albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

Okay, when I said 'have a plan ready' for getting us out of here, I was kind of hoping it wasn't one that involved, you know, being completely insane?? Because this-- this right here? Literally the definition of!! [It's hissed from behind the cover of a slag barrel, Rhys tucked down behind the rim, well out of sight of the congregating nest of bandits. And sure, he's not really afraid of taking on, say, 1/4 of these guys if they were standing between him and freedom, but if there's a single one out sick from the pack, he can't see it.]

We don't actually need the truck - let's just leave while they're distracted.

Maybe you should've thought of that before you decided to break in your fancy corporate shoes down here.

[A polished (but dusty) hand claps the organic shoulder beside her.

So yeah, Fiona clearly is not listening to Rhys' whining. She's more focused on counting the packs of bandits, and keeping an eye out for the psychos she knows are lurking somewhere around them.]

We need the truck, unless your idea of a good time is getting chased down by a bunch of hungry bandits highly trained in the art of stabbing the daylights out of you, who may or may not also feed you to the rest of their little pack before you've bled out.

[Silver eyes briefly flick over toward her compadre, the barest of satisfied "I know better than you" smirks gracing her lips.]

Sound good?

Edited 2015-01-24 07:55 (UTC)

Maybe if the alternative wasn't a death sandwich filled with death. We go now, we find Sasha and Vaughn, and we walk to the next town. [Rhys' shoulder buckles irritably in her grip, eyes cutting a fussy little line over towards his partner in...well, not-really-crime. Desert-schmesert, at this point he's willing to bet it can't be anything worse than this.] That's my vote and I'm sticking to it.

Well, your vote is over-ruled because your vote is suicidal and stupid. We're getting the truck, or you can go off wherever it is you think you're going so I can get the truck by myself with you as the distraction.

[Boy, a gun would be useful right about now. But Rhys trying to walk off right now would actually work partially in her favor, but it would also mean she would be stuck trying to find Sasha by herself. It would take twice as long...

But she might feel just a little better. Maybe if it were a few days ago, and if they hadn't gotten so far together already.]

I think we both know which option works in your favor. Can't say the alternative wouldn't save me a headache or ten, though.

Oh ha ha, very funny. [Translation: not funny. Not funny at all.

But humor (or lackthereof) aside, this is probably the point where watching for an opportune moment should be high on the list of priorities. Rhys knows it - he hopes Fiona knows it - but there's an itch just under his skin that he can't seem to ignore, and it means that his attention swivels back around to her yet again, the port at his temple set flush against the barrel beside him.] All I'm saying is this whole time I've had perfectly valid plans, and I'm getting a little tired of you guys ignoring them.

Stop talking.

[To make her point, she flicks her gaze down at him briefly before sitting up on her knee to get a better look over their cover. She's figured out what little pattern there is to their movements, and the psychos are still nowhere in sight.

That could be a blessing in disguise, or put them in real trouble.]

Next time those big ones move, we go left and hope there isn't a gaggle of psychos there to meet us.

[Well if she meant to spark another bout of offended prickling, she certainly succeeded: Rhys opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.]

Did you seriously just use the term 'psychos' as a form of classification?

[This time, she slaps her hand over his mouth without even looking at him. In fact, she is so fed up with Rhys' antics that she is almost visibly bristling, and her tone (while still quiet), gets serious.]

Let me ask you something. Are you attached to living? Because if the answer is yes, I suggest you hold all questions and move your shiny privileged be-hind when and where I tell you to move it.

[Her voice dips to a hiss and she turns just enough to look at him sternly before pushing him out to the left the second the opening she was waiting for comes.

But she doesn't leave him to his own devices. She just waits to make sure she didn't make a timing error before slinking after him as quickly as she's able, hurrying him to their next cover area just a few paces away from their actual destination.]

[He almost yelps-- once in offense when her hand claps over his mouth and again when he's shoved forward out of cover-- but neither overrides his sense of self-preservation, and when he's thrown out to his knees, Rhys scrabbles his way up into an awkward, half-tilted run: caught between slinking on his belly and making a complete break for the truck parked just behind the shack just in front.

