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Respite and Reprieve; Down on the Farm. (tag with funki)
Topic Started: Jul 29 2017, 08:07 AM (271 Views)
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Don't mess with the Gas Hounds.

They barely spoke as they staggered through the ruins. Spike would occasionally lose his footing entirely, forcing them to stop and rest. Normally, Claw would have complained bitterly.

Considering the circumstances, she just eased him to the ground and cleaned his face as carefully as she could. There wasn’t much to be done. He’d been effectively shredded, what had that monster done to him? Countless long gashes, almost surgical, as though he’d been sliced over and over with a scalpel.

For once, Spike didn’t complain about what had to be a very painful clean-up.

“Thanks, boss,” he whispered softly, those glazed green eyes filled with agony and gratitude.

“I…” Claw gently wiped another stream of blood from his cheek while fighting to keep her voice level. “-I shouldn’t have let you go,” she choked. “I’m so sorry, honey. I’ll fix this. I promise, I’ll fix this.”

“I know,” Spike told her, tone flat and exhausted. “You always do, huh?” He tried to grin, but the expression fell quickly into one of pain. “I’m sorry too. That was kinda my bad. Came at me outta nowhere, but I shoulda-” He cut off with a sharp hiss as she went over one of the deeper cuts.

“Don’t talk,” Claw told him quietly, fighting to keep herself from crying again. Poor boy. Her fault. Failure. “Just stay still, you’re a mess.”

“Yeah,” Spike managed a quick, strained laugh, ignoring her instruction as usual. “Feels like it. How’s it look?”

Claw took in a short breath, more of a sob than anything, as she wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Like you lost a fight with a set of razors,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Spike muttered, “all over that glove. Kinda hurts.”

Claw gripped his shoulders briefly before she went back to her best attempt at cleaning him up. Some of the more shallow gashes were starting to clot, she avoided those, dabbed as carefully as she could across the deeper cuts. He needed bandages at the very least, the blood wouldn’t stop flowing, oh God what was she going to do?

“Up,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Spike wrapped his arm around her shoulders, let himself be hauled back upright with a soft moan of pain. Claw’s heart broke a little more.

“Gonna make it?” she asked, less a question, more a demand.

“Think so,” Spike murmured back. “Ain’t dead yet.”

“Damn straight,” Claw told him forcefully. “You keep it that way, understand?”

He gave her a weak grin. “Doin’ my best, boss.”

Poor boy. Don’t cry. Stay strong.

“We’ll find somewhere to hole up,” Claw told him. “You're gonna be okay. Just…” Her grip around him tightened. “Hang on, all right?”

“Kay,” Spike mumbled, another trickle of blood running down his chin.

Worthless. Filth. Failure.

She made another turn, out of the decrepit buildings and into open desert, get away, throw them off, if she were tracking them, a town and a doctor would be her first stop. Avoid the worst of the spiny plant life, find the easiest way through shallow washes and follow steep ravines until they became more easily navigable.

This was taking too long. The stops got more and more frequent. He was still losing blood, getting paler with every passing minute, the deepest cuts just wouldn’t stop bleeding, and Claw was getting close to hysteria when she finally spotted an abandoned building in the distance. The area had leveled out, it looked like an old farm, and the best option she had right now, because Spike was fading fast.

“I can’t,” Spike breathed almost immediately after, and sagged to the ground. “I'm tired.”

“No, no,” Claw shook his shoulder, even as she gripped his arm tightly, fighting to keep him from slumping over completely, “you need to get up. We have to keep moving. Hold onto me, you can do this, please get up, kid.”

Don't die now. Please God, don't let him die, not like this.

A face covered in tentacles leered from the back of her mind. Unearthly laughter mocked her. How long before you lead him to disaster?

"Get up," she pleaded, eyes hot, throat tight. "Come on, you're going to be all right."

“Real tired,” Spike whispered helplessly. Claw’s breath hitched.

“I know,” she told him quietly, still tugging insistently. “But look over there.” She nudged his chin gently toward the building. “See that? We’ll rest. You did good. I just need you to keep going a little longer.” Don’t lose it now. He needed her. “Can you do that for me?”

“Real tired,” he repeated in the same deadpan whisper, but his arm was around her again, and he slowly, laboriously, let Claw get him back on his feet. They weren’t very steady-

so much fucking blood.

but they were holding him up, at least partially. Most of his much-too-insubstantial weight was still on her shoulders. Claw was completely exhausted, herself. The two packs weren’t doing her any favors, the scrawny young man was just adding to the burden.

She didn’t care. She was going to fix this.

“There you go,” she did her best to be reassuring through the haze of exhaustion and fear. “Just keep moving, we’re almost there,” they’d entered an empty field, plodding through dirt that was a a good deal looser than what they’d been traversing, every one of Spike’s faltering steps trying to take them both to the ground, “you’re gonna be okay,” Oh God she was so tired, “almost there,” she didn’t know who she was trying to convince anymore, “keep it up, we can rest soon, just keep-”

A figure had appeared from inside the house. Claw stopped short, Spike nearly fell, and her heart stopped beating for a moment.

“Please don’t shoot,” she pleaded. “He’s hurt. Thought the place was abandoned, not trying to make any trouble, just need somewhere to rest, please.
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
 
Funkifan
Member Avatar
The Cobras' Leader
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Night had fallen over Texas, the darkened and cloudless canopy above offering a perfect view of the stars that twinkled above a dreamy landscape, interrupted only by the occasional satellite that came into view as it moved on the orbit on which it had been set before Earth had been obliterated by atomic fire.

A lonely figure gazed into the sky, sitting on the border of a large window, in his newly acquired home, a house and a farm which had been given to him through a land deed. The farm, a Pre-War construction, needed a lot of repair and work still, but for now, it was nicer than having to sleep on the sides of the streets of Bucketown, or on a tent.

Everyone on the farm was either asleep now, or close to, so Edgar had decided to take the time to stargaze before heading to bed. The activity had always, ever since he was a child, filled him with a wondrous feeling, relaxed him, alongside helping him think.

For just a moment, he could allow himself to release all the accumulated grief and anger he felt at himself, basking in the happiness he felt at being relieved from the weight that remained on his chest.

Scratching the beard that had been allowed to grow, his tired eyes gazed at the road that led to Bucketown, the town lights visible from where he stood. He soon caught the movement of a figure approaching the farm, going past the crumbled wooden fences and stakes that once would had delimited the farm.

The figure’s movements were erratic, sudden stops before continuing. Soon, it was evident to him that the figure was someone, albeit whom, and what had happened, he couldn’t tell. Taking an oil lamp on the corner, he went downstairs, gazing outside again through the window of the living room.

It took him a moment, but he was able to identify two different individuals, the larger one being carried by another, much smaller in size.

The redhead stood silent, feeling a twinge of fear and an uncertainty of how to act towards the presence of the strangers on the farm, mostly due to their hour of arrival and the reason.

It was at this moment that the smaller figure made an abrupt stop, making the one she carried almost fall to the ground.

A familiar female voice reached Edgar's ears, pleading for him to not shoot, explaining that the man she carried was injured, and needed a place to rest.

With a speed comparable to a wild bronco, the doctor ran towards the door and headed outside, leaving the lantern by the porch as he rushed towards both, grasping the other man’s arm, before setting it on his shoulder to carry him to the inside of the house.

“What happened to him?” He asked the woman, somewhat agitated after seeing the state that her companion was in. “Don’t worry, I’m a doctor. I can help.”

He did his best to assure the girl that they were in safe hands, facing her for an instant, before being hit with a realization.

“You… you look… really familiar…”
Edgar Algae -HC-

SPECIAL: 3-5-7-8-6-7-4

Level: 4

Edgar is a tall, attractive man, with red bright hair, green eyes, and tan skin, due to his Hispanic heritage. He currently wears a yellow t-shirt, with cargo shorts, a Leather Jacket (Tier 2, Good CON, plus on intimidation checks). Attached to his left wrist, he possesses an Automedical Assistant. On his back, he carries an XL Rucksack, that contains several items of his', like a Medical armored Suitcase, filled with all sorts of medical equipment. His weapon of choice is the Study Group Special, a modified mini-zapper.

He is Good Natured, Spongey, and has Sex Appeal (For the girls)


+120 BT Reputation; +90 Nawlins Reputation
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azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Claw swallowed hard and shut her eyes as the figure began rushing toward them. She and Spike were both as good as dead. Even if she had her hands free for the revolver or her bow, the woman knew herself well enough to know she was too tired, too drained, to make an accurate shot. Worst case scenario? She hit herself in the foot. Best case, at least according to her track record? It missed entirely. It was a shock, then, when Spike’s weight lessened a good deal, most of it taken on by the newcomer, and a vaguely familiar voice cut through the exhaustion and despair.

Quote:
 
“What happened to him? Don’t worry, I’m a doctor. I can help.”


Earplug boy?

“Oh my God,” Claw whispered softly, pressed a hand briefly over her mouth, “Edgar.” She could just make out his features in the starlight, which reflected off impressively red hair. No way. No way in heaven or hell could she have gotten so lucky.

Quote:
 
“You… you look… really familiar…”


“Oh my God,” Claw repeated in a harsh sob, “Edgar! It’s Claw, we-” she cut off with a brief burst of hysterical laughter, “we almost died together on those god-forsaken boats, you patched the hull, fixed my shoulder, sewed up that moron Rory-”

“Buus, I’ohn-” Spike mumbled groggily, “—nuh feel vr’guh, kina spin, wassat…who-”

He broke off shortly and went completely limp. Claw managed to keep him off the ground, helped considerably by the red-headed boy she still didn’t entirely believe wasn’t just a dream. Rather, the singular redeeming part of a waking nightmare. Spike was dead, wasn’t he? She’d killed another child. Nineteen children, dead or worse, through her own fault or incompetence.

Filth. Monster. Failure.

“Please, no,” she whispered, “Oh God no, no, please-

Her first and middle finger pressed against Spike’s jugular. A split-second passed, seeming to stretch out for an eternity, before his pulse beat sluggishly against them. Claw sobbed again, harsh and painful, equal parts relieved and exhausted, before she managed to get a tentative grip on herself.

Hang on, kid. I’ll fix this.

“There’s no time to explain right now,” she choked out quickly, “he’s in shock, lost a lot of blood. Still bleeding, mostly facial wounds, deep cuts. Some bad gouges on his limbs, I’m not sure how severe. We have to stop the bleeding, keep him warm, oh Jesus kid please don’t die I’m so sorry-

She was losing it. Claw took a deep breath and did her best to stand up straight. The fact that she’d like nothing better than to hit the dirt face-first herself wasn’t doing any favors.

“Please help him,” she begged. Edgar, still carrying most of Spike’s weight, was guiding her toward the building he’d first emerged from; a house, by the looks of it. “I did what I could,” not enough, you drunken waste of oxygen, my fault my fault. “—but…he lost so much goddamned blood, they won’t stop bleeding, that bitch,” her tone, still exhausted, had taken on a knife-like quality, “It wasn’t even him she should have been after,” Claw knew she was babbling, and helpless to stop herself, “but I’m gonna fucking- she’s going to regret- just wait ‘till I track her down, he didn’t do anything wrong I racked up the tab and the goddamned coyotes then the bloody nose and then I fucking poisoned him I didn’t mean to make him cry-”

This time, the harsh gasp of breath was equally desperate and furious. Get it together, Emily. Can’t help anyone like this.

Failure.

“Don’t die,” she whispered, anguished, pleading. “Not again.”

