|
Deacon Barter=6 EXP= 2/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Followers: +Augery -Disease The Anathemata are already reacting, their moves eerily in sync. Deacon doesn't even have to speak but Cuff hoists his shotgun out of the holster on his back, while to his left Lemurs eyes have gone all crazy-intense, a small revolver appearing in his hand. Wednesdays Child ducks behind Dillflower and Lana Doll, who each pull a knife, while Darryl has his hatchet out and he's circling to the right, forcing the inmate to split his attention between several distinct threats coming from several diferent directions directions. Bruce is a couple seconds slower on the uptick, but even he gets his weapon up and aimed at the dude's head, his steady hands and pro-looking stance suggesting he's done this before. Way off in the back, Nancy whimpers a little. Deacon takes a few slow steps toward the guy, his hands out in a gesture of supplication, a wide smile played across his lips. "You might want to rethink this course of action, friend," he said, his voice calm and even. "You might think you're safe behind that girl. You are not. The only thing that guarantees your safety is putting down that gun and walking away peaceful like. You leave a friend or you leave a corpse. Those are the terms I'm offering." Behind the mask, the mans eye's were wild. Scared. But basically inscrutable. This thing could go either way. There was a long, still moment of tension. The only sound was the crunch of Deacon's boots as he continued to advance. Go Aggro: 2d6+1 9 Read a person: 2d6+1 6 Well, shoot.
|
#
?
Jun 7, 2014 07:18
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 27, 2024 02:12 |
|
|
"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 I talk with Angel Eyes while I work on her respirator. With practice hands a whip out my precision tools and line up my replacement parts in case any of hers are worn down. If there's one thing I know besides cars in this day and age, it's respirators. This could be later my other guests have something important to say or do now. "Deacon, he's a strange one alright. I don't know him too well personally. I know him and his flock got into some trouble down in Little Town, not too welcome there anymore. But I know his type. Charismatic preacher, faith healer, snake oil salesman. Thing you gotta understand with a man like that is, he's always on stage. Always performing... So long as he has an audience. The more people there are to hear, the more bullshit he'll fling. Now I don't know if he believes his own poo poo, probably not. Most of them don't. Some can't even tell. But I do know that the fewer of his followers there are in earshot, the closer to the truth he'll get." By now her mask is in pieces, and I'm cleaning the insides. Filter needed replacing, might as well be breathing through a shirt. "You want a real heart to heart, it'll have to be just you and him. That's a bit of a problem though, because whether or not you intend to shoot him, it'll be on his mind, especially if it looks like you want to split him from his minions. If I was looking to meet with him alone, first thing I'd do is approach real friendly. Hear he's hard to flap, and his suckers can get jumpy, so going hard will likely turn into a fight. Maybe you'd win the confrontation, but best not to start it. But I'd also make it clear I'm not looking to join up. He sees you as a mark he won't respect you. Then I'd shoot the poo poo with him and his followers for a while, make them comfortable. I'd drop a few hints to the man that you know something for his ears only, make it more obvious as time goes by, until he brings you aside for the private talk. I guess you can insist if it comes to it, but a man like that is used to being in control, you try to take it from him and he'll get defensive." Right proper use of my Move I have the thing re-assembled lickty split. "Easy enough. I'll get to work on that bike when I have some free time. Make sure to write down the design too. Might be a good thing for folks to know how to make a few decades down the line. Anything else you needed? Ride back to the university?"
|
|
#
?
Jun 7, 2014 08:03
|
|
|
 Barter=0 | Exp=2/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm “You're really growin' on meeee-oooh!” ”No no no no NO. loving CUT!” A lanky drummer snaps off a few angry snares as the band grinds to a halt. A last low bass note carries, humming scratchily through a precariously stacked wall of amps behind the musicians. Faustina sighs and clamps the neck of a four-string slung low over her hips, muting it sullenly. She shakes her fingers out and curls her lip in contempt at the director stomping onto the set. The Man From The Foldy Chair slams his clipboard on the shiny linoleum floor in front of the band, who are all dressed in lab coats and looking very flushed. “Where the bloody hell is the rhythm? You lot came off of that last measure way too hot! Tryin' to blow out me bonce, are you blokes?” His face is bright red as he barks out orders - it's frightfully hot in this cramped little studio. The scene is focused on an operating table, upon which lies a little Hispanic boy who bears a remarkable resemblance to Cheebs. His left leg appears to be covered in some sort of mossy make-up, like an obvious parody of a spore infestation. Hunched over the kid is a menacing-looking surgeon wielding a ridiculously large bonesaw, and off to the side are two adults who appear to be the 'parents', clinging to each other and biting their nails comically. The actors all drop character, grumbling to each other and shaking their heads, while a small team of powder girls scurry about touching everyone up. Just beyond the 'surgery' set, Mr. Director continues his rant at the band positioned in the background of the shot. “...How can they expect me to work in these conditions?! I studied at Tisch! I'm supposed to be making ART, not sweating me arse off in a bloody basement, trying to instruct a bunch of monkeys...” “Oi. gently caress off then, yeah?” Faustina's voice has been imbued with an oddly exaggerated British accent. She has her hands on her hips, scowling at the snobbish man berating her rock band. “It's supposed to be a joke, innit? Who bloody cares if we're in time right now, just cut it up in post or whateva'.” On the table young Cheebs starts to cry loudly as an attendant dabs at his face with a brush. The 'surgeon' throws his hands up and is all “Let's get on with it already”, but Director isn't having it. “The label picked me for a reason, you snippy little twit. They knew you would just drink away the advance and wind up with another disaster, so they hired someone to keep you lot in line. Another video like 'McBrains' and they might pull funding altogether. You wouldn't want that, would you? No more dosh to funnel up your nose, then?” Faustina kicks the monitor in front of her angrily. “It's not me fault, you barmy bastard! The vocals are, like, all falsetto; and it makes me nose itch! Bleeding crass, classic crap. Also, that bloke didn't have to play bass, which everyone knows is harder...” “What the 'ell was wrong with 'McBrains'?” The guitarist chimes in, adjusting his anatomically flattering tights. “It was just like this one, yeah? First we have a laugh at the shroomheads, now we're takin' the piss out of spores themselves. Get it? 'Growin on me'? It's a logical evolution of comedy, innit.” “Brilliant one, that.” The drummer nods along, wiping a stick on the leg of the spandex jumpsuit he's wearing under his coat (luckily we miss seeing where it was moments before). “With the drive-thru and all.” “IT'S NOT LOGICAL, IT'S SHITE.” The director has resorted to fuming through his megaphone, despite being only a few feet from the band. “THE RATINGS WERE SHITE. THE REVIEWS WERE SHITE. A GODDAMNED ONE-SHITE WONDER. I'VE BEEN DOING THESE BLOODY VIDS FOR FIFTEEN YEARS! ARE YOU TRYING TO GET ME SACKED?! PICK IT UP FROM THE loving TOP, YES?” He stomps back off towards the cool shadows behind the lighting rigs. The guitarist leans closer to Faustina's ear as a click track begins its monotone chirps over the PA. “Hey, love. You really shouldn't have done that.” ~ ~ ~ “...really shouldn't have done that! Not without us!” I squint through a fading haze of bizarre images and sounds to see the shape of Swift's head. She's got me by the shoulders, shaking me. Then there's a deafening blast of gunfire and she darts off to the opposite end of the room, leaving me reeling from the reverberating din of Mega's pistol. He's just a couple feet in front of where I'm sprawled on the floor, so if whoever he's shooting at returns fire there's a good chance I'll catch a bullet in the exchange. The realization pulls me out of the post-Touch fog long enough to drag myself behind the operating table, putting it between me and the door to the lobby. With my back against the cover, I try to suck down some oxygen. Little flashy fuzz balls flicker like fireflies in my vision, making surroundings appear grainy and blurred. Halos encircle the halogen bulbs hanging overhead, which give off a sickly artificial glow thanks to a generator buzzing noisily in the hall outside. For a few desperate moments all I can do is try to catch a couple quick breaths and fight against the shockwaves of agony slapping mercilessly against my skull. Just keeping my eyes open expends an awful amount of effort. Cheebs is close by; his foot looking almost brand new. In my stupor I can hardly remember healing it. Cyrus and Swift hate it when I do the weird brain-thing, especially when they aren't around to catch my stupid rear end. C'mon, girl. We didn't go that deep this time. We can do this. “Cheebs...” I gasp weakly at the patient hunkered down next to me, tugging at his cargo pants. “Just get out of here. Take the rear exit through the quad. No one needs to die here today. We'll call it an even trade – I spared your foot, now use 'em.” Gathering all my strength, I call out to whoever is on the other end of the gun battle, “STOP loving SHOOTING, IDIOTS! IF YOU WANT MY HELP, LET THEM GO. I DON'T WORK AS WELL TRYING TO DODGE BULLETS!” {Crossfire Crux (Manipulate the other shooters): 2d6+1 = 11} hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 07:03 on Jun 8, 2014 |
|
#
?
Jun 8, 2014 06:33
|
|
|
Barter=2 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Trudy's feel-good homemaker buzz wears off as she realizes two things. Thing one: She let them bring their weapons into her kitchen. Thing two: Elijah is staring at Bobo and Grace, who are staring back with button eyes from the window-sill. They're sock monkeys, and they are not for sale, let alone sacrifice to some stupid tank. Elijah is looking at them almost lecherously, and when Trudy thinks about how much time she put into those toys, stitching and re-stitching and finding matching buttons when their eyes popped out because Ryan was always too rough with his-- A gun goes off in the Atrium. Trudy feels nauseous. "Here," she says, shoving the rest of the loaf of bread at the cultists, "this is all you're getting from me today." She tries to shoo them out the door so she can get to the Atrium. Scat!: 2d6+2 8
|
|
#
?
