TIMELINE
1. BEGINNING Things have only just begun. Can you get ahead of the problem or are things just going to go to shit?
2. MIDDLE Things HAVE gone to shit. You're right in the middle of things and there's no end in sight. You have to do your best just to get to tomorrow.
3. END Things are finally winding down (or amping up getting ready to wind down). You're in preparations for the final battle, you're killing off the last few zombies, you're living your life.
4. REBUILD/DESPAIR Things are OVER. Either you won or you lost, time to rebuild or go down in your bunker and cry. Hold onto your asses, folks.
SCENARIOS
1. MONSTERS/KAIJU Think Godzilla or Pacific Rim. There are monsters, huge ones, and you gotta go through some shit to keep them from killing everything and busting up that last Dunkin Donuts you go to every Thursday with the cute girl working the counter. This is an outrage!!
2. ZOMBIES You know the drill. Whether fast or slow, virus or reanimated, airborne or fluid-borne, biting or eating: your favorite thing, zombies. Remember to aim for the head.
3. ALIENS Visitors from space! ... Except they're killing all of you! Does anyone you know have a cold? Send them to the front lines.
4. WAR Everything's gone to hell. It's going to become a nuclear winter out there if someone doesn't stop the tide of this war. History won't be written by the victors because there won't BE any.
5. "UTOPIA" Everyone is happy, right? Things are so much better now that we don't have any emotions, right? When we started culling populations to keep enough supplies for everyone, right?
6. ROBOTS YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELVES. YIKES. Skynet is a thing, everything is terrible, you're gonna get owned by a Reaper, whatever. Take 'em out, cowboy.
7. DISEASE You're not turning into rabid monsters, but people are dying off at alarming rates. What's causing it? Is there a cure? Is anyone immune? Figure it out, boyo.
8. MISC Anything left over!! Killer tomatoes? World taken over by talking dogs in exoskeletons? Whatever man, we're not the cops. Have fun.
As always, these are just suggestions. Make up anything you want, as long as you're having fun! |
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bakerstreet2017-01-28 06:39 pm
the fallout au you in no way asked for but are getting anyway
Creeping up on almost three centuries later, the world is still hobbled, but crawling its way back to something approaching recovery – assuming one squints and tilts their head a bit. Outside of the large settlements – bastions of safety and security, as they like to tout themselves – life is still rough and chaotic. More like the days of the wild west that Faraday used to read about in books and comics as a child, with cowboys and outlaws and men operating on the fringes of society.
(Faraday wouldn't mind a hat, he thinks.)
With the life Faraday leads, he's accustomed to working and living on his own. Seems better to live and die by his own skill. Seems easier to navigate a lawless world like this without anyone else holding him back. No need to worry about making sure more than one mouth is fed, no need to watch another back aside from his own. It's better. Then, grudgingly, after he meets Vasquez, he decides maybe two sets of hands aren't so bad. Makes these supply raids go a lot smoother, truth be told. Makes taking out gangs of marauders to get at their caches and food a whole lot faster.
The two of them crossed paths trying to loot the same grocery store, stocking up on canned food and cans of purified water. Nearly shot each other's brains out, too, and Faraday had grinned at the other man while they held their guns aloft. ("Well, now," Faraday had said. "I believe I finally have the pleasure of bein' in a proper Mexican standoff.")
The standoff was short-lived, though, once groans echoed from distant corners of the store. Their argument had attracted the attention of a band of feral ghouls who wanted nothing more than to tear their faces off. Between the two of them, they put down each sorry critter, kept the creatures off one another when they ran at them with inhuman speeds and bestial growls. When it was over, the two of them panting and wiping sweat from their brows, they both laughed the unique laughs of men who escaped death by the skin of their teeth, and Faraday shared a bottle of whiskey from his pack. They passed it back and forth, sitting with their backs against the checkout counters, until the very last drop was drained.
