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  Session One There's no safety in the wastes. No havens for the rejected, no great cities, no real culture to speak of. Just bullets, blood, and gas. Here we find five hardened badasses with enough road between them to go forever. Remember to pay for your lifestyle. If you have a move that triggers at the start of a session, it triggers now. Torch Spark Canyon. You've heard of it before, but you've never been. Word has it they don't take kindly to outsiders here. They call 'em "Wasters", presumably once because they came from the wasteland, but now because they see any outsiders as nothing but garbage. Especially outsiders lugging as much firepower in their noisy souped-up war machine as you are. Still, Sparkers aren't dumb and they're not self-sufficient. They'll let you in, they'll just keep a close eye on you and shoot before asking if it comes down to it. You park Hunter-Killer outside a brothel and climb out, while a few of the working girls scatter. They need money, but not that badly. The proprietor of the joint, on the other hand, has been expecting you. Expecting you for longer than you even knew she existed. She calls herself only The Madame, and as folks have always been quick to tell you, she's the one what built this cathouse with her own two hands. "It's a respectable establishment," you were told. "At least, as respectable as you can expect from a place where bandits trade jingle for pleasure." The Madame motions to a man who walked out with her to grab your bag. He's shirtless, of course, and oiled, of course. You're sure he's available too for anyone looking for such things. The Madame laughs. "We don't discriminate here. Wouldn't be right, of course. With all the blood and filth out there, we take pride in making a safe place for folks seeking pleasure. Or pain, if that's what you're into. "Oh but that's not why you came, is it? You wanted to wanted to hear what I know of the man you called Chief, right? And the Highway Guard? Well I can tell you inside, over a cup of tea. Leave your guns out here, you won't need 'em in there." Without waiting for an answer, she turns and re-enters the dark brothel entrance. What do you do? Liliana You're maybe two hours out from Dispatch--closer than that actually, given that the former Firebat Bus Line is one of the easiest roads to drive and Roz ain't fussy about going fast. In the back of the car you've got another one of those bags from Afphron's Crossing. This one smells weirder than usual, and it seems a little strange that they'd need to hire someone to deliver it to a city so close to their own, but it doesn't matter. You've got wind in your hair, Roz is screaming with joy, and soon you'll have more jingle in your pocket. Plus, you actually kinda like Dispatch. It's not Spark Canyon, but it's big by the standards of the wastes, with plenty to see and do and nightlife, such as it is, to take in. Then you hear it. At first you think Roz slipped a piston, but that can't be right, you just checked her over before heading out. No this was something else: a sniper rifle. It missed, thankfully, but there's no doubt in your mind that whoever it is was aiming for you. And then to your left you see a rotted out hunk of car on fire, rolling freely down the hill, trying to take you out or at least block your path and force you to turn around under sniper fire. Whatever you do, you're gonna have to act fast if you wanna make it out safely. What do you do? Triage Mowai Circle. An old roundabout converted into something approaching a town, right on the Demon Road that runs through the heart of the wastes. It's not a big place, maybe two hundred souls in number, but that's two hundred more than you'd find on the open road. It's here that you've parked the First Response for the moment, plying your trade to the sink and injured of the town in exchange for jingle and hooch. In a town that gets a lot of visitors, that's a lot of business. And a lot of trouble. Today might be the most troubling of all. The clouds overhead look like they're ready to break into a thunderstorm at any moment, and the Mowai look ready to break too. A small bandit convoy, led by someone who calls themselves Here-Not-There, came riding back in the night broken and bleeding. And so as the sun rises over Mowai Circle, Here-Not-There comes to the First Response looking for treatment. What they aren't looking for is to pay. Guess they figure a doc looking down the barrel of a gun is less likely to ask for jingle. "Got three boys here that need fixin' up, doc," Here-Not-There tells you. Their eyes are a bright green, their face half-burned from some scuffle or other. "And I wouldn't mind some o' that, whadya call it, morphine for the road. Now youse gonna care for us and do this, or I gotta make things difficult for ya?" They hold out a revolver and point it directly at you, then pull back and cock the gun. What do you do? Spc. Burns Your job had been clear, and even in the post-cryosleep haze you could remember what the brass had told you before ever setting foot in that chamber. When you wake up, if the rest of the unit doesn't wake with you, wake them up too. And then you did awaken, to a chamber with nearly every member of your unit, all still sleeping soundly and blissfully unaware that the world had gone totally to poo poo in however many years you were out for. You went to thaw them out, and found the failsafe had activated, and you sure as gently caress don't have the tech expertise you'd need to hack that thing and disable it. Who knows if anyone out here even does, or if you could trust them with the knowledge of where all that pre-fall tech is. Still, you figured it best to try to find someone anyway, and so your travels brought you here, to Iron Gate. You had actually passed through earlier, headed north when you found Pete's Bog, but then you saw the looming spores of the Mushroom Forest on the horizon and figured that was a piss-poor life choice to head up that way. So you came back, and decided to spend a night or two in the town you paid very little mind to originally. "Town" is a bit of a misnomer, especially by your standards. There's maybe fifty people here, all living in an old mansion with a wrought iron fence around it. Kind of hilarious to call it Iron Gate like it's some fantasy novel bullshit, but you didn't name it. Still, it's something. You step into the main chamber of the mansion and are immediately greeted with the nastiest bar you've seen on either side of the apocalypse. Smoke from some gasoline-derived drug you still don't know the name of, liquor that'd make you blind, skinfreaks loving in a back room with not a care in the world. A few people eye you warily, but no one pulls a gun or anything like that. You're sure they could, though. Probably best to do what you came here for and get out as quick as you can. What do you do? Typhon Been two days since you and the Crags pulled out of Mowai Circle, heading north on the Demon Road towards Afphron's Crossing. It's one of the more traveled roads around here, but it's got its name for a reason. The cracked asphalt radiates heat even when the sun itself doesn't seem hot enough, and it seems like it's impossible to spend more than hour on the road without running into some unsavory character who wants blood. Other than a run-in yesterday that turned out far better for you and the Crags than for them, poo poo seems pretty calm. Too calm, even. Of course right when you have that thought, you hear the sound of Dumb Hack's cycle come over the hillside. He'd gone out to scout for you while the rest took a quick breather with a can of beans and some booze you lifted from the Mowai. As he gets closer, you can see his face isn't the normal slack-jawed expression that gave him his name. He looks scared. "Boss, right over the ridge... Sparkers, maybe half a dozen or more of 'em, comin' south on the road. They'll be here in less than five, I wager. I dunno what took 'em so far from the canyon, but poo poo can't be good." His eyes dart around, looking for somewhere you could stash the bikes and lay low. He doesn't see one. "We gotta get a move on or they're gonna hit us and hit us hard." Of course, Dumb Hack might be scared, but you know some of the other boys are always itchin' to fight. What do you do? Appendix quiggy fucked around with this message at 16:00 on Sep 6, 2018 |
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Aug 17, 2018 19:36
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Typhon, the Chopper and the Crags Left to right, that's Dameame, ya boi Typhon, Dumb Hack, Ringerman, and Boultry. This is my fuckin' hog.  Oh, about me? Been riding since I was a young gently caress out with Norg Chundrea. First mounted up on the back of C.C. Daley's hog for a couple years. Then he got shot in the fuckin' face and I've had wheels since. Look, it's not all that interesting, rode with Norg Chundrea for some years, yanno? Power struggle ensued, blah blah blah, Big Dick Dremmer and Norg Chundrea had a fallin' out. Blah blah blah blah, I took off with Big Dick Dremmer, and, wouldn't you know it, that dumbshit up and died not six weeks later. Fuckers kept squabbling, and me 'n' Rukkus had it out. We were up in the foothills of the Rewound Mountains, and when we left, we were the Rewound Crags, and Rukkus was somewhere at the bottom of a cliff. That was too stupid to say after a while, so yeah we're just the Crags now. Dremmer's Dicks was a real stupid name. Never name your gang after yourself. Ego gets too big that way. But we're doing fine, mostly. At least right now, yanno. Just took a big cache of, get this, still-sealed brown liquor, off the idiots at Mowai Circle. They had more of it than they could use, and it seemed like it'd be put to better use by the Crags, yanno? gently caress, there was enough of it we could get pretty nicely torqued and still have enough of it to sell for some shiny goddamn jangle next big convoy we run across. Sick haul. Props to Gitty for that lead, she's always got a tongue for the booze. Crags ain't scared of too much, we run the gently caress over the little chuckles and we're too smart to avoid pissing off the big stonkin' holds like the 'Xon Oasis, but you know what fuckin gets the wheelyboiz goin' is the tales of the Bone Convoy. See, might as well be a ghost story to most people, the boogeyman you talk poo poo to your hog to when the wheels won't true and what you tell idiots like the Mowai they're in for if they even survive you, and...well, what me and Cato and I'm pretty sure Zi is the only other one who knows? C.C. Daley got waxed trying to negotiate with the Bone Convoy. I was there. I watched his skull shatter. I watched them flay his corpse and mount his skeleton to a post. They didn't have to tell me anything else. They know. Deep fuckers, deep fuckery. I won't deal with it. Typhon posted:I am: Captain Foo fucked around with this message at 16:53 on Oct 17, 2018 |
