lucetilogs | Zompania Draft - Draftees only, days 1-3.5

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Zompania Draft - Draftees only, days 1-3.5

Who: All Draftees
What: This is your death. Followed by your time-traveling life and desperate bomb hunting.
When: From May 22 to May 20 to early May 23 (days 1-4)
Where: Zompania
Summary: Information post here
Rating: Varies on thread, please mark explicit material.

This post is for the draftee-only portion of the Zompania draft--the day 3 death, time travel to day 1, and then the events until the arrival of the reinforcements. Be sure to use the above info post for any plotting needs you might have. Enjoy!

Please note that there is a specific top-level comment thread for:

The day 3 arrival of the draftees and the 6 hours that follow until the bomb is dropped
Death--This thread can be treated as REFERENCE ONLY. Responding to it isn't necessary.
Threads prior to departing for Zompania--post resurrection freak outs, arguments over how to proceed, etc.

All other threading, from day 1 until the reinforcements arrive, should be conducted as normal.

Be sure to tag this post appropriately: [canon] character name

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He has seen death before, but not like this. Never like this. And after long days and equally restless nights in the midst of what he's pretty sure is hell itself, he looks more tired than any 17 year old ought to and the last thing he expects is to see is Firo alive and fighting fit. Relief washes over him in waves - and between it and the lack of sleep and his stomach burning empty, he feels dizzy enough to stumble as he makes his way over in his cultist’s leather breastplate and gauntlets, a backpack slung over his shoulders. Both him and the borrowed armour have seen better days.]

Firo…!

[From under a mask of dirt and crusting blood he almost smiles.]

[There's a little happiness in his voice, but it can't hide the dismay. He didn't have the time to look over the list, so it's a sorry surprise that his friend's been forced into this with him. Firo rushes over to inspect Mac.

Mac!

[He forces a shaky smile. More like half a smile, really. Mac looks like he's been through the wringer (haven't they all?) and there's something disturbing about seeing him in that armor.]

You look terrible.

[Wetting his cracked lips, he wills a nod and then shrugs a shoulder, his pale, scratched-up face knotted with worry. He knows he ought to say something, for Firo’s sake if nothing else. But for a moment he's helpless to do anything but to look back, his throat moving thickly as the days' events wash over him and he takes it all in. He hitches up his backpack like he’s got someplace to be but he doesn't move. Not yet. It's enough of an effort quietly struggling to keep it together.

His lips press thin and he nods again, more for himself than for Firo.]

...Bet I smell just as bad. Could really use a shower.

[A humourless, shaky chuckle escapes him, dangerously close to a sob. It’s the best he can do and that he even manages it surprises him.]

I wasn't gonna say anything, but now that you mention it...

[He shrugs, smiling a little as if he'd like to laugh too. Neither of them's doing great on the cleanliness front; Firo's blood may go right back where it belongs, but that of the cultists sticks.

Firo's face sobers at the sound of Mac's laughter. Well, he supposes he'll have to ask this sooner or later...]

How was it for you? Gettin' to here, I mean.

[Mac's a nice guy. Firo imagines seeing all that carnage wasn't easy on him--heck, Firo's a little disturbed and he's grown up with the knowledge that he has to be prepared to kill.]

Well... [He opens his mouth, wondering how he can be expected to explain what he's seen. He doesn't know if he can begin, let alone where to begin.] I made it.

[Sniffing dryly, he pauses to scrub at his face and smears a streak of blood up across his eyelid and forehead.]

M'real glad I put this on... [There are a few slits in his oversized leather breastplate, fairly inconspicuous until he wedges a finger into one and it disappears to the second knuckle, revealing how far one of the blades had gone. Even with the space between himself and the thick, curving leather shell, the tip had caught him enough to break the skin with the force it had come at him with while he was moving.

It could have been worse, so much worse. He doesn't doubt it. And he knows this sort of luck can't ever last out here.]

What about you?

Jesus. You should be.

[And Firo's glad too. It's not easy to use only close-range weapons against guys with spears, and not everyone can pull themselves back together after being hurt.

At Mac's question, Firo nods. He really has no room to complain; the feelings of hunger and exhaustion are uncomfortable, but he knows he won't die from them.]

I'm fine.

[He finds his eyes going back to that slit in the armor and wondering what would have happened if Mac hadn't been wearing it. It's not a happy thought, and he looks away, half-talking to himself:]

Hope you took care a' the guys who did that to you...

[Firo's as curt and dismissive about his injuries as ever and Mac can't summon the will to push. From what he can tell nothing seems obviously wrong, and in the back of his mind the fragments of a conversation about immortality drift and bump around. But something that bled could also die, as he sees it, and he wonders if immortality only means that Firo will outlive everyone else and then some only if he's given the chance.]