Jun 8, 2014 16:59
|
|
|
Juck Barter=0 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=0:00 StringOfLetters posted:
Juck lights a new cigarette off the end of the dwindling one she's been pulling on, and flicks the smouldering butt away into the dirt, where it kicks up a cloud of fine dust and glowing embers. She'd relied on plenty of condensation stills back in the day, but that had been years ago, and a different part of the land; maybe Taye was being paranoid, but she'd also seen what happened to people who drank dirty water, and figured it was probably worth exercising a little discretion for a change, at least in this case. Juck slowly expelled the smoke from her lungs and produced a sharp whistle, getting the attention of her wolves. "Round up. We're holding off on the solar stills for now -- too risky with all the spores around." Barndoor looked disappointed, as he'd already found several good bits of rebar for constructing his still. "Aw, come on, boss, grow a loving pair, will ya? I drink still water all the loving time, and ain't nothing wrong with me." Juck responded with a single cocked eyebrow, and a wave of stifled laughter rippled through the rest of the gang. Barndoor reddened a little, but he generally wasn't the type of wit to be quick with a comeback. Juck held up the bottle of contaminated water from the ranch. "In case you ain't heard, this is what's currently coming out of the well at K-ranch, courtesy of that giant fuckoff crowd of shroomers that hit a few days back. In case it ain't obvious, this is bad loving news, because we've got about enough water for another day, and I'm not particularly looking forward to drinking this nasty poo poo when our clean stuff runs out." Murmured agreement all round. "Might be the well at the K-ranch isn't totally hosed; might be there could be a way to build a filtration system that could work, but I think I can safely say that'd be something a little beyond the most of us. So here's the plan. We gotta find ourselves some clean water in the short term, that much I think should be obvious. We got a couple options here, according to the new guy -- everyone, meet Taye, keep an eye on him, usual deal, if he fucks up put his head out on the front porch with the others -- the city, jungle town, the old AF base, and maybe the Familia has something going on. Meanwhiles, I think it'd be prudent to talk to Mike, maybe get that old greaser thinking about some doubtlessly overcomplicated filtration system we could build for the ranch, and take some of this water up to those science dicks at the campus to see if they can work out exactly what those shroomers did to the well, and whether it's salvageable. Anybody got a problem with that?" Not much response from the crowd, but some general head-nodding here and there -- Juck hadn't really been expecting that anyone was going to be super loving jazzed about any of this. "So here we go. Taye, Double Hole, Plan B -- you're going to go visit the Familia, and you're just going to go in, buy a jingle-bag, maybe ask around if they've got any work, see how they're fixed for water. I also want a head-count, in case we decide to go after them seriously. Ginger, Isaiah, and Scrap, take half of this lovely water up to the campus, make sure they know what's going on with the well and get them to take a look at whatever's floating around in there. Dog Head, Barndoor, Cicada, you're gonna ride down to Jungle Town for a look-see. As far as I'm aware, none of us've been down that way in a while, so keep your head low; easy on the violence, just scope the area to see what's going on. Dez and Barndoor, I want you to stay here with Jeanette, hold down the fort. Casey, Lala, T-loin, you're with me. We're taking the other half of this water to Big Mike, see what he thinks about this poo poo. Anybody got a problem with this, say your piece." Pack Alpha: 2d6+3 8 "Motherfucking Jungle Town? Do you even know how loving far that is?" "I loving hate those campus dipshits." "What, you want to go visit the loving Familia instead? I'll trade your dumb rear end, if you want." Double Hole takes a few steps forward, looking left and right with a cocky swagger. "Seems you're forgetting how the Wolves do things, Juck. The gently caress is with all this talking to shitheads you want us doing? Building a goddamn water filter? What the gently caress are we, a goddamn Rotary Club? We need water, we loving take it! You say the Familia has water? Well let's loving just go over there and slaughter those fuckers -- problem loving solved." Juck's mouth curled into a snarl. "Open your goddamn ears, dipshit, that's why you're loving going to visit the Familia -- we need to know if we can loving take them before we ride over there and get our asses handed to us." "What, you're loving pissing your little panties over the loving Familia? We've kicked their asses a hundred loving times, all we need to do is finish the loving job. Crampon wouldn'ta been into all this mincing-around bullshit." "Yeah, well, in case you hadn't loving got the memo yet, Crampon ain't around no more." "Whatever, bitch, he might be dead but at least he wasn't a loving coward." "Speak up, motherfucker, you just about sounded like you were calling me a loving coward just now." "Maybe I loving did. You're a loving coward. And the Wolves don't need a loving coward for a leader." Double Hole probably had a good thirty kilos on Juck, but her fist flew fast enough that he didn't have time to react; the blow caught him under the chin mid-sentence, and his teeth bit down deep into his tongue, spraying blood down his chin. He instinctively clamped his hands over his mouth, muffling an enraged scream, and Juck took advantage of his wrong-footed stance to snake her foot around behind his ankle before putting her shoulder into his guts, knocking the big man down into the dirt with a solid crunch. Before he could roll out of the way, Juck jumped onto his chest, pinning his arms with her knees and pressing the blade of her machete up against the soft skin over his throat. "Say it again. What the gently caress am I?" "Goddthdam bith, my futhing thongue!" "That'll loving learn you to keep it in your goddamn head next time. Now, don't make me loving repeat myself again. What am I?" "Your the bawth, bawth." "You sure? 'Cause not a moment ago I believe you had a different word you seemed to think was appropriate. Can I assume you've changed your mind, then?" "Yeth bawth." "Good boy, Double Hole. But just in case you forget, here's a little reminder." Juck drew the jagged edge of her machete across Double Hole's cheek, laying it open with an ugly crimson slash. Double Hole howled in pain. "Do. Not. gently caress. With. Me." Juck stood up, wiped off her blade and resheathed it. "Anybody else got a complaint they want to register?" Predictably, no-one said a word, and the only sound was Double Hole's whimpering. "Well then loving saddle up. Regroup here in two hours." Big Mike's Junkyard Juck arrives at the yard with a couple of her gangers in tow and explains the situation at the K-Ranch. She hands you a sample of the contaminated water, and she wants to know whether you can build a filtration system for the pump at the K-Ranch, and, if so, what materials you'd need to be able to put something like that together. Campus Folks Ginger, Isaiah and Scrap similarly show up at the campus. They don't make a big deal about being Wolves, but the bikes and the jackets are kind of a giveaway. They bring the news from the Ranch, and show the sentry at the campus gates the other sample of the contaminated water.
|
|
#
?
Jun 8, 2014 20:43
|
|
|
Faustina, Cheebs looks at you through misty eyes full of wonder and emotion. He starts to say something, chokes on it, then turns his head and spits out a lingering splash of bile. Now speaking in a lovely approximation of an Estuary English accent, he says, "Thanks, luv. I owe you for this, big toime," then looks confused with himself. It's worth pointing out, here, that the party outside hasn't actually shot into the lab (yet), only Mega. While he peeks his head up to assess the escape route, he flicks his tongue out and makes kind of a, "peh" sound. Puking doesn't usually do that to his mouth. He says, "Oi, Megs, let's fuckin' beat it. Out heah, c'mon!" and breaks into a sprint out your rear exit. Mega empties the rest of his magazine into the wall beside the doorway - either suppressing fire or hoping to nail someone blindly - then reaches into his cargo-pants pocket, rummages, and pulls out another magazine and a yellowed-white plastic bic lighter. He puts the magazine into the gun then tosses the lighter to you with only a distracted glance. Is that supposed to be payment? Mega keeps his gun trained on the doorway and repeatedly looks over his shoulder to follow Cheebs out the back route. Swift, meanwhile, has an opened brown glass bottle full of something terrible in one hand, and the Big Shears in the other, and is waiting beside the doorway with her fight face on, ready for the next marauding rear end in a top hat to try and force his way in. ~ Deacon, from the look in muzzlehead's eyes, and the sweat beading up through the grime on his forehead, you have definitely convinced this man that he's made a mistake. Cyrus, still in a headlock, shifts around to keep her windpipe intact against the guy's forearm. She has the resigned scowl of someone who's been taken hostage before. Her brow-line softens a little at the show of support, and she mouths out, 'Thanks.' Muzzlehead B has his shotgun pointed toward the door, from which he's standing off side. He shuffles around to stand behind his hostage-taking buddy. Muzzlehead C, with the most obvious wound, crumples to the ground now that nobody is holding her up. You can hear the strangled-out whimper even through the muzzle and distance. The fourth, still lying beside the door, just turns his head and stares, vacant and expressionless, toward you. Muzzlehead A says something that strives to be a complex idea, but comes out muffled and unintelligible, then makes some indecipherable waving gesture with his gun, then glares at you like he's expecting something. Cyrus says, "Uh, he said he wants you to... think? Oh, 'flank.'" 'A' nods. The hand-gun gesture makes a little sense, like he's waving for you to go around the building. He makes some more sounds, and from the way his head's bobbing, they're meant to be angry words. Cyrus winces and says, "You're not making a real convincing case-" but she's cut off when A flexes his arm and gives her a choke. She continues, "Ack-alright, this gentleman assures me that the visitors inside are the 'ahh-hoes,' and that this is an act of self defense." She does not appear convinced. You might not need to do everything he says, but it's clear Muzzlehead A isn't comfortable letting go of his hostage while the Anathemata have him at gun- and whatever- point. B has tacitly accepted his leadership and will follow suit. Deacon posted:Read a person: 2d6+1 6 I'm not going to make you keep track of every last bullet, sock, and strip of jerky. The Anathemata share the load, make only a vague distinction between individual and communal property, and anyways their stock is in flux based on what's been available the past few days. And I'm assuming one of them is always willing to carry your crap for you. But those Plague Journals you mentioned earlier; nobody else reads them, but where do you carry them? How often do they come out? ~ Trudy, when the Dozerites see that you're going to give them more food and let them leave with it, they gather around you and throw up their scarred-palm hands as if you've just produced it from the air, or transmuted it from sawdust or something. Some of them start humming, as from a wild hymn. Strung-out/lovely-hood clasps your hands and, tears in her eyes, thanks you for your, "Like, incredible generosity." Elijah says he'll petition the great destroyer on your behalf. And then, on some unspoken cue, they all shut up and file out the door. Across the walkway and down the sidewalk a bit, you can see that scene described above unfolding. Muzzle-head with a gun has Cyrus in a headlock, he's facing off against Deacon Thorne and the Anathemata, it's not clear who's just shot at who. As it happens, you're behind the muzzleheads, and they don't see you yet. The Dozerites pull up their hoods, thank you again, and jog off around the corner of your home, away from that scene. Clearing out and putting some walls between yourselves and the calamity is just the basic smart thing to do when some strangers are in a shootout, you know? Oh, and while that cult was up in your face and praising you, Bread-Bringer, one of them filched Bobo off the shelf. ~ Big Mike, Angel Eyes; You said, "I was thinking of maybe freeing their slaves and loving them over, but since they're being so neighborly I think I'll investigate further before making any rash judgements," then Martin said "You best re-think that poo poo, grandpa," and pulled out his iron. Thibodeau was expecting that, and clamped a hand down on it before he took aim. Thibs said, "Relax. He was joking. And how d'you do, Angel?" You asked him, "Could you tell me what, exactly, these scavengers that hit my land were guilty of?" And he said, "Armed robbery, most of 'em. Attempted murder on a few. Some of 'em didn't show back up for head count." And, yeah, he's not being truthful. He answered like it was a go-to response. You surmise that he doesn't know the particulars of what they did, and might not even know who exactly they all were. He takes his hat off, holds it over his chest and says, "It's like family to want to see the best in their kin. And to always assume the best, when they ain't around to see the dark things men get up to. You might think the Sheriff's justice is harsh, and I won't argue with you, but it ain't unfair. If you don't agree with the details, well, give things a while to pan out and you'll see how he'll turn this community around." And he smiles, a little dimly. That part wasn't a lie. He yanks Martin's gun out of his hand and tucks it into his pants. They get back to work pulling poo poo out of the trunk and depositing it where you tell them. The scavengers did have an eye for quality - it's mostly stuff in good-ish or near-working condition, catalytic converters and small motors, coils of copper wire and such. Thibodeau tells you that if you want to make your case to Justice, you're welcome to come by any time. If you're gonna write a letter, and you write it out now, he'll deliver it for you on his way back. The barred-up VW is a courier thing more often than not, he assures you. Before they leave, he 'asks' you again to take the signs about the muzzles down. He's not going to leave until he sees you do it. And if you do it, there won't be a problem. You can rig together an electrified bicycle, no sweat, but with a couple caveats; electricity isn't easy to come by, and if you want to recharge it by pedaling, you'll have to pedal a lot to get any real mileage out of it. 12:1 at best, mostly good for in a pinch, like you said. Plus, it won't look half as sleek as that thing in the picture. Tires (bike or car) in good condition are a bit of a rarity. Rubber's got a lifespan, and it's long past up. You've got four. Pop them on something, and you'll have to pay for a replacement. ~ Juck, that was awesome and I don't even have much to add. You hear some hissing, Lala snaps her fingers, and everyone's pretty well convinced not to gently caress with you for the moment. You know that the Familia camp has you outnumbered pretty bad. Like, sixty-something people, pretty bad. You've kicked several of their asses, but not all of them at once. Although, that count's including kids, nomads, hangers-on, field workers, and other people with questionable loyalties or resolve. They've got a small settlement, basically. Head bitch Alarcon and her cadre of loyal badasses have you outnumbered only a little. When you send your gang out for recon, say who's going where, ask what you want to know, and roll+Sharp. That's per location. If you trust Taye to take the lead on his trip - he already knows a lot of the Familia traders - don't roll for him, just say so. Double Hole will take it as a bigger insult, though. And Jungle Town, by the way, is more than two hours away. If your guys bring snacks, they can get there, poke around, and be back sometime tonight. Your riders will show up at campus pretty soon. Do you want to write for them, or should I? If Big Mike wants to set up some grand water filter for the tainted well, he'd need to either, A) Set up an 'active' system for boiling and condensing, which he's got the equipment for already, but would need constant effort and fueling. If you rely on solar power, like evaporation, then you'll only get a trickle out. B) Set up a passive filtration system. Just a pile of sand or carbon won't cut it. The spore lives and hates, and a ninety-nine percent solution isn't nearly enough to make it safe. You'd need some of those fancy, modern-tech membranes, and that means a trip through infested territory to recover some from the city.
