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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 Taking down the mask out of politeness, I lean out the window. Faustina! Great to see you! I was a bit worried, leaving you with Old Betty being so ill. I take it she didn't go very far? Oh well, if it can't be fixed it can be remade. I'll make sure you get a working set of wheels soon. Need a ride? If so I'd appreciate you keeping the folks in the back breathing. He beckons her closer and lowers his voice, keeping this part of the conversation private, "Between you and me, their lives aren't... ah, top shelf. But people are people and there ain't enough of us left to quibble over a few thousand past sins. Besides, it'll be a gold star for you with this pack of murderous psychopaths. Juck's in the back, and this may seem like a strange thing to say, but if she didn't have such a soft spot for you we'd both be dead by now. You let Juck die, the pack fights for leader. They'll turn dumber and meaner and burn more bridges. Would turn into war with the Uni before the year's out, I can guarantee it. These old eyes are sharper than you think." Sometimes I wonder why I say these things. Why I do these things. My dreams, they get stranger every night. In my dreams there's a path, a golden path, a path to a better world. Light dances, and machines whirl, and all voices sing as one. I get these impressions... Maybe my instincts have just gotten sharper over the years. I just know that every little thing matters now, everything I do can make the world better or worse in a big way. I won't live to see the effects of everything I put into motion. That's why people like Faustina matter. She's smart, and she's young, and she's important somehow. By murdering Taco, Juck set us off the tracks. Faustina was supposed to learn something important, but now she learned something else. But there's always another chance.
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May 18, 2014 02:35
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I leaned back, resting my arms on the rail as Mike and Faustina chatted. I couldn't shake this odd feeling of deja vu. Someone gave me trouble and I handled it. I set off to find Juck, found Mike instead. Faustina shows up, and now I have to deal with infected. It's like I'd just done this half an hour ago. I let out a hoarse, quiet laugh to the sky. I'd been spending too much time on my own recently. Starting to go a little stir crazy. Glancing back down, I gave Juck a brief once over. She was messed up, but nothing she couldn't bounce back from. I'd hate to be Blackwolf when she got back on her feet. If Juck was anything like me, this setback would just make her that much meaner. "How you doing, Juck? I have to admit. That stunt back there with Blackwolf was impressive, if not particularly effective. You should get a sidecar for your bike. You know, to carry your enormous balls."
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May 18, 2014 03:10
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 Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle I follow Mike’s eyes back to the bed of his truck, which already has about an inch of blood sloshing through little tributaries of creased blue metal. Dark puddles collect near the rear at the tail gate, while excess volume seeps out over the bumper and pools in the dirt below. The more chewed-up members of the biker outfit have been chucked back there it seems, Juck included. The leader of the pack (who mere hours ago seemed so fearsome and untouchable) looks like someone tried to grate her face over a salad. Her arm, once so lean and strong-looking, is in ribbons, hanging limply at her side. From what I can see it’s been mangled by several punctures and deep lacerations. Tendons can be remarkably pliable, but she’s likely facing irreparable nerve damage. It’s not unsalvageable, but it needs attention immediately. Another of her guys Dog Head? How do I know his name… is missing most of his ear – also a case where treatment against infection could spell the difference between minor disfigurement or complete hearing loss. Another lady Jean.. or Jane something got the worst of it, though. It’s hard to tell without removing some clothing, but it appears she’s sustained multiple gunshot wounds, and is probably responsible for turning Baby Blue’s bed into a sticky punch bowl. That’s a lot of freaking blood. She’s gonna die soon. There might not be much we can do except… Also among them sits Angel Eyes, that creepily unflappable model-cum-killer (or whatever she is). Out of all the cutthroats on parade here she unsettles me the most. Her perfect bone structure, perfect figure perfectly filling that ahh-maze-ing outfit!, her calculated, deadly smile – she’d look far more convincing as a pageant contestant than an ice-cold hit-woman. How do you look like that and just bounce carelessly between savage groups of thugs like these? It seemed highly implausible, and yet here she was, like some character straight out of a comic book. More than that though, I just have this awful sensation whenever I see her; this uncanny sense of dread. It’s hard to describe: Like two magnetized objects passing in the night, just shy of a dipole-esque particle spin. A few unsettled electrons swapping places; a pair of blind partners performing a brief two-step without touching, then being whisked away into the crowds again unawares. Mike’s weathered face looks back at me earnestly. Those are some hard lines he’s earned, and my rational side suggests I’d do well to head his advice. There’s something funny about him as well, though not quite in the same way. You felt like you could trust the man implicitly, and that’s something I couldn’t say about anyone else I knew, save possibly Trudy. The Big Man was like, literally never wrong either, so there’s that as well. Regardless of these facts, I’m emotionally torn. The ‘doctor’ part of me is already analyzing the scene, working out the most effective procedures and orders of operation, but… They killed Quincy. I’m not certain how it happened, I wasn’t there. Bystanders confirmed the round had come from her troupe of wolves, but no one knew who shot or why. Maybe they were trying to hit someone else. Maybe there’s more to the story than what I’ve heard. Or maybe they’re actually just scum-of-the-earth road dogs who couldn’t give a gently caress less who they put down. She had been right about Taco. She might have saved me from an unspeakable fate. …Whatever. She might have tried the same thing if she’d thought of it first. But she… has a ‘soft spot’ for me? Where the hell did Mike get that from? Absently rubbing at my bruised neck, I shy away from Partridge’s glare. “Alright, Mike. If you’ll take us back to Appleworth I’ll see what I can do for your cargo.” I keep my eyes trained on the mechanic’s, but let my voice carry loud enough for the ravaged rat pack to hear. “I’ll need whatever medical supplies they have up front. After that, we could use some of their ammo, whatever caliber will fit what we have. Knowles can sort that out along with the rest of our standard fee when we get back. They need to make up their minds quickly, though. Some folks back there don’t have much time for debate.” I’m familiar with their makeshift-medic, Dez. He’s got his own kit that he lugs around, but looking at the damage we’re dealing with he’s well out of his depth here. My own supplies are already starting to dwindle thanks to the consequences of this little hosed up field trip. Lastly, I turn to Angel Eyes. She got Mike through what looks like a drat rough scrape. If we’re going to be housing these sociopaths… some additional protection might be a wise move. Even if she creeps me out. There’s no time to give it much thought, so I hope I’m making the right decision. There’s never enough time when you need it. gently caress it. It’s probably trouble either way. Here we go again! “Hey, ‘Angel’? If you’re not busy… I mean… I don’t have much, but you look like someone who cares about their appearance? If you’ll… uhm… stick around? I can make it worth your while. Does that sound, okay?” No, it sounded awkward as hell. * * * [I’m asking for 1-barter up front from Dez’s med kit, which I’ll automatically convert to 2-Angel kit stock per the rules. If they agree, I’ll want an additional 1-barter as payment for services rendered, which can be settled next session if need be! MC, please let me know if the situation warrants a Manipulate roll. (It’s a pretty dire bargain, so I’m not sure.) Also offering Angel Eyes my 1-barter of ~fancy scented soap~ to play bodyguard/babysitter again.]
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May 18, 2014 18:18
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I lazily slid my eyes towards Faustina as she caught my attention. An amusing woman. Ready to have at it when she thought I was threatening Perry, shy as a wedding night virgin when she needed my help. Had to wonder which was closer to the real Faustina. "Things are up in the air at the moment, but I'll tell you what. If this," I waved in a general way at the assembled maniacs and the ranch in the distance, "works out, and no paradigm-shattering revelations occur in the meantime, I'll take you up on the offer. In return, you help out my boy Lace. His feet are all messed up." I turned away, looking up at the sky for a moment. I loved watching the sky. Day or night, sunny or stormy. In spite of all the horror the world had seen since mankind had first started walking upright, the sky was still clear and beautiful. It has no memory and it doesn't judge. It just is. Like me. I returned my attention to the good doctor. I was feeling saucy and magnanimous, so why not up the stakes? "Add some makeup and that fancy soap of yours as well, and I'll make it worth your while." I held up a gloved finger. "One wish, and it's yours."
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May 18, 2014 19:24
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Juck Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=Dazed,Stabbed | Fatigue=0:00 StringOfLetters posted:Juck. Juck is deep in the K-hole, floating above her own body in the back of Mike's truck. She sees the activity all around her, but there are gossamer threadlike structures connecting everyone, extending outwards from the crowd, and these threads move in and out of all the bodies. She can see the zombies in the lot of the ranch, and the threads reach to these bodies too, and Juck understands that these threads are the real body of the giant fungus, that everyone is touched by this thing, controlled to some extent by it. If Juck had ever had a biology class, and if she had actually attended that class, and also paid attention (so, like, zero chance of this), she would have noted some similarities between the threadlike structures she was seeing in her vision and the hyphal structures of fungi, and she might have possibly noted the similarities between how those hyphal structures culminated in human bodies and how fruiting bodies were formed in ascomycete fungi. But instead, Juck merely saw a net, connecting all of them together, and the threads pulled on them like puppet strings. There was no such thing as resistance to the spores. Everyone was infected, everyone was controlled, everyone behaved according to the strange whims of this collective fungal mass. And from Juck's position, floating above it all and separate, it was like she could see tension and slack propagating through the net, she could see the descending commands from the fungus before they reached the StringOfLetters posted:
Partridge rounded the crest of the hill first and immediately hit the brakes. There were a lot more of the shroomers than he'd expected. He held up a fist, signalling everyone to kill their bikes, and the convoy came to a smokey halt. Grillcheese walked over and joined Partridge at the top. "gently caress me, that's a lot of shrooms." This was suicide, plain and simple. Partridge knew the future of the gang, and his future tied up in the gang, depended on getting Juck help, but even if Mike's medic friend was still alive down in there (doubtful), there was no way they were going to take back the ranch without huge losses, assuming that they wouldn't just all get completely shredded. He could see the truck the college folks had taken, broken down in the middle of the lot, surrounded on all sides. The occupants had to be dead, there was no way the shrooms would just ignore them. This was all going loving terribly. And then Mike's friends just sauntered out of the woods, with hardly a scratch on them, and Mike was giving them a big old friendly hello like this poo poo was just normal or something. Partridge pinched his brow. "Well, that's convenient." The medic, Faustina, seemed to know her poo poo, at least a fair sight better than Dez, but it's not like that was saying a whole hell of a lot. Like any good doc, she was going to gouge them on the price, but it's not like they had much choice here. Thing is, they had some good haul from the morning, enough to cover her medical supplies but not the kind of ammo they wanted Spending 1-barter from the morning's robbery haul to cover Faustina's supplies. "How about this, Faustina -- you fix up our folks, and we'll owe you a solid favor. We don't use that fancy ammo you want, but I know some folks with similar tastes; I'm sure if we asked them politely they'd be happy to donate their goods to your cause. Deal?" Offering Chopper violence services at the going rate of 1-barter
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May 18, 2014 19:47
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Trudy Barter=1 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "Miss Eyes, there's more girly goodies for you back at campus than you could shake your gun at, if you'll just help keep us all safe," Trudy says. Over the years she's scrounged more than any single woman could ever wear in her life--although some of the girls have joked that she's trying anyway, the way she cakes it on. Trudy turns to Big Mike. "Let's all keep together until we get back to campus. Once we're there, and behind the barricades, it'll be a lot easier to get everything, and everyone," she says, nodding her head at the bloody meat circus in the back of Mike's truck, "cleaned up."
