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The short version: it's been a really bad couple of decades for humanity. The OOC thread is here, the cast are these folks, Big Mike, the Savvyhead (Mr. Prokosch) Angel Eyes, the Battlebabe (Shardix) Faustina, the Angel (hctibyllis) Juck, the Chopper (Benny Profane) Deacon Thorne, the Hocus (Baby Babbeh) Trudy, the Solace (Violajoker) ~ Session 1, A Day in the life, It's the tail end of a long and miserable summer, hot and dry except for all the sweat. If you get up somewhere high, you can see the Metroplex's line of sky-scrapers off to the east. They've got eighty-plus floors of un-broken glass, but there's no dazzling reflection today. A, because nobody's cleaned the bird poo poo off them in a decade, and B, because there's a dark haze rising up from the heart of the city. Must be another Bloom - happens every few months, big-assed cloud of spores and another wave of agitated shamblers charging blindly out from it. Despite the heat, near everyone's got a bandana, or a hankerchief, or a dusty surgical mask, or just a high collar and a rubber-band pulled up over their mouths. Astute viewers will note that the prevailing winds mean it's all going to blow far, far away, but most folks are too drat tired or busy to sweat the little details like that. The air is heavy with the smells of human poo poo and sawdust. Here's a thing about water in a post-apocalyptic countryside - good water is hard to find. If you're settled somewhere, you can leave out barrels for the rain, but there hasn't been much. You can boil graywater, but that's a pain in the rear end. You can find a lake, or a muddy creek, but those are contaminated all to poo poo. Not even because of the fungal poo poo that ended the world. When almost everyone dies and almost everything breaks, there's a lot of dead, festering, toxic, oily, radioactive, non-biodegradable crap left over to leak into the water table. If you take a sip from a shallow well, you're rolling the dice, and a 6- means loving dysentery. The creek running right by here has a grainy film and dozens of torn styrofoam cups(?) floating on top, and tastes like how motor oil smells. The one charitable soul out of a hundred who would try to pick up litter got played like the idiot sap she is, and this monday she woke up naked in a ditch with a concussion and a bloody rear end in a top hat. So - near the center of this sprawling property is one of not too many wells that was drilled in deep enough to hit the lower aquifer. The K-Scratch Ranch, based on what's left of the gnawed- and pissed- on decor, used to be some rich family's country-living vacation compound. It's been very lived in, by squirrels and squatters alike. A couple of the side buildings have burned down or burn out, where the frames and poo poo managed to stay standing. There are no un-broken windows, and not many interior walls without swears carved into them. Looks a lot like this,  Now, it's a rare source of fresh clean water, and something like a trade hub. Some huge crowd of like twelve souls are gathered on the pavilion, under solid shade and standing on cool concrete, with backpacks full of crap set down, discussing trades. Knowles is over from the Campus, with a bunch of jugs and gas-cans of 'fragrant' home-made biodiesel. She's looking to trade for some ammo, because the sorority is almost out, but she's browsing around to not advertise the fact that they're low on violence-potential. Curt has an armload of fishing poles and some of those pulley-wheel compound bows, and he's trying to convince people they're worth using. Saül and two Familia members brought a loving ton of local-grown smokeables, but he's being way too tight with the going rates. Saül's loving one of the goons, the other is getting way fed up with feeling like a third wheel on what should be a business trip - somehow, maybe from all the griping, this has become common knowledge. Et-cetera. A fella named Taye sits on the rooftop under a sticks-tarp-and-tape tent, faded red baseball cap, smudged-up sunglasses, bare chest a shiny with sweat. and a massive blunt gripped between yellowing teeth. Resting next to his foot, a rope leading down to a bucket on the ground below, next to a displaced street sign with the words sharpied on its back, 'Remember to tip your sentries! : )' The bucket's got some dry corn muffins, an un-labeled pill bottle with mis-matched goodies inside, and a folded note. He shouts out, "Heads up!" loud but almost bored, and a *crack, cra-crack* from his M4 drops a wayward shroom-head that got tangled in the wire fence on the distant perimeter. He says to himself, "And heads off. Aww yeah." The brass cartridges, shining molten in the sun, roll down the birdshit-caked roof tile and into the mulch-choked gutter where they will stay forever. A few people glance up at the noise. Someone claps sedately. The laws, such as they are, of the Ranch are this: don't mess with the water supply. Everyone will stop you. If you start poo poo to a lesser degree, everyone uninvolved will clear out, but they'll be irritated about it. It's bad form to harsh up the watering hole. (But when has that ever stopped anyone?) There's a winding queue around the steel & PVC well near the ranch center. Primacy in 'line' is a matter of who's best armed, rather than order of apperance. There's an electrical pump, not running, with a two-sided hand pump built on to it. It squeaks, screeches and grinds a little. Whoever's drawing water at the moment, pouring it into plastic jugs and coolers, does the labor. The Church of the Nazarene (that's where Jesus is from, don't you know) set up shop here a while back. They welcome pretty much all comers, so nobody has evicted them yet - just robbed them a few times, which they're good sports about. Off to the side, standing near a massive wooden cross that's been nailed up to the side of the once-barn, now-chapel, Brother Chung is on a tirade, to his fellow Nazarene, and to the queue around the well, trying to stir up a crusade to go fight back the bloomin' hordes and liberate their souls from this earthly undead limbo. So far he's got, like, three takers, all younger folks. So, what did you come here for? Meeting someone? Trading something? Just filling up some jugs? If nothing comes to mind, just say you're thirsty and I'll throw a hook or two at you.
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Apr 27, 2014 09:10
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"Big" Mike Earlier today, "Big" Mike woke up feeling good for the first time in a long time. That last sickness hit him hard, and wore away the last vestiges of his once massive girth. His Booby Traps held up, so no one bothered him. His Junkyard usually has the raw materials he needs. The rain barrels doting his junkyard are a bit excessive, enough fresh water to last a few years of drought because, why not when it's just a basic funnel system and a plastic container? So he's not thirsty either. No, Mike is here because the hydraulics in his garage are shot, and the blades fell off his windmill in the last storm. He'll need an extra set of hands for a repair like that. No windmill means no lights, no heating, and no powertools. Trying to add/restore Garage to my workspace, which is itself a Workspace move But why come here, further afield, for hired labor when surely someone in Lil Town would help him? Don't know. Just felt right. Maybe someone here needs help. I figure the hold with there when he's needed comes up in an important case, but it's pretty routine for him to just show up right when something breaks down or someone needs a hand. Rolling for my hold: There When I'm Needed: 2d6+2 8 Big Mike posted:
Mr. Prokosch fucked around with this message at 06:32 on Nov 25, 2014 |
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Apr 27, 2014 15:29
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Another beautiful day in the corpse of the world. The mushrooms were blooming wild in the cities while humanity slowly dragged itself onward a a little longer. I'd found a shady spot to keep the sun off while I kept an eye out for work. It was pretty slow today - the heat had everyone miserable enough that nobody had the energy to start trouble. It would pick up soon enough, though. When Autumn rolls in everybody starts scrambling to secure themselves for the winter, and that means hiring legbreakers and bravos like myself. Until then I had to settle for what I could find, and what I could find was Lace. "Until you can make it worth my while, it's not my problem. I'm not a charity." I crossed my arms and glanced down at Lace as his shoulders slumped. Lace had gotten himself deep in debt with one of the local bravos, Frog. The dress, makeup, and black eye he was sporting made it pretty obvious how he was paying that debt off. He was an alright kid, and I felt bad for the abuse he had to deal with. But if I made an exception for him, everyone else would want one too. And gratitude alone didn't put food on my plate.
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Apr 27, 2014 20:48
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Juck In the wake of a good bloom, you'll pretty reliably get some holdouts from the city packing up and heading out for greener pastures. And before they do that, they invariably stop in at the watering hole before moving on. In other words, easy pickings. Juck's here with a couple of the friendlier looking members of her pack, ostensibly selling pre-loved survival gear and maps to help folks find their way out to the same zone. It's an old trick, of course, but desperation has a funny way of turning folks gullible. So yeah, Juck's struck up a few conversations with traveler types so far today, but nothing she'd go so far as to call a proper bite just yet.