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Aug 17, 2018 21:43
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 Cool+1 Hard+2 Hot+1 Sharp=0 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 1-barter | o o o o > "Good work," I tell Dumb Hack. "Mealtime's over, mount up," I bark at the rest of the Crags. I wave Ringerman over, need to have a quick chat. "We're not gonna be fuckin paper targets for these Sparkers, being camped when they show." Dumb Hack's eyes show me he's thinking about hiding spots; he usually does. I cut that off. "There's not enough cutouts here for a good ambush. "Ringerman, you gotta figure Sparkers heading back towards the Canyon this far north are wasted tired or have something valuable on them, right? I think it's worth the showdown." "Hustle it up, Boultry!" He's still eating one bean at a drat time. Gnarly with that hook in a fight for sure, but he's liable as not to just get run the gently caress over. Rarely sees the urgency. I hear Ringerman shouting at the other Crags, lining us up one by one across the road. I squint through the mirage as we set up our roadblock. "Sparker, Sparker." I taunt the heated air. The bikes start to rev. I'm sure they can hear us now. "Come on..." Spending 1-barter on lifestyle. No need to hoard the wealth. Read a sitch: 2d6+0 9 Who’s in control here? Captain Foo fucked around with this message at 05:23 on Aug 18, 2018 |
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Aug 17, 2018 22:02
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Spc. Burns, Shannon A., the Quarantine, running Recon. Join the Army, they said. See the world, they said. Meet new people, they said. Get stuck in a glorified meat locker for God knows how long to be thawed out when it's grillin' time, they said. Okay they didn't say that last one, but I like to think it was implied. The Quarantine posted:Name: Spc. Burns, Shannon A. Alaois fucked around with this message at 09:50 on Aug 18, 2018 |
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Aug 18, 2018 03:04
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 Cool+3 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+1 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 2-armor | o o o o > I roll into Spark Canyon riding easy, locals looking down on me as I cross into their territory. Doesn't bother me. No deathride or raid today, just a visit. And may be my first time here, but I've tangled with Sparkers on the road. Died same as everyone else. Save for me. The Hunter-Killer's engine rumbles to a stop, silent save for the soft ticks of cooling metal. I pull myself out of the driver's side window, reach back in for my bag. I nod at the Madame as I step up to her, ignoring the boytoy, letting her do the talking. She's right - I do want to hear about the Chief, the Guard. But might be for the reasons she thinks. When she turns to go in, I let my bag slide off my shoulder, catch a strap in my hand and hold it out. When the boytoy takes it, I let him take up the slack but don't let go, jerking it back after a moment so it hangs suspended between us. I finally turn to look at him, wait until he looks up and meets my eyes. "No peeking," I tell him, then let go of the strap. I look away again and unsling my sword, the gunbelt for my lupara, and drop them back through the window. Then I follow the Madame into her house. Spending 1-barter on lifestyle. quote:Torch quote:Pyre quote:HX Comrade Gorbash fucked around with this message at 21:08 on Oct 9, 2018 |
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Aug 18, 2018 04:17
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 Cool+1 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+2 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 1-barter | x o o o > Spent 1 barter for lifestyle. Well, gently caress me sideways. This ain't my first time looking down the barrel of one of these chillfiends' guns, sure ain't going to be my last either. All the same, I'm glad Mox and Shiggy are holed up in the infirmary gettin' poo poo prepped and ready for the day. A couple less things to worry about if the shootin' starts early, plus First Response is a fuckin' tank. I don't think any of these peashooters can punch through her armored siding, much less get into the good stuff in back. If I can avoid gettin' vented, I'm pretty drat sure I can rout these fucks myself. They're hurtin' in a bad way already and, hell, they're tryin' to stick up and stiff the only goddamn person who can keep 'em walkin'. They're dumb fucks, no two ways about it. I say, "Alright, poo poo, y'ain't gotta pay in bullets. Lemme take a look at your boys first, then we can talk chillstabs." I don't think this is gonna get the gun out of my face, but if it does? I got my sawed-off hidden under my coat, like one does, and I can give 'em more than a few things to worry about. "What y'all got, anyways? Shot? Stabbed?" Read a sitch: 2d6+2 7 What should I be on the lookout for? The Angel posted:Name: Triage Tricky fucked around with this message at 20:38 on Sep 28, 2018 |
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Aug 18, 2018 05:11
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 Cool+3 Hard+1 Hot=0 Sharp+1 Weird-nil | 0:00 | 2-armor | 4-barter | o o o o > In order to kickstart her new life as a waster, Burns decided to scrap the Ψ-isolation rig, not seeing much need for it, and payed 1-barter for lifestyle expenses. She also started feeling a bit of the gnawing at the back of her skull that told her a memory was coming back. Session start: Memory, roll+Sharp. 2d6+1=12 Question: Who seemed safe, but wasn't? Follow-up question, what allowed some people to survive, but not others? Huhn. Still a toss-up whether I'd want to spend more time here or at the Fox's Henhouse. Alright alright alright, I think I'm starting to get the hang of this. Maybe this outclasses a place like Pop Hart's back home in terms of "dive" but these kinds of gutters always attract the same kind of scab, right? Just act like you've been there before, humor the happy drunks, steer clear of the quiet ones, alwa-hang on a second. Is that music? ... Is that fuckin' Toots and the Maytals? Song choice aside, that means they've got a working sound system. It's a far cry from knowing the ins and outs of sophisticated pre-fall miltech like the stasis lock, but it's something. It's flint. Okay stop tapping your foot and nodding your head, it's time to do a tactical assessment. Let's look for someone who'd know the answers to some the questions I got. Read a sitch, roll+Sharp. 2d6+1=10 Who's in control here, what should I be on the lookout for, what's my best escape route?
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Aug 18, 2018 09:50
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 Note: Header will always contain a link to Liliana's character sheet. Cool=0 Hard-1 Hot-1 Sharp+2 Weird+3 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 5-barter | x o o o > Spending One Barter for lifestyle. ------------- Liliana does not know where Africa is. Liliana does not know why it's rains need to be blessed. And she does not know why this is Roz's favorite song or why she always insist Liliana play it on this stretch of road. What she does know are some ублюдок think they have what it takes to catch her. The very idea gives her another laughing fit. She might be a pasty mechanic on her two legs, but on the road? She was onto this "God" fellow Roz mentioned sometimes. And if she wasn't behind Roz's wheel, she might reasonably consider consequences, pros and cons, weigh the possibility there is another trap beyond this one. (afterall, this did look rather premeditated at first glance) But she is. She laughs again, turns up the cassette player, and shifts into a lower gear. Because in moments like this, Liliana punches straight through. ------------- Acting Under Fire in attempt to dodge the flaming car and keep going.: 2d6+3 13 The Unlife Aquatic fucked around with this message at 18:19 on Aug 18, 2018 |
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Aug 18, 2018 16:31
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 Typhon With Dumb Hack's warning you manage to wrangle the Crags together to block the road as the Sparkers come into view. Sure enough, not fifteen seconds later you've got eyes on about half a dozen vehicles--mostly bikes piloted by a driver and a backseat gunner. In the center of the convoy the Sparkers are running some sort of transport rig, a tanker truck full of who-knows-what and an old train cowcatcher in the front. The first few peals of gunfire ring out from the Sparkers, but don't strike anywhere near your boys. Warning shots against the bandits they must think you are. The message is clear: you need to lay down arms, run, or else meet the convoy with the full fury you have. You're in control in this moment, but this is gonna break bad real soon. What do you do? Torch The Madame's place is far nicer on the inside than the outside might've implied. Actual honest-to-god upholstered furniture, rugs with intricate hand-woven designs, and silk--real silk, not that fake poo poo grifters try to sell to yokels--practically everywhere. Wherever you look, there seems to be another impossibly attractive naked person giving you their best come-hither eyes. The Madame walks at a brisk pace, encouraging you to keep up with her and not to stray. She leads you to her back room, with an old oak desk, table lamp powered by a gas generator you can hear humming outside the wall, and a pair of chairs: an ornate one for her, a lovely metal folding one for you. The door behind you opens back up, and the first clothed person other than you and the Madame you've seen comes in and places a pair of drinks on the table. A quick sniff indicates that it's tea of some sort, but whatever it is, you've never had it before. The Madame doesn't bother to explain. "Now then, I suppose you're here to learn more about the old Highway Guard? Strange, coming from the one who burned Station 38 to the ground--oh don't act so surprised, word travels fast on the roads--but here you are anyway. I'm surprised at how quickly you separated from your weapons too, seems uncharacteristic of the one they call Torch, but hey, who am I to judge?" Her voice is condescending, her words on the verge of sneering. "But before I give you any answers, you're gonna have to do some work for me--whether you want to or not. Nothing's free