Open RP

[mismanagement]

Hit me.

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[unheeled]

"Easy." Rita always walks with purpose, like she owns wherever she is, or could with just a word.

So when Maketh gives the signal, Rita pretends she's walking into a board meeting and walks like her hair and pallor are normal, like there's nothing to see, nothing to question. She keeps her eyes on the vehicle, because getting there is their objective. The fact that it happens to be in opposition of all the staff here is irrelevant.

With luck, they'll make it. With luck, none of them will recognize her.

Maybe the one staring at her doesn't recognize her. No, maybe he thinks he's seeing a ghost. She'd look at him and say "boo" if not for the fact that they're almost there, and she doesn't want to ruin their escape.

[mismanagement]

Instinct says run. Run as hard and fast as you can and get out. Maketh takes a breath and walks as purposefully as she can. Don't run. Walk. Look straight ahead and move like you belong there.

Thus far, no alarms sound.

Maketh isn't the praying type. Never had a use for it.

She's starting to understand the impulse now. Everything is so tedious, it could go wrong so easily.

Fifteen feet away. Ten. Almost there.

[unheeled]

He's still staring. Rita watches him on the edge of her vision. This is bad, but they're almost there. Maybe it won't matter.

When they're at five feet away, the guy shoots at her feet, the laser-bullet hitting the floor just inches from the tip of her flats.

Shit.

She doesn't need to tell Maketh to run to know she'll follow. Rita wrenches the car door open and climbs inside, focusing on the task at hand rather than her breathing, because that hadn't worked last time to keep her zombie instincts from overcoming her.

"Get the hell in here!" she hisses, and if Maketh doesn't make a move to hurry, she'll reach out, grab her by her good arm, and yank her inside.

[mismanagement]

Adrenaline kicks in just in time. There's a good moment where Maketh doesn't feel any pain at all. She has to move, get away, and so she moves. The truck is armored, it'll be safe.

Move, soldier.

She ends up sprawled in the seat, howling when she jostles her arm against the seat. "Jesus fuck, go!"

Kallus, thoughtfully, left the keys in the ignition.

[unheeled]

As soon as Maketh is inside, Rita turns the key in the ignition; and when Maketh issues her order (or plea, it doesn't really matter), Rita slams her foot on the gas and heads straight for the exit.

She doesn't care about the people she hits on the way there, whether they're dead or just injured. It's time to go before things get so bad that the soldiers' survival won't even be a question.

"I fucking hate Fillmore Graves," Rita growls as bullets ping off the armored vehicle.

[mismanagement]

"Goddamn," Maketh breathes. She's hurting but she's still alive. She can work with that.

For a moment - just a moment - she closes her eyes and just breathes. In and out. Focus, soldier. Breathe. Count down from ten. Remember what you have to do.

Maketh opens her eyes.

"Get out in public. Witnesses. We need witnesses or they'll follow."

[unheeled]

"You need a doctor." Badly.

But when will they be safe enough to stop and find one? Rita drives into the city, heading for the busy financial district as soon as she sees it's daytime.

Maketh needs a doctor, and Rita needs to eat. This is not going to be an easy escape.

Shifting her hands on the steering wheel, she breathes deep and drives at just below the speed limit.

"How long are we going to just drive around?"

[mismanagement]

"I'm thinking!"

Maketh doesn't bother trying to sit upright. She's slumped over in the passenger seat, bad arm clutched to her chest and head down, ignoring the scenery. She can feel every bump the truck hits, every turn and pause, all the way down to her bones. The adrenaline is wearing off. Everything hurts.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. The blood and excitement aren't helping the situation with Rita at all, either. Too long without eating brains - why is this Maketh's life now? - and they'll all be fucked. Probably a few bystanders too, just for good measure.

Think, soldier. Maketh grits her teeth.

"There's a garage. Edge of town." She gives the address. "It looks abandoned, but it isn't. We keep supplies there. In case things go wrong. But it isn't manned. I can--call someone. A friend."

[unheeled]

Bitch, why are you snapping at the driver, who could easily lose it and kill you. Rita breathes deep again. They're in this together, for better or worse.

