and get him into better light to see that halo of blue once more.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on July 13, 2017, 10:47:13 pm
You often had to learn the hard way never to squander opportunity when it came knocking your way. Or in this case screaming bloody murder in your face, with life or death clearly on the line now. It was always this way. And would always be. That was just the reality of surviving out here in the Wastes. Nothing could be taken for granted. Blink one moment, and you might never wake up.

Isben's heart was racing and eyes burning and somewhere underneath his flesh was all the adrenaline that he'd stored away for moment's like this. He wasn't going to die here, not now, not over a can of fucking beans. There were a few options of course. He could just beat this bastard back with everything he had, smash his face in until he was dead then take the beans for himself.
 
He could forget the beans and just surrender, let the man take them, and most likely just get a bullet in his own head - thus joining the ranks of the dead that littered this mass grave. Momentarily Ibsen could only think of all the people he'd killed, or had been killed by others that went unnoticed, and were left lying in the dirt, a feast for the crows.

His heart kicked up again, and that primal fear of death surged in the moment that mask was wrenched from his face and Ibsen cracked his knuckles has hard as he could against his face, trying to avoid a tangled mess of arms and other limbs. A shift in the fuckhead's posture and Ibsen was awkwardly settled into his lap.

The heat flared into Ibsen's face because he was now straddling him, the hood now gone, and he blinked through the goggles, snarling at the hands that clawed at his face. Another punch, right in the bastard's eye once they were widened.  He was staring at something because his eyes were bugging out.

The tendrils of light caught part of the purpling edges of this stranger's eyes and in that reflection he could see himself above him, and from the edges of his vision, the man's fingers were reaching up to grab a hold of Ibsen's hair.  His hair!?  What in the actual fuck!?

So of course he resisted and gripped at his wrist to shove his hands away from him, no matter how much they flailed and tried to grasp at his hair. He felt the other man's fingers snatch a hold of it and pull it into the light, revealing the deep rich hues of blue therein, leaving Ibsen's neck awkwardly angled.

His one hand pried at his wrist and the other flailed at his back, snatching out the sheathed bowie knife at the back of his belt and yanking it free and stabbing into the underside of this interloper's left wrist.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on July 13, 2017, 11:19:23 pm
There had been beans. Somewhere in the rattling ghost town of Kostya's mind, he remembered there had been beans. Beautiful, syrupy, soft and delicious beans. Enough carbs and protein to build him up and keep him going. Just a few miles more.

But there was something to be said about how little Kostya cared for the knifey ache in his stomach, how little he cared about the way his muscles shook with effort to continue on no fuel. At some point in time, long ago, some nameless human being had pointed out that mankind could not exist on bread and water alone.

Kostya felt like maybe he understood. He was going to die, that much was certain. He always did-- whether it was here or out on the salt flats or trying to take a dump where a mutated rattlesnake was hiding, Kostya was going to die. It was okay though; you got over the embarrassing deaths, picked yourself up and carried on.

A can of beans wouldn't stop that. Not for long, anyway. But oh, that hair… Kostya could stare at it for hours, hungry for more than just beans, hungry for something that had long lost its name to time and Wasteland dust. Hungry for something he could barely fathom, Kostantin yowled as that knife sank into his wrist-- and used the distraction to grab a section of this stranger's hair with his other hand. He pulled with every last bit of himself he had, felt the subtle release as strands broke and roots separated from skin.

It wasn't like he wanted it to hurt, but it probably did. Though, it did seem a fair trade for the white hot wet agony in his left wrist. That agony was dropping in temperature, quick and fast and Kostya felt the thrumming in his chest as his heart struggled to keep up with the blood he was losing.

Slit wrists! That felt familiar, numb and tingly as he lost the feeling in his left hand. His fingers were already nonresponsive, his thumb slack-- something crucial in the mechanics had been cut, though that was definitely second place concern following the veins that had been so compromised.

But he'd gotten the hair, and he grinned wide, pulling his right fist to his chest with a wheezing gasp, protecting this latest treasure for as long as he could.

He could only hope it'd still be there when he woke up.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on July 14, 2017, 12:24:22 am
Ibsen's blade had cut deep, protruding out of the other side of that wrist, caught between the radius and ulna, and wedged in a little awkwardly. That thought was secondary to the yanking of hair from his scalp. Ibsen made a sound unbecoming of him - or of any man - and followed it up with a growl once the hair was properly removed. Removed with such force that it would no doubt leave small prickles of blood poking up from his scalp.

It was no matter now, however. The man beneath him was fading fast, and Ibsen yanked out that knife regardless of the angle of bone it was caught on, the force of it causing him to tumble off the shit-for-brains that ripped his hair out! Served him right! Ibsen wanted to jab that thing through his heart, but the armor was a little too inconvenient, and frankly he had better things to do.

"Fuck," he panted, rolling off him crawling toward that gun. One bullet. Just to make it quick. Ibsen twisted around, cocked back the hammer and pointed, pointing it the ragged Waster's head. Not fucking worth it. Not even a little bit. 

Already the adrenaline was fading and Ibsen holstered that gun, cleaned the blood off that bowie knife and tucked it back into the sheathe. He'd need that later to pry that delicious can of beans open. Can openers were hard to come by these days, but by now Ibsen had become something of an expert in prying open unspoilables. A hike back up to the bike and Ibsen felt his scalp, thankful it was little more than a few droplets of blood that dried before he put his hood on.

The rat bastard snatched off a good tuft from the side of his head. What the hell was wrong with him!? Why did he give so much of a shit about hair!?  And just let himself be distracted long enough to die like that...  It was fucking pathetic. And frankly, truth be told, Ibsen was a little bit disappointed the guy didn't put that much more of a fight.

He'd be just another carcass to rot in the sun. Another body in the grave. 

A kick to the brake and Ibsen took off out from the mouth of the crater, riding off for as long as the fuel in his tank could take him. He had another hovel somewhere nearby, where a canister with enough gas would refill his stores, and he'd be off again.

It was too bad, Ibsen didn't reach it before his motorcycle clunked that awful thunking sound, and with a curse, he was forced to push it the last mile to a carved out section of canyon wall, that would provide enough shade for a fire. Deep in the far corner of that rock, was a hollowed out boulder, with just the cannister that he needed. That can of beans was the only thing driving him forward. He could almost taste it in his mouth now and if he had any saliva left in his mouth he'd be drooling.

Night was falling, and the air was picking up just a little. Yeah, that can of beans would be just the pick me up he needed. Ibsen finally sank into that hole in the rock, pushing the bike as far as it would go, kicked up that brake, and might have worried about starting that fire, setting up whatever camp he could, if he hadn't just fallen to his knees, and passed out, sleeping like the dead.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on July 14, 2017, 12:34:23 pm
As far as dying went, bleeding out wasn't too bad. It wasn't Konstantin’s favorite, mind you, but it wasn't the worst. The dehydration he'd been suffering from had assisted in matters, and his hunger. His body just couldn't power through like it might have once done.

But hey! That was fine. Better to get it done and over with rather than dragging it out any longer.

It was a mark of how little this death was that it only took until then for him to wake up. He sputtered, coughed, exercising his dry throat and blinking his dry eyes. The open lidded staring always hurt for a bit after the fact, but a few solid blinks and sniffling tears and he was fine.

Where was he this time?

Kostya shifted where he sat up in the dirt. It was dim, dark, but there were cables and metal, and if he reached out with one hand there looked like a lot of it. Kostya took a deep breath, and laughed.

Right, the airplane. Right, right, the guy with the beans. Beans. Beans!

Kostya looked down, hilarious as that was, and felt rather than saw the hair in his right hand. Yes! Yes yes yes!

Carecully, very carefully, Kostya shifted on the ground, pulling around his messenger bag with his newly scarred left hand. That had been a deep one-- the savagery of the blow had left a thick pale-pink line on either side of his wrist, and he hummed a bit in thought. Could you pick at a scar like a scab? Best not…

He rummaged through his bag for a small coffee tin and carefully opened it. Here were his treasures: bits of wire and string and beads, and a tiny scrap of what had once been one of those colorful flyers, printed on pretty robin's egg blue paper. Not that there was much of it left, but it was enough, just enough to fold Beans’ hair into and tuck safely away.

He'd need something better, later, of course. Maybe he could trade at the next settlement he found. If he found one. Another rummage through the bag brought out a windup lantern, and a few quick turns brought it and the hollow carcass of metal to life. Beans was long gone, both the can and the person, but the one added benefit to waking up like this was he was no longer starving.

And it was night! Which meant there was plenty of nice, cool, relatively safe time to get out of here and somewhere close to familiar territory. The only problem was, which way to go?

Something fluttered above Kostya's head, and he growled. That fucking not there crow. This was, after all, entirely her fault. As if on cue, she cackled at his thoughts, and with a hiss Kostya threw sand upwards.

Which immediately fell downwards and hit him in the face. Ow. Also, right, his gas mask. Lucky he'd been dead, sleeping without that on could've killed him. Yanking the fractured mask over his face, Konstantin finally got to his feet, and stepped out into the smoggy dark of Wasteland night. And, as luck would continue to have it, there were tracks leading away.

