Futuristic The Long Winter (IC)

The easiest way is to always roll in with the traders; this Elias has learned in the several years he had spent traversing the wasteland. Kankakee was the biggest little town he had ever seen, and reminded him of Bemis Mile, the old shanty town for refugees back home. The ten square blocks were mostly old apartments, if you were lucky and well off you lived there, or old office buildings and shops that had been made up into tenements and they were cramped with people.

One thing that always followed people about were rats. Elias always had a fascination with them, and whenever a rat would poke it's head out of it's warm hole to swipe a crumb, he would watch with keen interest and he saw many of them on Kankakee's streets. Another fixture of the streets was horse manure mixed with ice and snow, right pleasant, and vagrants huddled around burning barrels of old newsprint and carpet.

As he entered he turned left down a side street to hunt lodging and before long he came to a tumbledown old five-story affair with a sign out front that read "The Emperor", with art deco architecture. He walked in the swinging door, indicating this was in fact once a hotel of some repute, and walked to the counter. Behind the counter was a smarmy man in a threadbare three-piece and a scarf.

"You want room? I sell, $20 a night."

Elias could tell this fella was French Canadian. Had a thick accent, sounded like a dog with peanut butter on the roof of his mouth. He laid the $20 out on the counter and the old fella hunted out a key and handed it across the whole time saying, "A merci bucou, monsieur, merci."

Elias started up the stairs to check in and get shut eye when he heard laughing coming from farther back into the lobby. He parted a tattered curtain to see a liquor joint tucked in the back, and most of the people were French Canadian by the sound of it. They would talk and they would carry on, a few of them at a deck of cards. Then they noticed Elias and so these men at the card table waved him on over. He sat and they poured him a brandy, which they said wasn't watered down too much. There was a big man and a skinny man and one in between the two and all of them had ugly-smelling stogies of rot tobacco burning wedged between their yellowed teeth.

"Say, mon ami, we wanted to ask, you look to well-fed for Wastelander. You are, what, Army?"

"No," Elias said, sitting back. "Not Army, I reckon. I'm from Tennessee."

They heard his accent and they giggled amongst themselves, and at this he got sort of indignant.

"What? You're gonna make fun of me? You sound like you was 'bout to hock a loogie whenever you talk, like you aughta clear your throat before you start jabbering."

"Say now, son. We're not looking to argue. We're just curious is all. What brings you here? We see your type sometime. Jacques here bet you was Army, well he lost. Piere said preacher man and I said schoolteacher. Well which is it?"

"Doctor, act'ly." He replied.

"Doctor," the Frenchman looked surprised, "where's your bags and tools and such?"

"Hocked them in St. Louis to pay the caravan. I'll have to buy more here."

"And from here to where, my boy? Kankakee is the end of civilization?"

"I blow with the wind. The sky and me and the trees are one."

The man scrunched up his face. "What's that?"

"Uhh," Elias thought, "Whitman I think it was that said that. Yes, uh, ole Walt Whitman."

"Uh huh, oh yes. A doctor and a learned fellow. Twice the fool I say."

"You often make a habit of callin' strangers over to trade in insults?"

The man grinned and threw his money on the table. "You got me, boys. I'm out of ante. Pierre, don't spend it all on one hooker."

Elias looked across the table and the skinny man raked the money from the other two players in. He glanced at his hand. Pair of aces, queen high.

After that, Elias inspected his room and found it as dingy and potentially infested as he had expected and he left his heavier wool gear and just wore his faded creme sweater out to the market. When he approached the place, he passed an old concrete sign that said, "Kankakee Community Center." Elias cut through a crowd of shoppers to find a medicine vendor. The guy was just as shifty as the French Canadians, but less likeable. He had a weasely look about him and his general disposition screamed rodent.

"I'm gonna need a bottle of ibuprofen, a bottle of asprin, a bottle of whiskey, rubbing alcohol, half a bottle of oxycodone, a bone saw, three rags, sutures, a scalpel, forceps, picks, and a mess of gauze and bandages. You got all that?"

"Shore do. Four hundred."

"Four hundred!" Elias blurted. "That's outrageous. That's highway robbery!"

"What you need this for anyways?"

"I'm a doctor. That's my trade."

"Ain't you got some of this stuff?"

"I said done hocked it in St. Louis! Come now, be reasonable."

This carried on for a while, and anyone in the market could see the man arguing with the vendor rather loudly.

Private First Class Washington entered the local bar and managed to claim a vacant booth for his own, setting down his backpack and unslinging his service rifle both onto the stained and cracked wooden table before him. Drunken as they were the patrons took a few seconds to recognize his posture, uniform, and weapon for what they screamed - the mark of a soldier in the service of the United States Army. It didn't take long after for the waves of laughter to roll over him, for the treasonous speech to intensify... But he witnessed a few unembarrassed souls whose eyes flickered respect. If only for the flag that he wore proudly on his right shoulder.

