bakerstreet | THERE'S A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL ... MAYBE

THERE'S A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL ... MAYBE

APOCALYPSE MEME

The end of the world is here. Are you ready or are you going to kick the bucket? Maybe you've been prepared for the apocalypse for ages or you're blissfully unaware. You can play it straight or for comedy (think Shaun of the Dead), but please be aware that there's likely to be triggering content within!

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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[ It all happens so fast. For a second it looks like Faraday might not make it behind the line of fire before bullets start flying, and Vasquez keeps one finger hovering over the kill switch for the turrets. When he does make it to safety, it’s with a ghoul right on top of him, and Vasquez has no bullets left.

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?

[ Under normal circumstances, the brief burst of Spanish would warrant some attention, would leave him asking, What’d you just say to me? By now, he expects most of Vasquez says in his native tongue to be an insult, hidden behind that language barrier just to leave Faraday wondering and to piss him off.

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?

[ That they both are in one piece is a miracle. When he’d mentioned that the tunnels were probably “swarming with ghouls”, he hadn’t banked on an actual, literal swarm of the damn things. ]

Few scratches, but I’ve survived worse.

[ The report of the turrets has mostly died down, though now and then a ghoul gets it into whatever’s left of its brain to leap over its fallen fellows to make a charge for the two men. The guns jump back to life then, spraying it with bullets until it falls and doesn’t rise.

His gaze flicks to one such ghoul as the bullets punch through its ruined skin, sending it reeling back until it collapses on the pile of bodies with a dull, wet sound.

It falls quiet after that, the rest of the creatures apparently seeing fit to cut their losses and retreat, and his eyes slide back down to Faraday. The angry red marks scored across the other man’s neck and jaw make him frown, even as the relief to see him alive surges again, makes him dizzy. ]

We should really get you cleaned up, guero.

[ He lets out a quiet, displeased grunt. ]

That would necessitate movin’.

[ Which Faraday is not quite prepared to do just yet, judging by how he’s still mostly sprawled on the floor. After another couple of seconds, though, the position becomes uncomfortable, thanks to the edge of the step digging into his shoulders, neck strained from tipping his head back against it, and that revolver jabbing into the small of his back. He takes a deep, rallying breath and shoves himself up his feet. He turns, offering Vasquez a hand up. ]

We’ll hole up here for the night, then. Oughta be safe enough. [ A jerk of his chin toward the lobby on the floor above them, though it’s followed by a frown. ] Maybe chuck some of those bodies down here, though.

[ Vasquez may be perfectly content, sleeping with corpses, but Faraday sure as hell isn’t. ]

[ If anybody needs a hand up, it’s surely Faraday, sprawled out as he is, but he manages it on his own so Vasquez takes the help. He clasps a hand around Faraday’s forearm and hauls himself to his feet. ]

Sure.

[ He agrees easily enough. He’s in no mood to hit the streets again so soon after this mess. One unfortunate pack of raiders and a swarm of ghouls were enough excitement for the day, and he’d rather not venture out and risk running into God knows what. ]

Toss some food down here for the monstruos, maybe they’ll be too full to take a bite out of us.

[ And honestly, Vasquez will sleep among corpses if he has to, but if he doesn’t and there’s someone around to help him move the bodies, he’s more than happy to discard them. ]

[ Faraday’s expression sours. ]

Ain’t that just the cheeriest little thought.

[ Then again, if any of the ghouls make it far enough up the tunnel to get at any bodies they send down, even with the turrets active, they surely have bigger problems.

The fire in the little cooking station in the lobby still flickers gamely as they climb the steps, though it seems on its last legs. Faraday chucks in a few bits of wood left behind by the raiders for just that purpose, stoking it back to life. After that, they clear out a few of the bodies, tossing a couple down the escalators, moving aside the others when going back and forth with the dead weight between them proves to be too taxing. They’re both exhausted, after all, winding down from the adrenaline rush.