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May 18, 2014 21:30
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle What, now she's some sort of genie? This morning I never would have seen myself asking someone as brash and careless with violence for help, but there it was. Right now, my wish is that I'd begged Spears or Stefani go on this trip in my place. But in this explosive, shattered civilization there's really only one constant you can factor in with any certainty – as Knowles often puts it: “poo poo gon' happen.” Perhaps in light of recent scrapes, building professional relationships with these salt-of-the-earth muscle-types (or at least non-torture-loving-sadist muscle that would honor mutually beneficial business dealings) wasn't such a horrible idea after all. So yeah. Welcome aboard Angel Eyes, you crazy death wish junkie. We're so gonna regret this. “Alright, then. I’ll see what can be done for your partner. We can talk about my hopes and dreams later, gotta do my  'doctor thing' .” I nod at the young guy in the silk dress, “Nice number, there. We’ll take a look at your tootsies once we get back to campus. Just sit tight and try to keep 'em out of the blood and motor oil.”While Trudy chats with our new temp. security, I listen to Partridge's offer. At this point, I'm just thankful he didn't decide to punctuate his syllables with clotheslines again. The world is starting to take on this grey hue, and I have to shake my head against it. I'm fading fast, and if I don't move to help Juck and Jean-girl soon at least one of them will be dozing under the daisies before we make it home. Haggling has to wait. I nod hurriedly and try to meet his eyes for a moment without flinching. He's not going to hit us again. Just chill. God, I'm horrible at this negotiating crap. “Okay, fine. Talk to Knowles there, she'll lay out the ground rules. Have anyone who's not too hosed up get on a bike or whatever, I'll need some room back there. Two of them can’t wait any longer.” Spinning on my heels, I clamber as quickly into the truck bed as my own injuries will allow, swatting at people to move aside. Both patients look semi-conscious, but Juck can afford to wait a moment while I try to stabilize her associate. I reach ‘Jean’ and gently guide her by the shoulder until she’s flat on her back, speaking loudly into her ear, “If you can hear me, just try to relax and stay as still as you can. We’re gonna have to cut away some clothes, okay? I’m also going to give you something to help with the pain.” I pull my arm gingerly out of the sling; Knowles was difficult enough, there’s no way I can treat this kind of trauma with a hand tied up. Gathering all available stock together, I motion for Dez to assist me in securing the woman. We manage to hastily fashion a rough stretcher using a piece of plywood and some tires and guide her gently onto it. Using a blade from my kit, I cut away her dingy leather and denim, instructing him on how to cleanse and prep the wounds while I administer a chillstab and retrieve my voice recorder. It’s a prized piece of equipment I usually reserve for my logs, or keeping notes regarding complex surgeries (permanently on loan from the late Quincy). The cold, clinical side of me takes over and I block out my own pain, hands getting steadier. “Patient Jean, pre-surgical. Single wound identified over the left chest just inferior to the clavicle with what looks like a primary bullet fragment in the midline of the neck. Two additional wounds identified on the left thigh with active bleeding at the site. Administering bolus. Hypertonic combine. Suspect partial femoral effusion. Will apply tourniquet above sartorius.” I turn back to Dez, “Hey, ever done a saline burst before?” Stabilizing Jean-whatsherface (Angel Kit): 2d6+2+1 (Mike Bonus) = 14 Angel Kit: 3/6 Despite the blood loss, she seems to respond decently to treatment. Her pulse holds up. Thank gently caress. We might just get her back in time to hook up some proper support. The Atrium was equipped with a few systems Quincy and I were able to get running on one of the generators. The set up was janky as hell, but served in a pinch if I was faced with delicate procedures like this. “Dez, make sure she’s secure, okay? Just keep pumping that bag like I showed you.” Turning to face the leader of the gang, I tried to prepare myself for what I knew must be done. Between us, Dez and I didn’t have the materials necessary to repair Juck’s perforated appendage. Her already scarred face was swollen with abrasions and her fierce, dark eyes were starting to roll back. She would be going into shock soon unless I acted quickly, and I just couldn’t handle two ICUs at once. I place my left palm over her butchered arm and spread my right hand across her face, taking a few deep breaths and trying to ‘feel’ for that strange energy. “Hey, Angel Eyes. I might not be able to handle this part. If I go out there’s some salts in my duffel bag that should bring me ‘round. Do whatever’s necessary to wake me back up, alright?” Heat builds from the points where I’m touching Juck, flaring suddenly into a searing agony, shooting up my arms and into my head. Someone’s screaming… Aedificabo Brachio (Healing touch on Juck): 2d6+1+1 (Mike Bonus) = 4 welp 
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May 19, 2014 17:32
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Faustina, Jeff looked like you'd just kicked him when you spelled it out. Then he got all pissed and defensive and said, "Those 'sub-humans' are my family. I don't know how insanely lucky you've been, that you think someone can just pick and choose who's close to them, but- whatever. I get it. Thanks again. Bye." Then he stomped off alone. Knowles rolled her eyes, good riddance to whiny dipshits. Raj looked a little uneasy, but Sam scowled hard and said, "He was with Taco? I've heard about those scumbags. Screw him." ~ Angel Eyes posted:"In return, you help out my boy Lace. His feet are all messed up." Lace smiles and gives a wave with his fingers. He puts a hand on his chest and says, "I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you looking out for me, Angel, but... see, Frog was really, freakishly familiar with breaking bones. And, uh, not quite breaking them. I'm pretty sure everything from my shins down is fractured - it's quite excruciating, but I don't believe there's much to be done for it, besides go easy on them and let it all heal." He's still smiling when he adds, "If there's anything I can do for you - or on your behalf - my services are entirely and gratefully at your disposal. I've been told I'm extremely good with my hands." They appear to be minimally calloused, even soft, with clean and trimmed fingernails. From the way he turns his head, it's clear that he's offering to Angel Eyes and Big Mike both. If anyone seems off-put by that, he adds, "In case you need anything, like, sewn." He makes a little threading-a-needle motion with his fingers. ~ Faustina posted:“Hey, ever done a saline burst before?” "Not on purpose." Dez is reasonably bright, and he's got a functional grasp of first aid 101. Jeanette ends up in decent shape. She could use a lot more blood in her, but a healthy share of food, rest, and time might well be enough. Beside the obvious bullet wounds - all passed through, nothing to dig out, plenty to stitch up - you found a tiny, jagged piece of, like, shrapnel embedded in her back. It's probably not the strangest non-native thing you've found inside a biker. ~ Juck & Faustina, whatever matter-of-habit willpower keeps your mind in its case and shut off from the Other Stuff, like a sphincter for your thoughts, just slips open. There's a sloppy rush of thoughts, going out, coming in, and no way to account for what originally came from where. Everything's connected and sometimes the strands get tangled on each other, twist around and make an awful knot. Both of you, tell the other one something that you wish they didn't know. Something that, if revealed, could be seriously damaging to a significant reputation or relationship. And after you do that, get +1 Hx with the other.  You don't go unconscious. There's way too much going on in your head for something so comfortable, and it passes rather quick. Juck, you're pretty well awake, albeit high as hell on pain meds, and with a mangled arm. The healing didn't take. ~ Deacon, you and your folks are still close enough to see the Ranch and that biker gang that rolled up, if you stand somewhere with a clear view and squint. Through your antenna, you pick up a quick load of brain-barf, that smeared-together thought-feel-memory stuff that leaks out sometimes. It'd be like a sudden crash, or a flash of green light, or the whiff of bread-smell when you crack open an oven, if it mapped neatly onto any one of those senses. It's quick and disjointed, so you don't pick up much (unless you try to sift through it?) but you can tell something Weird just happened over there. ~ Everyone; while the medic is back tending to Juck, something changes. Apropos of nothing, the howling swarm shuts up, all at once. There's a span of two heartbeats where they stop screaming, just long enough for the echoes to stop coming back off the soft dirt and all the sound to drain out of the air, treating your eardrums to a moment of sweet silence. A hundred plus heads turn to face you. Something got their attention. Milky and mold-spotted eyes, slack-open frothing jaws. A few walkers that had thrashed themselves onto the ground prop themselves up and get to their feet again. A noise starts as a low growl and rises to a fury roar as they all break out and run towards you. Full-tilt, somehow not stumbling all over each other, it's fair to call it a human(oid) stampede. The guys on the roof inside the ranch try to do you a solid by firing a few shots into the crowd, but they don't grab any attention back. This is happening now. What do you do?
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May 19, 2014 18:47
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 If Patridge had followed my plan there would be no risk. But I see that he's lost his nerve, and the time we took negotiating didn't help. The gang can do what they want, I'm taking the wounded back to the Uni where they can get the help they need. Moving quick, but trying not to jostle anyone too bad, I turn the truck around and gun it. I got the people I came here for, and hopefully with all the baddies on us the other trapped folks will be able to pull out. On the way out I notice Blackwolf's bike for the first time. Huh. I built that bike a long time ago for a nice gal who saved me from a pack of shrooms. Work of art, that was. Not crippled like all the bikes I "fix" for Juck. Mr. Prokosch fucked around with this message at 01:47 on May 20, 2014 |
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May 20, 2014 01:36
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=1/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 As I whip the truck around I see Faustina in the rearview. She was doing reasonable stuff with needles and thread and bandages, but it looks like she's just given up. Now she's closed her eyes and grabbed the wound. Praying or something? I haven't had much use for it, not since the wife died. Whole church died with her, and she'd be awful sore if I prayed with the crazies popping up these days. Always was picky about her faith. Faustina's body goes limp at the worst time, just as we hit a bump mid turn. I was going to correct course and zoom out of here but if I do that I can see her going over the side and loosing her grip on Juck. Can't have that, so I let the vehicle drift to catch everyone right back where they were. I let out a little prayer for good measure. I'll need it, as I just blocked half the road with a horde of monsters moving in! Aiding Faustina, use the main number if the vehicle helped, subtract two if only the psychic prayer is any help. Help Faustina: 2d6+2 10
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May 20, 2014 19:11
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 The sudden eruption of silence snapped me out of my casual mood like a gunshot. The infected never got quiet. Ever. "Mike..." I needn't have bothered. He caught on to the situation as quick as I did. Turning, I grabbed Trudy under the arms and hauled her into the truck. Not the most graceful of entrances but I didn't think she'd mind. Crouching down, I steadied myself against any sudden movement and banged on the roof. "We're good back here. Go." He didn't need to be told twice.
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May 20, 2014 20:02
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Fatigue=9:00 | Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle The body flops like a dead fish on the table, writhing under my hands, ribs cracking like brittle twigs as I thrust my weight forward into the chest compressions. I'd been administering CPR on the lady for thirty solid minutes but she kept slipping in and out. Just outside the trailer home Knowles was frantically pacing back and forth, wringing her hands and cursing so manically it would have made even Saul flinch. After all, I was trying to save her lover, Left Eye. I'd only ever seen Lefty emerge from her mold-caked, wheel-bare abode when she was trying to score dope from her La Familia friends. She was known as a junky and a nutty sociophobe, and not much else. I had no idea what the Alpha Phi matron saw in her. We'd come over for a visit on this particular day and found her unconscious, which wasn't too surprising; only this time she'd had an empty bottle of some sort of stove cleaner lying next to her. Knowles was hyperventilating and completely flipping out, so I'd asked the rather soft-headed Spears and panicky Perry to escort her outdoors so I could work (both of whom had driven over with us to the Familia 'compound'). After a half hour of failed attempts at resuscitation, I knew there was only one chance for me to save the suicidal burnout. I positioned my hands over her stomach and let the invasive psychic miasma flow through me and into her. There was a flash, and suddenly I was with her, reliving a memory: A blade soaked in a terrifying coat of red; a man dangling a stringy, pulpy bit of flesh in our face (with a bulbous white object at the end); the naked fear of his threat – that he'd take the other eye if we didn't tell him what he wanted to hear; the bitter despair of guilty submission – we relent and divulge our secret. About where the kid is hiding. It's a small boy, our son. His child as well. And this evil man, he's done things to the little one. Unspeakable things. I don't want to know, but its forced into my mind. Hot acids spew up from my twisting guts like a hot geyser. We gave him up because we couldn't take the pain. We couldn't bear the suffering. We failed him, and now this monster was going to take Matthew away... Anger fills me and floods my veins like molten adrenaline. Left Eye's life is right there, in my hands. All I have to do is pull back into the world and Knowles will have her again. But for the first and only time, I don't. I let her go. ~ ~ ~ Back in the world again... or am I? Getting hard to tell anymore. The truck careens off of a sharp rise in the road, then seems to right itself mid-air, landing smoothly. Some far corner of my mind marvels at Mike's uncanny skill. Shameful visions burning at my eyes. The tears wont stop. We lied to Knowles about it. Told her we couldn't save her beau. But I could have - my rage wouldn't let me. That's something I've carried with me every single day; every time I see my reflection it haunts my soul. Juck's eyes seem to focus on mine for a split second, then loll back again with another whip of the tail bed. Mike wheels the vehicle around like a demon, and in that suit he might well be one. He's doing his part, now lets do ours. Renewing my grasp with grim determination, I dive in once more, pushing myself harder than ever before. I won't let go again. Aedificabo Brachio Redux: 2d6+1 (+1 Assist)(+1 Telepathic Truck Connection?!) = 7 Act Under Fire From Juck's Brain (+Mike assist): 2d6 = 5 it's not been a good day for me hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 06:02 on May 21, 2014 |
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May 21, 2014 05:38
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=Dazed,Stabbed | Fatigue=0:00 In the back of Mike's truck, Juck slowly floated back down into her own body after watching the college girl patch up Jeanette. Damned if it didn't look like the girl knew her stuff, too -- Juck had been all but told in a vision that Jeanette was going to be checking out of this lovely hotel, but who knows? maybe just give it time. Back in her own body, but feeling like it was a shell several sizes too large, Juck groggily watched as the college girl placed her hands on Juck's arm. Wait, Jeanette gets the full patch treatment and I get some bullshit magic massage? The gently caress? But it's lucky that Juck doesn't really feel like she can speak yet, because this would probably have ended up being one of those situations where her mouth got her into trouble. There'd been a couple of those lately. Anyway, so the college girl was doing her hands thing and damned if Juck didn't actually feel like maybe something was starting to happen when Mike spooked and peeled out in his truck, pitching the college girl forward. And that's when poo poo got weird. It was like College's hands pushed through the shell of Juck's body, pushed into this weird K-hole space that Juck was currently inhabiting. Juck felt weirdly invaded almost, like this was some storeroom where Juck kept her secrets and now this girl was in here with her. Juck was losing her grip on reality again, because she was back in that hosed up fleshy fun pit with the fancy chair again, but now there were all these faces in the walls, speaking with Juck's own voice, just straight up talking about all the hosed up poo poo Juck had done. And the loving college girl was here too. Juck freaked out a little, trying to stifle the mouths that spoke as if they were her own. "Two years ago. Collins farm behind on protection money. Killed the kids, burned them. Blamed on band--" Juck slammed a hand down on the mouth that spoke. "Six weeks ago. Let One-tooth Jimmy gently caress me. Sober." Juck punched the teeth out of this mouth -- that was just loving embarrassing. But then Juck saw that College didn't care about the dead kids, or One-Tooth Jimmy; she was crouched by a tiny little whispering mouth in the corner, listening very intently to what it had to say. "Two weeks ago. Shot Quincy in the face, point-blank. On purpose. Did it to destabilize the community at the college, show them they weren't safe, show them how far you get with book learning and a strong sense of community. One day soon I will take that place for my own."
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May 21, 2014 06:07
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Mike, Angel Eyes, Trudy, Faustina, there's nothing stopping you from driving away from that poo poo hole. Decide where you're going next - if it's 'back home,' tell us where that is. Mike can drop you off if he feels like it. Juck, is your gang going to war without you, or clearing the scene? Your arm feels like it's burning - not like it's close to something hot, but like your tissue is actually on fire. You feel your own skin and muscle crawling, moving within itself as it mends the gap. The rest of your body gets cold and sweaty, as you can feel an excess of blood rushing to the site. It itches like nothing you've felt. But it heals. Even stuff that shouldn't heal, like your stuck nerve, grows back like it's no big deal. And the discomfort goes away after a minute. You feel pretty hungry. Also, Faustina's head case is wide open to you, and you get your mental poo poo back together before she does. Since she's failed to act under fire from your brain, you can decide how this goes badly for her. By default, she's going to get some fatigue smacked out of her. Pick one, *Lash out at her. Hurt her worse. *Lash out at nowhere in particular - nobody gets hurt, but you spray some weirdness into the world. *Clamp down and keep it inside, exhausting yourself instead. *Ask her any question, which she has to answer. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 14:44 on May 21, 2014 |
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May 21, 2014 10:27
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 People have this idea that I'm a super classy lady, and they're right, but they might change their mind if they knew where I slept. In the cold months, when the infected calm down and there's no risk of blooms, I find a defensible place in a city. Ideally something tall, with not too many stairwells that need blocking off. Roof access is a must, always. Hunt down a store or home that hasn't been completely ransacked, find some comforters and pillows, bam. You're in business. Uh, just make sure it's still sealed in the plastic case. Not a great idea to stick your face on a pillow that's been sitting exposed to elements for who even knows how long. Anyway. Warm blankets and a stockpile of food, and you're pretty well set. Only the most desperate sorts go raiding or looking for trouble in the winter. Summertime, though? Take my advice: stay the hell out of the cities. Even if you're willing to deal with the infected, a bloom can take you by surprise and then you're finished. It'll be a no-mans land for a couple weeks at least, and the spores will be thick enough to completely choke your respirator. Using a bandanna or something instead? Forget it, you'll turn within a week. So what do you do when the cities are a no-go and all of the good spots are already inhabited? You find a tank farm. They'll be a good ways outside city limits. Most of them have been sucked dry at this point so there's not much risk of some band of assholes (Juck) coming by and bothering you. They're tall, so you can stay out of reach of the infected. And they're flat, so you have somewhere to lay down at night. Just take out the steps leading up, toss a rope over the side, and you're set. Provided you can climb a rope, anyway. Problem being, there are no oil silos anywhere around here. So I make do by sleeping on a billboard along the freeway. It's cramped, it's overly visible, and I don't like the implied threat from God that's printed on it.  Lucky for me, it looks like I'm working with the sorority now. At the very least that means a bed. I'll want to pick up a couple things, but that can wait until we're free and clear from this ugly situation.
