fire in the hole —「s&k vs. roadhogs, day 5」
Mar 28, 2022 2:18:49 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Mar 28, 2022 2:18:49 GMT -5
He is half-way out of a cavern when it happens: a choir of self-destruction, singing loudly through the sky.
It’s like the end of the whole damn world. Discordant, like legacies crumbling, the sound sets his teeth on edge more than it should possible. He feels the molars gnash tautly together, almost as if to bare themselves, but Rafael keeps on through the cavern he’s treading through. It’s already a damned day, so how can it get worse?
That, marks the precise moment it does.
Static cuts through his speakers first, a sound so sharp he winces at it. And yet he should have waited. Because what the blaring sound gives way to is Nowles’ garbled voice, a mess of metallic-sounding words, and they don’t completely register for a moment until they do, in which his jaw responds first by clenching in bitter fury.
“Did she just put a fucking bounty on me?” he half-growls, half-sighs.
It’s a declaration of war. He knows how it would have been dealt back home: swiftly, and without mercy. It doesn’t matter if her anger is vindicated or Rafael has indeed stolen a few pieces of their mech-suits to mend his own, he doesn’t care. There’s only black selfishness in this chest of his, as venomous as a viper’s poison. Salazar and Adroxis, perhaps they are not so dissimilar after all: they know how to nurture a grudge, adept at feeding it well and nursing it good.
“Adroxis,” he whispers, and it sets up a kind of bounty too, a personal one at that.
That’s when movement registers on his sensors. “Another coyote?” he mutters to himself. The mech’s lumbered joins creak as they swing, his gatlin gun already outstretched towards the origin and his fingers hovering over the attack button and …
It’s a repeat of the past when he says incredulously:
“King?”
There, battered and bruised, looking worse than the last time he saw him and yet filling him with hot relief all the same, stands Orville King. And the sight of him, to his own astonishment, is more than welcomed.
Yet his heart stutters; his eyes flutter. For a moment he freezes in place rigidly, unsure of what to do, uncertain of what to say. Why aren’t you hiding? Why are you alone?
Why are you hurt?
The thoughts flood rapidly past and underlying them all is a question, a morbid curiosity of whether the other will attack him like commanded.
A body. That’s what Orville called a corpse when they spoke last. Is he going to make me a body?
Another explosion jolts him out of his thoughts.
In his dazed moment, he hadn’t seen Orville move closer or rest his mech's hand gingerly on the neck joint of his suit. He should have withdrawn, then. He should have sidestepped; he should have let Orville be the body here.
He doesn’t, though. Intent glints in the other’s eyes as his lips uncurl, preparing to say something, and it's timed perfectly well with the moment he sees an object lobbed their way.
He cuts Orville mid-word by tackling him to the ground.
Another explosion rocks the earth. It seems as though the ground will split asunder soon, held together by delicate plates, and they need to hide away. “You’re not going to die on me until our finale, King,” he seethes through gnashed teeth, swearing with all the ambition he’s made out of. It doesn’t matter who Rafael has to slay to make it happen – if he wants it to, it will. Such is the Salazar spirit, unbowed and unbroken.
He limps back on his feet, then helps Orville in doing so. “Have you met your god yet?” Rafael pants. The ghost of a smirk possesses his lips. “Maybe I’m your god.”
His sensors flare up then, alerted by not one but two nearby presences as the smoke thins for a moment, clearing enough to make out the familiar silhouettes of the scorpion-mech and titan-mech. Enough to make out the gun in Nowles' hands, the black muzzle facing him.
All his bad odds catch up to him.
“Fatima,” he greets flatly.
And then, in a much more disgruntled tone: “Nowles.”
“I got lost in the desert,” he deadpans.
The words are a mere ploy, a way for him to buy some measly time as he lunges for Orville and drags him behind a broken wall just as another firework goes off. His eyes search wildly, and he is half-relieved at seeing how they are back in the junktown. More cover.
“Get ready, King,” he rasps, feeling the yawn of the gatlin gun as it awakens by a force command. “I need you to make one of them a body.”
The sensors flicker like dying stars, twinkling in and out of existence, and he doesn’t know which is who.
It doesn’t matter.
“Both wants my head regardless,” he groans, peeking out from behind the wall, weapon at the ready. “There isn't enough room in this town for the both of us, Nowles!”
He fires.