|
|
#
?
Jun 11, 2014 04:17
|
|
|
"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Forgot to roll this at the beginning: Where I'm Needed: 2d6+2 14 I can just be there at some place where I'm needed, with exactly the proper tools and knowledge, without proper explanation. I can spend it sometime to barge into someone's scene, but the magic words are "I wish Mike was here" if you want me there. I take the signs down. I can put them up later if I have to change my mind, but I don't want to kill these guys today and start a blood feud with a warlord... yet. I'll investigate further as this is surprisingly fair behavior so far, not even rising to small provocations. I do write a letter: "Mr Jefferson, I'm Mike, a humble auto-mechanic and grease head. I'm growing quite old, and I fear that I may have many skills from the old world that will die with me. I also have a moral distaste for the masked scavengers policy you have put into effect. If you encounter some debtors that are intelligent and generally non-violent, I would be very willing to teach them my skills as they work off their debt with me, without masks. They would then be an invaluable part of your community later. I am an expert on moving machinery, filtration systems, electrical engineering, plumbing, landscaping, tool machining, cooling systems, generators, molding, material science, chemistry, computer science, and a fair hand at gardening to name a few skills." After my talk with Angel Eyes I'm getting ready to head for the university when Juck pulls up. "Hey Juck, whatcha need?" I'm not exactly enthusiastic about Juck showing up, but it's not the worst thing ever. If she's talking she's not killing, and the more links she has with people the more protective she'll be, if only to serve her own interests. I whistle at her bike, it's a thing of beauty, I know because I built it. And unlike her other bikes, I actually tried. I do fix her bikes better than Lala, but Lala is a butcher. Her unnatural frankenstein bullshit is terrifying to behold. But it's an ancient and illustrious scam for mechanics to fix one thing but make sure something else will break next month. I was never one for that kind of behavior, I'd fix things so they'd last years. But keeping a gang like the Wolves needing you is a point of survival. I inspect the bike like I've never seen it before. I just hope they don't learn too much from it. "I can set up a filter all sorts of ways. Basic way is an Active system, evaporation based. With a simple generator I can set something up that will filter anything, even heavy metals. poo poo, it could filter saltwater. But that's a hungry system. Don't recommend it, fuel needs to come from somewhere, and Biofuel comes from the sun anyway so you're not helping things, just putting a big burden on Lil' Town I don't think they can sustain for too long. Other active way is to use the sun. I'll need a poo poo ton of tarps and such but that's no big deal. But it'll never be as much as it once was. If you're looking to build something right the gently caress now that will give your gang enough water, that'll be the way to go. But it won't be enough to give away, or sell, or support a larger community. Folks will likely fight ya for it instead of dying of thirst. I can maybe scale a system like that up for ya with a poo poo ton of giant mirrors and landscaping but that's a huge public works project. You'd need a town of laborers and a lot of time and no guarantee it will ever work right without a computer network to adjust things every second. Final way is the proper way. Truth is, spores are spores. Biological and rather fat. They don't merge with the water even if they're real stubborn. With a fancy enough filter you can get all the water you need, the well will be good as new, if not better. But I can't make that thing. Nobody can without the entire pre-fall infrastructure. I'd need some serious chemicals and machines and lasers and poo poo. But I do know where we can pick up a whole set just sitting around: The Aquarium. I know they had a whole store room of fantastic massive water filters for the critters. I saw it myself. But, I know it's still there because it's deep in the city. Shroom Town. I'll need backup, a good plan, and some luck to do it. Not the whole gang, too big and loud. But five of your best and maybe a good hire on like Angel Eyes here, moving quick and quiet." I strategically fail to mention my own water system. Rain catching is only worth a drat if you started before the drought. Bragging about my water supply would only get her gang in a thieving mood if they're thirsty.
|
|
#
?
Jun 11, 2014 09:10
|
|
|
Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "Heading into the city this soon after a bloom? At your age? You're a crazy man. Sign me up." I gave Mike a smile before turning my attention towards Juck. I was curious what her angle was in all this. Yeah, everybody needs clean water to drink. But I wouldn't do this for free, and I had no reason to think she was any different. I'd have to catch her by herself later and see what was on her mind. Maybe cut myself a little slice of the pie she was cooking up.
|
|
#
?
Jun 11, 2014 15:23
|
|
|
Deacon The tension drained instantly. The Anathema lower their weapons, not all the way, but enough that it's clear nobody is in immediate danger of getting shot in the head anymore. They seemed to shrink visibly, like an exhalation of breath. Deacon continued to smile and kept his hands in plain view as he took a few more steps toward the inmate. "Oh, I don't doubt it, friend," he said. "A fair amount of the people treated hear are just complete bastards. Wastes of human flesh. But don't you see? That's the beauty of a place like this. They treat everyone. As long as they're physically able to help, you get help. I imagine folk like your friend there," he gestured to the thug struggling to stand. "don't have a whole lot of places they can go where you can say that. But think — the ability of a public resource like this hospital to thrive rests on the willingness of patients to NOT loving SHOOT EACH OTHER in the waiting room." Another couple steps. He was almost close enough that he could lunge and snatch at the guy's gun if it came to it. But he didn't think it would come to it. "You and I both know a hospital has to be a place of peace. So, in the spirit of peace, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to count to three. On three, we're all going to calm down, and you're going to let go of the girl. And then we're going to go about our business, as friends. Ready? One. Two. Three!" Figure the implied threat of violence and the logic of Deacon's words give me leverage here. Negotiatin': 2d6+3 5 Well, that went hilariously wrong. Baby Babbeh fucked around with this message at 22:46 on Jun 12, 2014 |
|
#
?
Jun 11, 2014 19:16
|
|
|
Barter=0 | Exp=3/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm Watching through the slowly closing gap between the rear-exit doors, I absently flick the flint wheel of the lighter as Mega pounds across the quad after Cheebs (who seems to be doing quite well on his reconstructed foot). The Bic doesn't catch (probably due to oxidation), but there's still about half of the butane left. Stuff lasts practically forever, and I've got several makeshift canisters of it in the lab for my burners. I tuck the 'payment' into the pocket of my uniform jacket and signal for Swift to stay back. Moving with as much stealth as I can manage, I exit the OR and slip quietly into the leafy concealment offered by the Atrium's garden, watching the entrance for any sign of the troublesome visitors. I know that using the Touch could bring all kinds of unwanted attention to campus (as if we didn't have enough already), and there was no telling what those two would report to their cunning matriarch when they returned. It was widely known that old Mrs. Familia herself was an intellectual force to be reckoned with, unlike some of her flock. Also, unlike myself, she knew how to keep her secrets. How would she react to the news of what I'd done? And for that matter, the fact that we're apparently now hosting a mess of her enemies within our walls? As was often the case, I had the worst possible luck when it came to timing. Appleworth holds some secrets of it's own, though. Doesn't it? Hidden from the view of the lobby, I tiptoe through the perfumed banks of flowers and fauna, trailing my fingers over the rough wooden slats of several benches lined up against them until I reach the corner furthest from the building's large entrance doors. Listening to the angry echoes reverberating off surrounding structural acoustics, I can discern what sounds like the makings of a heated argument outside; but a lot of the conversation seems garbled - like people talking loudly with their mouths full. It's hard to catch what's going on, but Cyrus doesn't sound pleased at all with the proceedings. I stick my hand through a piece of decorative fencing adorned with ivy, feeling for the catch tucked away in there. After a few moments, my fingers touch the switch and I hit it. *click* A rope ladder falls down before me, and I quickly ascend up through an open hatch in the massive skylight. It's a painful effort, thanks to my still-injured shoulder, but eventually I clamber through and slump like a wet sack of potatoes to the graveled rooftop. Spears is thankfully still at her position, her usually doe-eyed expression beset with lines of worry. She opens her mouth when she sees me, but I hold up a finger to my lips and inch forward towards her on hands and knees. The scene below doesn't offer any relief. As I'd suspected, there were four of those strange BDSM weirdos from Jefferson in the parking lot of the hospital. One of them has Cyrus in a headlock and is holding his gun up next to her ear. Its only now that I realize Partridge still has my loving revolver. Oh this is just freaking great, isn't it? There's no way we can trust Spears to safely pull off a clean shot at this angle. Goddamn it! The long-winded Deacon is also out there with his mysterious group of 'religious' followers. He's talking to the muzzle-masked man, trying to calm him down, but the guy's highly agitated demeanor doesn't appear to be improving. I don't know much about the Anathemata, only that they're mostly non-violent traders – which is a most welcome quality right now. That bow toting guy (Daryll?) is pretty cute, though. Too bad he doesn't have a bead on the standoff. I'd feel much better if he were in Spear's position. Sucking in a deep breath, I try to think of anything I could say to help de-escalate the situation. It looks like two of the Ironworks goons have sustained pretty serious injuries... {Muzzle Mayhem (Read a Stich): 2d6+2 10}
|
|
#
?
