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A fist full of Jet; Vince is a Jackass with no self control.
Topic Started: Oct 20 2016, 07:25 PM (499 Views)
LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
Of all the times to be an idiot, this had to be one of his worst slip ups in recent history. He'd decided he had enough to sitting out in the rain and waiting around for something to happen. He went scrapping, dodging over the wrecks and picked over ruins. Scrounging for anything that might have been salable or useful in some way. But no such luck, it seemed whatever local populace of bandits happened to inhabit this area. Had thoroughly had their run of the place and left it behind for hopeless saps like him to desperately search for something. Anything to placate the growing feeling of emptiness in his stomach and the ache in his head. His hands were shaking so bad he wasn't able to keep a firm grip on his laser pistol. It was too light and too shocking for him. So he'd taken his pipe from his pack and leaned on it heavily, staggering through the wasteland trying to ignore the throbbing pain.

There was no such respite for it. He'd gone and screwed himself big time, getting thrown out of his junkyard like a common rat. After everything he'd done for them! Ungrateful wretches, sure he got one of their vehicles blown up and several men killed but all the successful raids up 'til that point had to have been worth something right?
Feeling incredibly sorry for himself, Vince wanders on. But the winds were a'changing and it wasn't Lady Luck having a bad day with ethnic food.

All he wanted was a little respite right? Well things look a turn for the great when he happened across the felled body of some bastard who'd gotten too close to the Mirelurks from the looks of him. All cut up and bloody like that, had some assorted junk on him, nothing particularly worth anything aside from their basic intrinsic survival value. A few bandages, some ruined food (which he happily scarfed down regardless of the slightly rancid, possibly maggot-y taste.) and the motherload. A prize so utterly valuable he just about dropped it when he picked it up.

A tube, a solitary inhaler of ultra-jet. This kinda shit was straight up legendary. Made by some crazy fuck out in the west. It was incredible, well he'd never had it before but it was supposed to be waaaay stronger than the regular stuff. The prospect excited him greatly and he clutched the narcotic to his chest like a precious child. He gave the corpse a good tap on its destroyed shoulder. "Heh, thanks buddy yer a real help. Dead 'r not." No respect for the dead maybe. He wasn't about to waste time trying to dig a hole for this guy but he did feel kind of grateful for this who-ever-the-fuck dying.

Leaning heavily on his pipe he peered reverently at the drug in his hand. He was ready for this, oh he could go far on this. It would settle his hands and his stomach, but he couldn't do this here he needed to find a bit of shelter. Which came in the form of a mostly collapsed wall to some building he didn't know the name or purpose of. But none the less soon it was pressed to his lips and he took in a deep breath, pushing the injector down and getting a full blast of the stuff right into his lungs.

At first, everything was okay, the high hit him like it usually did and the waving of wind in the trees slowed waaaay down. His pupils narrowing into those tiny pin pricks as his hands leveled out. Stomach soothed by the presence of the drug and no more withdrawals. But then-!!

It hit him like a bag of rocks, this sudden drip out of his nose and he snorted tasting copper in the back of his throat. what the fuck-? His nose was bleeding, gushing blood with no sign of stopping. Things started going slow, so much slower than before. It felt like he couldn't even raise his arms. He was pinned against the wall with blood pouring out of him at a rate he didn't even believe. Soaking his dirty tank top and his pants, throat running dry as his head swam. The trees weren't even moving now-

He passes out.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
This fucking town was worthless.

Spike had been standing around the center for hours, trying to find anyone who was looking for an odd job done, but pickings were slim and he was getting frustrated.

Itchy, too.

He perked up as two men, both around his age, approached from the south. “Hey cats, you need an extra hand? Whatever’s clever, I’m a good shot, great tracker, I’ll punch a motherfucker in the face, I do windows-”

“Piss off,” one of them snapped, not bothering to glance over as they strode past. Scowling, Spike flipped them off, contemplating punching the one who’d spoken in the back of his stupid head. Here he was, trying to find some legitimate work, and the best he’d done was washing dishes at Bobo’s for a few hours. It had earned him breakfast, but that was hours ago, and he was down to his last hit of psycho.

“Lady,” he waved at another settler, “hey lady, you got any work needs doin’? I’m quick, I’m cheap, I’ll take whatever you wanna pay me, booze, food, chems, bullets, smokes-”

She didn’t even acknowledge him except to roll her eyes. Spike scrubbed a hand briefly over his face.

“You have a great fuckin’ day,” he called after the woman. “Don’t get shot in that cheap ass of yours.”

Still no response. Disappointing, he was getting bored, antsy, needed to find something to do.

“My man!” Spike threw his arms out wide and bolted in front of yet another unsuspecting citizen, crashed into them, nearly throwing both men to the ground. “Shit,” Spike dusted off the stranger’s clothes, adjusted them before the man could stop him, nimble fingers dipping briefly into his pockets. “Sorry friend, my bad, thought you were someone I knew.” Stuffing his hands quickly into his own pockets, Spike grinned wide, then flicked two fingers away from his forehead and took off at a brisk jog. He headed straight for the maze of tents, heard an angry exclamation behind him as he slipped out of sight. He made a turn here and there, keeping a general northward course, and soon reached the edge of the town. Spike threw one last look over his shoulder, making sure he hadn’t been followed. Satisfied he was alone, he took a piece of jerky and a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Another chunk of dried meat and a battered lighter made for a decent haul, but he wasn’t going to get by soley on pickpocketing. Still needed to find some real work. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

In the meantime, he was full of restless energy, the pleasant high from earlier that morning hadn’t worn off. It was hours before sunset, and he needed something to kill the time. Spike popped the jerky in his mouth, started worrying it with his teeth, then lit a cigarette with a long drag.

He quirked his head at a group of especially ragged tents, pieced together from sew-together scraps, set far enough back from the town that it wasn’t visible from the proper. Still trying to chew what felt like a wad of pure smoked gristle, Spike meandered toward them, picking up the occasional groan of pain over the constant wind, the sporadic creaks and cracks of the shifting ruins. There were four tents all together, set in a crooked rectangle around a small firepit. A few flimsy stools sat around it, cobbled together from various pieces of junk, bandages hanging from numerous clotheslines that were strung haphazardly between the meager patchwork shelters. Spike snatched one as he passed and stuffed it in his pocket. He flicked ash off his cigarette as he approached the biggest tent, its flap tied open. Spike strode in casually, cigarette in his teeth, and looked with mild interest at the woman kneeling in front of a half-conscious man who was looking decidedly worse for wear. The woman had a plain face, currently furrowed in concentration, a dull brown braid hanging over one shoulder, dressed in drab, threadbare clothes.

“Hold still,” she told her charge irritably, “I know it hurts, but I have to stitch this up or it’s going to get infected.”

“Hi.” Spike grinned as her head whipped around, the brief look of panic on her face fading to weary resignation. “How’s it hangin’, doll?”

She huffed out a short sigh, idly wiped her bloody hands on a cloth spread over her lap. “You’re going to have to wait,” she said, “unless you’re secretly bleeding to death as we speak. You can rest wherever you want, I’ll take a look as soon as I’m done here.”

“What’s a pretty gal like you doing in a shithole like this?” Spike took his cigarette in two fingers and spun it between them, squatted down beside her, and cocked his head at the man laying on a few dirty blankets. There was a nasty gash down his arm, not overly deep, but ragged and still seeping blood. A few stitches had already been put in toward the top. The man’s eyes were glazed and unfocused, his head lolling back and forth while he made quiet, groggy sounds of pain. “Damn.” Spike shook his head. “Someone zigged when they should’ve zagged.”

The woman wrinkled her nose, covered it with one hand, and leaned away from him. “Did you need something, or…?”

“Actually, now that you mention it,” Spike took another long drag from his cigarette, blew the smoke toward the canvas ceiling, “I’m trying to find some work. Whatcha got that needs doing?”

She gave him a flat stare. “There’s plenty that ‘needs doing’, but nothing I can pay you for.” She turned back to the man on the ground, picked up a needle threaded with some fishing line from a clean cloth beside him. “I need to get back to it.” Pointedly ignoring Spike now, she grabbed the needle with a pair of tweezers, used one hand to press the gash closed, and made a quick jab through the man’s skin. He groaned, jerked, and the woman lost her grip on the tweezers. She pressed her fingertips into her eyes, making a low, grumbling noise of frustration.

“Look,” Spike snuffed out the ember and tucked the rest of the cigarette behind his ear, “I’m not greedy. You’ve gotta have something, yeah? I’ll take a meal, a place to sleep, maybe a drink, something a little stronger…?” He put on his best pout. “It’s tough out there, ya know?”

The woman blew air through her lips, giving him a long, appraising look. “Tell you what,” she finally spoke, “I’ve got a bed free, and a little extra food. Hold this dummy down for me, I’ll make you some dinner and let you stay the night.”

“No, booze, huh?” Spike pursed his lips to the side, glanced at the ceiling briefly. “Yeah, I guess.” He rolled his shoulders once, shooed her back with both hands before getting a firm grip on the bleeding man’s shoulder and forearm. The woman re-situated her tools and started working quickly, fingers nimble and precise. The first few minutes were slightly interesting, it was neat seeing the contrast between the open wound and the puckered stitching, little divots where the skin strained against the plastic, but he got bored fast. Spike sighed loudly, scowling down at the man squirming weakly against him.

“Don’t be a little bitch about it,” he told the guy, whose eyes were rolling groggily behind half-closed lids. “Try watching where you’re going next time, clumsy asshole.”

The woman looked up at him for a moment, one eyebrow quirked. “You know him?”

“Nah.” Spike grinned wide at her. “But I know that cut. Got a lot of ‘em when I first started scavving. What’s your name, girl?”

“Lisa.” She brushed a stray piece of hair from her eyes with the back of her wrist and went back to sewing. Spike tilted his head at her, the grin still plastered over his face.

“Spike. So, you come here often?”

“I need to focus,” she told him, a no-nonsense edge in her voice. “You want dinner or not?”

Oh yeah, she had promised him some food. That was cool, something to look forward to later. “What’re we having?”

“Nothing,” Lisa tied off her plastic filament in a decisive knot, “if you don’t shut up and let me finish.”

She was bluffing, he could see it on her face. “If it’s Cram, you can have it. Or give it to this dumb jack-off. Can’t stand Cram, some morons say it’s all right if you fry it up, but hot slime is still slime.”

Lisa didn’t bother looking at him, snipped off her stitch and started another. Spike tried again. “Tell you what’s awesome, mirelurk. Real bastards to catch, you ever hunt ‘em? Faster than they look. Think I’m gonna head down southeast one of these days, see if I can bag a…wha’d’they call ‘em, Grators? One of those skins, I’d be set for weeks.”

The woman let out a soft huff of annoyance. “Beans and rice,” she gave in, he knew she was full of it. “If you know where to find any meat, I’ll even give you two bowls.” Lisa secured the last stitch, straightened up, wiped a few smears of blood off her hands and gave him a small smile. “If you want to hang around, I’ve got a girl who needs a bandage changed.”

God, no.” He rose fluidly to his feet, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and sticking it in his mouth. “Unless you got anything else to offer,” he muttered around it, pulling out his new lighter and flicking it to life, “I did my job. I’ll be back for dinner. When you eat, around sunset or before?”

The smile faded, replaced by weary resignation. “Big surprise,” she grumbled, staring to wrap a clean rag around the wounded man’s arm. “Around sunset.” Lisa glanced up at him briefly. “Be safe out there, and remember what I said.” One corner of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Bring me some meat, I’ll give you seconds.”

“Does radroach count?”

She blanched, looked at him like he’d just sprouted a second head. “No.

“Eh,” Spike shrugged, “worth a shot.” He tipped his hat at her, offering one last toothy grin before he spun on his heel and left the tent. There was nothing else interesting to see, so he headed away from town, into the ruins surrounding it. He glanced around lazily, hadn’t been through this part yet. Picking idly at a peeling scab on his jaw, Spike started subconsciously noting the layout as he strolled through the crumbling bones of the old world, pausing occasionally to duck into a promising crevice. He found mostly dust, a few beetles that he stuffed in his mouth, and a rusty hanger. After he’d wiggled back into the open, he picked a leg out of his teeth, flicked it away, and took another hard pull from his cigarette, exhaling through his teeth.

