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Juck Looking over the damage to her bikes, Juck seethed quietly trying and failing to unclench her jaw. Tires were a bitch to come by, and with the size of the gashes Blackwolf had put in them, there was no way these were repairable. But there was no way they were going to make it to Dez's ambush on time if they went by foot -- they were going to need wheels. Juck scanned the lot, and was instantly drawn to a gleaming baby blue pickup truck. "Jeanette, I need you to stay here with the bikes and Dog Head. Don't give much of a poo poo about Dog Head, but we need to make sure no-one fucks with the bikes until we can get 'em repaired." Jeanette nodded, and looked like she might be looking forward to taking off Dog Head's other ear when he woke up for letting those Dog Soldier fucks tear up her wheels. Juck straddled Partridge's bike and gunned the engine. "Partridge, you're with me." Juck and Partridge tore rear end across the lot coming to a sliding stop in front of Big Mike's tow truck, kicking up a huge cloud of fine gray dust. Juck gunned the engine one final time for show before killing it. Juck stepped off the bike and drew her shotgun, putting it directly in Taco's face. "Taco, take a hike. Mike, you gotta be more careful -- helping out dipshits like this is a good way to get yourself robbed and killed. That there's a little bit of advice, on the house, from someone who would know. Thing is, Mike, I'm having some bike troubles and I'm in a real hurry right now. Kind of a life or death deal. I'm going to owe you a favor, a real one, but me and my buddy here need a ride, and we need to go now." Looking back over her gun barrel, Juck was a little shocked to see that Taco was still standing there. "Taco, what'd I fuckin tell you? Find some other sucker to fleece. Or are you going to make me waste a perfectly good shell on your dumb rear end?" [Going aggro on Taco] Hard (+2): 2d6+2 11
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May 3, 2014 02:01
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 Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Oh isn't this a lovely scene. Bandits accosting bandits. I'd be annoyed if the irony wasn't so tasty. Here was Queen Juck herself come along to throw a wrench in the rescue works before some other nefarious bunch had a chance to. I'm coming down off of the adrenaline from dealing with trigger-happy Angel Eyes, and I'm not in any mood to protest something I didn't really want to do in the first place. I just stand there next the jeep, grinning quietly at Taco's stupid expression. He doesn't look so smug with a shotgun under his nose! Let the assholes of the world snuff themselves out. I'm just an expendable pawn anyways, right? That's how Mike put it. Best not to get involved. At this moment all I want is to leave K-scratch and its thuggish patrons far behind. “Oh hi there, Juck.” My smile winds up more of a barely concealed sneer. “Taking the tow-truck, then? Pity. Looks like our little rescue rendezvous is off. Take care, Mike. Let us know if you need a lift back to the yard or anything.” Giggling to myself in a thank-god-I-didn't-have-to-do-that, giddy sort of way, I give the repairman a half-wave, heading once more back to Black Betty (which will hopefully make it back to campus without blowing up in our faces). hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 03:41 on May 3, 2014 |
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May 3, 2014 02:37
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 I raise my hands passively, showing no aggression. I look for Angel Eyes, giving her a cautious be ready, but nothing for now look. "Now, now Juck, no need for dramatics here. Bike trouble you say? Well, last time I worked on those bikes I had a feeling that the lining of the tires was a little weak. That stuff wears out real quick, you know. So I went salvaging last week. You're going to owe me a big favor, but not for my ride." Mike slowly makes his way to the back of the truck, again making no aggressive moves, and lifts the tarp to reveal a set of motorcycle tires in good condition, matching Juck's damaged bikes. Spending my hold "Now, I know you're in a hurry. But with my tools your gang and I can replace these tires in a few minutes. Your opponent probably expects you to jack a ride. But a truck isn't maneuverable like a bike. In a truck all your boys are bunched together. In a truck you'll be slow, easier to corral, unable to split up and fight like a pack. If you take my vehicle you would be doing what they want. They can predict it. But there's no way they could predict that you'd somehow manage to fix the bikes right away. Surprise will be on your side again." You'll get +1 in the coming confrontation if you take my advice and use bikes instead. I'll also get 1 xp. Seeing the girl leave, Mike shouts, "Hey, Faustina! Stick around, we might be able to manage that rescue anyway!" Mr. Prokosch fucked around with this message at 02:55 on May 3, 2014 |
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May 3, 2014 02:48
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "A whole hot mess of nasty bitches after my rear end? Is that a threat or a proposition? I could stand to let off some steam, and I'm pretty good with my tongue." As I sauntered after the two, I reloaded the spent round. Wouldn't do to be short a bullet if things turned dicey down the road. About that time, an ear splitting roar approached, with Juck up front looking ready to take someone's head off. I swung the cylinder closed and holstered the pistol at the same time she hopped off the bike and stuck a streetsweeper under Taco's nose. A glance over at Mike, and he made a motion to play it cool. That worked for me. I didn't have any beef with Juck. I crossed my arms and waited to see where this was going.
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May 3, 2014 03:11
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Trudy Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 When Frog got shot, Trudy had her eye on the perimeter--a few shamblers were on their way, and it looked like the beginnings of a pileup. The shot made her feel like she'd just missed a step on a set of stairs, that hot, angry adrenaline rush that she'd experienced with every surprise gunshot she'd heard since the beginning. When none of the shamblers' heads exploded, she whipped around to see Frog's recently ventilated body a ways away. Frog had not been Good People, which means Trudy had just gone through another fury-inducing rush of internal chemicals for nothing. She tries to breathe, but can't shake her gut-reaction fear and rage. She walks over to Knapp, angry at the blank look on his face, the lazy way he's holding his rifle, and pushes him in the chest, hard. "Why in heck's name aren't you doing your job?" she says. Knapp's face is still a little behind the times, emotionally. "Huh?" he says. Trudy puts her hand on Knapp's shoulders and spins him around so he can see the sporeheads gathering around the perimeter. "Those!" Trudy says. "Shoot them!" Knapp gets back to work.
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May 3, 2014 04:09
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Deacon Barter=4 EXP=1/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Followers: +Augery, -Hunger "No, you did very well, W. Believe me," Deacon said, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He didn't know much about her past, but he got the feeling that someone had done something BAD to her once. She had that kicked dog air about her, like the world was always about to explode into incomprehensible violence, like it was somehow her fault, and like she'd never know why. Which wasn't far off, of course, but the best thing for someone like Wednesday's Child was to defy her expectations. "That really is a fine deer. The meat will go a long way toward feeding the group when we get back to camp," he said. "Not all the way, of course, which is why we'll want to teach you a bit more about how to price things. But that can be taught, and sales really can't. Your making that sale tells me you already got the hard part mastered. I was right about you, W, you're a natural." She beamed at him, and unlike the wan smiles they wore for the marks, there was real emotion behind it this time. He smiled back, genuinely, as always. "All the same, let Dillflower take the lead for a bit. Can't be selfish about making sales, right? And anyway, Dill's been to the market with me more times than I can count, and she knows this stuff better than drat near anyone else. Why don't you watch her for a bit and see if you can tell me what makes her such an incredible saleswoman?" He nodded to the other cultists, still smiling. "Ya'll hold down the fort, will you? I've got to take care of a little situation in the meantime," he said, sauntering over to where Brother Chung was giving his sermon. There was some minor commotion happening over to the side, but it wasn't a concern at the moment. What was a concern was this sermon. Deacon had wanted to stay out of the way, of course. Just the card table and the pamphlets, and maybe a light sermonizing if anyone seemed interested. He wanted and needed the converts, of course, but he also felt he owed a little professional courtesy to his hosts. Especially to Seth, who was the good sort, the kind that got into preaching out of a genuine desire to help people rather than a desire for power or a misguided belief in God. Honor among shysters right? Game recognizes game. But Chung, he was different. His fanaticism had a real ugly edge to it. And Deacon had seen enough xenophobic screeds in his short time as a fringe religious leader to know when someone was working themselves up to doing something regretable and stupid. Well, with guys like Chung, too, the best approach was to defy their expectations. "Now hold up, friend," Deacon called out, striding up to the priest, hands clasped behind his back. He was still smiling, but now he was radiating the kind of crazy confidence that made the nearby practitioners take a couple steps to the side to get out of his strike zone as he passed. "It's bad form to talk about a man behind his back, but it's even worse to do it within earshot. You've got concerns. Well, I'd like for us to resolve them." Read a Person: Chung: 2d6+1 5 Well, shoot.
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May 3, 2014 08:38
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Juck As Mike threw back the tarp in the back of his truck, revealing the mint tires underneath, Juck was momentarily rendered uncharacteristically speechless. Partridge let out a quiet whistle and shook his head. Even Taco momentarily forgot about the two shotgun barrels practically stuffed up his nostrils as he admired the spotless rubber of the tires -- they even had that new rubber kind of smell to them. Juck quietly arrived at the conclusion that Big Mike was obviously a sorcerer. But sorcerer or no, there was no way Big Mike was going to be able to field change six tires on motorcycle rims in "a couple minutes". Mike was fast, fastest mechanic Juck'd ever seen, but there was no way Mike's plan was going to work. Even if they left right now, they'd be hard pressed to catch up to Karen before she got the drop on Dez and his crew. This whole neighborly thing was adorable, but Juck needed Mike's wheels and Taco was in the way. Partridge, reading Juck's mind, put his fingers in his ears. "You know what, Mike? I'mma do you that favor right now." Juck squeezed both triggers, and with a deafening roar Taco's skull exploded in pink and red fireworks. As Juck's hearing came back, everything in the lot was quiet, aside from the pattering sound of skull fragments landing on sheet metal. Mike was just staring, wide-eyed. "I dunno what he told you, but I guarantee you that fucker does not have a dying grandma, or an injured brother trapped under rubble, or a poor family of refugees with a sick child that just need medicine. He wanted to rob you, Mike, and he'd'a prolly left your bullet riddled corpse in a ditch somewhere. You're welcome." Juck paused to slowly pull a cigarette out of a pack in her pocket, watching Mike, Angel Eyes and whatserface, College Girl, while she lit the smoke and took a long drag off it. "Now, like I said, I got a problem with a short fuse on it. Karen Blackwolf, on the basis of a minor misunderstanding, has launched a singleminded vendetta on me and my crew. Now, I normally don't go for the kind of psycho-removal public service thing, but it looks like Karen and me are headed for a showdown, and I need to get moving now before she murders my friends. Mike, I'm asking you nicely: will you please just drive me and Partridge where we need to go?" Mike didn't look like he was going to be particularly quick with an answer, and Juck turned to College and Angel Eyes. College had this sour look on her face, but Juck couldn't exactly remember what it was she'd been so pissed about. "Hey Angel -- didn't you and Blackwolf get into some poo poo a little while back? How'd you like to help take that roided-out maniac out of circulation for good?" Juck rolled Taco's headless corpse over with her motorcycle boot. "Looks to me like your afternoon schedule just opened up a little, no?"