Jun 13, 2014 00:58
|
|
|
Juck Barter=0 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=0:00 Juck, Casey, Lala, T-Loin Juck snorts derisively. "If we actually decided to go through with this plan -- and I'm using the word 'plan' here in possibly the loosest of senses -- you can be drat sure I'll be going in with a full gang. Quick and quiet is all well and good as long as nothing goes tits up, but I can't possibly imagine how you'd think we could go into the heart of the City, rip off a goddamn aquarium, and get out without drawing heat. And it has been my personal experience that heat is best dealt with using a pack of evil, violent bastards with guns." Something at the back of Juck's mind is nagging at her as she casts her eyes over the Junkyard. "Say Mike -- all this talk about water has got me awful thirsty; I don't suppose you might have a bit of water squirreled away here, would you, Mike?" Juck rattles her canteen. "Running a little low myself." Dog Head, Barndoor, Cicada Dog Head and Barndoor, riding up ahead of Cicada, slow their bikes to a stop barely a couple miles down the road towards Jungle City, right at a bridge over a dried up, septic creekbed. Cicada rolls up and cuts his engine, confused. "What're we stopping for? We ain't going to make it to Jungle City before dark like this, Dog Head." "Yeah, kid, we ain't going to Jungle City. The boss lady wants water, there are way easier places to get it than Jungle fuckin' City." Barndoor nodded. "Waaaay easier." "Like what?" "Well, Cicada, my none-too-bright boy, if you'd'a been paying attention as you were riding along, you might have noticed a little family of travelers who tried very, very hard to scramble under this very bridge as they heard us coming, hoping to get out of sight before they were spotted -- but they didn't do a very good job, did they, Barndoor?" "Not a good job at all." "Family of travelers? You can come out from under that bridge now -- we're not looking to hurt you, we're just looking to make an honest trade." There was a warble of voices from under the bridge, intermingled with some shushing and scraping sounds. "You're not stuck down there, are you? My associate and I would be more than willing to provide you with assistance if needed!" The hushed conversation under the bridge took on a decidedly resigned tone, and three filthy travelers crawled their way up the embankment to the road. Two younger kids, maybe in their early twenties, and an older guy, late thirties. The old guy threw his backpack down on the ground and put his hands up. "Hey man, we're just trying to get away from the Ranch, we don't want any trouble -- just take what you want. Please. Don't hurt us." "Cicada, why don't you take a look through that bag and see what they're offering us here -- maybe if they're lucky, they've got what we're looking for, hmmm?" Cicada dumped the bag out on the ground. A few pieces from a first aid kit, some old rags of clothing, an assortment of loose ammo, and an ancient, rusty pistol. Dog Head looked disappointed. "Ah, see, that's a shame. Turns out we were looking for water; doesn't seem as though you have much to offer us after all." Dog Head reached back towards his saddlebag and withdrew a makeshift club, fashioned from a wrapped piece of old rusting steel pipe. One of the kids started freaking out. "Water? You want water? We have some! You can have it! We filled up our cans before leaving the Ranch -- they're stashed under the bridge! Just take them, and don't hurt Greg!" The older man, Greg apparently, sighed and lowered his head. Dog Head smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. Fifteen minutes later, Dog Head, Barndoor and Cicada were on their way back to the Throne Room. Barndoor and Dog Head were both laughing. Cicada's face was pale and his eyes were wide. Strapped to their bikes were a few steel cans sloshing with water. Ginger, Isaiah, Scrap Ginger, Isaiah and Scrap arrive at the Campus without any issues along the way, but there's obviously some poo poo going down on campus. Gunshots ring out from inside the building. Scrap makes to pull his gun, but Ginger puts her hand on his and stops him, shaking her head once. Isaiah pulls them into cover. "Let's see where this goes, shall we? No sense picking sides this early on." Taye, Double Hole, Plan B Taye, Double Hole and Plan B arrive at the encampment of La Familia. Double Hole is still snarling and muttering to himself, and he's had a hard time rigging a bandage for his face to staunch the bleeding from his cheek; he's ended up with something kind of like a bonnet. As they dismount and approach the gates, Taye gently puts his hand on Double Hole's shoulder. "How about you let me handle this one? These guys know me, and besides: you kinda look like poo poo, buddy." Double Hole wrenches his arm out of Taye's grasp angrily and gets up in his face, but Taye keeps a cool demeanor and doesn't back down. Double Hole eventually relents and steps aside, muttering "Whatever. Your funeral, old man." Taye steps around Double Hole and walks up to the gate sentry, holding his arms out wide to indicate that he's no threat. "What's happening, Carlos?" "Not much, man -- you looking to buy?" "You know it! Also hoping to fill some water cans, if you got some to spare; clean water's been hard to find since the Ranch went down. Don't suppose you guys could help us out?" Carlos's eyes narrow a little as he thinks. Assuming that La Familia isn't in the business of free handouts, Taye's plan is to offer the violent services of the Wolves in exchange for clean water.
|
|
#
?
Jun 13, 2014 05:13
|
|
|
Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Juck posted:"If we actually decided to go through with this plan -- and I'm using the word 'plan' here in possibly the loosest of senses -- you can be drat sure I'll be going in with a full gang. Quick and quiet is all well and good as long as nothing goes tits up, but I can't possibly imagine how you'd think we could go into the heart of the City, rip off a goddamn aquarium, and get out without drawing heat. And it has been my personal experience that heat is best dealt with using a pack of evil, violent bastards with guns." I threw my head back and laughed. "Your pack of mutts would get eaten alive. Have you done work in a city before? Your bikes? Useless. Your guns? loving useless. You survive in there by by being quiet and being quick. Can't do either with twenty mouthbreathing retards trailing behind you. This is, of course, disregarding the fact that even if it worked? Half of them are going to inhale so many spores I'll be slicing truffles off their face before we're out of the city limits." I took a long sip from my canteen, just to wrench the knife a little. "But hey, you're the big bad wolf out here. Go ahead and make a suicide run with your crew. I'll strip your corpses and tell Blackwolf where to scrape up your body." Read A Person. (roll +sharp) 2d6+1=7 Angel Eyes is watching Juck as she speaks. How Juck responds will be a pretty big factor in determining how our relationship goes from here. 1-hold, which I will hang on to for now.
|
|
#
?
Jun 13, 2014 05:41
|
|
|
Trudy Barter=2 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Trudy sees what's going on just outside the Atrium, and is furious. Hostage-taking? A standoff? In her house? Nuh-uh. She stalks up behind one of the maskheads, her eyebrows knit together. "EVERYBODY! GROW! UP!" she bellows, punctuating each word with a backhand to the closest maskhead's ear. "I cannot believe what I am seeing!" she says. She folds her arms, trying to calm down. "Now, if everyone will get their gosh-darned egos in check for just a minute, we can talk about something really important." She takes a deep breath. "Bobo has been kidnapped." Trying to manipulate the crowd, get everybody's priorities straight(?) I Will Turn This Campus Around: 2d6+2 9
|
|
#
?
Jun 13, 2014 15:44
|
|
|
Juck Barter=0 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=0:00 Shardix posted:"But hey, you're the big bad wolf out here. Go ahead and make a suicide run with your crew. I'll strip your corpses and tell Blackwolf where to scrape up your body." Juck's expression frosted over instantaneously at the mention of Blackwolf. "Well, if you two silent and deadly ninjas -- " Juck pointedly raised an eyebrow at Big Mike " -- are so obsessed with trying to sneak your way into the Aquarium so that you can load up with some really heavy, really valuable filtration equipment that, oh, sure, probably isn't being guarded or anything, and then tip-toe your way out on a cloud of ghost whispers and fairy dust, then I guess me and my loud gang of mouthbreathers will just have to wish you the best of luck with your various endeavors, and I'm sure I speak for all those who have previously relied on the K-Ranch well for clean water when I do so. Not the way I'd do things, sure, but then what would I know about doing work in cities, after all." Juck was not a subtle hand with the sarcasm ladle. Juck took a step towards Angel Eyes, a hard look in her eyes. "So, what happens now, Angel Eyes? You going to get on the horn with your friend Blackwolf? I'm sure that roid-addled hellbitch would love to know that her old friend Juck was heading back to the Throne Room with just a couple of her wolves -- hell, practically perfect for an ambush, wouldn't you say? Might even be a reward in it for you, I'd imagine -- assuming you're not just on the regular payroll, that is." Casey, Lala and T-loin shift behind Juck, slowly moving their hands towards their weapons.
|
|
#
?
Jun 14, 2014 20:25
|
|
|
Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I considered the situation. Might be time to do something unexpected. What does Juck wish Angel Eyes would do?
|
|
#
?
Jun 14, 2014 20:46
|
|
|
Juck Barter=0 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=0:00 Shardix posted:What does Juck wish Angel Eyes would do? This is pretty much just a pack alpha dominance display from Juck -- she can't get away with showing weakness in front of her wolves, so she can't take any poo poo from Angel Eyes without a contest. Juck wants Angel Eyes to back down, publicly, so that it's obvious to Casey, Lala and T-loin that Juck has maintained respect. But Juck also knows that Angel Eyes is a badass, so under the surface she's actually more than a little worried that she's biting off more than she can chew here. It's a bit of a tense situation for Juck.
|
|
#
?
Jun 14, 2014 23:13
|
|
|
Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "You've got some huge loving balls to talk to me like that." I turned and walked a few paces away, planting my sword sheath into the dirt. A few quick motions and I undid the buckle on my shoulder holster and let it likewise drop to the ground. To be honest, I wasn't annoyed in the least by Juck's attitude. I liked that she was willing to bite back. Too few people out here willing to do that. "Let's settle this properly, then. Haven't had an old fashioned dust up in a long time." I turned back to Juck and flashed her a smile, raising my fists. "You impress me, and we'll do this how you like." Help/Interfere. (roll +Hx) 2d6+1=9 Angel Eyes is going to intentionally take it easy if you go along with this. She's got way less to lose then Juck does, and she really doesn't want to make an enemy of her. Take +1 now.
|
|
#
?
