There are many worlds, ranging from very similar from one another to wildly different. Normally the residents of these parallel universes never meet; but when the fabric of time and space is altered in pursuit of power, the various dimensions of the multiverse start to come together. So began the great crossover of Multiverse Unlimited.
Post by Marona and Ash on Aug 25, 2012 14:45:34 GMT -8
“When there’s no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth.” - Peter
It was just like any other day in Spire City. And, for all she or anyone else knew, that was exactly how it would remain. Just an ordinary day like any other: get ready in the morning; have breakfast; go to school; meet up with friends after school; do homework; read from her book; go to bed; wake up and repeat the same process. But the process of her normal routine on that day would only get so far as the 'go to school' portion. Nothing after would occur, or ever occur again. Nor would the preceding events. From then on, the one and only constant daily routine would be as such: survive.
She sat upright in front of her desk with immaculate posture. An attractive, fair-skinned young girl of fourteen. Her green hair was kept short, save for a pair of cowlicks which arced back over her head like feathers. Her sea green eyes shifted between looking toward her history teacher to glancing down at the open notepad where she was scribbling down pieces from his lecture which could be important later on. Marona was nothing if not prepared and astute. She wore a simple white blouse which buttoned down the front, and below that a navy blue skirt which draped down to the middle of her knees. Comfortable-fitting tennis shoes, navy blue and black, adorned her feet, and her white socks were ankle high. A silver stud dotted each of her earlobes.
She was rather cute, though not strikingly beautiful; not so much so that any of the boys at the school paid her as much attention as they paid to the more well-endowed, gorgeous of girls. The raging hormones of teenage boys were rather picky, after all. Still, she was quick to make friends, and proved herself to be quite humble and polite for a girl her age, much to the annoyance of some of the school’s less friendly female student body, who viewed her as a prude, a goody two-shoes, and a teacher’s pet. Marona never let it get to her; at least not on the surface. She took everything in stride and remained positive.
Two of her friends, who sat in a straight line to her immediate right, giggled amongst themselves before slyly handing down a folded piece of paper which Marona accepted from the offering hand slipped under the radar of the droning history teacher. The green-haired youth took the note curiously, her eyes and parted lips inquisitive. But, given her nature, she would not be rude enough to her teacher to read it during class, so she merely placed the folded bit of paper in a formerly empty pocket upon the left breast of her blouse. She then returned to taking notes and trying to absorb everything that the teacher was saying, her eyes glancing to the clock hanging on the wall every now and again to gauge how much longer she had until lunch time.
She was startled suddenly by a shrill audio feedback screech produced by the school’s intercom system. And she wasn’t alone; many of the students jumped, some even uttering a yelp, and even the teacher himself cut off awkwardly mid-sentence. After a second or so, the feedback diminished and the masculine voice of the principal could be heard. Marona was immediately concerned given the sound of his voice. The principal was generally a rather unflappable man, yet the voice which she heard, though clearly his, was jittery and far from composed, despite an obvious effort on his part to try and sound as calm as possible. “Attention, students. Please follow your teacher’s instructions and calmly make your way...”
Another startling event took the class by surprise as the door leading into the classroom flew open, this time startling Marona to the point where she bolted upright from her seat to a standing position, her eyes wide as her head snapped to the direction of the door. A teenage boy had burst into the room, beads of sweat dotting his light forehead, and it was someone she immediately recognized. His unruly, navy blue hair; his distant, magenta eyes, at that moment filled with determination. “Ash?!” She called out to him, her cheeks flushing a light pink hue. He wore a white t-shirt with an open-front, black jacket over it, blue jeans, and black tennis shoes. He looked rather frantic and frazzled, and his eyes targeted her directly, causing her heart to flutter. “Marona, come with me! We have to go!” He commanded in a shaky voice. The teacher made no effort to react to the intrusion of a student from another class barging in, for he was far too distracted by the voice over the intercom which Marona had tuned out after her secret crush’s dramatic entrance. “Ash, what’s going--” “Trust me! Come on!” Without hesitating he hastily made his way to her seat, gently but firmly grabbing her by the wrist and all but dragging her out of the classroom.
“Marona!” “Marona, stay behind me!”
A stern voice - one which did not belong to Ash, despite her initial shock-induced theory that it had been - suddenly snapped her back to the present, reminding her of where she was. The pungent odor of the back alley was deplorable; swarms of flies and maggots flourishing around the rubbish there which had not been attended to in weeks. As it stood, not much had been attended to in weeks. Shrinking back and trembling slightly as her heart raced, she looked past the man whom had placed himself between her and them.
They shambled toward them both from the mouth of the alleyway; the only entrance in the dead end they had found themselves. She backed up as much as she could, as though if she tried hard enough she could simply melt right into the sturdy brick wall which barred her path at her back. Feeling boxed-in and trapped like an animal in a cage, she breathed through her mouth, her chest heaving and her eyes wide. “John...” She uttered weakly and pleadingly.
Last Edit: Aug 26, 2012 12:09:18 GMT -8 by Marona and Ash
“Valiant Phantoms, aid me in battle! Chartreuse Gale!”
“You’ll go no further! For her sake, I will not fail!”
“Marona, stay behind me!” He commanded of the teenage girl whom had found herself under his care through fateful circumstances. He didn’t look at her as he said such, his amethyst eyes transfixed on the slow-moving abominations which staggered toward them, their stench not lost even among the rotting garbage that littered the alleyway. He stood firmly between the the girl and those who aspired to consume the flesh from their bones, his right hand firmly clenched around a wooden baseball bat to the extent that his knuckles showed white. He was a light-skinned adult with short, black hair in which a white streak ran through. The black tank top he wore revealed a series of black tattoos upon his bare arms. Comfortable-fitting blue jeans adorned his lower body. The belt he wore was a military-issued combat belt, the sort with compartments for tools and supplies, and something he had only acquired recently. Black, heavy duty shoes with thick, rubber soles were upon his feet, his white, ankle-high socks lost beneath the bottoms of his pant legs. A silver chain was worn around his neck, the silver locket which hung from it resting between his collarbone.