The infant was cold and still, far too still, in her arms. Emily rocked him gently. “Wake up, Ryan, you’re okay, you’re…”

Dead. Failure.

“I want my mommy!”

A brutal backhand. “Shut up,” Claw spat at the little girl, no older than seven, barely alive after almost a week of no food, very little water, a drawn-out chase that the small group of children had finally lost to the slaving party.

She was filth. She was worthless. Failure.


A hot tear ran down each cheek. Not again. Not this one. “Please don’t die, kid.”
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
 
Funkifan
Member Avatar
The Cobras' Leader
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The redhead opened his eyes wide as plates when he heard his name, incredulous for a moment as memories began to search for the woman, now completely sure that he had been with her before.

“Could… could she be?”

The words coming after a short pause, and a bout of almost manic laughter from her confirmed it. Claw, her voice, and her lithe frame were now clear to him, even if he had difficulty making out the details of her visage.

“C-Claw! I-I remember now!” He nodded, a small, yet visible smile coming on his face, as the events transpiring around him became secondary for a short moment.
“I… I never thought… I… I would…”

The slurred and weary speech of the man he was carrying, alongside becoming completely unresponsive transported the doctor back to reality, his smile and his surprise disappearing, transforming into resolve. Feeling the guy slipping from his shoulder, the redhead pulled him up once more, concentrated on going through the doorway, to check on the boy.

“You’re right… don’t worry, he is still breathing, right? You feel his pulse?” Edgar asked as he kept on going through the sand, his shoes kicking up small clouds as he traversed through the terrain with Claw and the boy. “Gosh... don’t worry, I have some gauze and I can certainly stop the bleeding with some rags… he’ll be alright… I’ll make sure of it.”

The medic tried to do his best to sound reassuring towards Claw. Seeing her like this, her voice wavering and so weak pierced his heart. This was not the Claw he remembered, the one who had led a crew of misfits and strangers to band together for a common goal, the strong, capable woman that had managed to keep herself and others alive through her wits and sheer force of will.

“I won’t allow him to die. I promise… we’re almost there...”

Her wild and nervous rambling gave Edgar a small amount of information concerning what had transpired, albeit not enough to make a proper picture of what had happened to the man, although he imagined that there had not been a single isolated event for him to end up in this state.

Guessing that it would be best to ask when he had managed to stabilize Claw’s companion, the redhead continued, going up the steps that led to the porch of the home, the wood creaking under his feet, as the door was pushed open by his hand, struggling for a moment to accommodate the man so that he could keep carrying him.

“There… on the sofa… help me get him there. I’ll get the rags.” With this, he moved towards a moderately large sofa, of a brown color that stood in the living room of the house, gently maneuvering Spike’s weak body on the cushioned, if old structure, dropping him carefully.

Immediately, he headed towards the kitchen, quickly retrieving around six rags, that laid on the counter and a bottle of vodka, which had been found on the property previously, and rushed back with Claw and Spike.

He closed his eyes shortly, to remember the exact procedure to follow in order to stop the bleeding from the lacerations on his face, then gently taking Spike once again, laying him down softly on the couch, with his face up, and his legs extended.

“Right… so now…” He spoke as he retrieved the bottle of alcohol, took off the cork and began to clean his hands with the alcohol, to eliminate any bacteria that could potentially cause infection, before giving the bottle to Claw, for her to do the same.

“I need you to help me, C-Claw... “ Concentrated, Edgar took back the bottle, and splashed the rags, as to clean them, placing three on Spike’s face, being careful to keep them out of his mouth, then beginning to apply pressure, in order to stop the blood flow.

“Keep your h-hands on the rags, k-keep putting pressure. Don’t move them… under any c-circumstance… now, if you feel them leaking, tell me. W-we need to stop the bleeding… I’ll make some tourniquets to stop the f-flow on his limbs… but I need more rags... “

Sensing that Claw’s hysteria and fear were disrupting her concentration and her logic, he decided to gently guide her hands towards the rags, placing his hands over hers, before applying pressure once again.

“K-Keep them like that… don’t worry, he’ll make it. I know. Count until 15 minutes have passed, d-don’t take your hands from his face. T-Try to keep him awake. Don’t let him drift off to sleep.” The redhead, albeit attempting to be comforting, was also mortified. He didn’t want the companion of his friend to die. He didn’t want to see more death. More suffering. His heart felt like if it was being squashed, an outside force pressing on it.

Unwilling to allow himself to freeze under his own despair and the feelings of guilt that still plagued him, he shifted his position quickly, taking the rags and wrapping them around Spike’s arms and left leg, respectively.

Standing up, he began to run upstairs, heading for his medical box, and for more rags or clothing to place on the wounds. He moved into the bathroom, gathering a couple of ragged towels, then heading up again, to his room, where he swiftly retrieved his medical box, alongside two pillowcases, before going down once more, back to the living room.

He placed the box at the feet of the sofa, and cleaned the pillowcases and the towels with the alcohol, making a tourniquet on his other leg, just to make sure that he was not bleeding out from there too, applying pressure with the towels and the pillow cases on Spike’s arms, after bringing them together, over the gouged skin.

“Gosh… what monster… who did this to you?” The redhead thought, woe on his face, as he examined Spike’s condition further, noticing that he was as pale as a sheet of paper, and looked as brittle as one, too.

He had just lost far too much blood, and the redhead wasn’t sure if he would even survive another day. Even then, he kept pushing down, to cut the steady flow of blood once and for all.

The doctor stood quiet, measuring his options and pondering on what to do. That was when the realization struck him.

“I… I might be able to do a blood transfusion… to save his life. I’m O negative… a universal donor… I just…” Edgar paused for a moment, somewhat uneasy. “I need to gather some materials…”

Once he was positive that the blood flow had stopped, the redhead went upstairs once more, as he remembered something that could be used as tubing on the attic of the house. It took him a moment to find the cord which released the stairs, due to the darkness had fallen, his hand touching the ceiling lightly to find it.

Once he did, he lowered the stairs and went up. The rays of the moon that slipped through the holes in the roof made finding what he was seeking easier, the shining of a metal tube on the top telling Edgar that he had found what he was after. The metal funnel, that probably had been propped there to either collect rain or stop it from seeping into the house on pre-War times, was connected to a thin, yellow, plastic tubing, which reached all the way down to a rusted can.

It only took a small pull for the tubing to be released from the funnel, the redhead making his way down once again, almost tripping as he went downstairs. With the tube wrapped around his wrist, he made sure to check on Spike, making sure that he was still breathing, before heading towards the kitchen, picking up a small metal pot, the bottle of alcohol, and heading outside.

On the porch, the redhead took a rusted tripod, that held a cracked plant pot, which was flung out, a crashing sound is heard afterward. Paying no mind, the redhead set the tripod, with the pot over it, some feet away from his home, placing the tubing inside. Leaving the bottle of alcohol, he ran towards the barn, pushing the huge red door aside to enter inside, heading towards a wide metal box nailed to the wall, left of the entrance, with a red cross on it.

“So I could use the veterinary supplies after all… huh…” Edgar whispered, opening the box with a creak, retrieving two thick, veterinary syringes, which had once been used to inoculate horses.

A soft moo broke the short silence which had been made.

“Oh… gosh, Lulubelle,” The redhead turned his head, seeing the propped heads of Lulubelle on one of the closed pens, low enough for her to gaze at him. The sight made him smile a little, as he wandered towards his growing brahmin.

“Sorry for that, girl… I was just gathering some stuff I need. You go back to sleep, alright?” The cow replied with a moo, before returning to rest at the blanket laid for her, accommodating it to cover herself by using her mouths.

Sighing softly, he ran back to the pot he had left over the tripod, depositing the syringes inside, then returned to the house, going into the kitchen, taking a goopy candle from one of the drawers, and a couple of bottles of water from the counter, he went back with Claw, leaving one of the bottles to her side, and igniting the candle with the oil lamp, and taking some of the sofa’s cushioning material, by dipping a hand inside, then returning to the tripod.

The medic then proceeded to unload the water on the pot, place the cushioning under the pot, showering it with alcohol, then igniting it with the flame of the candle, to boil the items inside, in order to make them safe for the transfusion.

Edgar then shifted his attention back to Spike, taking his pulse and keeping him as stable as he could, providing him with some water, then returning to check on the pot. He repeated this for a while until he saw the water making bubbles on the surface.

He allowed the water to boil for some more time, adding more cushion to keep the fire lit, before taking the pot by using some rags to protect his hand, kicking dirt into the fire to extinguish it, then returning back to the house.

Allowing the water to cool for a moment, the redhead proceed to unload the water on the sink of the kitchen, before taking the syringes and the tube, drying them as fast as he could, then constructing an intravenous tube, by removing the plungers, then introducing the tube inside of the syringes, holding them together by using some strips of cloth broken from the rags.

He went up one last time, obtaining his tribal medicine book, before returning, in order for him to examine the diagrams on the veins and arteries that were displayed, the information he needed in order to make the transfusion correctly.

Going down, Edgar rested the book on the opposite arm of the sofa, and removed the tourniquets, from Spike’s arms and legs, to allow the circulation of the blood to resume as normal. Cleaning his hands again with the alcohol, gazing at the book once more, he punctured his skin at the zone in front of his elbow, where his radial artery was, wincing a little as he introduced the needle. The blood began to flow down the tube slightly, giving the redhead the signal to continue with the procedure.

It took him a moment to find the vein on Spike’s wrist, finding it after a little of probing around, introducing the syringe after a short while, taking a deep breath after he did so.

“There we go… sorry… if you can hear me…”

He gave a nod at Claw and smiled at her slightly, wanting to give her some confidence concerning the well-being of her friend, placing one of the last clean rags in his pocket.

“Now…” The doctor moved towards the sofa, sitting on the pillows on the back, and lifting his arm to allow the blood to venture down, into Spike’s vein. “Due to how much blood he lost… I’ll probably be here for a while… and so will he. I might get a little dizzy eventually, and feel numb from my extremities, b-but that should be alright. Just… don’t let me fall asleep, okay?”

With this, the redhead waited, as this was the only thing he could do, at least for the time being. The rue slowly began to fade away, being replaced by a small sliver of happiness. Who knew, perhaps he had saved another man.

And that was always the greatest victory.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Edgar slipped down the back pillows, blinking a couple times, as he struggled to keep himself awake. He guessed that he had been sitting on the sofa for around three hours now. Figuring that enough blood had been given to Spike, due to how the setting around him had begun to spin, plus the soreness and stiffness on his limbs, his hands and his feet feeling quite cold now.

With some effort, he reached forth to the syringe on his arm, and carefully, removed it from his arm, noticing that he had begun to bleed somewhat. The redhead looked around, grabbing the rag he had left in his pocket and the bottle of alcohol on the ground next to him.

Sluggishly, he soaked it with alcohol and cleaned his wound, pressing down for a moment to allow the blood to coagulate. The boy then proceeded to remove the syringe from Spike’s arm, cleaning his wrist with the rag, making sure to do it with the part that hadn’t touched his blood, to prevent cross-contamination of any kind.

When he was done, he wrapped the syringes with the rag and proceeded to rest his head on the sofa, taking a butterscotch candy from his pocket, and after some struggling with the wrapper, was able to pop it into his mouth.

“Uhh… me siento fatal…”
Edgar Algae -HC-

SPECIAL: 3-5-7-8-6-7-4

Level: 4

Edgar is a tall, attractive man, with red bright hair, green eyes, and tan skin, due to his Hispanic heritage. He currently wears a yellow t-shirt, with cargo shorts, a Leather Jacket (Tier 2, Good CON, plus on intimidation checks). Attached to his left wrist, he possesses an Automedical Assistant. On his back, he carries an XL Rucksack, that contains several items of his', like a Medical armored Suitcase, filled with all sorts of medical equipment. His weapon of choice is the Study Group Special, a modified mini-zapper.

