faderift | [open & closed] and when that day comes

He doesn’t stop. His hand is on the latch, which is, sensibly, locked— but that doesn’t prevent him trying to force it, which he’s beginning to do with the same singlemindedness that got the first door open.

Abby may as well be a gnat for all the attention she’s paid in the moment.

Abby grabs his forearm and wrenches to get him away from the lock — gnats can still be really annoying when they want to be. Fuck, he's really strong though, she probably needs a couple more gnats to come help her out—

"Barrow, c'mon. Snap out of it!"

The ease with which Barrow swats Abby out of the way-- with a palm right to the face, no less-- only continues the gnat analogy. The door groans as he pulls at it, his arms and shoulders trembling with the strain.

The heel of his hand cracks against the bridge of her nose hard in the process and heat pools between her eyes, almost unnoticed in the shock of being shoved so hard she nearly falls over, saved only by throwing one arm out and catching herself on the edge of a table.

Gathering her balance, swearing thickly, Abby stays right where she is. There's a bad taste in her mouth like pennies and she knows instinctively what that means. Unfair anger surges in her.

It's not Barrow's fault, he's out of his mind, but she still shouts, "If you don't fucking stop, I'll have to make you!"

He looks at her, finally, but doesn't really seem to see her-- there's an animal desperation about him, a sort of 'if I don't do this faster than you can stop me I'm going to die' flavor of urgency.

When pulling doesn't do the trick, he starts to cast about for something he can use to smash the lock off the door.

He's late.

Getting Lazar to agree to anything not clear-and-fucking-paid-for's a gamble in good mood. This ain't. He likes Barrow fine. And he likes Barrow better alive, and he likes him best of all when skimming his lyrium.

(Grand thing for templars: They lose count, and it's just them to blame.)

So he's not in a hurry to stand around, while Barrow scratches like a hurlock can smell you through the walls. By the time he steps in, Abby's shouting, someone's down. Blood. Before he's past the door he's moving.

Lifting a chair's like raising his hand. Easy. Swings it high — hey, look at me — before he breaks it over Barrow's back.

Edited 2025-02-18 19:33 (UTC)

She can feel blood in her nostrils and has to resist the urge to wipe and irritate what is already, surely, broken, groping around instead for her crystal without taking her eyes off Barrow. That look on his face kills her anger, replaces it with worried agitation. Back-up would be good — and then, bizarrely, manifests in the form of Lazar stepping in right as she thinks that, the look on his face more serious than she's seen it before.

"He's— holy shit."

The sound of the chair breaking is hard, instant.

Abby is still leaning against the table, slow to rejoin the fight but wondering if she is even needed — soon she pivots toward Clarisse, crouching beside her. Probably smart to try and get her out of the way.

Nobody can take a hit like that and be fine afterwards; Barrow, who didn't see it coming at all, makes a sound like a wounded bronto as the chair takes him down. This might be enough to incapacitate a smaller, less lyrium-starved person, but in Barrow's case-- as with any other big game-- it really just serves to piss him off.
He's on the floor when he turns to launch himself into Lazar's legs in a full-bodied tackle.

There's a splintered chairleg in his hand, and this is how it would go, out in the world: Stab down with that, full weight gone somewhere soft — throat's a small target, chancy when they roll, but you can always mark the gut. While he's scrunching like a bug for that, you kick in his head a few times. Stomp the face for good measure. That's how you end a fight. That's how you see that there won't be another.

It doesn't go that way.

Barrow bellows. Lazar hesitates. Out the corner of his lids, he can spy Abby dawdling. She can make her own choices. But:

"Who's down?"

His boot lifts to prod. Barrow lunges. Big guys, no one figures them fast. Lazar oughta know better, hits the floor on a smashed exhale, and now he’s kicking, heedless of where it might land. Anything to break a little space between his lungs and that wall of meat. The leg's in his hand, and then it's wedging for Barrow's mouth; jammed horse-on-bit to force him back.

Edited 2025-02-18 22:20 (UTC)

"Clarisse," an answering call lost under the sound of Barrow's blind bull-rush tackle, the wind getting knocked the fuck out of Lazar. She was about to drag Clarisse up off the ground but it now seems like a better idea to get involved in the new scuffle taking place on the ground.

She goes that way, dodging errant kicks and arms flailing, hesitating for exactly zero seconds before she jumps onto Barrow's back to try and get her arms around his neck, pry him off.

