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The white of his teeth shone like a beacon. She smashed her fist against them once, twice, a third time and no signs of stopping.

"Is this what you let him do to you?" She cooed between attacks. "No wonder he's kept you."

Hp: 86

Perhaps it was providence that he was in the area. Easier to begin searching in the neighborhoods that had already constructed homes than attempting to scavenge the dilapidated remains that the construction crew may or may not have already touched upon. Either way, it was imperative that he move out; it wasn't as if the dorms had been proven to be safer than the town anyway, and the space was quickly becoming a necessity.

So it was that as Jack scanned at a promising home ahead, one earbud in blasting Pink Floyd, a sudden crashing noise stopped him. Hitting pause, he turned his head in the direction of the noise with a slight frown. Demolition, maybe? Or were the shadows getting particularly aggressive? He could always use some targets to slice up.

But he saw neither as he followed the noise. Rather, Jack recognized the sounds of battle--and he would know, given his job and his personal proclivities--and he debated simply backing away to avoid involving himself in even more s**t. But Owain being Owain, it was now impossible to play pretend. And after all, why was all that racket happening in a house?

(America's house, he remembered, having made note of it after he and Peyton began their town brawls. Mostly to try and position their spats further away from safety or notice.)

Mentally preparing a lecture about initiating spars outside of the buffer zone, Jack approached. "Housekeeping!" he drawled as he took advantage of the unlocked door.

The Semblance of Unity

lizbot

"You started this, you b***h." But it was said more sadly than anything else. Grimacing, he spat blood onto the floor. He looked up at Jack and frowned, wobbling his way to fully standing. Was America just going to let him go? The murderous intent had melted off her like a cheap chocolate coating on a sunny day.

"Hello Jack," he said cautiously, watching America and not Jack, waiting for some weird pounce or something. His hands clenched into fists.

She paused and then squinted at him, before answering slowly, "Merica Jones...are you like, one of Jack's clones or something? I heard they brought one of you back from the desert but not that they were letting 'em run around loose." America shook her head, "This place is going all to handbaskets, clones and zombies and folks running around slapping people."

Hands on hips she gave Horace an exasperated sigh, "You come into my house and start a thing again, I'll finish it real fast." She flapped her hand at him, "Done with you so shoo. Git on now." Moving toward the stairs she threw over her shoulder, "I'll tell him you might need some TLC once he's done."

Jack quirked a brow at the pointless insinuation but decided silence was best until they were far away. In that silence, he was quick to grasp Horace's arm and rip him back, tossing him a sharp look before pulling the guy outside. Silver linings in dragging a near-corpse at least.

"So you are as masochistic as people say," he said once they left the neighborhood, his grip still strong as a precaution. "Just my luck. Not a clone," he added. "They don't come kicking and screaming into the world with green hair, that would just be unnatural."

"Even if they did, wouldn't matter much." He pushed back some of his hair, better revealing the large scar stretching from his cheek to his neck, courtesy of one Barry.

Jack glanced back to make sure no-one was following them before letting Horace go. "Normally I wouldn't give a rat's a** about other people's domestic disputes, but something tells me this one's special," he said with an expectant look. "Unless you're that s**t at fighting?"