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Mike, Angel Eyes, you cruise along the highway to take a roundabout path, weaving between wrecked things and taking an off-road detour to avoid a patch where someone tossed away hundreds of discarded nails. From a shattered store front, a shrieking dead man in hospital scrubs crawls out and gives chase, very slowly. If you get real close, you'll see that one of his legs has bloomed into a swollen, half-meaty mass of gilled shroom. He won't catch up, but the screaming will draw some attention. That had to start some time, right? Deal with it now, or just let it tail you? You drive along that dotted line,  The town's quiet like a cemetery, and the sound of your engine carries pretty well across that open space. A lot of the time, that'll catch a zombie's curiosity, and they'll head towards the last thing they heard, but they won't start sprinting or screaming until they see someone. (If you're hidden and quiet and don't smell too strongly, it's even possible to get the drop on one.) It's a safe bet that you've turned a few heads in that block you skirted. Looking down the street at the end of that dotted line, there's a tree-thick telephone pole that fell down from one side, smashed through the front of an Indian food place and is propped up on something chest-high in there. The next street down, there's a wall-to-wall barrier of cars and a truck that someone set up as a barricade, probably a long time ago. That area west and north from the line-stop might look clear from above, but there's a wrought fence on top of a hill. Some of your obvious options are to ram through (act under fire, make a loud noise and risk damaging your truck), get out and clear a path (quiet and no roll, but take some time and burn 1 Fatigue), or head somewhere else - further east, or back and then further around - to look for a clearer road. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 02:49 on Aug 6, 2014 |
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Aug 5, 2014 08:38
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=3:00 In the campus lot, before heading out While Juck was explaining the plan to Ginger, Scrap and Isaiah, Jeanette eased herself off the back of her bike, carefully and slowly shifting weight onto her injured leg. Dez looked over and cocked an eyebrow, trying with partial success to keep from looking too worried. Jeanette caught the expression and grunted through her teeth. "Gotta take a piss." Dez nodded, and went back to checking the action on his gun. A minute later, Jeanette walked back to her bike, with the stiff-legged gait of someone trying to hide an injury. Juck's eyes narrowed as she watched her friend hobble towards her bike. Juck paused for a beat, trying to decide if she should say something, and then got up and walked over to Jeanette, nonchalantly lighting up a new smoke on the way over. "Hey lady. How's the leg?" "Good as new, Juck. Don't worry about it." "Alright -- I just want to be sure. This is some bad poo poo we're going into. If you've got any doubts about this, now's the time to air them. There's no shame in sitting this one out, you know?" Dog Head, dependably poo poo-headed, chimed in. "Yeah, Jeanette, you go down while we're in the poo poo, no-one's helping you out, you know? Certainly not me." "Yeah, that was pretty much a given, rear end in a top hat. I also don't recall inviting you to join this conversation, so... gently caress off?" Dog Head scowled and loped back towards his bike, throwing an extended middle finger over his shoulder as he walked away. "But seriously, Jeanette, you don't have to do this." "I said I was fine, boss. Besides, what am I going to do back at the roadhouse? Slowly die of thirst while I wait for you guys to get back? What if something goes wrong? You're gonna need someone who can actually shoot, unlike that lukewarm turd Dog Head. Seriously. I'm fine. And if I do go down, you can bet I'm taking a metric fuckton of shrooms down with me." Juck nodded, pulling deeply on her cigarette and locking eyes with Jeanette. She held the smoke in her lungs for a good while, before finally exhaling. "Alright." Jungle Town The wolves ride alongside Mike's truck along the eerily quiet highway, weaving expertly between bombed out rusting husks of old vehicles. Not as many shrooms as Juck thought there might be, which probably just meant there were going to be a shitton of them closer to the Aquarium. Passing a wrecked storefront, the first shroomer of the expedition lurched out into the street, tattered scrubs falling apart on his body. Juck spots him out of the corner of her eye -- the thing's definitely interested in Mike's truck, which is moving more slowly through all the wreckage than the bikes are. Juck motions to a few nearby riders, pointing to her eyes, holding up one finger, and then indicating back over her shoulder with a thumb. Slowing down, she pulls her bike around and loops back to Mike's truck. "Looks like we got our first customer -- might be worth putting him down now before he brings friends. But it's your plan, old-timer -- you want to leave him be, that's fine too." Juck pulls a couple shells out of her pocket and holds them in her mouth while she breaks open her streetsweeper, then loads the pair of shells and flips the barrels shut with a heavy thunk. "But just so we're clear, I'm of the mind that there's one right answer in this situation."
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Aug 6, 2014 01:00
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Trudy Barter=2 | Exp=4/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Trudy takes the offered water bottle with a shaking hand. Its contents remind her of the liquid she was just swimming in, the Destroyer's waters-- oily, gritty, and anything but clean. Still, she drinks it down in big gulps. She feels like a raisin. When the bottle is empty, she lets it fall to the concrete. "Answers," she says, running her fingertips along the chalk markings, smearing them a little, "and I got some." The cultists are staring at her expectantly, like it's an AA meeting and it's her turn to Share, but Trudy is just so tired. Why had she even come here? Things at campus get a little hectic, and she goes off on a mission to kill some kids for a toy? Bobo is staring at her too, and in his black button eyes she sees the void the Destroyer showed her. In that darkness, nothing mattered. Trudy lifts Bobo off the trash can and hugs him to her chest, never mind her dirty hands, never mind the blood. "All I can say," she says, stroking the toy, "is you all better hope that thing--whatever it is--you better hope that thing lies."
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Aug 6, 2014 01:20
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=1/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 "Perfectly correct, only one right solution," my eyes slide off her shotgun and settle at her machete, which gets a nod, and just to make it clear I rattle the crowbar I keep between the seats, "quick and quiet for the little ones before we split up. When it's time for the guns to come out and the shrooms to be drawn away, there won't be any need for debate. Numbers will make that decision for us." There are advantages to owning a tow truck. The Power Poll will be a pain in the rear end to pull down, since it's wedged on a building. So I just have Angel Eyes attach my hook to that truck in the barrier and pull it right out. (I'm assuming that wall to wall means a line 1 or 2 cars thick.) Clear road, and hopefully the barrier kept most shrooms out, instead of trapping a nasty pack in. Mr. Prokosch fucked around with this message at 01:54 on Aug 6, 2014 |
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Aug 6, 2014 01:32
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I decided to let Juck handle the straggler. I'm a fair hand at violence, but I've also lived to stare down thirty by picking my fights. It wasn't why I was here anyway. I gave her a casual wave as she and Mike discussed it, and pulled out the map again. I had it fairly firm in my mind, but as my dad used to say. Measure twice, cut once. A casually fingered the hilt of my blade as I subconsciously waited for the wet thunk of the shroom's head being caved in.
