Marcus Cunningham's Lifetime

*** Marcus Cunningham heaves out an exhausted, sweaty sigh, and settles down onto the dusty matt resting on rusty frames.
Marcus Cunningham says "... Some'ne out there?"

***' The desert responds with a gust of wind.

*** Marcus Cunningham continues to talk to the air for safety. "Sorry if I'm in y'shed. The sun's beatin' down harder than normal."
*** Marcus Cunningham droops his head between his knees.

[Standing at around si...] says "Hello?"
[Standing at around si...] says "You okay?"

*** Marcus Cunningham rises back up quickly, but remains seated. He appears starled at first. "This your shed?" he asks with a glint of caution in his bloodshot eyes.

[Standing at around si...] says "No."
[Standing at around si...] says "I just stumbled upon this settlement."
[Standing at around si...] says "Sorry if I's disturbin' you."

*** Marcus Cunningham swallows, but the statement brings a very humble sigh of relief. He wipes away the sweat. "You cool, don' worry..."

[Standing at around si...] says "Right.."

*** Marcus Cunningham allows his muscles to relax, and leans back against the wooden wall, bending the frame of the shed slightly.

[Standing at around si...] says "Heeey!"
[Standing at around si...] says "There's a mutie in one of those sheds!"
[Standing at around si...] says "Real nasty one!"
[Standing at around si...] says "Might wanna haul ass, my friend."

Marcus Cunningham says "A mutie... Thought I heard somethin'. But, wait, a mutie?" He stands up. "What're..."

[Standing at around si...] says "Yeah."

Marcus Cunningham says "T'think I stumbled upon a nice lil' shack o' shade for once..."

[Standing at around si...] says "Well.."
[Standing at around si...] says "It didn't look too bad. Think you could help me take it down?"

Marcus Cunningham says "I don't got scabs on my knuckles for nothin'. Let's give it a shot."

[Standing at around si...] says "Alrighty."
[Standing at around si...] says "It's in here."
[Standing at around si...] says "Shut the door on it, but I wouldn't trust a door with my life."
*** [Standing at around si...] quickly cocks his elbow forward, attempting to ram it into the man's nose.

*** Marcus Cunningham is completely unprepared. Within an instant, is upper lip starts turning red with blood. Instinct overwhelms him and he tries to sling a fist, as scabbed as he had said, in front of him rather wildly.

*** [Standing at around si...] grunts, the man's blind attack striking him rather harshly in the shoulder. Ignoring the sudden ache, he attempts to deliver an uppercut to the man's jaw whilst simultaneously attempting to pin him against the container.

***' The victim could not find any coherence remaining in him after the sudden blow. The second hit smacks him straight from under, forcing his jaw to clamp down on a stray bit of tongue that was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Though a heavy figure, he's pinned against the surface easily. He eyes his attacker with sweaty and heated rage. "I don't got nothin'!" he growls through gritted teeth.

*** [Standing at around si...] grunts through his teeth, attempting to land a right hook to the man's temple.

***' The hit lands, of course, with the man having seemingly no blocking capability, but he retains a hazy sense of sight and awareness, just enough to try to throw another punch in the man's exposed area. It heads straight for the gut, right below a ribcage. He doesn't seem like he'll last much longer at this rate.

*** [Standing at around si...] shuts his eyes briefly, a nauseating ache reverberating throughout his lower abdomen. Using the sudden onset of rage and adrenaline, he attempts to deliver a sharp headbutt to the man's face.
[Standing at around si...] says "Grh!"

***' Despite having turned his head slightly before the headbutt arrived, it was to no avail. The dizzying impact leaves him dazed for a short yet crucial moment. He's completely helpless, spouting through lips dripping with noseblood, "I don' got nothin' for you!"

*** [Standing at around si...] pulls back slightly, attempting to grab the dazed man by his collar and yank him toward the firepit.

*** Marcus Cunningham is pulled forward, still in recovery. He stumbles along wrecklessly for a short distance before, with a breathy snarl, he turns his head sharply to try to bite down into the hand, whether gloved or not, retaining a grip on his collar. If it lands, it may only be able to reach the wrist if it's unlucky.

*** [Standing at around si...] grunts in annoyance and slight pain, attempting to kick the man back against the shed whilst tending to his slightly-sore hand.

***' Though kicked away, a sense of ability and freedom returns to him as he regains a sense of balance. "Th'fuck you want from me?" he exclaims, going to bring up a hand to wipe away the blood that he probably spattered on the sand with his enraged words.

[Standing at around si...] says "I want you to /float/."

*** Marcus Cunningham's nostrils flare, his upper lip forming a visible snarl of sorts. He shakes his head with wide eyes; "Float?" he only manages to say, unable to find the sensibility to form something clever or useful. With a hand plastered against the container and pushing off, the black man attempts to bolt to his left—the opponent's right—not knowing if the distance would be long before he met a wall or not, and that is only if he isn't stopped.

*** [Standing at around si...] makes an attempt at tackling the man against the cart, although he is too late. However, he does still graze the man which would probably cause him to stumble or trip.
[Standing at around si...] says "Grh!"

*** Marcus Cunningham stumbles harshly, but lands on three limbs, with the fourth curling safely into his torso to prevent any spraining or twisting. With the lack of balance, his struggle to get up with those initial three limbs is messy and sends up a thin and low cloud of dusty sand. Leaving a few droplets of nose blood on the tanned ground, his attempt to flee continues as he gets to his feet as messily as such ever could be.

*** [Standing at around si...] stamps up behind the man, attempting to drive his foot into his lower back as he awkwardly makes an attempt at standing.