Aside from some colorful shards of glass, a bottlecap, a cracked button, and three bent cans, Spike didn’t find much else of note as he scuttled through the decrepit remains of buildings and empty husks of cars. He did discover a few potential hiding spots, put the information away for later, and spent a good twenty minutes trying to figure out how to get through a rubble-choked doorway. Good money said the place hadn’t been looted, he didn’t see any signs of disturbance around any of the other windows or breaks in the wall, but the entire first floor had collapsed and he wasn’t strong enough to move the worst of the blockage. He stowed that little tidbit as well, would have to bring someone with more muscle along one of these days.

When he finally remembered to check the sun, Spike noticed it was about an hour from setting. He’d been contemplating finding a way up a street lamp, get a better view of the area before heading back to make sure Lisa kept up her end of the bargain, but decided he was bored with climbing for the moment. Instead, he took off in what was roughly the direction of the pathetic little camp. He didn’t mind hanging out while she finished cooking. Maybe the man she'd been stitching up was feeling better, and could direct him to some chems.

He didn’t seen any other signs of life all day (not including lunch), had almost given up on the idea of actually getting enough to eat for once, when a tiny flash of movement made his head whip around. He went stock still, moving only his eyes as he searched for the source. They went wide when he finally spotted the jackrabbit, the thing was huge, almost as big as some of the wild dogs that also liked to frequent the area. Spike moved slowly and carefully for his revolver, had it in hand and halfway out of the holster before he remembered it was empty.

Damn it, he really needed to stop trading his ammo for chems and hooch.

He adapted to the realization instantly, narrowed his eyes in concentration, and whipped his arm as hard as he could. The gun whistled through the air, spinning butt over barrel, and Spike had a brief moment of elation before the rabbit’s head jerked up, nose twitching, and was gone in a flash. The revolver struck where its head had been only a split-second earlier; Spike swore, and took off at a dead sprint. He snatched up the weapon as he passed, not losing any speed, and chased after his elusive prey.

It lead him on a good chase, hind legs kicking up clouds of dust as it darted and dodged through the ruins. Spike managed to keep it in sight for a while, scrambling over precarious piles of rubble, leaping over smaller ones, launching himself over the hoods of old cars and occasionally running along the ledge of a collapsed wall. It was exhilarating, and almost made up for the moment he realized he’d lost the rabbit. He stopped, breathing hard, and dropped into a squat. He lit a cigarette as he worked to steady his breathing, examining the ground closely. He found the trail quickly, stood up, and gave the sun another glance. It was getting late, he really needed to head back. After she fed him and he judged her cooking skills, he’d ask Lisa if she would let him stay another night in exchange for catching the critter. Unless something else managed to catch the little bastard (and if he couldn’t, it was a slim chance), it would be around tomorrow, which would also give him something interesting to occupy his time.

He’d come pretty deep into the ruins by this point, was going to have a decent trek back to Lisa’s little setup. That was all right, he wanted to finish his cigarette anyway. Spike started walking leisurely, whistling tunelessly through his teeth, looking for something high to climb so he could get his bearings back. While he wasn't technically lost, the jackrabbit had lead him on a real run-around, and he didn't want to end up on the wrong end of the ruins. There was a big tower of some kind nearby, just a bunch of metal struts with a tiny platform on top, and that would do quite nicely.

Spike changed course and headed that way, letting his thoughts drift around aimlessly, and almost missed a promising-looking crevice created by the remains of a collapsed wall. He turned around, gave it a quick examination, his little not-song cut short as his eyebrows furrowed. Head cocked to one side, he could hear the quiet sound of labored breathing. Spike pulled his gun back out, it might be empty but he was the only one who needed to know that, and crouched down in front of the opening, cigarette secured between his teeth.

If he hadn’t already heard the ragged, slightly bubbly breaths, Spike would have assumed he was looking at a fresh corpse. He bent his arm to rest the revolver on his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at the man slumped over in the small space, his entire front soaked with partially-dried blood, a canister of jet sitting next to one of his limp hands.

Nice.

Spike picked it up, gave the inhaler a quick shake, and tried to take a drag. It was empty. He let out a sharp sigh of disappointment, then gave it a closer examination. There was something different about it, he didn't often do jet but had hung around with plenty of people who did, and this particular inhaler stuck out. There was something scrawled on the side as well. He couldn't make hide or hair of it, but decided to stick it in his pocket next to the bottlecap and glass shards. Lisa would probably know. She seemed like a smart girl. Leaning back on his heels, Spike rested one elbow on a knee and reached out to poke the unconscious man firmly in the face.

“Hey. Hey, buddy.” No response except for his head lolling slightly on his shoulders. Spike sighed and took another drag from his cigarette. “You dead? If you’re dead, I’m taking your stuff.”

Still no response. Well, he’d tried.

Spike secured his smoke and holstered his revolver, got a grip on the man’s collar, and hauled him bodily into the late afternoon sunlight. He fished through his pockets, didn’t find anything of note except what looked like a homemade explosive, a dead worm that he immediately ate, and plenty of dirt. Pocketing the crude device, he then searched the rest of the hole, coming back out with a length of lead pipe and a decidedly-unstable plasma pistol. It gave him a nasty shock as he turned it over in his hands, making Spike yelp and drop it. He glared at the weapon, then the guy who owned it, decided the short-circuiting piece of shit could stay right there in the dirt. He didn’t really have a use for the pipe, either, but someone would, so that went through one of his belt loops.

Finders, keepers.

Spike took a moment to look over the scrawny specimen more carefully. He was filthy, nearly as thin as Spike himself, hair short, the color lost in a thick crust of grease and dirt. He also had a good number of scabs over his exposed skin, the sight of them making Spike pick absentmindedly at one of his own. His brain was trying to formulate an idea, he was pretty sure it would be a good one, if he could just get his thoughts to line up for all of five seconds.

He tapped his pockets idly, enjoying the soft, brittle sound of his colored glass and the bottlecap tinkling against each other, a duller sound from the empty jet canister. Remember to ask Lisa what it said, figure out why anyone would bother writing on it to begin with, and then the idea finally came together.

Jethead. Not the smartest jethead, obviously, if he’d gone and OD’d like a bitch, but still a man after his own heart. Spike quirked an eyebrow at the ragged fellow, blood still running down his face and dripping from his chin. “I just bet,” Spike grinned wide, enjoying the sound of his own voice as he snuffed out the remains of his smoke and put the rest under his hat, “that your stupid ass has a stash somewhere.” He gave the sun one last look. Getting late, he’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it back for dinner, then manhandled the limp body over one shoulder. He took off at a brisk walk, headed back for the little cluster of patchwork tents.

It was getting dark when he finally arrived. He spotted Lisa crouched beside a small fire long before she noticed him, stirring something in a pot. Spike stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly, making her jump and spin around. He waved with his free hand, grinning wide, and tipped his hat briefly.

“Hey, dollface.” He watched the look on her face shift from guarded, almost fearful, to a mix of mild irritation and amusement, then almost instantly to wide-eyed concern. “I found some meat," the grin spread even wider, showing off both pairs of sharp canines, "but it’s pretty lean. Can I still have seconds?”

She gawked at him for a second, at an apparent a loss for words, eyes flicking between the body over his shoulder and his face. “Did you…” she swallowed sharply. “Did you kill them?”

“What? No!” The very idea. “He's alive, found the dumb bastard passed out in the ruins. He had a little too much fun out there.”

Lisa jumped to her feet and rushed over, placing two fingers just under the man’s jaw. Spike shifted uncomfortably as she gave him a quick examination; the skinny bastard’s bones were digging in to his own, probably going to leave him with some nasty bruises.

“Get him in the tent,” the woman told him sternly, darting that way herself. Spike sighed through his nose and followed. Should have left the guy where he’d found him, now he had to wait to eat. He followed Lisa at a much more relaxed pace, ducked through the flap and into the dull glow of an old, dirty lantern. The woman was rummaging through a box, muttering quietly under her breath. Spike deposited the man less than gently on the makeshift bed, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked him over again. Not very impressive, even as far as Wastelanders went. The crust of blood down his face and front was mostly dry, a dull rusty brown, and Spike knew that plenty more of it was now smeared all over his shoulder and back.

Pain in the ass. He’d have to try and scrub that out, didn’t need to go around attracting anything hungry with the smell. Maybe Lisa would do it for him.

The woman had found whatever she was looking for, dropped something into a crude mortar, and started grinding it up with quick, efficient movements. She poured the resulting powder into a dented tin cup, filled the rest with water and dropped to her knees beside the man on the ground. She tilted his head back and poured a small dose of her concoction in his open mouth.

“What’s that?” He didn't actually care, just needed to know if it would get him high. “Can I have some?”

Lisa waved him back. “It’s Fixer,” she told him distractedly, “he’s still breathing but whatever he took messed him up pretty bad. This should help, if his heart doesn’t stop before it kicks in.”

Oh. “Never mind. I don’t want any.”

The woman spared him a brief, annoyed look, poured another trickle of water down the guy’s throat. “I wish I knew what he's on,” she muttered, more to herself than Spike, “don’t know how much I should give him, poor idiot…”

“Jet,” he told her decisively. Spike reached in his pocket, pulled out the empty inhaler, and held it up to show her. “Found it right next to him. I don't read, what’s it say?”

Lisa snatched it out of his hand, examined it briefly, then groaned.

“Oh, good.” She was back on her feet almost immediately, grinding up another fixer as Spike stared at her with a questioning look.

“Well?” He asked as she poured the third powdered tablet into the cup.

“Not now,” Lisa snapped, flapping a hand at him as she knelt back down. “Dinner’s in the pot. There’s a bowl out there for you, don’t eat it all.”

Spike rolled his eyes and sighed, lighting the cigarette and giving the pathetic creature one last disdainful look. “Fine, but hurry up.” He turned and pushed the tent flap open, throwing one last toothy grin over his shoulder. “I wanna tell you about the jackrabbit.”
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
His head was spinning, everything was spinning actually. But it all went black shortly after who knows how much blood had spewed out of his nose and he felt so, so cold. Colder than he'd ever felt in his life. It felt like a synth's fucking titty pressed against him on all sides. Disgusting artificial monsters. But each of his thoughts slipped away one after another as everything slowed down so far his heart didn't even feel like it was beating anymore. His vision dimmed and out he went completely. Unable even to recognize what might have been the signs of OD'ing, or even the thought that it was happening to him.

This was it, this is how he died. In a weird little crevasse, being shocked occasionally by his own plasma pistol and the world going so far away. His brain was struggling not to die and ran in circles. Remembering pieces of old songs, welding facts, useless trivial he'd gotten off flat nuka cola bottles before the shit became so rare you had to sell your own spleen for a drink of it.

Well none of that mattered now because he was pretty sure he was dead, whatever passed for a soul these days probably soared right out of his fucking body because he felt like he was floating. At first it vaguely felt alright but then it started hurting. The dull pain escalating into a sharp stabbing throb right in the middle of his bony ass ribs before his whole world. As limited as it was currently to just the vaguest sense of touch went entirely upside down and he felt like he just got body slammed into the fucking ground alright what was happening here-!?

Something wet made its way down his parched throat and within minutes he could sort of hear something that may have been voices but it was still totally hazy. Frankly the idea he was hearing voices was scarier than the sensory deprivation he was currently undergoing. More of the liquid went down his throat and suddenly he was coughing, sputtering and jerking his shaking limbs around nearly thrashing that poor Lisa woman on principle alone.

But he found his body wasn't really cooperating and he ended up flopping like a boneless chicken back down on a filthy bed that felt so comfortable he might've cried if he was a pussy. But he wasn't so he focused tired, bleary eyes on the shocked nurse and could only draw in a ragged, wheezing breath before covering his eyes with one arm.
"Ffuuck...th-anks lady." He managed to croak out, feeling the tacky dried blood all over his front.

She still seemed pretty worried and so he tried to manage a smile, it was full of congealed blood and crooked as all fuck but it was pretty genuine. After all he was fucking alive and that was great. Whatever she had dumped down his throat had saved his ass. So he goes limp for right now and shows no desire to actually get back up again. If he could stay right here and stare at this angel's face. Well he'd be one happy man, blood shot eyes, aching body and all.
"D-id me a roight propa' service."

