lucetilogs | We're more than carbon and chemicals

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We're more than carbon and chemicals

Who: All Draftees
What: Fighting Third Party
When: 26th, 27th, 28th, 1st, and 2nd
Where: The Southern Farmlands
Summary: See here for overall details.
Rating: Probably gonna be gorey in places :|a

DOESN'T NEED A CUT. People should know how this works, if not, just follow other people's lead. I'm gonna set up some strategist threads at the top, for the four strategists to use if they want to, otherwise people should start their own threads.

((Mod Note: Since this has been asked a few times, just fyi, the livestock do not talk. Happy hunting!))

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Fingers clawing ineffectively at the knot around his waist, he lifted his head and opened his mouth to reply to the pirate when the hat placed on his head stopped him short and he was launched up towards the loft with a strangled gasp of surprise.

There. That was one less division for his brain to deal with. McCoy safe(er) in the loft meant that Jack could address a new problem: more footsoldiers had swarmed in, yes--but they were accompanied by another Shifter.

And an Elite who stood taller than the rest and was chuckling in a very alarming way as he strode toward Sparrow.

"...............Oh. Can't we talk about this, lads? Over a bottle of something?"

Panic enveloped the doctor as he hung from the rafters and he tried to calm himself down with short, shuddering breaths. Don't look down, Leonard, he repeated this mantra to himself grimly as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to swallow down the nausea rising in the pit of his stomach. Remember the seminar. What good is a Starfleet officer who's afraid of everything?. His mouth was dry and he attempted to inhale deeply -- a technique to calm him down -- but ended up coughing he felt the dust scratch down the back of his throat.

He could hear Jack below, but he couldn't make out what he was saying. McCoy never hated the pirate as much as he did now and his anger propelled him to attempt a precarious swing to the nearest rafter in order to stop hanging there like damn fish bait on a hook.

"That's a nice sword, mate. Two-handed, is it? Three-handed? Lovely. Bit macabre, actually, but that's in this season." The pirate was slowly backing toward the wall. His mind was racing; he could see spikes set in the wall to hang equipment. If he could get his knee to behave and enough of a jump, he could probably scale the wall a ways--possibly even reach one of the rafters that hung so invitingly above.

He spared a glance for McCoy. To Sparrow's eyes, the man was doing admirably.

He managed to land on one of the rafters and ignored the searing pain in his arm. What he'd give for one of those healing artes right now as he works at the rope again and removes it. It coils between his fingers as he looks down at Jack and their eyes meet and he throws down the rope for the pirate.

Jack actually had time to bow to the menacing Third Party Elite and chirp a quick "Cheers!" at him before taking hold of that rope and launching out of that circle of death in a maneuver that would put Jack the Monkey to shame. Soon he found himself standing in the hay loft, a bit wobbly from his old injury but no worse for wear.

"Good man, Bonesy!"

Even with the makeshift bandage, McCoy was beginning to feel light-headed as he looked over at the pirate who joined him in his worst nightmare. Of course, he probably didn't view it that way, but he could convince himself differently.

"I oughta ring your neck for doing that."

"Ring my neck for..."

That was about all Sparrow could get out. The Elite soldier had soon barked orders at the rank and file, who were swarming up the ladder at the end of the loft. The Elite himself reached them in two giant leaps, the flap of his wings stirring up dust and straw.

".....Oh."

Keeping his eyes on the pirate, McCoy moved along towards the hayloft and reached. He was so focused into not looking down that the orders being communicated below fell on deaf ears and bit back a whimper as the wood groaned beneath his weight, but made it just as the Elite landed in front of Jack Sparrow.

With his good arm, he crouched down and picked up a pitchfork lying half-hidden in the hay and lunged at the Elite with it.

The Elite was so focused on Jack--being the one who had taunted him, of course---that he did not pay attention to the fact that a pitchfork was coming toward him with an angry doctor on the end of it. The rusty tool buried itself in the soldiers thigh, eliciting a roar of rage.

This gave Sparrow the opening he needed to dart in and drive his sword into the soldier's gut, twisting it and yanking it free. Jack did not want to lose his sword in the belly of an Elite soldier.

Furious at being caught off-guard and now nursing a similar wound to the pirate he was determined to cut down, the Elite struck at the doctor with one heavily armoured arm and beat his wings, sending him backwards into the hayloft where he landed with a grunt.

"NO!" Sparrow rushed the other soldier, who was gloating over what he'd done to McCoy. His sword clashed with the Elite's as a wicked grin spread across the Third Party warrior's face. This was what he wanted. A game.

The rank and file footsoldiers were beginning to gather around. Notably, they made no move to attack either man. It was clear that this was a source of entertainment for them: corner a rat and make him fight.