When the area is cleared enough, with blood and bits covered or mopped up by some of the more stained sleeping bags and blankets, Faraday sets some food to cook over the fire – canned something or others that he had found earlier. He sits down heavily by the fire on a mattress that looks mostly clean. (Life being what it is, means he’s not too fastidious about these things, but he at least has mind enough to avoid anything that seems liable to leave him diseased just by looking at it.)

He glances around, gaze flitting over the corpses piled in the corner to examine the rest of the room. Grimy tiles and dirty floors, surely, but— ]

This is nearly a halfway decent dump. [ Blithely, as he prods at the food. ] Shame about the neighbors, though.

[ They work mostly in silence, save the occasional joke or jab, and the quiet grunts of effort as they move bodies and mop up viscera. It’s a sorry statement about the state of the world and of their lives that they don’t even bat an eyelash at piling up the bodies of the men they murdered not more than an hour or so ago to sleep in their former residence.

While Faraday gets whatever will be passing for dinner cooking over the fire, Vasquez roots around through the raiders’ things for medical supplies. He manages to find a few things, relatively clean cloths and bandages, some sort of sharp-smelling antiseptic that is sure to sting like a bitch. (They have their own supplies, to be sure, but if he can afford not to dip into them, he’ll take it.)

Supplies in hand, he meanders back up to the cooking station, plopping down on the mattress alongside Faraday. ]

You’re not thinking of going domestic on me now, are you guero?

[ With a mournful sigh as he tends to the food, ]

Always did want a place in the city. White picket fences. A dog. A basement filled with creatures who want nothin’ more than to eat the flesh off my bones and scoop out my innards with their grimy hands.

Every man's dream, ain't it?

[ He plucks one of the heated cans off the fire, turning to offer it to Vasquez – which is about when he spots the medical supplies in his hands. Faraday grimaces near immediately at the bottle of antiseptic. Grumbles out, ]

Oh, hell.

You paint a pretty picture.

[ Said with a light chuckle that quickly becomes a full-blown laugh of amusement at the way Faraday's expression immediately falls. ]

I said we need to get you cleaned up, remember?

[ His scowl deepens all the more as Vasquez laughs, and he lets out a sharp puff of air between his teeth. ]

I figured I'd just be heatin' up some water.

[ He jabs a finger at the bottle in Vasquez's hands. ]

I didn't think you meant torture.

That ghoul used you as a scratching post, guerito.

[ He says it with a pointed look at the angry red marks scored across Faraday’s skin. ]

Better to be safe than sorry, am I right?

[ His mouth opens to argue, but he closes it after a second of thought.

He frowns a little, squinting at Vasquez. ]

That's new, what you just called me.

What's "guerito" mean?

[ He gives Faraday a flat look. ]

Maybe let me clean your wounds without complaining and I’ll tell you.

[ He absolutely is not going to tell him. ]

[ He returns that flat look with one of his own, before moodily scooping up a utensil and jabbing it into the can of food in his hands. He takes a mouthful and grumbles out, ]

Fine.

[ Apparently, this portion of their dinner is now Faraday's. The other can sits above the fire, popping and hissing with the heat.

(It's a petty act of defiance, but he makes it all the same.)

He peels off his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, and strips down to his threadbare tank top. ]

Do your worst, you sadist.

You better not let my dinner catch fire.

[ Since apparently Faraday was claiming the first portion for himself.

He spreads the supplies out on the mattress next to him. The ghoul didn’t manage to draw much blood, thankfully, which meant there wouldn’t be too much of a use for the bandages. He makes a note to squirrel them away with the rest of their medical supplies.

The antiseptic smells even sharper out in the open air, the kind of medical clean that most people have never experienced in their entire lives, only read about in books, if they can read at all. He douses one corner of a rag in the stuff and turns to Faraday. ]

Esto va a picar.

[ In Spanish, just to be an asshole about it. Then he sets to work. ]

[ His nose wrinkles at the sharp smell, eyeing it with an undisguised sort of wariness. He's only had the luxury of having antiseptic used on him once or twice, and only when he happened to have caps enough to get stitched up by some doc in one of the larger settlements.