He grimaced, gritting his teeth as he narrowed his eyes in preparation. As the first of the undead approached him, its arms outstretched and mouth agape, he drew back his bat in both arms and swung away as hard as he possibly could. The head of the creature burst open like an overripe melon, accompanied by a spray of gore consisting of congealed blood, brain matter, and shattered fragments of skull. A few droplets of crimson sprayed upon his left cheek, though he was undeterred and barely noticed in his adrenaline-fueled onslaught. The lifeless body of the mangled corpse fell to a slump, where it laid in an awkward position due to the loss of flexibility brought on by rigor mortis.
Stepping forward, he closed the distance between himself and the second ghoul whom was advancing, bringing his bat down in an overhead motion to bash in the skull of an individual whose attire betrayed that they had been a postal worker before the change. Though such classifications had become moot, as it broke down into two distinct categories as a result of the outbreak: the living, and the turned. Having dispatched the second invader, he moved on to take out a third, then a fourth, then a fifth. As a flesh-gobbler grew dangerously close to him while he was attending to a different one, he jerked away from it in the nick of time and delivered an uppercut which crushed its lower jaw, throwing its head back as it fell backward onto the ground. There, on the filthy alley floor, it twitched and threatened to stagger back to its feet, but a follow-up blow to the head from his baseball bat put any such ideas to rest in a hurry.
Only once the path was clear did he quickly turn toward Marona. “Come on!” He beckoned her, scarlet dewdrops still clinging to his otherwise handsome face. Though he had dealt with the immediate threat, the sounds of not-too-distant moaning and haunting groans told tale that idling there any longer would be ill-advised. As the girl ran to his side, she timidly outstretched her hand, which he took with his free hand before leading her out of the alleyway and into the open street. Immediately he could see that there were more undead out and about, some of which had already detected them. With Marona securely in his left hand, and his bat in the right, he strove to lead them both to safety.
Post by Professor Layton on Aug 25, 2012 21:09:07 GMT -8
One could hope and pray to a merciful God that only one area of the city was crowded with the turned. Surely, the world outside the city was untouched and normal like it used to be. But such prayers evidently never reached the high heavens, because it was apocalyptical everywhere.
One of the turned was alone, passing by a shop's large window that was, surprisingly, never shattered. Judging by his tattered business suit, it seemed he used to have a job of high position, but now he was just another one of them. The end came swiftly to the walking dead; a long, beautiful and lethal blade sliced through the turned's head, like a hot knife through butter. The soulless man made a final gurgle before the blade twisted, abruptly ending his life. The blade was pulled back to allow the victim to fall, revealing the poor being's savior. He was an Englishman who made up for his average height with high intellect. Standing 5'9", the hair underneath his gray flat cap was brown, as was the stubble on his face. He clearly hadn't shaved in weeks. His dark eyes, once full of compassion and spirit, were dimmed to near listlessness. Below his prominent chin was a red vest with the topmost button unfastened, and under the vest was a white button-up shirt with long sleeves. His dark brown pants were held up by a belt, and, contrasting with his somewhat formal attire, he wore dark green tennis shoes with white laces and straps. The man stared down at the now dearly departed, until he noticed the shop's window through the corner of his eye. He stared into his reflection, so familiar, yet so different than what it used to be. "Where are we going for our anniversary, Hershel?" the wife asked. She was practically a child requesting to know her birthday present in advance. "Now, Claire, a true lady is always patient," Hershel Layton replied matter-of-factly.
The two were seated at the dining table for breakfast. Claire was beautiful as always, with her curly red hair, piercing eyes and bright smile. She wore her glasses as she continued to eat her French toast breakfast. "Come on, tell me! I deserve to know."
Hershel, in semi formal wear, politely waited to finish his sip of tea before continuing with a silly grin. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."
Claire chuckled and tilted her head down, her eyes above her glasses. "Sometimes surprises aren't a good thing." Hershel Layton had to stop reminiscing. He sheathed his sword in a holder, which was attached to a belt hoop on his pants. He had a pistol on holster on the other side, but guns were really only meant for very dire situations, because loud noises attracted the turned.
As the man briskly walked through the streets, he heard the distinct murmur of many infected... way too many to deal with by just a sword and revolver. Nonetheless, he jogged to the corner of a block and reduced his speed to a silent walk as he got closer. He peaked around the building's corner, and his suspicions were confirmed. There were plenty of infected--but, wait! Hershel just barely halted a gasp when he saw a very rare sight: survivors! A big, strong man escorting a young girl. Just the thought of the two being harmed was enough to push him to help. He slipped back into hiding behind the building and looked about. He may have had his answer, in the form of a lone car with the blinking red light of security. It was a gamble, but if he started the alarm by striking or shooting the car, it could distract the turned long enough for the two to make it to safety. But should he? He peaked around the corner one more time...
"While I dislike confrontations, I find the idea of a puzzle battle to be quite alluring. Or, to use a colloquialism: please bring it."
The street was a maze-like mess of cars, some parked, others crashed due to panic. The dormant states of the cold, metal husks acted as haunting tombstones in honor of their former occupants, though there was a slim chance that at least some of the passengers had escaped their fate here. An old, brown pickup truck had even managed to barrel right into a cherry picker, the result being that the basket crane had toppled over and effectively crushed the driver side of blue Cadillac. An unmoving, discolored hand wedged between the cherry picker and the door was all that could be seen of the car’s driver. At least their head had been crushed by the trauma, preventing them from turning. Others weren’t so fortunate, including a staggering creature with a neon yellow vest, crusted with dried blood, and a yellow hardhat. It was likely the unfortunate individual whom was coupled with the cherry picker, and the awkward angle in which its head rested upon its broken neck hinted that perhaps it had been on the equipment prior to the excessive love tap of the truck.