Yeah. [He can almost feel the grinding crunch of bone and cartilage again; he can almost hear the whoosh of air escaping his enemies as his muscles uncocked and he drilled his fists into kidneys and livers and solar plexuses with everything he had.] They ain't gettin' up anytime soon.

[He raises an eyebrow, almost chuckling as if Mac just said something silly. He opens his mouth to point out what he assumes is his friend just misspeaking. Maybe it's not cool to nitpick language at a time like this, but he's in need of a joke.]

Unless we're fightin' some sorta zombie horde, I'd hope they're not gettin' up ever.

[Mostly for personal reasons, if he's being honest, but there's strategy to consider too. He assumes that Mac understands that. ...Right?]

[The thought of zombies dragging themselves through the bloody muck doesn’t bring with it the raw, fresh pang of fear it might have, not with what nightmarish images are burning themselves into his brain. Firo might have pitched it as a joke but he just isn’t feeling it.]

Iunno. [He reaches back for the nape of his neck, carefully kneading away an ache.] Busted ribs and a shot to the liver ain't no walk in the park.

Edited 2014-05-23 20:04 (UTC)

[Firo frowns when his joke falls flat; he wishes he could do something to cheer the guy up...

The frown deepens when the full meaning of Mac's words hit him. Hits to the ribs and liver are all well and good, but he doesn't see what they can cause beyond pain and incapacitation. And that's not enough.]

Hang on, what?

[The note of disapproval in Firo's tone has him knitting his brows and he stares back searchingly, failing to understand where the problem lies. He's alive and no one had to die to make it possible. As he sees it, that's as good as things are going to be.]

...What? [He demands, and it comes out sounding more like a statement than a question.] They ain't gonna be a problem no more, that's all.

[Oh, damn it. Firo just stares at Mac for a moment, as if hoping Mac'll say something more. After a short moment, he realizes that, no, there isn't anything more. And Firo may be stupid, but he can tell what Mac isn't saying and what that means.

With all the stress and the anger that's been weighing on him, it doesn't matter that this is his friend right now. Firo takes a step forward, his expression stonier than it usually is, his voice flatter.]

Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? You think that's enough?

[It takes a moment for that verbal slap in the face to connect while dazed on his feet – but when it does he rears back, his eyes flashing with something more than anger.]

What’s your problem, huh? [He’s silent only a moment, panting, before he jabs his thumb fiercely into his own chest.] I’m alive, ain’t I? Ain’t that enough?

[It should be enough; Firo honestly is thankful Mac's alive. But with his history on the drafts and his own survival instincts from back home, he can't accept this.

He grits his teeth and grabs for Mac's shoulder to pull him in closer--maybe if he can just get the guy to listen to him...]

You're alive for now! This thing ain't over yet--we're still gonna hafta deal with those assholes later!

[Where others are stronger and taller, he’s fast on his feet because he needs to be. Because every attack he weaves around inside and outside the ring means one less trip to the hospital room at the very least.

But when a hand shoots out for him it catches him easily, clamping down on his shoulder. He could have sidestepped it; he could have done something. Firo’s body had telegraphed his intentions, his own muscles tensing with his knee-jerk readiness to act. But this isn’t like Firo. This isn’t the Firo he knows -- and it’s not until he’s drawn closer that he snaps out of his stunned trance, the line of his jaw sharpening.

Alive for now.

The words spin around and around in his mind, surreal.]

No, we won’t! [Sickened frustration swells inside him, feeling like a bubble trapped in his chest. Something’s going to give and soon and he doesn’t know what it’ll be. He doesn't want to know what it'll cost them.] Look, I ain't fightin' you on this! Just drop it, all right?

[Firo leans down so that they're nearly eye-to-eye.]

This is somethin' you need to understand. You really think this is all just gonna stop if you're nice to 'em?

[Rarely would hitting someone in a vital organ or breaking their bones be called "nice" but Firo thinks it's more than these guys deserve. He doesn't like killing--he's more afraid of what it could do to him than he'll admit--but he can't see it as anything but necessary here.

And he's pretty sure these fuckers deserve it.]

[Blood’s roaring through his eardrums and rocking his skull to a frantic but steady pulse and it’s hard enough to breath through the knots twisting tight in his chest, let alone to tear his eyes from Firo's and turn his face away. Let alone to clamp down on the rage bubbling up and say nothing. His fists clench and unclench.]

... [He's not in the wrong. He refuses to believe that.]

[Firo takes that silence as an opportunity to keep talking, paying no attention to Mac's body language. In a more lucid moment, he'll feel bad for treating his friend this way, but right now he's sure that teaching him is more important. It'll help Mac out in the long run.]

You know they wouldn't do the same for you, right? These guys are monsters.

And I don' gotta be like them.

[What his low, raw-voiced remark implies sinks in after the fact but, here and now as his frayed nerves begin to unravel, he can’t be bothered to apologize.]