here, you see. So tell me... are you gonna play along and do what I want, or am I gonna have to be a little harder on you?" This feels a lot more threatening, and despite the question being a little vague, it's clear she's waiting for an answer. What do you do? Triage Here-Not-There laughs. "I guess you're right, y'ain't gonna fix my crew with a bullet in yer skull." They release the lever arm of the revolver, but keep it pointed firmly in your direction. "Some of it's the usual, scrapes, gunshots, cuts, burns, y'know the usual for someone out on the road, but some of it, ehhh better to see for yerself. Tiny, come over 'ere!" An impossibly tall woman--you'd guess she's at least 6'7" or so--steps out of Here-Not-There's car and walks over to the two of you. Without a word, she rolls up her left sleeve, revealing--oh god, what is that? Her skin is diseased and sliding off the bone, green and red and covered in a mix of mucus and blood. And the smell, oh gently caress the smell! You've seen some wretched poo poo on the road but nothing like this, just the sight alone is nearly enough to make you lose your lunch. "We ain't certain what it is, but Tiny 'ere ain't the only one o' my crew what's got it," Here-Not-There explains. "You gonna help us, or do I need to blow yer brains out after all?" What do you do? To be clear: you need to be on the lookout both for the gun in your face, as well as whatever the gently caress is on Tiny's arm. There's no way that poo poo ain't contagious. Burns Folk saw the fall coming some time before it did. Most folk were hosed, but a few wealthy shits with means and opportunity built underground shelters to hide from the cataclysm. Ironic then that those seem to have been the people who died first as their shelters caved in around them and they started killing each other just for one more meal. Of course, some folk did survive, even the ones on the surface. No one's quite sure how now. Maybe it was the divine providence of God, maybe it was something in the blood, maybe it was sheer dumb luck. Seems this place, this network of roads and towns and bandit camps, has more folk alive in it than most places these days. Maybe it was geographically-centered and this place was spared? Hard to say without connecting to the satellites still in orbit overhead, and who knows if it'd be possible to connect to one of them any more. Following the source of the music back, you see a genuine pre-fall speaker setup against one of the back walls. It's behind a bar, blasting out music that just adds to the cacophony of this place. Also behind the bar stands a young man in some cobbled together outfit approaching a tuxedo, serving drinks to the few people who aren't conked out on the floor or loving mindlessly. When he notices you, you motions you over. "Ain't seen you around here before, kid. Name's technically Ryan, but most folks here call me Rowdy. Don't ask. What can I get for ya? Drinks, info... both?" He motions behind him to shelves full mostly of lovely toilet hooch, and a pair of sealed bottles of real stuff from before the fall--looks like a bottle of vodka and a bottle of amaretto, though the labels are too worn to be sure. You're sure that stuff is powerfully expensive, especially compared to the hooch. Rowdy finishes cleaning a glass and sets it beneath the counter, and as your eyes follow him you can't help but notice the gun rack he's got down there too. "C'mon kid, don't got all day." What do you do? Rowdy is the one in charge of the bar, at least at the moment, and inasmuch as anyone's in control of this place, it's him. That said this place is a powder keg primed to blow, everyone's packing heat and few people are of their right mind. Should poo poo go south, your best way out is the same way you came in: right through that front door. Liliana You yank the wheel hard to the right, and just barely manage to swing around the burning car. You can't help but wince away from the heat, but somehow you deftly dodge around it unscathed. Another shot rings out from the sniper, and once again it misses. Back behind you, you hear the sound of an engine revving, and look in the mirror to see an old sedan lifted on off-road tires racing down the hill towards you. Doesn't seem likely that the sniper's in this car, maybe a duo of bandits? Can't be sure. What you also can't be sure of is which car is faster how safe you'd be to run, though you've only got open road ahead of you if you wanted to try. What do you do? quiggy fucked around with this message at 18:52 on Aug 21, 2018 |
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Aug 20, 2018 16:34
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Cool+1 Hard+2 Hot+1 Sharp=0 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 1-barter | x x o o > The warning shots thunk into the asphalt. It's hot enough out here that barely anything kicks up, the bullets just sink into the slightly-too-gooey surface of the road. The Demon Road has its name for a lot of reasons. Well, there's another: it consumes everything, given time. But there's little time for idle thoughts and philosophizing. I want that tanker. The machete comes up, spins above my head and points ahead: charge. The Crags know the drill. Kill the escorts. Keep the driver alive if they'll surrender to us. Machete down. Smig up. I hear the engines before I see the bikes surge ahead. From here you can't hear the bullets over the pipes. The pipes, man. So good. But there's little time for idle thoughts and philosophizing. We've got a bunch of Sparkers to wreck. Seize by Force (Sparker Tanker): 2d6+2 12 (gang small 2-harm 2-armor rich savage vulnerable: grounded) • You suffer little harm (-1harm). • You take definite and undeniable control of it. • You impress, dismay, or frighten your enemy
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Aug 20, 2018 17:43
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Cool+3 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+1 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 2-armor | o o o o > I ignore the luxe, following the Madame to her office. The change in tone doesn't surprise me much. I drop into the chair and take my time enjoying the tea - plenty of easier ways to kill me than poison at this point. Gives me a chance to take in the place. Figured out the angles. "You don't know as much about me as you think," I reply casually. "If you don't know why someone talking about the Highway Guard would perk up my ears. Or if you think not having a gun in my hands means I'm not a threat." I put the cup down and lean back. "And if you wanted me to do a job, just ask. I am a loving merc, could have skipped the song and dance." Read a Person; Read a Sitch: 2d6+1 11 2d6+1 11 Read a Sitch • Where's my best escape route? • Which enemy is most vulnerable to me? • What should I be on the lookout for? Read a Person (Holding 3) • Is your character telling the truth? • What’s your character really feeling? • How could I get your character to cover my gas for the run? Comrade Gorbash fucked around with this message at 21:09 on Aug 21, 2018 |
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Aug 20, 2018 18:13
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Cool=0 Hard-1 Hot-1 Sharp+2 Weird+3 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 5-barter | x x o o > Another laughing fit. Not even a paint scratch, just the heat and smoke. And then she sees the sedan. She can't resist the urge to roll down her window. "Ну, давайте пидоры! To je nějaká píčovina, не гонка! Какого хуя вообще путаетесь, пиздолизы? Опиздоели! Можете за мной пиздячить, пиздоротивые kurvy, но на длину хуя ко мне не допиздетесь! Jdi do píči!" She shouts at the top of her lungs. Roz laughs hysterically as Liliana slams the pedal into the floor. The next song on the tape starts, and Liliana starts singing along in broken Waster. These are the best moments of her life, behind the wheel, in control. --------------- Rolling To Outdistance Pursuer - Note: If The Enemy Vehicles Speed is 1 the roll is actually +3. If it's 2 it's +2: 2d6+4 11 If the roll ends up being 7-9 in actuality I choose: • You outdistance them and break away, but your vehicle suffers1-harm ap from the strain Shoutout to Lichtenstein for providing the Russo-Czech insult.
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Aug 20, 2018 19:02
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Cool+3 Hard+1 Hot=0 Sharp+1 Weird-nil | 0:00 | 2-armor | 4-barter | x x o o > Yeugh. Still unsettling to be called "kid" by almost everyone I run into. Just because my face ain't been cooked into a cracked, wrinkled mess. I'm pretty sure I'm older than this guy. Guess getting stuck in the meat locker had one benefit, at least. "No drinks, Ryan, I ain't plannin' to stay long. But, I did spot something pretty interestin'. Not many of those around anymore." I gesture toward the sound system with my eyes. "You put that together yourself? Maybe I'm wrong but you don't strike me as the type who gets all weak-knee'd over wires and circuits, and I'm lookin' for someone who does. If you can point me in the right direction, I might be persuaded into chipping in for a martini. You do know how to make a martini, don't you?" Seduce or manipulate someone: roll+Hot, 2d6=10
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Aug 20, 2018 22:29
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Cool+1 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+2 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 1-barter | x o o o > gently caress. Ain't no two ways about it, this isn't just an attempt to run off with some free doctorin', not anymore. Here-Not-There doesn't get it, clearly, but this poo poo Tiny's got? Oh, this is the bad poo poo for sure. Every bit of instinct I've got is screamin' to get back in First Response, bullets or anything else it takes, and burn rubber 'til I ain't gotta think about it no more. That's not the gig, though, is it? This poo poo's all about doin' what needs to be done for this shitheap to keep goin'. And a bunch of melty-arm raiders could spread that poo poo far and wide. gently caress me. I say, "Aight, I'm not goin' to play games. Your girl there? Yer crew what has this poo poo? Y'all need to get away from them right quick or you're gonna end up the same. I bet I can get a fix in, at least stop it from gettin' worse, but it's gonna take a bit. The kind of bit where I ain't gonna have time to worry about you ventin' my head if you know what I'm sayin'." I'm not excited about getting Tiny or any of her rottin' friends up in First Response, but I figure that's the only thing I can do to cut this off before it spreads like wildfire. "So we have an understanding?"