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Aug 6, 2014 23:56
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=3:00 With a slight scowl, Juck takes the hint and holsters the shotgun, drawing her machete with a long, rasping scrape. "Alright kids, nice and quiet -- that means no guns, Barndoor." The Wolves, brandishing their various and varied implements of melee destruction, fan out and circle the lone shroom, before descending on the hapless zombie in a flurry of whirling steel. A bit of the old ultraviolence: 2d6+4 12
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Aug 7, 2014 00:06
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Faustina, when you open yourself up to Dante, it becomes immediately clear that there's more going on inside. That half-asleep, unfocused, head-lolling daze he's been in is like a rolling petit seizure. The guy beneath it is surprisingly lucid. He's been seeing poo poo unfold around him like a nightmare slide-show. He saw his friend get shot and die, and then just be fine later. He has concluded that he's hallucinating, which he also is, because he knows his (dead) brother can't really be in the room with him, telling him to get back up on his feet, human being. He tries to talk, and it only comes out as a whimper. His tongue feels swollen, puffy, far too big for his mouth. He's already flailing around with his thoughts, struggling to stay awake against that dark, heavy-headed weight pulling him down to oblivion. So when he feels you enter the scene, bringing the heat, yours is just another pull to fight back against. But this time, something is very different. His reaction is familiar enough, that wild animal struggle that you've felt before. Your patients almost never know what's going on, but you have a clearer head and a wider view. This man is Infected, and you have just opened your mind to the living spore in its entirety. That dark, heavy pull towards oblivion that Dante feels? He's not imagining it. There is a pull, like gravity, toward something big enough to have it, and tendrils wrapped around and all the way through his body to draw him in faster. In many ways, it's a background thing that's always lurking, droning on from a great distance, that you've gotten used to, but only now is it right up in your face. You're a minnow piddling around before the titanic baleen chasm of a whale's mouth. You're an ant underfoot of a buffalo stampede. You're looking up at night and seeing that the moon, cratered and dusty, fills up the whole sky. If that other something has any awareness or consciousness, it's on a scale too vast to feel. The only relatable notion you can sense within it is hunger, endless. Deacon, descriptively, I regret that your actions aren't more spectacular. The nature of the act of protecting is to prevent something from happening. To an impartial or sociopathic viewer, a disaster unfolding will always be more interesting than one averted. And with that in mind, Faustina, it doesn't notice you. Isolated as you might be from the 'maelstrom' (or whatever) at large, you're still in a brain cage match with the man at your fingertips, and he thrashes your mind in the expected way, for 2 fatigue. You're knocked out of it before you can even try to mend what ails him. Deacon, you see Faustina collapse right as Dante goes into cardiac arrest. Kelpis looks a little perplexed, but mostly relieved, as that bone-vibrating sensation subsides. Swift and Cyrus hesitate for only an instant before leaping on him with adequately professional chest compressions. Several tense, rib-cracking minutes pass. They switch off, arms sore. It doesn't work. Faustina, in your conk-dream, you feel him die. Some of you might have concluded, with all the psychic-ish out-of-body sensory experiences, that people have something like a 'soul,' immortal or otherwise. That implies a whole cosmology around it. For the record, if there is any kind of afterlife, anywhere your residual brain-stuff slips away toward, anything at all left of someone after they die, you cannot perceive any hint or trace of it from here. Candle goes out, and it's just dark. Of the remaining Muzzleheads - Ben looks terrified, and leaves as soon as he possibly can. Alan looks super upset, and resolves to wait for Claire to wake up before leaving. Cyrus and Swift have seen this poo poo before. Lost another one. Cyrus ducks away to take a breather alone, Swift redirects her full attention to Faustina. Gets her propped up somewhere comfy and all. Deacon, when you rejoin the rest of the Anathemata, you'll find that they've got camp set up, and that your newest prospective member, Nancy, has disappeared along with a bike, a rifle, and three of the Plague Journals. Lemur is livid, shouting into faces and demanding answers. She was so nonchalant and 'here, let me get that for you' while everyone was busy, nobody even noticed she was gone for a few minutes, and now she's got a solid head start to somewhere. Perry, that university resident, also tries to solicit the Anathemata's excellent tracking skills in assembling her own search party. Unaware of your concerns, she wants to go looking for Trudy, and then for Knapp. (who was last seen at the Ranch on the day of the last session.) She's clearly uncomfortable asking you for help, but she's quite worried, and agitated that nobody else seems to give enough of a poo poo to do anything. She offers to, "Um, pay you? Or owe you a big one?" ~ Juck... hah, wow. I was about to say, executing one lone and crippled zombie with a shotgun, like you implied above, isn't even cause for a roll. It's just a decision you make, with a few implications. Bang; a big shot of noise right now, but less to worry about later. But, nope. You and your pack pin the poor fucker down and chop its goddamn head off. Pus and slimy black fluid leak out. Dog Head gets a little excited, and jams his steel into its torso a few more times than he needed to. His chest cavity, swollen under the scrubs, deflates and a puff of thick spores flows out the wounds. They swirl around in the air above it, like a cloud of mating gnats. A few people jump back or bat at their eyes by reflex, but everyones' filters hold, no problems. This comes as unexpected, by the way. Usually, they don't fill up with spore clouds like that until after they've gone dormant somewhere dark, and the shroom-stuff has started digesting the flesh. A sac guy chasing you around outside is pretty fuckin' aberrant. Your folks are feeling slightly nervous. You've still got a shitload of ammunition. You've made very little noise. You're not being followed. And, just to be clear on the specifics of the plan - you're plan B, right? How far are you following Mike in? Mike, good call on the tow truck. Won't cost you any fatigue if the truck does all the heavy lifting. And you interpreted about right, it's just one car thick. On the opposite side, you can now see that someone tried to cover up the bumper gaps with wooden tables on their side. One of them falls flat when you pull a volvo out of its resting place, tossing some spores and mossy stuff that collected on the road. You have to rev up to pull the rusted, quad-flat junker out of the way, and it makes a heck of a creaking sound. Once that subsides, you can hear somebody - several somebodies - howling from the next street over. Further down the same road, a block ahead, you see the second half of the same barrier, chairs and tables and cars packed together to block the place off. Ahead and on your right, three buildings down, there's the double-wide store front of SCHUMAN PAWN & GUNS, door closed and windows barred. If this street was blocked off, there's a better-than-nothing chance it hasn't been picked clean. You've made a fair bit of noise. You have been noticed by few, and they are not yet upon you. ~ Trudy, you elicit some mixed reactions. 'Linds' (probably Lindsay?) reaches for her hub-cap machete at your heresy. Colin looks genuinely concerned. Elijah beams - like, smiling, not glowing - throws his hands wide, and says, "'And one day he shall come to us, first to seek blood, then to offer it. And tho' offered power beyond mortal comprehension, shall ask he only for wisdom!'" The fourth guy with the chopped hood who hasn't said much eyes you and says, "'He?'" Elijah says, "Or whoever. Prophecy is a funny thing, sometimes." Colin asks you, "Lies? Did it... actually speak to you?" Elijah says, "The Destroyer does not lie, because it does not need to. Misdirection and subterfuge are not its way. Though when it grants a vision, it can be, er, misinterpreted, perhaps. And if it has given you a vision of things yet to come, know that they are only possible. It is the nature of Prophecy to show outcomes that can be, but always, there is a choice. Will you share, please, what the Destroyer revealed to you? Maybe we can help you interpret it." Most of them look seriously intrigued, curious. Elijah looks hungry.
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Aug 7, 2014 04:17
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I let myself out of the truck and helped Mike winch the wrecks out of the way. Everything was going smoothly so far, and I hoped my luck would hold. Even Juck's animals were behaving themselves rather well for a change. Stretching, I gave mike a nod. "Alright, we can hustle the rest of the way on foot. Any further and the engines are gonna rile things up too close to the target." Turning, I gave Juck an appraising eye. "So, who am I taking with me?"
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Aug 9, 2014 04:10
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=3:00 "Infiltration team's gonna be me, Partridge, Barndoor and Taye. The rest of the Wolves are going to hang back and wait for a pop flare signal from the Aquarium. With any luck we won't need it, but if we get into some poo poo and draw more shrooms than we can handle, the rest of the Wolves sweep through on bikes and draw off as many as they can, giving us a clear path back to the truck with our haul." Of the three Juck had chosen to come with her, Partridge was always a solid bet -- frosty and loyal. Taye was a bit more of an unknown quantity, but Juck figured if he ate poo poo it was no big loss to the Wolves, and maybe he'd turn out useful after all. Barndoor was more of a strategic choice -- Juck wasn't completely stupid, and she knew that if she left Dog Head's entire crew behind that he'd start trying to turn them away the second Juck left. But Dog Head needed Barndoor, and Juck was betting that he'd at least think twice before leaving Barndoor behind. Plus, Barndoor followed instructions reasonably well, didn't talk back, and was strong as hell -- Juck had no idea how big or unwieldy these parts Mike wanted were going to be, but it seemed likely that they'd probably need some muscle before the gig was up. Juck turned to Jeanette. "You're in charge of the Plan B team. One red flare, come in with the cavalry, loop past the Aquarium, try and draw them out east to give us a path back to the truck. If we get into a shitshow, I'll try and pop a green flare. Green flare means we're hosed, no hope of rescue. Get out while you can. Same goes if we're not back in 12 hours. Got it?" Jeanette nods grimly. Juck checks her ammo pouch one last time and flips the leather catch on the holster of her shotgun, turning to Angel Eyes. "We're ready when you are. Lead on, hot stuff."