He is Good Natured, Spongey, and has Sex Appeal (For the girls)


+120 BT Reputation; +90 Nawlins Reputation
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azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
“He’s breathing,” Claw managed to choke out. “Oh thank you God, he’s breathing, have to- yucca, creosote, stay with me, kid, we’re gonna fix this, hang on, you have to stay awake.”

Quote:
 
“I won’t allow him to die. I promise… we’re almost there...”


She had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming, demand to know how he could promise that when Spike was nearly dead already, but there wasn’t time, it wouldn’t help, just keep moving, get him inside, stop the bleeding.

Please. Please live.

She was so tired.

Spike was barely conscious, breath shallow and rapid, as the pair carried him into the house. His eyes were half-closed, and Claw could see them rolling sluggishly back and forth, unfocused, looking at nothing. He muttered something under his breath, garbled and nonsensical, just a string of noise underlaid with pain and fear.

“¿Mami, ‘ondesta Nana? Tengo miedo, me duele, po’favor haz que s’detenga, no quiero morir.”

“Shh, shh shh,” Claw shushed him quietly, “you’re gonna be okay, this is Edgar,” keep talking, focus on anything but the blood still running down his face, “he’s a doctor, we’re gonna get you better, you just keep…you have to…” A harsh sob broke loose, and she choked down another. There would be time to cry later. Right now, they had to act fast.

Edgar was already rattling off something about rags as they deposited Spike on an old sofa, and Claw was, once again, taken back to those ruins, that musty, dirty house, the smell of fresh herbs and dry rot. This time, though, he was in far worse shape, and though she nearly broke down again thinking about it, there was a good possibility help had come too late. That he wasn’t going to live through the night.

That she’d killed him.

Failure.

She dropped both of their packs nearby, not caring at all if she broke any of the equipment. “There we go,” she said softly, adjusting him carefully, legs propped on one armrest,

God he was so pale, white as a ghost, so much fucking blood

and looked up quickly when Edgar returned, cleaning his hands with something that smelled strong and alcoholic, before handing it to her. Claw knew what she was expected to do with the bottle, but figured there was enough to spare.

God only knew she needed it. The tremors in her hands weren’t just from fear and exhaustion. She threw back a few stout slugs, coughing harshly as she splashed more over her hands. She passed it back, ignoring the look she was probably getting, but the boy was at least polite enough not to say anything except what they needed to do.

Spike cried out loudly as the rags were draped over the cuts, and Claw had to grab his hands to keep him from ripping them off.

“Duele,” he sobbed weakly, “¡Nana, me duele! No quiero, no quiero, ¡por favor!”

Claw felt like she’d just taken a knife through the chest and stomach. “It’s okay, Spike,” she assured in a choked whisper, and found that she was crying silently, herself. “I’m here, honey. It’ll be all right. I know it hurts, you have to hang on for me, ” how the hell was she going to hold him and the rags? “Please, please don’t move, I can’t help unless you let me.”

“Me duele,” he whimpered. “Estoy asustado.” Claw didn’t understand the words, but his tone said enough. He was in horrible pain, and he was terrified. There was plenty of reason for both. Spike was still trying to fight her off, but he was too weak to do much more than push weakly against her hands, still going for his face-

She was about to demand if Edgar had a tranquilizer of any kind, when Spike made it a moot point. With one last quiet whisper of “Claw, ‘stoy asustado, ¿donde ‘sta?” he lost consciousness entirely. She immediately checked for his pulse, found it was still beating

barely, please don’t let him die, I’m so sorry,

and pressed her hands firmly over both sides of his face, tears running silently down her own. Edgar said something about keeping him awake, no chance of that, and she wasn’t about to try anyway. The less he moved, the better, and she could only hope, pray, that he’d ever wake up again.

The cuts on his limbs were bound with swift, much steadier hands than her own, Edgar bolted off again, returning in short order with more rags, more bandages, and the look on his face was probably comparable to her own expression.

Sweet kid, some small part of her managed to think past the mind-numbing terror and despair. Damned good doctor, too.

Quote:
 
“I… I might be able to do a blood transfusion… to save his life. I’m O negative… a universal donor… I just…I need to gather some materials…”


“Thank you,” was all she managed to get out. “Thank you, thank you.

She lost all sense of time after that, trembling hands on Spike’s deathly white face, fighting as hard as she could to keep them steady. Spots of crimson were blossoming through the cloth, but the bleeding was definitely slowing, though the cold, analytical part of her knew it might very well be that he simply didn’t have much more to lose.

“King and Queen of Cantelon,” she began to sing quietly, “how many miles to Babylon?”

Her mother had sung the odd song to her as a child. She’d done the same for her own son before he died.

Please not this one, too.

“Eight and eight, and other eight. Will I get there by candle-light?”

Still breathing. Just keep her hands steady, stay awake. Her voice was starting to crack every few words.

“If your horse be good…and your spurs be bright. How…how many men have ye?”

She wasn’t singing anymore, just whispering pleadingly, keep breathing, kid, not another, she couldn’t lose another.

“May nor ye dare come and see.”

Spike made a soft, agonized noise, twitching beneath her, and Claw broke off, beginning to cry in earnest. “It’s going to be okay.” She prayed she wasn’t lying. “We’re fixing you. You’ll be back to-” She had to stop and catch her hitching breath as tears made little splotches on the old, musty sofa. “-you’ll be pissing me off again in no time,” she sobbed. “Hang on. You’re going to be okay. Stay with me, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault and I’m so fucking sorry.

After that, she didn’t speak, just laid her cheek against the top of his head, on the braids she’d so grudgingly arranged, and cried quietly. All the adrenaline was gone, leaving nothing but exhaustion, terror, despair.

Self-loathing.

Filth. Monster. The Watcher laughed, glowing red eyes boring into her deepest fears and guilt. Failure.

“I know,” was all Claw could whisper helplessly.

The door slammed open, and she couldn’t even raise her head to see if it was Edgar, or if Razorback had tracked them down and was about to finish the job. Either way, Claw was spent. Just too tired. Could only hope it would be quick. She felt like she was dying, herself, and it was all she could do to stay conscious. Someone rushed past, and considering that she wasn’t being stabbed or riddled with buckshot, it was probably Edgar. The hazy thought was verified when he returned with water, most of which went down Spike’s chin, but it seemed like the doctor had gotten him to swallow at least a small amount.

With red, swollen eyes, Claw watched blearily as he started a transfusion. She drifted between half-alert and completely dazed, muttering quiet reassurances to Spike, stroking the top of his head, finding herself drifting off every now and again. Edgar said something to her, but she couldn’t process the words, they were only noise, she was just too tired.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Jus’ a sec,” she mumbled, nearly falling flat as she scooted for her pack, trying to force her thoughts back into something coherent. With a good deal of difficulty, she found the Jet inhaler, and took a long, hard drag. The sudden flash of clarity, combated by the crushing exhaustion, nearly made her pass out. She rested her face in her hands, took a few deep breaths, and latched desperately onto one last reserve of energy.

He’d said something. Think, worthless bitch. Focus.

Quote:
 
“Now…due to how much blood he lost… I’ll probably be here for a while… and so will he. I might get a little dizzy eventually, and feel numb from my extremities, b-but that should be alright. Just… don’t let me fall asleep, okay?”


“No sleeping,” Claw agreed, hearing the slur in her own voice and helpless to do anything about it. She grabbed the bottle of vodka from the floor, knowing full well what a terrible idea it was, but didn’t have the physical or mental strength to care. She took another long, hard draw, and propped herself against the edge of the couch, taking Spike’s free hand in her own.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she repeated for the umpteenth time, praying the Jet took full effect soon, praying that Edgar knew what he was doing, praying the Watcher was wrong this time, that she’d been taken pity on, that she hadn’t just lied to one of the very few people she’d learned to care about as more than her next meal ticket or drink.

“Please don’t die,” she whispered.

***

Hours passed. Time was moving strangely. Claw couldn’t tell if she was dozing off, or just losing connection with reality, but she’d come back to find Edgar still sitting, the thin tubing connecting him and Spike, the former boy getting paler every time she looked. Every now and again, his head would start to dip, and Claw would poke him sharply in the leg with a muttered “Stay awake.” He managed, and after several hours

minutes? Months?

Edgar finally seemed satisfied, though he looked about as tired as Claw felt. She wasn’t able to do more than stare blankly as he bound the needle pricks on himself and Spike, the latter looking decidedly less corpse-like, though his breathing was still much too shallow for her liking. It felt like she had a large weight on her arm as she lifted it to check his pulse, beating much stronger and steady now, a hint of color returning to his lips.

“You did it,” she whispered as the red-headed boy unwrapped something, finally allowing herself a shred of hope, “Oh thank you, Edgar, thank God,” she’d started to cry again as she brushed the back of her hand down Spike’s arm, “you’re gonna be okay, honey. Just sleep, I’m here.” She managed to push herself up enough to lay her head beside Spike’s, one arm draped across his chest, and finally allowed herself to give in to the crushing, all-consuming exhaustion.

Darkness swallowed her, and she welcomed it.
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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Funkifan
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The Cobras' Leader
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Quote:
 
“You did it,”


It took Edgar a moment to react at what Claw had said, as the procedure had sapped most of his strength, and his body begged him to rest, yet his will wouldn’t let him give in, intent on staying awake to check on Spike, shaking fingers finding his way into his neck, and began to count his pulse.

“S-Sorry… if… I-I… hurted… y-you… I… s-should had… a-apologized… s-sooner… but… I-I was too… uhh…”

Even if it was still weak, his pulse had normalized somewhat, which allowed him to know that he would recover, although it would take some time. A soft, relieved sigh escaped from his lips, as he rested his head back on the sofa, as Claw showered him with praise, which he could barely hear any longer.

“You’ll… you’ll be… a-alright… ah…”

As his vision began to fade, he noticed a large, tall shadow of someone overlooking both Claw and Spike, who he was sure he could see nodding towards him. Blinking a few times, when he directed his eyes again at where the figure stood, it had disappeared.

Unable to stay awake any longer, the redhead finally gave in to his exhaustion, not being able to stand up and head to his room, he passed out on the sofa, next to Spike and Claw.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning came once more as any other day on the Wasteland, the rays of the sun beginning to fill the farm and the land with their heat, as they came forth through the windows of the living room, and gently bathed the room in a dim, yellow light.

Unlike most days, however, the doctor was not awake early. The transfusion of the night before had come with a toll, as he too had to recover from the medical practice. His heavy sleep didn’t help either, too lost on his dreams.

“I… I’m so worried that… I… I won’t be able to help him… what if he doesn’t recover?” The redhead spoke, unaware that what he was saying came from his dreams. “What… if I… fail? Like… with… with the girls? Or… Paradise… Pier…”

A transparent stream of tears began to run down his face, as he slowly shook. “I c-couldn’t save them… I… I’m nothing…” The redhead, then fell silent, once more.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

After some minutes had passed, a rumbling came from above the house, as heavy footsteps shook the floorboards on the ceiling.
Edgar Algae -HC-

SPECIAL: 3-5-7-8-6-7-4

Level: 4

Edgar is a tall, attractive man, with red bright hair, green eyes, and tan skin, due to his Hispanic heritage. He currently wears a yellow t-shirt, with cargo shorts, a Leather Jacket (Tier 2, Good CON, plus on intimidation checks). Attached to his left wrist, he possesses an Automedical Assistant. On his back, he carries an XL Rucksack, that contains several items of his', like a Medical armored Suitcase, filled with all sorts of medical equipment. His weapon of choice is the Study Group Special, a modified mini-zapper.