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May 21, 2014 12:28
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=Fixed? | Fatigue=0:00 And then Juck was out of the room and back in the truck bed with the college girl, who had her hands back on Juck's arm and then, this time, holy poo poo. Juck's arm was fixing itself, in, like, real time. The nerves reconnected, and maybe this was just still Dez's drugs in action, but it was like Juck's brain was suddenly aware of the arm again, and there was this flurry of little action potentials that just fuzzed out into white noise, but after that died down Juck felt the college girl's loving brain, connected to her own, through the descending neuronal pathways from Juck's brain and then, somehow, across the gap into the college girl's hands and into the college girl's brain. And the college girl's brain, well, it's a loving weird place. Juck thrashes, almost involuntarily, tearing her arm away from the college girl, Juck's eyes wide, the college girl's eyes glazed and defocused. Juck's brain convulses in her skull, exploding in little electrical zaps, and, weirdly, Jeanette and Dog Head both jerk in the back of the truck bed, grabbing at their heads, and when they meet Juck's gaze they give her this look like Juck just slapped them with her brain, and they look a little scared and distrustful. Mike's truck is passing the turnoff towards Juck's camp and Juck bangs on the cab window. "Thanks for the ride, old man. We'll take it from here." Partridge has been riding at the head of the rest of Juck's gang behind the truck -- because why the gently caress were they going to stick around at the K-ranch once Mike peeled out? and as the truck came to a stop Juck hopped the rear gate of the truck, flexing her arm a couple times. It felt fine, but different, like maybe she broke off part of the college girl's brain inside her arm when she pulled away, but that was loving crazy talk, right? Double Hole was sitting astride Karen's chopper, and Juck walked over and coughed deliberately. Double Hole took the point and got off. "Just keeping the seat warm, boss." Juck rubbed her arm again, threw a leg over her new bike, gave her gang a little grin, and then gave the hand signal to take off. In an obnoxious cacophany, the gang took off for their encampment. It had been a really long loving day.
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May 22, 2014 02:52
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=2/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 I go around dropping everybody off. I take this time to have a long conversation with my upfront passenger. I explain to Lace that these days everyone needs a robust skill set. Sewing is a good skill, and I'll take him up on it when he's feeling better. But maybe he can apply those delicate hands to a wider range of problems. Sewing skin isn't that different from sewing clothes. Maybe he ought to learn from Faustina. Maybe he could model the "barbers" of 19th century. Pair hair, nails, message, and clothes with basic dental and medical work. The more useful you are to everyone, the less people will think they can get away with breaking your legs for any reason. When we get to the Uni Faustina is too exhausted to do much of anything, but Trudy and the other girls are still more or less fresh. So I finally and at long last do what I set out to do: get a few extra hands to help fix up the garage and the windmill. With the powertools I can do a lot more work on vehicles. In exchange I'll set them up with a replacement for Betty. They should recognize instantly that it's a sweetheart deal. My prices are always fair, but this one is a little more than fair because I feel bad for missing the problem last time I saw the old girl. Angel Eyes is welcome to come to my place whenever she wants so I can take a look at her respirator and do her another favor, as promised. Finally I drive home. I live alone at the Junkyard most of the time, which is a little crazy given the dangers in this new world. But I'm not unprotected. My first line of defense is the "moat". I salvaged a CAT excavator a long while back and used it to dig a deep nasty pit all the way around my property. Then I filled it about a quarter of the way with everything sharp and metal I could find. Shrooms run into my property, they fall in the pit with no way to climb out. Now that might normally be a problem because they'd accumulate. But the sharp things solve that. Whenever they move around, they rip their own flesh apart. Eventually they get torn up enough that they can't move anymore. Every once in a while I got out there with my mask and some fuel and burn away the gunk, to keep the spores from getting too thick. There's a drawbridge that any human could lower and a perfectly safe road to my garage. I have some basic defenses for people in the junkyard to discourage thieves. Alarms, bear traps, tripwire shotguns loaded with rocksalt. But I save the nasty stuff for my house. Anyone wants to deal with me, they can drive right up to the garage. If they're friends who want to visit, I'll escort them. But if somebody tries to sneak into my house, then it's about protecting my life, not my stuff. That's where I put the landmines, the gas grenades, the ripper.  (Behold my primary color rectangle skills!) Back home I make a checklist and get to work. 1. Get the garage working again, with power 2. Work on Angel Eye's respirator and whatever other project she wants, whenever she stops by 3. Fix any damage to the Truck, even if it's cosmetic 4. Get a vehicle running to replace Betty 5. Continue work on the Shroom Clearer, a vehicle I've been working on in my spare time that should grind up whole hordes of the things in relative safety. If I can get it working and attrition doesn't do the job for me, maybe I can clear out the ranch on my own. (These are all workspace moves. I kind of just picked "You'll need someone to help you with it" for the garage and "you'll need a garage" for the cars. I'll need to know the damage for this stuff so we'll see how much I get done in the downtime we're given. I'll be working on it in order.) Mr. Prokosch fucked around with this message at 03:59 on May 22, 2014 |
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May 22, 2014 03:54
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Deacon Barter=4 EXP= 0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Followers: +Augery One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. They stood in mute horror looking to Clyde's body, now gone slack and still with its nerves eaten out at the root, the fungus now laying down a webwork of hyphal puppet strings to drive the meat to its dark purpose. They all knew what came next. Most had seen it before -- Deacon, more times than he'd care to count. It was inevitable, natural law, like day turning to night no matter how your fear of the dark tried to hold it back. First Clyde would start to twitch, and then the fruiting bodies would start to break the skin, and then he would sit up. And then someone -- Daryll or Cuff Button probable, or hell, maybe even Bruce -- would deliver the coup de grace. That was how it went. That was how they lived now. Just another promising life lost to the Spore, just another trauma the survivors would have to endure, their ability to really grieve just another thing the fungus had stolen from them. But four minutes went by. Then five. Then an eternity, in fungus time. Clyde's body lay still. It seemed like it would lay still forever. What did that mean? Was the experiment a success? Were they winning? Deacon wanted to think about this, he wanted to study Clyde thoroughly, he wanted to add to the loose bundle of notes and hypotheses and failures that were all he had after 15 years of fighting. But now the Anathemata were looking expectedly at him, all but Lemur, who was staring off into the distance. They were looking and they were waiting, the only sound the wails of the infected carrying on the wind from the K Ranch. Deacon wanted to think, but as usual his responsibility was to act. "Clyde is at peace," he said. "I do not know if he has reached true apotheosis with the Spore. It is not for a mortal man to say. But he is at peace. That is a greater reward than most find at the end of their journey through this place of trials. Be glad for Clyde, but lay not your own burdens down. We have many miles and many trials yet ahead of us. Just know that at the end of it we will meet Clyde again in peace. And perhaps, if we are lucky, he will walk with us again, in our dreams." There was, of course, a proscribed prayer for that moment, but Deacon didn't have a chance to say it. The screaming on the wind fell dead, all at once. As a body, the Anathemata jolted as if at a sudden flash or sound, and then fell still. It was eerily quiet. Deacon, as usual, was the first to act, shouting orders and directing them in disembarking again, in running, again. The responsibility to act, again, outweighed all other concerns. For a long second he paused in the task to look at Clyde's body, which was too heavy and ponderous to bring with them and carry the meat and hope to outrun the swarm. "Leave Clyde," he said finally. "They can't touch him anymore." Just another thing the Spore had taken. One day, hopefully soon, they'd be able to take something back.
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May 23, 2014 07:46
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Session Two: Days go by, in which nothing particularly terrible happens. The countryside looks kind of like this,  What would you do with some down time? With the following addendums: ~ Juck, you said you were thinking about getting a Holding? Now's a good time to establish that. Either claim it now, or since we just wrapped the first session, we can do a little ret-con and say you've had it all along, and then roll for prosperity. If you changed your mind, just tell us where your gang is camping out for now. And let us know what you'd do with a few days' down-time. Jeanette looks like she's on the mend, but she's weak for now. Your arm feels as good as new, plus a wicked new scar on both sides. Dog Head's temper got a lot shorter, and he's saying, "What!?" a lot more. ~ Deacon, like everyone else, you've got a couple days. Camping out in the woods? Investigating or contemplating the weirdness? After getting some zombie gore splashed into his mouth, Darryl is sick. It might surprise some people, but ingesting spore stuff is actually one of the least deadly ways to interact with it. Even so, he spends a day evacuating himself of everything, from both ends. And then he's stuck with a fever, constant cold sweats, and anguished stomach cramps. Once he's all purged, his condition does start improving again. Dill is keeping herself distracted by taking care of him, but everyone (except Darryl) can see she's fraying bad. Bruce is having a hard time taking your mystical side seriously, or joining prayers. You recognize a man who has lost all faith to bitterness, but he still saw a small miracle. He gets your ear at some point, and keeps his voice low while he says, "Okay - that man didn't turn. How did you do that? Seriously." Also, roll for your fortunes. Due to a decision you made earlier, there'll be a rider with this one. ~ Big Mike, when you got back to your yard, you found the place had been gently ransacked. The drawbridge was left down, and a bunch of your traps had been set off. Wires tripped, salt-guns unloaded, a bear trap left on its side, crusty with dried blood. Your treasure trove was a little lighter than you'd left it. And some idiot tried getting into your house, but tripped 'the ripper.' From the remains, you can tell she used to be a scrawny teenage girl, jeans and a T-shirt with more hole-space than fabric left on them, and fitted with a big, heavy locked iron muzzle, with 'PROPERTY OF JEFFERSON IRONWORKS' dremeled into it. That's what they do with people they consider to be criminals or debtors - fit them with an iron mask, clamp it tight around their head, lock it, and make them scavenge. Most of them have a gag-like metal mouthpiece sticking back from the muzzle's front, too, to keep 'em from talking. If they bring back something good, the muzzle gets taken off long enough for the scrounger to eat something. Everyone knows if you bring a lost muzzle back to them, there's a six-round reward, no questions asked. Some people take that incentive too far. There's some scraping and shuffling from down in your moat. You can usually tune out the sound of mangled zombies, like familiar windchimes, but this one's a little off-rhythm. Another masked scrounger is lying down there, a young Cheyenne fella, cut up and impaled through his midsection on a piece of rebar, bloody and soaked in sweat but still breathing. Between all the spore gunk down there, blood loss, and good ol' tetanus, he's probably not going to last much longer. 1. Get the garage working again, with power You'd just need to clean it out, a few hours of labor. As long as you have a steady supply of extra fuel, you can run it off a generator. That'll cost you, though. Or you can fix up the windmill - it'd take you the full two-days of downtime to do on your own, or you could knock it out in an afternoon if you had some extra hands working for you. 2. Work on Angel Eye's respirator and whatever other project she wants, whenever she stops by An hour or less to touch up her respirator, with all the tools and spares you've got lying around. But she'd need to be here for it. 3. Fix any damage to the Truck, even if it's cosmetic Depends how far you want to take it. You can put tape over the holes and call it a day. Or fill 'em with solder and paint back over them... but you don't already have the exact right shade of paint. You'd need to shop around for it, or make do with a darker blue. For the shots in the window, you'd need a replacement window. The go-to leisure activity for children of the apocalypse is trying to find cars with un-broken windows, to smash them. There aren't many good ones left. That would call for a risky trip into a city. 4. Get a vehicle running to replace Betty You're going to have to get the garage running first, no surprise there. After that, it'll take the better part of a couple days. Between the yard and the abandoned highways, there are enough parts to make something workable, as long as you don't care how it looks. 5. Continue work on the Shroom Clearer, a vehicle I've been working on in my spare time that should grind up whole hordes of the things in relative safety. If I can get it working and attrition doesn't do the job for me, maybe I can clear out the ranch on my own. You're going to need to elaborate on that one. It'll need the garage for sure. If you want it to be reliable, it'll probably cost something. If it does something particularly elaborate, you might need to go through a few prototypes, too. ~ Faustina, Trudy, Angel Eyes, when you get back to the university, Perry is already there, waiting for you and looking pissed. She flips to worry when she sees your various injuries, and asks, "Oh my god, what happened?" Knowles says, "Assholes, and then Zetas. How'd you get here so fast?" Perry looks like she heard it wrong, and says, "What? You shouldn't have left without me! I could've helped!" Knowles is all, "The hell you talkin' 'bout?" There's some more confused back-and-forth. Everyone gets to the point where they try to establish a timeline. Perry says, before you went to the Ranch, she said, "I need to get something real quick, I'll be back down in five minutes," while she went to find a pile of CD's that she was going to lend to her beau, Knapp. She couldn't find them, spent six or seven minutes, ("Christ, guys, it wasn't that long,") looking, then gave up, but you'd already driven off without her. She was pissed. Everyone else remembers the first part, except she came back down with the stuff in a minute, and you all left together. Other people around the campus can verify that Perry was around the whole time, bitching about how nobody respects her, and sighing a lot. Perry says, "You'd better not be messing with me," but it's pretty clear nobody is. She looks tremendously creeped out. "So you just, like, took someone else with you? And now she's with Knapp?" So that's weird. Faustina, you mentioned you wanted to lay out a scene. Go nuts with it, and let me know what you've done with a couple days. ~ Angel Eyes, you mentioned you were thinking about picking up some gigs? Tell us about those, and roll for them. Or, if you've changed your mind about taking that advance, let us know what else you'd do given a couple days of down-time. Since we just wrapped the first session, you can either start moonlighting now, or we can do a little retroactive continuity and say you had that stuff on the backburner all along. ~ Trudy, tell us a little about what you've been doing on campus. Determine how your threshold is manifesting right now. And, you get a knock on your door, a day into the break. Four hooded figures are gathered around, smiling under shadowed eyes. They're wearing necklaces, loops of wire adorned with small chunks of concrete. They've got small arms, but they're not bearing or anything. "Hello," the middle-aged, head-shaved white guy in front says, hands clasped by his waist, "My name is Elijah. Have you heard the good news?" You don't just find a hooded robe, these days. You've got to make do. Elijah's got a black bed sheet draped over his head, then tied around his more sensible shirt like some kind of over-toga. The strung-out looking woman beside him has a black hoodie on her head, but the rest of it is just draped on her back, because it's too drat hot out to wear the whole thing. He goes on, "Don't you agree that the world has gone to poo poo? Wouldn't you love to see all the filth and pestilence and sin, wiped away? Pulverized and ground into the earth? I'm pleased to be the one to tell you, it's going to happen. The Killdozer roams this great country, and it will not stop on its mission of divine justice and carnage until all the evil in it is ground to dust." He looks sincerely apologetic when he says, "Now, unfortunately, there may be some collateral damage along the unyielding crusade. The Killdozer might plow through some useful, even inhabited, buildings on its path to smite the wicked. And right now, it's on a course to pass right through this here campus - and I do mean through. But don't take that as a threat! It's an opportunity, really, to be part of the crusade that will save the world." He explains, "The Killdozer is fueled by sacrifice. Now, it won't starve, not ever, but through our offerings, and those of charitable donors, we can speed it up along its ruinous path. Anything of great sentimental value is best, but practical stuff - food, ammunition, good clothes, medicine - works, too. Of course, some of it will go to feed and clothe its Heralds." A guy behind him with a big smile waves. "And when you make an offering, it listens to you. So we're here taking collections, for the good of everyone everywhere, and giving you a chance to say to it, 'O Sacred Killdozer, please drive around this college on your merciless course.' Right now, we're a long way off from gathering a big enough donation to sway it." He glances over your shoulder and asks, "May we come inside to discuss this further?" What do you do with those guys?
