[ Laurie stop threatening the guy who's coming to save your ass challenge. she'd managed to get close to where the boundary of the realm is, where the fog gets thick and swallows up everything. she'd shrugged off her flannel, used it as a makeshift bandaid around her leg where the Wraith had swung his club at her, the blade slicing her good. there's a blood trail through the grass that leads from the gas station to the rusted pile of cars she's hunkered behind, but she doesn't think he'd really wanted to kill her, otherwise she'd just ... be dead.
[ Sucks to suck, as they say. If she's as bad off as they sound, he doesn't really have time to keep trading hilarious witticisms. They're in the middle of foraging, so despite Laurie not messaging her, Claudette has a pretty comprehensive idea of what's happening. She packs shoves an extra water bottle in his bag before hurrying him off, and Quentin runs. Runs all the way up until the fog makes running a tripping hazard, and by then it's time to cool down anyway so that he's not breathing ragged enough to rouse the beast here.
[ Between running enough trials and his own unique experiences with sneaking around, navigating the junkyard is the easy part. Laurie won't hear a thing until he's a few steps away from her car-corpse safe haven. From the other side of her, he reaches out and tests for a presence--one finger tapping loosely against the rusted shells. Knock-knock--anybody home? ]
[ the worst part about being stuck in the junkyard is the stench of rot and decay; a lot of times it fades into the background, especially in trials when she's focused on something else. here, there's just the throbbing pain in her leg and the smell of death and it's kind of making her want to barf.
Quentin won't leave her out here, right? there's ... always the chance that she's pushed him too far and he'll leave her to die out here as a lesson. Laurie can't say that she would blame him, but she would hold the grudge, as hypocritical as that might be.
she's starting not to feel so hot by the time she hears the tapping. back against a rotten tire, Laurie inclines her head, her skin pallid under the wrecking yard's sickly moonlight. ]
Did you come to finish me off? [ Laurie asks into the night air, because it could very well be the Wraith back for more blood. it seems unlikely - he'd obviously let her go - but nothing is impossible here. ]
[ He peeks around the crunched cares, sparing one last look over his shoulder before committing all his attention to--yikes, she's a mess. His knapsack rattles gently as he kneels at her side. First things first: he hands her Claudette's water bottle. ]
So, are you going for an amputation with this thing or what?
my very strong laurie claudette friendship headcanon
[ it's embarrassing, in immediate hindsight. she shouldn't have messaged Quentin at all, should have just quietly expired here among the cars and the stench and the sickly green moonlight, the flickering lights from the gas station. it might have been peaceful, except for the pain. maybe even in spite of it. instead she'd gone and dragged Quentin into her business, and she doesn't trust that that won't have some kind of ramification.
but she takes the water bottle anyway, knows it's Claudette's, not only because of the peeling plant emoji sticker on the side, but because Claudette has got to be the only person in this shithole that really cares about her, in spite of everything. ]
We haven't processed any more yet.... [ There was a reason they were out foraging. Supplies are getting low, growth is coming back from the last time they were out in force. Laurie really could have timed this better. Even so, it's better that she called. Better than disappearing and reappearing more ragged than before, death-drunk for the next few days while they all know. At least if she's going to sulk, they'll all see why, plainly.
[ He fishes for a wrapped bundle that tries to spill open when he unlaces it in his palm. The pale green lichen inside is hard to see but--luckily--plentiful. Quentin pinches out enough that he has to fit it sideways to get it into his mouth to chew. His own water bottle gets tipped over his hands to wash before he grabs his knife. ] Gonna cut these pants. Can you pull'm for me?
[ the blood loss is getting to Laurie, so that she doesn't have the proper energy to bitch at Quentin for something that isn't his fault. she would if she could, because no good deed goes unpunished, but right now she just tilts her head, looking impassively at the dead grass, her blood jeans, and then how he starts to chew the lichen up. she can imagine how it tastes - bitter and chalky and earthy, so unlike the ever present flavor of blood between her teeth. ]
Yeah, okay.