He is Good Natured, Spongey, and has Sex Appeal (For the girls)


+120 BT Reputation; +90 Nawlins Reputation
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azstarael
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"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The Previous Night

Spike came to in a strange house, feeling like he’d just been run over by a herd of Brahmin, and immediately panicked.

’Where am I she’s gonna kill me fuck it hurts Dios salvame where’s Claw how’d I get here oh God oh God my finger hurts where’s Claw-’

“Spike?” the familiar voice muttered groggily. That answered one question. She was kneeling on the floor right next to him, arm across his chest, blinking sleep from her eyes. They were swollen and ringed with very dark circles, making her look about as lousy as he felt. That was an impressive feat in and of itself, because he seriously did not feel good.

“Boss,” he rasped, gripping her hand as tightly as he could, which was to say, not much at all. His body didn’t want to move, stomach roiling, head spinning. He found himself stumbling over his own tongue when he mumbled “where’m I, wha’ happen, hurts, Jesucristo it fuggin’ hurts, my face, m’hand-”

’Gonna puke.’

He broke off, managed to roll over, and started dry-heaving violently off the edge of the couch. Claw had already moved and gathered up his hair in the same motion, holding it back as he choked and retched up nothing but bile and spit. Very distantly, he felt a few fresh flares of pain from his face, a warm, sticky trickle in their wake. Claw scooted away from the small puddle he’d dripped on the floor, a few drops of bright red mixing with gray and sickly green, the woman making a soft shushing sound.

“Thank you, God,” Spike heard her whisper. “Shh, shhhh shh shh, you’re okay, we’re safe.”

It took another minute for him to catch his breath, stomach still heaving occasionally, he was so cold. “How?” he choked out, too weak to move, one arm hanging over the edge of the sofa. “Don’member…where are we? S’goin on?”

Claw was right in his face an instant later, staring intently into his eyes. “What’s the last thing you remember?” she demanded.

“Was…” Everything was a haze of light-headedness and pain. He did his best to focus. “That room, that fucking room-” Excruciating pain. Mind-numbing fear. He’d been about to die. “An’ you busted in, the gun, she was gonna-” The words caught in his throat as a shard of abject terror pierced his stomach, just as bad as the nausea. “—was gonna blow my head off.” The sharp, throbbing pain in his hand brought another shred of memory to light. “Finger. Where m’finger?”

Claw gripped his good hand more tightly, and bit her lip. “It’s…” her voice was low and strained. “It’s in your pocket. I think. I didn’t see where you put it.”

Spike shut his eyes. It hurt. God, everything hurt. “Not a bad dream, then,” he finally whispered.

“No.” Claw said very quietly. “But you’re alive. Thank you God, you’re alive.”

“Don’t feel good,” he muttered. “Everything’s spin. Hurts. Fuck me, it hurts.”

“I know.” A gentle, calloused hand rubbed the nape of his neck. “You’re in bad shape, kid.” Her voice was going strange, like she was speaking from the bottom of a deep hole. The dizziness was getting overwhelming.

“Spin,” he heard himself mumble.

“Go back to sleep.” Spike could barely make out her words anymore, but that sounded good. Sleep was good. Something about blood, the hand was still on him, warm, comforting, even through the shroud of agony around his entire body. He couldn’t think anymore, barely comprehended that his stomach was trying to throw up again, bringing up all of the nothing in it.

When he finally stopped heaving, someone maneuvered him against the back of the old couch, and a small, warm body pressed against his side. What the hell, how had he gotten home? His mother was there, though, even if he didn’t recognize the soft song she was humming, it was nice, but-

“Mami,” someone slurred from far, far away, “duele, ‘stoy asustado.”

She was stroking his hair. “Sing me a song of a land that is gone,” quiet, comforting words in his ear, “green hills and a pale blue sky.”

“Hurts, me duele.” Quiet sobbing, wet heat on his face, the pain got worse, it burned, “Duele. Po’favor, haz’que s’detenga.”

“N’er he looks back as he sails from his home,” the warmth pulled him in more tightly, where was he? Why did everything hurt so badly? “Over the sea, to sky.” Spike managed to raise one arm and flop it over…Claw. It was Claw. She’d fix it. “Fair was the breeze, bright was the sun, he stood on the starboard bow.”

She could fix anything.

“Glory of youth glowed in his soul,” Spike stopped trying to fight the darkness. She was here, he was safe. She’d gotten him out. He was safe. “Where is that glory now?”

His face burned, his missing finger was back and it was in agony.

“Sing me a song, of a lass that is gone, say could that lass be I?”

“Duele.” The pathetic voice was his own “Me duele.”

“Merry of soul she sailed away, over the sea to sky.”

“Por favor,” Spike pleaded, feeling himself slip helplessly toward oblivion again, “haz que se detenga. Make it stop.”

“Shhh.” She was running her hand gently over his shoulders, now. “Give me the land, all that was there, give me the sun that shone,” she was still singing as Spike felt himself slip all the way under, “Give me the eyes, give me the soul, give me the lad that is gone.”

***

Spike was sleeping again. Not technically correct, ‘unconscious’ was far more accurate, but she didn’t want to think about that right now. Worry gnawed at Claw like starving rats on a corpse. He needed it, yes. She was still terrified he wouldn’t wake up again.

There wasn’t really enough room on the old couch for all of them, Edgar having passed out nearby as well. She didn’t care. Spike was so cold, sucking the heat from her own body, but that was all right, too. His chest rose and fell against her, heart beating in her ear, and it kept her from losing it all over again. Alive. He’d survived.

Having finally gotten a few fitful hours of sleep herself, she tried to piece together the previous night, mostly a haze of exhaustion, blind panic, and overwhelming emotion. The exhaustion was still there. The fear, still there. The desperation had been replaced with something else- cold logic. She wanted him to live, yes. But this wasn’t her child, just one that had ended up following her like a dog begging for scraps, aggravating her at every available opportunity. No, he wasn’t a bad kid. Could she go so far as to say she…liked him? Claw put that aside to think about later. Getting attached made you vulnerable. Being vulnerable, in any sense, was a death sentence with an undetermined date. Hers had nearly come yesterday, taking on a force they’d had no right to beat, barely escaping with their lives, and only through a stroke of incredible luck.

But there she’d been, pleading to a God she didn’t believe in, that he lived. His last words before losing consciousness last night had included her name. No one else had stayed longer than however much time it took to finish a job. No matter how she insulted him, forced him to do things that had occasionally led to blows between them, he’d stayed.

She dearly hoped the doctor hadn’t heard her singing.

Claw dozed on and off, afraid to go back to sleep. There was still the distinct possibility of being tracked down at any moment. She had to be ready to fight, though she didn’t have a single idea of what she was going to do if it happened. A very different kind of worry began to spread through her, cloying and sick. Woefully unequipped to handle the level of trouble she’d landed them in, her backup out cold and probably unable to so much as stand up for a few days, her only real option was ‘die first’.

If you’re lucky,’ the cold, cynical part of her suddenly interjected. ‘Much more likely you’ll get worse than he did, left alive just long enough to watch her finish the kid off.

She couldn’t stay here, had no allusions of being safe. It was a brief respite at best. Claw had seen the look in the woman’s eyes. Razorback would come for them. The stupid plan shouldn’t have worked, she still had no idea how they’d made it this far, but it wasn’t far enough. Only a matter of how soon the nearby settlements were scoured and the raider- raiders, more likely, started a wider sweep. She was on borrowed time, and unfortunately sure that time was going to run out all too quickly.

You have to leave,’ she found herself thinking suddenly. ‘It might be days before he can walk. You don’t have days. You might not have hours.

It was agony to consider it. That didn’t negate the fact. She could put good ground behind her before sunset, at least twenty miles; by herself, she wouldn’t leave much of a trail.

Spike’s chest hitched slightly, and he made a low, quiet noise of pain in his sleep. Claw shushed him quietly without thinking, gave his shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze, as her mind continued to spin in overdrive. North would be her best option. Stay away from the roads, at least until she was past the Big Brown, hook up with a caravan, and keep going. She’d been in the area too long even before getting tangled in this mess.

How long before you lead him to disaster?

Not very, it seemed. Despite the lance of terrible sadness it sent through her chest, it was time to move on. He’d saved her life. She’d returned the favor. Now her own was in jeopardy again because of it, and there was no way in hell she’d be that lucky again.

Claw took a long, deep breath and let it out silently before slipping off the couch, taking care not to jostle either of the young men. She paused for a very brief moment to rest her hand on Spike’s head, bottom lip in her teeth, before seating herself beside the packs and starting to take inventory. Two piles, one beside her own tattered pack, the other by Spike’s surprisingly intact one.

The crossbow and quiver went in hers, along with a roll of duct tape, a half-empty flask of turpentine, the jar of oil-

She’d spent almost a week on those stupid braids. They were starting to get a bit frayed. Claw wondered if he’d keep them maintained, or let his hair go back to a tangled mess of filth. She bit the inside of her mouth, already knowing the answer.

Spike’s pistol and tin of ammunition went in the other pile. She hoped he kept the damned thing in good working order, despite rarely using it. A very old magazine, a nude woman on the cover, breasts and crotch strategically covered, went beside them. Part of her considered the waste of fire-starting material by leaving it, but it would give him something to do while he recovered. She firmly pushed aside the thought of what exactly that would probably be.

She left the mole rat jerky by his pack as well. Whether or not he’d eat it wasn’t her problem anymore. His lighter, intricately engraved with stylized skulls and flowers. A single bobby pin, where the hell had he gotten ahold of that? She considered the whorehouse voucher for a moment, but that went in her own stack. It wasn’t as though she’d ever be setting foot in that cesspit of a town again, but it could make for worthwhile trade, if not an emergency ball of tinder.

The Zippo he was so fond of was a longer contemplation. Weather-resistant, good against wind, worth at least a meal or some ammunition if things got desperate.

It’s mine, he’d said, giving her that ornery, child-like pout. Claw shook her head briefly, shooting him an apologetic look before it went in her pocket.

Also added to Spike’s pile was the awful bladed gauntlet, the little pouch of throwing knives, the bag of torch she’d confiscated so long ago. The strange smoking device that part of her insisted should be traded for a few bottles. She firmly told herself it was too much of a hassle to lug around. That very annoying guilt chewing at her gut assured her he’d be in terrible pain for a while, and it would help him sleep.

Claw took the jar of ancient makeup, no idea what it might be good for, but Spike would probably just use it for fingerpaint or forget it was there entirely. She added the barbed wire, the cooking pot, the little vial of poison, to her own collection. Pliers, the whetstone, welding goggles that would assuredly be invaluable against the blowing sand on windy days. The helmet with its little lamp, the waterskin, the jet, a half-empty bottle of alcohol she didn’t remember getting. Claw shrugged, and took a few stout swigs before setting it aside.

The coyote-skin hat, she held for a good minute, rubbing her thumbs along the coarse fur as the liquor started to heat the inside of her otherwise empty stomach. Etched inside- Estevan Garcia Francisco de Paula Cortez Rosalinda Yolando Galaz a Ruiz Alvarado.

She set it beside the hookah. He’d probably like the ridiculous thing a lot more than she did.

