exsiliumlogs | [Hella backdated] "We don't go there anymore."

Entry tags:

[Hella backdated] "We don't go there anymore."

Date & Time: During the zombie apocalypse
Location: Apt 303, City Streets
Characters: Gordon, Blaine, Samus, Anyone else looking to fight some zombies.
Summary: A lot of talking and then zombies are killed. The end.
Warnings: Violence, gore, angst, hazard suits in silly colors.

[Action, Room 303, locked to Blaine and Chloe]

The smell of rotten flesh was a distinct one, not easy to forget. Gordon had been trying to forget it all over again since he'd heard about the contagion. It seems like just yesterday he'd found himself in a very similar situation about a half-mile under the New Mexico desert. Even sooner he was stuck in a small town in the middle of nowhere completely blotted out by zombies. He'd watched his fellow scientists writhe and howl as their chest cavities forcibly ripped themselves open by the unnatural contortions of their own muscle tissue. Giving up on going home implied that he'd never had to deal with that again... At least he thought. It seems he was wrong.

The victims were curable if they were reached in time, he knew this, but most of them were too far gone by now. They needed firepower, not research. Gordon knew this, and yet he found himself in the Lab more than ever.

Goddammit. He just didn't want to do it all over again, that's all! The pain, screaming, crunching of bone and the splatter of blood and ichor against stained concrete. He could live without any more of that shit, thanks. He's not a coward, but... he's already been to Ravenholm once. Once was enough for any man.

Up in the apartment, he runs a hand over his face and turns away from the window.

[Action, later, City Streets, open]

The zombies are everywhere. Most of the citizens have all vacated for their own safety, leaving volunteers to keep the streets safe.

Either that or they've already been turned.

Will you fight them?

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Zombies, while not anything new to Samus, weren't common fare. Space bred all sorts of strange things, and Exsilium seemed to be no exception as these cute-creatures-turned-monsters showcased.

She wasn't sure what constituted more of a monster here, however; the things running around with violent and reckless abandon or the person shooting them down, knowing that these monsters were once creatures, and some of them were once Transports with names and faces. Even if there was a chance they could be saved, that wasn't always an option in every circumstance. Some of these zombies were too violent to simply subdue, too dangerous to simply restrain, lest they risk the lives of those still alive and uninfected. There was no other option.

It would be a lie to say Samus didn't feel some distant pang of remorse for every one she destroyed, for every one her arm cannon tore through and for every one who's decaying body hit the ground still hissing and squirming, but for all the things she's done and endured in her life as a bounty hunter and soldier... this was just another part of the job. There simply wasn't room for remorse on the battlefield.

Her orange suit of armor had a nice paint of red and green and who knew what else coating it at this point.

Had Gordon actually heard her say this to him, he would have been on the battlefield hours ago.

As it is, one of the encroaching monsters recoils next to her, the rotten cephalic stump of a head lurching backwards before the rest of it. There's the familiar sound of a shotgun cocking itself behind her.

"Sorry I'm late."

NO SHE FIGHTS ALONE AND DOES EVERYTHING ALONE SHE IS A LONE WOLF. Except in instances where she is joined by others, and Gordon has already proven himself to be a reliable battle partner.

"Gordon."

Shotguns always did sound best when making an entrance.

"Better late than never." A motto she's sometimes adopted for herself. If he's got a shotgun, she's going to step out of the range of its spray, but not without giving the zombie he was aiming at a quick debilitating shot to the leg.

~~HEY KILL-STEALER~~ okay no he's grateful for the help. He unloads a round of shot into the lame zombie, dispatching it quickly and messily. Sure he has other weapons at his disposal, but there's really no better weapon for splattering zombies than a low-tech shotgun.

He covers her, back to back and blasting shamblers wherever they pop up. When the immediate vicinity is clear, he reaches back and swaps out for a rifle instead.

"How many'd you get so far?!" He calls back over his shoulder.

"Lost count a while ago." She replies, in all honesty. Some zombie guts find their way splattered onto her armor, and she doesn't seem to notice or care--certainly not among the rest of the zombie splatters covering her armor.

"You?"

Rat-tatta-rattatat!

"...Same here. Lost count somewhere in the fifties!"

