Scenario Entitled: A Splendid Day For An OutingCharacters:
Rooke, that guitar-playing guilt-laying enigma, getting Lake into trouble... again.
Lake, that hard-to-kill hard-to-touch hunter, falling for it... again.
Blanche and Xelda, (NPC) nosey old biddies, Rooke's friends from City Hall times.
Keith, (NPC) young gang member.
Location: Lazlo Avenue, to Back Alley Ditch, to Under The Carlaw Bridge
Date: Samhain, 109 P.A.
It's a pleasantly mild, early autumn weekend day. Rooke's got her guitar case slung across her back, and she's slowly meandering down the wide steps of the City Hall.
Lake adjusts the strap on his backpack as he strolls thoughtfully down the sidewalk. His path should take him past city hall in the near future, though he doesn't seem that interested in noting the building. It's probably the anti-establishment in him. Stick it to the man!
Rooke has stopped to speak to a couple of well-dressed women halfway to the sidewalk. Old co-workers perhaps, by the way they gesture towards the building occasionally during their small-talk. Presently, Rooke shifts her case around to the front, snapping open the lid to show the two ladies the contents.
Lake takes a look across the street for a brief moment before shifting his gaze around towards city hall. There's no point in avoiding the building entirely when there's a chance there might be something worth seeing. He comes to a stop as he notes the assemblage midway up the steps, furrowing his forehead pensively. He lets out a short sigh, then decides to start a slow climb up the steps that lie between himself and the group.
"...if you aren't the busiest little monkey," declares the taller of the two ladies, a tad above it all, but affectionately enough. "My boy Herald played some guitar, you remember. Perhaps I was too hard on him." She adds thoughtfully, "You should come over sometime for dinner, we'll talk about lessons, perhaps." Rooke looks annoyed. Then she looks faintly startled, spotting Lake's gradual ascent. She closes up the case and blinks for a moment at the women, then abruptly says, "Yes.. fine idea," before she remembers what they were talking about.
Well, no one's burst into flames or run off in terror yet. And Rooke and the ladies seem relatively fine, too. Lake flexes his left hand gently as he climbs a few more steps, looking up towards Rooke as he comes to a stop two steps below where the group is assembled. He doesn't manage to work out any kind of greeting just yet.
The shorter woman is a cheery, brisk sort of matron. She's the stereotypical volunteer fundraiser-type.. greying, round, and soft-looking. "Blanche," she clucks loudly, "you can afford to send Herald to a class, or hire a private tutor." Blanche sniffs slightly, then turns her gaze downwind to the waiting gent. "Yes well. We should get back to the conference, Xelda. Rooke darling.. dinner. This Sun Day," she insists imperiously.
Rooke looks at them a bit owlishly. "Can't," she says shortly, blinking and straight-faced. And that seems to be that. She looks over at Lake again, with that same expression, questing.
Lake watches the two other ladies depart, continuing to remain silent up to the point when he thinks they've probably moved onto something else. He takes in a long breath, holding it for a few moments before he finally speaks in a subtle tone, "...hi." There's something to be said for consistency. He lets his head incline forward ever so gently as he tentatively asks, "So... how've you been?"
They depart, all right. About a step or four upwards. Then they turn and watch, without even attempting the pretense of further conversation amongst themselves. Rooke quirks her brows further upwards, then seems to come back to herself, replying easily, "All right, considering. Do you have some business at the Hall today?" The inquiry is justifiable. The governmental building is mostly closed on weekends, except for the workaholics, court proceedings, and conferences of the type those two biddies are attending.
Lake blinks once, letting his gaze shift upwards to note the two women with entirely too much spare time on their hands. It's unlikely a trademark O'Bannon glare would produce the desired effect. Besides, it usually only works in The Succubus and other fine shady areas. He starts his reply a bit awkwardly, "Um... no," before he straightens himself out and adds in a bit stabler fashion, "I had some business with you. Well, sort of. I think. It's nothing too important, really. Certainly not anything worth gawking over..." He makes another glance up the stairway at the women. Glare or no glare, he can still clearly be a rudish jerk in just about any location on the map.
Rooke tips her head to the side slightly, then glances over her shoulder. Blanche manages a split second of eye-contact, and takes this as a re-invitation to the conversation. "Why Rooke.. is this the tall dark stranger I've heard so much about?" Apparently she's not heard quite enough about it. Clicking her way back down the steps, she looks expectantly between the two of them. Xelda stays where she is, clucking and looking awfully, uselessly sympathetic, in the way that her type always seems to manage.
Rooke turns back to Lake, mouth falling open a tad. "I don't.. know," she reponds with a slight frown. She gestures to him, offering, "Lake O'Bannon. Lake, this is Mrs. Blanche Gorman.. accounts receivable for the office of the Council."
"Charmed," the fortyish woman drawls, looking at Lake with heightened interest and extending her claw.. er, hand. The pale red fingernail polish gleams in the sunlight.
Lake develops a more annoyed expression, directing the brunt of it towards the now introduced Blanche. His voice drops all pretense of pleasantry as it deadpans, "I'm sure." He eyes the extended hand and then promptly proceeds to fold his arms over his chest. So much for making new connections today. He turns back to Rooke and offers in a practical manner, "Say, can we put some distance between us and the office crew, here? Before I'm inclined to be ruder than I already have been..." Hopefully no one can actually envision him judo-flipping poor Blanche into the street. No one but him, anyway.
Rooke reaches out into the breach, taking Blanche's empty hand much like a rescuer would the groping hand of a drowner. "Nevermind, Blanche," she says, at about the same time Blanche squeaks, "By the Oracle, you /are/ a cheeky one!" Rooke holds her hand firmly and presses her away up the stairs again. "I'll be by for dinner Sun Day," she promises stoically, to placate the flustering woman, then leaves her to walk down the steps past Lake. "All right, so what's so urgent?" she asks with a look at him over her shoulder as she goes, shunting the case around to her back again.
Lake unfolds his arms, reaching with the left to rub the back of his neck as he turns to follow Rooke down the steps. "Not that urgent really. I was just going to stop by Acts to see if you were there so I could tell you..." He lets out a soft sigh, then continues on toward a more directed answer. "I stopped by the doctor the other day, just to make sure everything was working all right. They said I had some trace radiation levels." He glances more towards her face and notes, "Nothing major or dangerous really. Just enough to register I'd been exposed to something recently. I figured I'd let you know, just in case you guys hadn't gotten around to it, again. You probably just did some kinda meditate... chi cleansing or somesuch." Yeah, he's down with with his mystical lingo all right. At least he didn't waggle his fingers all spooky like.
Rooke stops again a few steps above the walk, and turns back as she hears the word 'radiation'. Eyeing him questioningly, she seems put more at ease by the clarification. "We do that sort of stuff daily.. I don't know what that would do against radiation." She turns slowly, and takes the few steps to ground-level, looking thoughtfully at the permacrete ahead of her.
Lake lets his shoulders roll a little as he continues moving. "I don't know either, but I figured you'd take that kind of route as opposed to an actual medical exam. I don't know why I thought that, really..." His voice drones on, verging almost on disinterest as he stops at the base of the steps. He doesn't really know where he's going at this point. "At any rate, I got some pills to take. They're supposed to aid in reducing my bioma-blahblah rad count. In case I get bored with the natural method. I was going to ask if you wanted one. Not to take... I figured you could compare it to those other pill type things you found."
Rooke stays where she is, on the inner edge of the walkway to let the pedestrian traffic by. She cocks her head a bit as she considers the meaning, then nods. "Mmmh. Good idea.. I doubt they'll be the same things.. with different time periods and all. But if the chemical ingredients are similar, a lab would easily be able to find out." She pauses. "It wouldn't be surprising if they were anti-radiation.. considering what happened to those people down there."
Lake flashes a slightly surprised expression, then nods a few times as he reaches into his pocket. "Well... I can give you one, then." That was the goal wasn't it? He makes an odd shuffling in his pocket, pausing and quirking a brow upwards as he glances towards it with a curious expression before he removes a small pill case. He transfers it to his other hand, then starts to fiddle around in his pocket again as he notes, "You can keep the case. It's pretty much... a... throw away..." It must be some interesting pocket.
