|
 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 |
#
¿
Apr 28, 2014 04:47
|
|
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)
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 29, 2024 17:28 |
|
|
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.”
|
|
#
¿
Apr 28, 2014 16:50
|
|
|
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?”
|
|
#
¿
Apr 28, 2014 22:23
|
|
|
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.
|
|
#
¿
Apr 29, 2014 21:56
|
|
|
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 |
|
#
¿
May 2, 2014 02:00
|
|
|
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?!
|
|
#
¿
May 2, 2014 06:29
|
|
|
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 |
|
#
¿
May 2, 2014 23:45
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Oh isn't this a lovely scene. Bandits accosting bandits. I'd be annoyed if the irony wasn't so tasty. Here was Queen Juck herself come along to throw a wrench in the rescue works before some other nefarious bunch had a chance to. I'm coming down off of the adrenaline from dealing with trigger-happy Angel Eyes, and I'm not in any mood to protest something I didn't really want to do in the first place. I just stand there next the jeep, grinning quietly at Taco's stupid expression. He doesn't look so smug with a shotgun under his nose! Let the assholes of the world snuff themselves out. I'm just an expendable pawn anyways, right? That's how Mike put it. Best not to get involved. At this moment all I want is to leave K-scratch and its thuggish patrons far behind. “Oh hi there, Juck.” My smile winds up more of a barely concealed sneer. “Taking the tow-truck, then? Pity. Looks like our little rescue rendezvous is off. Take care, Mike. Let us know if you need a lift back to the yard or anything.” Giggling to myself in a thank-god-I-didn't-have-to-do-that, giddy sort of way, I give the repairman a half-wave, heading once more back to Black Betty (which will hopefully make it back to campus without blowing up in our faces). hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 03:41 on May 3, 2014 |
|
#
¿
May 3, 2014 02:37
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 *KAPOW!* “...And then there were four!” The leather-clad man raised a pistol to the approving roars of his gang as the headless body before him crumpled to the cold dirt. Winter was just around the corner, and frost had seized the landscape like a dusting of death. Biting hunger knots gave way to icy cords of fear pulling at my stomach as I watched the wispy breath of each kill squad member billow up around their heads, hazy faces in the morning gloom blurred by fractured light weaving through a dense canopy of pines around us. Our caravan had been waylaid enroute to a nearby town, apparently the bandit troupe were looking for some sorry refugee with a few too many debts. They didn't know exactly what he looked like, so they just started capping people to try and make us talk. None of us knew the guy, we were all simply your average stragglers trying to get to the next meal. I'd only been a few years on my own, still terribly young and very much dependent on more experienced company. This guy, Scott, (can't remember his last name) had let me tag along with him and his wife April while they tried to loot from uninfested parts of 'safe-zone' suburbs, as everyone did at first. After a few months of picking at the city's bones things dried up, and we were forced to move on to the next town. We met other groups and soon became a traveling commune of sorts. We weren't close or anything, but the folks were tolerant enough of each other to keep things civil for the most part. Overall, we didn't have such a bad run of it. We were almost always hungry, but never starving. They used to tell me about their kid, a little boy called Geofrey? or something (maybe it was Jeffrey?); anyways, they'd been out of town for their anniversary the week the first spores cropped up and had left him with a babysitter. When they got back the whole neighborhood had been razed by Air Force drones. The dread hummers had turned every soul within eight kilometers into greasy wallpaper. April broke down every time she recounted seeing the smoldering tomb of crushed brick that once was her home. I sat and listened miserably to her sobs more than once, thinking of my own family who I'd never gotten such closure for. They'd been at the heart of it all, and not even the government had been able to get through the central areas. It would have been a futile effort regardless - no one had survived that deep. I had wished she would just stop bringing it up and try to forget about it, but it was like she couldn't help it - as if she had to punish herself. I started hating her for it. Scott's face flying apart a few feet away from mine has been one of the timeless and enduring memories of my own journey through this brave new world. He wasn't the last that day, though. They killed every man in our group before letting us go, just because they could. Just because they didn't want to miss their mark, their chance for an extra bit of bootleg whiskey or whatever. I never even knew who they were. Looking at April's stricken face afterwards, I couldn't hate her anymore. When I tried to hold her hand it was clammy and cold like a corpse, her eyes sunken and bleary... she just wasn't there. Later, I left her sitting listlessly next to a tree outside one of our camps. She couldn't be my mother and I was too young to be hers. She may never have got up from that spot, but that's how it goes sometimes. Sometimes, when it's too much, you go your own way. ~~~ I don't know if it was the sharp bang of Juck's cannon going off or Taco's hot blood hitting the back of my neck that caused it, but somewhere between the two I screamed. Before I can even determine that the noise is coming from my own throat I've spun around and leveled my revolver at the smoking murderer. o god what am i doing (Go Aggro on Juck): 2d6+0 = 3 hahahahahaha “NO!! No, rear end in a top hat! Y-you can get the hell out of here! You'll just kill him too! Leave Mike alone and take the jeep here! You've killed the owner, so why not gently caress off with it already?!” At some point I realize I'm threatening this badass maven of mayhem whilst squeezing my eyes shut. This is probably the biggest, and last mistake I'll ever make, but all I can see is Scott's defeated expression before it dissolves into a fine pink mist. I can't just let this psycho drive off with Mike! hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 06:12 on May 4, 2014 |
|
#
¿
May 4, 2014 03:39
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=2/5 | Fatigue=3:00 Lost my gun | Neck bruise My hands are peeled away from the weapon like overripe banana skins as Partridge introduces his angular elbow to my soft neck. Vaguely I’m able to make out the sentries hollering about something before my butt hits the ground hard and I’m coughing and wretching at the biker’s feet. I look up at him, tears, snot and saliva running down my chin, waiting for the finisher. Jeff gets it instead. I watch him whimper pitifully as he drags himself around the truck to die like some kind of animal. He was about my age. The leader of the bikers says something and chucks her cigarette at me, but I’m too stunned to do anything but make a few angry, sniveling gasps for air. After a tense moment, Juck’s brutish lackey stuffs the late Gummo’s .38 into his waistband and turns away while I get busy coughing up my breakfast. Breathing hurts; I’ll probably have some serious bruising later, but it’s better than what the other two got. Isn’t it? Hooray, we get to see another hosed up day. Thick blood congeals into a dark path in the dirt, marking Jeff’s anguished wake. The soil will suck him up like every other sorry bastard the world has put down - dust to dust. How did he get here? Was Taco really his brother? Had they really planned to rob/murder us after we’d got them back on their feet? It didn’t matter now, they’d been found guilty in Mike’s proverbial ‘court’ and sentenced by their peers to die like dogs under the hot sun. Why couldn’t I just accept the law of the land? Because gently caress them, that’s why. “Who said I was a doctor…” I mutter to myself as Angel Eyes continues discourse like nothing had happened. At some point Trudy comes over, trying to guide everyone back to the truck, and in some corner of my mind I’m glad she hadn’t gotten involved with the afternoon’s grim proceedings; but I’m too shaken to fully grasp what she is saying. Three people have been ruthlessly slain in under thirty minutes, their lives plucked carelessly from this mortal fabric, like so many loose threads. Wrong. Two people are dead… possibly three if we just keep sitting on our hands like a punished child. I might not be much of a gunslinger, but I have other talents. Just because I never took anything like a Hippocratic Oath doesn’t mean I can simply stand by, feeling sorry for myself while a life hangs in the balance, innocent or not. While the others are distracted, I push myself up and crawl on hands and knees silently around to the opposite side of Mike’s truck. Jeff is heaving out his last breaths on his side, his face white-washed with death’s palor, gazing right through me – a man in emotional and likely circulatory shock. His hands are curled protectively over his gut as victims of such trauma are wont to do. The labor of his pain is most certainly intense, as anyone who has suffered a severe abdominal injury would be quick to confirm. I scoot quickly through the reddened mud around him, further ruining my dress but not really noticing. Flipping him over onto his back, I go through the motions of trying to reach him verbally, though I know anything I might say is cold comfort at this point. Poor guy just watched his brother’s skull burst apart like a busted jar of gelatin. “Hey… Jeff was it? *cough*” I peel off my surgical mask and wipe my mouth and nose with a sleeve. Shaking him fervently by the shoulders, I try to get a response, a moan, a freaking boner, anything: “Jeff! Jeffrey! Talk to me, okay? You liked my soap, right? *cough*gently caress Hey! I’ll even give you a bath, what do you say to that, huh big guy? C’mon, stay with me motherfucker!” It’s useless. He’s all but gone, and his wound looks beyond the preservation anything in my kit might afford. The second I saw him go down I knew there was only one thing for it. Biting my lip hard enough to draw blood, I glance around. I’m kind of out in the open, so if I do this right now it might be asking for trouble. Who cares. Trouble finds us anyways. We’re like a goddamn magnet for it. I can spend my life hiding from the public and kowtowing to shitheads like Juck, or I can do something that might actually make a difference. Whatever the consequences, at least I’ll be able to sleep tonight. To hell with them all. I’m gonna reach for you, Jeff. I don’t know you, but I knew of a kid with your name who never got a chance. This is for April. I place my hands over his belly, feeling the warm blood bubbling up between my fingers, diving into the ocean of his eyes, swimming with fear and memory. Nisi Fratem (Healing touch on Jeff): 2d6+1 = 9 * * * [Jeff heals a segment, but I’m acting under fire from his brain  Please let me know what that means in this case! (If I need to roll to avoid fuckery or passing out at a very bad time or whatever)]
hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 19:42 on May 4, 2014 |
|
#
¿
May 4, 2014 19:26
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=2/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Lost my gun | Neck bruise | -1 on next move pre:INT. GAME SHOW SET - ???
_FADE INTO CREEP ZOOM - FOCUS: HOST_
We fade in over the heads of an applauding audience. Our shot sweeps very slowly across
the set towards a stage positioned front and center of a large auditorium. We’re arriving mid-show,
so we can already hear the HOST’s professional candor booming through the PA before we
even see him. The clapping dies down as the speaker comes into view on the stage.
Behind him a single empty chair faces the crowd, resting in front of two large curtains: one BLACK, one WHITE.
HOST
Yes, yes! And we’re just getting started today, folks!
You’ll be happy to hear, I’m sure, that we have another WINNER!
MR. JEFF [REDACTED] COME ON DOOOWWWNNN!!
The audience erupts into applause and cheers, a small sea of faces all beaming exuberantly at the
figure of a man making his way down an aisle between the rows of seats. JEFF is grinning to beat the
band, pumping his fists in the air as he climbs a small set of stairs to reach the stage. The charismatic
HOST greets him (his sharp three-piece suit a glaring juxtaposition to JEFF’s shabby wasteland attire),
and guides him to sit in the chair. After a moment he motions for the crowd to settle down. The
clapping stops instantly, almost robotically.
_PAN TO FRAME SHOT ON STAGE_
HOST
Now, Jeff. I’m sure you’re familiar with the rules.
We’ve got two potential prizes waiting for you,
just behind those big ol’ curtains!
All you gotta do is…
_JUMP CUT TO AUDIENCE_
AUDIENCE
CHOOSE – YOUR – SIDE!!
More cheers and applause as the camera catches a few choice shots of extremely excited
looking spectators. These people are literally frothing at the mouth for this poo poo. A few of them
are even standing on their chairs, bouncing up and down. We perhaps get the impression their enthusiasm
is either exaggerated or affected by the influence of drugs or intoxication.
_CUT TO JEFF_
JEFF
Oh, wow. Uhm…
He’s wringing his hands, perspiration forming on his forehead. For a second his eyes appear to
roll back in his head, like he’s having a seizure. Then HOST claps him on the back with a huge grin
and he’s smiling again.
JEFF
I’m… Uh…
I’m gonna go for black!
HOST
HE PICKED BLACK!!
_CUT TO AUDIENCE SWEEP_
Once more we fly over the crowd. Everyone is out of their seats going crazy: cheering, screaming,
crying, ripping their clothes off. It’s like a human zoo out there, and the din is deafening. HOST
motions once more and everyone stops on a dime, returning to their seats and smiling serenely.
_CENTER SHOT ON STAGE_
_FOLLOW SEQUENCE PROMPTS_
HOST
Now let’s see what he’s giving up first, shall we?
The lovely Ms. Eyes, everyone!