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Aug 9, 2014 21:31
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=2/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 I nod to myself. Looks like they got the plan. I was hoping to get them a little closer before they went on foot, but the bustle we heard a street over means the vehicles might be doing more harm than good at this point. For a moment I consider my own safety. This is a reasonable place to hole up and wait for the signal. I won't be able to move from here unless it's for rescue or else they won't know where to bring the parts. The Shrooms are a little riled up though, they'll be wandering around now. If we're stationary they might come down here fairly quick. "Best for us to hide while you do your work." I strategically park my truck so it's a short hop from the gun shop to the car again and once the infiltration team is gone I have a look around the shop. Quiet and out of sight, so if Shrooms come down this street they won't notice anything in particular, but I can jump back in the vehicle if things get hairy. (I still have my hold. So if you need Mike with the perfect equipment (a running truck) I can just teleport to your position with +1 forward. I'm weird like that. Also you're all doing what I told you, so +1 ongoing and also another +1 for getting into the storage from my planning roll.)
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Aug 9, 2014 22:15
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I gave Juck a nod and turned towards our eventual goal. "I don't slow down, so stay on my heels." I paused, glancing up at the sky. The sun was beginning to set the horizon ablaze in the west, and I had to wonder how it had gotten so late so fast. Maybe it just didn't want to watch what might happen tonight. Whatever. I'd thrown my life away plenty of times before, and I'd always caught it again on the other side. (Regina tremendae majestatis, qui salvandos savas gratis, salve me, fons pietatis.) I headed off at a measured pace down the street, my boots eerily quiet on the pavement. After so many years of survival, I was only heard when I wanted to be. My eyes set firmly forward, I trusted my ears to forewarn me of any trouble I couldn't see. I was again thankful for one of the few upsides to navigating cities; all the abandoned vehicles, hastily erected barricades, and empty buildings made it easy to keep out of sight or lose pursuers. Angel Eyes will be heading pretty much straight on, detouring only when she can't maneuver past any shrooms all stealthy-like. Let me know if you need a roll.
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Aug 11, 2014 14:09
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 Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=10:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm Murus Dei posted:It's the wall of thorns again. Writhing, wrenching, venous things, twisting and tearing tissue. Shredding skin, shedding parts of me, spinning the pulpy bits of my flesh upwards along an infinite, corded canopic illusion; this allusion of suffering, my torturous nightmare presents a relentless landscape of life rending life. I dream parables of utter destruction; mindless pain crushing sentience. [+1 Weird] ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ “...tina. 'Tina. I'm here.” I don't know how much time has passed once my eyes open to Swift's blurry face. Everything is hazy, but I can tell she's been crying. As our cheeks touch in embrace, I realize I've been doing the same. I'm too spent to say anything so I just lean into it. We cry a little more. Cyrus never stays for this part, she'll sweat it out later on one of her runs. It's not the first time I've lost someone while using the Touch, but each time feels worse; and the instant night-terrors... clinically it's surprising I haven't been pushed into a comatose state of shock. After a good ten minutes of just breathing, feeling her heart thumping against mine, I slump to the side and grab a loving cigarette. “What the hell are we doing, Swift? Why don't I ever listen to you guys. Sorry for being such a shithead.” Swift says nothing, pushing one of her golden, sweat dampened strands of hair aside and slumping back into the bench. She's carried me to the far side of the Atrium's garden, near the storage room and almost out of shouting distance of the OR. I can't see anyone else around, so it's probably been awhile since I flubbed the 'spiritual resuscitation' and consequently crapped out again. My thoughts collect in the silence like ants to a picnic. Back again. It never stops, does it? I swallow hard before I say what we're both thinking, “Jefferson is loving with the spores.” She says nothing, but her eyes get cold. I continue. “I'd been wondering what was really brewing in that creep's castle. Now we have physical loving evidence. Those dipshit hacks are fatally stupid. What if their poo poo goes all lysogenic? Now we're looking at fighting off two to three Infections? Maybe more? We can't let...” “WHY THE gently caress DOES IT HAVE TO BE OUR PROBLEM?!” The harsh echoes of her words thunk repeatedly against my eardrums. My mouth hangs open at the surprise outburst from my bestie. Her nose wrinkles with a snarl of anger as she lays into me verbally. “I can't do it anymore! All we do is stick our neck out for these assholes and all we get back are more bodies! You're killing yourself, Faustina. In this day and age, ethics are a death wish. What you don't see is that you're gonna pull everyone down with you on your “personal journey” bullshit towards being some sort of martyr or whatever! The last thing we need is to get involved with that place. Their drat plant is not worth the psychos running it.” I snap back, defensively, “So what do you want me to do?! Just keep playing roulette with the Touch and sending them back again and again? Just let the Apocalypse rebirth itself into our laps? Watch everything get overrun and devoured like last time? Lose the Atrium, lose the town, Big Mike's garage, the ranch...” “The ranch is already lost, didn't you hear?” Her words have an uncharacteristic cynical bite that sting like she's slapping me with them. “Or maybe you too busy trying to turn your brain into soup. Or maybe soap? Can't scrub away the sins of the world, sweetheart. When will you loving grow up? Quit being a selfish, bitch, 'Tina. People depend on you around here.” In the throes of my temper I take a last pull and flick the butt to the ground, causing a splash of sparks in front of her feet. “Never asked for that. I needed something to eat, so I did my thing. Didn't mean for the rest to happen, it just did. Think I'm running this place for kicks?” “Oh, found a new project now?” Swift folds her arms and practically growls at me. “Fine. Do what you want. Cryus and I are staying right the gently caress here. This place is enough of a warzone already.” “Whatever. No one asked you to come.” I angrily push myself up and away from her, stretching my limbs (which curiously feel as though they've been completely consumed by lactic acid, though I haven't exercised anything more than my weary mind). “If Knowles pries, I'm off at the town checking on their water situation. K-scratch crisis should mean we're officially on the Heat Stroke Express, yeah?” Except she probably knows that's not where I'm going. For about a half hour I wait in the trees near the near corner of the lab, smoking some of the poo poo we swiped from Cartel Saül. It numbs me up a bit, keeps my head from revisiting that horrific vision and the sickening, unexplainable sense that Dante's death perma-scarred some part of my consciousness. She's right about the self-abuse thing. Not smart. No way to predict how many clicks left 'till the bang. The scary part was the lack of control; like I wasn't the one spinning the chambers. Claire and Alan finally exit the hospital. I follow silently behind, hidden by the forest. hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 17:40 on Aug 12, 2014 |
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Aug 12, 2014 06:08
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=3:00 Juck and her team follow Angel Eyes' lead, doing their best to keep a low profile. Subtlety and grace aren't really Juck's strong suit, though, and that goes double for the Wolves in general, so if Juck's going to be honest she'll probably admit that Angel Eyes is maybe better at this ninja poo poo.
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Aug 13, 2014 08:28
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Trudy Barter=2 | Exp=5/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=2:00 Trudy fills them in on her experience--the sludge, the beast's eye, its less-than-sunny explanation of the state of things. She doesn't mention the Destroyer's laughter, or her knee-jerk first wish. She's pretty tired, but picks up on the meaning behind Elijah's god-jargon. Something like her episode with the Destroyer had been predicted, and she sees no reason to keep him from believing that. Being Prophesied isn't on Trudy's bucket list, but could come in handy, especially because-- "I want to speak with the Killdozer," she says, standing up and smoothing out her dress. It's chalky and mussed-up, but somehow that seems less important than usual. Maybe, she wonders, my husband used to say something about wrinkly dresses. But she can't remember. The Destroyer, or whatever it wanted to call itself, had taken him from her, replacing his memory with the facts: the Cancer is what's in right now, and meaning is what's out. What's happening to the world isn't about character-building, or sorting chaff from wheat, or forging heroes from ordinary people. It's just fungus, and if the Killdozer's driver(s?) have plans for getting it gone, Trudy's in. Prophesies Are Like Assholes - Everybody's Got One: 2d6+2 11 Rolled another hot, taking: Disarming Presence: when you want to disarm a charged situation, start speaking or singing and roll+hot. On a hit, no one present can commit violence while they can see you or hear your voice. On a 10+, furthermore, if any of your fellow players’ characters leave the situation peacefully, they mark experience as well. On a miss, no one present can commit violence against anyone but you.