The fight was maybe a month or two ago, by now. Faraday still doesn't know what to make of Vasquez – knows enough to recognize the look of a man being hunted. Wonders what sort of trouble Vasquez got up to that could (would?) follow him out this far, but decides he doesn't need to know, in much the same way Vasquez doesn't need to know a damn thing about the men Faraday has cheated or killed in the name of survival.
They're both mum on the topic, and that's how Faraday likes it.
In the dead of night, the two of them creep down the steps of a raider settlement built into subway tunnels. The lobby is lit by the small flame in their cooking station, and the raiders doze on bedrolls and in sleeping bags around its modest warmth. Faraday and Vasquez kill a couple as they sleep (because who has time for honor?), but the noise is enough to rouse the others. Easy enough to take care of them, though, half-asleep and sloppy with adrenaline as they are. When they're all dead, Vasquez picks through the corpses (something Faraday doesn't enjoy doing and is all too happy to leave to Vasquez), while Faraday combs the room for valuables.
One hacked terminal and opened vault door later, Faraday kneels in front of a large safe in the secure room behind the front desk. The rusted metal is cool and rough against his cheek as he listens at the door. He coaxes the tumblers out of the way with a bobby pin, nudging the lock gently with a screwdriver. He holds another pin between his lips, just in case he snaps this one.
The soft, metallic tinking of his tools stops for a breath before he resumes work. Then, absently, the words muffled by the press of his lips around the spare bobby pin, ]
This isn't gonna go any faster with you breathin' down my neck like that.
this is the greatest gift i could hope to receive tbh
It would be just his luck that one of those bodies would belong to someone that mattered.
Vasquez largely kept out of politics, such as they were out in the wastes, but he’d have to be especially sheltered not to know who the Brotherhood of Steel was. It was just that at the time he didn’t realize that the poor bastard at the other end of his gun was a senior member- someone high ranking and important, though he never found out just how important before there was a small army of men in tin cans after his hide.
(But if anyone asked, he’d say that the asshole had it coming.)
He fled after that, as far and as fast as he could, scraping out a living in the broken shells of buildings and sleeping amongst corpses.
Until he found an unlikely ally in Joshua Faraday, then the company became a little more enjoyable and a little less, you know, dead.
Vasquez is happy to leave the lock picking to Faraday- he’s a deft hand at it- while he roots through the pockets of the folks they just gunned down or stabbed in their sleep. He finds a pretty decent handful of caps and ammo, and a couple of packs of cigarettes amongst the weird assortment of junk the raiders had on them.
With all of that sorted and divvied up, there’s not much left for him to do but watch Faraday work. He doesn’t think he’s breathing down Faraday’s neck by any means, but they had a tendency to be prickly with one another more often than not. It was just the nature of their relationship. ]
Should I give you and the lock some alone time, guero?
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[ Distant and absent, still. The response is near automatic after only a month in each other’s company, even with most of his attention currently diverted to his work. Bastard won’t tell him what the hell that means, and Faraday figures the both of them will go to their graves before Faraday ever finds out.
He tilts the bobby pin again – a minute adjustment, hardly more than a millimeter to one side – and this time when he turns the cylinder with his screwdriver, the lock rotates with a quiet click. ]
Bingo.
[ He tucks his tools away into a pocket and uses both hands to tug the safe door open. It’s an old, heavy thing, and the hinges wheeze in protest. Inside is hardly the treasure Faraday had hoped for: stacks of old paper money from before the war (good for tinder, Faraday supposes), a couple more boxes of ammo, and an old, battered shoe box. The box jingles as he lifts it, at least, and he lets out a low whistle at the stash of bottle caps inside – a few hundred, at least. ]
Seems like they weren’t doin’ so bad for themselves, down here.
[ Faraday stuffs everything into his bag – they’ll sort the caps later; he doubts Vasquez will let him forget it – and gets to his feet, slipping the pack’s strap over his head. He adjusts his weapons – his gun belt holds two old pistols, well-worn and well-cared for, and a leather strap keeps his battered shotgun slung over one shoulder.