This time the round of clapping is accented with a few wolf whistles and cat calls as ANGEL EYES
steps onto stage, dressed in a smashing tuxedo and top hat. She positions herself to the side of the
WHITE CURTAIN, next to a pulley, giving the camera a supermodel smile and a wink for good measure.
HOST
Ms. Eyes, the curtain please!
She pulls it back, revealing a pristine BLUE TRUCK. Positioned in the driver’s seat, hands duct-taped
to the wheel, is the headless torso of TACO. The corpse is not rigged very well, and as we watch
it slowly slumps over, its tattered neck smearing blood across the dashboard.
AUDIENCE
AWWW…
HOST
Oh dear! That’s… that’s too bad.
The camera FLASH CUTS to JEFF’S FACE, which bears a disappointed expression, though
his eyes have rolled back again and a thin string of drool is starting to run down his chin.
HOST
Now, now. No crying over spilt prizes!
Let’s see what our winner won! Ms. Eyes, the black curtain if you will?
ANGEL EYES swings her hips over to the BLACK CURTAIN and tugs on the rope mechanism,
revealing FAUSTINA, strapped to a giant wheel. She's been blindfolded and ball-gagged, and is
wearing nought else save a black, pointed cap. The wheel should look familiar to anyone with
knowledge of pre-apocalyptic TV game shows: there's a ring around the edges with pie-piece plates,
which are inscribed with red block-letters. We CUT IN for a closeup of said plates, and see the
characters spell out various instruments and methods of torture. Our camera CUTS TO AUDIENCE again,
as the rabble lets loose a roar of cheers, howls of laughter and more semi-riotous jostling; their
movements becoming increasingly jerky and spastic. JEFF rises from the chair steps towards FAUSTINA,
apparently in some sort of trance-state, the saliva spilling from his slack-jawed mouth starting to
develop a frothy, white appearance.
HOST
Congratulations to our WINNER!
Why don't you give her a spin, son?
JEFF moves forward mechanically, grasps the edge of the wheel with both hands and swings his
arms down hard, sending it and the attached girl into a violent spin. The noise of the crowd shrieking
and jeering becomes painfully loud to the point of being unbearable as the device picks up speed.
Faster, faster, faster...
When I regain consciousness I find myself leaning over the side of Black Betty's bed, dry heaving so hard I can hardly get a breath in. My stomach is on fire, twisting itself apart amid a hot wire tangle of ravaged nerves. For a few agonizing seconds (or maybe years), pain beyond the descriptive prowess of my vocabulary has its way with me; my highly developed brain reduced to sub-animal impulse. I can't think - I can't even blink out an SOS. Then, mercifully, it gradually fades into a deep-bone exhaustion. Whimpering involuntarily, I collapse against the warm metal under the rear window. My eyes focus slowly on the person lying before me, his shirt still sopping wet with blood. It's Jeff, and for a split second he's staring right back at me with those shifting brown/hazel eyes, already conscious again. My hand flies up to my mouth to stifle a high-pitched scream, smacking the smarty bit of the lip I bit earlier. Oh god. How the...?! A tsunami of memory crashes into my fish bowl mind: I tried to save him. His brain had turned against me, though probably on account of perfectly valid, biological motives. Took in a lot more than I expected to, but came back with a few things he definitely didn't want me to know. They were going to do exactly what my better sense had warned me against. And Jeff, that simpering bastard, he was totes going to go right along with it - enjoy it even! Holy poo poo. I really am a freaking lost cause. A dipshit with no self-preservation... Juck was right. God dammit. She was... A heavy jug of water slams into me, knocking the wind right back out again. I hear Knowles apologize in a harried manner that's not like her, which is what finally snaps me into reality: The shroomheads are coming, no doubt drawn in by the virtual firework finale of moronic gunfire. poo poo. Speaking of... I'm short a weapon! Jeff's curled up, not looking at me anymore (which suits me just fine). His glock is resting next to the wheel well where we left it, so I reach for it instinctively. My arm feels like a lead noodle, the firearm a handles like a sack of bricks tied to my wrist and a thick haze of lousy languor is wearing down on me full bear. Everything looks blurry and washed out. If I have to use this... well zombiechrist help us all. Behind me in the cab sits Trudy, who I can only imagine is responsible for saving my rear end. Her face is set with grim determination, but not a single hair looks out of place. Bless that beautiful woman! Hopefully she's got enough fight for the both of us... If anyone's good for making miracles out of clusterfucks it's Trudy-licious. Plus she's got Knowles jumping into shotgun next to her. Now if only this damned ride holds together for the trip... And it better, cause I don't fancy my chances on foot right now. Certainly would mean tough poo poo for Jeff, too. Can't say I'd be inclined to lend a hand after that little freakshow experience. If he makes it back, we'll see happens - just don't have the luxury to worry about him right now. I raise my head as best I can to purvey the scene. Mike, Angel and Juck are already tearing away with the bikers towards the old tracks. We're pretty much on our own save for that strange Deacon guy's troupe of space cadets. The Anathema? Something like that. They might be dead-cannibal chum unless they leave some of their crap behind. They have kids... poo poo. I hope they make it. Waves of fatigue crash against my weary eyelids; letting me know I still haven't fully recovered from the Touch. As I struggle to keep them open, I notice Raj and Sam trying to reach us. I remember hearing she was with child not too long ago. My feeble attempt to motion for them ends up looking more like a shrug. Doing my best to force sound out of my sore throat, I whimper meekly through the rear window at Trudy. “Wait... don't leave Sam...”
|
|
#
¿
May 7, 2014 05:52
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=3/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise Jeff-Brain posted:"What are you?" Right now? I'm freaking exhausted. Oh and you can get outta my head anytime, thanks. I'm never gonna get used to this weird Touch crap. Don't remember having the capacity to do my hands-thing (whatever it is) before Spore-Day. My father had been letting me read his books and teaching me things about medicine from a very early age, though. Lucius was a 2nd-generation Swedish immigrant, whose parents were also practitioners. They'd had to fight hard to carve out a place for themselves in the States, and their struggle instilled a sense of discipline in him. It wasn't long before he became one of the top surgeons in his specialty, going on to have a very lucrative career, which ensured my placement in the most prestigious, advanced academies for pre-highscool studies (where I took specialized courses focused on science and chemistry); and later science-based summer camps (which I was attending when the spore-poo poo exploded). My mother, Eva, was a French prima ballerina, whom my father had met on one of his lavish trips to Europe. She'd tried to drill me at dance; but though I have her looks, I've got my daddy's brains. To her chagrin, my interests were ground in academia, not twirly stuff. Might have even followed in his footsteps – by age nine I could already average scores over 1300 on the SAT. But then the Infection swallowed up those halcyon days, along with any hopes I might have had to impress them. At this moment, the only hope I have is that Jeff was the sole person besides Alpha Phi and Trudy who saw me, but I don't even have the time to worry about that. A veritable horde is fast approaching, shrieking their god-awful, thirsty wails at the skies. The inhuman screams have a way of piercing through your skull like an electric drill, a sensation made doubly jarring by my weakened psyche. Clamping my hands over my ears, I grimace at Jeff, loading the expression with plenty of STFU! As much as I'd like to give him a piece of my mind (figuratively), getting the hell outta K-Scratch is first on my list. Raj and Sam manage to hop in, along with Seedy Saul, his right hand Omar and some random dudes I don't know (probably just bullet-catchers for jerkoff). Sam's been by the college a few times: when she got preggers (word had gotten out that I'd successfully assisted delivery a few times); then again before and after her first trimester. We normally only get three kinds of traffic: bio-diesel buyers; injured idiots; and even dumber creeps who think we're ripe for the taking. Aguilera typically handles the latter pretty quickly. Sam's baby daddy had been one of those leathernecks from the 82nd. At first she wouldn't tell me where the abrasions came from, but I knew. After a bit of prodding, she finally opened up about his abusive bullshit, and I managed to convince her to dump him for the baby's sake. Raj came into the picture about a month later and put an end to Major Rich's stalking. (You can probably suss out our nick for the pseudo-military turd.) I guess you could say she and I are friends, though I try to keep the relationship mostly professional, because well... considering she'll likely be putting her life in my hands soon... it's just better that way. Unfortunately, my involvement probably means we haven't seen the last of Major Dick and his camo-tards. Squeezing her hand back, I put on a brave smile. “It's alright, it's just a bruise, and I'm a little shaken is all. Don't worry, we should make it back to-” *pop-pop-pop-BANG* ooooohhhhhh gently caress. Yeah. Hold that thought. “poo poo! Trudy, tell me that's not what I think it was.” It was. And suddenly we've got a herd of Bloomers peeling off from the main lot and tear-assing right for us. Over a dozen fungus-ridden, pustulated ex-humans with nothing running though their lizard brains except an insatiable taste for rending living flesh. Right on queue, the scumbags we picked up hop over the sides and split for the nearest exit – no surprise there, really. In his haste though, Saul forgets his pack, which looks like it might be bulging with just the sort of thing we came for: ammo and water. That's gonna do three dead women a whole world of good! What the hell are we gonna do?! I'm already spent... We gotta book it quick, and I don't think I'm up to the task. Jeff definitely isn't sprinting anywhere (in some sick, deluded corner of my mind I kinda feel responsible for him, even if he's a monster like his brother was). And I can't ask Raj to help carry me along, he's got Sam to look after. Trudy and Knowles are gonna have to be lugging whatever supplies they can manage, as well as blasting a path through fields of riled-up zombie-things. It's hopeless. Might as well punch our own ticket and save the others some trouble. ...then I feel Sam's fingers tighten over mine, so hard it snaps me out of panic-mode. She's scared, but not just for herself – her vice grip has that raw, desperate strength of a protective mother. There's not much left in this world worth fighting for, but I have a soft spot for children. Even un-born ones. The skin at the back of my neck prickles and another option surfaces: hold them off until folks can escape. gently caress me. I'm not long for this world, that's for sure. Was always going to be bandits or zombies, anyways. Not too many Mikes out there anymore. Oh well... young blood runs quicker. Grabbing hold of the rear window ledge, I push myself up on unsteady knees. “Give Saul's pack to Raj and haul rear end with him to the college, okay? Don't look back. Remember: Deliveries are easy. Just make sure you have lots of hot water, plenty of clean towels and breathe like I showed you. You're healthy; stay that way and you'll be a very happy Mommy in about six months.” I wink at Sam and pull away before she can stop me, swinging over the side and plopping down onto the crisp grass. Immediately I stagger, almost tripping over my own feet before I grab hold of the bumper for support. Doubled over, I look up at Raj (who's still got a deathgrip on the gate, gawking wide-eyed at the encroaching shroomheads) and snap my fingers loudly, “Hey! Get her out of here!” A moment passes and my legs realize that yes I'm really gonna do this. They hold me up. I holler at Knowles and Trudy over the insufferable cries of the Screamers, "GET OUR poo poo, THEN GET MY BACK!" Then my arms make it up to eye level and I'm staring down the sights of Jeff's compact .45, sucking in my breath as best I can, making a little snowman of the beads and squaring them right under the fugly faces of these mutated motherfuckers. I don't hear you now! I won't listen!! A culmination of idiocy (SBF): 2d6-1 3  hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 14:00 on May 10, 2014 |