The fact was, said that aggravating self-awareness, she didn’t want it around to remind her. It would be easier to forget, to move on this way.

Deserter, the Watcher hissed. Failure.

“Shut up,” Claw whispered at the floor. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Neither did he.

Talking to a figment of her imagination. So she was finally going crazy. Claw ground her teeth for a moment before glancing around the remaining odd items. An old holotape, the label too faded to read, a small book full of…what the hell were these? Several thick, shiny pages with neat rows of circles, a stylized atom in each one. It looked like they could be peeled off, though for what purpose, she had no idea. The tape and the book went to Spike. A lid, she hadn’t seen that before, either. She examined the engraving for a moment, and nearly dropped it in shock. The Watcher stared at her, etched eyes still managing to sear through her soul, it was judging her, it knew-

She was being stupid. It was a strange coincidence, just a piece of metal. If this kept up, pretty soon she’d be chanting at the moon and praying to the Old Gods for a bountiful hunt. That didn’t stop her from practically throwing it in Spike’s pile as though it had burned her.

One oddity left. A little bundle of flowers, obviously collected from the local plants, surprisingly colorful and very pretty. She gently stroked one of the larger petals for a moment, staring at nothing, her throat starting to go tight. Claw carefully removed a single yellow bloom and secured it in the rough yucca fiber stitches holding her pack together.

She slipped the string of claws from around her neck and bound them around the rest of the flowers. They went on the armrest by Spike’s head. She glanced at the bottle of vodka still sitting on the floor, scrubbed briefly at her eyes (which she insisted were only damp from lack of sleep), before taking one last harsh swig. There was about a quarter of the bottle left, and she seriously considered packing that, too. She finally decided against it; she’d caused enough problems for Edgar, and he would almost assuredly need it for something later.

Only one last thing to take care of.

She made her way silently into the kitchen, selecting a half-burned piece of wood and beginning to scrawl on the cracked linoleum.

Thank you for everything. Don’t let him smoke torch all at once. No access to other chems. Likes mutfruit and bread. Will try to pick scabs.

She paused for a second, biting her lower lip hard, before continuing to write.

Dangerous folk around. Keep doors locked. Shoot first, questions later. Sorry about vomit. Tell him

Claw stopped again, clenched her eyes shut briefly, then forced her hand to keep moving.

I’m sorry. Goodbye and good luck.

Claw


It only took a moment to pack her gear, refusing to let herself look at the sprawled body on the couch. Claw secured her backpack, threw it over her shoulders, situated her crossbow and quiver. She finally turned and knelt beside Spike, pressing two fingers gently to his wrist. Heart still beating. She swallowed hard. There was nothing else she could do. It was a cruel, unforgiving world, every man for themselves. She was leaving him in good hands, and with any luck, he’d be safe until he was well enough to move. If he hadn’t gone completely braindead, he’d strike off and get as far away as possible. He had enough equipment, had survived on his own before, and would be better off without her and the shitstorms that seemed magnetically attracted to her.

“Nice knowing you, kid,” Claw breathed softly. “Thanks for everything, Edgar. Good luck.”

She slipped out the door, closing it carefully behind her, and shivered once. It wasn’t quite dawn, just the barest hint of gray on the eastern horizon, the stars still bright overhead. Claw resisted the strong urge to look back and started walking.

North. No real destination in mind, it didn’t matter where she ended up.

It never had.
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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Funkifan
Member Avatar
The Cobras' Leader
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
"P-Pero tengo miedo..."

Edgar's voice quivered, as he embraced the velvety white dress of his mother, his head gazing upwards unto the almost blinding radiance that spread above. Two gentle, although stiff hands cupped his cheeks, the light above diminishing until her curls fell upon his field of view, like cinnamon waves that unfurled as they crashed against the sand on the coast, an angelic face appearing behind them.

"No llores pimpollito..." The slender fingers brushed the sides of his cheeks, under his eyes, making the tears disappear, his heart stopping for a moment after hearing the name whom she used to refer to him. "Don't be afraid. Don't cry."

The small child kept grasping into the fold's of his mother's attire, desperately trying to hold on from the clawed hand that attempted to drag him underwater, breaking the small superficial barrier that allowed him to stay comfortably kneeled over the calm pond, as an angelic chorus in the distance chanted about some long lost lass or lad, over the sea, albeit the exact lyrics he wasn't intent on deciphering.

"B-But... mami... I already f-failed you... and Ellie, and dad... I can't do this... I have already told you... h-how I f-failed the people at P-Paradise Pier, I... I'm... I'm a-a coward... a-and.. I..."

The warm embrace silenced him, a hand softly running through the back of his hair. "No, no. Never... people need you, now."

Two tender, spring green eyes gazed back at his', a small, yet sweet smile formed between her cherry lips, as she slowly began to let go, making the redhead try to frantically grasp to her, as more tears erupted from his face.

"N-No... n-no... p-please! I-I feel s-so alone... s-so lost... mami!" He cried out, yet he only received a small caress on his cheek, before he was dragged into the depths of the water. He furiously twisted and flapped his arms, attempting to prevent himself from being carried to the depths, before the radiance covered him once more.

"Pimpollito, is time to wake up..."


Slowly, the doctor opened his eyes, panting and sweating as he came to the realization that he had just experienced a dream. He felt extremely tired, and a sneeze revealed to him that the living room, where he had been apparently passed out, was cold, making him wish he had some kind of blanket right now.

For a moment, he debated about allowing Morpheus arms to lull him back to the land of the dream once more before he realized that his patient still was resting next to him and that he would probably need of the redhead. Moving both of his hands to rub his eyes, he soon felt a sharp pain coming from the inside of his right arm, that made him stop for a moment.

Looking down, he noticed a large, purple bruise had formed on the area where he had placed the syringe to allow the blood transfusion of last night, probably rupturing some capillaries or a vein in the process.

"I need to be more careful next time... need to keep cool." Edgar told himself, as he turned his head towards the direction where Spike laid, to check on him once more, staying quiet, in order to not disturb him in case he hadn't wake up yet.

It only took him a moment to discover that Claw wasn't near the sofa.

An odd feeling began to grow inside of him, as he didn't saw her anywhere. With some effort, he managed to lift himself up from the sofa, although he still felt quite weak from the previous night ordeal. Using the armrest of the couch for support, he propelled himself, taking a moment to maintain his balance, before moving closer towards Spike.

The bandages and rags had accomplished their objective, stopping the blood flow completely, although most seemed to be drenched in red. He knew that by how much liquid had accumulated, he would have to change the cloth over the wounds, to prevent infection, something that began to gnaw at him. He only hoped that he had enough rags for him to change the dressings.

Moving in closer, he made sure that he was breathing, and once that was confirmed, he placed two finger's on Spike's neck. He began to count his pulse. "Stronger than last night... he's recovering."

The doctor let out a relieved sigh, as he moved away from the boy, who couldn't be more than 20. He was pretty young, just like him.

"What monster did this to you?" He moved his head from side to side, before returning to his other task. Finding Claw.

"C-Claw?" He softly called out. "Claw? W-Where are you? Friend?"

Silence.

A chill ran down Edgar's spine. He observed the living room, yet he couldn't see anyone nearby. What had happened?

As he moved towards the stairs once more, he accidentally knocked over a pile of several items, that almost made his trip. Managing to keep his balance, he discovered a puddle of vomit, that made him feel slightly queasy. Yet, the rumbles of his stomach soon continued, even after he inspected the back of the couch. Nothing.

"Did Claw ventured up? Went outside? Why?" He questioned himself, before deciding to head to the kitchen, to find something to eat, before resuming his search. She probably still was around, just needed some time. And he understood, after all, it couldn't had been easy after what her companion had gone through. By Claw's incomprehensible rambling that came from between her tears, Edgar knew that she cared deeply for him.

Still wincing a little as he allowed his arm to hang free, he moved into the kitchen, using the stove as support. He maneuvered himself before he was finally able to rest his lower back against the worn wooden surface that composed the countertop, moving away from the burners. A plastic bottle of water laid nearby, and without much thought, he opened the lid and took a long sip. He took a moment to rest, closing his eyes, before he felt his feet kicking something on the ground.

Ignoring his hunger for a moment, he noticed a piece of blackened wood a couple inches from him, and next to it, a word, to which he had to slightly tilt his head to read.

"L-L-UCK." The redhead managed to read. Next to it, more letters, of an incredibly clear message that unfolded in front of his eyes.

Quote:
 

Thank you for everything. Don’t let him smoke torch all at once. No access to other chems. Likes mutfruit and bread. Will try to pick scabs.

Dangerous folk around. Keep doors locked. Shoot first, questions later. Sorry about vomit. Tell him

Claw stopped again, clenched her eyes shut briefly, then forced her hand to keep moving.

I’m sorry. Goodbye and good luck.

Claw


"N-No... no... no!" Stumbling, he made his way to the door, and fumbling for some seconds with it, he managed to open it, walking outside, where the cold morning air and the rays of the sun that shone above greeted him.

"CLAW! WHERE ARE YOU?!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, before his exhaustion took the better of him, forcing him to stop another exclamation, too weak to do so, having to grapple to the wooden railing on the porch for support.

Claw was gone. But why? She couldn't have possibly abandoned Spike, that didn't made any sense. If she was so close to him, if she had taken him here, spent the night with him, he was sure that couldn't have been the case.

He remembered the woman's spirit back at the Lightshow, how her determination had managed to prevent his demise and others, and how she had led them through adversity to take a better-armed warship, even if the odds were against them.

"Maybe... she tried to divert their attention? O-Of whoever was hunting them?" He thought, as he gathered the strength to move back to the house again.

"Good luck Claw. Wherever you are. I'll keep your friend safe, I promise. Nurse him back to health." Gazing back into the opened door, he realized he needed answers. But he had to wait until Spike was better to ask them.
Edgar Algae -HC-

SPECIAL: 3-5-7-8-6-7-4

Level: 4

Edgar is a tall, attractive man, with red bright hair, green eyes, and tan skin, due to his Hispanic heritage. He currently wears a yellow t-shirt, with cargo shorts, a Leather Jacket (Tier 2, Good CON, plus on intimidation checks). Attached to his left wrist, he possesses an Automedical Assistant. On his back, he carries an XL Rucksack, that contains several items of his', like a Medical armored Suitcase, filled with all sorts of medical equipment. His weapon of choice is the Study Group Special, a modified mini-zapper.

He is Good Natured, Spongey, and has Sex Appeal (For the girls)


+120 BT Reputation; +90 Nawlins Reputation
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azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
When Spike came to again, he immediately wished he hadn’t.

He felt slightly less like death, though it was a small margin. Everything hurt, he couldn’t focus, was colder than he ever remembered being before. It was like all the heat had been leeched from the world, his blood replaced with ice, making him shiver violently every few seconds. The tremors made his wounds flare with each bout, as if he needed a reminder. They pulsed with every sluggish beat of his heart, brief washes of fire over the deathlike chill shrouding him. His head pounded, stomach roiled, he was pretty sure the only part of him that didn’t hurt was his hair.

“A la madre,” he rasped quietly past sandpaper in his throat, reaching tentatively for his face. His hand met damp cloth, sticky with clotted blood. Even brief contact made him regret the effort, and Spike just managed to turn the instinctual yelp into a strangled growl.

The blatantly obvious aside, something was wrong. He couldn’t focus enough to figure out what it was just yet. His normally chaotic tangle of thoughts was mostly white static- one would form halfway to fruition, then get lost before it became anything relevant.