Rooke looks down at the case. "Shouldn't you keep the case? You're the one with the rest of the pills," she points out. Leaning back against the middle stone railing of the steps, she shoves her hands into her own hip pockets and reasons, "What if you forget your dosage, or take two within the same four to six hours?"
Lake glances up a bit, then shakes his head. "Oh, no. This isn't the prescription case. I still have... that?" He blinks softly, then proceeds to remove what amounts to a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. He eyes the lacy square with an uptilted brow, then settles into something a little less startled as he notes in a relieved tone, "So, /that's/ what's been girling up my jacket."
Rooke holds out her hand, presumably for the case and not the hankie. "Nice," she comments lightly, something more of a smile edging onto her face for a moment or so. She shifts against the railing to reposition the guitar case against her hip.
Lake glances back up, the previous annoyance shifting back onto his face as he hands the case over and shifts the handkerchief back into his pocket. He grumbles softly, "Not really." He lets his feet shift to balance himself out better as he intones with a trace of enthusiasm, "Oh, congratulations on your performance by the way. Loralei said you got quite the ovation in the park the otehr day. At least, I think that's what she meant." He lets out a short sigh and lowers his shoulders a bit.
"Loralei?" echoes Rooke, while turning the case over in her hands, then prising the lid off. "Oh.. it was no ovation.. I think I had some friends in the bleachers. They must have been drunk," she muses with another smile, gaze lifting up to look at him curiously. Her gaze isn't really that elusive anymore, it should be noted, and actually touch on his own eyes for seconds at a time.
Those moments being the few that Lake actually manages to try to make contact himself, which are actually few and far between. "Uh, yeah. It's possible. She's not that perceptive at times." He takes a moment to remove his hand from the pocket it was still absently fiddling around in. "She's my equipment manager. I think you weren't around the day the Hooligans raided Random Acts that one time. Her son plays second base." He reaches back to rub at his neck again. "She said something about running into you and Gareth before your performance. Actually, that's about all she said. She was pretty hush hush about the whole thing. She probably got upset because she bootlegged my jacket..."
Rooke seems a bit puzzled by his words, especially the latter half. "Mmm-hmmh?" is all she comments on that in the first several seconds, quirking her brows up as she gives a couple of vague nods. She looks down at the pill case, then tucks it into her right hip pocket. "I don't remember meeting her," she finally admits, and folds her arms under her chest, watching him fixedly.
"Well, I think she hit it off more with Gareth than anything else..." Lake makes a short shrug of things before taking a breath. "No big deal, I guess. You would be more noteworthy to her than the other way around. Eh..." He takes a long point of silence before he finally forces out, "So, how's Wupert?"
Rooke seems to accept his words and nods again, though her expression becomes a bit wary, as if she's starting to wonder if she /should/ have remembered this Loralei person, the way Lake's going on about it. She even starts to look rather apologetic about the whole deal, wracking her brains for a face to go the name, or indeed, the other way around. But when you've got neither to go by... "Hum? Wupert?" she blinks upwards again, looking a little startled now, to boot. "He's... all right. He's fine." Her gaze slides down off his face like water, a moment later.
Lake allows the edge of his lip to twist down disapprovingly. He lets his arms cross over his chest. "I assume Tondol's fine, too. He's too arrogant to let anything get the best of him. Except maybe for some laryngitis. He tilts his head slightly to one side as he notes Rooke's response, a smirk crossing his features in a grimly light fashion as he comments, "I'm supposed to be the one who gets all upset, aren't I?" He punctuates it all with an uncomfortable smile.
"Beg pardon?" She drags her gaze back up, and drops her own arms, as if to keep some asymmetry between their postures. Poking her fingers into her hip pockets, she slouches further against the railing, negligently. "And what do you mean, anyway? You can't have -all- the upset, you know, Lake," she adds mock-loftily. "Don't be an Emotion-Hog."
Lake shifts his folded arms as he bobs his shoulders, straightening his head he starts, "I don't know. I just figured that you... well, I mean, I know I... but..." He lets out a soft huff of breath and glances down at the ground before looking back up and asking uncertainly, "Aren't you happy? Or happier?" He sighs and completes the cycle as he reiterates, "I don't know."
Rooke stares at him with an air of flat disbelief. "...you know.." she starts, and if it weren't for the slight upwards tilt of her tone towards the end, she might have been negating his latter uncertainty. "It's suddenly occured to me that you might not have -any idea-..." she says slowly and deliberately, before shaking her head and drawing up and away from the railing. "That's impossible. An insult to both our intellects." She begins prowling westward without even a by-your-leave. Nobody can out-rude Rooke, especially only a few blocks away from her little castle of fortitude.
Lake blinks once, then mirrors, "... any idea...?" He's not really supposed to play match game with the sentence is he? He's bad enough at these things as it is. Especially considering how bad he is at it in these particular cases. He starts to follow after her with a few quick steps as he begins, "I didn't mean..." then slows to a halt and lets out an annoyed sigh before commenting to no one in particular, "Oh, the heck with it. I don't know what I was thinking trying to actually have a conversation, anyway."
Rooke gets as far as a chest-height stone wall, beyond the 'shadow' of City Hall, and before the old archway. Then she looks over her shoulder to see him still standing off by the steps. Turning, she plants her hands on the ledge, and pulls herself upwards easily, throwing one leg over the wall, and bringing the other one along halfway to curl against her body. She continues to study him after that, a bit too far away for her expression to be all that clear.
Lake remains standing near just near the end of the steps, both fists clenching as he notes her new location for a moment. Even if his expression were clearly visible, it still wouldn't e clear. He seems rather obviously at a deciding point of some sort, though just which decision is he trying to reach? There's the obvious choice of whether he should just turn tail and walk away or actually approach her. Then there's the less obvious notion of whether he could manage to chuck a rock that would send her sprawling off the wall to the other side, this latter though being the more novel thought of them all. Not to mention least productive. He takes a few steps in the direction of the wall, reluctantly moving a bit faster to reach the wall before she gets ideas of her own. After all, there have to be a few rocks within her reach, too.
Hey, don't underestimate the emotional gains of a good rockfight! Knowing the way Rooke thinks (yeah right), it might actually help matters. She remains rather still, observing his approach with a keen little pokerface, one arm resting over her bent knee, the other dangling down along her leg that's already over the wall. Other pedestrians on the walkway become like a wash background to her; she's obviously thinking Deep Thinks at the moment. Presently, she indicates the rest of the ledge beside her, with a nod.
Lake is also involved in deep thoughts, though they mostly involve the highs and lows of being kicked in the head on a public street. He really is an optimist at heart. As he arrives at the wall, he takes a moment to glance at the indicated spot on the wall. He reaches up, bracing the section with both hands before lifting himself up and taking a seat. It takes a bit of effort, with the extra back weight and all. Once settled, it's time to move onto other thoughts. Like the highs and lows of getting kicked off of a wall. He states in a casual enough voice, "I didn't expect you to stop."
And while she -is- within solid kicking range, Rooke isn't about to resort to that, at least, not yet. And then you'll see the rocks fly. Beyond the eight foot stretch of wall is a short alleyway between buildings, with a rusty chainlink fence at the end barring the way to a yard-type area. "Well, I didn't really fancy throwing another fit in front of the Tolkeen government buildings.." she replies lightly. Another? "But it turns out I don't have enough steam for a fit anymore, anyway," she adds with a slightly cheerful, resigned sigh. Her shoulders lift a bit, then drop. "This is nice, isn't it?" she comments vaguely, looking around from the admittedly not-very-great height.
Lake glances over at her as she speaks, an eyebrow raising softly at her reasoning behind not throwing a fit. Well, /another/ fit. He seems very much on the verge of asking a question about it, but lets the phrase stifle out in lieu of his own vague reply. "I guess. If you like walls, I mean. Or alleyways..." That was what she meant, wasn't it? He can be pretty bad at this small talk thing when it's all said and done.