|
#
¿
May 9, 2014 10:36
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle Watching the mob of slavering, fungus-crusted ghouls stampede towards me over the lush fields surrounding K-Scratch was like being encapsulated in my own private dreamscape. There I was, facing death all devil-may-care like some forgotten warrior princess in one of those history books I so prized. The enemy horde crashing through our defenses even as my shots steadily culled their numbers; climbing over the piles of fallen vanguard; battle criers bellowing a primal warsong and striking their shields; hearts pounding against their chests with each hateful breath, my name a molten curse on their lips, quenched only by blood. Drink of me demons! Suffer and swallow both sword and hand! In reality, I barely hit poo poo. Shrieking along with the furious freaks, I manage to perforate a few of them; pairs of the bullets passing entirely through splitting, pestilent flesh and punching out the other side, causing small poofs of bursting fungal flakes which caught sunlight like little clouds of golden dust. Then the swarm overcame me, and I was tossed to the dirt once more amidst a fray of flailing limbs and gnashing gums. Spinning, my small frame windmills for a second in midair before the biggest oaf slams into my torso, stomping on my foot and clamping his rotted maw down over my slender shoulder. Our combined momentum makes for a not-so-graceful meeting with the earth, upon which my ever-analytical brain isolates two very distinct flashpoints of trauma before a new torrent of pain temporarily paralyzes rationality altogether: a stiffening flare from my ankle; and a sharper, thudding stab of agony from the bitten shoulder. The force of our impact against the ground jars the creature’s jaws enough to free my arm, but that isn’t the only thing that comes loose. I could feel my humerus rolling forward out of its socket as the post-human fiend bore down on me, now pinning my body under its growth-ridden bulk while the others advance upon our group. A sulfurous funk fills my nostrils, something between a rotting corpse and stale manure. A giddy, pain-sick portion of my thoughts do not miss the irony. When next I rise from this fateful patch of grass I myself shall be little more than walking fertilizer with teeth (if there’s anything left of me at all). I wait for the first set of splintered incisors to break skin, too hurt and helpless to protest. But that fatal moment is delayed as Knowles evaporates the shroomhead’s dried-up dome with a well-placed bit of buckshot. Next thing I know I’m being heaved up and pulled back towards the truck courtesy of the Alpha Phi matriarch. Sam is with her, grabbing me by my good arm (which miraculously still holds the Glock) and trying to simultaneously slam another magazine into my borrowed weapon. Upon seeing she’s opted to remain with our imperiled party, I make a measly “urk” of protest that’s quickly swallowed by a hurricane of hurt. My right ankle is not taking weight very well and is most likely sprained. There’s a desperate moment where all three of us are almost wholly engulfed by this pack of frothing bloomers; kicking, punching and shoving our way around to the front of Betty, doing our best to fend off the deadly bites for what dismal chance we may have. They surge forward against our flurry of blows, and Knowles shrugs one of them off, swinging her shotty into the fleshless chin of another with the frenzied vigor of a pissed off Mama Bear. Unfortunately, her elbow connects with my sternum on the follow-through, sending me flailing backwards through the open side door and into the backseat of the cab. There’s no time to come to terms with just how badly I’m hosed up. Squinting through a haze of disorienting anguish, I notice one of the spore-people (a gangly ex-lady in a faded, ichor-stained One Direction t-shirt) has Sam in a strangle hold and is attempting to fit the entire circumference of the pregnant woman’s throat into her grossly distended mouth. Grimacing, I push myself up using the cup-holder between the seats and slam the butt of Jeff’s .45 against the headrest of the driver’s chair, fully seating the magazine. *Click. BLAM!-BLAM!-BLAM!* The shots tear through hell-groupie’s messed up mug, the last round extirpating it’s forehead in another explosive cough of shroom dust and meat-matter. Sam is freed and falls into the passenger seat, shaking off the blasted abortion of nature. My eardrums take a sound thrashing thanks to the cabin’s cramped acoustics, but over the angry ringing I hear another scream, and turn to see our sorority leader staggering just outside. Knowles is hammering away at the skull of a downed sacface that’s entangled itself between her legs, trying to chomp through her jeans like corn on the cob. She doesn’t see the hulking ex-dude in a tattered sports jersey before it’s too late. I pump as many rounds I can through the big ‘27’ on his chest before he slams her into the side of Betty with a sickening *crunch*. They collapse together in a heap beneath the bed and go still. “…Knowles?!” Sweat is running down my face and causing the much disheveled university dress to stick against my clammy skin underneath. Maybe it’s the pain, or the sheer food-chain fear, or the greenhouse effect inside the cabin, but I can hardly breathe. Knowles doesn’t respond. Then I notice something else: the shroomheads have stopped coming. They’re just hovering a few feet away from the truck, surrounding it on all sides. At first glance it looks like they’re just waiting to tear open the truck and suck us down like canned sardines, then a few seconds pass and it’s more like they’ve suddenly become confused or disoriented; staring at us one moment, then shuffling about the next, bumping into each other mindlessly. I’ve never seen anything like it. Sweet-shiitake-shitlords. They… they stopped? The pause is all my shoulder needs to push through the adrenaline and kick my rear end. “Uhnnn!!” I grasp at it gingerly, gritting my teeth. It needs attention right now, and I can’t wait to find out if the zombies are gonna change their minds about dinner. My duffle bag of medical supplies is lying at my feet on the floorboard, where I left it when we first arrived about three hours ago (though it truly feels like we’ve been here all day). I hastily jerk the zipper aside and grab for what I’ll need: some medical tape, a small foam pillow and a cloth. Anterior dislocation. Need to fashion an external rotation sling. Remember your notes: Secure wrist; flex arm at the shoulder joint with elbow extended, then rotate. I look longingly at the package of chillstabs Quincy helped me work up. No. We can’t afford to pass out right now! This is really going to hurt. Cursing under my breath in hot, panting gasps I manage to get my arm into position, holding my wrist out to Trudy. “Quick… while they’re distracted! Hold my wrist steady!” Now. Rotate. I wait for her to grab hold, then twist my body sharply at the proper angle. A sucky resocketing (Angel Kit): 2d6+2 = 11 Angel Kit: 4/6 *snap* “FUUUUUCCCCKKKK!!!! AHAHAHAshhhhh” Shut up, it’s in. Pillow in place. Sling it. Tape it. Good girl. It wasn’t perfect, but it would hold for now. My own emergency sorted, I stared out of the partially fogged-up window from my seat behind Trudy. The shroom-creeps were still there, milling about in an odd stupor. Jeff (who’s in the truck bed with Raj) wants to know what’s going on. Get in line, rear end in a top hat. I knock on the rear window to get his attention, “Don’t shoot just yet. Let’s wait for a clear path to open up, then waste these fuckers and try to sneak out.” But would there be a clearing? A lovely sitch (Readin it!): 2d6+2 = 6 My eyes glaze over and my head rolls forward, smacking against the glass. I can’t focus, too much ouch. “Knowles! Are you okay? Answer me, please!” hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 23:39 on May 11, 2014 |
|
#
¿
May 11, 2014 21:36
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=9:00 | Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle “Okay… okay! Don’t panic.” Don’t panic. We’re surrounded by a sea of sacheads, trapped in a dead truck with no way out and now Knowles has a goddamn bite. But don’t freakingfucking panic! Any fleeting relief having been usurped once more by the usual dread, I wearily push myself back up to a sitting position, craning my neck to look through the window at her injury. It didn’t look deep, which was hopeful, but even scratches caused by spore hosts could not be reliably contained following standardized procedures. It was a coin toss as to whether treatment with antiseptics would effectively neutralize the spread of infection. “You can put that down, Raj. Here.” I chuck him the Glock; won’t be able to handle it one-handed anyways, and this sling is gonna be on for at least a few days. “Give that to Jeff in case these shroom-fucks come to their senses. Then give me a hand, kay?” With a series of labored grunts, I grab my kit and scoot painfully up the seat until my head and shoulders clear the rear window. Biting my tongue against stabbing, shoulder-based excruciations, I wriggle my hips along the upholstery to assist their efforts as they pull me backwards through the opening and into the bed. A cursory glance at my friend's wound confirms it’s purely superficial. All I can really do is give it a good alcohol scrub, apply a packed dressing and pray for the best. Maybe a poultice of some variety would be nice (if I wanted to go all holistic), but for that we'd have to get back to the college for some goat milk. Time for you to return the favor, Ethel ol' girl. Knowles is doing her best to be brave for us, but I can tell she’s shaken. There’s not much that can phase the woman who single-handedly carved out a place for her sisters during the much embattled history of Appleworth University. After S-Day, the campus had been a hotspot for looters and nasty bangers. Anyone who survived the drones that didn’t barricade themselves inside the crumbling, deathtrap buildings were either brutalized by nefarious human forces, overrun by the hordes or otherwise overcome with Infection. And most of those who did successfully isolate themselves from our rapidly disintegrating society found nothing waiting for them save a life of tortured solitude, wrought with madness and slow starvation. The story I heard (though it does seem to change slightly depending on who’s telling it) was that Knowles was an ROTC cadet who hung out with the Alpha Phi’s because she was dating one of the sisters. During the initial outbreak, it was her training that spared many of the sorority members (though only roughly half ultimately survived). She taught them to shoot, how to hunt and how to fight tactically if they had to defend themselves. Her fling didn’t make it, but she kept on, stubbornly protecting the women until they came to call her their own. These days AP rules what’s left standing of the largely decimated campus. At one time there were some holdouts left over: survivors from the sprawling Arts & Science complex (including the great, late Quincy) that the women took in, which is how the development of our biodiesel recipe came to fruition. Now, thanks to scummy chucklefucks like Juck, even those folks are gone. The group has gotten stronger, but the loss of Knowles would be devastating. Though most people would rather lop off a jeopardized limb than look at it, I had to try and take what preventative measures I could to spare her. Trudy’s revelation interrupts my concentration as my brain tries to parse what she’s saying. “Wait… hold on. You caused this?!” Her solemn, steady expression is all I need to verify the claim. She’s just not the lying sort; compulsive, maybe, but honest. The bottle of high proof whiskey I pulled from my bag makes a pit stop at my lips first – officially writing myself a mental prescription for a few shots. No poo poo. So I’m not the only one equipped with loving strange faculties? Trudy was only odd in an endearing sort of way; I’d never have suspected she was capable of something so freakishly powerful. Was she emitting some new kind of pheromone that repelled spore fuckers? I couldn’t explain my own weird crap, so I had no hope of rationalizing hers. Nope. *slurp* Not a chance. “We'll talk about that later, yeah? Whatever you're doing, keep freaking doing it. Nobody touch a drat thing. Trudy, remember when Quincy gave you that brown bottle to hold onto when you were trying to help me come up with something we could mix into detergent? Didn't you try to use it the other day on the seats in this thing? Please tell me you left it in the glove box or something.”