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Apr 27, 2014 23:18
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 Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Goddammit, Perry. Why is she just standing there giggling at Knapp's moronic banter? My arms burn with the effort required to pump the mineral-scented water into our collection of jugs. The sound of my 'sister' chirping brainlessly along with one of the K-Scratch sentries instead of helping me just heaps a headache on top of the strain. Perry and Knapp go back aways, and he always lets Alpha Phi jump ahead in line as long as she's with us. Still, she could at least pretend to help once in a while instead of slinking off with the guard to one of the filthy compound shacks. Those guys are totes gross, anyways. After managing to fill the last of the jugs, I painfully sling our week's supply of water into the back of our campus pickup, huffing through my salvaged surgical mask while Knowles finally starts to talk business with a couple Dog Soldiers: “...you tuff bwoy know how it is with these cracka-ratta-tattas runnin' wild near us. We lookin' for some bang, and you squattin' on wheels that could be rollin'. How 'bout we help each otha' out, brotha'?” She's going in pretty heavy with the accented slang; but then she's about the only one the Dogs will listen to. Well, they listen to Juck too, but I'd rather gargle goat urine than ask her for help. Looks like she's up to no good as usual, fleecing city suckers for all they're worth. Not that I care, really. The idiots that hang around that deathtrap waiting for civilization to reboot itself are pretty much all worthless leechers or mental cases, save for the occasional bright penny who happens to have a decent book held over from a forgotten past life. The last one I traded with had a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls: a classic which I plan to finish sometime today after we get back to the uni. That is, if I can get any freaking help hauling all this crap. Trudy is around here somewhere, but I'm not expecting her to get her hands dirty. She's probably busy bartering for foodstuffs anyhow. I have some bars from my brand new batch of fragrant soap for sale myself. Finally figured out the right mix and temperature to add in our ~patented~ potpourri extract and keep it from winding up smelling like burnt shroomhead arse. If there's anyone that could use a good scrub, its Big Mike. Poor old guy's heart is in the right place, but sadly his overalls have been in all the wrong places. Our truck's been making some downright disturbing noises lately; I'm not sure what the hell crawled in there and died, and I'm not about to stick my fingers under the hood to find out. I finish loading our water and leave Knowles to her Rasta routine. Mega-beard Mike doesn't seem to be occupied, so I walk over and offer a smile. “Hey, Mike. How's the 'yard? You should really come by the uni sometime, get a decent dinner. You look like you've been living on exhaust fumes, no offense.” I pull out a folded pouch of freshly rolled smokes and light up, pulling the mask down for a moment, watching Perry not-quite-sneaking away with Knapp towards the usual shed with its rusty, corrugated roof and lovely acoustics. loving christ. We're gonna be here all day again. Turning back to Mike with a sigh, I thumb over my shoulder at our pickup. “Honestly, we could use your help. Stupid Black Betty is making some kind of bloodcurdling death rattle whenever we shift gears. At least I think that's what's causing it - I'm helpless with cars. I can wash your clothes and even throw in some bars of soap if you'll straighten her out. Don't they smell amazing?” pre:
hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 05:19 on Apr 28, 2014 |
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Apr 28, 2014 04:47
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Faustina, the Angel
Stats
Cool: -1
Hard: 0
Hot: +1
Sharp: +2
Weird: +1
Hx
Angel Eyes: 0
Big Mike: -2
Deacon: -2
Juck: +1
Trudy: 0
Look
Woman / Formal wear / Hard eyes / Pretty face / Spare body
Moves
Healing touch
Touched by death
Gear
Angel kit (6/6)
.38 revolver (2-harm; close; reload; loud)
Tattered university uniform dress w/ concealed bullet proof chest (1-armor)
Barter: 1 (Perfumed Soap Bars)
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Mike sniffs himself and recoils a little, "sorry, sorry. Been out of it lately. Selling soap huh? Any anti-bacterial properties or is it just a lump of perfume? You know what you outta do is make a liquid soap with a bit of pumice. You know, like Fast Orange? Or... I guess you don't remember Fast Orange. Anyway, pumice soap will get the grease out and folks don't have to waste water to wash. "Now that's a fine invitation. Mighty civilized of ya. If you was someone else," he gives a slight nod over to Juck, "I'd figure you were fixing to eat these old bones. Tell you what, you can see this as a trade, or just a fine neighborly day, but I also need a little help. Need some extra hands for a few odd jobs back at the Yard. I'll fix up your truck real nice, replace some parts if need be, if you help me out. Then we can head over to the Uni and if you cook a good meal and promise to share a batch I'll help you up your soap making game. Even if you don't need help with the recipe, I'm sure we can whip up some better tools. Glad you can see the importance of soap. It's one of the cornerstones of civilization, you know? Don't want that art lost..." Mike continues to drone on for a while as he meanders towards Black Betty for a diagnosis.
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Apr 28, 2014 05:33
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I stop for a moment in my tracks, stunned by the oversight. “Pumice… brilliant! A natural exfoliant!” Why didn’t I think of that? “I would love for you to come over and help me hook that up! Liquid soap shouldn’t be too hard to manage. We have a pretty steady supply of lye, which we also use for the biodiesel, as you know. Makes for some good ’all-naturale’ blends. Non-antibacterial still does a pretty good freaking job from what I’ve noticed, but if you really think it’s worth it we’ll have to get ahold of some triclosan. As far as I know, the only guy who might have been capable of grinding that poo poo out in the campus lab was killed last week by What The gently caress Juck & Co. Remember Quincy?” I look over at the gang of thugs accosting transient drifters, shaking my head. “I’m telling you , Mike. It’s not those shamblers we have to worry about. Humanity will wipe itself out long before they do us the favor.”
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Apr 28, 2014 16:50
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 "poo poo, Quincy got killed? That's sad, real sad. He was a good kid, smart, had a lot of hope in him... But talk like that will kill us quicker than folks like Juck. Most of human history has had bandits. Plagues too. All humanity needs is a few people with a lot of spirit and we can bounce back. But once we give up, everything goes to poo poo. China survived Ghengis Khan, we can survive Juck. Besides, she's bad, but what she's doing now shows her head still works even if her heart broke down. Even if she kicks everyone's rear end and murders most of us, the number of folks useful to her will keep expanding. Few generations and she'll be the "Great Queen" or some bullshit and humans will keep trucking on. I just hope they still remember how to make soap."
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Apr 28, 2014 20:09
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Despite the grimace that found its way onto my face, I knew the old man was dropping some wisdom. I’d read a considerable bit of history from books I’d salvaged, and it always seemed like war and conquest was the universal solution to human calamity; in other words, eventually might makes right. Whoever kicks the most rear end writes the books in the end - the rest just wind up as fertilizer for poshy flower gardens. It didn’t evoke the prettiest picture, imagining someone like Juck at the helm of society. And what exactly are we going to do about that? Throw another hissy fit? I was lucky she let me go the first time. Though I’ve got my own unique ‘gifts’ (if you can even call them that), I harbor no illusions of being some far-fetched heroine destined to save the world from all the jerks killing and loving everyone over. I’m just a really weird girl with a stupid soap habit. Stopping back at the truck, I give the tire a nasty kick. “Yeah well… you’re probably right. Just try not to get involved with these so called warlords, okay? Decent brains are at a premium lately, and I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to put every humpty dumpty back together. Anyways, I’m sure I can get a few of the sisters together to help you out later. You’re kind of a local legend.” I look morosely at the hunk of spray-painted scrap metal we call ‘Black Betty’. It ran pretty well on the homebrewed fuel we pumped into its rusted guts, but it had certainly seen better days. We’d be proper hosed if it died, unless Big Mike could resurrect something from his yard. Flicking my spent cigarette aside, I don the protective mask again and squint up at the spindly savvy through the climbing sun. “So what’s the diagnosis? Terminal Jank?”
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Apr 28, 2014 22:23
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Fortunes: 2d6+1 8. Deacon's people have surplus, but they're Hungry Deacon Barter=4 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Followers: +Augery, -Hunger "Not like that, W, sweetie," Deacon said, smiling. "Put the big stuff towards the front to catch people's eye. We want them to see what we have to offer and wander over. If they can't see the big items from a good distance away, we won't get as many customers." The girl he was addressing, Wednesday's Child, nodded and shifted some things around on the blanket in front of her, moving a still-boxed camp stove and a pile of crank radios in front of a few boxes of CDs and miscellaneous gently-expired pharmaceuticals. Sitting in one corner, too big for her to move without help, was a diesel generator that appeared to have been repaired with parts salvaged from a motorcycle engine. "Like new," a handwritten cardboard sign leaning up against it proclaimed, "Will trade for MREs, water purification tablets, fresh game or best offer." Wednesday's Child was a new convert, a thin, pale girl of 16 who would be quite pretty if it wasn't for an unfortunate case of teenage acne. She was a runaway -- she wouldn't say where from -- but Deacon accepted all comers. Bringing her to town was something of a test. If she was to fit in with the group she'd have to pitch in to their collective business, and Deacon had a hunch she'd make a better salesperson than a scrounge. The rest of the Anathemata here were more experienced -- some of his most experienced, in fact. Lana Doll and Dillflower were merchandising a tarp containing mostly tools, new or well polished to look new, their thin fingers darting like predatory birds amongst the metal as they set things into the most pleasing arrangement. Nearby, Lemur sat in a camp chair behind a card table laid out with glossy pamphlets, staring blankly into space. The pamphlets were printed with the words “HAVE YOU HEARD THE GOOD NEWS ABOUT THE GLOBAL ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE?” in 24 point font, and where they’d found a press to print them was a closely guarded secret. Darryl was nowhere to be seen, but Deacon knew he was around somewhere, checking the other vendors for arrows and knives and things he could use to make arrows and knives. And of course there was Cuff Button, hulking, one armed, his muscles sheened in sweat, looking like a statue of a biblical giant carved from black granite. Cuff Button was guarding their bicycles with a nasty-looking milspec shotgun hefted lazily in one hand. The gun was supposed to be braced from the shoulder to absorb its gently caress-off recoil; Cuff Button merely steadied it with his stump whenever he could be bothered with such niceties as aiming. They were all of them smiling warmly (except Lemur, who smiled vacantly, and Cuff, who wore the businesslike glower of a guy engaged in guarding something) but Deacon noticed that those smiles were a little too toothy and they didn’t quite reach their eyes, eyes which were hung with circles that were, perhaps, a little darker than normal. Was there a little more tension in their shoulders than usual? Did they, when they thought nobody was looking, occasionally rub their stomachs absently? If they did, if there was, Deacon noticed. He knew, although he had instructed them to try not to show it, that it had been days since any of them had eaten a full meal. The Anathemata generally scrounged for food and supplemented their diet by hunting, and it had been a frustrating season on both counts. The food they found was invariably spoiled, and that last fungal bloom had sent shamblers out in the woods near the ranch, which had spooked the available game. It was slim pickings, and it looked like it would be time to move camp soon. But before that, they needed supplies. Hence, this trading trip. They’d have gotten a better reception at the Little Town, but the ranch was closer to their current camp and Deacon was of a mind to stock up as quickly as possible. A mistake, he was realizing now. It wasn’t so much that the Nazarines didn’t like them. Far from it. Deacon didn’t share their beliefs but he was on friendly terms with their priest, a fellow named Seth. Yet there was really only room for one sermon in this settlement, and that meant the Anathemata were always given a plot as far as possible from the church to avoid confusion. That put them, coincidentally, on the edge of the market, within range of the sentries, along with the less reputable vendors that the proprietors didn’t trust. Vendors like Juck’s gang, who seemed to be running some sort of scam right next to them. “Didn’t think to meet you folk here today,” he said now to one of the gangers, who was hanging clearly stolen packs from a rat-eaten coat rack by way of display. “Not often you see the wolves out amongst the sheep.”