McCoy groaned and pressed his hand against his head as blood trickled down his face. He reached for his phaser around his waist and.. oh damn it, it was back on ground level and he cursed although in his disorientated state, it was garbled and unclear.

"T'spun." He said thickly. Damn it damn it damn it. She was right.

The soldiers were starting to chant as the Elite stood waiting for Sparrow to attack again. The pirate, on the other hand, was backing toward the doctor.

"I'm not really the gladiolatorial type, mates. Really. Far more fun pitting small chickens against each other. Though Kennedy may have vaporized them all by now, actually."

One side of the hayloft's great double doors was shut, but the other hung open, and just waiting for McCoy to be shoved through it to tumble the distance to the soft pile of hay below. Jack grinned up at the advancing Elite.

"Not even the janitorial type. Or the phantasmagorical."

At that, he sent McCoy tumbling through the air, down to the soft, waiting hay. Oh, how the doctor would hate that. Jack shut the open door behind him, throwing the bolt on it. There would be another way out. Another rope, or walk, or a way. There always was.

"Pirate. Pirate, lads..."

Stars. He could see them and the doctor was only vaguely aware what was happening now as he felt hands grapple at him and, for a moment, he wondered why the soldiers were messing with him and if there was any damn point in trying to struggle and delay the inevitable. Their death. It wasn't -- he had been a damn idiot and now the two of them were going to die in these damn farmlands. In their war; in their cause; a war he had no interest in ever fighting and one Jack certainly didn't.

McCoy wanted to apologize to him. The guilt was like ice in his stomach.

And so, he thrashed against the hands pulling at him and barely understood what the pirate was murmuring to the soldiers in his typical, intoxicated slur -- was he taunting them? -- as he craned his up head for one, final look at the pirate before he was pushed, sent spiralling from the hayloft and into the callous embrace of unconsciousness before hitting the hay below.

There was far less taunting after McCoy was safe. Far more business. Jack kept his back to the wall, thinking, thinking.

"You don't want to be killing me, now do you, lads? I know where the fighters are camped. I've studied all their charts, haven't I? That's a shiny bit of information that any large wingéd swordsman such as yourself might be proud to bring back to his General."

The Elite grinned at this, then lunged for the pirate. Sparrow had time to notice that his enemy's teeth were filed into points; then he had to fight for his life.

Edited 2011-03-01 06:07 (UTC)

The gathered crowd of spectators cheered and howled as the battle progressed. Jack realized with a half-smile that bets were being placed. He had a pretty good guess as to where he stood in the odds.

He wiped sweat from his brow and tried to keep his concentration as he circled with the larger fighter, who had the further reach and the advantage in almost every way. Still, the pirate had his speed. He had his agility and sense of timing. And he had a plan, a wonderful plan that involved leaping from the edge of the loft and using his small and somewhat ineffectual black wings to slow the fall.

A sparrow not quite flying, not quite falling--that was his trademark, after all.

"What's all this then, eh? Are we not brothers-in-....feathers? Practically second or third cousins, us, hm? Should be peaceful-like, not--" he leaped back as the other fighter's sword nearly swiped off his head. "Right--THAT wasn't very nice, mate. I don't choose to play when I don't like the company, savvy? Cheers."

There is a time to fight, and a time to run; he had bought McCoy plenty of time to get away, and that made Sparrow happy. Jovial, even. Now his own time to run had come, and not a moment too soon. With a jaunty wave at the crowd, and a gold-and-ivory smile for the Elite, Jack turned and leaped from the edge of the hayloft. He had no fear of falling, or of heights, because he was not quite falling, ever. He strained his wings out to their full span, trying to catch as much resistance as he could--angling them to soar.

It was going to be all right, if he could only get round to where Bones must have fallen.

Jack had known, of course, that there would be pursuit when he ran away. When the guard unit did catch him by the door, they didn't hurt him too badly before the Elite joined them. Token hurts, those were, and he shut his eyes and accepted them as such.

But he found himself looking the needle-toothed gladiator in the eye when the larger man caught up and lifted him by the shirt front. Sparrow spat out a tooth and some blood and gold and grinned at him.

"Everything were beautiful, mate. Nothing hurt."

There was no answer from the enemy as he methodically tore those soft black wings from Sparrow's shoulders and trampled them onto the dusty straw. The body he flung casually against the wall to land in a huddled heap not far away, and none of the suddenly disinterested squadron seemed to notice it or care as they dispersed from the shadowy cavern of the old barn and marched away over the sunlit farmlands.

Edited 2011-03-02 01:48 (UTC)

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We're more than carbon and chemicals

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