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Aug 21, 2018 01:23
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Typhon The sound of engines and gunshots and the smell of burning rubber and gasoline are both nearly overwhelming as the two parties meet. Somehow, you manage to deftly weave through the carnage and pull your hog up alongside the tanker just as the rest of the Crags manage to peel off and isolate the Sparker bikes. You level the SMG directly at the driver's face, a panicked woman who can't be more than nineteen or twenty. The Sparkers and the Crags both have fallen behind, fighting each other, and it's just you and her, and the situation very much under your control. What do you do? The Crags will suffer 1-harm for this engagement, but any Sparkers who survive will be driven off. As for taking definite and undeniable control of it you rolled a 12, how this happens is your call. Torch The Madame laughs--an actual laugh, not some forced one to put her mark at ease. "I understand the roles of mercs and employers, don't worry. The difference is that I'm not lookin' to pay you in jingle or gas or whatever, I'm lookin' to pay you in info. So let's talk shop. "A few weeks back a crew I hired were on the return trip back from Greenpool Restop with some cargo I spent quite a lot on when they got jumped by a gang out there. Only one of 'em made it out of there alive, came back to me with a tale of spiked cars and conrigs--y'know, like souped-up backhoes and steamrollers--and all that other poo poo. Told me wasn't no way a gang could get a jump on 'em, they know the land out there too well and would see a big group comin' from a mile away. "So here's the deal. I figure why not find just one person who knows the area and ain't afraid to raise hell. Don't care how you get in, just get in and go wild. Send a message that no one fucks with me. Maybe recover my cargo if you can, but at this point I assume it's a loss. In return, you make it back here with proof you took down whatever fuckin' gang this is, I'm an open book. We got ourselves a deal?" She holds out a hand to shake. Behind you, you hear a pair of footsteps walk up to the door, and stop outside. What do you do? The Madame is telling the truth--mostly. She did have cargo coming back from Greenpool that got whacked, and only one person made it back. She's clearly withholding the nature of the cargo, however. In fact, she definitely feels nervous about this interaction. One, she knows you're strong and volatile and could leap across this table and snap her neck in an instant if you wanted, but two, she also worries this whole thing could go south for her real fast, for reasons you can't quite suss out. As for covering your gas, make it back with the job done and without any more questions about the convoy, and I think she'll pay your travel expenses and give you a little extra jingle for the road. Liliana Petal to the metal, baby. Roz screams in joy as the two of you peel away, burning rubber and kicking up smoke in your wake. A few more sniper shots ring out, but it's too late, you're out of there, safe and sound. At that speed it doesn't take you long to finish the trip to Dispatch. When you arrive, you navigate the busy streets over to the building the folks from Afphron's Crossing directed you to. You've been here before with other cargo, and the same man steps out. He's wider than he is tall, with a jovial laugh and disposition to match. Calls himself Big Rod, although you've never been certain whether that's a commentary on his size or some sort of sexual boast. Either way, he invites you inside his shop, Rod's Road Retail. Roz is too hot and thirsty to move at the moment anyway, you're gonna need to fuel her up before heading out again. Big Rod takes the canvas bag and gives it a sniff, then sneezes. "Yeah, that's the stuff. Here's your pay." He unloads some junk into your hands. Yeah it's junk, but it's rare junk, and you can probably make do with it just fine with some vendor or other. "Oh, also, got a job for ya. If you're interested, of course." His voice drops a bit lower, as if he's afraid someone's gonna overhear. "Learned an ol' buddy of mine decided city life ain't for her and went back to road life. Got a crew together and moved in just south of the Greenpool Restop. Anyway, she says they found somethin' out there, an old vehicle she ain't never seen before buried in the dirt. They wanna get it running again, but none of 'em know how. But you... look we haven't known each other that long, all things considered, but I seen you with that car of yours. Machines... they talk to you. You wanna fix a machine, you totally can. I dunno if you can help her, or even if you wanna, but... it's an option. I'm sure a girl with your skills can get a job anywhere, but I also know my friend would pay you handsomely for this. So what do you say, you in?" What do you do? The payment from Big Rod is worth 1-barter. Burns Rowdy laughs. "This system here? Yeah you got me, weren't me that set it up. Guy goes by the name of Charge Battery, runs with Glass-Eye and his boys down at Glass House. Real nasty piece of work, but goddamn if he doesn't know his way 'round an electronics system." His eyes narrow as he tries to read you. "Listen, I don't know what you're up to, but goin' down to Glass House probably ain't yer best choice. Remember how I said Charge is real nasty? He's not alone, they all are. They don't take kindly to outsiders either, 'specially delicate smooth-skins like yourself, ok? You go down there, be prepared for anything." He turns around for a moment and grabs a glass and a bottle of hooch. "So that martini. You still want it?" What do you do? Triage For the first time, Here-Not-There seems to understand you. "Yeah. I don't want this poo poo for sure." They glance over to Tiny, and add a quick "No offense." They lower their revolver and motion for Tiny to follow you. "Just remember, Tiny ain't the only one. You fix her, you gotta fix the rest of my crew, y'understand?" Shigusa sees you coming and swings open the back door of First Response and hops out. "Everythin' alright, Tree?" Mox is still in the vehicle, squatted down fiddling with something or other. The whole rolling clinic reeks of disinfectant. Tiny climbs in and sits on one of the seats to the side, craning her neck awkwardly to avoid hitting her head on the roof. Her arm is still exposed to the air, festering and rotting, and now it's up to you, doc. What do you do? quiggy fucked around with this message at 20:09 on Aug 21, 2018 |
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Aug 21, 2018 16:41
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Cool+3 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+1 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 2-armor | o o o o > Info for work. Tricky. Jingle and gas, you know the value going in. Info could be worth more than all the barter I could carry, or could be worth jack poo poo. She seems on the up, at least that she's going to tell me what she knows. My risk to take that what she knows is something I want. Can tell she's nervous about what she lost. Maybe got her in hock with someone powerful, or would get her in hock if they found out. Not unusual, for people who hire me. I can keep my mouth and my curiosity in check. Her risk to take that whatever it is won't be something that changes my mind. Hard to imagine something that she wouldn't have heard going in, and she doesn't seem stupid. "Bullshit you're an open book to anyone," I reply, getting up. "But figure you'll tell me what you promised, and I don't give a poo poo about the rest. You cover my gas there and back, and we have a deal." I start to extend my hand to shake on it, but give a slight tip of my head towards the door. "You got another appointment waiting, or you got another condition?" Comrade Gorbash fucked around with this message at 17:00 on Aug 23, 2018 |
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Aug 21, 2018 17:02
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Cool+1 Hard+2 Hot+1 Sharp=0 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 1-barter | x x o o > Hell yeah, that's the way we roll. The boiz are waxing the escorts no problems, probably a little road rash and a blown tire or two, but nothin' we don't have the cloth or rubber for. Then, hand signals for the lady. A point down the road with the smig, and a swipe across my throat. Follow that with a point to the side of the road and a thumbs up and a smile. Drive and die. Pull over and...well, probably live. Everything depends on how smart she is...and it seems like she gets the gist. The rig starts veering towards the side of the road and slowing down, finally stops. I look back. Ringerman's rounding up the boiz as they pick over anything useful the trashed Sparkers had. I call the driver down from the cab, wave her down. She's scared. Bad beat for her. In the back of my head I'm wondering what's the deal where they'd let such an inexperienced driver wheel the rig, but I suppose it doesn't matter much. Whatever. "Typhon, of the Crags. And you?" Introductions, I fuckin' guess. "What's the haul?"
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Aug 21, 2018 17:07
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Cool=0 Hard-1 Hot-1 Sharp+2 Weird+3 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 6-barter | x x x o > While Big Rod speaks Liliana walks over to a soda machine. An interrogative kick. Yes, it's full. A slug of copper, she presses the button for "vanilla cherry" - she is not sure what vanilla or a cherry are. She is not sure why there are stocked soda machines in Dispatch, or who is doing it - but she knows not to ask too many questions in the Wasteland. She opens the can and takes a long gulp while she listens to him, the tone of his voice, word choice, prosody, a million little details. When he's done she lets silence hang between them for a minute. "Will think about job, need to get Roz a drink. Let her cool off. Princess. Does not like being too hot." She says in broken Waster. (What an awkward, crude language compared to Spark, you can't even swear properly!) Another gulp of soda, and she watches people walk past for a moment. "Also, looking for...what is word?" She snaps her fingers, as if it will bound up to her like a dog. "Components, I think. For smoke machine." ------------------------ As we already discussed on Discord Liliana will Roll to Read Big Rod: 2d6+2 7 and ask. • Is your character telling the truth? Liliana is also asking about a lead on one of her projects - a smokescreen generator for Rozmazat. The Unlife Aquatic fucked around with this message at 21:09 on Aug 21, 2018 |
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Aug 21, 2018 20:40
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Cool+3 Hard+1 Hot=0 Sharp+1 Weird-nil | 0:00 | 2-armor | 4-barter | x x x o > "I'm about to get on my bike and head out to Glass House, so it's probably not the best idea... but you do deserve something for being so forthcoming. There's a lot of secretive, defensive weirdos out there. What the hell, let's see what you've got." Sure, maybe vodka and amaretto isn't technically a martini, but it sure as hell ain't called anything else, and if there's one cocktail name you can be sure survived whatever game of broken telephone happened after the end, it's probably martini. Besides, it's just one drink. It's not like riding a motorcycle is hard or dangerous or anything. If I'm gonna be a waster, I'm gonna live like a waster. Okay maybe not like a lot of the wasters in here, but the 'respectable' ones, the ones at the bar with me. The one's who seem like they can at least still see straight. Like whoever the hell this is to the right of me. "What do you think, does Rowdy here mix a good drink or what?"
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Aug 21, 2018 22:45
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Cool+1 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+2 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 1-barter | x x o o > I say, "More or less, Shiggy. We got a potential outbreak on our hands, some sort of flesh-eatin' nubbin if my gut's right, and I need you and Mox all geared up in the suits. I know it's fuckin' hot out, but y'ain't gonna want any of this gettin' on ya." I'm already in mine. I'm fuckin' always in it when I'm on the job. One of these days the kids'll follow suit. "Once you're geared up, we're gonna take a few samples and run a battery. Ain't much we can do dependin' on what it is, but I ain't gonna risk this thing going wild if we can contain it." While the kids do what needs doing, I turn to Tiny. I say, "Aight, got a few questions on what's wrong with your arm. When'd you first notice it? You the first one or did someone else have it first?" Read A Person: 2d6+2 6 Holding 1 for the moment, but I guess poo poo's gonna get real! Also, workshop project: What's it going to take to cure Tiny & Co and nip this outbreak in the bud?
