Tim Drake (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_hit_list) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2013-04-05 06:09 pm
the_hit_list) wrote in thearena2013-04-05 06:09 pm
Entry tags:
And me without my coon skin cap.
Who| Tim Drake and OPEN
What| Tim derps about, until someone finds him?
Where| The outskirts of Frontierland, where it meets the river
When| Week 3
Warnings/Notes| Previously existing wounds, zombie.
His stomach is starting to gnaw on his gallbladder, Tim's sure of it. He hasn't eaten since in thirty hours, and he wonders if he shouldn't have stayed in Tomorrowland, where there was food. But, aside from that, he doesn't think that he's in bad shape. Dehydration is his biggest fear; he can feel the headache coming on. Water would trick his stomach into feeling full, too, for awhile. Other than that, a couple of bruises, a few scrapes. Not bad for a death match. It's all from doing things that were borderline inadvisable - mainly climbing the rotting facades of New Orleans Square. The only actual cut he's gotten was from trying to break off a rusted pole early this morning. He had thought one of the feral cats was around, but the clanging protests of the metal must have scared it off. He wasn't hungry enough to eat a cat anyway. Not yet.
The cut's on the back of his hand, red and painful, even when he doesn't try to make a fist. He needs to clean it. Sitting on one of the few intact lengths of fence, Tim is looking towards where he knows the Rivers of America are. After Bruce's warning, he'd given the largest body of water a wide berth, but he needs to drink soon, before delusions set in. He'd rather not die of thirst. If he had more oranges, he wouldn't need to go near the river, but it's a trek back to where the trees are. There might not be any fruit left, anyway. He'll have to brave the water here eventually.
A silver parachute drifts down into his field of vision, and Tim instinctively reaches out to snag it. Dangling from its lines is a small flick-knife. He looks up to see where it might have come from, but sees only sky. This place just gets weirder. "Uh, thanks?"
Pulling the knife free from the parachute, he takes opens it up and inspects the blade. Short, but sharp. It may come in handy for all of the vermin running about. The chute, itself, too is a gift. He can cut it into strips to bandage his hand, once he cleans it. With a sigh and knife in hand, Tim gets up and starts heading toward the river.
What| Tim derps about, until someone finds him?
Where| The outskirts of Frontierland, where it meets the river
When| Week 3
Warnings/Notes| Previously existing wounds, zombie.
His stomach is starting to gnaw on his gallbladder, Tim's sure of it. He hasn't eaten since in thirty hours, and he wonders if he shouldn't have stayed in Tomorrowland, where there was food. But, aside from that, he doesn't think that he's in bad shape. Dehydration is his biggest fear; he can feel the headache coming on. Water would trick his stomach into feeling full, too, for awhile. Other than that, a couple of bruises, a few scrapes. Not bad for a death match. It's all from doing things that were borderline inadvisable - mainly climbing the rotting facades of New Orleans Square. The only actual cut he's gotten was from trying to break off a rusted pole early this morning. He had thought one of the feral cats was around, but the clanging protests of the metal must have scared it off. He wasn't hungry enough to eat a cat anyway. Not yet.
The cut's on the back of his hand, red and painful, even when he doesn't try to make a fist. He needs to clean it. Sitting on one of the few intact lengths of fence, Tim is looking towards where he knows the Rivers of America are. After Bruce's warning, he'd given the largest body of water a wide berth, but he needs to drink soon, before delusions set in. He'd rather not die of thirst. If he had more oranges, he wouldn't need to go near the river, but it's a trek back to where the trees are. There might not be any fruit left, anyway. He'll have to brave the water here eventually.
A silver parachute drifts down into his field of vision, and Tim instinctively reaches out to snag it. Dangling from its lines is a small flick-knife. He looks up to see where it might have come from, but sees only sky. This place just gets weirder. "Uh, thanks?"