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May 4, 2014 01:09
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 Mike sighs, and he looks a little older than before, his eyes become distant, "of course he was planning on robbing me. He was going to rob me for help I would have given. But then he would have hesitated with Angel Eyes here, and he would have felt ashamed, and he would have reconsidered his life choice, and then in the future he would have... and Angel Eyes would have seen... and Faustina would have realized..." each word gets a little quieter, as if even Mike is realizing the craziness of what he's saying. "Well, that's one brighter future dead. Anyway, I once changed a full set of 4 in 45 seconds. My plan would have worked, and better than this one. Now there's a good chance I'll be shot as we drive right into a trap. Hey, Angel Eyes, this ain't what you signed up for precisely, but you wannna switch that job to getting me out of this things alive?"
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May 4, 2014 01:55
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Barter=1 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 *KAPOW!* “...And then there were four!” The leather-clad man raised a pistol to the approving roars of his gang as the headless body before him crumpled to the cold dirt. Winter was just around the corner, and frost had seized the landscape like a dusting of death. Biting hunger knots gave way to icy cords of fear pulling at my stomach as I watched the wispy breath of each kill squad member billow up around their heads, hazy faces in the morning gloom blurred by fractured light weaving through a dense canopy of pines around us. Our caravan had been waylaid enroute to a nearby town, apparently the bandit troupe were looking for some sorry refugee with a few too many debts. They didn't know exactly what he looked like, so they just started capping people to try and make us talk. None of us knew the guy, we were all simply your average stragglers trying to get to the next meal. I'd only been a few years on my own, still terribly young and very much dependent on more experienced company. This guy, Scott, (can't remember his last name) had let me tag along with him and his wife April while they tried to loot from uninfested parts of 'safe-zone' suburbs, as everyone did at first. After a few months of picking at the city's bones things dried up, and we were forced to move on to the next town. We met other groups and soon became a traveling commune of sorts. We weren't close or anything, but the folks were tolerant enough of each other to keep things civil for the most part. Overall, we didn't have such a bad run of it. We were almost always hungry, but never starving. They used to tell me about their kid, a little boy called Geofrey? or something (maybe it was Jeffrey?); anyways, they'd been out of town for their anniversary the week the first spores cropped up and had left him with a babysitter. When they got back the whole neighborhood had been razed by Air Force drones. The dread hummers had turned every soul within eight kilometers into greasy wallpaper. April broke down every time she recounted seeing the smoldering tomb of crushed brick that once was her home. I sat and listened miserably to her sobs more than once, thinking of my own family who I'd never gotten such closure for. They'd been at the heart of it all, and not even the government had been able to get through the central areas. It would have been a futile effort regardless - no one had survived that deep. I had wished she would just stop bringing it up and try to forget about it, but it was like she couldn't help it - as if she had to punish herself. I started hating her for it. Scott's face flying apart a few feet away from mine has been one of the timeless and enduring memories of my own journey through this brave new world. He wasn't the last that day, though. They killed every man in our group before letting us go, just because they could. Just because they didn't want to miss their mark, their chance for an extra bit of bootleg whiskey or whatever. I never even knew who they were. Looking at April's stricken face afterwards, I couldn't hate her anymore. When I tried to hold her hand it was clammy and cold like a corpse, her eyes sunken and bleary... she just wasn't there. Later, I left her sitting listlessly next to a tree outside one of our camps. She couldn't be my mother and I was too young to be hers. She may never have got up from that spot, but that's how it goes sometimes. Sometimes, when it's too much, you go your own way. ~~~ I don't know if it was the sharp bang of Juck's cannon going off or Taco's hot blood hitting the back of my neck that caused it, but somewhere between the two I screamed. Before I can even determine that the noise is coming from my own throat I've spun around and leveled my revolver at the smoking murderer. o god what am i doing (Go Aggro on Juck): 2d6+0 = 3 hahahahahaha “NO!! No, rear end in a top hat! Y-you can get the hell out of here! You'll just kill him too! Leave Mike alone and take the jeep here! You've killed the owner, so why not gently caress off with it already?!” At some point I realize I'm threatening this badass maven of mayhem whilst squeezing my eyes shut. This is probably the biggest, and last mistake I'll ever make, but all I can see is Scott's defeated expression before it dissolves into a fine pink mist. I can't just let this psycho drive off with Mike! hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 06:12 on May 4, 2014 |
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May 4, 2014 03:39
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/[b]5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 I calmly step between them. Faustina probably doesn't even notice, with here eyes shut like that, that her gun is pointed right at my heart. Maybe she'll shoot, but maybe this will save her life. I have a lot fewer years in me than she does. Fair trade. I put on my best grandpa voice, even if I never got the chance to see my probably-dead-long-ago grandchild. "Calm down dear, calm down. You have a good point. She can take the Jeep. But she can ride with me if she wants to. It's both OK. Not a great plan, but OK." I half shout behind me at Juck. "You wanna do me a real favor? For the ride and the tires? Leave the girl and her folks alone, as best you can, unless your life is on the line. I know it looks a bit like it here, but you see, I don't think her shot will make it through this body armor. Certainly not enough to get to you. So no life on the line, right? No threat."
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May 4, 2014 05:39
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Quick as a whip, I was all business. No sign of my earlier irritation or the calculated smart-rear end routine remained. "Hey, Angel Eyes, this ain't what you signed up for precisely, but you wanna switch that job to getting me out of this things alive?" I gave a silent nod to Mike, keeping my eyes on Juck and Faustina all the while. My revolver hadn't come out, but the sword was in position for a draw if either made a move against Mike. Shardix fucked around with this message at 08:07 on May 4, 2014 |
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May 4, 2014 07:09
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hctibyllis posted:Perry seemed as lost as I was. ...or was she? No. The surprise is genuine - she didn't expect Frog to want to kill her - but she hasn't said everything. ~ Juck, when you rolled up to Taco and shoved a shotgun in his face, he got a fair bit paler, showed you his palms, and would've backed away from the truck if them barrels hadn't been keeping him there. You said gently caress off, he said, "Hey, whoa, alright - fine, I'm gone." And a moment later, those turned out to be spot-on for last words. He tried getting something like 'no wait' out when he saw your hand tightening around the trigger - that kind of thing is easy to notice when it's the most important thing in the world at the moment - but it got cut off. Bang, splat, dead Taco. His li'l brother Jeff screamed, "No!" and then lunged at you. Wasn't thinking it through too well. He already left his gun with Faustina, so, no serious threat. Partridge shoulder-checked him out of your way and shot him in the gut, he dropped down all doubled over, crying and gurgling and crawling off around the truck, where he will bleed out in the dirt. ~ Deacon, you suddenly get the sense that this was exactly what he expected. Chung snorts, and holds his hands out, all would you get a load of this guy? He looks back and forth, to the small crowd of Christian folks standing on the hot dirt in front of the barn. "Why, yes, 'Deacon,'" he puts some serious, sarcastic stank on the word, "I would very much like to resolve some things. And yes, please, educate us on what 'bad form' is. You, who prey upon the traumatized, the young, the lonely. Those wayward souls most in need of love and understanding, and you offer them a web of lies and the chance to worship you. You're a phony, a fraud, and an egotistical, self-aggrandizing liar." He's kind of red-faced, so he takes a breath, "I've heard about you, and what your cult does to themselves. Your so-called miracles and feats of healing are nothing more than drugs and old medicine, wrapped up in sleight of hand and showmanship. I will continue to pray for everyone who might have been suckered by your lies, and I will remind the rest of your false congregation," he looks past you, cranes his neck, and talks a little louder, "That we would welcome you in an instant, and protect you from this man's retribution." The transient who was checking out your literature edges away. A gang-banger fuckhead who was haggling with Dill remembers that he had something else to do. Dill frowns, thoughtful. Lemur rolls his eyes. Cuff looks personally affronted. ~ Faustina, you barely get your gun out of its holster (pocket? wherever you keep it) before Partridge is up next to you. He gets his arm around your forearm, drives your shootin' hand toward the ground, and jams his elbow back into your throat a few times. If that doesn't get you to let go of it, he might break your thumb. Harm Move: 2d6+1 9 You lost your grip on the gun, and choose another from Pain. Partridge has no current plans to hand it back. He says, "You're pretty goddamn dumb for a doctor." He points the revolver back at you, probably thinking, wouldn't this be easy and making sure you know it too, but then Big Mike says his piece, and he puts it in his pants. "Yeah, alright." If anyone happens to glance back towards the trade pavilion - most of them turned to watch the Taco-execution drama. Most of them went back to what they were doing soon after. Knowles only just now relaxes her grip on the gun at her belt. ~ Trudy, Knapp steps to, gives Perry a quick squeeze on her hand, then rushes up the blistering-hot aluminum ladder propped up against the central building's wall. Taye, already on the roof, says to him, "About goddamn time. poo poo, you listen to Stepford the first time she says go? Might oughta give that bitch a commission." Knapp gets settled in on the rooftop vista, with his plastic lawn chair, M4 carbine, scratched-up binoculars and tarp overhead. Perry looks pretty rattled from that whole thing. "So, um, Trudy - anyone ever try to put a hit out on you? 'Cause that was my first." ~ Around, Knapp shouts out, "Yo! Everyone! We got incoming! Lots of incoming! South side, from the hill!" It's a warm, sunny day. The horrific spores are in bloom, but so are the flowers. Birds are chirping overhead, insects buzzing. The trees, over in that direction, aren't too thick. Visibility through foresty, tree-filled areas is kind of a weird thing. You see the movement before you see the creature moving, and if it's coming towards you from further away, there's no definite, horizon-like line where it suddenly becomes visible. The woods are blurry, indefinite. Shaded and cluttered and obscured all irregular. If you look up now, you can see it's alive with movement. Things shaped like people are coming into view, out from behind tree-trunks, flinging themselves through bushes, cresting over little dips in the landscape. They're pale, even in the shade, even if they used to have darker skin, and they move with a careless, lurching swagger, like they're exhausted and enraged both beyond reason. It's tough to get an accurate head count, but... fifty-plus. Maybe more behind them, as yet out of view. They're more than a hundred yards out from the fence, and then that'll slow 'em down, but this is a strong cue to get any stray poo poo packed up, and then either dig in or head out. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 17:51 on May 4, 2014 |
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May 4, 2014 11:50
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 The alarm had gone up. Might be Faustina had a point about excessive gunfire after all. My eyes flicked up towards the distant trees, making out the dim shapes shuffling towards us. On instinct I pulled the respirator out of my satchel and strapped it on, making sure everything was nice and snug. "Whatever you want to do Mike, I've got your back until this mess is resolved. Just do me a favor and decide quickly." Glancing over at Juck, I held her gaze for a beat. "Yeah, you could say we got into some poo poo. And that's all I have to say on the matter. Suffice that even if I weren't on the clock, that's not a grave I plan on digging just yet." I tried my best to keep my tone neutral. Truth was, the poo poo me and Karen had been through had nothing to do with trying to kill each other. I'd come up from the south a few years back, and moseyed right into the Dog Soldier's territory. My attitude and their notorious lack of humor nearly got me killed before a pack of shrooms showed up to crash the party. The Cheyenne lost a couple men, and if Karen hadn't literally hauled one of them off of me and snapped its spine, I probably would have joined them. The two of us and little Newport managed to get back to civilization, light on ammo but whole. And, well. Something about surviving a near death experience tends to make bad first impressions turn into good second ones. I wouldn't go near so far as to say I'm welcome in their neck of the woods, but Karen and I have a good relationship. It helps that we don't see each other very often. Keeps us from pissing each other off enough that we forget we're more or less on the same side. In any case, she filled me in on the what's what and who's who around here, which helped immensely in getting on my feet. It also occurred to us that given the local factionalism, it might not be a bad idea for us to keep our relationship on the down low. Maybe even play up the idea that we had bad blood between us. I could stay a freelancer and occasionally (and surreptitiously) provide muscle, she could avoid associating too much with an outsider but keep me fed when things got lean. It's worked out pretty well so far. The basic point is, I wasn't putting a bullet in Karen Blackwolf's head on Juck's behalf anytime soon. Lucky for Juck, that went both ways. No loving way am I sticking my nose in the middle of the Newport business. I barely knew her, but I do know this: no situation on this earth gets uglier then when someone's lover is involved.