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May 25, 2014 04:44
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Moonlighting. (roll +cool) 2d6+3=12 Paying Gig: Brokering Deals. The Sorority needs bullets, and the people at Jefferson have them. Obligation Gig: Seeking Answers. This thing with Perry needs to be looked in to. Another night gone, another day come. Time passed as it does in the summer heat. Slowly and with a grudge. The Sorority had been politely ignoring me except when necessary, and that suited me just fine. I didn't need small talk to keep on eye on who was coming and going. After a few days proved that nobody was quite up to making a raid, I took it upon myself to handle the ammunition problem. The campus was nice enough, but I get antsy when I'm stuck in one place for too long. The sooner they could be back to properly defending themselves, the sooner my job was done. A quick chat with Knowles, and I was on my way to Jefferson with offerings of their bio-diesel and a beat up arc welder someone had found in a rusted out van. It wasn't much, but combined with my own professional dealings with the ironmongers, I figured it would work as a starting point. Admittedly anyone could have done this job, but some of the sorority sisters had notorious tempers which wouldn't help in negotiations. That combined with the vague rumors about something going on with the Ironworks scroungers, and it just seemed best to keep a polite distance between the two groups for now. Besides, everyone knows I don't pick sides so it keeps things from getting too heated. Justice owns the foundry, and he's half-hinged at best. Runs the place like his own feudal kingdom, complete with a consort, "knights", and a jester. Demands that everyone refer to him as "my lord" this and "your grace" that. Another reason a lot of people hate dealing with him. In any case, he deemed the tribute acceptable and I walked out with a few cases of ammo and a vague promise that he would hear future appeals for trade or alliance. All in all, a nice guy. So long as you obey the rules. --- All of which leads me to now. That scene a few days back with Perry had been bothering me, and while nobody has precisely said anything, I know it bothers plenty of other people as well. Perry in particular. So with the ammunition problem solved for the time being, I've taken it upon myself to find some answers. Frog might have had an idea, but he's beyond talking. What acquaintances of his that are still around sure as hell weren't going to want to have a sit down, so that left me with very few options. Option one was the abandoned gas station just on the outskirts of Little Town. Frog had fortified the place over the years, and if he had been smart enough to leave something behind regarding the Perry situation it would be here. Hopefully. I had eased passed some alarm wires, and there had been no sign of infected. Inside, the place was mostly stripped bare. Windows boarded up, and the shelves thrown up against them and bolted down. A rack of dusty sunglasses and yellowing maps was all that remained in the front area. The office was about what you'd expect. Stained mattress in the corner and detritus strewn about the floor. What a pig. As I stepped into the room, the toe of my boot caught a small book and sent it skidding across the floor. Picking it up, I flipped it open and glanced it over. A journal, written in the most atrocious handwriting I had ever seen. From the look of things, it was mostly dates and reminders. "Git guds from Inky, Sat.", "Sharif ofering work clearing farms in week." Typical boring nonsense. I flipped to the the last few pages to see if I could find anything useful. In short, Angel Eyes is hunting for clues.
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May 25, 2014 20:12
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=All Better | Fatigue=0:00 The Wolves hole up in the shell of an old roadhouse bar, on the (now pretty decrepit) main road by the turn-off to Little Town. An old sign by the road, rendered in peeling paint, broken lightbulbs and neon tubes, probably once did a pretty good job of depicting a crowned truck driver (presumably the Road King) welcoming passers-by to The Throne Room.  It's not much to look at these days. It's passed hands between a bunch of different biker gangs, but the Wolves have held it for a solid couple years now, and beat down a couple solid attempts to drive them out. It's mostly the location that's important, being pretty conveniently located with respect to the biodiesel farming community of Little Town. The farmers of Little Town depend on the Wolves for protection from bandits and the like (having a well armed biker gang loitering around the main entry road into town tends to be a sufficient deterrent for most), and in return the Wolves' bikes are kept well fuelled. There's not much more to the deal than that. The roadhouse has a generator that works about every fifth time or so, and is getting worse, so the Wolves mostly just sleep inside the roadhouse, and hang out around barrel fires in the parking lot when they've got down-time. The youngbloods will pretty dependably get into little dominance scraps that they'll work out in the dirt; the older gangers will throw bets down. Lala's usually got her hands full fixing up the bikes in her little garage, and Dez has a little moonshine still that, to its credit, hasn't exploded yet. Jury's still out on whether his hooch causes blindness, but the Wolves are generally prepared to overlook minor side-effects like that. Anyway, so after the whole shitfest with Blackwolf and the K-Ranch, Juck and the Wolves rode into the lot of the Throne Room and killed their engines. The mood was pretty grim all round; Juck kept testing her arm, as though she didn't really believe that it was actually healed, Dez took Jeanette back into the bar and set up a little field medic station to tend to her leg wound, and Partridge was whittling away at some chunk of wood he'd found a ways back by one of the trash fires. And Dog Head, Dog Head had been loving pissy the whole ride back, and he, Double Hole and Grillcheese parked their bikes away from everyone else's, and started up a game of cards. One of the whelps, Plan B, joined them. Juck didn't particularly like this development, but figured they probably just needed a little time to cool off. Casey and Ginger were busy admiring Juck's new bike, all gleaming and tricked out, and were loudly expressing their admiration and comparing the quality of the workmanship on this bike to their own bikes. Lala looked like she might have taken a little offense there, but she just spat and grabbed a jar of hooch from the barrel, muttering something about how maybe if those loving moochers would get her some decent tools, then maybe -- and kind of just trailed off. The next couple days aren't particularly eventful; Jeanette looks to be getting better, and some folks from Little Town drop by with a little food and fuel. Everyone's just kind of holding their breath a little, keeping an eye out for Dog Soldiers; no-one's dumb enough to think that this poo poo with Blackwolf was just going to blow over. And on the third day, Juck woke up to the sound of bike engines in the lot. Throwing her leathers on hastily and charging out of the roadhouse with gun drawn, she found Dog Head and Grillcheese sitting on their bikes, looking for all the loving world like they were planning on riding out. Juck walked down into the dusty lot and stood in front of them. Grillcheese cut his engine immediately. Dog Head rev'd his briefly before cutting his too. "You two are on watch; remind me again what part of being on watch involves spoiling my loving beauty sleep?" Grillcheese looked sheepish, but Dog Head just smiled. "Night watch ended half an hour ago. Me and Grillcheese were going to head over to the Ranch for a bit, take a poke around, see what was going on over there. Back in a couple hours or so." "Oh, I see. And, uh, just so as I'm clear on this, at what point did you two fuckwads decide that you didn't need to check with me beforehand? You don't go loving anywhere without my goddamn say-so, especially not with that loving Blackwolf out there." "Boss, chill out a second, we were just checking the bikes to make sure they were good to go -- we were just about to come in and ask you if, you know, it was okay 'n' stuff." Grillcheese was not a good liar. Dog Head again. "Yeah. What he said. Anyway, it's been days. Blackwolf is running scared, holed up with the rest of her kin with her tail between her legs. Meanwhile, ain't no-one been up the road from the Ranch -- we're thinking, what if the zombies got 'em all? There's some good stuff down at the ranch, and we're just going to stand by while everyone else helps themselves?" Juck didn't like these little power plays at all, but maybe Dog Head had a point. It had been a couple days; if Blackwolf was going to show up at the Throne Room, it would have made more sense for her to do that earlier. And maybe if she let Dog Head do this, show that he could be a good leader, maybe he'd stop with the bitch act for a second. "Okay. You can go. But you're just going to check out the situation, no going in there. If the coast is clear, we all go in and clean the place out." Dog Head and Grillcheese nodded. "And take Cicada with you, he could use the experience." Cicada was one of the whelps, and was singularly incapable of keeping his mouth shut. If Dog Head and Grillcheese were up to something, Juck'd be able to get it out of Cicada later. Cicada looked like he'd just won the lottery and bounded over to his bike, firing it up and coasting over. Dog Head looked less than thrilled about this development. "You've got two hours. Remember, and I cannot stress this enough, recon. And if you see anything, anything that even remotely looks like Blackwolf or one of hers, you loving turn tail and get back here. Yes?" All three riders nodded vigorously and rode off out of the lot and onto the main highway. That was three hours ago. Profane Accessory fucked around with this message at 22:50 on May 25, 2014 |
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May 25, 2014 22:42
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Barter=0 | Exp=0/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm seshII soundtrack  >>Recording from Faustina's Journal<<~ “What ya up to there, lil' sis?” Swift's voice coming from behind startles me and I almost drop the recorder - the arm flares up and my reaction is sluggish. (The injury healed enough for me to take it out of the sling, but it's still quite stiff and smarty.) Fortunately she's there to make the catch before it hits the hard cement floor of the lab. I hastily turn away and wipe at the tears burning my cheeks. “N-nothing. Just making some notes for the latest batch. Why? Something wrong?” She furrows her brow, obviously seeing through my failed attempt at hiding distress, but lets it go. “Actually, yeah. Sorry to bother you.” She sets the recorder down on a nearby table. Thank god. That poo poo's embarrassing. “A couple visitors from La Familia came in just now. Guess there was some kind of skirmish out their way. Cheebs got clipped in the shoulder and had one go right through his foot. We should be able to just scrub and sew the shoulder, but you probably want to take a look at his tootsie. He's already soaked up a good deal of booze, so we can keep the painkillers locked away. Mega is here with him.” “gently caress.” Mega is a misogynistic rear end in a top hat. He seems to hold the notion that the only functional societies are Patriarchies, and yet the man's not good for much but smoking up his supply and wasting fuel spinning out doughnuts in the Familia's ATV. Needless to say, he's not happy with how his own organization is being run, and has dropped heavy implications on more than one occasion regarding his desire to help 'manage' the sorority business. Though if he had his druthers, we'd be doing an altogether different line of work. I sigh, looking at my unfinished batch of soap awaiting the mixing process. I'd been hoping to get it wrapped up by this evening, but with patients in the Atrium that no longer seemed likely. “Okay. With Aguilera and Stefani off at Mike's Garage today, we'll need to fill in on the watch.” Swift nods, “Knowles has Cyrus and Spears perched on the roof again. She's busy looking into something at the farm right now. Looks like its just you and me, lil' sis!” The scowl on my face deepens. Neither of those two are what I'd call vigilant. Spears is an oafish space-case who often claims to see very weird things in the trees that speak to her. She insists they aren't sacheads, but rather 'wild-ones'. Whatever kind of fairy bullshit that is. Cyrus is like a self-imposed idiot-savant. She can recite Standard Model-based theory of supersymmetry applications to quantum fields and dark matter, but is much more interested in mimicking the tribal dance moves of the Cheyenne to dubstep CDs. (We have a few working stereos lying around.) Along with Swift, she normally acts as my assistant during operations or mass casualty situations. From what I've gatherered, Swift and Cyrus were both Dean's List honor students, the former studying as a nurse, and the latter being more of a lab-geek. They are shoulders above the rest of the sorority brains-wise, so I sort of commissioned them when I was given the mantle of 'Campus Healer-Bitch'. Cyrus is fun, if annoying at times, while Swift likes to act like she's my big sister. Which is even more annoying. “Great. Feels like K-scratch all over again. Let's get this over with, then. Not like I had plans or anything. Whatever you do, don't let on about the mary. Familia will probably want to know where we got it from. They can smoke their own poo poo if they want.” That was a headache we didn't need. They're known to be pretty territorial. As we make our way outside, I find myself wishing Angel Eyes was still around. She'd gone off to sniff down any leads relating to that very-weird-Perry-incident. My only working hypothesis is that the freaky fuckheads at K-scratch must be putting stuff in the water. I mean really. First Trudy's invisible wall-thing, and now this? Not that I could say much with my own disturbing 'gift'. I wasn't sure I even wanted to know what the hell was going on. Whatever it was, it didn't bode well for Beta Gamma to have some double running around being accused of murder. Honestly, I hadn't given it much thought. The past forty-eight hours I'd been trying to sleep off a hell of a beating, both physical and emotional. I saved Quincy's killer. Juck shot him in cold blood, that wicked bitch. And I saved her. Not only that, she has plans to invade our campus; so I may have put the sorority at risk, albeit unknowingly. Whoever stabbed that monster; I'd like to shake their hand. “'ellooooo Faustie!” Squinting through the bright sun, I look up to see Cyrus waving her rifle from the hospital roof. Spears is standing next to her, staring off into the distance. “Got some visitors insiiiide! Cray-cray Mega throwin' shade like you know. Don't worry, girl. Spear-tits and I got this on lock... POP N' LOCK!” She jerks her body robotically and pantomimes shooting zombies. Lovely. And Knowles is just letting her run around with a gun. Swift just shrugs, “Cyrus” and leads the way into the Atrium, where I can already make out the dulcet sounds of Mega's characteristic posturing: “Where the gently caress is the doctor-bitch, yo? My cuz here bleedin' to DEATH! Don't make me go get her LAZY rear end. I'll stick that fuckin' soap...” *** *** ***   {aerial capture ca. 10 yrs prior to S-Day}  Beta Gamma A single story house that was largely preserved from the devastation that wiped out most of the campus; untouched by drones. The sorority uses this place as their HQ: There's a kitchen (usually run by Trudy); a library; a couple common areas; and an extension that was put in sometime after the pictured floor-plan was drawn up, which has been furnished with enough beds for all the ladies. Sturdy, barbed-wire barricades have been set up all around the outside (much like the fencing around the complex proper itself). With these defenses, the HQ doubles as a safehouse whenever flocks of shroomheads manage to thrash or blunder through the perimeter onto university grounds. Knowles – Leader of the sorority. Ex-ROTC. Protective. Not easily shaken. (Cool, Hard) Aguilera – Knowles' well-manicured right hand. Ride or die chica. Sniper. (Hard, Hot) Stefani – Quick on her feet. Hates bugs. Hangs with Aguilera. Saved by Faustina. (Sharp, Cool) Perry – Flirty, bubbly and known to cause trouble (intentional or not). (Hot, Weird) Spears – Slow-witted. Big-boned. Occasionally claims to see and hear strange poo poo. (Weird, Hard) Swift – Faustina's #1 assistant. Witty. Big-sister personality. Often chasing after Cyrus. (Sharp, Cool) Cyrus – Faustina's #2 assistant. Spacy. Twerky. Prone to random field trips. (Sharp, Weird)  The Dorms Sustained some structural damage, so not all the rooms are safe to inhabit. Comprised of several apartment-like buildings with six rooms a piece. The inhabitants usually furnish individual spaces to their liking with whatever they can scrounge up. Raj – Sam's fiance/husband/whatever you call it now. Bright guy, but cautious to a fault. Sam – Raj's s/o. About four months pregnant (not Raj's). Dislikes violence. Angel Eyes – There's a room for her as long as she's willing to help defend the uni. (+Roughly a dozen usable rooms.) Agricultural Center Equipped with a large greenhouse and several odd workshops stocked with tools and supplies for cultivation of the campus crops. The folks that run the place don't produce near as much as the farmers of Little Town, but they've established a healthy trade with them. Mostly the fruit and vegetables that survive long enough to harvest are just enough to feed the campus population. They do generate a lucrative yield of tobacco, which is how they make profit. They've also got a moonshine still somewhere in the woods nearby. Doug (or 'Digz') – Middle-aged, gruff guy who runs the show at the center. Maintains crops and barks at anyone who gets in the way. Junebug – Digz's s/o. Religious and conservative. Not a fan of the free-spirited sorority, or Digz's moonshine habit. Abraham & Beth – Digz's and June's kids. Teens. Help tend the harvests, albeit begrudgingly. Brian – 30's. Wiry. Quiet. Hard worker. Don't see this guy out of the fields very often. Kinda creepy. Archives / Library Mostly undamaged and unpilfered. There's all sorts of cool stuff in there! Forgotten literature, medical text, scientific journals; et al. Everything you might expect an upper-crust private college to have acquired. I wish I'd had more time to go through it all, but you know. Post-apocalyptic life kinda gets in the way. Maybe someday I'll really get a chance to check it out...  Lab & Storage This is where the magic happens. We've got it set up to churn out pretty decent quantities of biodiesel, as long as we keep replenishing our stocks. The lab is also where I go about pursuing personal endeavors; eg, undertaking my quest to create the greatest soap ever made. If I'm not tending to oopsies in the Atrium, I'm probably tooling around in here.  The Hospital (Atrium) Easily the most beautiful building in the whole Arts & Science complex. Ancient-looking sculptures and pillars all around, drawing one to the gorgeous center, its namesake: A spacious atrium with a garden in the center. In a few of the surrounding rooms (basically the cleanest I could find) Quincy and I brought in enough equipment to power a sizable Operating Theatre and a fully-functional life-support system. I like to think it has a relaxing ambiance, which is nice when you've got a half-dozen screaming patients all describing how they're going to mess up your face when you've finished with them. (Chillstabs are reserved for serious cases due to limited supply, so liquor is my typical anesthetic of choice) (The main road to campus runs right outside the front of this building.)