Rooke pauses, her gaze slowly raising from the sidewalk, where she's been studying people's choice of footwear. "..yeah. You're right.. too noisy. Come on." She slides over the north side of the wall abruptly, hauling her other leg over and pivoting slightly on the seat of her pants, before dropping over into the alleyway. She pushes away from the ledge with her palms to help her guitar case clear the wall.
Lake makes a short peek of to the side, turning back at the end of the last suggestion and noting that once again he's falling behind. He makes an almost 180 of a turn to face the alleyway, giving it an appraising glance before he slides off and away from the wall as well. He lands a little flatly, almost stumbling as he looks back up again. He would seem a bit more confused, but he does seem to vaguely recall that sidetrips aren't really that unusual for Rooke. Not that he truly believes there's some major destination to be reached here.
Rooke crunches bits of gravel and debris beneath her sneaker-boots, wandering past the graffiti and over to the fence to inspect the flakey links. With a finger, she plucks at the metal, then uses a hand to rattle the whole section briefly. After a pause, she stretches up with both hands and hooks into the fence about eight feet up, still about two feet away from the top. She tips her head back from her raised arms, glancing at Lake. "It's pretty strong. But wait until I get over, first, before you put your weight on the thing." Without waiting for confirmation that he's actually willing to head into the back alleys of the southwest quadrant, she gives a soft grunt, and begins pulling herself up, finding her toeholds easily. The fence groans a little, chains shaking rather noisely it seems. This is definitely not a stealth operation. There is a moment of tension when 'straddling' the top, where the filmy material of her overshirt gets caught on one of the hook-like protrusions of metal, but she manages to spot and free it, before turning over the other side, then drops down while facing the alley.
Lake purses his lips thoughtfully, managing to approach the fence section just after Rooke has started to scamper her way about to the top. He doesn't show any signs of following until she's made it down on the other side, taking a few moments to reach up and tug at a section about a foot or so above his head before grasping it and starting to pull himself up to the top. He handles this a little better than he handled the wall despite the fact that the fence seems more likely to buckle than the wall ever could. He makes a bit of an awkward shuffle on the descent, dropping down with a squat of a landing before righting himself and asking in a patient tone, "Are we... headed somewhere?"
Rooke readjusts the strap of her guitar case, and meanders away from the fence before answering, "Nowhere in particular." Sure sure.. this is the way to The Ring, place of ultimate vengeful combat. Rooke heading off in that direction can't possibly be coincidental.. can it? "I met a fellow near the Ollie Treats a few days ago," she remarks easily, brushing her hands off absently on the legs of her jeans as she strolls. "He seemed pretty interested in taking on the Sluggers for next ball season.. or perhaps if something's been organized for the winter..?"
Lake makes a few distracted blinks as he looks ahead and tries to catch up, both position wise and conversationally. "Winter? Well, I hadn't really thought that far ahead. I didn't think this whole thing was going to span out the way it has." He settles a little bit closer to her side as some sense of travel direction becomes clear. "I suppose if he wants the job, he can have it, so long as no one else is applying. I think the league's going to save any expansion plans until next year. That includes other sports. The kids still want to hang out together, though..." He glances down at her in a curious sideward glance once he finishes.
Rooke nods in a sort of agreeable way, adding, "Considering that it's a volunteer-type position anyway. I was thinking that instead of having so many part-time coaches it would be better for the kids to have someone more dedicated to them. I think that sort of thing affects their gameplay." As they come closer to Brimstone, the path opens up and starts to dip down in a steady slope, that will eventually lead underneath the avenue on its way to the sunken crater that is the The Ring. Indigenous lifeforms of the area include mangy cats, scruffy rats, and the occasional transient sitting in a huddle of rags, up against a building. Rooke shifts the case over to her side, and unclasps the lid, pulling out her old acoustic as she goes, before closing and letting the case swing emptily behind her again. "Why are you doing all this for Saint Laura's, anyway? I remember you were even into delivering care packages for them, too," she continues presently, while lifting the guitar closer to her face, to study a small crack in the curved side. With a thumb, she rubs at it, and turning out to be a chalk mark, it willingly erases itself.
Lake hmms, then nods a few times himself, "Well, yeah. I guess one way or another I'm pretty much in charge of the church's team. It'd be nice to get a little more dedication from some of the others. Except for maybe that guy with the Northsiders..." He makes an absent kick of a stray rock, making sure not to aim it too near to any of the aforementioned life forms. He takes a long breath. "I don't know. I never really planned for it to happen. Heck, I barely used to manage to show up there. It's just that the place is about as close to a monotheistic christian philosophy as I figured I'd get around here. Not that all that deep into the prayer and worship thing, but... well, you have to believe in something. Or I do, at any rate." He hmms again, letting his eyes drop down to regard the musical instrument as they continue on.
Rooke doesn't look at anyone or anything overlong, preferring to keep her eyes to herself, or at least, to her git-box. The rumble of traffic had faded off a bit, but now returns the closer they get to Brimstone, as the path becomes paved to match the metal and concrete underpinnings of the unremarkable tunnel. After considering his words for a few moments, Rooke just hmmhs in an echo of Lake's last vocal sound. She takes the leather cord strap of the instrument and lifts it over her head, before settling the body of the guitar against her abdomen, facing outwards. With her thumbnail, she picks out a few random notes that expand reedily in the closed area. "It's pretty hard /not/ to believe in anything, Lake," she says with a dry chuckle. "You want a sign from the heavens, all you gotta do kick over this sacred effigy, or invoke that religious symbol..."
Lake hmms again, this time taking on a slightly different tone before noting with a curious tone, "Well, yeah. But it seems a lot of people want to fall down and worship the first thing that does something they can't explain. The whole concept of higher power becomes a simple case of 'greater power'. It has to be more than a case of being nice to the bigger, badder entity..." He sidesteps an odd spot on the ground (though probably not a sacred effigy) before asking, "So, what do you believe in? Last I heard, you seemed to be espousing self reliance or something similar. Well, actually I just recall you mostly telling people to stop worshipping you..."
Rooke smiles a little at that, and shakes her head a little. "Right.. well. I do esp-ow-se that, pretty much." She stops there, quietly walking into the shadow of the overhead street. The tunnel is not all that large.. perhaps just big enough to drive a good-sized truck through. Darker water marks on the rounded sides tell of past flooding, and on one side the fresh red slashes of paint proclaims to all travellers: JARRY LOVS SUE. The string plucking renews, creating a ringing echo inside the tunnel. As they start to fade, Rooke finally says, "I believe in many things.. if that means one thing, I suppose.. I believe in possibilities." Her voice resounds hollowly.
"Well, there are always possibilities..." Lake's voice concurs as he takes a few careful looks along the inside of the tunnel. He's slowed down just a step so as to end up just behind Rooke's shoulder. No point in doing too much crowding. He hrms as he peruses the walls. What's with all the nonverbal communications, anyway? He twists his face into a short smirk as his eyes pass the red text message, stifling a chuckle before he notes absently, "Well, I guess it's the thought that counts."
Rooke glances to the side, and utters a short laugh as well. Some silt drifts down from the ceiling as a fleet of vehicles troll by overhead. Soon, the shadows give way to the sunlit path again, and several hundred still-sloping feet to the west, the rucked edges of the large crater can be seen. "There aren't always possibilities," Rooke responds quietly, her voice muting further in the open air. "People.. things.. /life/.. forces you in certain directions, sometimes whether you like it or not." Someone has constructed a little garden in the side of the pathway. Sprigs of fragrant herbs and straggling little poppies are hemmed in cut tin cans, lining the rectangular space in uneven humps. Happy Dog, reads one tattered label. The blooms are gone and the greens themselves are fading in the new season, but the most extraordinary thing is, aside from a few cigarette butts, the garden has been untouched. No cretin has come along and stomped the hell out if it. And there are a /lot/ of cretins in the southwest sector. Rooke pauses by the plot, gazing down into the garden and holding her guitar strings quiet.