|
|
#
¿
May 14, 2014 00:40
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=5/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle Knowles posted:"Trudy? 'Tina? You're goddamn miracle workers.” The smirk on my lips probably comes off more like a pained sneer as I shake my head at her, wiping my hand off on one of the spare rags from my kit. “The real miracle is that you didn't get bitten any worse. Any closer to the bone and I'd have had to do a cauterized amputation, which for all we know might have sent these shamblers into a frenzy; 'barrier' or not. I suppose we had this coming, trying to push Betty for as long as we did without taking her to Mike's. What a freaking mess.” I look at the blood crusting under my fingernails. This time it was good blood, from someone who survived. It wasn't easy doing spot incisions on the fly, not to mention one-handed. Still, the true heroine of the day was Trudy. Without her doing her thing we'd all be dead. I manage to smile nervously at Sam as she takes our hands. The shroom-creeps are slowly backing away, one by one, seemingly losing interest in us. Judging by their steady migration towards the ranch proper, we should soon be able to sneak away while their backs are turned. These trips just keep getting more bizarre. Next time someone else can drat well go. “Let's start hoofing it quickly back to campus as soon as a path opens up. It might be awhile before they get this place cleared out again, so don't forget our supplies. Everyone carries jugs, okay?” I look pointedly at Jeff. “I don't know what your deal is, or what your plans are, but you should come with us so I can watch over you for at least a few days. The worst of your wound is healed, but you're gonna need plenty of rest to recover properly.” Scooting slowly backwards on my butt (afraid to make too much movement with the zoned-out walkers still at large) I make my way towards the tail gate, where there's a long dirt hoe shoved against the side of the bed that I use to tend my tobacco crop. The pole is just slender enough to push through the plastic handles of our well-filled containers, and I fit as many on it as I can. “Jeff and I will get these, so I can help with my good arm. Maybe you can fix everyone up a bit to eat when we get back, Trudy? I think there's still a good bit of rice left. I'd help, but I think I'd better start preping the Atrium for some injured visitors. Something tells me we aren't the only ones walking away today with a few scrapes.” She totes doesn't want my help in the kitchen. With the jugs ready to go, I slide back to the rear window and double check Knowles' dressing. poo poo. Most of us shouldn't even be trying to walk. This should hold up well enough for the hike, though. It would have to. Offering my pack to anyone who's interested, I light up. Blowing smoke rings up over my head absently, I make a half-hearted wave to Perry, who seems to have made it to the roof. She'll be in for a very long night, but that was her decision. Love is a risk afforded by few these days. One second you're having a piece of hot and heavy heaven in a cozy little shed, and the next you're stranded and starving on a rickety roof, trying to decide which part of your lover would be the most filling. Look at Raj and Sam, though. They're doing alright. My thoughts drift back to the pregnant woman in the cab behind me. More than anything I want to help her bring something worthwhile into this world - it's those kind of things that keep me going. The haze of fatigue crawls over my mind and control briefly slips; tendrils of curiosity reaching out through unknown, extra-dimensional space. Psychic Sonogram (Open Brain): 2d6+1 = 7
hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 00:50 on May 16, 2014 |
|
#
¿
May 15, 2014 23:14
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle “… Can it wait one second? We’re in the middle of lunch rush, you idiot. And I need more plasticware up front, thanks.” -click- “*Ahem* Auntie Sam’s Kitchen: ‘We got one in the oven’! How may I help you?” Faustina rolls her eyes at the incomprehensible string of gurgles that comes through her headphones. Outside her drive-thru window a line of shroomheads is growing longer by the minute, wrapping itself around the building. They shuffle their feet slowly, bumping into each other, stomping over the fallen and generally exhibiting poor queuing etiquette. She shakes her head at the chaos displayed on a little monitor over her cash register and growls into her headset at the ‘customer’. “Just give your order to the first window and move along, okay? Thank you. -click- loving zombies. Might as well be illiterate for all the English language is worth around here. Why can’t they get past the ‘grunting’ stage of development?” She makes the fakest smile she possibly can as she pushes a paper bag polka-dotted with slimy grease stains through the window at a waiting sachead. “That’s pretty racist. Over.”, Jeff’s smarmy voice reprimands her the over the kitchen line. Angrily slinging a wad of napkins like confetti at the undead patron outside (it doesn’t pay any attention, being too occupied with shoving its face into the sack that fell on the ground), Faustina snaps back, “I thought I told you to stay off the service channel? Also, being a regurgitated abomination of nature does not count as a ‘race’. And you don’t have to say ‘over’. This is fast-freaking-food not a special forces assault or whatever.” “Roger. Chef Jeff out.” Chef my butt. You’re just nuking pre-cooked… wait. What are we serving again? “It’s a boy!” Manager Trudy’s voice belts out brightly through a loudspeaker overhead, followed by a pre-recorded applause track. Faustina dutifully claps along with other, unseen employees, and soon the concern has left her face again. Eh. Oh well, can’t remember. “-click- Auntie Sam’s…” “Sorry, Miss. Janky Juck’s Garbage Guys here. Did someone order a Queue Clean Up?” Faustie checks the monitor - it’s Partridge, waving stupidly at the camera. “-click- Hi, Partridge. Yeah, we got backed up again. Can you guys clear out the stragglers? Thanks, we’re swamped.” She tosses another sack out of the window; more spore-fuckers dog-pile on top of it. After a moment the beeping sound of a large vehicle backing up is heard, followed by Dog Head shouting: “Just back right over ‘em! We’ll scrape up the rest. No-..NO DIPSHIT TURN THE WHEEL LEFT-“ “Chef to Shorty. Chef to Shorty. Come in Shor-“ Faustina cuts him off, slamming her palm against the counter, “Spit it out, rear end in a top hat! You know you could just walk out here and talk to me. It’s not like you’re in a loving bunker somewhere.” She glances furiously over her shoulder at the door to the kitchen not fifteen yards behind her. ‘Chef’ Jeff sounds oblivious, “Roger. God, I am insanely hungry.” A long silence hangs in the air, and we’re treated to some background noise: the bone-crunching symphony of hundreds of zombies being crammed into a trash compactor outside. Finally, ‘Shorty’ gathers the mental strength to respond, “You’re in a kitchen, you insufferable defect.” “True, but who wants to eat [REDACTED]? Th-thanks again.” …What? ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Jeff posted:I just, y’know, appreciate it. My head clears of a very lucid daydream and I almost trip over my feet again in start, causing my ankle to scream in protest. Ow, poo poo! drat. I gotta get some rest. In the end I wasn’t able to handle the pole, so I’d traded with Raj for a couple loose jugs. Luckily I’d found a collapsible crutch in my kit, so walking wasn’t impossibly excruciating, I just had to be very careful. Jeff was talking at me again. Awkward. Time to spell things out for him. “You really think we’re going back for your friends after that poo poo you tried to pull? Here's how it's going down: I'm gonna watch you, like a hawk, for a few days; just to make sure you're not crapping out bits of your stomach or anything. Don't worry, we'll find plenty of ways for you to sing for your supper. Then you're leaving, period. And if you decide to keep running with that pack of sub-human skidmarks you can forget about coming back. Ever. Not even if you do something stupid like try to get vengeance. Your brother was a stinking piece of poo poo who got scratched by a slightly less odorous piece of poo poo. gently caress him and gently caress you for following along. If I had known...” I swallow hard. “Knowles if this guy so much as makes a crooked hiccup, feel free to put your foot so far up his rear end he'll need a second stomach.” I guess it would technically be his third. “Then kick it to the curb.” Not my most lighthearted speech, but I've had a hell of a day. If Jeff has any measure of intelligence buried deep within his little ape brain, he'll be grateful I'm not dredging up past excursions with Taco's crew. Were they to find out, Alpha Phi would probably try to stage a role-reversed reenactment, then string up his balls for use as a speedbag. I keep hobbling along until a huge, ominous dust cloud appears up ahead, punctuated by the grating drone of many bikes. I'm about to limp into the woods with the others when I see Mike's truck. It looks pretty dinged up with plenty of new ventilation to spare. Fortunately, I can see that frightening mask in the driver's seat, so he's not dead yet. His baby's taken some nasty licks. I'd better check to see if the man inside fared any better. Sam makes a good point as well. Any opportunity to get back in the Infirmary quicker is a chance I'm willing to gamble on. Plus, Mike's their buddy or whatever now. He won't let anything happen. ...right? Despite the howling, bloodthirsty cries from Juck's Fucks, I remain standing where I am. Waving my good arm in the air, I shout over the din, trying to flag down Big Mike. (And also trying very hard not to look scared.) “Hey, Mike! You okay? These boyscouts give you a patch yet? We could use a ride!” * * * StringOfLetters posted:What is the maelstrom? It's them. Some kind of psycho-gently caress hivemind netting that hovers on the edge of our subconscious, ready to suck you in the second your grip slackens. Memories, dreams, even emotions; anything that was and everything that should not be - the 'maelstrom' is a glistening paradise, or (more often in my case) a swirling hellscape that floods the mind. It all comes from the endless sea of sporeheads. Ever since they effortlessly bumped us off of the previously undisputed throne of the animal kingdom, those things have been after our brains as well. I'm convinced if you let yourself get pulled too far in you'll turn just as if you were bitten. It's an indescribable, freakishly powerful, terribly frightening omni-everything. One day it will take me. hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 01:42 on May 18, 2014 |
|
#
¿
May 18, 2014 01:05
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle I follow Mike’s eyes back to the bed of his truck, which already has about an inch of blood sloshing through little tributaries of creased blue metal. Dark puddles collect near the rear at the tail gate, while excess volume seeps out over the bumper and pools in the dirt below. The more chewed-up members of the biker outfit have been chucked back there it seems, Juck included. The leader of the pack (who mere hours ago seemed so fearsome and untouchable) looks like someone tried to grate her face over a salad. Her arm, once so lean and strong-looking, is in ribbons, hanging limply at her side. From what I can see it’s been mangled by several punctures and deep lacerations. Tendons can be remarkably pliable, but she’s likely facing irreparable nerve damage. It’s not unsalvageable, but it needs attention immediately. Another of her guys Dog Head? How do I know his name… is missing most of his ear – also a case where treatment against infection could spell the difference between minor disfigurement or complete hearing loss. Another lady Jean.. or Jane something got the worst of it, though. It’s hard to tell without removing some clothing, but it appears she’s sustained multiple gunshot wounds, and is probably responsible for turning Baby Blue’s bed into a sticky punch bowl. That’s a lot of freaking blood. She’s gonna die soon. There might not be much we can do except… Also among them sits Angel Eyes, that creepily unflappable model-cum-killer (or whatever she is). Out of all the cutthroats on parade here she unsettles me the most. Her perfect bone structure, perfect figure perfectly filling that ahh-maze-ing outfit!, her calculated, deadly smile – she’d look far more convincing as a pageant contestant than an ice-cold hit-woman. How do you look like that and just bounce carelessly between savage groups of thugs like these? It seemed highly implausible, and yet here she was, like some character straight out of a comic book. More than that though, I just have this awful sensation whenever I see her; this uncanny sense of dread. It’s hard to describe: Like two magnetized objects passing in the night, just shy of a dipole-esque particle spin. A few unsettled electrons swapping places; a pair of blind partners performing a brief two-step without touching, then being whisked away into the crowds again unawares. Mike’s weathered face looks back at me earnestly. Those are some hard lines he’s earned, and my rational side suggests I’d do well to head his advice. There’s something funny about him as well, though not quite in the same way. You felt like you could trust the man implicitly, and that’s something I couldn’t say about anyone else I knew, save possibly Trudy. The Big Man was like, literally never wrong either, so there’s that as well. Regardless of these facts, I’m emotionally torn. The ‘doctor’ part of me is already analyzing the scene, working out the most effective procedures and orders of operation, but… They killed Quincy. I’m not certain how it happened, I wasn’t there. Bystanders confirmed the round had come from her troupe of wolves, but no one knew who shot or why. Maybe they were trying to hit someone else. Maybe there’s more to the story than what I’ve heard. Or maybe they’re actually just scum-of-the-earth road dogs who couldn’t give a gently caress less who they put down. She had been right about Taco. She might have saved me from an unspeakable fate. …Whatever. She might have tried the same thing if she’d thought of it first. But she… has a ‘soft spot’ for me? Where the hell did Mike get that from? Absently rubbing at my bruised neck, I shy away from Partridge’s glare. “Alright, Mike. If you’ll take us back to Appleworth I’ll see what I can do for your cargo.” I keep my eyes trained on the mechanic’s, but let my voice carry loud enough for the ravaged rat pack to hear. “I’ll need whatever medical supplies they have up front. After that, we could use some of their ammo, whatever caliber will fit what we have. Knowles can sort that out along with the rest of our standard fee when we get back. They need to make up their minds quickly, though. Some folks back there don’t have much time for debate.” I’m familiar with their makeshift-medic, Dez. He’s got his own kit that he lugs around, but looking at the damage we’re dealing with he’s well out of his depth here. My own supplies are already starting to dwindle thanks to the consequences of this little hosed up field trip. Lastly, I turn to Angel Eyes. She got Mike through what looks like a drat rough scrape. If we’re going to be housing these sociopaths… some additional protection might be a wise move. Even if she creeps me out. There’s no time to give it much thought, so I hope I’m making the right decision. There’s never enough time when you need it. gently caress it. It’s probably trouble either way. Here we go again! “Hey, ‘Angel’? If you’re not busy… I mean… I don’t have much, but you look like someone who cares about their appearance? If you’ll… uhm… stick around? I can make it worth your while. Does that sound, okay?” No, it sounded awkward as hell. * * * [I’m asking for 1-barter up front from Dez’s med kit, which I’ll automatically convert to 2-Angel kit stock per the rules. If they agree, I’ll want an additional 1-barter as payment for services rendered, which can be settled next session if need be! MC, please let me know if the situation warrants a Manipulate roll. (It’s a pretty dire bargain, so I’m not sure.) Also offering Angel Eyes my 1-barter of ~fancy scented soap~ to play bodyguard/babysitter again.]
