walkswithheroes | Saturday.

Entry tags:

plot: jumanji

Saturday.

Fred is tired. Exhausted, more like. She's hungry and dirty, and for a moment, she has to make herself remember that she's not back on Pylea all over again. At least this time, there are other people with her and no one's being made to shovel demon horse poo, but the situation is still less than ideal. It makes her realize that this time, there's no one to miss her, no one who will wonder where she's gone to if she doesn't make it back. It's something that she tries to push out of her mind as the night goes on, knowing that there are more important things to focus on. Like the next thing that the game conjures up.

They've spent most of the night fighting the poisonous and deadly vines that turned up after Alistair's roll of the die, beating them back with branches and shooting at them while Alistair cut at the ones he could with his sword. Someone's almost hit by what Fred later realizes is a poisonous stinger, but they all manage to make it through mostly unscathed.

They find a spot to settle for the moment, and Fred sets the game down in front of her, opening it up to reveal the game board inside.

"Okay, so who's next?"

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Dean ran, one clumsy, lurching footfall after the other, Britta's fist in his sleeve and dragging him along. That hadn't been a warning shot. His father never bothered. That was a kill shot, and the only reason he wasn't dead was because Britta had shoved him out of the way.

"S'not really him," he muttered, low and desperate even to his own ears, but it might as well have been someone else talking for all that he could stop it. "Just the game, it's - it's like this in the movie. It's not him."

And even so Dean wanted to turn on his heel, to run as fast and as hard back to where Trixa stood, to save her, maybe, but to save him first.

"It's not him," Britta agreed, though she didn't really know what he was talking about and it came out breathless with the effort of yet more running. His father, she thought, and god, she'd thought her relationship with her dad was fucked up. At least he'd never tried to kill her, not even as the projection of some bizarre board game. She glanced back over her shoulder. "The game. Someone grab the game!" They had to keep playing or they would never get out of this. Figuring everything else out could wait until their collective daddy issues weren't armed and dangerous.

That she happens to be the one of them standing closest to the box should come as no surprise to Adelle — it only figures, really — but she still can't quite believe what she's doing, even as she runs in the wrong direction, closer to their latest assailant in hopes of retrieving the game. After all that she has survived, she will be quite remiss if it's a deadly board game that finally takes her out, but she has little intention of letting that happen. Going back for the game might go against her every instinct, but once the box is tucked firmly under her arm, that instinct washes over in full, and she darts after the others as fast as she can. "Got it!" She calls after them, and then, as if anyone needs reminding, "Keep running!"

Goddammit. Trixa swore and followed after the group. Running was not going to make this guy go away, only make it harder for them to fight. She held back, enough to cover their rears, but kept the group in sight.

"Find a place we can protect!"

"There!" Fred shouts, pointing to a cluster of trees ahead. More trees means more cover, and it'll be more difficult for him to get a clear shot at any one of them.

When they get further away, they can worry about covering their tracks; doubling backwards to confuse the trail, making false trails. Though, just running isn't likely to help the situation all that much at all.

Somehow, they're going to have to slow him down.

Alistair ignored the sting of a branch smacking into his face as he followed Fred into the treeline. Trees were good. Very good. Unless it meant him tripping over tree roots, which he was making very sure not to do when a seemingly homicidal man was chasing after them.

They couldn't run forever. He just hoped someone came up with a plan before it came to their limits.

Running steadily behind the rest, game tightly in hand (it could be their only hope, after all), Adelle has no intention of slowing down until she hears the next shot fired. This, unlike barbaric monkeys and bloodthirsty vines, is something familiar, something she has dealt with before. Men with guns might frighten her, send her running like any sane person in the opposite direction, but they don't intimidate her. But there is nothing nostalgic or poetic about being shot, and she enjoys it even less this second time around, when the pain radiates so quickly from her shoulder to the rest of her body that her knees buckle at once. "Stop," she shouts at whomever happens to be nearest, although there is a definite chance the word comes out no more than a gasp.

Dean reeled like he was the one that'd been shot, but he wasn't, no pain and no blood anywhere, but someone had been, because John Winchester didn't miss. Turning on his heel, he wrenched his sleeve from Britta's death grip and caught Adelle just as she went down, slinging her into his arms and up and running again in the space of only two ragged breaths.