Lake listens in a quiet manner while Rooke talks, making a few brief nods of confirmation as she finishes her statement. He opens his mouth to say something, then notices that she's stopped by the makeshift garden. His mouth closes as he draws to a stop, moving up beside her again and glancing down in silence for a few long moments. Eventually, he manages to speak again, his voice a natural, almost whisper of a tone as he asks, "This is important somehow, isn't it?" He tilts his head just a bit to one side, directing a more careful glance towards the plants.
"Maybe," she allows, staring fixedly at the little careworn scrap of land. "I don't know who did this.. haven't really tried too hard to find out. I noticed it in the spring.. and every so often since then, when I'd be through here, I'd see it. It didn't mean anything then. I dunno. I kept expecting to find it smashed to pieces the next time.. but it never was." She glances over at him briefly, then blinks away. "Probably tomorrow, though, hey? Probably.. yeah." A moment passes, then she moves on, gazing upwards as the pathway continues to incline downwards, though very gradually. But the effects of even a gradual slope can be seen as, up ahead, the smaller Centennial Road, a north-south deal, becomes a bridge that spans quite a sizeable gulf, in both breadth and depth. During Ring fights, the Carlaw Bridge is a favorite spectator spot for West-siders.
"Oh," Lake intones softly as he resumes walking again. He gives the area a closer inspection as they travel onward, a likely testament to just how unfamiliar he may be with the area. "It's probably one of those things. Despite what people say, most people learn to respect certain things, even if others don't understand it." He eyes the bridge carefully, then turns his attention to the path ahead, it being something worth noting as a possible point of destination. Of course, there's something to be said for wandering aimlessly. "So, you have been through here before, then?"
Rooke smiles thinly. "Nah.. I was just making up that garden story." She strums out a comical couple of bars on the guitar, the sound thrumming over the other city noises for a time. Her eyes are also drawn to the bridge, still a city block away. To the deepening sides of the pathway, horizontal storm drains are set into walls every hundred feet or so, leading into the sewer system.. but that little factoid sounds rather familiar, doesn't it? Rooke's carefree playing subsides into a defined pattern of picked notes, not a melody really per se, but as she suddenly adds quiet, airy/rusty songwords to it, it does turn out to be a serviceable harmony-backup to her voice: "You gave me a peh-et name.. which is not to say I li-iked it.. we met at a ba-ar tap.. not to say you were de-ligh-ted.." Her tones travel upwards first, and then in the next line, drops and flattens out, then up again the next, then flat again. She stretches the next phase out, "You said love was just a lie.. but I - could tell that, you were lying, and, we, almost fi-igured out, ho-ow we'll geh-et along, and given time we'll, find the strength to, be alone and.." She takes a breath to continue, her fingers picking out a steady tempo of notes now.
Lake winces in soft, but mocking annoyance at the idea that the garden thing was just a big hoax. Which isn't to say he's sure he believes her, but it's still a crummy thing to do either way. Although there is a certain comedy to it. Or maybe it's the musical beat that follows it. He continues along in noted silence. He listens to the music amicably enough, but the sudden emergence of some semblance of song coming from the same source catches him a bit off guard. Not to mention the lyrics, which actually make him stop in place near the end. He tries to resume his pace in a natural manner, but unfortunately the whole thing comes off as more of a stutter or stumble than anything else. He waits quietly to see what could follow. Either that or he just doesn't think a 'whoopsie' would fit in anywhere.
Rooke's voice seems to scoop the words out of the air, slightly halting, or simply with cleverly syncopated syllables (say /that/ three times fast!). There's a dash of humour and bravado in the words, "..you just for-got your one pet name for me.. and all those -prom-ises you sai-id you'd keep.." She dips the axle in an inverse parabola as she turns to walk backwards, her eyes drifting low, as she continues, "..and it's a lucky thing.. be-cause that senti-mental -stuff-, doesn't suit yo-ou-u.. at.. all-l-l..." As she lets the last word span a few long seconds, her voice seems to crackle like an old vinyl record (what the hell are those?); she'll never make it into the opera with a throat like that. Her gaze has lifted up to light upon his face for those seconds, then, even the guitar notes start to peter out as she turns back around, still walking. In this glorified trench running north of Lazlo through the dingy, industrial side, the loss of the music is duly noted by the sounds of the city come crashing in again.
Lake continues listening with a sense of purpose and balance (no more near falls... just yet). At the last word, he winces ever so slightly, then twists his face into a softly amused smirk. He takes in a long breath, then lets it out as he makes a few steps to balance back to even positioning with her. His voice lightens up from its previous excursions as he comments in a pleasant manner, "Well, it's better than some of my musical fare. But pretty good for for just off the fly..." His voice intones just a hint more seriously as he asks, "Or is that something you've been working on for a while?"
Rooke laughs briefly at that, "Ah-hah-... I guess so.. if you count a week or so's worth of feeling sorry for myself as 'working on it'.." A largish building whose basement foundations form part of the trench, is off to the left, and scrawled with the names of, assumedly, fallen Ring duellists. Little tokens and flowers are strewn at its foot. Rooke looks at that for a while, musing keenly, "I didn't quite have all the words or notes down, until this moment, though.."
Lake quirks his eyebrows down into a thoughtful muse of his own, then makes a brief bob of his head. "That makes sense..." He pauses to note the wall himself as he adds thoughtfully, "I guess there's something to be said for spontaneity..." Of course, there's probably a few ghosts of Ring duellers past that would argue with that point. He lets out a soft sigh and looks back towards her face again, this time ending the look with a short downturn of his lips as his shoulders drop slightly.
Rooke's short hair ruffles with a passing breeze. She blinks into it for the duration, eyes narrowed. "Spontaneity's good. I threw this punch once... the guy'd only asked whether I thought it'd rain..." her casually deadpan tone drifts off as she drops her gaze for a moment, then tilts her head back and to the side to look at him as they walk. The Carlaw bridge looms overhead now, casting its shadow out towards them like a net in the fading day.
"So much for my next question," Lake quips quietly with a brief smile, "Although it doesn't look very cloudy today, anyway..." The smile fades again as he moves, regarding Rooke for a few moments longer before shifting his attention forward and up a bit. Best to check for pesky spitters and all that. He takes a few breaths before noting the presence of nothing so dangerous above before letting out a wistful sigh.
Rooke chuckles lowly, the sounds occuring in the back of her throat rather than the full kind of laughter that comes through the lips. "Mmmh. No. It's a splendid day." She says as the shadow of the bridge engulfs them. The air gets chillier, but she doesn't seem to react, strolling forward with her hands still on her guitar, like some travelling minstrel in unfriendly times. Voices swell and ebb overhead, as a group of pedestrians cross the bridge at a run. Rooke says, "It hurt, that morning when you gave back that transcript and said you wouldn't be around much, anymore." She looks over and up at him again.
Lake's voice doesn't quite register it as a question as he says, "It... did?" His face drops a little more as he takes a sidelong glance in her direction and speaks in a gentle tone, "I'm... sorry. I didn't mean for it to be that way. I really thought I was doing the right thing. I mean... I couldn't trust myself." He turns his head to regard her more fully as he continues. "I thought some space might make things... easier? Clearer? I'm not sure. I just figured I'd screw something up if I tried to hang around."
Rooke nods a bit, sliding her gaze away and noting almost absently the shuffling of gravel and scuffling of heavy boots as a small group of people come tromping down a rusty stairwell set into the northern wall, coming down from that end of the bridge. "I know now you didn't mean it that way," she agrees in a faint voice, and emits another dry chuckle. "..just bad timing, that's all. I mean.. there was some pretty heavy stuff in that transcript, Lake. Especially that one thing.. that horrible thing," she sighs, and slows to a halt, now directly under the spanning structure. The group that's just entered the scene gets closer to the packed dirt ground, one of them actually leaping the railing to drop ten feet, easily. They've got real imagination in their clothing choices, this group. Red and black.. black... red.. more black. Rooke continues, voice soft, as if they might be here to eavesdrop, "I didn't know how to tell you. Things were getting tense.. mostly because of it, I.. think.. anyway. So I gave you the papers. Mister Rugas said it for me."