It… was probably not the best idea, to go looking for blue right now so soon after a murder. But blue would probably mean other people. And other people would mean supplies and a job and some directions… but blue also meant tire tracks, which meant Kostya had a long way to go…

***

There were dangers to sleeping out in the open. Exposure, winds, raiders, critters. Out in the middle of nothing, raiders weren't that much of a risk. But critters were. Nasty, hobbled, hungry, bald and sunburnt and bubbling in places where cancer took hold. Genetic abnormalities brought on by chemical exposure. Pollution Plague. The Wasteland Wrack.

Chewy chewy off with your lymph-nodesie.

And sometimes, there were the things in between. Not a raider, not a critter, not a man and not-not a man. Certainly lacking in any moral and philosophical quandaries that came with attempted murder and subsequent mastication of a sleeping human being. Chewy chewy off with your nose-ie.

Or, at least, that would've been the case. The notnotnotaman had been so quiet, so careful, so starved for meat they hadn't wanted to risk their prey getting away. They had been so fixated, so, so fixated, they didn't see the bat even as it crashed into the side of their skull. They didn't see the bat after, either. Or at all. Their skull was too pulpy after that.

Kostya breathed, harsh and quiet. He hadn't expected this to happen. He'd just wanted to follow the tire tracks, make it out of the unfamiliar, work his way back to where he had been going. Not starve. But blue had stopped, far outside of anything Konstantin knew, and blue had been sleeping. Kind of weird, kind of stupid, kind of dangerous to be exposed, even if there was a nestled crag to hideyhole in. Their scrap must've taken a lot out of him, and maybe beans weren't enough.

Did he already eat them all? Kostya looked around in the dark, but didn't immediately see any kind of evidence. Oh well. He didn't exactly want to wake blue up and ask, either. Blue deserved a rest. Everyone deserved a rest. And honestly Kostya wasn't even that mad about the stabbing.

He certainly wasn't mad enough to just sit back and watch something so rare get eaten and shit out by one of the Wasteland monstrosities. No sir, not one bit. So he'd run up, smashed its head in, and now stood wondering what else to do.

Did he leave? Where did he go? He didn't want to wander off and die of thirst again. That would suuuuck. But, he had a feeling he couldn't exactly stay either. Blue still had a gun. Guns tended to hurt if you didn't catch it in the face. Kostya hated hurting.

Hm.

Best to start one thing at a time, he guessed. He pulled the notnotnotaman away from where blue slept still (so quiet! was he dead?) and began the careful process of cleaning the carcass.

Notnotnotaman. No moral or philosophical quandaries about murder and mastication. Kostya's mouth watered, and he set about making a fire, slapping slabs of thincut meat onto a flat rock and setting that over the flames.

If blue was alive and had already eaten the beans, at least Kostya would have something on his stomach. Also nothing said “friendly” like a fire and some steak, so maybe he'd avoid being shot. Maybe. Maybe.

The crow cackled, and Kostya scowled. He was going to eat that, next. If it existed.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on July 14, 2017, 02:38:59 pm
Somewhere in the back of Ibsen's blank mind, there was a nagging thought about how stupid it was to just collapse and fall asleep in the middle of nowhere like that. Sometimes if a trade was good, and he'd brought something particularly special to an outpost, they would allow Ibsen to snag a nap on a real bed. Or whatever free cot was lying around. That was a luxury one couldn't squander - not if they had any sort of sense. Ibsen never overstayed his welcome and he was always gone before the morning.

He never slept for more than a few hours anyway. He couldn't. Not even the Outposts were completely safe. That was an illusion saved for the weary and weak of mind. So what hours he could steal away were precious and often too few and far between. It wasn't like Ibsen to collapse like this, and he sniffed when he smelled something burning beside him.

Panic set in, thinking for a moment that he had left a fire going. Or that his motorbike had begun to leak or was overheating and he jerked awake. Ripping the goggles from his head, Ibsen scuffled closer to the bike, where it remained inert and leaning slightly to the left. What?  What the...

"FUCKHEAD!" ibsen growled again, turning swiftly around at the firelight and the body that was sitting beside it. The dead body. The very dead body that he watched bleed out in front of him and clutching that chunk of hair that he'd ripped out. His scalp was still tender from it, and idly Ibsen's hand reached up to rub at that portion of scalp. It would grow back, but that hurt like a real fucking bitch.

Clearly he was still dreaming. And this was a really awful hunger-induced nightmare. Ibsen quietly fumbled for his gun, cocking the hammer back, and hated that his hand was shaking. Rubbing the crusts in the corner of his eyes away with his free hand, yellow eyes that reflected that firelight right back at the corpse.

"You! YOU'RE DEAD! I watched you die!" Ibsen coughed out, embarrassed at clearly stating the obvious.  "What the fuck are you doing!?  You're supposed to die and stay that way, fuckhead!"
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on July 14, 2017, 05:30:51 pm
The thudding came slow and steady at first. Twangs followed, intermittent and sweet, before both came together in a frenzy of sound. Someone long dead and long gone and long forgotten sang to him, and Kostya sang back, an echo of a ghost who'd never know who he was or even where he was or what he was doing. Which was probably for the best, considering the artist probably never wanted their song to be an anthem to carving up a half-starved humanoid.

"Mother told me, son let it be, sold my soul..." Kostya hummed away, licking dry lips against the heat of the small fire. There hadn't been too much to build it bigger, but then again, Kostya didn't need a big fire. He needed heat to cook by, some light to live by, nothing so much so that all the other critters in the Wasteland caught wise and decided to come knocking for a cup of sugar.

His eyes flicked up here and there, more out of habit than any real paranoia; you learned to keep your eyes up when you had your ears down, and Kostya's ears were way down. Not that it really mattered for him, but blue was here, and blue wasn't like him. No one was. But more importantly still, blue wasn't. And blue was too rare in this world to let it slip through his fingers. Not yet.

The meat was bubbling against the rock, folding against itself as what little fat there was to be had pulled it all inward, juices dripping away and smoking up and smelling like rumbling bellies and desperation. Kostya's favorite flavor.

Sudden movements what they were, however, had him on his feet in an instant, headphones yanked down and bat in hand. He'd expected, maybe, another notnotnotaman, or a swarm of crows, or any number of haunting horrors that came up from the earth in the dead of night. But it was just blue, goggles off and eyes wide and-- oh. Oh, blue. Yellow was far from Kostya's favorite thing, but yellow might start growing on him at this rate.

Kostya's mouth pulled hard and fast to the side, baring his teeth all coyote wild he looked between bright yellow eyes and the wavering gun in blue's hand. You, you're dead, I watched you die. Yeah, that about summed it up nicely. Actually wasn't that verbatim what they said the last time? When had that been? Before or after the barbed wire? Eh, who could remember.

Kostya gestured, gently, with the end of his bat towards blue's own self, eyebrows high and grin refusing to quit.

"Yeah. It was quick. Thanks. I like 'em quick. The bigger deaths. The little deaths," here he grinned wider, if that was even possible, his eyebrows waggling in time with his laughter, "the little deaths I like slow."

Mm. Maybe not the best dinner conversation to have with a guy you'd just stabbed to death. But then again, what made good dinner conversation anymore?

Oh hey, Raider Bill, check out these eyeballs, ain't they the shit!

Well, fuck Raider Charlie, they sure as fuck are! You're gettin' mad good at that!

Hell yeah, Raider Bill, got my technique down and everything! Now help me jelly 'em and we'll put it on some toast.

Deee-lishus!!


Kostya snickered to himself, before remembering that there was a gun being aimed at him. He licked his lips again, and pointed upwards, forefinger rapping at his brow where two other scars lay, one after the other.

"Hey, gonna shoot, try for here, okay? Gut shots... I don't like gut shots. No one likes gut shots, ain't never met a man who did. But hey! I made breakfast! Steak-mmmm-mm."

He turned back to the fire, squatting down to turn over the meat with a twig, tongue at one canine as he concentrated on not throwing the whole damn thing into the fire.

"Now, with this one, you're gonna want our house red, if we had a house red. Or a house!" He threw back his head and laughed, long and howling, and shoved the latest steak off the cooking rock and onto a serving-rock. "Still got that bowie? It'll be easier."
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on July 15, 2017, 12:00:39 am
Again, this stranger left Ibsen weighing the pros and cons of whether or not it was worth it putting a bullet in his head. The shot would no doubt be heard for miles and miles. And even out here in the middle of nowhere, this territory being as empty as it was, was it really a chance he wanted to take? Not to mention he'd be down one bullet, and it wasn't like those grew on fucking trees around here.

There weren't too many people willing to give up their bullets for trade these days. So he'd have to make due with the ones he had. Ibsen drew the hammer back into position and holstered it, eyes gauging this crazy ass bastard that was sitting there talking to himself. Talking nonsense and giving a shit eating grin that irked Ibsen in all the wrong ways.

Those teeth that had no business being that clean and needed to be redecorated with a little bit of red tint. Maybe from a split lip. Yeah that would do nicely. And...the guy was cooking???

None of this made sense, and everything that seemed wrong was ringing alarm bells all in his head. He brushed a hand through his disheveled hair, fixing the blue strands backwards that only looked darker in the light, again rubbing at the tender scalp where he'd had it ripped out. What was up with that? Or was that thought just a waste of time? Because clearly this guy didn't have all his marbles in one bag.

If he had any left inside that rattling skull of his.

He liked the big deaths quick. And little deaths slow. Ibsen was about to ask what the hell he meant and was cautiously moving closer, his hand reaching back to reach that bowie knife, sliding it out, and the very odor of that meat making Ibsen's stomach growl loudly.