Had to think, Spike told himself groggily. Figure out what was causing the second knot in his stomach, born of anxiety rather than the sensation he’d eaten bad meat.

Claw would know.

“Boss,” he whispered, could barely hear himself through the fog in his head and shrill ringing in his ears. “S’goin’ on?”

The silence pressed heavy on him. Wrong, something was wrong, had they been tracked down? She was dead, wasn’t she? Spike managed to open his eyes past the dried blood caking his lashes. They rolled sluggishly in his head, briefly taking in the room he vaguely remembered from earlier. Morning sunlight accosted them, but the glare was arbitrary, he had to…find someone? Do something?

Claw.

Despite his body protesting every movement, Spike hefted himself up on the sofa, had to pause a moment to breath before he steeled his resolve again and stood up. The floor leapt at him. He hit gracelessly, vaguely heard himself groan, low and agonized, clutching his left hand protectively to his chest. His muscles weren’t doing what he told them to, maddeningly weak and unresponsive. He fought to get up again, laying there was unacceptable, ignore the ringing in his ears that was getting louder all the time, ignore the intermittent light and dark flashes behind his eyes, he had to…was doing…something.

Stay down, Slade told him flatly. You’re in rough shape.

“Gotta…” He scrabbled at the couch, his useless body was not the boss of him, “-find, with the…where’s she, y’see?”

You’re going to pass out.

“Shut up,” Spike mumbled, he had one leg underneath himself, so far so good, “think you’re so goddamn smart. Can’t go ‘til the door…” There went the other, now just get up. “Ain’t even seen where the river’s at.”

What?

Spike didn’t know anymore. He heard himself making words, but they were nonsense awash in waves of vertigo as the spots got worse. His vision tunneled off, everything shrinking in front of him into a small circle surrounded by absolute darkness. The ringing got louder. His face and hand burned.

He’d been doing something, and he had to get up.

He made it about halfway before his legs decided they’d had enough. He fell again, splayed halfway across the couch, then slipped all the way back to the floor. He’d have to try again, just as soon as he could see and the stupid room quit spinning. Who did it think it was?

A brief flare of clarity struck him. Chems. He just had to get ahold of his chems, and he’d be able to think again, remember what the hell he was doing, and why he seemed to be laying on a floor.

“Boss, y’seen my stash?” He slurred into the floorboards. “Was doin’ a thing but ain’t find it.”

Silence, but for the whoosh of blood through his head with every heartbeat. Something was wrong. He had to get up and figure it out.
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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Funkifan
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The Cobras' Leader
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Edgar took a moment to recover, as a feeling of general tiredness overtook every muscle and fiber of his body after venturing outside and screaming. Probably hadn't been the wisest of all choices, considering his condition, but by the cold sweat that was beginning to accumulate on his hands, alongside the chill on his spine, fear was also seeping into his mind.

He realized that he was afraid of something. Claw having left? Sure, it scared him that she had decided to leave, and it worried him greatly, especially due to how well she would manage on her own. After all, the Wasteland wasn't a kind place, yet, he at least knew that she carried that will with her and that intelligence. Yes, that hadn't been the only thing to have materialized in his subconscious. The thought of the butcher finding of them. The one who had almost carved the boy up like a sculpture, creating lacerations than he was sure that would eventually evolve into scars that would never fade.

If that monster came here and injured, maimed or killed the people that Edgar was hosting on his home, he would never forgive himself. He didn't fear for his life, as much as he was terrified of losing his friends, those whom he cared about. A few drops of sweat began to set over his brow, as he made himself a question.

"Did Claw knew about all of this? And she left? What were her goals? That couldn't be... could it?"

He shook his head, trying to brush the thought off. Certainly, someone as brave as Claw, like she had shown before wouldn't have taken that path, and that her goals were noble, or at the very least, wouldn't hinder the well-being of her companion and the doctor.

Hearing a voice behind, something he could recognize as Spanish, and the search for Claw, which was the extent of what he could recognize as speech, both the distance and his state of being interfering with his senses, the redhead concluded that the wounded guy had awakened. It took him a while, but he was finally able to muster enough of his strength, and headed back inside, pushing the door open, to reveal that his patient had tried to stand up, given how he had ended up in the floor. His first instinct was to rush towards him and help him back up.

"H-Hey... h-hey... uh... y-you're still i-injured..." His soft, tired voice tried to explain to the man, who seemed to be bewildered, even on his weakened state. "P-Please... d-don't move... I... uh... i-if you're cold... o-or something... I-I can bring you a blanket..."

Kneeling next to him, he carefully tried to lift him back up, by wrapping his arms around his torso, doing his best to avoid injuring him further or causing pain, alongside doing his best to not startle him. "I-It'll... b-be alright. I'm.... h-here to help you..."

"I'm... I'm E-Edgar. E-Edgar Algae... d-do y-you have a name?" A small smile soon took ahold of his face, as he stared at the man, unsure of how to tackle the Claw issue. He was sure that for the way he was searching for her, he would panic if he was to reveal that she wasn't there anymore. But then again, it wasn't fair for him to maintain that knowledge a secret, his face soon ending up reflecting how he felt on the inside, his smile changing.

"H-Heh... o-of course y-you do... silly me..." The redhead's mind was becoming blurry, as he kept trying, rather unsuccessfully, to lift up Spike. His force of will wouldn't let him surrender, as he placed all of his remaining strength on his legs, that slowly managed to bring the man back into the couch, leaving a rather exhausted Edgar to flop in front of Spike, his head ending up resting on Spike's knees.

It took another moment for the redhead to recover before he was able to speak again.

"S-Sorry... I.. uh... I'm just... d-don't feel very well..." His green, bright eyes gazed up at Spike's, showing a lot of sheepishness and fash. "U-Ugh... a-are you cold?"

He rolled to the side, wincing as he used his arms to push himself up, as he paced upstairs, heading towards his room, where he could hear the voice of an angel singing on one of the rooms. Smiling, he continued through another set of stairs, venturing inside of his bedroom. He stumbled about, as he approached his bed, taking the sheet that covered the mattress, and headed downstairs once more, using the wall as support, until he was finally able to reach Spike once more, laying the blanket over his body.

Unable to continue, he ended up crashing on the couch, taking a moment before finally turning around to face him. "I... I'm s-sorry I... didn't go f-for one e-earlier... I just... I-I... I hadn't... my thoughts... w-were a little d-dispersed... I... I d-did noticed t-that you... kinda p-puked on the floor... how are you feeling?"

His body began to almost beg the redhead for him to rest, yet he didn't want to leave Spike alone, knowing how scary that could be, and more if his life was still at stake. But he had to distract him for now. Let him know that he was safe, and that he would recover.

"I... I h-heard you s-speak Spanish... ¿P-Puedes? Y-Yo t-tambien puedo... e-es mi segundo... i-idioma. Mi m-mama me enseño... ella... v-vino de México... a-aqui." His eyes closed for a moment, as he awaited for the response of his patient.
Edited by Funkifan, Jan 19 2018, 09:44 PM.
Edgar Algae -HC-

SPECIAL: 3-5-7-8-6-7-4

Level: 4

Edgar is a tall, attractive man, with red bright hair, green eyes, and tan skin, due to his Hispanic heritage. He currently wears a yellow t-shirt, with cargo shorts, a Leather Jacket (Tier 2, Good CON, plus on intimidation checks). Attached to his left wrist, he possesses an Automedical Assistant. On his back, he carries an XL Rucksack, that contains several items of his', like a Medical armored Suitcase, filled with all sorts of medical equipment. His weapon of choice is the Study Group Special, a modified mini-zapper.

He is Good Natured, Spongey, and has Sex Appeal (For the girls)


+120 BT Reputation; +90 Nawlins Reputation
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azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
When he heard a strange voice, Spike was certain he was about to die. They’d found him, come to finish the job. Not the hulking woman he’d been expecting, but of course she’d have lackeys, and all he could do was shut his eyes while he lay there, helpless as a boned fish.

It was definitely a surprise when there were no gunshots, no knives tearing into him, only a reassuring, if dead dog exhausted, voice trying to cut through the static in his head.

Quote:
 
"H-Hey... h-hey... uh... y-you're still i-injured...P-Please... d-don't move... I... uh... i-if you're cold... o-or something... I-I can bring you a blanket..."


‘Cold’ got through. Spike laughed, quiet and strained. He regretted it immediately as the cuts and gouges on his face flared with a fresh wave of fire. It faded to a low, labored groan as he was hefted up, struggled weakly to help somehow, get his infuriatingly unresponsive body off the ground. Cold was the understatement of the year. Cold was sleeping in the open without a blanket. Cold was getting caught in a winter storm. This was beyond cold, what Spike was pretty sure the shroud of death felt like. Maybe that was it. He’d died after all, and gotten trapped in purgatory. No babies, though, so that didn’t make sense. Not only that, but he’d always been told purgatory was just a whole lot of nothing, and he was definitely somewhere.

It wasn’t supposed to hurt, either.

He was off the floor, the functional part of his mind noting that whoever was trying to get him back on the stupid sofa didn’t seem to be faring well, himself.

Quote:
 
"I-It'll... b-be alright. I'm.... h-here to help you..."


Spike found himself back on the couch. He blinked heavily, trying to figure out what the guy was saying. It was a lot harder than it should have been; the words were just noise, nonsensical and unimportant. He took a long, deep breath, trying to force some of the cotton out of his head. He’d been doing something. Something important.

Quote:
 
"I'm... I'm E-Edgar. E-Edgar Algae... d-do y-you have a name?”

Red hair. Green eyes. Sallow, pale skin. Spike squinted at him, just had to focus for a second, why did he feel so stupid?

"H-Heh... o-of course y-you do... silly me..."


Some of the spots were fading, the shrill ringing in his ears becoming a low hum. Name. He’d asked his name.

And now the guy was on the floor. Strange place to be. Having just come from an unwanted acquaintance with it himself, Spike knew very well it was not a comfortable place.

“Name,” he mumbled. “Yeah, name. Spike. S’goin’ on, why ya lay on me? Stupid floor,” he glared at the culprit with considerable ire, “thinks is better’n me, but not on you now, am I?”

Quote:
 
"S-Sorry... I.. uh... I'm just... d-don't feel very well..." His green, bright eyes gazed up at Spike's, showing a lot of sheepishness and fash. "U-Ugh... a-are you cold?"


“Yeah,” he managed to get out. “M’fuckin’ freezing. Sup with that?” Claw would know. He ought to ask her. “Hey, you seen a angry chick around? Real short, bad attitude…”

Edgar was already gone. Odd, Spike hadn’t seen him move. Then again, he didn’t remember how he’d ended up on the sofa, either. Not being able to think worth a damn was getting old, and fast. There had to be a way to fix it. He’d found one before, was as sure of it as he could be, given the circumstances. Food? No, that sounded awful, and he still tasted puke and blood in the back of his throat. Water? Maybe. Still seemed like an invitation for throwing up again.

Chems. Chems would help, where the hell had he put them? Where was his stuff, anyway? What was up with the thin blanket that had just been draped-

Something heavy fell next to him. Spike let out a short, indignant noise, taking a ridiculously long time to recognize the shock of red hair.

Quote:
 
"I... I'm s-sorry I... didn't go f-for one e-earlier... I just... I-I... I hadn't... my thoughts... w-were a little d-dispersed... I... I d-did noticed t-that you... kinda p-puked on the floor... how are you feeling?"


“Ugh,” Spike replied eloquently. “Shit. Feel like shit. Thought I tasted puke, that’s…dunno, stomach all fucked up, s’cold, I…”

Had just figured out why the thick, coppery taste of blood was so pervasive. That’s right, he was missing a tooth as well. A lot less pressing than the matter of his hand, but highly unfortunate anyway.