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May 26, 2014 06:09
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Fortunes: 2d6+1 8 Lets say we have Want: Disease since that fits nicely with the fact that someone's already sick, and it gives us a reason to relocate to the university for the time being Deacon Barter=6 EXP= 0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Followers: +Augery -Disease Was the miracle they witnessed magic? Science? Proof that Deacon's decades long plan was coming to fruition? A fluke, or as seemed more likely, the set-up of some sort of dark cosmic joke, building up his hopes only to dash them against the cold, unforgiving surface of causality? Those were questions Deacon should have been asking himself. They were questions he didn't much have time for. The ride back to the camp had been a kind of madscramble dash to get far enough ahead of the advancing horde that they wouldn't draw aggro. There'd been another dash once they attained the camp, this one significantly more orderly, as they'd pulled up tentposts and moved a few miles to the west, deeper into the pine barrens and farther from the scouting parties the horde would invariably send out, once they'd lost interest in K Ranch. That, more than anything, was the secret to the Anathemata's survival: mobility. Let other groups wall themselves off in their settlements with the universe's biggest bullseye painted on their heads. The Anathemata travelled light; they could pack up their camp and be on the move within 30 minutes, and they set their sentries such that they usually had about an hour's warning if anyone approached. All of them road sturdy, dependable mountain bikes, and that was more of an edge than the settled folk or the biker gangs realized. They didn't travel as fast as an automobile, but unlike with an automobile they didn't have to stick to the roads, and they didn't have to give away their position -- without motor sounds, bicycles were essentially silent. The new camp brought with it its own struggles, the manifold and unending trials of leadership. There was consoling Dillflower, who'd seen enough friends die to reach automatically for stoicism, and thus, had to be goaded into properly grieving. There was ministering to Darryl, who despite his condition had been hosed over by enough so-called friends that he had to be goaded into receiving help. There was apportioning shares of the spoils. That, at least, was a happy duty: even with their best hunter laid up, the hunting was unusually good. The bloom, it seemed, had spooked most of the game in the area their way, and they'd killed such a surplus that Lana Doll made most of it into jerky, something that would fetch a good price if and when they made market again. Nancy proved to be a surprising asset there -- evidently, she'd worked as a cook back at K Ranch. All of which was to say, Deacon was so busy orchestrating things he hadn't really had time to process Clyde's death. Which was to say, when Bruce approached him looking for answers, he was, for once, caught at a loss for words. "I don't really know," he admitted. "Clyde was the first one to pass on thus, and I'm not so arrogant as to say I have all the answers. In the end, I'm just a guide, not a teacher. But I suspect that Clyde had walked his path far enough that the Spore held no corruption for him anymore. It could take him from us, but ultimately, it could no longer touch him. I only hope he found the peace in death that he looked for in life." The words sprang to his lips before he had a chance to consider them. Were they true? Did he really believe that? Did he just need Bruce to believe that? How much of his bullshit was really bullshit? Did he even know anymore? Either way, there was no stopping those words once he started speaking them. There was no going back -- not for him, not for Clyde, not for Bruce, not for any of them. "That's what we offer, Bruce. A path to apotheosis. It's a long path, and narrow. And though it leads to salvation it is also laid forth with all manner of obstacles, and surrounded on all sides with sorrow, hardship and death. I cannot promise you that you will finish your journey when you set forth on that path. That depends entirely on you. You'll understand more if you decide to become a full member of our flock and take the First Inoculation." An aside: Someone asked how new people are added to the Anathemata's psychic antenna. First Inoculation is how. All of the cultists consume a sacrament they call the Inoculation on the first and second Saturdays of the month as a part of a ritual prayer led by Deacon. The Inoculation is a secret blend of immune support agents, vitamins, nootropics, anti-fungal drugs, halucinogens and a small sample of cordiceps spores. It was developed over many years of testing by Deacon himself, and the recipes for making it with different scrounged ingredients form the bulk of what's written in the Plague Journals, a stack of holy notebooks that he lets no one else read. Consuming the Inoculation is ALWAYS a brain whallop: when taken by the Anathemata or someone who's consumed it before it causes them to involuntarily Open Their Brain, and its revelations are usually difficult to face or unpleasant. However, that's nothing compared to the FIRST time someone takes the Inoculation: that has the effect of a FAILED Open Your Brain roll, and it almost always causes them to confront something about themselves that they'd rather keep hidden in addition to other harm and weirdness. What's worse, it reverberates through the psychic antenna, and causes everyone else who's ever taken the Inoculation to confront it too. That's part of the reason the Anathemata is so close as a group: they've all seen each other at their absolute worst. "As I said, I can't promise you salvation. I can promise you a path to walk. I can promise you what little guidance I can offer on that path. And I can promise, if you choose to embark on the journey, that we will be with you for each step you take." Baby Babbeh fucked around with this message at 09:15 on May 27, 2014 |
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May 27, 2014 08:15
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=2/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 I scowl at the drawbridge left down, titter at the thievery and frown at the dead. drat fools, the lot of them. The scavengers were fools for ignoring the warnings and rushing his yard for a bit of scrap. The Ironworks were fools for wasting lives so carelessly. But after a bit of consideration, I have to conclude that the scavengers were bigger fools. If they asked, if they even approached peacefully, I would have taken off their masks and let them go free. Maybe they just didn't know... Adding another very small job, erecting some clear signs using words and pictures (in case they can't read) explaining that I will remove muzzles safely for the reasonable price that I be allowed to keep it. Also looking over the muzzle and designing a device or process for very quick and convenient muzzle removal And then I hear the man impaled on my moat. He's the biggest fool yet. "Hey buddy, there's a bridge right over there you know. This one ain't my fault, it's a suicide or a murder and I ain't done neither. You jump off cliffs for fun? Same deal right here, I just built the cliff." All the while I'm gathering my retrieval system. It's really very simple, the moat wasn't designed to keep intelligent things out, it was designed for hordes of brain dead creatures. First I check for biters around my property and when I find none I put on my armor and mask, throw down my "covers" of fitted sheet metal for the sharp bits, tie off my rope ladder and climb on down. He's dead. Well, he's alive, but he's still dead. People can survive gut wounds, but they don't survive gut wounds on poo poo that routinely rips open spore heads and only occasionally gets a fuel bath when I get around to it. I'm not risking my hide to grab him for that. Hell, this way I'll probably have to put him down myself. No, I'm coming down to hear his last words which might explain why he's this loving dumb. Then I'll return his body to the Cheyenne. They're very particular about their death rituals, even now with the dead walking. Keeps them together, keeps them sane. Maybe they won't try to kill me next time if I can give the corpse back. Whatever words we happened to exchange, I'm finished wrapping the body (crushed the skull with my crowbar to be safe) when I spot the girls from the Uni coming down to lend a hand. Corpse isn't going anywhere, but they might. So I use their young strong hands to get the windmill up and the garage open in a jiffy. One evening spent. Then I figure it's too late to drive him over in the dark. The next morning I drive him down. Old Lynn Stevens (She goes by Tall Oak now, but I knew her when she was just Lynn and wore cutoffs and smelled like smoke in chemistry class) will know where he should go or what to do with him. We have a nice little chat about the Ironworks and what's been going on with her people lately too. One morning spent Then it's time for my Truck, it's a matter of pride. I could see Lynn frown when she saw the thing. No mechanic can afford to have his vehicle anything short of top notch. Well... almost top notch. I'm out of Baby Blue. Too many touch ups and I have work to do. So I fill the holes and seal them with primer for now. Then I lighten my dark blue with white until it's almost, but not quite, a match. That will have to do until I can find the good stuff or get time to repaint the whole truck. I won't find a windshield to replace my old one in this crazy world. So I'll have to make one. All I need is scrap glass and a mold that will match my truck. New task, building a glass mold and reshaping scrap into a windshield. Might as well layer it with Polycarbonate from broken CD and DVDs to make it bulletproof One afternoon/evening spent? Then I get to work on Betty's replacement. I could build the things like a Frankenstein with a ton of junkyard parts. But it's usually best to start from a solid foundation. I drive out to a part of the highway I know is still clogged. So many people tried to drive out of the city. It didn't save them. Then I unclog it with a series of tows, pulling a few layers of cars back until I get to a nice diesel work truck. Most of the private vehicles from the old world were gasoline. But the haulers preferred diesel. It was probably abandoned on A-day, and the protective layer of gasoline vehicles around it made it an unattractive prospect for recovery. Doubt many people could spot a diesel model by eye anymore anyway. I head back to the shop with an almost working almost new truck and get to work. It's been sitting forever, so it needs a little love before it can run, but soon enough I get it purring. most of a day spent I'm taking another look at the Shroom Clearer when Angel Eyes shows up. I think the design is solid. Its base is an all terrain logger with one open cutting blade. Designed to rip apart forests. But its been modified so the entire front is basically a mulcher/thresher. Most anything I drive straight through should become woodchips sprayed out the back. With full control over the rotating blade arm, anything on the sides or back can be sliced in half. Main flaws is the whole gas guzzling thing, the expert maintenance it will no doubt need, and the spores it will no doubt throw into the air. I'm working on that, maybe a giant bag like a lawn mower... With the current design, the driver should be fine breathing filtered air but everyone else will be in a spore cloud as the shrooms are ripped apart in mass.  + 
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May 27, 2014 08:20
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Trudy Barter=2 EXP=1/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 The ruckus over at K-scratch ranch unsettled Trudy, even more so because she had to use her powers to get everybody home safe. What most people would do if they came home from a turd of a day like that is sleep for, like, six or seven weeks. But that's not how Trudy decompresses. She's on her knees in the middle of a day-long scrub-a-thon, buffing the kitchen sink into a high shine with a scouring mix Faustina made for her (bless her heart, if that wasn't the best Christmas present she'd ever got), deep into a joint the size of a Sharpie, recharging her homemaker spirit, when she realizes there are visitors. They knocked, and she felt that knock, even though it was on the gate that encloses Betta Gamma house, and she was inside, in the kitchen. This kind of thing happens when she's really feeling good. What she did with Black Betty was a spur-of-the-moment thing, a casserole of magic, whipped up out of whatever she could scrounge from her mental pantry. It was thin, and brittle. Betta Gamma house, though, is home. Here, it's like the building is an extension of herself, and when someone raps on the gate, they rap on her, too. This one she feels on her left shoulder. A polite little knock. Trudy takes a hit from the joint, taps the ashes neatly into a mason jar, and goes to see who's here. "Hello," the middle-aged, head-shaved white guy in front says, hands clasped by his waist, "My name is Elijah. Have you heard the good news?" The hoods are a little off-putting, but for some reason  , Trudy's feeling pretty good about these people. "The good news?" she says. He goes on, "Don't you agree that the world has gone to poo poo? Wouldn't you love to see all the filth and pestilence and sin, wiped away? Pulverized and ground into the earth? I'm pleased to be the one to tell you, it's going to happen. The Killdozer roams this great country, and it will not stop on its mission of divine justice and carnage until all the evil in it is ground to dust." Trudy's not big on holy rollers, and these kids remind her more than a little of Jehovah's Witnesses handing out pamphlets, but at the same time, she finds that kind of scouring more than a little appealing. Sometimes she'd like to light the whole world up to get rid of all the mess. Why not a bulldozer? He looks sincerely apologetic when he says, "Now, unfortunately, there may be some collateral damage along the unyielding crusade. The Killdozer might plow through some useful, even inhabited, buildings on its path to smite the wicked. And right now, it's on a course to pass right through this here campus - and I do mean through. But don't take that as a threat! It's an opportunity, really, to be part of the crusade that will save the world." He explains, "The Killdozer is fueled by sacrifice. Now, it won't starve, not ever, but through our offerings, and those of charitable donors, we can speed it up along its ruinous path. Anything of great sentimental value is best, but practical stuff - food, ammunition, good clothes, medicine - works, too. Of course, some of it will go to feed and clothe its Heralds." A guy behind him with a big smile waves. "And when you make an offering, it listens to you. So we're here taking collections, for the good of everyone everywhere, and giving you a chance to say to it, 'O Sacred Killdozer, please drive around this college on your merciless course.' Right now, we're a long way off from gathering a big enough donation to sway it." He glances over your shoulder and asks, "May we come inside to discuss this further?" Trudy smiles. "Of course!" Ushering them in, she says, "I'm not sure about donations, but I know hungry people when I see them, and I can at least give you a good meal before you go on your way."