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Aug 20, 2014 03:30
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Juck, Plan B (the guy) is honored that you named the back-up plan after him. He starts to say something about that, with a look on his face like he expects it to be the funniest poo poo ever, but Jeanette shoves her filthy-rear end leather glove into his mouth to stop him. After your spiel about leaving maybe leaving you behind, she asks if you'll, "Spare us that brave sacrifice bullshit. You've come back from doing dumber things. Red flare, we're there. See you on the other side, bitch." Angel Eyes, you take the lead, ninja-stepping down the street. Currently, it's pretty clear. The lines of old buildings on each side are pitch black inside, except for one with a collapsed roof. About half the store windows are busted, and the rest are crusted over with shroom-gunk. A street sign ahead is illegible, coated with pigeon poo poo and the miscellany of decades. A breeze picks up, and you see a rolling cloud of dust-brown spores pass on the cross street ahead. A traffic light, still dangling at an angle from a bare wire, spins halfway around in the wind. Your 'imaginary friend' comes around the corner of the intersection you're approaching, looking over her shoulder. She puts a finger to her lips, and holds up two fingers with the other hand. She looks again, and starts counting down on her fingers. Five, four, three... Juck's people are doing alright. Barndoor noticed his pocket full of bullets was jingling, and has his hand clamped down on it. Partridge keeps reaching up to tighten the bandanna over his mouth, and has that stony pissed-off look on his face which tough guys use to cover up fear. Taye's got his lion-stalking-a-gazelle walk just about perfect. When you motion for them to hide behind a van, they do it. Right on her cue, two shroomed out walkers come past the corner, following the breeze, both weather-dried and milky-eyed, one guy wearing grimy flannel and the other completely nude. They're not agitated, just stumbling towards the rev of a distant engine from a few minutes ago. The naked one makes some guttural sound in what remains of its throat, a bit like humming from somebody who has never conceived of tone. Everyone breathes light and keeps their head below the van's (crusted, opaque) window line, and you hear the zombies walk on past you, no big deal. You peek around the corner, and while sight lines aren't clear either way down the cross street due to all the ever-stalled cars and a toppled, very branchy tree, it looks clear for the moment. You run across. Partridge is breathing weird and shallow, like he's afraid to inhale deeply. The next block is also pretty clear for now, but you walk quiet in case something is waiting. You can see the aquarium now. It's a two storey trapezoid, and most of the extra-blue glass on the outside isn't broken. There's a large wire-frame skeleton of a koi fish 'swimming' above the roof, its colorful skin long gone. The giant sea turtle, also flayed of its decorative coating, rests with its head on a pickup truck in the parking lot. The front door (sliding, glass, broken) is wide open. From here, you can see a field of overgrown brown grass and fungal mats, a few pieces of playground equipment in a park, and another cluttered street. There's zombie staring up at a lone tree in the park, another one sitting and twitching in the street, and a third standing next to the turtle, staring slack-jawed (scratch that, actually missing its lower jaw) at the twitchy one. They haven't noticed you - or haven't noticed that you're tasty and alive - yet, but there's at least a hundred yards of open-sight road and parking lot to traverse, and a lot of woodwork that more could crawl out of along the way. Mike was pretty sure that the place had a more secluded loading dock and back door. If you don't trust the closest approach, you could go back down the street you came from and take a couple blocks' worth of detour, circle around. Angel Eyes, Juck, what do you do? ~ Mike, you make yourself a little scarce. As long as you're not the loudest guy around, you have a lot less to worry about. Not nothing, mind you. Odds are, at least one of those fuckers is going to run right by you, and then it's a coin toss for getting noticed or not. The barred windows all along the store front are darkened. The is unlocked and just barely barred with a rotted-to-mulch table, so you can just shove your way in. A gray cloud of spores blows out once the door cracks, thick enough to cast a shadow, light enough to dance and scatter up into the air, moist enough to stick to your clothes and mask. A concentrated blow like that could definitely kill somebody, but you're dressed for it, so no big deal. You soon notice that the windows aren't just dark because there's no light inside. The floor and walls are coated with a mulch-like, dark-rust fungus. You are aware that it's composed of all the stuff that used to be people. They died somewhere dark and without wind, got broken down into paste, and spread out over every surface available. The room's dripping humid, and the floor is slick like wet moss. Nothing screams or jumps out at you just yet. On the walls and the racks still standing around, you can see ruined garments, soiled camping gear, novelty swords, and boxes of ammunition(!). Behind the counter, you can see silhouetted hunting rifles and pistols hung up on pegs. Don't let it seem like the narrative is pushing you toward one thing, though. Across the street, there's a busted-open two-storey bed&breakfast lookin' place. Looks like there's airflow, so little chance of anything lurking, and chilling out on a second floor could offer you a better view of things outside, and a better hiding place. What do you do? ~ Trudy, this wasn't the kind of charged situation that you'd need to defuse. People were a little excited, sure, but nobody was about to violence you. When you ask to speak with it, Linds makes a dry noise that's closer to a cough than a laugh, and tells you, "Bitch, it don't speak. If you're lucky, maybe it listens." Colin explains, "The driver is sealed into the Killdozer. He both cannot and will not speak, except through actions. And it might kill you if you get too close, even if you are committed to its cause. But if you wish to gaze upon it, you need only wait here. We consecrated this gas station, and the offerings in the Circle of Sacrifice, because this is in its path. The offerings will be destroyed, and we will lavish our praise and support as it passes by." You're going to be waiting - if you decide to wait with them, nobody is going to stop you if you head back to the University - for quite a while. Colin says, "Two hours? Maybe three?" but he's really optimistic, a trait which often comes with membership to an apocalypse cult. The sun sinks down to the horizon and paints the sky in streaks of color so breathtaking and vivid, they transcend blue and become azure. (For more detail, consult a poet.) Four more dozerites, in black hoods of varying (read: poor) quality show up, on foot and one bicycle. An older couple you haven't met yet (Louis & Sasha, they're quite friendly, sort of an O.G. hippie vibe), Marta who was hanging with the Church of the Nazarene a month ago, and a haggard and dehydrated young Jeff, who's new to the scene, acting all somber and uncertain. They chat for a while (nothing too substantive, they're saving all the gravitas for the Arrival of the Dozer) about how they've been lately. If there's anything you're wondering about, you can probably tease it out in conversation. The newcomers each make an offering into the chalk circle by the gas pumps. A fresh-dead rabbit, a pair of old burned CD's with sharpie lettering on them, a pitted Ramones T-shirt... you can hear Jeff say, "Juck. Please kill Juck." while he drops a blood-stained gold- and diamond-studded cross necklace into the pile. You become aware of a distant growling, from down the road to the west, where the sun has just set. It grows so gradually that you've probably been hearing it for a few minutes before you notice it. The slow, heavy turnover of a hulking engine from within a bigger vehicle, the kind of background noise which was so easy to tune out, once upon a time. Colin smiles ear to ear and says, "It comes." The Killdozer roars up the highway at five miles an hour. It has the silhouette of an ugly brick. You can see some of its history writ on the scars of its chassis. Someone encased a Caterpillar 'dozer in slabs of concrete, anchored by rebar, and ran it through every kind of mud and filth and debris there is to be found in the world, leaving it stained the net-average color of dirt. As the concrete chipped and weathered away, it was reinforced with other scrap; recognizable cars parts, a cross-stitch of hubcaps just behind the 'dozer blade, a relatively fresh sheet of asphalt(?) smoothing out the left side, a steel girder bolted across a big crack in the right side's concrete plate like a band-aid. Its treads are skirted and plated with a darkened metal, probably fuckin' lead from the way it crushes the highway to gravel behind it. The front blade - you know, the plough-looking bit that does the 'dozing - looks like it's just the original Caterpillar part, no add-ons beside years of grime. The cultists have an air of hushed excitement, like kids on Christmas goddamn eve up way past their bedtime, trying not to tip off Santa that they're staking out the chimney, hoping to get a glimpse of the big man doing his thing. You hear Marta