"Why? Why are sitting there cooking with a goddamn smile on your face?" A fruitless pointless question that irritated even himself. Ibsen's frown only deepened and he looked between the fire and the cooked meat and the man that should be dead but wasn't and was just smiling stupidly again, and it made something flip in his stomach in a way that only irritated Ibsen further.

He watched him die. He was dead. He had to be. He was just fucking hallucinating from hunger induced paranoia.  But there was food in front of him...  So Ibsen did the only logical thing and immediately lunged forward to kill the illusion before him. He ran full force at him and braced the knife to his throat, holding it firmly there against the barbed wire scarring and pressing his head down with one hand.

"Who the fuck are you?!  Why did you follow me!?" Ibsen growled, hating that that stupid grin got to him. Fuck this guy! One less crazy asshole in this shitfaced world. Nobody would be sorry, that was for damn sure.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on July 15, 2017, 01:28:16 am
Why was he sitting there, cooking with a damn smile on his face. Without thinking, Kostya reached up and rubbed his stubble-lined mouth, feeling the curve to his full lips and making an almost astonished sound as a result. Well, smiling so he was. Go figure.

Kostya had been just about to attempt to answer blue's first series of questions, when blue had apparently decided enough was enough and suddenly put that old familiar bowie knife to Kostya's throat. Well! There he was again, getting intimate with a shard of metal.

“We really gotta stop meeting like this,” he said, low and more to the knife than to blue, “people are gonna start to talk, and I don't want to give anyone the wrong impression-- ah!”

Impression. Right. Kostya really needed to keep his head still, though that did make swallowing much more difficult. His adam’s apple bobbed lightly against the bowie, and he turned pale green eyes upwards and backwards, peering at blue as best he could.

“You know where you're going,” he said, quietly, his mouth twitching to one side as if this whole thing were terribly hilarious. “I don't. Kinda figure, follow the tracks, not the crow, I don't have to mash food up outta nothing. You, uh. Already got the beans.”

Kostya blinked, slowly, his hands raised and fingers spread open. Would blue kill him again? That was admittedly a very real prospect, and Kostya was impressed at blue's apparent ability to take spontaneous resurrection in stride and simply do another murder.

“I gotta package-- letter package-- to deliver. And I chased the crow for food and… now I'm not sure where I am.”
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on July 15, 2017, 02:04:25 am
For now it seemed like this idiot was finally saying something that made sense. It was too bad he was going to die. It was too bad the poor schmuck had come all this way to find him and it was too bad that even with the little bit of sleep he got, Isben just wasn't in the mood to deal with this shit right now.

Be done with it. Slash that throat. It certainly wouldn't help this guy's rotten smell! And...from the sound of it he'd just come back anyway. A useful and totally not annoying party trick. Being this up close and personal with him, left little to the imagination.

He wasn't kidding about where the bullets went. No doubt he'd have some indication on his body about those gut shots - not that Ibsen was going to go out of his way to ask him. The knife fell in easily into the groove where the wire cut into his neck, and his frown only deepened.

"You got a name? Or should I just call you, Buttercups?" An inquiry made out of courtesy than actual interest. If he had to keep killing this man, it'd be good to give a name to the face he was going to have to cut off.

"No man's land, sugar tits," Isben scoffed and Drew back the knife, not in the mood to cut his throat today. There would be time for that later. "That's where you're at. Far off from the boonland where most of the raiders south of here wander. And there are no crows. Ain't nothing for miles, and you claim to have chased one all the way out here? You're fucking nuts."

He coughed again, throat itchy and dry and kept the grip on that large knife steady. Just in case. He supposed if sugar tits wanted to kill him, he'd have done it already. But still, it never hurt him to be overly cautious.

Rummaging through his saddle bags provided a rather large canteen of water, fresh at that and the taste was crisp and clean he savored every goddamned sip. He supposed Buttercups would be thirsty too...  Maybe.

"Drink it," he sighed, handing off the water, taking a seat jus close enough to the serving rock, and far enough away from him. "Who are you delivering? Can't be that important if you didn't head there right away."
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on July 15, 2017, 12:13:59 pm
"Everyone's got a name," Kostya said, far more calmly than anyone had business being with a knife to his throat. A knife being wielded by a man who had a historical precedent for stabbing him with a knife. The same knife, even. "It's just a matter of remembering it, yeah? Buttercup, sugar tits, whatever's left of Lazarus. Some of 'em get long, I guess. Ah,"

He was not answering the question. People typically didn't like when you didn't answer the question, people typically started slitting throats when you didn't answer the question. It was less out of fear and more out of want to avoid an inconvenience, then, that Kostya fought to get his attention back on the train tracks. He already needed to wash these clothes up, desperately: he didn't need to bleed out his life's last all over it, too. Places didn't tend to let you in if you looked like you just went hog wild on the last place you'd been.

"It's Konstantin. Kostya. My name. The actual one, I guess." He sighed, clearing his throat as the knife left it. No longer in danger of exsanguination if he so much as tilted his head, he turned to watch blue move about, lips curling into a grin. "Ain't nothing for miles, you start to get hungry for anything you see, yeah? Saw a crow, chased a crow. One hell of a bitch crow, she keeps... laughing. You know, like birds. Cah-cah-cah."

Mm, definitely not helping the whole 'you're fucking nuts' accusation, there. But then again, that wasn't anything new. Kostya was nuts. Plenty of people had said so, after all, not just blue. There was a point where you just had to start believing it yourself, because that level of empirical evidence really couldn't be wrong.

Not that Kostya minded being nuts. It worked out, more often than not. It hadn't impeded him any, at any rate; Raiders were cautious with nuts. Raiders didn't often try to steal from nuts. They would poke and prod and mock and bite, yeah, but that was just animal instinct. The raw, unwashed instinct that Something Is Wrong Fucking Kill It warring with the higher brain functions like Boss Said No Don't Fucking Kill It. It was great being useful; you tended to be kept alive and functional for the most part. There were exceptions of course--

That girl in the far reaches, like her. Kostya hummed, high and anxious. He did not like her. She didn't care about deals or agreements or scratching backs. She just killed you if she wanted. She also did things before she killed you, and Kostya did not like that. Death was one thing, pain was another, and that girl was nothing but pain.

He squeezed his hands into tight fists, released them, fingers shaking and twitching in memory. Mm, okay, Kostya did not like this train of thought, time to get off at the station and transfer lines.

No man's land, far from the boonlands that were south. So he was north? Yeah, that's how that worked. He shifted, and pulled his messenger bag around, lifted the flap to the underside to look at all the stains and purposed markings there. Lines and dots and little figures representative of something he'd seen or done or what. A few skulls. A few boxes. And up in the great empty space now... Kostya brought his thumb up, and bit hard on the edge of it. Little drops of red welled up, and he did his best to make something close to what that airplane had looked like. It wasn't the best, but he'd remember when he saw it. Blood meant a death, after all, and he always remembered those.

"Well, you know the end of the delivery means getting shot, you'd take your time, too, huh? His name might be Two Gun Gills but he can't shoot for shit. Always aims torso, always hits nonlethal. You ever had a half blind idiot open up on you?" He grinned up at blue, grabbing at that canteen in excitement and taking a quick swig. Oh, oh yes. He might not have been dehydrated anymore, but he was thirsty. You always got thirsty out here. He took a second swig and handed the canteen back before blue's good will ran out.

"It's a War missive. Bandit Barons barking over territory lines and all. Gotta be polite before they start slaughtering each other like nice, proper, civilized folks." he shifted his bag so the other man could see the inside of the flap, pointing at a poor rendition of crosshairs not too terribly far from where the blank space became littered with symbols again. Too close for any kind of comfort, really. "Knock knock, special delivery, I'll take my tip in the form of hot lead!"
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on July 15, 2017, 11:46:33 pm
Man this guy never shut up did he? He seemed always have something to say, even if it didn't make any sense, and he was content to just prattle on and on, to fill the void silence made. Ibsen settled into his place beside the serving rock, content to let bygones be bygones as he cautiously took the meat from the slab and sniffed it. Smelled clean, and if it was toxic, it wasn't like it would do any good. Poison was rather pointless at this ...well, point.

He tore it with his teeth, ripping it and found it surprisingly tender. It was just a test bite. The thing this meat came from no doubt was probably a mean sonuvabitch. But whatever, it was dead now and was put to better use. Ibsen swallowed with caution, listening quietly and wondering if this guy ever took a breath.

A moment of silence?  Aaaaand then he was chattering on again.

At the very least, it was kind of entertaining and Ibsen just cut yellow eyes to him as he went on and on about the crow and fought the urge to snicker. Because this guy just creeped him out in all sorts of ways, especially that weird stupid lurching his stomach did when his eyes caught light of Kostya's stupid grin. He decided right away that he hated that smile. It was awful and cheesy and caused his face to be badly in need of punching.

Yeah he'd get around to that soon, but with any lucky this guy would get bored and simply move along. Ibsen himself had no intention of hanging around him. What the hell kind of name was Kostya anyway? Ah, it sure as hell beat Eresaya. Eugh! Ibsen was shorter, cleaner sounding and easier to remember. But most people opted for the names they preferred. Gamma had been one, or when they caught sight of narrow lanky limbs in dark attire, the 'Scarecrow' had become another moniker.