As he ran through the wreckage-laden road, the sound of glass could be heard crunching beneath each fall of his shoes. Navigating the dead lot while avoiding the vehicles and the undead, all with Marona firmly in hand, was challenging, though not impossible. Thankfully the flesh-eating remnants were sluggish, whereas the two of them could move quickly. As such, he was able to maneuver around most of them as, even with the wreckage, he had far more wiggle room to work with than the narrow alleyway they had emerged from moments earlier. When one of the grotesque horrors, looking like an elderly woman, drew too close to safely dodge, he removed his grip over the girl’s hand in order to correct his posture and wield his bat firmly in both hands. He made a quick swipe to the side of its head, which caved in easily enough, the fully lifeless form of what was once likely somebody’s wife, mother, grandmother, or a combination, falling against the hood of a nearby car before slowly sliding down in a slick of its own blood.
Marona seemed startled when he again grabbed her hand, her glassy eyes having been spaced out while scanning behind them, where more of the shamblers were gathered. She calmed as soon as the realization hit her that there was warmth in the hand, and once again allowed herself to be led.
Before them was a considerable pile-up, in which several vehicles had somehow managed to crush a car which was below them. One such vehicle was a brown postal delivery truck which had flipped onto its left flank. His eyes gave a quick scan of the area before he saw what he wanted to see. A nearby business, which looked to be a clothing store, had a fire escape ladder leading to the roof; the sort which only extended partway down, and which had to be released from the top in order to extend the rest of the way to the bottom. To keep thieves out, the roof access of such buildings were generally locked, limiting the chances of the infected getting onto the roof itself. The slow-moving, stiff and bumbling damned were hardly known for their climbing prowess, making high ground a good place to seek refuge.
Post by Marona and Ash on Aug 26, 2012 14:25:23 GMT -8
The world seemed to swirl around her, as though she were caught up in a surreal, lucid nightmare rather than cruel reality. Her legs pumped almost on instinct alone as she did well in keeping up with the pace of Jonathan, who not only had longer legs but who was also more physically fit that herself. His grip over her hand was tight, almost painfully so, though she didn’t mind it. That human link was something which helped to keep her grounded in reality, and gave her a shallow sense of security even given the dire nature of their situation. Five weeks prior, strolling down the sidewalk of the road would have been normal enough. But even such a mundane act had become a life or death struggle since the event.
Her breath hitched and her throat tightened when he suddenly released her hand to dispatch an immediate threat, her eyes looking back over her shoulder at where they had recently come from. Those things, which had once been people, shambled about, emerging from behind vehicles and slowly staggering in their direction. Some had their arms outstretched, preparing themselves in advance to tighten their cold, dead fingers around their prey in order to pin them so that they could sink their blood cloaked teeth into soft, living tissue. Even though only about two seconds had passed, the time which elapsed between him releasing his grip and taking out the zombie to him again grabbing her smaller hand felt like an eternity. Her spine straightened in shock when she felt his touch, but her heart rate lessened upon the feeling of warmth which emanated from his strong hand embracing her fairer, weaker one.
Once again they were on the move, with her protector performing admirably in guiding both her and himself out of harm’s way. The sprint ceased once they reached a magnificent pile up which formed a makeshift barricade, closing the road off with the hulking, metal shells which were sprawled out from buildings on either side of the street. The empty businesses acted as bookends to the catastrophe of twisted steel and shattered windows. And as her companion surveyed the area, she again took to having her eyes wander the immediate area. A loud thud from the interior of a nearby station wagon caused her heart to flutter, and as the driver side door swung open to allow an undead being to slide out and onto the black asphalt, her hand squeezed Jonathan’s almost as tightly as he was holding on to hers.
A sudden sound caught her attention from nearby; the distinctive blare of a car alarm. Had one of those things set it off? Regardless, she wasn’t the only one who took notice of the sound. Many of the undead slowly turned their heads toward the direction the noise emanated from, their milky, dead eyes not displaying any form of emotion, yet some deeper-seeded primal instinct informing them that the odd sound could very well lead them to food. While some of the more distant zombies altered their course to investigate the car alarm, those which were relatively close to her and her companion went unphased. They already had a meal in their sights and would not be so easily deterred.
“Valiant Phantoms, aid me in battle! Chartreuse Gale!”
“You’ll go no further! For her sake, I will not fail!”
Post by Professor Layton on Aug 30, 2012 21:11:45 GMT -8
After shattering the window on the car's passenger side with the handle of his gun, Hershel gritted his teeth as he pivoted. He could already feel them coming. He didn't have a moment to spare. Wasting no time, he held his sword with his right hand and kept his gun ready just in case, holstered but not locked. He was running out of ammo, but he was confident he could make it to the other survivors. It was because of them the intelligent man did something terribly foolish.
He ran to a nearby alleyway that would lead into where he last saw the couple, but he didn't go undetected. Three of the turned followed him and groaned. Hershel opted to impale their heads in succession, 1-2-3, instead of the gun. He wanted as many of the deadheads to be distracted by the car as possible, not just for the safety of the others, but for him, too. His blade was covered in blood, both dried and fresh. He hated killing, and it took every ounce of his body just to pull the blasted trigger onto the temple of one of them for the first time, but he had since become proficient at it. It still wasn't effortlessly second nature, but he had survived on his own this long.
He had to impale two more heads as he dashed through the alleyway. He tried not to pant for breath, or to be noisy about it. One more head was sliced by his sword when he reached the other end. He frantically looked around and saw the two survivors, the older of them (male) looking at the fire escape ladder. Hershel shouted, but not at full volume. "You two! Shall we head for the roof?"
This was no time for formalities, despite Hershel being quite the gentleman before the initial outbreak. As if to cement this, he saw a turned stagger for him. He took up his sword and swiftly disposed of him. The deceased fell face first on the sidewalk, inhumanly-colored blood forming a pool on the cement.
"While I dislike confrontations, I find the idea of a puzzle battle to be quite alluring. Or, to use a colloquialism: please bring it."
