Difference between revisions of "ArchivedLogs:In Which Some Assistance Is Requested In The Matter Of Stabbing"

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The woman herself has a borrowed (and thus relatively clean!) t-shirt and shorts on despite the weather. And is engaged in a brutal work out routine that involves punching and kicking concrete without any protective padding on. Typically the concrete would come out of this exchange better off but Marrow is a hardy sort and slowly but surely the concrete is starting to crack.
 
The woman herself has a borrowed (and thus relatively clean!) t-shirt and shorts on despite the weather. And is engaged in a brutal work out routine that involves punching and kicking concrete without any protective padding on. Typically the concrete would come out of this exchange better off but Marrow is a hardy sort and slowly but surely the concrete is starting to crack.
  
There are sneakered footsteps crunching through the woods, crisp against dried leaves and fallen pine needles. Regular and even and non-shambling enough it's almost certainly Not A Zombie, not that most of the /people/ around campus make particularly better company lately. Taylor makes a very distinctive profile as he appears between the trees, huge dark limbs draped down around him every which way. He's in a plain black sweatshirt, many holes cut in it for his extra arms, blue jeans, a LA Lakers tee. He pauses at the edge of the clearing, hesitating on the verge of saying something though his mouth closes as soon as it's opened -- instead he just watches the cement crack with a widening of eyes, an impressed lift of brows, a quirk at the side of his (heavily scar-mangled) mouth.
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There are sneakered footsteps crunching through the woods, crisp against dried leaves and fallen pine needles. Regular and even and non-shambling enough it's almost certainly Not A Zombie, not that most of the /people/ around campus make particularly better company lately. Taylor makes a very distinctive profile as he appears between the trees, huge dark limbs draped down around him every which way. He's in a plain black sweatshirt, many holes cut in it for his extra arms, blue jeans, an Oakland Raiders tee. He pauses at the edge of the clearing, hesitating on the verge of saying something though his mouth closes as soon as it's opened -- instead he just watches the cement crack with a widening of eyes, an impressed lift of brows, a quirk at the side of his (heavily scar-mangled) mouth.
  
 
With a final spinning back kick the lowest concrete block on the chain shatters into bloody fragments. "What?" She asks, blowing dust from her fists. Most of it stays resolutely stuck to the blood. "You out here to buy a joint while the teachers are distracted? 'Coz I ain't selling. Stocks are low and I don't deal to kids."
 
With a final spinning back kick the lowest concrete block on the chain shatters into bloody fragments. "What?" She asks, blowing dust from her fists. Most of it stays resolutely stuck to the blood. "You out here to buy a joint while the teachers are distracted? 'Coz I ain't selling. Stocks are low and I don't deal to kids."

Latest revision as of 14:23, 1 August 2020

In Which Some Assistance Is Requested In The Matter Of Stabbing
Dramatis Personae

Marrow, Taylor

2015-12-06


"Kids here are just fuckin' odd." (Part of Flu Season TP.)

Location

<XS> Forest


Quiet and shady, the trees rise all around here high and thick. In stillness, woodland creatures make appearances, though sudden noises scare them back into the cover. Dappled sunlight filters down between the thick foliage, and the ground underfoot is heavily overgrown, though here and there paths have been worn, by deer or years of students wandering familiar trails.

With all the zombies out and about there aren't many people crazy enough to vanish into the woods. Of course Marrow is the special kind of mutant who finds the idea of flesh eating monsters attacking a boon to any good workout! She's turned a little clearing in the woods into a gym of sorts, by hanging a couple of concrete blocks from a length of chain to make a punching 'bag'. The air is filled with the lovely scent of illicit drugs, sweat, blood and tobacco.

The woman herself has a borrowed (and thus relatively clean!) t-shirt and shorts on despite the weather. And is engaged in a brutal work out routine that involves punching and kicking concrete without any protective padding on. Typically the concrete would come out of this exchange better off but Marrow is a hardy sort and slowly but surely the concrete is starting to crack.

There are sneakered footsteps crunching through the woods, crisp against dried leaves and fallen pine needles. Regular and even and non-shambling enough it's almost certainly Not A Zombie, not that most of the /people/ around campus make particularly better company lately. Taylor makes a very distinctive profile as he appears between the trees, huge dark limbs draped down around him every which way. He's in a plain black sweatshirt, many holes cut in it for his extra arms, blue jeans, an Oakland Raiders tee. He pauses at the edge of the clearing, hesitating on the verge of saying something though his mouth closes as soon as it's opened -- instead he just watches the cement crack with a widening of eyes, an impressed lift of brows, a quirk at the side of his (heavily scar-mangled) mouth.

With a final spinning back kick the lowest concrete block on the chain shatters into bloody fragments. "What?" She asks, blowing dust from her fists. Most of it stays resolutely stuck to the blood. "You out here to buy a joint while the teachers are distracted? 'Coz I ain't selling. Stocks are low and I don't deal to kids."