Why couldn't Ibsen just be Ibsen?

He glanced upward when Kostya began to inspect the underside of his messenger bag. Ibsen tilted his head, curious, tearing another bit of the meat.  Reluctantly, his shifted closer and curled his neck in enough to see the bloodied details. Hm, now that was an interesting way to mark things. Ibsen had no map, because rarely did he need to stop long enough to think about where he was. This rendition was more or less accurate.

"Declaring war? They even still do that? I never saw why they ought to bother at all. Fighting over what, a piece of dirt. Seems like a waste of time," he admitted and shrugged. "Sorry you have to get shot. I guess that's the nature of the beast." Ibsen cut eyes to Kostya's stupid grinning face and the ghost of his own smile flickered there.

It was an odd stretching of skin, the flexing of unfamiliar muscles. Ibsen clenched his teeth and rolled his upper lip up. It didn't come as easy for him as it seemed to for the mailman. "Ibsen," he found himself saying. Why? Hm, if someone was gonna know his name, he'd like it to be the right one. "Call me Ibsen. But for you, I still like Buttercups."

He sipped his water, screwing the canteen back on tight. "Speaking of special deliveries, who delivered you? How do you come back? Because you know that's not normal." Pfft, as if anything out here ever was, except maybe dying, so what really then, was the problem? "Besides, I've met Two Gun Gills. He can't shoot worth a damn, but he's a mean motherfucker. Knows where to get good gas. That ain't easy to come by. But neither is a good delivery man. I reckon if you die a lot and come back a lot, you're pretty good at it. They wouldn't trust you with a war missive if you weren't. Are you good at it?"
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on July 17, 2017, 04:14:52 pm
Do they still do that?

Kostya looked over at blue, his mouth pulled hard to the right, his teeth there exposed while the rest of his mouth simply lay curled. Sardonican salute.

“People have gone to war over less. Far less than a patch of dirt between an outpost and anywhere else. It doesn't take much. One time, I got stabbed over some beans...” Whatever else had been on Kostya's mind, however, was soon left by the side of the road along with the rest of his trashed and crashed trains of thought.

Because right then it looked like blue was smiling. More importantly, it looked like blue was smiling at him. And really, really trying too! Smiling didn't come easy out here; it was like being able to curl your tongue or wiggle your ears-- either you had the born ability or you didn't. Because the Wastes never taught anyone to smile about anything.

Blue was trying, and blue clearly did not pop into this world knowing how. Which made this one all the more special. A rarity, just like blue, in the broken yellow grungy decay. Some wild impulse caught Kostya in the back of his head, in his spine and fingernails. He put the wild impulse back on the shelf, but it seemed his hands didn't quite get the memo-- already they moved up, already his fingers touched at blue's cheek, his thumb at the uptick at the corner of blue's mouth. A touch to satisfy because the impulse originalis had been far more.

“Ibsen,” Kostya repeated, his full grin back in spades, so much so that his face actually ached for it. And he'd had so much practice, too! “Ibsen Blue.”

Ibsen, the man with the knife, the man with the bike, the man who really sucked at smiling. The man with the knife. Remembering himself, Kostya pulled back and went about setting his map away. His experience was that losing fingers did not outright kill you, just hurt like hell. His experience was also that Ibsen Blue was very keen on making him hurt if provoked.

At least it wasn't a general rule.

“I'm good, I think. I get jobs easy. No risk runner. It always gets there.” Not everyone was aware, of course, that it only got there after being blown up, after having his insides melted via toxic fumes, after being held down and skinned--

Kostya shuddered.

“I don't know, I… just go and come back and go and come back. And if I try not to go, it…” He didn't like this train of thought, but the conductor was not letting him disembark, and his brows pulled together harsh over his eyes, his smile a tight thin line. “I go worse.”

He shook into a secondary thought and looked down at the meat he'd cooked. Soft and sizzling and full of all the things that would keep him from dying of an empty belly. He'd been on the other end of this, of course. He didn't survive long enough to know if he was being cooked or not, but he knew he'd been killed for eats not unlike this. “Two Two Guns, huh…?”

A shuddered howl popped across the winds, distant still. Inquisitive. A few answering pops of sound replied, some far to where Kostya thought was west, where the earth got rocky and tall and cold. Silence followed, before the original howl started up again, more urgently this time.

“Someone's missing their critter…” Kostya said, as distantly as those howls were.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on July 19, 2017, 01:22:10 am
[Holy shit the 'Two Two guns' was a typo xDDD]

Wait, what!? What was happening?

Ibsen's eyes couldn't possibly get any wider the moment they saw Kostya's fingers reaching forward to poke at his face. His cheeks were mostly gaunt, but when muscles were being used that weren't often exercised, his face quivered and Ibsen only held his breath. Waiting for what, he had no idea. This guy's hands needed washing. Severely!

And yet Ibsen didn't move, and just let him poke his face. But his hackles were raised to ELEVEN! And his eyebrows were raised to his hairline and his breath hitched. Ibsen kept himself under control, restraining the urge to swat his hand away and thrust his thumbs into both of Kostya's eyeballs. Stupid eyeballs, and their stupid staring.

"N-n," Ibsen criiiiinged hard.  Cleared his throat and started again, voice much more stern now, "No. Just the one Gills. The one man with his two guns. Unless there are two. There might be. I never asked him if he had anyone else using his moniker. People have been called worse things and been shot for less. Or stabbed."

Not that beans were anything to be made miniscule in his opinion. Ibsen sighed and ate the rest of that meat, trying to ignore the lingering tingle in his cheek. He rubbed at it idly as if it were a bad rash that itched - irritated. He was certainly getting irritated. He was confused -horribly and for not apparent good reason - and being this close next to a stranger only made Ibsen flounder in a sea of awkward silence. And even more awkward conversation.

Ibsen cleaned his fingers with a slurping tongue before those howls sent chills scurrying up his spine. "Critters!?" And again that alarm shot back up to eleven. And suddenly the taste of that meat became all too familiar on his tongue. "Hey, you wanna keep cooking meat? Snuff the fire. Gotta run. Those Face-Eaters tend to look for their, eugh, critters."

Ibsen didn't consider analyzing what he was doing, or what he'd just said. Just that he scurried to the rock where the gas canisters were buried, used one for a refill and strapped the other to the cargo container in the other. He didn't kicked up the brake and started the engine. It had enough hours to cool down and he scooted forward in the seat, pushing with his feet and rolling the bike closer to Kostya. It wasn't quite a two-seater, but there was room enough for this guy if he didn't want to get eaten.  Ibsen sure as shit didn't.

"You coming, Buttercups!? I ain't got all day," he hissed and drew his goggles back up over his face, wrapping the bandana back around his face. "Come on!"

The howls were getting a hell of a lot closer, and distracting echo of rocks only deceived their distance. Ibsen wasn't going to take any chances on just how soon they'd get there.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on August 02, 2017, 08:03:40 pm
Snuff the fire. Now why would Kostya do that? Fire was light, and warmth, and really good at cooking meats. But something in blue's voice told him this was a problem-- light to be seen, warmth to be felt, and the meats that might end up being your own.

Ibsen Blue was already scrambling around as Kostya heaped sand and dirt atop the choking flames. Ibsen's bike cracked to life, and almost in response, the howling noises got all the louder. And angrier.

Oh. Oh yeah. Okay, now it made sense. Yup. Fire out. Fire very out.

Not that it seemed like it did them much good. There was still the strong scent of smoke, of cooking food, hot and acrid against the sour notes of wasteland winds. There was still the heat from their bodies, the stirred earth. It was no secret that they were there, and with all the howling that was happening, it didn't seem like the face eaters were shy about sharing in the first place.

Ibsen yelled as some flowers. No, wait, that was him. He was Buttercups. What a nice name. Wait, right. Danger. Big deaths. Time to go.

Kostya ran over to where Ibsen straddled his bike, and hopped up just behind him. Kostya scooted close, gripping blue's middle with one arm and his baseball bat in the other hand.

“Yup! Done, go please, digestion is not fun.”

The howls were getting closer, more ragged and slavering as claws skirted over rock, sending little pebbles down from above. Kostya's eyes widened, and he patted wildly at Ibsen's belly and choked up on the bat. Not that he could do much as he was-- now was the time to run, and run fast.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on August 02, 2017, 11:10:29 pm
The bike had enough gas in the tank and the engine had cooled enough to go for as long as Ibsen needed. Or until they ran out of gas again. Thankfully whatever he could carry was perfectly small enough to being stuffed into the saddlebags just at the base of the seat. It was one long stretch of patched up leather - mended here and there by duct tape - and he squeezed his legs around the tank and once Buttercups was on they were ready to rock and roll.

Emphasis on the rock.

Their 'friends' were a hell of a lot closer than he anticipated. He'd forgotten just how fast those face-eaters could skitter across this toxic stretch of boulders and stone, there were always pockets of them hiding in the dark until the sun went down and the winds were calm. The howls made Ibsen's ears ring, deafened only by the growl of that engine.

Weighed down now by two bodies, bike seemed to stutter for only a second as it went off the embankment where Ibsen had been hiding out. "FASTER YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!" Ibsen hollered, voice made hoarse and gave an embarrassing squeal as it broke out into a higher note that he had longed to forget. That didn't matter right now.

Getting away and not being eaten was rather paramount.