A piercing sound cut through the cacophony of eerie moaning and shuffling feet, though Jonathan didn’t bother looking in the direction for the origin of the sound, because it was immediately obvious what it was. Initially he hadn’t given much thought to it; one of them had probably bumped into a parked car while prowling the dead street. But when a voice - a human voice which could form more than moans and gurgling - cut through the noise, it was a simple enough matter to piece together just what had triggered the alarm. His eyes shot over to a man whom had made an effort to assist them. Jonathan provided him with a curt nod and a thumbs-up, yet said nothing in return, his facial expression still determined and unchanged.
Keeping his attention to the task at hand, his eyes quickly looked behind them to gauge how distant the nearest undead was, then, satisfied, shot back to the wreckage-formed wall barring their path. Stooping to one knee, he placed his bloodied baseball bat on the ground, linking his fingers together and looking to Marona. His intentions were obvious even without words, and she quickly took him up on his proposal for a boost. Her foot gently stepped into his linked hands with precision and, with his support, she crawled up onto the side of the brown postal delivery truck. Quickly scooping up his bat, Jonathan cast another quick glance over his shoulder to ensure no more had appeared from a blind spot. Confident that they were distant enough to not require any immediate action, he anchored himself to the flank of the hunk of metal debris as best he could and ascended to join Marona’s side atop the truck. The way she crouched and pulled on his arms to help him up was endearing. Even though he was plenty fit enough to have hoisted himself up on his own, even with one hand clutching onto his bat, he was nevertheless appreciative of her willingness to help. At times he wondered just who was helping who in the situation. At first glance, it seemed obvious; but he wondered just how long he would have made it without any purpose for existing in a broken world.
Both he and Marona stood to their feet as the first of the undead reached the side of the wreckage where they had just come from. The awkward, staggering creatures were ill adept to crawl up the way they had, and instead just clawed at the side of the vehicles while longingly looking up them with their dead, glazed eyes. Walking across the sideways truck, Jonathan looked to see how the undead situation faired on the other side of the road. He felt his left pant leg catch on something suddenly; or so his initial thought was. But an otherworldly moan informed him that it hadn’t caught on anything, but that something had caught him. His head snapping toward his leg, he saw the culprit. One of the things, still clad in its brown postal uniform, was inside of the overturned truck. It still occupied the driver’s seat, and was securely held in place via its seat belt. In its life, it would have had the intelligence to realize that a single push of a button could release it from its confines. But it was no longer a man; it was an it.
From the level of decay it looked as though the doomed driver had been in the truck for the better part of a month; possibly even from as far back as the first week of the outbreak. Even though it was strapped in place, its flesh had decayed to the point of being soft and easily mutilated. As a result, it was able to reach farther than it could have as a human, the seatbelt still holding it in place, though easily sinking and cutting into the rotten flesh enough to give the undead horror a better reach than it could have hoped for in life. It had managed to reach across the passenger seat in order to grab his pant leg, its haunting, white eyes locked onto its prize as it opened its mouth, a slime-like substance dripping from its maw.
Pivoting where he stood, Jonathan brought the heel of his right shoe down, hard, into the forehead of the driver, sinking its head in like a rotten fruit as it released its grip over his other leg to slump dead in its seat - that time permanently. The force behind Jonathan’s blows were quite powerful, as he was an experienced martial artist in the old world. Since hands-on approaches were rather unfavorable, given the circumstances (one bite, no matter how seemingly superficial, spelled the doom of any living person) he had taken to using the baseball bat and the snub nose revolver concealed in his pants for proximity insurance, though his arms and legs were destructive in their own right when push came to shove.
Turning toward Marona, he could see a look of concerned horror on her face. He cast her a reassuring smile before leading them on to their destination. Thankfully the other side of the street was relatively clear. There were shamblers about, but they were distant enough to not pose an immediate threat, provided they moved swiftly and didn’t tarry. Jonathan jumped down to the other side first, then turned and helped the green-haired youth down. Again taking her hand, he went into a mad dash toward the location of interest. Grabbing a nearby aluminum trashcan, which was adequately waited for what he intended given the fact that it was substantially full of garbage, he quickly placed it beneath the overhanging ladder. Standing atop it, he helped Marona up onto the narrow space before boosting her high enough so that her delicate fingers could find purchase upon the bars of the ladder. Once he had lifted her high enough she was able to climb the rest of the way on her own, where she turned to look down at him from her lofty perch.
“Here.” He called up to her while raising his bat so that she understood him. He then tossed it up to her so that both of his hands were free. Fortunately, he was tall enough so that he could jump and latch onto the bars of the ladder without need for a further boost, with the trashcan he had strategically set into place acting as all of the help he needed. From what he had seen, the unknown survivor looked to be tall enough to have reached it in much the same manner he had. Ascending the metal ladder to the roof, once his feet were again on solid ground he turned and looked down below to see if the man would need some form of assistance.
Post by Marona and Ash on Aug 31, 2012 17:40:34 GMT -8
The source of the car alarm revealed itself to be a haggard-looking, though reasonably attractive, man with a distinctive English accent. It had been some time since they had encountered any survivors, and Marona was beginning to wonder just how many of them were even left by that point. She didn’t have much time to really take in a good look at the man, as they were far from out of the woods. She would certainly remember to thank him later, if the situation presented itself.
Her eyes shifted back toward her companion as he crouched down in front of the pile up, the position he assumed being one which was obvious enough to not warrant an explanation. It seemed that they were going to climb over the cars and trucks which stood in their way. That may have seemed obvious, seeing as he wouldn’t have merely led them to a dead end otherwise, though everything was happening so fast that she barely had time to register it. Nodding and offering a weak smile, she carefully stepped into his hands. Had she still been in her skirt, she would have been embarrassed to have been in such a situation. Not that she feared that he was a pervert - far from it, she trusted Jonathan on all levels. If it weren’t for him she would have died weeks ago, and more than likely become one of them. Of that there was no doubt in her mind. Jonathan was her guardian angel, but she strived to be useful to him, too.