Jun 14, 2014 23:49
|
|
|
"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Kids. I raise one eyebrow and take a few steps back to make sure I'm not in the way. Plan in the loosest of senses huh. And WTF was she talking about, guarded? Place is guarded by an army of Shrooms. I'd like to meet the man who can build a stronghold in the city center. Even with depopulation over the years there's probably a 100k walkers still in the city. I look sideways at Lala, "I gotta get something in my house. I got a little water squirrelled away there too. I'll put a bottle on Angel vs. those two cleanish rags you got there. Let me know how it goes... oh, and you know the drill but just a reminder, stay here so your legs don't get blown off." I meander back to my house, fill a bottle full of water while everyone is distracted, and riffle through my Big Red Binder, the one full of tactics and plans and hypotheticals. It's much thinner than the Big Green Binder full of schematics or the Big Black Binder of poo poo I gotta remember, but it's still a substantial tome. I take out a single page, Aquarium Infiltration for Filters. No where on the plan does it say "20 chuckleheads on loud bikes ride into Shroom Town and start shooting at everything that moves" but in the case of excess labor there are three teams: Infiltration, Distraction, and Rescue. Ideally only the first team would be needed, but no matter how pretty Plan A is you'll want Plan B in your pocket. I also get out my local city map for reference. The notes on it are a bit dated. Been a long time since I tried a scavenge past the outskirts. Angel Eyes will likely have a better idea of the current conditions.
|
|
#
?
Jun 15, 2014 01:03
|
|
|
Juck Barter=0 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=0:00 "Oh no she fuckin' di'n't!" "You gonna take that, boss?" "Rip her fuckin' lungs out, Juck!" Juck wasn't left with many options here, but at least the blades were off the table, which was a fair loving relief -- Juck wasn't fond of knife fights in any circumstances, and certainly not with Angel Eyes. The fact that Angel Eyes had put her sword down was a kindness, for certain. Juck loosened her gun belt and dropped the shotgun and machete into the dirt, nudging them aside with the toe of a badly weathered steel capped boot. "Fine, bitch, you wanna go? We can go. Just remember you asked for this." Seize by force: 2d6+4 15 Taking definite hold, suffering little harm, and impressing/dismaying opponent Juck snaked left and right before driving in off a left toe with quick jab followed by her nastiest hook, sliding easily (too easily?) around Angel Eyes's blocking fists to connect with her jaw, spinning Angel Eyes around and knocking her to the ground. "God-drat, boss!" "gently caress yeah!" "Finish her!" Juck stepped left and right, ready if Angel Eyes came back up. Juck aimed a quick kick at Angel Eyes's ribs, enough to hurt but not enough to break anything -- Angel Eyes wasn't going to be of any use to her with broken ribs. "Stay the gently caress down, bitch, if you know what's good for you."
|
|
#
?
Jun 15, 2014 01:27
|
|
|
Deacon, Muzzlehead A looks fantastically agitated. With every step you take towards him, he edges one back, yanking Cyrus along with him. He mumbleshouts something, and she translates, "He says-ack-you first." When you get to the top of your countdown - One, two, three! - he doesn't let go of anyone or anything. Muzzlehead B, with a shotgun trained on the door but his eyes on you, slouches gradually down to put his weapon on the sidewalk. Darryl, who's circled around halfway, makes a fake-out chopping motion from way too far away, but it gets Muzzlehead A to flinch and point the gun at him, instead. Then Trudy shows up behind him, in plain sight, but from outside the known world as defined by tension. She smacks Muzzlehead B, who drops his shotgun the rest of the way onto the concrete. Between that hard metal-on-solid clatter and her shouting, Muzzlehead A turns around. Cyrus shifts around with him, which gets her far enough out of that classic human-shield position, that Lemur feels confident taking a few shots. Which, he does. A few sharp cracks, a second or two where they resonate and echo between the campus's walls and debris, and Muzzlehead A's on the ground. Muzzlehead C, slumped in the grass all bloodied up and barely conscious, reaches out towards him with her remaining good arm and shouts something like, "No!" Muzzlehead B cringes and holds up his hands. 'D's head rolls over, still vacant eye'd. Cyrus shouts, "poo poo!" when the shooting starts, falls under M.A's weight, then scrambles out from under him, winces, and puts a hand up to her clavicle, which is bleeding a lot. Lemur's third or fourth shot grazed her on that meaty spot right past the shoulder, but she'll probably be fine. Her wild, kinda shocked eyes pass over something that would've come out as, 'You could've killed me, loving dumb rear end in a top hat!' but she gets past it and settles on actually saying, "Thanks." You didn't tell Lemur to shoot, and it looks like not everyone else expected him to, either. Lana Doll is looking between you and him, looking pissed, like she wants to chew him out, but waiting for your go-ahead before speaking up. And Lemur's just pulled his revolver's hammer back again, and is lining up the sight on Muzzlehead B. Trudy, Muzzlehead A gets gunned down right in front of you, and a few drops of blood splatter onto the bottom of your dress. Couple shots through the chest, guy doesn't have a chance. His eyes go all out of focus and his breathing gets strangled, from a blood-choked punctured lung and the muzzle. Once he's on the ground, you can just barely hear him ask, "Who's Bobo?" Faustina, you get in position in time to see most of that go down. You can see Spears's heart jump up into her throat in the brief moment between Cyrus getting hit(?) and appearing fine. Then, she looks thoroughly relieved to have an out from making any life-or-death decisions. Deacon is mostly in control here. As a resident perched on a roof with a rifle, Spears could be a close second, if she were motivated to act by you or maybe Trudy. Muzzlehead A is mortally wounded and will be dead very soon. If you want to try and save him, you'd be either acting under fire to ICU him up in the infirmary, or have to pull out some of your limited trauma stock. Muzzlehead C is otherwise the worst off; she's got some horrible gunshot-fracture through her humerus and has lost a lot of blood. Muzzlehead D doesn't have any obvious injuries, but he's clearly not well. His condition's consistent with severe dehydration and exhaustion. All four of them look roughly as filthied up and worn out as each other, though - if they were traveling together, they'd have all reached the same state. Must be some other health issue. Muzzlehead B had his left ring finger shot off recently. He's lost a little blood and could use a sterile band-aid. From up on the roof, you can also see the black-hooded cult of Dozerites heading off campus after rounding a few narrow corners and putting some walls in their way. GTFO'ing after some shooting starts is in no way a questionable move, but Trudy's just announced that they have a hostage, and you can see their egress route. Plus a few of Juck's bikers just rode up. I'm not positive they're going to turn out as something you should 'look out for,' but it's possible. Oh, and Appleworth's secrets; all stuff set up post-apocalypse, or was this place built with hidden passages? ~ Ginger, Isiah, Scrap, as you're rolling up to the campus, still away from the shootin' sounds, you see two Familia goons on their way out, guns drawn and one of them limping a little, in the middle of that awkward, breathy, checking-over-shoulder phase between running for their lives and realizing they've made it away. Whoever one of you three has the best memory recognizes one of them, Mega, as a proper inner-circle Familia Member. The other guy's just some recruit or hanger-on. What do you do? What would Juck do? ~ Double Hole, Plan B, this bit's actually going to happen off-screen. You'll find out how it goes down a post or two later. ~ Angel Eyes, Juck, don't let me interrupt.  In this case, taking little harm means the harm-exchange only takes one Fatigue out of you. Taking definite hold means that you, Juck, pick a bad pain thing for Angel's harm roll. And even if Angel Eyes decides not to be impressed, Casey and them will be. Just, you know, to be clear. Stefani and Aguilera, who are still over at Mike's yard, working on that spare truck, are also dismayed, to the tune of "Day-um." Neither of them had any inclination to gently caress with Juck in the first place, and they've just been reassured. Aguilera and Lala go back a long ways, and they're mostly okay with each other. Big Mike, when you plan an incursion, roll+Sharp, as if you're reading a charged situation, and for each question, keep a hold that you can redeem for +1 forward, as long as you're sticking to the plan. On a miss, I get those holds. You also need information to make a plan. In this case, it's a public location, and there are enough gas station maps in circulation that it's no problem at all. Heck, maybe you've even been there before, way back when. On the plus side, the aquarium's on the eastern edge of jungle town, where property values were cheaper, and they were more likely to get visitors to drive up from the metroplex a couple hours away. On the minus side, you're only a couple days out from a sizable bloom, and that's down-wind from the town center. Bring a breathing rag. And, just to clarify, the spore-stuff concentrated in both jungle town and in the metroplex proper all went into bloom at the same time, dozens of miles apart. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 15:51 on Jun 17, 2014 |
|
#
?
Jun 17, 2014 03:09
|
|
|
Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I might have intended to go easy on her, but the way Juck slipped right past my defenses and laid me out rendered that kind of a moot point. drat, but that lady was quick. Juck posted:"Stay the gently caress down, bitch, if you know what's good for you." I waved a hand at her as I regained my bearings. I'd cracked my skull going down and things were still spinning a bit. "No, no. I'm good with staying here for the time being." I ran my tongue over my teeth, making sure they were all accounted for. I don't mind taking my lumps, but if she'd busted up my teeth I'd have had to get vicious. Yeah, all accounted for. I could take my loss in stride. After a moment I groaned and sat up, resting my arms on my knees. I flashed a grin up at the woman. "Looks like we'll do this your way. Still, I think you should talk it over with Mike. It's his idea, and he's way smarter then we are. For all I know he's already got a plan." Things were still a bit fuzzy as I rested. "Now, you're free to say you took my down. But do me a favor and don't go bragging too much. I've got my pride, you know." I glanced over at her crew, then over to the quiet folks from the campus, then back to Juck. "By the way. You seeing anybody right now?" Yeah, Juck fairly well impressed her.
|
|
#
?
Jun 18, 2014 00:17
|
|
|
Juck Barter=0 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=3:00 Ginger, Isaiah, Scrap The three wolves, tucked behind a delapidated concrete planter overflowing with tortured weeds, ready their weapons for a fight. Isaiah, keeping low, peers around the side and sees the Familia goons coming towards them, looking back over their shoulders in the direction from which they've come. Isaiah puts a finger to his lips, holding up two fingers with his other hand. Ginger and Scrap nod soundlessly in response. Ginger takes a peek herself, and recognizes Mega as one of the goons -- they still haven't seen the wolves, though, and Ginger knows that if they want to get the drop on them the window's closing pretty quick. She motions Isaiah and Scrap to crawl around the planter on either side, and once they're in position she stands up and walks into plain view. "'allo gentlemen. Fancy running into you lot here -- didn't realize you Familia types were welcome on campus. Had you realized that, Isaiah?" "I had not realized that, Ginger." Isaiah was standing off to the side, a long gun in his hands with a finger over the trigger. Mega and Goon #2 are startled, but they're obviously doing a bit of back of the envelope calculation about their odds if they were to try and shoot their way out. Ginger's eyes narrowed. "Ah buh buh buh buh -- let's try not to get excited here. How about you put those guns down, nice and slowly, and kick them on over towards Scrap over there." Junkyard Shardix posted:"By the way. You seeing anybody right now?" Juck snorts, and offers a gloved hand up to Angel Eyes. "If you go down as easy in other arenas as you do in a fight, I could probably work you into my rotation somewhere." T-loin laughs like this is the funniest poo poo he's ever heard. "I've got my wolves out running a few errands here and there, but we can be ready to roll out by nightfall if needed. Depends on what they find out, though -- if there are other ways to get water than doing a kamikaze run on a bloom town, then maybe we can save our little field trip to the aquarium for a later day. Speaking of water, Mike, how are we doing on that refill of my canteen?"
|
|
#
?