"Over here!" he shouted, because while the break hadn't been good for Adelle, it'd been good for something, giving Dean just enough time to see a cropping of rocks that weren't quite a cave near the trees, but near enough. If John was hunting them, he wouldn't stop, but he wouldn't rush into dark, protected ground without a plan, either. "Run in here!"

The force with which Dean pulled away sent Britta stumbling off course, but she recovered fast enough to follow his lead. As much as she preferred to be the one doling out her opinion, this was no time for protesting for protest's sake. She was stubborn and she could be foolish, she knew that, but she wasn't going to die for it. The most she did was to ask, "What if there's no other way out? He could follow us in. Or wait for us." They were out of food, thanks to that first attack, low on supplies, and this guy didn't seem like he was prepared to stop until he had them, Adelle's injury stark proof of that.

Trixa stayed outside, glad that for once she wasn't wearing her signature red and concealed herself as she started to keep watch.

"We need to get rid of this guy. How bad is Adelle hurt?"

Her mind went to work, trying to match terrain to traps to the man's height and weight. There were only so many options with their limited supplies, but she thought she could manage something if she just had some time.

Fred is shaken more than she wants to admit. She should be used to all of this. Back home they'd fought vampires and demons and all kinds of evil, and this is just one guy. Just one guy with a gun. Still, it's all Fred's fault. She'd been the one to bring everyone here, and she'd been the one to roll the dice. It's her fault that Adelle's been shot.

There's a moment where Fred can't think straight. Where the thoughts are racing through her head too fast to decide what to do first. They're trapped in a cave, and she knows caves. But they can't stay in there forever. They have to keep playing the game, only Adelle's been shot.

It takes all of those thoughts racing through her mind first before Fred fully realizes what's just happened, and she immediately goes to check the other woman's wound. Thankfully, it's nowhere near as bad as it could have been, and Fred digs through her pack for a spare shirt to stop any bleeding.

"She's gonna be okay," Fred says, "But she's going to need a real bandage on this."

Alistair had never seen a wound from a gun. It seemed like it was akin to being shot by an arrow, with no way to pull it out with any sort of ease. It was another time when he found himself wishing Wynne was here - wishing the good sort of magic was available. He was sure it'd be able to fix even this.

"Is there a way to cover it temporarily?" Alistair suggested, because he certainly had none on him. "This is just a guess, but I think that person out there isn't the type to politely wait until we gather ourselves."

"It's fine," Adelle is quick to argue, never one to accept pity — or even sympathy — well. It isn't the first time that she has been shot (and considering what occurred before she left Los Angeles, it may not be the last). This wound, fortunately, is far less severe than her first, and in less compromising a location as well. The pain is intense, enough so that her own train of thought becomes nearly elusive, for some time — in fact, she almost doesn't register the fact that it's Whiskey's doppelganger who kneels close to examine the injury — but it's one with which she is familiar. Unlike the vast majority of that which they have been faced with until now, this is something Adelle knows how to deal with, and at the very least she can find some relief in that.

"A spare shirt, if you've got one, to cover the wound," she requests from no one in particular.

"Do you one better," said Dean, reaching into his pack for the first aid kit he'd brought. It was less foresight and more Rollie's insistence, but damn was Dean ever grateful for it now. Happily, it looked like the bullet had gone clean through, and without better tools or Rollie's help, Dean didn't dare do more than clean and bandage it. He passed the small cleaning wipe to Fred. "Wipe it down with this," he said, "I'll be right back."

Standing, he moved quickly to where Trixa stood watch, lowering his voice and feeling his stomach sink to match. "Listen, uh. Trixa, if it comes to it." He looked between her gun and his own. "Let me do it, okay?"

Britta felt like she might be sick. Somehow they had walked right into a horror movie from the Nineties and all they could do was keep playing. That it was her turn next hadn't escaped her notice, but how could they possibly roll again when that guy was out there? Standing by the side, she leaned back against the rock and closed her eyes, pushing her hair back. She should have offered to help somehow, she knew that, but there wasn't anything she could do, anything she was good at, and she wanted suddenly to stay far away, as if by distancing herself from the group, she could keep herself separate from everything happening, keep it from happening to her.

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