rickitikitarr | 3. could be worse could be raining

3. could be worse could be raining

[Audio]

These things, they're coming through holes in the fabric of... well, space itself. Is there any way to close them?

[Is the technical explanation that Ricki stumbles for. It's only a seventies scifi explanation of a phenomenon he barely understands, but it's what he's got right now.]

It means that until they stop opening, any of the normal tactics- a perimeter, a systematic sweep- are totally useless. They can crawl right in behind us. Normally I'd suggest gathering everyone in the mess and working our way out, but if a tear opens up in the back, it has the potential to turn into a slaughter. We actually may be best keeping the vulnerable on their own, in their rooms, while everyone who can tries to clear down the halls.

[Then, silence, and finally two quick gun shots. The feed remains dead a little bit, as he gets his adrenaline down. His voice is still low, very level, when he can continue.]

But that means people may be trapped without food. It might be worthwhile to get volunteers to make runs for their neighbours. It'd be better to work in pairs to accomplish that.

Anyone game? [And, belatedly.] Anyone trapped?

[He'd do a better job of organizing this if it weren't on the fly. But as it is, he can hear something approaching. Heavy footsteps that may only just be captured by the feed. Then there is the sound that some residents will recognize as a gun being reloaded, before the feed cuts off.]

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[Ammunition is scarce, but Ricki makes the most of what he has, hoarding it closely as he makes his perilous way through the halls of the ship, sometimes hunting, occasionally being hunted. The gun helps against the felhunters, and he isn't shy of shooting the succubi either, but on more than one memorable occasion he gets into it with a golem and ends up having to run for it, god damn it.

He'll help and need help, both in reasonably equal measure.]

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[It's Monday and Eggsy fucking hates the Barge.

Coming up to the (still existentially horrible) deck has not brought the hoped-for reprieve but instead the sight of his new friend from the 1970s booking it towards him, away from what is simultaneously the ugliest and coolest and most terrifying thing he's ever seen. He gives himself a second to appreciate that he's facing up to something made of rock and liquid fire --

Then actually does it.

He runs past Ricki with a cheerful - ]

Mornin', mate, y'awright?

[ - while digging in the pocket of his jeans for one of the 'lighters' he's brought out with him. The suicide run toward the golem is terrifying - he can feel the heat, smell the sulphur that burns at the back of his mouth - but this is his life now, innit.

He primes the grenade as he gets close, hurls it into the glowing green hollow in its chest cavity, ducks and rolls between its legs to dodge the descent of a massive stony arm. And overall it would have been a lot cooler if the resulting blast wave didn't throw him into the railing and snap his neck, killing him instantly.

Which will persist for about thirty seconds.]

[Jesus, the kid is running at the thing, Ricki whips back around to try to grab him by the scruff of his neck- but then it becomes obvious that no, no this is not a situation he needs to be intervening in. He privately curses himself out roundly for believing that he Eggsy was actually a tailor, then rushes in through the flaming debris to him as he watches him die.

Shit, he's never going to get used to seeing that.

Ricki gets Eggsy down flat onto the deck, and drags him fast to a corner, between railing and pub, where they'll have a sort of limited cover while he comes back to life. Ricki checks how many rounds he has left, in the seconds he has before Eggsy rejoins him in the land of the living.

When he comes to it'll be to a hand on his shoulder, and the stars swimming above them.]

Breathe. Quiet.

[Eggsy doesn't, of course, come around quietly - he jerks awake, limbs flailing for a second, white light bursting behind his eyes because mother of God the back of his neck hurts a lot.

(That's why he blacked out, right? Because that is definitely what happened.)]

Fffffuck.

[It's about at this point that he notices he's been moved and oh hey, he's not by himself. He blinks, focusing, and then smiles up at the older man like a slightly woozy idiot.]

Ricki! Alright? Did I get it?

[He gets a hand under him and struggles to sit up. 'It' is now a pile of lightly twitching rubble on deck so it's as 'got' as it's getting.]

You certainly did.

[Agreeing, with the sort of mild fondness he normally reserves for the very, very drunk. They probably don't have long before something else finds them, but he's keeping an ear out, and suspects Eggsy probably shouldn't try to move just yet.]

It's good to know that explosives will take those things out. I'd give a leg for a good old karabinek-granatnik right about now.

[And by the very shrewd look Ricki is giving him, he expects Eggsy to know exactly what that is.]

[Eggsy stares up at him for a second. Think you could fire a grenade rifle on one leg, do you is on the tip of his tongue but he bites it back.]

Don't speak Russian, bruv.

[He puts his hand to the railing and goes about clambering up. Shit's not easy when it feels like a sharp move would make his head fall off.]

We need to get to cover.

[Deciding, because Eggsy's going to be feeling the death toll for a minute or two longer, he's sure of that.]

Unless you have too many more of those in your pockets?

[Well. He can't exactly deny that he has a stash of grenades.]

Tryin' not to waste 'em.

[(What exactly do you do with your cover story when you're thrown into a supernatural monster siege during your first week? 'Not helping' is obviously not in his makeup. Harry could have handled this.)

Oh good. Feet under his body, that's where they're meant to be.]

Where's cover s'posed to be? These things are comin' out the fucking walls.

I know. It's about as far from as ideal as it's possible to get.

[Agreeing, but heading them towards the pub. It's the best they've got for now. It at least gets them inside, out of sight, able to sit down for a second- though Ricki claws at the door for a moment before recalling;]

It won't let me in, you'll have to open it.

