We're Damaged People Drawn Together

[somegrimshit]

Who| Rochelle and Luke
What| Rochelle tries training, Luke comes over. Zombros chill and talk about zombro stuff
Where| The training room
When| Now?
Warnings/Notes| None yet



She isn't sure what she's going to face in the arena. She's tried watching videos of the old ones, but it's not quite the same, and she knows that each one is going to be different. So, she figures, it's time to try training. There's not likely to be guns in the next one--She knows that Nick had one, but she couldn't bring herself to watch him shoot anyone with it. And it seems like it's, in general, not common.

Luckily, she has some experience in melee, anyway.

She takes an axe, and mumbles to herself something she had aggravated her teammates with so long ago whenever she grabbed that weapon. "Axe me a question, I dare you." Giggling to herself, she went to one of the dummies, and began to practice. It was different, after all, with zombies. They had one goal, to get to you, and didn't bother dodging, or avoiding attacks. They were single-minded in their goal.

It'd be trickier to fight a real human, she knew that. She didn't like thinking about it, she didn't like thinking that these skills could go to killing someone in that arena. But if Rochelle had learned anything, it was that life wasn't fair, and you rarely got what you want. You had to take what you were given, and make the best of it.

So, that's what she's doing. Making the best of it. With each swing of that axe, trying to correct her posture, and figure out how to put more power into that swing, she tries to make her situation a little better.

Comments

[somegrimshit]

He doesn't look crazy pleased, but what is she supposed to expect? They're all but strangers, and she knows that she's pretty damn decent in the looks department, but she's no model. They're just two people who barely know each other. But damn, she needs to get out more, and so does this guy, by the look of him.

And it's nice, talking to someone else who understands what it's like. To live in a dead world.

She smiles at him, and reaches out her hand. "My name's Rochelle, by the way. Figure I should tell you, before we get too ahead of ourselves, yeah?" She'd been doing a lot of introductions lately, but she'd clean forgotten with this guy. Too busy talking, picking his brain and sharing and comparing tales.

[burningdaylight]

“Heh, guess I got a li’l carried away…”

Something about the formality of the introduction has his smile deepening. Handshakes have fallen out of favour and have almost become a ritual of a bygone era in recent years. But they’re nothing he could ever begin to forget, not after sitting through dozens of interviews in a bid to land a more stimulating and better-paying job than working in a coffee shop. He never did, but damn if he hadn’t perfected his handshake trying. He dries his sweat-damp hand on his jeans before taking hers, his grip warm and comfortably firm.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Rochelle." It'd have been nicer if the circumstances were different but it is what it is. They could've been standing in each others' way in the middle of an arena, wired and white-knuckled, their weapons drawn. He can only hope it won't come to that. "I’m Luke.”

[somegrimshit]

She gave him a firm grip back, with her shake. A professional handshake, for a woman who'd once at a promising career. She'd had to do plenty of handshakes to get there, too. Not that she had done a lot of it recently, either. Not in her old world. Her world had been three other people.

Zombies didn't much want to shake your hand.

She gives him a soft smile, and nods. "It's nice to meet you too, Luke. Have you met Ellis, by chance? Sweet guy but a total honky tonk southern kid. Got a trucker hat, and a southern accent. He ought to be pretty noticeable. He's part of my crew." She figured Ellis would be safe to ask around for. He was a good guy, hard to dislike. Surely the opinions around here would be positive.

[burningdaylight]

“Ellis?”

It comes back to him, a chatty, able-bodied guy with a Georgian accent. He had come off as friendly and eager – a bit too eager, Luke had felt at the time - to offer help, and all too willing to lay down his own knife at his feet in a gesture of good faith. Should’ve known better both as a survivor and as a tribute among wolves, Luke thinks. People have died for their kindness.

“Yeah, we met before. He came ‘round our camp last arena askin’ if we needed help. Put his knife down right in front a’ me.”

Neutral as his tone manages to be, there's no keeping his judgments off his face; it's in the knit of his brow, creeping into his eyes. Disapproval softened by flickers of sympathy.