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May 27, 2014 18:56
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Angel Eyes, there's one thing you got wrong about Justice - he loving hates certain titles. No 'highness,' no 'grace,' but he'll take a finger if you don't use at least a 'sir.' This is America: Justice was elected (unanimously) to serve as the county's Mayor, Sheriff, chief justice, treasurer, and a few other things. He's got 'knights,' but they're the type that report back to a Grand Wizard. The jester's a guy named Rufus, who used to be an upstanding guy until his head injury a few years back. The Second Amendment, in its full text, is engraved into a man-sized iron scroll in what remains of the foundry's lobby. That thing was sculpted locally and set up before Z-day, but Justice had it gilded (that is, he filled in the lettering with real, actual gold) and keeps it polished. But, yeah, the deal goes down just fine - Justice has a great deal of respect for you. - Frog's journal is all over the place. His handwriting's chicken-scratch bullshit, but it seems to be more a matter of not caring about quality or neatness, rather than mental deficinecy. He He did plenty of brokering, not unlike your gig earlier, and kept a very steady account of who-what-when's. If you held onto the book and made sense of who the hell all those nicknames belong to, you could probably fill in for his now-vacant business. If you do that, you can get +1 on your next moonlighting roll. Between the dull stuff, you find a few pencil drawings of posed nude figures. Jasmine, Luanne, a receptionist-slash-overseer at Jefferson, another woman you don't recognize, and Lace. Objectively, they're actually pretty good. Smooth, orgnic lines and smudged-lead shading. And there's some dear-diary stuff about his feelings. How he thinks Luanne might be 'the one,' but she's all distant and he thinks he needs to convince her that he's 'for real.' Skipping past that... 'had an of out of body expernc today. thot it was heat stroke then thot it was a REAL stroke but felt fine after. felt all light and swimmy and connected w everything like being on acid. clancy didnt have a chance to spike my cantn w anything. brain tumor? too much spore?' And later, 'nother out of body trip again near clancys place. this time i had a vision tht shrooms were coming and then THEY DID 5min later. then got on roof nbd. crazy or psychic??' And later still, 'did trippy brain thing again this time w clancy + grant. called it out loud but they thot i was lucky or knew of inc horde from earler. bs. hard to beliv but i think,' and here, a line looks to have been erased and re-written several times, 'i can see the future.' A few more like that. Plus this one, 'loving WIERD. more psychic practice after grants deal today. feels easier when i climb a tree ??? but then i heard grant up on branch behind me he said "dan. grant. thats interesting" turned around and it was grant w wierd looking eyes. then disapeard. what poo poo !??? gonna watch him.' 'Dan,' by the way, is what Frog called himself. There are some more pages of paranoia where he stalked Grant around, who was doing stuff that sounds pretty innocuous for someone coked out eighty percent of his waking time. And saying he felt like he was being watched the rest of the time. The most recent journal bit, interspersed between his regular dealings, 'HOLY loving poo poo. grant is dead. watching him like normal last night stopped to take a leak and then saw some bitch had killed him in like a second and was cutting him up. think she was waiting in his camp but didnt see her get there. must have made a noise cus she looked up then bolted. only light was grants lamp and her eyes were green behind the eyes like an animal. got my flashlight and shouted but she kept running so i took a few shots and missed. p sure it was parry that uni slut but i have no fuckn clue why shed go after grant or that she was so fuckn brutal.' 'whatever she is shes not going to get away with this.' While you were reading, someone else came up to the property. It's Clancy, an older white guy with the reputation of a cynical hermit. He's got a salt-and-pepper beard, hard face lines, old army jacket, and a shotgun, but he doesn't look like he's expecting any kind of trouble. He walks over the booby traps with familiarity and heads for the door, to knock on it. Hasn't noticed you yet. ~ Deacon, Bruce doesn't look sold. He gives you a tentative, "Hm, okay," and wanders off to go re-balance the stuff hanging off of Clyde's old bike. Must have been muttering something, because Cuff gets up in his face and says, "Tell me I didn' just hear you say 'bullshit,' son." Bruce is, if not intimidated, at least startled, and puts his hands up, all, "What, no, I didn't-" Cuff pulls up his sleeve, and says, "You saw a man get bit, and he didn' turn. You saw that, no motherfuckery. I got bit, and I lived. That don't just happen. Goddamn miracles are afoot, man, no doubt about it." Cuff backs off, calms himself down, and says, "Nobody here pretendin' to have all the answers. You wanna walk the path of discovery, you welcome to join us, but you best show some respect for the wisdom o'those who ahead of you." He's clearly referring to you. Bruce is all, "Alright, sorry," a little closer to intimidated than enlightened. Lemur rolls his eyes. - The Anathemata aren't doing too hot at the moment. While Darryl was laid up with a compromised immune system, he got the flu, or something. It incubated in him, then spread around. Dill got it from him, and then before she started showing symptoms, spread it to Cuff and Garrety while they all slept together. It's made its way around from there. Sneezing and sniffling all around. quote:Morale: Deacon, you said you were thinking about relocating to the university? Nothing stopping you. You run into a pair of zombies just standing in a field looking upward, but it's no big deal to either smash two heads or just cycle the long way around them. The acting campus lookout, Spears, waves at you from her rooftop perch when you come into sight. She asks, "Howdy, Deacon. What can we help you with?" but from the way she says it, and the wary way she's looking down at you, it's a sugar-coated 'what the hell do you want?' Someone who used to live on campus joined up with the Anathemata, and it went extremely poorly for them. It wasn't your fault, but when you only hear about something like that, blame and forgiveness are a tricky gray area. Spears says, "If you're looking for the doctor, there's a line. If you're looking for the other cult, Trudy's making them bunch or something." ~ Trudy, Elijah says, "That would be outstanding! We may be in service to a higher power, but we still need to eat." He and his congregation all smile wide and follow you in. Elijah adds, "For your hospitality, we would be happy to petition the Destroyer on your behalf, but without an offering, I can't be certain it will listen." He also explains, "The Pilot also needs to eat. Customarily, any food we find or recieve as an offering goes first to her. Only when someone offers to share a meal do we really have a chance to fill up. We're extremely grateful - aren't we?" He turns his head at the last bit. Chopped-hood nods deeply and says, "We are grateful. Thank you." Elijah goes around and all four of them thank you, individually. So - what's cooking? They're down for all manner of small talk. They ask you some low-ball questions about life at the university, what your trade is, got any family, et-cetera. If there's anything you'd like to know, just ask. This is also a good time to roll for your Threshold and pick how it's doing today. They also take a good look around your place. They don't touch anything, just take inventory. And then, Elijah pulls out his sacrificial knife - a big, crescent-shaped, serrated thing made of bronze, visible dimpled hammer-marks, with a tang but no proper handle. It's crusted with dark stuff (guess what) but if you ask, Elijah will assure you it's been sterilized in fire; it would be rude to wipe away anything that was offered. He makes another little gash on his scarred- and scabbed-up palm and just lets it flow. And he asks you, in the same tone he might use if he were asking you to pass the salt, "Will you bleed for us?" ~ Faustina, the patient, Cheebs, is sloshed as hell. His face is wet, like he's been crying, but when you and Swift come in, he says, "Helloooo nurse~!" and then laughs hysterically. When she starts peeling his blood-sticky shirt off to get a look at the wound, he says, "Aren't you gonna buy me dinner first?" Swift smiles sweetly and tells him that there are good, quiet cooperative patients, and there are people who bleed to death. Cheebs apologizes, then keeps snickering to himself. The shoulder's just a deep graze. Simple enough. The foot is a problem. You have to bring out the heavy-duty shears to clear his ruined boot away. The bullet went through the complicated, bony forward part and exited under his arch. A few toes are just barely dangling on, and he's not going to be able to keep most of them. His snickering turns to weeping whenever the foot moves, even a little. Mega seems to genuinely care about the guy. He keeps saying poo poo like, "Yo, doc, is he gon be alright?" before you really get a chance to look at him. And then periodically points at you or Swift with vague threats about if you don't heal him up right. Punctuated by ranting, very loudly, about those no-account gimp-mask motherfuckers who ambushed them, since when the gently caress did they even carry guns, he's going to burn down their lovely workshop or whatever, skull gently caress them, feed them to the biters little pieces at a time, et-cetera. Cyrus comes in after a little while, looking worried. She's all, "Hey, Faustie, can I have you for a minute?" Mega says, "No, you fuckin' can't!" but you can ignore him. Swift can hold up whatever you were in the middle of. Cyrus takes you aside and quietly says, "So, we've got three more guys who showed up outside with gunshot wounds. One looks real bad. I, uh, asked 'em what happened, and I think they were on the other side of this little exchange. I don't think they're going to take 'gently caress off' for an answer." She adds, "And another cult. Second one today." What do you do? ~ Big Mike, it's hard to hear him talk. The muzzles are designed to make conversation almost impossible, and this guy's not in any mood to be eloquent. You can hear him choking out vowel sounds, and manage to put together that he's saying,"I got pushed. sorry. tried to say (ow) wait, but they wouldn't. The [incomprehensible syllables] didn't give us a choice. We were all... [hosed? mugged? drugged? hugged?]" He begs, "please don't kill me" but he's already drenched in sweat and twitching. There aren't many situations where a crowbar to the head is a kindness, but there you have it. The ladies from the university show up on one bicycle, Aguilera pedaling and Stefani balancing on the pegs. Aguilera seems impatient, bordering on pissed-off from word one, introduces herself with a, "Alright, so what are we doing?" and then busts her rear end to get this windmill bullshit over with as soon as possible. Stefani seems a little embarrassed and acts extra nice to, like, compensate for that. She offers way more, 'Can I get that for you?'s and 'Thanks so much for helping with the truck,'s than are really necessary. Anyways, it goes well. Aguilera kills a rabbit; you've got, like, a grill or something, right? Lynn Tall Oak is happy to see you until the reason for your visit comes up. When she sees the body, she just looks defeated. That was Ben Stone-Knife - last guy left alive with that surname. It's loving depressing when an entire family dies out. Her nephew, Avo Tall Oak, comes out from their cabin and starts grilling you about what happened to him, like he's trying to find a way to pin it on you, but a few questions in, Lynn get short and tells him to "gently caress off, Big Mike's one of the good ones." He does, after swearing that those Jefferson motherfuckers are going to pay for this. He adds, "Benny didn't owe them poo poo," before stomping away. Lynn sighed, and said, "He's probably right. They say it's a debtor thing, but those assholes are trying to re-start the slave trade. I get why some transient might get trapped into heading back there after they slapped a muzzle on him. But not Ben. I don't know why he would've done anything except come right back. He had friends." Then, she offered you some tea. She wanted to spend a while chatting and catching up. Asks you what you've been up to, seems concerned about all the bullet holes. Last time you saw her, she was coughing a bunch, and guessed it was bronchitis. It hasn't stopped since then. By now, she's pretty sure it's lung cancer. Kicked the smoking habit fifteen years ago, but she guesses it caught up to her. She doesn't seem too broken up about it. "Honestly," she says, "I never thought I'd live even this long. Growing up, I assumed I'd die young. Then I thought, nuclear war, or global warming. Then the world ended, and I didn't think I had what it took to make it more than a week. But here we are." She lights up a hand-rolled cigarette. Locally grown tobacco. Offers you one, too. "Feels like I've been on borrowed time for a long while already, you know? I'm way past done worrying about it. Good seeing you. Stop by any time, y'hear?" - You make that jury-rigged scrapified windshield, not much problem, but it comes out cloudy looking, and blurry to look through. The layers aren't perfectly joined, and there's a bunch of crap in your recycled mix. It'll stop some low caliber rounds, and it's smash-proof against at least shroomhead hammering, but you feel like you shouldn't trust your life to it. And, if it does break, you can be sure it'll come apart into huge nasty shards, not that laminated, tempered safety-glass crumble. When you restore a truck that's been sitting for a decade plus, it's going to have some problems. Lines, seals, belts - anything rubberized in particular, that stuff gets brittle over time. You've got it running, and it's good for now, but you've got a feeling that all the motion will knock loose a few more failure points. It's going to need a few more fixes until it's been run thoroughly through the paces. Aguilera's eager to drive away with it right this minute, though. As for the Clearer? You've got it in a state where it will run. Like you said, gas is a major issue. You might be able to get fifteen or twenty minutes of full-bore operation with your current red-line stock. It's to the point where you'd need to test it on some meat to work out any remaining design flaws. Aguilera concedes that it's, "loving bad-rear end." For those muzzle-removal signs - easiest thing in the world to set up. Stefani says, "You know, if the guys at Jefferson see those, they're going to be really pissed, right? I-I mean, it's a good thing to do, but if you live out here alone, maybe not such a good idea?" Anyway. What next? ~ Juck, your three riders make it back late, but with a fourth. Taye, the lookout from the ranch, rode back with Grillcheese. Grillcheese and Cicada look shaken, Dog Head looks even more pissed than when he left. D.H. pulls up, kills his engine, and announces, "They loving ruined it!" Grillcheese comes up slower with a depressed-rear end looking frown, waves Cicada over and says, "Show 'er." Cicada gets out a half-empty plastic water bottle. The water inside is cloudy to the point of being beige, with a grainy film on top. Spores. D.H. points at it and says, "That poo poo came out of the well. Out of the well! How the gently caress did they know to do that!?" Taye flips open his zippo and re-ignites a half-done joint. He says, "It was hosed. One of the zulus got its jaw tore off and just, like, deep-throated the pump. Couldn't see what they were doing in the mob 'til they followed you guys off, and then this one left-over had crammed the, uh, spigot down into its stomach. It was split open 'round the neck and twitching like crazy. Like, it wasn't using its body even like a person anymore. Didn't stop when I shot it in the head, 'til I'd emptied most of a mag and it fell off. Then five more ran back and tried to set up another one." Grillcheese adds, "I saw the remains: poo poo was gross. And those church guys kept yelling scripture at us. The, uh, I guess the place is cleared out, though. Wasn't anything good left over except some tarps." Cicada brought those. Big sheets of plastic. You already had some, but anyone with some imagination can always use more tarps. Taye takes a deep puff. "hosed up, man." Dog Head goes around spreading the news and swearing a lot. The well is loving ruined. Taye gives the roadhouse a slow look over then says, "Hey. My last gig's dried up. Y'all hiring? 'Have gun, will travel.'" It's an M4 slung over his shoulder, but he doesn't have a bike or anything. You've heard he used to be a green beret or something, but he doesn't like to talk about it. He is in good shape for fifty-ish, and prefers to be high one hundred percent of the time. "[b posted:The Wolves[/b],"] What do you do? StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 06:11 on Jun 1, 2014 |
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Jun 1, 2014 03:20
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=2/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 I have a grill, I have a full kitchen too. Oven runs on electric though, and I'll want to wait for the batteries to charge before I blow a bunch of power on it. So I use the charcoal grill. Simple device, and it's not like I can't make charcoal if it can't be found. Still plenty of wood. So we have a reasonably pleasant time working on this stuff. I look at my screwed up windshield. The last one was a thing of beauty. Things used to be pretty. I'll have to work on my forging technique, get some new equipment. But it will do for now I suppose. Then we get to the signs, and the truck. "Well, I'm pretty darn sure these looters were drugged and sent here. Maybe they don't like me much already. If they got a problem, they can come here and have a chat about how I should be supporting their slave trade. poo poo, maybe they can even talk me into something. Just as likely they'll come hard and I'll die in some bloody shoot out. Or I'll die of cancer like Lynn. Or one day I'll just be too weak to stand anymore, and I'll die alone out here. Everybody dies, and my ticket will come soon no matter what I do. Might as well get gunned down for doing something right." I set up the signs and work on a way to safely remove the masks. "Now, this here vehicle is running, but I don't trust it. Been sitting too long. I've only be working at it for a day. I'd say it's an ok replacement for Betty at this point, but if you recall Betty died in an emergency. If you're aching to get home you can take it how it is and accept those risks. But give me another day and I can have her going nice and proper... Hey, is that Angel Eyes?" "Hey, Angel!" I call out at the lady in the distance as she lowers the drawbridge.