[And god damn this place, seriously.]

[He nods distractedly and moves past him to the door; waving his glasses in the right direction gets the door open.]

After you.

[Manners, etc.]

[He nods, and ducks through, gun drawn. Ricki clears the room expertly, before stepping the rest of the way in with a grunt, heading for the bar.

He's only getting water, but he pulls them two glasses. He, for one, is feeling the day and he's sure Eggsy needs a chair and a drink.]

That your first bad run in?

[The way Ricki checks the room is not at all far from the way Eggsy would do it himself; the way Eggsy steps in after him, covers his back, is likewise a trained response. When the room's clear, he relaxes marginally.]

First one that hurt that much.

[He sits down heavily on a bar stool and rubs at the back of his neck again. It's weird; he thought he'd be able to feel some swelling or bruising or something, but - no. It just miscellaneously hurts. (He knows there's a potential explanation for this and he's trying not to acknowledge it.)]

Does anybody know what the fuck is goin' on?

Edited 2015-04-13 21:37 (UTC)

From what I can piece together, the holes can be closed- only anything that came through them needs to be killed first. Don't ask me about the how or why.

[Setting the water down in front of him.]

Of course, a proper systematic sweep of the place is impossible, since the holes open right back up behind whatever line we try to form. I'm just starting from the top and working my way to the bottom, then back up again, getting anything that I'm capable enough to handle- which is most of it, barring those rock creatures, since I wasn't allowed to keep my grenades, on account of my wicked soul.

[He accepts the water with thanks and takes a deep gulp. ]

Still look like you're doin' alright, though.

[He likes you, Ricki, but you can't have any of his grenades. He nods at the gun.]

How'd your wicked soul get packin' anyway?

Talked a professional into it.

[He admits, and takes this moment to reload, which he handles with expert and fond familiarity. Ricki has been handling guns since he was a kid, and has the sort of respect for them and ease with them that make other enthusiasts willing to part with their wares.]

I used to move these through Malaysia, probably sort of the way you used to mend jackets.

[He laughs and it makes his neck throb. Yeah, maybe he can make this work.]

Fuckin' amazin' what you can get through Customs stuffed in a mannequin.

So you weren't one of the good boys, when you started working.

[A guess, but a pretty shrewd one. He normally has better than to push, but longs for someone to talk to about the state of spycraft in the future. The books are vague at best.]

No casual wave from the professor to stay behind after a day at Cambridge?

[Poking a tight, bristly sort of fun at his more upper-crust coworkers.]

[Eggsy scoffs and shakes his head. He blew anything meaningful about his cover the second he pulled the lighter and they both know it; Merlin would slap him. But Merlin ain't here, and no Kingsman ever had to fight a glowing stone whatever-the-fuck, and maybe the highest level of discretion doesn't really count for shit when half of everybody's dead and the other half are superheroes and God knows what else.]

Mate, do I look like I went to Cambridge?

[But it's the same bristly humour, because he knows he was the exception to the rule.]

[He grins, and nods. All right. Ricki is a Cold War kid, mutually assured destruction is a way of life for him, and now they've both got one another's secrets.]

I was eighteen and drunk in a Penang harbour when they found me. Takes all sorts.

Ricki Tarr. Scalphunter.

[A technical designation that probably won't strictly cross over, but is certainly an illustrative turn of phrase, in and of itself. It also feels very good to say, the way a tall man playing shorter gets a deep satisfaction from the crack in his back as he pulls up to his full height.]

[The face he pulls is partly impressed and partly 'are you having a giggle mate' but he's mostly thinking that it sounds a lot more hardcore than Kingsman.]

Scalphunter? Fuckin' sick, Ricki.

[But then he sobers, tilts his head.]

I won't tell nobody.

[Words written in stone.]

Same. But-

[Gesturing at him with a knife, before realizing, no, that's not appropriate, and wincing, turning the blade away. He only has it out to begin tearing a handkerchief into strips.]

-I want to know more. A word of this won't pass my lips, but the Circus must look different in your day and age. Fill me in. They train you up this young?

[He has that right-for-the-throat trait pretty well covered.]

[Eggsy treats the gesture with what he feels is an appropriate level of concern for that kind of thing when he calls himself a Scalphunter. Relaxes when it comes to nothing.]

Di'n't you say they picked you up when you was eighteen?

But not on the physical stuff. I'm a dangerous man, but I couldn't glide like that if my life depended on it.

[It's clearly a different school of thought.]

Nah, I did all that before. Gymnastics through school, runnin' round the estates an' that. You know who locks their windows in a top-floor flat? Fuckin' nobody.

[Okay, so he's not proud of his nascent career as a petty criminal but he's well aware that he had a useful set of skills. Kingsman just built a lot of aptitude for killing people (and, apparently, glowing rock monsters) on top of that.]

[Ricki looks up at him for a second, stopping his busy construction of molotov cocktails to appreciate for a moment how cool Eggsy is- not because of the gymnastics thing but rather because he has such sensible ideas about top floor windows. He has the unusual feeling of wanting to impart every bit of wisdom he has to him.]

So what do they have you on? Sure as hell not deskwork.

[He gets the idea as regards the Molotovs and circles around the bar without having to be asked, rummaging through the bottles for the insane Russian-killing high proofs while Ricki preps the bottles. Petrol would be better, but where are they gonna get that?]

They got the Cambridge graduates for that, don't they? Plebs like me're just cannon fodder, in't we.

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