Participants:
| Scene Title | Have You Ever Been So Drunk That… |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Seamus and Huruma butt heads. So to speak. |
| Date | October 15, 2010 |
The Bronx is the northernmost borough of Greater New York, and even before the explosion, this area was diverse. Though known infamously throughout the world to be a low-income area, it was not without its finer points, as well as home to the Yankee Stadium. It was dense with life, for better or for worse.
//For now, it is the the south-west areas of the Bronx that are unrecognisable. Clean up has not gone steadily, and buildings still lie in ruination. It is now hard to tell what this place is even for. During the day, construction teams work to clear more and more roads of South Bronx, although people seem to take liberties by driving over the burnt out rubble if they have the means. There are make-shift trailer camps and soup kitchens for those that don't have a place to go. One feature of South Bronx is the Yankee Stadium, so far untouched. There is irreparable damage done to the building itself, and no game has played there since the tragedy. Graffiti tags the areas available, and people often congregate illegally upon the wrecked grounds. The field itself is overgrown with weeds between fallen debris.
Heading away from Manhattan, the Bronx takes on more function and hope. This borough, once a place of Jewish immigrants, then Latin-Americans and African Americans, is now a diverse mix of all races, any and all New Yorkers taking up residence on the other side of the wreckage. There is even a semblance of a transport system, the electricity back on and functioning, but crime rates are higher than ever.
Being nocturnal is slightly easier for Huruma; the trouble is that New York has recently frowned upon such night owls, with the various curfews and patrols, not to mention all the scum and villainy comes out during the night. The night, however, is almost gone. Huruma has been a part of this particuar night since she get back. There were all kinds of points to cover on her return, and she since covered them, but something has made her stick close to one hub where she is most likely to find some current purpose after all of this. Gun Hill is condemned, in the eyes of the public, but still, Huruma keeps at least a block away from it during the night.
All work and no play- you know. Huruma, garbed largely in her usual dark colors, has been crouched on the top ridge of a metal dumpster, tucked around the corner of an alleyway, for some time. Watching the quiet, the lights flickering both inside houses and on the lamps lining the street. Whatever it is that she has been waiting for has not presented itself, and may not at all. It may be getting time for her to find something else to do with her waning time.
Those bastards in City Hall just have forgotten how to have a good time, that's the real problem, innit? All the fun stuff happens after 2am, and one burly Irishman is unwittingly out to prove just that. Seamus Lane rounds a corner of a dark street, a hulking figure that staggers into the dimness of the alley, silhouetted by a flickering street light. "I can't deshide whether you should live or die! Oh, you'll prob'ly go t' heaven, sho don't hang y'r head 'n cry…" The jaunty tune is slurred out in one of those shameless wavering voices that drunks manage effortlessly. Dressed in his own flashy colors, a yellow and black rain jacket, white t-shirt and ratty jeans, Seamus stands out in the dim light. Though he has yet to notice the woman perched on the dumpster, with the way he just keeps singing to the night, arms held wide like he wants to hug the world.
It's like stepping into a pit with a grumpy animal, to be as accurate and as descriptive as possible. Huruma, even in her size to match his, knows when not to move and make her luck dry up. She waits until he moves closer before her moving- and presence- is obvious. Eyes having been shaded by her brow, they glitter awake when she shifts across the tilted lid of the dumpster. Huruma's cropped jacket, long in the arm and snug against her chest, lends the sudden, spidery movement a second of elongation- a shadow stretching its metaphorical clutches into sight, bearing in on Seamus' senses, no matter how drunk.
The movement culminates in Huruma's sprawling down off of the bin, long legs tensing as her boots plant, bracing on ground. Her pale eyes narrow, and ivory teeth shine subtly as they bare at him, the delicate pink of her mouth flashing in a hiss of air.
All the fun stuff, surely.
Weaving his way over towards the dumpster, Seamus' singing is still loud and boisterous. He saunters like an off-kilter rocking chair towards Huruma's dumpster, hands going to his fly… But that action is thankfully stopped when she drops onto the asphalt before him, making the man blanch and stop his steps. He stares at Huruma, fingers still on his zipper and his mouth slightly agape. Eyes blink blearily at the woman, poised and ready, before him.