As the bike tore down the side of dirt and into the heavy sand, thick tires dealing with the terrain expertly, the over hang rained down a horde of mutated flesh. Ibsen didn't look behind him. He didn't have to. His side mirrors did the courtesy of showing just how many there were, and how fast they were going. Mutated things that might have made Ibsen sick to look at, their limbs longer than any natural human had any right to be. Some crawling on all fours, pushing out the sand and pebbles underneath them as they bounded forward, elongated spines snapping like a spring to launch them ahead.

Limbs protruded out from backs, spines, or a half-formed head growing out from a skull. One looked like half a dog, or their face was mistaken for one. Ibsen reached down to pull Buttercups' arm tighter around his waist to make sure he was secured there. "Get that fucking bat ready!" Ibsen warned.

"A pair of them at 3 o'clock! ...That means to the right! Over the rocks!" Ibsen panted, heart beating thickly in his throat. Those shapes no longer canoodling stone and trying to cut them off, one dropping down nigh on top of them.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on August 02, 2017, 11:42:49 pm
That didn't sound like blue.

Kostya frowned, full and deep, hearing the pitch change in Blue’s voice. High. Scared. More scared than seeing a dead man at his campfire. Kostya shot a glance over his shoulder, and the meat soured in his stomach. Yeah, no, the face-eaters were well beyond anything so simple as a fleshy ghost. Kostya had at least been friendly.

He sincerely doubted these things were about to offer them a can of beans. Though that would almost be too funny: horribly twisted heaps of skin and bone all sitting around a plastic garden table and politely passing beans back and forth in teacups.

Kostya giggled, unable to help himself, because honestly that was just too hilarious. They'd all need to be better dressed, of course. You couldn't simply attend a garden party without so much as a pair of knickers on.

Halfway pulled out of his reverie by the sensation of hand against his own, Kostya blinked hard at the back of Blue's beautiful, wonderful, rare head. A pair at three o clock… Oh. Oh! Right! Kostya could do that.

He shifted, his fingers digging into the cloth of Blue's front while he twisted in his makeshift seat (the bike was trying so hard to be what it wasn't, Kostya actually felt badly for the machine), faced the monstrosities coming in parallel to them--

The one to the right and thus closest to them, who had a bit of a limp and a sizeable lump at the front of it's forehead, Kostya decided would favor a large straw sunhat to wear at a garden party.

Or at least it might have if a solid swing hadn't caved in much of the skull necessary to maintain a hat. Kostya pulled his bat back with some soft squelching resistance, and the creature to the left shrieked in rage at having one of its pack die so easily.

Kostya shrieked back, swatted at it with his bat, and somehow caught the thing about the legs, sending it stumbling and twisting into a cloud of dirt as it lost its footing.

He heaved a harsh breath, adjusted his grip around Blue's waist, and twisted to look for more encroachers. He kind of wished he hadn't, shortly after, because the sight of that many still bearing down on them--

It was worse than the wights in the West, the things that made rotten bordertowns of sick earth that had been sick long before anything else had caught ill. At least those had the decency to keep their skin in relatively one piece.

Another face-eater, its canid head boiling with yellow-white pustules, was heaving stinking breath as it bore down on them, this time from the left, out of range of the bat without some serious wiggling around. Kostya grimaced, patted Blue's belly.

“It's okay. Won't let them eat you. Keep goin’!”

He shifted, releasing his grip on Ibsen just enough to turn himself around in the bike’s seat. Squeezing his knees against the bike as if that would keep him any steadier, Kostya shifted his grip on the bat and brought it swinging with both hands.

It was still just a bit out of range, and only caught the thing by the snout, but a telltale crack and shrieking yelp said he'd definitely made an impression.

But oh, hell, there were a lot of them. A nasty bump had Kostya gripping the leather of the bike seat, his heart in his throat. Twice in one night was just cruel. Falling off a bike to get eaten? That was worse.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on August 03, 2017, 07:24:21 pm
Whatever nonsense was meandering it's way through Kostya's mind was rather meaningless to Ibsen. As long as he had that bat at the ready right when he needed it, that was all that mattered. It was the longest weapon currently at their disposal, and required no bullets. Ibsen wasn't going to waste an opportunity to use the one, er, riding his ass as it were.

It left plenty of room for him to focus on steering and guiding them out of that rocky pass. The sand between them melted away to rising rocks, between a ridge of boulders and an opening at the far end of the pass. Already he had the engine pushing as hard as he could, switching gear just as Kostya took out their garden party of guests.

"Keep not letting them eat me!"

As if that really needed to be said. Ibsen didn't even think about those little touches made his hackles stand on end. No, that was probably from the adrenaline and fear. Everything was standing on end. Especially the rocks in front of them that were rising higher. Ibsen didn't look behind them, eyes focused on that exit, on closing it in, on beating the face eaters that were trying to swarm them.

Until he heard that crack, and the squeal and the sudden lurching of Kostya's body to the far side of the bike. Any further and they'd both to down. Ibsen didn't even think about it, didn't hesitate when his arm shot out from the side, and caught that stupid buffoon's form by the collar of his stupid fucking shirt just so he didn't have to see his stupid fucking grin get ground up by the dirt and eaten up like a chocolate sundae on a summer afternoon.

Nope. Ibsen would rather have an opportunity to shoot that stupid grin himself.

Ibsen screamed, yanking that fathead back up into the seat and righting the front wheel just before they careened into a huge boulder. Bullets wouldn't take that boulder down, no luck in that. The gas can. Just enough fuel left.

"The can! In the bag behind you! Grab it and give it to me!"

Once it was in hand, Ibsen removed the lid, haphazardly gripping and steering the bike with one hand and guiding the bike diagonally, dosing the ground in as straight a line as he could until the can was empty. A quick toss and Ibsen pulled out that revolver, cocked the hammer back and fired one shot against the metal of the gas can. The spark was all that was needed before the fuel ignited and quickly caught the line.

A few of the cryptids rolled out into the blaze and their withered skin was fodder to that fury. The fire rose up to cover the pass. It wouldn't last long, but it would give them time to make distance, and that's just what Ibsen did, reholstering the gun, and his arm reaching down to make sure Kostya's hand was still secure around his waist.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on August 04, 2017, 03:14:52 pm
That had been a close one.

It was weird. The pair of them had nearly wiped out for the effort, and blue had grabbed him anyway. Blue also knew that if Kostya had fallen, it wasn't like the death would have been permanent-- but he'd grabbed him anyway. Kostya felt a heat to his skin that had very little to do with the sudden inferno behind them, the brightest and hottest of which seared against his arm right where Ibsen’s hand was.

It was weird.

It was weird and if his heart hadn't already been hammering away, if he already wasn't hopped up on adrenaline and fear, he might have noticed that his heart was hammering anyway, that he felt a hot chill of fear anyway.

Kostya shifted, regaining his balance on the bike, hugged just that much closer to Blue's back. He brought up the bat to inspect it as best he could considering the lighting and dust in his face, but even so there was no mistaking the shard of bright white protruding from the wood amid a halo of sticky red.

A fang. Huh. Neat!

Kostya looked over his shoulder to check their pursuit-- the fire had flared and died quickly, but it was clear the damage had been done. Those malformed shadows skittered back and forth between much stilled, much blacker shapes. The easier meal here was just to eat their dead, now, versus expending further energy chasing after a bike. Kostya thought of the meal they never got to finish, and his stomach growled sadly at the missed opportunity.

Still. Blue! Blue didn't get eaten, that was the best part. Kostya grinned wide, and patted at Ibsen's belly again, chin at his shoulder to better be heard over the rattle of the bike's engine and kicked up rocks.

“That. Was. Awesome!” another pat, and Kostya moved his head to avoid a particularly potent cloud of dirt and dust, forehead pressed to the back of Blue's neck.

There was something familiar about it, something that made his stomach flip in a way that wasn't quite bad enough to warrant losing any of his breakfast. Something that frayed his nerves well after the fight or flight instinct had passed.

“Kinda glad you didn't shoot me, now.”
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on August 06, 2017, 12:16:47 am
A bullet wasted. But two lives earned. Or well, maybe just the one life. He wasn't sure if Kostya's counted considering he could do that really weird "return from the dead" thing, and seemed to be really good at it. Ibsen would be lying if he said he wasn't jealous. Lying to himself like that, because he wasn't about to admit that shit to this asshole.  Stupid asshole with stupid eyes that he wanted to gouge out.

Why didn't he let this chump die back there?  Why waste that effort? That precious gas. That bullet...  Ugh gods, that was a bullet that he wasn't going to get back. And those face-eaters would crawl back into their dank dens, waiting for anyone else that would crawl by, cleaning the bones until they were white and chewing them down to the marrow.

Ibsen kept going, feeling uncomfortably numb to just - well, everything. The adrenaline was slowly but surely fading, with the immediate threat of death having been momentarily subsided. Directionless, riding away from the huddled cave inlet. The stash was gone, empty now, and no longer safe to go back to. His scent was caught and would be on their tongues for some time.

Quiet, and not really feeling anything until Kostya was flapping his gums again. Ugh, this muthafucker really never did shut up did he? Ibsen's stomach clenched, feeling that hand around his waist and he immediately felt sick, panic, setting in and he stopped the bike, sand kicking up as he pulled hard on the brakes.