The attention of the room left him soon after. He tuned out the reignited arguments and began rifling through his breast pocket for his last cigarette before being interrupted by the appearance of a mousy brown haired waiter to his side, who patiently waited for his order. He must be year or two his senior, the inexperienced soldier guessed, moistening his dry lips. "Got any whiskey on tap?" Washington ventured hopefully.

Washington received a smile and a nod of the lithe waiter's head in return, who went on to show the selection and prices the bar had to offer on a surprisingly intact menu for the establishment. "I'll have a shot," he spoke, producing six dollars comprised of one notes from a worn leather billfold. The waiter's brown doe eyes met his in a silent query. "The last one is for you, as a tip," Washington answered. Silently, he berated himself for again thinking wastelanders adhered to U.S. customs as the teenager quickly tucked the dollar into his pocket and dashed away to place the order with the bartender.

Usually Washington wouldn't touch smokes or drink, like those inbred cultists up in the Utah. "Not tonight," he quietly muttered around the cigarette butt as he coaxed a spark out of his sputtering lighter that died on him like so many others the moment it lit the paper. If the sixteen year old learned one thing in his short time as a scout though, it was that the art of eavesdropping was thirsty, exhausting work. Work that only was enjoyable when he didn't have to listen to drunkards too out of the game to realize they've been served glasses filled with water rather than the alcohol they first demanded and later begged for within the span of a delirious sixty minutes. The waiter returned just in the nick of time. Carefully placing the beverage on the table, he just as cautiously withdrew to continue on with other tasks. Washington eyed the amber liquid before lifting the shot glass to his nose and sniffing the fragrance only a few years in an oak barrel can create. Swirling the whiskey around once and idly observing the already settling vortex, the P.F.C. savored the burn and taste of every last drop traveling down his tongue and throat.

One of the louder voices Washington ignored until now started up again. "Fuck Chicago, fuck America, and fuck neutrality," a bald pockmarked townie declared. "They're just holding onto what they got, and we're no better off," he paced the floor. "Plains Confederacy'll roll up any day now." He looked between the patrons and received some nods. "And when they do, who do y'think will be the better off for it? The loyal, or the folks who decided to cut a deal with their enemies? The loyal, or the folks who decided to wait and see how the dust settles?"

Washington rose and approached the aspiring Confederate head on, glaring. "If you laughed at me, you wouldn't believe what they hand their rifles to. Kid soldiers like the ones playing outside in the shit and snow aren't exactly unheard of."

The townie grinned and hovered his palm over Washington's right arm, his hand traveling upwards. "Son, some around here think you're special because of that flag," he smirked, planting a handhold on the teen's shoulder and using it to draw closer, his discolored chapped lips almost pressing against his ear. "Y'know what I think?" He whispered conspiratorially, as if telling a great secret to a trusted confidante. Washington found himself frozen to the spot as he heard the man slowly tear the stars and stripes from his uniform. "I think you're nothing without it." The flag falling to the ground and disappearing under the twisting sole of the townie's boot was the last thing he remembered. Next thing he knew, he was standing over the man's supine body, blood running down his gloved brass knuckled fists, with a stupid question in the back of his mind about how far a nose can go into one's face before a fatality inevitably results. Washington looked to the patrons around him - knowing in that instant he was prepared to keep on fighting no matter how many decided to step forward and enter the fray. This was personal now after all.

Nathan shivered as he trudged along the icy dirt road. The voyage was harsh and unforgiving. However, this odyssey is yet to be finished. It was the last few miles of Nathan’s long trip north, and he struggled to carry forward. Nathan had felt cold winds before back home, but the freezing temperatures and icy gusts he endured now were like nothing Nathan had ever experienced. It was like the air was alive with intent; as if the air was malicious in nature, sinking its frigid teeth into Nathan’s extremities. Nathan’s ears stung as he tried to keep pace with the trade caravan. The convoy of horses lined the center of the dirt path. Each horse was lightly painted with snow as they carried heavy loads of various forms of merchandise. The caravan had appeared to be hauling mostly food and water. The merchants and traders themselves were hardy looking. They all wore thickly padded clothing, properly coated in several layers of warmth. Nathan envied the traders’ coats as he shivered once more. Nathan was wearing all that he owned. His long black overcoat seemed to provide no protection from the winter winds.