It’s like the end of the whole damn world. Discordant, like legacies crumbling, the sound sets his teeth on edge more than it should possible. He feels the molars gnash tautly together, almost as if to bare themselves, but Rafael keeps on through the cavern he’s treading through. It’s already a damned day, so how can it get worse?
That, marks the precise moment it does.
Static cuts through his speakers first, a sound so sharp he winces at it. And yet he should have waited. Because what the blaring sound gives way to is Nowles’ garbled voice, a mess of metallic-sounding words, and they don’t completely register for a moment until they do, in which his jaw responds first by clenching in bitter fury.
“Did she just put a fucking bounty on me?” he half-growls, half-sighs.
It’s a declaration of war. He knows how it would have been dealt back home: swiftly, and without mercy. It doesn’t matter if her anger is vindicated or Rafael has indeed stolen a few pieces of their mech-suits to mend his own, he doesn’t care. There’s only black selfishness in this chest of his, as venomous as a viper’s poison. Salazar and Adroxis, perhaps they are not so dissimilar after all: they know how to nurture a grudge, adept at feeding it well and nursing it good.
“Adroxis,” he whispers, and it sets up a kind of bounty too, a personal one at that.
That’s when movement registers on his sensors. “Another coyote?” he mutters to himself. The mech’s lumbered joins creak as they swing, his gatlin gun already outstretched towards the origin and his fingers hovering over the attack button and …
It’s a repeat of the past when he says incredulously:
“King?”
There, battered and bruised, looking worse than the last time he saw him and yet filling him with hot relief all the same, stands Orville King. And the sight of him, to his own astonishment, is more than welcomed.
Yet his heart stutters; his eyes flutter. For a moment he freezes in place rigidly, unsure of what to do, uncertain of what to say. Why aren’t you hiding? Why are you alone?
Why are you hurt?
The thoughts flood rapidly past and underlying them all is a question, a morbid curiosity of whether the other will attack him like commanded.
A body. That’s what Orville called a corpse when they spoke last. Is he going to make me a body?
Another explosion jolts him out of his thoughts.
In his dazed moment, he hadn’t seen Orville move closer or rest his mech's hand gingerly on the neck joint of his suit. He should have withdrawn, then. He should have sidestepped; he should have let Orville be the body here.
He doesn’t, though. Intent glints in the other’s eyes as his lips uncurl, preparing to say something, and it's timed perfectly well with the moment he sees an object lobbed their way.
He cuts Orville mid-word by tackling him to the ground.
Another explosion rocks the earth. It seems as though the ground will split asunder soon, held together by delicate plates, and they need to hide away. “You’re not going to die on me until our finale, King,” he seethes through gnashed teeth, swearing with all the ambition he’s made out of. It doesn’t matter who Rafael has to slay to make it happen – if he wants it to, it will. Such is the Salazar spirit, unbowed and unbroken.
He limps back on his feet, then helps Orville in doing so. “Have you met your god yet?” Rafael pants. The ghost of a smirk possesses his lips. “Maybe I’m your god.”
His sensors flare up then, alerted by not one but two nearby presences as the smoke thins for a moment, clearing enough to make out the familiar silhouettes of the scorpion-mech and titan-mech. Enough to make out the gun in Nowles' hands, the black muzzle facing him.
All his bad odds catch up to him.
“Fatima,” he greets flatly.
And then, in a much more disgruntled tone: “Nowles.”
“I got lost in the desert,” he deadpans.
The words are a mere ploy, a way for him to buy some measly time as he lunges for Orville and drags him behind a broken wall just as another firework goes off. His eyes search wildly, and he is half-relieved at seeing how they are back in the junktown. More cover.
“Get ready, King,” he rasps, feeling the yawn of the gatlin gun as it awakens by a force command. “I need you to make one of them a body.”
The sensors flicker like dying stars, twinkling in and out of existence, and he doesn’t know which is who.
It doesn’t matter.
“Both wants my head regardless,” he groans, peeking out from behind the wall, weapon at the ready. “There isn't enough room in this town for the both of us, Nowles!”
He fires.
[ Rafael blasts Fatima | Gatlin Gun 5/6 ]
CkFxUEI7Slthrowing knife
9039 -- Deep Gash on Forearm -- 7.5 damage (Thrown Knife) + 1.0 damage (Target Practice)
CkFxUEI7Slthrowing knife
9039 -- Deep Gash on Forearm -- 7.5 damage (Thrown Knife) + 1.0 damage (Target Practice)
throwing knife
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