“—sorry ‘bout that.”

He didn’t want to think about the finger. It was hard not to, what with the charred spot still feeling like it wasn’t gone at all, just in excruciating pain. Maybe if he pretended hard enough, it would still be there. The small shred of rational thought left assured him it wasn’t. All the same, couldn’t hurt to try.

Quote:
 
"I... I h-heard you s-speak Spanish... ¿P-Puedes? Y-Yo t-tambien puedo... e-es mi segundo... i-idioma. Mi m-mama me enseño... ella... v-vino de México... a-aqui."(Can you? I also can…it’s my second language. My mom taught me, she came from Mexico to here.)


Spike turned his head slowly, a small, tremulous grin showing a flash of his teeth. Now there was something neat. It had been a long time since he’d heard anyone use his native tongue properly.

“¿Español? Sí, lo hablo. Es el idioma d’mi tribu. Vienen de México también.” (Spanish? Yeah, I speak it. It’s the language of my tribe. They came from Mexico also.) Small world. “No ‘scucho mucho. Aprendí inglés segundo, pero era muy pequeño. No recuerdo mucho, solo que fue realmente difícil y me golpearon mucho con la chancla.” (I don’t hear it much. I learned English second, but I was very small. I don’t remember much, just that it was really hard and I got hit with a sandal a lot.)

Which reminded him. Spike made a brief effort to sit up, felt all the blood rush from his head again, and flopped back down with a quiet groan. “¿Dónde está la brujita? Traté de levantarme y encontrarla, pero mis estúpidas piernas no funcionan bien.” (Where’s the little witch? I tried to get up and find her, but my stupid legs aren’t working right.) His head still didn’t want to either, for that matter. “Ella es pequeña y muy mala. Ella estaba aquí, lo recuerdo, pero ahora no lo sé.” (She’s small and very mean. She was here, I remember, but now I don’t know.)
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
 
Funkifan
Member Avatar
The Cobras' Leader
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The redhead opened his eyes once more, as he heard the response coming from him, in Spanish. Shaking his head, he inched closer to Spike, to hear him better, a smile coming upon his visage. It was nice to see that not only his family still talked the language. Made him feel calmer, somehow.

His fellow Hispanic seemed to also regain some of his spirits, as he grinned at the redhead. That was a good first step. The boy had also given out his name, Spike. The redhead wasn't sure what to make of it. It certainly was an odd name, belonging to a raider, but so did Claw's, which left him wondering if he didn't want to tell him, out of being afraid of some kind of repercussion if he did, something that he couldn't blame him for.

"Siento... n-no... h-haber... p-podido darte a-algo para el dolor... p-pero no tengo medicina p-para eso... d-desafortunadamente. E-Esta... e-en la clinica... y llegaste bastante m-mal... entonces... t-tuve que a-actuar rápido." ("I'm sorry... of n-not... being... a-able to give you s-something for the pain... b-but I don't have medicine to do s-so... u-unfortunately. I-Its... o-on the clinic... and you came here in a rather r-rough shape... so... I-I had to a-act quickly") The redhead replied, his voice almost a whisper.

"N-No... te p-preocupes... p-por el vomito... puedo... l-limpiarlo... heh..." ("D-Don't... w-worry... a-about the puke... I... can c-clean it...")

He made a pause, as he swallowed hard, his throat still dry. He still had to get some water and food for himself and Spike. But first, he had to tackle the problem of what to tell him about Claw. He knew it just wouldn't be fair or honest to tell him a lie, but the conundrum was that he didn't know exactly what had transpired, and if Claw's message was indeed a permanent goodbye.

He couldn't help but emanate a short, tired laugh as he realized that Spike was calling her a 'brujita', something that somehow, seemed something endearing, but at the same time, coming with something of anger or perhaps annoyance of sorts? The medic wasn't sure.

"B-Bueno... s-si la ví. E-Ella te t-trajo a-aquí... e-estaba hecha u-un m-mar de l-lagrimas... d-destrozada por... l-lo que ese c-carnicero t-te hizo..." ("W-Well... y-yes I saw her. S-She b-brought you h-here... w-was made a-a s-sa of t-tears... u-uncontrollable about... w-what that b-butcher d-did to you...") He averted his eyes, as sadness began to take over him.

"P-Pero estás s-seguro a-aquí. T-Te lo prometo." ("B-But you are s-safe here. I-I promise you.") With resolution, he spoke, trying to do his best to keep Spike as calm as possible.

"S-Sobre l-la brujita," ("A-About t-the little w-witch,") The redhead blinked a few times, as his mind tried to shut down again, while having a mental showdown, about what it should be told to Spike. His morals, however, soon took over, and forced him to tell the truth.

"C-Claw... m-me dejo un m-mensaje... n-no esta a-aquí, s-salió. P-Pero no s-se porqué. P-Pidió d-disculpas... p-pero siento que probablemente v-vuelva p-pronto. ¿T-Tal vez sólo f-fue por c-comida... o p-para cubrir s-sus huellas?" ("C-Claw... left m-me a m-message... she i-isn't here, she went o-out. B-But I don't k-know why. A-Apologized... b-but I feel she will probably come b-back s-soon. ¿M-Maybe she just w-went for f-food... or t-to cover y-your tracks?") Edgar thought this was the most honest thing to say, although he was placing his hopes on the swift return of Claw. Spike needed her, badly. And so did he. He needed a guide right now, someone to help him with his inner turmoil.

Sighing, he reached towards Spike, lifting his hand with a lot of effort, before placing it on his shoulder, as gently as possible. "P-Pero p-por f-favor... n-no te muevas. D-Descansa. Ella... l-lo querría a-así, creeme. L-La conozco... n-no mucho... p-pero se que le importas tú. Y a-ahora, t-tú necesitas recuperarte... d-de tus heridas." ("B-But p-please... d-don't move. R-Rest. She... w-would h-had want it t-that w-way, believe me. I-I know her... not much... b-but I know s-she cares f-for you. And n-now, y-you need to rest... f-from your wounds.")

From behind of them, the sound of creaking floorboards as something heavy began to move down, loud footsteps echoing throught the area. A soft, half-asleep voice could be heard too.

"E-Edgar? Where... where are you?" Then came a loud knock.

The redhead however, barely reacted to it, not even hearing the voice, only slightly stirring.
Edgar Algae -HC-

SPECIAL: 3-5-7-8-6-7-4

Level: 4

Edgar is a tall, attractive man, with red bright hair, green eyes, and tan skin, due to his Hispanic heritage. He currently wears a yellow t-shirt, with cargo shorts, a Leather Jacket (Tier 2, Good CON, plus on intimidation checks). Attached to his left wrist, he possesses an Automedical Assistant. On his back, he carries an XL Rucksack, that contains several items of his', like a Medical armored Suitcase, filled with all sorts of medical equipment. His weapon of choice is the Study Group Special, a modified mini-zapper.

He is Good Natured, Spongey, and has Sex Appeal (For the girls)


+120 BT Reputation; +90 Nawlins Reputation
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azstarael
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"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
An apology for the lack of painkillers. Spike shrugged one shoulder with a dismissive noise.

“No te preocupas, he tiendo peores. Esto es nada.” (Don’t worry, I’ve had worse. This is nothing.) The first part wasn’t technically a lie. The rest, well. Pain was easy enough to ignore, or at least push through. He was accustomed to sporting at least a few bad bruises or cuts over any given day. Admittedly, this was pretty high up on the “fuck you, past Spike” scale.

Quote:
 
"B-Bueno... s-si la ví. E-Ella te t-trajo a-aquí... e-estaba hecha u-un m-mar de l-lagrimas... d-destrozada por... l-lo que ese c-carnicero t-te hizo..."


Butcher. That was a pretty accurate description. He wondered if it looked as bad as it felt. He could only hope not, slim a chance as it was. He’d like to have at least part of a face left. Edgar had to be pretty out of it, because he’d started speaking almost as much nonsense as usually ran through Spike’s head.

“¿Estaba llorando?” (She was crying?) He shook his head slightly. “No es posible, ella no lloran. Solo grita.” (That’s impossible, she doesn’t cry. Just yells.)

He did have some strange, fractured memories of her face, contorted in agony, abject terror. He’d attributed them to dreams, delirium from his own torment and mind-shattering fear. Claw didn’t cry. She just harped, screeched, said “I told you so” until he wanted to punch her in the face. Had punched her in the face, on more than one occasion. Not that she didn’t give back as good as he gave, but there was a sudden stab of regret for those petty fights. She’d come back for him. Now he just had to figure out where the hell she was so she could tell him what to do now.

But Edgar wasn’t finished. She’d left a message. Left, period.

Spike ran the words through his head over and over. Didn’t make sense. Must have misheard, somehow. After all, he’d just been griping at the floor, was definitely not thinking clearly. He blinked hard, struggling for clarity, but there was no other way to take it, unless Edgar was delirious, too.

“¿Ella…ha ido? No entiendo...ella siempre decirame quede cerca ... ¿por qué?” (She…left? I don’t understand…she always tells me to stay close…why?)

It didn’t make any sense. Then again, nothing made a lot of sense right now. Thinking had never been a strong point, and at the moment, his head was full of mud. That was going to have to be all right, Spike preferred action over thinking, anyway. Things tended to work out in the end. In fact, that’s what he’d been doing. Had to go find her. Probably getting herself in another heap of shit at that very moment.

Finally got tired of your shit, I guess, Slade told him matter-of-factly. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“No,” Spike mumbled, struggling to get himself up again. “Solo…solo fui a cubrir las pistas, es inteligente, no se iría...¿cierto?” (Only…only went to cover our tracks, she’s smart, she didn’t leave…right?)

¿Por qué se quedaría? (Why would she stay?) The smirk in Slade’s voice was impossible to mistake. No eres más que un problema. (You’re nothing but trouble.)

Hearing the ethereal voice speaking their native language somehow hurt more than usual. It was more real, cut deeper, tried to take him back to the last time he’d heard it in the corporeal sense. The memory wanted to overwhelm him, but no time for that, push it down, ignore his asshole brother.

He hadn’t asked for the intervention. Spike was fully aware he should have died instead.

“Necesito encontrarla.” (I need to find her.) He fought harder to get himself up, make his stupid unresponsive body do what the hell he told it to. He had to give up in short order, even as Edgar admonished him to stay still, to rest. It wasn’t just the pain, even if that was a pretty big part of it. He was just too weak. Like he’d sprinted for hours without rest, without food or water.

Quote:
 
”L-La conozco... n-no mucho... p-pero se que le importas tú.”


Slade laughed outright. Importes? No eres importes para nadie. (Important? You aren’t important to anyone.)

“Cállate, comemierda,” (Shut up, shiteater,) Spike snapped. “No tu,” he went on more quietly, had started to learn it was important to clarify when the jackass started tearing into him, “mi hermano era un pinche pendejo.” (Not you, my brother’s a fucking asshole.)

He had to think, but goddamn it, it was so difficult, he was so tired. The very effort was painful, making the pounding in his head worse. The ringing was increased in pitch again. Black and white static at the edges of his vision. Really ought to just go back to sleep. She’d be back, was just out doing…what?

Why would she leave?

Sabes que. Alejarse de ti. (You know why. Getting far away from you.)

Spike felt like throwing up again. Slade, annoying dickhole that he often was, also had the infuriating habit of being right in most unfortunate scenarios. Still, he wasn’t ready to believe it just yet. Edgar sounded fairly confident, though the underlying uncertainty in his tone was definitely not reassuring. That settled it. He’d rest later. Get up.