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Aug 22, 2018 00:58
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Torch The Madame taps her knuckle on her desk twice and the door swings open. The same man who took your bag is standing outside, a large semi-automatic rifle in his hand, standing guard. "Neither. It's insurance. Not necessary though, glad we could come to an arrangement. Jace, bring our guest her belongings and a can of fuel for the road, would you?" The man nods and wanders off, and the Madame leads you back to Hunter-Killer. Your car is right where you left it, and in just a few short moments Jace reappears carrying your bag of weapons and a full can of fuel--easily enough to get to and from the spot the Madame indicated to you. "If that'll be all, then I bid you good luck on your trip. Remember: send a message." She leans forward just a little bit more, her face right in yours. "And don't gently caress with me." With that, she turns on her heel and heads back into the building, Jace following closely behind her. What do you do? Typhon The terrified girl follows your instructions exactly, pulling the tanker rig over roughly where you indicated and waiting with her hands up for you to pull up alongside. "I-I-I'm, uh, they call me Cherry-On-Top? It's weird I know b-b-b-but it's what my dad called me and it stuck?" Her accent is thick, easily belying her Sparker heritage, although she doesn't seem to be the sort to mix russoczech into her sentences. "The cargo is, uh, aw gently caress, it's uh, like food and medicine and gas and poo poo? I don't know I'm just a d-d-d-driver, you can check if you don't believe me. S-s-s-seems like some of the folks up at 'Xon got an old cannery working again, so the Mayor s-s-s-sent us up here to get some for the Canyon." She stops talking as another motorcycle pulls up next to you. Demeame. He's got a bandana wrapped around his arm that you can see some blood soaking through, but he seems to be alright other than that. "Sparkers are dealt with, chief. Ones we didn't kill ran off." He motions towards Cherry-On-Top with his pistol. "What's the story with this one? You want I should take her around the side and deal with her?" Weird that he'd soften his language like that rather than just saying what he intends: a bullet between the eyes. Cherry-On-Top clearly gets the message though, and slinks back in fear. What do you do? Liliana Big Rod snorts. "What, you gonna head home and open a fuckin' discotheque? Nah, I don't know poo poo about smoke machines. If I was you I'd maybe head out towards Mowai Circle, folks come in with all kinds of crap for trade there. Now if you don't mind, I got other poo poo to deal with, like making sure those fucks at Afphron's didn't rip me off again. Uhhhh... don't tell 'em I said that. Anyway you need anything, I'll be inside, otherwise catch you around." As Big Rod heads back inside, bag in hand, you hear Roz talking to you. She's hot, sure, but that'll fix itself in a matter of time. What she really is is thirsty--thirsty for gas, thirsty for coolant. Doesn't matter where you want to go, she won't make it far without gas at the very least. Dispatch is a big place though, you're sure someone's got the stuff you need. What do you do? Big Rod is telling the truth about the job, as far he knows. And the smoke machine, for that matter. Burns The figure to your right looks up at you. Their face--or what you can see of it, anyway--is burned and scarred, marks of a hard life on the road. Everything south of their eyes is covered by a gas mask, a thick breathing tube linking from the mouthpiece down into their cloak to some unseen tank or filter. When they take a drink of their moonshine they disconnect the mask for a moment, letting it flop to the side, revealing a bottom of the face just as damaged as the top, and yellowed and chipped teeth barely holding back unspeakably bad breath. They say something absolutely imperceptible in that weird Russian/Czech pidgin you've heard associated with the Sparkers before returning to their drink. "You'll have to forgive Vgrebnaya"--Rowdy's pronunciation of the word is embarrassingly bad, even to one who doesn't speak the tongue--"They've been through a lot of poo poo. Betrayals, violence, exile, drug addictions, y'know, the works. Accent thicker than crude oil too, when you can even get them not to speak spark in the first place. Hey Vgreb, now that I think about it, you gonna pay for that poo poo or what?" Before Vgrebnaya can respond, a loud gunshot echoes in the back of the room. One of the skinfreaks, who was too busy loving to pay any attention when you walked in, just shot another one point-blank in the face, splattering their brain matter against the wall. There's a very brief moment of confusion, followed by everyone sober enough to think drawing whatever weapons they had. This place was a powderkeg alright, and it looks like it might've just been lit. What do you do? That martini ain't cheap. Pay 1-barter or Rowdy's gonna remember this debt. Triage Tiny looks down at her arm and sighs. "You really act like a real doctor and all that poo poo, huh. Alright. Had a weird patch started growing there maybe three, four weeks back, didn't think much of it. There's all kinds of weird sickness in the wastes and--alright well I guess you probably already know that. Two others of the crew got it, names are Brass Ring and Bullseye. Can't say who got it first, no one made theirs public 'til it got bad. Bullseye was the first to announce his though, but I think mine's gotten worse faster." Tiny looks directly at you, her eyes desperate. "Doc you gotta help me. This poo poo's gonna eat me alive, and it fuckin' hurts to boot. Please!" Looking at the arm, you believe her. poo poo's nasty. Mox hands you a scalpel, and slowly you peel back the diseased skin and look at the festering wound beneath. Sure enough, immediately you know three things: this is practically radioactive in how dangerous it is, it's gonna be fatal if you don't do something, and you have never seen anything like it. There's a quick yelp outside the First Response, muffled almost immediately. You recognize the sound--Shigusa. Turning around, you see Here-Not-There standing just outside the vehicle, left arm locked around Shigusa, right arm holding a gun to her temple. "Gotta have my insurance, you understand, doc. Hop to it!" What do you do? To stop the spread of infection, your best bet is gonna be to amputate Tiny's arm, as well as Brass Ring's and Bullseye's. Then figure out where the disease came from and stop it from spreading to anyone else. quiggy fucked around with this message at 15:24 on Aug 23, 2018 |
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Aug 22, 2018 20:14
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Cool=0 Hard-1 Hot-1 Sharp+2 Weird+3 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 6-barter | x x x x > Roz whimpers. It makes Liliana wince. She leans down, looks both ways to make sure no one is watching, and plants a kiss on her hood. Liliana's fingertips trace the curve of a wheel well. "Don't worry love, don't worry. I'm right here. We'll get you fixed up, I promise." She whispers to her in Spark. Liliana closes her eyes, listens. "OK, we'll go look for something to drink for you." --------------- Liliana loves Dispatch's marketplace - winding, tight streets most cars can barely drive. Rozmazat loves them too, and they have help her focus on something besides her pain while Liliana looks for a place that sells race grade gear. She flips over the cassette tape and goes to a random spot before she lets it play. Looking for high-grade gas and coolant: 2d6+2 10 The Unlife Aquatic fucked around with this message at 22:26 on Aug 22, 2018 |
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Aug 22, 2018 22:16
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Cool+3 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+1 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 2-armor | o o o o > I shrug at the Madame, take my poo poo from Jace. "Doesn't need to be said." Watch them head back in, then put the gas into the Hunter-Killer and climb back into the Hunter-Killer. Light a cig. Start the car, the engine rumbling back to life, a monster waking up angry. I blare the horn twice as I pull back onto the road. Back in the before-time, whoever built this beast put a horn in. Barely made a loving sound. Like a hog squealing. First chance I tore that poo poo out and put a real one in, off a proper war-rig. Sound like the world ending all over again. Proper sound for the Hunter-Killer. I put the hammer down as the road opens up outside the canyon. No way to live, boxed in at the end of the line, peeking over walls and worrying whats coming. No way to die. They call it the wastes. It's the world out here. My world. Road leads up through A-Town on the way to Greenpool. Plenty of trouble to drive into. Too bad for them. Comrade Gorbash fucked around with this message at 17:00 on Aug 23, 2018 |
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Aug 22, 2018 22:18
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Cool+3 Hard+1 Hot=0 Sharp+1 Weird-nil | 0:00 | 2-armor | 3-barter | x x x o > I dig into a pocket and pull out something I scrapped from the isolation chamber, don't know what the hell it is, but it's tech and everyone takes tech, and lightly toss it onto the bar top in front of Rowdy to close the tab. Then, in one swift motion, I lift the martini glass and down the concoction in one gulp and it's... not terrible, I guess. Dunno if vodka ever goes bad but the amaretto tastes off. Kinda like a lovely Godfather. Considering the alternative is probably closer to rubbing alcohol than anything you'd want to drink, I'll take it. Alright, time to settle this poo poo down before Rowdy has to start mopping more customers off his floor. Payed 1-barter for the cocktail. A Chaotic Free-For-All, roll+Cool: 2d6+3=11 • You are able to avoid taking any harm yourself. • You are able to calm the chaos. The combatants as a whole inflict and suffer -1harm. • You are able to take a single short action, uninterfered with, perhaps unnoticed. Thank God I didn't leave the SCAR hangin' off the bike. Everyone in here's packing basic poo poo, peashooters and pipe rifles, makeshift or no armor, poo poo some of 'em aren't even clothed. I guess if they did have better gear they wouldn't have to hang around a place like this. It's only been a few months but if I've learned anything, it's that people's self-preservation instincts haven't completely kicked it yet and if you show 'em you're more ready, willing and able to do bad poo poo to 'em, they'll back off. I sling the rifle off my shoulder, thumb the fire selector down and pop a quick burst into the ceiling. Hope some people weren't lookin' for privacy upstairs. The sound of automatic fire usually makes a crowd go quiet.
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Aug 22, 2018 22:52
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Cool+1 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+2 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 1-barter | x x o o > Fuckin' ingrates. I've got things to say to Here-Not-There, no doubt, but first to my giant, rottin' patient. I meet her gaze, as much as you can through some gribbly-proof gear, and say, "I ain't gonna promise I can keep you whole, but I can save yer life." I look meaningfully at the arm. "That's gonna need to go. Anything that's got this poo poo, we need to cut. I ain't got prosthetics on hand, but I can get one all hitched up for ya if you bring it. But, I'm gonna keep it level, this operation is a team deal. I'm goin' to need Shiggy and Mox pullin' some aide poo poo if you want to walk outta here and not have the reaper chasin' ya. I ain't gettin' through to him, but maybe you can. Do me a solid?" Spending that hold to ask "How can I get Tiny to convince Here-Not-There to let Shigusa go?"
