Gunning Weather [Risa, Day 4]
Pavel saw Harold scatter to the floor in a heap, and he felt a flush of rage envelop him.
Nobody, nobody did that to his friends, not while he and a bottle of illegal Romulan Ale were around.
But as he stared, from his seat on the red humanoid he'd knocked thoroughly out, at the balding menace pointing a thermal gun at his head, he considered that most calculated outcomes were not of the favourable type.
"Cheeky little bitch." The man sneered, his nose was bloody from the fray, dripping down his chin. "Was just gonna mince twinkle-toes over there for what he did, but now," He sneered, cocking the gun, and Pavel gulped a tad. "Now I'm gonna mince you."
Think, Pavel, think. Harold was passed out cold on the floor with a terrible bruise forming on his forehead, and he was stuck with no weapon or possible means of defending himself. Try to run away and Harold was screwed, and heck, Pavel was probably screwed too. The man was watching him like a hawk, so he couldn't grab for anything nearby.
"These methods are....crude, da?" Pavel tried to reason, though it was a bluff to buy him more time. He took a swig of the liquor flask again, glad that baldy didn't shoot him right then and there for that, and coughed dryly at the intensity of the ale.
"Crude but effective, sweety." Came the cruel reply. Finger on the trigger, pulling back and--
Wham! Pavel flung himself at the thug, feeling the thermal gun go off right by his face and the burning heat on his cheek ever so slightly, but thankfully not actually in his face. He began to wrestle for the weapon, grunting and pushing and realizing that this man was undoubtedly stronger than he was.
Baldy tried to trip him, get the upper hand, fist tightening around the trigger and setting off another heat beam. Pavel retaliated back, flipping his legs to try to trip his opponent instead, and flailing his hands to get ahold of the gun handle because the rest of the gun was probably intensely hot.
Then about mid-struggle, Pavel saw cheek-ridged guy get up. Staggering from having had his knee-balls kicked, but most certainly extremely pissed. He had to think fast, get the upper hand or else he and Harold would be dead because Pavel couldn't take on two guys and he was already losing--
And just like that, with another pull of the trigger the thermal gun went off into the sky, red beam straight and deadly and finalizing its path against a metal box jutting out of the industrialized side of the alleyway. A spark, two, maybe a little flame or so, Pavel didn't know because he was flung to the ground, feeling a brief moment of 'oh shit', a gun once again to his face and two point one seconds away from total death.
Then it started to rain.
Not small, driblet, harmless drops of rain, but total drenching downpour; the type where you couldn't see past your own eyeballs because your face was being bombarded by a proverbial lake. Also the type that would fizz out a thermal phaser gun.
Of all the amazing luck, that shot had managed to hit a key weather control panel, one that regulated weather every few miles; most planets, including Earth, held bigger, global versions of it. Now, with one of its main fuses shot, the sky was free to pull whatever disaster it wished.
The wind hit. Violent, torrenting wind, and the bald menacer pulled away from Pavel, shocked and wide-eyed and yelling something vaguely atune to "What the fuck?!", and gave cheek-ridge a rather frightened look, who picked up the red Scrumpdian as they both ran away, leaving Pavel wet, confused, adrenaline-rushed, a little buzzed, and very much alive.
They had probably never felt rain before in their lives, so used to the controllers making perfect weather for them. But then again, Pavel had rarely experienced it either. Seeing and understanding rain he could do, being part of it? None so much.
Gripping the alchohol flask, Pavel scuttled over to Harold's motionless body, the rain downpouring and making it utterly impossible to gauge the extent of the other man's injuries. Gently craddling Harold in his arms, he tried to rouse him awake. "Lee!" Pavel tried to yell, though the rain was simply too loud and getting stronger somehow; he could practically drown in it. And if Pavel was having trouble, the Risian locals were probably going insane with fear. Especially when a loud rumble of thunder tore through the sky and even Pavel nearly jumped out of his skin.
He gathered Harold's body in his arms and practically dragged the man to the industrial building, the weather control station most likely, before managing to open the surprisingly unlatched door and slipinside. Thunder rippled again and Pavel felt goosebumps rise tensely on his skin; he wasn't used to thunder either. He knew what it was, but experience was an entirely different thing.
Pavel shut the door and tried not to drop Harold on the floor, automatic lights flicking on. He shuffled to make the other man comfortable, even in unconsciousness, and propped him gently against the wall. The bruise on his forehead was a thick purple and yellow, nothing pretty, and Harold might have earned himself a concussion.
The lightning flashed again through the windows and Pavel took a jittery swig of the ale again, longer this time to pass through the booming noise. Then he stared at the machinery in the corner of the small room, some beeping little red flashes warning that the system was damaged. They couldn't get out until it was fixed. Harold needed a medic. Pavel was terrified shitless and getting drink happy.
