applesaucemod: (Default)
The Big Applesauce Moderators ([personal profile] applesaucemod) wrote in [community profile] applesaucedream2015-07-31 06:16 pm

We Are Awakened With The Axe [Open to All]

 photo zombie dream party_zpsbb0hfksu.jpg


The city has been abandoned.

Its infrastructure has been slowly deteriorating for quite some time, now. Traffic has long since ground to a permanent halt, taxis and trucks rusting by the curbs or abandoned mid-intersection. Most of the ground-floor windows have been shattered. Electricity is spotty, if it can be found at all. The eerie silence is broken only by the wind, the calls of crows, or the gentle collapse of some structure or other. And, of course, the occasional screams.

The city has been abandoned, but it is not empty.

What caused the various outbreaks hardly matters. Viral infection, fungal infection, some new or ancient bacterium suddenly released into the general populace - who knows? What does matter is that the city has become home to thousands if zombies, some slow, some fast, some mindless, some retaining a savage kind of intelligence. And they are all so, so hungry.

There are weapons to be found or improvised, and places to hide if you're lucky enough to come across someplace well-fortified and otherwise empty. Others have clearly had the same idea, leaving hastily constructed barricades in some places. You might even take those as a blessing, if the conspicuous absence of the original builders doesn't bother you. They're probably living on a nice farm somewhere.

One thing is certain: if you don't want to succumb to whatever plagues have ravaged this place, you will have to fight for your survival.

[OOC: usual dream party rules apply; all are welcome to participate, and characters can remember or forget at the players' discretion. Also, usual zombie rules apply: if you get bitten, you'll be turned into the sort of zombie that bit you. Whether your characters deal with comically dim shamblers or the terrifying sprinty variety is up to you.

Finally, let's just go ahead and say tw: violence and gore for the post as a whole, because it's gonna get messy, folks.]
wildmage_daine: (crow flight)

[personal profile] wildmage_daine 2015-08-01 12:24 am (UTC)(link)
Daine is aloft, crow wings keeping her above the street, where most of them are. She can't begin to guess what sort of illness they have; her magic was never any use with two-leggers. From the way they responded when they first saw her, she'd guess what's left of their minds would feel like the rabid bear, if she could feel anything from them at all.

She's glad she can't.

The crows are strangers, but only as strange as any animal is to her. They'd swirled between her and her attackers, giving her the time she needed to shift into a shape like theirs and struggle out of her clothing and out of reach. Being airborne doesn't help much, though - not when the ruined city itself is enough to give anyone a chill. What's happened here?

She flies above Park Avenue, her new flock swirling behind her, and looks for... she doesn't even know what. Something familiar, or someone familiar, or anyone with enough sense left to tell her what's going on.
lottawork: (fear cuts deeper than swords lal)

[personal profile] lottawork 2015-08-01 12:35 am (UTC)(link)
Something skitters up his leg.

He twists violently, rolling over the scattered detrital mass of the ground with the purely-formed, adamantine intent to crush whatever nameless animal saw fit to perceive him as an object to be confronted and scaled. The action elicits the undeniable crunch of bone as the weight of his mass compresses the thing to a dead streak beneath him.

Rush lies on the ground, his breathing heavy, the air dense and rife with the cloying, overly-sweet stench of things left dead and dying.

His nerves tingle with a nameless anxiety whose source he cannot define. He braces palms across the ground and stands and looks at the unfortunate recent subject of his frustration, and finds himself immediately wishing he had not done so.

It is a hand.

A hand.

It quivers like a dying spider, flattened into the graying earth, scraps of withered flesh clinging to the trembling thing as it attempts to rise, doubtless to resume its quest up the length of his leg.

Rush crushes it beneath his heel and looks away as his stomach wrenches.

There is a pipe on the ground and he takes it, the metal smooth against his palm. A distant chorus of wails rise to a fervent pitch, shrieking through the halls of the anonymous building he is in, the dark corridors that stretch on, seemingly sempiternal.

The whisper of dragging feet over concrete behind him prefaces the pinch of clawlike hands around one arm. He torques, immediate, his impromptu weapon smashing into the side of the thing's head. It splits like fruit overripe, rent apart at its seams. Rush stares in uncomprehending disbelief at the dead scrap in front of him, his chest heaving, his breath ragged, the pipe nearly sliding from sweat-dampened fingers.