Everything still hurt and he winced when he tried to move again and rapidly just gave up on it 'til the cramps in his back made him have to sit up slightly on his filthy elbows. Bloodshot eyes sweeping around the surroundings he had found himself in. A tent, with few holes in it. /Nice/. After spending about a week outside this was pretty swanky.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Lisa’s day had been…interesting.

There seemed to be more junkies around these days, or at least, they were getting themselves hurt more often. She’d patched up two people before the man with the cut arm had stumbled in (Randal, he’d said his name was), higher than a kite and going into shock. On the one hand, she was glad word had gotten around about her operation. As much as she disagreed with their habits, these people were still just that, people, who deserved more than being brushed aside and forgotten. Whatever meager help she could offer, Lisa was happy to. If not her, who?

On the other, it meant dealing with some very colorful characters.

The stench of body odor and old blood was thick in her tent by this point, and she was pretty sure the two young men had contributed to almost all of it. She was trying to decide which of them smelled worse as she carefully poured another small dose of fixer into the shorter one’s mouth, lips pursed at the greasy filth he was coated in. She was amazed none of the numerous sores on his body had gotten infected, but aside from his shallow breathing and racing heart, emaciated frame and a few nasty scars, he seemed to be in relatively decent shape.

The tall one, Spike, she hadn’t expected to see again. He was obviously riding a strong high when he’d burst in the first time, the constant chatter only confirmed it, and Lisa would put the rest of her pitiful belongings on the hunch that he was just out looking for another fix. When he’d returned with a limp body in tow, she’d feared the worst; the kid didn’t look like much, but he carried himself with a self-assured swagger that absolutely reeked of trouble. Lisa always tried to stay impartial, but after the situation with the slaver last month, she was more guarded. The last thing she needed was dealing with a murderous psychopath.

She’d tried and failed to work out his motives. He’d helped stitch up Randal with the promise of food and a bed, refused to help with Amy when he found out she wasn’t offering anything else, which made sense. But then, he’d trekked God-only-knew how far with this decrepit bag of bones slung over his shoulder. Lisa pursed her lips at said bag of bones, took his pulse again, and was pleased to find that it was slowing down. She could see his eyes moving under the lids, jerking around sporadically, the occasional twitch making his body spasm.

Spike was outside by the fire, she could hear him whistling through his teeth, then a loud exclamation of “son of a crusty whore!” Lisa sighed quietly. She was much too tired right now to care what he was getting up to, but if he was making a mess, she was going to give him a real earful later. She got herself a rag, moistened it with a little water, and carefully started wiping away the blood from the unconscious man’s face.

"Dummy.” She murmured. “You got lucky as hell. By all rights, something should be eating you right now.”

Ultra-jet. As though the regular variety wasn’t bad enough. If she hadn’t known better, Lisa never would have guessed the crust of blood down his entire front was from a nosebleed. It looked more like he’d had his throat slit. Equally lucky, he hadn’t thrown up, which indicated he’d passed out with his head drooping forward. Considering the amount of dull, rusty red soaking his filthy clothes, he easily could have drowned otherwise.

Lisa generally didn’t believe in luck, but if there was such a thing, this kid had a lot of it going for him.

She’d gotten most of the coppery crust off his face, and a good deal of the dirt underneath had come with. It created a stark contrast, a patch of pale skin surrounded by dust, grease, and other less identifiable grime. Lisa felt one side of her mouth twitch up in a small smile; it looked ridiculous.

“Bitch-ass motherfuck!” Spike was swearing about something again. She could only hope it was a personal problem, she’d had enough of her own today. She picked up the last dreg of fixer and swilled it, some of the medicine had settled to the bottom, and poured the small dose into her patient’s mouth. She was about to start cleaning the blood from his neck when his eyes snapped open, his breath hitched, and he choked. She scrambled back as he started flailing and very nearly clocked her in the face; coughing and spluttering, he stared around with a dazed, bewildered look. He obviously had no idea where he was, looking like he expected to be attacked at any second. The man was trying to get up but didn’t seem to have full control of his body, ended up falling back on the dirty blankets with a quiet groan and throwing an arm over his eyes.

“F-” He tried to speak and just ended up coughing weakly. “F-fuck…th-thanks, lady,” he finally managed to croak out.

“Hey, take it easy,” Lisa scooted back toward him, put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Just relax, ok?” She resisted the instinct to curl her lip and yank her hand back, oh God what the hell was he covered in? Instead, she smiled and gave him a light squeeze. “You had a pretty bad day, but you’re safe enough here.”

He gave her a crooked, toothy smile, blood smeared all over his teeth, a few clots stuck to his gums. It wasn’t pretty, but it seemed genuine, and at least he wasn’t screaming or trying to attack her. The guy was apparently too drained to move, just staring at her with that red-streaked, woozy smile.

”D-did me a roight propa’ service,” he managed to get out. Making another feeble effort to get up that failed quickly, he settled for raising himself a few inches up on one elbow.

“You’re welcome.” Lisa’s smile grew. “Lay down, unless you want to pass out. You lost a lot of blood, you’re probably really dehydrated, so just relax. I'm going to get you some water.” She tried not to make it obvious as she scrubbed her greasy palm on her pants. Whatever was on him, and now her, didn’t want to come off easily. “You can rest here for the night, I might even have a little food to spare.” It didn’t look like he was overly familiar with the concept. Not that many people in the world tended to be very large, but this guy looked like he was actively starving to death. Lisa picked up the rest of the water and set it beside him. She was just about to ask his name when Spike burst through the tent’s flap, a livid expression on his face, glaring daggers at the man on the floor.

“You son of a bitch!

* * *

After leaving the stupid jethead for Lisa to handle, Spike had flopped in front of the fire and stretched his gangly legs out, pulling out his switchblade and starting to pick his teeth. He was pretty sure there was a piece of beetle stuck in there somewhere, it had been bugging him for hours.

Spike grinned. Hah, ‘bugging’.

He finally found whatever it was, couldn’t tell if it was a wing or a piece of shell, worked it loose and started chewing it absentmindedly. He snapped the blade shut and pocketed it, whistling quietly through his teeth, watching the small flames writhe and dance in the breeze. He leaned forward to peer in the pot situated over them. There wasn’t much of the thin soup, which was a damn shame. The psycho had worn off almost entirely, which meant he could feel every sore muscle, every scrape he’d picked up running around the ruins, and the fact that all he’d eaten today was a chunk of stale bread, a few beetles, and that jerky. The thought made Spike perk up. There was another piece left. He shoved his hand thoughtlessly into his pocket, forgetting all about the glass he’d found, and ended up slicing his finger open.

He hissed loudly through his teeth and immediately started cursing. “Son of a crusty whore!” he yelled, stuck the injured digit in his mouth, and sucked angrily on the gash. “Shit-sniffing maggoty ass boil,” he muttered more quietly around his finger, ignoring the dirt, grease, and blood he was getting on his tongue. He examined the cut with a scowl. It wasn’t deep, but ran right over two of the bends on the inside of his forefinger, and was going to be a real pain in the ass for a few days. He let out a grumbling sigh and licked off another bead of blood, then took out the scrap of cloth he’d nabbed earlier. Tearing off a little piece with his teeth, he fashioned a messy bandage for himself, grumbling morosely under his breath. Once he’d tied it off, Spike fished more carefully through his pocket, took the shards of glass out, and wrapped them in the rest of the cloth. In retrospect, he really should have thought of that earlier. Whatever. He’d been having too much fun.

Still feeling salty about the situation, Spike looked around for a second and finally found the bowl Lisa had left for him. He ladled himself some soup, scraping the bottom of the pot to get as much actual food as he could. It was still more water than sustenance, but he was looking forward to having something hot in his belly. Spike crossed his legs under himself and set the bowl on the ground between them, found his jerky, and started shredding it into the water. He paused occasionally to roll his shoulder, trying to work out some of the stiffness that was setting in. The guy hadn’t been heavy, but Spike wasn’t exactly built, himself. His legs hurt more than usual, too. It was going to be nice having a bed to sleep on, he was fucking exhausted.

Dropping the last scrap of meat into his bowl, Spike leaned back on his hands and stared up at the sky. The last hints of daylight were fading to a deep purple on the horizon, stars already bright overhead. Somewhere out in the vast desert, a pack of coyotes started yipping and howling. His food was still too hot to eat; he grabbed absentmindedly for his cigarettes, reaching into his pocket, and felt his eyes go wide when his fingers squished into a sticky, gummy mixture of congealing blood and dirt.

Oh, no.

He snatched the pack of cigarettes out, ignoring the mess on his hand, and examined them frantically.

Soaked with blood. Ruined.

That cocklick.

“Bitch-ass motherfuck!” He threw them angrily on the ground, clenched his teeth, and gripped a handful of filthy hair. Goddamn pus-filled scabby shit. What the hell was he supposed to do for the rest of the night? Just knowing that he didn’t have anything to smoke was making him crave it terribly; initially, he’d just wanted something to fidget with, but now he was ready to fistfight a deathclaw for a cigarette. His head snapped around at the sound of quiet voices from inside Lisa’s tent, and he curled his lip. Spike stood up swiftly, hands in fists at his side, and stormed back over. He threw the flap back, glared furiously at the guy he should have fucking left for dead, and pointed one long, bony finger accusingly.

“You son of a bitch!” He was going to smash the asshole’s teeth right out of his stupid, greasy head. “You got blood all over my fucking smokes!”
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
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LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
He seemed mostly unaware of the swearing or the general commotion outside. His whole world pretty much consisted of this lady right now and he was pretty happy about that. She was a real looker, or well most women were. Women weren't a common thing in the Wastes and he sure as hell wasn't about to complain about one that looked pretty clean and had all her teeth. Which thankfully he did too, made him a pretty desirable candidate when he wasn't so dirty she had to scrub his face like he was a kid. But he sure wasn't minding a cool rag right now because his skin felt like it was on fire. How did he even get here? This was one such instance where Vince was actually concerned as to how he ended up somewhere he wasn't originally. It didn't happen often, usually when he got a Jet-ache and passed out he woke up wherever he blacked out. For better or for worse, though he had totally missed her frightened expression as he leaned back. Resting his filthy head on an equally grungy pillow, puffing out a tired breath.

"Sure did, how'd ah end up 'ere in /yer/ lovely arms though eh?" He inquired with some degree of magnanimity even though she continued dumping some kinda foul tasting shit down his throat but it soothed it. Made him feel less like he was gonna throw up and sneeze out all of his organs and more like shit. Which he pretty much was at this rate. Covered head to toe in filthiness, blood, grease. Ugh, this was not the time to try and hit a lady up for a little boot knockin' but he does hold his head with one hand. Groaning quietly, "Hell- I really fucked up Dinnit ah? Sorry ah'm in such bad straits love, usually a' ain't so nasty. Pardon yer sheets 'n such."

Well at least he was kind of a polite junkie. In most senses yeah this was a little gross even for him. His clothes, he was used to being dirty as fuck. But he usually bathed like once every two weeks or maybe three if he didn't have the time. But this month since getting thrown out of his gang had gotten so far away from him he wasn't about to try and find a source of water to go splashing around in when it felt like his head was splitting open. Though she said something about food which piqued his interest, a post-jet crash did leave him to want a bit of food.

"Some grub would be awful noice." But the likelihood of that actually happening was pretty low said his pessimistic side. But some form of optimism glimmered in the bottom of his guts or maybe that was just bile because suddenly the peace was interrupted by a lanky fuck who came storming in pointing at him like he had just pissed in his cornflakes. He just scowls at the guy who was towering over him, huh he didn't know they stacked shit THAT high. He struggles back up onto his elbows and snarls a reply.

"Hey why don't'cha shut yer fuckin' trap buddy, I ain't done nothin' to you!" He wasn't in the mood to listen to some shrill voiced fuck wail at him about some coffin nails he didn't have any recollection of being near. "Don't even know who you are! How could I ruin your cigs? I just woke up!" Boy if he didn't feel like such complete shit he would get up and punch this guy.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
((Leafy and I worked on this together to keep the dialogue smooth, thus the different narrative styles))

Spike felt his mouth drop open as the scrawny little shit glared at him, his fury momentarily forgotten. His arm fell limp to his side, he was stunned into a brief moment of silence, then threw back his head and started cackling hysterically.