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May 4, 2014 14:03
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "Far as I know, no," Trudy says, taking Perry's hand. "Come on, sweetie, we need to get home." She leads the still-shocked girl over to where Big Mike, Faustina, and Angel Eyes are. "We have to get out of here," Trudy says, using the hand not holding Perry's to indicate the coming swarm. "I don't know what all just happened here, but now we have to leave. Mr. Mike, can you get our truck back to campus? That dinner offer still stands if you want to join."
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May 4, 2014 16:23
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Juck had not batted an eyelid while the college girl had screamed at her, waving her gun in Juck's face. If there was one thing Juck had learned about conflict resolution, it was to never break face. Now, looking down at the disarmed girl sprawled in the dust, Juck cracked her shotgun, emptied the two spent shells, and loaded in two fresh shells from her pocket, pushing each one in with a solid klunk and closing the breech. Silhouetted against a grey sun, Juck pointed the gun at College's face, holding for a beat before returning the gun to its holster. "Strike two, college girl." Juck flicked her half-finished and still lit cigarette into the girl's hair before turning back to the truck. The alarms were blaring hard: time to go. Juck turned to Partridge. "Blackwolf's probably got a pretty good idea of where to expect trouble on our map, but she's too smart to assume anything; if we take the old road along the railway north and double back to Dez's spot, we might just make it in time to warn Dez and crew that she's coming. Partridge, you get back to camp on your bike, round up Lala and anybody else you can get, come through the ambush chokehold from the south, the same way Blackwolf will be coming. Any luck, we pinch her in the middle and shred that bitch." Partridge nods once, hops on his bike and tears off out the lot, northeast towards the camp. Juck jumped on the back of Mike's truck, and got a better look at the incoming shrooms. gently caress there were a lot of them. Juck whistled back to Jeanette, getting her attention: "Leave the bikes, we'll come back for them if there's anything left of this shithole tonight. Bring Dog Head, we're bugging out!" Jeanette hoisted the still-unconscious Dog Head over her shoulder easily and carried him over, dumping him unceremoniously into the bed of Mike's truck. Dog Head still seemed to be leaking a lot of blood from his torn ear. Juck shouted over at the college girl, "Hey College! Get over here and patch my man up, and maybe -- maybe -- I'll let you live, at least for today."
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May 4, 2014 19:00
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/[b]5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 I don my mask and seal the suit. I look like some kind of futuristic super-soldier, not the look I like but the suit works. Maybe I should re-color it? Don't wander, keep your mind in the game. "Sorry Trudy, but Juck here is rather insistent I give her a ride right now. You can come with, or you can take Betty. She's not good right now, leaked out all her oil. If you put oil in she'll make it another ride just fine. If you don't, she'll probably make it but it'll be nasty. But you got her here, you can probably get her to the Yard... or you can stay and help fight for the watering hole. Up to you. I can fix her at the Yard later. Just... if you go to the Yard, park outside. Don't want you to step on a landmine." "Angel Eyes, I plan to keep my word, sure you can respect that. I'm giving Juck a ride to the rendezvous but I'm not fighting for her, if she does something stupid or there's an ambush on the way I'd sure welcome your help." "Let's go Juck. We'll take the side road like you say. You might want to have your boys lie down underneath the tarp, in case they have eyes on the road. Very least it will make it harder for them to pick targets." I jump in the front seat and start up the truck. Fires up on the first turnover, purring like new. I take care of my toys, although this one will probably have holes in it before we're done.
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May 4, 2014 19:23
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Barter=1 | Exp=2/5 | Fatigue=3:00 Lost my gun | Neck bruise My hands are peeled away from the weapon like overripe banana skins as Partridge introduces his angular elbow to my soft neck. Vaguely I’m able to make out the sentries hollering about something before my butt hits the ground hard and I’m coughing and wretching at the biker’s feet. I look up at him, tears, snot and saliva running down my chin, waiting for the finisher. Jeff gets it instead. I watch him whimper pitifully as he drags himself around the truck to die like some kind of animal. He was about my age. The leader of the bikers says something and chucks her cigarette at me, but I’m too stunned to do anything but make a few angry, sniveling gasps for air. After a tense moment, Juck’s brutish lackey stuffs the late Gummo’s .38 into his waistband and turns away while I get busy coughing up my breakfast. Breathing hurts; I’ll probably have some serious bruising later, but it’s better than what the other two got. Isn’t it? Hooray, we get to see another hosed up day. Thick blood congeals into a dark path in the dirt, marking Jeff’s anguished wake. The soil will suck him up like every other sorry bastard the world has put down - dust to dust. How did he get here? Was Taco really his brother? Had they really planned to rob/murder us after we’d got them back on their feet? It didn’t matter now, they’d been found guilty in Mike’s proverbial ‘court’ and sentenced by their peers to die like dogs under the hot sun. Why couldn’t I just accept the law of the land? Because gently caress them, that’s why. “Who said I was a doctor…” I mutter to myself as Angel Eyes continues discourse like nothing had happened. At some point Trudy comes over, trying to guide everyone back to the truck, and in some corner of my mind I’m glad she hadn’t gotten involved with the afternoon’s grim proceedings; but I’m too shaken to fully grasp what she is saying. Three people have been ruthlessly slain in under thirty minutes, their lives plucked carelessly from this mortal fabric, like so many loose threads. Wrong. Two people are dead… possibly three if we just keep sitting on our hands like a punished child. I might not be much of a gunslinger, but I have other talents. Just because I never took anything like a Hippocratic Oath doesn’t mean I can simply stand by, feeling sorry for myself while a life hangs in the balance, innocent or not. While the others are distracted, I push myself up and crawl on hands and knees silently around to the opposite side of Mike’s truck. Jeff is heaving out his last breaths on his side, his face white-washed with death’s palor, gazing right through me – a man in emotional and likely circulatory shock. His hands are curled protectively over his gut as victims of such trauma are wont to do. The labor of his pain is most certainly intense, as anyone who has suffered a severe abdominal injury would be quick to confirm. I scoot quickly through the reddened mud around him, further ruining my dress but not really noticing. Flipping him over onto his back, I go through the motions of trying to reach him verbally, though I know anything I might say is cold comfort at this point. Poor guy just watched his brother’s skull burst apart like a busted jar of gelatin. “Hey… Jeff was it? *cough*” I peel off my surgical mask and wipe my mouth and nose with a sleeve. Shaking him fervently by the shoulders, I try to get a response, a moan, a freaking boner, anything: “Jeff! Jeffrey! Talk to me, okay? You liked my soap, right? *cough*gently caress Hey! I’ll even give you a bath, what do you say to that, huh big guy? C’mon, stay with me motherfucker!” It’s useless. He’s all but gone, and his wound looks beyond the preservation anything in my kit might afford. The second I saw him go down I knew there was only one thing for it. Biting my lip hard enough to draw blood, I glance around. I’m kind of out in the open, so if I do this right now it might be asking for trouble. Who cares. Trouble finds us anyways. We’re like a goddamn magnet for it. I can spend my life hiding from the public and kowtowing to shitheads like Juck, or I can do something that might actually make a difference. Whatever the consequences, at least I’ll be able to sleep tonight. To hell with them all. I’m gonna reach for you, Jeff. I don’t know you, but I knew of a kid with your name who never got a chance. This is for April. I place my hands over his belly, feeling the warm blood bubbling up between my fingers, diving into the ocean of his eyes, swimming with fear and memory. Nisi Fratem (Healing touch on Jeff): 2d6+1 = 9 * * * [Jeff heals a segment, but I’m acting under fire from his brain  Please let me know what that means in this case! (If I need to roll to avoid fuckery or passing out at a very bad time or whatever)]
hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 19:42 on May 4, 2014 |
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May 4, 2014 19:26
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Un-loving-believable. "Hey! College! Not that one, moron, the one in the back of the truck! College!" The college girl wasn't listening. "College! I already shot that fucker once, and I'm not in a mood to waste two perfectly good bullets today!" The college girl was still not listening, and was laying hands on the gutshot Jeff and going full faith-healer. In the side view mirror of Mike's truck, Juck could see the shrooms arriving at the fence. There wasn't a ton of time here. And now the college girl was going into some kind of trance. Juck squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Morons. I'm surrounded by loving morons."