The winding dirt road cut through the vast, snow-covered wastes. The road was like a brown pen stroke; on a clean, white canvas. In the moments where the wind ceased, and the air fell quiet, Nathan took the time to admire the wide-open landscape. A white plain as far as the eye could see. The land dipped and curved in places, and it sometimes looked as if Nathan was walking on a cloud. Though those thoughts were often dispersed as either the cold would cut into Nathan’s toes again, or he’d hear the whiney of a passing horse. Nathan heard that same whiney now, though this time, it appeared that the horse made the sound out of fear. Then other horses began to shriek in unison, their voices shrill and heavy. Nathan turned to see the traders struggling to keep the horses under control; As he approached, Nathan heard the traders began to shout. The clamor of sounds hid the words from Nathan at first, but Nathan could make out one word.

“Wolves!” a trader shouted. The caravan suddenly became alive with shouting and movement. Some of the men yanked on the reigns of the horses, attempting to keep them from bolting. Others readied their weapons and formed a defensive circle around the convoy. The merchants were men of trade, not soldiers. Though, as Nathan saw a merchant put down a circling wolf with a single round, he was quickly convinced that the traders could handle themselves. After a brief skirmish, the wolves were driven off, and the caravan was allowed to continue its journey.

Within the next hour, Nathan finally laid eyes on his long-awaited destination; the picturesque “town” of Kankakee Trading Post. From afar it looked to be a massive clot in the snow, but as the caravan drew nearer, Nathan could make out many buildings and outlines of people. Another hour or so and Nathan was able to take his first steps into Kankakee. The main roads were muddy and soft from overuse. The town around him as bustling with activity; Nathan had never seen so many people in one place. The trading post was a far cry from the small farms and open country Nathan had come accustomed to. As the caravan trudged into the inner works of the town, and into the market, Nathan gave his goodbyes to the traders who had offered to escort him here. Nathan looked about at the several buildings that now surrounded him. There appeared to be housing on his left, small constructs of concrete resembled apartments. To his right, the street was lined with shops and various service buildings. Directly in front of Nathan was the market plaza.With so much to take in, Nathan had trouble figuring out what to do next. He decided to head into the building to get out of the cold first. That building just so happened to be the local bar. Nathan approached the bar's entrance, and gently pushed open the door.

As Nathan entered the bar, a bottle flew past his head and shattered against the nearby wooden wall. There was a giant brawl that had engulfed most of the left side of the bar while the right side seemed to be watching in glee and anticipation and the grizzled old barkeep continued to swab his counter unamused. The fight centered around a soldier in white scout gear. He was tussling with four or five large and angry caravan hands and farmers while two other men of the same type were backing the soldier up. It was a godawful messy fight, with swings and whatnot going everywhere. All of a sudden, a chair flew out and smacked a large farmhand upside the head. He recoiled a bit, then stood angry like with a growing knot on his forehead, shouted at his assailant, and jumped into the fray. Well two more jumped in then, thinking that it wouldn't be fair, one might suppose. The whole bar was then in a chorus of "Git em!" and "Looky, he's got him now!"

One of the larger fellows grabbed hold of a bottle full of whiskey and uncorked it, taking a big swig and wiping away blood and whiskey from his lips. "Come on then! Let's see it, Soldier Boy!" He smashed the bottle against the countertop sending amber liquid everywhere and eliciting a shout of "You better pay for that!" from the barkeep. The big caravaneer, now armed with a makeshift knife, went to thrusting at Washington.

Pat Darth

Washington sidestepped the brutish caravaneer's thrust as best he could, throwing a quick punch to his protruding abdomen as he did so. Chances were, if he didn't stay light on his toes, this fight would be over as quickly as it started. And so the young soldier aimed to use his size, speed, and comparatively greater sobriety to his advantage. Darting backwards after his strike, Washington prepared to rinse and repeat if his first jab wasn't enough to take the fat bastard down for the count.

The caravaneer was thrown wide by a well-placed gut punch, and a few more saw him sprawling drunkenly to the floor as he began to vomit back up the excessive quantities of alcohol he had consumed. Finally, the barkeeper brandished a shotgun from under the counter, shucked it, and pointed the barrel at the crowd of offending patrons.

"Alright, now yous all just settle the fuck down before it gets messy in here like last time."

If one were to look behind Washington's head in line with the barrel, there was a faint brownish-red stain on the wood panel wall there that indicated the bartender had a chilling history of keeping his word on that one.

"Now everyone sit back down or leave." He then walked back over to the cash register, hit a few buttons, and it printed out a thin piece of paper which he promptly threw on top of the still-vomiting caravaneer. "Your bill, Andrew." He muttered as he stowed the shotgun. Most of the patrons settled down at this point, or got hotblooded and took the fight out into the snow. The bartender turned back to Nathan and waved him over to the counter.

"What can I get you son?" He said, sticking his grizzled face out like a turtle pushing its head out of its shell. He took up an empty shot glass and began to clean it with his dirty rag.