A human, freshly decomposed, clearly dead, only clearly not.

Rush shuts his eyes.

He refuses.

But such is not a luxury available to him, as it were.

Rush steps back as the approaching horde or group of the things crescendos in howling unison as they close the distance between himself and them. His adjusts his grip over his weapon and holds it in front of him, unflinching, his jaw set.

Pure dead fucking brilliant, in a distressingly applicable use of the phrase.
etherthief: (back the fuck up)

[personal profile] etherthief 2015-08-01 02:56 am (UTC)(link)
She's fighting her way through the city at a slightly unhinged clip, wild and incautious, because she is sick of bad things happening, sick of watching people die, sick of everything being shit.

When she sees the swarm of undead around a lone fighter she slides to a halt and darts over, punching her way through them - at least her arm was basically made for this, at least that. She fires a pulse of energy and scatters several of them a good distance away. Not a trick she can pull too often if she doesn't want to burn out but this situation calls for it. She turns to the creatures that are coiled over their victim - he held his own but he's down now, struggling beneath them against the concrete. She hurls one aside, punches another throw the chest, and rips the final one's arm clean off.

Okay. They're regrouping. Time enough to get up and run, if he can manage that.

She looks down and blinks, startled. "Rush?!"

Immediately she falls into a crouch, reaching out to help him up. "Holy shit, are you okay?"

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gore & blood aw yea

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johnny_truant: (fight me)

tw gun violence

[personal profile] johnny_truant 2015-08-01 12:47 am (UTC)(link)
Johnny remembers loitering at a video store to watch Night of the Living Dead. He had nightmares about it because it was a little kid and it was a better thing to have nightmares about it than the real horror he was experiencing at the time. Lately, of course, his nightmares have been a lot more involved.

And he is not having it this time. No, fuck this. He's been eaten by dream-zombies once already and he is in no rush to do it again.

So he grabs a pipe and cuts a contained rampage through the streets, swinging violently left to right. Fuck this, fuck those, fuck that one in particular. What he needs is a goddamn gun.

Remember when you collected guns, Johnny? Never fired a single one of them. So nice that you get the chance to correct that.

And there, by the good grace of, well, the fucking rift, he supposes, is the half-eaten body of some wannabe commando, and look at that an automatic fucking rifle. Yes.

He hefts the thing off the body, not even bothering to check if it's loaded, turns, and rains wrath down on the approaching horde.

Holy fucking shit that's loud, jesus, okay, there goes that ear. The kickback is way, way harder than he expected, and he scarcely avoids getting knocked flat on his ass. His hands are buzzing like crazy. Fuck, holy shit. But all the zombies are down. He'll call that a victory.

Gun in one hand, pipe in the other, he peels off searches for a building he can climb. Gotta be at least one floor off the ground, somewhere he can see all the exits. Hole up and sit and wait, and if it gets back, call Gabe. That's the goddamn plan.

It doesn't take him long to find a hollowed-out building with rotting staircase and an acceptable corner. He checks all the points of entry, then settles with his back against the wall, struggles to catch his breath, and waits.
Edited 2015-08-01 00:50 (UTC)
peacefulexplorer: (endless days finally ending in a blaze)

[personal profile] peacefulexplorer 2015-08-02 06:02 am (UTC)(link)
Last Daniel checked, he wasn't exhibiting any signs of being capable of tactile perception.

He blinks at the pavement spread beneath his hands, the merciful solidity of it, and nearly laughs in euphoric astonishment. The asphalt is cool and uneven beneath his palms. His fingertips scrape over it as he revels in the sensation of being able to engage in haptics and physicality, that link with the somatic world that he's simply never been able to access since he -

Since he -

Wait, what was he thinking about?

The inexplicable rattle and burst of gunfire disrupts that train of thought, and Daniel scrambles back, from all fours to his knees to his feet, the roughness of the stone tearing through the green fabric of his BDUs. Blood oozes sluggishly from the small laceration on the skin of his knee, scuffed in his struggle to propel himself upright.

This time Daniel does laugh, a short, relieved bark that echoes too long and too loudly. It's pain. It hurts. He's given no time to examine why that would engender a kneejerk, literally, reaction of pleasure as opposed to annoyance or anger, as the gurgling snarl of something ravaged and desiccated and inhuman splits over the city's silence, and that, now that.

