![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who| R, Howard Bassem, Guy Crood
What| R is separated from Howard by raptors and stumbles into a panicked Guy for zombie killing.
Where| Around the edge of what’s left of the island, possibly near the labs
When| Week 4
Warnings/Notes| Zombie-violence, gore, Tributes killing Tributes.
Howard Bassem
R’s been wandering in and out of what Howard’s called “his territory” – there’s no fences or lines drawn in the mud to tell him where that special chunk of jungle begins and ends, and sometimes he wonders if Howard even knows at all or if he’s just making it up as he goes along. Seems like it might be a Howard Bassem thing to do.
He catches Howard within sight of the cliffs that hadn’t been there a few days ago, the smell of acid drying out his sinuses. It’s so strong it almost overpowers that life-smell radiating off the human. He imagines it might even be strong enough to make the eyes water, but it’s just a guess: he wouldn’t know, personally. His eyes haven’t watered in years.
R shuffles up to Howard, trusting his stumbling, uneven footsteps to be telegraphing where he’s coming from. Howard’s jumpy at the best of times, after all, and in the Arena he’s on a permanent state of red alert. Anything strange, anything new is all labeled POSSIBLE THREAT.
“Gk,” R squeezes the sound out. The shreds of his tongue, lolling out with nowhere to go, twitch conversationally as he swings his head toward Howard, his Dead-grey eyes searching his face. He settles for gently nudging him in the shoulder since he can’t outright ask his question. What’s on his mind? For the days that R slows down or wanders, his mind must be racing. Calculating. Unable to rest. Is it the acid that’s bothering him today? Is he running out of food?
Or is it those weird, soft hooting noises? The crackle of undergrowth that R swears has been coming closer…
Guy Crood
It’s hard to shuffle when your intestines are getting tangled up in your ankles.
Between having half a face and his insides…not on the inside anymore, R thinks this probably qualifies as a bad day even for a zombie.
Howard called them “raptors” when they’d heard the hooting a few days ago, off in the distance. Him? He just got the impression of claws flashing, a thick tail swinging for balance, and an almost bird-like trill that suddenly escalated into a shriek as it slashed his stomach open with its hind foot. R hadn’t even realized he’d been disemboweled until he turned to stagger away and tripped on his own guts, slipped, and went down hard in the mud. He would’ve groaned a warning to Howard if he’d had the voice, if he hadn’t looked up while the raptor shoved its snout into his stomach and realized he’d already vanished. For all he knows, Howard’s already long gone. Survival of the fittest and the fittest is whoever’s willing to run screaming to the hills ahead of everyone else.
All R knows is he doesn’t make a good meal. He struggles against the raptor, his cold hands slapping up against a pebbly hide, and it jerks its head back in surprise. Food’s supposed to be choking on its own blood, slowing down. Dying. This one doesn’t seem like it got the memo. It tastes long dead. Rotting dead. With a snarl, the raptor had jumped back, bobbed its head, hissed, and then vanished into the jungle like a magic trick. It'd happened so fast that he would've doubted it happened at all until he felt the draft.
R got back to his feet and started shuffling. He told himself he’s going to look for Howard. After the first hour of wandering along the cliff side, he had to admit he had no clue what the battle plan was. It’s more wandering aimlessly. Zombie default.
It’s that wandering that sends him stumbling on Guy Crood’s campsite. There’s a few minutes of curious shuffling sounds approaching Guy, like someone’s badly injured, before R suddenly slaps aside a large leaf and introduces him to the wide, gross and rotting world of zombies.
What| R is separated from Howard by raptors and stumbles into a panicked Guy for zombie killing.
Where| Around the edge of what’s left of the island, possibly near the labs
When| Week 4
Warnings/Notes| Zombie-violence, gore, Tributes killing Tributes.
Howard Bassem
R’s been wandering in and out of what Howard’s called “his territory” – there’s no fences or lines drawn in the mud to tell him where that special chunk of jungle begins and ends, and sometimes he wonders if Howard even knows at all or if he’s just making it up as he goes along. Seems like it might be a Howard Bassem thing to do.