Since the outbreak started she had swapped clothes more than once, particularly on occasions where they became soaked with blood and other unsavory materials. She was currently wearing a navy blue, spaghetti strap shirt. Beneath was a black sports bra supporting her modest bust, and the straps were clearly visible given the thin nature of the straps of her outer shirt. A pair of khaki shorts were worn on her lower half, reaching about nine inches above either kneecap. She had no need for a belt, as the shorts were a perfect fit, and snugly clung to her curves while still allowing for freedom of motion, which was more than a little important. Her shoes remained unchanged, as she had broken them in prior to the outbreak and was comfortable with them. Given the ample amount of time she spent on her feet, often running, she couldn’t run the risk of getting a new pair of shoes that she could later regret. There were blood stains on her footwear, but the shoes had been cleaned off since, and the stains were little more than a gruesome reminder of what had once been there. Her socks were white and ankle high.
Once she had managed to get herself atop the truck she tested her balance on the odd surface before quickly turning and looking down toward Jonathan. When he drew close enough, she crouched down and grasped his arms in her own before pulling to help him reach the top. She wanted to be useful, but felt all at once disheartened and ashamed that the predicament they had found themselves in at that moment was her fault. Whether that was true or not was beside the point; in her mind, nothing could convince her that she wasn’t responsible. And worst of all, they had to leave the backpack behind.
Once he was atop the truck with her they headed toward the other side. The sound of a deep, gurgling moan stopped her in her tracks, sending a shiver up her spine as her blood ran cold. She turned and gasped to see that the truck driver, whom neither of them had seen prior, had grabbed hold of Jonathan’s leg. She was prepared to boot at the arm of the foul creature, but her companion handily dispatched the offending creature before her own reaction time even allowed her to assist him in the matter.
Jonathan was certainly very self-reliant, and she was more thankful by the day to be with him; not simply because of the protection he offered. No, it was far beyond that. With the old world being a thing of memories, Jonathan had managed to become her new world. It wasn’t that she was in love with him; at least, she didn’t think she was. He wasn’t her (considerably older) lover, and he wasn’t her father, or even brother, but he also meant far more to her than a mere fellow survivor. She clearly had grown to love him on at least a platonic level; of that there was no question. During every close call like the one she had just observed, her heart raced. She didn’t know what she would do without him, and she didn’t want to know.
She watched as he jumped to the other side, looking up at her with those gorgeous, though haunting, amethyst eyes of his as he helped her down. She couldn’t help but blush lightly as he escorted her down, and she hoped he hadn’t noticed. Making their way toward the clothing store, she watched as Jonathan made haste in setting up a trashcan against the wall before climbing atop it. She took his offered hand as he escorted her up, and again found herself being boosted to reach higher ground. With his help she was able to grab the ladder, its metal surface lightly warmed by the sun feeling pleasant beneath her fingers. She quickly climbed to the top of the roof, giving it a quick scan to ensure that there were no unwanted visitors waiting up there for them, like with the experience atop the truck moments earlier. When it became clear that there weren’t, she turned and looked down to see those amethyst hues looking up at her. He called up to her and motioned with his bat, and she scooted closer to the edge as he tossed it up. She managed to catch it in both arms, and was very thankful for that. She’d never forgive herself if she had missed it and caused it to fall down and smash into its owner.
Holding the bat firmly in both hands she watched eagerly over the side as he jumped up to the ladder himself, catching it in his strong hands before pulling himself up to appear at her side. With the two of them safely reunited atop the roof, her eyes scanned the area to observe the status of the man whom had appeared earlier.
“Valiant Phantoms, aid me in battle! Chartreuse Gale!”
“You’ll go no further! For her sake, I will not fail!”
Post by Samus Aran on Aug 31, 2012 18:37:12 GMT -8
What may have been an attempt to save his own skin was about to turn into a fatal mistake, for the man trapped on ground level. The very moment he had turned his attention to an approaching turned and quickly felled it, another lurking nearby lunged for him at just the right moment - as much as the shambling creature could lunge, which still would have swiftly taken the man off guard. There was no telling if its well-timed attack was intentional - despite their brain matter having been utterly rotted, the turned could show signs of almost animalistic cunning at times. Cunning, however, was not what showed on the decomposed face of the wretched figure that reached out towards the living, breathing man - merely an empty lust for flesh. Its unexpectedly powerful arms outstretched, its fetid jaws open and ready for the kill, it drew closer with surprising speed...
... Until, with an abrupt and loud noise, the contents of its rotting head messily burst forth from its forehead. Not even a second later, it had collapsed limply to the concrete below. In an instant, it had been felled - but not by the man's sword. Amidst the chaos surrounding the streets and the blaring car alarm, the sharp sound that accompanied the turned's "re-death" might have been difficult to decipher, but the source of it would soon be confirmed to the nearly turned man.
"They're on their way to the roof."
Almost startlingly close, a voice spoke out to the man. It was instantly recognizable as female, albeit deep and matured in tone, almost husky. It was calm and composed, almost unnervingly so considering the circumstances they were both in - but stern, with a definite urgency. One thing was clear - whoever was speaking was there to help.
If the man turned towards the source of the voice, he would see her. A woman, no older than thirty, tall and sleek yet clearly fit. Her thin, almond-shaped eyes were a piercing blue, although betrayed a jaded weariness of a woman who had clearly seen better days. Her long, thin blonde hair, wrapped up in a slender ponytail, was frazzled and sweaty. Dressed in only a sleeveless, deep blue tank top and firm, leg-hugging jeans, it was clear to see that her skin, too, was covered in sweat and dirt.
More noticeably, however, was what she held in both hands - a single pistol, the tip of which was still freshly smoking.
"We'd best meet up with them." She stood still, yet her limber legs were tense and spread, ready to swiftly carry her onward and away from any approaching turned. She stared tensely at the man, with a look that made it clear that, while looking out for him, she was not about to stand around all day for him to begin following her.
