Fucking Cazadors. They’re the scourge of the wasteland, and Israel hates them. He almost misses Navarro, hell even the Capital Wasteland, simply because they were devoid of cazadors. James and Israel were tracking down the elusive Courier when they got swarmed with the damned things.
Israel aims his plasma defender at one hovering dangerously close to James, and it turns into a pile of green goo. James punches one in front of him, and it’s wing flutters to the ground. He grins at Israel, and Israel shakes his head. Personally, he isn’t one for unarmed fighting. He doesn’t like to get too close to his enemy, but it brings something primal out in James that he can’t release anywhere else, and so Israel watches his back.
James has always been a sight to behold, even now that his skin is cracked and battered like an old map. He grabs an attacking cazador’s stinger, breaking it off the insect before stabbing the insect with it. He throws the cazador to the ground, and laughs. Israel begins to laugh with him, but his voice is cut off as a sharp stab of pain blossoms through his shoulder.
The cazador buzzes around his head, waiting for him to fall. His vision blurs, and he shakes his head furiously to clear it. His plasma defender falls limply from his hands, and he stumbles into James. James’ arms wrap around him to keep him steady before shooting the cazador down.
Israel can’t make very much sense of anything. The Mojave runs together in one mediocre brown blur. James leads him away from the buzzing hoards that begin to gather, but Israel can’t focus on any of that.
All he sees is the specter of a blonde little boy smiling up at him. He reaches for him, but James pulls him in the opposite direction.
“Wait,” he cries, struggling to get away. “James, he’s there. Can’t you see him?” James doesn’t answer, grimly pulling him away from his hallucination. He struggles harder, and James grunts with the effort of holding him back.
Israel calls the boy’s name, voice on the edge of breaking. The boy simply smiles, and fades from his vision. With a howl, Israel fades from consciousness, a limp weight in James’ arms.
Keep Your Composure 8/?
Israel aims his plasma defender at one hovering dangerously close to James, and it turns into a pile of green goo. James punches one in front of him, and it’s wing flutters to the ground. He grins at Israel, and Israel shakes his head. Personally, he isn’t one for unarmed fighting. He doesn’t like to get too close to his enemy, but it brings something primal out in James that he can’t release anywhere else, and so Israel watches his back.
James has always been a sight to behold, even now that his skin is cracked and battered like an old map. He grabs an attacking cazador’s stinger, breaking it off the insect before stabbing the insect with it. He throws the cazador to the ground, and laughs. Israel begins to laugh with him, but his voice is cut off as a sharp stab of pain blossoms through his shoulder.
The cazador buzzes around his head, waiting for him to fall. His vision blurs, and he shakes his head furiously to clear it. His plasma defender falls limply from his hands, and he stumbles into James. James’ arms wrap around him to keep him steady before shooting the cazador down.
Israel can’t make very much sense of anything. The Mojave runs together in one mediocre brown blur. James leads him away from the buzzing hoards that begin to gather, but Israel can’t focus on any of that.
All he sees is the specter of a blonde little boy smiling up at him. He reaches for him, but James pulls him in the opposite direction.
“Wait,” he cries, struggling to get away. “James, he’s there. Can’t you see him?” James doesn’t answer, grimly pulling him away from his hallucination. He struggles harder, and James grunts with the effort of holding him back.
Israel calls the boy’s name, voice on the edge of breaking. The boy simply smiles, and fades from his vision. With a howl, Israel fades from consciousness, a limp weight in James’ arms.