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May 5, 2014 04:34
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Trudy Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Edited for clarity and not narrating for other people. Trudy sees Faustina kneeling in the dirt by the boy with the hole in his gut. "Perry, " she says, grabbing the girl by her shoulders, looking into her eyes to make sure she's paying attention. She is. "Perry, help me get the boy in the back of Black Betty, but don't touch Faustina, okay? Let her keep her hands on him." Perry nods. If this is another Ethel situation, and Trudy's pretty sure it is, Faustina's going to need some care afterward. Trudy's not sure how she does... whatever she does, but it's gotta be tiring. Perry gets the boy in the truck, Faustina following in her weird trance, and Trudy hops in the driver's seat. "I'm going back to campus," Trudy says. "You want to come?" Violajoker fucked around with this message at 03:09 on May 6, 2014 |
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May 5, 2014 18:37
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Sliding into the passenger seat, I tossed my blade onto the dashboard and rolled the window down. As the truck start moving I kept my eyes sharp and a hand on my gun. I cast a glance out the back window at Juck as she yelled at Faustina. That woman had some serious anger issues. Why did everyone have to take things so damned personally all the time? I wanted to say something to Mike along those lines. About what a mess that had turned into- -But those words would be pretty obviously hollow, coming from me. I decided to just keep my mouth shut and focus on the moment.
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May 6, 2014 03:13
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/[b]5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 I sigh again and gun it once everyone is inside. I turn to Angel Eyes, who apparently called Shotgun: "This is quite a mess. A real drat mess. Glad you've got my back, but here's the thing: I'm not killing for that girl. I'll kill for my life. I might even kill for, say, the college girl's lives. But I'm not going to kill somebody over some grudge that's probably Juck's fault to begin with. And if I ask you to do it, it's the same as doing it myself. So we'll give her a ride. I'll do that much cause she had every right to kill Faustina after she pulled, but didn't. After that they're getting the gently caress out of my truck and doing whatever bullshit they're meaning to do. If they try to press us into this fight... well, I'm not doing it. We'll see what happens if it happens."
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May 6, 2014 04:43
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From a discrete location, high up and resting on a Y-shaped tree branch, Thunder-skull is watching Big Mike's pickup through a pretty nice pair of binoculars. They've got, like, two different focus knobs and some anti-fog lens coating. A stray zombie stands at the trunk below him, clawing at the tree bark with shredded and black-bloodied hands, staring up past him with unfocused milky eyes, and growling. He clicks on his walkie-talkie, keeps his voice low, and says, "Karen. She did not accept the challenge. She has hijacked a pickup truck." Click. The sound of her tricked-out chopper idling in the background. "poo poo. Whose?" Click. "Big Mike, the mechanic. Karen, he's a good man. We should reconsider. Angel-Watcher is going with them, too." A long pause. It's not hard to imagine the string of disjointed swears that Karen is considerate enough to not broadcast. Click, "Motherfucker! I thought me and her were cool! Well. Any friend of my enemy is my enemy. And if the Whore of Babylon is involving others, that's just more blood on her hands. We knew there might be collateral damage. Fox, you listening?" Another voice, click, "Yup." Click. "Plan B." Thunder-skull frowns, not that they can see it. Click, "That is not the right way of things and you know it, Daughter of Blackwolf. Do not let the blood cloud your sight." Click, "Thanks, old man, but with due respect, stuff it. I can feel The Mad Dog running with me. I hear it howling for blood and justice. The bitch dies today." He's about to argue, but he knows she won't listen. And, still looking through binocs at the scene, he sees Faustina bend down and put her hands on Jeff. He gasps. ~ Juck, it looks like College is having a mental breakdown or something on top of Taco's butt boy's bloody carcass, and Trudy & Perry are loading her up into the university's truck. And she might not be too inclined to help Dog Head, anyway. If you want her to do the doctor thing on your guy, you might need to force her into it. But the zombies are almost to the fence. You can hear them already, screaming and groaning between the sentries' shots. And that'll take time, which Dez might not have. Get College onboard, or just beat it? ~ Trudy, Mike's truck is full of bloody gang members and it looks like they have plans other than giving you a tow back to the campus. Perry helps you drag Faustina and Jeff into the university's pickup, Black Betty. Knowles is jogging towards Betty with a half-zipped over-stuffed backpack and two armloads full of poo poo that she's evidently just traded for. Including a shiny new compound bow, go figure. She's got the keys to the truck already in hand, and she throws them to you while hurling her stuff over-hand into the truck bed. She shouts, "Get this bitch started!" She throws a tight-sealed plastic gallon jug onto Faustina, before realizing she's lying down back there. "poo poo, I'm sorry!" Trudy, when they hear an engine start up, a few people break from the 6:00 fleeing crowd and try to flag you down for a ride out of here. It definitely beats running, you know? Raj & his barely-pregnant wife Sam, plus their packs of loot, right next to Cartel Saül and his bodyguards. Do you slow down to let them cram in to the back of the truck, (there's always room for one more in the bed of a pickup truck) or leave them? Either way, driving Black Betty any distance with its oily maintenance needs neglected will involve Acting Under Fire. What do you do? ~ Perry climbs the blister-hot aluminum ladder to the roof, wincing only a little. Knapp is all, "Get the gently caress out of here!" and she's all, "No!" and then he's all, "Fine, pull the ladder up!" and then she does. Bill Soaring-Eagle joins them, too, with his antique hunting rifle. It's not clear if he has any bullets. On top of a roof is one of the best places to be, in the event of a zombie swarm, but if you hole up on elevation you're always making a bet - either you have enough ammo to clear the area, or you're stranded on a pad of too-hot roof tiles without food or water, waiting for help or dehydration or heat stroke. A desert island in a sea of cannibal rage monsters. Go through any suburbs outlying the city, you'll find a few skeletons on the roofs. You won't find the ones that tried to jump down and run for it. ~ Big Mike, people are starting to run en masse. A few of them have turned towards your truck and are trying to wave you down, hoping for an easier ride away from the horde. Curt the scavenger, Jasmine the friendly whore, and a few others. With you, Angel Eyes, Juck, Jeanette, Partridge, & Dog Head, it's already pretty cozy, but you could probably fit a few more passengers. Plus, Juck seems to want to bring Faustina along. You've got hands on the wheel, so it's ultimately your call when to leave. While Jeanette's hopping into the back, she tells you, "That's a loving sweet helmet, man." The way zombies usually approach the fence is like this - they sprint full-force into the chest-high wires and grasp around through it for a while, howling and gnashing their teeth. They'll tumble over it after a few minutes, usually, but when there's a big crowd pushing ahead, the mob-shoving action can get the front line past quicker. The zombies in the back sometimes fan out to the side, if there's someone right in front of them. Sort of an accidental, flock-style 'intelligence.' To that end - if the swarm is coming from 12:00, the gate Juck wants to take out is at 9:30. It's a tall, metal-bar thing that, once upon a time, slid aside by a little motor. That's shot, so now people drag it aside over rusted, poo poo-caked bearings by hand. Built into the bars are some cutesy-font 'K***** RANCH,' with most of the name torn aggressively from the foundation. Same thing on the other two gates, and a every other sign around the area. Someone didn't want the name remembered, and it hasn't been. Anyways - if you head out right now, you'll have enough space for someone to open the gate and let the truck out, no problem. If you dawdle much more, e.g. to tow another vehicle, the zombies will have gotten far enough around that opening it would be a real risk to someone, and closing it after you would be a serious ordeal. Or you could crash through it. What do you do? Angel Eyes, in addition to the above, you also notice Lace, still wearing that dress but now barefoot after having kicked off his heels, running for the truck. You can see him yelling, "Take me with you!" but he's pretty far away. If he ran to 6:00 from the swarm and hopped the fence, he'd probably be okay, but he's got another idea for whatever dumb rear end reason. ~ Faustina, the flesh and the mind are more firmly glued together than some people think. You can't Touch one without the other. His skin gets burning-fever hot under your touch as you work your magic, and if Jeff wasn't already writhing incoherent in pain, he'd have started again. His back arches, skull pressing into the dirt. All pretenses of acting like a badass are gone, as gives a long, whiny moan, like, please just let me be dead. The hole in his stomach seals back up, like a fast-motion time-lapse video. Blood clots, flesh grows and melts back together through the gaps. His whole metabolism flips the gently caress out. There's a shitload of blood and other dark fluid covering the area, but if you wiped it away, you could see a massive bullet scar (on his front and back) that looks like it healed up weeks ago. People got instincts. You poke for their eye, they blink. You scratch an arm, they pull it back. You put your palm gently on theirs, your fingers between fingers, they grip back. So - this one doesn't come up in day to day life - you shove your hands into his insides and wrench them around, you shove your mind through there, he lashes back out like he's being violated in a deep way. Which he is, even though you mean well. It's like he's just sucker-punched you in the consciousness - your train of thought takes a quick, blurry break. And then you can hear/feel his thoughts leaking out into you. He's not thinking in words, but they're relatable feelings - roughly transcribed, 'gently caress ow ow ow ow oh my god I can't believe he's dead ow please no more please god stop what is this what is going on ow what WHO how are you even here GET OUT GET OUT,'  and then there's a sensation like a whip cracking behind your eyes, and another full-sesory wash-out.You come to only a minute later, slumped next to Jeff in the bed of Black Betty, as someone tosses a gallon jug of water onto your chest. It's not a great day to be you. Jeff is curled up into a fetal position, trembling. Knowles is saying, "poo poo, I'm sorry!" and throwing a leg up over the truck bed as she climbs in. You can't help but wince as you feel the pain coming from his gut. You feel a whole mess of agitation and grief that isn't yours. That doesn't usually happen. He looks up at you. You hear(?) a memory from not too long ago. She went over to shout about the Frog situation. Taco smiled at you, honest and friendly, and nudged you with his elbow. "She's kinda cute, yeah? Once we meet back up with Carl, want us to tie her down for you?" A flash of embarassment. Anxiety. Butterflies in the stomach. You say, "No! You said we weren't doing that anymore!" Because she's like an angel, and you don't want that to happen to her. You don't want it to go down like that. But Taco does that stupid loving eyebrow waggling thing, and you think that maybe, on some level, you actually do. You hope he'll ignore your protests, string your crush up, and force you into doing... stuff. And you're a horrible, disgusting person for wanting that again. And your brother's dead. He was laughing just a minute ago, and now he's dead. What the gently caress? So, that's weird. He avoids eye contact. While this unwelcome mental intimacy is getting shouted into your mind's ear, the zombie & lovely truck situation hasn't gone away or anything. You're slammed for 2 Fatigue and -1 forward to the next important thing you do. What do you do?