As the fighting was over, one of the men who had been helping Washington sat back down next to him. "Say, you got a chew of tobacco I could borrow?" He asked.

Pat Darth

"Thanks friend, but all I got left of tobacco is this cigarette," Washington spoke, gesturing towards the stick smoldering in a ceramic dish on the table. "You're welcome to it if you want," he offered quietly, busy rifling through his backpack until he found what he was looking for. He took out a square of paper and carefully unfolded and spread it over what little space remained of the booth counter, in addition to pulling out a thin cylinder of charcoal. "Now, I find myself in need of information. If you heard anything useful about the separatists to the Northwest of here," his finger pointed to places like Sodom, Camp Armright, Taramore, and Fort Illinois, "I'll be more than glad to pay for you fairly for it."

Chicago was cold and alone the average traveller could easily perish trying to navigate the white washed world and its unimposing blanketed landmarks. Lindsey may have been a few mutatoes of a full harvest but she wasn't stupid. She knew that toughing it alone would get her killed especially in this colder weather. With a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and her axe by her side, she kicks her feet back and forth while riding on the back of a large crate being pulled along in a sleigh. The caravaners had expressed a desire for her to walk but her persuasive 'words' had convinced them to let her be.
As the sleigh heaved and tugged through the snow and the guards strolled along side the sleigh in their massive coats with their rifles and other weapons clutched to their chest. It was clear to her that they were cold even with all those clothes on them. She couldn't understand how it is they felt so cold or why they didn't feel anything other than hungry right now. She cranes her head to the side as she looks at one of the men. He had a large beard frozen at the tips and a bright red nose. She couldn't see through the tinted goggles he wore over his eyes but at a guess she'd say he had two. Most people did after all.

He catches her staring at him causing his straight face to turn to an awkward smile as he tries to understand why this red headed woman was fixated on him. He'd seen worse wandering these wastes but none quite so strange. He exhales, his breath freezing in the wind, before attempting to converse with the hitchhiker. With a voice as rough as their daily life he asks, "So you from around here?" Lindsey pauses for a moment to assess if he was talking to her to which he clarifies, "Yes you. You from around here? I don't recall seeing you in any of the towns."
"Mus-muscle for the lifting." Lindsey ticks her head to the side as she stops talking. Those weren't the words she was looking for. She knew what he said. Why didn't she say the right words.
"Say what now?"
"Hello~" Lindsey says slowly making a long drawn out o sound as she says the word. She smiles to herself for getting the right word.
"You alright there?" He asks, taking barely a second before asking again, "You been hit by a looter or something?"
"Never hit by the," she pauses to think of the words, raising her hands a little before slapping her thighs, "Bag Man!"
"You feeling okay?" The man takes a look at the woman with a his grip on his rifle loosening and his brows furrowing.
"Going to the city." Lindsey points at what appears to be nothing in particular following it around with her finger. The man looks for a second before looking away from the sleigh and fixing his gaze out to the open area beside them. "Why are they either insane or taken?"

The sleigh continues on for another half hour before arriving at their destination. This is where Lindsey would be getting off. Kankakee was known to be something of a busy trading outpost in the wastes. Of course it was smaller than the larger settlements of the further south that Lindsey grew up around but that didn't make it any less valid. It was full of people both coming and going. The guards and the caravaners call out things to each other that she couldn't really understand before the gates open and they were let in. The moment they get past the gates and the sleigh begins to slow once again, she was off. She leaps from her seat on the crates, dropping her blanket and taking her axe and sprints off into the town. She wasn't quite sure where she was going but she knew someone would know the way.
A small yellow octopus pulls its way through the air dancing around her face and squishing through the streets. She stops to unhook her stuffed toy from her belt, causing the octopus to stop with her. He squished around the air around her for a moment, another one squishing past her head as she shows them the yellow teddy. They make bubbly sounds of enjoyment and continue to squish off down the street, causing her to give chase. She wasn't sure where she was going but as they make a dive into a doorway alcove she catches up with them and sits down on the ground. She sets her stuffed toy on the ground where they begin to talk to each other and pulls her bag off her back. She reaches into it and pulls out her mask, quickly strapping it back on over her face and letting her stay safe. While she was in there people didn't look into her eyes and it made her feel safe.

She goes to pick up her stuffed toy but finds a rat with its teeth attempting to bite it. She smacks the rat away from the teddy to which it hisses at her. The rat itself was bloated and covered in warts, a wily little thing. She scoops up her teddy and bag as the rat continues to hiss at her. Its anger grated against her nerves quickly causing her to send a swing of her axe towards it. With a soft crunch she looks down at the bifurcated corpse and waits for her floating friends to lead her somewhere else again. The octopi are quick to comply as she chases after them with her bloodied axe by her side. They pull her down a road and where she slows down, walking past a loud building clearly in the midst of a brawl.
She looks at the octopi who urge her to keep going but decides to investigate the commotion. As she presses her hand against the doors the noise dies down. She pushes and the door opens with little effort, welcoming her inside the room filled with angry patrons and a man stowing away what appeared to be a weapon. With her axe slung over her should and her face concealed behind her mask she felt strong enough to stop anyone else who wanted to create problems. She wasn't sure of what this building was or what it sold, but she knew she wanted to buy something from it.

