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Who| Punchy, Tim, and Tim!
What| A sort of rescue, then a group encounter with achupacabra reptiroo.
Where| Desert arena.
When| Right after nightfall!
Warnings/Notes| I'll update as they come up- none yet!
In hindsight, this was a bad idea. He should have kept to the plan to just head for the hills. Had he done that, this night might now seem as dark as it did, the dangers not running through his head as acutely. He would have had some defense at his back, and that would mean a world of relief when literal back stabbing was what he was most worried about. --scratch that. Even with having to turn his head to glance over his shoulders ever other minute, it wasn't like there was that annoying, god-awful music making it impossible to hear something coming up behind him. He was more worried about how parched his throat was and how heavy his head felt. He had thought he could reach the shelter of the mountains before night fell, but that was obviously wrong. Keep the big heap of rocks to your right, he figured, and go explore and map out the terrain for yourself. He had found prairie dogs galore and a good grassy patch...
(...was he really going to have to eat grass...? Nope. No. Not right now, at least!)
And now the mountains were still somewhere off to his right, but kind of not so visible anymore, and Tim thought for a second that it was a good thing the sun had gone down because the air was beginning to cool and it felt great against his sweat soaked self. The moon's light hardly illuminated the path ahead of him but still Tim could make do and catch the quick glint of what he assumes to be a scorpion scurrying past. No need to step on the thing, no way to tell if it's poison-packed, and so he steps over the it and the rock its now perched on. He swallows, tries to ignore how tired he actually felt-- and then he hears some rustling, you know, that real generic sound of something approaching. A quick scan revealed nothing but a chilly gust of wind that made him shiver, and it must have been the sand rattling against itself and the tumbleweeds tumbling.
Then he realizes, belatedly, that his hair's standing on end for another reason. Tim stops in his tracks, and straightens up stiffly and keeps his ears and eyes keen. Nothing. So then how is he going to die? This game is a death match-- and he has nothing to defend himself with. No bo staff, no small flash grenades, no smokescreen, no wire.
But just behind him, he'd passed a sizable rock. Kind of silly, but he backtracks, takes special care to give the scorpion king one very respectable and well angled, uh, nudge with his boot to get him off what Tim's now deemed his weapon until he finds something better. It fits in his hand, so it shouldn't be too burdensome to carry. With a huff, he straightens up after having bent down to pick it up. And it must be the moon again glinting off of some more far away rocks, because he sees a pair of shining things that hadn't been ahead of him before. And they can't be rocks, because. They're kind of multiplying. Two, four, eight. Coming closer and snarling. Uh. Then he sees that to his left there's a dead hare. Their dinner. --well, before he showed up.
"I promise I wasn't going to eat it."
Quick, Drake, what have you learned about dealing with wild animals in death arenas? One step, two, three back, never lowering his eyes from the glowing yellow and greens stalking closer.
"I'll just back away slowly and let you get back to your thing."
The funny thing is, there's nowhere to run and he's not stupid enough to believe he can outrun a coyote pack. Gee, he hopes they're not rabid. The night gets a hella lot colder when there's a clear yip and a bushy tail up and some jaws gaping. He can take on four dogs, he tells himself. He has a rock. And good training. Then there's a mountain of fur racing towards him and Tim takes a stance. And he really does wish he was a few inches bigger.
What| A sort of rescue, then a group encounter with a
Where| Desert arena.
When| Right after nightfall!
Warnings/Notes| I'll update as they come up- none yet!
In hindsight, this was a bad idea. He should have kept to the plan to just head for the hills. Had he done that, this night might now seem as dark as it did, the dangers not running through his head as acutely. He would have had some defense at his back, and that would mean a world of relief when literal back stabbing was what he was most worried about. --scratch that. Even with having to turn his head to glance over his shoulders ever other minute, it wasn't like there was that annoying, god-awful music making it impossible to hear something coming up behind him. He was more worried about how parched his throat was and how heavy his head felt. He had thought he could reach the shelter of the mountains before night fell, but that was obviously wrong. Keep the big heap of rocks to your right, he figured, and go explore and map out the terrain for yourself. He had found prairie dogs galore and a good grassy patch...
(...was he really going to have to eat grass...? Nope. No. Not right now, at least!)
And now the mountains were still somewhere off to his right, but kind of not so visible anymore, and Tim thought for a second that it was a good thing the sun had gone down because the air was beginning to cool and it felt great against his sweat soaked self. The moon's light hardly illuminated the path ahead of him but still Tim could make do and catch the quick glint of what he assumes to be a scorpion scurrying past. No need to step on the thing, no way to tell if it's poison-packed, and so he steps over the it and the rock its now perched on. He swallows, tries to ignore how tired he actually felt-- and then he hears some rustling, you know, that real generic sound of something approaching. A quick scan revealed nothing but a chilly gust of wind that made him shiver, and it must have been the sand rattling against itself and the tumbleweeds tumbling.