Post by Professor Layton on Aug 31, 2012 19:28:11 GMT -8
Hershel couldn't afford to stand and watch the man and the girl climb the fire escape the whole time. He was still in hot water and routinely circled to dispatch any deadhead that crept too close for comfort. He used his sword, but he kept his free hand on the handle of his holstered pistol just in case. He only waited until he had scant seconds of time to spare to glance up. Was the girl his daughter? She didn't seem it, for some reason. Maybe it was just his famous intuition acting up.
Relieved when he eventually saw the couple safely arrive at their destination, he realized too late that he had only spent this final moment without care, when he was so cautious beforehand. A turned was shot behind him, and he pivoted to find a beautiful yet hardened woman, with eyes like the hawk. Her tone of voice wasn't rude, but not warm, either. Even before she had finished suggesting meeting up with the pair on the building, he snapped out his pistol and aimed it at, for a nanosecond, her face. But that wasn't his target, as was made clear. He pulled the trigger and another deadhead behind her--with the obvious intention to harm her--collapsed to its open grave.
The man with the dark eyes smirked, but with some chill in it. "Karma." He sheathed his sword but continued to keep the pistol at the ready. He stepped to the woman and gently yet rigidly took hold of her arm, for an encouraging pull. "Let's go. You first; I'll cover you."
There was no arguing with him, because he proceeded to be in full alert, following her every move, never getting ahead of her. He was ready to take down any of the turned who threatened her. He hadn't looked up to the man and the girl since; he was confident that they were safer, and out of danger for now.
"While I dislike confrontations, I find the idea of a puzzle battle to be quite alluring. Or, to use a colloquialism: please bring it."
Post by Samus Aran on Sept 4, 2012 16:17:53 GMT -8
The tall woman's thin eyes widened, instinctively, and she flinched as she suddenly saw the man reveal a pistol of his own - and aim it squarely at her. For a split second, she was certain she had saved no more than one of those poor, dehumanized souls that would shoot even the living on sight, and make off with their own supplies and goods. Not the sort of death she wanted to fall victim to.
Yet, almost instantly after the man aimed for her, he fired... over her shoulder. The formerly cool and collected-looking woman flinched again, yet overcame her shock to swiftly whirl around her, after realizing... he was aiming behind her. He certainly didn't seem like the type to miss, anyway. But her suspicions were confirmed - one of the turned had just collapsed to the earth directly behind her.
"Karma," the man coolly uttered. The woman whipped back to face him, and after catching wind of the meaning behind his words, she responded to his smirk with a light grin of her own - her own silent way of thanking him, as, of course, there was little time for words. It was an amazing thing, to see a smile in this godforsaken world... she'd nearly forgotten what it felt like to tug her lips that way.
It was clear the man was as much of an ally as she had aimed to be towards him, now. She still reacted with surprise, however, when he quickly approached and grabbed a hold of her arm - urging her onward. Such a gesture was something the woman normally wouldn't stand for, especially from a stranger - but in this twisted world, everything took on a new meaning. She responded readily, with a firm nod, and turned to make a mad dash for the rooftops.
... Only to come face to face with another lumbering corpse. They'd stayed still for far too long. Gritting her teeth in agitation, she decided to deal with the obstacle as swiftly as she could, without even bothering with a weapon. In the blink of an eye, she had flung her slender leg out from beneath her and, with strength that almost belied her appearance, plowed the turned several feet away, sending it into an alleyside trash can. Upon its messy landing, the undead figure ceased to move - the powerful kick had swiftly ruptured its already withered organs.
Wasting no more time at all, she ran - pistol held close, her long legs carrying her speedily through the growing hordes attracted by the still-wailing car alarm, the only audible sound among the groans of the turned in this desolate city. The woman, earlier, had paid close attention to the two figures making their way to the rooftop - the young man and the girl. It did not take much for her to memorize the path they had taken, and that was precisely the path she, herself, was taking. Any attacking turned were not attacked during her sprint, only dodged - she trusted any true threats to be taken care of by Mr. Sharpshooter, back there. Alas, she had no time to look back and ensure he was alright, or even still there - all she could do was run, and trust that he could look out for himself.
Thankfully, the trash can placed by the two on the rooftop was still right where they placed it. Trying to be both as steady and swift as possible, she scaled it and quickly lifted herself up onto the fire escape. Now high enough to be safe from any (most, at least) of the turned below, she was able to at least glance back at her partner, now - and, satisfied that he was alright (and fairly impressed that he was), she made haste in scaling the steps.
It wasn't long before she emerged onto the rooftop - breathing lightly from the energy exerted during her sprint, hair and skin even more soaked in sweat. Now that both she and the man with the sword were safe for the time being, however, her demeanor became much less tense and uptight - her muscles became loose, and she slowly and calmly made her way closer to the man with the striped-hair and his young friend. Briefly, she wondered about the two, and how they had come to be together... what their story was. They didn't appear to be related.
"... Hope you don't mind if we join you," the woman, after catching her breath, dryly remarked in an attempt to break the ice, looking up at the two of them after taking a brief moment to reload her single pistol. She turned her attention back behind her, to ensure the sharpshooter was there, as well.
Post by Professor Layton on Sept 9, 2012 17:29:04 GMT -8
Hershel immediately felt a connection with the woman--a total and complete stranger--solely because of what had transpired between them. The connection was strange; it wasn't love at first sight, but he felt a swelling desire to learn who she was, and thank her properly beyond a smartass comment. He made it his mission, even if only lasted for five minutes, to get her and himself up on that rooftop. He hoped the man and the little girl were all right, but he wouldn't worry about them until he saved his own skin first. He had to keep a level head, after all. He had to protect the woman.
Yet, it was vividly implied that the woman didn't need any sort of protection, because she kicked back a lamebrain with a surprising amount of strength. Hershel wasn’t about to start gawking, though, because the woman raced past a few unscathed turned, leaving Hershel alone to take them out. He simply shot each in the head as he approached them, keeping a steady aim all the while.