He pauses; from the safe room he can see the old, broken-down escalators that lead further into the subway, and he puts on a thoughtful look. ]
Wanna quit while we’re ahead or head further in?
[ Though the way his hand rests on the butt of his pistol gives away his own answer. ]
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They get decent loot out of the safe, not a lot, but enough to call the trip and the wasted bullets worth it. He makes a mental note to remind Faraday to divide their findings later. So far they’ve kept to their agreement to split whatever they find evenly, but call him paranoid.
He follows Faraday’s gaze to the elevators and the yawning darkness of the subway tunnels. He can guess by Faraday’s body language alone that the other man is itching for a fight. He can’t say he doesn’t feel the same, he thrives on the thrill of a fight, the promise of a challenge. ]
Probably swarming with ghouls.
[ A beat, and he grins, sharp and wicked. ]
I’m in.
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Knew I kept you around for a reason.
[ Faraday takes the lead, sliding down the handrail of one of the escalators and landing at the bottom. Near the base of the steps are a couple of rickety turrets in rusted shopping carts, braced in place by cinderblocks, aimed down the dark hallway. Faraday finds a terminal resting atop a couple of crates and powers down the devices with a few keystrokes. ]
You might be onto somethin’ about the ghouls.
[ Why else would the raiders have defenses set up here instead of the entrance?
Faraday waits a second, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, before he pulls his revolver from its holster. He checks that it’s still loaded before jerking his chin toward the hallway. ]
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Why, because I’m just as crazy as you?
[ A rhetorical question if there ever was one, because he doesn’t wait for an answer. He just follows Faraday down the long-dormant escalators, though he just walks like a normal person. If Faraday wants to slide off into a ghoul’s nest then he’s welcome to.
The turrets give him pause, moreso when he realizes they’re facing outwards. He waits until Faraday has them shut down before stepping across from the other man in the gloom of the hallway opening. ]
Hopefully it’s just ghouls and not something worse, eh?
[ Ever the optimist. Still, he slips one of the two pistols he carries at his hips from its holster and quietly thumbs the hammer back before peering into the low light. That there’s any light down here at all is a blessing, but it’s not enough to really make anything out at a distance. There doesn’t seem to be anything ghoul-shaped in what he can see, so he quietly makes his way into the corridor. ]
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All in all? Ghouls were bad.
But the reality was, as far as trouble goes, ghouls were pretty low on the totem pole.
Gambler that he is, Faraday’s at least a little superstitious, and that just felt like Vasquez had jinxed them. Which is why Faraday grumbles, ]
Now, what’d you have to go and say that for?
[ It’s not enough a deterrent to keep him from following, though. There tended to be good salvage in these types of places, largely untouched by other scavengers thanks to the creepy crawlies that lurked in the dark. The dust they kick up tells Faraday that the raiders they recently dispatched weren’t often traveling this far, either. A few lights affixed to the walls in the hallway flicker, weak and dim – probably powered by the same source as the terminal and the turrets.
The hallway spills out into the subway terminal, and Faraday nearly trips over a skeleton on the platform, sprawled out and dressed in the rags of what might’ve been a halfway decent suit. He nudges it aside with his boot, the bones rattling softly; an arm bone rolls off the edge of the platform and clatters onto the rail below.
A few subway cars still sit on the tracks, dead and rusted; the tunnels are largely silent, save for the occasional groan of metal coming to rest, or the distant shuffle of movement. (Rats or radroaches, Faraday hopes.) The late raiders must have made some previous attempts at exploring the area, as a few work lights are scattered across the platforms. The little generators powering them seem to be on their last legs, though, and like the hallway lights, these lights flicker, humming and snapping, dimming and brightening at random.
The rest of the area is cast in dark shadows, and the atmosphere is oppressive enough to make even Faraday pause, despite his near suicidal, adventurous spirit. He licks his lips, swapping his revolver for his shotgun. He figures if they’re going to run into anything hostile, they’re more likely to trip over the damn critters than see them from a distance.
