There'll be trouble when the kidz come out

[lucetimods]

Who: All remaining draftees
What: Zombies! Zombies! Zombies!
When: The 29th to 31st
Where: Vaskoth
Summary: Please read here for event information
Rating: B for BRRAAAIIIINSSSS

On the 29th, the Malnosso announce over the radios that the power cap will be lifted to a full 100%. Carol broadcasts a message.

On the 30th, the Malnosso declare Vaskoth completely lost. Those with radio access will discover that the enclosure is to be bombed.

On the 31st, survivors will have one last chance to evacuate or try to find the cure. 3PM is do or die.

Comments

[deadpoet]

"The plague doesn't work on me. Already dead, I suppose. Nothing left to infect."

It had been hard, sure. But not nearly as hard on him as others. But he moved to sit beside her on the stairs. His concern was obvious when he saw her hesitation. The fear of a disease could make people do wild things. Spike set a hand on her shoulder.

[herotypical]

Buffy shuffled to the left. Not because she wanted to escape the vampire but because she wanted to make room for him. Welcome him on to the step that served as a seat. She didn't even shrug away from his hand, room-temperature-comfort thought it was.

She was so scared of infection. Of disease. Of hospitals. Of turning into something that was only a fraction of who she was meant to be -- even now, being powerless was better than being no one. A runner or a shambler, stripped of identity and complex purpose. Worse than vampires, in a way.

But not dead. Not yet dead. And that's what made killing them so violently painful. Buffy wasn't built for this flavour of mercy; she wasn't built to euthanize those whose souls were likely still there.

"Good," she expressed genuine relief. She'd grown so worried after witnessing him feeding on a Cultist. "At least you have that going for you. Otherwise -- trust me -- playing it normal has its severe drawbacks."

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

[deadpoet]

It was unusual to see her so vulnerable. No, that was a lie. He'd seen her broken before. So many times. It was always those moments when he found her. Being vulnerable for her was more than just losing the ability to throw someone through the window. They'd been in this place so many times before. It never got any easier.

"We're getting out of here, Buffy. You and I. We'll make it to the tunnels, right? Go back to Luceti. Safe as you like. We'll be our old selves there."

[herotypical]

"Maybe you can do that," she said as though she actually envied his differing principles: his ability to look after himself and his loved ones and leave the rest to make do. Jack could exhibit those same tendencies; Buffy suspected he would have left the draft entirely were it not for her and James. The Slayer wasn't afforded that luxury. She'd tried it -- once, with Glory. It hadn't worked the way she'd hoped it would.

"But I..." am no good to anyone right now, dead or alive. "I can't live with that choice. Not when I know there'll be people staying."

It wasn't even about pride. Or saving face. Or living up to an ideal. It was something deep in the pit of her body. Her organs and her guts screamed for a better resolution than this. Gently -- emboldened by their earlier proximity -- she touched her fingertips to his knuckles as they curled over her shoulder.

"I won't ask you to stay with me, Spike. Not if going's what you wanna do."

But I'd like you to.

[deadpoet]

He wasn't surprised. But it ate at him, because it was foolish and reckless.

"Buffy, we'll die. It's a great bloody bomb they're dropping. We can't fight it. We can't even hide from it. I know people are stuck here, but there's nothing we can do about it."

He would stay. There was no question of it. But he had to try and save her. Even if it was from herself.

[herotypical]

She wasn't so far gone as to reply with: we've both been there and done that. But she was close. So -- instead -- she simply gripped her fingers around the edge of his hand and turned her shoulders enough to face him. Square-on.

"You make us sound so helpless..."

No. Spike was only speaking reasonably, but Buffy felt helpless and she wanted to blame him. Because he was here. Corporeal. Blameable.

[deadpoet]

He squeezed her hand back. Comforting, but also tight. Tight enough to show they were still both there as he narrowed his expression.

"Helpless is sitting here. Getting up, walking to the tunnel? That's not helpless. It's standing up and surviving. If you want to stay here and die, then God help me, I'll do it. But you'll be bugs-for-brains if you do."

[herotypical]

"Trust me," she pushed herself to her aching feet and pulled on Spike's hand. Urging him to join her. "Staying and dying isn't something I want."

Not any longer. "I just wanna do what I always do. I wanna make difference. Don't tell me you don't feel it, too."

But his tough love had already spurred her into action. How could she sit here and feel sorry for herself when it wasn't doing anyone any good?