whisper, "It is real." The Killdozer approaches, gradually. Sure enough, it's headed straight for the Circle, and you haven't seen it turn a hair since the horizon. It's going to pulverize the gas station and then probably keep going - the cultists get clear. From the 'dozer, you see a flash of red light as a laser pointer sweeps over your eye line. On its roof there is a Machine Gun, a take-no-poo poo M60, belt-fed with a big ammo box, welded to a motorized gimbal which sweeps back and forth, slow and steady. When it gets closer, and maybe if someone were to shine a light on it, you'd be able to see several camera lenses peeking out from between the armor plates. They must feed into some all-direction wall of closed-circuit TV screens on the inside. It has seen you. It's about to demolish some poo poo, sweet sock-puppet Bobo included. You said you wanted to say something, right? ~ Deacon, if you're with us again, that last stuff is still pending, won't take off without you. And Lemur keeps on top of poo poo, it wouldn't be too late to, say, send a tail after anyone else who's left recently. ~ Faustina, you slip off, and nobody realizes you've gone gone for at least ten more minutes. Maybe they worry. Claire is pepped up for about the first five minutes of their trip before she feels like sitting down to take another breather. Alan keeps them moving, but he's a little too sweaty, a little too desperate, and you get the sense that he's using her for motivation, too. Their tired, hungry, 'must go forward' trudge makes them easy to shadow. If you came out and said hi, they'd probably welcome the company. They stay within sight of an old paved road, to keep their path, but walk beside it where the grass is growing free and thick. Rather, where the grass's growth is free and thick - don't forget there's been kind of a drought. It's all green-brown, wilted or crisped depending on how much it's been baked in direct sunlight. After like an hour and a half of walking with one short break, a lone shroomhead runs across their path, shrieking and letting its two broken arms dangle behind it. Your quarry drops to the ground, where they're a little flatter than the tall grass. It passes them by a hundred feet away, chasing god knows what phantom of a noise, unto the horizon. And then they keep walking. T, and they're not making a great pace. At least three hours go by, one step at a time. The sun dips low enough in the sky to start getting redder, throwing that glorious crimson-indigo pre-sunset spread out over the sky. You come in sight of the Jefferson Ironworks complex with a long shadow ahead of you. It's taken over the site of a big coal power plant, originally built out here in the boonies to keep the cost of public-health lawsuits down. That includes the plant proper, the administrative building, and at least thirty trailers, RV's, and habitable-large trucks that have been pulled up to make the Ironworks' semi-permanent shanty town. Three of four huge brick smokestacks are still standing. Every power line for miles has fallen down and been lost or repurposed, but the high-voltage scaffolding towers are still in place. You can see little tree-houses of tarps and planks up there, where the lookouts have set up their blinds. Way on the far side, opposite the direction of the city, you can see their corn- and whatever-else-grows-fields stretching to the horizon. Short, scraggly, immature, pretty dry, and not offering much promise for the next harvest. The plant is supposedly in good-enough working condition, but you've never seen smoke rising from the stacks. Nobody's hauling in tons of coal, and besides, what would you even do with fifteen hundred megawatts? You can hear the steady purr of two or three smaller generators going somewhere inside, and see electrical light coming from one (not-so)mobile home's windows. They've got floodlights and swivel-mounted spotlights around the area, but only flip the switch on when there's cause. The wide perimeter, like half a mile out, is a scattered mess of trip wires, barbed wires, cans on strings, crumpled plastic, potholes, and enough other jagged noisy junk that nothing can walk a straight line in. And a guard dog, a hulking blunt-faced mutt that's big enough that it ought to be called something less friendly, like hound or mastiff. They muzzle their indentured laborers, but they let that animal prowl the grounds, balls hanging out, without so much as a collar. Anyways. Your quarry is going to head straight in, looking ready to pass out. They're going to kick a can to make some noise, wave when the lights get shone on them, and lurch their way on in to one of the main buildings, to visit their slave-doctor. What's your approach?
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Nov 20, 2014 00:01
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=3/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 The muck isn't pleasant, but it's not the worst sign. These folks are too far gone to try and take a bite out of this old meat. The airborn spore is probably the most dangerous of all the varieties. No one bothered to run the numbers, but I'm betting the pure thing has the infected beat by an order of magnitude in fatalities. I'm ready for it though, all it takes is a clear head, a few precautions, and a bit of luck. I have all of that, I just don't have the youth to wrestle sporeheads anymore. Keeping my eyes peeled, I grab some ammo, prioritizing shotgun and hunting rounds. My hands aren't as steady as they once were, and it's easier to mess with the innards of those big rounds. Have lots of easy to extract powder too, which can be useful beyond the obvious. The hunting rounds are for trading to hunters. I could use some venison. If nothing disturbs me I plan to check the camping stuff. I won't salvage any cloth, too much spore in it and I don't want to murder any of Juck's less well equipped minions. But there could be something worth a drat in there. Could even be a working solar charger if someone up there is looking out for me. Scavenging: 2d6+2 9 Mr. Prokosch fucked around with this message at 07:42 on Nov 20, 2014 |
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Nov 20, 2014 01:04
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Trudy Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=2:00 Trudy is disappointed to learn that the Killdozer doesn't talk much. Polite silence is one thing, but she has never been fond of the tendency of gods to be Very Mysterious, and considering she is (maybe) the subject of a prophecy concerning this particular god, she feels she deserves a friendly chat. As the Killdozer crawls toward the gathered cultists, she starts striding toward it singing a song. If you're feeling mad, and don't know what to do, Don't scream, don't cry, don't pout. It's okay to be upset, but don't you forget, The best thing to do is to talk it out! Talk it out, use your words, And soon I bet you'll see. Talk it out, use your words, And we can get along happily! Disarming Presence (Talk It Out!): 2d6+2 6 pretty sure trudes is about to die now
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Nov 20, 2014 20:00
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 One hundred yards, give or take. Not a great distance, relatively speaking. I could sprint that in about twelve seconds. Sneaking myself and this crew across? A couple minutes. But when you were hunkered down in hostile territory with a legion of flesh hungry monsters lurking around, a hundred yards had a way of looking like a hundred miles. And plenty of things could go wrong in a couple of minutes. I glanced back the way we'd come, considering our options. There would be a loading dock and probably the area would be less exposed. But it was a lot of time to waste, and the luck we'd had so far was ticking down no matter what direction we went. Hell with it. I caught Juck's eye and motioned towards the front entrance. If things went south we could at least be inside before we got overwhelmed. From there I'd just make it up as I went. Like usual.
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Nov 21, 2014 01:59
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=3:00 Juck had never been much of the planning type; if some enterprising sociologist were to investigate the history of Juck's various and sundried decisions, they would find a clear bias towards "Brute Force" over "Finesse". And so, when Angel Eyes makes her nod for the front-door-guns-blazing approach, Juck raises an eyebrow but it's certainly not a disapproving one; more one of pleasant surprise. Juck gives the universal signal of "After you", followed by a series of convoluted hand signals to the point of "You go first, we'll cover you with these here guns, then you can cover us as we follow." How much of that gets across is anyone's guess; Juck's kind of crap with the whole hand signal thing, if we're being honest here.
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Nov 23, 2014 02:51
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I got the general gist of what Juck was telling me. A quick glance over the cover. I was confident the shrooms were distracted with whatever it was they were seeing, and darted towards the entrance. I kept low to minimize my profile, but there was only so much I could do to stay out of sight while getting there in any manner remotely associated with 'quickly'. I'll hold up here in case I'm Acting Under Fire or something. Otherwise Angel Eyes is ducking inside and waiting for the rest to follow, and hoping very fervently that our luck doesn't bottom out.