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Aug 23, 2018 00:06
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Liliana Dispatch is big. Big enough that a lot of Wasters come in here, get hopelessly overwhelmed before they ever get their bearings, and leave back to the roads where poo poo makes sense. Of course, you're a Sparker by birth, so a city like this makes sense to you. You know how to navigate the streets and shop stalls until you find the right place, and sure enough, you do. Folks call her Left-Eye 40, she doesn't call herself anything. Head's not really screwed-on quite right, but then, what did you expect from someone who makes and sells high-octane fuel out here? Name fits though, her right eye clearly got gouged out in some old scrape and she doesn't bother covering it up, and next to her workbench there's a glass of some foul-smelling malt-based beverage. In a strange patois of Waster you've never heard, she explains what's for sale. "Got-em high-o guzzoline, speedboost vehicle, yeah? Strongstuff, lastways, show-me-jingle, yeah? Ice-gas too, cool vehicle, yeah? Bonus for you, Spark-driver, no-jingle iffin' ya get high-o. Wanna see-you again, get me, yeah? Say you, Spark-driver, hmm?" She lifts up a can of gas and a smaller container of coolant, and waits patiently for your response. What do you do? The gas costs 2-barter: it's rare stuff and Left-Eye 40 makes it real good. It's a lot of it too, should be good to go for a while unless something happens. Torch You pull into A-Town just as the sun finally dips below the horizon. It's a moderately-sized settlement as far as the wastes go, maybe a bit bigger than Mowai Circle, but unlike Mowai, there's nothing even remotely approaching a ruling body here. In A-Town there is no law except the gun, no currency except bullets, no justice except the cold earth we all return to. Some folk claim A-Town was designed to be run this way by the ones who settled it after the Fall, some sort of social experiment inspired by the time before, but they failed to negotiate a world in which guns and gas are a dime a dozen and human kindness and empathy far rarer. A few people take notice of Hunter-Killer as you enter the town--a few people always take notice of a rig that scary--but nobody seems willing to gently caress with the car or with its driver. Nobody in A-Town, anyway. You've run into some dangerous and scary motherfuckers out on the road, and with the sun set, maybe it's best to find a place here to spend the night. Maybe. As you stretch your legs and take in your surroundings, a small boy, can't be any more than eight or nine, walks over and starts touching Hunter-Killer, right there in front of you. He runs his hand over the hood of the car, feeling the seams where you riveted steel plates together to truly prepare it for the road. "Whoa, guzzlin' rig, miss! This yours? What's 'er name?" What do you do? Burns The sound of the SCAR echoes through the cacophony, and everyone stops at once. You'd wager most of them have never seen an honest-to-god military gun before, especially not one that was kept in cold storage during the Fall and might as well still be factory new. Rowdy sticks his head back up from behind the bar counter where he had been hiding. "gently caress me, where'd you get a piece like that?" he asks, clearly bewildered. The whole of Iron Gate is quiet now, a brief moment of calm, waiting to see what the stranger with the fresh gun is doing. Even the skinfreaks have stopped loving each other, and nobody seems to be paying any mind to the splattered brain on the wall or the body slumped on the ground growing cold. What do you do? Triage Tiny smiles. "I know just the thing." She turns her head towards the back of the vehicle. "Hey boss, you remember when we hit those goons out on the Firebat, wots-their-names, and Bullseye grabbed that lady and made her old man fix your rig? Remember how the dude was all shaky and poo poo and hosed everything up worse than it was and Bullseye put 'em both down in the dirt and you had to ride shotgun with Jagoff for like a solid month before we got a new rig? 'Member how Stace got real pissed and wanted to show Bullseye what's what until you and he teamed up and put a bullet in her skull? Remember all that? "I ain't a doctor and I ain't savvy, but I know meat's harder to fix than machine. You want me and Bullseye and Brass back in fighting shape, you're gonna need to let doc here do their job. You got it? Let their kid go, let 'em help, and then y'all can talk payment afterwards, ok? Got a good feelin' about this one." Here-Not-There thinks for a moment, and then silently releases Shigusa. She comes running back to you quick as you've ever seen her move, her eyes betraying that she's barely keeping it together. Tiny turns to you and whispers, "Here's a little thick sometimes. Gotta learn how to reason if you're gonna treat that sort, ok?" You look back out the door and note that Here-Not-There has wandered off, probably a bit pissed at being told off by a subordinate. But at least for the moment, you've got your helpers, your patient, and your infirmary. What do you do? quiggy fucked around with this message at 16:41 on Aug 23, 2018 |
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Aug 23, 2018 16:27
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Cool+3 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+1 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 2-armor | o o o o > I catch the kid by his wrist - not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get his attention. Make sure I have it. Leather of my jacket and gloves creaks as I lean over. "Doesn't have a name. Doesn't need one. Just needs what it is - Hunter-Killer." "Ask before you touch poo poo isn't yours," I add, letting his wrist go. Take a long drag on my cig, looking things over. Coming into A-Town always means re-learning the lay of the place. Nothing in A-Town has foundations deep enough to be sure it'll still be there next time through, even if its been there long as anyone remembers. And no matter how full up the place seems, someone always finds a way to crowd something else in. I blow the smoke out, look at the kid again. "Got a name?" Get his answer; don't wait for more, kids run at the mouth most of the time. "Any place with food worth eating? Bago still running that flophouse?" Comrade Gorbash fucked around with this message at 18:51 on Aug 23, 2018 |
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Aug 23, 2018 16:59
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Cool=0 Hard-1 Hot-1 Sharp+2 Weird+3 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 4-barter | o o o o > | 1-advance Liliana is fairly sure Left-Eye is flirting. She's not surprised. It's rare for a waster to see someone as beautiful as Roz. She always attracts the attention of those with an eye for beauty. "Yes, will buy. Give moment. Need to get scrap from trunk." She steps back out into the alleyway, smelling a dozen different stalls. She's pretty sure there's Iguana-On-A-Stick down the street. She'll pick up a little of that as fuel for herself on the way out of town. The trunk is a cramped affair, a big toolbox, jumper cables, and a few Sparker charms against bad luck, explosions, and electrical shock. But what she needs is below that - a few feet of copper pipe. In the big cities of the Waste copper was the closest thing to universal currency kinda like the "dollar" and "yen" Rozmazat mentioned sometimes. She takes a few good lengths and brings them back to Left-Eye. "Here. Good copper. Think it is plumbing pipes." Liliana is still amazed they wasted such a valuable material for their sewage systems. Was it really that common back then? She would ask Roz later. After Left-Eye is satisfied Liliana grabs her gas-cans, and brings them back in for a fill, listening to Left-Eye chat about something or other. Her voice gives Liliana a headache, but she likes her smile, the way her hands move, the little laugh that comes at the end of her jokes. Self-satisfied, but somehow cute. "Thank you, hard to find good gas. Will be back. Promise." She gives Left-Eye a smile, and Liliana is pretty sure Roz would blow a kiss if she could - the gas and the coolant are up to her standards, not an easy feat out here. She's much brighter when Liliana gets back behind the wheel. They stop to pick up Iguana-On-A-Stick (Roz insists Liliana eat it outside) and another soda before they head south. Her mind turns over Big Rod's words. Something people hadn't seen before, that got Liliana's attention - people in this part of the Waste knew what a tank and an APC were (Spark Canyon had two operational T-80Us and a T-15. She still remembers the worst summer of her life, mostly spent rebuilding the transmission of one of those T-80Us while Cenek threatened her daily.) A tiny part of her hopes it's hov-tech, it was one of the few things Spark Canyon couldn't build. And one of the few things truly and entirely lost in the Fall. Flight has always fascinated her, the speed, the power, the majesty. When she first left Spark Canyon and she could barely sleep Roz would tell her stories about planes and hovs and helicopters - it helped with the pain of losing her home. There was one way to know before she got there, to at least know something about what she was getting into. Liliana very much did not like it. She turns over her cassette, mutters something in Spark as the song changes and leans her seat back. Roz whispers kind words, calms her nerves, promises to tell her if anything is on the road. Liliana closes her eyes. Listens to the machines. Not just Roz's beating heart, her gentle voice, but all of them. Most did not realize it, but just behind what they could see there were great-machines, an invisible machine under the skin of reality. A machine that chews up souls and thoughts and minds and turns them into something far stranger. She listens to the clanking, the hissing, the opening and closing valves. They know things, things people were never meant to know. ----------------------- Opening her brain to learn about Big Rod's job: 2d6+3 9 and nabbing my first advance. The Unlife Aquatic fucked around with this message at 19:01 on Aug 23, 2018 |
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Aug 23, 2018 18:48
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Cool+3 Hard+1 Hot=0 Sharp+1 Weird-nil | 0:00 | 2-armor | 3-barter | x x x o > Y'know, you're real good at laying low and not attracting attention to yourself, Burnsie, and you never act before really thinking about what's gonna happen because of what you did. Now you got every wastrel scrounger in this deader-than-dead-end looking at you like a walking treasure chest. But they're not stupid enough to try something when you've got such a massive advantage, right? They're exactly that stupid. Bad question. Just get the gently caress out of here. "It was a gift, Rowdy. A gift from someone long gone. Now, I paid my tab, so I'm gonna walk out that door, and your customers are gonna go back to doing whatever they were doing before that poor sob got pasted. Cool?"
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Aug 24, 2018 08:53
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Cool+1 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+2 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 1-barter | x x o o > I shrug, not denying it. I ain't gonna say that I'm the best with words, not as much as I might need to get through to a shithead like that. Might well give it a go after this set of oppoes, see if I can't get a little jingle to restock when all's said and done. But the bit about cuttin' an arm? That's nothing new. Mox and Shiggy know the score, gettin' all geared up and the knives out, and I do Tiny a solid and narcostab her along the way. Badass or no, ain't nobody want to watch their arm get cut off. And, gently caress, does that arm need to get cut off. I'm just hoping it ain't spread out under the skin. Tiny might end up livin' up to her name when I'm done, depending.