Edited (extra hard return my behated) 2025-02-18 22:51 (UTC)

Wherever Barrow's mind is in all this, it's fair to say he's not overly concerned about harming either assailant-- and in fact, it's far more likely to assume he thinks he's being killed, which only results in a redoubling of effort to not be.

It's thanks to Abby's attention and his attempt to throw her that Barrow is only able to manage one hand at Lazar's throat; aside from that, it's not a sustainable position, straddling one while swatting at the other. He loses his balance, falling onto his side and nearly rolling onto Abby, who instead is treated to the leg of an infirmary bed against whatever part of her is closest to it.

His mouth bleeding from the sharp wood, Barrow spits a splinter and flounders to get up.

Fingers in his neck. Arms around Barrow. The world narrows, pressure punctuated about five iron points. Abby hauls. Barrow tilts, sends them both sprawling free.

Lazar barks a cough. Another. Hard, and strange-high, and none of that's good sign. But this isn't the first time someone's choked him. But some base, animal place whispers to roll himself over. Can't count on the time to stand, so it's still half on all-fours when he hauls forward, throws a clumsy bear-feint left –

(Look at me, look at me,)

Before hammering the other fist into kidney. Over, and over, pressing any chance to land.

"Stop it—"

Reasoning with Barrow is useless but Abby feels like she has to keep trying anyway. She squeezes her arms threateningly where they've landed around his neck — he bucks underneath of her like a horse, and then pitches over until she falls off, smacking her hip against the wood of the bed with a groan.

Oh, that's it. (How many members of Riftwatch does it take to tackle some guy coming off lyrium...?)

She grabs the back of Barrow's shirt and yanks him hard to keep him down.

He’s laid out, held by Abby long enough for Lazar’s fists to find purchase. Over and over.

Too occupied with the onslaught to pay any mind to Abby, Barrow curls, shudders, retches— it’s been long enough since he kept anything down that it yields nothing, but at least for the time being, he’s down for the count.

He pulls off. Staggers up the rest of the way, weight shifted to throw in again. If Barrow twitches too hard. If Abby can't hold him.

"The fuck was that about —"

Wheezed. The words crack, and he knows when he spits he'll see blood; same as he knows exactly the fuck that was about. Goddamn fool's errand is what. Lazar doesn't often inch his face far: Light, and easy, and a scowl at most. Only now he looks ready to put someone through a wall, and it needn't be the man retching below.

A glance over his shoulder at last lays name to head injury. Clarisse. Mark of esteem that he doesn't walk out then and there, but stoops to her side.

Alive, yeah. Unconscious, yeah. And between her, and Anderson, and the vanished ponce; that's half the Infirmary staff down. So,

"Get her out of here," Somewhere. Anywhere, like he should know, like any of this is his mess to clean. Lazar props a hand behind her skull, feeling for softness. For a familiar fracture. "I'll hold this down."

He wants a word with Barrow.

Edited 2025-02-19 05:03 (UTC)

A wet sniff. She gives another tug on Barrow's shirt as if to say and stay there before she hauls herself to her feet, grimacing as she puts weight on the leg with the hit hip. "Fuck." Feels like she got hit in the face by a brick wall.

Focus. Lazar is kneeling by Clarisse, one hand probing underneath of her skull. The silence on his end is probably good news and she crouches down in the meantime, making herself look at Clarisse's face, slack in unconsciousness but otherwise fine, still breathing. Nothing broken. Abby brushes some hair out of her face for her with gentle fingertips.

"Okay. I'll notify Marcus."

Maybe Gwen, too...

Barrow remains where he fell, curled half-fetal and shivering. He grits his teeth to keep them from chattering, only distantly aware of the pain that arises from the cuts in his mouth. Wherever his mind is, it's not here.

A grunt of assent.

He isn't a doctor. Not a healer, or a builder, or anyone fixes much. Breaking, taking: That's the business.

But there's been a lot of good intentions in this room. A lot of clever minds and best-laid plans. Near as he can tell, it hasn't helped a thing.

He props Clarisse up onto Abby. Unsteady and bloody, and she's figured out worse. He's busy.

"You're done, mate." He squats, plants a heavy palm to Barrow's shoulder. Side's good, harder to choke. "If you want to keep on this, got a minute to say."

Lazar isn't listening. The lock on the storeroom's easy, picked worse before he could read.