Lake lets out a long breath through his nostrils, glancing down at the ground for a moment before letting his head twist off to the side to briefly note the new characters. He turns his head back and lifts it up again, assuming a more upright posture as he notes to Rooke in an equally quiet fashion, "That much I understood. That you were trying to... make amends, I guess? And you weren't sure how to say some things. Not that I really understand exactly what went on again even now, but... well, I guess the exact details aren't all that important." He sighs quietly before he notes in a more somber tone, "Besides, there's more to the tension between us than just that. But then, I know you realize that, too."
"S'pose I do.. but that's something that's a bigger thing for you, than it is for me. My big thing is... I guess.. myself. Selfish.." Rooke is lifting the leather strap of the guitar from over her head, and carefully but efficiently stowing the instrument back in its case. Her movements seem slow and too laborious given the circumstances, but by the time the five gents in black and red spread out in the area, then start to tighten the impromptu ring around the 'intruders' on their territory, the guitar case is securely snapped closed, its strap drawn and holding it across her back snugly. It presses against Lake's own back a bit as she turns to regard the half-circle that he cannot.
"I know that mug," the young man in the long black leather coat says easily, a dangerously casual smile framing lips. His coat is accented with red straps, and reinforced at the shoulders by oddly clumpy metal guards. "You're a friend of that dull ox, Gee."
"They both are," one of the others speaks up, squinting.
Lake listens to Rooke intently for a moment, managing to drop a short nod and manage to comment, "Fair enough..." before truly starting to note the interlopers in question. He quirks a brow up as he comments in a casual whisper just over his shoulder, "It'd be too much to hope that you can clearly identify them as members of his fan club, wouldn't it?" He draws silent as he makes a few short head turns, a hand reaching back to make an adjustment to the rear of his backpack.
Rooke hums in her throat thoughtfully, but doesn't reply to his query, not that she was expected to. "I don't think it was ever officially mopped up, that bad blood between us and you guys," the young man says brightly, conversationally even. When Lake reaches behind him, the same young man darts his hand swiftly into the gap at the front of his coat, to pull a pistol from some interior holster. "Let me finish," he snaps, then resumes a friendly tone. "Something unfortunate happened in the ranks of our team.. I'm sure you heard. But we haven't forgotten about you all." He wags the pistol rather lazily. "We never forget bad blood." All in all, he seems pretty well-spoken for a thug in a gang of rabid punks.
Lake pauses as the weapon gets drawn, cocking an eyebrow upward as he brings his hand back around slowly and fold it along with its mate lightly over his chest. He vents some air through his nostrils before finally uttering a careful, flatly voiced, "Uh-huh... It's pretty bad blood for something that started over a misunderstanding." He makes it clear by his tone that he's merely stating a fact. No begging for clemency has shown its head just yet.
"The only misunderstanding is your Crazy buddy thinking we wouldn't mind him butting his way into our business like the dumb ogre he is," retorts the leader of the ring of five. "That, as well as you two lovebirds thinking you could come playing down here without us noticing." He wags his gun again, not pointing it at anything in particular. "Now, I don't feel like vaping you. But hell if I'm letting an opportunity like this one pass us by. Drop the pack. And the git-box. Now."
Rooke shifts her weight, but doesn't change her position. "I've got your back, Lake. What do you want?" she asks softly.
Lake sighs softly, inclining his head back a notch as he replies quietly, "A warm fireplace and some soft music seem real nice right now, but failing that... unless you can find a really convenient method of distraction in the next ten seconds or so, we may have to try this the hard way..." He tilts his head forward again, giving the presumed leader a direct look as he comments in a flat tone, "You seem like a relatively reasonable person. What say you put the gun away, I put the pack down, and we settle things one on one? You don't strike me as the type to need a weapon to teach a lesson to an old goat like me." It's a cheap ploy, but everyone likes to feel young, don't they?
<<OOC>> Rooke hehs. Lake /was/ saying something about spontaneity.. :)
<<OOC>> Lake says, "Oh sure, /that/ gets heard... :)"
<<OOC>> Rooke gasps. A sign from the heavens! :)
<<OOC>> Lake says, "I expect a fireplace and soft music sometime soon, as well. :)"
<<OOC>> Lake says, "If only in my coma. :P"
<<OOC>> Rooke says, "Some say Hell is like that. Fire.. endless muzak.. :P"
The young man is young. He's also amused and intrigued, but he says, "I didn't come down here intending to lay a finger on you." He smiles again, gun nodding in teasing little jerks until it's just shy of pointing at Lake's chest. It's got four barrels fused into one block, a Pepperbox.. four mini-batteries for each barrel, each one capable of a small amount of damage, but all together capable of quite a wallop. "I'm going to stand back and watch as my boys do, and this baby's gonna make sure you behave." He looks beyond Lake at what can be seen of Rooke, speculatively, and his smile turns ugly. "Unless you want to make a more tempting wager, that is..?" His crew stands obediently, waiting. They're smug, they're enthusiastic at the prospects of a gang stomping, but they're obedient little soldiers, too.
Rooke doesn't comment. Maybe she's busy thinking up a good distraction.. but her humming (or is it the absence of her impulsive chattering?) has a strange texture to it, that if Lake were intuitive, would likely make him uneasy.
Lake lets his eyes shut down to slits, droning in a cold manner, "Hardly..." He glances back over his shoulder for a moment, dropping his voice to a whisper as he comments to Rooke out of the side of his mouth, "Four on two. I don't know. If he keeps his word and stays out, we /might/ be able to take them." He doesn't sound all that enthused at the prospect. "I could try to take down the head guy, or disarm him at least. That might be enough of an opening for... something." Indeed he doesn't sound too enthused by that option either, even less so as he notes Rooke's shift into silent humming. He's not that intuitive, but then he never had a good feeling about this to begin with, so it doesn't take much to make him uneasy.
No doubt, on any given day, Rooke would be happy with those odds. "I don't remember him making a deal about -that-," she says after her humming drains away, her tone gentle. She doesn't look over her shoulder.
The young man keeps his pistol directed away from living flesh, friend or foe. What is he, some sort of safety nut? "The bitch stays out of it. You drop your pack, nobody shoots, and its just you and me." Ah hah.. he is a lout, after all. The proper phrase is 'you and I'. "You win, you clear out of here, no harm done. I win, you clear out of here. Just you. How about it?" He isn't smiling anymore, watching Lake with serious consideration.
Lake lets his lips flatten out even further, responding in a tone even deader than his previous one, "No deal." He lets the end of his lip twist down as he locks eyes with the young man. Why do they always have to be young? "Her staying isn't negotiable. I drop the pack. Nobody shoots. We rumble. I win, we leave. No harm, no foul. You win, she leaves. You get everything in my pack and your precious 'I thrashed my enemy' story to impress the chicks with later." At least they agree on the initial ground rules. Lake takes a moment to lower his voice again, not turning his head as he notes in a quiet tone to Rooke, "Don't worry. One way or another, you're leaving here safe..." There's a grim determination in even his quieted tone that someone intuitive could note as disturbing.
Rooke intones in an edgy singsong, "You're treating me like a gi-i-r-rl.." then falls silent again.
Young punks are young because they generally don't live long enough to get old, baby. It's a hard, fast life. And so this tragedy of human life sighs at Lake's negotiations, and shakes his head. "That's very touching, Ol'Banacheck, but you're definitely not being daring enough. You're not sure you'll win. Big tough guy like you against a teenage wet-end? It saddens me. Men should be put down before they get to be cautious old dogs. It's the only merciful thing to do." He angles the pistol until it's pointed to Lake's chest, dead center. "What do you say?"
"I'd say you're a coward." Lake shifts his weight slightly, but doesn't come close to moving out of harm's way. "You say I'm not sure, but you're the one pointing the gun. If you're so full of reckless abandon, it should be enough to take me on. I don't usually bother giving people the chance. Come on, think about it. What's a piece of tail compared to getting the rep boost of getting the best of Lake O'Bannon? For crying out loud, if I let /you/ take me, I'd have to steer clear of the westside for weeks." Piece of tail? Who's treating someone like a girl, again? He smirks defiantly, "Come on, already. Or would you rather assign one of your other pals to the task? They don't seem like the... hesitant type to me. I'll give you first swing and everything." His eyebrow cocks up expectantly. If he has anything to say to Rooke, it remains unsaid for the moment.