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Jun 1, 2014 05:58
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Trudy Barter=2 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "No thank you, sweetie," Trudy says, simultaneously sliding a teacup under the bleeding man's hand to save the kitchen table, and opening a cabinet. Inside rests some heavy homemade bread and fresh goat's milk cheese. Trudy sets the bread and cheese on the table, alongside some basil from the herb garden, and tomatoes from the garden-garden. The question doesn't freak her out. You can't throw a rock without hitting a cult these days--The Church of Latter-Day Satanists, the New Mansonites, the Nazarenes, NeoWiccans--and if you were easily offended by plaintive stares, roving missionaries, and requests for blood, being offended would be all you did. And it's best to be polite, because you never know who's going to end up with the winning ticket. Before, Trudy didn't care about religion. She wasn't a frothing atheist, she just didn't pay much attention to anything spiritual. But with things the way they are, and the weird magic she's tapped into, well, it's basically anybody's game now. The Killdozer could actually be what life is all about. That doesn't mean they get everything they ask for, though. Trudy's not about to bet the farm (or sorority house) on everybody with a god and an argument that stops by. But she'll feed 'em, and listen to their stories. These guys are interesting, at least. Trudy's always liked the vengeful, imperfect gods (if the Killdozer is even supposed to be a god). They seem more authentic. Sometimes she wishes the Greek pantheon would make a comeback. She might even sign up for that one. "There's nothing impressive on the menu today," Trudy says, slicing the bread. On each piece she crumbles a bunch of cheese, then places sliced tomatoes and fresh basil on top. "But it's pretty filling." To each cultist, she hands a hefty portion. "So, tell me more about the Killdozer," Trudy says, getting up to get some tea for each guest. "Where did it come from? Who's the Pilot?" She sets four cups on the table, fills them, and sits down, listening attentively.
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Jun 1, 2014 19:14
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 poo poo. As I skimmed through the journal, more and more of Frog...Dan's real personality showed through. His feelings, hopes, dreams...He was almost reasonable. I had to remind myself that his artistic skills or whatever was going on in his head didn't absolve him of how he treated Lace. You do what you have to do to survive, but there was a line. Being pointlessly cruel to people was firmly across that that line. Nevertheless, he gave me something more to go on with Perry. Out of respect for the man he could have been, I'd see it through. Tucking the journal away in my satchel, I started to let myself out when I saw a figure letting himself casually onto the property. I froze in the office door, watching carefully. Natural movements so it wasn't an infected. Masculine gait...shotgun, beard, army jacket. That had to be Clancy. I let out a soft breath as I throttled back down to neutral. He was one of the folks we generally considered to be a member of Little Town. He was kind of a hermit, but like Big Mike he'd been around basically forever so he was put in with all the other folks who had some roots here. Consequently he wasn't going to be thrilled to see me. Little Town saw me and those like me as parasites, and I couldn't reasonably argue against that. I make my living on conflict, and that's the last thing the folks around here had an interest in. Still, Clancy wasn't the kind of guy to just shoot someone. Be polite and don't given him unwarranted sass and things would be just fine. "Hey Clancy. It's Angel Eyes. I'm in the back. Hold fire, yeah?" I poked my head out and saw him stepping into the door, shotgun at the ready. I stepped out, hands visible and empty. "If you're looking for Frog, he's not here. Got himself killed at the K-Scratch the other day." "Hnh." His hard eyes scanned my face before slowly lowering the weapon. "So why are you here?" I forced myself into a relaxed posture. "Checking up on something. It seems he was on the trail of a killer and I'm picking up where he left off. Pretty sure it's a woman. Freaky green eyes." I hesitated. "Apparently they glow in light. Like a cat." I felt kind of foolish saying it, but I'd trust what Frog had to say. From his expression, Clancy seemed to be considering my words. If he thought it was bullshit, he wasn't letting it show.
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Jun 1, 2014 20:37
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Sorry, Big Mike, but that isn't Angel coming by just yet. Aguilera and Stefani take your advice to stick around and get a little harder on the truck, to iron out the rest of the issues. Stefani, at least, is super grateful. As for the masks, if you know how to open a lock, or you know someone who knows how to get a lock open, there's nothing special about 'em - the craftsmen at the Ironworks just cored out or sawed around existing padlocks and welded them into new fixtures. Or you could saw through one, given plenty of time and a little care once you get close to the meat. You run the He asks, "Mind if I come in?" while he's lowering the bridge. And actually, if you tell him to stay out, he will. But the reason for his visit is, he says, "It's come to our attention that a few of our debtors have broken into your property and stolen from you. The Sheriff extends his sincere apologies 'bout that. It's not our policy or our intent to have them steal from hard-working pillars of the community like yourself. And we can assure you that the guilty parties are being tried. It's unfortunate, but that sort of thing happens occasionally when you try to squeeze honest labor out of criminals. Not sure I agree with the practice, honestly, but I don't make the rules." He shows you the business side of the papers he's holding, and says, "This here's an itemized list of what our drifters came back with. If you can verify what on here went missing from your yard, we can get it all brought back to you." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder and adds, "We think we got most of it in the trunk." While he's talking, Officer Williams is squinting at one of your new signs, and slowly mouthing the words on it to himself. His demeanor darkens, and he says, "You ought'a take that sign down." What do you do? ~ Trudy, Elijah looks aghast when he realizes that you actually care about blood getting on the table. He pulls his hand back to bleed discreetly onto his own everything-stained robes. He says, "See, to offer blood is considered an act of sacrifice. Just a small one, in this slight degree." He trails off and smacks his lips involuntarily once you get the food going. One of his cult buddies, a pale and gaunt fellow with a strip of cloth going over one of his eye (sockets?), is salivating so much, he has to wipe drool off of his chin. These people are very hungry. They grasp at the food with scarred, bloody, emaciated hands and practically breathe it down. The guy who probably only has one eye makes a little moan of pleasure as he licks his fingers. Elijah says, "There are some things that we're not allowed to tell you, unless you make a pact of blood. Secrets that we have promised to keep." He smiles, and puts a finger over his lips. "And some things that we humble servants don't even know." The strung-out woman with the lovely hoodie, with a voice that sounds older and more hoarse than her look, says, "Don't take that for a recruitment pitch. This life isn't for everyone, and not too many of us maintenance folks are required." Then she takes a sip of tea, sighs, and says, "Oh my god thank you so much." Probably-one-eye says, "We are as the grease on its mighty treads." Strung-out nods, "Yeah. The sacrifices are more important, we just collect 'em." Elijah is quick to correct her by saying, "Sacrificers. And the things they sacrifice. Ahem. As for your other questions, we believe the Killdozer was first constructed in the dark months right after the first sporing. When our predecessors found the Killdozer, at the end of a long trail of glorious destruction and pulverized hollow things, its engine was still running but the first pilot was dead inside. Maybe he was also the architect. We never learned his name, his origin, or the mundane details of its construction. To honor that tradition, and his sacrifice, all the pilots since then have abandoned their names and the rest of their worldly ties when they were sealed within it. The current pilot's past life is over, and if I had known her, it would be gravely disrespectful to speak of her lesser form. She is now become an avatar of destruction, you see." He sips some tea, and thanks you for it. "The Killdozer is a machine made to save humanity. It is the scalpel that carves out tumors from the world. And you don't need us to tell you that the world is gravely ill. It's an answer to a million half-formed prayers; it is our deliverance from monstrous things. The world needed a Killdozer, and those many of us who recognized its potential to be that Killdozer, starting with the architect who discovered its form from raw elements and scrap materials and labored to reveal it, have imbued it with our faith, and with our sacrifice. And now it has taken on a life of its own, given life by the purpose we wanted to see in it. It is a modern god of destruction, you see, built and wished-for, but no less divine." The rest of the cultists get pretty riled up when he says that. Legs trembling, small smiles and bit-on lips from withholding cheers of joy. They're just juiced to hear him talk about it. Elijah says, "Thank you very much for the meal. Anything you can offer would, again, be very appreciated." His eyes pan around the room, lingering first on your wrist, and then on those handmade childrens’ toys you have lying around. ~ Angel Eyes, clancy grunts - it's a sad grunt - and frowns. Which is to say, his face doesn't change, except for a raised eyebrow when you mention glowing eyes. He pauses for a long while, puts his hands on his hips and looks around the property, such as it is. "Well," he says, "Dang. I was comin' by to see if he had my 'scription ready yet, guess he don't." He lets those words float for a while, then adds, "Said he'd get a guy to scrounge for some of them gout meds. Don't need it, but it'd sure be nice." He's still standing there. Like he's stalling, or thinking about something. He looks back to you all scrutinizing, and says, "Now, if what you're trying to say is, 'gently caress off, I got here first,' that's fine. Believe he hid or buried most of his little 'treasures,' but I won't begrudge you some honest lootin.' Sure won't fight you over it." He pauses, clears his throat, and hacks a gob of phlegm onto the ground. You get the sense that it wasn't a meaningful gesture. He continues, "But you don't strike me as the bull-shittin' type.If I heard Frog talkin' 'bout hunting a killer with glowing cat eyes, I'd assume he dipped too deep into his stock. He had some of the strange stuff. Because that sounds just stupid. And I'd'a figgered you'd'a thought so, too. So. What's really goin' on here? You think Frog got iced for sticking his nose in this?"
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Jun 2, 2014 22:40
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Barter=0 | Exp=1/5 | Fatigue=0:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm As usual, I was always last to know about guests. Having been in the lab since the wee morning hours, I had no idea a 'cult' had already come through. Hopefully they were also already gone. Nodding grimly at Cyrus I glance nervously towards the entrance doors. She only gets serious like this when something's really bad. Speaking as low as my stress-laden voice will allow, I try to think up a way we can stall. “Well, that's just fabby. This is shaping up to be a totes awful day. Take Swift outside with you and render any first aid you can until I come for you two. Don't let anyone in until I say, alright? Oh and make sure Spears doesn't blow her foot off too. That would be bad.” Sometimes you had to talk to her like a child (typically whenever you wanted something more complex than tying her shoes). It's not like I wasn't expecting Cheeb's chortles as I tended to him. You get used to a world less PC after awhile. It wasn't the first time there'd been tension at the Atrium either, just not as potentially explosive. Once we'd had to lock Major Dick and a few of his leathernecks out when I was treating Sam. He'd started pounding on the doors, hollering about his 'rights' as a father. In our opinion though, (both Sam's and my own) he'd given up those rights when he tried to punt her stomach. Eventually Knowles and Aguilera chased him off, and we'd all decided it was better if the couple moved into our dorms for the time being. This confrontation was likely not going to be as easy to resolve. The shoulder wound sews up easily enough, and when I'm finished with it I begin to prepare the scalpel and tools I'll need for the major injury, nodding my head along to a chorus of nasty curses from Cheebs: “FUUUCKKK you little oval office! *hrrk* .. ugh (whimper) i'm gonna give you some'ore bruises when i get up......OWW!!” Faustina's Recorder posted:Patient Cheebs. Gunshot wound to the foot comprised of several complicated fractures with bone defect of 3rd, 4th and 5th metatarsals. Wide soft tissue injury with superficial and subcutaneous trauma to the dorsal and lateral side of the foot. Intra-articular avulsion of cuneiform, likely coronal plane. The wound is contaminated with numerous metal fragments – needs extensive debridement and removal of non-viable bone... I stop mid-sentence, shaking my head at the mess of an operation before me. It's too badly damaged. We can't afford the time. There aren't enough supplies for a quick-fix via whatever's left in my kit. And there's not enough room in the Atrium to tend to another group of patients; not to mention the bad blood between them might put everyone at risk. I can't have my hospital become a freaking war zone - kinda defeats the purpose. God. Can't you shitheads stop shooting each other for a few days so I can get caught up around here? Cheebs and his meathead buddy need to get out of here, like yesterday. That means taking some risks. Firstly, I'll get him healed up in spectacular fashion; hopefully wow them enough to get their rapt attention, then urge them to not incur my wrath or something by bouncing the hell out. No telling how effective an orator I'd be after the hands/brain thing, but it seemed like the only option I had to avoid a potentially catastrophic clash of gun-toting morons. I wrap my hands around the blasted foot... Aliquet Pede (Healing touch on Cheebs): 2d6+1 9 AuF from Cheeb's brain: 2d6-1 3 For a moment I think it's gonna be one of those rare occasions where I nail the timing and suffer no physical repercussions; but then a crushing wave of exhaustion plows me into the rolling surf of nausea and I'm leaning over the bed trying not to barf all over the sweaty, matted ponch of his belly. My words stumble out weakly between ragged gasps as I fight the Sickness. A Promise and a Touch (Manipulate Cheebs): 2d6+1 4 “N-...*urk*... n-now you have to l-eeahhhh...*mphhh!* … getthefuckout.” hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 00:10 on Jun 3, 2014 |
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Jun 2, 2014 23:39
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=0:00 StringOfLetters posted:Juck, your three riders make it back late, but with a fourth. Taye, the lookout from the ranch, rode back with Grillcheese. Grillcheese and Cicada look shaken, Dog Head looks even more pissed than when he left. D.H. pulls up, kills his engine, and announces, "They loving ruined it!" Juck pulls deeply on her cigarette, exhaling a dense cloud of pungent smoke. "This ain't an old folks home, and I ain't running a charity. You want to ride with the Wolves, you gotta prove you're worthy first. And our first order of business ---" Juck shakes the cloudy water bottle "--- is dealing with this poo poo right here. We ain't exactly sitting on top of a stockpile of water here; we don't find another source, we're all going to end up sick from drinking contaminated poo poo." Dog Head's spouting his mouth off about the well twenty feet over; Juck calls to him. "Dog Head -- over here." Dog Head lopes over; he's got a bit of a spring back, now, looks like he manage to blow off a little steam. "You did good, grabbing these tarps -- you were thinking solar stills, right?" Dog Head's face is blank for a beat before a light bulb visibly goes on and he starts nodding enthusiastically. "Smart move. Grab Lala and a few other folks, let's get the stills set up in the lot here, where they'll get some sun. It's not going to be enough, long term, but it'll keep us on the level while we work out what our next move is." Juck turns back to Taye. "You held lookout for the Ranch for a while; there's gotta be other wells around here, right?"