And thrust his head backwards to bash it against him, wriggling and elbowing and doing anything and everything to get this man off him and kicking him into the sand. Ibsen was half-exhausted already, and failing to put the kickstand up left the bike to tilt and collapse on it's side.

"HEY!" he growled. "Let's get a few things straight, Buttercups. Don't get all handsy, for one. I saved you because you would have taken me down with you! You're handy with the bat, I'll give you that. So we're square, comprende? I'm heading to an outpost. There are people there. I'm pretty sure you won't want to meet them, so I'm sure you can take it from here. On your own. We're not friends. You helped me. So I helped you. And uh, sorry, bout the arm thing...earlier. That was just business."
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on August 08, 2017, 09:18:49 am
Automatically, Kostya's hold on Ibsen tightened as Blue hit the brakes, the runner gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of adrenaline. Had he seen something? Was something up ahead?

Not that Kostya got the opportunity to ask-- he was too busy howling as he was slammed in the face, his nose blossoming hot and red as he fell back onto the dust. Kostya didn't even notice the bike falling, eyes shut tight and hands clamped over the lower parts of his face. He pulled them back to look in his palms, and found them red with blood. Oh, fuck that hurt. That hurt! Did he have any painkillers left, still? He hadn't gone to see Nathan in so long, and Kostya was already reaching back for his bag in the dirt when suddenly Blue was upon him.

He blinked, hard, fighting against the sharp agony in his face and trying to breathe though coppery blood.

Handsy? He'd gotten handsy? He must have, for blue to be so upset with him, but even as he opened his mouth to apologize, blue had carried right on to the crux of the matter.

Oh.

Right.

They weren't friends. It was just good survival tactics, a team up out of necessity and some bare bones vestiges of common humanity. A nicer eye for an eye, except this one didn't leave you blind and fumbling in the dark.

Still, something must have hit him in his fall off the bike. Something small, like landing on his armor funny, or a loose pebble or something. His chest hurt, and Kostya's first instinct was to touch at the gap in plating just under where his sternum ended, as if that would help this newest ache.

Right. Right. Take it from here. Kostya knew a dismissal when he heard one, and slowly smiled up at blue. His face still stung, though, and so the smile was wobblier, harder to put on when a few bones were out of alignment. The corners of his mouth shook a bit for effort, and Kostya finally moved to get to his feet, brushing off sand and dust and… whatever that was. The runner swiped his arm over his face, spat blood onto the ground, and tried a toothier grin. It worked a bit better, didn't waver so much, even if whatever had got caught in his breastplate ached harder.

“Yeah. I gotcha. It was a quick one, like I said, so… yeah. I'll ah, take it from here.”

He lifted the flap on his bag, checked the contents therein, and then his map, if only so he didn't have to look at blue's face, because suddenly that was the hardest thing in the world to do right now. Which was stupid, but hey, he was in enough pain as it already stood.

“Just, uh… gonna go that way. Yup. That way’s good. You ah, ever need something delivered, ah... put up smoke signals.” He pointed, vaguely, in one direction, before changing his mind and swinging the other way, gathering up his bat and shouldering it as he began the trek across sour sands.

The outpost would have been ideal, all things considered, but raider holds could trade as much as anyone, and maybe he’d be better able to figure out a way to Nathan's from there. Yup. Perfectly fine.

He sniffed hard, and spat the red result onto the ground as he went.

It'd have been nice if he’d had any pills left.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on August 10, 2017, 11:08:39 pm
Ibsen was panting, not even sure why, since elbowing some creep in the face would haven't really left him winded in any other case. His heart was hammering in his chest, knocking against his ribs wildly. What other reason was his heart racing then if not for adrenaline and that primal need to survive; the one that never remained far from the surface.

That rush of red down Kostya's face brought a pang of guilt to Ibsen's guts. He didn't mean to hurt him. That proximity level sent him into a nuclear meltdown. Albeit a temporary one and already the scavenger was cooling down long enough to collect his thoughts.  Gushing red, and he...didn't even blink. Just turned away like it was nothing.

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," Ibsen replied softly, pulling his hood back up over his head and settling the goggles that were usually slung around neck. The bike was still clicking away, the front wheel wobbling slightly.  Ibsen righted the vehicle, mounted it and flexed his fingers. It was for the best. Travel light, and Kostya's fat head made him way too heavy. And those flapping lips that never shut up would definitely not be missed on this journey.  "Be seein' ya." Probably never, but it was a nice thing to say.

He didn't waste any more time and rode off across the landscape, turning in the direction opposing the runner's. Best to make it as long as possible, as fast as possible. So that it would be too late to turn back. Ibsen's gut coiled and made him sick. The least he could have done was given the guy some jerky from his saddle bags or something. A sip of goddamn water.

No, no. He said he'd be fine. He said he knew which way to go. He had a goddamn map on his bag for fuck's sake.  Yeah. He'd be fine.

---
Whatever 'fine' Ibsen imagined, it wasn't the sort that came along.

Rampage knew that amble from a mile away, and from the binoculars he dusted off, he could see that crazy fuck just stalking across the distance. Where was he going? Didn't matter. He probably had something interesting in that bag of his. Or where he was coming from. Again didn't matter.

Minor details in the scheme of things. Rampage liked going on raids to other dust towns, see the sights. Get some fresh air.

In fact, he took in a deep breath and revved the engine of his bike, the other raiders behind him doing likewise. This particular group was a bit smaller than normal, but it was still more than Kostya. "Oh, ain't this a fucking lovely day!"

Pulling up his mask, Rampage rolled down from the embankment he'd been watching from, a small outlook of hardened earth. Yellowed with poison and the wind was starting to pick up. Minus 5 minutes and they'd be around that mailman. He wouldn't mind. It'd be nice to have some "pleasant" company for a change.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on August 10, 2017, 11:55:21 pm
Dust kicked up beneath worn boots, the particles coiling for a moment before dispersing in the wind, blown off to settle elsewhere until the next act of physics passed them along.

Kostya could sympathize.

This was a good thing, he rationalized. A very good thing. After all, Kostya didn't deal well with regular people. The Wasteland tended only to breed skittish survivors, and skittish survivors were often hesitant to take in wandering strangers, especially ones with a penchant for off behavior.

And Kostya was okay with that. Not getting attached was okay. He just got what he needed, scratched his itches, and moved on like always. No muss, no fuss, no coconuts.

The Wastes were quiet: Ibsen Blue's bike had faded from sight, and after a little longer, took the sound of a rattling engine with it. Long gone. Long gone forever.

Kostya stopped in a cloud of dirt, and looked back. It was for the best. No coconuts. But already Kostya felt the low sting of loss, and he rummaged through his bag for that can, that little scrap of paper, that chunk of beautiful shimmering blue.

Shielding it with his fingers, Kostya smiled down at the color, humming quietly as he went to make the Wasteland seem not nearly so empty. His lips pursed in a quiet whistle for the high notes he'd never been able to hit. A stomp and shuffle of his feet across poison sands.

An orchestra of one.

Tucking the hair safely away again, Kostya pulled up his headphones, settling them over the straps that held his gas mask on his face. A few strikes to the side of the music player's case, and the screen came to life, letting him select the option that would flood his senses with sound and words.

“Mmm,” he hummed along, stepping in time with the music just so he wouldn't spend the next hundred miles listening for a bike that would never come. He swung his bat a few times, just for the sake of practice, sighing and settling the instrument over his shoulder after a while.

“I can't tell where you comin’ from…” he sang along, the sound muted and muffled by both glass and the music in his ears. Not that he had much else to pay attention to.

And for a few miles, he didn't. For a few miles all he had was a quiet thirst, one that would be rectified soon as he made it to the fort. A few more hours, and he'd be golden.

In theory, anyway. If he'd been able to pass unmolested, he might have been fine in a few hours. But those were not scavenger bikes on the horizon, and they were too small in number to be nomads.

Kostya took a breath of mostly filtered air and stopped. Pulled his headphones down around his neck. Choked up on the bat and let it rest perpendicular to the ground. Hanging by idle fingers.

Because he had a feeling he recognized those bikes, and he grinned wide and sharp as they approached.

“Hey,” he said, as soon as Rampage and his boys were close enough to hear without Kostya screaming the words. “‘Sup. Got water to spare?”
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on August 11, 2017, 12:44:23 am
Had that theory ever been proven true for any wanderers out here? The strength found in numbers out here were sorely lacking in Kostya's little sad party of one. Rampage stopped short of running over the batshit mail man, and hie narrowed his eyes at that friendly greeting and again at that bat in his hand. A handy weapon no doubt. He'd seen him use it against his own boys once or twice.

Crack Carl's skull and turned it into mush. But Carl tried to taunt him with a carton of instant noodles and threw them into Kostya's face. Something about hot water and wasting food. One less idiot in his ranks, so for Rampage, Carl's demise was rather an improvement.

"Yup. Got water. Lots of it. Hot water too. No noodles though," Rampage grumbled and pulled out the 9mm pistol from his side, the edges of the gun rusted out and pointed it toward Kostya. Not his head, that was too easy. The motherfucker never did stay dead for long. And for some, that made for plenty of fun to be had for those that liked ...pain. Rampage gave a distasteful spit of the crud he was chewing on and the sting of it on the hot sand left a hiss to his ear.

That was for Ruckus. Fucking bitch.