And hey, it works. They peel out away from the main crowd, round towards the driver's side door--

and Rhys nearly rams straight into the lumbering brute shuffling right in front of escape plan A.] Oh shit--

[Skagskin shoes skid to a halt, Rhys latches onto the truck's grimy taillight and yanks himself back around into the bed.] Don't go that way, don't go that way, stop stop stop--

[Fiona has a little more grace than that -- when she sees him launch himself into the bed, she immediately ducks and clings to the back end of the pickup. Well, that plan was out...but there was still at least one other way in.

Peeking out now would risk them getting discovered, but if she could get to the passenger seat...

There's no communication other than a brief glance upward before she heads for the other door, thankfully clear, but also half out in the open. She'd need to work quick. Popping the door isn't hard.

But crawling under the windows in order to hotwire the damn thing was another thing entirely. She can see the oaf on watch just a few feet away from her outside the vehicle, but if she could just start it...she could drive off with Rhys secure in the bed of the truck.]

[And, almost as if on cue, Rhys carefully cracks open one of the bed windows to slink his torso just down in over the front seat. There's a tiny creak of protest from the latch, but it's covered by the commotion where they'd been just half a minute prior, and his hand reaches down to swat at Fiona's shoulder from where he's perched.]

Hey. Move over.

[She startles at the sound of the window creaking, thinking someone had somehow slipped passed Rhys and was now looking for her--

But no, its just tall, metal and scrawny himself trying to get them both killed. Her silver eyes are still wide with horror. Her voice is but air, most of the words simply forming at her lips rather than being uttered.

They were surrounded. There was a brute over her other shoulder somewhere.]

Get down! Are you insane?!

No more than you right now - move: I'll hack the central console. [His cybernetic hand nudges yet again, harder this time with every intention of pushing her back down away from the wheel where a shoddy, half-welded screen sits limply on one side. Sure, he could let her hotwire the car and get them out of here without a hitch, but after a chorus of 'you're useless just stay put and don't touch anything, Rhys', he's feeling somewhat pissy.

And dismissed.]

Go on. Shoo.

Hey, I'm workin' here--back off--watch it!

[He's climbing in before she could even move if she wanted to (she doesn't), so she ends up jammed somewhere between the steering wheel, the floor, and--

BEEEEEEEEEEEEP

Fiona is shoved nicely straight into the steering wheel when Rhys finally manages to break through the window and into the truck, causing her to freeze like a deer in the headlights and go completely white.

Her lips thin shortly after. She can hear the silence settle in all around them when he finally lets up enough for her to lift her head off the horn.]

I take it back. You're not just insane. You're certifiable, and in need of a warning label.

[Welp. That does it. They're dead. They're officially all dead.

For a moment (the same precise moment that Fiona does, to be exact) he's frozen in fear, fingers still latched onto her shoulder while the other, less metallic ones grip the window frame for dear life. Part of him wonders if maybe they'll somehow take it as some weird, Pandoran greeting--

the rest of him, however, wonders if he'll manage to bleed out before they start tearing him limb from limb.] --I told you, I told you to let me do it!!

[Which is all he hisses as the bruiser slowly rounds his way towards the driver's side door, Rhys' fingers slamming out a quick hardware rewrite in the slowly burning seconds.] Just keep them out while I finish this!

Ugh, you're the most impossible creature on this planet at this moment!

[She doesn't have much choice but to let him continue. She is no weapon, so she promptly starts digging behind seats, under cushions until she finally pulls up an empty SMG. It wasn't much, but it would give her something to swing with if they didn't buy her act.

Now its her turn to shove Rhys down so she can close the window he came in and instead stick her head out to meet the bruiser coming toward them. She puts on her best bandit accent.]

What're you lookin' at, lughead? Ain't y'all supposed to be watchin' my ass while I tune up this here hunk'a junk?

[The bruiser pauses and scratches his head, taking one step backward, then two, before looking off into the distance as if he is expecting to see danger (or perhaps for someone to point him toward the punchline)]

[Well it works, strangely enough. Or maybe not so strangely, given that the brute can barely think beyond the counting of his own toes. For a moment he's still, slack-jawed, eyes only barely focused, but eventually the smaller words seem to sink in: one foot scooting backwards in the slow exchange of massive weight.