"Hmm.." The farmhand took the cigarette and wedged it between his lips before looking down at the map. He sighed and said. "I wish I could tell you somethin' of like a military particularity." He scratched his head. "My uh, my sister and her husband they live out on this little farm south of the Temple of the Line. They uh..." He sighed. "They had their little one, my niece, got swiped. She was a girl of thirteen." He leaned in closer. "They say that slavers sold them across the Lake to Holland. But I dunno. The Confederacy is known for paying handsome for little girls." He almost had a tear in his eye, but he steeled himself and took the rest of the shot of whiskey he had before him. "So the only thing I could tell you is, look for the slavers and you might find Confederacy gents amongst them thick as thieves."
Pat

As Lindsey walked into the bar, a few men turned to look at her with interest, but quickly they turned back to their drinks and their cards and whatnot. The wiry waiter from earlier approached her and said, "Ma'am, can I get you something?" The hustle and bustle of the establishment engulfed the soundscape on that chilly August mid-afternoon.
Crumbli

Ham was going about his day in the tunnels. They where pretty dark, like always but he was well accustomed to it as he had spent a long time exploring them. He continued his walk. Going past rats, bones of various creatures, human and otherwise. In the far distance one could make out what was clearly either animals, mutants or mutated animals. Or all of the above. They didn't attack him, so he liked them. Sometimes he would share food with them and pet them. Sometimes though, bad people came through the sewers, and tried to hurt Hams friends, Ham didn't like that. Those people people never lasted long, but they tasted alright. The ones with the spiky and scrappy armor where hard to eat though.

While ham was walking around, he noticed a path he hadn't taken yet, he had passed it by many times, but never took it. It was a fairly long pathway. Ham knew the tunnels like the back of his decayed hand so he could probably find his way back out. As he wandered down it, he came across a ladder and a hatch. He eyed it for a moment, before giving himself a quiet "Ham...." and a gargling noise. He mounted the ladder and climbed it, poking his head out the hatch. He saw that he was inside a large settlement. He looked around for a moment before climbing out and beginning to wander about, looking around in slight awe.

Washington scratched notes onto the map with the charcoal stick as the farmhand spoke. Once he was finished, he grabbed his wallet and handed his informant thirty dollars for the intelligence. "Can you tell me when the kidnapping occurred? Are there any unmistakeable traits or unique characteristics that your niece has?"

It might've been out of his way, the soldier figured, but if played right, the only reward wouldn't just be the gratitude of the farmhand and a guiltless conscious, that is, if the disappearance was recent enough for there to be any hope to find the girl. If successful, the U.S. could win over the whole town. Hell, maybe even the whole wasteland, depending on how many people he could free from their collars and shackles. Not to mention the Confederates would be invaluable assets well worth the trouble of capture. Only problem was, he would have to convince headquarters that this could be done without starting a full blown war, or else he would be alone.

Nathan stood motionless for a moment, looking over at the alcohol staining the wall. A bottle had been thrown during a violent brawl between the patrons. Though, the fight was just reaching its conclusion as Nathan walked in. The bartender had threatened the brawler with a shotgun, ordering them to settle down. Many patrons, still angry from the fight, reluctantly agreed for fear of becoming another mystery stain on the wall. Others stormed outside, unwilling to settle down but wanting to keep their heads. As the bar slowly fell quiet,the tender at the counter waved Nathan over, and offered bar service.

Nathan complied, and walked over to the counter. Many of the patrons gave Nathan crooked looks as he walked by. The bar itself was fairly crowded, the patrons, Nathan assumed, were comprised mostly of caravaneers, traders, thugs, and regular drunkards. However there were two particular people that caught his eye. Sitting at a booth, was a young man clad in a military uniform. Across the bar, a masked, red-haired woman sat alone at the table. At her hilt, she carried a mean looking axe. Nathan turned his head back towards the counter, and took the empty seat next to a lonely drunkard. The man seemed uneasy, and it appeared that he had participated in the brawl.

"You got any gin?" Nathan asked the tender.