"Need a ride? Of course you do. So uh, toss the bag over here. And drop the bat," Rampage grinned, showing yellowed teeth.  "Unless you want to pay my sister a visit. She remembers being very fond of you."  That was a bluff. Rampage hated Ruckus, but they were known to trade prisoners from time to time. And just as a failsafe, Rampage dropped his aim slightly.

A pulled trigger and a bullet ripped through Kostya's kneecap. Just that left one and two of his crew swarmed around that mailman to catch him before he touched the ground. Just in case he needed more convincing, Rampage adjusted the aim enough to point at his other knee.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on August 14, 2017, 10:46:35 pm
Hot water, no noodles. Kostya’s grin widened, his eyes squinting hard and harsh for the sheer effort of it all. He remembered all too well the last time he'd encountered noodles in conjunction with the presence of Rampage and his pack of miscreants. He also remembered caving a guy's skull in for the effort.

It was already an insult to waste good, hot food. It was a double insult that the water had gotten into his headphones and he had to spend a month solid finding replacement parts.

“Aw, shit, Rammy, you know I'd love a ride, but I'm trying to get some cardio in my life. You know, trim down a bit, work off those calories--” Kostya tightened his grip on his bat, knuckles flashing pale as Rampage held that gun to him. Guns were good. Rampage’s aim was better. There'd be no gut shots today: pain was, as the raider boss had heavily implied, more his sister's bag.

Kostya did not ever want to see Ruckus again. If he had to provoke a death to avoid that? So be it.

Rampage’s aim lowered, and Kostya’s heart stuttered. Rampage’s aim was better. And Rampage was not aiming for Kostya's head.

The gun cracked, and Kostya’s knee shattered in a spray of blood and bone. He collapsed immediately, grin wracked into a grimace, or maybe vice versa, and it was only because of the rest of Rampage’s gang that he didn't immediately collapse into the dirt with the rest of the bits of him.

Kostya cackled, high and harsh and ragged against his gas mask.

“Mail call! Mm, nope, nothing for a fucking scrote-less bitch, better luck next time!” He yelped as one of Rampage’s similarly scrote-less raider underlings cracked an elbow against the side of his head, causing his vision to swim and his bat to slip from his fingers.

But not his bag. Never his bag. It wasn't the bag itself, the map or the letter. But his coffee can was in there, and in his coffee can was Ibsen’s hair-- beautiful and short and deep and blue and like hell was Kostya going to let Rampage get his slimy mits on a single strand.

“So you can just suck my dick. Or better-- go suck your sister’s.”
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on August 18, 2017, 12:35:30 am
"Tasted like ash and salt," Rampage griped. He was stewing and if the sores on his arm were any indication, he was just about to boil out of his skin. He could shed it too, like a snake shedding the old husk of its former self. Except the only decaying flesh that would be left behind would be Kostya's and he'd wait a whole day again and again and again to kill him slow, watch him bleed out. 

Rampage grunted and cocked the gun again, thumb firmly held against the pistol's hammer, finger squeezing slowly over the trigger, moving for his other knee this time. Fucking prick. Who the fuck did he think he was? Ruckus was a bitch, a real right monster. That needed to be strung up an left for dead. But that would be Rampage's doing. He'd kill her, and only he.

And as for this bat shit mailman, he'd make him one of his scrote-less too. "Oh you'll be choking on something, and you'll be happy to have it," Rampage murmured as the rest of his boys took to taking that bat and knocking Kostya with a good crack to the base of his skull.

Rampage got off the bike and snatched up the bag and the group set off across the Dunes, passing over the tracks that Kostya made and heading downwind. A storm was coming. Kostya had his mask, Rampge didn't need his, and their temporary camp would be enough to house the rest of his boys from harsh winds. No caves, but that cliff drop off kept most of the fumes off them. Strays that got caught in the blast were usually dead before they could find their way back.

---
What was he thinking? No..no going back. This was for the best. He had a fucking map of the Wastes, little markings that were important, where to go, where to stay away from. Ibsen growled thoughtfully to himself, reaching that final landmark before the northern outpost where they were headed. Teinar but not. It would be a good place to resupply, get fuel, another jerrycan.

And Ibsen should have kept going, shouldn't have looked back where the tracks were now starting to fade away by the coming wind. Ibsen stopped the bike at that rising crescent shaped boulder. There wasn't going back. So looking out into that distance for that wobbly crazy shape was fruitless. Not to mention a waste of fucking fuel.

"Look to the hunt, not the horizon," Mother said. "Stay focused on your prey, and you won't go astray. Get caught in the horizon that you'll never reach, and you'll be wandering forever."

Ibsen pulled down the hood and brought up the goggles again, concealing the yellow glow of his eyes. And he pulled the rag up and over his face. "Stupid fuckhead. If he's dead, I'll kill him," Ibsen growled softly. The guy probably at least could use a ride to his next destination. He shouldn't have left him behind like that. Given him water, food, something.

Maybe if he hurried he could still trace those tracks.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on August 22, 2017, 09:54:31 pm
This was not a quick or little death.

The only benefit to any of it was that, post catastrophic head trauma, it was kind of hard to feel much of anything else. Kostya’s eyes rolled back, spinning with the world for a wild bunch of seconds, searing agony rippling down his spine before settling into a vague and otherworldly sort of numbness.

His bag. Where was his bag?

He groped for it and only found air, groped again and caught the fabric of what had once been a set of cargo pants but now was more a merciful barrier from the unspeakable beneath a raider’s clothes.

No, not his bag-- he tried to speak, tried to garble something, but as the raiders moved around him all it ended up being was a long agonized shriek. Because even head injuries couldn't dampen some things.

Where was his bag?

Rampage’s group was long gone, and Kostya’s feeble breath barely fogged the glass of his mask as he lay there, legs splayed and blood leaking across the sour sands. He'd tried to reach, to find his satchel-- it wasn't the map or the letter, it wasn't any supplies he might have had or what passed for currency out here, no. No, what he wanted, desperately wanted, was the coffee tin. And in that tin, a piece of paper. And in that paper, blue.

Oh, blue.

At least he was long gone from this. A not-quick, not-little death. And Kostya was grateful, because even though it hurt-- it hurt so bad, it hurt so so bad-- Kostya would live. Kostya would always live. And no one else was that lucky forever.

Rampage would've wanted the bike. The water. The jerky. The scraps. The beans. The blue.

Oh, blue.

He whimpered, soft and quiet, pain wracking him with every inhaled breath. He could almost hear that bike… could almost remember that blue… could almost feel the rumble of the engine and the promise of a quick death.

Kostya would get that tin back, he decided. If it took him a thousand deaths he would get that tin back-- he didn't remember much at times, head trauma didn't leave memories behind, but he never wanted to forget that blue. That beautiful, wonderful, prickly perfect and forever gone blue.

Blue Ibsen Blue Beans, oh, God he hurt so bad, his skull rattling and shaking and the earth following with it.

“Oh, blue…”
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on August 25, 2017, 03:51:48 am
Ibsen meant that threat in every sense of the word. If Kostya went and did something dumb - like getting himself killed - Ibsen would kill him. Be right over him when he woke up again with a knife to stick through his temple for being so goddamn stupid. Ugh! It was even far too late now to go back and head to the Outpost. He was already on the trail, and when he saw the bikes...

Ibsen's stomach lurched, a sickening twist that made his eyes narrow underneath the goggles. Dust caught in his hair, ruffling the hood only slightly. A creeping frigid ache swept into that twisting gut, and it hurt to breathe for the briefest second. The longest second. If Ibsen didn't know any better, he might have assumed the toxic air was the pain that was grating on the inside of his throat, the acidic burn that made it raw.

No, he wasn't going to be too late. If the idiot was going to die, it was going to be by Ibsen's hand. The bike revved and he followed the group. Far too easy, but then again, the only one less subtle than the other nightmares out here were Ruckus and Rampage. The creeping ache dug clawed finger tips deep into his side, gouging into his ribs and he swallowed down rising bile.

They weren't together, but whether it was one or the other to be sure. Granted, the former, inherently worse than the latter. Ibsen didn't even hesitate, no twitch or tension in the muscles save for the ones that relayed the grip on the clutch.  These raiders weren't trying to hide.

Somewhere in that haze, Ibsen wanted to look away. The sour sickness would come and go. But instead he watched, just at the edge of that cliff overhang. Watched everything and that knot grew tighter. He forced himself to watch.

"Hey, Charlie! Come over here! Look. I got the mailman's balls! HAHAHA!"

"Hey! Rampage said to save that cutting for him! I'm gonna take a piss. Don't chop him up all the way. Nice and slow, boss said."

Words that jabbed into his brain, and tendriled down into his brain and ignited it in painful shock waves. Patience was wearing thin and it was all Ibsen could do to keep from raining down whatever bullets were lingering in his gun onto them. Just so they would stop. That would get him killed too, it was stupid, he knew. Maybe if the found him, he'd get lucky, stake his bowie knife right through Rampage's heart.

But just like that they were gone and the storm was over. Ibsen listened for a long set of minutes, until the bikes were gone in the quiet. Just to make sure they weren't coming back. And when he was sure, he went down to the where they left Kostya. Bleeding, trying to move, to feel for something that wasn't there.

"Oh Blue."

