crux_fleet | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who: Nathan Drake and Zoran Lazarevic
Where: Public block near Cirrane Apartments
When: July 9th, evening hours
Warnings: Violence

They've started to try and talk to Nate about mobile armors, and about the coliseum. More than once he's tried to explain that it just wasn't happening, that he had taken long enough to fly a standard spacecraft, let alone earn enough to purchase his own. Nobody was happy to hear it, of course. Betting on an underdog was everyone's favorite pasttime, though Nate had been fairly confident in his ability to lose when it came to giant fighting mobile armor.

No. He'll stick to his new age plane.

The helmet comes off once he steps out of the hanger and moves upward toward the surface, the jacket follows, and then its just a matter of fishing around for his glasses. He's too lazy for that today. The apartments are just a few blocks away, and nobody has yet to recognize him from a distance. Now all he had to do was get around to the bar, and find someone to code him something to erase his name out of that ship's databank.

Because once he was off this fleet, he had no plans to coming back.

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While time may have eased Drake and company into a dangerously unearned sense of security, their enemy is vigilant as ever, even while spinning his web of resources has begun to overshadow his interest in retribution. But it is still there, never far from front of mind when he runs a fortnightly check of registered spacecraft and firearms. Sooner or later, Drake will attempt to flee--Lazarevic has no doubt of that--and he will require a ship to do so.

He is however less confident he will be fool enough to obtain a vehicle under his fleet registered identity, but Lazarevic will not miss the opportunity to seize him should Drake experience a crisis in judgment.

This time, his attentiveness bears fruit. The Serbian has set his pieces on the board within the day.

He falls in behind the witless redhead a block from where he has peeled off the thoroughfare. And before Nathan Drake can even conceive of reacting to his new shadow, Lazarevic slams his fist into the back of his skull.

Nate hears a second pair of bootsteps closing in on him, and the shadow that Lazarevic casts is not a small one. Still, Nate knows better than to react on a whim and immediately draw suspicion to himself. Its this error in judgement that lets him get so close, and even the momentary break in speed doesn't rescue him from the warlord's attack.

He's dazed and promptly abandons everything in his arms in favor of catching himself from colliding with the pavement. For all of Nate's blunders and clumsiness, let it never be said that he couldn't maintain balance when he needed it. He jerks forward and spins on his heel, immediately reaching for the pistol he doesn't have. Handheld weapons had no place in the hanger.

Crap. It was unlikely that Lazarevic didn't recognize him through various alterations if he had walked up to immediately throttle him.

"God damn it--don't you ever give up?"

Ironically, perhaps, Drake's deliberate speed and effort not to draw attention is nearly needless in this corridor. There are no residences over this particular street, most businesses have closed early, by Lazarevic's design and the careful tugging of a few strings in his web of influence. No one witnesses the attack.

He keeps tight on his prey, not allowing him to gain any distance and, nearly the same instant he turns back to face Lazarevic, Drake's throat is caught up in the larger man's fist.

"You disappoint me, Mr. Drake." He squeezes, shifting his grip to pin Drake's jugular beneath his thumb. "At this point in our relationship, I expect you to know me better than that."

He had hoped, of course, that Lazarevic hadn't suspected him. That they just happened to be walking the same street -- but his luck hadn't extended quite that far. Nate chokes and immediately latches onto Lazarevic's wrist, digging his nails in and struggling to make sure he has air to breathe. Its a strain on his whole body.

"I'm not into genocidal men," he grunts, still trying to struggle out of his grip to get away from the press of his thumb. Its making him dizzy. "And you need a new hobby."

"Yes, and once I am through with you I will be free to pursue one." Despite the precautions he has taken to clear the block, Lazarevic is still very much on his guard while he has another citizen of the Fleet in such a compromising position, and he spares a glance down the street in either direction before pulling Drake back off it and into an even quieter alleyway.

While he applies as much force as is necessary to move his prisoner, Lazarevic takes care not to choke him into unconsciousness.

"Oh no, no, n--"

Nate's breath catches once Lazarevic starts to move. she almost wishes he was unconscious for this part. His ears have started to ring, he can feel his blood pooling at his feet. He starts to struggle a little harder when he senses the end is coming upon him, kicking and clawing at whatever he can reach.

"They'll--notice if I'm gone--"

It comes out between gritted teeth between short gasps of air.

Now that they are more fully removed from prying eyes, Lazarevic kindly restores Drake's capacity to breathe, throwing and releasing him back against the wall of the building behind them with enough force to stun, perhaps, but not to crack his skull.