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Apr 28, 2014 23:26
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Trudy found some flowers sprouting near the well, iridescent blue with yellow tips--one of the new kinds that sprouted since the end of everything. She thinks they'll make a nice dried arrangement. They smell good too, sort of minty, and goodness knows campus is getting stinky, in spite of Faustina's expert soapmaking. Flowers aren't what she's here for, though, and after she's gathered a few fistfuls she makes her way toward one of the setups. Not the Naza-whatevers, the other group. On her way, she passes Faustina and Big Mike, and a phrase catches her ear. "You should absolutely come to campus for dinner, Mr. Mike!" Trudy says, poking the older man in the chest with her bouquet. "We'd love to have a guest! Isn't that right, Faustina?" She puts an arm around Faustina, who doesn't seem comfortable with the intimacy. "Yeah," Faustina says, shrugging out of the embrace. "I was saying maybe we could help each other out. Black Betty's in bad shape, Mike's got some project to work on. Figured we could trade." "Sounds lovely!" Trudy says. She looks at Big Mike. "Aside from a nice meal, what can we do for you?" "Windmill's busted," Big Mike says, brushing pollen off his overalls. "Need a few extra pairs of hands." "Done deal! We'll have roast... something," Trudy says, then wanders off in search of something to roast. Faustina rolls her eyes. "Can you imagine her on a windmill?" Big Mike chuckles. "No, but I imagine she makes a mean roast something."
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Apr 29, 2014 02:59
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Angel Eyes, Lace is not a shman of means. He’s got fancy good-talkin’ words suited to his pretty mouth, he’s got sincere emotional needs, but if you’re insisting on a paycheck, sooner or later you’re turning him away. He sighs, dejected as hell, says, “I get it. Sorry to bother you,” and walks away. Not much later, Frog (sweaty middle-aged white dude with a moderate thyroid condition) comes around the bend, looking swank and professional in his slacks, T-shirt and tie. “Ho-lee poo poo, Angel eyes! In the flesh. I thought my girl was just tryin’a scare me off. Guess she asked you to deal with me?” It’s a rhetorical question. He holds out his palms, looking faintly apologetic, and says, “Listen. I know that looks bad. But I take very little pleasure in it. After what that uppity bitch tried to get away with, I’d have been well justified in skinning her alive. Sparing her life was a kindness. If this lesson sticks, it just might save her life next time she thinks about trying to skip out on someone, debts unpaid.” He doesn’t really care if you agree with him or not. That was the small talk, he’s got something else on his mind. “Hey. You still doing wet work?” Again, rhetorical. “There’s a bitch around here, needs to be put down hard and fast.” He glances over his shoulder. “Can’t look like I’m involved. Name your price – and double it, if you can make it look like an accident. Interested?” “Chick named Perry, hangs out with the sorority girls. I saw her drive up a little while ago.” Frog leans in a little, “I am one hundred percent sure that she’s a sociopath motherfuckin’ serial killer. Straight up.” He glances over his shoulder, for like the fifth time. “Takes her time with knives and rubber tubing. People I care about have been on her list. But she’s got everyone fooled with the ditz routine, I can’t prove anything, and I don’t want to sour relations with that whole side of town. You good for that?” What do you do? ~ Big Mike, it gets clear real fast that the truck doesn’t have nearly enough oil, and what’s there is filthy as hell. Now, that might give your lecturing glands an itchy little tickle, but you remember you actually cleaned out and filled up all Black Betty’s fluids a month or three back. So, something’s leaking. A glance under the bed shows that something’s actually been, uh, spraying. There’s a tiny crack in something important. You’d need time and steady light to figure out where, exactly, and then there’s great odds you’ll have a replacement whatever back at the yard. Drive it much more in this condition, the engine will start shredding itself. If you pour a bunch of oil into it, it’ll be good for a little trip around the region, pissing away good oil all the while. You can spend your bone-feelin’ hold to have brought a few quarts of the right grade with you. Alternatively, looks like Dick-Cheese, scavenger extraordinaire, and his ragged yet hardy band of adventurers, have some motor oil (or something labeled as it) laid out in their pile of city pickin’s. They’ve been known to trade useful stuff for curios. And scavenging’s always an option, lots of dead cars and chrome bones to pick through. Faustina, Trudy, and Big Mike – some of the crowd was eavesdropping on y’all. A small-time gang alpha hotshot, Taco, swaggers on up and leans over to take a whiff of your soap. Scruffy, greasy, a bit out-of-breath, swarthy, dark skin, camouflage vest over a bare chest, at least four handguns holstered around. He sighs, and licks his lips. “Goddamn, does that smell fine. You’re a miracle worker, miss. Jeff, smell this poo poo!” His little brother (maybe technically a cousin? Nephew?) Jeff follows him up. He greets Trudy, “H’llo, ma’am,” Big Mike when his head comes out of the truck, “How you doing, mister Bercouski?” and he squeaks out, “Hi,” to Faustina, with whom he will not maintain eye contact. Taco says, “Hey, Big Mike. Couldn’t help but overhear, you’re looking for an extra set of hands?” He flexes his pythons, with a hint of irony. “But, okay, all foolin’ aside, I got a serious jam, and you are like exactly the people I wanted to see. We were coming back from the ‘burbs with a trunk full of fuckin’ jackpot scrounge, a tire blew out, and m’buddy Mitch crashed into a house. Stupid fucker wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, so he’s all jacked up, talkin’ bout a hurt neck – Carl stayed behind with him. You think you can come and give us a tow, Big man? It’s like, Iunno, seven miles from here? We’ll help with your windmill thing, we’ll give you choice picks, and we’ll scrub your fuckin’ floors after. Pretty please, man?” Back to Faustina, “And we’ll trade for some of that soap, if we’ve got anything to your liking. Which, we probably do.” He glances, briefly, to his bro Jeff, and asks Faustina, “Are you just trading the soap, or do you do the scrubbing too? ‘Cause…” Jeff literally blushes, and tries to stare a hole into a patch of grass. What do you do? ~ The roof-top sentry, Taye, calls out again (bullets start flying without a heads-up, anyone sane hits the deck) and double-taps another walker that got tangled in the fence. It’ll slow them down for a while, but it’s nothing near hard security. Two zombies in a row isn’t a great sign. Could be that’s it for the day, and nothing else is in sight just now, but there’s often a trickle like that running ahead of a swarm. He shouts out, “Knapp, where you at? Want a second pair of eyes up here!” And Knapp’s voice, just heading into an ash-floored shack, is all, “It’s my break! Give me five fuckin’ minutes!” Perry gives a crafty little grin and elbows him, heh heh, ‘fuckin’ minutes.’ ~ Juck, you’ve got a few nibbles. Fella named(?) Dick-Cheese and his merry band of clueless young dipshits have a bunch of stuff laid out to trade, bunch of spark plugs and poo poo, looks like they just got done ransacking a jiffy lube. If they’re getting rid of crap like that, there’s fair odds that they’re holding on to something nicer. Dick-Cheese seems to think he’s hit it off really well and made a friend of your pack-mate. Tell us about that pack-mate – who you riding with? And it looks like that motherfucker Taco is running that ‘oh my car broke down bluh bluh please help’ schtick on someone. Not his usual angle. There’s a really ragged looking Couple with a dead buck in a wheelbarrow. The young lady got directions and thanked the hell out of you. They don’t have much on them, but they’re looking to trade the dead meat before heading out. Maybe they’ll get a good deal. And, of course, the good sentryman Taye watches everything that comes and goes. He has a (relatively) firm only-shoot-zombies policy, but for a small fee or a favor, he’ll tell you anything about anyone or anything there is to see. What do you do? ~ Deacon, the Nazzies are usually pretty okay with you – that is, they’ll try to ‘save’ you and yours, preach your ear off and try to nit-pick every syllable of apocalyptica you barf out, trying to tie it back to the Good Old Word and undermine your preaching. It doesn’t really work. You get the sense that they kind of get off on having heretics around that they can try and convert. Anyways, Brother Chung, as mentioned, is breaking from the rest of the ranks to try and stir up a crusade, to march forth and deliver the empurgatoried[sic] souls trapped between life and death. Liberate them from the tendrils of The Serpent (who is now mushrooms). Seth is nowhere to be seen, at the moment. He’s not up in your face yet, but he’s giving you some serious stink-eye, and loudly insinuating that the fungus-worshipping Anathemata are ‘part of the problem.’ Only three or four people are taking him seriously, but a lot more are overhearing him. You gonna do anything about that? Oh – and while you were chatting, Wednesday’s Child made a trade. Some traveling couple dumps a pretty fresh, arrow-to-the-head, nine-point buck out from their wheelbarrow, and loads it back up with… too much of your stuff. The generator, a nice radio, and some of the choicest pharma. Post-apocalyptic accounting is a whole lot of gray areas and rounding – really more of an art than a discipline – but it’s clear that she’s just made a lovely deal. She’s beaming, like she’s just done good. Lemur gets a little interested when he notices the carcass. His face doesn’t change, but his head turns, and you can imagine, he’s thinking about just tearing right in to the thing, teeth through fur, who gives a poo poo about cooking it. He probably won’t. But, you know, he's hungry. What do you do? ~ Benny Profane posted:So yeah, Juck's struck up a few conversations with traveler types so far today, but nothing she'd go so far as to call a proper bite just yet. Whoa. Hey. Not cool. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 19:22 on Apr 29, 2014 |
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Apr 29, 2014 07:21
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Mike squeezes out from under the truck and gives the man a long look. A bit slow and jovial with a broken necked partner. Read a Person: 2d6+1 10 1. Is Taco character telling the truth? (in any part of the speech, like is there actually a hurt person or a treasure trove) 2. What does Taco intend to do? 3. How can I get Taco to leave peacefully without a grudge? He turns to Faustina for the diagnosis, "she's sputtering herself dry. Will probably blow up soon. I can fix it, got the parts I need back at the yard. But for now you need an infusion. You can trade for the oil, or we can scavenge it from one of the wrecks. I can tow her back, but even after it's fixed you'll still need the oil. Your call, but I wouldn't buy oil when there's more broken cars than people on the roads. I know a good spot to look for relatively clean stuff. If you look for oil where Mike tells you, you'll get a +1 bonus and I'll get a free xp.