"Don't speak. Save your energy. Take deep breaths," Ibsen grumbled loud enough between the two of them. Afraid of being too loud, of summoning more things in the dark that never had enough sense to stay where they belonged.  "Kostya. You fucking idiot."  No malice in that phrase, however, no need for vindication. No 'I told you so's. Instead, Ibsen knelt down beside that stripped down bleeding form and felt the sickness come back.

"Stay with me. It's me. It's Blue." His voice was made soft and with a great deal of effort, he managed to roll Kostya over, and hooked his arms around his neck. Ibsen held strongly to those arms, letting go would mean all that effort wasted, all of it lost. The heat of adrenaline afforded strength enough to pile drive a man into the ground. Kostya was even heavier as limp as he was, but like hell was he going to leave him here.

Ibsen used his own body as a stand, leaning the messenger's against his frontand staggering onto the bike, draping Kostya's legs over his lap. There he could hold him easier in the crook of his arms. Blood would cover everything, nothing that couldn't be cleaned. Nothing that couldn't be repaired. Nothing was broken until it was a skeleton in the ground.

"It's Blue," he whispered periodically, revving the back back to life and guiding it out of that overhang. Out to anywhere that wasn't here. A shack. He remembered that shack that wasn't far from here. Right? God he hoped so. Ibsen waited only a second to navigate, listening for the quiet, and anything else that dared disrupt it and the soft breathing that came through the mask. "It's me. It's Blue."

A small shack in the middle of nothing, that still stood, and only one side was completely charred. Bones littered the ground, and the front wheel of that bike snapped a femur that stuck over the ground. A wide door that had a buckshot holes in it, and nothing but empty shell casings in the ground. What was once a supply dump for people passing through, now fallen into disuse. It used to be where you could take what you needed, then put back what you didn't, to replenish the stock.

Used to be. How long ago was that even? Ibsen didn't know, just that it was squat enough to be obscured from view and the door wide enough to hide the bike.  No one but Kostya it seemed crossed these sands anymore.

The weight of a grown man in his lap made his legs numb and Ibsen fell from the bike the moment they were inside. The topple got the mailman off him, however, and he scrambled to close the door, peeking out through the buckshot holes for any signs of life.

"Why didn't you get mad, Kostya? Any real asshole would have gotten mad for leaving you there like that. Why didn't you make me take you with me?"  Pointless questions given to a dying man. "Hold on.  This will only hurt a second."  No bullets but mother taught Ibsen how to make a kill quick and easy. A slit throat was rarely pleasant, and made them choke on their blood. Already he was bleeding. Ibsen slid himself underneath Kostya's head, and took that bowie knife in the space between the third and fourth ribs, digging deep and waiting until Kostya went still.

There he stayed, dropping the knife to the ground, and holding the revolver, hammer half-cocked, and balanced it over the mailman's chest, barrel pointing to the door. Just in case.
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: nephero on September 14, 2017, 12:31:20 pm
This was different.

Normally when Kostya got murdered, he was left at the scene of the crime. Why waste the effort hiding something that no one out here cared about? It wasn't as if there was any law in the Wastes, any roving bands of police officers who would happen upon him and seek justice. It wasn't as if he had family who'd want to collect the body, give it a proper burial, say proper goodbyes.

This was different. Rampage and his fucking goons had finally, mercifully left. Given, it meant he was in for a long, slow, painful death, but it also meant Rampage wasn't making it hurt worse anymore. Something about hunger being the best spice, blissful moments of less-pain being the best sedative. Something.

Either way, Kostya was not used to being picked up after the fact. He'd been scavenged before. Picked apart with the barest sense of it happening. Critters needed to eat, and a dead body was as good a dinner as any out here. A dead or dying body. A dead or dying or otherwise incapable of running body. Being eaten was not fun, never fun, never ever fun.

But this was different. This wasn't a critter, and this wasn't... ungentle. Jarring. But trying to be nice. Kostya didn't remember the last time someone was trying to be nice. Maybe it was the last time he'd gotten buried. Good folks trying to do the right thing, without realizing they'd just damned him to at least another death in the slow horror of suffocation. Especially if the good folks trying to do the right thing put in the extra effort of doing the right thing especially deep. Critter-free deep. Digging-yourself-out-impossible deep.

Kostya hurt. Kostya felt wet and he hurt and nothing was good here. Nothing good except the other body against his, the voice trying to talk to him, but it all just came out warbled and warped and broken like if his music was on the fritz again. His music. His music.

Did they take that too?

Well, sign him up for a hundred more bullets and knives and stabbings and impalings and grenadings and fires and decapitations. His music and his blue. Kostya would kill Rampage's whole camp if that's what it took. The fucker could keep the armor, could keep the clothes, could keep the stupid war declaration, could keep the map and the bag and the socks and the boots, could keep the bat--

He was getting his music and his blue back. Blue, who--

Who was here?

Blue was here?

Blue was here and holding his head and saying something about it only hurting for a second; no, no, Kostya didn't want to hurt anymore, not even for a second, and he tried to speak, to say something, to beg or cry or something because Blue wasn't a devil and maybe he'd have some mercy and maybe--

The knife slid in, quick and quiet and cold. Kostya whimpered, but then things became numb. Fuzzy. Hazy. Dark. Just very dark, the same as before, the same as all the times before. A quick death. A quick death after a long string of hurt, and the last impulse his muscles got from his brain was to smile, before it all inevitably went slack again.

It was a good thing he'd died already not too long before. Normally if he procrastinated it took longer to get back, or at least he thought it took longer to get back. It was hard to say if that was a mercy or not. A long sleep in a way that was almost impossible to do otherwise out here. Too dangerous to keep your eyes closed, unless you were already dead.

It was dark again, by the time Kostya stopped sleeping, and he blinked raw, dusty eyes at the cieling of... somewhere. Hissed at the sting the dust brought, rubbed at his eyes and let the natural tears wash them out again. It sucked, but it was better than opening them beneath the dirt, a small miracle all things considered.

Had that roof always been there? Did Rampage build it after tearing him apart? That was weird. Wait. No. There was something else, something happened after and...

Kostya shifted, hands pressed to the rough floor of the shack, skin protesting every last movement, especially in the places where dried blood stuck him to the floor and wow that was a sensitive area to pull away from the ground like silly putty. Wow, wow, wow.

Except this wasn't all floor. This wasn't all floor at all, part of it was warm and felt like cloth and felt like metal and felt like people and--

And that was a gun. He just couldn't catch a fucking break, could he? Naked and sac stuck to a bloody floor and a gun over his chest and-- and he knew that hand. He knew that hand and he knew the knife on the ground beside him and for a sudden blissful moment he forgot all about dying and losing his stuff and losing his music and how he'd have to die again to get it back.

"I'm gonna have to help you now if you wanna keep square." His throat was raw, his voice even more so, catching in places where lingering dust choked him up, and Kostya had to stop and cough and spit to the side before finishing. "Kinda... rhombus... y."
Title: Re: Nothing Says 'Hello' Like A Fist to the Face [Neph!]
Post by: Lion on September 14, 2017, 08:02:17 pm
Every now and again the gun would lean tiredly, weakly to the side and Ibsen jerked himself back to attention. The handle of the weapon fit comfortably in his grip. It was custom built after all and he was a crack shot when he had to be. But the hours it took waiting for Kostya to wake up left the scavenger all that much more exhausted. He hadn't slept since those few meager hours he managed to steal in that cave inlet. When Kostya didn't kill him although he had every right to.

Ibsen couldn't let himself sleep anyway. Not until he was sure Kostya would wake up again and so he kept that revolver straightened, balancing it on the dead man's chest and leaning his head back. Five shots remained. With the way his wrist was tilted, it meant five shots to the chest. Hopefully five chests with each bullet.

They were getting harder and harder to come by these days. And outposts were more and more reluctant to trade for them. Ibsen didn't want to have to waste them, but if anyone wanted to get at the mailman, they'd have to get through that door first. The hammer half-cocked, and Ibsen's index finger remained firmly on that trigger.

He grunted and felt his eyelids growing heavy, each breath labored. And each time the gun waxed or waned, Ibsen would straighten his wrist.  Then something fluttered underneath his wrist, the feel of a pulse. Ibsen had been so focused on that door that the sensation barely registered. A deep breath, and he blinked down at the idiot who was still in his lap.

The long lithe legs beneath him had gone somewhat numb in the long hours he'd waited for this idiot to wake up. And when he did, Ibsen didn't know what to do, or what to say. Rhombusy.  What was that? Some kind of shape he guessed. Ibsen felt something solid form in his throat and his guts twisted.

No, no, he didn't like that feeling at all. And certainly not the helplessness that followed. Slowly he set the gun down beside him and without any reservation, slipped a tired arm underneath Kostya's fat head and curled his body over him, wrapping the other arm under Kostya's armpit, into an awkward hug. It was brief and Ibsen tucked Kostya's face in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

The gesture was not so much for Kostya as it was for himself, an affirmation that this fool really was alive. And the delirium of hunger and thirst had not yet taken the scavenger. Food. And Water. He still had those things.

Less focused on the door now, he pulled back and then promptly flicked his index finger against Kostya's forehead. "Next time, you make me take you with me. I don't like to see you bleed," Ibsen sternly, a frown sagging the corners of his mouth and brows drooping into a scowl.

If Kostya was paying attention, maybe, he might get the not so subtle translation of those spoken words: "You're an idiot. And I'm glad you're alive. But also, you're an idiot."
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