[hr][center][h1][color=orangered]Caesar Gonzalez[/color][/h1] [img]http://cdn23.us1.fansshare.com/photos/dannytrejo/machete-danny-trejo-machete-kills-vest-hero-breaking-bad-691917003.jpg[/img][/center] [hr][center][b]Location:[/b] Newnan [b]Interacting With:[/b] The Dead, his own demons [/center][hr] Caesar's brain was adrift in a haze of rage and pain. He could clearly see his baby girl in his mind's eye, back during the halcyon days of her childhood. A bright, happy child, with long dark hair and a perpetual smile on her face. He remembered giving Alicia her first knife - it was a switchblade, classic stiletto style. It was like a toy; her training like a game. [i]"Oh, good, you got a point on Papi! Ok, Papi needs to go lie down and maybe get some stitches."[/i] She liked street food and sharp things. Fútbol, bareknuckle boxing, and spending time with her father. But she was a big girl. She knew the risks. He just wished, prayed, that it was him taken by the horde instead of Alicia. He was an old man. It was closer to his time anyway. His thoughts drifted away from his only legitimate daughter, interrupted by one of the survivors they had picked up. He was offering condolences, he assumed. He had the look of a man trying a little too hard to appear sympathetic. It could be that Caesar's attitude was coloring his perception. At any rate, it would be unfair to vent his frustrations on him, regardless of his intention. He didn't move, didn't speak. Didn't twitch a muscle, except to stare at the man with red-rimmed eyes. After an uncomfortable moment, he returned his vision to the abstract distance, spending the rest of the drive in silence. The return to Newnan did nothing to lift his spirits, particlarly considering the compromised state of the place. He was still unable or unwilling to find the means to verbally express himself, but he did begin to stir from his grief-induced stupor. Caesar looked to the injured girl. A makeshift splint comprised mostly of duct tape and old cardboard steadied her break. She could not be moved outside of the truck bed, at least not far before the splint folded. They had to get to the infirmary. Unfortunately, a vast array of dead people stood between them and the inner wall. Any one of them could reach in and snatch the young lady, or a group could hold up the truck before it got to where it needed to go. No one else was going to die today. Not if he could help it. Caesar became as a creature of instinct. The old man fell away, replaced by a feral creature with a handlebar moustache and bared teeth. He was El Jefe. El Jefe continues. El Jefe is a force of fucking [i]nature[/i]. Caesar jumped from the back of the truck yet again, both machetes free before he hit the ground. The raging meleeist ran in front of the slow moving truck, hair trailing behind him as some manner of knight's favor or latino superhero's cape. He quickly closed the distance between Meghna at the wheel and a smallish group of shambling dead at their twelve. El Jefe exploded into a Living Mexican Cuisinart. His signature blades led the way, whirling in front of him in a synchronized pattern; figure eights over figure eights, designed to cause retreat in a living opponent and open up their defense. Against the Dead, if formed a dynamic barrier, lopping off bits of hand and moving bodies off to the side. It opened a path, allowing his machetes equal access to the monsters around him. His left machete parried away a grapple initiated by the Walker in front of him, giving ample room for his right to enter its cranium from below, black blood and ichor spilling from underneath its chin as it twitched and groaned no more. Shifting his weight, he whirled the stilled corpse into the path of another, knocking both of them to the ground as his blade pulled free with a sickening squeltching sound; the noise of barely liquefying bone being torn away from itself by tempered steel. Another corpse, snarling, stretched its mouth wide, unnaturally wider than human anatomy would allow; unrestrained by intact connecting tissues at it was. It bore down on Caesar's exposed upper arm, chomping solidly and leaning into its prize of living meat. Except that it couldn't. Teeth, upper and lower, found the edge and flat of the old man's oversized chopper, denying it a meal and another life lost. A swipe with his free blade opened its abdomen, making the ground perilous with slippery, putrefied innards. Simultaneously, the dentally mired weapon twisted perpendicularly to its previous angle, depriving the creature of several of its teeth before a backhanded slash deprived it of the top of its head. A blackened tongue and bit of brain cervical vertebrae worked atop a decaying mandible for a heartbeat, maybe less, before the former person gave up the ghost for a second time. It collapsed into a heap atop its own removed intestines, a threat to the living no longer. The third and last Dead One had righted itself and stumbled at its would-be dispatcher, mindless to the momentary carnage it would be subjected to. Caesar ducked low and circled his machetes around, one after the other, cutting the disgusting thing off at the knees. It attempted to step one more time, only succeeding in falling forward as shins, ankles, and feet stayed behind, unresponsive to the commands of their dead master. Gravity and momentum propelled the now much shorter Walker onto the extended blade of Caesar. It was held aloft on that merciless plane of sharpened steel by adrenaline and the solid willpower of a man who had just experienced the deepest loss of his life, and sought to punish something in the meantime. His free blade smashed into its head. Then again. And again. And again. The abomination slid off of the extended machete, dropping to the ground with a lifeless, squishy plop. But Caesar didn't care. He hacked at the thing's head again and again, over and over, relentlessly, doggedly. A growl of rage and aggression escaped from behind angry teeth, building until anger began to be choked off with sorrow, deep and profound. The tide of emotion nearly overpowered him. He sunk to one knee, breathing heavily. The old man leaned on one machete, panting, before rising to stand tall. He didn't care how many of these things there were in his home. [i]His home.[/i] Nor did he care who destroyed the wall and brought them there. They were all going to die. Every last one. The truck pulled up behind him, its road clear. Time to move again. Time to cut a swath to the Infirmary.