| Before the Cock Crows |
| Summary: | Zeager has words with Ikarias. Whoever that is. |
| Date: | 11 Jun 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | The High Road's Closed For Repairs |
| Players: |
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Six airbusses in one long grounddock. It's not much of a place to live, but it's radiation free, has some supply of water and even some packaged snacks that haven't been finished off, yet. Three airbusses have been tagged for repairs by the snipes, and on the outset of the third day of repairs Evan's feeling more in the way than anything else. He's good with his hands, after all, but he hasn't had the formal training these folk have, and finds himself habitually left in the dust by their particular argot. And so he's snagged himself a couple of bags of gummy bears and wandered off in search of a quiet spot to sit by himself and have a few. The search for privacy brings him to the darkened airbus at the far end of the hangar, and he roams up the ramp, tripping the emergency lighting, which makes the interior of the ship to glow, black shapes in a pool of blood red light.
He's not three steps down the aisle of the cabin before he stops rustling at the squeaking plastic in an effort to open it, distracted as he is by a noise from the far back of the cabin, where the arms of the long last row of seats have been pulled up to provide a makeshift bed for the bound Zeager. His condition's gone from bad to worse overnight— Trask's put him on the cold-turkey plan to sobriety, and, having been on such a cocktail of the plentiful drugs available in the grounddocks, he's kicking hard against the dearth of chemicals in his system. Boots' word being law, there's not much else to do for the guy. Croke looks in on him now and again, but everyone else has been far too busy with the boats to mind the thuggish man cursing and vomiting far out of anyone's notice. He's still, now. Is he dead? No, the hyperventilation starts up again, accompanied by a thrashing against the cords strapping him to his 'bed.' And the Bunny continues to slide through the rows of seats, gummies finding a home in his pocket.
"GgggddfffRAAAK!" A rumble turns into a rough-throated roar in the dark as Zeager's heart palpitates in random flutters, the muscles all through his body seizing, eyes rolling back into his head as his own cry gets garbled in a flow of frothy vomit that erupts from his mouth and down his cheek, over the edge of the seat and to the floor. Panic overtakes him as his heart stops beating entirely a moment, the adrenaline finally sparking it back into rhythm as his dark-circled eyes strain to make out the dark shape approaching him in the bloodlight, reflections of his own retinas branching like lightning across the scene until, "Ikarias," he gurgles. "Frak you. Frak the living shit out a you. Turned Curly up on us, cunt-assed motherfrakker. Come break in here, all up in my HURF—" vomiting again. "Frakking faggot. I'mma put a frakking bullet in your brain, I get my chance," he gurbles weakly on, looking in no state to be doing anything of the sort, even if he wasn't bound. "Turn around a second an' your bitch ass been sellin' us out to the Curlies. Frak. You. Frak yer frakkin cuntboy, too."
Evandreus keeps his head on remarkably straight during the vomit-spattered tirade, eyes rendered nearly black by the red light looking down tiredly at the figure in the seat, mouth set in a lethargic frown that can't bother to look more upset than unmoved. "I think," he finally begins, "that you're mistaking me for somebody else."
"Hhhheh," comes the raspy note from the bound man. "Yeah, I bet. Don't want your new friends to know what sort of a fuck you made of yourself. What sort of shit you were into," lips curl at one corner like the tendril of a tender vine, the man taking his perverse pleasures where he can as his body's fluids drain out through the pores of his skin and he shivers with the sweats. "How quick you turned your back on us when you'd gotten everything you wanted from us. Then you come back here like you got some motherfrakkin right, you shit assed frak?! GODS FRAKKING SHIIT!" he screams through another shuddering rack of all his muscles, burping and gagging up some bloodied pus.
Evan stands quietly through the convusions, then slowly turns and paces calmly to the end of the row, near the wall, about a seat away from Zeager's head, and he takes a seat there, crossing one leg up over the other. "I think you have me confused… with somebody else," he repeats his assertion, though without much force. He bends at the waist, feeling down under the seat for some strap or other.
Zeager's body is far from under his own control at this point, the sound of his bowels voiding mingling with his gagging and retching as everything in his body tries to make its most expedient exit. Evan doesn't react, though, and the man's eyes crane to look at the red profile, now that it's closer, the Raptorbunny not making eye contact, for now, but neitehr seeming to cringe at the pain Zeager must be in. "Frak it. I'll suck your dick for a talldrop," Zeager gurgles, managing to sound hostile even in his desperation. "That what you want, Ikarias? Or you wan' me to tell at medic they keep sendin' in here where the bodies are buried. Tell 'em who put 'em there. See how they'd stick up for you then. That what you want? You want that shit? GET MY MY FRAKKING SHIT!"
Evandreus' face hangs there in profile, emotionless and glistening red in the dark, a few greying hairs around his temples standing out in the strange emergency lighting like a thread of blood trailing up into a needle. A long pull, a harsh scrape of velcro away from velcro, and the emergency floatation device falls away from underseat into his hands. He takes it up into his lap, then, pushing up with a foot, he gets his knee into the chair between his own and Zeager's head. "I think," he says, one more time, "You've mistaken me for somebody else."
And the world goes black.