applesaucedream | We Are Awakened With The Axe [Open to All]

Current Music: September 29th/30th, 2013

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.]

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What is he doing?

Melanie's brow furrows as the man drops into a crouch, as if to reassure her. Is he trying to lure her back down so he can finish her off? What other explanation could there be?

But there is another explanation. She knows that. It's harder to reach than it should be, more recent memories all swaddled up beneath an old wrap of hazy grey fuzz.

He doesn't know. He doesn't know what this is, or what she is. He doesn't belong here, like she does. He's lost. And this isn't real, it's not real, how could she have forgotten that so easily?

Melanie rises, pale hands curling over the railing. "You're not," she says, matching his volume. "It's not safe here. Not on the street."

"Obviously," snorts Rush in seething undertone. "Though it begs the question of why you seem to think yourself exempt."

She's apparently resourceful enough to have lasted for any significant time period in a city virtually infested with those which are not easily designated as 'alive' or 'dead'. He refuses to refer to them by any sort of conceptually inelegant, Eli Wallace-esque moniker inspired by some allusion mired in modern day American pop culture.

"It would seem prudent that we both get out of the street, no?" he says testily. "I'm very much in the interest of staying alive, as I'm sure you are as well."

"I'm different," she says, quiet and matter-of-fact. And that, she thinks, is all he needs to know. He still has a weapon, and he's upset and impatient, and she doesn't want to know what he'd do if he knew the full truth about her.

But she can't just leave him here, either. He doesn't know what he's doing.

Melanie twists her mouth sideways into a brief, considering pout. Then she pads over to the rusted ladder hanging off the edge of the fire escape. It's stuck, and her weight isn't enough to jar it loose. But she's able to hang off the bottom rung, and that only leaves a short drop to the ground. Approaching the man directly is too risky for both of them, so she sidles out from beneath the fire escape, keeping a good ten yards between them and trying to stay upwind.

"I was heading for the Park," she says. It's not exactly an invitation, but it's not a dismissal, either.

"Ah," says Rush, uncertain as to how to best respond to that. He watches her and arranges his features into what he is certain conveys nothing but careful neutrality as the child climbs to the ground, the distance between them doubtless deliberate on her part.

'Different' has a great deal of connotations given the current setting, though given her state of articulacy and cooperation, he is not entirely sure of what those connotations may be without first accumulating more data. Her wariness regarding him is understandable, possibly even commendable given the child's perspective.

Slowly, he rises.

"I'd suggest higher ground," he says evenly, tone steady despite the urgency of their joint situation, because he does not swear at children, no matter how bizarre or off-putting he finds them, not that he's ever established a behavioral metric regarding children as his interactions with them as a group have been so infrequent and unremarkable that he has begun questioning the wisdom of interacting with one now outside of any kind of limited capacity.

Certain social expectations would dictate a more typical exchange as a display of trust. Rush sighs. He raises his free hand to his chest to indicate himself.

"Nicholas," he says. "Nick."

That idea of an introduction was pure shite. He doesn't call himself Nick. No one calls him Nick. He doubts anyone save Durant is even aware he has a first name.

Edited 2015-08-01 05:11 (UTC)

Melanie nods in agreement. She'd been thinking about scaling a tree, but that might not work so well for Nick. He'd probably be safest on a barricaded rooftop or something.

"I'm Melanie." It's good that he didn't share his last name; it means she doesn't have to share the fact that she lacks one. She turns to scan the surrounding buildings, looking for one high enough to be safe and low enough that climbing it wouldn't take too long.

Settling on an older apartment building of five stories, she points, suggesting, "The roof?"

That would strike him as a typical name if his own conception of what constitutes a typical title wasn't so grotesquely atypical, courtesy of his former workplace environment.

He evaluates the suggestion with a tilt of his head, one hand rasping over his chin thoughtfully.

"I'd be amenable to that," he says. One corner of his mouth twitches wryly. "Though I assume the elevator's out."