[ all at once Laurie wants to snarl and snap at him with the last of her energy, something feral ready to chew its own leg off rather than be touched by a hand - helping or otherwise - but instead she watches as Quentin cuts the leg of her jeans, bends forward a little to take the fabric and tug. it rips with a satisfying rrrrrrr, revealing her bloody leg, the wound grisly and weeping. it doesn't bother her anymore, the site of meat and muscle and bone, all too common in this place. ]
[ Which means he had to come for his conscience's sake. Which means she needs to deal with the consequences, whether she likes them or not. He doesn't say always, even if that might be true. He mutters cold around the plant before drizzling water over the wound. One pass of his thumb to loosely scrub it clear of debris (this time it's an apology muttered for the pain) and he pours another, longer rinsing drought. There's still a sluggish, steady bubbling of blood that makes him wary, but he takes the pasted lichen out of his mouth and packs it to the wound regardless.
[ He winces. The aftertaste is worse than when it's in his mouth. ] Why'd you text me?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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see, "raid" gives a strong implication that you actually managed to make it back to homebase. You know--where the "stash" to "raid" actually is?
are you srsly texting from the junkyard??
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i stumbled as far as i could
hes probably not around
if you tell anyone about this ill ice you by the way
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but what goes around comes around right?
[ christ. did she really text the wrong person? she should have gone with Claudette, but she always texts Claudette for this shit. ]
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[ Relax, he's already packing up to hurry to the junkyard. ]
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simple math
[ Laurie stop threatening the guy who's coming to save your ass challenge. she'd managed to get close to where the boundary of the realm is, where the fog gets thick and swallows up everything. she'd shrugged off her flannel, used it as a makeshift bandaid around her leg where the Wraith had swung his club at her, the blade slicing her good. there's a blood trail through the grass that leads from the gas station to the rusted pile of cars she's hunkered behind, but she doesn't think he'd really wanted to kill her, otherwise she'd just ... be dead.
and, she still has the sodas. ]
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sorry i'm going into the light i cant help you
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[ Between running enough trials and his own unique experiences with sneaking around, navigating the junkyard is the easy part. Laurie won't hear a thing until he's a few steps away from her car-corpse safe haven. From the other side of her, he reaches out and tests for a presence--one finger tapping loosely against the rusted shells. Knock-knock--anybody home? ]
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Quentin won't leave her out here, right? there's ... always the chance that she's pushed him too far and he'll leave her to die out here as a lesson. Laurie can't say that she would blame him, but she would hold the grudge, as hypocritical as that might be.
she's starting not to feel so hot by the time she hears the tapping. back against a rotten tire, Laurie inclines her head, her skin pallid under the wrecking yard's sickly moonlight. ]
Did you come to finish me off? [ Laurie asks into the night air, because it could very well be the Wraith back for more blood. it seems unlikely - he'd obviously let her go - but nothing is impossible here. ]
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[ He peeks around the crunched cares, sparing one last look over his shoulder before committing all his attention to--yikes, she's a mess. His knapsack rattles gently as he kneels at her side. First things first: he hands her Claudette's water bottle. ]
So, are you going for an amputation with this thing or what?
my very strong laurie claudette friendship headcanon
but she takes the water bottle anyway, knows it's Claudette's, not only because of the peeling plant emoji sticker on the side, but because Claudette has got to be the only person in this shithole that really cares about her, in spite of everything. ]
Probably for the best. Didja bring the bonesaw?
[ but actually: ]
Do you have - any styptic powder?
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[ He fishes for a wrapped bundle that tries to spill open when he unlaces it in his palm. The pale green lichen inside is hard to see but--luckily--plentiful. Quentin pinches out enough that he has to fit it sideways to get it into his mouth to chew. His own water bottle gets tipped over his hands to wash before he grabs his knife. ] Gonna cut these pants. Can you pull'm for me?
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Yeah, okay.
[ all at once Laurie wants to snarl and snap at him with the last of her energy, something feral ready to chew its own leg off rather than be touched by a hand - helping or otherwise - but instead she watches as Quentin cuts the leg of her jeans, bends forward a little to take the fabric and tug. it rips with a satisfying rrrrrrr, revealing her bloody leg, the wound grisly and weeping. it doesn't bother her anymore, the site of meat and muscle and bone, all too common in this place. ]
Thanks. For coming.
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[ Which means he had to come for his conscience's sake. Which means she needs to deal with the consequences, whether she likes them or not. He doesn't say always, even if that might be true. He mutters cold around the plant before drizzling water over the wound. One pass of his thumb to loosely scrub it clear of debris (this time it's an apology muttered for the pain) and he pours another, longer rinsing drought. There's still a sluggish, steady bubbling of blood that makes him wary, but he takes the pasted lichen out of his mouth and packs it to the wound regardless.
[ He winces. The aftertaste is worse than when it's in his mouth. ] Why'd you text me?