Edited 2025-02-20 01:16 (UTC)

Oh uh okay: the way he props her puts her arms dangling over Abby's shoulders in a loose hug, her head tipping to one side. Abby cranes her neck automatically in the other direction, she doesn't want to get any nose blood on her. Some has just run down over her upper lip, which is disgusting, face scrunching at the slippery hot feeling. Congeal, damnit.

She mops up quick with her arm then stands, pulling Clarisse up with her — like wearing a backpack on your front, if the backpack were a girl.

Squints.

"S'there another room with a door that locks?" For Barrow. The uhhh, the one with the door now missing is probably not gonna do it. And she doesn't want to lock the entire infirmary up behind her.

A breath escapes Barrow that's almost voiced, a bit like a gasp or a plea. He's awake, but in and out of cognizance: sees the blood on the floor, recognizes that he's here too, can perceive Lazar above him doing what... was he just doing that?

He makes a move as though to get up, but is shaking too hard to support himself, and sinks back down.

Lazar will find the storage room empty of lyrium: perhaps someone had the foresight to put it somewhere even less accessible in the event of. Well. This.

"Lock's not gonna fix this," Over his shoulder, Barrow stirs. "Stay down."

Big hands, little bars. The tumbler clicks. Lazar coughs something darkly Ander, and resets. One, over the other, and if it's usually quicker than this — if this oughta go quicker — he doesn't pay it mind. No good comes of that.

A hard yank. The door swings, the picks fold away. And Barrow still hasn't said.

Took too long to bust the lock. Longer to get an eye over shelf and drawer. Rare days that he's knocked off an apothecary: Half this shite, it's useless to the common man. Nostrils flare, and he sucks a breath past bruised throat, and Lazar's never touched the stuff but he knows the stink of lyrium. Store's empty.

(He's out. Sold his stash in some dim act of solidarity. Viktor has plenty — and he'd sit watching Barrow bleed before talking to Viktor just now.)

"Someone dies if this goes on."

That's a promise. He isn't a doctor, but he knows how things break.

Clarisse stirs.

Feels like someone just woke her up from the shittiest nap of her life. Head pounding, trying to blink herself awake. There's a rumbling voice from somewhere near, but not near enough for her to pick up what it says.

"What," she says. The fuck is implied. The last thing she remembers is guarding the door, but she can't figure out how she got from there to wherever she is now. From the way she's slumped with her head against Abby's shoulder, she isn't sure how to orient herself, so she leans backwards and hopes for the best.

"Hi," Abby says grimly, face still turned away — she's watching Lazar pick the lock and wondering why the fuck they have locks on the infirmary shelves that random Riftwatch members can pick any time they like, doesn't that defeat the purpose? What if Barrow could pick locks instead of hitting them?? "Welcome back."

Then she goes, "Woah," and has to take a quick step forward when Clarisse leans backward suddenly, pitching their combined weight in the wrong direction. It's akin to holding up a drunk person. "Wait, wait—"

She lowers her until her feet find the floor, still supporting her by her arms lest she collapse like a house of cards. "Take it easy, you've got a concussion."

Says the woman with blood all over her face, but—

Barrow stays down, now as much out of resignation as out of any desire to appease Lazar. He hears voices off to one side-- you've got a concussion-- and slowly begins to piece the scene together through the haze and violence of his rebelling body.

Someone dies if this goes on. They're lucky nobody has yet, apparently, but Barrow can't find the focus to determine what can be done about that. He's close, isn't he?

"Just," he breathes at the ground, but also Lazar, "h...help me get to bed." If he tries to stand he will fail, all the strength having gone out of him with this confusing pain in his midsection.

Lazar lingers in the doorway. Shoulders lift, brow lowers. A flare of —

Something. Something old, dead and buried. A skinny kid with his fists balled behind the wagon, teeth grit around the certainty that no one gives a damn. No one will take it serious.

He's not a kid any more. And he shouldn't give a damn.

Clarisse stirs. Abby stumbles. And at last, he pushes the threat from his face, and hauls arms under Barrow's shoulders to lift. Sure, they'll find the bed. And then he'll wait on the end of it, for want of a chair. He'll wait, until it's done, or they find someone big enough to drag him out.

(Maybe later, he'll spare a thought for Clarisse. Thoughtful's never been his bag.)

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sorry to clabby he will check in later xoxo