[Ravage] Friendly Fire

[Bjorn]

There was something unpleasant about the way his features were contorted, an unflattering grimace that would warrant a mother’s warning about the wind permanently setting it on his face. Over a year had passed since he had first laid eyes on the disfigured amalgam of zombie parts that the locals referred to as mooncalfs, but despite his constant exposure to them, they never ceased to disgust him.

Rounding the checkout counter, Bjørn sought the pile of ash and bone that’d moments ago been a threat. After shifting the mess with the tip of his foot, he reached for the spherical object that’d been embedded inside the creature. Specific bones were far more common a find, but it wasn’t the first time he’d come across an orb. The guy from the shop had called it an unholy orb, but never given the telepath any precise information regarding its purpose. Though he had no use for it himself (that he knew of), these orbs fetched a high enough price on the auction to make it worth his while.

Dusting off both hands against the front of his tattered chinos, Bjørn walked further into the deserted supermarket. An unexpected current of glee washed over him as he sunk further into the abandoned building, familiarity an odd thing to be confronted with in this city. It had been a long time since he’d last ventured to the quarantine zone to hunt, but he’d been coming back empty-handed from the catacombs too often as of late to justify a trip across town to Cherrydale. Tonight, he hunted closer to home.

Reaching for the gun holstered under his arm, he sidestepped a fallen shelf and walked along the aisles, attempting to trace the source of a palpable shift in the air. It would be no a surprise to come across another vampire in these parts, hunting as as he was. Bjørn had learned it was best to have one's weapon drawn should one come across another, for fledglings were quick to point and shoot. There were also no shortages of hunters in these parts, and he would rather be at the ready, especially if the source of the disturbance turned out to be a goddamn fadebeast.

[Ravage (DELETED 9253)]

​The moon hang low in the sky, surrounded by bright lights of stars. The air was crisp but filled with the stink that came from rotting flesh. Since the unfortunate events that lead to his being bitten and evidently turned into a vampire, he spent much of his time trying to hide out at the local quarantine zone. Given that when he was human he fought in wars and later served as a police officer, it was embarrassing that he now needed to survive by sucking the blood of the living, those whom before recent events were the people he was trying to protect. Fortunately he had found that stores and the occasional bar served blood in bags and mugs for the enjoyment of the vampire patrons without the need to hunt, that was somewhat a good thing as he wished to live but not to hunt. Every sense he had relied on during war and during police work, was now so greatly heightened which came as part blessing and part curse.

As he climbed up from the sewer tunnels, he stalked across the area between the sewer opening and the old derelict supermarket building. The building and the open field down towards the waters edge were the typical home of the ambling zombies, freakish mooncalf and feral vampires. Ravage had already discovered that he was able to beat a zombie with his bare hands, let alone with a gun, but he still had yet to figure out the weakness for the mooncalf and the other vampires. When he was at his most desperate, with no way out, his vampire senses kicked in enough he could barely best a feral vampire. Each day his skills improved bit by bit, by the end of the week, his plan was to be able to shoot down a feral with only a few bullets.

The supermarket had a old automatic glass door that somehow seemed to be broken in a slightly pinned open position which made it easy for zombies, humans and vampires to sneak inside with little effort. Ravage tried to be quiet, not touching any walls and barely placing his boots on the ground. It was almost like he was hovering above the ground to humans but to the vampires it was just a fast paced jog. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air, just trying to pick up the fresher sent of the dead over the usual scent of decay these parts were filled with. He continued with his glide over the supermarket floor, dodging the broken shelves, the fallen racks, crashed carts and old canned goods that were clearly no longer good. He thought he heard a noise and trotted off in that direction, but as he rounded the corner, he quickly realized it was not a zombie. His hands instinctively raised slightly, his holstered gun appearing from under his shirt as it lifted over his waist.

"Friendly. I'm friendly"

[Bjorn]

The curse that made crowded rooms and busy streets a nightmare to navigate was a blessing in a place like this. Heightened senses gave Bjørn an incredible advantage when it came to preparing for his surroundings, so much so that he was capable of predicting what would happen seconds before it did. Highly intelligent and no short of experience, he’d learned to decipher as many sounds as he came across. No fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. No generators droned behind thin walls. The shuffling sound of moving feet was audible, though his limited tracking ability didn’t quite allow him to pinpoint the provenance. Whoever it was —whatever it was — wasn’t just taking a stroll. The sound was getting louder; they — it — was getting closer.

Levelling the gun in front of his face, Bjørn’s finger pressed against trigger guard. A stickler for rules, he never quite relinquished the lessons he’d picked up as a gun license-totting Texan, and though aimed his gun directly in front of him, did not allow his fingertip to hover over the trigger itself. Months of nightly hunting trips in the catacombs, caverns, and other dark, dank places had refined his abilities and increased his self-confidence. If something came at him, he’d be able to strike it down. At least this way he didn’t accidentally shoot someone’s head off.

His steps slowed as he neared the corner of the freezer section, eyes wide and pupils dilated. Whoever — whatever — he was about to cross paths with was too close not to know exactly where they were, and he rounded the edge with predatory grace.

Friendly. I’m friendly!

Bjørn lowered his weapon to get a better view, pointing it down to the stranger’s legs as his brow arched. His gaze raked the other’s form before seizing him up mentally by way of telepathic appraisal. Figures, he thought to himself as he lowered the gun to his side.