For now, it seems like he and Vasquez are the only souls in the tunnels, but that doesn’t stop Faraday from keeping his voice low when he speaks. ]
You see anything?
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But even with all that under his belt, this place still creeps him out.
The low, sputtering hum of the dying generators and flickering lights sure aren’t helping anything, that’s for sure.
He winces as bits of the skeleton that Faraday disturbed goes clattering onto the tracks, the sound seeming thunderous in the eerie white noise of the tunnel, and he strains his ears for any signs of something reacting to the sound. That nothing does is a mixed blessing, because he’d rather that if anything were here, it would hurry up and show itself already so they can stop tiptoeing around.
In answer, his own voice is quiet, ]
Nada. What do you think, head for the cars or into the tunnels?
[ Or leave. It’s an option, though he doesn’t voice it. ]
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[ He sounds mostly sure on that, at least (though secretly, his skin crawls a little at the thought of wandering too far in the dark). The subway cars may yield a few goods, but he figures there isn’t going to be more than a couple of locked suitcases with that old money from before the war.
Faraday isn’t likely to admit it, but individually, the two of them can be reckless and foolhardy. Together, though, they tend to goad each other into a fair bit of trouble. Some desire to not look cowardly or weak to the other, Faraday imagines, taking risks and jumping headlong into danger. Which is why while common sense screams at the two of them to turn back and call it good, Faraday presses on instead, shotgun raised and eyes peeled for danger.
He’s a little more careful as he walks, now, stepping around the skeletons that litter the platform. He eases himself down onto one of the rails – easier than navigating the narrow maintenance walkways hugging the sides of the walls – and heads down the tunnel. As they walk, Faraday spots a few attempts at domesticating the place, like little wooden shacks and bridges erected between the walkways, old bedrolls, and cinderblock walls. A few splashes of blood, too.
Hears a few shuffling noises, too. Skittering and indistinct sounds that could be voices as much as shifting metal. Hard to tell if they’re alone down here, with the way noise bounces and echoes off the curved walls of the tunnel.
The wooden steps of one such shack creak beneath his boots as Faraday climbs them. The area is lit by another one of those dying work lights, and he ignores the dark red splotches staining the wood to kneel in front of a green chest. A lock holds the lid fast, and he huffs out a frustrated breath.
He pulls his tools out of his pocket again, shifting carefully to prop his shotgun against his shoulder. ]
Keep an eye out, amigo.
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Shotgun, por favor.
[ He relieves Faraday of the weapon as he crouches to work on the chest, and keeps it trained on the small doorway. In addition to his pistols, he has a lever-action rifle slung across his back, but in close quarters like this, he'd take the sheer force and spread of the shotgun. If something tries to get the jump on them, he'd rather be sure its dealt with, and fast. ]
Something got these sorry bastards good.
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He loves his goddamn guns.
He hands it over all the same, and though he keeps the thoughts off his face, the pause before he moves is telling enough.
With the chest, it's a little easier to feel the tumblers out, and his gaze goes distant as he works. At Vasquez's observation, Faraday makes a noncommittal sort of noise. ]
Might've been a bloody nose.
[ Never mind that the splotch of blood was more than enough to look like it spilled from a wound that had to be fatal. ]
You know how much shit these sons of bitches snort.
[ Faraday applies a little more torque to the lock's cylinder, but he can feel the resistance and knows he doesn't have it just yet. He clicks his tongue, relaxing a little to release the pressure on the lock—
Something metallic clatters outside of the shack, the noise turned into a cacophony as it echoes in the tunnel. The bobby pin snaps when Faraday jumps, startled, and he lets the pieces fall to the wooden floor.
He looks over his shoulder at Vasquez. ]
... Guessin' that wasn't you.
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Is it a sign of trust? Or just a one-time allowance based on the circumstances?
