albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

[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.]

[There's no verbal answer right away, as she's still trying to catch her breath and clear her eye of red. Fiona simply struggles to the back window to climb out, as the driver's side door is stuck flat against the rock they had slammed into. She's headed for the SMG.

Nobody else had followed. They would be harder to trace on foot if they left the truck now.]

For as bad as things [cough] usually go, no. Come [cough] on. They can't [cough] be far.

[Which wasn't exactly true. They could be anywhere by now. But she has a splitting headache and a piece of glass lodged into her skull. They needed to find somewhere to settle down for a few minutes -- away from bandit hell.]

Hey hey-- woah, hold up a second. [His hand is there in front of her-- the fleshy, non-cybernetic one, anyway, acting as a barrier against any attempts to escape and/or free them from their current, firmly stuck position. Once he's certain she's not about to either a: break that arm or b: throw him out of the way, it moves up (carefully) to try and nudge her cheek over towards him.]

Let me see.

[There's a brief pause, like she thinks he might be pointing out something she doesn't already know about, until she remembers that...she has a piece of glass sticking out of her face. That's obviously what he's talking about.

The surprise is brief enough that he gets her to turn her cheek as requested, but her chin jerks from his hand shortly after and she waves him off once realization sets in.]

I'll be fine, its just a scratch. We can't stay here.

Yeah? Well you're not gonna last too long out there with that glass shard sticking out of the side of your head. [Which is all of one parts mild scolding to two parts fairly genuine concern: even as she jerks away his brow creases in frustration, prompting him to lean in just a touch more with his fingertips angled strategically for the spot just beneath her temple.]

Two seconds and we'll be done. Cross my heart.

I'm not looking to walk five hundred miles with a piece of glass sticking out of my face, just far enough so we don't get tripped on by a bandit pack. I think that's pretty reasonable.

[This time, his hand gets slapped, and she walks a little faster. Maybe she can urge him on to higher ground if she leads him with her injury, though she doesn't actually believe he's genuinely concerned for her well-being.]

Fine. Fine! Forget I said anything. [Ever the height of maturity, Rhys takes the rebuff in stride, slapping his hand down against his dust-covered side with a hot, frustrated snort of an exhale. Because ever since he'd left Helios it's just been one big, walking funfest of suicidal people doing just about everything they can to either kill or be killed.

And just because she can string together full, coherent sentences doesn't mean she's not just as crazy as the rest of the Pandoran population.]

You keep doing whatever it is that you want: I mean we both know you're going to anyway.

Hey, maybe you're smarter than you look after all. At least you have the sense to take a hint, that's more than I thought you had.

[Its hard to go anywhere and be safe when you're Fiona, but she has an idea of what to do and where to go long enough to rest. She pauses only briefly to take a breath and suck some of the blood off her fingers before she takes off to the right toward the west.]

There's an old digsite about a half a mile from here. Think you can walk that far in those shoes?

I don't know - can you walk that far without bleeding out on me? Because hey, not like I care or anything but you might lead them straight to us. [His arms are folded tight over the span of his chest, lips pulled into a taut, tense frown.]

Which would probably suck.

You can admit that you'd die without me, really, its ok. It'll be our little secret, I won't even tell your boyfriend.

[She is quietly running her finger over the piece of glass, flinching the eye its wedged over when she presses just a bit too hard. So far, she's done a miraculous job of keeping blood off the ground to keep from making a trail straight toward them. Instead, its staining her jacket collar. She's not very happy about it, or the scar that is likely to result from it.

A half a mile on foot is nothing to a Pandoran, even a Pandoran with glass stuck in them. That said, Fiona hasn't exactly been gentle with their pacing, but her shoulders relax when they finally reach the shade of the old hold-out.

It had obviously been home to the bandits at one time or another, before its contents had been exhausted and then it had been subsequently abandoned. There was always a chance they would come back, but she doubted it would be today.

She takes a few heavy breaths and tries to play it off:]

Still with me, moneybags?

Edited 2015-01-27 07:51 (UTC)

Yeah. Fine. [Hot, sweaty, tired, covered from head to toe in grit and salt-- but still breathing so that's more than he could say for the pack of bandits they've clearly left behind in the ditch. Panting he brushes at his forehead with the edge of his arm, rolled up sleeve catching the worst of the droplets sinking down across his brow and matted hair.] Never better.

You feeling all dead yet?

You obviously haven't met enough Pandorans if you think I'd be dead just from that hullabaloo. Or from walking through desert for a measily half a mile.

[But she is breathy and sweaty, and she doesn't bother to mask the fact that she's headed straight for the nearest shady surface to doctor herself.

If only there was some water around. But it wouldn't be the first time she's had to deal with less than ideal circumstances.]

Make yourself comfy, we can break for a bit.

'Comfy', she says. Sure, okay. I can do that. Let me just [There's a momentary pause as he lifts his arms slightly, gesturing to their trash and scrap-ridden surroundings:] settle in on the couch by the big screen holo-reader.

Don't know if you've noticed, but seriously, nothing about any of this looks comfy.

[Fiona pauses and sends a long glare across from where she is sitting.]

Hey. Skaglick. You ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, you ought to be making the most of the fact that you're...you know, alive? You're welcome, by the way.

[Something about his attitude very obviously gets under her skin and, rather than continue to indulge his whining, she drags a half dented piece of metal (dingy, but with just enough shine to spot her reflection if she wipes away the dust) with her foot.

Then, silently, she begins to try and work the glass out of her head while biting her lip to keep any expression that isn't 'frustration' off her face.]

Edited (I was right the first time) 2015-01-27 08:29 (UTC)

Oh my god, stop. [This time there's a certainty to his movements, a quickness to it that's blatantly ignoring all rules about touching and not touching and personal space and for god's sake, Fiona, you're making it worse. Rhys' hands fall over hers, tugging back to keep her from driving the glass in any farther without bothering to wait for her pending disapproval.] You can't even see what you're doing right now, but trust me, it's not good.

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