|
|
#
¿
May 18, 2014 18:18
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle What, now she's some sort of genie? This morning I never would have seen myself asking someone as brash and careless with violence for help, but there it was. Right now, my wish is that I'd begged Spears or Stefani go on this trip in my place. But in this explosive, shattered civilization there's really only one constant you can factor in with any certainty – as Knowles often puts it: “poo poo gon' happen.” Perhaps in light of recent scrapes, building professional relationships with these salt-of-the-earth muscle-types (or at least non-torture-loving-sadist muscle that would honor mutually beneficial business dealings) wasn't such a horrible idea after all. So yeah. Welcome aboard Angel Eyes, you crazy death wish junkie. We're so gonna regret this. “Alright, then. I’ll see what can be done for your partner. We can talk about my hopes and dreams later, gotta do my  'doctor thing' .” I nod at the young guy in the silk dress, “Nice number, there. We’ll take a look at your tootsies once we get back to campus. Just sit tight and try to keep 'em out of the blood and motor oil.”While Trudy chats with our new temp. security, I listen to Partridge's offer. At this point, I'm just thankful he didn't decide to punctuate his syllables with clotheslines again. The world is starting to take on this grey hue, and I have to shake my head against it. I'm fading fast, and if I don't move to help Juck and Jean-girl soon at least one of them will be dozing under the daisies before we make it home. Haggling has to wait. I nod hurriedly and try to meet his eyes for a moment without flinching. He's not going to hit us again. Just chill. God, I'm horrible at this negotiating crap. “Okay, fine. Talk to Knowles there, she'll lay out the ground rules. Have anyone who's not too hosed up get on a bike or whatever, I'll need some room back there. Two of them can’t wait any longer.” Spinning on my heels, I clamber as quickly into the truck bed as my own injuries will allow, swatting at people to move aside. Both patients look semi-conscious, but Juck can afford to wait a moment while I try to stabilize her associate. I reach ‘Jean’ and gently guide her by the shoulder until she’s flat on her back, speaking loudly into her ear, “If you can hear me, just try to relax and stay as still as you can. We’re gonna have to cut away some clothes, okay? I’m also going to give you something to help with the pain.” I pull my arm gingerly out of the sling; Knowles was difficult enough, there’s no way I can treat this kind of trauma with a hand tied up. Gathering all available stock together, I motion for Dez to assist me in securing the woman. We manage to hastily fashion a rough stretcher using a piece of plywood and some tires and guide her gently onto it. Using a blade from my kit, I cut away her dingy leather and denim, instructing him on how to cleanse and prep the wounds while I administer a chillstab and retrieve my voice recorder. It’s a prized piece of equipment I usually reserve for my logs, or keeping notes regarding complex surgeries (permanently on loan from the late Quincy). The cold, clinical side of me takes over and I block out my own pain, hands getting steadier. “Patient Jean, pre-surgical. Single wound identified over the left chest just inferior to the clavicle with what looks like a primary bullet fragment in the midline of the neck. Two additional wounds identified on the left thigh with active bleeding at the site. Administering bolus. Hypertonic combine. Suspect partial femoral effusion. Will apply tourniquet above sartorius.” I turn back to Dez, “Hey, ever done a saline burst before?” Stabilizing Jean-whatsherface (Angel Kit): 2d6+2+1 (Mike Bonus) = 14 Angel Kit: 3/6 Despite the blood loss, she seems to respond decently to treatment. Her pulse holds up. Thank gently caress. We might just get her back in time to hook up some proper support. The Atrium was equipped with a few systems Quincy and I were able to get running on one of the generators. The set up was janky as hell, but served in a pinch if I was faced with delicate procedures like this. “Dez, make sure she’s secure, okay? Just keep pumping that bag like I showed you.” Turning to face the leader of the gang, I tried to prepare myself for what I knew must be done. Between us, Dez and I didn’t have the materials necessary to repair Juck’s perforated appendage. Her already scarred face was swollen with abrasions and her fierce, dark eyes were starting to roll back. She would be going into shock soon unless I acted quickly, and I just couldn’t handle two ICUs at once. I place my left palm over her butchered arm and spread my right hand across her face, taking a few deep breaths and trying to ‘feel’ for that strange energy. “Hey, Angel Eyes. I might not be able to handle this part. If I go out there’s some salts in my duffel bag that should bring me ‘round. Do whatever’s necessary to wake me back up, alright?” Heat builds from the points where I’m touching Juck, flaring suddenly into a searing agony, shooting up my arms and into my head. Someone’s screaming… Aedificabo Brachio (Healing touch on Juck): 2d6+1+1 (Mike Bonus) = 4 welp 
|
|
#
¿
May 19, 2014 17:32
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Fatigue=9:00 | Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle The body flops like a dead fish on the table, writhing under my hands, ribs cracking like brittle twigs as I thrust my weight forward into the chest compressions. I'd been administering CPR on the lady for thirty solid minutes but she kept slipping in and out. Just outside the trailer home Knowles was frantically pacing back and forth, wringing her hands and cursing so manically it would have made even Saul flinch. After all, I was trying to save her lover, Left Eye. I'd only ever seen Lefty emerge from her mold-caked, wheel-bare abode when she was trying to score dope from her La Familia friends. She was known as a junky and a nutty sociophobe, and not much else. I had no idea what the Alpha Phi matron saw in her. We'd come over for a visit on this particular day and found her unconscious, which wasn't too surprising; only this time she'd had an empty bottle of some sort of stove cleaner lying next to her. Knowles was hyperventilating and completely flipping out, so I'd asked the rather soft-headed Spears and panicky Perry to escort her outdoors so I could work (both of whom had driven over with us to the Familia 'compound'). After a half hour of failed attempts at resuscitation, I knew there was only one chance for me to save the suicidal burnout. I positioned my hands over her stomach and let the invasive psychic miasma flow through me and into her. There was a flash, and suddenly I was with her, reliving a memory: A blade soaked in a terrifying coat of red; a man dangling a stringy, pulpy bit of flesh in our face (with a bulbous white object at the end); the naked fear of his threat – that he'd take the other eye if we didn't tell him what he wanted to hear; the bitter despair of guilty submission – we relent and divulge our secret. About where the kid is hiding. It's a small boy, our son. His child as well. And this evil man, he's done things to the little one. Unspeakable things. I don't want to know, but its forced into my mind. Hot acids spew up from my twisting guts like a hot geyser. We gave him up because we couldn't take the pain. We couldn't bear the suffering. We failed him, and now this monster was going to take Matthew away... Anger fills me and floods my veins like molten adrenaline. Left Eye's life is right there, in my hands. All I have to do is pull back into the world and Knowles will have her again. But for the first and only time, I don't. I let her go. ~ ~ ~ Back in the world again... or am I? Getting hard to tell anymore. The truck careens off of a sharp rise in the road, then seems to right itself mid-air, landing smoothly. Some far corner of my mind marvels at Mike's uncanny skill. Shameful visions burning at my eyes. The tears wont stop. We lied to Knowles about it. Told her we couldn't save her beau. But I could have - my rage wouldn't let me. That's something I've carried with me every single day; every time I see my reflection it haunts my soul. Juck's eyes seem to focus on mine for a split second, then loll back again with another whip of the tail bed. Mike wheels the vehicle around like a demon, and in that suit he might well be one. He's doing his part, now lets do ours. Renewing my grasp with grim determination, I dive in once more, pushing myself harder than ever before. I won't let go again. Aedificabo Brachio Redux: 2d6+1 (+1 Assist)(+1 Telepathic Truck Connection?!) = 7 Act Under Fire From Juck's Brain (+Mike assist): 2d6 = 5 it's not been a good day for me hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 06:02 on May 21, 2014 |
|
#
¿
May 21, 2014 05:38
|
|
|
Barter=0 | Exp=0/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm seshII soundtrack  >>Recording from Faustina's Journal<<~ “What ya up to there, lil' sis?” Swift's voice coming from behind startles me and I almost drop the recorder - the arm flares up and my reaction is sluggish. (The injury healed enough for me to take it out of the sling, but it's still quite stiff and smarty.) Fortunately she's there to make the catch before it hits the hard cement floor of the lab. I hastily turn away and wipe at the tears burning my cheeks. “N-nothing. Just making some notes for the latest batch. Why? Something wrong?” She furrows her brow, obviously seeing through my failed attempt at hiding distress, but lets it go. “Actually, yeah. Sorry to bother you.” She sets the recorder down on a nearby table. Thank god. That poo poo's embarrassing. “A couple visitors from La Familia came in just now. Guess there was some kind of skirmish out their way. Cheebs got clipped in the shoulder and had one go right through his foot. We should be able to just scrub and sew the shoulder, but you probably want to take a look at his tootsie. He's already soaked up a good deal of booze, so we can keep the painkillers locked away. Mega is here with him.” “gently caress.” Mega is a misogynistic rear end in a top hat. He seems to hold the notion that the only functional societies are Patriarchies, and yet the man's not good for much but smoking up his supply and wasting fuel spinning out doughnuts in the Familia's ATV. Needless to say, he's not happy with how his own organization is being run, and has dropped heavy implications on more than one occasion regarding his desire to help 'manage' the sorority business. Though if he had his druthers, we'd be doing an altogether different line of work. I sigh, looking at my unfinished batch of soap awaiting the mixing process. I'd been hoping to get it wrapped up by this evening, but with patients in the Atrium that no longer seemed likely. “Okay. With Aguilera and Stefani off at Mike's Garage today, we'll need to fill in on the watch.” Swift nods, “Knowles has Cyrus and Spears perched on the roof again. She's busy looking into something at the farm right now. Looks like its just you and me, lil' sis!” The scowl on my face deepens. Neither of those two are what I'd call vigilant. Spears is an oafish space-case who often claims to see very weird things in the trees that speak to her. She insists they aren't sacheads, but rather 'wild-ones'. Whatever kind of fairy bullshit that is. Cyrus is like a self-imposed idiot-savant. She can recite Standard Model-based theory of supersymmetry applications to quantum fields and dark matter, but is much more interested in mimicking the tribal dance moves of the Cheyenne to dubstep CDs. (We have a few working stereos lying around.) Along with Swift, she normally acts as my assistant during operations or mass casualty situations. From what I've gatherered, Swift and Cyrus were both Dean's List honor students, the former studying as a nurse, and the latter being more of a lab-geek. They are shoulders above the rest of the sorority brains-wise, so I sort of commissioned them when I was given the mantle of 'Campus Healer-Bitch'. Cyrus is fun, if annoying at times, while Swift likes to act like she's my big sister. Which is even more annoying. “Great. Feels like K-scratch all over again. Let's get this over with, then. Not like I had plans or anything. Whatever you do, don't let on about the mary. Familia will probably want to know where we got it from. They can smoke their own poo poo if they want.” That was a headache we didn't need. They're known to be pretty territorial. As we make our way outside, I find myself wishing Angel Eyes was still around. She'd gone off to sniff down any leads relating to that very-weird-Perry-incident. My only working hypothesis is that the freaky fuckheads at K-scratch must be putting stuff in the water. I mean really. First Trudy's invisible wall-thing, and now this? Not that I could say much with my own disturbing 'gift'. I wasn't sure I even wanted to know what the hell was going on. Whatever it was, it didn't bode well for Beta Gamma to have some double running around being accused of murder. Honestly, I hadn't given it much thought. The past forty-eight hours I'd been trying to sleep off a hell of a beating, both physical and emotional. I saved Quincy's killer. Juck shot him in cold blood, that wicked bitch. And I saved her. Not only that, she has plans to invade our campus; so I may have put the sorority at risk, albeit unknowingly. Whoever stabbed that monster; I'd like to shake their hand. “'ellooooo Faustie!” Squinting through the bright sun, I look up to see Cyrus waving her rifle from the hospital roof. Spears is standing next to her, staring off into the distance. “Got some visitors insiiiide! Cray-cray Mega throwin' shade like you know. Don't worry, girl. Spear-tits and I got this on lock... POP N' LOCK!” She jerks her body robotically and pantomimes shooting zombies. Lovely. And Knowles is just letting her run around with a gun. Swift just shrugs, “Cyrus” and leads the way into the Atrium, where I can already make out the dulcet sounds of Mega's characteristic posturing: “Where the gently caress is the doctor-bitch, yo? My cuz here bleedin' to DEATH! Don't make me go get her LAZY rear end. I'll stick that fuckin' soap...” *** *** ***   {aerial capture ca. 10 yrs prior to S-Day}  Beta Gamma A single story house that was largely preserved from the devastation that wiped out most of the campus; untouched by drones. The sorority uses this place as their HQ: There's a kitchen (usually run by Trudy); a library; a couple common areas; and an extension that was put in sometime after the pictured floor-plan was drawn up, which has been furnished with enough beds for all the ladies. Sturdy, barbed-wire barricades have been set up all around the outside (much like the fencing around the complex proper itself). With these defenses, the HQ doubles as a safehouse whenever flocks of shroomheads manage to thrash or blunder through the perimeter onto university grounds. Knowles – Leader of the sorority. Ex-ROTC. Protective. Not easily shaken. (Cool, Hard) Aguilera – Knowles' well-manicured right hand. Ride or die chica. Sniper. (Hard, Hot) Stefani – Quick on her feet. Hates bugs. Hangs with Aguilera. Saved by Faustina. (Sharp, Cool) Perry – Flirty, bubbly and known to cause trouble (intentional or not). (Hot, Weird) Spears – Slow-witted. Big-boned. Occasionally claims to see and hear strange poo poo. (Weird, Hard) Swift – Faustina's #1 assistant. Witty. Big-sister personality. Often chasing after Cyrus. (Sharp, Cool) Cyrus – Faustina's #2 assistant. Spacy. Twerky. Prone to random field trips. (Sharp, Weird)  The Dorms Sustained some structural damage, so not all the rooms are safe to inhabit. Comprised of several apartment-like buildings with six rooms a piece. The inhabitants usually furnish individual spaces to their liking with whatever they can scrounge up. Raj – Sam's fiance/husband/whatever you call it now. Bright guy, but cautious to a fault. Sam – Raj's s/o. About four months pregnant (not Raj's). Dislikes violence. Angel Eyes – There's a room for her as long as she's willing to help defend the uni. (+Roughly a dozen usable rooms.) Agricultural Center Equipped with a large greenhouse and several odd workshops stocked with tools and supplies for cultivation of the campus crops. The folks that run the place don't produce near as much as the farmers of Little Town, but they've established a healthy trade with them. Mostly the fruit and vegetables that survive long enough to harvest are just enough to feed the campus population. They do generate a lucrative yield of tobacco, which is how they make profit. They've also got a moonshine still somewhere in the woods nearby. Doug (or 'Digz') – Middle-aged, gruff guy who runs the show at the center. Maintains crops and barks at anyone who gets in the way. Junebug – Digz's s/o. Religious and conservative. Not a fan of the free-spirited sorority, or Digz's moonshine habit. Abraham & Beth – Digz's and June's kids. Teens. Help tend the harvests, albeit begrudgingly. Brian – 30's. Wiry. Quiet. Hard worker. Don't see this guy out of the fields very often. Kinda creepy. Archives / Library Mostly undamaged and unpilfered. There's all sorts of cool stuff in there! Forgotten literature, medical text, scientific journals; et al. Everything you might expect an upper-crust private college to have acquired. I wish I'd had more time to go through it all, but you know. Post-apocalyptic life kinda gets in the way. Maybe someday I'll really get a chance to check it out...  Lab & Storage This is where the magic happens. We've got it set up to churn out pretty decent quantities of biodiesel, as long as we keep replenishing our stocks. The lab is also where I go about pursuing personal endeavors; eg, undertaking my quest to create the greatest soap ever made. If I'm not tending to oopsies in the Atrium, I'm probably tooling around in here.  The Hospital (Atrium) Easily the most beautiful building in the whole Arts & Science complex. Ancient-looking sculptures and pillars all around, drawing one to the gorgeous center, its namesake: A spacious atrium with a garden in the center. In a few of the surrounding rooms (basically the cleanest I could find) Quincy and I brought in enough equipment to power a sizable Operating Theatre and a fully-functional life-support system. I like to think it has a relaxing ambiance, which is nice when you've got a half-dozen screaming patients all describing how they're going to mess up your face when you've finished with them. (Chillstabs are reserved for serious cases due to limited supply, so liquor is my typical anesthetic of choice) (The main road to campus runs right outside the front of this building.)