“Oh- oh God,” he could barely breathe, wrapping one arm around his ribs, “the fuck- I can’t-” Spike doubled over on himself, a few tears of mirth leaking from the corners of his eyes, “-the fuck’s wrong…with your voice?

He’d never heard anything like it. Spike was familiar with a few different accents, short and rather clipped from the west, slow and drawling from the deeper south, a bit nasally to the north, but this, this was a whole new experience, and it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

Almost made him feel less inclined to kick his teeth in. Almost.

" ‘Scuse you?" Vince rasped, straightening up and puffing his chest out like a pissed-off turkey. He was already fed up with this skinny shit, barging in here on him schmoozing up the nurse. "Its called a' accent, ya uncultured shit, what's'amatta with the way you tawlk then?"

Spike had almost gotten a grip on himself, but seeing the guy try and put on a tough act, all fifty pounds of him, sent him into another fit of hysterics. "The way I talk?" he managed to gasp out. "Coming from-" it was too much, oh God he couldn't breathe, "-the asshole...who sounds like...he's got a cock rammed up his nose!"

Hey!” Lisa glared at them both in turn, putting on a very impressive “cut your shit” face. “Calm down, both of you! You're acting like a couple of four-year-olds!”

Vince couldn’t believe this guy. He had some nerve! Ignoring Lisa, Vince managed to get to his feet with a little effort. Straightening himself, he got right up in this stranger's face. Well, in theory, because there was like, way more of this guy than there was of Vince, but he still hissed venomously. "Yer voice don't sound like ya even have onna those t' begin with pal, so that ain't a real smart thing to say."

"Listen here, taint-lick," Spike's grin turned predatory, "I just carted your ass through five miles of rubble." It had probably been closer to one, but greaseball down there had no way of calling his shit. "And you make it up to me by getting your goddamn nosebleed all over me." He sneered down at Vince, the hell did he think he was gonna do? The guy looked like a breeze would knock him on his ass.

"Don't look like you could carry yer purse five miles, Sally-face, let alone me that distance." The sneering doubt was practically tangible as he rolled his eyes up at the looming piss-stain that had decided to come and give him problems for no damn reason other than a little blood. "I don't see a drop of blood on ya strangah, let alone me askin' you to take me no-wheres." That was kidnapping as far as he was concerned! "Far as I know you could be some poofter try'na cop a feel of me." He said snidely, running a hand through his dingy hair like he was the cock of the walk. Which to him was fact, frankly he was gorgeous and to hell with anyone who said otherwise.

Goddamn. Spike’s canines flashed as the shit-eating grin spread even wider. Even though he was definitely going to have to beat the hell out of him, he had to give due credit for some grade-A shit-talking. He wasn’t usually one to take the first swing, but damn, the guy had him considering it.

“Pal, I’ve seen prettier feral Ghouls, and I’d fuck one of them before I took a poke at you.” Spike jerked his head to one side, cracking his neck loudly, “ As much as I wish I’d left your ganky ass to bleed to death, mistakes get made. And now,” he jerked one thumb angrily at the tent flap, “there’s a pack of innocent smokes soaked with your nasty-ass jet-snot out there.” He cocked his head at Vince, still grinning unpleasantly. “And I wanna know what you’re gonna do about it.”

“Damn it, stop!” Lisa was on her feet, looking like she wanted to get between them, but apparently had the sense to stay a few feet back. “This is stupid, and someone’s going to get hurt!”

Shit-talking was what got Vince into the West Wing Chickadees in the first place, so why wouldn't he display his considerable skills with getting people to punch him in his beautiful face? "I think you'd have better luck with a Brahmin, and even then, with a mug like your's you'd hafta pay it." He didn't even flinch at that sound, but he did crack his greasy knuckles in response. Seemed he was just as ready to fight as any wastelander would be regardless of the blood staining his front. "I ain't gonna do shit 'cept give you two black eyes and one less tooth fer bein' a fairy." He certainly didn't seem to appreciate the malicious grins. "Not gonna replace yer cigs, or blow you for 'em so beat it, I'm a bon-a-fide pussy hound." His vulgarity was probably where he excelled most intelligence wise.

Spike cackled again. Not bad, he'd have to remember that one for later. All the same, he was starting to get a little pissed off. There was mouthy, and there was begging for a swift kick in the balls. "You've got some nerve, I'll give you that. I'm curious, though-" Spike drew himself up to his full height, the top of his head brushing the tent's roof, "-how the fuck you're gonna give me anything but a blow from way down there?" He cracked his own knuckles, shifted his feet, instinctively centering his weight. Lisa was still yelling something angry, but he was too focused on the dipshit in front of him (who was putting on a very impressive stink-eye) to pay any attention to what it was. "I think you are gonna find me more cigarettes," he spit at his feet, "or you're gonna find out what the inside of your asshole looks like."

"Well, if my assumptions were correct ya ain't got nothin' ta blow on. Lest you got it tucked between yer legs,” Vince spat back, leaning back slightly and staring at the bony man's crotch with a degree of disgusted scrutiny. "Even if I swung that way I don't take jobs that need a magnifyin' glass." Vince had already squared his shoulders up and didn't even flinch when a hot glob of spit landed between his feet (rather than on his face where it belonged). He let out a broken laugh, a weird, jittery sound that didn't quite seem like it should've come out of his mouth. "Try me Fairy, I'll wipe the floor with yer sorry ass. I ain't doin' shit fer you."

Well, that settled it. He was going to have to kick his ass. Spike's fist whipped forward, lightning fast, aiming for the slimeball's jaw.
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
He certainly hadn't been expecting retaliation so quickly. Back when he was still a Chickadee, nobody really belted the only welder in the gang. Even when he really deserved it, see he was valuable then but now he was just a nobody. An admittedly handsome nobody but still no affiliation to any particular group or creed. So when this lousy wet rag decided to throw a punch. Well he wasn't ready for it and he is man enough to admit that. Especially since he got solidly clocked in the jaw and it sent him backwards with the sheer force of the blow. Through some miracle, (see: half falling on Lisa) Vince was back in action.

"Shit-" he spat out a wad of new blood from where he had clipped his tongue. "You are gonna get it now ya fuckin' fairy." He kept his distance for all of three seconds. He obviously couldn't keep from running his mouth for that long. But he fidgets mostly so he could rub at the aching spot on his face before he threw himself at the taller man. Slinging a equally solid (for their skinny asses) punch at his gut. Mostly because with the height difference here he would probably have to over extend himself to hit this moron in his rotting, dopey teeth. The Red spot where he had been nailed was definitely gonna bruise but if he had anything to do with it he would going to give as good as he got. In fact better! He'did wring the bastards neck for this!
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
((another PM collab))

Crack.

The sound of Spike’s bony fist connecting with an equally bony jaw rang through the small tent. The guy’s eyes went wide, utterly shocked and a little dazed; he seemed to have been under the impression he could get away with saying whatever shit he wanted with no repercussions.

Moron.

Stumbling back with a dumbfounded look on his face, Vince crashed into Lisa, nearly knocking both of them to the ground. He pushed off her, swore, and spat blood on the ground. Spike grinned and rubbed his fist, noting in the back of his head that one knuckle had split open from the impact. He pressed his hat down more securely and rolled one shoulder, brain on overdrive as he calculated the guy’s reaction time, how much reach he’d have, whether or not there was any kind of advantage. After the recent brush with death, still a little wobbly and decidedly pale from blood loss, it didn’t look very good for Vince.

In all fairness, he’d warned the jackass.

"You are gonna get it now ya fuckin' fairy," Vince seethed, rubbing his jaw, a bright red welt already spreading across it. Spike smirked at him, raised a hand, and extended two fingers, briskly curling them back twice in a “bring it on” motion.

Vince certainly tried, rushing forward and taking a swing at his gut, but Spike had been in too many scraps over the course of his short life to not see it coming from a mile away. He took one lazy step to the side, letting Vince’s fist breeze right past him, momentum making the guy stumble slightly. Spike cocked his head and cackled.

“What the fuck was that?” he demanded. “You tryin’ to hit me or something?”

Vince gave him a scowl that could have peeled paint. "Damn right I am you fuck, if a fist won't do I'll- blow a hole in yer skul!" He remarked with sudden devilish confidence as he reached into the deep pockets of his cargo pants. But his face suddenly went pale from the flush anger it had previously as he came up empty....Where was his plasma pistol? He'd jerry-rigged that buzzy son of a bitch himself and it was HIS, but no time to think now he had to act quick or he was going to get his ass kicked. So with just a bit of a snarl he sweeps an empty glass bottle off one of the stacked crates and chucks it with surprising accuracy at the other junkie's head. Backpedaling rapidly 'til he could turn tail and run the fuck off. "Shit, of all th' fuckin' times ta lose somethin'!"

Spike whipped his head to the side, eyebrows going up as the bottle whistled past his face, unexpectedly close to braining him. Huh, maybe the guy was less useless he looked.

Maybe.

Spike darted for Vince as he tried to retreat, slipping around behind him; he reared his hand back and bitch-slapped him across the back of the head, sticking one foot out to trip him. The jethead yelped, stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet, fists up to protect his face. Spike briefly considered letting him take another swing. It had been a while since he’d had a good brawl, but didn’t think it would do either of them any good. This was going to be pathetically one-sided regardless. Disappointing, but there would be plenty of more interesting fights. At this point, the little asshole just needed to learn a hard lesson about running his mouth at the wrong person.

Spike dipped backward, fell lightly onto one hand, and swept a leg out in one swift motion. He caught Vince behind the ankles, knocking his feet out from under him, and heaved himself back on his own in an instant. His eyes went wide in surprise when Vince, instead of hitting the floor like a rock, managed to twist midair and get his arms under himself, scrambling away on all fours before Spike could kick him in the ribs.

Huh. Guy was quicker than he’d thought. His teeth bared in a manic parody of a grin, Spike flicked a lank clump of hair out of his eyes. Maybe this wouldn’t be a total wash, after all.

That was, if the fucking coward would stop running and take his lumps. Vince was making a break for it, slipping through the tent’s flap like the greasy rat he was. Spike bolted after him, bursting out into the dim light of the fire, and found himself literally clotheslined. His eyes bugged out as his momentum yanked the cord tight against his throat, too surprised to catch himself as his legs flew out from under him, hitting the ground with a painful thud.

Vince, who’d ripped the line loose and pulled it tight against the tent’s opening, was yanked off his own feet, there being significantly less of him. He fell nearly on top of the other man, and if Spike hadn’t just cracked the hell out of his skull, he might have been able to grab the little slophole before he managed to scurry away again. He was back up and giving chase in an instant, the grin changing into an angry sneer.

“You slimy weasel, get back here!” Spike yelled hoarsely. He couldn’t see very well, eyes yet to adjust from the light of Lisa’s lantern, but the scrawny silhouette against the fire was unmistakable. He sprinted for it, snarling, that piece of shit was going to have to huff his jet through a new hole in his throat—

Crack.

A white-hot starburst blossomed behind his eyes as something metal struck square between them, knocking all the thoughts out of his head. Spike felt his eyes cross, he tripped over his own feet, and tumbled forward.


Vince had made a split-second decision after realizing that his gun was gone. He was at a significant disadvantage, Vince wasn't used to people being faster than him. But this guy sure as shit was, and it made him desperate for a solution. There was no other way to get this guy off his tail, until he spotted a rather inconspicuous bowl that is. Full of some unidentified liquid, but it seemed like a good enough option for him to seize in his already shaking hands and whip it as hard as he could right at that smug face. Darting backwards, he almost fell flat on his ass before making a proper break for it. That's one thing he's always been good at, running.

Spike hit the ground in a roll, somersaulting back to his feet even as he blinked furiously past stars dancing in his vision. He let out a wordless shout of rage, leaping for Vince as he tried to run again, almost didn’t notice the smaller man whip the ladle out of the cooking pot. Spike managed to twist to the side and avoid most of the boiling soup, but a decent amount still splashed across the front of his duster. He yelled again, swiping one arm frantically down his front even as he took another furious swing at the slippery little scrub. Vince wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid the blow entirely, taking a sharp clip on the jaw, but it wasn’t enough to knock him over. Brandishing the ladle threateningly, he slipped to Spike’s side and lashed him hard across one bony hip. The sound of metal meeting bone cracked like a gunshot.