That is not right.


Daniel wrenches himself around and away from the thing as it crawls toward him, dragging itself forward by its clawed hands as it seems to be lacking legs because it is comprised of little more than a torso leaking blood and copious other fluids Daniel doesn't want to put a name to.

Oh god. Oh god.

Daniel runs.

He runs and spots a building and wrests the door open and slams it behind him and pins it shut with his mass, arms spread across the width of the door in what doubtless comes across as an incredibly and unnecessarily overdramatic entrance, and that's when he realizes he's not alone in the building.

"Oh," says Daniel, blinking once and adjusting his frames in a maneuver that may or may not seem abashed and startled and contrite all at once. "Uh. Hi. Sorry."

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all_the_gifts: (in the wind)

[personal profile] all_the_gifts 2015-08-01 12:48 am (UTC)(link)
Oh, no. It's happening again. Just like before, with Daniel and Aziraphale and Dana. But it's worse this time, because Melanie is already out. The ruined city sprawls around her with vast finality. Even if she had a book, she doesn't think she could read herself or anyone else out of here.

Melanie breathes in, sifting through familiar scents of urban rot and carrion, detecting nothing human - or human anymore.

Maybe that's just as well. She shouldn't want to find anyone.

She turns herself toward the Park - it will be easier to hide there - and starts down the street at a slow, smooth creep.
lottawork: (brave little toaster geek)

[personal profile] lottawork 2015-08-01 02:07 am (UTC)(link)
Higher ground would be preferable. Possibly it would be preferable. He is not wholly accustomed to viral-outbreak scenarios in which the infected take on the classical characteristics of the undead, scientifically and biologically unsound as the concept is, and therefore he will have to fucking well improvise.

How fucking excellent for him.

Scraps of refuse scuttle idly over the pavement, stirred into motion by the infrequent breeze. Rush walks, his footsteps regrettably prone to generating countless echoes as every sound is inevitably amplified by the seemingly deserted cityscape.

Something is shifting with almost imperceptible slowness in his periphery, and his gaze instinctively narrows on it.

Oh, fuck.

With mounting exasperation, Rush tightens his grip on his ad hoc weapon and starts forward as he decides in short order that if the Rift is intent on engendering miserable circumstances regardless of the thematic constants of its dreamspace, it could fucking well draw the line at incorporating a child.

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singthesong: (Travel)

[personal profile] singthesong 2015-08-02 01:34 am (UTC)(link)
Meanwhile, here's this idiot.

The Balladeer is making his way away from the Park, though he doesn't know exactly where he's trying to go. "Away from here" seems like a good enough choice at present. He's trying, but he's never been much for sneaking, so mostly it looks like he's just lurking along the side of a building like a nervous heron. Knowing that he won't hear anything approaching makes him more nervous than he'd ever thought - how on earth do people handle just relying on normal hearing?

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postictal: (behind you)

[personal profile] postictal 2015-08-01 12:48 am (UTC)(link)
Of fucking course he'd end up in a hospital. It's his brain, and why would it pass up an opportunity to drag him through the worst possible memories available to it.

It's even the same old room. His room, burned and blackened with ash clinging to the walls. He pulls his arms around himself and - no. He's not retreating to the corner. He's not some scared kid.

Not usually, anyway.

A sound cuts over his morose little silence, like a screech or a dying animal or something, and Tim jumps reflexively, his heart in his throat. The fuck. What kind of nightmare is this? How could this get worse? There's no static or cameras or dark skinny thing in the corner of his head, so what's -

Something comes around the corner.

Something horrible, something he doesn't want to look at, its skin gray and its eyes veiled in the awful dark familiarity of a hood and its mouth dripping and it - it fucking hisses.

And it leaps at him.

Tim's shoulders burn as they collide harshly with the coal-darkened concrete, as the thing pins him to the ground, driving him into the choking ash and debris of his own making, and starts fucking tearing at him, clawlike hands making great long gashes down his front.

Tim screams.

Tim screams until his voice tears.

At least his old nightmare had the courtesy to bleach his mind into silence before it mentally eviscerated him.

The only thing worse than dying is knowing that it's happening when it happens.
deadeyedchild: I have no one (brave is just another word for stupid)

makin up some rules for how ghosts work bECAUSE I WANT TO AND I CAN

[personal profile] deadeyedchild 2015-08-01 01:03 am (UTC)(link)
He's - dreaming?