It’s not worth dwelling on anyway. He takes the gun with a quiet, Gracias. Then he sets himself up just inside of the doorway to let Faraday work. ]
Must have been a hell of a nosebleed.
[ That’s not even remotely the case and he knows it. People don’t typically lose like half the blood in their body due to a bloody nose.
The noise that suddenly resounds through the tunnel has them both jumping. Vasquez swears, quietly and sharply in Spanish, as he levels the gun at the doorway anew, eyes straining to pick out signs of movement in the low light. ]
I haven’t moved, cabron.
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He at least remembers where he had left off, and another quick adjustment, a slight tilt to the right, and the tumblers are shoved out of the way enough for him to turn the cylinder. A couple comics (at least one of which he’s already read, but he still tucks it away), another box of caps (75, this time, which is a disappointment), more boxes of ammo, and—
Faraday lets out a low whistle as he pulls out an antique revolver – by no means pristine, but apparently still in working order, judging by the easy spin of the cylinder when he runs it against his sleeve. He grins as he twirls it on his finger, turning to show it off for Vasquez.
His lips part just as two yellow pinpoints of light appear about sixty feet down the tunnel, followed by another set, then a third, accompanied with an all too familiar shuffling noise that signaled more on the way. Quiet grunts and wheezing snorts, like dogs testing the air. The work lights catch on their hunched backs and ravaged, pale skin. ]
Vas.
[ Hissed out in warning, though he's sure Vasquez spotted the creatures just as Faraday did. His new gun is apparently loaded, but he pulls his other revolver from its holster, just in case, thumbing back the hammers on both. ]
Did they—
[ —see us? is how he meant to finish that question, but a rasping howl shatters the quiet, followed by pounding footsteps. ]
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That’s an issue for later, though, because the denizens of the tunnels have come crawling out of the shadows. There are only a few for now, but Vasquez likens ghouls to roaches- there are always more crawling around in the darkness, and a little chaos is bound to bring them skittering out.
The sudden howl makes him flinch, and he’s quick to hand the shotgun back to Faraday before he slings his rifle around and brings it to bear. His first shot knocks the ghoul in the lead off its feet, bead snapping back with a surprised grunt, but two more seem to seep out of the darkness to take its place.
Christ, he hates ghouls. ]
¡Vamonos, guero!
[ He’s abandoned subtlety and silence, as his harsh instructions are punctuated by the sharp click of the rifle's lever, by two more gunshots. Two more ghouls drop, but there’s more waiting in the wings to join the charge. ]
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It’s a frustrating quirk of feral ghouls that, as frail as they look, it takes a whole lot more to take them down than it would a normal man. Damn good thing Faraday is a crack shot and makes every bullet count. One shot to the chest to stagger them, a second shot through the eye, and sometimes a third, just to be sure. The bastards hardly make it easy for him, once they scent prey and charge, but the ones he can’t pick off fast enough fall to Vasquez’s gunfire before they get too close.
The report of gunfire bounces against the curved walls of the tunnel, Faraday winces at the sheer amount of noise they’re making. They must be able to hear the racket from the surface, clear across the ruins of the city, he thinks, which means that if there are any other beasts in the tunnels, they’ll surely be attracted by the chaos. Faraday grimaces when his new gun clicks empty, and he tucks it under his belt at his back, firing with his off-hand as he goes. Only when his second revolver clicks empty, too, does he swap at last to his shotgun. The spray knocks a couple off their feet with guttural shrieks and animalistic roars.
There’s seemingly no end to the creatures, but between the two of them, they’re carving a path. One or both of them will have to reload soon, and that’s going to be a goddamn problem, even with the knife Faraday has tucked into his belt, but for now, this is working.
A feral surges up from beneath a wooden walkway. Crafty son of a bitch was playing dead, and Faraday can’t get his gun around in time to blast it away. It slams into him from the side – not enough to knock the both of them down, but the creature latches onto him with inhuman strength, threatens to imbalance him. Only the barrel of his shotgun against its throat keeps its gnashing teeth away from Faraday’s neck. From this close, he can see the dried blood caking its chin and cheeks, can smell the rotted meat on its breath as it snarls at him, and he stumbles as the ghoul throws its full weight against him. ]
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Ghouls are durable monstrosities, but both he and Faraday are good enough shots that it’s not too big of an issue.