Fuck, that one hurt.

“Mother fuck son of a crusty scab!” Spike screamed. Lightning fast, he whipped one leg up and around in a brutal roundhouse, his heel catching Vince square in the chest. “I’m gonna rip out your asshole and feed it to you!”

The man staggered back toward the fire, one filthy hand clutching his chest, the other, the ladle. For a second, Spike was sure he’d finally managed to take him down. Vince went to one knee beside the flames, a look of panic on his face.

There was more commotion in the background as several other people started yelling. Lisa had followed them outside, was still screaming shrilly for them to knock it off!, and the wounded junkies who’d been sleeping off their various come-downs and injuries were investigating the ruckus as well. They’d apparently decided it wasn’t something they wanted to get in the middle of, content to stand back and cheer the combatants on.

Spike was about to put his heel right up Vince’s nose when he realized the little shit was smarter than he’d anticipated. Vince wasn’t incapacitated, just waiting for Spike to get closer. There was barely enough time to throw his arms up as a shower of fiery coals sprayed into the night. Vince had used the ladle to get a good scoop and fling them; it was only Spike’s reflexes that kept him from taking the lot right in the eyes. A few burning embers singed patchy whiskers and started smoldering in his hair. He could smell it burning, harsh and pungent, had to take a second to smack wildly at some of the bigger coals before his entire greasy head burst into flames, beat out the ones that had fallen into his duster pockets.

So that’s how he wanted to play it, huh?

Spike didn’t waste another moment. He dropped back onto one hand and whipped a long, gangly leg at the fire, ignoring the pain as a few coals found their way up his pant leg and burned his ankle. A brilliant curtain of fire arced through the air, scattering all over the meager camp, making the other junkies yell various indignant curses and back farther away. Vince shouted angrily as he was peppered with coals, mimicking the other man almost exactly as he frantically tried to brush off the burning debris. Spike was back up immediately, jumped over the cooking pot at Vince, who’d gotten ahold of a stool and whipped it toward him. It caught Spike’s shins just as he landed. He fell forward, caught himself on his hands, and flipped all the way over, landing light on his feet. The greasy ratfuck was already running again, making Spike bare his teeth in an enraged snarl. He was a quick little shit, he’d give him that.

But Spike was quicker.

He sprinted after him, threw himself forward, and tackled Vince to the ground. They writhed around like a pair of angry snakes, both shouting furiously. Spike managed to wrestle the ladle away from him, swung for his head, but Vince jerked away at the last second and it hit the ground. A flash of teeth, and Vince was biting the hell out of his arm, making Spike yelp and drop the makeshift weapon. He drew back and smashed his fist into Vince’s nose, feeling cartilage shatter, and the man let out a shrill scream.

More yelling from the junkies, the tone changing from excitement to panicked. Spike ignored them, the dull thud of fists meeting flesh much more engaging. He could see quite well now, and was pleased to find that blood was gushing from Vince’s nose again. He took a hard blow to the mouth, felt his lip split open, but that didn’t matter, either. He had the jackass pinned, and he was going to beat his face into mincemeat.

Another sound, a loud crackling, and when had the fire started smelling so strongly of burning fabric? He got in two more good hits to the sides of Vince’s head before the guy managed to nail him right in the ear, throwing his balance to the winds, and almost toppled over. The brief moment while he got his bearings back took him out of the haze of anger and bloodlust, and Spike felt his eyes go wide as he realized what the sound was, why the night was suddenly so much brighter.

A fat cluster of coals had hit two of the tents, and they were halfway engulfed in flames that were already spreading to the others. Lisa was screaming, trying to save one of the bandage clotheslines, the other junkies had scattered, and he was surrounded by fire.

Oops.

Quote:
 
In his defense, Spike's never met an effective Improv Artist before. It does nothing to dull the sting of being knocked on his ass by a clothesline.
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
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LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
If there was ever a time to be freaking the fuck out. It was right here, right now with a tall, gangly weirdo beating him like he probably did his filthy cock. Desperately and without mercy, fuckin' dirty ass nasty virgin. Who would ever sleep with him? He's gross and was just even more gross up close like this. But Vince didn't exactly have the option of throwing off his brutal partner in the Punching-you-in-the-face tango because he got his nose busted pretty damn hard and blood was dripping down him again. It really sucked, he was gonna have to try and find somewhere to clean up once he had gotten out of this.

Well, if he got out of this because all at once the blows raining down on him had stopped. He'd been about to nail the sucker right in his nads for letting up on him like this before the smell of burning caught his attention. It didn't exactly take a genius to spy the rising flames or the panicking nurse as she tried to save her little camp but the flames were going higher and things were looking more and more grim as the ensuing screams of burning invalids reached his ears.

Vince couldn't let THIS little opportunity pass by could he? Suddenly he seized Spike's shoulders with both his hands and drove his knee as hard as he possibly could up into his business. Throwing his weight to the side and bolting straight the fuck away as fast as his bruised, aching legs could carry him. "Catch ya later Mary-jane!" He called over his shoulder as he sprinted past more burning tents. "That is if th' devil don't get under yer skirt!" He didn't believe anything of the sort really but he figured taking this dangerous route into the flaming outskirts of the camp to get out would deter the tall fuck from following him.

He had a pretty good idea of where to run and what to duck past for a guy who had never been in this camp before in his life. Call it a little bit of intuition or maybe he just got really lucky but eventually he got outside of the camp and back into the wilderness. A poorer man than he had been before but he supposes it was his own fault for OD'ing on Jet in the first place. He'd clearly been robbed and his nose was throbbing like a preacher looking at a particularly tasty altar boy. Fuckin' priests, nasty things from the jokes that got told about them. Old world stuff, but still funny in its own right from the sheer absurdity of it all.

He had suffered a few burns but that was nothing new, as a Welder he was getting burned pretty much every day. It didn't even really hurt so much as just dully ache where a few blisters had arose. He needed to find water though, needed to get all this gunk off of him. Once more Lady Luck was looking out for her boy and pointed him in the direction of some fairy clean looking water. It didn't seem too bad and he only felt mildly nauseous dipping into it. Clothes and all to try and get some of this blood off by roughly scrubbing at it with his hands. Finger nails leaving odd trails in the filth as it washed off into the liquid below, ech it did make the water a little darker than it had been before. Gross, but the blood was coming off and so was the grime in his hair.

Huh, he'd almost forgot he was a blondie under all that oil. Didn't look half bad in his opinion, though it took a steadier hand than he had to try and reset his nose. It had been snapped awkwardly to the side and it took him a couple agonizing tries to put it back to being more or less straight. Ahhh fuck that guy, hopefully he burned all his damn skin off and couldn't even pass for a ghoul!
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
He’d had the scumbag dead to rights, exactly were he wanted him, and Spike had let himself get distracted. Now, there was no room in his head for thoughts, only pain, all-encompassing agony that filled his lower stomach with knives and broken glass. Spike doubled over with a wheezing gasp, eyes bugging out of his face, and flopped sideways like a boned fish. He barely noticed Vince bolt off, yelling something over the crackling flames, too busy throwing up to pay him any more attention. He retched and heaved, one arm around his stomach, the other hand clutching himself, his body assuring him it was dying.

At the moment, death would have been preferable.

Bile pooled in the dirt, burning the split through his lips, gritty and bitter, a perfect compliment to the rage that was starting to seep through the haze of pain. The nerve, the audacity. He’d be the first to admit he’d pulled his fair share of questionable moves to gain an advantage, but there were low blows, and there were low blows.

Oh God, it felt like one had shattered.

Spike gagged again and prayed to any divine entities that might have been listening to just kill him. Put him out of his misery. But no such luck, he was still in agony, even if it was fading to the point that he was able to form a few coherent thoughts. The first was that the scabby slophole was going to get it, he was dead, and would be damned lucky if it wasn’t because Spike rammed they guy’s own nutsack down his throat.

The second was that things were burning down around him.

He was surrounded by flames, gasping for breath not only from the pain, but also intense heat. Thick smoke swirled up and obscured the stars overhead, people were still shouting, screaming; a few of the better-off patients had hauled the ones with more serious injuries out of the burning tents, and others were trying to salvage whatever wasn’t already consumed by fire. No one was paying any attention to him, which was probably for the best. It hadn’t been his fault, anyone with half a brain could see the moldy little pissbucket had started it, but experience told him Lisa and her junkies might not see it that way.

Spike spit out more blood and bile, groaned pitifully through his teeth, and forced himself up on hands and knees. He had to take a moment to steel himself before getting all the way to his feet, knives still stabbing his lower gut. Hunched over, jaw clenched tight, he hobbled as quickly as he could through the smoke, trying breathe in as little of it as possible. It was a pretty useless effort, and the resulting coughing fit almost floored him again. Spike clutched himself with both hands, running every curse and profanity he knew through his head.

Dead. That scraprat was fucking dead.

He escaped the burning camp without taking much more damage, just a few small burns when floating embers landed on exposed skin, eyes raw from the smoke and heat, none of it remotely close to matching the indignity he’d just suffered. The worst part wasn’t the pain (even if that was still pretty prevalent), it was having to admit that some ganky jethead had gotten the upper hand on him. In all fairness, Spike thought the realization that Everything Was Fire was a decent excuse to get distracted, but he should have seen it coming, should have been ready for another dirty, underhanded trick (after falling for several already). His ego wasn't just bruised, it’d been beaten within an inch of its life, and it hurt almost as much as his balls.

Well, ok, that was stretching it.

Spike headed back into the ruins, throwing an occasional glance over his shoulder to watch for anyone following him. The flames didn’t burn long, there being very little to burn, and before long the night was dark again. Spike followed the same path he had earlier that day, no real goal in mind, seething and wallowing in his misery. He found himself a little niche in the rubble to curl up in, the smell of soot and old blood thick in his nose. Feeling decidedly safer and still absolutely furious, he took a deep breath. There hadn’t been time to react in the camp, not with the risk of burning alive, but he had plenty of it now.

“Slimy wormshit fuck, cockbiting maggoty assboil son of a bitch!” He paused to let out a brief, wordless scream of rage. “Brahmin-raping pus-filled scrote-sniffing whore!

It would have been more satisfying to say it to the guy’s face, especially if Spike’s knee were on his throat, but it did make him feel a little better. With a groan, he sat up in the small space, absentmindedly scrubbing some dirt and gravel out of his hair. Gritting his teeth, he reached down his pants to check for any serious damage, desperately hoping it wasn’t as bad as it felt. He let out a short huff of relief on finding everything important still in one piece, though he could tell he was going to be seriously sore for a few days.

Spike let his head fall sideways against the rubble, staring blankly into the darkness, and reached for a cigarette, goddamn if he didn’t need one after all that—

Oh, right. Back in the remains of the camp, soaked in some greasy asshole’s nosebleed, if they weren’t ash. His fist cracked angrily against the wall, making him groan loudly through his teeth.

Well, that settled it.

Spike had been planning to save his last hit for tomorrow and get some sleep, but this had been one hell of a day. He’d earned a reprieve. He grabbed for his psycho, fingers meeting something unfamiliar. What the hell had he picked up? Pulling the little device out, Spike examined it as best he could in the dim starlight. He couldn’t make any sense of it, but had the suspicion that it was something explody. Oh, right, he'd stolen it from jack-off before everything turned to shit.

Neat. He’d play with that later.

The prick of a needle in his arm, a hot rush of strength and mild euphoria, making the pain in his stomach fade and his thoughts a little less scattered. Spike leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his knees, fingers drumming a restless cadence against his shins, and tried to formulate a rough plan. It wasn’t something he did very often, and he got bored immediately, but kept determinedly shoving his mind back in line whenever it tried to wander. This was worth it.

First off, he had to get back to the camp, hope there was no one hanging around who wanted to shoot him, and try to find scuzzball’s trail. Then, he’d track him down, sneak up on him. When he had the slippery bastard cornered, he’d pounce, rip him to pieces, feed him his own teeth, see how he liked a knee in the crotch.