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May 6, 2014 06:58
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/[b]5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 "It works," I rasp, my voice distorted by the mask. I hate the drat thing. It's strong, filters perfectly, would let me walk through a whole cloud of spores, but the glass distorts my sight, makes me feel separate. Makes me feel like a monster. But maybe that's how I survived so long. By putting on a mask, and becoming a monster, when I need to. Time to go. Even if I slow down for more passengers, they don't want to go where we're going. Maybe a short hop on the truck would have got them out of harm's way. But there's a good chance Juck would motivate him towards haste by just shooting anyone he tried to pick up. Better they take their chances on foot. Better for them? No, no, better for you. I step on the gas and zoom towards the gate.
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May 6, 2014 09:23
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I glanced out the window at the desperate people trying to flag us down. Curt. Fisheyes. J...Janine? Jacky? J something. Lace, too. drat it. Lace wasn't the sort who could really survive without someone watching out for him, and I'd whacked Frog. Which kind of made him my responsibility now. "Hey Mike. It's your truck, you make the decisions. But if you keep going, I don't want to hear any more of that 'bright future' or 'good neighbor' poo poo." I looked over at the old man. Normally he had a pretty affable air about him, but with that helmet the human element was entirely lost.
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May 6, 2014 11:08
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 Monster and Neighbor war within. With the Mask, monster is winning. But on this they can come to a compromise. It's the right thing to do. She's useful. We owe her one. If Juck shoots the weak one, the blame will be on her, we will look pure in the eyes of the people. The Truck slows down and swings by Lance. Maybe some other folks chasing the car will climb aboard too. Good, we need to help them. I'm staying in the truck, I can punch through, it's the riders on the back who will be eaten in a Swarm.
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May 6, 2014 19:11
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 As the truck skidded to a halt, I popped the door and stepped out. The world slowed down as everything came into focus. The crunch of gravel under my boots. The low rumble of the truck's engine. The shouts and screams and gunshots. And behind it all, the high pitched keening wail of the infected. Everyone knows why they should fear the things. Their speed. Their mindless, crushing strength. Their primitive pack tactics. But the worst thing about them was that noise. It wasn't some bestial screeching or the low moan of the old Hollywood undead. It was a raw, terrified wail that made you wonder just how much of a person still survived in that husk. When you got down to it, that was what truly made them terrifying. The possibility that when the spores took you over you would still be in there, trapped and helpless and mad. Ask anyone what Hell sounds like, and they'll tell you it's the sound of an infected. I took in the situation. We had time. Not much, but we should be able to scrape by. The gate would be a problem, but one thing at a time. I drew my revolver, ready to pop any of the shrooms that came too close to us or the stragglers. "Haul your butts! Pile in the back!" I flicked my eyes over to Lace. "Front seat, Lace! Pronto!" Why are you even doing this? You had a clean getaway. I wanted to tell myself it was the right thing to do. That these people would owe me some pretty big favors when we were in the clear. That was bullshit. I loved this. Throwing my life into the wind and coming out on top, riding the adrenaline high all the way. Being alive and proving to the world that it didn't have what it takes to bring me down. It was the precise opposite of being suicidal while looking exactly like it.
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May 7, 2014 05:06
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Barter=1 | Exp=2/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Lost my gun | Neck bruise | -1 on next move pre:INT. GAME SHOW SET - ???
_FADE INTO CREEP ZOOM - FOCUS: HOST_
We fade in over the heads of an applauding audience. Our shot sweeps very slowly across
the set towards a stage positioned front and center of a large auditorium. We’re arriving mid-show,
so we can already hear the HOST’s professional candor booming through the PA before we
even see him. The clapping dies down as the speaker comes into view on the stage.
Behind him a single empty chair faces the crowd, resting in front of two large curtains: one BLACK, one WHITE.
HOST
Yes, yes! And we’re just getting started today, folks!
You’ll be happy to hear, I’m sure, that we have another WINNER!
MR. JEFF [REDACTED] COME ON DOOOWWWNNN!!
The audience erupts into applause and cheers, a small sea of faces all beaming exuberantly at the
figure of a man making his way down an aisle between the rows of seats. JEFF is grinning to beat the
band, pumping his fists in the air as he climbs a small set of stairs to reach the stage. The charismatic
HOST greets him (his sharp three-piece suit a glaring juxtaposition to JEFF’s shabby wasteland attire),
and guides him to sit in the chair. After a moment he motions for the crowd to settle down. The
clapping stops instantly, almost robotically.
_PAN TO FRAME SHOT ON STAGE_
HOST
Now, Jeff. I’m sure you’re familiar with the rules.
We’ve got two potential prizes waiting for you,
just behind those big ol’ curtains!
All you gotta do is…
_JUMP CUT TO AUDIENCE_
AUDIENCE
CHOOSE – YOUR – SIDE!!
More cheers and applause as the camera catches a few choice shots of extremely excited
looking spectators. These people are literally frothing at the mouth for this poo poo. A few of them
are even standing on their chairs, bouncing up and down. We perhaps get the impression their enthusiasm
is either exaggerated or affected by the influence of drugs or intoxication.
_CUT TO JEFF_
JEFF
Oh, wow. Uhm…
He’s wringing his hands, perspiration forming on his forehead. For a second his eyes appear to
roll back in his head, like he’s having a seizure. Then HOST claps him on the back with a huge grin
and he’s smiling again.
JEFF
I’m… Uh…
I’m gonna go for black!
HOST
HE PICKED BLACK!!
_CUT TO AUDIENCE SWEEP_
Once more we fly over the crowd. Everyone is out of their seats going crazy: cheering, screaming,
crying, ripping their clothes off. It’s like a human zoo out there, and the din is deafening. HOST
motions once more and everyone stops on a dime, returning to their seats and smiling serenely.
_CENTER SHOT ON STAGE_
_FOLLOW SEQUENCE PROMPTS_
HOST
Now let’s see what he’s giving up first, shall we?
The lovely Ms. Eyes, everyone!
This time the round of clapping is accented with a few wolf whistles and cat calls as ANGEL EYES
steps onto stage, dressed in a smashing tuxedo and top hat. She positions herself to the side of the
WHITE CURTAIN, next to a pulley, giving the camera a supermodel smile and a wink for good measure.
HOST
Ms. Eyes, the curtain please!
She pulls it back, revealing a pristine BLUE TRUCK. Positioned in the driver’s seat, hands duct-taped
to the wheel, is the headless torso of TACO. The corpse is not rigged very well, and as we watch
it slowly slumps over, its tattered neck smearing blood across the dashboard.
AUDIENCE
AWWW…
HOST
Oh dear! That’s… that’s too bad.
The camera FLASH CUTS to JEFF’S FACE, which bears a disappointed expression, though
his eyes have rolled back again and a thin string of drool is starting to run down his chin.
HOST
Now, now. No crying over spilt prizes!
Let’s see what our winner won! Ms. Eyes, the black curtain if you will?
ANGEL EYES swings her hips over to the BLACK CURTAIN and tugs on the rope mechanism,
revealing FAUSTINA, strapped to a giant wheel. She's been blindfolded and ball-gagged, and is
wearing nought else save a black, pointed cap. The wheel should look familiar to anyone with
knowledge of pre-apocalyptic TV game shows: there's a ring around the edges with pie-piece plates,
which are inscribed with red block-letters. We CUT IN for a closeup of said plates, and see the
characters spell out various instruments and methods of torture. Our camera CUTS TO AUDIENCE again,
as the rabble lets loose a roar of cheers, howls of laughter and more semi-riotous jostling; their
movements becoming increasingly jerky and spastic. JEFF rises from the chair steps towards FAUSTINA,
apparently in some sort of trance-state, the saliva spilling from his slack-jawed mouth starting to
develop a frothy, white appearance.
HOST
Congratulations to our WINNER!
Why don't you give her a spin, son?
JEFF moves forward mechanically, grasps the edge of the wheel with both hands and swings his
arms down hard, sending it and the attached girl into a violent spin. The noise of the crowd shrieking
and jeering becomes painfully loud to the point of being unbearable as the device picks up speed.
Faster, faster, faster...
When I regain consciousness I find myself leaning over the side of Black Betty's bed, dry heaving so hard I can hardly get a breath in. My stomach is on fire, twisting itself apart amid a hot wire tangle of ravaged nerves. For a few agonizing seconds (or maybe years), pain beyond the descriptive prowess of my vocabulary has its way with me; my highly developed brain reduced to sub-animal impulse. I can't think - I can't even blink out an SOS. Then, mercifully, it gradually fades into a deep-bone exhaustion. Whimpering involuntarily, I collapse against the warm metal under the rear window. My eyes focus slowly on the person lying before me, his shirt still sopping wet with blood. It's Jeff, and for a split second he's staring right back at me with those shifting brown/hazel eyes, already conscious again. My hand flies up to my mouth to stifle a high-pitched scream, smacking the smarty bit of the lip I bit earlier. Oh god. How the...?! A tsunami of memory crashes into my fish bowl mind: I tried to save him. His brain had turned against me, though probably on account of perfectly valid, biological motives. Took in a lot more than I expected to, but came back with a few things he definitely didn't want me to know. They were going to do exactly what my better sense had warned me against. And Jeff, that simpering bastard, he was totes going to go right along with it - enjoy it even! Holy poo poo. I really am a freaking lost cause. A dipshit with no self-preservation... Juck was right. God dammit. She was... A heavy jug of water slams into me, knocking the wind right back out again. I hear Knowles apologize in a harried manner that's not like her, which is what finally snaps me into reality: The shroomheads are coming, no doubt drawn in by the virtual firework finale of moronic gunfire. poo poo. Speaking of... I'm short a weapon! Jeff's curled up, not looking at me anymore (which suits me just fine). His glock is resting next to the wheel well where we left it, so I reach for it instinctively. My arm feels like a lead noodle, the firearm a handles like a sack of bricks tied to my wrist and a thick haze of lousy languor is wearing down on me full bear. Everything looks blurry and washed out. If I have to use this... well zombiechrist help us all. Behind me in the cab sits Trudy, who I can only imagine is responsible for saving my rear end. Her face is set with grim determination, but not a single hair looks out of place. Bless that beautiful woman! Hopefully she's got enough fight for the both of us... If anyone's good for making miracles out of clusterfucks it's Trudy-licious. Plus she's got Knowles jumping into shotgun next to her. Now if only this damned ride holds together for the trip... And it better, cause I don't fancy my chances on foot right now. Certainly would mean tough poo poo for Jeff, too. Can't say I'd be inclined to lend a hand after that little freakshow experience. If he makes it back, we'll see happens - just don't have the luxury to worry about him right now. I raise my head as best I can to purvey the scene. Mike, Angel and Juck are already tearing away with the bikers towards the old tracks. We're pretty much on our own save for that strange Deacon guy's troupe of space cadets. The Anathema? Something like that. They might be dead-cannibal chum unless they leave some of their crap behind. They have kids... poo poo. I hope they make it. Waves of fatigue crash against my weary eyelids; letting me know I still haven't fully recovered from the Touch. As I struggle to keep them open, I notice Raj and Sam trying to reach us. I remember hearing she was with child not too long ago. My feeble attempt to motion for them ends up looking more like a shrug. Doing my best to force sound out of my sore throat, I whimper meekly through the rear window at Trudy. “Wait... don't leave Sam...”