Shireling Pat Crumbli

(Edit: Had to fix where Pat's char was sitting)

The waiter frowned at Lindsey, confused. He followed her pointing to the nearby table, then nodded and said. "Oh, okay. Yeah, I suppose just take a seat and I'll be right with you." With that he left and went off to service other customers. Crumbli

The bartender squinted, "Well, I reckon I do have gin if you've got the money." The old bartender replied. He took out a small shot glass and set it down on the counter, pouring the amber liquid into the glass and sliding it over. "That'll be four dollars, and thirty-five cents, but honestly just keep the change because I don't want to make change out of a dollar." The old man smiled sluggishly. "Sorry about the display. Some of the rabble fighting over politics." Darth

"This was ah... Three months ago." The farmhand muttered and put out the stub of a cigarette. "She's uhm.. Well, here let me show you." He took out his wallet and took out a small picture of a blonde-headed girl in a dusty dress and wool overcoat holding a rifle next to a large buck. "That's her from not too long ago. Maybe it will help. She always carried this old Silver Dollar. She might still have it." He smiled whistfully and took the $30. "If you do find her, return her to Mrs. Jeanie Wilkins near Crystal Lake a ways. Tell her Thomas will vouch." After that, the farmhand tipped his hat and walked back out of the bar. Pat

Ham emerged into one of the frozen backstreets of the Kankakee across from two crowded tenement buildings. It took a moment, but soon people began to crowd around his barely-clothed, emaciated form. At first just curious, but then shouting and calling the guards over. It wasn't long before the guards had the creature surrounded, looking between each other curiously and nervously. "Fucking muties." Someone muttered. "Savage." Said another. The commotion attracted Elias Shepardson over from the market where he had begrudgingly payed over $200 for some of the needed supplies. He elbowed to the front of the crowd and looked on with keen interest at the ghoulish mutant that stood before him, studying his face and body language. He seemed scared and cornered. KindlyPlagueDoctor

Nathan watched eagerly as the tender poured the liquor into the glass. According to the bartender, the fight was over a political matter. Perhaps that soldier in the booth had something to do with it.

"Four dollars?" He thought to himself

Nathan remembered the twenty dollars his parents had "loaned" him. A wave of guilt came over Nathan as he remembered how he had come to Kankakee. Nathan's parents disliked the idea of Nathan leaving home, to say the least. But the call of adventure made Nathan set on departing, despite his parents opinion. About four days ago, Nathan had snuck the twenty dollars from the family funds, then stole away in the evening with a late caravan.

Now he was here, in a dirty bar with dirty drunks.

"God, what a place to be..." Nathan thought to himself as he reveled in his current surroundings.

Nathan reached for the glass, then downed the liquor in one quick gulp. Nathan swallowed hard as he set the glass back on the counter.

"Say," Nathan said to the tender, "I don't suppose that trooper over there had anything to do with the scuffle, eh?"

Nathan gestured over to the young soldier sitting at one of the booths

Shireling Pat

Alana was staring up into the white sky and cloudy sky dozing off as the snow built up around her, she wondered why she was there and why the snow falling onto the visor of her gas mask seemed to beautiful but yet so simple and mundane. She slowly breathed in the nitrous oxide that was inside the filter of her mask and switching to the cold winter air regularly, her body was numb from both the chemicals that was coursing through her body and the cold that was all around her. She could hear the vague dripping of the liquids inside her little shack and the soft sound of meat cooking which radiated from within. Any time now and both of them would be done, any time now, she would be done. Laying in the snow like she was right now was unhealthy but it felt so calm, if it wasn't for her regular heavy use of sedatives she probably would've passed out by then, maybe frozen to death. But unfortunately Alana was too greedy to let what she has done go to waste like that, getting up from her mound of snow she stumbled her way inside the shack which served as one of her quick laboratory sites. It wasn't really a laboratory it was a place that she frequented but she used the place to cook up her merchandise as well as a place for temporary shelter.

She glanced at the beakers which were still distilling a clear like liquid that she would have to pour on a tray for it to solidify.
"hmpf, still needs a a few hours."
She crossed her arms and went over to the cooking meat which was at this point slightly over cooked, taking the pot out of the fire she placed the meat on a random plate she found and started to dig in after she pulled up a chair, using the still ongoing fire as warmth. The meat was relatively tasteless but it was warm and it was food so she quickly chowed down on it without much of a thought. sighing she stared at the beakers again, this time the dripping of water was louder, and rang through her tired head.

Then she passed out on the chair

Alana walked into the local bar to sell some "medicines" that she had cooked up that the bartender might want, there were only a few places that would accept her shady goods and the bar happened to be one of the places where its accepted, although the barkeep would only accept actual medicines and not hard-line drugs. As soon as she walked in she was assaulted with stares and the once loud bar fell quiet, most of the people who frequented the bar has heard something or another about her, her reputation as a drug dealer and rumors of cannibalism, leading foolish men only to be eaten, etc. Had garnered most of the locals to be cautious around her, on one hand she was a dangerous individual to keep around but on the other hand she provided the settlement with a stable source of medicine. it was truely a predicament for the locals but from what they've experienced so far she only targets those foolish enough to go with her.