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Nov 24, 2014 06:03
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Mike, between the dank and the crust, it's hard to tell precisely what's in those boxes, but the weight and rattle feels about right for buckshot. There's more to grab than you can carry in one trip. Walking over to the camping & fishing side, you step on a firm lump of something, and once your weight's on it, it caves in with some wet popping- and snapping- noises. It's a human rib cage with some gray meat on it, the bones bird-like in strength from getting used up and dissolved as a shroom-host. You hear it moan underfoot. It's whisper quiet, could just be the air passing through the old pipes. No luck on a solar charger, sorry to say. A gas generator; dead weight. A line of barbecue grills, like kings would use. A stack of full-feeling propane tanks near them, those would trade for sure. A kayak? Some nice big synthetic tents, but your cares about safety are well founded. Ooh, and a case of those gravity-and-chain powered LED lamps, renewable light is a hot seller. The light coming in from outside has dimmed. The spores in the air are thicker now than when you came in. You would have kicked up some dust by walking around and grabbing stuff, but not this much. Through the window, you can see a zombie dragging itself across the pavement with only its arms, inching toward the direction of Juck & Angel Eyes. The poor thing has lost a lot of skin. With your arms, pockets and pack full of loot, you can carry 2 barter out of this gold mine. If you drop it off in your truck and make another trip, there's plenty more. What do you do? ~ Trudy, your back is turned so you don't see it, but Colin looks at you like you just walked off the edge of a cliff. By the time he processes a reaction, which is to say, "OhGod no don't approach it!" you're already singing, and probably don't care. Linds sucks air through her teeth, grimacing. Nobody dares follow you. By the time you get to Talk it out, use your words- the little red laser pointer dot is fixed machine-steady over your heart. It even bobs up and down with your step. The Killdozer itself doesn't change course at all. After you, 'And we can get along happily!' there's about two seconds of still dead air, no sound but the steady, mighty rumble of the 'dozer's engine. You take another step towards it, and it shoots you. It rattles off a burst of fire, a deafening RATT-A-TATTA- which lasts as long as it'd take someone to shout, 'shut the gently caress up.' Behind you, a dozerite laughs hysterically. Roll for harm, as when some seriously scary poo poo hits you and you're probably dead meat. ~ Angel Eyes posted:I'll hold up here in case I'm Acting Under Fire or something. Otherwise Angel Eyes is ducking inside and waiting for the rest to follow, and hoping very fervently that our luck doesn't bottom out. You sure are! Let's check that luck-bottom.
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Nov 24, 2014 20:07
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=4/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Good loot, bad feeling. I got this tingle in the back of my skull, like I'm in some kinda danger. Spore shouldn't be this thick, the infected corpse is weak, but it could make a noise. I would just head out now, but there's a broken shroom on the street, could spot me and raise an alarm for the whole horde behind. I hunker down for a second, use my peepers and the old gray matter to figure out what's coming. Read a Sitch: 2d6+2 11 What's up with this place? (What should I be on the lookout for?) What's coming for me? (What’s my enemy’s true position?) How do I keep my hide safe? (where’s my best escape route / way in / way past?)
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Nov 24, 2014 20:44
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Big Mike posted:(What’s my enemy’s true position?) *The very air around you. It's not just kicked up, it is aware of you. Also, out in the street. Big Mike posted:(What should I be on the lookout for?) *Aside from the obvious (getting spotted by screaming zombies, bringin' the horde), staying in place. You're not positive how the Spore stuff works, but sticking around to observe it is likely somewhere on the spectrum between 'Bad' and 'Weird,' not good. If you want to risk another trip for more loot later, you'd want to make it a brief one, and snag some more of the stuff you already spotted. Big Mike posted:How do I keep my hide safe? (where’s my best escape route / way in / way past?) *There's only one door in the building, and that's the front. Walking out there means the crawler in the street is going to see you. Looking around earlier, you registered a musty ray of light from somewhere behind the counter; there's a window (closed, gunked shut) in a back room which might have been an office or bathroom.
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Nov 25, 2014 00:01
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Act Under Fire. (roll +cool) 2d6+3=9 Looks like things are about to get complicated.
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Nov 25, 2014 00:11
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=4/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 It's marking me! How can a spore do that? Some kind of pheromone? Biology was never my area of expertise. But somehow the spore is calling more spore. I don't even know how I know. Whatever, I can ruminate on this discovery at a later date. For now I need to get out of here, and if the airborn spore can call to walkers I'm in much deeper trouble than I thought. I make my way to that ray of light. The window is closed and gunked, but this is why I carry a crowbar. Lots of things will smash skulls, but my skull smasher can open a jam with ease. Want me to roll?
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Nov 25, 2014 01:47
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Trudy Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=2:00 Oops: 2d6 12 Serious poo poo: Bleeding heavily--your condition will deteriorate rapidly without medical care
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Nov 25, 2014 03:11
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Angel Eyes, you lead the way and cross most of the gap without incident. Juck & Co. can follow in your shadow. But, you ever try to run quick, crouch behind stuff, and still not stomp around at all? It's hard. And there's just not enough poo poo out there to keep between you and every zombie at once. Sooner or later, you've got to just jog and pray they don't turn the wrong way at the wrong time. You're in the parking lot. Maybe it heard a footstep, or maybe the wind shifted and carried your scent; the shroom standing by the sea turtle rolls its head on a limp neck and looks right into Barndoor's eyes. If a person starts screaming, there's a bit of process to it. A moment of shock, a deep intake of breath while they open their mouth, a little re-position of the chest and neck if they really want to project, usually a twist to the facial features to express their excitement, or whatever. The pyjama-clad husk of a man before you does not do those things, he just starts out at full volume, dead-eyed, like he's been waiting all day to let loose. Sneaky time is over. He's just about right between you and the aquarium, and going for the throat. Juck, Angel Eyes, you're all used to this poo poo, and capping one zombie is no big deal. Decide whether you dispatch it the hard way (-1 Fatigue) or the even louder way (-1 bullet, +0.5 horde) and then figure out what you're doing next, because the other two in sight have perked right up and are about to start hollering for reinforcements. You have a major head start. Through the open door and the gloom of the front lobby, you can see a ticket counter (employee space behind it), the main entrance (used to be a tunnel through a big aquarium, now just a lotta broken glass and whatever the Spore did with fish meat), and a café (buncha tables, overpriced). What do? ~ Big Mike posted:Want me to roll? Yup! To get through the window and on to your next destination of choice. On a 7-9, it'll be jammed too hard, and you'll need to either break the glass (and then probably want to hurry) or go out the front. ~ Trudy, the first impacts don't hurt all that much. It feels like getting punched a few times - in the gut, clavicle, arm. Then you feel the gush of warmth as you start leaking out, and the pain sinks in. You're stuck through and ripped open and you start to feel a hot sting in some of the inside places that have never felt before. (GIS: '7.62 exit wound'  )You're on the ground in an instant, and the Killdozer doesn't stop shooting. Another bullet grazes (you hope that's just a graze) the top of your head. Another takes a chunk off your thigh, then it stops. With the pain and the adrenaline you're quite lucid; it's an act of motherfucking providence that all of your important organs are still okay, but even so, you're a mess. And you're pretty sure you're bleeding out. One of the cultists shouts, "Straight wasted that bitch! You go, K D!" Colin takes a few steps toward you, then notices the little red laser dot zip across the grass and rest right before his feet. Okay; they're not going to help you. The Killdozer just keeps going. In a few minutes, you'll start to hear the avalanche-like crunch of concrete and metal when it goes through the sacrificial gas station, and you'll start to feel a little bit drowsy, light-headed. You are lying in a lot of blood and dirt, and you will be dead before morning without some legit medical attention. What do you do now? StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 05:02 on Nov 25, 2014 |
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Nov 25, 2014 04:55
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 I jam my crowbar in there, but it's just too mucky. I can't get it in. drat, I knew I was weak but... Act Under Fire to Pry That Window: 2d6+2 7 If I break it, it's sure to make a noise. If I leave out the front, all stealthy like, maybe I won't get spotted. And if I do, maybe I can deal with it before there's trouble.
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Nov 25, 2014 07:10
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=3:00 Well. This was unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected. With a few quick strides I closed the distance between myself and the zombie, my blade flying out in one clean stroke. As the head hit the pavement I continued on to the entrance. (-1 fatigue) I was wound tight as a bowstring as the adrenaline started pumping, ready to explode into violence the moment any more shrooms popped their heads out. As the shattered glass from the doors crunched under foot, I gave the lobby a quick once over. That employee area seemed promising. It was pretty likely that the storage would be locked up, and if there were keys to be found this was a good place to start checking.
