Re: Petty Squabble [ROUND 1] [Fort Ayers, New Atlantis]
04-18-2011, 03:58 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pinary.
John laughed. He did that a fair bit, so it wasn't terribly surprising to anyone who knew him.
The pair of soldiers didn't know him very well at all, so they found it a bit disconcerting. That, combined with his sudden and unexplained appearance, made them suspicious enough that they thought they ought to capture him at once.
He complied. He really couldn't be bothered putting up any sort of resistance, occupied as he was with laughing like a drunkard at a comedy club. They had to hold him up as they marched him along, and his feet were half-dragging along the ground as the group moved.
They walked like that for several minutes, his captors commenting to each other on the cold feel of his suit jacket, joking about how me must be hopped up on something, and speculating about just where he'd come from. They tried to get through to him once or twice, but he just kept laughing, his only communication a few vague gestures and an extra-enthusiastic wave of chortles and guffaws.
John had had excellent practice at laughing over the years, and it had served him well. After all, what danger was a drugged-up laughing man? It certainly wasn't an appearance that inspired fear or caution, not by any stretch of the imagination. He was a thing, not a person, just something to be dumped somewhere and left to stew. Take the drunk idiot to a cell and let him sober up in his own time.
Once they had brought him into fortress and had him a fair ways in, a kick to the back of the knee brought one slamming backward and a full-body twist pulled the other down on top of his compatriot. They were quickly and efficiently relieved of their sidearms and the knives in their boots. One gun was held, the other had its clip removed and was thrown down the hall.
John allowed himself a small chuckle, then took a radio from one of the fallen soldiers. Thumbing it on, he said, "You've got an escaped prisoner in your base, I'm afraid. Armed, dangerous, and possibly unstable." He also plucked a striped card from a chain around one soldier's neck. "He's got a key which will need to be disabled, and you'll want to start sweeping the base for him." He fired a shot. "He's just killed- hang on." He leaned down a bit so the newly-made corpse's head wasn't obscuring the face of the soldier below it. He addressed the man with a casual, friendly half-grin. "Sorry, should've asked earlier. What was his name?"
The trooper's brain was still back on the part where John had gone from laughing like an idiot to killing his squadmate, trying to figure out what had happened in the interim, so his mouth decided it would volunteer the information and check in with his brain later. "Elbie. Bartholomew Elbie."
John clapped him on the shoulder and lifted the radio back to his mouth. "Right, sorry. He's just killed Barty, and rather seriously maimed-" He paused again and gave the soldier an inquisitive look.
The soldier looked back at him with an expression that said, "who, me?" John rolled his eyes at the idiotic question and nodded. "Uh, Peter Singer," the soldier replied.
He got a grateful expression and a pair of bullets to his kneecaps for his trouble. Standing, John finished by saying, "Right. He's killed Barty, maimed Pete, and he's loose in the base. He's going to ditch this radio once he's done with it, so tracing it's no good, but you'll at least have a good starting point. Have fun!"
He clicked the radio off, tossed it a ways down the hall, then grabbed the other from Singer and clipped it to his belt. A pistol in his hand and a spare clip in his pocket, he headed off down the hall, away from his ex-captors. He had no real destination in mind, but he wasn't terribly fussed about getting anywhere. He was just happy to move for a while.
John laughed. He did that a fair bit, so it wasn't terribly surprising to anyone who knew him.
The pair of soldiers didn't know him very well at all, so they found it a bit disconcerting. That, combined with his sudden and unexplained appearance, made them suspicious enough that they thought they ought to capture him at once.
He complied. He really couldn't be bothered putting up any sort of resistance, occupied as he was with laughing like a drunkard at a comedy club. They had to hold him up as they marched him along, and his feet were half-dragging along the ground as the group moved.
They walked like that for several minutes, his captors commenting to each other on the cold feel of his suit jacket, joking about how me must be hopped up on something, and speculating about just where he'd come from. They tried to get through to him once or twice, but he just kept laughing, his only communication a few vague gestures and an extra-enthusiastic wave of chortles and guffaws.
John had had excellent practice at laughing over the years, and it had served him well. After all, what danger was a drugged-up laughing man? It certainly wasn't an appearance that inspired fear or caution, not by any stretch of the imagination. He was a thing, not a person, just something to be dumped somewhere and left to stew. Take the drunk idiot to a cell and let him sober up in his own time.
Once they had brought him into fortress and had him a fair ways in, a kick to the back of the knee brought one slamming backward and a full-body twist pulled the other down on top of his compatriot. They were quickly and efficiently relieved of their sidearms and the knives in their boots. One gun was held, the other had its clip removed and was thrown down the hall.
John allowed himself a small chuckle, then took a radio from one of the fallen soldiers. Thumbing it on, he said, "You've got an escaped prisoner in your base, I'm afraid. Armed, dangerous, and possibly unstable." He also plucked a striped card from a chain around one soldier's neck. "He's got a key which will need to be disabled, and you'll want to start sweeping the base for him." He fired a shot. "He's just killed- hang on." He leaned down a bit so the newly-made corpse's head wasn't obscuring the face of the soldier below it. He addressed the man with a casual, friendly half-grin. "Sorry, should've asked earlier. What was his name?"
The trooper's brain was still back on the part where John had gone from laughing like an idiot to killing his squadmate, trying to figure out what had happened in the interim, so his mouth decided it would volunteer the information and check in with his brain later. "Elbie. Bartholomew Elbie."
John clapped him on the shoulder and lifted the radio back to his mouth. "Right, sorry. He's just killed Barty, and rather seriously maimed-" He paused again and gave the soldier an inquisitive look.
The soldier looked back at him with an expression that said, "who, me?" John rolled his eyes at the idiotic question and nodded. "Uh, Peter Singer," the soldier replied.
He got a grateful expression and a pair of bullets to his kneecaps for his trouble. Standing, John finished by saying, "Right. He's killed Barty, maimed Pete, and he's loose in the base. He's going to ditch this radio once he's done with it, so tracing it's no good, but you'll at least have a good starting point. Have fun!"
He clicked the radio off, tossed it a ways down the hall, then grabbed the other from Singer and clipped it to his belt. A pistol in his hand and a spare clip in his pocket, he headed off down the hall, away from his ex-captors. He had no real destination in mind, but he wasn't terribly fussed about getting anywhere. He was just happy to move for a while.