Even if I swung that way I don't take jobs that need a magnifyin' glass.

Despite himself, Spike threw back his head and cackled. Goddamn, that had been a good one. Before he broke the guy’s jaw, he was going to have to ask if he had any others to share.
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
He'd escaped with his life and that was literally it. He was down everything, no pipe, no pistol not even his explody device had escaped the bony hands of that guy. He'd been firmly and completely robbed which he only really noticed when he managed to crawl, dripping out of the water. Totally unshocked by a hastily cobbled together laser pistol, he should've noticed the weight of that pipe gone. But he didn't and now he was a much poorer man than he had been before, which was a downright shame. Unless that idiot laid in the fire and died, in which case all he'd have to do is find the crater where he was and maybe find his pipe? Who knows if the pistol survived but at this point he would take just about anything to not feel so exposed.

Realizing how vulnerable he was, to everything at this very moment made his hands start shaking intensely and he has to shove them in his clammy, not so dirty pockets and sloshed out of the now definitely contaminated water. If it wasn't toxic before, it definitely was with months of car oil, gasoline, rust, and general filthiness that comes from being a guy with nothing left to lose out in the wasteland. Before he lost his Junkyard he'd been pretty decent, he had like three pairs of socks and other clothes he'd scrounged off of bodies.

But here he was, dripping wet and soaking up the last remnants of what could be called 'sunshine' as the fiery orb began to sink beyond the horizon. Its heady red glow burning through the destroyed atmosphere. Huh, if he had been bright enough to be a poet he might have thought it was a beautiful sight. In a sort of sad, tormented way, he'd seen old world scraps. Used to say the sky was blue or something preposterous like that-.

Vince pauses for a moment as a vague sort of rustling comes through the underbrush and he quickly pours on some steam. Scampering away from whatever it was and back towards the plumes of smoke he had originally bolted away from. It was easy to see it even in this half-light. The cold sets in long before he manages to get back and thankfully he didn't peer back to see the massive mutated reptile that had sunk its face into the river and taken a deep drink.

Only to keel over moments later from toxic shock.

What the fuck had been on him?

He however saw none of it as he was far more preoccupied in nestling himself into a fair little corner where a ruined wall half stood. It kept some of the wind off of him when he pressed tight against it. Huh, that was oddly comforting in a way, resting against something that felt solid. Maybe he needed to find more walls because he was out before he so much as started drumming his fingers on the patchy ground.

Sleeping for more than four hours was weird, he woke up with a startled yelp when his brain realized it had "overslept" by a full two hours. Huh he was ALMOST well rested for a minute, how completely absurd. No, with his mind full of adrenaline fueled panic he'd practically scrambled up the half broken wall and wildly looked all around for the twig that had snapped or evidence of a rat farting to explain why he'd woken up in such a state of panic. But there was nothing and he had to duck down behind it again and restlessly pick at sticks for several moments before he straightened up. Dusting his soggy clothes off and heads towards where he was certain the camp had been.

Honestly it was too easy to find it. Following the old smell of burned fabric wasn't hard since being relatively clean he could smell something other than grease for once. The mess that was left over from that fight was pretty impressive. Honestly he felt /proud/ he had probably burned a few people to death and destroyed a perfectly serviceable medical camp. All over a pack of smokes- whiiiiiiiiich.

The scraprat in question squats down, moving some semi burned tent material off to the side and procures a mostly unscathed packet of smokes. Huh, ain't that what started this whole thing? They were a little burnt on one side of the packet but they weren't covered in blood. Maybe they belonged to someone else? Well they were his now, and ended up getting shoved into one of the pockets of his cargo shorts.

Looks like a damn good place to go Scrappin'.

He rubs a bit of soot between his hands and gets to work, throwing over burned tent, bones and wood haphazardly. Pocketing anything that looked remotely valuable even if it was still attached to a body. It was just a matter of breaking off a couple crispy fingers and it was ALL his. Boy at this rate he could probably get something better than ol' Helen. May she rest in hell for all the times she shocked the piss out of him. Once literally, that had been hard to explain to the men in his gang.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Spike tried to sleep, but he was still angry, his nuts hurt, and he was high as fuck, so didn’t manage more than dozing for a few minutes at a time. When the eastern horizon started to turn less black, fading to a deep purple, he crawled out of his makeshift shelter and stretched a few kinks out of his back. Full of pent-up energy, he threw a few quick jabs at nothing, gave the wall a light roundhouse, then cracked his neck with a sigh.

Had he been doing something?

It was a nice enough morning; the wind wasn’t blowing yet, air cool, quiet but for the constant shifting of the ruins. It would be even better once he’d had a cigarette, he was craving one unusually badly; Spike fished through his pockets for a brief second, then groaned and pulled a hand down his face.

Damn it, this must have been the eighth time he’d done that. The disappointment hadn’t gotten any less bitter. He kicked the wall again, harder this time, and swore through his teeth.

“Son of a scaly shitstain,” he muttered. Needed to find one, immediately, or he was going to end up putting his fist through a wall. What was that noise? Oh, just a distant gunshot, not important, had he explored that hole yet? Right, he’d spent the night in it.

What had he been doing?

Spike frowned, flicked a greasy clump of hair out of his face, and drummed his fingertips against his forehead. There was definitely something; think, focus, but damn, it was hard to do with the psycho still thrumming in his blood, head foggy from lack of sleep, fragmented thoughts bouncing between interesting-looking crannies, the craving for a cigarette, and the fact that his balls hurt like a bitch.

Oh, that’s right.

He was going to kick a scabby weasel’s teeth right out of his skull.

Spike looked around and realized he wasn’t sure where he was. He must have wandered off-course in the dark, because nothing was familiar. That or he just didn’t remember, always a possibility. He shrugged to himself. Shouldn’t be a problem, he just needed to wait for it to get brighter and find something to climb. In the meantime, he was bored, and started walking aimlessly.

The deep purple sky faded to a lighter shade, the stars were losing their brilliance, and a faint glow started to bloom on the eastern horizon. It wasn’t too long before he could make out more than whatever was immediately in front of him as the soft light of pre-dawn spread over the rubble and the vast desert surrounding it. He still didn’t recognize anything, but that wouldn’t be an issue much longer, because he’d spotted one of those tall, wooden poles he still planned to set on fire someday. Quickening his pace, Spike started picking a course through the ruins, going in more or less a straight line; he scrambled up and over piles of debris, through half-collapsed buildings, balancing on precarious support beams that had failed miserably at their job, doing his very best to keep from getting distracted.

It didn’t go well.

He was too full of manic energy to keep himself focused, and the craving for a cigarette had him reaching into his pockets out of pure habit over and over. He got angrier every time he came back with with nothing but his switchblade, the bundle of glass shards, whatever the hell the little mechanical-looking device was, and the cruel irony of his lighter.

If he could go a week, just one fucking week without losing that or his smokes, Spike would be a very happy man.

Since his scattered thoughts kept going back to that, when he came across a building that was mostly intact, he forgot all about tracking down the bastard he needed to beat the ever-loving shit out of. There might be cigarettes in there. Slim chance, yes; but stranger, more valuable things had been found in places like this. Spike cackled to himself. Right now, there was nothing more valuable than a goddamn smoke break.

He slipped into the dark interior, took a deep breath of musty air, and immediately felt a prickle of uneasiness. Spike pushed it aside just as quickly, he was on a mission and nothing was going to distract—

Huh, there was something written on the wall in large, spraypainted letters. He briefly wondered what it said, but was too high, too antsy for a cigarette, to give it more than that fleeting thought. The building looked like it had been a restaurant, maybe a bar. There was half of a booth with all the padding long since rotted or stripped away, a few broken tables scattered around, a long counter on the far wall with some shelves behind it, all empty of course; why wouldn’t they be, after the fucking week he’d had?

Still, Spike had always had a knack for finding dregs and scraps that others missed. He was ready to comb the whole place for a pack of cigarettes, hell, a single one- you know what, he’d happily scrape loose tobacco off the ground and eat it. He always wanted to smoke more when he was high, and it had been hours (that felt like days) since his last one. God he could practically feel the harsh sting on his tongue, the dull flare of heat in the back of his throat, the delicious, pungent taste—

There was that prickle again, something he should probably pay attention to, keen senses assuring him that something was up, but he was busy, damn it.

It didn’t take long to figure out that the main area was picked clean. Spike let out a grumbling sigh, glanced at the hole in the wall he’d clambered through. It was almost dawn, he could see outside quite well, even though it was still almost pitch-dark in the farther corners of the building. He could, however, make out an open doorway behind the cracked, dusty counter. He used one arm to hop lightly over it, landing with a quiet thump on the other side. He was about to investigate, but stopped short, frowning; that fucking prickle was getting stronger, impossible to ignore anymore, maybe he should figure out—

Something in the darkness growled, a low, angry sound that made Spike freeze, hold his breath without realizing he’d done so, bright green eyes going wide in his gaunt face.

Oh, shit. That wasn’t great.

He reached carefully for his switchblade, stay quiet, whatever it was didn’t seem to know exactly where he was and Spike wanted to keep it that way. That, or it was just sizing him up, figuring out whether he’d be any good to eat.

A wide, toothy grin split his face, and he barely managed to hold back the cackle that tried to rise in his throat. If he were being perfectly honest, he’d make a terrible meal, even if it would probably give whatever-it-was a nice contact high. In his experience, though, it wouldn’t matter how little meat (and how much dirt) was on him, he’d stuck his misshapen nose into something’s territory, and money said it was hungry.

The switchblade was in his hand, a quiet click as it snapped open. Another growl, louder this time; Spike braced himself, weight centered, light on the balls of his feet, a surge of adrenaline adding to the angry power of the psycho. He was still almost knocked over when a feral Ghoul bolted out of the darkness, letting out a furious, snarling howl. Spike whipped to the side, and it crashed into the counter, spinning around and snapping at him instantly. Shit, it was a fast one, almost as fast as the puddle of anal leakage he still owed an elbow in the throat-

Not now. Focus.

There was barely room to maneuver in the small space, hardly any light to see by, neither of which seemed to be bothering the Ghoul in the slightest. It swiped at him with filthy, broken fingernails, cut a few deep gouges in his cheek before Spike managed to get in a swing of his own, feeling the blade slice through flesh and scrape bone. The feral shrieked, enraged, a sound that was more animal than human. He couldn’t tell where he’d hit, but it obviously hadn’t been fatal; the Ghoul snapped at him again, a flash of rotten teeth that wanted to sink into his throat, skeletal arms flailing at his chest, trying to get a grip and pull him closer. Spike drew his leg up and snapped it out, caught the thing square in the gut, knocking it back a few feet and giving him a split-second to size up the situation.

Which had just gotten a lot worse, son of a bitch there were two of them.

His arm flew in a blur, blade whistling through the air. Thin ribbons of blood splashed over the floor and walls as he sliced at the Ghouls, keeping them at bay, if only barely. Teeth on his arm, they couldn’t break through the thick fabric of his duster but still hurt like hell. Spike yelled, drove his other elbow into the feral’s forehead, tried to stab it through the eye but the angle was wrong; it was too dark, and his attacker got away with a nasty gash across the face. It shrieked, a blood-curdling, primal sound, making Spike bare his teeth in a snarl of his own. He used the brief moment while the Ghoul pawed at the wound to slip around it, now he was in between two angry zombies but no time to think about that.

Grab the second one by the shoulder, ignore more teeth bruising the hell out of his arm, and spin it around. Free hand snatching at it’s face, getting his fingers up the holes that used to be a nose, and yanking the head back brutally. Another dull flash of the blade, and he’d slit the feral’s throat from ear to ear. It collapsed in pain and shock, letting out a ragged, bubbly gurgle that was barely audible before the other one was howling again.

One down, one to-

More coarse, guttural screams, another flash of movement from the pitch-black doorway, and Spike was suddenly feeling a lot less cocky. He had just enough time to see that this Ghoul was decidedly bigger than the others, only a few inches shorter than he was (and nearly twice as wide), before it bowled him over.

Could the world quit shitting on him for all of five seconds, or was that too much to ask?