He catches Howard within sight of the cliffs that hadn’t been there a few days ago, the smell of acid drying out his sinuses. It’s so strong it almost overpowers that life-smell radiating off the human. He imagines it might even be strong enough to make the eyes water, but it’s just a guess: he wouldn’t know, personally. His eyes haven’t watered in years.
R shuffles up to Howard, trusting his stumbling, uneven footsteps to be telegraphing where he’s coming from. Howard’s jumpy at the best of times, after all, and in the Arena he’s on a permanent state of red alert. Anything strange, anything new is all labeled POSSIBLE THREAT.
“Gk,” R squeezes the sound out. The shreds of his tongue, lolling out with nowhere to go, twitch conversationally as he swings his head toward Howard, his Dead-grey eyes searching his face. He settles for gently nudging him in the shoulder since he can’t outright ask his question. What’s on his mind? For the days that R slows down or wanders, his mind must be racing. Calculating. Unable to rest. Is it the acid that’s bothering him today? Is he running out of food?
Or is it those weird, soft hooting noises? The crackle of undergrowth that R swears has been coming closer…
Guy Crood
It’s hard to shuffle when your intestines are getting tangled up in your ankles.
Between having half a face and his insides…not on the inside anymore, R thinks this probably qualifies as a bad day even for a zombie.
Howard called them “raptors” when they’d heard the hooting a few days ago, off in the distance. Him? He just got the impression of claws flashing, a thick tail swinging for balance, and an almost bird-like trill that suddenly escalated into a shriek as it slashed his stomach open with its hind foot. R hadn’t even realized he’d been disemboweled until he turned to stagger away and tripped on his own guts, slipped, and went down hard in the mud. He would’ve groaned a warning to Howard if he’d had the voice, if he hadn’t looked up while the raptor shoved its snout into his stomach and realized he’d already vanished. For all he knows, Howard’s already long gone. Survival of the fittest and the fittest is whoever’s willing to run screaming to the hills ahead of everyone else.
All R knows is he doesn’t make a good meal. He struggles against the raptor, his cold hands slapping up against a pebbly hide, and it jerks its head back in surprise. Food’s supposed to be choking on its own blood, slowing down. Dying. This one doesn’t seem like it got the memo. It tastes long dead. Rotting dead. With a snarl, the raptor had jumped back, bobbed its head, hissed, and then vanished into the jungle like a magic trick. It'd happened so fast that he would've doubted it happened at all until he felt the draft.
R got back to his feet and started shuffling. He told himself he’s going to look for Howard. After the first hour of wandering along the cliff side, he had to admit he had no clue what the battle plan was. It’s more wandering aimlessly. Zombie default.
It’s that wandering that sends him stumbling on Guy Crood’s campsite. There’s a few minutes of curious shuffling sounds approaching Guy, like someone’s badly injured, before R suddenly slaps aside a large leaf and introduces him to the wide, gross and rotting world of zombies.
Guy
Re: Guy
It didn't take long, thanks to the paleness and lack of blood, for Guy to quickly realize that this wasn't a living person who shouldn't have still been alive but rather a dead one. (That shouldn't have still been alive even more.)
That receding ocean drew farther and farther away, Guy's eyes getting wider and wider, and just when they were almost at the point they should have been falling out of his head, that was when that hulking beast of a wave went crashing back to shore to unleash untold devastation.
The scream he let out, if anyone heard it, probably made them think he was being killed. It was a "Goofy just fell off the cliff" scream, a yodel of unrestrained horror.
"AAAAEEEUUHH AHH HA AAAAH!"
Apparently a fear of the dead not quite being dead enough was something that reached very, very far back in human instinct.
Enough that the first thing Guy did was run over and try to stab R in the chest with his spear.
Re: Guy
He guessed he shouldn't be surprised when the Tribute stabbed him clean in the chest.
The spear punched through, sliding between his ribs. It must've skidded off something on the way in because it didn't impale him all the way through. Instead of red blood, something rank and black and tar-like began to bubble out reluctantly around the shaft. Instead of crying out, R groaned out of instinct...only without a functioning mouth, all he could manage was a pathetic gurgle as he dripped ooze. He made matters worse by stepping forward onto a bit of withered intestine hanging out his stomach and tearing it off with a thick squish.