She walked over to the bar and settled down her heavy backpack full of god knows what with large *thunk* which rattled around the room causing the rest of the patrons to continue to go about their business, the sound of the bar going back to its normal murmurs no doubt about her.
"Got anything to sell or is it one of those times you're just here for a drink?" The barkeep said to her in his neutral voice, he was also suspicious of her but she provided him with valuables so he didn't complain. Alana only reacted by producing a bag of some sort of cracked substance, the bartender simply took it to examine. Opening the back he took a whiff of the contents inside and recoiled back at the brief contact his nose had with the sterile smell of the crystals. Alana herself was leaning on the bar with her gas mask off not really paying attention to anything happening within the bar looking off into space.

"I'll give you $160"
Her eyes shot back at the burly man "$300"
"eh-" he flinched at her demand. 300? was she serious? he slammed the table "$200"
"$290"
"$230 final offer"
"deal"
With that the bartender gave her the money she demanded, this girl was really testing him. Sighing the barkeep continued to the next customer serving him a drink although to his suprise Alana hadn't left yet.
"how much for one of those" she pointed at a bottle which had the label "VODKA" on it
He squinted at her. "$40"
Before Alana could say anything else a young man sat next to her and threw down his 40 bucks. "i'll pay for that." The two stared at the man, he was young and didn't seem to be around here taking the money the barkeep went over to get the bottle of vodka and slid it to the kid. "be-careful where you trend kid." with that the bartender left the two to converse.
"you from around here?" the man asked, he must've been at least a few years younger than her.
"yeah"
"im kinda new here," he smiled and scratched his head. "i was wondering if you'd show me around?" sliding the bottle of vodka over to her she caught it and looked at him. "where you wanna go?"

Yawning Alana woke up rather warm, looking outside it didn't seem she slept for very long but looking at her little lab which was at this point empty and done. Getting up from her seat she recovered the goodies she made, it was a type of drug that was on the similar vein to a steroid or some sort of cocaine but you can put it into you through various methods. Nasty stuff, but it sold well with the more desperate folk. Packing up everything she had laid out she threw it all in her backpack and went outside to grab the strange looking meat drying outside and throwing that into her meat bag. Perhaps she should throw away some of her stuff, or get someone to help carry it all? her back was starting to ache lugging around all the shit she needed. After everything was all packed up and she was mobile again she set off toward kankakee once again.

Walking into the bustling town she made her way toward the market, it seemed a new caravan had arrived judging from the extra horses around, and the extra shit on the floor and the newer faces running about. "ugh..." She walked past the bar that she normally frequented, it seemed that it was busy as it always was when a new caravan went through. She stopped before taking a second look at the bar but decided it was too much of a hassle to peak in. Turning around she made her way into the loud market and out through it towards the hospital.

She busted into the door and threw down her two jars of day old blood toward the receptionist. "How much."

Washington's eyes appraised the newcomer. Well fed, unscarred as far as he could see, and out of his depth. The private guessed he was sheltered from the wasteland growing up. An American would've took to the lessons the road gave long before they arrived in a place like the Kankakee Trading Post. So that meant he was either birthed to the most conservative parents of the Plains Confederation or he was from the city-state of St. Louis. He tended to believe the rationality of the latter over the absurdity of the former. The man was stocky, and tan too, he noticed. Work often the mark of long and strenuous summers in the fields. This curiosity that the stranger had in him could be a boon or a nuisance, he thought, then resolving to turn his attention to other matters until he was approached by the older man.

He folded the map back up and stowed it away along with the parchment charcoal into his pack. Out came cloth and oil, the first with which he proceeded to douse with the second. Once satisfied, he took his M16A4 into his lap and began the ritualistic calming rhythm known to what's left of the world as firearm maintenance.

Lindsey searches around the bar for a free table. Most of the tables had one or two people seated with the larger tables having anywhere from two to eight men there all at once. She didn't like how many people could share one area. It didn't look right to her. She begins to walk around the bar hugging the exterior wall before finding a small table with two seats. Both of which were empty. She pulls her axe down from over her shoulder and slips it into a leather strap on her belt that holds onto the axe for her.
She grabs the back of the chair and pulls, the chair wobbling violently from side to side. She stops and pushes against it as it wobbles again. One of the four legs was significantly shorter than the others. She growls at the chair and pushes it back into the table grabbing the other chair present and pulling it out. Its legs were all of similar lengths and wobbled much less. She slowly sits herself down on the chair, swinging her bag off her shoulders and throwing it down against the floor. The moment it hits the floor her hands are already grabbing at its buckles and pulling out whatever she could find. When she wandered around with the traveller she'd learned that people wanted bullets, prewar paper, or even just food.