"How many times now have I spared you or your friends and suffered for it?" His voice is perfectly level, conversational, even. However, Lazarevic's freed hand moves to his chest to flick open the snaps holding his pistol in place, and then he draws the weapon, placing its muzzle to Drake's forehead. "Perhaps you can help me, because I have begun to lose count."

Between nearly losing consciousness from lack of oxygen and being thrown into a wall, he'll take the former. White bursts in front of his eyes again, and he catches himself on the wall before he can slip down to a completely vulnerable position. This is about the point he feels metal in the middle of his skull.

"Well big guy, a little lesson in loyalty? You tend to hang onto it longer when you don't threaten the people you're working with. Keeps the survival instinct from kicking in. You know all about that one, right?"

Nate is already planning escape routes. If he can get back to civilization, he could disappear into the crowd. He was always very good at that

"When the people I work with are liars and thieves, I find fear is by far the more powerful motivator." The wheels are turning in Drake's head; every line in his expression telegraphs it.

Good. Let him weigh his options. They are few and insubstantial, but they do exist.

Lazarevic takes the gun from the other man's temple, making as though to lower his arm to his side. But within the motion he turns the weapon directly into the meat of Drake's trapezius and fires once.

The muffled but distinct sound of the gunshot is a calculated risk.

Edited 2014-07-14 06:58 (UTC)

"That's worked great for you so far, hasn't it?"

Nate isn't an idiot. He knows exactly what Lazarevic is going to do with that gun, but he misjudges where he plans to aim. So when he throws his shoulder to the side to try and make a break for it, all he does is ensure that the shot lands its mark.

He's not quiet about it -- if he's lucky, he'll attract some attention. He swears, loudly and swings outward with his free hand to try and knock the gun away or to wrestle it from his hand. Its all bared muscle, gritted teeth and instinct. Nate is stuck favoring his injured side with the bullet buried under his skin, but its not going to stop him from fighting to get back into the public.

Climbing would be hard, but it wouldn't be impossible. He wants to eliminate Lazarevic's long range options before he tries.

"Son of a bitch--!"

Perhaps fate has rallied to Nathan Drake's side tonight. His thrashing throws an elbow down into the gun, and the hot 9mm is wrenched from Lazarevic's grasp and disappears in the black footing of the unlit alleyway.

Too easy? Maybe. But given the state of Drake's nerves and the instinct to flee that must be coursing through his every vein, the Serbian does not expect him to think on it too deeply.

Snarling, Lazarevic catches the fool by the wrist on his injured side and hinges the entire arm out from his body, slamming his hand back into the wall with enough force to splinter bone.

But enough of this game. It is only a matter of time before the screams bring unwelcome company.

Indeed, Nate fights with every fiber of his being to run. He snarls in pain as he feels his wrist shatter from the force of Lazarevic's attack, which essentially takes climbing out of the equation. He'd have to run if he wanted to live, and he'd have to run somewhere that wasn't his apartment if he ever wanted to live safely again.

He kicks, he punches with his uninjured hand, and he does so in ways that he hope will incapacitate the Serbian long enough for him to run. He scratches at his face, kicks him in the groin, throws a knee into his stomach, and makes a break for it.

Nate knows he can't win a fistfight with an immortal, so he doesn't try.

Feigning weakness is not a skill Lazarevic has cultivated, even advised of its tactical advantages. Certainly it would surprise no one to know his odds in a fight have never been underestimated.

Still, practice may have served him well here, where Drake's blows are a fly's bites and even the strike to his groin and then solar plexus do little more than excite adrenaline through him. But it is these last two that provide him with the best opportunity to allow Drake to slip through, and so he grunts, slouches over the retreating knee, and staggers aside while his lucky victim makes his exit.

Let it never be said that Nathan Drake couldn't run.

But Nate can't run far -- he's quickly becoming coated in blood from the stress on his muscle from the bullet embedded in it, and his arm has begin to swell from the wrist and upward. He'd die within the hour on his own, and he's not even sure he can hobble to the medical bay in time. A torniquette would have been impossible even without his broken wrist.

So he runs until he thinks he's lost Lazarevic and half collapses against the wall, reaching for his watch and its most recent contact.

Though he expects to be able to keep close on his wing-clipped quarry's trail, Lazarevic permits him a head start and turns his focus instead on clearing the scene of any evidence tying him there. He retrieves his pistol and then makes quickly for the quiet block he had selected for the ambush. Finding it still blessedly empty, he rounds out of the alley and then ducks through an unlocked door fifty paces up the road and climbs to the roof.

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