Post by Leon Silverblood on May 30, 2009 8:45:35 GMT -5
Jesus Christ, where's he hiding the brick?, he thought as he waited a moment for the room to stop moving. He knew Giddien was feeling it, too, but Giddien wasn't on his back. Leon flexed his hands, mentally checking himself for serious injuries with expert speed and ease. He cursed himself for fighting at all, lest he break fingers or worse. As he tested his dexterity he knew he was fine, knew he should stop, and knew he wouldn't.
Leon rolled over and returned to his feet slowly, suppressing a groan. He was getting a painful reminder that compared to the undead, people are FAST. Coordinated. Clever. This guy wasn't clawing at him, he was parrying and trapping Leon's attacks, doing blunt force trauma to his abdomen and catching the surgeon in the face with elbows. No, fighting people was not like fighting zombies.
Speaking of zombies, he glanced sideways at the one they'd kept crashing into. GC...GC...The letters blurred, clarified, swam. Ghetto Cow? And was he trying to say Lachryma?
Turning to Deshane: "YOUR wife, YOUR brother, YOUR nieces. All about YOU isn't it?" He spat blood onto the floor and looked then to Noah, his friend, lately his...pet? Bruised, but he'd be fine. Probably wouldn't remember a thing, and maybe the bump on the noggin' would straighten him out a bit. The pang of guilt was there, though, and Leon apologized to Noah silently.
He dusted himself off, stretched out muscles that hadn't been on the spot in a while and made them ready. Again he looked at the zed, which hadn't come through the barricades."And who the hell are you?? You're not Lachryma." He pulled a syringe in a shatterproof case from the pocket of his lab coat and tossed it to Val. "If he's just a DJ, I'm Cindy Crawford." Yeah. And if Val was just a cranky old cook, Leon was a social drinker.
Then he forgot it all, centering his perpetually drunken mind on breaking some of this guys teeth. Sure, he'd be the one to have to fix him up afterward, but he was asking for it. Sure, he looked like the last person on Earth Leon would be wise to f*** with. And sure, survivors beating other survivors to death didn't do a god damned kernel of good in the war for survival, but pissed off is pissed off.
Leon boxed the man now, not charging in as he had before. He focused on drawing Giddien's punches and then countering them, targeting his ribcage and armpits. The first would take his breath. The second would affect the large nerves that run into the arms. Loss of coordination and strength, even paralysis of an entire arm could be expected if he hit the right spot hard enough or enough times. And it would hurt like hell.
Because Leon was a drunk, he couldn't fight as well as a soldier, let alone an elite. But because he was a doctor, he knew how to disable a man with a wave of the hand. Still, a rather impaired wave of the hand.
Behind them, ValJohn was injecting the tattered deader. The LED lights in the syringe flashed, and it slumped to the floor. Shouldn't be long, now.
Leon rolled over and returned to his feet slowly, suppressing a groan. He was getting a painful reminder that compared to the undead, people are FAST. Coordinated. Clever. This guy wasn't clawing at him, he was parrying and trapping Leon's attacks, doing blunt force trauma to his abdomen and catching the surgeon in the face with elbows. No, fighting people was not like fighting zombies.
Speaking of zombies, he glanced sideways at the one they'd kept crashing into. GC...GC...The letters blurred, clarified, swam. Ghetto Cow? And was he trying to say Lachryma?
Turning to Deshane: "YOUR wife, YOUR brother, YOUR nieces. All about YOU isn't it?" He spat blood onto the floor and looked then to Noah, his friend, lately his...pet? Bruised, but he'd be fine. Probably wouldn't remember a thing, and maybe the bump on the noggin' would straighten him out a bit. The pang of guilt was there, though, and Leon apologized to Noah silently.
He dusted himself off, stretched out muscles that hadn't been on the spot in a while and made them ready. Again he looked at the zed, which hadn't come through the barricades."And who the hell are you?? You're not Lachryma." He pulled a syringe in a shatterproof case from the pocket of his lab coat and tossed it to Val. "If he's just a DJ, I'm Cindy Crawford." Yeah. And if Val was just a cranky old cook, Leon was a social drinker.
Then he forgot it all, centering his perpetually drunken mind on breaking some of this guys teeth. Sure, he'd be the one to have to fix him up afterward, but he was asking for it. Sure, he looked like the last person on Earth Leon would be wise to f*** with. And sure, survivors beating other survivors to death didn't do a god damned kernel of good in the war for survival, but pissed off is pissed off.
Leon boxed the man now, not charging in as he had before. He focused on drawing Giddien's punches and then countering them, targeting his ribcage and armpits. The first would take his breath. The second would affect the large nerves that run into the arms. Loss of coordination and strength, even paralysis of an entire arm could be expected if he hit the right spot hard enough or enough times. And it would hurt like hell.
Because Leon was a drunk, he couldn't fight as well as a soldier, let alone an elite. But because he was a doctor, he knew how to disable a man with a wave of the hand. Still, a rather impaired wave of the hand.
Behind them, ValJohn was injecting the tattered deader. The LED lights in the syringe flashed, and it slumped to the floor. Shouldn't be long, now.