Jun 19, 2014 00:08
|
|
|
"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 I've just finished walking my circuitous route back from the house with a bottle of water, a map, and my plan. I'm about to say some poo poo that Juck isn't going to like, so I eye her while I talk. "I've got a bit of water hidden away for a not-so-rainy-day," I peer up at the cloudless sky, "looks like I lost a bet with Lala, so she's free to have this bottle. Bet she'll share with ya. Now, I'm not one to let a neighbor go thirsty, but I just don't have the supply to give the stuff away like it's nothing. A month for me is a day for the gang. If you want my water, I think it's proper you buy it, seeing as you're all tapped out on favors with the last stunt you pulled." I glance meaningfully at the murky windshield of my truck. Then I give another pointed look at her perfectly working arm, which I convinced Faustina to heal. "Now, about the Aquarium. Your little fight here doesn't change the facts. If you ride into the city in force, you'll bring the city on you. The thing about the city is, the second you shoot it's game over. One bullet will bring a thousand shroom heads. Once you're in the city, you'll see shrooms. That's just how the city is. If somebody panics and guns it down, everybody dies. We need strong, disciplined, fighters for this. If you bring the whole gang in to rush the Aquarium on choppers, it'll be a siege. Shroom after shroom will come down on us, we'll be trapped by the fuckers. Splitting is the only way make sure we can get in and get out I been pondering those filters for a long time," I lay out my map, "The whole gang goes in from the Northeast, here, through the park. Open sightlines, low population. Then we split. Infiltration, Distraction, Rescue. Infiltration group travels the two blocks into the city and the aquarium on foot. Distraction heads to the east side, Suburbia, here. Something goes wrong, infiltration sends out a flare. Distraction throws molotovs, makes big bangs, then rides off while the horde follows East, out of the city. Under that cover Rescue rides in fast to pick infiltration team up." "Now, you don't have to do poo poo I say. This is just the best way. You do it another way, you're sacrificing folks in your gang. I'd think that would hurt you a poo poo ton more than it hurts me. It's up to you if you don't want to risk it at all. But this way gets the most water, some extra drat-near-priceless filters, and I'll do it for the chance at salvage. You want me to set up some other kind of system for your gang, I'll want compensation." Make a Plan: 2d6+1 8 What's the best way into the Aquarium Storage? Read Juck: 2d6+1 8 How do I get you to follow my reasonable plan without this being a dominance thing? Taking +1 Sharp
|
|
#
?
Jun 19, 2014 01:42
|
|
|
Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I let Juck help haul me back to my feet. Looks like I may have read her correctly. Possessed of an excess of aggression that needs venting every now and again - a lot like me. "Huh. We'll see. I'm not big on sharing, personally." A glance at T-Loin. "You bray like an rear end." He stopped, about to say something. "Your boss earned my respect, not you. Stuff it." Mike rejoined us while I put my gear back on. I was still a bit wobbly, but the routine helped clear my head. While Mike laid out his idea, I nodded occasionally in agreement. It was a solid plan, and unlike my own suggestion it had a backup if the infiltration went bad. Planning never was my strong suit. I preferred to go with my instincts and deal with problems as they arose. I didn't doubt that was going to be a contributing factor to the almost certain fact that I would never live to be Mike's age. "I can go with that. Everyone gets a part to play." I stretched and hefted my blade back over my shoulder. "Juck here was nice enough not to severely injure anything but my dignity, so I'm good to go whenever we want to do this. The sooner the better, but I have some errands of my own to finish up today."
|
|
#
?
Jun 19, 2014 02:55
|
|
|
Barter=0 | Exp=3/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm My teeth clench as one of Deacon's space cadets manages to line up a clean shot on the hostage holder - I know he's going down before (Lemon? They have some really weird names...) even pulls the trigger. Not because I'm against it, mind you. Just because I practice doesn't mean I'm an inflexible pacifist; as long as it's truly necessary I can deal with campus violence, even if it means cleaning up the mess. Let's face it, Cyrus obviously didn't do poo poo to this whacked-out guy; so better him than her. You get used to these kind of repercussions after awhile living in freaking GangLand. That said, I can't watch the Anathemata put down another Jeffy now that their weapons are out of the picture. I promptly get to my feet and shout at the preacher man, “OI! DEACON! THAT'S ENOUGH!” What the gently caress is an 'Oi'? The question flirts briefly with my thoughts before I'm over the side of the roof, using a drainpipe to shimmy down. The rope-ladder-thing was set up by Quincy (as most might have guessed) to give us stealthy access to the hospital's 'crows nest' in case of random shitshows such as this. There's a similar setup at the Beta Gamma HQ, but it's really the only other secret modification to campus architecture (that I'm aware of, anyways). Besides the defensive installations at the house, I simply haven't had the time to consider other measures, what with our constant stream of trigger-happy customers. One might even say we're 'used to this crap', for better or worse. Then again, peoples' thick-headed proclivity towards mindless warfare never ceases to amaze me. Blood begets blood – I've seen enough of it to know this. I'm only twenty-two, but sometimes I feel a hell of a lot older than my apocalyptic seniors act; contemporary average lifespan notwithstanding. Approaching the crowd in front of the Atrium, I keep my eyes trained on Deacon's. “Swift! Get out here and take the lady to OR. Bag and prep her ASAP.” Reaching Cyrus, I place a reassuring hand on her back, “You alright, girlie? Hurry inside and help Swift if you can. Get something on that shoulder first, though. I'll stitch it soon as I can. We need to get her sleepy friend (Muzzlehead D) on fluids – so set him up in Room B for now. I'm sure some of our resident holyman's 'associates' here can assist. Right, Deacon?” It's more of a prompt to get him to calm his people down than anything. We have to move quickly and without further interruption to save the dude they just capped, and I need the Anathemata to play ball if he's going to have a chance. The rear end in a top hat might have used my friend as a shield, but I can't just let him bleed out in the drat parking lot. “How 'bout it, preacher? Let's put the guns down. You all look like you could use a good meal. Don't you think so, Trudy?” I'm nodding intently towards the tweaky Lemon guy, who's still pointing his revolver at our patients. Trudy seems unharmed, if somewhat hysterical about one of her little puppets being MIA or something. Unfortunately I can't afford to concern myself with that 'crisis' right now. hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 04:39 on Jun 19, 2014 |
|
#
?
Jun 19, 2014 04:33
|
|
|
Deacon Barter=5 EXP= 4/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Followers: +Augery -Disease "Yes, enough," Deacon says, casually stepping into Lemur's line of fire. The cultist hesitates a moment, and then lowers his gun. He smiles at Deacon like he just bought him a present. "This is, despite recent events, a place of peace and I'll not lightly break that peace. That goes for everyone! Best behavior! I do apologize for my flock, Faustina," he says, turning toward the medic. "Our fervor does sometimes override our sense, particularly when there's innocents in danger. I realize Lemur's actions will probably put a strain on your reserves, and I do wish to make amends. We've quite a stock of antibiotics and painkillers we scrounged in the last month that I'd intended to trade for medical care for some of the sickest in my flock, but given recent events they're yours, no questions asked. If you like jerky, I suppose we could probably work out a trade for further medical care. For our new friends here, as well, of course." He gestured at the muzzleheads. "They were in a bad position and shouldn't have to pay for the extra injuries on our account." To be clear, Deacon is giving Faustina 1 Barter worth of medical supplies for her angel kit (2 Stock), free of charge. He's also offering whatever the going rate is to have Darryl and the other really sick ones get some treatment until they recover, plus some extra to cover the muzzleheads' medical expenses. Negoitation: 2d6+3 8 Take +1 XP if you agree to treat the Anathemata. Also: Read a Person: 2d6+1 9 How can Deacon get Faustina to trust him?
|
|
#
?
Jun 20, 2014 08:48
|
|
|
Trudy Barter=2 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Trudy is Having a Moment--that's what her mother called it, anyway. Even as a little girl, things would occasionally build up inside her so much that she just, sort of... snapped. This time the last tiny piece of straw was the blood on her dress. Trudy worked very, very hard to keep her clothes clean, and blood was almost as hard to get out as the mucous that leaked from a punctured spore. So, in the middle of an extremely recent showdown, surrounded by wounded men and women, Trudy's face breaks into a too-wide smile. She looks down at her dress, muttering about cold water and salt, and promptly leaves the scene. In the kitchen, scrubbing her hem (it's coming out, thank the lord), she ponders what to do about Bobo. The stain loosens, and a plan forms in her mind. She'll go talk to those cultists, give 'em a piece of her mind. She'll set them straight. Sporting a wet-edged dress and plastered-on smile, she leaves campus. She's going to have a few words with those Killdozer kids. She takes her best butcher knife with her.
|
|
#
?
Jun 21, 2014 00:44
|
|
|
Ginger, Isiah, Scrap, it sounds to me like you just went aggro on their asses. Just because you're listed with the supporting cast doesn't mean you can make a move without a roll. Acting on your own, let's say you'd roll at Juck minus one. So, Going Aggro: 2d6+2 11 Huh. Mega says, "poo poo," drawn out into two syllables. His shoulders slump a bit, the sign of someone whose bad day just got a lot worse. He turns his classic .45 around in his hand to a non-threatening direction then tosses it over to Scrap. The scowl on his face reads, 'This is some bullshit.' His limping assistant hesitates a second longer, then follows suit, looking a good deal more nervous. He answers, "We go where the gently caress we want. Those fine ladies," he nudges his head over his shoulder, "And the rest of 'em, they know that. Now how 'bout you get on with your bidness, 'fore you do anything you an your whole family might regret." ~ At the Yard; Juck, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think T-Loin is inclined to take that kind of disrespect from someone he just, minutes ago, saw get her rear end beat into the dust. He laughs in your face, Angel Eyes, at the second funniest poo poo he's heard all day, and asks if you're really that eager for a second beatdown. Lala's not taking that bet. Mike, you've summarized the noise issue pretty well. You high-balled it a little, though - they still rely on mediocre ol' human ears, and if they're hearing loud noises over a distance, maybe through buildings or bouncing off walls, they're going to get riled up, sure, but they're not going to have a pin-point accurate grasp of where the noise came from. The aquarium, back in the day, was a shiny glass-fronted building with some bold architectural angles, like a curved trapezoid or some poo poo, a bunch of bluish lighting and a few huge plastic statues of sea things. A koi fish swimming in the air, a sea turtle tilted on its side, a big sucker-cup tentacle reaching around and pointing to the entrance. That side, facing the park, is going to be all the way exposed, and probably littered with broken glass. Forcing your way in through an unassuming employee door around the back, by the dumpster, is probably a better bet. Likely to bring you in closer to the extra filters, too. It's a hot, still day. A few clouds in the sky, the sun's bright enough to keep you from looking up, warm enough to be a constant presence on your back and shoulders. Quiet, except for the odd insect buzzing and bird chirping. Really easy to mistake for a lazy summer day. When you're ready to go for it - and, please, take as little or as much time as you need - state who and what you're bringing, state your approach, and whoever's leading the way rolls +Cool. ~ Trudy, I'm sure they're just dying to have that conversation. They've got a little bit of a head start on you - they booked it when the shooting started, but they're not in great health, and likely can't keep a quick pace up for very long. You could practically see their ribs, even through those lovely robes. You ever track anybody through reclaimed post-urban wilderness before? It's not the easiest thing ever. The concrete underfoot is chunked by roots and weather, and there are plenty of half-demolished, roof-collapsed, vine-covered shells of gas stations, pancake houses, and a restaurant strip to obscure your sight lines once you get off campus. Plenty of places to hide, even if you're not trying. Describe your approach, and if it's anything besides running blindly and shouting, roll+cool to pull it off the way you want. ~ Faustina, Swift peeks out all tentative to make sure the violence has stopped, then hops to your instructions. Muzzlehead C is in some delirious grief rage. Swift crouches down with her and starts talking her back to reality before slinging her good arm over-shoulder and walking her back to the infirmary. Cyrus swings her arm around to test the range of motion, winces, and says that, yeah, she's, "probably fine. What a loving difference a few inches can make." Still, there's rather a lot of blood on her. Muzzlehead B still has his hands up, looking scared. He's probably going to stay like that until someone tells him otherwise. It sounds like he said something starting with, "Sorry." StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 05:56 on Jun 22, 2014 |
|
#
?