Then he realizes, belatedly, that his hair's standing on end for another reason. Tim stops in his tracks, and straightens up stiffly and keeps his ears and eyes keen. Nothing. So then how is he going to die? This game is a death match-- and he has nothing to defend himself with. No bo staff, no small flash grenades, no smokescreen, no wire.
But just behind him, he'd passed a sizable rock. Kind of silly, but he backtracks, takes special care to give the scorpion king one very respectable and well angled, uh, nudge with his boot to get him off what Tim's now deemed his weapon until he finds something better. It fits in his hand, so it shouldn't be too burdensome to carry. With a huff, he straightens up after having bent down to pick it up. And it must be the moon again glinting off of some more far away rocks, because he sees a pair of shining things that hadn't been ahead of him before. And they can't be rocks, because. They're kind of multiplying. Two, four, eight. Coming closer and snarling. Uh. Then he sees that to his left there's a dead hare. Their dinner. --well, before he showed up.
"I promise I wasn't going to eat it."
Quick, Drake, what have you learned about dealing with wild animals in death arenas? One step, two, three back, never lowering his eyes from the glowing yellow and greens stalking closer.
"I'll just back away slowly and let you get back to your thing."
The funny thing is, there's nowhere to run and he's not stupid enough to believe he can outrun a coyote pack. Gee, he hopes they're not rabid. The night gets a hella lot colder when there's a clear yip and a bushy tail up and some jaws gaping. He can take on four dogs, he tells himself. He has a rock. And good training. Then there's a mountain of fur racing towards him and Tim takes a stance. And he really does wish he was a few inches bigger.
no subject
"Yo. Dawg. I'll take that. You rinse your hands off in sand or some shit." He says it gently, but not so much as to be condescending. He'll find a slab of rock to cook it on, some kind of shale slab to heat it up. Nothing too complicated.
Punchy's not scared of dead animals, not grossed out. He remembers finding a rabbit tied to a tree when he was nine, its back legs all twisted, it kicking and thrashing like a fish in a boat. The neighborhood boys, older than him, had lashed it up so they could fire their BB guns at it. Punchy remembers that he untied the rabbit and got a tooth knocked out for his trouble, that he found the rabbit dead the next day outside his porch. That he buried it, so he could continue telling his mother about how he'd dramatically rescued it.
"Help homeboy over there out with the cactus." He grabs a piece of rock and starts to construct a makeshift stovetop out of it, standing in front of the dead rabbit so they won't have to look at it anymore until it's edible.
no subject
Tim wants to hug Punchy for taking that off his hands, but he doesn't know him well enough to be so free with him. He doesn't know most people well enough for hugging. Punchy will have to settle for a mumbled "Thanks" before Tim busies himself with cleaning up his hands.
A second round of sand-scraping is more than his sunburnt skin can stand, and, instead, Tim finds himself cautiously daubing some of the aloe-scented cream onto his fingers. The second he dips a finger into the little tub, there's that burst of refreshing coolness that he immediately associates with childhood and evenings after a day at the shore, ignoring warnings about putting on more sunscreen lotion and coming home pink as a lobster to get his back rubbed down with aloe. The feel of it used to make him shiver.
Right now, it feels like bliss, and Tim gently and thinly coats his fingers with it. He'll worry about his face later, once he sees how many coats this will take for his fingers to not be stiff with sun damage. Utility before vanity, even if he knows the bubbles on his cheeks are signs of sun poisoning, not acne. "He'll be fine. Two people are just more hands to get in each other's way. We don't want to be knocking our hands into needles when the only thing we have to dig them out is knives. It'd be messy. Speaking of messy..."
Tim holds out the medicine. "I think Timaeus showed good foresight. This is a burn cream."
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Punchy could totally use a hug.Punchy rolls a rock over with his ankle to sit on, and plants himself decisively between Tim and dinner, for now. He doesn't bother keeping an eye on Tiny, figuring Tim will manage that instead. His knees splayed, he starts to take off his shoes, and the pebbles that come out of the boots make even him wince. He doesn't want to know what kind of blisters he's hiding under those socks.
"Thanks, dawg." He gingerly takes the cream from Tim's hands. "I'm baked up and not in the sky-high kinda way. Feels like my skin's been jacked with some lizardman shit up in the cellular."
He pulls up his Zorro mask and looks like some sort of inverted red raccoon. The part of his skin that's been spared is mostly the same creamy freckled tone he came in with, just a bit taut and flaky from dehydration. The part of him that's been exposed to sun is covered in blisters and small trails of blood, flakes of skin, cracks. The corners of his mouth are perpetually bloody.
The cream, going from fingertips to cheeks, feels so good that for a moment, Punchy just pauses to suck the sensation in. Then he dabs two stripes under his eyes like war paint and hands it back to Tim, smearing the rest over his hands.
"At this point, we ain't gonna outlast none of the popular fuckers. Some of 'em're probably high-balling it with Sponsor gifts and outlasting the po' boys."