He had better get started.
Nobody, nobody did that to his friends, not while he and a bottle of illegal Romulan Ale were around.
But as he stared, from his seat on the red humanoid he'd knocked thoroughly out, at the balding menace pointing a thermal gun at his head, he considered that most calculated outcomes were not of the favourable type.
"Cheeky little bitch." The man sneered, his nose was bloody from the fray, dripping down his chin. "Was just gonna mince twinkle-toes over there for what he did, but now," He sneered, cocking the gun, and Pavel gulped a tad. "Now I'm gonna mince you."
Think, Pavel, think. Harold was passed out cold on the floor with a terrible bruise forming on his forehead, and he was stuck with no weapon or possible means of defending himself. Try to run away and Harold was screwed, and heck, Pavel was probably screwed too. The man was watching him like a hawk, so he couldn't grab for anything nearby.
"These methods are....crude, da?" Pavel tried to reason, though it was a bluff to buy him more time. He took a swig of the liquor flask again, glad that baldy didn't shoot him right then and there for that, and coughed dryly at the intensity of the ale.
"Crude but effective, sweety." Came the cruel reply. Finger on the trigger, pulling back and--
Wham! Pavel flung himself at the thug, feeling the thermal gun go off right by his face and the burning heat on his cheek ever so slightly, but thankfully not actually in his face. He began to wrestle for the weapon, grunting and pushing and realizing that this man was undoubtedly stronger than he was.
Baldy tried to trip him, get the upper hand, fist tightening around the trigger and setting off another heat beam. Pavel retaliated back, flipping his legs to try to trip his opponent instead, and flailing his hands to get ahold of the gun handle because the rest of the gun was probably intensely hot.
Then about mid-struggle, Pavel saw cheek-ridged guy get up. Staggering from having had his knee-balls kicked, but most certainly extremely pissed. He had to think fast, get the upper hand or else he and Harold would be dead because Pavel couldn't take on two guys and he was already losing--
And just like that, with another pull of the trigger the thermal gun went off into the sky, red beam straight and deadly and finalizing its path against a metal box jutting out of the industrialized side of the alleyway. A spark, two, maybe a little flame or so, Pavel didn't know because he was flung to the ground, feeling a brief moment of 'oh shit', a gun once again to his face and two point one seconds away from total death.
Then it started to rain.
Not small, driblet, harmless drops of rain, but total drenching downpour; the type where you couldn't see past your own eyeballs because your face was being bombarded by a proverbial lake. Also the type that would fizz out a thermal phaser gun.
Of all the amazing luck, that shot had managed to hit a key weather control panel, one that regulated weather every few miles; most planets, including Earth, held bigger, global versions of it. Now, with one of its main fuses shot, the sky was free to pull whatever disaster it wished.
The wind hit. Violent, torrenting wind, and the bald menacer pulled away from Pavel, shocked and wide-eyed and yelling something vaguely atune to "What the fuck?!", and gave cheek-ridge a rather frightened look, who picked up the red Scrumpdian as they both ran away, leaving Pavel wet, confused, adrenaline-rushed, a little buzzed, and very much alive.
They had probably never felt rain before in their lives, so used to the controllers making perfect weather for them. But then again, Pavel had rarely experienced it either. Seeing and understanding rain he could do, being part of it? None so much.
Gripping the alchohol flask, Pavel scuttled over to Harold's motionless body, the rain downpouring and making it utterly impossible to gauge the extent of the other man's injuries. Gently craddling Harold in his arms, he tried to rouse him awake. "Lee!" Pavel tried to yell, though the rain was simply too loud and getting stronger somehow; he could practically drown in it. And if Pavel was having trouble, the Risian locals were probably going insane with fear. Especially when a loud rumble of thunder tore through the sky and even Pavel nearly jumped out of his skin.
He gathered Harold's body in his arms and practically dragged the man to the industrial building, the weather control station most likely, before managing to open the surprisingly unlatched door and slipinside. Thunder rippled again and Pavel felt goosebumps rise tensely on his skin; he wasn't used to thunder either. He knew what it was, but experience was an entirely different thing.
Pavel shut the door and tried not to drop Harold on the floor, automatic lights flicking on. He shuffled to make the other man comfortable, even in unconsciousness, and propped him gently against the wall. The bruise on his forehead was a thick purple and yellow, nothing pretty, and Harold might have earned himself a concussion.
The lightning flashed again through the windows and Pavel took a jittery swig of the ale again, longer this time to pass through the booming noise. Then he stared at the machinery in the corner of the small room, some beeping little red flashes warning that the system was damaged. They couldn't get out until it was fixed. Harold needed a medic. Pavel was terrified shitless and getting drink happy.
He had better get started.