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May 7, 2014 05:52
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 As the truck accelerated out of the lot, Juck reflected on the situation as she understood it. Juck had never been accused of being the sharpest spoon in the drawer, but it had been pretty clear that Karen Blackwolf had been trying to goad Juck into some kind of one-on-one trial by combat, the kind of thing that all those Dog Soldier types seemed to have a collective boner for. Karen had obviously had very little trouble incapacitating Dog Head (Juck was going to have to have a word with Dog Head about that one), and the whole "slash the tires on all bikes but one" was a pretty clear message. Thing is, Juck didn't get to where she was by attacking all of her problems directly: she was a staunch believer in the importance of task delegation. One on one, in a quote-unquote fair fight, Blackwolf could kick Juck's rear end, no question. But that's why fair fights were for morons. Getting a ride from Mike was another calculated move; Mike was useful and well-liked, and Karen and whoever she was working with would be unlikely to attack his truck directly. Juck wasn't really sure why "human shield" had such negative connotations attached to it; they sure were useful. And then the truck came to a stop. Jeanette and Juck shared an alarmed glance at one another; if the truck had broken down, this was going to be bad news. But the engine sounded fine, and after a beat Juck realized that Mike had stopped the truck on purpose. Juck rapped on the roof of the truck cab with the butt of her shotgun. "Mike? What are you doing? Mike?" The crusty old fart wasn't listening, and stragglers from the ranch were clambering into the truck with shrooms hot on their heels. This was stupid. They were all going to loving die, ripped apart by goddamn shrooms, all because of some senile old bastard's hero complex. Juck grabbed one of the terrified runners and hauled her by the back of her jacket over the rail of the truck. Juck pounded on the rear window of the truck. "We're full up back here, Mike! Punch it!" That probably wasn't strictly speaking true, but time was of the essence here on any number of fronts, and Juck had zero interest in running some boneheaded rescue operation for bunch of moony ranchhands without the sense to stay behind the loving fences where they belonged. Juck and Jeanette both had their weapons drawn and trained on the advancing shrooms, but neither of them were going to shoot until there were actually shrooms in the truck -- there was no point in attracting more of the fungal bastards, and they certainly weren't going to endanger themselves unnecessarily for the sake of some refugees.
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May 7, 2014 18:02
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Trudy Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Trudy's no mechanic, but Black Betty's engine is making sounds that can only be bad. As much as she'd like to return to the familiarity and relative safety of the university, getting stuck anywhere is a death sentence. The only thing to do right now is head to Big Mike's place and hope he makes it out of his Juck situation. And that they don't hit a land mine. And that the truck is still fixable later. And that the shroomheads don't follow. And that-- "Wait... don't leave Sam..." Trudy turns to see Raj and his wife Sam running full-tilt toward Black Betty. Can they come? Of course! Cartel Saül and his crew are right next to them. They are not Good People. Trudy hopes CS and his crew trip and fall before they make it, but if it's all or none, it's all. When tushes hit the truck bed, she guns it, hoping. Drivin' a Car: 2d6 3 gently caress
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May 7, 2014 23:49
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=4/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 I turn my head to look at Juck. She sees only the mirrored eyes of an insect-like gas-mask. Then I use this moment of stillness while I wait for Angel Eyes to get back with her herd of riders to read the situation. This delay could be deadly if we take the gate. Maybe there's a smarter way to do things. Read a Sitch: 2d6+1 10 Where's my best way past the zombies to get to where we're going? What should I be on the lookout for? Which enemy is the biggest threat?
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May 8, 2014 04:26
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Deacon Barter=4 EXP=2/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Followers: +Augery, -Hunger Deacon's smile widened. His lips opened so wide, in fact, that it may have been a grimace. "I see," he said, his voice hushed but somehow carrying out to the assembled crowd. "I guess I'd expected you to be a little more informed about your own teachings," he said, a little louder. Chung's face was beet red. His eyes widened, and spit flew from his lips. "What? WHAT? How dare you.." "'But when they persisted in asking Him, He straightened up, and said to them, "He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone."'," Deacon said, cutting him off. "John, 8:7. There's also a whole bunch of stuff about hospitality laws and bearing false witness against your neighbor, but you know that. The point, Brother Chung, is that you're accusing me of all the things that you yourself are guilty of." Chung looked like he was about to say something, but Deacon strode forward suddenly, arms outraised, his voice nearly a shout "You say that I'm a false prophet, that I manipulate people. Fine. What if I am? What have I preached then? Nothing more than peace. Nothing more than hope for those left behind, and mercy for those that have passed on. What miracles have I performed? Merely keeping my flock safe for more than ten years." "Can you say that? If you did, would any of you all believe it?" he said, turning now to the audience. "Chung's gospel is the gospel of death!. It isn't in his holy book, but he preaches it just the same! He turns you against your neighbors, divides the world into those who are pure and those that are not. What does he call you to do? Put down the sinners! Risk your lives only to kill more! Fah! What hope does that offer you? If he accomplishes his dark crusade, what then? I seek to lead my people to peace, but where does Chung lead? He says he leads you to salvation but what he leads you to..." Deacon turned, pointing toward the fence. They were there, of course, just starting to throw themselves against the wire, just beginning to pile up in numbers too great for the sentries to take down. They were there. Of course they were there. Deacon could sense them, even before he heard the screams. It was like cobwebs brushing against his eyeballs, like pressure in his teeth, like a low buzzing of insects that he somehow felt instead of heard. Of course. "... is that," he concluded. "Whatever. It seems our time is up," Deacon said. "Follow Chung if you believe he knows what's best for you. Unlike some, I won't tell you what you should think. No matter what, we Anathemata will survive. We always have. We always will." His cultists were already packing up as he strode back, putting things in boxes and lashing things to bikes. "Leave it," he said. "Only what you can carry! We'll come back for everything if this place isn't completely overrun! Cuff, can you carry that buck?" The one-armed tough nodded, hefting it onto his shoulders as he got on his bike. "Right. Don't turn back for anything. Meet up at camp if we get separated. Wednesday's Child, follow close to me!" Read a Charged Situation: 2d6+1 7 What's the best escape route? Baby Babbeh fucked around with this message at 04:38 on May 8, 2014 |
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May 8, 2014 04:36
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Angel Eyes, Lace makes it in, running like his life depends on it, and then collapses on the seat, gasping. Not just for breath - he's in good shape, but it looks like he's in a lot of pain. His teeth are clenched, his legs are quivering, and he has the hissing-between-his-teeth tone of someone who's trying not to scream. "You're my fuckin' hero," he says, then sobs, "My f-feet are still all f-hosed up from.. F-f-frog." He gulps. "I don't think I would'a made it on foot." If anyone cares to look down, yeah, his feet are swollen as hell. Broken bones? Must've felt like broken glass to run on. He leans back in the seat and groans. "Thank god for you too, Mike," he says, "Both of you." Lace gets in, Juck helps Jasmine scramble up into the bed (which is getting pretty cozy, along with all the tools and poo poo) then gives the go-ahead. Kid named Ben lunges at the side and pulls himself up, too, panting and grinning. Curt and a few others get left behind. Curt says, "gently caress," all lackluster like he expected it, takes a quick look around, then runs in another direction. They'll probably be fine. The sort of people who can't get away from an obvious swarm when they've got a big head start and a nice fence in the way mostly died out years ago. Jasmine looks to the swarm with some alarm, and asks, "Wait, why the hell are you going this way?" Ben asks if he can use one of your guns. To help, with the zombies. He's like fourteen, for reference, and Jeanette has a spare. Mr. Prokosch posted:Where's my best way past the zombies to get to where we're going? 1) The best way is to get gone before they get in your way. You notice that a bunch of them are fixated on you - maybe the truck's engine noise caught their attention. They're not smart enough to go toward the gate except by accident. If you veer away from your destination and then curve towards it, they'll move toward you instead of where you're going, and you can buy yourself a little extra breathing room. 2) Getting too sentimental or too greedy. So far, you haven't screwed up too bad on either account. Far as the threats go, there's nothing else hidden to notice. 