crux_fleet | (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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.