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Nov 25, 2014 19:54
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Mike, right now, the thing's basically facing you, and odds of staying unseen approach zero. If you hold on for about another full minute, it will have crawled past the door and you can creep out behind it. Won't turn around, unless you make some noise louder than its own raw-bone-on-pavement scrape. If you want to rush it and shut it up quick, capping a paraplegic(?) wouldn't be too tough, but it'll definitely get a shout out. Angel Eyes, even with a saber-sharp blade of good steel, chopping through all the neck muscle and spine in one go is hard drat work. You can only make it look easy. You can hop the ticket desk no problem. The plywood door to the employee area is locked, but has a smashed-in hole wide enough to fit through. On the inside, an upturned office chair is still propped against it. Seen that story play out before. On the inside, it is pitch loving black. If you brought means to light the place up, then you will see some pretty standard office stuff; a big table, a dry-erase board with the week's shift schedule, a fax/copy machine, a side office with a second thicker layer of broken-in barricade furniture, and some long-since sporified human remains. The air is really drat cloudy with dust and spores. You can imagine it would smell terrifically musty, and that you'd ought to loving worry if your seal was loose enough to smell it. There aren't signs or a map or anything. You can see sort of a break room, a fridge toppled on its side with a pile of decayed rubbish spilling out, a coffee machine, and another door beyond that. The furniture is in disarray, there's a bunch of spore crud crunching or squishing underfoot, and plenty of places to hide or things to trip on. You have - as mentioned - a big head start on the first few zombies behind you. Let's give Juck a second to catch up or split off. And then, if you're heading in that way, tell me how you're balancing quick and cautious along the way. Scale of 1 to 6, reckless and rapid to slow and methodical.
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Nov 26, 2014 08:54
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Whatever weird feeling I have about the air, a minute is just a minute, and the prospect of it doing something weird has to be weighed against the certainty of the crawling zombie calling out. Besides, I'm old and curious. I give it a minute, cautiously watching the spore gather and swirl.
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Nov 27, 2014 00:59
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=5/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=3:00 Juck and company watch Angel Eyes dash for the lobby from their cover, and Barndoor lets out a low whistle as the swordswoman decapitates the lumbering shroom. Juck rolls her eyes, but glances at the nocked and rusted blade of her machete and knows that there's no way she could pull off something like that so cleanly. Angel Eyes gets inside and Juck starts a count, figuring she'll be running back out real fast if things look bad in there; after five seconds, Juck glances left and right at her crew and gives the sign to roll out. Sticking low and crouched, the Wolves dash across to the front doors, keeping an eye out for trouble. Not sure if Angel Eyes already covered the Act under fire roll with hers or if Juck needs to roll separately Acting under fire: 2d6+1 10 The wolves cover the distance easily, and once inside the lobby Juck puts Taye on lookout duty by the doors and gets Barndoor to haul a couple filing cabinets around towards the windows, assembling a rudimentary barricade in case things got ugly. The employee area is completely dark and clouded with spores. Juck pats herself down for some lights or a flare and comes up dry. "Hey, who's got the flares?" loving Thieves (+Hard): 2d6+3 6
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Nov 27, 2014 20:06
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=3:00 Approaching the shattered door, I cautiously peered inside. Pitch black, and my flashlight bit it a month back. I had been poking around the city for salvage in a situation not too dissimilar from this. Stuck my head into the wrong door, felt hands clamp around my throat, and when the panic died down the shroom's head was caved in. So was that plastic piece of junk. Ended up trading the batteries for some MRE's. So it goes. What I wouldn't give for a nice solid Maglight. Pulling my head back, I saw Juck and her crew hustle inside. I was glad to see that despite her gung-ho attitude, she was setting watch and barricades. Not half as thick headed as she made herself out to be. Before I could even ask, she had her boys patting themselves down for a flare, though the annoyed looks I was catching suggested we were out of luck. Scratch the employee area. Far too dark and closed in to risk it. "By the way. In case we get split up, lets rendezvous at the loading dock." I pulled out the map Mike had provided and angled it to catch some moonlight streaming in. "Looks like...down the main hall, through here, past this maintenance door and then follow the signs." Speaking of the main hall, I turned my attention in that direction. There seemed to be some ambient light filtering in, so we shouldn't be completely blind. Folding the map back up I hoisted the blade over my shoulder and started walking, the click of my boots echoing inwards. I didn't want to dawdle but being too hasty would get me killed just as surely as sitting here on my thumbs. If it's still relevant, Angel Eyes is going at about a 3.
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Dec 1, 2014 23:40
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Mike, you stand and watch the wretched zombie jerk drag itself past the door. Ever. So. Slowly. The poo poo in the air around you grows thicker, the light dimmer. The draggart passes, you open the door without much of a scrape, and you're clear to head outside, so far unspotted. The cloud of spores is clinging to you. Anyone who passes through a dusty, shroomy room is going to have some crud stuck to their clothes, but this is drawn to you, like plastic film to a static charge. If you try to wipe it off, it mostly just sticks to your hand. If you pick up your pace you can shed a bit of it, the rest is going to take a real determined effort to clean off. Doesn't seem to be any property of your clothes, by the way. It's sticking the same to your boots, pants, goggles and filter. Not enough to block your vision, certainly enough to annoy. If you bother to look behind you, you can see that you're leaving footprints. Pretty much everything has a thin coating of spores, right? Every step you take, another bunch on the street is rising up to cling to your feet. Aside from that, you can get back to your truck without any more trouble, and drop your loot off in the bed. The place around you is quiet for now. You hear a couple distant gunshots from Juck's 'Plan B' team, as well as someone (undead) screaming from over near the aquarium. Got an idea for what to do next? ~ Juck, right before Angel Eyes decapped that one screamer in her way, it got a shout off. Nine times out of twelve, that's a sign that everyone within two blocks is bearing down, and most people would just say gently caress it and start shooting, no more silence left to lose. Barndoor and Taye are there. Every zombie in sight turns to look at the shout, but you do the smart thing and keep everyone down. Partridge gets your vibe and makes a shush motion. Your count goes a little longer five, while you wait for every other zombie in sight to lose interest and go back to writhing aimlessly or staring at nothing. One of them ends up zoning out in your direction, Partridge chucks a brick (perfect spiral throw) over its head, and it follows the crunch. You all make it across, having drawn barely any attention at all. I'm a little surprised. You'd have to hop the counter and check the office area for any filing cabinets. Barndoor tries to make do. The frame of a sliding glass door turned sideways, a table and chair from the café area, a few posts and ropes that once suggested a place to queue up... a lovely excuse for a barricade, but it's at least a few things to trip on. You ask for flares. Partridge pipes up, "Right here." slings his backpack onto one shoulder, zips it open and reaches in. A few seconds pass, and he says gently caress a lot. Barndoor says, "Don't tell me you forgot the loving flares." Partridge says he didn't loving forget them. They never left his pack, "Unless... God drat It. That loving cultist son of a bitch. If we get out of here, we're adding that whole bullshit church to the List. Where's your flashlight?" Barndoor says he didn't bring a flashlight. He says that he, "Thought we wouldn't need an extra, since you had that big tin of flares. You didn't pack a flashlight either?" Taye asks if you will hold the hell up and please clarify, that nobody here, on this planned-out trip into a big dark empty building, thought to bring a light? Partrige says, "Unless you did, I don't wanna hear another drat word about it." then swears some more while he helps Barndoor wedge a table in place for the barricade. Taye has this tiny little key-chain LED with a dying battery. It can illuminate stuff that is either mirror-reflective, or three inches away. Great. Take -1 forward on your next roll that's indoors and would benefit if you could see a drat thing. What do you do next? You could entrench better with more time and effort, if you wanted. Angel Eyes, the main hall is dark, murky, moist and sharp. Once upon a time, it was a walkway through a huge aquarium, front-loaded with colorful tropical fish that mostly wouldn't eat each other. Along both sides, there are plastic-topped podiums with pictures and neat little factoids about some of the species contained herein. The glass is all broken. Any left-over shard big enough to cut your footwear is going to catch the tiny bit of light filtering in, and anyways, it's mostly snowflake-sized chips and sand that crunch underfoot. It's quite humid, and if you take an exploratory step off of the walkway, down into the former aquarium space, you'll find a thick, damp, spongey pad of fungal stuff. If you could smell it, it would be so fuckin' moldy. Droplets of condensed moisture land every few seconds, sometimes splashing in little pools of murky spore water, and the room is big enough for the splashes to echo. About halfway through this first chamber, you feel something press up against your shin. A strip of piano wire, pulled tight, oiled to stay matte, tied up between two of those fish info stands. You've got the reflexes and caution to stop dead so it doesn't trip you or slice into your pants, but that slight touch is enough to trigger someone's noise trap. It tugs on a line of tin cans full of pennies, which make a metal rattling that could raise the dead. One of them spills out onto the tile. Juck & Co. can hear it, but the dead folks across the street can't. Juck can't hear that something moving around further inside. There was like a clunk and the sound of something shifting. (A door sliding open? Someone dragging a chair? A more elaborate trap, set up on a hair trigger? Got a better guess?) It's not really clear over the rattle, and it's quiet again by the time the cans stop shaking. What do you do?