The bag contains a total of forty prewar dollars with the majority of the notes being scrunched up and stained from either blood or general filth found throughout the wastelands. None of her money was what would be considered pristine by any stretch of the word but money was money and since the great banks of old stopped making more of it, all that was is all there was. Leaving it on the table along with two buck shells and three 9mm rounds, she waits for the bar hand to return with whatever she'd pointed to.

Ham tilted his head when more and more people started to crowd around him. At first he was interested, as he thought these people would be like the other mutants in the sewer. "Ham?..." he asked, his voice a gargle. However when they got louder and started to crowd around him, he got nervous and slightly scared. He lowered his body, and moved his hands forward, growling at those around him, wanting to ward them off.

Shireling

"Yep. He come in and they go to jabbering about flags and patriotism and some such nonsense. You shouldn't trouble yourself with it. I didn't survive this long worrying about that sort of thing and if you follow that way of thinking you might live to be as old as me as well." Said the bartender, spit-shining the counter in front of Nathan. He glanced in Washington's direction as the soldier took out his gun and began cleaning it, eyeing him warily. Pat Darth

Behind them, the waiter returned to Lindsey with a shot of whiskey. "It's four dollars." He said, stretching out his hand ready to receive the bills. He looked to either side a bit off-put by the girl's demeanor. Crumbli

The small clinic on the eastern side of town was small and makeshift, but it was sterile and that's what counted. As Alana walked in, the eyes of a doctor and two assistants followed her from the beds nestled against the north wall with curtains up around them. The receptionist was sitting behind a counter typing on an old computer that the clinic used to keep medical records. She jumped a bit as she laid two jars of blood on the counter. She looked at the jars and then Alana and squinted. "Where did you get this?" She asked suspiciously. Petroshka

The crowd recoiled at the antics of the cornered mutant and the guards raised their weapons about to fire. The crowd instinctively recoiled as the mutant was about to be put down, until someone shouted, "Wait!"

The guards recoiled at the shout, which came from Elias's lips. He moved in front of the guards and waved his hands. "Give the man some space!"

The crowd was dumbfounded. They backed up wide, save the guard captain who closed with Elias. "You know this, ... thing?"

"My own brother he is," Elias began in his most convincing voice, "a mutant from birth, and all the time getting worse. I was taking him from home, to the Travellers north of here. Where he could stay, with his own kind."

The guard scrunched up his face in disbelief. "I doubt it. You don't have the face for telling stories kid." He said, sardonically. "But fine, he's yours now. Make sure he's out of here by day after tomorrow."

With that, the guards cleared the crowd and they left, leaving Elias and Ham together in the street.

KindlyPlagueDoctor

Alana leaned on the counter where she placed the blood jars on and looked at the receptionist with an annoyed abit tired look. "Where i always get them," she gestured with her hands, and looking off into the distance "from whoever i can find a decent Donor from." Sighing she looked back at her. "they tend to be cooperative when i give them a little special anesthetic afterwards." a small smirk creeped from Alanas mouth. "So, how much would that go for? i'd say thats about, 2 pints, maybe 32 ounces or so."
Shireling

Nathan glanced over at the soldier again. The young man seemed very young to be a soldier, though Nathan decided not to question too much; considering the guy had taken on half the bar over a flag. Nathan turned back to the bartender to see the him spit-shine the countertop. Nathan reached into his pocket and grabbed four of the one-dollar bills. He then set it on the counter, and nodded to the tender. Nathan stood up from the counter and turned to the many tables behind him. The bar was much quieter before, and the volume had fallen to light muttering and soft speaking. As Nathan stood up, several patrons gave Nathan the same sideways looks. Dissaproving or looks of disgust, either way, it was clear that Nathan was unwelcome. Nathan decided it was best to vacate, for fear of becoming the next cause of a fight. Nathan headed for the door, and he heard someone spit a wad of saliva onto the floor.

"You better get on now..." he heard a voice say.

"Go back to the fields farmboy..." it came again, "This ain't no place for some yellow-belly..."

The bar suddenly fell silent.

Shireling Pat

Washington packed his things up, shouldered his backpack, and slung his rifle. Standing, he swiftly crossed the bar to the stranger idling by the door. Clasping a flat palm onto his back and gently pushing him alongside the youthful soldier past the antagonizing patrons between them and fresh air, he internally cursed himself all the while for committing to adopting another puppy. Once a good few yards outside, he made introductions. "Private First Class George Washington, U.S. Army Scout," he identified himself, saluting with his right gloved hand and immediately lowering it back down to offer a strong handshake to his new acquaintance. A glove that upon closer study evidently remained slick with townie blood spilled during the earlier bar brawl.