He didn't even think he was capable of sleep anymore. He looks at his hands but he's still pretty damn invisible. Awesome.

This dream is, at a glance, a clusterfuck. It's actually probably really good news that he's a ghost right now. Oh yeah, those are zombies. Okay yeah.

He floats away as fast as he can, up and through the wall of a building. Should he just hide? Should he wander until he finds someone?

What if Tim is here? What about Greta, or Bee?

He keeps moving.

He hears the screaming from a distance, echoing darkly off these scraped up bloodied walls, and he knows it, he knows that voice too well, and even though Tim can't hear him he's already shouting his name, moving as fast as he can through walls, trying to follow the sound.

He banks sharply around a corner, starting to get the hang of building and releasing ghost-momentum, and he sees Tim at the end of a frighteningly familiar blackened hall, on the ground beneath one of those things.

"Tim!" he screams, gut reaction leaving him furious, like doesn't Tim have enough to dream about without the Rift making extra trouble for them, aren't things bad enough, and for a weird moment he swears he could hear himself echoing off the walls as well.

He flies forward, no idea what he's about to do, maybe if he makes contact with the thing he can distract it long enough for Tim to escape or get some kind of weapon.

He plunges his icy, intangible hands into the thing's chest.

It hesitates. It jerks up like it's been shocked, lifting its hooked fingers from Tim's chest. It ripples, and Jay can feel the reverberation in his hands. He's having an effect on it, something he can't begin to guess at, but whatever, it doesn't matter. He lets out a fierce grunt at the exertion of effort, pulling at the thing, like there is actually something there for him to grip onto, and after a moment it-

-it just comes apart.

It doesn't even explode. It just dissipates. He tore through it and it was gone.

He hovers there for a moment, stunned and distantly disturbed, then lowers himself down to his crumpled-up friend.

"Tim?" he says though he knows it's pointless. He brushes his hand over Tim's shoulder to let him know he's there, and - it was different that time, he sort of shifted the fabric of his shirt a little. Is he becoming solid? He tries again, and manages to actually rest his hand on, not through, Tim's arm.

"Tim, can you hear me?" he says desperately.

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and continued

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full_metal: (thousand yard stare)

[personal profile] full_metal 2015-08-01 01:17 am (UTC)(link)
First Avenue is a wreck, just like every other street, but at least this stretch of it is quiet. Rita was able to ensure that much before her spare battery gave out, forcing her to abandon her suit on the sidewalk. It stands there like a piece of modern art in front of a caved-in shop and the remains of a canvas banner, shredded in such a way that it now just reads DANGER. Hilarious.

She can see it clearly from where she's holed up, in a second-story flat across the way. All she has now is her side-arm and a few grenades. Enough to take out more of the enemy. Enough to take herself out, too, if she has to. What are the odds of her getting out of this alive?

When have the odds ever concerned her?

For now, she watches the street below. It's littered with bodies that lie where she dropped them, most no longer moving, one or two still twitching or groping in automatic reflex. Immobile enough to not be worth a bullet.

She was so close to making it to the bridge. God damn it.
etherthief: (whatever this feel is it's very intense)

[personal profile] etherthief 2015-08-01 01:41 am (UTC)(link)
Iman cannot stop moving.

Will not stop.

Her arm is covered now in blood and toxins. She has a protective etheric layer flickering around her, shielding her from breathing whatever this is, whatever's in the air, the water, their blood. She has to keep going.

She has to find Greta.

Another of the creatures writhes up out of what appeared to be a pile of corpses, latching onto her and struggling to bite. She turns sharply, angrily, and kicks it hard enough to dislodge it, then plunges her arm through it, yanking back out, the two motions punctuated with a teeth-gritted angry snarl of "Fuck, you!"

She is getting very tired of this.

"Greta!" she yells, raw and hopeless, across the destitute landscape. It's stupid to draw such attention to herself but she doesn't care. She needs to find Greta. She needs to. "Greta!"

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oh boy violence and gore

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driftseeker: (someone bout to get fucked)

[personal profile] driftseeker 2015-08-01 01:19 am (UTC)(link)
She keeps expecting the shriek of Onibaba descending over the abandoned city with its dead husks for buildings, but there is only the muted drone of wind whistling through the gaps in the skyscrapers, through the thin, trampled wrecks of cars.