What was it with him and allurists?
This entire city seemed to be crawling with them.

“Those would have been some **** last words.”

[Ravage (DELETED 9253)]

In moments like these, people often talk about how their lives flash before their eyes. But for Ravage, nothing of the sort happened. His life choices ensured that during his training, he was prepared to die if the worst happened. Training for special operations entailed things like becoming ‘drown proof’. Most people would hear the words drown proof and think something like superheroes or made up stories. If only they truly knew what happened and the basically life threatening events and training that certain groups of soldiers had to undertake before they were allowed to even join these ‘special forces’. Insanity. It was pure insanity to anyone who did not have the strength and willpower to survive these trials.

For a few seconds, a gun was pointed square at his face before being lowered to point at his leg. The expressions on the other persons face, they were trying to study him, to learn as much as possible as they stood there. He took a mental note of the gun and how quickly this other person lowered theirs, a sign that they were not looking for a fight, at least not right now. Ravage lowered his hands, dropping them to his sides slowly; keeping them in view so this other man knew he meant no harm, as if his words were not clear enough. A soft laugh escaped his mouth as this man spoke. He was right; it would have been **** last words.

“Fair point. But I am prepared to die, so I need no last words… The name is Ravage, a umm pleasure to meet you Mr…?”

Ravage offered up his hand slowly; steady, for this other man to shake hands with him, should he wish too. If this man before him did not wish to shake hands, Ravage would not be offended but it was always polite to exchange a good firm handshake where possible. In different cultural beliefs it was a sign of dominance, acceptance and even partnership. Ravage would just be happy for it to mean they didn’t have to fight each other.

[Bjorn]

“Seriously?”


Bjorn’s arm lowered to his side, the hold on his weapon relaxing just enough. With his free hand, he pushed unruly hair away from his forehead while mentally making a note to get it cut sooner than later. Too long locks and the cherub look was only enhanced; not ideal.

“Prepared to die? Ravage??”


Shaking his head as he dropped his hand from his—messier still—hair, he cocked a brow, visibly unimpressed. There was no hiding his amusement at the other’s expense. Then again, his own name wasn’t particularly common, and memory of ridicule as a child brought with it a reminder to play nice.

Clearing his throat, he switched his gun out to shake the offered hand.

“Brian,” he offered without missing a beat, all too accustomed now to the sound of his fake, legal name. Shifting his gun back into his dominant hand, he cast his senses to their surrounds to ensure no creature would sneak up on them.

“You suicidal or something? Where’s your gun?”

[Ravage (DELETED 9253)]

“Yes seriously.”

Ravage kept a close eye on the man before him, staring at the gun and back to his face. Unfortunately Ravage had trouble keeping still; his free hand was fiddling with the edge of his shirt, one of the many side effects of PTSD. Many things that had taken place in his youth involved bullets, bombs and death, all of which leave their marks on people. Nothing caused nightmares quiet like watching his friends get shot or blown up, the looks on their faces as they bled out in the middle of a fire fight on the battlefield.

“Yes prepared to die. I’ve been a soldier and a cop, so I am well practised in near death experiences. Ravage was my name when I served, our squad picked each other’s names and this was mine.”

This man before him was easily amused going by the look on his face, not that it bothered Ravage, he was use to people assuming that his parents were crazy for naming him such a strange name, little did most people realize that his name was linked to his life of service. In truth, he lacked the will to give a **** or to even try to explain to most people why he went by Ravage; it was the only name he had known for a long time. He did in face have a normal, human name, Daniel. Daniel Carter was his name from before his life was drastically changed.

With a firm handshake, Ravage dropped his hand down by his side, lightly tapping his legs with his fingers. As this man spoke about a gun, he lifted his top slightly to show his gun tucked between his belt and his pants. A hand brushed against his gun, wrapping around the shaft of the weapon before pulling it from his belt, allowing it to hang facing the ground.

“Pleasure to meet you Brian. And right here. I’m more of a hand to hand kind of guy.”

[Bjorn]

Bjorn had definitely not asked for this guy’s backstory. There was something about people in this city—or was it being undead—that made them drone on and one about **** that no one cared about. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t care per say, he simply could have gone on with his night without acquiring such information.

Well aware now that this guy didn’t things as lightly as they were thrown at him, the telepath made a note to keep himself from inviting in any more uncalled for explanations. This was neither the place nor the time to be sharing; not to mention he was not the greatest conversationalist to begin with.

Unable to help himself, Bjorn judged ‘Ravage’ with unparalleled harshness. What kind of cop didn’t carry a holstered weapon? Not that he could pretend to have been any better; the holsters were a fairly recent addition to his getup. The longer he spent in the catacombs and mausoleum, the more efficient his gear became. Soon enough, his trusty leather satchel—a gadget bought in passing at a store—would be replaced by a far more practical backpack. It should arrive in the mail within the next days, he realised.

“Hand action’s nice and all, but if you ever stick your hand into a fadebeast, be prepared to go limbless for a few weeks,” he retorted, eyeing the guy’s weapon. Stepping back, Bjorn widened his field of vision and gave a once-over at the wall across the aisle.

“—And these fuckers come at you from just about anywhere too. You seen any around?”