*** Marcus Cunningham's back is already arched by the time the man returns to him, so the foot does not drive the escaping man back down to the ground. Instead, it straightens his back, making it and the rest of his figure much more vulnerable. His hands work at the thin sand to crawl away desperately, but humans suck at crawling, so, in his mad retreat, he sends a look of a mixture of rage and terror over his shoulder.

*** [Standing at around si...] briefly kneels, attempting to grab the man by both ankles and drag him closer to the firepit, providing he isn't kicking or doing anything like that.

*** Marcus Cunningham's ankles are grabbed. He twists fretfully, trying to face upward and retaliate, but it just seems to be impossible. He begins to scream. "No! Let go! Psycho! Let go!" His heavy weight may just drag out the fear.

*** [Standing at around si...] grunts as he nears the firepit. He then attempts to drag the man onto the firepit by his ankles, causing the attacker to narrowly avoid the flames himself.

*** Marcus Cunningham begins to kick and thrash, panic rising in his throat and his calls falling into terrified gibberish. The fire consumes one of his shoes despite the kicking. Adrenaline reaches a climax as natural human fear takes over and he roars. His body contracts, along with his knee, to bring him more towards his attacker, his hands open and ready to do whatever it takes, even if the fire singes or burns his side. Meanwhile, his free leg forgets what pain is and presses itself into the charred wood to provide a grip for furthering himself and his vicious retaliation. Those hands look like they're ready to grip hard and not let go...

*** [Standing at around si...] attempts to pull away from the man and take a few steps back as he thrashes in the flames

*** Marcus Cunningham's thrashing continues until he feels the ground beneath him instead of above him. Blindly, as fire from the bottom of his clothing thus begins to ascend, he seeks his target, letting out deep and hoarse bellows. His wild eyes catch sight of the individual to the side, and the now burning man, his pant legs glowing with fire and his vocalizations becoming more and more ridden with pain, charges him.

*** [Standing at around si...] quickly sidesteps, grunting as a flame briefly licks his sleeve.
[Standing at around si...] says "Gah!"
[Standing at around si...] says "Grh, agh!"
*** [Standing at around si...] brushes his sleeve, causing fledgling embers to float to the ground.

*** Marcus Cunningham's charge sends him slamming into the ground. The fire has yet to take a hold of his entire form. "The fuck'd'you do t'me?!" he yells before sending another charge at him. This second charge is significantly weaker as his legs begin to burn and his coherence drains into a darker field of vision. He barely gets himself off the ground, looking untame as ever.

*** [Standing at around si...] sidesteps once more, though he is caught midway by the man's half-coherent tackle. He stumbles over to the shack, staring with bewilderment at how close he had come to the flames.
[Standing at around si...] says "Grh@"

*** Marcus Cunningham once more stumbles and, thankfully, doesn't dive straight into the flames but instead hits his head flatly onto the side of the tin pit in his collapse. The tin rings briefly, and it's clear that the loud sound so close to his ears and the impact combined have disoriented him just enough to keep him on the ground. The fire belches up a flock of embers both into the sky and onto his back. Charred wood-mulch, still orange with heat, litter the ground within a close proximity. He contorts his body as if to get up again, but the ringing still remains in his ears. He almost settles there for a moment, as if to take in a smokey breath. The flames begin to engulf his upper half, his pants invisible beneath yellow and orange.

*** [Standing at around si...] strolls beside the burning man, maintaining a healthy distance so that he himself doesn't burst into flames like his poor victim. He then cocks his foot back, attempting to deliver a sharp kick to the man's face (assuming it's exposed).
[Standing at around si...] says "I told you, you'll float."
[Standing at around si...] says "You'll float like all the others."
[Standing at around si...] says "Marcus, you'll float like /all/ the others."

***' Still "resting", the foot slams straight to the side of the man's exposed head. This doesn't seem to matter at all to him, though he goes into another fit of piercing agony, his limbs flailing in ways that just didn't seem natural, conveying his loathesome pain. He screams into the ground, still relatively facedown, as the flames consume him. It is clear that he has given up on fighting or escaping with the knowledge that fire knows no bounds; the rest of his life now is to remain on this floor, gasping and wretching and flailing and rolling, until his muscles could do no more. This endeavor goes on for minutes... He practically refuses to leave the ground.

[Standing at around si...] says "Eat the sand, you nigger, yes. You'll float, Marcus."
[Standing at around si...] yells "Gaaaahahahahahaaaa!"
*** [Standing at around si...] quickly takes off in a sprint to his right, cackling with a volume almost inhumanly-loud.
[Standing at around si...] yells "Gaaaahahahahahhaaaaaa!"
*** [Standing at around si...] skids to a stop, sending jets of sand flying in all directions. He pragmatically walks back over to Marcus' side, watching him smolder and burn.

*** Marcus Cunningham begins to calm his movements, only twitching and hitting the ground. His rolls leave him on his back. His scorched face fails to bury his still-wild eyes, though shriveling eyelids have managed to cover the majority of their surface. Their fuzzy irises land on the man laughing and howling with victory at his demise. His breath is heard, wheezing and weak and shaky, and his face begins to move slightly... His lower jaw, thinning as skin shrivels closer and closer to the bone, opens a modicum of distance. No words surface from this act, however. Only heavy breathing in intermittent rhythms like another language are heard only seconds before he goes into his final screeching fit, throwing his elbows and fists against the ground and the tin. This soon stops.

[Standing at around si...] says "You'll float, Marcus."

***' Life leaves the body. It's just a charred, flaming, broken mass now.