Matthew 'Punchy' O'Connor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nunpunching) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2013-07-23 12:36 pm
nunpunching) wrote in thearena2013-07-23 12:36 pm
Entry tags:
Hot Enough to Melt Hell and Burn Satan Too [Closed]
Who| Punchy and R
What| Some people are really chill about zombies.
Where| Desert arena
When| Week 3
Warnings/Notes| Dead sibling memories, zombies.
It's Punchy's turn to make a run for the watering hole while Tim stands guard over their supplies. If he's being honest, Punchy's glad for the excuse to get away; he likes to think he and Tim are partners, or, more accurately, that Tim is a handy sidekick, but he's been getting the niggling sensation that perhaps he's not the one calling the shots. Punchy's been spending a little too much time wondering where he got his ideas, been stewing in the uncomfortable sensation that they are, perhaps, not from his own head but from someone else's. It's not something he wants to ruminate on, but given that laying low doesn't cause for a ton of distractions, sitting around offers few alternatives.
He hasn't seen Topher or Holiday anywhere but on the screen. That's good, he thinks - the fact that they are out of reach means that worrying about them is definitively pointless. He can't do anything for them, so they can linger in the periphery like angels on his shoulder while he formulates a plot to help everyone.
That's just about the only comfort he can take from the tale the screens are telling. Every once in a while, he'll catch glimpses of Topher, doubled over and vomiting. Holiday, missing an entire arm. His note from Sherlock indicates that the footage is edited to look as damning as possible, so who knows if they're even still alive out there? Who knows how long ago these reels of his friends were taken?
In the twilight, the safest time to travel without risking heatstroke or death by a nighttime predator, the screens up above look like drive-through movie theaters. There was one in Punchy's hometown, some relic of a time long past, kept operating on Sunday nights because the denizens of Marysville had nothing better to do. Punchy went, once, a gangly eight year-old with hands and feet too big for his body and a gap in his front teeth, and when the boredom kicked in his big sister Judy took the GameBoy out of her glove compartment and let him distract herself while Sixteen Candles shone on ahead. He remembers the way Judy's friend in the front seat rolled her eyes - "shame we have to haul your baby brother around" - he remembers juiceboxes, not beer, in the cupholders in the front seat, but when he tries to picture her face he sees Molly Ringwald, smiling wanly when he protested that it was 'little brother', not 'baby brother'.
He doesn't remember her much. He just remembers that they identified her body by her dental records.
Punchy staggers over to the watering hole and kneels down on the bank, getting mud smeared into his knees. The earth around the little oasis is dry and scaley, like a mosaic. The water hole is getting smaller, and the ring of dark sand indicates how quickly - it's receded about a foot and a half today at least, not counting what must have dried up already from the morning. There's no natural explanation for this; it's obviously Game Maker work.
For a moment, just a moment, Punchy rests, slowly cupping water in his hands and running it over his burned, blistered face. Drops catch in the stubble on his chin that hasn't turned into a beard yet, either because he's incapable of really growing one naturally or because his Stylist decided that the five o'clock shadow was the most attractive look for him. A coyote on the other side of the watering hole looks at him, but doesn't approach.
He starts to fill his empty water container.
What| Some people are really chill about zombies.
Where| Desert arena
When| Week 3
Warnings/Notes| Dead sibling memories, zombies.
It's Punchy's turn to make a run for the watering hole while Tim stands guard over their supplies. If he's being honest, Punchy's glad for the excuse to get away; he likes to think he and Tim are partners, or, more accurately, that Tim is a handy sidekick, but he's been getting the niggling sensation that perhaps he's not the one calling the shots. Punchy's been spending a little too much time wondering where he got his ideas, been stewing in the uncomfortable sensation that they are, perhaps, not from his own head but from someone else's. It's not something he wants to ruminate on, but given that laying low doesn't cause for a ton of distractions, sitting around offers few alternatives.
He hasn't seen Topher or Holiday anywhere but on the screen. That's good, he thinks - the fact that they are out of reach means that worrying about them is definitively pointless. He can't do anything for them, so they can linger in the periphery like angels on his shoulder while he formulates a plot to help everyone.
That's just about the only comfort he can take from the tale the screens are telling. Every once in a while, he'll catch glimpses of Topher, doubled over and vomiting. Holiday, missing an entire arm. His note from Sherlock indicates that the footage is edited to look as damning as possible, so who knows if they're even still alive out there? Who knows how long ago these reels of his friends were taken?
In the twilight, the safest time to travel without risking heatstroke or death by a nighttime predator, the screens up above look like drive-through movie theaters. There was one in Punchy's hometown, some relic of a time long past, kept operating on Sunday nights because the denizens of Marysville had nothing better to do. Punchy went, once, a gangly eight year-old with hands and feet too big for his body and a gap in his front teeth, and when the boredom kicked in his big sister Judy took the GameBoy out of her glove compartment and let him distract herself while Sixteen Candles shone on ahead. He remembers the way Judy's friend in the front seat rolled her eyes - "shame we have to haul your baby brother around" - he remembers juiceboxes, not beer, in the cupholders in the front seat, but when he tries to picture her face he sees Molly Ringwald, smiling wanly when he protested that it was 'little brother', not 'baby brother'.
He doesn't remember her much. He just remembers that they identified her body by her dental records.
Punchy staggers over to the watering hole and kneels down on the bank, getting mud smeared into his knees. The earth around the little oasis is dry and scaley, like a mosaic. The water hole is getting smaller, and the ring of dark sand indicates how quickly - it's receded about a foot and a half today at least, not counting what must have dried up already from the morning. There's no natural explanation for this; it's obviously Game Maker work.
For a moment, just a moment, Punchy rests, slowly cupping water in his hands and running it over his burned, blistered face. Drops catch in the stubble on his chin that hasn't turned into a beard yet, either because he's incapable of really growing one naturally or because his Stylist decided that the five o'clock shadow was the most attractive look for him. A coyote on the other side of the watering hole looks at him, but doesn't approach.
He starts to fill his empty water container.