He swings the pipe upright with a flippant heft, leveling the distribution of weight across one shoulder as he cuts a sharp, steady line to the building indicated. It looks about as bleakly uninhabited as the majority of the architecture, which would suggest its foundations are less than fully stable.

"This is pure fucking wretched," he remarks without fair consideration of his earlier amendment to not swear audibly in front a child.

Fuck.

Edited 2015-08-01 05:55 (UTC)

At least he's not talking down to her. That's kind of nice. Melanie watches him sidelong as they approach the building, then nods in pensive agreement to his assessment. He doesn't carry himself like a soldier, but he talks a bit like one. She wouldn't call it reassuring, but it is familiar.

"It might be swarming with fucking abortions," she says gravely, adjusting her vocabulary to match his. Just like communicating with Lilly, but in a different direction. "Wait here. I'll check the first floor."

"Get t'fuck," he snaps, expression landing somewhere in the general realm of outraged consternation. He's unfamiliar with that particular argot in reference to what is, presumably, a greater quantity of incompletely-deceased members of humankind redivivus.

Also, evidently, language will not be a problem.

He takes that under consideration.

He rearranges his features into a scowl.

"Separation is not conducive to prolonged survival," he says, "particularly in this case."

Melanie pauses. He's being stubborn about this - not in a Sergeant Parks sort of way, but in a Miss Justineau sort of way. Like he's more worried about what might happen to her than what might happen to him.

She slowly pivots to face him, pale eyebrows quirked in perplexity. "Have you dealt with hungries before?" she asks. He must have some experience - his pipe is covered in evidence of its recent use - but he might not understand exactly what they're facing.

No one from a universe other than her own would, really.

"Hungries," he repeats skeptically. That sounds correlative to a pre-established notion regarding those for which he has not bothered to devote undue time or effort into assigning some sort of name, but he would have no idea. She obviously has a highly developed sense of awareness in relation to said 'abortions' or 'hungries' or whichever the fuck, implying she has, on some level, 'dealt with' said monsters accordingly.

"In a limited capacity," says Rush, lowering his weapon into a grip with both hands. "One I hope will remain limited." He pauses in brief consideration before matching her inquisitive tone. "I assume you have?"

"Yes." Melanie nods once solemnly. "My whole world was like this, after the Breakdown." Not exactly - some of the hungries she's seen are not like the ones from her universe, though their disinterest in her seems to have carried over. However they hunt, smell must be important enough to make her an unappealing target.

That's more than she wants to share, and she frowns. "They don't want me. Let me clear the first floor. Wait here, and don't make noise unless they've already seen you."

"Ah," he says. That would be indicative of an abundance of experience regarding this particular organism. He is certain he does not need to infer a great deal from the title of 'Breakdown' to grasp the essence of that event and its conception.

Any explanation as to why she would claim to be immune to their attention is conspicuously absent. He eyes her dubiously. Clearly he is not as heartlessly Machiavellian as the majority of Destiny's crew seemed to assume, because he finds himself supremely unwilling to abandon this child to what would certainly be an unpleasant fate should she attempt to traverse the entirety of this building alone, and he may not be reputable given his history and his scientific proclivities, but he is not, he feels he is fully justified in thinking, one hundred percent a soulless bastard.

Clearly.

"Do come back," he says, pointed and in no way concerned for this child's safety. In no way. "But if you are - certain you will not be in any danger - "

He opens a hand in wordless acquiescence.

The corners of her mouth tick up into a faintly bewildered smile. If he really knew about hungries, he wouldn't be so concerned about her - for several reasons. But that's exactly why she can't just leave him here to fend for himself.

"I'll come back," she promises. And then she turns and creeps into the building, edging around the front door, sagging off its hinges.

Several minutes drag themselves past before she reemerges, looking thoughtful.