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Apr 29, 2014 08:03
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Frog was small time. He was mean, talked big, and could do some seriously unpleasant things with a crowbar. In the end though, he was ten pounds of poo poo in a five pound bag. The only thing poo poo is good for is fertilizer. I gave Frog a bored look. "No. Now kindly gently caress off." The glances over the shoulder? Offering double up front like that with no haggling? Everything about him was tripping warning bells in my head. Either Perry shut him down hard over something and this was his petty revenge or he was working an angle. If revenge, I'd likely never see the payout. If an angle, probably trying to set me up. Everyone wants to be the person that nailed my rear end to a barn door, and the Sorority would be only too happy to provide the nails if one of their own got whacked and somebody just happened to pin my name to it. You just can't expect honor from people these days. I glanced over at Juck and her crew as they swindled the out-of-towners. There was a chance Frog was working under someone else's orders. Opening salvo to a play against the Sorority, maybe. If so, odds were Juck might have an idea who. Provided Frog heeds her warning, she's going to swagger on over and see what's happening with everyone's favorite Chopper. Otherwise, things are liable to get unpleasant most ricky tick.
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Apr 29, 2014 13:52
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Mr. Prokosch posted:1. Is Taco character telling the truth? (in any part of the speech, like is there actually a hurt person or a treasure trove) 1. Actually, yes. He's not lying about any of that, except for maybe buying soap. But, 2. You're pretty sure he intends to rob the hell out of you. Probably after milking you for everything he could get. It looks like he's scheming on the fly, but in his eyes, you're a mark. 3. That's a tough one. He knows you've got a tow truck and some kind of doctor, and he needs both. If you say 'no,' he's going to hear, 'find us later.' If you can look like more trouble than you're worth, like if you had some muscle with you, he'd drop the armed robbery angle. He's not looking for a fight. Angel Eyes, Frog does not heed your warning. You start to swagger, he steps around to get in your way. His mood darkens. "Okay, maybe I've done something to give you the impression that I'm loving around. I am not. I'm offering a generous reward if you can discreetly whack off a threat to the community at large. You need something up front? We can talk. What's your usual fee?" StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 15:48 on Apr 29, 2014 |
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Apr 29, 2014 15:25
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Mike nods to himself. "Sure, friend, sure. This is quite some trouble you've found yourself in. I'll help you. I can't speak for Faustina here, but I can try to convince her," he turns to Faustina and gives her a look, "A life is really on the line, but whenever we go out, we risk bandits. Please accompany me, but keep your eyes sharp and your weapons ready." Back to Taco, "I need to do something important, really quick. I know time is of the essence for your friend, but it's necessary to assure the success of our endeavor." I look around, we've been talking about Juck behind her back. She'd probably rob them slightly less, because her bikes are always needing repair work. That's a delicate gamble. Then he spots Angel Eyes, having a spirited conversation and heading towards Juck. Another gamble, but a more interesting one. I don't know what exactly she'd do, but it contains the possibility of the group coming out of this unscathed. He jogs over, then quickly gets winded and has to slow down. Those old lungs aren't what they used to be. "Hey, Angel Eyes," he wheezes, "you said to ask if I need anything. I got a little work for you. You do bodyguarding?" Mr. Prokosch fucked around with this message at 18:03 on Apr 29, 2014 |
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Apr 29, 2014 17:59
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JuckStringOfLetters posted:
Juck inspected the spark plug in her hand, carefully. Clean, clearly not an engine pull. "Now see, here, this is something you don't see every day, wouldn't you say, Partridge? Look at those shiny contacts -- why, I daresay this plug's looking nicer even than the day it was made." Partridge nodded, playing along enthusiastically. "A real beauty that one is, Juck, quite the catch. Real shiny like!" Dick-Cheese (where the gently caress do these idiots pick up these ridiculous names, Juck thought to herself) was practically bouncing with enthusiasm and nodding agreeably. "Yessir, those tweren't easy to come by, no, but I saw'd them there looking all shiny and I thought to myself, why, Dick-Cheese, seems yonder shiny plugs what goes in engines might have some value out there to enterprising folks lookin to make fair trade and I says to myself, why yes, Dick-Cheese, quite valuable indee--" Juck cut the idiot off by dropping the plug back onto the mat of parts. "'Course, nobody's had no need for plugs ever since the gasoline all ran stale and everybody went to diesel. You might be able to make yourself a pretty little necklace out of these things, maybe, but that's about all they're good for." Dick-Cheese's face crumpled like a plastic bag. Juck chuckled inwardly -- hook, line, and loving sinker. "And the rest of this crap -- well, this poo poo's just going to weigh you down, make you an easier target for bandits. I mean, I know some folks as might be interested in melting it down for scrap, but if anything I'd be doing you a favor by taking this off your hands, know what I'm saying?" Dick-Cheese's ego had gone on a bit of a roller coaster over the last couple minutes, but he wasn't completely convinced just yet, and was making some stammering noises of protest. And at that moment, Juck caught sight of something she didn't like out the corner of her eye. She trailed off, staring. Partridge saw Juck's attention shift, and picked up the slack in the con. "Now see, we like to help out travelers, help them make it out through the dangerous parts round here. All this scrap here's no good for you -- what you need is a map, and some good supplies, like what I've got here..." Juck's eyes narrowed as she scoped the situation. Mike was talking with some woman and that schoolgirl that came round the other day, which wasn't great (running diesel engines in a motorcycle frame was a dicey proposition, and Mike was the best wrench around; Juck needed him on her side), but on top of that Taco was circling them, hungry-like. Dog Head loped over, lazily, poking at Juck. "Hey Juck, you're not going all moony for that schoolgirl, are you? poo poo, boss, if I'da known you'd go so fuckin gooey for a uniform I'da done my little hot-cop routine for you way back whe--" Juck placed a finger on Dog Head's mouth, firmly, and passed Jeanette her machete. "Jeanette, Dog Head is going to be quiet now, like a good boy, and if he fails to be a good boy I want you to take him outside the ranch gates and pry his kneecaps off for me, okay?" Jeanette nodded, and Dog Head stiffened up. Jeanette was not to be hosed with, and there was not a lot of love lost between the two. Partridge ambled over with a bag of loot, as Dick-Cheese and his band of merry dipshits ran off excitedly carrying a map that would lead them straight into Dez's ambush. Partridge wasn't a dumbass like Dog Head. "Taco. Bad news right there." Juck nodded. Taco going after Mike could be a prelude to his gang moving in on Juck's -- Lala was a decent mechanic, but without Mike Juck's bikes would be dead in the water within a month or two. "Come on. We're going to nip this poo poo in the bud. Dog Head, go make sure no-one's loving with the bikes. Taco's got a big crowd, no telling how many of them are skulking around here."
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Apr 29, 2014 18:33
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 It might have been his acrid breath, wafting over the xanthic growth of swollen gums, or perhaps the faux-amiable, penis-projecting swag-i-tude, but after Taco finishes his little spiel my back is up against the vehicle and I’m considering locking myself inside for the rest of the afternoon. Despite having an excellent taste for quality cleaning products, the guy practically radiated ~CREEP WAVES~. The moniker set off alarm bells in my already highly agitated thoughts, specifically regarding certain highwaymen shenanigans which include proclivities for certain avenues of ‘entertainment’ that would probably end quite horribly for me if I were to blindly tag along with his crew (if he is in fact that Taco.) Can’t these meatheads at least be original? Enchiladas? Burritos? Mmmm. God, I’m starting to feel like Deacon’s bunch looks. He was so obviously plotting something, but I couldn’t finger just what. His little brother seemed harmless in a tag-along-gimp kinda way. Poor kid had enough guilt on his face for the both of them. I offer the pair a thin half-smile, not taking my eyes off of Taco’s sweaty mug while I respond to Big Mike’s findings. “drat, Mike. We just had you service her not too long ago, didn’t we? I’ll have to take you up on the scavenging advice; people tend to scalp hard once they know you actually need something, but that’s the way it goes, eh? “Stupid roads around here are pretty nasty; must have hit something. Hate it when that happens, don’t you, Taco? Civilization shits the bed and next thing you know you might as well be driving through a minefield with all the freaking potholes. Those pesky houses, though… can’t say I’ve ever run into one of those yet. I’d be interested to hear how you managed that, if I couldn’t already smell the whiskey. “If your friend screwed up his neck, you’ll not want to move him until he gets medical care. Unless you fancy spoon-feeding him and helping him not crap his pants for the rest of his very miserable life. Fun stuff. Anywho… I might be up for seeing what I can do if we set some very specific and immutable qualifiers: “One: You leave your guns with Alpha Phi. You’ll get them back after I get back. Safely. Two: I’m bringing an armed escort along. Don’t like someone else holding the shiny guns? Too bad, deal with it. And lastly: I want something in advance. Namely, a few belts of 7.62. Can never have enough full metal, these days, yeah?” By ‘enough’ I meant ‘any’, really. Aguilera’s fave rifle has been dry for weeks. Don’t want to just put our lack of ammo out there, though; thus the bluff. ~A Shady Taco (Manipulate): 2d6+1 = 11~ I give Big Mike a knowing wink as he huffs off towards… oh god why is he going after that crazy sword lady This day just keeps getting better.