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Dec 31, 2014 00:56
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"Big" Mike Barter=5 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 This is annoying. I'm too old to get mad at the spore. But I still got enough fire to be a mite irritated. Mostly it's just another very dangerous part of life now. Can't think about everything it's done on a grand scale. But this, this feels personal. And weird. It shouldn't be so clingy. It's not proper. Downright rude. I stare and the swirling mass that cloaks over me. Gotta be some way to get it to leave me alone. My eyes glaze as I think. There's a pattern to it. Something I'm hiding from myself. Something dangerous. Something beautiful. It's at the tip of my tongue. At the edge of my memory. I'm taking Deep Insights as my improvement. Being Weird: 2d6+3 8
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Dec 31, 2014 08:32
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Angel Eyes Barter=3 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=3:00 As the wire brushed my leg, I froze. Of all the things I expected alarms and booby traps were pretty far down the list in a place like this. As the noise died down, I strained my ears to hear anything. Nothing but silence ahead and the muffled sounds of Juck and company behind. Well. If someone went through this much effort, it stood to reason there was something here of value. Whether it was the parts we had come here for or something else, my curiosity was definitely piqued. I took a step back and knelt down, trying to catch sight of the wire in what little light was available. Probably a noisemaker attached to something else. Junk piled on top of a keystone elsewhere, maybe. Put any more tension on that wire than I already had and the whole thing would collapse. A couple magnitudes louder than a can full of spare change, and likely to block access to whatever was here that warranted the trap in the first place. At least it was something to follow - so long as I didn't do something stupid like lose my balance and fall on top of it. Slowly standing back up, I tried to follow the wire to it's end point. It was going to be a slow process, but nothing more clever was coming to mind. As I went, I kept an ear open for Juck or her men coming this way so I could give them fair warning.
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Jan 1, 2015 05:06
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=5/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=3:00 Juck was pretty well practiced at maintaining an icy demeanor even when scared shitless, and this was definitely one of those times where that practice was paying off. Her heart was pounding away in her chest, and the voice in her head was screaming that there was no way they were going to get away with this, that there were just too drat many of those things out there, that they had to be coming. But as the moments ticked away, her breathing began to slow and deepen, and nothing was coming charging through the doors they had just entered. Carefully, slowly, Juck pushed herself up on fingertips and toes and backed slowly through the dim atrium towards the hallway Angel Eyes had taken, communicating with her crew using hand signals. Given that nothing seemed to be coming in after them from outside, and that there wasn't much in the way of materials for building real cover, Juck didn't see much point in trying to fortify and hold the atrium area. Besides, Angel Eyes was going to need their help hauling the filters out. The rattling metal sound from further on down the hallway was cacophonous. Juck's jaw clenched hard, and a cold roll of sweat ran down her side from her armpit. Could be Angel Eyes had just knocked over something in the dark back there, but Juck didn't take her for the clumsy type. She signaled Partridge and Barndoor, motioning for them to move past her position into the main hall, and brought Taye over to her by a bunch of dusty and decrepit furniture. Juck whispered directly into his ear, barely making a sound. "Hold here for a thirty count, make sure nothing's coming after us, then bring up the rear. And step lightly; I'm getting the feeling we're not the first assholes who had this idea." Juck stayed low and began to move quietly through the darkness into the main hall, following Barndoor and Partridge and cursing those shifty thieving cultist bastards under her breath the whole way. Most people knew well enough not to gently caress with the Wolves; if Juck got out of this alive, those cultists were going to find out why.
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Jan 5, 2015 04:23
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Mike, you notice a particular sensation, one of those things so simple and elementary we don't have a word for it. 'Wonder' comes close. The way that Early Man must have looked up at the night sky, the way that a deer might've watched a long line of car headlights streaking down a night highway, the way a moth might feel when an electric light comes on, half as bright as the sun, from nowhere and for no reason that it can comprehend. Interest and confusion, without any of these cerebral, narrative, descriptive layers that I'm using to articulate it. That's the sort of draw you have. You're pretty sure you could distract it. Like a stray dog would stop following you if you tossed a wad of meat across the street, or shone a laser pointer in front of its snout to lead it on a chase. If you give it an interesting idea to chew on, you could slip away from the cloud. You could also distract it with an offering of live human flesh. Not to say you should, but that'd get its attention. And if you feel like making something combust, you could drive it away (and incinerate what doesn't get hot and float off) with ordinary, non-metaphorical fire. That might draw some zombies, though. ~ Angel Eyes, it's looking like you figured the rest of the wire right. It's pinned up on the next few info stands, running down the length of the walkway, out of the aquarium-room you're in and at least into the next one. The door-like frame leading to the next exhibit is extremely dark, and as you get a bit closer, you can see that's because it's sealed up with another loving barricade. It's like an up-ended table draped over by a tarp. You hear the plastic rustle a little, the metallic click of a bullet getting chambered, and somebody on the other side whispers, "Where the gently caress is it?" Someone else hisses out a quick, sharp, "SH." The first one mutters again - sounds like a younger guy, nobody you can recognize under his breath - "This is some horror flick poo poo. We're going to think it's clear, then it's going to pop up and-" The other one snaps, "SHUTtheFUCKUP," and then gets what he wants. They wait, and listen. Juck, Partridge pauses to cough and adjust his mouth covering, then follows Barndoor into the hall at your gesture. Taye nods, flattens himself beside the corner of a counter, and watches your rear. And you step into the main hall. You're quiet enough, but you're coming from outside, and from the perspective of a paranoid rear end in a top hat inside, you're back-lit. Someone spots your shadow creeping up, and shoots at it. You hear the muted crack/whoosh from somebody's homemade suppressor, and two shots ricochet off the wall right behind you. What do you do?
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Jan 11, 2015 16:07
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=5/5 | Harm=None | Fatigue=3:00 Juck took a second to reassure herself she wasn't shot, and then started running through the options. Maybe a warning shot? Juck'd heard of some folks who liked to demonstrate that their guns worked before they'd put a bullet in someone, which just seemed like a waste of a perfectly good bullet to Juck, but there was no telling some folks. Then again, maybe they were just bad shots? Juck threw this one out pretty quickly; the odds of some rear end in a top hat who couldn't hit a slow-moving backlit target with two bullets to play with having managed to survive in shroomer country had to be pretty drat low. But then, some people did seem to have an uncanny knack for staying alive way longer than they had any right to. Juck pulled out her beaten lighter and, with a couple false starts, managed to get it to cough up a smoky flame. Juck lit the smoke dangling from her lips and closed the lighter, the red ember at the end of the cigarette lighting her face in the darkness. "Maybe third times the charm, assholes. Why don't you try getting a little closer? Easier target that way," Juck announced, not sure where the shots were coming from. She couldn't see Barndoor or Partridge, but if they were following standard procedure they'd be moving to flank as soon as the shots were fired.
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Jan 12, 2015 03:24
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| # ? Apr 29, 2024 11:09 |
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Juck, if you sat down with those assholes and gave them that piece of your mind, there's a whole range of excuses they might feed you for missing twice. Stress, exhaustion, dehydration, a crooked sight... who knows. But they don't. When you wave a light in front of your face, the guy behind the barricade takes the cue and tries again. Roll for something that could kill you. Barndoor, Partridge, Juck's hit. This room is one pretty long walkway, with a big gulf of messed-up former-aquarium space on either side. If there's some alternate route to flank them, you haven't spotted it yet. If you hopped over that ticket counter from a little further back, you might be able to find a long way around. What do you all do?
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Jan 12, 2015 05:19
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