After a moment of dumb staring, Seamus gives her a slow, sideways grin that spreads up his face like it were brushed on by an invisible painter. His hands leave his pants and go up to either side of his head. "Hey! Hey, buddy, hey… I was…I wash only gonna…" Slowly tilting to the side as he speaks, Seamus takes a few awkward steps to the left, catching his drunken self against the wall. "Gonna pee a little on your garbage can, I shwear." Raising his fingers before his face, he holds his pointer and thumb apart half an inch, peering at the blurry form before him through them. "Jusht a bit."
"Buddy?" Huruma is not sure if she wants to laugh or be disgusted. A little of each, it turns out. Her breath comes out in another hiss through her teeth, and she steps after him, figure squared and confrontational. "I did no'survive until now t'ave idiots draining themselves around me." Her height and long limbs may put a male impression in his head, but her smooth voice, lashes of her eyes, and the soft creases of her lips say otherwise.
All in all, this is suddenly either a situation where he should not push his luck- or one where he really, really should. There is no middle ground.
Seamus is a bit slow on the uptake tonight, it seems. He does give the approaching figure a look that hints at confusion behind his glazed eyes. He's never before met a woman who towers above his 6'2" frame. She can't be a…can she?
"Hey, um…mate. Y'ever had a beer piss? Cause I'm tellin' ya…I'm…I'm tellin'…" He levels a finger up at Huruma's face. "I'm tellin' ya. Beer pisses happen where they want ta, whether y' like it or not. So…" He lowers his hand to his jeans again, standing up straight and meeting the…woman? Yeah, looking at her this close, even in the dim light, definitely a woman. "If y' wanna take off before I let loose, I won't stop ya."
Idly, he wonders if he might be able to score with her tonight. She seems like she might be into him. His grin widens a little.
It's like she knows what he is thinking. Maybe she does. But not technically. Empathy is tricky- she knows the manner of thought, and not the thoughts themselves. A flicker of fear bubbles up deep in his mind, and in the haze of drunkenness he may not even notice that it is artificial.
"I canno'help but wonder if your blood will taste like tha'whiskey you'ave been drinking." Huruma's lips crease sharply into a smile of her own, wild and …problematic. The bubble of fear she had been tickling him with flares into a burning coal, and she moves on him, lunging forward to sink her hands into his throat.
Seamus's smile falls away like its marrionette strings have been cut. Nuh uh, scary lady. Not a good idea to try and hook up with, his brain tells him. As his drunken cheer starts to drain, bravado flows in to take its place, and Seamus puffs out his chest. His thumbs hook in his belt loops, leaving him wobbling again.
"'Ey there, lass. If you want t' taste me, y' c'n really just ask nicel—" his words are swallowed as his throat closes off from that sudden surge of fear, leaving the Irish drunkard mentally off-balance in time for her attack.
Huruma's hands wrap firmly around Seamus' thick throat, but suddenly he's prying at her thumbs, twisting her hands away from his neck. His mirth has evaporated into a baffled and angry growl as he tries to stumble backwards, away from her. "Hey now! What th' 'ell are y' on a screw about??"
The drunks are the best ones to mess with- the thing is, none of them tend to have fantastic balance. From his reaction, Huruma can tell that he's been 'here' before, but probably to another degree. Probably.
Her thumbs are digging into his windpipe by the time he strangles out some short, angry words, the hands prying at hers slipping slightly on the dampness of her dark skin. Rather than concentrate on his keeping her from collapsing his pipes, Huruma heaves her weight and height into him, one boot slipping in between his ankles, heel hooking on his.
It's true, when your windpipe is being crushed, that's the number one thing you focus on. Seamus' mind is reeling from the drink and the fear, so it's all muscle memory that kicks in when he finds himself falling. Letting go of one of her hands, he grabs her by the shoulder and pulls the woman in with him, rather than pushing her away. Her arm gets trapped under his and he twists while falling. It's not the most graceful move, but it ends with them landing on their sides on the ground, and him on her arm, rather than her on top of him.
"I'm tellin' ya!" he yells, his whiskey breath blasting at her nostrils, "I really gotta pee! Y'don't want t' tussle right now, or I'll ruin your pretty dress!" Is she wearing a dress? He didn't actually notice.
Why hasn't she pulled a knife out yet? This would be so much easier.
Maybe she needs this and doesn't quite know it yet.
Huruma hits the ground with him, the arm under his writhes like a python, fitful and frighteningly strong. One of her thighs finds his, hooking one long leg over him to assist her in pinning him to the ground. Yes, even if she has to sit on him. If his hand- arm- anything- so much as gets within range, her teeth will find it. Her sharpened teeth, the natural edges given just a small advantage.