He screamed right back, something about the Ghoul’s highly questionable parentage, and tried to stab it in the chest. The blade wouldn’t break whatever it was wearing, what the actual fuck, how—?

Oh, no.

Spike instantly decided that it was time to beat feet, hard and fast. He wasn’t scrapping with a Roamer, not today, not with the fourth fucking Ghoul looming out of the darkness. He was just quick enough to scramble out from under the hulking feral, thank God it hadn’t managed to get a good grip yet, and launch himself back over the counter and out the hole in the wall. He took off at a dead sprint, no idea of where he was trying to go.

“Away” was the only important part.

Quote:
 
If Spike had ever learned to read, he might have reconsidered scavenging in a place clearly marked GET OUT- FERALS. Then again, he also should have paid attention to his senses instead of obsessing over his nicotine addiction.


It had been a while since he’d been chased by anything agile enough to keep up. Spike bolted through the ruins, hauling himself up and over anything in his way, sliding under any gaps with enough room, dodging down the occasional alley to try and throw the Roamer off his tail.

It wasn’t working.

He launched himself off the hood of a car, battered shoes scrabbled against a crumbling wall as his hands flailed for purchase, managed to get himself up on a window ledge of a two-story building, then jumped straight up and caught the edge of the roof. He hauled himself over, breathing hard, heart pounding, and glanced back down. Surely the ugly son of a bitch would give up when it realized it couldn’t get to him, he might have to wait a few hours but it was preferable to trying to fight it without a gun-

It was climbing the building. It was climbing the fucking building.

Pukestain nut-gargler!” Spike screamed at it, desperately hoped there was some hint of humanity left that understood him, and bolted across the roof. He spun around as he reached the opposite end, jumped off backwards, and caught the edge with both hands. With a deep breath,

son of a bitch son of a goddamn titty-biting bitch this was going to hurt

he let go, fell the ten or so feet through the air, and yelped when pain shot through his shins on the impact. He immediately rolled to the side, keeping them from shattering entirely, and was back on his feet and running in the time it took to blink.

A very small part of him that wasn’t furious, terrified, or hurting, noted that things suddenly looked familiar. He’d been through here yesterday. It wasn’t any kind of plan that took him back toward the scorched remains of Lisa’s clinic, just a lack of better options, and it wasn’t long before he could smell burned fabric and the more unpleasant scent of scorched flesh.

Fuck him, fuck his entire life. What a week.
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
While his lover mortal enemy was struggling to not die a horrible death and squelch out all his guts in the process. Vince was having a grand old time scrapping in the smoldering wreck, why he even managed to find some not-so charred containers that would make damn fine Eye-eeh-dee's when he got a chance to sit down with some scavenged gunpowder. Of course he could only carry one of them and picked the least damaged of the old little tin cans and pocketed it without a second thought.

However it was hard to quell the bubble of excitement, or maybe it was just bile because he was starting to go through the Jet withdrawals too soon for his liking. Making the pains in his body feel even sharper than they had when they were originally dealt out last night. This dull, lingering ache that twisted up his muscles and made it hard to bend his scraggly ass over for some dick i mean what to snatch up a long piece of pipe that had been his primary weapon whenever Helen was being particularly zappy. She was good for telling when storms were comin' damn he missed that pistol.

But this was good enough, it was uncomfortably warm to the touch still but he bore through it by simply gritting his yellowed teeth and shoving it into the back loop of his cargo shorts where it could be retrieved at a moments notice. At this rate he was gonna have to find something to carry more shit around in because he was running out of room. Opting to discard some of the less overtly valuable garbage he had picked through. Mostly just half burned paper, most people didn't write no more so who needs that nonsense?

No other things were far more important, like this rusty piece of garbage or maybe this one. Hmm yes, so many different pieces of discarded trite that he could easily nick himself on and get even more tetanus probably. But his luck held out for now as he sifted through a few more remains-
Wait what was that.

For just the briefest moment he swore he heard something, like yelling and snarling off in the distance. Getting a little bit closer as the noise floated on the wind, but who knows what it actually was. Vince sure didn't because he stood back up to his admittedly average height and scanned what of the horizon he could see. Searching for the source of the sound, but it faded just as soon as it had came. However the prickling on the back of his neck didn't go anywhere and he cautiously began scuttling towards a still partially erect tent and ducking behind its sooty, hole filled cloth like the cowardly scraprat he was.

He'd just wait a few minutes, let the tremors go out of his hands. Well, as much of them as he could given his hands tended to shake no matter what he did. Damn post-jet jitters.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The feral didn’t land half as gracefully, hitting the ground with a thud and an angry screech of pain. It took a few seconds to get back up, which gave Spike the chance to put on a burst of speed and get some distance between them, fairly flying through the blasted landscape. Shit shit shit shit he needed a plan, none of his usual ones were working and that feral was still out for blood.

A face-to-face fight was out of the question, he’d be ripped to pieces. Running away was just delaying that outcome, and eventually Spike was going to run out of steam. Think, there was another plan rattling around in his head somewhere, just had to find it, focus.

He’d made it to the charred remains of the camp, staring around frantically, and spotted part of a tent that hadn’t been completely incinerated. It gave him an idea; not a very good idea, but it was better than chasing himself in mental circles, trying to line up thoughts that were scattering like a herd of cats.

Rip the scorched cloth down, throw it over the Roamer, wrap the thing up without losing any limbs (somehow), and keep running like hell. Where didn’t matter, that was Future Spike’s problem. He snatched for it as he bolted past, ripping it loose, and crashed head-long into the scrawny body hiding behind it. Spike yelled, the body yelled, and he knew that stupid grating voice, oh you gotta be fucking kidding-

* * *

One minute he's minding his own business, hiding like any good scraprat would. Debating making a break for it when suddenly there's snarling and the sound of feet dashing towards him. His meager cover was suddenly ripped away and like a woman in the old movies when they got walked in on in the shower he squealed in surprise as he was bowled over by a mass of moron and suddenly came face to stank with the same piss slurper who'd beat the shit out of him last night. His first reaction of course was to start flailing wildly, scratching and punching at him the whole way 'til he hit the ground with a smelly, lanky weight on his sorry ass and colorful language became his secondary defense.

"Get tha fuck offa me ya cum garglin' skidwanker! I'll fuckin' beat yer nappy head in-!"

He'd been about to call him a taint-whiffer of the highest caliber before a snarling monster came bolting towards them and before he even had time to think he screamed again and promptly tried to weasel out from under another mess of limbs that was either trying to stomp the life out of him or get away from what ever the FUCK that was.

* * *

If the circumstances had been different, Spike would have considered literally running into the little shitsnack a stroke of luck. They hit the ground hard, tumbled painfully through dirt and ash, both swearing as loudly and creatively as they could.

“Fuckin’ bag of dog dicks, get your greasy carcass off me, it’s coming, son of a bitch rotten maggoty asshole MOVE!

Part of him wanted to forget all about the Roamer bearing down, God they were so fast it wasn’t fair, and give the little slime the beating he deserved. The rest of him wanted to keep living. He scrabbled furiously at the ground, trying to untangle himself, teeth bared and eyes huge as he threw a glance over his shoulder. A new surge of panic had him free and crawling right over Vince before bolting away, Jesus fucknuts the Ghoul was right there, he’d just had the wind knocked out of him, wasn’t going to outrun it any longer. He dug a heel into the ground and turned sharply, heading for a nearby telephone pole. He jumped as high as he could, caught two of the metal bars coming out of the side. He’d done this a million times, but he was exhausted, high, and terrified, and ended up smacking face-first into the rotting wood.

Oh good, now there were splinters in his nose. What an amazing day. Truly exquisite. He ignored it for the moment, Future Spike was going to be one unhappy son of a bitch, and scrambled up as quickly as he could. There was another thick board extending out from near the top, and Spike balanced on it precariously, one arm wrapped tightly around the rest of the main pole. He gasped and panted for breath, the other hand clutching his chest, staring around for the Ghoul and praying they couldn’t climb telephone poles like they could buildings.

* * *

He'd been this close to replying to that stream of words but a Ghoul was literally right on top of him now and it successfully stomped him right in the mid-section and he howled in pain. Rolling onto his side as it sank its dirty claws into his skin, slicing through his skin and pouring rivulets of blood out of the new claw wounds he was sporting. It was screaming, he was screaming and bleeding and oh god that hurt. It kept stomping on him 'til he managed to scramble to his feet as well and clocked the fucking monster right in its non-existent nose. His knuckles split on the hard edges of its irradiated face and it screamed even louder. Shredding more of him before he managed to wise up and run the fuck away like he'd originally planned.

Of course, the piece of shit chased him, it was fast. Too fast and he had to really pour it on to keep just a few steps away from the howling monster. Armored and hungry for the rest of his attractive ass probably. Fuck it sucked having fans, but all pain induced joke-y-ness aside he realized he was pretty much running in circles with the thing cutting him off every so often and making him change directions like a cornered Gazelle. Practically twisting mid air as it swiped at him, nearly catching his bruised nose and he was wheezing by the time he spied another telephone pole and sprang right up the fucking thing. Climbing it expertly like it was one of the rusty garbage piles of his junkyard, the bottom rung snapped under his foot and he split his palm hauling himself just up out of its reach and glaring at the other bastard who was separated from him by about forty feet of no longer electrified wire, he could probably shimmy across so he could punch the fuckhead right in his rotten teeth for this. He clutched his bleeding palm to his side, struggling up a few more rungs and looking down at the awful beast that was trying to scramble up after him but couldn't reach due to the first broken rung.

* * *

Well, this was just fucking perfect.

Spike gave Vince a toxic glare, panting through his teeth, struggling to catch his breath and push back the fear still clawing at his stomach. He took a little condolence from the thrashing the greasy snot had just taken, bleeding from numerous fresh gashes, nose still swollen and purple from where Spike had gotten his own hit. It didn’t last long; now that the adrenaline was fading, his heart slowing down a little, he could feel his own injuries with unpleasant clarity.

Also that the run, the tumble, and then smacking into a pole had given his nethers another cruel beating. If he’d had anything in his stomach, he probably would have puked again, but just ended up dry-heaving a few times. Scrubbing his mouth with the back of one hand, he threw another toothy snarl at Vince, the two of them bearing a stark resemblance to a pair of surly vultures.

“Oh, good,” he spat, wiping a trickle of blood from under his nose, the puckered scar down his face twisting as he scowled. “Just the shithead I wanted to run into.”

“Shouldn’t tawlk when yer full’a it yaself mate!” Vince howls furiously back, swiping angrily at the air with a vulgar gesture. Since he was definitely a lot prettier tougher looking than Spike he didn’t need some stupid scar screwing up his face to be threatening.

Spike opened his mouth to shout more profanities, but instead clenched his eyes shut for a second and took a breath. It would have to wait. Desperate times and all that.

“Ok, look.” Spike spared a brief look down at the Roamer, still pacing back and forth between the poles, content to wait for the two miscreants trapped on top to run out of options. “Unless big, dumb and ugly down there gets bored and goes away, we’re both pretty boned.” He sniffed hard, snorting back another drip of blood. It ran down the back of his throat, where he caught it with his tongue and spit at the Ghoul. “He needs to die.” Oh man, it hurt his ego just thinking the words. “I’m out of ideas.” Blood running down his lip, damn nosebleed didn’t want to stop; Spike tried to pinch the crumpled bridge of his nose, but it hurt too much.

“Ain’t that a fuckin' shocker.” Vince seethed at him. “Like you ever had one’a them that weren’t about when ya’s gonna wank it next.” Disdain dripped from his voice almost as heavily as the blood from his face. “ ’Ere’s one. Jump yer poofter ass down there, break both yer stick-legs, an’ take a thick one up that scrawny ass!”

Shit on a cracker, what was this guy’s problem?

“Don’t make me come over there and kick your ass again.” Spike glared back, scrubbing more blood off his chin. “This shit is all your fault.”

He had done nothing wrong as far as he was concerned. A little more jet than he should have maybe. But there was only one massive fuck up here and it had dirty, nappy hair and stank like an open trench. "Me?! What'd I do, 'cept end up treed by some hungry fuckin' monster 'coz a braindead Nancy-pants couldn't handle 'is business?"