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Apr 29, 2014 21:56
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Trudy has a mental checklist for each person she meets, and it has two boxes: Good People, and Bad People. Taco's earned a tick mark next to Bad People, and not just because he's wearing a vest and no shirt. Trudy's not at all sure if she wants to go on this truck/wounded guy adventure, and is mulling it over. She'll probably go where Faustina goes. Alive in the world • What does this place or these people have to offer me?
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Apr 30, 2014 02:17
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 The grip on my blade tightened. Frog was five seconds away from acquiring several new and interesting orifices when Big Mike came hustling up, trying to catch his breath. I relaxed a bit and flashed him a smile. "Hey. Take it easy, old timer." I offered him my canteen, then glanced back at Frog. "I might be. We're just finishing up a bit of business and then we can talk." I paused, considering. "You know, Frog. If what you say is true that's pretty serious. I can't very well take anyone's money over it. Community service and all that." Turning away, I faced the main drag of the farm and cupped my hands around my mouth. "YO. PERRY. GET YOUR BEHIND OUT HERE GIRL, WE NEED TO TALK. IMMEDIATELY." There was no menace behind my words, but I didn't typically call anyone out if something wasn't about to go down. I planted the sheath of my sword in the dirt and waited patiently. The adrenaline was starting to kick in and all my senses were focused on Frog, ready to take him apart if he tried anything funny.
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Apr 30, 2014 02:44
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Manipulate Someone: 3d6+3 11 Deacon Deacon's smile tightened as he watched Wednesday's Child trade away a third of their salvage for a hunk of meat. It was a nice looking deer, all things considered, and going by their own recent hunts was probably a bitch to get close enough to take down. You had to recognize the skill, or the luck, that had gone to achieving that feat. Times being what they were, maybe you'd even pay a premium -- Deacon reckoned it was probably fair trade for the generator, or one of the crank radios, or the three boxes of amphetamine salts the lucky customer was loading into his wheelbarrow.Maybe any two of those, if the fellow drove a particularly hard bargain, which he hadn't. Deacon supposed it was his own fault for bringing a hungry girl to trade for food. It was like that old yarn about not going to the supermarket before you'd had lunch, although he suspected Wednesday's Child was probably too young to have a good recollection of what a supermarket was, or even of a discrete meal called "lunch" which came at a proscribed time and not whenever you happened upon a food, for that matter. Well. A sale's a sale, and the fact she had managed to close this one at least proved she had the confidence and charisma to do the job, if not exactly the market sense yet. Not like, say, Juck. Say what you wanted about bandits, they at least understood the fundamental rule of commerce: take what you can, give only what you must, and leave nothing on the table. "That's a fine buck," he said, to no one in particular, but loud enough to draw Lemur's hungry gaze off for a couple seconds. "Lemur, would you be so kind as to help W get it out of the sun? We're going to have to cut it into 8ths to salt for the trip, and we might as well get started on that. See if you can't cook a little bit with some sterno for the group. No sense going hungry while we wait, yeah?" "Yessir, a fine buck," he said, smiling at the man. "I don't suppose you were the one that shot it?" "You got it," he said, a small hint of pride creeping into his voice. "Took 'er down me'self this morning. Waren't no small feat, neither. Nearly gummed the shot, my hands was shakin' so bad they was. I ain't seen a buck like that all season, I don't mind tellin' you." "Don't I know it, friend," Deacon said, still smiling. "We hunt for our food as well, and I don't know the last time we brought in a buck like that. I respect a hunter. It's hard work. Not just anybody has the knack for it." "Yeah, that's true." "And it's because I respect you I'm going to let you out of that bad bargain you just made." "Come again?" "I'm afraid our Wednesday's Child got one over on you, friend. No shame in it. You wouldn't know to look at her, but she's one of our best traders. Gotta respect that right?" The man looked from his wheelbarrow to Wednesday's Child, who was already gleefully cutting into the prize buck with a flick knife she kept in her belt. Lemur was helping, or trying to at least -- his knife was really a repurposed saw blade, and it had a tendency to tear more than cut. "Now... wait, hold on. I made this trade fair. We shook hands. I ain't about... that is..." "Of course. I wouldn't dream of going back on the transaction. Honesty is one of our tenents. I don't suppose I could interest you in some literature about it? Ah, no. Sorry. The task at hand. Believe me, I'm not about quash your deal. I just wanted to give you a chance to make one better. "How do you figure?" the man said, suspicious now. "Look, friend, you're clearly a smart man and a good judge of quality merchandise, so I'm not going to bullshit you here," Deacon said, still smiling, but in a conspiratorial way now. "But consider your circumstance. You've set yourself up for failure. For example, take this generator. It's a solid bit of craftsmanship, I'll stake my life on it. But it's also heavier than, if you'll forgive the expression, Cuthburt's wife, and we all remember how heavy she was." The guy nodded. Yes. He did. "It took 3 of us and a trolly to lug that thing into town, and that was stopping every five minutes for rest. And you're just going to lug it home in your barrow? You know it ain't just honest folk like us that frequent this market," he said, nodding meaningfully at Juck's people. "A man walking slow with a big valuable bit of machinery outside the watchful eyes of the sentry's painted an awful big target on his back. Truth be told, if we couldn't sell this generator we'd planned to just leave it with the Nazarines. Too much of a liability on the road. I'm only telling you this because I respect you, as a hunter." "And of course there's those go pills," he said. "They're the real deal, I'll stake my life on it. But look... they're the generic, and they're about 4 years past their expiry date. That ain't a problem for your name brand, mind, those are good for another 15 at least. But those generic pharm folks cut corners in their packaging. I wouldn't doubt that they've lost a bit of potency. Probably still better than a cup of coffee, but maybe by much, yeah? Again, I wouldn't even be telling you this if I didn't feel bad about trading you inferior product for such a fine deer." The guy blinked. Deacon was talking fast and he was clearly having trouble keeping up, but dammit if that gravelly, melodious voice didn't SOUND convincing. "What... what are you proposing then." "A mutually beneficial trade. Hell, I'm giving you the long end of this, sorry to say. Give me back my generator and those pills, and I'll give you something that won't get you murdered in some ditch on the way home. Here, take one of these first aid kits, and some of these diuretics. Take any two CDs you like. I'll even throw in a complete socket wrench set, free for helping me to quiet my conscience."