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Aug 25, 2018 04:15
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Torch "Oh sorry miss I won't touch your car, uh, Hunter-Killer again. My name's Will Bill--'Lil Will Bill they call me. I-" Whatever he's about to say, he shuts up when you cut him off. "I dunno what a flophouse is but I heard from my folks that Bago's a real sonuva, whatever that means. Runs a place right over, right over there"--he points to the east--"but I'm not allowed over there. My da says Bago'd skin me alive or worse! Why would you wanna go over there??" Will Bill steps in front of you absent-mindedly, not paying attention to where he's going, but blocking you from getting back to Hunter-Killer nonetheless. He's back to staring at your car, this time making sure not to touch it but getting as close as he thinks he can without upsetting you. What do you do? Liliana The sound of Roz's engine fades away as the sound of the great-machines overwhelms you. To most people this would be terrifying or at least stressful and anxiety-inducing, but to you it is soothing. The sounds of gears and pistons and steam and gas and combustion and the rumble of a great-machine suffusing your every cell and It stops. You can still feel it, of course--you're never truly free of the rumble of the great-machines. But here, in this place, you feel nothing, only stillness. A machine long-forgotten, vast and broken, buried in the dirt and mud and forgotten by all those who survived the Fall. It yearns for the open sky, for the return of its children. It is not a great-machine itself, you can tell, but still... it is beloved by them, and its rotting body hurts them. The images fade as the sounds of the pistons return and drown out all else. You snap to, sweating and panting in Roz's driver seat. What do you do? When was the first time the great-machines spoke to you, and what did they say? Burns Rowdy looks a little shell-shocked, but he swipes the jingle off the bar counter and responds to you, not making eye contact. "Yeah, cool. Just get out before this gets worse, please." All eyes are still on you as you make your way out the door, but no one is quite brave enough to try loving with the stranger with the pre-Fall tech. You are absolutely certain a few of them are taking notes and considering following you when you leave, however. You make it back to your bike without incident, the open road ahead of you, an old mansion full of the drugged and drunk still trying to reconcile with what just happened and trying to figure out if loving with you is a good idea. Whatever you do, you're gonna have to do it now if you wanna get out of this one. What do you do? Triage Mox holds a gas mask up to Tiny, knocking her out cold. That ether's good poo poo, and you're a little concerned about what's gonna happen when you run out. Problem for another time. Now you've got an unconscious woman with a holy poo poo what is that flesh disease on her arm, two kids ready and waiting to help out, and an angry bandit outside wondering what the gently caress is taking so long. This your element doc, it's time to operate. What do you do? This is absolutely going to be a move of some sort, but it's your call which one. Since Tiny is in your infirmary, you can act like a savvyhead on tech, or if you prefer you can just use your angel kit on her. Her life's not untenable yet, but it certainly could be if this breaks bad. If you've got some other idea of what to do by all means go for it.
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Aug 27, 2018 16:43
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Cool=0 Hard-1 Hot-1 Sharp+2 Weird+3 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 4-barter | o o o o > | 1-advance Three Years Ago The light flickers, Liliana grumbles something in Spark, then hits it. It coughs back to life. She's been down here all day. No wait, is it still day? She checks her watch. It's running backwards again. Great. She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. The machines around her groan, creak, wires snap and sing. These are the Lower Depths, a place even most Sparks avoid - the very deepest parts of the chasm that makes their home. The remains of the labs the chasm swallowed first. It is a dark, lightless place alive with strange sounds. There are rumors - Ogonia claimed she heard people sobbing down here once, Ksenija found a generator she said - still running, making some mint-green fluid she couldn't name - and the whole room smelled of burning hair and melted flesh - but the worst were the legends of rubber men in reflectionless masks, screaming in a language that sounds like Spark but isn't - demanding "security badges" and "authorization codes". It wasn't rare for people to disappear down here, only to have their bodies reappear again years later - riddled with empty bullet holes. None of this bothers Liliana, she's not sure why. Something about the Lower Depths always spoke to her, in dreams, behind her eyelids. She was always happy to take the work others shirked down here - hunting for tech manuals, copper, circuit boards. She touches a pipe, sighs. Soon she has to go back up, make sure people know she's alright. Back to dealing all their expectations and bullshit. Sometimes, she wishes she could live here. In the darkness and the stillness, eat the broken glass and drink the rotten motor oil. She adjusts her tool bag, and starts marching towards the elevator that will take her back up to civilization. A breeze, against her cheek. Almost like a lover's fingertips. The smell of ozone, it skitters into her sinuses and blooms into something new - almost like a sound that can only live there. A new song, the music of a machine. It's the most beautiful sound Liliana has ever heard. She follows it, through broken corridors left on their side half a century ago like dead snakes, past looted laboratories and burned offices. A sign on a broken door says. "MAXIMUM SECURITY. SECURITY BADGES MUST BE WORN CLEARLY AT ALL TIMES. FAILURE TO COMPLY MAY HAVE SERIOUS CONSEQUENCES." Somehow, in her heart, Liliana knows it's alright for her to be here. So she pushes the door open. It reveals a wing she hasn't seen before, in better condition. Some of the lights are stilling running, spilling pus-yellow light on tile covered in a flaking brown substance that smells like salt and iron. It's slippery, she knows before she puts her boot down. She almost falls over anyway. Each step is careful, followed by soft crunching. Another light, dancing in the dark at the edge of the hallway - almost playful. It ducks around a corner. Liliana follows it. It's waiting at the edge of another corner. Lower, even lower. Sometimes Liliana can see the canyon walls now. She must be near the very bottom. The sound in her nose explodes, becoming oil and electricity. She's close now. To what, she's not sure. Another sign, flickering in the dark. "LAB ACX-413 - NO ENTRY WITHOUT PRIOR AUTHORIZATION FROM PROJECT LEADS" A door at the end of the hallway. There is a form, standing to the side. A rubber suit, holding an AK, wearing a reflectionless mask. It nods as she walks towards the door, then goes back to watching the way she came. She lays her fingers against the door, waits a moment to make sure the man won't shoot her. He doesn't. She pushes it open a- UNIT FIVE REPORTING LOSS OF EFFICIENCY. DIVERTING POWER TO COMPENSATE. You're here to serve a purpose. REALIGNING INFRASTRUCTURE, PROCESS WILL COMPLETE IN FIVE REGRETS. There is a hole in your mind. FIELD IS COMPROMISED. CENTRAL PROCESSING HAS BEEN INFORMED Don't worry. We'll fill it. ------- Ksenija finds Liliana in front of the elevator the next time she goes down - curled in a ball, face caked with tears, blood dripping from her tear ducts and nose. The doctors say she had a stroke. Liliana is not so sure. ------- Present day Liliana's eyes open again. Why that memory? She rolls down the window, so it can flutter off - join the machines on the other side. It will become something new. She's sure of it. No music for once. She doesn't need it. A flying machine, a real flying machine. With children? Roz does not know what that means, and that makes Liliana even more curious. She would have to see it herself. There's no other choice. She presses the peddle down a little harder, shifts up a gear. Greenpool Restop couldn't be far now, and neither could the place she was going - just to the south.
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Aug 27, 2018 22:10
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Cool+3 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+1 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 2-armor | o o o o > Will Bill must be a lucky name. I put my arm out, push him back couple steps from the Hunter-KIller, scratch a line in the dirt in front of him with the heel of my boot. "I'm too big and mean for Bago to skin," I answer Will Bill's question, shoulder my pack, light a cigarette. Even true - Bago tried once. Back before he ran this place. Back when he ran the Silverstreams. Was sheepdogging a convoy out of Derrick, special fractions for Mainframe. Special job. Back when Derrick and I weren't gunning for each other. Bago, the bastard, still won't tell me how he knew about it. Ran dark the whole way, round-about, took lost trails and off-road. Besides who was on the convoy, maybe five knew what was up, and none the route. Still showed up on my horizon on the third day. Bago's still pissed we faked him out. Fought like hell to keep him off the tanker. Wasn't until he saw the water spilling out that he realized the goods were sitting in the reserve tanks of the escorts. Wasn't too long after that Bago parked up in A-Town. Sick of raiding, he said, decided he'd rather let marks come to him than chase them all over creation. Isn't the best place for beds and food in A-Town. But it is the best place for finding out what's going on in the wastes. The place used to be a warehouse before Bago sectioned it off into rooms. The big doors are open, people spilling out of the big common room and onto the concrete slab in front. I walk by them and up to bar that doubles as the welcome desk, looking for Bago, and looking to see what other kind of trouble is already staying the night. Comrade Gorbash fucked around with this message at 19:41 on Aug 28, 2018 |
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Aug 28, 2018 19:34
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Cool+3 Hard+1 Hot=0 Sharp+1 Weird-nil | 0:00 | 2-armor | 3-barter | x x x o > "I'm glad everyone's being so reasonable, Ryan. You've got yourself a wonderful clientele here." Don't sweep the crowd with the muzzle, don't do any operator maneuver poo poo, just turn to the door and walk the gently caress out with your back straight and your chin up. None of 'em will try poo poo. You're gonna walk out that door, find the recon bike exactly where you left it, get on the drat thing and ride directly to Glass House, no stops, no detours unless absolutely necessary. Got it? Good. Go.