"There's a group of hungries at the end of the hall," she says quietly. Real hungries, her hungries, stooped and huddled around the carpet stain that remains of their last meal. None of them had moved an inch as she studied them from afar and then slowly backed away. "That's the bad news. The good news is that the back door's broken, and there's a breeze coming in. They won't smell you. If you're quiet and move very slowly, we can walk right past them."

His fingers drum the length of the pipe with mounting impatience. He itches for the reassuring hum of an opened laptop, mechanical labor at which he always excelled. The physicality of the present situation will soon become untenable for a great deal of reasons.

He presses one hand against the soreness creeping to the back of his neck, the strain of his vigilance and his limited knowledge and his anxiety building to a point where he simply cannot remain still for an extended amount of time, he cannot stay here and he cannot wait for Melanie to return when there is every chance he may have inadvertently sent a child to her death.

Rush exhales shortly in mild relief when her recognizably petite form exits the building.

"Fuck," he mutters, closing his eyes briefly against the nauseating thick sweetness of decay in the air. "So we're to be left to the mercy of the weather, then."

He opens his eyes, eyes raking the building exterior, and he nods, his tone dry.

"That's perfect."

"This is good," she reminds him. "You don't have e-blocker. If the wind wasn't coming in, they'd smell you for sure." And it was a small group. Even if they can't get to the roof without alerting them, it won't be too hard to barricade them out. They'll lose interest.

They won't leave - not unless something draws them - but they'll lose interest.

"Follow me," she says. "Move slow, and don't make noise."

She hesitates, giving Nick a long, considering look. Then, she mutely holds out a hand.

He does not inquire as to what the fuck e-blocker could possibly be, as clearly a dearth of it would make it utterly irrelevant to the set of circumstances.

"Yes," he says. "Well."

He regards the hand extended toward him uncertainly, debating its purpose and the intent behind the gesture before he may conclude that she intends to lead him in a very literal, very physical sense, that which would result in little more than a somatosensory nightmare.

"Fine," he says, edged and wary, eyes flicking away from the hand in silent disregard for the unspoken offer. "We move slow."

She lets her hand drop, neither surprised nor offended by the rejection. The offer was made more for his peace of mind than hers.

Melanie approaches the doorway at a slow creep, more for demonstrative purposes than because it's necessary out here. Inside, it's a different story. There's a dilapidated entryway featuring a toppled bin and a row of dusty mailboxes. There are two hallways to choose from, but one only extends a few feet before the floor opens into a jagged-edged hole. She might be able to edge around it, but Nick probably couldn't. She leads him into the other.

Down at the far end, the hungries are immediately visible. They stand like statues in the back doorway, completely still except for the faint stirring of their tattered clothing. She points to them, keeping her motions smooth and easy. Then she points to a second doorway, this one half the hall's distance away. The stairs.

She finishes by lifting her finger to her lips. Then, she starts down the hall, choosing each step carefully.

He studies the slow fluidity of her movements before mimicking said motions, his weight kept low and evenly distributed.

Apparently this would be an environment with which she would be exceptionally familiar. This makes complete sense given her explanation for the state of her native D-brane.

The stillness of the silhouettes at the end of the hall provokes a faint chill, which he ignores utterly. The breeze continues its intermittent directional vector, pulling the clothing of the static figures in a continuous catch and flutter.

Rush dips his head in a careful nod and looks away.

That's not a lingering image he needs.

He takes care to place his feet in as similar a configuration as hers as possible, in avoidance of the inevitable creaking or shattering of the regrettably hardwood floors, cutting a steady, unbearably protracted toward the fucking stairs.

Melanie knows better than to let impatience get the better of her. She tests each stretch of floorboard before putting her weight on it, acutely aware that even her full weight is nothing compared to Nick's. But if anything feels the least bit spongey or giving, she draws back and tries again. It is slow... but it's also quiet, and that's the most important thing.