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Apr 30, 2014 06:18
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Angel Eyes, with Frog looking around all nervous, he sees Big Mike on his way over, and makes with the hush-hush. "Shi.. don't say anything about the gig, alright?" He puts on a big, phony smile and turns around just in time, says, "Hey there, Big Mike. If you're looking for more bodyguards than just Angel Eyes here, I know a guy." ~ And then you shout out for Perry. Inside the shack, she pushes herself up, hands braced on Knapp's bare chest, and says, "Christ, now they want me, too? What is going on out there?" Knapp says, with a tension catch in his voice, "Just ignore 'em, babe. We'll go see what's up in a few." Perry sighs. "Ugh. Sorry biscuit, the moment's gone. I'll come by after your shift, okay?" ~ Frog's eyes get wide, and he looks honestly kinda afraid. He's all, "Wh-what the gently caress, A? What kind of bullshit mercenary are you? 'Stone-cold killer' my hot rear end." He turns about to the bang shack, and reaches to draw his pistol. Then he notices that you are in no mood to abide such fuckery as that. He hesitates for a sec, doesn't see any other friendly faces around, so he thinks better of it and puts his hand up. "loving... seriously? You don't know who you're dealing with, Angel. Me or that monster. Try asking, and she'll lie circles around you." He starts to back off, "Do us both a huge favor, make some bullshit up and pretend we didn't talk. If she thinks you're on to her, you'd best start sleeping with an eye open, bitch." And then Frog actually just turns and runs, sprinting, to make it around the corner of another outlying burnt out shack before Perry sees him. If you want to stop him, you probably can. If not, when Perry does come out a minute later, still flushed, she's all, "What's going on?" She's clearly frustrated, but keeps the stank out of her voice, on account of being nervous around Angel Eyes. Might have something to do with the sword. ~ Big Mike, fitting a complex sentence into a look is an art form, and you're like the Rembrandt of it. Taco smiles, relieved, and says, "Sure, sure, Big Man. Let me know if I can help, I really 'preciate it." Faustina, when Big Mike is out of the picture, Taco sidles up next to you and leans against the truck. "drat, girl, you got a good nose on you. Must help with the perfumey soap poo poo. Yeah, we had a couple bottles up front, after the trunk was stuffed full, and one of 'em broke in the crash." When you lay out your terms, he acts taken aback and says, "What, you don't trust me?" likely in an effort to stall for a few seconds while he has himself a solid think about it. You can see the brain-gears churning behind his eyes. Jeff just says, "Okay, deal," and offers you his revolver, butt first. Taco looks a little surprised, at that. Jeff gives him the big blue serious-eyes, and says, "Mitch needs the help. I don't think that was just whiplash." Taco shrugs, says, "Alright, alright - I'll just trust in your kind nature not to leave us naked in the woods. You gotta open up and trust someone, at some point in your life. Leap of faith poo poo, y'know? I bet you're good for it. Afraid I'm gonna have to emmute one of your qualifiers, though," he pulls his vest open, to show you the inside pockets. And his abs. "Ain't packing that particular caliber." "We... I think we have some in the car?" Jeff adds, "We can give you some when we get there. Will that work?" Taco shakes his head at his l'il bro, "No, dude. She said belts, prob'ly means the american kind. Carl's AK uses seven-six-two-thirty nine." "There's a difference? It's like, magnum or normal, the rounds will still fit, right?" They chat about bullets for a while. It's not that important, though. Taco is willing to give up his guns in exchange for the help, and he's ready to roll as soon as you sort out who's going to sit where and carry what. Or - you know - if you're tired of putting up with this cretin, you could give him the boot, and the game would go on. ~ Deacon, under a strict reading of the way that move works, you need leverage - something someone wants, or the threat of something they don't want - to get someone marching to your drum-beat via dice. But that's an outstanding sell, and you've convinced Raj that he wants what you want him to want. He takes a first aid kit and a lighter, more discrete set of goodies, and walks away after shaking your hand like you've just done him a big favor. With Juck's wolves watching the deal and its reversal, maybe you actually have. That's up to her. Wednesday's Child is a little confused now. She's all, "poo poo. Did I mess that up? I'm sorry. I don't, um... did I rip him off?" A beat of pause, "Or, no, you would have been okay with that, wouldn't you?" She wrings her hands. Meanwhile, someone else who must be new to the region - kind of looks like a young Bruce Willis, unshaven, fat mil-spec backpack - has wandered over from the watering hole and is perusing your pamphlets, turning one over in his hands and actually reading it. Looks like there's a spark of genuine curiosity, but Lemur's busy with the deer and isn't around to try and stoke it. Bruce sets the literature down and makes to wander away, looking a little lost. Brother Chung of the Nazarene keeps up his tirade. Going on about how the Church has remained steadfast in its beliefs, even through the end of the world, as an anchor for the world, and a stand-up counterpoint to the confused, delusional whack-jobs like you lot. ~ Juck, Dick-Cheese & co. ("Will you please stop calling me that? My name's Greg.") look like they'll be headed where you want them, just after they fill up their canteens. They are not prominent members of the community, nor particularly aggressive, so it'll take them a while to get through the line. Partridge notices that while they're in line, Karen Blackwolf meanders over and starts up a nice, friendly chat with them. Blackwolf, 'roided up and tanned to hell, eagle feather tucked between her ear and her sunglass frame, is some kind of Dog Soldier 'privateer' who collects human scalps from her prey. Zombies not included. She's gone on public record as saying, 'that Juck oval office does not have enough days left in her wretched bitch life to atone for half the evil she has brought.' They laugh at some little joke, Dick-Cheese points out a few points of interest on the map, Blackwolf nods agreeably. Minute later, she's mounting up on her tricked-out chopper and making to roll out. As for Taco, it looks like it's actually just him and his "brother" up here. The rest of his gang - maybe ten more heads total, some of them transient - must be somewhere else. ~ Trudy, most of the people here are just eager to get their water and head back to where they came from. Nobody likes the heat, nobody likes being in such an attention-grabbing crowd, nobody likes having to stand in a line where they can't trust the person behind them not to have a shiv. Far as materials to offer you - they've got fresh water and bustling trade, as established. As far as the important stuff to offer you - most everyone's expecting to be gamed, ripped off, fleeced, or shaken down in some sense. If you can surprise their expectations in a frustrating time like this, convince them you don't have an angle and do them a little favor without obvious strings attached, you can probably earn some real friendship points. Huge dividends of good-will to be reaped, for the friendly. Taye, Knapp, and the other sentries pay real close attention to who puts what in the tip bucket, and you can bet they'll remember it. Some guy traveling through alone from out of town, Bruce - he could probably use a hand pumping water for his plastic bladder thingy. Those hungry-looking young folks that got roped into Brother Chung's zombie-slaying crusade might thank you later if you talk some sense into them now. And, you know, everything else what's been going on is apparent enough to someone who takes a minute to stand back and watch. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 21:33 on May 1, 2014 |
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May 1, 2014 04:41
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Dumb bastard. He throws an accusation like that at my feet and he thinks I'm just going to accept it without question? I may be a murderer, but I'm not a psycho killer. It was a fine line, but a line nonetheless. It wasn't my problem if nobody else could or would make the distinction. As he turned to run, my gun flew out of the holster. The hammer cocking was as loud as a funeral bell. "You're scared of her. Fine. But be more afraid of me. If there's any truth to what you say, now you get to lay out your evidence and see justice done." Go Aggro. (roll +cool) 2d6+3=8
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May 1, 2014 18:25
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Frog opts to back off and keep his hands where you can see 'em. He tries to catch the eyes of some folks in the crowd near the well, like, are you seeing this poo poo? Perry's still getting dressed, these few seconds later. Lace is watching with incredible interest, biting his lip. "You psycho idiot bitch," he hisses, "I told you, I don't have any 'evidence.' I loving saw her in the act, when she was halfway done with Grant! She got away, he bled out. I didn't have a drat camera with me. I couldn't dust the scene for prints. What the gently caress are you doing? You're supposed to be a hitman, not a loving courtroom!" He looks like he's on the verge of tears. Tears of like, frustration. The grungy aluminum door to Perry & Knapp's shed opens, Frog has a sudden change of heart and decides to get the hell out of your way - he breaks into a dead sprint, at an angle from where you're aiming. He can't give you what you asked for, and trying to scare him into not running away seems to have pushed his flight reflex to its limit. If you want to shoot him in the back, you can just say so, you already rolled for it. What do you do?
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May 1, 2014 19:11
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Mike wheezes, something tugs at his heart. He feels weak, he feels the other side calling. Not yet. Please not yet. his blurry eyes look up at Perry and Frog. Standing between the two worlds, he sees something... strange. Psychic Maelstrom: 2d6+2 6 (Oh God!)
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May 1, 2014 19:55
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 The gunshot echoed across the ranch as a bloody hole blossomed out of Frog's back. He stumbled, then collapsed. I held the gun on him, waiting for a twitch, then holstered it. I'd probably just made some enemies, and public opinion was going to go against me, but whatever. I wasn't in this business to make friends. As Perry walked out of the shed, I cocked my head towards Frog. "He wanted you dead, and wouldn't take no for an answer. You owe me one. Sorry about the interruption." I held her gaze for a moment. If she really was some kind of serial killer, she had to realize why Frog had asked me to deal with her. So she had a choice. Try to tie up loose ends and deal with me - no small task - or take this as a sign and clean up her act. Assuming she was sane enough to even be able to make that decision. Big Mike: Angel Eyes sounds wholly bored with the proceedings. On the one hand, that kind of person might not be the sort you want hanging around. On the other hand, you have proof positive that she can and will deal with whoever you need her to protect you from. Just uh, listen to her when she says "No".
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May 1, 2014 20:13
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Whoa, hey! Big Mike, couple things - first, what was on your mind when you opened it up to the ravages of the psychic maelstrom? Wondering about anything in particular, or just sort of being receptive to the weather? Second, what is the maelstrom? Or at least, (owing to its mysterious nature) what does it seem like? Angel Eyes, Frog hits the ground like an overfull sack of damp poo poo, and stays there. A whole bunch of heads turn to see who just wasted who. Most of them go back to what they were doing a second later. If Frog had any close friends here, they don't make it obvious. Lace pumps his arm triumphantly, like it's an involuntary reflex, and peels off his stockings. Perry is overwhelmed, a little wide-eyed. Her mussed-up sex hair has mostly fallen out of its braid. She just asks, "What?" Then blinks a few times, appearing utterly confused to the world, looking between you and Frog's body, "Me? But why? U-um. Th...thank you? I think?" StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 22:14 on May 1, 2014 |
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May 1, 2014 20:14
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Big Mike doesn't believe in any kind of "psychic maelstrom" gobbly gook. When he opens his mind it's usually in a stressful situation when he doesn't know what to do exactly. To him it feels like he's dying. His sight blurs, he feels a sharp pain, and then his body feels light. He sees the world in some kind of twisted way, often in a kind of animalistic symbolism. His bonefeel is also psychic, but it's more gentle and usually comes to him in dreams or impressions, nothing conscious. The Maelstrom itself is probably a link between minds created by the trace amounts of spores in everyone's system. He definitely opened his mind in response to the guns coming out as soon as he stumbled into a hot situation. He was looking at Perry and Frog at them time. (I, the player, wanted to get some insight into their true nature, but I failed the roll. No idea what happens now.)