Which is before Rhys finishes unlocking the system with a quiet little 'yes!!' of success, turning eagerly to bat at the edge of Fiona's coat.] Fiona I got it - hurry up and let's get the hell out of here!

[Her eyes flick down toward him very briefly, looking wholly unimpressed before a light smirk of approval graces her expression (its hard not to grin at his excitement -- like a tame skag pup). That's about the point the other bandits start shouting at the confused brute to turn the hell around.

She sets aside the unloaded SMG and shifts her weight to let him up.]

Scoot over, Hyperion. I'm driving.

[This time there's no argument - possibly owing to that barely-there gesture of approval on her part: Rhys slides over in a hasty retreat, squeezing himself against the door frame and pawing around for a buckle or a sash or even some old rope set up as a makeshift seatbelt.

Leave it to this crowd to decide that notion's completely overrated.]

Here's hoping you drive better than you st-- [And that's the only mild bit of criticism Rhys manages to let out before a shotgun blast kicks in the passenger's side window, prompting one very unattractive shriek before he's melting down against the cushions to try and obscure himself from whoever's taking potshots with a surprising amount of efficiency.]

Never mind, I take it back I don't care just hit the gas pedal--!!

[Fiona subconsciously reaches over to shove Rhys down to the seat the second she sees a gun raise in the rear view mirror (she can almost hear a disapproving tenor accent reminding her that her life is more important). She manages to duck most of the spray herself, but not before a shard of glass slices just above her eye, forcing her to blink blood away.]

Son of a--!

[Whatever she says after that is drowned out by the squeal of tires against sandstone as her foot comes down hard on the gas pedal.

They aren't equipped to give chase quickly. The pair has a decent head start.]

Crap, crap, crap-- [High-pitched and panicked under the cover of his own hands as he curls down protectively where he's pressed. No friggin' restraints, no braces against the jolting rattle of the bandit technical as it rolls and jumps its way out to freedom. Relative freedom, anyway. Rhys feels like his brain's going to rattle out of its skull and into a shard of glass before they're in the clear, but at this point it's preferable to the opposite.

And once they've peeled out into the dusky openness of the Dust, a case of ammo skids out from its hiding place under the seat to nest against his boot; he's not thinking when he grabs hold of it and makes a few fumbling attempts to load it into the chamber of Fiona's abandoned SMG. Thinking even less when he turns to aim out the broken back windows at the nearest truck that's rapidly closing in.]

Keep it steady!

[Theres no smart added quip in return this time. What started as a headache has quickly grown sharp and dizzying, and it takes every ounce of her willpower to follow through on his request.

She pulls out onto the well traveled path and keeps them as straight as she can.]

If you miss, we're probably dead. No pressure.

Oh good because I've-- [One bump in the road rolls him hard into the frame, but it's his right side, and metal meets splintered glass instead of skin which is a blessing Rhys doesn't have time to count, fingers wound tight around the stock and trigger; god, he hopes this works.] never actually fired one of these before.

[And before she has time to panic and/or rethink their current strategy, he yanks hard on the trigger, knocking a solid spattering of fire up along the left side of the hood of their pursuing compadres and sending the body of the SMG itself right up into his own jaw on the recoil.

Beauty and grace.]

[Fiona barely holds onto the wheel when the other truck hits the gas and rams against them after Rhys has already fired.]

Better learn faster! Hold onto something.

[The warning doesn't give much in the way of preparation. The next time they go in for a ram, she pulls hard on the wheel and sends them skidding sideways. Their back end thankfully fishtails straight into a rock to keep them from flipping over, but it knocks the wind straight from her lungs.

The tactic works, leaving the driver of the other buggy attempting to do the same, which causes them to roll straight down the side of the canyon, wedging them against the wall.]

[His reflexes are sharp by average standards, but her warning leaves him with only one hand clamped down on the frame when she steers them sideways; Rhys slams into the passenger's side door, impact knocking the SMG from his hand and sending it clattering into the bed of the truck instead.

On the one hand: it's not lost in the desert behind them, and on the other-- well, here's hoping that's the only truck that decided to follow them.]

That-- wasn't so bad. Right? [A good two shades paler and still half-plastered to the door where he'd landed.]

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