"More friends like Kallus?" She can't help it, even as she starts to head for the garage. If it's someone Maketh wouldn't mind losing, then maybe Rita can eat. She'd rather not have to kill -- she's never killed someone, only encouraged someone to kill for the sake of saving humanity (and look what that got her, ugh) -- but if the hunger gets bad enough, she won't have a choice.

[mismanagement]

"No, not like Kallus."

Not that he was ever her friend. Maketh takes a deep breath and lets it go as slowly as she can manage. Yelling accomplishes nothing. Control yourself. Ignore what hurts. Establish distance between yourself and your body. What happened to you doesn't matter. You'll live, soldier. Act like a professional.

"This one owes me," she murmurs. "Enough to get what you need."

That should be enough incentive for Rita to cooperate for a while long.

[unheeled]

Maketh would be correct in that assumption. The minute Rita hears there's something more than just escaping in this for her, she tenses, then relaxes. Maketh will deliver, if only because not doing so will put her life in danger.

"Some debt. I'd hate to be them."

[mismanagement]

Maketh bares her teeth, eyes closed. God, she hurts. "Family is like that."

Her uncle probably won't be happy to see her. But there's a debt he wants paid and Maketh desperately needs a favor.

[unheeled]

"You must be really popular at family reunions." (Snark is in Rita's DNA, as much a part of her as her bones.) "Is that it?"

She doesn't motion to the building; it's obvious which one she means, even though it blends in perfectly. The only reason she spots it is she knows what she's looking for.

[mismanagement]

Maketh lifts her head, eyes narrowed. She doesn't want to talk about her uncle. "Yes."

It's a dump, and an aggressively unfriendly looking one at that. But it has reinforced walls and electronic locks, and weapons hidden away along with medical supplies and a few satellite phones.

"Drive inside and close the...uh. The doors. They're armored." Maketh takes a deep breath to focus. "There's going to be a desk. Box in the right drawer has a phone. Get that to me."

[unheeled]

"Okay, just save your breath until I come back."

This part goes on without incident, lucky for them. Rita shuts the doors once thet've parked inside, searches for the phone, and brings it to Maketh.

"Here. And for fuck's sake, don't kill yourself trying to talk. I'm hungry, but I don't exactly want to eat you." Not because she cares; it's just that brains are fickle things, and they don't stay in your system very long.

[mismanagement]

"How sweet of you," Maketh murmurs. She considers trying to sit upright, but decides she doesn't want to move. Just breathing sends sharp throbs through her chest. For a moment, Maketh imagines she's swallowed glass, that the shrapnel is digging around in her back with a damn mind of its own.

Foolish. Ignore that.

She dials the number slowly, deliberate about each number, and presses the phone to her ear. If her uncle doesn't respond, Maketh isn't sure what she'll do. Kallus won't help them again. The rest of her allies are dead. Rita is a civilian, clever but untrained, and hungry. That's probably the worst part. Maketh tucks her bandaged wrist to her chest. She doesn't want to die, not really, but she's very tired all of a sudden. Tired and hurting everywhere.

Stop. Focus. Remember what you have to do.

The phone rings once, twice. Then it clicks. Someone picks up. They don't say a word.

Maketh closes her eyes. "My name is Maketh Tua. Tell your boss I'm calling in his debt."

There's a long moment of silence. Then: "state your location."

Oh, thank god.

Details are exchanged. Maketh outlines what she needs. A timetable is given. Certain exchanges are made.

Maketh shuts off the phone and lets it slip from her hand. God, she's tired. She just wants to go to sleep and never wake up. "He's coming. Has what you need. It's going...going to take an hour."

Despite having all the resources of a professional mercenary, her uncle still had to contend with the traffic time and whatever fuss would be required to get his hands on all the necessary supplies. Human brains weren't lying around.

[unheeled]

That's not even worth a response, so Rita waits, watching to make sure Maketh doesn't keel over or end up needing medical care... which Rita can't really provide anyway, but she's here for moral support.

She takes the phone when Maketh lets go of it, listening carefully. "An hour's fine." She can hold out that long, but not if Maketh is going to sit here looking like she's ready to fall asleep in death's arms.