This is not Tokyo. She would remember Tokyo. But it is not any city she knows. The air is not crisp and carries no scent of the sea - it is simply dead and lifeless like the city in which it circulates.

With nowhere else to turn and no idea of where she should go, Mako begins walking.

When the rumbling ensemble of moans drifts to her on a loose breeze, she does not know what to expect when she turns.

What she does not expect is the seething, shambling horde of zombielike things shuffling toward her, swarming the street behind her in a tight wall of hideously malformed, putrefying flesh. They are like the things Hu and Jin and Cheung used to fight on their battered console in their room at the Shatterdome while Mako watched, peeking out behind the couch to watch the digital heroes pummel the groaning monsters to jelly.

This is not a game, and the Wei Tang brothers are not here to protect her now. No one is here.

So Mako scans the rubble in search of a weapon. Beneath an almost unrecognizably mangled corpse is something that glints at her from beneath the smoke-stained sky, silver and sharp. She picks it up, and the blade rasps over the asphalt.

It is a sword.

She holds herself steady as she folds both hands over the hilt and brings the blade up and ready.

It will do.
bibliophale: (stern | defiant)

[personal profile] bibliophale 2015-08-01 01:28 am (UTC)(link)
Oh, bother. Dreaming again, and he'd been doing so well at not falling asleep lately. He gives waking up a cursory attempt but as usual it fails. Well, then. And a very pleasant one, too, by the looks of it.

Well, perhaps he's needed here. The more attention he pays to his surroundings, the more he realizes this is a very dangerous - perhaps apocalyptic - situation. Perhaps the Rift brought him here for a reason.

A creature suddenly launches itself at his back, and he staggers forward in surprise as it wraps long arms around him and scrabbles to bite him. He gasps and grapples awkwardly for a moment before he manages to seize the creature and drag it off, pulling it around to study it.

It's - it's dead. And yet it is animate, trying very hard to bite him, acting purely out of instinct. He feels a slow horror dawning as he realizes what this is, what inexplicable human fixation this is based upon.

The creature bites his hand, and he grunts with disgust and drops it. He can feel some sort of poison struggling to interact with his body, and he wills it away. Grotesque. The creature is already crawling back toward him.

His sword flares to life in his hand and he dispatches the abomination with an easy strike. He unfolds his wings for good measure. The dreamers are all in danger, assuming the Rift will allow them to experience the full range of threats these creatures pose. It's only a dream, but no one deserves a dream like this. He will protect them.

And if he is here, he will find Melanie.
omnomnom_feels: (angry | shirt grab)

[personal profile] omnomnom_feels 2015-08-01 09:27 pm (UTC)(link)
Someone's doing a lot of shouting around the next corner. Someone's also doing a lot of smiting around the next corner, so it's a gamble whether Aziraphale will hear the cries of "BEGONE!" and "YOUR MAKER WILL RUE THE DAY" and so forth first, or if his first encounter with this business will be the flaming zombie that comes staggering out from behind a building to trip over the curb and land smoldering in the street. Or, you know, the stench. Burning zombies put off a hell of a stench.

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peeta_mellark: (Srsbsns)

[personal profile] peeta_mellark 2015-08-01 02:14 am (UTC)(link)
He's running. He's always running. This is not quite the same as the Games (nothing else can match the Games), but the fear for his life, the aching awareness of his surroundings, the tingle of adrenaline beneath his skin - that is the same.

When the first one attacks - moving far too quickly for something that is clearly dead - Peeta runs. He doesn't gain any ground; the thing follows at a steady pace behind him, slowly closing the gap. It's while he's glancing over his shoulder that Peeta trips, and his immediate thought is that he won't make it back up again. But his body has never obeyed momentary despair, and it doesn't do so now. He's scrambling to his feet, slipping on grimy rubbish, when the thing reaches him.

It grabs his arm, yanking him around. He tries to pull away, feet sliding as if on ice, the stench of decay making his head spin. He and the thing both go down, Peeta landing hard on top of the thing's legs. It spasms beneath him, once, then goes still. Cautiously, Peeta rolls away and stands. A pole - or a pipe of some kind - protrudes through the thing's chest. Peeta bends over, hands on his knees, and breathes. A groan startles him upright. The thing, legs paralyzed, is trying to push itself off the pole. Its empty eyes follow Peeta as he backs away.