“No nesecito recupero, nesecito encontrarla.” (I don’t need rest, I need to find her.) He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but she couldn’t have gotten far. No matter how good Claw was at staying discreet, he’d track her down. “La necesito. Necesito decir ‘lo siento’.” (I need her. I need to say ‘I’m sorry’.)

Ignoring the young doctor’s admonishment, he got himself partway up, teeth grit, breathing heavily through his nose. Son of a bitch, he was in rough shape. A wash of dizziness, a fresh wave of nausea, but it didn’t matter. Throwing up would have to wait as well. Just breathe, don’t pass out, get up and find her.

A sound, unrelated to the pounding in his head. Heavy footsteps. Spike’s eyes went wide, and blind panic overtook everything else. Razorback. She’d found him. The butcher was back to finish the job, run, run! He leapt over the back of the sofa without thinking, found himself tangled in the blanket, which would have been a problem even if his legs were ready to hold him up. He hit the ground hard for the second time that morning, but the white-hot stabs of agony were nothing, nothing compared to more torture, that all-consuming fear that was tearing his mind in two, get up get away no more he couldn’t take it he didn’t want to die run run run!

“¡Pinche puta la madre de Dios!” (Incomprehensible swearing) He flailed against the constraints of the fabric, desperately trying to free himself. “La carnicera, Dios salvame, no mas, a los santos, ¡no mas!” (The butcher, God save me, no more, by the saints, no more!)
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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Funkifan
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The Cobras' Leader
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
After Spike stated that the grievous injuries were nothing, Edgar couldn't help but contort his mouth into a weak grimace. Certainly, he wasn't being serious right? He couldn't believe his patient receiving injuries like this was common. He had barely survived the cuts and the blood loss, there was no way that his body could sustain itself with this kind of punishment.

Perhaps he was just bluffing, trying to prevent the redhead from worrying too much. But the medic's preoccupation hadn't been eased in the slightest, in fact, to the contrary, the lack of food and the feeling of dread, of being unsure if he could nurse Spike back to health, was causing havoc on his stomach, as a knot formed on his insides.

But he wouldn't give up. That would never be an option on his mind. It was at this moment where the words of the Romani came back to him. "Do not shackle yourself with doubt."

No, of course not, he had to get past that. But how? He was still afraid, guilty. The words had remained lodged in his heart, yet he wasn't too sure of how to act. Would he find a way?

His ideas were interrupted as Spike spoke once more, shifting what little attention Edgar still possessed, as he still attempted to remain awake.

"Si... ella lloro." ("Yes, she cried.") The redhead couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the past statement. What was this that she didn't cry? She had seen her do it, twice. Perhaps Claw wasn't as sentimental as the doctor once thought.

"B-Bueno... también g-grito... y c-creo que casi se desmayó también..." ("W-Well... she s-screamed... and I t-think she almost fainted too...") The redhead took a deep breath, before continuing. "T-Te quiere mucho... l-lo sabes, ¿cierto?" ("S-She loves you a lot... y-you know it, ¿right?")

The dizziness returned. He hated feeling like that, unable to concentrate, to formulate thoughts and proper words. It was maddening, even, incapacitated to act; he felt useless when that happened. He gave a few grunts in frustration, closing his eyes.

It took him a moment to return to Spike, turning his head towards him, and a little longer to decipher what he had said, talking about Claw having left. In retrospective, it had been a bad idea to tell him, he figured out. Yet, he had the right to know. Still, another weight soon returned to being placed over his heart.

"S-Si... e-estoy seguro que r-regresara pronto..." ("Y-Yes... I-I'm sure she will be b-back soon...") Edgar tried to reassure him, moving even closer, as he noticed him trying to stand up, a weak hand shaking towards Spike, before being placed on Spike's shoulder, without much tact or care, not because he meant to, but rather, because his arm felt like jello.

"P-Por f-favor... t-te digo... q-que necesitas r-recuperarte..." ("P-Please... I-I'm telling you... y-you need to r-recover") The Hispanic's weak voice admonished Spike, trying to prevent himself from hurting him. Yet, he seemed intent on going out and finding Claw. Wasn't one who listened to reason, now Edgar was completely positive about that.

The sudden expletive in Spanish made the redhead frown, offended. He understood that he was scared, by the tone of his voice, and that was something they both shared, but he wasn't the one at fault for Claw going away. Or, was he? Algae bited his lip. Maybe, he could have prevented it, somehow.

His patient was quick to clarify that he was talking to his 'brother', a jerk, was the one he was speaking to. Edgar immediately gazed around the living room, trying to find the man, hoping that perhaps, he could help him reason with Spike. Yet, he found no one.

"H-Hello? S-Spike's... b-brother?" His tired eyes made one final sweep through the furniture and at the door, again, with the same result.

This left him positively puzzled, unable to fathom to whom was he talking to. Was he hidden? But how?

"¿O-Oye... d-donde esta t-tú... hermano?" ("H-Hey... w-where is y-your... brother?") The medic asked, as his sights returned towards Spike, noticing that he was about to completely stand up, a hand tried to reach him, as he quickly "¡NO! ¡Espera, e-espera!" ("NO! Wait, w-wait!)

Suddenly, however, instead of moving towards the door, Spike instead appeared to enter into an extremely distressed state, and he immediately vaulted towards the sofa, leaping over the back of the sofa, pulling the blanket that was covering him along, and blinding the redhead for a moment.

"W-What? ¿S-Spike? ¿Q-Que haces?" ("W-What? S-Spike? W-What are you doing?") The redhead heard the loud thud that he made as he landed on the wood, which followed an incomprehensible string of sentences that begged for mercy.

Almost immediately, Edgar followed, crawling with difficulty over the edge of the sofa, before rolling off the furniture, and crashing alongside Spike. The fall made him wince and grunt loudly in pain, yet it was just a momentary distraction as he soon began to crawl towards Spike, attempting to reach him.

"¡E-E-Espera! ¡T-Tranquilo, tranquilo!" ("W-W-Wait! C-Calm down, calm down!") Him talking about the Butcher was quick to give him a chill running down his spine. Wide-eyed, he began to look around for the danger that was incoming and continued to try to reach Spike.

"¡Silencio! ¡Si la oíste, entonces que no nos oíga! Shh! Sh!" ("Quiet! If you heard her, then let's keep her from hearing us! Shh! Sh!") The Hispanic attempted to grab Spike's arm, unsure of how to do to calm him down. Beads of sweat were beginning to drop from his brow, as he couldn't locate or hear the one Spike spoke about.

A scream followed, from upstairs, and he froze. He closed his eyes, fearful. How could she be upstairs? That meant that not only the two were in danger. But his friends too, and that was crossing the line. If he could stop it, then he would. But he had to get his weapon.

Another scream. This time, he could identify his name, and he stopped, as he reached into his pocket. That was no butcher, that voice didn't belong to one. Couldn't be, he knew the owner.

Heavy footsteps came rushing downstairs, and a woman, carrying a mean-looking, double-barreled shotgun, partially covered in bubblegum, appeared from above. Her eyes were obscured by frizzy, orange curly hair, an angry scowl, however, present in her mouth. She was easily taller than either Spike or Edgar, seemed also stronger than the two combined. Her attire consisted of a set of blue overalls, that seemed somewhat short for her, large, dirt-caked brown boots, and a red flannel shirt, that was beginning to show signs of wear and tear.

She examined the area, before screaming again. "EDGAR?! WERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" There was apparently something that kept her from noticing either Spike or Edgar, as her face instead changed into one of worry.

"Tranquilo... t-tranquilo... es... es... mi amiga. Shh... no pasa nada..." ("Calm down... calm down... she's my friend. Shh... its okay...") Taking a deep breath, the redhead winced as he pulled himself up, waving his hand as high as he could, trying to get the attention of the woman, which almost immediately, turned her head around and moved closer, her shotgun aimed towards them.

"C-Clara! ¡Para! ¡B-Baja eso! Err... Stop! L-Lower that down!" The redhead could only mutter, which didn't seem to deter the woman. Probably she hadn't heard him.

"C-Clara!" The redhead cried out, with all his remaining willpower, before crashing into the floorboards, the whole ordeal only having exhausting him more.

"Don't fuckin' move, you two... w-wait, Edgar?" She stopped, barely inches from the drug-addict, and immediately lowered her shotgun. "What the heck? Why the fuck are you on the floor? Is this..." A six-fingered hand moved over her brow, parting the hair aside, and revealing two large, aquamarine eyes, and a furrowed brow.

"Ugh... C-Clara... I... t-this is Spike, he's... he's injured... I had to give him some blood... t-that's why we're here.. he's scared... please... put your s-shotgun away..." The medic spoke before Clara could aim once more at Spike, fearing that she thought he was a thief, or something worse.

The woman nodded, as she crouched down, placing the shotgun on the ground, although she seemed to be incredibly confused and bewildered.
Edgar Algae -HC-

SPECIAL: 3-5-7-8-6-7-4

Level: 4

Edgar is a tall, attractive man, with red bright hair, green eyes, and tan skin, due to his Hispanic heritage. He currently wears a yellow t-shirt, with cargo shorts, a Leather Jacket (Tier 2, Good CON, plus on intimidation checks). Attached to his left wrist, he possesses an Automedical Assistant. On his back, he carries an XL Rucksack, that contains several items of his', like a Medical armored Suitcase, filled with all sorts of medical equipment. His weapon of choice is the Study Group Special, a modified mini-zapper.

He is Good Natured, Spongey, and has Sex Appeal (For the girls)


+120 BT Reputation; +90 Nawlins Reputation
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azstarael
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"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
All Spike could do was lay on the floor, panting for every labored breath, and stare wide-eyed at the massive woman with the equally massive shotgun in her hands. She wasn’t as big as Razorback, she was bigger, with a shock of orange hair and vibrantly blue eyes.

“The fuck?” he pleaded of no one, the wind knocked out of him, a few trickles of blood running down his face where fresh scabs had broken open. Glaring at Edgar as though all this were somehow his fault, he pointed accusatorally at Clara, getting laboriously onto one elbow.

“Can’t just fuckin’…thought you…Jesus bleeding Christ, pinche puto bastardo a la bruja madre!” Shaking heavily, the bony finger moved to just in front of Edgar’s face. “Too big,” he told the medic groggily, eyes dazed and unfocused as he kept pointing between the two of them. “Not fair, too goddamn big.

The floor jumped at him for the third time that morning. Spike didn’t have far to fall this time, a very small blessing in the grand scheme of things, but not unappreciated. He lay on the floor despondently, willing his heart to quit trying to break through his ribcage.

He’d been doing something. Something important.

“Don’ remember,” he slurred at the floorboards. “No m’siento bien. (I don’t feel good.) Where’s my stash, man, I was gonna…just gotta…” The edges of his vision were going dark. Spike took a slow, deep breath. It didn’t help. “You.” He managed to focus on Clara just long enough to make eye contact. “Seen a short angry chick around? Tryin’ find-”

He was falling again, all the sound around him fading to a low, static hum. His vision refused to come back. He was pretty sure he’d just retched up nothing, his face hurt, it was still hard to breathe around the fear squeezing his chest. The darkness swept over him, no chance of fighting it.

“Don’t touch my stuff,” Spike heard himself mumble through the fog. His injuries and the pain associated with them became unimportant as his battered frame screamed for rest, and all he could do was huff out one last indignant “too big” before he was out cold again.
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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