When she finally pulls up to the staircase, she leans over and glances up, making sure there's nothing unpleasant waiting for them on the first landing. From what little she can see, the stairwell is clear. She moves past the entryway, planting herself between the hungries and Nick like a tiny sentinel, and motions to him from behind her back. He should take the lead, at least until they've left this specific threat behind them.

He decides to interpret that as an indication that their current roles should reverse, and he treads cautiously, pipe upraised, testing the integrity of each step with the toe of his foot before incrementally increasing the allotment of weight and transitioning to the next stair.

Roughly three-quarters of the way from the top, Rush encounters their first problem.

Rather, the problem announces itself rather transparently in the form of a step whose foundations appear to be severely unstable, courtesy of the inexorable creep of rot eating steadily through the boards.

Fucking hardwood.

Rush shifts to the wall to brace himself against its support as he attempts to clear the unsteady area entirely with an overly long stride.

Half of her focus remains on the hungries in the doorway; the other is on Nick as he starts up the stairs. He seems to be making good progress, not too fast and not too slow. As he nears the landing, she starts to ease her way back into the stairwell.

She becomes aware that he's pausing a bit longer than usual a moment before one of the stairs creaks below his foot.

There's no time to look astonished or disapproving. Melanie glances at the doorway to see heads turning sharply in their direction. No time for sneaking anymore, either. She turns and legs it up the stairs with a frantic, hissed, "Go!"

The ear-splitting shriek of rending boards does not need to be punctuated by Melanie's wild urging for Rush to become aware of the fact that the requirement for stealth has become irrelevant. He sprints unflinchingly upward, clearing the remainder of the steps even as they begin to disintegrate beneath his weight.

"Fuck," he hisses, brusque and tense, as he distantly hopes that his smaller charge has the requisite speed or agility to cross the gaps his passage has formed.

The gaps in the stairs are no obstacle for Melanie; she vaults up onto the railing and scampers up to the landing. One of the pursuing hungries blunders into the hole Nick's left behind and goes down, and the other three trample heedlessly over it and continue to climb.

Can they really outrun three of them?

"Keep going," Melanie says tersely. "Shout if there are more."

She spins on her heel, then leaps back down the stairs towards the frontrunner. Her bare feet curl over sharply defined hip bones, her hands grip its desiccated shoulders. Its teeth snap together once, a reaction to the impact but not to her, because she is nothing to them. It stumbles back, colliding with the others, already wavering uncertainly at the loss of stimuli. It won't last long, but it will buy Nick more time.

Yes. This can in no fucking way go completely wrong.

Particularly now that it has become increasingly evident that (a) as Melanie has claimed, the 'hungries' appear to be ignoring her utterly, (b) they are fair fucking fast, and (c) he will not need to worry about Melanie's physical capabilities in terms of her getting up the stairs.

That's a mild relief.

The organisms lurch blindly toward them in a disorganized surge, their bodies emaciated to the point of -

Rush realigns his focus to climbing the stairs in a relatively expeditious manner.

"Oh, fuck off," he snarls in profound disgust, rounding the next landing to discover a secondary cluster of the intolerable things moving in unerring synchrony toward the source of the chaos.

He swings the pipe from his shoulder to smash it into the approaching head of the first one with a sickening sound of metal impacting pulpy flesh.

Nick's voice rings out down the stairwell, and Melanie shoves herself away from the hungry she was holding at bay. It wavers, but not for long - she might not smell like anything, but the sight of her sprinting back up the stairs is enough to pique their interest. She's faster than they are, though, and they're tripping over one another in their haste.

She takes in the scene farther up the stairs with a glance. More are closing in, but Nick's holding his own. She launches herself at one of the hungries in the back, scaling its body like an angry cat and sinking her teeth into the back of its neck. Her jaw works with automatic rapidity until its spine is severed and it collapses to the floor in an ungainly heap. Turning to the next, Melanie leaps, her mouth and chin smeared with grey and glistening red.

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