That fixes it. Somewhere in that big taunt there was something that changed the young man's mind. He narrows his eyes, all pretense of witty gentility vanished, and he gestures with the gun, "I should just burn a few holes in your stupid head, if you don't know who's in charge here. You want a special deal, just because you've got a license? Oh I'll take you on.. hell, we don't need her, as long as she swears to stay out of it. But these are the new stakes: You lose, you /really/ lose, man. You won't be able to crawl out of here." He takes a few steps, and tosses the pistol the rest of the way to the fellow on his right. "Everyone else, back off. Either of them tries anything funny, burn'em."
Lake takes a second to roll his left arm around in a short circling arc, his voice developing traces of a cocky tone of its own, "Now we're getting somewhere. Same deal goes for you, though. No funny stuff. Though, I'd imagine your boys are interested enough in seeing how a fair bout turns out not to have to worry about it. You realize what'll happen if you come up short here, don't you? Back to the bottom of the food chain. Tsk, tsk. I'd hate to have to live that down. Of course, I suppose I don't have to worry about it now. Thanks for that much, kiddo..." He takes a deep breath, lowers his arms as for a second as he rolls both shoulders to drop his backpack. "Now then, where were we, again?"
The other punks draw back a few steps, still forming a square of about three hundred square feet. If they're nervous about their leader's prospects, they certainly don't show it. They've been seasoned at least that well. The guy now holding the gun keeps it trained towards Lake and Rooke, intently. The young man shrugs out of his heavy coat and tosses it out of the perimeter, revealing an agile panther frame, clad in a black turtleneck and jeans.
Rooke draws in a slow, audible breath, then mutters, "That's what you really want?" She's got a queer enough personal philosophy that it wouldn't be surprizing at all if she didn't step into this match, even to save his very life. What she seems to be offering is a way out, but it sounds reluctant. Maybe she's hoping he doesn't take it. Maybe she really wants to see him fight. Maybe she's still really pissed and this was her idea all along, bringing them into known Apokalypse stomping grounds. Okay, now that's just too paranoid, isn't it?
Lake smirks in a soft manner, not bothering to turn around as he comments plainly, "It's irrelevant what I want. This is how it's going to be." He shifts his gaze back towards the guy in the turtleneck as he continues, "Besides, it's nicer this way, don't you think? I suppose I should get out of the bulk myself..." He rolls out of his jacket as well, a set of armor plates stretching a little against the front of his shirt as he does so. "I imagine you want me out of this, too, huh?" He questions, tapping at the plate lining just above his chest. If he seems hesitant, he hasn't managed to show it through his words or his actions.
Rooke can be heard hefting Lake's backpack up. "Sure.. it's still a splendid day," she replies with a grunt as she straightens up, and takes hold of the collar of his jacket.
The young man looks more closely at Lake's uncovered form, and smirks. "Please do. I believe you said this was a 'fair bout'." Spitting into one palm, he claps his hands together and rubs them vigorously a few times. Then he stretches out his arms in front of him, flexing the muscles, and forming fists. His knuckles emit faint popping as they crack. Clear hazel eyes size up Lake once more, and he begins to pace on his side of the 'ring', slowly, as he waits.
Lake makes a few adjustments with his arms, loosening the attachments there as he lets the armor start to slide off. "Right. Fair. So that means no hidden pointy objects, no mystical mental mojo... none of that stuff." He makes a short wiggle of pulling the armor over his head, taking his overshirt with it. The small tee underneath reveals most of his well defined form, as well as that signature set of web scars along his left arm. It seems they go a lot farther up than his normal shirt reveals. He takes a short walk towards a relatively empty side of his area, depositing his armor there before putting his overshirt back on and heading to the a more central spot. He makes a few awkward stretches and flexes with his arms before glancing across at his prepping opponent with a short smirk of a smile as he offers, "Now then, we're all set?"
From the sidelines, standing between two of the gangers, with the wall at her back about ten feet off, Rooke watches the removal of the armor plating with veiled curiosity. The backpack, covered by Lake's jacket, leans against her legs. After a moment, the two men on either side of her glance her way oddly - she must have started up humming again.
"Don't worry. Contrary to popular belief, we do know what a clean fist fight means," the young man grins. So what if they employ it less times than an old lady drives her car to church? His arms are poised at his sides as he springs lightly from one foot to the other, though neither sole completely leaves the ground, except when he advances to Lake's position. He seems to be waiting to see if Lake's planning to take the first swing, despite what'd he'd dealt earlier.
Lake tilts his head softly to one side, raising his arms up from his sides and then tilting his head upright again before he comments casually, "You've still got first swing. But note, it's not my fault if you don't connect." Whereas it's entirely Lake's fault if he does connect. Or that could be the logic dictated by the comment. Logic? Here? That may be too much to hope for.
The young man snorts a single sound of amusement, and continues his constant motion boxer dance in front of Lake for a few more seconds. Then, at what he hopes is an offbeat moment, his stance tightens up as his left fist comes flying forward in a straight-armed punch.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d20 and gets 15.
Lake keeps his eyes on the bouncy lad, his feet shifting lightly, but in not so energetic a manner. As the punch comes forward, he draws his right hand up in a sweeping arc of a motion, the likely intention to redirect the incoming fist.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 7.
<<OOC>> Lake says, "May I request a roll with punch?"
<<OOC>> Rooke says, "Yup. :)"
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 2.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d4 and gets 4.
The young man gets his hit in, fast, adrenaline surging. His fist cuts under Lake's parrying arm, digging into his lefthand ribs with a fierce blow. Then he recoils his arm, already drawing his right one back as he lines up his next shot. A flash of triumphant confidence shows on his thin, youthful face.
Lake recoils back with a hint of a twist as the blow hits home, though not until it actually connects. His face bends into a soft wince before developing just a touch of dark grin. If he's looking to strike back immediately he hasn't shown any signs on it yet with his movements.
The young man's intelligence shows through again as his eyes wince with the sadness of it all, beating an old man's ass this easy. He'll go easy, he guesses. Let it be over quickly. Lunging forward again, he swings high, for a hard right to the jaw.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d20 and gets 6.
Sadness, happiness... no need for any major emotion. Focus, on the other hand... Lake drives his left hand in a similar arcing motion as his other hand followed. When at first you don't succeed, keep trying. At least until it hurts too much not to.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 12.
Behind Lake, Rooke doesn't add her voice to the sudden volley of shouts at the successful commencement of the match. Then again, Lake's the one that got slugged. The second fist meant for his head, however, flies wide as Lake's block lifts it high over his head. The young man's eyes start to change expression again as he begins to recoil, in order to regain his balance.
Lake decides not to offer much time for regaining anything, letting his left arm twist gently as he brings it closer in to himself again. He makes a short step forward with his right foot, flexing his palm open and driving the heel of his right hand forward towards his opponent's midsection.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 2.
The young man twists to the side as he jerks his forward arm back, throwing himself off balance again, but this time staggering backwards diagonally a couple of feet. The side of Lake's hand grazes along his sweater, ultimately making no actual body contact.
Lake draws his hand back, bringing it up a degree as his left arm settles back into a ready state. His lips purse thoughtfully for a second, then shift back to normal as he prepares himself for what he assumes will be the next attack. It's a little early for that whole 'I respect you' handshake and the going of their separate ways. Like that's possible.
Noting the man's off balance state, Lake drags his left foot forward, drawing his right foot up off of the ground and driving it out in a side kick. He must like that midsection target a lot.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 14
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 2d4 and gets 2.
"Hooof!" the young man woofs out air as his body snaps back from its backwards arc, bending over the driven sneaker, like a butler bowing to his employer. His head lifts as his legs pull him a couple more steps back from the blow, and there's real anger in his eyes now.