A few blocks from the park, he stumbles into an alleyway that appears to have once been fortified. Amid the detritus, he finds a machete-like sword in a leather sheath, and a small box containing a handgun. He straps the gun to his belt and the sheath to his back. There isn't much else to be found, and considering the fact that the alley fortification clearly failed, he isn't inclined to stay put. Sword in hand, he takes off again.
johnny_truant: (say what now)

[personal profile] johnny_truant 2015-08-01 03:12 am (UTC)(link)
On the move again. Turns out nowhere's safe for long. Also bullets are finite. Who fucking knew. He needs another new gun.

He cuts his way through the park and through this dream's fucked up rendition of the upper west side. He sees a flicker of movement and goes still, but it's human, judging by the gait. He hurries after him, closing in on the alley, leaning around the corner.

Guy's not somebody he knows, but at this point he'll take company from anyone. He's armed, though, not somebody Johnny wants to just sneak up on.

He waits until the guy's moving again and then he steps out.

"Hey," he calls, trying not to be too loud, and raises his hands.

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singthesong: (More Appropriately Emo Guitar)

[personal profile] singthesong 2015-08-01 03:47 am (UTC)(link)
The city is silent.

That's enough to frighten the Balladeer to his core. But even worse than that is when he finally sees the shape of another person, lingering in the shadows of an alley, and hears nothing.

The woman looks up and moans, but he's running even before she starts her pursuit. People make music; something that doesn't can't be a person, and he can't talk it down. She's getting closer, but he can only tell by the slap-click of uneven feet against the pavement, two-three-four steps before she barrels into his back, sending him down to the pavement with a pained grunt.

She's like a wild animal, hissing and clawing. The Balladeer twists and hears his shirt tear as he flips onto his back, lashing out wildly with his foot. Crunch. Something gives beneath his heel, and he kicks again and again, until she stops moving entirely.

There's blood on his clothes. His shoe is soaked with substances he doesn't want to think about, and whatever she was...her skull's caved in now. He killed her. The Balladeer scoots backwards until his shoulders hit the side of an abandoned car, and covers his mouth with a trembling hand.
wildmage_daine: (polar bear snarl)

[personal profile] wildmage_daine 2015-08-01 04:13 am (UTC)(link)
There's someone, finally, someone who isn't moving like they're ill. Daine recognizes the Balladeer moments before one of the mindless two-leggers throws itself at him, and she lets out a harsh cry of alarm. She's not close enough, even shifting to falcon shape and hurtling towards him as quickly as she can, she can't help him, she can't...

He doesn't need it. He finishes the woman off on his own, leaving an ugly mess behind as he scrambles backward into a car. But that's not the only one - there's another approaching, drawn by the noise. It rounds a corner at an uneven lope, moving towards the car the Balladeer's sheltering behind, and Daine's close enough, now, to take care of this one.

She folds her wings and plummets, buzzing over the Balladeer's head with a furious screech. Talons rake over the would-be attacker's scalp, jerking him back, and then Daine banks hard and lands, talons shifting into claws, body exploding into the towering, well-muscled shape of a polar bear. The two-legger veers away from the car. She must be a more obvious target. Well, that suits her fine. She bounds forward to meet them, drawing back a forepaw and swatting them into the pavement with a wet splat. The thing writhes, not dead, or not dead enough. Daine heaves herself onto her hind legs, then brings her full weight down onto the two-legger's spine, forepaws close together to maximize the force of the impact.

The two-legger stops moving, after that.

Daine snarls in disgust, then lumbers around the car towards the Balladeer. Are you all right? she asks, lowering her head to peer at him.

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biscuit_powered: (Asmodia | afraid | recoil)

[personal profile] biscuit_powered 2015-08-01 05:49 am (UTC)(link)
Individually, the zombies almost nothing to worry about, except apply that cavalier thought to any enemy and you're practically inviting it to sink its teeth into you. It's not an individual zombie that's the problem, either; so far she's been lucky and had a chance to drop them one at a time, but she's seen enough of them shambling around to know that a swarm of the things is a distinct possibility.