He doesn't recall enjoying it.

The expression shifts to annoyance, though, when Vasquez switches to his native tongue. ]

Es-tow what now—

[ Though he's rudely interrupted when Vasquez presses the rag to one of the deeper cuts on his neck. He swears, flinching away. ]

Goddammit, that stings.

[ But he tries to keep still after that, wincing and hissing out a quiet swear now and again when the substance hits a particularly sensitive spot. He pauses Vasquez's progress long enough to pluck the warmed can off the fire, though it's accompanied by a largely unintelligible grumble. ]

I told you it was going to.

[ He means to say it blandly, but he can’t quite help the amused upturn of his lips. Faraday is bound to catch onto the Spanish if they stick it out like this for much longer, so he’s enjoying himself while he can.

Faraday’s occasional flinches and grumblings don’t seem to bother him after that first big jump, and he works his way from the other man’s jawline down to his collar bone, carefully cleaning. Once he’s done, he sits back to survey his work, dark eyes traveling the length of the scrapes critically. ]

Probably going to need a couple of bandages, just to be safe.

[ But for now he’s going to eat dinner, and plucks up the can that Faraday had set aside. ]

You damn well did not.

[ Or at least, not in any way that was meaningful to Faraday, except by demonstration.

It's not too bad, after a little while, once Vasquez finishes tending to the worst of it. After that, it's just light touches, the occasional little twinge, but it's—

Well. It's not nice, considering the pain involved, but it's not so terrible, either.

When Vasquez's sadistic streak seems satisfied, Faraday huffs out a breath and pushes his arms through the sleeve of the shirt he had discarded. He leaves it unbuttoned, though, then picks at what's left in his tin can. ]

They're just scratches, Vas. [ Around a mouthful of food. ] Save the bandages for somethin' actually important.

[ He digs into his dinner with gusto, meager though it is. He has a habit of eating like he's going to be jumped by hostiles or shot at any second. ]

Fine. But I'm keeping this.

[ He motions to the bottle of antiseptic with his spoon. ] Just in case.

[ He casts the bottle a dour sort of look, as if he held it personally accountable for the injuries currently inflicted on his person, and any pain it might cause in the future. ]

Suit yourself.

[ There's not much left in his own tin can, but he leaves it beside Vasquez's knee on the mattress, evidently having already enjoyed his fill.

After that, he digs through his pack to sort the haul from today's excursion, divvying up the caps and the ammo.

Faraday decides he's keeping the comics.

But the last prize of the day, the antique revolver, he tugs out of his waistband, absently twirling it on a finger, before depositing it in the space between them. ]

What do we wanna do with this?

[ Vasquez doesn't really have much interest in comics (though sometimes he'll dip pinto Faraday's collection just to have something to do) so he doesn't mind when Faraday sets them aside for himself.

When the gun reappears, though, he perks a little. ]

Can I see?

[ He lifts up the gun, holding the grip out to Vasquez. The chambers are still empty, thanks to their encounter with the ghouls below, but the gun is still a weighty thing. ]

Hell of a kickback on that one.

[ He takes it in hand, testing the weight. Definitely heaver than what he's used to, but it probably packs quite the punch.

He twirls it around one finger- forward, backward. Sideways, after a brief pause, because he enjoys showing off when he can. It's a little unwieldy at first but he gets a handle on the gun's weight and balance quickly. ]

I'd have to see how it shoots first, but I have to say I'm tempted to keep it.

[ A part of Faraday has always been a little envious over how easily Vasquez could handle a gun. It's flashy and pointless and, really, just a waste of time, but—

—but Faraday found himself partaking of the same useless little tricks, now and again – a quick spin or twirl when holstering or drawing his guns. And hell, if it didn't look good when Vasquez did it.

Faraday purses his lips, examining the gun in Vasquez's hand for the span of another breath, before glancing away. ]

Have it, then.

[ That was far easier than he expected it to be, and he glances over at Faraday. ]

You sure?

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