Can we cut it out with the spears? R had it up to here with getting stabbed with spears, from Hyperion to Eva and now to some guy who couldn't even scream properly. It was like he died a spear magnet or something, Jesus. R reacted by falling back to Undead 101, his hand coming up and grasping uselessly over the spear for something vague. He wasn't even sure what he was grabbing for. This guy looked like he'd probably be good eating. Then again, the hunger thought that way about anyone with a heartbeat.
Re: Guy
Guy made a lot of funny noises like that, though, especially when he was doing things like stabbing someone and having them not die.
He yanked the spear free and tried to stab R in the eye this time. It wouldn't reach his brain, even if it did connect. The flint was hard but it wasn't sharp, not enough to really slice through the bone of of his eye socket. It certainly wasn't long enough.
Annnd R's dead
Today wasn't any different.
Between the stream of...noises bubbling out of the Tribute's mouth and the fact that he was already off-balance, R didn't stand a chance. Before he knew it the spear jerked itself free of his ribs with a squish, black blood splattering, and now it was on a collusion course with his face. This was the part where it should hurt. He braced for it. There wasn't a spike of agony when the spear pierced his eye. The world flashed white, went dark on that side as he staggered. More of that rank tar wept down the side of his face in a death mask. Somehow his brain was intact.
Wow, that's amazing it didn't -
R started to count his lucky stars, his one good eye fixed on the human almost like a silent accusation, when he stumbled back and his foot hit a grand total of nothing instead of ground. The cliff yawned up behind him, acid lapping at the bottom of the rocks.
...Uh oh.
He pitched over the side without even a scream. As R's Arena deaths went, it was fast. Seconds instead of hours, days. Whistling air. A glimpse of the shreds of his guts flapping away. He thought he might've seen a few seagulls pinwheeling above the cliff he took a swan dive from. Then the ground rushed up, the rocks grew large, and he smashed into it with a dull thump.
no subject
Then the same thunder that had rumbled through the air when Mindy died rumbled again and Guy jumped in place with another terrified squeal.
After a little while of just standing there trying to will the world into being just slightly less horrifying, Guy finally edged over to the cliff side and cautiously peered down.
Yeah, that guy was definitely dead. Maybe even for good this time.
The question burning in Guy's mind was still 'How had he been alive at all?' Jaw missing, guts hanging out like the stringy insides of a squash, so far beyond living that he wasn't even bleeding from it all...
And how much pain had he been in? Had he been completely numb? Had he been in agony?
Now that R was dead down on the rocks, Guy's fear immediately gave way to overwhelming pity. Had the people who'd brought them here done this? After all, they could bring back the dead, couldn't they? What if it wasn't all the way back?
Even though he was still trembling, even though that edge of fear was still sharp enough to cut to the bone, he couldn't help but show at least some compassion.
"I'm sorry," he called down, and the words were carried away on the wind. More quietly, he said, "I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm so sorry."
Then, on a rock at the cliff's edge he dragged the point of his spear. It was still covered in the strange dark viscera of R's body. Guy didn't dare touch it but if it was whatever equated to blood for the dead young man on the rocks below, it was what had to be used. He'd used Mindy's blood, after all, and the point of it was that it needed to be the same. For them all. If he was going to kill anyone, if their lives were being frittered away because of people who were horrible, he had to show the respect for their lives that the ones behind all this weren't showing. And it had to be the same respect or it wasn't respect at all.
So Guy dragged the tip of his spear against the rock, and he drew a crude little symbol that was the sun. He drew another crude little symbol that was like a burning flame. It was the same he'd given Mindy, drawn on her forehead and cheeks, a light to follow and a light to hold back the dark on the journey.
Then he tried to clean the heck out of that spear without touching it by running it through the grass. Clumpy dark stuff was left behind as he did it.
"Euuueegh. Oh, that's so gross."
He didn't have time to fuss over it, though. His screams might have gotten someone's attention. So Guy quickly grabbed his vine bag and set out, his heart still pounding, leaving behind a makeshift gravestone and the sound of a hovercraft echoing from the distance.