Jun 21, 2014 13:39
|
|
|
Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I shifted my weight slightly, bringing my weapon to bear. In one smooth, practiced movement the blade flashed out. The buckle of T-Loin's belt clinked to the ground as his pants sagged down his legs. I resheathed the sword and gestured towards my gun. "You can either be quiet and let the adults talk, or you can keep mouthing off in which case I pull this out and shoot you in the balls. I'll have a good laugh watching Faustina try to fix it." Go Aggro. (roll +cool) 2d6+3=9
|
|
#
?
Jun 22, 2014 03:53
|
|
|
T-Loin says something like, "poo poo, you crazy bitch!" as he stumbles onto his rear end, scrambles to get his pants back up, and checks himself for any damage. Casey chuckles, Lala rolls her eyes. He drops the issue and looks around for something to tie, muttering about, "Yeah, y'drat right you need a fuckin' sword to take me on. Fuckin' liked that belt."
|
|
#
?
Jun 22, 2014 06:03
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm Angel Kit: 5/6 | +1barter (TBD) As Deacon lays out his proposition, this teen in his group is looking at me with these huge, hopeful eyes. Wednesday, wasn't it? She was brand new to their cult-thing when last they were at campus. That was when Rowland took off with them, which created the bad blood with Spears. Hadn't taken personally myself, though. It's not up to me who comes and goes... I just work here. It was her decision alone, and besides it looks like Spears has buried the hatchet for now. Wednesday had showed some interest in the lab, and she kind of reminds me of my younger self, still trying to figure out how to stay afloat on a fickle, oft frightening slipstream of existence. Maybe she could learn... These hazy, meandering thoughts flash through my mind in split seconds – I'm still partly reeling from diving in on Cheebs and now it looks like I'll be making that plunge again. My stomach gets this sinking, twisting feeling; guts doing a deathroll of dread. This is not a good idea. If I gently caress this up I could put the other patients at risk. Swift and Cyrus were well-trained, but could they manage without my guidance if go out again? For that matter, could I really trust Deacon? He obviously was a force of influence to be reckoned with, and his 'flock' seemed to have a certain connection to each other that suggested something more than loyalty. However odd they are, we don't act now that man dies. Reservations would have to wait for later. He'd taken care of the conflict and provided some much needed supplies – that was enough for now. His eyes though... something strange about them. Like they're too deep. Too green. I nod grimly up at the man in the dusty army jacket. “Okay, Deacon. You should get everyone inside the quad. There's rooms available in the dorms. If anyone needs medical treatment have them sit in the waiting room until we clear these criticals. If I lose it here, listen to Swift and Cyrus until I come 'round. Don't make me regret this.” In my peripheral I notice Trudy storming off to the house. She hates this kind of poo poo. Dammit. By my staying on at the Atrium we were pretty much assured a steady stream of violent visitors - a sickening knowledge that sat over the campus like a thick cumulus of inevitability. A nightmare my presence had brought to their door. Before me was the crumpled body of the Jefferson gimp who had accosted my assistant moments before. Blood and bits of flesh fanned out across the concrete around him like a gruesome snow angel. The bullet had blasted through the flesh just under his armpit, and judging by the amount of blood there had been significant internal trauma. He was breathing his last, staring up into the yawning, careless blue sky. Would it really be the right thing to drag him back to this world? God knew what he'd been through to get here; how that ugly mask had been bolted on. Did they truly deserve it? Hard to imagine all of them were ruthless criminals. But what is a criminal anymore? Maybe Angel Eyes and Juck had it figured out already; just laughing at the rest of the world's floundering about, watching us cling to the decay. If society was a barren mother now, Trudy might be the perfect metaphor for us all. I'm sorry, Truds. We're gonna be selfish again. Sinking to my knees, my hands reach out to grasp the mortal wound. I can't let him go without trying. I can't lose my grip... Sana Mente (Healing Touch on Muzzlehead A): 2d6+1+1(+1 from Sitch Read) = 9 * * * Deacon: [Faustina values those who are willing to lend a hand and will do what they say they will. Thanks to the generosity of the Anathemata, you've earned a working version of that trust for now. Faustie will treat Daryll and any others who need it. (If she makes if back from this Touch alright...)]
|
|
#
?
Jun 23, 2014 05:05
|
|
|
Deacon Barter= 5 EXP= 5/5 Harm= 0:00 Fatigue= 0:00 Followers: +Augery -Disease Deacon smiles at Faustina, the corners of his eyes wrinkling agreeably as he fixed her with a stare the intensity of which could peel paint. "Oh, that won't be necessary, my dear. My folk don't... trust... the indoors overly. We get a bit antsy when we can't see the sky," he said, his cheery tone seeming very out of place given the man bleeding to death at his feet. "We'll just pitch our tents in the quad and stay out of your way, except for the ones that need care. I wouldn't dream of putting a strain on your no doubt stretched resources... that last bloom was hard on everyone, after all." The tensions seemingly diffused, the other Anathemata are already milling off to busy themselves with the myriad tasks of make camp. They all had the nomad's practice at this, of course, but it still took a good deal longer to settle down than bug out, and they don't have the pressure of a zombie horde baring down on them to inspire hustle at the moment. Likely, there's enough to keep the cultists occupied for a bit -- even Lana Doll grabs a pack from Lemur and starts helping him pitch a tent, although she's still staring daggers through him. That's a situation Deacon knows he will have to address, and soon, but Lana's professional enough not to say anything in front of outsiders and Lemur... well, it's doubtful Lemur even noticed. Within a few moments Faustina and Deacon are alone, save for Wednesday's Child, who is watching intently as the medic went about stabilizing the dying convict. Which is odd, incidentally. Deacon isn't a doctor, but he has had some basic medical training and the sorority girl doesn't really seem to be doing the right thing to treat a patient with this much blood loss. She should be evaluating for signs of a sucking chest wound and applying direct pressure to limit further blood loss. An IV was probably too much to ask, but still. This is a medical emergency, and she is just kneeling there, her fingers pressed gingerly to the wound. And then Deacon's Eyes open, and he Sees. He sees the world drained of color, save for the Muzzlehead's life a deep red puddle rapidly staining the parched concrete, and Faustina, her body lit by vermillion flames from the lantern she carried in her belly. She's touching the Muzzlehead and he's touching her, their mutual regard a web of hyphal fibers hung between them. The strands vibrate and dance, and Faustina's green fire traces its way across them and into the convict's damaged flesh. There's a lot of space to fill, a void left where once there was blood and life, but Faustina is a hearth ever burning. Still, Deacon knows that there's a flaw in her design. The web is too small, its pattern snarled and slipshod. The strands vibrate overmuch for the power forced along them, and even now they are snapping under the strain. Unchecked, the whole structure will collapse, and then something bad will happen. Deacon knows not what, but it will be bad. Deacon spins his own hyphae into weave, strengthening the pattern and shoring up the cytoskeleton with chitin and will. The mycelium is stable now, the fire moving unmolested over the network. Crisis has, for the moment, been averted. Aiding Faustina: 2d6+2 10 Go ahead and take +1 and heal this dude without mind whammy. Yay! Also helping has caused Deacon to open his mind and what he's opening his mind about is these Muzzleheads. What's the deal with them? Why are they so desperate all of a sudden? Open Mind: 2d6+3 12 Also, that puts me at 5 XP, so I'm going to Take a Move From Another Playbook: The Brainer's Direct-Brain Whisper Projection Baby Babbeh fucked around with this message at 21:35 on Jun 26, 2014 |
|
#
?
Jun 26, 2014 08:05
|
|
|
Juck Barter=0 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=3:00 StringOfLetters posted:Ginger, Isiah, Scrap, it sounds to me like you just went aggro on their asses. Just because you're listed with the supporting cast doesn't mean you can make a move without a roll. Acting on your own, let's say you'd roll at Juck minus one. So, Ginger smiled at Mega. "Oh, we'll get on with our bidness, buddy. Thing is, and jump in correct me at any time if I've got the wrong way of things here, it seems to me like whatever bidness you two are coming from didn't end up peaceful, and I'm thinking that those fine ladies might be interested in revisiting the terms of whatever agreement you reached now that you've been de-horned. So how about you throw those hands behind your head, and let's start walking." Do I need to roll aggro again, or are they going to play nice? StringOfLetters posted:At the Yard; Juck, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think T-Loin is inclined to take that kind of disrespect from someone he just, minutes ago, saw get her rear end beat into the dust. He laughs in your face, Angel Eyes, at the second funniest poo poo he's heard all day, and asks if you're really that eager for a second beatdown. Lala's not taking that bet. T-loin was one of the whelps -- young kids with something to prove, bloodthirsty and wild. They were drawn to the Wolves for obvious reasons; most didn't last more than a year. Juck had been like this once, but she'd survived -- on account of luck more than anything else, really. It remained to be seen whether T-loin would also survive, but his odds weren't good. Juck stepped between T-Loin and Angel Eyes, facing T-Loin directly with her back to the swordswoman. "T-loin, back down. We're done here." Pack Alpha: 2d6+3 7 T-Loin doesn't fight back. T-Loin was all revved up, though, and made to push past Juck. "gently caress that boss, I'mma stomp this fancy bitch." "Whatever. Your funeral, dipshit." Juck turned to Lala. "Can't say I didn't try. Wanna take bets on how long he lasts?" Lala thought about that. "I give him a minute." "Thirty seconds for me. If he lasts longer, you get first dibs on the next set of spoils. Angel Eyes, have fun." Mr. Prokosch posted:[b]"Big" Mike This one's easy, honestly. Juck is the leader of the Wolves, and the Wolves have a way of doing things. Juck's position as the leader of the Wolves is contingent upon her maintaining the respect of the gang, and that means Juck cannot take any poo poo, from anyone, in front of her gang. The easiest way to get Juck to follow along with a plan, especially if it's a good plan, is to make some kind of show about how badly you need the help of Juck and her gang of Wolves. Put on a good enough show, and you'll probably fool the Wolves; Juck'll probably be sharp enough to read between the lines, but she'll be grateful to you for not causing her any further pains in her rear end, and Juck's always going to be more amenable to going along with a plan when she's feeling grateful. "Well, if it's a distraction you need for this plan to go off, the Wolves can provide. We can ride through first, take the main road and draw any milling shrooms out, give you a clear path to the entrance to the Aquarium. You'll be on your own once you're inside, but we'll get you to the door." Profane Accessory fucked around with this message at 21:52 on Jun 26, 2014 |
|
#
?