|
|
#
¿
May 26, 2014 06:09
|
|
|
Barter=0 | Exp=1/5 | Fatigue=0:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm As usual, I was always last to know about guests. Having been in the lab since the wee morning hours, I had no idea a 'cult' had already come through. Hopefully they were also already gone. Nodding grimly at Cyrus I glance nervously towards the entrance doors. She only gets serious like this when something's really bad. Speaking as low as my stress-laden voice will allow, I try to think up a way we can stall. “Well, that's just fabby. This is shaping up to be a totes awful day. Take Swift outside with you and render any first aid you can until I come for you two. Don't let anyone in until I say, alright? Oh and make sure Spears doesn't blow her foot off too. That would be bad.” Sometimes you had to talk to her like a child (typically whenever you wanted something more complex than tying her shoes). It's not like I wasn't expecting Cheeb's chortles as I tended to him. You get used to a world less PC after awhile. It wasn't the first time there'd been tension at the Atrium either, just not as potentially explosive. Once we'd had to lock Major Dick and a few of his leathernecks out when I was treating Sam. He'd started pounding on the doors, hollering about his 'rights' as a father. In our opinion though, (both Sam's and my own) he'd given up those rights when he tried to punt her stomach. Eventually Knowles and Aguilera chased him off, and we'd all decided it was better if the couple moved into our dorms for the time being. This confrontation was likely not going to be as easy to resolve. The shoulder wound sews up easily enough, and when I'm finished with it I begin to prepare the scalpel and tools I'll need for the major injury, nodding my head along to a chorus of nasty curses from Cheebs: “FUUUCKKK you little oval office! *hrrk* .. ugh (whimper) i'm gonna give you some'ore bruises when i get up......OWW!!” Faustina's Recorder posted:Patient Cheebs. Gunshot wound to the foot comprised of several complicated fractures with bone defect of 3rd, 4th and 5th metatarsals. Wide soft tissue injury with superficial and subcutaneous trauma to the dorsal and lateral side of the foot. Intra-articular avulsion of cuneiform, likely coronal plane. The wound is contaminated with numerous metal fragments – needs extensive debridement and removal of non-viable bone... I stop mid-sentence, shaking my head at the mess of an operation before me. It's too badly damaged. We can't afford the time. There aren't enough supplies for a quick-fix via whatever's left in my kit. And there's not enough room in the Atrium to tend to another group of patients; not to mention the bad blood between them might put everyone at risk. I can't have my hospital become a freaking war zone - kinda defeats the purpose. God. Can't you shitheads stop shooting each other for a few days so I can get caught up around here? Cheebs and his meathead buddy need to get out of here, like yesterday. That means taking some risks. Firstly, I'll get him healed up in spectacular fashion; hopefully wow them enough to get their rapt attention, then urge them to not incur my wrath or something by bouncing the hell out. No telling how effective an orator I'd be after the hands/brain thing, but it seemed like the only option I had to avoid a potentially catastrophic clash of gun-toting morons. I wrap my hands around the blasted foot... Aliquet Pede (Healing touch on Cheebs): 2d6+1 9 AuF from Cheeb's brain: 2d6-1 3 For a moment I think it's gonna be one of those rare occasions where I nail the timing and suffer no physical repercussions; but then a crushing wave of exhaustion plows me into the rolling surf of nausea and I'm leaning over the bed trying not to barf all over the sweaty, matted ponch of his belly. My words stumble out weakly between ragged gasps as I fight the Sickness. A Promise and a Touch (Manipulate Cheebs): 2d6+1 4 “N-...*urk*... n-now you have to l-eeahhhh...*mphhh!* … getthefuckout.” hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 00:10 on Jun 3, 2014 |
|
#
¿
Jun 2, 2014 23:39
|
|
|
Barter=0 | Exp=2/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm “You're really growin' on meeee-oooh!” ”No no no no NO. loving CUT!” A lanky drummer snaps off a few angry snares as the band grinds to a halt. A last low bass note carries, humming scratchily through a precariously stacked wall of amps behind the musicians. Faustina sighs and clamps the neck of a four-string slung low over her hips, muting it sullenly. She shakes her fingers out and curls her lip in contempt at the director stomping onto the set. The Man From The Foldy Chair slams his clipboard on the shiny linoleum floor in front of the band, who are all dressed in lab coats and looking very flushed. “Where the bloody hell is the rhythm? You lot came off of that last measure way too hot! Tryin' to blow out me bonce, are you blokes?” His face is bright red as he barks out orders - it's frightfully hot in this cramped little studio. The scene is focused on an operating table, upon which lies a little Hispanic boy who bears a remarkable resemblance to Cheebs. His left leg appears to be covered in some sort of mossy make-up, like an obvious parody of a spore infestation. Hunched over the kid is a menacing-looking surgeon wielding a ridiculously large bonesaw, and off to the side are two adults who appear to be the 'parents', clinging to each other and biting their nails comically. The actors all drop character, grumbling to each other and shaking their heads, while a small team of powder girls scurry about touching everyone up. Just beyond the 'surgery' set, Mr. Director continues his rant at the band positioned in the background of the shot. “...How can they expect me to work in these conditions?! I studied at Tisch! I'm supposed to be making ART, not sweating me arse off in a bloody basement, trying to instruct a bunch of monkeys...” “Oi. gently caress off then, yeah?” Faustina's voice has been imbued with an oddly exaggerated British accent. She has her hands on her hips, scowling at the snobbish man berating her rock band. “It's supposed to be a joke, innit? Who bloody cares if we're in time right now, just cut it up in post or whateva'.” On the table young Cheebs starts to cry loudly as an attendant dabs at his face with a brush. The 'surgeon' throws his hands up and is all “Let's get on with it already”, but Director isn't having it. “The label picked me for a reason, you snippy little twit. They knew you would just drink away the advance and wind up with another disaster, so they hired someone to keep you lot in line. Another video like 'McBrains' and they might pull funding altogether. You wouldn't want that, would you? No more dosh to funnel up your nose, then?” Faustina kicks the monitor in front of her angrily. “It's not me fault, you barmy bastard! The vocals are, like, all falsetto; and it makes me nose itch! Bleeding crass, classic crap. Also, that bloke didn't have to play bass, which everyone knows is harder...” “What the 'ell was wrong with 'McBrains'?” The guitarist chimes in, adjusting his anatomically flattering tights. “It was just like this one, yeah? First we have a laugh at the shroomheads, now we're takin' the piss out of spores themselves. Get it? 'Growin on me'? It's a logical evolution of comedy, innit.” “Brilliant one, that.” The drummer nods along, wiping a stick on the leg of the spandex jumpsuit he's wearing under his coat (luckily we miss seeing where it was moments before). “With the drive-thru and all.” “IT'S NOT LOGICAL, IT'S SHITE.” The director has resorted to fuming through his megaphone, despite being only a few feet from the band. “THE RATINGS WERE SHITE. THE REVIEWS WERE SHITE. A GODDAMNED ONE-SHITE WONDER. I'VE BEEN DOING THESE BLOODY VIDS FOR FIFTEEN YEARS! ARE YOU TRYING TO GET ME SACKED?! PICK IT UP FROM THE loving TOP, YES?” He stomps back off towards the cool shadows behind the lighting rigs. The guitarist leans closer to Faustina's ear as a click track begins its monotone chirps over the PA. “Hey, love. You really shouldn't have done that.” ~ ~ ~ “...really shouldn't have done that! Not without us!” I squint through a fading haze of bizarre images and sounds to see the shape of Swift's head. She's got me by the shoulders, shaking me. Then there's a deafening blast of gunfire and she darts off to the opposite end of the room, leaving me reeling from the reverberating din of Mega's pistol. He's just a couple feet in front of where I'm sprawled on the floor, so if whoever he's shooting at returns fire there's a good chance I'll catch a bullet in the exchange. The realization pulls me out of the post-Touch fog long enough to drag myself behind the operating table, putting it between me and the door to the lobby. With my back against the cover, I try to suck down some oxygen. Little flashy fuzz balls flicker like fireflies in my vision, making surroundings appear grainy and blurred. Halos encircle the halogen bulbs hanging overhead, which give off a sickly artificial glow thanks to a generator buzzing noisily in the hall outside. For a few desperate moments all I can do is try to catch a couple quick breaths and fight against the shockwaves of agony slapping mercilessly against my skull. Just keeping my eyes open expends an awful amount of effort. Cheebs is close by; his foot looking almost brand new. In my stupor I can hardly remember healing it. Cyrus and Swift hate it when I do the weird brain-thing, especially when they aren't around to catch my stupid rear end. C'mon, girl. We didn't go that deep this time. We can do this. “Cheebs...” I gasp weakly at the patient hunkered down next to me, tugging at his cargo pants. “Just get out of here. Take the rear exit through the quad. No one needs to die here today. We'll call it an even trade – I spared your foot, now use 'em.” Gathering all my strength, I call out to whoever is on the other end of the gun battle, “STOP loving SHOOTING, IDIOTS! IF YOU WANT MY HELP, LET THEM GO. I DON'T WORK AS WELL TRYING TO DODGE BULLETS!” {Crossfire Crux (Manipulate the other shooters): 2d6+1 = 11} hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 07:03 on Jun 8, 2014 |
|
#
¿
Jun 8, 2014 06:33
|
|
|
Barter=0 | Exp=3/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm Watching through the slowly closing gap between the rear-exit doors, I absently flick the flint wheel of the lighter as Mega pounds across the quad after Cheebs (who seems to be doing quite well on his reconstructed foot). The Bic doesn't catch (probably due to oxidation), but there's still about half of the butane left. Stuff lasts practically forever, and I've got several makeshift canisters of it in the lab for my burners. I tuck the 'payment' into the pocket of my uniform jacket and signal for Swift to stay back. Moving with as much stealth as I can manage, I exit the OR and slip quietly into the leafy concealment offered by the Atrium's garden, watching the entrance for any sign of the troublesome visitors. I know that using the Touch could bring all kinds of unwanted attention to campus (as if we didn't have enough already), and there was no telling what those two would report to their cunning matriarch when they returned. It was widely known that old Mrs. Familia herself was an intellectual force to be reckoned with, unlike some of her flock. Also, unlike myself, she knew how to keep her secrets. How would she react to the news of what I'd done? And for that matter, the fact that we're apparently now hosting a mess of her enemies within our walls? As was often the case, I had the worst possible luck when it came to timing. Appleworth holds some secrets of it's own, though. Doesn't it? Hidden from the view of the lobby, I tiptoe through the perfumed banks of flowers and fauna, trailing my fingers over the rough wooden slats of several benches lined up against them until I reach the corner furthest from the building's large entrance doors. Listening to the angry echoes reverberating off surrounding structural acoustics, I can discern what sounds like the makings of a heated argument outside; but a lot of the conversation seems garbled - like people talking loudly with their mouths full. It's hard to catch what's going on, but Cyrus doesn't sound pleased at all with the proceedings. I stick my hand through a piece of decorative fencing adorned with ivy, feeling for the catch tucked away in there. After a few moments, my fingers touch the switch and I hit it. *click* A rope ladder falls down before me, and I quickly ascend up through an open hatch in the massive skylight. It's a painful effort, thanks to my still-injured shoulder, but eventually I clamber through and slump like a wet sack of potatoes to the graveled rooftop. Spears is thankfully still at her position, her usually doe-eyed expression beset with lines of worry. She opens her mouth when she sees me, but I hold up a finger to my lips and inch forward towards her on hands and knees. The scene below doesn't offer any relief. As I'd suspected, there were four of those strange BDSM weirdos from Jefferson in the parking lot of the hospital. One of them has Cyrus in a headlock and is holding his gun up next to her ear. Its only now that I realize Partridge still has my loving revolver. Oh this is just freaking great, isn't it? There's no way we can trust Spears to safely pull off a clean shot at this angle. Goddamn it! The long-winded Deacon is also out there with his mysterious group of 'religious' followers. He's talking to the muzzle-masked man, trying to calm him down, but the guy's highly agitated demeanor doesn't appear to be improving. I don't know much about the Anathemata, only that they're mostly non-violent traders – which is a most welcome quality right now. That bow toting guy (Daryll?) is pretty cute, though. Too bad he doesn't have a bead on the standoff. I'd feel much better if he were in Spear's position. Sucking in a deep breath, I try to think of anything I could say to help de-escalate the situation. It looks like two of the Ironworks goons have sustained pretty serious injuries... {Muzzle Mayhem (Read a Stich): 2d6+2 10}