Accompanying the woman up to the rooftops was like a very physical game of 'follow the leader.' The woman got on the trash can and climbed up the fire escape first. Because he (voluntarily) lagged behind, Hershel had to take down the few remaining deadheads, making sure not to make the same mistake as before, the mistake that nearly cost him his life and required the aid of that blonde. He shot the last threatening menace then holstered his pistol. He displayed potentially surprising acrobatic skills by very quickly jumping onto the trash can, and, while kicking over the can so it would tumble, grabbed hold onto the ladder. He climbed upward quickly, eager to make sure that the others were all right.
He panted as he arrived to the group, standing between the woman and the couple who reached the rooftops first. Hershel was not a tall man, but he was smartly dressed for the apocalypse. That made him comfortable to approach the young man and the girl, despite his temple covered in perspiration. He offered something very rare in this new world: a warm, empathetic smile.
As he watched the Englishman from his rooftop perch, he noticed a walker ready to get the drop on him. Jonathan quickly fished out his snub nose revolver, but before he had a chance to act another figure appeared. A blonde woman, her hair tied into a ponytail, dispatched the creature ready to fall upon the man in the flat cap. And just as well, too; Jonathan was far from a marksman. He had improved quite a bit in the nightmarish five weeks since the world went to hell, but he wasn’t confident in his ability to hit a target at that great a distance. The gentlemanly man, in turn, dispatched another ghoul which had crept up behind the blonde. The two exchanged brief words, but from his position he couldn’t make any of it out. The car alarm still blaring nearby, gunshots, and the moaning of the undead didn’t help any, either. Every re-animated abomination from miles around would likely be drawn by the racket.
The woman was the first to reach the side of the building and ascend to safety. He regarded her only with a fleeting glance once she had joined them, giving no sort of response to her dry humor. His purple eyes quickly shifted back to the man below, his gun ready to assist him should he have required it. The man didn’t seem to need any helping hand, and proved capable enough to carve a path through the horrors entirely on his own. It was of no surprise to Jonathan; after all, by that point only the strong and capable could have hoped to have still been among the living. Or the extremely lucky; or perhaps a combination of both. Creeping about like roaches striving to peck at crumbs while avoiding detection.
Once both of the strangers had joined them on the roof, Jonathan relaxed a bit - though not entirely. He let out a deep breath, replacing his magnum to its position hidden inside of his pants. He was relieved that he didn’t have any need to fire it, because he had very few shots remaining. There had been a box half full of rounds in the backpack, but that was a moot point as said backpack was lost to them.
He looked between them then, noting that the woman was astonishingly gorgeous. He imagined that she must have gone through a special kind of hell to have survived as long as she had, because with a body like hers she had as much to fear from male survivors as she did from the undead. The man hardly looked like much of a fighter, having the air of one better suited to sit behind a desk or the like than to enter combat. But when survival was put to the test, it could often bring out traits one never expected, and out of the most unexpected of people. “Thanks.” Jonathan spoke curtly, his eyes warily shifting between the both of them before he approached Marona, who was still holding his baseball bat. Seeing him approach her, she offered it to him, and he gladly took it. He gave her an inquisitive look, and she nodded and offered a weak smile.
He turned back toward the man and woman. “We’re alright. And what about you two?” He looked them both up and down then before his eyes settled back upon their faces, giving each a deep stare before he added. “No one’s been bitten?” He was pretty certain that neither of them had, as he had been watching their progress from the rooftop. Still, they could have been bitten before then, during a time when he wasn’t watching. Neither showed any signs of an injury or bite marks, but for his own peace of mind he wanted to clarify.
Post by Marona and Ash on Sept 9, 2012 19:06:55 GMT -8
She continued to grip Jonathan’s wooden bat in both of her hands nervously as she watched the two figures down below. It was truly horrifying to watch, and she wondered just what an observer would make of her and John if they were to observe them in much the same situation. Out of the corner of her eye she took notice of Jonathan brandishing his gun, though the gunshot which pierced the air moments later didn’t originate from her companion.
Marona’s eyes caught sight of a woman then, her yellow hair causing her to stand out above the dull, muted colors around her. Was she a part of the Englishman’s group? She couldn’t be certain, though it seemed likely. And regardless of which one of them had triggered the car alarm, she would be sure to genuinely thank them both for their compassion. Compassion was a dying commodity in the world they had been forced into, but every once in a while human nature could show a twinkle of caring, even in a world where self-preservation was king, and empathy was all but discarded.
The blonde was the first to climb up, and once she was in such close proximity Marona quickly took note of how beautiful she was. Her figure was everything any girl could hope for, as accentuated by the clothing she wore which hugged her every curve. Marona had to fight back a rather dark thought from her mind then: that she was far more likely to wind up dead than she was to ever grow old enough to mature into such an adult shape. She quickly brushed the thought away, barely having registered the remark the woman had made as her eyes shifted toward Jonathan to see how he would react to the woman. He paid her little mind as he intently watched the man still struggling down below, and Marona also looked down to see his progress, her heart thumping in her chest.
The man made short work of any of them which strayed too close, and in due time he, too, had joined them up on the roof. Marona let out a sigh of relief, and could hear Jonathan do the same. Her eyes curiously inspected the man, who looked like an English gentleman, as his voice had suggested. He looked run-down, but then again, it was impossible not to given the times they struggled in.
Jonathan approached her then, his revolver having been put in its proper place. She looked up at him with caring eyes as she handed him the bat. She then offered a confirmatory nod and a weak smile to assure him that she was alright. After he had taken his weapon back she noticed a lingering, sticky feeling upon her right hand which she had failed to notice before ceasing to clutch the bat in a death-grip. Inspecting said hand, she saw that it was covered in dark, congealed blood. She hadn’t even registered the fact that she had been gripping the bat in the spot where it had collided with the rotten skulls of the undead. There was a time when she would have been utterly disgusted by the foul substance on her hand, but she had gotten so accustomed to being covered in the sticky fluid that she had become completely desensitized to it. She removed a handkerchief from one of the pockets of her shorts, then went to work nonchalantly rubbing the substance away.