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Jun 3, 2014 01:41
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 "Come on in officer, let's chat about this situation." I let him come in, and I escort him around the yard. I note the missing things while we have our conversation. "You leave desperate scavengers to do what they want, they end up causing all sort of ruckus. You just leave them to run around on their own, of course that's what they do. Some of them made some very bad decisions hitting my place. Doesn't make sense, unless they were crazed or forced. So, I fundamentally disagree with your whole scheme here. Causes trouble with hard working folks everywhere." I give him a hard, searching, look, "if it's just a matter of debt, then they can work it off here and they'll pay it back much faster than stealing. I can show them what to do, to make trash into treasure. If they run from me, I'll pay it back myself. If that happens enough, I may reconsider my policy. But... it's not just about the debt, is it? It's all about the deterrent. You want them to suffer, you want other folks to see them suffer. Then they know that a debt to you is a serious thing. Well, I understand that, but I don't much truck with it. Other ways to look tough. Other ways to collect. This way is ugly, it's not American, and I won't support it. Now, if ya'll was the government I'd have to go along with it anyway. Plenty of stuff I didn't much like about the old government that I went along with because I had to. But there's an issue of sovereignty here. You do what you want on your land, putting the masks on. I do what I want on mine, taking then off. I'm reasonable about it, but in the end of the day my land is my land. If ya'll want to say my land is your land, that you're the new government and all, well then there's a lot more stuff you need to do. Enforce justice, protect citizens, keep supplies strong for everyone. You aren't doing that stuff, so I don't respect your authority over me sufficiently for me to endorse a wacky punishment scheme that's more or less making criminals desperate and then forcing them to steal poo poo from hard working folks. There's also some doubts about what crimes they committed, and how your proved their guilt, and all that." I read his face on that one. Lynn didn't think her boy did anything wrong. He said something about "drugged". And no one right in the head would hit this place, knowing it's booby trapped, instead of going to naturally made junk piles. Unless they were told to go here. How did this guy even know I'd been hit so quickly, anyway? "I guess what I'm saying is, I'm willing to work with you on this a little, and I respect what you're doing now. Makes me feel more obliging to your organization. You're willing to address the damage they do now, it means I'll agree not to take off the masks without also taking on their debt. Does that sound fair to you?" Read a Person: 2d6+1 12 What does your character wish I’d do? (i.e. what's the scheme here? It's obvious he wants me to take down the signs.) How could I get your character to see things my way on the whole enslaved scavengers in creepy masks thing? One hold on the conversation for later.[/i]
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Jun 3, 2014 01:50
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "You're right. I'm not really the type for bullshitting. Frog is dead because I didn't like him. Nothing more complicated than that." I leaned against a wall, arms crossed as I gazed at the ceiling. "Thing is, whether Frog was confusing reality for hallucinations is kind of irrelevant. There are people dying and nobody knows who or what is behind it. Men with their blood drained out and organs rearranged. If it's related to what Frog was talking about, he's the only one who had any idea who was behind it. Now it's down to me. And while people may think of me as a leech, it's in my best interest to ensure the host doesn't die on me." I straightened up, brushing a bit of nonexistent dust from my shoulder. "Help yourself to whatever you can find here. Maybe that medication is tucked away somewhere. Otherwise, I'm staying up at the college for the time being. I'll ask Faustina about it for you. Compared to the crap she's had to deal with lately, something as mundane as gout might be a welcome relief." I glanced past him out the door, measuring the light. "I need to get moving. Plenty more work to do today. Just keep what I said in mind, would you? You don't have to believe it. I'm not sure I do yet. On the other hand, twenty years ago nobody would have believed a fungus was going to destroy modern civilization." I gave Clancy a polite nod as I stepped by him and let myself out. It was a ways to Big Mike's garage, and after that, finding Deacon and his congregation. There were all sorts of rumors about them and most of them not very reassuring. They had ways of knowing things that nobody should know. Ways that sounded uncomfortably similar to the things Frog had mentioned in his journal. Seeing the future? I wasn't prepared to accept the notion on it's face, but I had seen some goddamned weird poo poo in my life. Not all of it easily explained away or attributable to brain problems. Sometimes you just have to let go of your assumptions and follow your instincts. Just now remembered to add the 1-barter from Moonlighting.
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Jun 3, 2014 04:02
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Deacon "Spears, my dear. I assure you we won't intrude overly on your hospitality," Deacon said, noticing, but not commenting, on the look on her face: like she'd just laid eyes on a particularly irritating pest. It was about Rowland, of course. It wasn't Deacons fault -- she'd come of her own accord, and there was no accounting for how someone would react to First Innoculation ahead of time. Some folks just couldn't confront their darker selves. They kept those parts buried so deep that unearthing them shifted their entire psyche. Deacon hadn't seen Rowland since that night -- evidently, neither had Spears. He could have apologized, could have told her how he wished it would have gone differently. But she never brought it up, so Deacon didn't either. Better to pretend the past hadn't happened. "I've got some sick folk with me, and I think a few days not spent roughing it in the woods will do them good, if you've got space in your infirmary. We're pretty self sufficient, otherwise. We'll just set up in the quad and stay out of your way, and we'll be gone as soon as our folk are feeling bettter." "We'll pay you, of course. Got some very good jerky for barter, and if you're worried about meds we've a pretty good stock of pharma from our last scavenge we could part with." Convincing Spears to let us through: 2d6+3 7
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Jun 3, 2014 21:07
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Deacon, Spears fixes you with a skeptical frown and holds it for a few breaths. Beside you, Dill lets out a loud, juicy sneeze. Spears loosens up, looks at a cloud, and says, "Aw, fine. Be nice, take it easy on the recruiting. If it turns out any of you guys are Infected," that's capital-I Infected, no need for her to clarify, "Then you all leave. Otherwise, come on in." She waves you on, "Wasn't making GBS threads you about the line for the doctor, though. The Atrium- er, doctor's office, is right over there. Couldn't tell you how long this operation's gonna take, but don't interrupt it." And, yes, there are four people, armed and wearing the crusted iron muzzles from Jefferson Ironworks. One of the muzzleheads has her arm wrapped up in a blood-drenched sling that used to be a shirt, another one is sitting on the ground with his back against the building's wall and his head dangling forward, almost limp. The other two are having an animated argument with two of the university residents, Cyrus and Swift. With their mouths full of metal mouthpieces, they're communicating only in vowel sounds and gluttural stops, and they're still trying to shout over Cryrus's, "Sir, please-" so it doesn't look like anyone's getting through to anyone. There's a piercing, girlish shriek from inside - Swift turns around in alarm and goes back inside, Cyrus looks wildly uncomfortable. One of the muzzled guys gets into a shoving match with her, the other one slips past them to look inside. Then there's a gunshot, and the muzzle guy runs back outside, around the corner of the door frame. After a quick, panicked glance-around, he gets Cyrus in a headlock and puts his handgun on her shoulder. What do you do, if anything? ~ Angel Eyes, when you admit to offing Frog, Clancy looks startled. You can see a whole thing unfurl through his body language. A little widening, then narrowing, of his eyes. A slight movement of his hand, near the finger-worn wooden stock of his shotgun. Then he brings it around to a shrug. As if he's just now thought of it, he says, "He was a real piece of poo poo, wasn't he?" It's not clear if he's mulling over what you said, or has already dismissed it as paranoid imaginings of someone else who's just lost it. Either way. He says, "Alright, take care of yourself," then digs a tri-fold shovel out of his backpack and starts pacing around the grounds in search of churned earth. ~ Big Mike, when you get as far as 'fundamentally disagree,' Thibodeau's face goes slack, like he's tuning you out and waiting for you to finish talking. His lips purse into a hard line, the look of someone who knows about what he's going to say next, and knows that nobody's going to like it. When you say, 'don't respect your authority,' Williams and Martin look to each other and smirk. Martin idly opens the cylinder on his revolver and double-checks for bullets. On your closing statement, Thibodeau looks almost relieved; Martin, disappointed. Thibodeau says, "Y'on the right track, 'bout it bein' a deterrent. It's also a form of 'positive punishment,' t'make drifters and scoundrels feel like they're part of the community. They do the community a service, then they feel like they've got a stake in it, y'know?" He scratches his neck at your proposal, and says, "Problem with that is, you ain't the community. Mister Justice cares 'bout this place, and 'bout these people, but he's willing to get his hands dirty and look like the 'bad guy' today if it means order and prosperity tomorrow. He's a strong leader, and he's getting results, god knows we need 'em. You settin' yourself up as a kindly old 'get out of jail free' destination would mess that system up. It'd make him look worse, and letting dissidents and gently caress-offs get away without their knocks won't be no good down the line." Thibodeau instructs his companions to start unloading crap from the trunk. They ask where you want it, then haul it over there. Thibs scratches his neck, and says, "What I'm saying is, no. Signs go down, masks stay on, period. You wanna try to work something out with Justice, you're welcome to come by and make a proposal. Heck, I'll even give you a ride. Might not recommend it." He wishes you'd take your stuff back and be grateful for the consideration. He's suppressing his moral concerns to stick with the Party Line. He'd be willing to reconsider if you were even half as intimidating as the warlord he's serving. Also, your place got robbed like two days ago, now. It could plausibly not be a scheme. Oh, hey, and there's Angel Eyes coming up now. Angel Eyes, you've just had a pretty long hike from Frog's lovely countryside estate, and now it looks like you've gotten here just in time to see some of the Jefferson officers chatting him up and pulling some catalytic converters out of their volkswagen's trunk. What do you two do? ~ Juck, Lala & co. start setting something up for evaporation. Phrases get passed around, like, "Get me some bricks," "Will this rock work?" "gently caress you. Yes." "T-Loin, where'd you put that plastic, uh, tubey thing?" "There's no way this is going to be air-tight." "What? The hell do you think we're trying to set up?" Taye shakes his head while letting out a deep breath. He says, "Not any that you'd wanna drink from. Groundwater's a drat mess after all the dead poo poo, fungus crap, and toxic city poo poo's all leaked out 'n seeped down. Okay for plants, but like gray-water at best. Ranch's the only clear well that goes down to the aquifer. This's gonna be a big drat problem real soon." Cicada asks, 'clear?' Taye says, "Pretty sure someplace in the city had another deep well. Like, for all the plumbing. Prob'ly another one in jungle town." He thinks for a second, and adds, "The Familia guys came by to trade a lot, but didn' give much a poo poo about refilling their jugs. Dunno if they've got another source, or just a steady purification set-up. Those assholes holed up in the army base out east must have somethin else figured out, too." What do you do? ~ Trudy, Elijah does ask you about those hand-painted toys. Where, he wonders, did they come from? They might make an outstanding offering. Oh, and you hear a gunshot from outside and down the way a bit. Could've come from Faustina's lab area. ~ Faustina, things get kind of messy. When someone's brain leaks out at you, it's always a chunky stew of thought-feel stuff. Mostly shallow, not all that profound. A classic rock tune stuck in his head, an itch in his nose, a half-ignored memory from a time he was in a hospital as a kid with a broken leg and he was terrified that the doctors were going to cut it off. Plus a lot of pain, which is like all the other brain-stuff is on fire. Apparently, when a drunk mind lashes out at you, it comes out blurrier and less coherent than usual. Cheebs starts screaming in a way higher pitch than anyone expected as his foot starts growing back to normal with a burning itchy sensation. The shriek gets cut off as he flips onto his side and vomits out some rancid brown bile. That's enough to push you over the edge, and some of your chunks come out too, sorry to say. You're slammed for 2 Fatigue, as you suddenly feel like you've been awake for an extra twenty hours. Mega is freaking out, because everybody around him started screaming and throwing up and he doesn't know why, and his default reaction in that kind of situation is to shove a pistol barrel into your face and loudly demand answers. After he proclaims his intent to, "waste a bitch," Cheebs paws at him and chokes out, "Look - dude - look at my foot!" before heaving over the side of the table again. Mega looks at the fresh tootsie flesh, and his eyes widen. Mega's all astonished, "What the hell?" Swift comes back inside after all the shouting, tries to take stock of the situation, then rushes over to you and bends down to see if you're okay. A few seconds later, a woman with a shaved head in a ratty windbreaker with an iron muzzle peeks in. Mega shouts, "Motherfucker!" and immediately starts shooting. Muzzle ducks out, Swift feels like she has to dive aside. Cheebs looks up, confused and with some puke on his chin. Mega runs over, pulls Cheebs off of the slab that he was lying on (then he lands on the hard ground with a painful-sounding smack) then crouches and steadies his pistol on it, aiming toward the doorway. "Motherfuckers followed us!" What do you do? StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 17:38 on Jun 9, 2014 |
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Jun 7, 2014 01:21
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 "I think Mr. Jefferson would be very interested in my proposal. I'll write you a letter, can't visit in person, I have a busy day ahead of me. Lots of work to do. I'll tell you what, I'll take down them signs, as I'm very grateful for the consideration you've shown me. I don't much like how you're operating, but might as well not advertise that since you've shown me a little kindness here. Wouldn't want to make you mad anyway, already cleaned up enough corpses lately," I grin at him, like it's a joke, not bringing much attention to the rigged shotgun array I would have triggered if things got ugly with those guns they were so casually checking. "There's just one more favor you can do me. You see, I got some grieving friends who think their relative was unjustly shanghaied into scavenging for you. Could you tell me what, exactly, these scavengers that hit my land were guilty of?" if he answers I'm using my last hold to see if he's telling the truth I spot Angel Eyes, "Hey Angel! You walk all the way up here? Well then I know the favor I can do for you, yes indeed. Might be big enough for you to owe me one, but that's just fine for me. These gentlemen were just returning some property they stole from me. Downright civilized in this day and age. I was thinking of maybe freeing their slaves and loving them over," I give the sheriff a big wink and keep on eye on his gun hand, "but since they're being so neighborly I think I'll investigate further before making any rash judgements."
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Jun 7, 2014 02:30
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "Hey Angel! You walk all the way up here?" I swaggered up the drive, watching Thibodeau and his pals out of the corner of my eye. "Yeah. Never got around to learning how to drive." I pulled out my canteen and took a long pull as Mike kept going. "Might have to make that a couple favors and me owing you a big one, but we'll see. What's up?" I stayed casual, all smiles and pleasantries, but Mike definitely had my attention. I didn't know him well enough to say if that comment about loving Jefferson over was really just a joke or not. I kind of hoped it was, because I had no interest in burying whatever was left of Mike when Justice was done with him.
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Jun 7, 2014 02:44
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 I nod and smile at Angel Eyes, assuming things haven't gotten violent for some reason, "You don't need to drive for what I'm thinking. Most folks think of me as a motorhead, and maybe I am, but I've got some versatility to me. Deacon and his crazies got one bit of sense, Mountain Bikes are the way of the future. A lot faster than walking, but just as quiet. Don't need fuel, barely need maintenance. Only problem is, sometimes you need a burst of speed or you gotta get away hurt. So why not slap a motor on it! Back in the day they weren't so popular, but it's not too hard to make yourself. A little motor on a bicycle with a battery pack you charge yourself when you don't need it, and then just flip it on when you do! So I'm ruminating on this design, and I'm thinking I should do something nice for old Angel Eyes after she had my back, so why not make one for Angel and prove the concept? If you want it, of course. I'm too old for that kind of thing just fall over on it soon enough and let the biters eat me, but you're fit enough for it." 
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Jun 7, 2014 03:17
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I nodded as he explained the idea, unconsciously flicking a braid back over my shoulder. "That's awfully kind of you, Mike." In the back of my head, though, I was pretty sure he was working up to a pretty big favor in return. "I won't say no. Could prove useful. If nothing else it would be a good proof of concept, like you say. Just don't feel like you need to drop everything and make it a priority." I glanced back over to the Jefferson crew as I considered my next words. Nah, can't see why they would give a crap. "On the topic of Deacon...you've got a good sense of people. I'm planning on having a talk with him soon and I was wondering if you had some advice on how to approach it. Him and his followers kind of gives me the willies, but it's important." I paused. "Uh, that's actual talking. Not 'I'm going to point a gun at him' talking. Just to clarify."
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Jun 7, 2014 03:39
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