|
|
#
¿
Jun 13, 2014 00:58
|
|
|
Barter=0 | Exp=3/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm My teeth clench as one of Deacon's space cadets manages to line up a clean shot on the hostage holder - I know he's going down before (Lemon? They have some really weird names...) even pulls the trigger. Not because I'm against it, mind you. Just because I practice doesn't mean I'm an inflexible pacifist; as long as it's truly necessary I can deal with campus violence, even if it means cleaning up the mess. Let's face it, Cyrus obviously didn't do poo poo to this whacked-out guy; so better him than her. You get used to these kind of repercussions after awhile living in freaking GangLand. That said, I can't watch the Anathemata put down another Jeffy now that their weapons are out of the picture. I promptly get to my feet and shout at the preacher man, “OI! DEACON! THAT'S ENOUGH!” What the gently caress is an 'Oi'? The question flirts briefly with my thoughts before I'm over the side of the roof, using a drainpipe to shimmy down. The rope-ladder-thing was set up by Quincy (as most might have guessed) to give us stealthy access to the hospital's 'crows nest' in case of random shitshows such as this. There's a similar setup at the Beta Gamma HQ, but it's really the only other secret modification to campus architecture (that I'm aware of, anyways). Besides the defensive installations at the house, I simply haven't had the time to consider other measures, what with our constant stream of trigger-happy customers. One might even say we're 'used to this crap', for better or worse. Then again, peoples' thick-headed proclivity towards mindless warfare never ceases to amaze me. Blood begets blood – I've seen enough of it to know this. I'm only twenty-two, but sometimes I feel a hell of a lot older than my apocalyptic seniors act; contemporary average lifespan notwithstanding. Approaching the crowd in front of the Atrium, I keep my eyes trained on Deacon's. “Swift! Get out here and take the lady to OR. Bag and prep her ASAP.” Reaching Cyrus, I place a reassuring hand on her back, “You alright, girlie? Hurry inside and help Swift if you can. Get something on that shoulder first, though. I'll stitch it soon as I can. We need to get her sleepy friend (Muzzlehead D) on fluids – so set him up in Room B for now. I'm sure some of our resident holyman's 'associates' here can assist. Right, Deacon?” It's more of a prompt to get him to calm his people down than anything. We have to move quickly and without further interruption to save the dude they just capped, and I need the Anathemata to play ball if he's going to have a chance. The rear end in a top hat might have used my friend as a shield, but I can't just let him bleed out in the drat parking lot. “How 'bout it, preacher? Let's put the guns down. You all look like you could use a good meal. Don't you think so, Trudy?” I'm nodding intently towards the tweaky Lemon guy, who's still pointing his revolver at our patients. Trudy seems unharmed, if somewhat hysterical about one of her little puppets being MIA or something. Unfortunately I can't afford to concern myself with that 'crisis' right now. hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 04:39 on Jun 19, 2014 |
|
#
¿
Jun 19, 2014 04:33
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm Angel Kit: 5/6 | +1barter (TBD) As Deacon lays out his proposition, this teen in his group is looking at me with these huge, hopeful eyes. Wednesday, wasn't it? She was brand new to their cult-thing when last they were at campus. That was when Rowland took off with them, which created the bad blood with Spears. Hadn't taken personally myself, though. It's not up to me who comes and goes... I just work here. It was her decision alone, and besides it looks like Spears has buried the hatchet for now. Wednesday had showed some interest in the lab, and she kind of reminds me of my younger self, still trying to figure out how to stay afloat on a fickle, oft frightening slipstream of existence. Maybe she could learn... These hazy, meandering thoughts flash through my mind in split seconds – I'm still partly reeling from diving in on Cheebs and now it looks like I'll be making that plunge again. My stomach gets this sinking, twisting feeling; guts doing a deathroll of dread. This is not a good idea. If I gently caress this up I could put the other patients at risk. Swift and Cyrus were well-trained, but could they manage without my guidance if go out again? For that matter, could I really trust Deacon? He obviously was a force of influence to be reckoned with, and his 'flock' seemed to have a certain connection to each other that suggested something more than loyalty. However odd they are, we don't act now that man dies. Reservations would have to wait for later. He'd taken care of the conflict and provided some much needed supplies – that was enough for now. His eyes though... something strange about them. Like they're too deep. Too green. I nod grimly up at the man in the dusty army jacket. “Okay, Deacon. You should get everyone inside the quad. There's rooms available in the dorms. If anyone needs medical treatment have them sit in the waiting room until we clear these criticals. If I lose it here, listen to Swift and Cyrus until I come 'round. Don't make me regret this.” In my peripheral I notice Trudy storming off to the house. She hates this kind of poo poo. Dammit. By my staying on at the Atrium we were pretty much assured a steady stream of violent visitors - a sickening knowledge that sat over the campus like a thick cumulus of inevitability. A nightmare my presence had brought to their door. Before me was the crumpled body of the Jefferson gimp who had accosted my assistant moments before. Blood and bits of flesh fanned out across the concrete around him like a gruesome snow angel. The bullet had blasted through the flesh just under his armpit, and judging by the amount of blood there had been significant internal trauma. He was breathing his last, staring up into the yawning, careless blue sky. Would it really be the right thing to drag him back to this world? God knew what he'd been through to get here; how that ugly mask had been bolted on. Did they truly deserve it? Hard to imagine all of them were ruthless criminals. But what is a criminal anymore? Maybe Angel Eyes and Juck had it figured out already; just laughing at the rest of the world's floundering about, watching us cling to the decay. If society was a barren mother now, Trudy might be the perfect metaphor for us all. I'm sorry, Truds. We're gonna be selfish again. Sinking to my knees, my hands reach out to grasp the mortal wound. I can't let him go without trying. I can't lose my grip... Sana Mente (Healing Touch on Muzzlehead A): 2d6+1+1(+1 from Sitch Read) = 9 * * * Deacon: [Faustina values those who are willing to lend a hand and will do what they say they will. Thanks to the generosity of the Anathemata, you've earned a working version of that trust for now. Faustie will treat Daryll and any others who need it. (If she makes if back from this Touch alright...)]
|
|
#
¿
Jun 23, 2014 05:05
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm It's a mesh... like some kind of weird netting that's drawn from the composition of all things in this world. Faustina can see it, finally. Just as she imagined... except not quite. In her dreams its been more a viney, living substance that grows in mass and complexity as it consumes, as an invading foreign strain would usurp its indigenous host. This substance is different, however; sticky and fibrous as cotton, yet sinewy as veins would be. She can feel a distant throbbing, like a pulse resonating through each thread. They shoot out from her hands, entangling her with the mushy pile of damaged strands belonging to the Jefferson guy. Something inside her explodes and she doubles over the body, feeling each crossing pattern grow taut with tension. The mesh claws at her, pulling her deeper into the wounded mess she's grasping so tightly. It wants to tear her away, or tear her apart. But then... A soothing rush of energy; the flow of some other force passing through her, calming the targeted patch of tortured fibers that were writhing defensively, slowly unwinding from her wrists and settling back into place. She feels herself rising to once more break the surface of her consciousness, but this time pauses to look further down her plane of vision, across a sea of vibrating, florid weave. At its edge sits a monstrous thing, a spiny tangle of legs and chitin, chelicerae and bulbous compounds. Its eyes are a violent scream of color – even greener than the net around it. But its not a 'net' after all... ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ “...it's a web.” The vision flashes and fades quickly, dissolving into the bright green eyes of Deacon. holyfuck he's a spider... “What's a web? I don't see... oh!” There's a sharp sting across my cheek as Cyrus slaps me. *wap!* “Wha-.. ow! gently caress, Cyrus I'm okay! Only slap me when I go unconscious. Christ.” What was I thinking about again? She helps me get to my feet as the Muzzlehead rolls out of what was going to be his death-splatter. He kind of pushes himself up to his knees then just sits there, silently patting himself to make sure nothing's missing. My eyes meet Deacon's again, trying not to let the vision freak me out. He helped somehow. Pushed us through without getting caught up in the backlash. Maybe there was something to all his bluster after all. “Hey, Deacon... did you...?” “Hey um its those uh biker guys.” Spears points from her perch off across the quad in the direction Cheebs and Mega had taken, but due to the building in the way I can't see anything. I stare up at her for maybe a solid minute, hoping I'd misheard or she'd made a mistake or, poo poo, anything but those guys. “You mean Juck's bikers?” She nods. “Oh for gently caress SAKE. Any other goddamn gangs want to come on over? We're having a freaking open house apparently.” Spears opens her mouth like she's going to reply, but then her expression gets that far-away glaze again and she's fixated on something off towards where she pointed. Great. Fabulous time to go schizo on me. She was probably having another one of her hallucinations. Shaking my head at the seemingly endless crapfest of a day, I turn back to the suddenly much more appealing leader of the Anathemata. “Help me get everyone inside, kay? Who freaking knows how many enemies those loving Wolves have. I'm not taking any chances.” It's looking like I'm running the campus myself, today. As if I didn't have enough poo poo on my plate already. Goddamit, Knowles! Angel Eyes! Trudy! Where the hell is everyone?!