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May 1, 2014 20:35
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Big Mike, there's a weird crawling sensation behind your eyeball, like there's a fat worm jammed in the bone of your skull. Your eye feels like it might pop out from the displacement, you have a crazy itch in an un-scratchable place as something squiggly passes through the curves of your actual brain, like an earthworm writhing through loose dirt. From someone standing just behind you, you hear Frog's voice say, "That's interesting. 'Mike.'" He repeats it, like he's testing the way it feels on his mouth. "'Peh. Perry.'" You are completely sure you're being watched. But that all happens in, like, a second. A couple black birds are coasting on easy thermals, making slow, lazy circles around the ranch. Your attention comes back to the world when one of them starts cawing out. The sensations fade to nothing, and nobody is standing right behind you. You feel a little bit light-headed, but that'll pass if you sit down for a second. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 21:55 on May 1, 2014 |
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May 1, 2014 21:31
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 I stumble and fall to one knee next to Frog, my old bones creaking. For a long time I stare down at the corpse, unseeing,"think I just had a stroke," I whisper to myself. I turn him over, making sure the man is dead. Then turn my head to look sideways at Angel Eyes. I speak loud enough for most of the onlooking crowd to hear. "Justice is a rare and beautiful thing. It's seldom found in this world. Some think it's dead and gone. For a moment, there was justice here. You used your power to make it so. A person has the right to know their accuser, and what they're accused of. Guilt must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. A case must be heard by a jury of peers or an impartial judge. Wonderful ideas. Old ideas. But then he questioned your authority. And you had enough power to kill him. But not enough to give him mercy and allow his scorn to pass unchecked. He ran, and he died, and justice died with him..." After closing the man's eyes, I laboriously stand up and walk closer to Angel Eyes. I don't embrace her or anything crazy, but my body language shows that I still accept her as part of my hosed up community, "...for now. Ideas never really die. And people always have a choice. Maybe next time, you'll make a different choice. Maybe next time you'll use your power to bring truth and justice back to this broken world again. I have a simple job if you want it." Now my voice lowers so only Angel Eyes can hear, "Taco over there is in a bit of trouble. His friend needs medical help, and he needs repair work. He has a little treasure trove he's promised to share in payment. Problem is, his promise is likely false. He's not going to want to pay us unless he has to. Your capacity for violence and your scary reputation will probably be enough. If he pays me, I'll share it with you. If he doesn't, or you think the pay is insufficient, I'll pay you in goods or services out of my pocket. If it comes to violence, I'll be glad to have you with me. But power can be used in many ways. Like the nukes of old, I hope your deadly presence reduces violence, and does not create it." Mike looks her in the eye, trying to read the coldness there, "will you take the job? No hard feelings if it's not your thing."
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May 1, 2014 22:12
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Had Taco tried to fake a yawn and curl an arm around my shoulder he couldn't have looked more awkward. Inching my shoulders a little further along the truck away from him and his glistening abs, I instead offer a fuller version of my previous smile to Jeff. Was maybe wrong about this one, he's definitely got more tact than his posturing big-bro. He also hadn't shrunk from my practiced vocabulary (which I have to admit is kind of a defensive thing), and Taco even tried to make up his own word, which was oddly endearing. So at first blush they seem a bit sharper than your average thugs, which may or may not bode well for my interests. “Alright, then. I'll come along and see if I can't help fix up your guy. Just dump your guns in the back seat of our truck here. Don't worry, it'll be locked up tight. We're taking your wheels, Knowles needs Betty to haul our water back. That your jeep over there? I'll be sitting in the back for the ride with our escort. Mike can sit where ever he wants. “Trudy, can you go let Knowles know I'll meet everyone back at campus later today? No idea how long this will take, so let's say they'll just drop me off. Right guys?” I'm looking square at Jeff, giving him the 'doe-eyed' melter I reserve for when I'd rather not be bothered to argue. “If I'm not back by 10:00PM curfew the head mistress gets awful ornery. You don't want to see Knowles get ornery.” Personally, I don't particularly enjoy dropping everything and running off after some injured doofus I've never met; but still, I can't in good faith let Big Mike head out to help them on his own, and the look he'd given me had made it pretty clear he didn't want to either. Besides, if they hold true to their word we could really use the ammo. Truthfully, I'd only half-hoped they'd have the type of round pulled from the top of my head, though again they could be lying (just letting it go for now). Everyone knows a bit about weapons these days, but I don't proclaim to be a gun-expert by any stretch. There has to be something they're carrying that would fit the Alpha Phi firearms, but perhaps it was better left up to someone more familiar with what was lacking in our armory. Knowles looked like she was still busy, so that person might end up being... *CRACKOW!* This time it wasn't another fence-hugger being put down, but rather the very sadistic, and now very late Mr. Frog (who, judging by the size of the hole in his back, is pretty far beyond my assistance). It also wasn't the K-Scratch crew doing the culling, but rather compliments of the sharp-dressed, dull-witted, self-styled konichi (or whatever the hell she is. I think Mike referred to her as 'Angel Eyes'?). I'm about to yell at one of the sentries for letting this kind of crap happen again, when I see her next potential target... PERRY! NO!! My feet are moving perhaps a bit ahead of rational thought, but it's too late. A few seconds later they've already carried me between my adopted sorority sister and the tallish, disturbingly calm-looking killer, and I'm standing in the middle of the scene, arms protectively outstretched. Somewhere in the back of my head, I'm a bit awed over how effortlessly gorgeous she looks: like some kind of action starlet from those “movie” things I used to watch as a little kid before Spore-Day went down. In the front of my head, however, I'm freaking the gently caress out. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! A loving BLOOM JUST HAPPENED!! DO YOU WANT THE WHOLE drat HORDE OF SACHEADS TO COME THROUGH THAT FENCE?! STOP SHOOTING AND LEAVE MY FRIEND ALONE!!” hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 05:56 on May 2, 2014 |
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May 2, 2014 02:00
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "Don't mention it." I nodded at Perry, and turned back to Mike as he looked over Frog's body. I offered him a hand back to his feet and stood awkwardly as he spoke. "...Uh." I blushed a bit. Mike's words were a little sappy for my tastes, but I appreciated the gesture. It was just too bad he was expecting such grand things from me of all people. "Yeah, I can do that. And since you're hiring me on and asked as much, the weapons won't come out until you say so. As for payment. If you can look over my respirator I'll call it even. Make sure it's still in good order, maybe swap out the filters? With this latest bloom I want to be certain it's not going to crap out on me." I was about to offer a handshake to seal the deal when a very angry individual interposed herself between us and started shrieking at me. "If Taye's rifle hasn't gotten their attention by now, I think we're fine. As for your friend, that lump over there asked me to kill her. You should be thanking me right now." I leaned in close, speaking barely above a whisper. "Seems to me you might want to inquire of her just why Frog asked me to, and I quote, "name my price" for that bit of work. Might want to keep your popgun handy when you do it." I gave her a pleasant smile and straightened back up.
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May 2, 2014 02:40
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JuckStringOfLetters posted:
Juck was closing on Taco and his quote-unquote brother, visualizing a tidy little sequence of violence: king hit to the back the head to drop him (boot to the back of the left knee if he needed convincing), then drop a knee just above the shoulders for a nice little chat. She trusted Partridge to follow her lead, and Taco's ganger friend didn't look like he'd pose much of a problem. Juck's blood felt hot behind her cheeks. Fights were always exciting, and Juck had been looking for a half decent excuse to put Taco's teeth out for a little while now. But then Partridge's huge hand closed around her shoulder, pulling her back on her heel. "Hold up, boss. You might want to take a look at who our Smegma friend is talking to just now." Karen loving Blackwolf. Of all the pains in Juck's rear end, and there were more than a loving few, Blackwolf probably took the drat cake. The Dog Soldiers, in general, were fine -- gently caress with them at your peril, but they didn't go out looking for trouble and they respected boundaries. Juck's crew had no quarrel with them. But Karen Blackwolf was another story -- she definitely didn't need much more than a paper-thin excuse to get bloody with Juck, no question there. And if Juck were to indulge in a rare honest moment, she'd probably have to concede that Karen had some legitimate grievances. Diesel choppers were a giant pain in the rear end to keep running, and they were pretty much all raggedy custom jobs hacked together from a completely incongruous set of parts. Karen's chopper, on the other hand, was a loving sweet machine. And Juck wanted it, real bad. So Juck had come up with a pretty simple plan -- her gang was going to wait until Karen went out on one of her hunts, and then they were going to ride over to her shack and kidnap her girlfriend, a cute young little thing named Newport. The plan had been pretty simple -- take the girl, leave a note, exchange girl for bike, and done. It mostly went as planned, up to the point where Newport pulled a knife on Juck's pack member Stengel and put it hilt deep into his left eye socket (R.I.P. Stengel). That got Biggs all riled up, and before Juck could institute a bit of clear headedness, Biggs had already blown a five inch hole clean through Newport's abdomen. So that was the whole hostage thing pretty much hosed right there. Juck had been pissed at Biggs, naturally, and left him to take out Karen Blackwolf when she came back and return to camp riding Blackwolf's chopper, or not come back at all. Biggs had not come back. And word trickled back pretty quickly that Karen knew that Biggs ran in Juck's gang, and that Karen held Juck personally responsible for Newport's death. While Juck personally felt that there was room for interpretive argument on that case, she knew enough about Blackwolf to know that that was not going to be a fruitful avenue for discussion. So, in short, the fact that Blackwolf was smiling was bad news. Dez and his crew were expecting a bunch of moony city-fleers, not Karen Motherfucking Blackwolf. "poo poo." Juck's voice had gone very cold, with almost a hint of uncertainty. "We gotta go back up Dez. If Blackwolf comes after them, that psycho will rip them to shreds." Taco got a free pass today, the lucky poo poo. Juck, Partridge and Jeanette turned heel to get back to their bikes, where they sincerely loving hoped that Dog Head would be waiting. Meanwhile, Juck racked her brain, trying to remember if anybody she'd seen today was one of Blackwolf's friends; Karen was usually the lone wolf type, but she probably wasn't going to be dumb enough to step to Juck's entire gang solo. (Rolling sharp to read a charged situation) Sharp (+0): 2d6 5 craaaaaaaaaap.
