ArchivedLogs:Dried Meat

Dried Meat
Dramatis Personae Clint, Lucien	2015-12-20 "{Then again, I have a weak imagination.}" (Part of Flu Season TP.)
Location <NYC> Midtown East
A dense, skyscraper packed neighborhood, Midtown is the busiest commercial district in the United States, and one of the busiest pieces of land in the world. Day and night, Midtown is filled with people going to and from work, enjoying the nightlife, and walking quickly through the streets. Very few live in Midtown proper - only the most wealthy and work-obsessed - but many who live in and around the City work here. In many ways, Midtown is the heart that beats in the city that never sleeps. In the wake of the cold snap, this day feels startling mild and pleasant, even when the cold wind blows. As carefully patrolled as it's been, midtown has had little trouble in the way of undead, and people walk the streets without any apparent wariness. Among them is a solid man with short brown hair and an unremarkable squarish face. Also unremarkable is his outfit: plain black stand-collar jacket unzipped over a dark heather purple shirt and black jeans. He has just come from the library, a large black rucksack laden with the spoils of the visit. A little ways down the block, there's a stir of motion among the pedestrians; not /panic/, exactly, but there are a lot of cellphones appearing in people's hands (even as they, for the most part, continue on their way). The 911 calls may not be getting through just yet, but anyone monitoring @NYCzombiepatrol will see the sudden influx of tweets about the pair of zombies just sighted in midtown. There's a man just stepping out of a hotel across the street. Tall and well-built, he cuts a somewhat more striking figure, his crisp grey suit quite elegantly tailored to his form. He has been rather casual about pulling on a lightweight trenchcoat and slinging a black carrying case back over his shoulder, though as he checks his phone again he is quicker to tug this into place. Quicker to thank the hotel doorman and continue down the street. His eyes have stayed on his phone -- though after a short time he looks back up again, green eyes flicking thoughtfully down a side street, searching. Clint pulls his phone from a pocket as he walks down the street, his steps quickening toward the source of the commotion rather than away from it as with most of the other pedestrians. He glances sideways at the tall blond man as he reaches the corner. There are not two but three zombies making their slow way down the street, though one is far behind the others and not moving with near so much purpose in its shambling steps. He peels off his jacket and unslings his rucksack in one smooth motion as he sinks to one knee. From the latter he produces a hard plastic case and a quiver. Popping the former open, he withdraws a neatly folded compound bow that he snaps open with practiced ease even as he slings the quiver over his shoulder. Lucien has slung the case from his back around to his chest as he approaches the corner -- he's pulling a compound bow out from it, as well, leaving the rest of the case open to give him access to the quiver still inside when he rests it over his back once more. The corner of his mouth tips up as he makes the streetcorner, slanting a glance to Clint and his bow. He fits an arrow to his own bow -- but doesn't yet shoot. Takes aim at one of the zombies and then studies the trio, lips pressing together as he looks at the third. Clint pulls an arrow from his quiver and does /not/ hesitate. He barely seems to even take time to aim before letting it fly straight into the left eye socket of the nearest zombie. When it collapses, its companion continues on toward the nearest prey (Lucien, in this case), but the one hanging back comes to a halt, head bobbing slowly as it watches the two men with body language that could almost pass for wariness. Lucien's mouth is still compressed, into a thin line. The second zombie does not have much time to draw any nearer to him; a quiet zing and his arrow finds its way neat and true into its eye. After this, though, he holds up a hand towards Clint. Draws another arrow, but holds his bow pointed downward at his side rather than aim it. Clint raises his eyebrows at Lucien, and looks back at the third zombie. It's shuffling from one foot to the other now, as if torn between the desire for delicious, delicious flesh and fleeing. The street has not completely emptied, though, and at length it spots a passer-by on the next cross street, away from the men with the arrows and quite focused on their phone. The moment it begins to shuffle that way, Clint's index finger shifts over a red dial on the grip of his bow. Some mechanism inside his quiver moves with a soft click, and the next arrow he draws has a blunt and unwieldy-looking head. There's not much time to /study/ the curious object, as he fits the arrow and fires it in one quick motion again (though at an elevated angle to compensate for its weight). The arrow hits the last remaining zombie in the calf; the casing on the head comes apart and two weighted cables spring out to wrap around the legs, bringing the zombie crashing to the sidewalk. Lucien's brows raise -- for a moment his attention shifts from the zombie to look at Clint instead. Or, at least, Clint's quiver, a small tip to his head as he looks from this to the arrow and then back. Once the arrow has been shot he is definitely only looking at the zombie, though, exhaling one sharp breath. "{I would dearly like to know where I can locate some of those.}" His Spanish is soft, mild. He tucks his own arrow back into its quiver, slipping his bow away and zipping the case back up. Continuing onward, one hand stays near his hip; he pauses a short distance from the fallen zombie, head tipping down to study it. Clint turns back to Lucien, /staring/ at him kind of intently as he speaks, a frown developing between his thick brows. It's hard to say whether he has understood at all. He picks up his rucksack and follows Lucien, bow still in hand. When he does finally speak, it is also in Spanish, though with very poor grammar and pronunciation, "{On patrol I see some, like this. Afraid. Very strange. Hear some stories, more crazy.}" "Do you need help?" Lucien is asking the zombie this -- from a small distance away, his expression somewhat impassive. His hand lingers by his hip, though his voice is quiet and calm. He turns to look back up towards Clint, head inclining once in acknowledgment. "{Have you seen many? We have yet to determine how widespread this condition is, among the dead. At this point, I suppose the question is somewhat academic.