What's unnerving is the endlessness of it all. She's been walking for what seems like an age, but everywhere she turns the streets are abandoned and rubble-strewn, every corner echoing with the moans of the undead. It's like the entire city just died and came back to unlife. She's never seen anything this big, and healing hexes aside, she doesn't feel very well-equipped to deal with it. Getting out of the city seems like a good idea right now, so that's what she's trying...though she doesn't know which way to go and can only hope that the direction she's chosen won't take her somewhere worse. Biscuit clings to her shoulder, and she's been doing her best to convince the both of them that he's just being a big baby about the whole thing.

"That was what, number four?" she says, striding away from a limp body left on the pavement. "It only takes one tap and they go down, we're fine. We just keep moving and don't let them clump up on us, and we'll be out of here in no ti -- AAGH!"

Alright, she should have given that doorway a much wider berth. Asmodia dodges gracelessly away from the grasping hands of the corpse that lurches out from the shop front, Biscuit squealing in alarm. "BE HEALED!" she screeches, flailing her arms wildly. Its proximity works in her favor; a glancing blow from one of her wildly thrashing hands transmits the hex, and the zombie abruptly collapses, leaving her and Biscuit panting with leftover adrenaline.

"Number five," she amends, shuffling away from its remains.
rae_of_sun: (tharn)

[personal profile] rae_of_sun 2015-08-02 02:46 am (UTC)(link)
Oh, gods, this is the worst, this is the absolute worst thing ever, like being stuck in the frigging ghoul attack simulator at the Other Museum. She presumes. Because she was always too squeamish to actually go into the thing, and now she has no choice, and P.S. it's not a goddamn simulation.

She'd take vampires over this. She would take a gang of vampires over this. At least she can handle vampires - not with any grace, but she's capable. Ghouls are outside her wheelhouse. Why the hell couldn't they just stay outside her wheelhouse?

She's hiding behind the counter of a thoroughly wrecked shop, her little knife clutched in her hands, absurdly, because if her magic is as useless against ghouls as she presumes it will be, her knife will be no more use than a regular pocket knife. Which is to say: not useful at all. And there's something approaching, she can hear its dragging, uneven footsteps, oh gods, why her, why is this happening?

And then she hears a voice. Like, a normal human voice engaged in strained conversation. The ghoul must have heard it, too, because it picks up the pace and staggers out the doorway, and she should probably say something, yell out a warning, but she sits paralyzed, instead.

The voice shouts something. There's the thud of a dropping body.

... And then the voice fucking resumes talking, what in the triple carthaginian hell.

Sunshine lurches gracelessly to her feet, then hustles out of the shop, and okay, that is a partblood. That is quite possibly the most obvious partblood she's ever seen out in public. But compared to ghouls, a partblood is a goddamn gift, and if it has some kind of demonic power that lets it dispatch these things easily, she will be their new best friend.

"Uh," she says by way of greeting. Wait. Wait, she knows that enormous rodent. She knows this partblood. "... Asmodia?"

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fucking_ebay: (angry | freak right out)

[personal profile] fucking_ebay 2015-08-01 06:59 am (UTC)(link)
See Peter.

See Peter run.

See Peter scramble up a fire escape and kick the zombie chasing him in the face while screaming at the top of his lungs.

It turns out a dead-end alley wasn't the worst choice he's made all night, thanks to a low-hanging ladder and a goddamn lot of desperation determination. Unfortunately, the zombies are literally at his heels; he only has one foot firmly planted on a rung of the ladder, arms wrapped around rungs and posts as he kicks wildly at a zombie only for said zombie to grab his foot and pull off his shoe. "Fuck!" exclaims Peter, scrambling higher to get out of reach of those grasping hands. "Fucking -- fuck, fucker! Fuck you all!"
driftseeker: (ill kick ur ass. ill kick everyones ass.)

[personal profile] driftseeker 2015-08-01 05:57 pm (UTC)(link)
The blade cleaves through flesh easily, and as Mako falls into the tired rhythm of separating heads from rotting shoulders and watching the corpses crumble back to lifelessness, she tries not to feel violently sick.

She does not want to think of them, or who they might have been before all this.

The strangled yelps are the first remotely human sounds she has heard, and Mako immediately marks an unerring line for their source.

What she finds is a man clambering up the rungs of a fire escape, partially shoeless and screaming, his struggles attracting more and more of the surging dead mass the longer he howls.

Mako shears through those scrabbling for a grip on the ladder, then stoops to retrieve the shoe, pausing only to shake away the disembodied hand still clutching it.