3) The zombies, you can deal with. You're in a truck and you're halfway gone already; like the old saying, you don't need to outrun the bear, you just need to outrun the other guy. The biggest threat's going to be that enemy of Juck's who's probably planning an ambush. You've seen enough bullet-riddled car husks to know how little 'innocent bystander' status counts for, once the shooting starts. Or, if not them, possibly Juck herself. That's not up to me, but it could end up true. Now that the flailing horde of screaming monstrosities has had time to filter out from the tree line, a quick and dirty ballpark head-count puts them at a hundred. So, about a minute and a couple hundred yards of bumpy dirt road later, Big Mike's truck is at the gate. Some of them have pronounced, colorful blooms and mats coming out of their faces, signs of old growth. The leading edge of the Frothing Horde is close enough that you could chuck a rock at them, but not so close that you could aim it. Some of the most obvious options are, you can stop the truck to have someone get out and open it. They'd be acting under fire, but that +1 from Mike's Sharp maneuvering would apply. Big Mike can just ram through the gate. You're already at speed, and you're positive your truck could win that contest. You wouldn't even need to roll - there'd just be a lot of dents to buff out later. And the gate would be smashed, letting the situation back inside the fence deteriorate a little faster. ~ Deacon, for a moment, you think that piling in the back of that black pickup truck might be a quick and easy way out. Then you hear the engine start, and realize it would not. Nah. The best escape route is out the east gate. Most of the people gathered at the ranch are heading 6:00 from the oncoming swarm, hopping the fence. They're going to cross the muddy, poo poo-choked creak and then head up a hill. The east gate, at 4:00, leads to a smooth (for a) dirt road with open lines of sight so you can see exactly what's following you or what you're about to run into. A calm, smaller group will draw less attention from the spore. Chung's jaw tightens, and clearly he's calculating some bile-filled retort, but debate time ends as soon as incoming horde time starts. He says, "Then survive in the shadows! We will live in the light!" but you don't need to stick around and listen to that. He sounds the battle cry, "Join me in the chapel, we'll make a stand there!" He's referring to the barn. It does have an up-stairs plank-space out of the biters' reach, so it's not a completely idiotic idea. He goes on about how, "We do have the power to move mountains, but we must chisel them away," &c. While you're leaving, two bystanders make as if to follow you. Nancy, one of the milder church-goers, and Bruce, some transient passer-through. They're not together or anything, they just had the same idea at the same time. Nancy sounds nervous as hell when she asks, "Um, excuse me, Deacon? Would you mind if I tagged along with your c-ongregation?" Bruce adds, "Uh, can I throw in on this, too?" They've both got backpacks, presumably with some of their own supplies, and Bruce has a gun on his belt. Whether or not you let them come, coordinating your group to bring and leave all the right things and then make an orderly exit will be acting under fire. ~ Faustina, that weird echo of a dream reminds Jeff of one time, years ago, when Taco and Carl went through the gigantic hassle of hooking up a whole TV-VCR system and showing him some classic teevee shows from the way-before time. Bob Barker, they told him, was 'the motherfuckin' poo poo.' It seemed so glitzy. The people were so fat and petty, so greedy about things that weren't even useful. But their joy in it was so raw and genuine - Jeff found himself cheering along with the crowd without really knowing why, his brother smiling all nostalgically, and... And... Where did that come from? Jeff, you simpering bastard, you were totes going to go right along with it. What? N...no... Goddamn I didn't want that to happen. I was SO RELIEVED when he brought that hard-rear end Angel over, she would scare him straight and I wouldn't need to stand up to him. Why can't I believe I would've stood up to him anyways? (because it's TERRIFYING and you owe [owed  ] him too much to deserve to disagree)God bless that beautiful, Trudy-licious woman. And Knowles, she's so... when did I learn her name? Jeff finally looks at you, eyebrows locked in a dismayed furrow, mouth slightly open like he's getting ready to say something but doesn't know what. Are you in my head? (Yes.) JESUSFUCKINGCHRIST noooo oh my god no. You feel that he has a brief but sincere urge to shove his pistol into his mouth. Then he realizes he's not dead. He feels his belly, wound closed. Did I just come out of a coma? No, it's still sticky-hot with blood. What the gently caress? He presses on your mind - not really planning to, but one thought begets another, sensations tie to memories, memories are chained to others, all those thoughts bouncing off each other and snowballing - and sees what you saw a minute ago, healing him with a Touch. His eyes get wide, and he whispers, "What are you?" Trudy, Betty groans and rattles, but she starts. The normal engine vibration is ragged and intense, like something is off-balance in there, and the cam is tapping like it has something to prove, but she moves. Saul and his gun-lugging goons are the first on to the truck. Saul smiles affably, through his thick black goatee, shoves some of Knowles's poo poo aside to give himself a place to sit, sets down his massively over-stuffed pack, and then rests against the side wall. The handle of his shoulder-slung assault rifle sits on his paunch. He taps the cabin's rear window and says, "Thanks for driving! Out the east gate, then take the second right." Knowles turns around with a glare. Saul's eyes flick down to his rifle, then back up to her. He keeps smiling. Knowles faces frontwards. She mutters, "Goddamnit," and sighs between her teeth. "If all they want is a ride... fine. Going aggro on these pricks is more trouble than it's worth." Raj and Sam aren't far behind, and Saul's buddy Omar actually gives Sam a hand to help her up, not that she needs it. They say thanks. Sam winces when she sees Faustina - she pulls a jug aside and makes room to sit down next to her, and gives her hand a soft squeeze. "Hey. You doing alright, hon?" East gate was where you were headed first off, anyways. Betty grinds her way over fifty-something yards of dirt, and you can feel her accelerating slower than usual. Raj hops out of the truck to drag the gate open, with a white-knuckled grip and some grunts of exertion that are drowned out by the creaks of iron and rust. You push the pedal down for one more second, and then Betty grinds (not metaphorically) to a halt. There's one last *pop pop pop BANG* as some small, vital part of the engine punctures a hole through the hood and flies off to places unknown. So. The truck is dead half-way through an open gate. Between the motion and the engine's noisy death throes, a small gang of biters ('bout fifteen) from the swarm have turned their heads and are now heading directly and intentionally for you, around the curve of the fence. They are running full-tilt and screaming their throats raw. Saul and his guards waste no time in skipping out, ditching the truck and making to run around the curve of the fence away from the swarm. Saul left his pack. They appear to have no interest whatsoever in helping you. What do you do? ~ Deacon again, thanks to a dead pickup truck and some fresh attention, the east gate is now a slightly less-optimal path. Although if those chucklefucks and their lovely vehicle keep making noise and drawing attention, they could serve as bait for you and yours to get away easy. Darryl shows back up, with a huge smile and a weird looking axe in hand. "Deacon! Check this out!" he shows you the blade, brimming with pride, "It's one of those Finnish designs! I didn't think any of these made it to the states! See, it looks like the blade is uneven and off-balance. What the hell, right? But that's on purpose! See, they refined the hell out of this, it's so that as soon as it hits something and wedges in, the weight imbalance pushes sideways and adds a shitload of torque to it. Like a, like a crowbar motion. It's loving amazing for splitting wood. Or whatever." He frowns, "I guess we're taking the easy way out now, huh?" A quick head-count of the pale fungaloids thrashing at the fence suggests that there is a very real chance that this place is going to get overrun in a serious way. Expecting to be able to come back for anything is always a gamble that someone else won't beat you to it, but the odds are slimmer now. What do you do? StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 14:42 on May 9, 2014 |
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May 8, 2014 22:35
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I slow down the truck. Wouldn't want to steal this opportunity from the adrenaline junky. "Angel Eyes, would you please get the gate?"
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May 9, 2014 00:09
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I popped the door and smashed one of the horde's vanguard in the face as Mike slowed the truck. Grabbing my blade from the dash, I slid back out and apprised the situation. Biggest horde I had seen in a while and I didn't have nearly enough bullets for it. Even just the bunch in the immediate area was pushing it, and they could close the gap faster then I could reload. C'est la vie. "Lace." I slammed the door shut and stuck my head in the window. "Give me your hand." He gave me a confused look, but obeyed. I grabbed his wrist and slapped my revolver into his palm. "It'll kick like a mule so hold it with both hands. And don't miss." If Ben had anything to say about that, I didn't hear it. I turned away and drew my sword. In a blink I was sprinting headlong towards our exit, lopping off any grasping hands and opening the stomachs of the shrooms in my way. I didn't have the time to actually kill them, but that should slow them down. As I came up to the front of the gate, I wound up face to face with one as it clumsily attempted to climb over the obstruction. Despite the years that had gone by, some tattered rags remained on its form. Judging by the veil over the face and the ratty, mud-caked train, some poor woman had had the shittiest wedding in history. Coming in low, I rose up with a pommel smash to the jaw. As she reeled back, I whipped the blade out and sent her head arcing backwards. The body continued to climb for a few brief seconds before realizing it was dead, then collapsed into a heap. As quick as they could run, the infected were not so hot in the reflexes department. They were having trouble pinpointing where I'd ended up, and some seemed more interested in the truck. Taking that brief opportunity, I hopped the fence and hauled on it with everything I had. It resisted, briefly, before it finally began to give with an almighty shriek. Act Under Fire. (roll +cool) 2d6+4=10 +1 from Mike knowing what he's doing. Thanks, Mike!
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May 9, 2014 01:42
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The gate really needs some oil on its rusted bearings. But Angel Eyes is slick enough that it isn't an issue. She kicks a little rear end, the truck gets through, and you can even shut the gate behind you, no sweat. Still going to drive where Juck asked, alongside the railway?
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May 9, 2014 05:42
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=4/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 Once Angel Eyes is back I drive a little ways to "safety", lean out the window, and speak to the crowd in the back. I pull up my mask and suddenly I'm an affable if quirky old man again. "Quite a crowd back there. If you want to jump ship, now's the time. I very strongly encourage you to leave at this juncture. Juck here is rather insistent that I take her to what will almost certainly become a rather heated battlefield. I cannot guarantee you won't be gunned down in the crossfire if you come alone. If you still want to stay, I'll drive you home after, assuming I'm still breathing. You're welcome to hide under the tarp below the bed here and hope they don't have heavy weaponry." I turn back to the front with Lace and Angel Eyes, "It's probably safer if Lace sticks with us with those legs. Better to sit in a truck through the firefight than limp around the woods with a horde nearby. Just stay low in here and try not to catch a bullet. That's my plan." After the drop-off I put my mask back on proper and drive around the rails, carefully looking for an ambush. I look so hard the world gets hazy, my breathing gets hard, and the rails move underneath me like snakes. I can almost see them, the hostile eyes watching me from afar... Opening my brain to the Psychic Maelstrom, trying to foresee the bullshit I'm about to drive into... possibly crashing into a tree. Open Your Brain: 2d6+2 5 It's not my fault, the MC told me to do it!