Taylor shakes his head, brows still lifted as he watches the block shatter. "{I don't want a joint.}" It's kind of a dissonant effect, when he speaks; his words come out quite clearly in Japanese, and while they very noticeably are Not English, it's accompanied by a /sense/ of comprehension. Not translation, precisely; individually the words are still foreign, but his meaning comes through understandably all the same. "{Anole says you made him his knife.}"

"Huh. That's fuckin' weird," Marrow mutters, shaking her head. "For a minute I thought you were going to ask to run away and join us in the sewers." She takes a long drag on her joint. "His knife? Oh, yeah that. What about it? Surprised he isn't using the pistol to be honest. He's pretty fuckin' terrible with knives."

"{Tempting.}" Taylor doesn't actually sound sarcastic with this -- doesn't /feel/ sarcastic with this, and given the psionic-translation he's using his /intention/ comes through much more clearly than in words. Though there is a small amused smile that twitches across his face. He steps into the clearing further, tucking his hands into his pockets and shifting some of his limbs behind him (others are in kind of a state of disrepair -- bandaged in places, torn off stumps that clearly /should/ have been longer tentacles in other places) as his shoulders settle into a more relaxed slump. "{Well, pistols make a lot of noise. Just attract more of the dead, you know?}" His head tilts to the side, brows furrowing in slight curiosity. "{-- Hasn't been terrible out there, though. I mean, he's been holding his own.}"

"Zombies aren't really a challenge though," Marrow points out with a shrug. "It's not a very big pistol. Probably wouldn't be hard to improvise a silencer. Use a pillow or something. But anyway if I were you I'd stick around to finish school before becoming a Morlock. We could use more people who can spell their own names."

"{Not in small doses. But when there's a few hundred of them, they are.}" Taylor absently plucks up a piece of broken-off concrete -- he doesn't get any /closer/ to do it, one of his arms just snakes out (and out, and out) a dozen or so feet to pick up the hunk of shattered block. Turn it over with an air of restless Fidgeting. "{I just wanted to know if you could make more of them. The knives. I can't shoot for crap but with those I'm good.}"

Marrow tilts her head and gives Taylor an appraising look. "You want them to kill zombies? Or people?" She inhales a little smoke and idly blows a smoke ring. "Different knives work better against different things you see."

"{Zombies and people are made out of pretty much the same stuff,}" Taylor hedges with a small press of his lips. "{But I guess people you can kill in a lot of the squishier parts.}" One of his smaller limbs rubs slowly against his temple. "{I need them for the zombies, right now.}"

Marrow chuckles. "For people you want something nice and sharp, with a long thin blade. Slip in through the abdomen, under the ribs into all the important shit." She explains with casual amusement. "Zombies I prefer something with a more triangular blade. Harder to break and better for punching through the skull. Doesn't really need much for a cutting edge, all that matters is the point and a decent grip... Although fuck knows what kind of a grip works best with squid hands."

"What you got to trade?" Marrow wonders, flicking the end of her joint into a bush. "I could use some calcium tablets, condensed milk or anything like that to make 'em. Plus.. I guess extra food, money or any easily portable valubles you might be okay parting with." She hrms. "Something with a heavy guard on it might be best? Tentacles look a little rubbery to punch well."

"{Calcium tablets.}" Taylor furrows his brow for a moment, then nods. "{I can get you some of those. And some good booze. And a little cash. These things pack a hella punch but a guard would,}" he acknowledges, looking down at one raw stump of a limb, "{be a nice bit of protection against teeth.}"

"They do? Huh, they look a little rubbery to hit hard. But what the fuck do I know about freak biology?" Marrow admits. "Calcium tablets. What you think I just make things appear out of thin air? Booze and money sounds like a pretty good deal. Should make it a little less shitty waiting round here for everyone to get treated."

Taylor's jaw tightens, a brief clench of scarred skin. "{I -- no. I didn't think that -- I mean, I figured you --}" He pulls in a breath, nodding. "{Yeah. I'll get your shit together, then. I, uh -- thanks.}"

"Oh this?" Marrow replies, waving her joint at the chain. Although her hands are still stained with blood there doesn't seem to be any trace of wounds. "You get into fights you'll wind up getting hurt. So training for a fight should hurt too, so when the real thing kicks off you're ready for it."

Taylor's limbs twitch -- at least a few of the raggedly torn-off ones. A small hook of a smile curls up at his face, though he doesn't answer Marrow. Just jerks his chin up in a nod, shoulders squaring as he turns to head off through the trees.

Marrow nods in farewell, then hefts another concrete block and hangs it from the chain. "Kids here are just fuckin' odd," she notes with dry amusement as Taylor starts to head for the trees.