Wordless, she offers it back to its owner.

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omnomnom_feels: (anger | disgusted)

[personal profile] omnomnom_feels 2015-08-01 08:08 pm (UTC)(link)
"BEGONE, ABOMINATIONS!"

For once, Rashad is making himself useful, though for him it's more about expressing his loathing for the undead creatures of this dream than making the city safe for survivors. Somewhere there is a necromancer responsible for these abominations, and he will find and kill this person. In the meantime, he can be found chasing down the zombies that come out to investigate all the noise he's making, his body alight with aetheric flame with which he strikes down the undead, filling the air with the stench of burning flesh.
eliotwaugh: (Default)

[personal profile] eliotwaugh 2015-08-02 06:35 am (UTC)(link)
This is complete and utter bullshit. Eliot thinks as much, repeatedly, as he skirts through empty streets, but he doesn't dare say anything. The first time he was lucky, it was one of the slow shambling ones and he had time to find some sort of a weapon before it got too close. He still clutches the length of rebar, hoping he can avoid the fast ones (of course there's fucking fast ones, what kind of zombie apocalypse would it be without one) and get to some kind of shelter.

Zombies. What the fuck. He knew it was a dream right away, and all the surreal absurdity is enough to make him laugh, if he weren't terrified of drawing any more actual goddamn zombies to him. He's not sure if the Rift would just let him wake up if a zombie got him or if he'd end up becoming one, but he really does not want to take that chance.

Eliot checks the next alleyway, finds it mercifully empty, and ducks in, keeping his back against the wall. He needs to catch his breath, figure out some sort of a plan. Most of all, he thinks, he needs to get some sort of magic going, because running around with a glorified stick is not going to be feasible for much longer. But this is a dream, and if he has to dream with nonsensical dream Circumstances he's going to set something on fire again.

But then again, zombies are supposed to be pretty flammable, right? Maybe this dream won't entirely suck.
phthalo: (self-reflection LOL GET IT)

[personal profile] phthalo 2015-08-03 02:58 am (UTC)(link)
She doesn't know where she is.

None of this is right. None of this is normal. She has no grasp of what this place might be, outside of the generalization of Earth.

Water. She has to find water.

She moves rapidly, flitting past buildings, searching for any familiar person or landmark or gem - but there's nothing. Nothing except -

What's that?

Lapis stops, wavering. It's a human. That makes sense, she has to admit. They are the dominant species.

She looks away, arms wrapping around her shoulders. She could always ask for directions. Humans must know where things are on their home planet.

She edges forward, down the dark slash of space between two buildings, periodically glancing behind her and back at the human with irresolving wariness.

"Hello?" she says tentatively, not quite ready to go reaching forward.

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stronglikebear: (sad | rough)

[personal profile] stronglikebear 2015-08-03 12:40 am (UTC)(link)
What the hell what the hell WHAT THE HELL

Yuri's seen enough movies, okay, he gets what this is. What he doesn't get is how he landed in the middle of it. Is this real? God, he hopes so hard this isn't real. Did the rift pick him up and dump him into some new world just to prove it could make his life even shittier, or is this the same Manhattan? What happened to everybody?

Scratch that, it's kind of obvious what happened to everybody. When he saw the zombie that --

When he saw the zombie, he wasn't sure whether he was going to wet his pants or puke. It turned out he didn't do either, he ran, but he didn't --

Wasn't fast enough.

God.

Maybe it's not all true, maybe the worst he has to worry about is a staph infection. It hurts, though, he can barely move his arm and he doesn't even want to look at it --

He has to stay calm. He has to -- what? Do what? He's out on the streets and on the move, listening for zombies, because he knows what he doesn't want to do is get eaten alive, but if he's bitten, if it's like the movies, if he's going to become --

No. Just don't think about it. Keep moving and don't think about it.
all_the_gifts: (concerned)

[personal profile] all_the_gifts 2015-08-03 12:54 am (UTC)(link)
Here's another one who shouldn't be here. Melanie doesn't recognize him, which isn't a surprise. She doesn't get out much. But when she takes in the state of his arm, she thinks it's probably just as well. That might make things easier, though it still won't be easy.

"Hey," she calls out softly, rising from her crouch on a neighboring fire escape. It takes both hands for her to shove the ladder down, but she manages. "Up here."

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