All those times people joked about getting ready for the zombie apocalypse... Every couple of years it'd pop up, and he found himself remembering the tongue-in-cheek service announcements and infographics people had made about it. They were funny then, and even now his lips would curl into a wry smile at a particularly horrible one that would fleetingly move through his mind. This wasn't a joke though. What was it about this place and shit hitting the fan? It was like someone had a big pot of spaghetti made of different horrendous things and they were flinging it at the wall -Exsilium in this case- and seeing what the fuck stuck.

Blaine sat in the kitchen and sipped from his mug. Gordon looked like he was having some horrible moral dilemma and the blonde could only guess what it was. The blonde was curious about all the shit that was happening outside, but he couldn't say that staying locked up inside the apartment was the safest bet. Might just mean you got to die last. "Do you want me to put a stool by the window? It'll be easier to sit, unless you like to pace."

His question, no matter how easy it was to be taken as sarcasm, was said in all seriousness. Even if he said it right before taking another sip of tea.

"Blaine--"

The word is charged with plenty of NOT NOW DAMMIT, but he quickly quashes it with a sigh.

"No, I'd rather pace. Least it feels like I'm accomplishing something that way."

Ahhh, yes. That tone of voice was so familiar to him. He didn't even have to strive to get it, which was just as well since it amused him. Most things did, really.

"Thinking about going out?" Stood to reason he might. Feeling impotent sucked.

It does. Gordon glances out the window at a minuscule shambler several floors below on the streets.

"...Yeah. You know, I should've known better. I honestly thought I could go back to the lab, forget all about what happened back home.... But hell, I know what I was sent here to do, and I'm a damn coward for not facing it. Still... the illusion was nice while it lasted."

Blaine didn't feel impotent. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to trust other people handling the situation or if he wanted to go out and do some clean up himself. 'Problem Solver' wasn't just some see-through job title for a hitman. Guns just so happen to solve lots of problems.

"What happened?" he asked, setting down his cup and watching the other man peering out the window yet again. The moans could be heard even across the room, and even he had to admit it was a bit unsettling.

"I ever tell you what happened back home?"

...no, he probably hasn't.

"We had this experiment go wrong. Really wrong. 'Tore a hole in the fabric of spacetime,' wrong. And we had no idea that there were things there that would come through... First were these small quadrupedal bastards with gaping holes in their undersides. They were soft, slow, kind of creepy but easy to kill, didn't seem to be a problem until we realized it was just the right size and shape for a human head... Turned out part of their life cycle was to take over a host body, cause it to split itself open at the seams, turn it into something it could use. I have no idea what their prey was before they came to Earth, but the science team turned out to be an effective surrogate."

Blaine listened to this, his eyebrows furrowing just a little. There was a part of him that thought Gordon had been drinking, but who was he to doubt it? Especially considering there were damn zombies outside of their apartment right then. It was like Alien's face grabbers. Except it wasn't a movie, for Gordon. That was shit, and he said so, even if it was the understatement of the year.

"That's some freaky shit. I'm guessing that they weren't the only things that came through? Or did their babies turn into something worse?" This was totally like a scifi movie.

"We found out later that there were variants. Morphs, I suppose. Some built for speed, some carrying neurotoxin... And no, they weren't the only things that came through. There were other creatures, an entire legion who eventually would use these 'headcrabs' as biological weapons."

"I had the pleasure of going through a mining town that happened to be in the way of that faction." He runs a hand through his scruff of hair with a distracted noise. "You don't know what hell is, until you've seen a place like that..."

Headcrabs. Yep, he came from the world of the Aliens movies or something. Poor bastard. At least when Blaine was in a fire fight, he knew that something wasn't going to come flying at his face and plant eggs in his neck. His mouth flattened a bit at the idea and then he took a deep breath before taking another calming sip from his cup.

He was perfectly happy not knowing that kind of hell, thanks. "So this reminds you of that? And you're thinking about going out there anyway, huh?"

"Someone has to."

Someone has to fight. Someone has to keep the others safe. Someone has to go out there.

"Why should it be you?" He asks this seriously. Just because someone has to doesn't mean it should be you. Especially if you have no idea what you're doing. Gordon had survived once, but he might not be so lucky the next time. Blaine was itching to go out as well, but he had tempered his urges to think about it more. Being a zombie sucked, and even if he would come back to life that didn't mean he was going to throw himself out there for shits and giggles.

"Because no one else is going to do it. You know it, I know it. And I've got experience blowing the everloving shit out of these things."

He hesitates a moment then disappears into his room, returning with... is that a shotgun?