The flash of movement in his periphery catches his attention, and he glances over to see Faraday grappling with a ghoul- where had that come from? Bastard had probably been hiding somewhere. Those fucking things were the worst when they came crawling out from under wreckage or piles of corpses, popping up like a goddamn flesh-eating, crazed jack in the box.
For a second he sees red, worry and anger sparking in his gut as he rounds on the ghoul trying to take a bite out of Faraday’s neck. (And maybe later he’ll take a minute to figure out just why the sight of the other man in trouble had bothered him so much. Maybe he’ll sit down and really think about what their partnership means, even after such a short time.
Probably not, though.)
Snarling invectives in his native tongue, he pulls his second pistol from his belt and just unloads on the thing. Any other man would probably be worried about hitting their ally, but Vasquez has got good aim, and in his single-minded rage, his shots may as well be laser-guided. He puts a bullet in the thing’s side, and as it turns its head to snarl at him, he puts another shot through its eye. Two more in its chest even as it goes slack and falls away from Faraday. ]
You okay?
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The ghoul is already dead after the second bullet, its fingers loosening on his clothing as it collapses, but apparently that doesn’t stop Vasquez from unloading two more bullets into it. Faraday jerks his head over to him, blinking at Vasquez with a slack-jawed sort of expression.
(Alarmed by the waste of ammo? Startled by just how vicious Vasquez’s attack had been? Worried over that burst of gratitude for Vasquez being there to save his ass?
Who the hell knows.)
But he hardly has time to digest what just happened. A snarl nearby has him swinging around, pumping his shotgun and blasting another couple of ghouls off their feet.
He swallows, licking his lips. The ghoul had scratched his neck and chest to hell as they grappled, but at least the thing hadn’t chomped down on him. Offers a quick, ]
So far, so good.
[ before charging forward again. ]
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Well, somewhere relatively more safe.
He’s close on Faraday’s heels as they charge through the mess, body half-turned to keep firing behind them as they go. ]
How are you doing for ammo?
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Eight rounds left.
[ Is the brief answer, breathless and tense, before he turns on a ghoul charging at them to the right. Blam, and the spray takes out three at once. ]
Seven.
[ Is the briefer answer. ]
One gun left after that. [ Another feral ghoul appears out of the shadows, and Faraday blasts it away. ]
Six. Hell, they don’t stop, do they?
[ They’re making steady progress back toward the hallway they had entered from, but running up into the lobby isn’t going to stop the ghouls from chasing after them. Faraday abruptly remembers the raiders' defenses – turrets facing toward the subway terminals, likely to fend off these sons of bitches. If he or Vasquez got a head start, one of them could activate the automated turrets at the foot of the escalators for some added firepower. ]
The turrets. [ A ghoul drops down from a platform, struggling to its feet before Faraday kills it.
Five. ] You know how to turn ‘em on?
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He snaps a quick glance over his shoulder at Faraday's words. The intention behind them is clear enough, and while he hesitates, he knows that it's their best bet. ]
Si. You better be right on my ass, guero.
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[ This, thrown over his shoulder with a wild grin, a flash of white teeth in the dark.
But he moves forward, intent on clearing something of a path for Vasquez. He holds off on the next couple of shots, instead letting a ghoul or two get in close to clobber them with the stock of his shotgun. Their faces cave in with each blow, bone shattering with sickening crunches that send a twisted sort of satisfaction through him.
He clambers atop the platform, turning to keep the ghouls off Vasquez's back as he does the same. He carefully times his next shot to take out a pair of them – four rounds left. More ferals crawling out of the woodwork from across the terminal, out from the undercarriages and interiors of the subway cars, and Faraday tries not to think too hard about the fact that he's got four rounds and six shots left between here and the dead escalators.