This isn't Seamus' first tussle, and he learned early on to never get your hand close to someone's mouth in a brawl, thankfully. Some bastards fight dirty. When he lands and she snags his thigh, his free hand tries to grab at her unpinned arm by the wrist, holding it down against her hip. And he stops struggling there, leaning his head back and blinking heavily at her, giving his head a shake to try and clear the fuzziness.
"Aw shit, lass. M'sorry, didn't mean t' knock y' down like that. Here, just let me help y' up." And he seems /sincere/ about that, too. If a little confused. How often to strange women up and plain attack you in dark alleys? Probably not as much as he'd like. Still, he's peering curiously at the woman in the dim light before him, pinned as much by her hefty weight and strong muscles as she is by his. He even traps her lower thigh between his knees, so she can't knee him in the junk or roll on top of him.
He may have learned not to put his fingers anywhere near a mouth, but that doesn't mean she won't try to bite into him. Literally. If she can get a spot to do so in such close quarters, Huruma aims right for his neck. The rest of her is quite slippery, however, and if she has one major thing on him it is her legs. He can try to trap her leg, but goodness knows she gives a monster heft to indeed, knee him hard in the crotch. There are no rules, right?
Maybe it's the crazed look in her eye. Maybe it's that she's lunging for him with what Seamus can swear are sharpened teeth. Maybe it's the sudden jolt of her leg towars his crotch. Whatever the reason, Seamus gets the feeling that chivalry is finally and officially dead.
"CHRIST ALMIGHTY!" he cries out when Huruma lunges in for his tender-looking flesh, and he lets go of her wrist to swing his fist up swiftly, clipping her under the chin. In these close quarters, he doesn't get a good swing, but it at least knocks her aim off course. And he follows up the punch with a grab to her neck, pushing off her other arm and trying hard to roll on top of her, struggling against the hold of her thigh. His struggle is weeakened somewhat as his twigs and berries and butted up roughly against by the rough shove of her knee into his groin and he groans. "Do that again, and I promise I'll be peein' and pukin' on y' lass. Not a good end t' yer night."
Here we go. Huruma rumbles out a low-pitched laugh when she feels a tiny swell of copper in her mouth, and his hand fumbling to grab her own neck. Her knee digs bluntly into him, and she obviously is going to press the matter even further. If anyone were to look at this right now, the stalemate of either brawler trying to pin the other is an interesting, if questionable, sight in itself. A big tangle of long, lean limbs tossing back and forth on the floor of the alley. Not glamorous at all, mind you.
Her sultry, villainous laugh only bubbles again when he speaks, the ember of produced fear in him swelling suddenly into a festering terror. Of her? Of what? She can't pick that, itself, but the emotion is now there.
Among the struggle, the roiling thoughts in Seamus' head, the adrenaline making his whole body buzz with heartpounding excitement, that sudden surge of terror in him is like a bucket of ice water dumped on his nerves. His heart stops, and the nausea in his gut doubles as the bottom of his stomach drops out. There's a frozen moment as his eyes widen and his pupils dilate, his brain flicking about at this turn of the tables. Fight or flight, Seamus? Fight or flight?
The hand on Huruma's neck lets go, and he grabs hold of the back of her head. The powerful woman last sees a look of panicked determination setting Seamus' jaw before her vision bursts into stars as he slams his head into her face, breaking her nose with a dull crunch that reverberates throughout her skull.
Immediately afterwards, the man lets go of his opponent and is scrambling like a hyperactive ferret to try and get away from her and to his feet.
Huruma hears that bristling crack when his skull comes flying at hers, her breath coming out in a pained and sudden hiss. Though her knee gives way, her nails bite down into whatever flesh she can find, though her face as just been butted and things are not entirely at a point where she can ignore it. The ferret will live to see another day, even when Huruma scrambles up to chase after him.
She'll soon find out that it really is not easy to give chase with blood funneling down her passages and the air already constricting in her face and pipes.
Free from her grip, the bulky man rolls to his knees and hop-skips backwards away from her, looking horribly confused even as his hindbrain is screaming at him to run for his life. Well, when it doubt, trust your instincts.
His bladder still achingly full, Seamus turns about and bolts out out of the alley like he'd just accidentally set the C4 for 5 seconds instead of 50. His heavy boots clomp over the asphalt, sounding quietly into the distance even after he disappears around the corner.