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Aug 28, 2018 19:42
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Cool+1 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+2 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 1-barter | x x x o > Once I've got 'er under, I take a moment to consider that poo poo. Like, sure, I can save her easy enough with the tools I got in back of First Response, maybe even figure out a way to contain this, but if I'm not missin' my guess... this poo poo is like fire. If me and the kids try to work with it as-is, it ent just going to be Tiny losin' something. That's not my jam, not in the slightest. If only I had half the poo poo they had back at Ee-Arr, maybe one of those containment rigs, I bet I could do a helluva lot better at keeping this all poo poo locked down. In the meantime, I can at least keep Tiny on ice and not spreadin' this poo poo all over creation. I'll need to figure out something for her friends, but. Well, gently caress. I'm a goddamn angel, not magic. I say, "Mox, Shiggy, we're goin' to need to do this smart. Keep 'er out, but don't get that poo poo anywhere near you. We might need to track down some new parts 'fore we can tackle this right." I move over to the hatch to the cab and grab out the fuckin' book itself. This thing's a real tome, back from before it all went to poo poo, and there's just about anything you'd want to know inside. Sometimes it references places from before, right, and maybe if I'm lucky one of 'em is going to be close enough to take a look-see at. I crash onto a bench, start flippin' through, and stop about halfway through. I start readin' about halfway down the page and, gently caress me, before I know it I'm gettin' all stuck in and nostalgic. quote:SidekickBOTToday at 7:35 PM Tricky fucked around with this message at 18:00 on Aug 29, 2018 |
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Aug 29, 2018 03:49
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Liliana You pass through Greenpool Restop without incident. Ever since the Restop Massacre, when two gangs fought each other to near-mutual annihilation and burned the place to the ground, nobody stays for long, instead content to let the dead lie and be feasted upon by the twisted animals that live there. The place reeks of death and stillness, dust and ash in the air, burnt metal husks of cars and mutilated skeletons all around you. It's not a pleasant place to be, and like everyone else, you move on. Onwards, then, to the place Big Rod told you about. You can feel it in your bones as you draw close, the psychic maelstrom calling out to you, the hiss and whine of the god-machines telling you that yes, you are on the right path. Following those sounds you pull Roz off-road and travel for about an hour before coming to a stop. Before you, sticking out of the dirt and mud, is the largest pre-Fall thing you have ever seen. A great metal behemoth of a vehicle, half-buried in the cold earth, treads taller than the tallest man and longer than some of the towns you have visited. If this is not a god-machine, what could the god-machines themselves be, you wonder. And then you see them. Crawling out of the vehicle and shuffling towards you, people who live in that great thing, their faces cracked and covered with dirt and blood, their skin covered in tattoos, their hair wild and unkempt. Some are unarmed, some are armed with simple hand weapons, some are armed with handguns and shotguns and rifles. They are coming for you, all of them. What do you do? Retconning "great-machines" to "god-machines" as we discussed in Discord. In response to your 12 Read a Sitch: Biggest threat: There's at least two guys with what look like semi-automatic rifles, AKs or something like that. Could probably kill you dead real quick. Who's in charge: At the moment, they are. There's way more of them than you, and if they want this to go violent, they absolutely can. What should you be on the lookout for: Innocents. Everybody here is able-bodied, but they don't look like a road gang. Usually implies there's some folks around who aren't able-bodied. Maybe these ones are just protectors? Torch You find the man himself standing behind his bar. Bago, that mean old bastard, looks just as you remember him. Well, mostly. Looks like at some point his lifestyle caught up to him and someone lopped off an ear and cut out an eye, who knows what for. He doesn't bother covering either injury, you figure because he thinks his injuries make him look scarier. Not a great move for someone trying to run a place for folks to drink themselves into a stupor and pass out, but hey, welcome to A-Town. "gently caress me, that Torch I see?" he asks as you approach. "Didn't think you'd have the guts to show your face 'round here, if I'm being honest." He pours you a drink and slides it over, some clear liquor that smells like turpentine. "It's on the house for you. Figure I owe you for not smashin' my brains in when you had the chance. So what's up, why'd you stick your neck in my fine establishment here?" The two of you get to talking, and he lets you know about a few jobs that've crossed his path. There's always work in A-Town, as the saying goes, and Bago's got his ear closer to the ground than most. A group of bandits harassing some farming community between here and Mowai. Some expeditionary dig by folks who think they're scientists up by the 'Xon Oasis. More patrols out of Spark Canyon than normal. Explorers pushing out beyond the tight network of roads most people never even think to leave. As you're finishing up and getting ready to crash for the night, an extremely drunk man stumbles up to the bar. He looks familiar, but you can't quite place him. Then, suddenly, he pulls a knife and points it right at you, slurring, "Shoulda seen you for who ya was when ya came in here, Torch. Now I ain't gotta choice but to gut yas like a fish, y'hear me?" Bago's disappeared into a back room, and nobody else in here seems to be paying any mind. What do you do? Burns You peel out of Iron Gate fast as possible, hoping to get clear before any idiot gets the idea to go after you. It's not long after you're on the road south that you realize, however, that you've failed. Behind you, you hear the rumble of a pair of motorcycles. The first, an old chopper with a sidecar attached, rider in the car leveling a hunting rifle of same make in your direction while the driver gives the bike everything he can to close the distance to you. The second, a pre-Fall crotch rocket, the driver somehow decked out already in road armor and trying to get a clear shot with a pistol. A shot rings out from the hunting rifle and just barely misses you. Both these bikes are absolutely faster than yours, and if you don't do something, they're gonna be alongside you real quickly. What do you do? Triage You awaken in a cold, sterile room. It looks a bit like the inside of First Response, with all instruments and accoutrement you'd expect, just in a larger space than you've ever seen. The whole place shines brightly, and is cleaner than even the cleanest space the remains in the post-Fall world. Is this what medicine was like before everything went to poo poo? A smell begins to fill the air. Sniffing, it takes you a moment to place the smell, but eventually you do: smoke. Looking around the room, you notice a metal cubical box, its lid shut tight, with smoke escaping from the seal where lid meets box wall. As you look, the box flings itself open, and the temperature of the room suddenly drops sharply. Peering inside the box, the smoke continues, but there is no fire inside, only ice. You snap to. Shigusa and Mox have frozen and look at you concerned. "You ok, Tree?" Mox asks you. Tiny is still knocked out cold on the operating table, and Here-Not-There is still nowhere to be seen. You wipe the sweat from your brow, and get to finishing the operation. All that's left now is to face the risk of infection, or to abort the operation entirely and deal with the consequences. What do you do? If you want to finish the operation and amputate, spend 1-stock from your angel kit as per healing NPCs and roll Act Under Fire for me. If you do something else, that's up to you. Also, for posterity's sake, here's the full project we agree on in Discord about how to stop the spread of the illness entirely: You can cure Tiny & Co. and nip the outbreak in the bud, but: -First you'll have to figure out where the outbreak started AND ALSO ONE OF THESE: -It's going to mean exposing yourself and colleagues to serious danger -You're going to have to add a pre-Fall isolation unit to your workplace first quiggy fucked around with this message at 18:53 on Aug 29, 2018 |
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Aug 29, 2018 18:38
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Cool+3 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+1 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 2-armor | x o o o > Soon as the drunk pulls his knife, I'm grabbing a bottle off the bar by its neck. Swing it in an arc that ends with his temple. Grab his wrist with the other hand, slam it against bar until he drops the knife. Keep smashing him with the bottle, whatever bit of him is handy, until he's down. "Should have shivved me first, then moved your jaw. Whoever the gently caress you are." Seize by Force (+Hard): 2d6+0 8 • You take definite and undeniable control of it. • You impress, dismay, or frighten your enemy. Comrade Gorbash fucked around with this message at 15:39 on Aug 30, 2018 |
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Aug 29, 2018 19:04
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Cool=0 Hard-1 Hot-1 Sharp+2 Weird+3 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 4-barter | x o o o > | 1-advance AKs, bought from a Spark, or taken from a Spark's corpse. Liliana thinks to herself. She shifts Roz into a lower gear, does a lazy circle around them, gives them time to see she's not packing and try to pick out whose a threat here. "Big Rod send me. Say community down here need engineer. That me. You right people?!" She shouts to them. If they shoot, whatever, she's still got the engine running and can bolt in a second. Do some janky turns to keep the guys with ARs from getting a good bead on her. ------------- OOC: Reading the situation as we already discussed on Discord. Reading The Situation: 2d6+2 14 - Whose my biggest threat? - Who should I be on the lookout for? - Whose in charge here? The Unlife Aquatic fucked around with this message at 19:54 on Aug 29, 2018 |
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Aug 29, 2018 19:48
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Cool+3 Hard+1 Hot=0 Sharp+1 Weird-nil | 0:00 | 2-armor | 3-barter | x x x o > Ah you idiots. You absolute goddamn morons. Not just chasing after me, chasing after me in those things? What is that, a factory bike? And the rat-rod has a sidecar. You think those things can handle terrain? Not like Recon, it can't. This thing was made to drive up the side of a fuckin' volcano, if need be. Time for a detour. C'mon, chase me off-road. I dare ya. I wanna see it happen. I wrench a hard right, really throw my weight into the turn, and blast off the asphalt down the dry riverbank into the shallow swamp below. Deal With Bad Terrain, roll+Cool+handling, 2d6+4=6. This is gonna hurt.
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Aug 29, 2018 19:53
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Cool+1 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+2 Weird-1 | 0:00 | 1-armor | 1-barter | x x x x > It takes a moment to get my bearings after the room vanishes. gently caress, that was weird. Still... that box. Something so cold it smokes? Ain't nothin' I've ever heard of, but that ain't to say it doesn't exist. And, poo poo, that might be just the tech I need to tackle this poo poo. Rot like that might not take to fire well, but that'd cause all sorts of particle whatsits flyin' around. But puttin' it on ice? poo poo, that'd do a number for drat sure. I say, "Yeah, it's nothin'." A beat. "Hey. Ain't nothin' against you two, y'all got the knack, but I'm going to take this poo poo solo. I got a bad feelin', y'know? I ain't lookin' to see you sportin' rot like this if ya get exposed." Maybe it's dumb, maybe it breaks some sort of old world doctorin' nonsense, but I ain't gonna risk the kids over somethin' like this. Me? I know the risks. Tiny? gently caress, she's lucky I didn't stab her, toss her, and burn rubber towards the horizon. Even if she bites it on the table, I'm goin' well outta my way for 'er. I grab a scalpel, then look at that fuckin' spot one more time. Yeah, nah. I put it back, then grab out the bonesaw. I ain't about to take chances. The arm's coming off, one way or another, and it's gonna get the gently caress out of my infirmary the moment it does. I'll drop a haz-box or somethin' in the wastes, bury it, then come back for it once I got the tech to deal with it proper. Act Under Fire (Amputate that arm!): 2d6+1 8 Flinch, hesitate, or stall; +XP!
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Aug 29, 2018 23:35
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