I didn't say--

[Though he's attacking the cultists just as they've attacked him and his friends, Firo just can't comprehend similarities between the two groups. In his mind, it's as plain as night and day, bolstered by his natural stubbornness and deep contempt for the enemies. Because of that, it takes him a good long moment to connect the dots.

When he does, his face goes colder than before, slipping into the mask he wears when he has to act like a camorrista. His grip tightens on Mac's shoulder to something far past friendly.]

Bullshit. I'm not a monster for goin' after somebody who hurt my family.

[Family. It gives him pause, something inside him squeezing tighter than Firo’s hand because he knows what it means to shake inside with the fierce desperation to protect someone he loved. He knows, now as well as he had then, that he’d have done anything to buy time for Doc’s escape from the chain-wielding bikers upset over the defeat of Piston Hondo even if it meant bleeding out and dying out in the street. He had been afraid; of course he had been afraid. But the fear of losing all he had had been far stronger than the fear of pain. He doesn’t know how he could have lived with himself had he fled and left Doc behind.]

I get it! [Cracking with exasperation, his answer comes out louder than he means it to and he flicks a wary glance over his shoulder before his gaze snaps back to his friend.] Doc’s all I got-- he’s everything to me! He’s my family! And when bikers tried to attack him, I got scared too! I wanted t'do everythin' I could to save 'im! But y’don’ gotta keep killin' nobody, Firo!

[He breaks off, eyes shining, searching, pleading.] Y'better than that! You got a choice!

[Firo never thought the day would come when he felt the desire to sock Mac right in the face, but it might be fast creeping up on him. He doesn't like being lectured.]

It ain't about bein' "better." You've gotta be fuckin' crazy if you think I'm gonna let these assholes get away with what they've done.

[He already knew killing--even someone as deplorable as Szilard--was wrong and he never wanted to do it again. He doesn't think he's changed--hopes he hasn't changed, hopes that that bastard's memories haven't changed him--but circumstances do. Ever since he made that vow to the Martillo Family he's been prepared to do what needs to be done, and events in Luceti have convinced him this is necessary.]

That's how it works, pal. You kill someone's Family and you gotta be prepared to take what you dish out. And if somebody touches yours, you gotta make sure it never happens again. I swore it.

[He refers to the rules of the Camorra here, but, to him, they extend to his adopted family. Without the Martillos, they're all he has.]

[For all he has tried to approach unfamiliar people and ideas with an open mind, he can’t pretend he begins to understand what it’s like to be charged with the vehement emotion not only to hurt but to kill, to kill and to come to terms with it. And he hopes he's never so changed by pain that he will.

They are of very different worlds not only in the physical sense; he sees this now. There are reasons why they are who they are and Firo’s firm conviction is a wall he can’t burst through or reason his way around.

If they can’t agree, he’d like them to come to a point where they can at least respect each others’ perspectives regardless. But for the moment it feels like wishful thinking on both sides and he can’t afford to burn much more energy on hope or on struggling to absorb what’s been said between them while his head's throbbing viciously.]

You jus’… [He sighs roughly, feeling more than a little queasy as he rubs at his forehead a moment before letting his hand drop heavily to his side.] …do what you gotta do… and I’ll do what I gotta do. Okay? [A beat.] Now y'gonna let me go, or what?

[Firo silences the voice in his head that protests Mac isn't going to do what he needs to do. But that's exactly what Mac wants to stop arguing about, so he instead takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. He wishes it would do more to calm himself down.]

Fine.

[He lets go abruptly, not bothering to ease off his grip first. He slips his hands into his pockets and wait to see which direction Mac's going. He's not sure if he wants to follow at a distance or just go the other way.

But he's not so angry and not so stubborn that he doesn't care. So, against his instincts, he opens his mouth again:]

...You take care.

[Between the tension thick in the air between them and what the day has thrown at him, he isn't prepared for the well-meaning afterthought and blinks back like someone who hasn't heard a nice word in his life, at loss for what to say while being tugged back and forth between stubborn anger and awkwardness and guilt. He studies Firo at length, the lines of his chest and shoulders stiff as if he's expecting to be struck at. But the look in his darkened eyes is softer and more unguarded than it has been in the past few minutes.

He swallows, lips pursing.]

You too.

[And though his tone is heavy and flat and he looks every bit like death warmed over, he means it. He knows he means it, deep down. Because, at the end of the day, Firo is someone he cares for and will always find a way to try and understand, at best, and make excuses for, at worst. Someone who he'll never feel sorry he met.

But against every fierce instinct to pair up and find safety in numbers he finds himself turning away, his need for emotional space greater than his need for the company of a friend. Even if, up until now, he had dealt with gnawing loneliness, his voice hoarse from disuse.

And as he moves away, placing a greater distance between them with every half-reluctant step, some part of him at the very back of his mind can only wonder how much he’ll come to regret his choice.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Zompania Draft - Draftees only, days 1-3.5

day 3

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