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May 2, 2014 03:29
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 Mike shakes her hand, "respirator? Sure, sure, that's quite a bargain you're giving me. Maybe a few hours of your labor for a few minutes of mine. How about I check it out for you, fix it up real nice, and I owe you another little favor? I'm not in the business of doing unfair deals. 'Big Mike's prices, they're always fair,' that's what folks say. Said it before, say it now, say it till the day I die. Reliable service, good prices. That's what I built my business on, when I founded it back in the day. Do you remember back then? Maybe a little, what were you, 8? Well, there used to be chain stores, franchises. You still see them in the ruins. Always find the same junk in a jiffy lube. Anyway, I said to myself..." Then Faustina interrupts the proceedings, Mike speaks after Angel Eyes, "Oh, hey Faustina! Yeah, Angel Eyes tried to make this little oasis into a courtroom. He didn't take very kindly to it. Personally, I would have let him run and just let folks know what he asked for, but we all have different ways of living. Oh well, each dawn is a new chance. Maybe someday we'll get that courtroom up and running again proper. Oh, Angel Eyes is coming with us, by the way. Keep Taco honest."
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May 2, 2014 03:38
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 “She's coming with...?” Has everyone lost their minds?! I turn my back for five minutes and its like all this spore huffing has struck the whole world dumb. 'Angel Eyes' here just finished wasting a guy in cold blood, just for spouting some crazy crap or whatever, and now we're inviting her along for a freaking picnic with a bunch of bandits? 'Just go get some water', they said. 'Shouldn't be any trouble', they said. My arms fall in exasperation as I turn to Perry, who's looking completely clueless as usual. “Really? What the hell is going on here, Perry? Jilted fuckbuddy? Mad over your giving Knapp too much time in the Sugar Shack? Care to explain why there's a dead dude over there? Y'know, before we all get banned from K-scratch for life?!” Whirling back around to Ms. Eyes, I shoot the fiercest look I can muster up at her, poking my finger at her chest for emphasis, “I'm not going anywhere with you. Who just kills people like that? He wasn't attacking you or anything, he was running away! How do we know you wont just ice us all when we get to the goods?” I don't know what kind of spell this lady cast on old man Mike, but it's not fooling me any. That was some seriously cold poo poo she just pulled off, and quite frankly, she scares the hell out of me. I'm already glancing around, hoping for any sentry's attention. drat, where the hell is the guard?!
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May 2, 2014 06:29
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 "Ice us and take the goods? No, I don't think so. Maybe. But I don't think so. That would make too much sense. This girl has a twisted sense of honor, I think. She's much crazier than Juck. But that's good. It means she'll do the job nice and clean and take almost nothing, just because it's something to do. I'm going, because a neighbor asked for my help. I'm bringing Angel Eyes, because that neighbor will probably rob us on the road if we don't bring back up, and she's the scariest back up I know. I'd like you to come, because you have more medical training than me and because you're a good person who won't shoot me in the back. It's up to you though. I help all my neighbors, and if I need it, I'll ask for help from any of my neighbors. They can murder each other over nothing. They can rob, and steal, and pillage, and hurt each other in all manner of ways. But I'm a stubborn old man. I've been proper neighborly for 60 years! I'm not stopping now, apocalypse or no!" I shake my finger at the sky with a curmudgeonly fervor, as if warning the apocalypse to stay off my lawn.
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May 2, 2014 07:16
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I didn't break Faustina's finger when she poked at my chest. That was my good deed for the day. "For a doctor, you are really high strung." I pulled off my hat and lazily fanned myself with the brim. "Sure, I didn't have to kill him. You think that would have been the end of it? He'd have come after me after humiliating him like that, and he might have gotten lucky. I can't let that happen. Someone else is carrying my death warrant, and I intend to give her a fair shot at me. So unless you intend to kill me, you have nothing to worry about." "As for your other concerns, I've accepted Mike's offer. That means I see it through, and I adhere to the spirit as well as the letter of a contract. So no, I won't be stabbing anyone in the back ten seconds after the job is over if that's what you're thinking. Besides, I come back alone and that's my reputation shot all to hell."
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May 2, 2014 11:10
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Juck, there were a couple other Cheyenne folks around. Bill Soaring-Eagle was trying to offload some of his moonshine, and gave you a stern & stoic look of disapproval when he saw you fleecing passers-by. Some other gents by the well that you either didn't recognize or don't really know. It's not clear who was friends with who. Karen's smile, as she rode off, comes into clearer context. A smug, satisfied, that's right, keep watching me, rear end in a top hat - pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Dog Head is still breathing when you find him, but his face is a wreck, and so is his shirt where the snot and blood have dripped down. His nose is pulped, he's got a wide bruise across his throat, and his ear left ear has been sliced off, except for a ragged little tear-nub of meat. He's unconscious and drooling. Jeanette rushes over and kneels down, saying, "Oh poo poo, no, gently caress, no, no," but she's looking past Dog Head, to her bike. The tires are dead flat, with a ragged knife gouge in each. She cries out, "You motherfucking indian cock-sucking poo poo-stain gently caress! Kill!" Your tires are ruined the same way, so are Dog-Head's. And your bike has been tipped over. Partridge's ride is totally fine, though. What do you do? ~ BM, F, & AA, Perry holds her hands up as if they're any good for deflecting stress. "I-I don't know! I think, um, he propositioned me once? But that was like, nothing! Maybe he was just fuckin' nuts!" Here's the thing about the sentries; they're around to watch for zombies, and that's it. They're doing a valuable community service, but they're not in control. Nobody has ever put nearly enough into the tip bucket for them to stick their necks out by meddling in someone else's violent business. Taye looked over when he heard another gunshot, and then went back to watching the perimeter once he saw it was over. What's he going to do, take revenge for Frog? Risk pissing off Angel Eyes's friends and family? Or, god forbid, missing? "Not my problem," he'd say. He announces, "Got another one!" and punctuates it with two more shots, spaced apart. At this distance, the walker at the fence could be almost anyone. One minute she's standing there in shabby-assed clothes, awkwardly trying to throw herself over the chest-high wire, then there's a *crack* and she goes limp. That makes three in not-very-long. You did get Knapp's attention. He was holding his rifle sort of, half at the ready, not sure if he was going to have to fight to defend Perry's life or reputation or anything. It looks like that's good for now. He's all, "Is that Frog?" and is having his attention divided between Perry, who is kind of freaked out, and Taye, who has not stopped shouting at him to get his rear end back to the post and keep an eye on the north side. He's trying to do, "There, there," and "Give me a goddamn minute!" at the same time, but not nailing either. Knowles is dozens of yards away, under the trade pavilion, deep into some haggling. She cranes her neck to take a look at the scene, frowns, catches Faustina's eye and gives her a blasé, it's a mad world, what are you gonna do shrug.
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May 2, 2014 21:52
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Of course they wont do anything... If it's not their own neck on the line, most everyone could care less. The sword chick was right, I did have trouble keeping a cool head sometimes, which isn't the best trait for a supposed medical practitioner. It's not the first time my emotions have bested my brains; even after all that death... The little boy in the lighthouse, painfully wheezing through a hole in his lung, clutching my finger tightly through the night as his grip slowly faded with the stars. The ranch mother so stricken with dementia that she wanted to kill her own baby, finally got hold of enough pills for the job and wound up dying under the strain of forced labor. The infant spun in her tangled cord, unfurled from its ruined womb and shuddering silently on a gore-slicked table... Not even after that and worse have I been allowed reprieve from conscience - it's always haunted me and wrought nothing but bitterness. The survivors hate me, I know it. I can see it in the hollow part of their gaze where once there was love. They're all empty. Empty and angry. And so here we have Big Mike's earlier argument proven thusly: These days its the fastest gun that makes the laws. I should be glad Angel Eyes didn't want something worse for Perry, or myself even. So now I'm standing awkwardly, finger drooped to the dust, face fallen into resignation. The rest of the world moves on around me, Knowles and Alpha Phi included. About whatever had happened, Perry seemed as lost as I was. ...or was she? Hot n Cold (Read a Person): 2d6+2 = 8
“Perry, please go back and help Knowles before anything worse happens. Thanks.” I look up into Angel's eyes, jaw set, trying to exude an air of confident dignity despite my outburst. A pair of trembling knees weren't helping my cause much. Swallowing hard, I do my best to cleanse any disdain from my voice, “Since my associate here seems to be enamored with your company, I'll concede this matter and defer to his judgment. That doesn't mean I trust you. You'll be riding in the back with me, where I can keep an eye on you. Any funny business and you'll have a whole hot mess of nasty bitches after your rear end. If that sounds amenable, we can go ahead and dip out of this poo poo hole before anyone else gets whacked, yes? Taco and Jeff should be waiting at their jeep.” I don't wait for her response. A sharp turn of my heal and I'm clomping angrily off towards the brothers. hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 03:41 on May 3, 2014 |
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May 2, 2014 23:45
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 "Fantastic, fantastic, what a fun little outing this will be!" I meander over to the tow truck. It was a beauty in this day and age. Perfectly maintained, even downright pretty. The paint job was a perfect baby blue, with "Big Mike's Tow, Repair, & Junk" written in bright white letters on the back and sides. Strange how everyone let things get run down these days, no one wants to put in a little extra effort when there's no shortage of paint. Whatever seating arrangements Faustina wanted to make, they would need his truck for the repair and tow Taco asked for. Weird that Faustina wanted Angel Eyes to ride with her. Honestly felt a little lonely, but he wasn't about to argue the point with everyone upset. I grab my spore suit out of the back and put it on. It's a good set of armor, designed to avoid infection but also good against bullets and blunt trauma. The old one worked better, honestly. But it's too uncomfortable and heavy. He was old, and these days he'd sacrifice a little protection for a lot of comfort. Still, there was a bloom and I have no idea what I'm getting into. Besides, the armor was a lot more intimidating than the repair man get-up, and intimidating is good in these circumstances. 
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May 3, 2014 00:59
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