|
|
#
¿
Jul 1, 2014 00:47
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm Surgeon's Notes posted:“Patient Jeffy C, female, apparent gunshot wound... - oh who am I loving kidding – Someone shot this bitch in the arm. Bullet entry determined by consistent symmetry to be perpendicular to coracoid process, with ballistic bifurcation of long head bicep attachment and exiting laterally from the anterior humeroulnar... WHAT THE gently caress DO YOU WANT?!” I slam my recorder down on the stainless steel tray next to the operating table. Swift cringes next to me, and I wheel around to face what I'm certain will be one of Juck's lackeys... And instead I'm greeted by the kindly, weathered face of Big Mike. My shoulders sag and I let out a flustered sigh. “S-sorry about that. Been a bit frazzled lately.” Mike lays out his pharmaceutical schemes, and they sound pretty reasonable, but right now I've got one patient bleeding out on my slab, and another one who's gonna be walking out of here with nine fingers but is seemingly more interested in giving me the stink eye. He thinks we're some kind of freak! We should drug him and tell him it was just a bad trip. Hardly ethical practice, but given the circumstances... “Faustie, we got any boo-boo baggies left?” Cyrus squeaks hopefully from across the OR. She is currently treating Mr. Stink Eye while I work on his lady friend. I make a hasty gesture of annoyance towards the storage room before responding to the fix-it man. “That sounds like a solid plan, Mike. But... goddammit I'm totes up to my freaking elbows here. I gotta try to salvage Miss Metal Mouth's clipped wing”, (thumbing at the muzzlehead on the table), “then I have a possible infection to look at back in the iso units. Really appreciate the help with our whip, though. Did we pay you for that?” (Scratching her head absently and leaving a long streak of blood across the side of her forehead, unbeknownst) “gently caress. I can't remember. We're kinda low on diesel at the moment, and there's been a potato shortage, but I think we have some sticky skunk back...” I clap my hand over my mouth, forgetting about my decision to keep our newest batch of “medicinal herbs” under wraps. Then I notice Angel Eyes swaggering up beside the bent old man; cool as a breeze. “Where the hell were YOU, huh?!” For a moment I'm pointing at the tall drink of mercenary with my scalpel before I realize just how stupid that is and quickly shove it back in my 'surgery apron' (which is little more than a modified toolbelt). “poo poo is going cray! Can you kindly make haste out to the quad and introduce the poo poo That Juck Didn't Flush to the nearest exit? They are officially Not loving Welcome. I already know their Bitch Queen of a leader is trying to take over the campus, who freaking knows why, and honestly with Trudy running off to godknowswhere and Knowles being MIA, I just don't have the time or patience to give one single, solitary, flying OR flight-incapable pig poo poo about...” “Uhh... Faustie?” I wheel around to stare daggers at Cyrus, “NOW WHAT?!” “Uhm...” She hesitates in the doorway, a contrite frown sitting all hangdog on her usually cherubic cheeks. “...we're out.” Deep Breaths. We're not gonna lose it... not gonna loseitloseitloseit... My lip trembles slightly. The room kind of shimmers with the water welling up in my eyes. Its only the afternoon and already I feel like I've been up for days, thanks to the healie-feelie poo poo I so stupidly put myself through. Muzzlehead B wont quit staring. Muzzlehead C wont quit bleeding, and now we're out of goddamn saline. “Mike... in the lab there's an orange vat. Can you take a few of these bags and mix the solution with about 50% water? There should still be some bottles left in there.” It would mean cutting into our already dwindling supply. Since the K Scratch incident, no one's been back by the ranch to see if the well was up and running yet. If the stream of patients kept up we'd be out in a couple days. Don't. We can't fret about that right now. But if I didn't, who would? hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 02:45 on Jul 8, 2014 |
|
#
¿
Jul 8, 2014 02:34
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm Frowning in disappointment, Faustina looks down grievously at the shiny figure set on the table before her. Arranged neatly off to the side are a few palettes of bright colors, and she has a brush poised just over the doll's face. Slowly her lip begins to tremble and we see tiny, glistening tear trails start to slide down her cheeks. “It... It's ruined! I (*sniff*)... I'm sorry daddy! I screwed the smile all up!” Suddenly a man appears behind her, resting his hand comfortingly on her little shoulder. His eyes are hard and grey, like hers; but his expression is soft and thoughtful. “It's alright, dear. You can use that stroke there and turn it into a happy triangle!” He plucks the brush gently from her trembling fingers and makes a couple swipes of red paint over the crooked line. When he's finished, the doll appears to be making a gleeful open-mouthed grin. “See? Turned out better than expected, didn't it?” Faustina's eyes widen with awe and she sucks up the sniffles, making a hesitant grin at her father. “Wow... that's like... totes awesome, dad!” She looks down at her own hands and the frown slowly spreads back across her lips. “You better finish it. I'm not that good.” Dad lifts her chin upwards with a finger and gives her a wink. “Now don't say that! No daughter of mine gives up that easily. You wanna know what makes a good surgeon?” She considers, “Uhm. A sharp scalpel?” “Yes, that helps!” He chuckles, handing her back the brush. “But more important than your tools is your ability to adapt. We can't always expect things to go the way we want them, and quite often they don't. We just have to figure out how to turn things to our advantage. Flexibility is a key trait of any great surgeon.” The little girl beams brightly again, “Oh! I'm flexible! I can do a split! See?!” The red-haired physician laughs at his child's antics, scooping her up into his arms... ~ ~ ~ “Cyrus, I need another 19-3. We can't finish this one yet, it's too close. Hand me the Huber and another teasing too, please. Swift can you tamp this while I move the forceps here? Thanks.” It's a mess of damage control and tendon repair, but it looks like Claire will be able to use her arm again after some therapy. I wrap up my work, monitoring her vitals as the chillstab works its magic. Even though she was being as cooperative as I could have hoped for, she had to go out for the procedure. Once I'm confident I've got her stable enough, I wash my hands in the sink and head out to the garden for a much needed smoke before going back to check on the last muzzlehead. As I light up, I notice Ben and Alan staring at me intently from the bench next to the sprouting of bluebells. Obviously they're pretty weirded out by the day's events. poo poo. How are we going to talk our way out of this one? I drag deeply and blow the smoke up towards the big skylight above us. After a moment I address them, but keep my focus on the dusty sunbeams arching back and forth overhead. “I'd like to be able to give you an empirical exposition for what I can do, but I can't. Find me someone who can explain how the hell some freaky rear end parasite single-handedly compromises thousands of years of evolution and basically re-formats the food chain in less than a decade. Or how my friend Trudy can hold these hellish abominations of nature off with merely a disapproving glance. Or how Mike can dodge loving rockets with his truck. I don't even know how that old man managed to live this...” The appearance of Mike and the refilled bags of saline cuts me off, and I cough loudly on a sharp inhale. Perry is with him, whining about her gently caress-buddy being MIA (as if we had time to worry about that with Trudy pulling a vanishing act). He seems to pretend to ignore my last comment and asks me about what I'd angrily let slip concerning Juck. “Thanks for the help, Mike. Sometimes I wish you could move that garage of yours down here. I was just talking to Ben and Alan here about my little, uh... performance. It was during one of those that I had this...um." It somehow sounded even dumber coming out of my mouth than it did in my head. “Remember when you were hauling us back to campus, and I was treating Juck? Well it didn't go so well, and I kinda went out for a moment...” What, going to tell him about the fuckjob head-room, then? May as well stitch “Crazy Bitch” into our forehead at this rate. I grimace and stomp out my cigarette on the cement. “Well... nevermind. Anyways, I just have this sick feeling about her. She's got no real remorse - no conscience whatsoever.” I look into Mike's wizened visage, my own eyes encircled with dark lines. “Just looks out for herself, no matter what she says. This trip you guys have to do is important. I get it. I have no better alternative to suggest. But stay close to Angel, and don't trust the Wolves for a second, okay?”
|
|
#
¿
Jul 15, 2014 03:42
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm There was already a sick feeling brewing in my stomach just looking at the remaining Jeffy, slumped outside the OR and starting to barf up a pink froth. Now Deacon gets all disturbingly scientific and points his piece at the guy. A moment of sharp nausea makes my head start spinning... drat. I knew he was more than just a nutjob with a traveling circus. No simple preacher knows that much about biology. But before I can sort through the implications I'm already instinctively moving between the new gunman and his target. Standing in front of the retching muzzlehead, I extend my blood-spattered arms protectively. “You know, I can appreciate a man of science. We should have a chat sometime, really. Of cabbages and kings, yes? But you just heard our friend Alan here: This is the work of some sick, sociopathic gently caress with a petri dish and a cattle prod. He's not going to turn if we decide to save him! You've got a scholar's mind, I can tell. Doesn't it interest you at all what those psychos at the Ironworks are getting up to? Whether or not you're concerned with ethics, you have to recognize the danger in their mucking around with virions. What if they kicked off another Infection, bigger and badder than the last?” I looked down at the poor bastard, his head drooped to his shirt (which was tie-died with salmon-spackled mucus and greasy filth); then back up at Deacon, steeling myself against the intensity of that violent green stare. “What are you fighting for, Deacon? You can help me save him. This one isn't lost yet.”
|
|
#
¿
Jul 28, 2014 03:43
|
|
|
Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=6:00 | Neck bruise | Sore/stiff arm As the preacher man lowers his gun, I let my arms fall to my sides. They feel like a pair of dumbbells chained to my shoulders. “Fine, then.” But he helped before, so why not now? “I don't know anything about God, I just know that I have to try. That's all.” But for what? We don't know these people. Or how this will change things... “Just... if any of your people need me to look at them have them line up outside or something. If he turns we know what to do. We've been there before.” Exchanging a meaningful glance with Swift (who clenches her jaw silently) I turn to head back into the OR, where Mike has kindly done me the favor of strapping down the frothing Jeffy. About four months ago we had a bite victim who had been incubating the host for a few hours too long. Amputation failed to stop the spread and the spore just filled up his guts like a piping hot popcorn bag, bursting at seam and sinew. The guy grabbed at me while I was trying to perform a cauterization, so Swift instinctively shoved me aside and squeezed out a couple rounds through his left eye. I'll never forget the steamy, bubbling stew of his socket and how she screamed at me afterwards for being so stupid. I depend on her a lot, its true. I couldn't expect the same cold, clinical logic out of Cyrus. It's unfair what I put them through sometimes. But we can't just... let them go without trying. Some loving mantra I've got going on here – it'll probably end up a haunting requiem for us all. Wiping the sweat from my blood-crusted brow – gently caress it's hot – I look back over my shoulder at Deacon, simultaneously understanding his detachment and hating him for not helping me again anyways. Thought for a moment there you were like Mike and I, but no. Your knowledge is bent only towards self-preservation. “I'm worried about Trudy. If you run into her, tell her I want to chat immediately. Knowles should be around by the potato fields if you're hungry.” I nod at Alan and Ben, “I don't know if this will work, or if I'll even be able to stand afterwards. No promises. Claire should be conscious in an hour or so. You can take her with you when you leave, but she'll need rest and plenty of fluids.” I pause, then say the rest through gritted teeth, “Do like Mike says and come back here next time you're in the area. We'll talk about things then. Right now the only reliable way to deal with your little house arrest bug is to have them administer the booster. Maybe we can figure something out in the mean time.” I look grimly through the doors ahead, where Claire and Dante lie on separate tables. “If they ask about your man here, tell them the shroomers got 'im. Whether he lives or dies, he stays with me for now, right? Only thing for it.” With that, I push through into the theater again, passing Mike, who looks to be on his way out. “Off to save the day again, old man river? Getting pretty good at that, huh?” Stopping, I push up on my toes and give his scruffy cheek a quick kiss before really thinking about it. “Come back in one loving piece, okay? We can't lose you. Thanks for the help, I owe you one. I mean it.” Real professional. Want him to think we're just a scared kid? Guy's got enough on his plate as is. Screw it. These days you never knew when friends were going to head out your door for the last time. I wear my heart on my sleeve 'cause I don't have time to hide it. 'Cause the only alternative would be stuffing it in a dark place and smothering the wretched, gasping thing. Dante's glaring dead-eyed through the ceiling as his choroid capillaries begin to burst. He'll swallow his tongue at this rate, drown like a fish. I stare down into them, calmly collecting a sample of the pink, foamy stuff in an airtight vial. After sparing some seconds to breathe deeply, I rest my hands on his chest, wondering vaguely if it matters at all where I put them. Absent thoughts wander from my lips unknown, as I feel the strange energy begin to gather at my fingertips once more. “We Rise And Fall, From Agony To Ecstasy.” Morbo Mederi (Healing touch): 2d6+1 6 ~ ~ ~ it finally happened
|
|
#
¿
Jul 31, 2014 01:26
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 29, 2024 17:28 |
|
|
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 |
|
#
¿
Aug 12, 2014 06:08
|
|