"Thing is, I'm going to have to make it to the Lab to get my suit."

Blaine laughed a little. "We have super powered people and you're saying they won't do anything?" He finishes off his cup while Gordon steels himself and then goes to his room. The blonde gets up, puts his cup in the sink and fills it with water before Gordon comes back.

"You've got one shotgun? Jesus, Gordon. You're making me come and watch after your ass." Well, not really. No one can make Blaine do anything, but he strolls back to his room and comes back out with a sawed-off shot gun, a semi-auto pistol, and a few boxes of rounds. Nevermind the gun that's still hidden under his jacket.

He quirks an eyebrow at the small armory Blaine has just produced.

"I'm assuming they won't and hoping I'm wrong... Where the hell did you get all this?"

He sounds genuinely curious, and a little surprised.

There's more in his room, but there's only so much you can carry. The rifle is too cumbersome to bring when they were going to be on the move, so large caliber handguns were the way to go. "The Initiative stock, of course." They probably knew he had it, too, but they'd have to come tear it away from him if they wanted it back.

"I know I'm not the only one who keeps a gun or two," or five or six, "handy just in case shit goes down. As it has gone down many times since I've been here. Bombs. Monsters. Now zombies."

"I see."

Unspoken: But there's still something you're not telling me, is there?

Blaine just grinned at him. The unspoken question totally ignored. "Pick your weapon."

...

He hefts a .44 revolver and holster and slings it over his shoulder. Shotgun, handheld canon, and crowbar. Should cover all the bases.

"...thanks. I figure I owe you ammo and a beer for this, at least."

"I'll hold you to that," he said, flashing a canine briefly before he got a holster to strap around his waist to hold the shotgun and some of the shells. They'd be ready at a moments notice for a reload while he piled the shells into a pouch on the other side in an orderly manner so he could just reach in, pull out two and reload with ease. "Suit up, Freeman. Time to go zombie hunting."

He's not excited. Not at all.

He wasn't yet confident enough with his accuracy with the gun he had taken up for training, certainly not on the streets where anyone could be shot should he miss. No, the type of fighting he found himself engaged in now was as familiar to him as walking. His daggers and armor were filthy with congealed blood and the scent of death, and still the hordes kept coming.

At least it wasn't too difficult to tell friend from foe. The living fighting the dead moved much faster and seemed to attract clumps of enemies. He saw one such grouping closing in on a lone figure and moved in to help. As gunshots had rung out constantly in the streets, he called out, "I'm here to aid! Fire if you must, but not in my direction!"

Three of the zombies turned at the sound of his voice, and he had no more time to see whether he had been heard or heeded. He dove forward coming in low between two of them and slashing to the side, slicing tendons along the way.

"Duncan!"

That lone figure turns out to not be so helpless after all. To keep from hitting the Grey Warden, he stows his shotgun completely in favor of his own revolver and a crowbar. The same one he'd trained with before.

"Good god, am I glad to see you!" BLAMM! The revolver fires into the skull of the nearest zombie with a splatter of impact and yellow goo.

"Likewise," he says, wincing at the retort of the weapon more than the gore. He has seen more than his share of that in his life. "How long have you been out here?"

He spins to the side, stabbing one long dagger in a backward jab to pin and continuing the movement with a forward slash to lop the head from the nearest foe. The fall of the body slides it free of his weapon.

"Long enough to get my ass into this situation--" He growls, bashing a zombie over the head hook first and yanking it to the ground by its cranium. AND STAY DOWN.

"I don't know if they're all congregating here or if there's just that many of them!"

"I've been across several blocks and down several streets. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there are that many of them, more all the time. Is there somewhere you're trying to go? Two have a better chance on these streets than--" He cuts off and ducks down, a leg sweeping out to kick an attacker from its feet. He's on it to hack free the head before it can orient itself.

"Than one." He stands, taking a position where they can better watch one another's backs.

"The hospital on the far side of town!" He fires again. "Or at least, what's left of it when I get there. We sent someone with a test treatment, but they never came back."

The far side of town. Of course it would be. No one ever needed to get two doors down. He keeps his wry observations to himself. "Let's hope it's not overrun. The clinic was intact last I checked."

It seems as though he intends to accompany him, for he makes no move to step away or propose some other closer destination. "Do your best to stay away from the walls. There are also smaller infected creatures." He had learned that one the hard way.

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[Hella backdated] "We don't go there anymore."

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/aww yeah late as hell

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