Pulling the knife free from the parachute, he takes opens it up and inspects the blade. Short, but sharp. It may come in handy for all of the vermin running about. The chute, itself, too is a gift. He can cut it into strips to bandage his hand, once he cleans it. With a sigh and knife in hand, Tim gets up and starts heading toward the river.
no subject
As the man headed off, Ian followed him, trying to stay quiet and out of sight.
no subject
Using the knife, Tim cut the silver material, tearing into roughly two inch wide strips that weren't as neat and uniform as he would have liked. He put the handle of the knife in his mouth, biting down on it as he tied the cloth together with square knots. He needed to use both hands to pull the knot tight, and the back of his hand has started to seep a clear fluid. Platelets and white blood cells. Tim began winding the makeshift bandage tightly around his left hand, but he stopped and picked his head up suddenly.
Unsure of what made him wary, he clenched his left hand around the still loose cloth and took the knife in his right hand. He didn't know if he'd heard something just then or if he's finally lost his mind. Still, he realized that he's been careless. There were too many people around, and he needed to do this somewhere that wasn't so open.
no subject
no subject
He readjusted his grip on the knife automatically when the man mentioned it. Where did it come from? Tim had no idea. It had drifted down on a lovely little parachute, seemingly from nowhere. "It's manna from heaven."
no subject
no subject
He shook the cloth free of his left hand, because if he let go of it during a fight, it could loosen and stream. Tim dropped down into a ready stance. "I say it's for me."
no subject
no subject
When the man came almost within range, Tim flipped backwards and landed in a crouch that quickly morphed into a low, creeping sidestep. Make him work if he wanted to use that mace, because scavenged or not, that fence pole could do significant damage. Vertical swings are sloppier; they leave wide openings.
no subject
When Ian came close enough that he was still slightly out of range he swung the fence piece down, intending to hit the ground hard enough to bring up a cloud of dust.
no subject
The dry soil kicks up a sizeable cloud of dusts, and Tim hurriedly backs away from it to get as much clear air around him as possible. Forget the knife. Tim folds it and sticks it in his pants. It's more of a threat than a weapon. It's a folding knife, he wants to scream. If you slice in the wrong direction, it will begin to close on you. Everyone just keeps honing in on it.
Both hands in front of him, one in tight at sternum height, the other held further from his body and looser, ready to move, Tim waits.
no subject
Yet he felt he deserved to have that knife. So he followed and swung the pfence piece again, this time aiming for the knees.
no subject
It had been necessary. Taking a hit was the only way to be in close. Before the man straightened and readied another blow, Tim dived for the man, intending to force them both to roll and then throw him. Tim hoped to jar that pole out of his hands.
no subject
no subject
He quickly kicked at the fallen pole, rolling it farther away. "What's your plan here, really? You're ready to kill me over this?"
no subject
no subject
He popped off up the ground, deliberately positioned himself to be between Ian and the pole. His knee ached at having to support weight. Kicks would be inadvisable until he gave it more of a test. The last thing Tim wanted was to end up lame.
Tim began backing away from the man. Make him charge, then utilize his momentum.
no subject
So Ian edged forwards, keeping the same distance between them.
no subject
He could keep backing up and grab the post himself, but it looked to have some heft to it. He doesn't want anything so cumbersome, if he gets a good chance to run.
He could continue past the weapon and wait for Ian to pick it up, kick him in the face while he's leaning down, but that puts the weapon back in play.
He could run and almost certainly be chased. Maybe caught.
"How, exactly, do you think this is going to play out? You bonk me on the head and scamper off with the knife unscathed? Highly unlikely." His heel bumped into the piece of fencing, and Tim stopped walking, committed himself to making his opponent close the distance or back off. "I've got the knife and your club. Think about it. You don't even know what else I have."
no subject
He didn't want to back down, but it wasn't worth getting killed over. Not yet anyway. "All right," he called out, putting his hands up. "You win. For now. I'll be back." He turned and ran off, not giving the other man a opportunity to throw anything at him, unless he had very good aim.
no subject
Eventually, Tim ran off himself, in the other direction, and left the fence post behind. It wasn't a good weapon for him, and he couldn't collect every chunk of rubble in Disneyland.