Jun 26, 2014 20:57
|
|
|
"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 I nod. "Yeah, I figured most of your bikers can do a great job at that. It's just, no one should have to go in the city alone, somebody should watch Angel Eye's back... and we'll need some extra hands to carry the loot. Can you spare a few of your best for infiltration? Strong fighters, disciplined, quick on the feet. Please Juck, I'm worried about the water situation for the community. Wells go down to a reservoir. If the ground water is contaminated who knows how far it will reach. Could be no one who relied on the reservoir will have drinking water soon. Getting a pure water source could be vital for everyone's survival." I turn to Angel, "I'm a tired old man, I can get you to the filters and identify the good ones, but I might also slow you down going in. I could also give you directions and a sketch and be on rescue with my truck in case something goes wrong. Whatever makes you feel safest."
|
|
#
?
Jun 26, 2014 22:14
|
|
|
Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "I'll be honest. It's generally my preference to fly solo. That way if things go tits up there's nobody to blame but myself. Now, I understand I'll need some extra hands moving these things, so help from Juck," I gave her a nod. "will be necessary. But if you don't absolutely believe that you must be present, I'd feel better if you sat this out. You're an important part of the community, and if this doesn't pan out everyone is going to need your help getting a plan B together." I gave him a shrug. "It's your call though."
|
|
#
?
Jun 27, 2014 23:44
|
|
|
"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 "Well then, if Juck is down for it, we have a plan. The gang will be on distraction, Angel Eyes and a pair of helpers on infiltration, I'll be on rescue in my truck. Hopefully you won't need me, but it's best to plan ahead. You wanna meet with your people first, right Juck? You wanna ride back to the Uni, Angel? You said you had business. Or do you wanna hang here until it's time to head out? We haven't really talked about payment either. Want that bike I was talking about, or something else?"
|
|
#
?
Jun 28, 2014 00:10
|
|
|
Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "I'm really not wanting for much right now. Let's consider it a favor to be owed." I started to wave it off nonchalantly, then reconsidered. "Actually. How about you look over Faustina's little chop shop? See if there's something banging around in your yard here she could use. One of these days I'm going to get unlucky, and I'd like it if she were better equipped to patch me up if that happens. You'll be helping me out by proxy." A smirk. "Anyways, yeah. A ride would be nice. I should let Faustina and Trudy know what I'm up too. Regarding the business; I was going to head over to where Deacon's been staying, ask him about the murders recently." I shifted on my feet, a pensive look on my face. "It's not that I think he's involved, but...well. Him and his followers are odd ducks to put it mildly. They might know something. It can wait though. Hopefully."
|
|
#
?
Jun 28, 2014 01:27
|
|
|
"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 I nod, "yeah, sure, I can check it out. Sight unseen I'm thinking an operating theater needs basic tools, diagnosis equipment, a sterile environment, and a poo poo-ton of drugs. If somebody had the presence of mind to store and nurture the right bacteria down there I could set up a little medicine factory. Well, that's the dream anyway, but I doubt it. Could still see what they're missing when it comes to tools."
|
|
#
?
Jun 28, 2014 02:48
|
|
|
Trudy Barter=2 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 There are some folks who can tell the mood of a man by his footprints, people who'll get a story out of a snapped twig, or a tuft of fabric caught on some chain-link. Trudy is not one of those people. She's mad, she's armed, and she's walking in the direction she's pretty sure the Killdozer kids would've gone--out the front gate of the university. That's about it. She just wants Bobo back. Real bad. Tracking Cultists: 2d6 3 "Tracking." Oh boy.
|
|
#
?
Jun 28, 2014 03:18
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 27, 2024 02:12 |
|
|
Ginger & co., you don't need another roll unless the situation changes dramatically. This is just following through with the last one. And, Mega isn't done threatening you back, shouting with only a hint of nervousness 'bout how you better not gently caress with the Family, but he puts his hands up - middle finger for emphasis - and follows your command for now. The other guy is walking kind of oddly, not quite with a limp. One of his boots is torn open and all splattered up, but his foot inside is fine. He explains, as you're walking him along at gun-point, that they came here looking for a doctor after something something - Mega interrupts and starts talking over him, saying that those "gimp mask motherfuckers" from Jefferson ambushed them earlier, the Familia domed one and injured the rest, then the Gimps followed him back here. So, "You'd better watch the gently caress out for them, too. Serious. They ain't nice and talkative like me." What are you gonna do with 'em next? ~ Faustina, to put it simply, it works. The warm energy thing happens. Muzzlehead A starts screaming underneath the heavy iron mask, arching his back and clawing at his chest as his flesh grows back. Like, visibly grows back - look close, and you can see tendrils of muscle and vein reaching across the gun-shot gap. You feel that rising tide of hot, messy thought-stuff, like bile in the throat of your soul. Then Deacon does his thing - your mind passes through a vivid impression of the way he visualizes the process, but for all we know, you could've been thinking about his assist like that pottery scene in Ghost. It's subjective as hell. You keep your head above water, so to speak, and avoid the patient's instinctive thrash-back no worse for the wear, for once. Muzzlehead B, who is in pretty good shape, leans over looking worried. He had immediately written his buddy 'A off as dead, and starts off wondering why the heck you'd even bother trying. Unless someone shoves his face away, he's going to see the miracle healing happening, then get all wide-eyed and ask, "What the hell?" You might be used to that reaction by now. Cyrus has a hand on your shoulder, saying, "Hey! Faustie - come on, he's not worth it!" but she's too late for that, so she sighs, and reverts to the default of supporting you anyways. "Come on, dude. You can handle this." Spears makes it down and around from the roof, picks up the shotgun that 'B dropped, and goes around ensuring that the others are all properly disarmed. Lemur still has his gun out, finger on the trigger, but he's not pointing at anyone in particular, and he's got his tight-lipped stare fixed on Faustina. Wednesday asks you, Deacon, "Can we, um, recruit her?" Garrety grabs an armload of stuff from the guy next to her and says she'll get started on pitching the tents, and tries to get Lana to come ahead with her and cool off. Swift is inside with the arm-shot muzzlehead, going ICU all over her blood-stained rear end. There's a lot of pressuring, cleaning, and stitching to be done, but she'll live. The arm is not going to make a full recovery on its own, though. Deacon Thorne posted:Also helping has caused Deacon to open his mind and what he's opening his mind about is these Muzzleheads. What's the deal with them? Why are they so desperate all of a sudden? You're now familiar with an average Muzzlehead's baseline misery: go forth and scavenge. It's a tired, hungry existence. The muzzleheads are kept near their physical limits, pissed-off and bitter but too drat weary to fight back or even think too hard about it. Heads and eyelids heavy, hard to look up or keep focus on anything much beyond the ground in front of them. Get some good pickings, metal in good condition, maybe some working old-world doodads, and if you do good, they take the muzzle off long enough to feed you. Unless you've been doing too good a few days in a row, or the Handler on duty is in a bad mood; then the great crap you brought back is actually poo poo. At least you can still dip your face, heavy muzzle and all, into a pot of hot, salty broth, and suck some of the juice up through the seams. It's undignified, but you're so loving hungry you don't care. Five or six hours of sleep, then repeat. If you're lucky, you get a couple days on home rotation, either doing menial chores around the compound (nothing too weird about those, sweeping and washing dishes) or wearing yourself out on one of those generator-bikes. If the President thinks you've, "Taken advantage of his generosity," you get assigned to a basement shift. If anyone comes back from one of those, a week later, they're ten pounds lighter and swear they can't remember a minute of it. More recently - the terms changed. Gather ten pieces of bronze, or three of silver, or one of gold. Finding gold is like, well, finding gold. It'd be nice if you found a block, just lying out in the dirt somewhere; dream in one bucket, poo poo in the other, see which fills up faster. Gathering silver is just suicidally risky, so gently caress that. So you just kept scrambling for more bronze, more of the classic scraps, even as the quotas cinched tighter around your neck. But the President wants more silver, so he tries saying to a focus group, just forget about the lesser stuff. And then they stop coming back. It's scary enough that they actually desert in droves, even though they know they can't make it far with a mouth sealed shut. In one end, out the other; Life is what happens between those points. And then you get a basement shift. And you fight, but your cellmate helps restrain you, because he's more afraid of them than he likes you, and you'd have done the same. When you come to, the Handler's tapping a syringe full of white stuff, you feel a pressure like a pregnancy in your gut, and he says you've got three days. Maybe two; let us know so we can get the dosage right next time. You feel a little more nauseous every hour. That, also, is the affliction keeping Muzzlehead D down right now - Swift has him on a saline IV, results pending. The impression comes all at once, like a memory packaged in with its context. While we're asking questions; who's your favorite cultist? ~ At the Yard, Stefani says that the new truck's probably in as good a shape as it's ever going to be - thanks again, Mike, so much, they owe you huge-time - and they were going to take it back to the Campus anyways. She volunteers to ride along on the Filter Trip, if you think you'll need an extra set of hands, but it's very clear that she's hoping nobody will take her up on that. ~ Trudy, you catch up to them, and spot the tailing end of someone's black Some look up, and some look down. You're standing in the shade of one of those gas station overheads, crammed full of long-dead fluorescent lights. Someone has gone through the trouble of drawing, with chalk, a big circular symbol, maybe fifteen feet across, with a jagged spider-web of lines and criss-crossing non-euclidean shapes forming some mad pattern across it. And on the cracked cement beneath you, the same thing. Elijah, still smiling, leans down and makes one final stroke of chalk on the ground symbol, closing a small gap he'd left in the outermost line. The strung-out woman you fed earlier is standing in the circle with you. She pulls her lovely hood back, pulls those two rusty hub-cap machetes off of her belt, and tosses one to you. It lands at your feet with a clang. What do you do?
|
|
#
?
Jun 28, 2014 04:48
|
|