Her eyes went up to the two strangers in their midst, and she offered them a smile. “We’re both okay, thank you.” She responded sweetly, though her voice was frazzled and somewhat shaky. She also wondered how Jonathan’s wounds were fairing, given all of the activity and climbing. She knew him well enough to realize that he wouldn’t bring it up, even if there was a problem, so she would have to grill him later on the subject. “Thank you both very much. That was very kind of you to put your necks on the line like that on our accounts.” She offered her gratitude and gave a light bow of her head and shoulders, displaying to them a gesture of respect which was all but extinct. No matter what happened, Marona tried her hardest to remain positive and polite, even if it was difficult at times.
“My name is Marona, and this is Jonathan.” She introduced herself before her gaze shifted over to her companion upon uttering his name, then back to the two newcomers. Marona had a distinct feeling that Jonathan wouldn’t have introduced himself otherwise, so she took the initiative. The attractive woman and the daring man had risked their own hides to assist the two of them, after all. The least they deserved were their names. Once her hand was cleaned to her satisfaction, Marona neatly folded the handkerchief in upon itself, so that the soiled side was wrapped inward, before she returned the cloth to her pocket.
“Valiant Phantoms, aid me in battle! Chartreuse Gale!”
“You’ll go no further! For her sake, I will not fail!”
Post by Samus Aran on Nov 25, 2012 12:51:49 GMT -8
Sure enough, not but a few seconds after she had turned to look behind her, the man emerged onto the rooftop, more or less unscathed. The woman felt a sense of relief at seeing him alright, and gently released a tense breath from her lungs - she had, admittedly, become just a little nervous for him as she sped on ahead, not once turning back to look at him. She also had to admit, at least to herself... she was quite impressed. The man looked anything but prepared to deal with hordes of those vicious, mindless things, but he'd almost immediately proven himself more than capable. He'd certainly earned the tall woman's respect - which only increased at his polite demeanor towards the other man and the girl, something astounding to see in this broken world. She almost smiled, herself, as she watched him - she'd nearly forgotten what it meant to be kind to others through such small gestures.
... She didn't quite have it in her, at the moment, to muster a smile, however. She appeared tired and emotionally nondescript to the others, but not cold. At the monochrome-haired man's query, she lifted her head up towards him with a simple shake of her head. "We're fine, thanks," she replied, bluntly - although briefly glanced back towards Mr. Sharpshooter, just to make sure she was correct in assuming he was, in fact, fine.
The next to speak was the youngest of the group, the green-haired girl. The woman felt a twinge of pain as she glanced over at her... seeing a child, hands soaked in blood, forced into this hopeless situation... it disgusted her that it had to be this way. Yet... the girl's smile was bright, and earnest, as was her voice. Not only was this almost amazing to see in a girl of her age among the cold callousness of others... but it was more than enough to make the whole area around them just a little brighter. The woman, herself, was finally able to smile, albeit faintly, back at the girl upon being thanked - it was the least the child deserved, anyway. She said nothing, simply nodded her head in affirmation.
The smile lasted only a moment, however. The woman, one hand placed on her hip as she shifted her weight onto one leg, once again appeared relatively stoic, as she nodded again towards both Marona and Jonathan, respectively, at their introduction. It did make sense to begin sharing names - if they were going to stick together it would be a necessity. "Samus," the woman spoke, again in that terse and calm tone. Introducing herself was always awkward for her, even moreso now after having gone without human contact for some time.
Samus's aloof blue eyes then looked towards the smartly-dressed man, quietly awaiting his own introduction.
Post by Professor Layton on Mar 17, 2013 1:13:59 GMT -8
The stranger’s curt behavior didn’t change Hershel’s politeness, same with the woman’s cool attitude. He cleared his throat to speak. “Oh, no. I haven’t been bitten or scratched.” With his sword sheathed and his gun pocketed, he rolled up his sleeves as far as he could to show. His arms were coated in sweat, dirty, and grime, but not a trace of a scratch or a cut.
To the girl, Hershel’s smile remained constant and warm, though his eyes expressed sympathy when the girl was forced to clean herself of the congealed blood. He was thankful she had a handkerchief because he didn’t have one on him. At least, not anymore. In these times, the common cold or influenza were a blessing from God compared to this epidemic. “If I may speak for myself and my savior behind me,” he referred to the woman, “you’re welcome. Well, Marona. Jonathan.” He looked to him with a nod. “it’s a pleasure to meet you. I just wish it was under much better circumstances.” He stood tall as he turned to the woman, just in time for her introduction.
“Samus, thank you for saving my life. It’s, aha, very appreciated.” He couldn’t help but chuckle a little at his comment. It wasn’t a forceful one, either; the sheer insanity of all this, as well as having to every thank a woman for killing someone else to save him… His dark eyes blinked out of his thoughts, and he faced the group as a whole, though he looked to every individual face as he introduced himself.
“My name is Hershel Layton. I a—” He looked sad. “I was a professor of archaeology. But I suppose that holds no merit anymore.” After his reveal, he faced Jonathan and spoke in a noticeably more serious tone of voice. “I was the one who set off the car alarm. I’m sorry, but when I saw you and Marona in trouble, I thought it would have distracted them long enough to allow you and her to safety. But, I know my actions come with a price—it will only attract more, and. Well. I don’t regret starting the alarm to help you two, but I am sorry nonetheless for the consequences.”
He folded his arms on his chest. “I can’t expect you to trust a stranger, but I will continue to help you if you would have me.” “Hershel,” the woman said, her breaths labored. “Hershel…” “… I don’t have anyone else to live for.” This was the only time in the past few minutes where the gentleman’s calm, level-headed voice wavered. There was a lot more to that last statement than one could think. But he secretly hoped he would be allowed to stay with the small party. The woman's dry sense of humor, the little girl's gentle gentle and sweet smile, the man's devotion to said child... seeing these human traits reminded him to keep going. His eyes were listless not a half hour ago, but now they were better, because of these--was he dreaming?--people.
Feeling his gray flatcap a hint asymmetrical, he adjusted it back into place.