}" Clint's eyes shoot back and forth, from Lucien to the zombie, then back. The latter, for its part, is mostly trying and failing to get up, and shows no indication of understanding the words spoken. Its movements become more frantic (and proportionately less effective) when it catches sight of the bow. Frowning, Clint, folds his weapon up and slowly replaces it in its case. Staring at Lucien again, he gives a slight shake of his head. "{Not see many. Maybe one every twenty. But many, run away.}" He looks down at the zombie, which has calmed somewhat, though not having much more success getting free. "{Maybe should bring to doctors.}" "{As far as I am aware, even the clinics have no cure for death.}" Lucien lifts his hands from his side, holding them up -- palms out -- to the zombie. He does reach for his pocket again -- though only to pluck out his phone, send a quick text. "{I imagine I would run away as well, if someone intended to put a knife through my eye.}" His other hand he still holds tipped empty and non-threatening outward. "{I don't suppose you have any meat on you?}" He sounds only mildly hopeful. "{I don't know what what they can or cannot fix, anymore.}" Clint replies, tugging his jacket back on. "{If the dead can walk and think...}" He shrugs again. It's hard to say how much he has understood out of the rest of what Lucien says, but he does casually withdraw a bag of jerky from an outer pocket of his pack. It has no label and, when opened, smells powerfully of smoke and venison. He tugs out a strip of it and lifts one very doubtful eyebrow at Lucien before kneeling and stretching it out toward the zombie. "{They walk, and think, and reason. And,}" Lucien says mildly, "{feel. But so far, our medicines only have any kind of effect when normal physiology is more or less operating.}" His nose twitches at the smell of the meat. He looks down again at his phone, pulling in a breath as his thumb swipes across it again. "{Someone is coming. What help can be offered is -- beyond my pay grade.}" Clint makes not reply, his eyes fixed on the zombie. It doesn't seem particularly /thrilled/ at the sight of the jerky, but at length it reaches out and snatches it from his hand. Only as he's withdrawing, standing up, does Clint turn to look at Lucien again. "{/Someone/? I didn't know anyone was paid to help...}" He gestures at the zombie, avidly jawing at the strip of desiccated venison. "{...that. Or even how would help.}" "{It is rather novel,}" There's a very faint crinkle at the corner of Lucien's eyes, a touch of warmth lightening his tone, "{but they /have/ in fact undertaken to compensate the research team for their efforts looking into --}" He gestures towards the chewing zombie. "{All this. Though what studying the dead will net us --}" His head tips back, a soft chuckle huffed out through suddenly flared nostrils. "{A lot more work for philosophy majors, perhaps. Ripe fodder for reddit arguments. Whether it will help either us /or/ them is doubtful.}" "{You are affiliated with the research team? That make the medicine?}" Clint raises his eyebrows at Lucien. "{Knowing more about them, will help us to issue new guidelines to the patrols.}" He turns back to the zombie. "{To everyone, I guess.}" "{I am.}" Lucien pulls in a slow breath. His hand lifts, palm pressed to his lips and fingers splayed across one cheek -- for a moment, at least, before his hand drags down and drops back to his side. "Mmm." His green eyes turn from the zombie to level on Clint, with a very faint uptick of his brows. "{Guidelines. Certainly. That is the optimistic outlook.}" He gives his head a small shake. "{How well do you imagine those guidelines will be respected?}" "{Slightly better than no guidelines at all.}" Clint levels a flat look at Lucien. "{Then again, I have a weak imagination.}" He zips his pack shut and shoulders it again. "{But if you have a better idea, I'm sure you're in a good position to put it out there.}" "{That was not a criticism,}" Lucien replies, quiet and even. "{It was a question. You have been in the field --}" He tips his empty hand out towards Clint's pack, "{a good deal more than I. I /don't/ know what would happen if we asked the patrols to wait and evaluate each zombie before a kill. I may be in a position to suggest guidelines.}" This comes with an affirming tilt of head. "{You are likely in a better one to know how they might be received.}" Clint narrows his eyes at Lucien, watching him closely as he speaks. "{Slightly better than no guidelines at all,}" he repeats, massaging one temple with the tips of heavily calloused fingers. "{But not well. Some will do it. Some will not. If the organizers put those who do in leadership positions, may work better than just slightly.}" Lucien nods, looking back to the bound zombie and then up to Clint. "{Doable, with the hordes in manageable numbers now.}" His head tilts very slightly to one side. "{Are you well? I have painkillers. If you need.}" One finger taps at his temple as Clint massages his own. Clint waves a hand dismissively. "{It's just eye strain.}" Though the pain that lines the edges of his eyes is plainly visible now. "{Thank you, but I don't like to take painkillers.}" He smiles thinly. "{Dulls my focus. More than the pain.}" "{Very well.}" Lucien tips his head in a small nod, though a faint crease has appeared between his own brows. A car is pulling up to the curb, now, a green Subaru SUV; the driver does not look /overly/ pleased at the bound zombie on the curb, when he steps out, but doesn't say anything either. "{Might I impose on you,}" Lucien asks, "{for some more of that jerky? I suspect it may may their ride more comfortable.}" Clint watches the SUV pull up and nods to the driver. He looks back down at the zombie, through with the jerky he had given it and now staring apprehensively at the newcomer. Clint takes the bag of cured venison back out of his pack and offers the remainder of it to Lucien. "{You are unusually...compassionate.}" His eyes stray to the zombie again. More quietly, "{Good luck.}" There is the faintest widening of Lucien's eyes, the faintest exhalation. "{The city has been starving for compassion, lately. Perhaps it just makes any of it taste that much sweeter.}" He nods to Clint, taking the pack of jerky with a nod of thanks. "{Stay safe.}"