Lake draws his foot back just as quickly as it connects. Did he actually leave it hanging in the air a split second longer than he should have before dropping it in front? It's probably just some optical illusion. The show of anger from the lad draws a look of dark satisfaction from Lake, who steps forward with his left and throws a straight jab with his left towards the ganger's face.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 15.
The young man does not retreat from the next attack this time, throwing his right arm forward to block and asorb blow.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d20 and gets 3.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d4 and gets 3.
There's an audible smack as Lake's fist collides with the young man's right cheekbone, the eye on that side closing as the skin is rucked up like the surface of a rubber mask, for a second. Then his head is snapping to the side, and he's reeling back again, catching himself after a step, and turning back to face Lake, his breath snorting out heavily. He curves his upper body forward with a growl, throwing out his own left fist jaw-wards again.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d20 and gets 15.
Lake doesn't take time to bask in his hit, instead focusing on snapping back his left arm. His eyes shift almost imperceptibly to note the incoming fist, his right hand making a twist to face outward slightly as tries to deflect the fist's trajectory by forcing his opponents arm outward.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 3.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d4 and gets 2.
The spirit was willing, but the parry was weak. The punch barrels on past Lake's hand before he can make solid contact, and socks its knuckles into the tissue and bone of Lake's jaw on the right side, an inch or so beyond his chin. The young man, having pushed his balance forward again, starts to steady himself with a step forward from his right.
Another shout of approval greets this hit, from the audience of four. Far up over head, a car blows its horn as it rolls over the bridge, heading north.
Lake's head twists as it's hit, shifting back as Lake moves his left foot further inward in his stance. He's content to ignore the cheers for the moment (since when has he ever expected to be a favorite?), refocusing on things as he attempts to drive his left palm heel into the ganger's midsection as the other man tries to settle forward.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 15.
His opponent attempts sweep Lake's arm inwards, sweeping his own arm counter clockwise to try and use Lake's momentum to redirect the blow and twist him off balance to boot.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d20 and gets 15.
The young man's parrying forearm crosses against Lake's wrist, making contact just in time and pushing it off center so that it only grazes by his short ribs. With Lake's arm still 'trapped' between their bodies, the young man goes for his exposed left side with his own left fist, in an underhand 'gut-punch'.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d20 and gets 20.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d4 and gets 2.
Oh! The other four gangers roar in lopsided chorus, after their leader's fist rams up into Lake's waist, below the left shortribs. The young man's grunt of effort washes hot air against Lake's neck, and he doesn't make a move to draw back, wanting to press the issue in this vulnerable spot again and again, while he's got the advantage of 'disabling' the use of one of Lake's arms temporarily.
Lake growls softly as his side gets tenderized. He tugs back lightly, then attempts to step his left leg around and back behind the ganger's, in a move that would cross up the ganger's left leg from the back and give Lake the ability to essentially trip/rolling the whippersnapper over the back end of Lake's left hip. Assuming of course the hip doesn't crack. The old man's been having some odd luck these days.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 15.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d6 and gets 5.
The young man doesn't get a chance for another hit to Lake's already two-timed left ribs, as he's suddenly twisted off balance and bowled backwards in an off-the-hip roll. He lands on his side with an incoherent curse, and starts to roll away in order to get enough space between them that he can regain his feet. The dust of the underpass clouds the air a foot above the ground.
<<INIT>> Ganger rolls 1d20 and gets 5.
<<INIT>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 11.
Lake moves forward in an decided bullrush of steps as the ganger tries to roll out of harm's way, fully intent on being harmful and getting in the way. As he gets into range he drops his right heel down in an angry stomp of a motion.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 14.
The young man, sputtering in the dust as he rolls, sees that upon his second revolution, that Lake is now looming above him again, and makes an extra boost with his arms and one knee, to cast himself blindly out of the path of Lake's foot.
<<DICE>> Ganger rolls 1d20 and gets 13.
Pwaff, as he hits the dirt again, sending up a haze of motes. The other gangers cries ring the air, urging him to get up. His name is Keith, apparently. Rolling once, he staggers to his feet, shaking the dust out of his disarrayed hair.
Lake huffs a breath out through his nostrils, closing the distance again in a quick fashion and stopping a few feet short of the rising Keith (which can be used as his name for the time being., since the name Lake has for him shouldn't be typed out just now), twisting in a half arc to throw his left leg in a swinging arc towards the other man's side.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 2.
Keith makes an honest-to-goodness 'gah' sound, as he has to fall to his knees again, just as he was regaining his balance after standing, to avoid the incoming leg. Ducking under that, his breath coming back to him in a gasp, he coils, and suddenly springs forward, intent on body blocking Lake in the midsection with his shoulder and arms, and knocking them both into the dirt.
<<DICE>> Keith rolls 1d20 and gets 4.
Lake hrghs softly as his leg catches only air, turning with momentum to his right and stepping back to what was his left to allow Keith to just barely forge past in his wild charge. The ole' isn't uttered, nor is it shown by any manner of expression on Lake's face. Unless you count the double axehandle Lake tries to drive down in a quick chop at Keith's back as it becomes exposed in the passthrough.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 20.
Keith's desperate move goes awry, and he can see only empty space in front of him, and beyond that, two of his comrades and Rooke, as he jettisons forward with his arms stretching out. He's intelligent to know he's losing now. But he does not anticipate the blow between the shoulder blades that feels like a sledgehammer, cutting him out of his mid-air flight to plummet onto his belly on the hard-packed ground, landing face down in the Superman Flight position, and sending up another miasma of loose dirt around him. This time he stays down, snuffling up dusty air like a Hoover and hacking.
The audience has gone quiet now, the other gang members staring with studious interest at the outcome of the match. They're waiting to see what Lake's next move will be. The guy with the gun has the muzzle pointed in a diagonal line downwards, for now, anyway.
Rooke's waiting, too. Her grey-eyed gaze tracks up from the hazy 'carcass' to Lake's face, her face as still as a child's as it watches the boob tube. Her arms rest at her sides.
Lake sneers. In and of itself it's not that big of a deal, as people sneer all the time, but in this case, it looks just a bit... off. He notes the positioning of Keith as he lays there, coughing and gasping, and makes a few quick steps over. Now would be a good time to extend the olive branch. Of course, unless the olive branch happens to be on the bottom of Lake's right heel, and Keith plans to grow a hand on his back, it probably ain't gonna happen.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 1d20 and gets 7.
<<DICE>> Lake rolls 2d4 and gets 8.
<<OOC>> Lake says, "Rage! :)"
<<OOC>> Rooke says, "Oh my god, you killed Keith!!! You bastard! ;P"
In a more liberal time, some sort of sympathetic gesture would be quite in order. Poor Keith; a fairly bright lad who took a few dozen wrong turns at different times in his young life. It starts with a slap to the head by Pop, and ends with a footprint in the spine by some sadisitic bounty hunter. No, not his life.. his erstwhile career as the leader of the Carlaw chapter of Apokalypse, perhaps. There's a snapping sound, as Lake's heel hits home, and Keith emits a wail of a groan, muscles spasming in pain. His forehead digs into the ground as he grits his teeth against it, silencing himself. The dust is slowly starting to settle.
Rooke watches the finishing move raptly, then her eyes snap with a jerk back up to Lake's sneering face. She stands motionless for a few more moments, then she's crouching a little, slowly, to pick up Lake's jacket, and his backpack.
The guy with the gun stands uncertainly, then his cloudy dark eyes gradually clear up, and the pistol starts a slowish arc upwards, to point at Lake's back.
This time it's obvious that Lake doesn't fully lower his leg for a few seconds, leaving it hanging over Keith's limp body like he expects the young man to spring up and need to be put back down again. As it becomes obvious that he isn't, or isn't just yet, Lake lowers his leg, staring down at the ganger with an intent glare between lightly strained huffs of breath. As the dust finally starts to settle more, Lake's breathing begins to calm down to a more practical level, and he turns his attention from the fallen youth back up and forward as he utters a phrase in a language clearly not english.