"I don't know if I should keep you awake until then or not. If I should keep an eye on you to make sure you survive." The last thing Rita needs is to be accused of killing Maketh solely because, if Maketh does die, she is going to rip open her skull and have a nice, fresh meal.

But she leaves out the bit about how hard it is to just say and watch, precisely because her Romero brain is looking at Maketh like she's on the menu.

[mismanagement]

Oh, right. That.

Maketh flexes her good hand just for something to focus on. This is happening. She needs to focus. "I'm going into shock."

It's said quite simply. There's not much than can be done about it at this point. The adrenaline is starting to wear off and she's crashing. It happens. It's expected. Under better circumstances it wouldn't matter but in these, it might just kill her. There's always the chance she'll stop breathing before her uncle shows up.

Focus, soldier.

"Find something. Keep me from getting...uh. Getting too cold. Can't sleep."

Maketh desperately wants to sleep.

She grimaces, face pressed against the leather of the seat. "Understand?"

[unheeled]

Great. A medical emergency. Just great. Rita glances around the garage and sighs heavily upon not immediately finding what she needs.

"I have to walk away. Don't fall asleep, or I'll eat you."

That should be motivation enough, right?

Luckily, a quick search in a nearby cabinet turns up some emergency blankets, the kind that firefighters give survivors as they stare blankly at what's left of their home. Rita grabs two for good measure and heads back, throwing one on Maketh, hoping any pain her apparent carelessness causes will wake her if she's fallen asleep. The other one she wraps around herself to feel a little safer.

"Talk to me. Tell me a story or something. Stay awake." The words do not sound very kind, but there is a slight note of concern to Rita's voice. It comes from knowing that right now, Maketh is the only person she has to depend on.

[mismanagement]

Maketh grunts as the blanket falls on her, none too gently. She shifts as little as she can to pull it closer and then, quite deliberately, makes a rude gesture in Rita's general direction. "Fuck you. I don't know any stories. You tell me something. Describe your job."

Presumably Rita had one, once.

[unheeled]

"Is that any way to treat a very real threat to your life?" Yep, she's enjoying this.

Everyone has stories, but private military contractors aren't exactly the sharing types. So Rita leans against the vehicle, keeping an eye on Maketh, and thinks back to the life she used to live.

"I was my father's assistant. Sounds like a glorified secretarial job, but it was more than that. Everything he did, I knew about. Everyone he talked to, I learned about. I looked like just a pretty face, but that was part of the point. Be disarming, have people eating out of the palm of your hand before they knew what happened.

"I knew all the company's secrets and how to handle even the smallest situation. It was-- it is going to be mine when my father dies. Pretty boring, right? My own little empire in the making."

[mismanagement]

Apparently they're going to do this. Death threats and all. Maketh groans. "Buy me a drink first."

She's beyond caring at this point.

But despite the tone, Maketh listens. You have to know what you're dealing with. One suspicion has been confirmed: Rita is clever enough to be dangerous when she's in control of the terrain. That could come in handy.

"You have your own assets, or just information?"

[unheeled]

Crossing her arms and tugging the blanket tighter around herself, Rita levels a glare at Maketh. "Do you take me for an idiot? I don't know you, and I don't trust you. What I just told you is all you're getting."

She snickers, looking up at the door they'd come in through. "I will tell you this: if we make it out of this shit alive, I'll buy you that drink."

That's a big 'if' -- Rita is pretty sure one or both of them will die. Probably Maketh, really. If someone wants to take all of Vaughn Du Clark's money, they'll keep Rita alive for longer. (The --, in the not unlikely event that he refuses to pay up -- and only then, will they kill her.)

[mismanagement]

Now that's just rude. Maketh lifts her head up just enough to glare. "I'm getting you human brain tissue."

Trust is beyond the point.

Maketh huffs, dropping her head back down. "I will accept scotch. Good scotch."

[unheeled]

"Yeah, because if you don't, I'll lose it and go on a killing spree."

If there's anyone who deserves trust right now, it's Rita, who could far too easily kill Maketh then and there.

"Oh please, soldier. Like I'll settle for anything that isn't good? Chill out and stay awake. We still have a lot of waiting to do."