Last time, he ran away from the Cornucopia. Though he promised himself that this time he'd do better, instead he only got lost. He's spent the last several hours milling around in a forest of vapors and clouds, moving towards shadows that vanish behind veils of grey when he approaches. It seems almost like a Gamemaker ploy, taunting him with the sounds of people fighting and dying and yet pulling away his ability to help in the most anticlimatic way possible; he doesn't even get to fail so much as just wander around, lost, chasing ghosts.
It doesn't stop him from leaping to the aid of anyone he hears, though. Repeated failure - no, the repeated kack of success - never did. If there's one thing Punchy has spades of, it's resilience.
The dark of night doesn't do much to make visibility any worse - the fog's deep enough that he can barely see his own feet anyway. It's a miracle that Punchy's able to navigate with his ears, given the untold damage he's done to them through the last five years of too-loud gangsta rap amplified through a variety of high-end speakers with very little reprieve. It's even more surprising given that the fog obscures sound only slightly less than sight; even the sharpest noises seem dampened, as if coming from inside an metal drum a hundred yards away. Punchy walks over dead grass that should crackle under his feet and only hears dull rustling.
That dull rustling turns into the thumps of footfall as he runs towards the sound of breaking glass. He's not even that far away, and the house seems to just pop up right in front of him so fast he almost runs into it, but thankfully he's close enough to the broken window that he can just vault on into it and land in the same room as the woman and the metal man getting attacked by...something.
He throws himself headlong into it, ducking under the hockey stick whipping about and grabbing the walker around the waist. He yanks back, and both monster and unlikely would-be hero of a redheaded teenager with freckles on only one side of his face topple backwards. It's not exactly the smoothest of introductions, especially when the monster is writhing about like a fish and clawing at Punchy's bare forearms. Spittle flies from its hellish maw.
no subject
It doesn't stop him from leaping to the aid of anyone he hears, though. Repeated failure - no, the repeated kack of success - never did. If there's one thing Punchy has spades of, it's resilience.
The dark of night doesn't do much to make visibility any worse - the fog's deep enough that he can barely see his own feet anyway. It's a miracle that Punchy's able to navigate with his ears, given the untold damage he's done to them through the last five years of too-loud gangsta rap amplified through a variety of high-end speakers with very little reprieve. It's even more surprising given that the fog obscures sound only slightly less than sight; even the sharpest noises seem dampened, as if coming from inside an metal drum a hundred yards away. Punchy walks over dead grass that should crackle under his feet and only hears dull rustling.
That dull rustling turns into the thumps of footfall as he runs towards the sound of breaking glass. He's not even that far away, and the house seems to just pop up right in front of him so fast he almost runs into it, but thankfully he's close enough to the broken window that he can just vault on into it and land in the same room as the woman and the metal man getting attacked by...something.
He throws himself headlong into it, ducking under the hockey stick whipping about and grabbing the walker around the waist. He yanks back, and both monster and unlikely would-be hero of a redheaded teenager with freckles on only one side of his face topple backwards. It's not exactly the smoothest of introductions, especially when the monster is writhing about like a fish and clawing at Punchy's bare forearms. Spittle flies from its hellish maw.