“My day was going just fine until I found your scabby scroteface dying in a hole!” Spike prodded gingerly at the gashes on his face, deep and ragged, those were almost definitely getting infected. Future Spike was going to be pissed. “I shoulda shoved that piece of shit pistol up your ass and left you there!”

“Better ‘n me havin’ ta listen t’ yer stupid ass yabber all day ‘n night about shit ya could’a prevented!” Although when he took a moment to listen to what Spike said beyond a play back and immediately insult him loop. He gawked at the other man’s words and his expression suddenly hardened even further into a downright scowl. “Ya better not have Helen in them dirty dick beaters ‘o yer’s.”


“I dunno, is this a Helen?” Spike whipped the little device out of his pocket and brandished it triumphantly. “Because if it is, yeah, I fuckin' do!”

All at once he recognized the tin canister in his hand and his eyes glimmer for just a moment with terrible destructive energy. “Oi! Tha’s my fuckin’ Eye-eeh-dee give it ‘ere--” He pauses for a moment, visibly thinking before a light bulb seems to go off. “Actually mate, hold onna second it could rightly save our fuckin’ asses. Throw it an’ I’ll prime ‘er.”

Fuck you!” Spike made sure there wouldn’t be any doubt about the sentiment by flipping him off as well. “I stole this fair and square, why don’t you come over and get it?”

As if this idiot would have any idea how to work it. “Jackass, Ah very well think yer gonna blow all those stupid little fingers of yer’s off iffen ya even TRIED to use it.”

Spike scowled. “I’d figure it out,” he lied, and stuffed it back in his pocket, tucking it into the center of his duck tape. “How about this, I found some glass yesterday, I’ll give you that. Split it up, eat half, and shove the rest up your ass.”

“Look ya stupid fuck.” He hisses, rubbing at his temple with a bloody shaking hand. “Ah got a plan so listen up good unless ya wanna get yer poofter ass split wider than it does whenever ya go inta town.” Harsh, but he straightens up like a bird that found a bread crumb. “Yer gonna gimmie that glass, an’ a piece of fabric AN’ my Eye-eeh-dee. I’ll prime it, tie it all tagether, then you get down there an’ stuff it right in th’ fucker’s gob an’ hightail it outta here.”

Spike threw back his head and cackled. “Are you fucking kidding me? If I wanted that thing to rip my arm off and beat me to death with it, I wouldn’t’ve bothered running in the first place. It's your dumb idea, you fuckin' do it.”

Vince sighs deeply and looks down at the Roamer as though he was debating throwing himself to it instead. How was he ever gonna live this down. “Awright look, yer a helluva lot faster than I am.” It hurt to even say that. But it was true, this asshole was like, a cheetah with a rocket shoved up it’s ass. “But I got my ass handed ta me TWICE ‘cause of you, th’ least ya can do is go along with this so we don’t both get our shit fucked.”

The Roamer seemed to be getting frustrated. It was growling louder, spending more time looking at the poles than the polecats on top. Spike felt a surge of dread in his stomach as something like an epiphany flitted across the Ghoul’s rotting face, and he could have sworn it grinned at him. There wasn’t time to think about it as the Ghoul jumped, caught one of the metal rods, and was coming for him like gravity had stopped being a thing.

Spike swore loudly and fluidly, scrambling at the wire and pulling himself out into thin air. If he fell, it wasn’t going to be gracefully, he’d be lucky to get away with a few broken bones. But that might be survivable; being trapped in close proximity with a very angry feral wasn’t. He hung upside down, knees crossed around the wire, and shimmied as fast as he could toward Vince.

Crack. The wire sagged sharply under him.

That couldn’t be good.

It wasn’t. Spike’s head whipped around toward the other pole, which was tilting in his direction. The rotten wood had started to split near the base, and was cracking and splintering loudly. Vince had nearly been knocked loose, but was still managing to cling to his perch with a horrified look on his bleeding face.

“Throw that shit now!

No thoughts, just reaction, as Spike grabbed the tape with the little device still inside, the bundle of glass, and threw them at Vince. He snatched them out of the air, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped both, but then his fingers were flying, ripping off a small piece of tape and lashing everything together. There was just time for him to throw it back, for Spike to snatch it out of the air, and Vince to scream “Tuck an' roll, ya fuckin' poof!” before the pole fell over.

CrrrrrrrACK!

Spike was weightless, the ground was rushing up at him, he twisted hard in midair and managed to hit the ground rolling. A deafening crash as the broken pole collided with the other one, another ear-splitting screech of rotten, splintering wood, and they both toppled. The ground shook from the impact, throwing up a thick cloud of dust and ash.

Spike tumbled painfully through the dirt, was quite sure a few of his ribs had just cracked, but the pain was distant. He stared around and blinked heavily, dazed, trying to remember where he was and why everything hurt so goddamn much. His ears were ringing loudly, he’d hit his head pretty hard, oh God damn it he’d lost his hat. Needed to find that before the wind took it, didn’t want to spend another day chasing it down—

A howling, primal roar had him stumbling to his feet before he’d even formed the thought. Spike doubled over when the pain in his chest flared, coughing from the debris in the air, trying to think he had to think, he’d been doing something. There was something in his hand, metallic and deceptively heavy for it’s size- right, he needed to blow something up.

* * *

For a brief moment he thought he was golden, this guy would either take care of the problem or die trying. But unfortunately good luck could only do so much and no sooner did he wind up and pitch the explosive towards the other Junkie like the world’s most dangerous fast-ball did the telephone pole give out and he went careening towards the other pole and the Ghoul on it, slamming into it and for another moment longer, he was afraid he was dead. But all at once the ground was rushing towards him again and he only just barely managed to leap off the tumbling wood. Hitting the ground in the sloppiest roll ever getting a few more scratches and bruises as he hit probably every fucking rock and rusty nail in a two mile radius before managing to get back to his feet.

* * *

The Ghoul sprinted at him, apparently having managed to take all of no damage. Yeah, that was fair. Spike felt a manic, toothy grin split his face, and he spit out more blood before darting to the side, letting the Roamer bolt right past him. It skidded, twisted backward, and dug both hands into the dirt before launching itself back at him. Spike waited until the very last second before throwing himself to the side, throwing one leg out and catching the feral’s shin with his foot. It stumbled, fell, but didn’t stay down more than a split second, just enough time for Spike to get back up and avoid the claw-like fingers snatching at his throat.

”Well?!” he screeched. Oh man, breathing hurt, yelling hurt worse, “I fuckin’ got his attention, what now?

Panting like a beaten dog when Spike asked him the stupidest of questions, Vince gave him an incredulous glare before screeching back; “Do what I told ya Fairy! Pull th’ pin an’ stuffit in that fucker’s gob!” Vince made a pantomime of pulling something and shoving it towards a non-existent target. “Then ya fuckin’ RUN.” If he was lucky the thing would just blow itself up and not him too. He wasn’t gonna be able to out run it in his condition so he hoped desperately to whatever heathen god that ruled the heavens that this plan actually worked.

In the meantime however he was gonna put everything he had into scampering away so he could lay down and die privately because that’s all he wanted to do right now. Something was definitely fractured, if not a lot of things. Last night’s injuries were aching even more agonizingly than ever before and really he only managed a half trot. Not even a fourth of how fast he should be able to move but his bones screamed at him in protest and honestly his vision was going funny.

Shit if he fainted right now he would look like such a bitch-.

Thump, he goes down. Hopefully he dies.

* * *

That asshole hadn’t said shit about pulling a pin, but Spike was going to have to call him on it later. All right, how was he going to do this, he assumed (hoped) that there would be a delay between activating the explosive and it actually going off. If not, he was going to come back as the world’s saltiest ghost and haunt the ever-loving shit out of that snotwad.

Watch the movements. Find the patterns. Dodge the claws swiping at his eyes, spin before it could grab his duster, ow motherfucker’d gotten a solid punch on one of his aching ribs.

Gasping for breath, his free arm wrapped tightly around his sides, Spike had to spend another few moments dancing around the Ghoul before he finally found his opening. It rushed at him, diving low, trying to get him by the legs and take him down. Spike fell forward just before it grabbed him, somersaulting across the Roamer’s back, knocking it to the ground as he shoved the explosive device down the back of the lightly-armored vest it wore. The pin was still around his finger as he rolled back to his feet; Spike was off like a shot, and had all of two seconds to wonder if it worked before a loud, wet explosion made the ringing in his ears drown out everything but his pounding heartbeat. Something thick and wet splattered across his back. He stumbled to a halt, turning around carefully, wincing past the knives in his chest.

The lump of meat on the ground was barely recognizable. Most of the back of the Roamer’s head had been blown clean away, the majority of its torso nothing but a crater, bones and gore peeking out of the ragged, smoking hole.

Well waddaya know, the cock-muncher’s plan had actually worked.

Speaking of. As Spike managed to pull his eyes away from the gristly remains, looking around at the latest destruction, he spotted a limp body maybe a hundred feet away. He let out a brief, wheezing chuckle, ow ow don’t laugh anymore, and started limping toward it. Pretty sure his leg was either fractured or horribly sprained, it took him much longer than usual to reach Vince, and Spike hissed loudly as he lowered himself laboriously on one knee next to him. It was tempting to collapse right alongside him and let the exhaustion bury him, but instead, he reached out one long, bony finger and started poking the man in the face.

“Hey.” Poke, poke. “Hey, you alive?”

Vince might have twitched, or it could just be the way Spike’s vision was starting to waver. He poked him again. “Either way, I’m not carrying your skanky ass anywhere this time.”
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
Of course, he couldn't have some semblance of mercy be bestowed upon him. He woke up to a dirty finger stabbing him with an overly long nail. Vince just barely stopped himself from biting it right off the offending hand like a pissed off rat and just slapped the hand away. Groaning in agony as pretty much every muscle and bone in his worthless body protested at moving even the slightest bit. "Mother'afuck." He whines, sort of rolling onto his side and clutching himself. Balling up like the pathetic wreck he was and trying to suppress a shiver that ran through him. The ringing in his ears was evidence enough that the plan had worked. Especially since that gross hand wasn't trying to dig his guts out. "Why me?" He continued to bemoan his continued try at life, hoping that his sheer pessimism would kill him faster than these injuries would. "Why'z'is gotta always happen ta me?" Bitch bitch, moan moan.

Alright Sunshine, time to get up.

On aching everything he manages to sort of crawl up onto all fours and drag himself shakenly to his haunches. Just sitting right flat on his non-existent ass and glaring at the tall piece of human garbage staring him down. "What?" He sneers through bloody teeth, he must've bit or nicked his cheek on the way down. "Come ta kick a man while he's down? Go on take yer best shot ya fuckin' bastard. Kill me even." He didn't even have the strength to run, if this asshole still wanted to beat his ass he supposed that was fine. "Jus' make it quick." He'd never admit it but as soon as those words came out he was already cringing, bracing himself for whatever shitstorm of pain was coming next.

***
Oh, he /was/ stil alive. Persistent little fuck.

"Maybe later." Spike gave him a crooked grin, teeth streaked with blood. "That bomb was /awesome./ You gotta come see this shit, fuckin' Ghoul chunks everywhere, took the back of his skull right off." The little eye-eeh-dee had saved their asses from ending up just as bad, and Spike was man enough to admit it. Maybe he wouldn't kick the guys teeth in, after all.
***

"...Awesome eh?" He suddenly perked up quite a bit when it seemed he wasn't about to get gutted or beaten to death in some way. In fact, he was /complimented/ on his eye-eeh-dee making skills and that had the bony blonde puffing up like the proudest fucking budgie that ever lived. "W-hell, don't mind if I do." Suddenly finding strength from the sheer power of love at first grody sight pride he managed to get to his feet. Taking a few staggering steps towards the mess that had once been the roamer. "Hot damn!" He remarked, jerking a thumb at the mess and looking back at the tall fellow. "I s'pose I /did/ make a pretty damn good bomb dinnit I?" Preen preen, poof poof, he was so proud.

He suddenly does sort of tense up again and extends a badly shaking, semi-crooked fingered hand towards the other man. A little bit cleaner, but only just so considering he just laid face down in the dirt again like a bitch. "Er...Name's Vince, Vince Awley Who're you then?" His inquiry of Who are you sounded pretty close to 'Whore' but he did his best.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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