Entry Post!

[dead_comrade]

His entrance was painful even by sudden teleportation standards. One moment, there was a cool post-apocalyptic evening. The next, there was a flare of heat and fire, and a man flying backwards from about a story off the street. He landed heavily on his back, where he stayed, his arm a white-orange spray of chitin and bone lying over the ground

Comments

[harth_fray]

"You've lost your way," a voice says, "But not 'it', I assure you."

Or so says the boy perched on htat building over there, wearing a leather jacket and a necklace of fingerbones. A strange looking zapgun on his hip.

Hee springs-- and lands after the two-story drop on his feet. He rises from his crouch, and then begins to walk over. "You're a strapping rutter, aren't you? You'll do."

[dead_comrade]

There's a barely imperceptible twitch. It's not the fingers, although he recognises those as probably not animal. It's not the maltreatment of physics. He's just as bad on a usual day. It's the fact that he's just deduced he's facing a very young bioweapon.

His face isn't usually expressive, largely because the scarring has his lip twisted into a permanent sneer. On average, it shows boredom, hatred, bloodlust, sneering, pain, and the occasional thousand-yard stare. Right now, he mostly looks confused. The accent's unfamiliar. "Rutting" is. . . an odd word choice.

"Think you're doing a remake of 'Deliverance?'" He's in bad shape, and he knows it. He's not healing fast, his plaga's sending messages that it wants to stay where it is, and his chest and arm is still hurting him. Not to mention the extensive second-degree burns. But he can handle a lone juvenile BOW. He circles a bit to keep his distance. "Who altered you? Umbrella?"

[harth_fray]

"Umb-- What toy are you spinning?" Harth rolls his eyes. "Clue: You're not in Kansas, anymore, Dorothy."

He stands there, smiling -- all of 100 pounds soaking wet, maybe, and skinny limbs and big blue eyes behind broken, cokebottle glasses. If they engineered him, they certainly picked the least suspicous subject ever to make into a bioweapon.

[dead_comrade]

That's kind of how they do things. They have this really odd sense of humor. They go, "man-eating newts! Good idea!" Anyway, Krauser's not seeing what most people see; he's seeing a small, armed human with very high structural integrity. The smile's lost on him. The big blue eyes just don't register. Red or yellow would, mind.

That tip of his head at the eyeroll was in no way comprehension. It was more to try to shake off the sudden ringing in his ears as hearing came completely back.

"Oh, this isn't where I started out." He's only wearing one glove, on his burned right hand, and that's the hand that flexes now, testing his range of motion. He's going to have a bad grip on the knife. "Same language, though. Same movies." He wanders a little closer, because the juvenile's standing near a broken wall he might want to get behind soon. He does not like the look of that gun. "So you tell me. What do the natives want?"

[there_is_a_me]

Spoon's on patrol, on bicycle as usual. He's got his bow slung over his back, the quiver mounted on the weapon itself as is common with compounds; his other weapons are in their usual places. The lantern's lit a little more brightly than usual, the sticks inside glowing a heat-enhanced blue. It's been one of those weeks, really.

And the sound of a flashbang grenade going off is just another element in that. Because the last time he heard that sound? There were werewolves involved.

He dismounts from the bike and removes the improvised pneumatic rifle from where he'd attached it, just under the cross-bar. Only once he's sure it's loaded and ready to go does he start in the direction of the explosion.

[dead_comrade]

One of those weeks? Krauser envies his chance to stretch it all out. Maybe this day wouldn't have been so bad in small doses. . . Naw.

He's coming down the street as fast as he can, near a wall, keeping his profile small. He'd be moving with more of his usual stealth, but he's just about done. He notes the bicycle first, sees the figure, and only when he sees a bow does he stop. Not a civilian.

He just stays where he is, gulping air, noting nearby cover, and just holding his knife in one hand. The man's approaching carefully. Krauser's considering throwing the knife as he makes out the shape of the rifle--

And then he sees the uniform. Lone man, British foot soldier. The last time he saw British army was when he was helping train them against BOWs. He closes his eyes against the memory and shakes off the nagging feeling that he needs to start yelling "get back to your unit, soldier!" (Although his version of the command would be twice as long to fit all the adjectives

[there_is_a_me]

There's enough light to catch the human outline by. Spoon resettles his grip on the pneumatic rifle.

"Oi! You there!" he calls, standing exactly where he is. "Identify y'self!"

Not the most diplomatic lad in the world, our Spoon, but he's learned enough to keep the first impressinos short and simple.

[dead_comrade]

He's already given a first impression. After all, he's got the light source. The gear, the way the bow's strapped on, the way he's holding the rifle all put themselves together.

"Jack Krauser."

That last whatever-the-hell creature was littler. Lighter. And that didn't mean it wasn't fast enough to bite him and strong enough to damn near knock him down in one hit. He's got no gun. The arm's going to kill him if he tries it again this soon. That leaves the knife.

"You, soldier?"

The rage has faded. The hate hasn't. The adrenaline has. He's going to have to get in very close before he can do any good with the knife. And he's going to get stopped at the edge of the light.

. . . Screw "stopped." He's going to be lucky if he isn't shot as soon as the man gets a good look at him.