The other gangers watch silently as the one with the pepperbox laser draws on Lake with dreamlike, slow grace. It's not that he thinks Lake is going to continue stomping Keith into the ground, and it's not that he's forgotten what the original rules of the fistfight were. But there's no light in his eyes like there was in the young man who's measuring his length on the ground currently. He just doesn't give a damn. He takes aim dead center on Lake's back, ironically in the same area where Lake's heel drove into the young man's spine, and his finger squeezes at the trigger.
"Don't shoot! Gods DAMN you, hold your fire!" screams Keith, mostly into the ground, his upper torso writhing with the effort to bear himself up on his hands. Around the same time, the laser flies out of the punk's hands as if tied to an invisible cord. It flings in an arc towards Lake, while Rooke calls helpfully, "Heads up."
Lake blinks once at Keith's ordering, though the action is lost to most as his back is still facing the rest of the group. He turns on a quick spiral, noting the punk with the laser... the punk that should have the laser... where's the laser, again? Rooke's words are more helpful than she probably realizes, as Lake lifts his head enough to note the approaching weapon and make a snag to pull it out of the air as it arrives. That's much better than having it hit him in the face. He shifts moods awkwardly, arcing a brow at what must be a triggerhappy youth as he takes a few steps away from Keith and, interestingly enough towards his discarded armor. His voice lifts a little as he glances down to regard Keith and neutrally ask, "I assume we're done here?"
Keith mumbles a few broken words into the ground, until Lake cuts the silence again with his inquiry. "Yeah," he manages to choke out through the dirt, still lying prone. His body twitches, but it in no way makes anything that resembles normal movement. "Yeah, we are.. now get the fuck out." Defiance? Urgency? A little of both? The other three stand motionless, solemn as pallbearers, and the guy without the gun stands with a twisted, disappointed, expression on his acne-riddled mug. Not daring to move while Lake has the pistol.
Rooke hefts up the jacket by the collar and the backpack by a strap, in her left hand, and withdraws backwards between the two gangers, then turns back for the path leading east to the Brimstone tunnel. When she's out of the lengthening shadow of the bridge, she pauses to wait for Lake.
Lake makes a soft smirk in Keith's direction as he bends down to recover the armor pieces, sliding the torso piece over his shirt and collecting the others under his free arm. He glances back towards the remaining gangers to make sure they aren't harboring any other special ideas before he starts to back out. "Yeah, yeah. I'm going." He gets almost out of the bridge section before he adds in a casual tone, "You played by the rules, Keith, even though your guy almost dropped the ball. Tell you what. I'll leave your little popgun where you can find it. I should keep it for all the trouble it almost caused, but getting it wasn't really part of the deal." He makes a few more sidesteps until he gets about to the point where Rooke is, then turns without so much as a proper goodbye as he comments in a short, casual murmur to her, "Let's get out of here."
Rooke follows Lake's movements with her eyes, while keeping the 'pokos in her periphery. She nods at his suggestion, abruptly, and turns to walk with an easily brisk stride away from the bridge. "This way. Better than taking those stairs up," she informs him, her chin lifted in a haughty sort of position, and her eyes trained slightly upwards ahead of them, gazing off towards Brimstone, two city blocks east still, as it runs over the tunnel. The path slopes gradually upwards.
If Keith made a reply to Lake's comments, it was too soft to catch. The gangers watch their prey escape for a while, then move to see to their fallen squad leader.
Lake makes a brief nod, content to follow her directions as he resets the arm pieces on his armor with a few careful clicks. Once they've put some more distance between themselves and the bridge, he notes the gun still in his hand, idly tossing it to one side on the ground as he shrugs softly. "Piece of junk." He moves at an equally brisk pace, then moves to reclaim his backpack from Rooke, leaving her with his jacket for the time being. He holds it in front of himself, looking it over before commenting in a quirkily upbeat tone, "Yeah, it is a splendid day..."
Rooke reaches up and loosens the strap of her guitar a bit, so it rests more naturally against her back. She smiles a bit blandly as he discards the pistol, giving it a glance as it bounces once off the ground and settles. Her gaze flickers back to check on the group under the bridge as she does so, then she turns to face forward again. "Think so?" she responds to his comment on the state of the day, then adds quizzically, "It might rain today, don't you think?" and arcs to the side from her hip, as if feinting away from an imagined blow from Lake. She carries his jacket draped in the crook of her arm.
Lake gives Rooke an odd head turn of a look, before just rolling his eyes a little and stifling a short chuckle. He winces a little at the end of the action, moving his jaw around in careful little circles as he opens up a side compartment and removes a shoulder holster, pistol already holstered securely inside. He shuffles his pack as he makes an awkward series of motions to secure the holster across his back as he comments casually, "You know, I understand where you were coming from, but there's nothing wrong with being treated like a girl sometimes." He ers for a second, then adds awkwardly, "You know... if you are one."
Rooke hmmmmhs a bit humorously at his uncertainty, and nods her head forward, vaguely. With Lake's jacket still caught against her side, she plunks her hands into her pockets and keeps walking, her stride long and even. Not visibly in a hurry, but moving fairly quick all the same. She tips her downcast head to the side a bit, eyeing some of the southside buildings that rise over the concrete, gravel, and dirt gorge they're traveling in, and says presently, "We're heading out of the territory again.. we should be all right until we reach the a spot high enough to climb out." She looks over at his newly strapped holster, bending back at the waist a bit, then straightens out and watches the path for the little garden again. "He'll probably be killed," she sighs, the rest of her breath leaving her in a slow airy leak.
Lake sighs a little resolutely, giving a brief pause before he notes in a straightforward tone, "He almost was already." He takes a moment to give her a brief glance, then reaches over to secure his jacket from her so he can attempt to slide it back on. "There wasn't anyway around it. One way or another, someone was going down..." He doesn't sound thrilled at the logic, but then logics can be flawed all around. He purses his lips thoughtfully, then asks in a quiet tone, "All things considered, it wasn't exactly the best idea to go roaming into Pok territory, especially since one of us knew where the boundary was." Forget that he should know such things. Or that he was likely too distracted by other things to notice. This is all about things being Rooke's fault. It always is.
Rooke shakes her head slowly, then agrees, "It was an awful idea. But hey.. look on the bright side. If this incident doesn't get you killed the next time you stick your neck into the west end, you've probably got a shiny gold star on your rep." Her eyes fall on the straggly little plot of earth as they start to pass it on their way to the tunnel. "I hope he makes it," she says softly, almost under her breath to herself. "I hope he gets a chance to grow from it." Her gaze flicks back to the tunnel, then over to the side where the wall slopes upwards on a steepish incline where, but for a tall chain link fence, one might clamber up and out into the civilized city area again. "I can't stand to see unrealized possibility."
Lake quietly listens and tries to get the combination of jacket and backpack right on his back again, the whole thing thrown off slightly by the fact that his armor's not covered by a shirt this time around. He settles down a bit, smirking softly as she notes the potential upgrade to his rep. He'll believe that one when he sees it. Her latter comments cause him to stare over at her a little more reflectively, waiting until she finishes and then taking a few beats longer before speaking gently. "If anyone can make it, he will. He seems like the strong type. At least mentally. That counts for something, too. On the plus side, if my rep /is/ worth anything, he can't get into too much trouble for getting pulped by me..." That's a good thing, right? If not a misperception. He tilts his head down towards her a little more. "Possibility. I think I see what you mean by that now. Or at least, see it a little better."
There's a break in the fence up ahead, a jagged tear through the chains, caused by some rampaging crash or other. Before Rooke veers towards it, she turns her head to look up at him, the afternoon sunlight hitting her directing in the eyes and turning them crystalline grey for a few beats. She smiles, then grins, replying jauntily, "That's possible, Lake. Entirely possible." Then she grabs his arm by the elbow and veers. "C'mon, we need to go make a phone call." Maybe she won't admit to being a girl, but anyone with half a brain would peg her as human from a mile away.CREDITS: Rooke's vocal composition is based on lyrics by They Might Be Giants for their song: 'Pet Name'.
Back to the Archives
Back to Main Page