[deadpoet]

He stood as well. It was progress. Miserable progress, but the sort that might see them living another day.

"You won't make a difference if you don't live long enough to see it through. It's one battle, pet. Not the end of a war."

[herotypical]

She didn't disconnect her hand from his. Not yet. Contact -- human or not -- was so vital right now. So energizing.

"That's just it. Aren't wars won on fighting every battle as if it was the turning point?"

Buffy had gotten to where she was today by fighting every fight with a ferocity worthy of a valiant last stand.

[deadpoet]

"Wars are won by people. Dead people don't win anything. So for now you've got to keep on living."

He pulled at her, urging her to walk with him.

[herotypical]

"You're dead," she teased -- tamping down her feelings of inadequacy and nihilism with the blunt-side of a bad sense of humour, "and you still win. From time to time."

But other words sliced back into her memories like cracks crazing through glass: so one of us is living. Buffy gave the vampire's cold hand a needy little squeeze before slipping away. It had been long enough, hadn't it? Anything more would step on discretion's toes. And discretion was a bitch.

The Slayer dropped her sword onto her shoulder. "How're the streets?"

[deadpoet]

"Depends on the neighborhood. When those bastards were quicker, they were more spread out like. Now that they've slowed down, they're all packed together, bumping into one another. Some of the cupid-ones still know how to fly. If roof jumping wasn't dangerous enough already."

After a near miss that almost had him taking a fall, Spike had taken to the streets instead. Without his vampire strength, roof parkour was just too dangerous.

[herotypical]

"Roof-jumping's been my jam up until now, actually..."

She offered up this confession without much hesitation. After all, if there was anyone she didn't mind hearing about her depowered recklessness or her relative cowardice in avoiding the streets, it was Spike. Buffy believed she'd already tarnished her reputation beyond salvation with the vampire; why hide anything now? He said it himself: he'd seen the worst of her.

"Being a cheerleader in a previous life pays off. Sky-high acrobatics? Not so scary after you've had to trust your fate to fellow skirts holding fast at the bottom of a human pyramid."

Mumbled. Whispered. A distracted prattling as she leaned her way towards the window and eyed up the drive outside. The angle wasn't ideal.

[deadpoet]

"Well my former life was being a ponce. So the jumping doesn't quite come as easy like to me."

Not that he was unfit or unable. But he was conditioned by a hundred years to be so much more than he was right now. Which is why he wanted to risk the streets over the roofs.

[herotypical]

"...Guess there's not much demand for high-flying poets."

Of all the times to bring that up...

[deadpoet]

"Not here, at any rate. But I've a lack of laughter-silvered wings at the moment. So I'll stick to the surly bonds of earth, if you don't mind."

[herotypical]

A dry laugh that didn't quite reach anything close to authentic amusement. Already, she was missing the bolstering physical contact his hand had provided. But she had to stand on her own if she wanted to survive this draft with her identity intact. Screw all the other stuff like guts and marrow and viscera.

"Turns out," she threw in her two cents as she left the unhelpful window and approached the door, "poetry? Not all that simple to write. Anything-silvered wings included."

[deadpoet]

Ah. That poem. The one Drusilla had been wild about. He was still very annoyed by how good it was.

"You did decent for yourself." It was praise, but hardly high praise. He hastily added: "As beginners go."

[herotypical]

"It was childish," she was quick to downplay her work. But it was hard to remember how ardently Jack had read and reread th--

Wait. That meant Spike had read it.

"How di--" Drusilla. Dammit, but she'd left a copy for Drusilla.

Thank goodness for the perma-darkness outside, shading her shame-reddened cheeks. "Sugar," she 'swore' -- substituting a softer word for a harsher one.

[deadpoet]

"You made a better poet than I did a slayer, at any rate. The only vamp I did manage to find went and ran away."

Dismissive. She didn't like the revelation. He didn't like the fact it had happened. So focus on something else to complain about.

[herotypical]

"...At which point, I can kinda only assume that I played the part admirably. The part of you."

How many times in their pre-alliance life and unlife did Spike simply run at the end of a fight? Or, at the least, retreat tactically. Of course, this meant that he'd just as successfully played his part by not giving chase.

[deadpoet]

"I'm going to choose not to be insulted by that, thank you."

They'd carry on from there, searching for a way back to Luceti. Wonder of wonders that they'd eventually run into Jack Sparrow.