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May 9, 2014 06:13
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Deacon Barter=4 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Followers: +Augery, -Hunger Deacon clapped both of the new recruits on the back in a friendly manner, seemingly unphased by the chaos happening around him. The man... the one who looked like he had been eyeing the pamphlets earlier. Now that Deacon had a chance to get a good look at him, recognition dawned. He didn't just look like Bruce Willis, he WAS Bruce Willis. Only, like, in disguise. It was a pretty good one too -- subtle details were wrong. His eyes were a different color, for example and those eyebrows! Entirely wrong. Way too bushy! Bruce Willis didn't have a unibrow. He'd even changed the shape of the chin. How did he manage that, Deacon wondered? He knew better than to ask. If Bruce Willis wanted to stay in disguise than he probable had his reasons. It would be rude to ask. The girl... What was her name? Nancy? He'd never spoken to her but he'd heard the other parishioners call her that. A shy girl, he got the sense, which meant this took real courage for her. Congratulate her on that later, he thought. Call her brave so that the group will see her has brave. Have the group see her as brave so that she'll see herself as brave. The group worked best when each person filled an epistemological niche. The people worked best in the group when you focused them on the niche, when you ground away all their rough edges and left them shiny and smooth. Like the kind of glass you'd find on the beach, for example -- a bit of broken bottle tossed and honed by the waves, until it was a jewel, reflecting the sky. The sky. It was so bright. What was he thinking about? The keening of the infected was so loud. It was a single tortured note no living human could long sustain without ruining their vocal cords, it was like, what? A piano? It was a badly tuned piano played mindlessly as a percussion instrument, that one mangled chord, until the fingers began to bleed a little. That note. It resonated off the bones in Deacon's jaw. He'd hear it, he knew, even if he were to plug up his ears with his thumbs. He'd hear it, it was in his skull, he'd hear it, it was part of him. "Of course!" he said to the two of them. "We don't turn away none that don't turn us away. Normally I'd welcome you to the group, tell you a bit about our beliefs, ask you about yourselves, make you welcome, be polite, but! Well, we're in a bit of a hurry. If you don't have bikes you can ride on our pegs. Bru... uh, you, guy. You can ride with Lemur. Nancy, please ride with Darryl. Don't worry, honey, he's a gentleman." "Right," Darryl said. He had a little candle light inside his head and the light kind of shone out when he spoke. He didn't know that, of course. "Don't worry. I'll keep you safe. Just hang on tight if a Wailer gets close, wouldn't want to throw you off when I swing at it. I can't wait to try this thing!" "I think you'll get your chance," Deacon said. "East gate's the best bet but that big black cockroach over there is blocking it. Think it's dead though, so we don't have to worry about that at least. But all that noise is bound to draw the Wailers, and it'll cost us time getting through. We may have to fight our way through if we aren't fast enough." "Alright everyone! Let's move!" Open Your Brain!!: 2d6+3 10 Acting under fire and the fire is: Do Deacon and his group get away without complication?!: 2d6 3 Nope! Baby Babbeh fucked around with this message at 07:00 on May 9, 2014 |
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May 9, 2014 06:28
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Barter=1 | Exp=3/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise Jeff-Brain posted:"What are you?" Right now? I'm freaking exhausted. Oh and you can get outta my head anytime, thanks. I'm never gonna get used to this weird Touch crap. Don't remember having the capacity to do my hands-thing (whatever it is) before Spore-Day. My father had been letting me read his books and teaching me things about medicine from a very early age, though. Lucius was a 2nd-generation Swedish immigrant, whose parents were also practitioners. They'd had to fight hard to carve out a place for themselves in the States, and their struggle instilled a sense of discipline in him. It wasn't long before he became one of the top surgeons in his specialty, going on to have a very lucrative career, which ensured my placement in the most prestigious, advanced academies for pre-highscool studies (where I took specialized courses focused on science and chemistry); and later science-based summer camps (which I was attending when the spore-poo poo exploded). My mother, Eva, was a French prima ballerina, whom my father had met on one of his lavish trips to Europe. She'd tried to drill me at dance; but though I have her looks, I've got my daddy's brains. To her chagrin, my interests were ground in academia, not twirly stuff. Might have even followed in his footsteps – by age nine I could already average scores over 1300 on the SAT. But then the Infection swallowed up those halcyon days, along with any hopes I might have had to impress them. At this moment, the only hope I have is that Jeff was the sole person besides Alpha Phi and Trudy who saw me, but I don't even have the time to worry about that. A veritable horde is fast approaching, shrieking their god-awful, thirsty wails at the skies. The inhuman screams have a way of piercing through your skull like an electric drill, a sensation made doubly jarring by my weakened psyche. Clamping my hands over my ears, I grimace at Jeff, loading the expression with plenty of STFU! As much as I'd like to give him a piece of my mind (figuratively), getting the hell outta K-Scratch is first on my list. Raj and Sam manage to hop in, along with Seedy Saul, his right hand Omar and some random dudes I don't know (probably just bullet-catchers for jerkoff). Sam's been by the college a few times: when she got preggers (word had gotten out that I'd successfully assisted delivery a few times); then again before and after her first trimester. We normally only get three kinds of traffic: bio-diesel buyers; injured idiots; and even dumber creeps who think we're ripe for the taking. Aguilera typically handles the latter pretty quickly. Sam's baby daddy had been one of those leathernecks from the 82nd. At first she wouldn't tell me where the abrasions came from, but I knew. After a bit of prodding, she finally opened up about his abusive bullshit, and I managed to convince her to dump him for the baby's sake. Raj came into the picture about a month later and put an end to Major Rich's stalking. (You can probably suss out our nick for the pseudo-military turd.) I guess you could say she and I are friends, though I try to keep the relationship mostly professional, because well... considering she'll likely be putting her life in my hands soon... it's just better that way. Unfortunately, my involvement probably means we haven't seen the last of Major Dick and his camo-tards. Squeezing her hand back, I put on a brave smile. “It's alright, it's just a bruise, and I'm a little shaken is all. Don't worry, we should make it back to-” *pop-pop-pop-BANG* ooooohhhhhh gently caress. Yeah. Hold that thought. “poo poo! Trudy, tell me that's not what I think it was.” It was. And suddenly we've got a herd of Bloomers peeling off from the main lot and tear-assing right for us. Over a dozen fungus-ridden, pustulated ex-humans with nothing running though their lizard brains except an insatiable taste for rending living flesh. Right on queue, the scumbags we picked up hop over the sides and split for the nearest exit – no surprise there, really. In his haste though, Saul forgets his pack, which looks like it might be bulging with just the sort of thing we came for: ammo and water. That's gonna do three dead women a whole world of good! What the hell are we gonna do?! I'm already spent... We gotta book it quick, and I don't think I'm up to the task. Jeff definitely isn't sprinting anywhere (in some sick, deluded corner of my mind I kinda feel responsible for him, even if he's a monster like his brother was). And I can't ask Raj to help carry me along, he's got Sam to look after. Trudy and Knowles are gonna have to be lugging whatever supplies they can manage, as well as blasting a path through fields of riled-up zombie-things. It's hopeless. Might as well punch our own ticket and save the others some trouble. ...then I feel Sam's fingers tighten over mine, so hard it snaps me out of panic-mode. She's scared, but not just for herself – her vice grip has that raw, desperate strength of a protective mother. There's not much left in this world worth fighting for, but I have a soft spot for children. Even un-born ones. The skin at the back of my neck prickles and another option surfaces: hold them off until folks can escape. gently caress me. I'm not long for this world, that's for sure. Was always going to be bandits or zombies, anyways. Not too many Mikes out there anymore. Oh well... young blood runs quicker. Grabbing hold of the rear window ledge, I push myself up on unsteady knees. “Give Saul's pack to Raj and haul rear end with him to the college, okay? Don't look back. Remember: Deliveries are easy. Just make sure you have lots of hot water, plenty of clean towels and breathe like I showed you. You're healthy; stay that way and you'll be a very happy Mommy in about six months.” I wink at Sam and pull away before she can stop me, swinging over the side and plopping down onto the crisp grass. Immediately I stagger, almost tripping over my own feet before I grab hold of the bumper for support. Doubled over, I look up at Raj (who's still got a deathgrip on the gate, gawking wide-eyed at the encroaching shroomheads) and snap my fingers loudly, “Hey! Get her out of here!” A moment passes and my legs realize that yes I'm really gonna do this. They hold me up. I holler at Knowles and Trudy over the insufferable cries of the Screamers, "GET OUR poo poo, THEN GET MY BACK!" Then my arms make it up to eye level and I'm staring down the sights of Jeff's compact .45, sucking in my breath as best I can, making a little snowman of the beads and squaring them right under the fugly faces of these mutated motherfuckers. I don't hear you now! I won't listen!! A culmination of idiocy (SBF): 2d6-1 3  hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 14:00 on May 10, 2014 |
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May 9, 2014 10:36
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Big Mike, Jasmine's face goes from confused to scared after a quick sidelong glance at Juck. She thanks you for the ride, hops out, and runs for the far tree line. Lace gives you a pained grin, "I'm good with that. Hey, anything - anything - I can do to help, just let me know." Dog-Head is apparently conscious again. He clutches the bloody tear of meat that's left of his ear, and screams, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" Jeanette tells him to suck it up and stop whining, he tells her to go gently caress herself, that goes back and forth some more. They're friends. ~ Mike. Sometimes, when you open your mind, you can foresee the bullshit you're about to drive into. And sometimes, the bullshit you're about to drive into foresees you.  You hear a dog barking furiously, like you've just trespassed in its back yard. It's not a warning, it's an alarm. ~ You drive for a little while - over some hills, through the cracked mud of a dried-up creek bed where the tiny, barely-a-bridge has collapsed, and come to a sharp bend in the road. Looks something like this,  -except when you round the corner, Karen Blackwolf is waiting for you. She's resting on her tricked-out chopper, Leaping Wolf & Crescent Moon decal gleaming on the side, one foot on the ground. On her shoulder, a rocket launcher. Big green metal tube, polished and dazzling in the sunlight, with a big blowback-shield and sight for her face. She's wearing a fringed leather jacket, sunglasses, eagle feather on her ear, and a grim little gently caress you smirk. She doesn't hesitate. While she's pulling it up and correcting her aim for center-mass on the truck, she reflects that, it's too bad about everyone else in the truck. Nothing to be done for it, though - when that bitch Juck takes a hostage, they're as good as dead already. There's a sound like *FWHOOOOSH* and a blast of flame and smoke behind her as she pulls the trigger. What do you do? StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 04:57 on May 10, 2014 |
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May 10, 2014 03:01
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Big Mike Barter=3 EXP=0 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 Called it! But not the rocket launcher. If that drat woman had just listened and taken bikes, they wouldn't all be sitting ducks in the back of my big old shining target of a truck. Well, no time for those lamentations now. With surprising reflexes for an old man, I step on the gas and jerk the steering wheel. The only way to avoid the blast radius is to use the momentum I already have. What I'm asking the old truck to do is mad, but this is a mad world. I feel like I'm the truck, and the truck is me. I can see the narrow path I must weave, if I'm going to drive out of this alive. Act under fire: 2d6+3 10 And I follow it with psychic perfection. With a burst of speed and a screech of tires, the truck passes by the rocket with only inches to spare and barrels towards the attackers at full speed. There's a massive explosion behind us, the shrapnel just barely missing the crowded bed of the vehicle. Big Mike’s Tow Truck Power +2, Looks +1, 1 armor, weakness+1 Vintage Truck, rugged, uncomplaining Weakness: Loud (apparently)
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May 10, 2014 05:21
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