Make that three rounds and six shots, as he turns to clear a quick path for Vasquez – one spray catching two ghouls who had crawled out of the windows of a subway car. ]
Go!
[ He lets Vasquez take the lead, hot on his heels for a time before he spins back around, pumping the shotgun. Two rounds left, then one round left as they reach the mouth of the hallway. The passageway narrows the ghouls' progress, forcing them to charge at the two of them three abreast instead of from all directions. A final lucky shot takes out four, and he slings his shotgun over his arm, pulling out his last loaded revolver.
When Vasquez reaches the terminal, Faraday spins on his heel, a handful of paces away to give Vasquez space to work. Five shots left. Four shots. The corpses left in their wake hinder the other ghouls' progress a little, affords him some time to make his bullets count. He backs up slowly, firing one more time. ]
Three bullets, Vas. [ Shouted over his shoulder before he fires again. ] Two.
Get those things going.
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Maybe later.
[ And he takes off, moving through the path cleared by Faraday's bullets, only expending his own when a ghoul gets too grabby for his liking. He breaks past the pair of shopping carts skirting over to the terminal.
His last bullet goes into the head of a ghoul that tries to reach around the corner, catching his shirtsleeve as it does.
Faraday is a better hand at the delicate stuff, working with terminals and picking locks, but Vasquez knows how to work simple turret commands, and raiders typically don't make things too complicated. A couple of keystrokes and the turrets begin to whir to life. ]
Get back! ¡Andale!
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He hears Vasquez's warning, hears the turrets rattling in their shopping carts as they twitch and come to life, shouts a quick curse as he rushes out of their line of fire. He has the sinking, split second realization that he might not actually make it—
Another ghoul crashes into him just as he's turning, tackling him past the turrets just as they come to life, mowing down the other ghouls charging through the hallway. Faraday crashes to the damp floor with a muffled grunt, the shrieking ghoul on top of him. It spreads its mouth wide, and Faraday jams in his gun, fires off his final bullet through the back of its head.
It goes limp, and he scrambles backwards on his elbows, kicking it away with his boot.
For a long second, he just shares a look with Vasquez, wide-eyed and shell-shocked, the rat-a-tat of the two turrets and the gargled screams of ghouls filling the silence.
Then, he falls back to the ground and laughs, something just a shade too bright from nervousness. ]
Holy goddamn shit.
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Rage and worry and adrenaline spikes, buzzing in his chest, under his skin, and he’s half a step away from driving his boot into the side of the thing’s head as many times as it takes to get it off of Faraday, but the single gunshot punches through the background noise as easily as it punches through the back of the ghoul’s head. Vasquez freezes where he stands. The creature goes limp and a giddy sort of relief floods in to fill the space in his chest once occupied by murderous intent.
When Faraday laughs, so does he, though the sound is quieter, more breath than laughter, as he sinks down to sit on the bottom step of the long-dead escalator. ]
Me asustaste la mierda. You okay?
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For now, Faraday just lets it go. Breathlessly, ]
Oh, yeah. Still in one piece.
[ He’s scratched to hell all along his jaw, neck, and collarbones, though. That first ghoul who had latched onto him had drawn blood, but thankfully, the cuts are largely shallow and superficial. He’ll need to clean them out, sooner rather than later, all the same.
He pushes himself up on an elbow and turns his head to spit, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. The turrets keep firing, and the ghouls fall to them with wet thunks. Faraday figures it’ll be another second or two before the remaining ghouls decide to leave well enough alone and abandon their hunt to return to the relative safety of the subway tunnels.
Half-crawling, half-dragging himself, he moves back to join Vasquez at the foot of the escalator. Instead of sitting on the step properly, though, he just props himself up against it, putting his shoulder roughly at Vasquez’s hip. The metal edge digs into his back, but he hardly cares, exhausted as he is.
He peers up at the other man. ]
What about you?
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